“And did you live in London two years, and all that time learn to speak no English?”
“Ah, monsieur, you embarrass me. If monsieur will not deign to aid me, it must be that I seek elsewhere—”
“But tell me how it was you learnt no English,” I persisted.
“Ah, monsieur, my comrades in the shop were all French.”
“And you want to get back to France?”
“Ah, monsieur, it is the hope of my life.”
“Come to me to-morrow morning at eleven o’clock—there is my address.” I gave him the envelope of a letter. “I am well acquainted with the French Consul at London Bridge, and at my intercession I am sure that he will get you a free passage to Calais; if not, and I find he considers your story true, I will send you at my own expense. Good night!”
Of course the man did not call in the morning, and I saw no more of him.
Destitute Poles.
It is now many years since the people of this country evinced a strong sympathy for Polish refugees. Their gallant struggle, compulsory exile, and utter national and domestic ruin raised them warm friends in England; and committees for the relief of destitute Poles, balls for the benefit of destitute Poles, and subscriptions for the relief of the destitute Poles were got up in every market-town. Shelter and sustenance were afforded to many gentlemen of undoubted integrity, who found themselves penniless in a strange land, and the aristocracy fêted and caressed the best-born and most gallant. To be a Pole, and in distress, was almost a sufficient introduction, and there were few English families who did not entertain as friend or visitor one of these unfortunate and suffering patriots.