[CHAPTER XIV.]
Over the Water.
The fine passenger boat was ploughing its way across the channel, receding from Folkestone, gaining on Boulogne-sur-Mer. Sir Simon Orville and his three nephews were on board. It was a fine, warm, calm day in August; and as Sir Simon Orville sat on the upper deck, steadily as he could have sat in one of his own chairs at home, he thought what a charming passage that was between the two points, and how silly he had been never to have tried it before.
For—if the truth must be told—Sir Simon Orville had never made but three water trips in his life: the one to Ramsgate, from London; the other two, the short crossing to the Isle of Wight. He had called them all equally "going to sea;" and as it happened that the water had been very particularly rough on each of the three occasions, and Sir Simon terribly ill, his reminiscences on the subject were not pleasant. To find himself, therefore, gliding along as smoothly as if the channel were a sea of glass, was both unexpected and delightful.
The sky was blue over head; the water was blue underneath; the slight breeze caused by the motion of the vessel was grateful on the warm day; and Sir Simon thought he was in Paradise. And now, as they were nearing the French town, there came gliding towards them the steamer that had just put off from it; her deck crowded with merry-faced passengers, congratulating themselves like Sir Simon, at the easy voyage. The vessels exchanged salutes, and passed, each on her way.
And now the harbour was gained and traversed; the boat was made fast to the side, and the passengers began to land. The first thing Sir Simon did on terra firma was to turn himself about and gaze around, perfectly bewildered with the strange scene and the strange tongue. It was so new to him: he had never been out of his own country in his life. Bertie Loftus, who knew something of the place, and prided himself on his French, consequently felt obliged to speak it as soon as he landed, drew his uncle to the custom-house through the sea of gazing faces, and said, "Par ici." That passed, and the egress gained, they found themselves in the midst of a crowd of touters, shouting out the names of their respective hotels and thrusting forward cards.
"Hotel du Nord," said Bertie, grandly, waving his hands to keep off the men, with an air of deprecating condescension.
"But what is it? What do they want? What are these cards?" reiterated Sir Simon. "My goodness me, boys, what's that?"
"That" was a string of the fishwomen in their matelotte costume, dark cloth short petticoats, red bodies, and broad webbing bracers. They were harnessed to a heavy truck of luggage, already cleared, and starting with it to one of the hotels.
"Uncle, we shall never get on if you stay like this," said Bertie. "That's nothing: the women do all the work here."
Up came four or five more women and surrounded the party, bawling into Sir Simon's stunned ears with their shrill and shrieking voices, evidently asking something.