“The horses, Sir!” said Bedos; and “the bill, Sir?” said the garcon. Alas! that those and that should be so coupled together; and that we can never take our departure without such awful witnesses of our sojourn. Well—to be brief—the bill for once was discharged—the horses snorted—the carriage door was opened—I entered—Bedos mounted behind—crack went the whips—off went the steeds, and so terminated my adventures at dear Paris.
CHAPTER XXXII.
O, cousin, you know him—the fine gentleman they talk of so much in town.—Wycherly’s Dancing Master.
By the bright days of my youth, there is something truly delightful in the quick motion of four post-horses. In France, where one’s steeds are none of the swiftest, the pleasures of travelling are not quite so great as in England; still, however, to a man who is tired of one scene—panting for another—in love with excitement, and not yet wearied of its pursuit—the turnpike road is more grateful than the easiest chair ever invented, and the little prison we entitle a carriage, more cheerful than the state-rooms of Devonshire House.
We reached Calais in safety, and in good time, the next day.
“Will Monsieur dine in his rooms, or at the table d’hote?”
“In his rooms, of course,” said Bedos, indignantly deciding the question. A French valet’s dignity is always involved in his master’s.
“You are too good, Bedos,” said I, “I shall dine at the table d’hote—who have you there in general?”
“Really,” said the garcon, “we have such a swift succession of guests, that we seldom see the same faces two days running. We have as many changes as an English administration.”