In this same place—but not alone.
I had got so far in my sentimental rambling when a voice I recognized fell upon my ear. I looked up, and lo! at the next table sat a man whom I had last seen standing in front of the Treasury Bench in the House of Commons, Sir Charles Dilke, the Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs. And he, too, was making believe to eat Bouillabaisse at the Maison Dorée at Marseilles. I hope he liked it.
CHAPTER II.
ON BOARD THE CHARLES QUINT.
A noble ship — Fellow-passengers — The vivandière — Husbands and wives — A defect in the ship’s arrangements — “Why is an Englishman never sea-sick?” — Bone — Hair-cutting made easy — Colonel Allegro — The vivandière distinguishes herself — A sudden change.
Marseilles, Friday, October 14th.—The Charles Quint is one of the newest and finest of the splendid line of steamers recently built at Glasgow for the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique of Marseilles. She was lying in the Joliette Dock when, accompanied by the kindly Captain A———, who seemed loth to part with me, I boarded her this afternoon. Nothing more luxurious in the shape of a sea-going vessel has ever met my eyes. The saloon is a marvel of beauty and elegance. Marble walls richly gilded, luxurious arm-chairs, crimson couches, mirrors, carpets, pictures, silver lamps, completely destroy for the moment the notion that one is on board ship. You seem to be seated in the splendid apartment of some palace. The state-rooms, too, are large, airy, and well found. My own is nearly amidships, so I am well away from the grinding of the screw, whilst close to me is a beautiful bath-room, the accommodation of which I have already tested, where a bath of pure white marble might tempt even the most nervous of Frenchmen to unwonted ablutions.
But it was not the remarkable completeness and elegance of the furnishings of this noble ship that occupied my attention this afternoon when, having at last said good-bye to my genial fellow-countryman, I lounged on the broad hurricane-deck awaiting the hour of our departure, which had been fixed for five o’clock. The starting of a steamboat is always an interesting spectacle, whether one witnesses it in a grimy Liverpool dock, a crowded harbour in the Levant, or here under the glaring sunshine of Southern France. But a special interest attaches to the Charles Quint on its present voyage. She is bound for the wars, and the passengers she carries are, in many instances, leaving their native country for the first time in order to take part in a campaign in which the full amount of peril must be encountered. What a mixed and picturesque company we have on board the ship! There are a number of unmistakable Algerian colonists, male and female, stout in figure and swart of complexion, returning to their homes on the other side of the Mediterranean. We talk of the French faculty of dressing. I wonder how long it would take for England to produce, among the respectable middle classes, such a picture of unkempt dowdiness as that which is presented by one of our passengers, the only lady apparently who has secured a place in the first saloon. Next to the Algerians, who have been kissing, laughing, crying, and shouting for the last hour, as one by one they parted from their friends, we have a number of commercial travellers; smart fellows, who “know their way about,” and who are already beginning to make themselves as comfortable as possible during their sojourn on board ship.
But it is in the people who are actually bound for Tunis and the war that I am chiefly interested. We have about a score of officers on board, chiefly doctors and captains of infantry. Poor fellows! They pace up and down the deck with rather melancholy faces, casting many a longing eye towards the white houses and white hills of Marseilles. Nobody has come to see them off. Nobody seems inclined to take much notice of them. I should certainly not gather from the manner in which they are regarded by the outer world that the war is very popular in Marseilles. Nor does the army seem to occupy a very brilliant social position in the estimation of the French people. Will it be believed that no officer under the rank of a major is permitted to travel first class on these boats? So our rueful-visaged captains troop off presently with clanking swords and downcast heads, to take their appointed places in the second saloon.
But who is this that suddenly appears upon the hurricane-deck—a vision, well, hardly of beauty or of joy, but still of a very uncommon kind? Five-and-twenty years ago, at the time when illustrated histories of the Crimean war were common, and when my young imagination was being fed upon the stirring adventures of the French and English allies under the walls of Sebastopol, I was quite familiar with such a figure as this, for it was one which was constantly appearing in the pages of the aforesaid illustrated histories. But I had almost forgotten that such beings had ever existed until this moment, when a real live Vivandière, clad in her full uniform, with plumed hat, frock coat, military trousers, and shining boots complete, stepped upon the hurricane-deck and saluted me with bland dignity. She must be no ordinary vivandière either, for on her breast glitters a row of medals, crosses, and decorations of all kinds, that would do credit to a prize ox at Smithfield, whilst round her neck is a red ribbon, which must surely be that of the Legion of Honour. Nor are these the only distinguishing marks she bears. On her arm is a broad band of canvas, bearing the sign of the Red Cross. So my vivandière is not going to Tunis to sell wine, but to succour the wounded. I think of one of Ouida’s novels, and cry to myself, “Brava, Cigarette!” though all the time I wonder to what extent the Arabs are likely to respect that Red Cross. She is a brisk, comely woman of forty or thereabouts, with a sharp, shrewd eye, a pleasant smile, and a ready jest for everybody. In less than five minutes after her appearance on board she has made friends with some of her fellow-passengers, and is volubly explaining to them the mission on which she is proceeding to Africa.