CHAPTER VI.
Recovery—Waiter—Vicomte—Château—Reception—Night—Morning—Workers—Headstones—Memories—Stones—Explanations—Breakfast—Off—Back again.
DAUBINET, quite recovered from his fatigue, sings "Blass the Prince of WAILES" enthusiastically, and at intervals ejaculates queer, uncouth words in the Russian tongue. Breakfast with Russian tongue. He asks the waiter for "minuoschhah karosh caviar." To which the waiter adroitly replies, "parfaitement M'sieu" and disappears. Returning ten minutes afterwards, the wily attendant makes no further allusion to the supposed errand that has taken him out of the room.
Then DAUBINET, remembering that we are literally "here to-day and gone to-morrow," says we must visit his friend the Vicomte. I cannot catch the Vicomte's name; I manage to do so for half an hour at a time, and then it escapes me. As we are in this champagney country, I write it down as M. le Vicomte DE CHAMPAGNIAC. We are to dine and sleep there. A Night in a French Château. "But this is another story."
On our arrival at the Château de Quelquechose we are right royally and heartily received. Delightful evening. Vive la Compagnie! Magnificent view from my bedroom. In the clear moonlight I can see right away for miles and miles over the Champagne valleys. At 6.30 we are in the break, and within an hour or so are "All among the barley," as the song used to say, which I now apply to "All amongst the Vineyards." Peasants at work everywhere: picking and sorting. How they must dislike grapes! Of course they are all teetotallers, and no more touch a drop of champagne than a grocer eats his own currants, or a confectioner his own sweetmeats. I suppose the butcher lives exclusively on fish, and his friend, the neighbouring fishmonger, is entirely dependent on the butcher for his sustenance, except when game is in, and then both deal with the gamester or poulterer. There are some traders in necessaries who can make a fair deal all round. The only exception to this rule, for which, from personal observation, I can vouch, is the tobacconist, who is always smoking his own cigars.
Wonderful this extensive plain of vineyards! and what stunted little stumps with leaves round them are all these vines! Not in it with our own graceful hops. No hedges or ditches to separate one owner's property from another's. To each little or big patch of land there is a white headstone with initials on it, as if somebody had hurriedly and unostentatiously been buried on the spot where he fell, killed in the Battle of the Vineyards, by a grape-shot. At first, seeing so many of these white headstones with initials on each one, I conclude that it is some peculiar French way of marking distances or laying out plots, and I find my conclusion is utterly erroneous.
"These white stones," M. VESQUIER. explains, "mark the boundaries of different properties." Odd! The plain is cut up into little patches, and champagne-growers, like knowing birds, have popped down, on "here a bit and there a bit and everywhere a bit" from time to time, so that one headstone records the fact that "here lies the property of J.M.," and within a few feet is another headstone "sacred to the memory of P. and G.," or P. without the G.; then removed but a step or two is a stone with a single "A." on it. and a short distance from the road is "H."—poor letter "H" apparently dropped for ever. Here lie "M.," and "M. and C.," and several other heroes whose names recall many a glorious champagne. And so on, and so on; the initials recurring again quite unexpectedly, the plots of ground held by the same proprietor being far apart. But, as it suddenly occurs to me, if these champagne-growers are all in the same plains for twenty miles or more round about, all in much the same position, and all the grapes apparently the same, why isn't it all the same wine?
"Karascho!" exclaims DAUBINET, who, under the hot rays of the early morning sun, is walking in his shirt-sleeves, his coat over his arm, his hat in one hand, and a big sunshade in the other, "I will tell you." Then he commences, and except for now and then breaking off into Russian expletives, and interspersing his discourse with selections from British national melodies, his explanation is lucid, and the reasons evident. Soil and sun account for everything; the soil being varied, and the sun shifty. "Pou ni my? comprenez-vous?" he asks.
I do perfectly, at the moment; but subsequently trying to explain the phenomena scientifically, I find that I have not quite penetrated the mystery au fond. We visit the Wine-press, which (Happy Thought!) would be an appropriate title for a journal devoted entirely to the wine-growing and wine-vending interests.
"And now," says M. le Vicomte, "we must return to breakfast, or the sun will be too strong for us."
So back we go to our eleven o'clock déjeuner in a beautifully cool room, of which repast the sweetest little cray-fish, fresh from the river, are by no means the worst part of the entertainment. Then coffee, cigars, and lounge. Yes, there are some things better managed in France than chez nous; and the division of the day between labour and refreshment is, in my humble opinion, one of them. In the contriving of dainty dishes out of the simplest materials, the French seem to hold that everything is good for food in this best of all possible worlds, if it be only treated on a wise system of variation, permutation, and combination. We discuss these subjects of the higher education until arrives the inevitable hour of departure. Let us not linger on the doorstep. Into the trap again. Bon voyage! Au revoir! And as passing out of the lodge-gate we get a last glimpse of the party waving adieux to us from the upper terrace, DAUBINET flourishes his hat, and sings out at the top of his voice, "We're leaving thee in sorrow, ANNIE," which is more or less appropriate, perhaps; and then, as the last flutter of a pocket-handkerchief is seen, he finishes with "And blass the Prince of WAILES!" After which he subsides, occasionally breaking the silence to sigh aloud, "O Maman!" and thenceforth, for the greater part of the journey to Paris, he slumbers in a more or less jumpy manner.
At the Grand Hotel, Paris.—"Aha!" cries M. le Baron BLUM,—always in full Blum at the Grand Hotel,—"At last! arrived!" as if he had expected us for several weeks past,—"How are you? I have your rooms ready for you!" He must have seen us driving into the courtyard, and settled our numbers there and then, not a minute ago. It's a great thing for weary travellers to be welcomed on arrival. No matter if they're forgotten again the next moment, and not thought of again until the hour of their departure. It is the welcome that is everything; it implies so much, and may mean so little. But, at the Grand, Paris, Avis aux Messieurs les voyageurs, "When in doubt, consult BLUM!" We enjoy a good but expensive dinner at the Maison Dorée. For myself, I prefer the simple fare at half the price to be found chez Noël, or at some other quiet and moderate restaurants that I could name. Next morning a brief but welcome breakfast at Amiens, a tranquil crossing, and we are bidding each other adieu at the Victoria Station. Music to the situation, "Home once more." Good-bye to my excellent ami DAUBINET, who stays a few hours in London, and then is off to Russia, Egypt, Iceland, Australia.
"Da Karascho! All r-r-right!"
And so ends a pleasant holiday trip to the Champagne Country, or real "Poppy-Land."