Punch (101.1891)

September 5, 1891.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

109

SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

Chapter III.

Reims—Niglit—Streets—Arrival—Lion eP Or—Depression—Land-
lady—Boots—Cathedral—Loneliness—Bed.

It is just ten o'clock. Reims seems to be in bed and fast asleep,
except for the presence in the streets of a very few persons, official
and unofficial, of whom the former are evidently on the alert as to
the movements, slouching- and uncertain, of the latter.

"We drive under ancient Roman Arch; Dattbexet tells me its
history in a vague kind of way, breaking off suddenly to say that I
shall see it to-morrow, when, so he evidently wishes me to infer, the
Roman Arch will speak for itself. Then we drive past a desolate-
looking Museum. I believe it is a Museum, though Daubixet's
information is a trifle uncertain on this point.

We pass a theatre, brilliantly illuminated. I see posters on the
wall advertising the performance. A gendarme, in full uniform, as
if he had come out after playing Sergeant Lupy in Robert Macaire,
is pensively airing himself under the facade, but there is no one else
within sight,—no one ; not a cocher with whom Sergeant Lupy can
chat, nor even a gamin to be ordered off; and though, from one
point of view, this exterior desolation may argue well for the business
the theatre is doing, yet, as there is no logical certainty that the
people, who do not appear outside a show, should therefore necessarily
be inside it, the temple of the Drama may, after all, be as empty as
was Mr. Crummies' Theatre, when somebody, looking through a hole
in the curtain, announced, in a state of great excitement, tbe advent
of another boy to the pit.

And now we rattle over the stones joltingly, along a fairly well-
lighted street. All the shops fast asleep, with their eyelids closed,
that is, their shutters up, all except one establishment, garishly
lishted and of defiantly rakish appearance, with the words Cafe
Chantant written up in jets of gas; and within this Cafe, as we jolt
along, I espy a dame du comptoir, a weary waiter, and two or three
second-class, flashy-looking customers, drinking, smoking, perhaps
arguing, at all events, gesticulating, which, with the low-class
Frenchmen, comes to much the same thing in the end, the end pro-
bably being their expulsion from the drinking-saloon. "Where is
the chantant portion of the cafe 9 I cannot see,—perhaps in some
inner recess. With this flash of brilliancy, all sign of life in Reims
disappears. We drive on, jolted and rattled over the cobble stones
—(if not cobble, what are they? Wobble?)—and so up to the
Lion d' Or.

I am depressed. I can't help it. It is depressing to be the only
prisoners in a black van; I should have said "passengers," but the
sombre character of the omnibus suggests "Black Maria;" it is
depressing (I repeat to myself), to be the only two passengers driving
through a dead town at night-time, as if we were the very personifi-
cation of "the dead of night" being taken out in a hearse to the
nearest cemetery. Even Dattben'ET feels it, for he is silent, except
when he tries to rouse himself by exclaiming "Caramba!" Only
twice does he make the attempt, and
then, meeting with no response from
me, he collapses. Nor does it relieve
depression to be set down in a solemn
courtyard, lighted by a solitary gas-
lamp._ This in itself would be quite
sufficient to make a weary traveller
melancholy, without the tolling of
gruesome bell to
announce our arri-
val. This dispiriting
sound seems to
affect nobody in the
house, except a
lengthy young man
in a desperate state
of unwakefulness,
who sleepily resents
our arrival in the
midst of his first
slumber (he must
have gone to bed at
nine), and drowsily
expresses a wish to
be informed (for he
will not take the
trouble to examine
into the matter for
himself) whether

we have any luggage ; and this sense of depression becomes aggra-
vated and intensified when no genial Boniface (as the landlord
used invariably to be styled in romances of half a century ago) comes
forth to _ greet us with a hearty welcome, and no buxom smiling
hostess is there to order the trim waiting-maid, with polished

vol. ci.

candlestick, "to show the gentleman his room." And, at length,
when a hostess, amiable but shivering, does appear, there is still an
absence of all geniality ; no questions are asked as to what we might
like to take in the way of refreshment, there is no fire to cheer us,
no warm drinks are suggested, no apparent probability of getting
food or liquor, even if we wanted it, which, thank Heaven, we
don't, not having recovered from the last hurriedly-swallowed meal
at the railway buffet en route. Yes, at the " Lion d'Or" at Reims,
on this occasion, hie et nunc, is a combination of melancholy cir-
cumstances which would have delighted Mark Tapley, and, as far
as I know, Marie Tapley only.

" On an occasion like this," I murmur to myself, having no one
else to whom I can murmur it confidentially,—for Datjbiset, having
a knowledge of the house, has disappeared down some mysterious
passage in order to examine and choose our rooms,—"there is,
indeed, some merit in being jolly."

Daebixet returns. He has found the rooms. The somnolent
boots will carry our things upstairs. Which of the two rooms will I
have? They are en suite. I make no choice. It is, I protest, a
matter of perfect indifference to me ; but one room being infinitely
superior to the other, I select it, apologetically. Dattbhstet, being
more of a Mark Tapley than I am, is quite satisfied with the
arrangement, and has almost entirely recovered his wonted high
spirits.

" Very good. Tresbien! Da! Petzikoff ! Pedadjoi! I shall sleep
like a top. Bon soir ! Buono notte .' Karascho.' Blass the Prince of

Wailes ! " and he has disappeared into his bedroom. I never knew
a man so quick in unpacking, getting into bed, and going to sleep.
He hasn't far to go, or else Morpheus must have caught him up, en
route, and hypnotised him. I hear him singing and humming for two
minutes; I hear him calling out to me, ''All right? Are you all
right?" and, once again invoking the spirit of Mar k Tapley, I throw
all the joviality I can into my reply as I say, through the wall,
"Quite, thanks. Jolly! Good-night!" But my reply is wasted
on him ; he has turned a deaf ear to me, the other being on the pillow,
and gives no sign. If he is asleep, the suddenness of the collapse is
almost alarming. Once again I address him. No answer. I continue
my unpacking. All my portmanteau arrangements seem to have
become unaccountably complicated. ] pause and look round. Cheer-
less. The room is bare and lofty, the bed is small, the window is
large, and the one solitary bougie sheds a gloom around which makes
unpacking a difficulty. I pull up the blind. A lovely moonlight
night. In front of me, as if it had had the politeness to put itself
out of the way to walk up here, and pay me a visit, stands the

Cathedral, that is-some of it; but what I can see of it, au clair

de la lune, fascinates me. It is company, it is friendly. But it is
chilly all the same, and the sooner I close the window and retire the
better. Usual difficult}', of course, in closing French window. After
a violent struggle, it is done. The bed looks chilly, and I feel sure
that that stuffed, pillow-like thing, which is to do duty for blanket
and coverlet, can't be warm enough.

Hark ! a gentle snore. A very gentle one. It is the first time
I ever knew a snore exercise a soothing effect on the listener. This
is decidedly soporific. It is an invitation to sleep. I accept. The
Cathedral clock sounds a carillon. It plays half a tune, too, as if
this was all it had learnt up to the present, or perhaps to intimate
that there is more where that comes from, only I must wait for
to-morrow, and be contented with this instalment. J. am. Half
a tune is better than no tune at all, or vice versa: it doesn't
matter. When the tune breaks off I murmur to myself, "To be
continued in our next;" and so—as I believe, for I remember
nothing after this—I doze off to sleep on this my first night in the
ancient town of Reims.