“Oh! I am off this evening by the mail.”
“I have no clothes ready for travelling.”
“Never mind that; you can get all you require in Paris, where I shall remain two days upon business.”
“Indeed! then in two hours I will give you a decided answer.”
At the expiration of that time my friend made his appearance. We drew up an agreement, got his passport, and started the same evening; but not on the sly, as I had anticipated. Having forgotten to warn T. G. not to mention the fact of our intended journey, he had called upon several of his friends, with some of whom I was acquainted, and to my surprise, when I reached the station, I found about twenty assembled to bid us farewell. If I mention this circumstance, it is only to have an opportunity of publicly thanking those gentlemen for their hearty farewell, and three cheers—the echo of which still vibrates in my heart, and was through the whole of my culinary campaign a high source of gratification to my feelings. That night we slept at the Pavilion Hotel, Folkestone.
CHAPTER IV.
DELIGHTS OF TRAVEL.
The lost pocket-book—Found at last—Scene at a station—Caught in a fog—Arrival at Boulogne—The Emperor’s first valet-de-chambre—An avalanche of earth—Table talk—Napoleon’s projected trip to the Crimea—News of the death of the Czar—An incredulous auditor—A bet quickly won—Paris—Lyons—Marseilles.
THE Boulogne steamer was to start at half-past seven in the morning; the weather was anything but favourable, as rain was falling in torrents, and a thick fog coming on. T. G. and myself were ready to start, when a sad adventure occurred—my pocket-book, containing the best part of my cash and my official letters, was not to be found.[5] As I recollected having put it safely in the side pocket of my great coat before leaving the Adelaide Hotel, I feared that during the journey (owing to the fatigues of the day I had slept some time in the train) it might have been abstracted from my pocket.
After hunting in vain all about the room, I informed Mr. Giovanni and Mr. Brydes, the landlord of the hotel, of my loss, and those gentlemen immediately instituted inquiries. The news was soon known all through the hotel, and the crier was ordered to go round the town. I also dispatched T. G. to London, to make inquiries at the station and the hotel, lest by chance I had taken it out during my short visit at the London Bridge house, where I had been surrounded by a number of friends. While making a last search in the room, by accident I shook the heavy wooden frame of the bed, from which everything had been removed—bedding, beds, and all, but without success—to my astonishment and delight, I heard something fall. It was my lost pocket-book. I had thrown my great coat over me in the night (the weather being cold), and the book had worked its way out, and got between the frame of the bedstead and the wall. Upon this discovery I immediately telegraphed for T. G. to return, in these words: “Stop a gentleman of colour—it’s all right.”
On the arrival of the train at Tonbridge, the cry of “Stop the gentleman of colour” was loudly shouted along the station. “All right, all right,” cried T. G.; “here I am.” He immediately jumped into the special down train, and arrived time enough to save the steamer.