In spite, however, of the unrivalled attractions of Calais, I determine to go no further than the buffet. Acting under the instructions of Mr. Recorder Bunny, Q.C., who seems to know the ropes thoroughly well, I allow the "goers on" (passengers bound for Paris and the Continent generally) to satisfy their cravings for food, and then give my orders. A waiter, who has all the activity of his class, representing, let us say, the best traditions of the Champs Elysée, takes me in hand. We make out a menu on the spot—Melon, tête de veau à la vinaigrette, caneton aux petits pois, and a cheese omelette. Then half a bottle of red wine, a demi-syphon, and a café and chasse. All good. Then the garçon skips away, placing knives and forks at this table, a dish of fruit at that, and a basket of bread at the one yonder. These athletic exercises (that are sufficiently encouraging to promise the performer—if he wishes it—a prosperous career on the lofty trapèze), are undertaken in the interests of the expected voyagers Albion bound. Before the arrival of the Paris train I have eaten my lunch, settled my bill (moderate), and taken my deck chair on the good steamer that is to carry me back to my native land.
Ah! never shall I forget the dear old shores of England as I watch them after déjeuner à la fourchette through the perfumed haze of an unusually good cigar. "Low capped and turf crowned, they are not a patch upon the wild magnificence of the fierce Australian coast line, but in my eyes they are beautiful beyond compare." I remember that at one time or another I have heard "the finest music in the world, but at that moment there comes stealing into my ears a melody worth all that music put together, the chime of English village bells." I recollect that I have heard these beautiful expressions used in the Garrick Theatre on the occasion of the revival of a certain little one-act piece. Mr. Arthur Bouchier was then eloquent (on behalf of the author) in praise of Dover, and I now agree with him. What can be more beautiful than the white cliffs of Albion and the sound of English village bells—after a capital lunch at Calais, and during the enjoyment of an unusually good cigar?
The trusty ship gets to England at 2.30, the equally trusty train arrives at Victoria a couple of hours later. I am in capital time for Mrs. Anybody's "last Any-day."
"How well you are looking," observes my kind hostess, pouring out a cup of tea.
"And I am feeling well," I return; "and all this good health I owe to twenty minutes on the continent."
And these last words sound so like the tag to a piece that they shall serve (by the kind permission of the British public) as the title and the end to an article.
SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.