I am approached on the boat by two very charming girls. They want my autograph. Ah, this is nice! I never enjoyed writing my name more.
How I wish that I had learned French. I feel hopelessly sunk, because after about three sentences in French I am a total loss so far as conversation is concerned. One girl promises to give me a French lesson. This promises to be a pleasant trip.
I am told that in France they call me Charlot. We are by this time strolling about the boat and bowing every other minute. It is getting rough and I find myself saying I rather like it that way. Liar.
She is speaking. I smile. She smiles. She is talking in French. I am getting about every eighth word. I cannot seem to concentrate, French is so difficult. Maybe it's the boat.
I am dying rapidly. I feel like a dead weight on her arm. I can almost feel myself get pale as I try to say something, anything. I am weak and perspiring. I blurt out, "I beg pardon," and then I rush off to my cabin and lie down. Oh, why did I leave England? Something smells horrible. I look up. My head is near a new pigskin bag. Yes, that's it, that awful leathery smell. But I have company. Robinson is in the cabin with me and we are matching ailments.
Thus we spent the trip from Dover to Calais and I was as glad to get to the French coast as the Kaiser would have been had he kept that dinner engagement in Paris.
Nearing France, I am almost forgetting my sickness. There is something in the atmosphere. Something vibrant. The tempo of life is faster. The springs in its mechanism are wound taut. I feel as if I would like to take it apart and look at those springs.
I am met by the chief of police, which surprised me, because I was confident that I had been canny enough to make a getaway this time. But no. The boat enters the quay and I see the dock crowded with people. Some treachery. Hats are waving, kisses are being thrown, and there are cheers. Cheers that I can only get through the expression, because they are in French and I am notoriously deficient in that language.
"Vive le Charlot!" "Bravo, Charlot!"
I am "Charloted" all over the place. Strange, this foreign tongue. Wonder why a universal language isn't practicable? They are crowding about me, asking for autographs. Or at least I think they are, because they are pushing books in my face, though for the life of me I can't make out a word of their chatter. But I smile. God bless that old "prop" grin, because they seem to like it.