Volume Two—Chapter Two.
At Havre and London.
Late on the evening of the day after the marriage in London, Markworth and his charge—lately his “sister,” now Madame sa femme—arrived at the half-seaport town, half-fashionable watering place of Havre-de-Grace, at the mouth of the slowly running Seine, tawny as the yellow Tiber.
Susan had not been brought to the Continent without serious prior deliberation.
Markworth, in the first place, wished to avoid observation at the present time; and he was so well-known in London, that he thought it would be folly to remain there any longer than necessary; and, in the second place, he wanted to secure a quiet retreat wherein to lodge Susan.
He determined, of course, to keep his hold on her until her friends were assured of the marriage; and as she might be traced, and he, perhaps, arrested for abducting the girl, before he was able to lay a legal claim to her inheritance, the best plan for him to pursue was to “go across the water,” as he expressed it, for awhile—as, indeed, a good many other gentlemen, who have sympathising friends amongst the trading interests of the great city of Babylon-the-Less have done, and annually do still.
What place so convenient, he thought, as Havre? So to Havre he accordingly ran over the next day, and in that pleasant little town he sat down awhile, to consider what his next movement should be, as he had to study each move carefully. He had plenty of money for present expenses; he had “the goose;” the only thing now to do was to get the “golden eggs.” As he had gone so far, he certainly was not going to be baulked now, he thought. And his chances must have been good, or that cautious old Jew, Solomonson, would not have “backed him.” He had only got to play his cards properly, and look about him awhile. That was all! Yes, that was all.
He could not have chosen a more convenient and comfortable place in France, all things considered, for his purpose.
Perhaps, an exceptional reader—I say “exceptional” advisedly—may have stopped at Havre after crossing over from Southampton—stopped a sufficient time to learn and know the place, for the generality of travellers who adopt this route to Paris, usually go on straight to their destination without breaking their journey at this picturesque old town, which is a sort of “half-way house” on the direct road. If so, the “exceptional reader” will bear me out in my observations on the subject and place.
Havre is like Liverpool and Boulogne rolled into one harmonious or inharmonious whole. It has all the shipping and maritime population—although perhaps the latter are more gaily dressed—of the great entrepôt on the Mersey, with all the thorough Gallic attributes of a French watering place.