CHAPTER VIII.
T is a truism, venerable to the verge of dotage, to say that the way not to enjoy travelling is to do it at a rush, spending the days in sight-seeing, and the nights in the train; but this disposition of things has one merit, it keeps the anguish out of farewells. The heart-tendrils have not time to weave themselves round the concierge, the chambermaid is still your bitterest foe, the waiter has not yet risen to the position of an unnaturally obliging brother; you are too hurried to discover the full charms of the armoire à glace in the bedroom, or the verandah outside the salon windows, and you scurry from one hotel to another, unregretful and heart-whole.
But a week—and we were the best part of a week at Pauillac—gives ample time for the forming of those ill-fated foreign friendships which are destined never, as Rossetti says, ‘to find an earthly close.’ I do not know from how many hotels in various parts of France we have gone forth sorrowing, and asseverating our intention of returning there directly our affairs in Ireland could be wound up so as to permit of our leaving that country for life. To their melancholy number must now be added the Grand Hôtel du Commerce, Pauillac. On the last sad day we had to start early,—a proceeding that is a strain upon the constitution of any hotel,—but never, on our laziest mornings, had we such lavish cans of eau bouillante, nor such hot coffee, nor such a foaming jug of freshly boiled milk. Léonie the chambermaid, Louis the garçon, Jeanne the cook, all vied with each other in fond efforts to enhance the poignancy of parting; even the bill, usually a styptic to the tender pain of farewell, was affectingly moderate.
‘Black,’ the big dog, paced beside us to the curious little vehicle, not unlike a county Cork inside car, that was to take us to the station; he was bestridden
MY COUSIN ENDURED THE CLAMMY TOUCH OF ‘BAMBOO’ UPON HER FINGER WITH SCARCELY A SHUDDER.
as usual by the monkey, and in her softened mood my cousin endured the clammy clutch of ‘Bamboo’ upon her finger with scarcely a shudder. Jeanne’s little girl had given us a flaming bouquet of scarlet geraniums and heliotrope; two bunches of grapes had been pressed upon us by Madame, to sustain us on our journey; and, at the last moment, our friend who had been the first to introduce us to the secrets of wine-making darted forward with a card addressed to the proprietor of a restaurant in Bordeaux, on which that gentleman was prayed to serve to ‘ces demoiselles’ a bottle of Grand St. Lambert, ‘85, at the expense of its original producer. Of course we left vowing to return for the vendange next year, and trying to believe that we should be as good as our word. It seemed the only way given to us of marking our sense of their kindness.
We had to wait at the station, seated on our luggage in default of benches, before the train—the tallest we had ever seen—came in, towering over the platformless station after the arrogant fashion of French trains; and having scaled its precipitous sides, and struggled up into what we expected to be its lofty saloons, our hats were knocked over our eyes by the ceiling. We then found that the unusual height of the train was caused by the third-classes being mounted on top, above our more honourable heads, and that, in moving about the carriage, it was safer to go on all-fours.
It was a long hot drive across Bordeaux to the Gare de la Bastide, and it gave a fine sense of freedom to leave all luggage there, and set forth again on foot, unhampered by anything except a small cherished hand-basket. We took the ferry-boat across to the other side of the river—a little strenuous black steamer that fretted and panted across the wide stream like a broken-winded pony trying to bolt. We did not know our way, and asked advice on the subject from as many people as possible, only taking care to wait till our most recent informant was round a corner. I once omitted this precaution in Cork, and while I was blandly putting further inquiries to a postman, an awful voice cried after me—