Punch: Punch (101.1891)

August 29, 1891.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

105

SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

Chapter II.

On Tour—Pestauration—Method—Rapid Act—Patriotism— Chorus
—Dinner—Forwards—Entree—Exit—Destination.

Wrxn Daubinet I soon acquire the careless habit of speaking
any French that comes into my head, irrespective of grammar,
genders, or idioms. If he doesn't understand it in French he will
do so in English, or vice versa. On this mutual comprehension
system we get along as easily as the express does, and as easily as
the boat does too, to-day,—for we are in luck, the weather is deli-
cious and the sea propitious,—and so we arrive hungry and happy
at the excellent buffet at the Calais Station, the praises of which I
have sung more than once in my lifetime.

Far be it from me to draw comparisons, but I if want to start well
and wisely for the Continong, give me the short sea-passage via

Dover and the excellent restauration at Calais, with a good twenty-
five minutes allowed for refreshment; though why this interval
shouldn't be extended to three-quarters of an hour, and less time oc-
cupied on the journey to Paris, I have never yet been able to ascer-
tain. In the not very dim and distant future no doubt it will be so.
I record the above observation in italics, in order to attract the at-
tention of all whom it may and does and ought to concern. Perhaps
they '11 kindly see to it.

Our dejeuner at Calais is as good as it usually is at that haven of
Restauration. After the buffeting of the waves, how sweet is the
buffet of the shore. I sit down at once, as an old Continental-
travelling hand, tell the waiter immediately what I am going to
take, and forthwith it is brought; then, in advance, I command the
coffee, and have my French money all ready in an outside-pocket,
so that there shall be no unnecessary delay. All station-feeding is
a fearsome pastime. You are never quite sure of the trains, and you
never quite trust the waiter's most solemn asseveration to the effect
that you have still so many minutes left, decreasing rapidly from fifteen
to five, when, time being up and the food down, you find yourself
hurrying out on to the platform, plunging recklessly in between the
fines, uncertain as to your carriage, and becoming more and more
hot, nervous, and uncomfortable up to the very last moment, when
the stout guard, with the heavy black moustache, and the familiar
bronzed features set off fby a cap-band which once was red, bundles
you into your proper place, bangs the door, and you are off,—for
Paris, or wherever your destination may be.

Daubinet knows the proprietor of the restaurant, likewise the pro-
prietor's good lady and good children. He has a great deal to say to
them, always by means of working the semaphore with his arms and
hands, as if the persons with whom he excitedly converses were
deaf; and having lost all count of time, besides being in a state of
considerable puzzle as to the existence of his appetite, he is suddenly
informed by the head-waiter,—another of his acquaintances, for
Daubinet, it appears, is a constant traveller to and fro on this route,
that if he wants anything he must take it at once, or he won't get it
at all, unless he chooses to stop there and lose bis train. So Dattbi-
kt5x ladles some soup into his mouth, and savagely worries a huge
lump of bread: then having gobbled up the soup in a quarter of a
second, and having put away all the bread in another quarter, he
pours a glass of wine into a tumbler out of the bottle which I have
had opened for both of us, adds water, then tosses it off, wipes his
lips with the napkin which he bangs down on the table, and, with his
hat and coat on, his small bag in his hand, and quite prepared to
resume the journey, he cries, " Allans! Petzikoff! " (or some such
word, which I suppose to be either Prussian or an ejaculation quite

new and original, but d la Pusse, and entirely his own invention),
with the cheery and enthusiastic addition of, '' Blass the Prince of
Wailes ! "

" By all means," I cordially respond, for we are on a foreign soil,
where loyalty to our Royal Family is no longer a duty only, but also
a mark of patriotism, which should ever distinguish the true Briton,
—though, by the way, now I think of it, Daubinet is a lively Gaul.
Subsequently, observing my friend Daubinet, I find that he is
especially English in France, and peculiarly French in England.
On what is to me foreign, but to him his own native soil, he is
always bursting out into snatches of our British National Anthem,
or he sings the line above quoted. In France he will insist on
talking about London, England, Ireland, Scotland, with imitations
in slang or of brogue, as the case may be, on every possible or even
impossible opportunity; and, when the subject of conversation
does not afford him any chance for his interpolations, then, for a
time, he wiU "lay low," like Brer Fox, only to startle us with
some sudden outbursts of song, generally selected from the popular
Enslish Melodies of a byegone period, such as " My Pretty Jane,"
" My Love is like a red, red Pose," or " Good-bye, Sweetheart,
good-bye," and such-like musical reminiscences, invariably finishing
with a quotation from the National Anthem, " Pule Britannia," or
" Blass the Prince of "Wailes ! " He is a traveling chorus.

We stop—I don't know where, as I trust entirely to my guide and
fellow-traveller—for a good twenty minutes' stuff, nominally dinner,
en route, about seven o'clock. It is the usual rush ; the usual inde-
cision ; the usual indigestion. Daubinet does more execution among
the eatables and drinkables in five minutes than I can manage in the
full time allotted to refreshment; and not only this, but he finds
plenty of time for talking nonsense to one of the nicest-looking
waitresses. Of course, he positively refuses to speak a word of his
own native language, but gives his orders in English, Spanish, and
Russian, to the despair of all the attendants, with the exception of
the pretty waiting-maid, to whom he addresses himself in colloquial
French. She quite enters into the joke ; can give and take as plea-
santly as possible; can also fetch and carry; and when, finally,
Daubinet en ban prince rewards her intelligence with a two-franc

piece, her bright smile, and her sourteous " Merci beaucoup, Mon-
sieur" prove once more that she can take as well as give,—nay, even
better, and yet leave the donor her debtor. " Da Karascho ! _ Yes,
all right! Montez done J'" cries my mercurial friend, hurrying to
the train; then, as he once more settles himself in the compartment,
he sings '' Ride Britannia ! Blass the Prince of Waeles ! 0 Maman! "
and before I have lit my after-dinner cigar, he has made himself
quite comfortable, lying at full length, and is fast asleep. So am I
soon. When I awake, it is night; pitch-dark, and very cold. We
are stopping at some station. A stout Frenchman enters our
carriage; not that there is anything remarkable about his stout-
ness, as it seems to me that the majority of middle-class and middle-
aged Frenchmen, and Frenchwomen, too, are aU, more or less, of
considerable corpulence.

The new arrival recognises Daubinet, and salutes him. Daubinet
warmly acknowledges the recognition, and in a few moments they
are engaged in an animated conversation, one commencing his reply
before the other has finished his question, neither permitting the
other to complete a sentence, whether interrogatory or declaratory;
so that, during the greater part of their conversation,—which lasts
till, thank goodness, the stranger has to get out, which he does at the