The party is broken up in order to walk down to our rendezvous.
Puller, whose idea of making things pleasant, and, as he expresses it, "sweetening everyone all round," is to order "drinks" for everybody, insists upon the party taking "consommations"—he loves saying this word—at his expense. The Countess at first objects, as also does Madame Metterbrun; but, on Puller's explaining that he belongs to "The Two-with-you Society," they accept this explanation as utterly unintelligible but perfectly satisfactory; and so, accepting Puller's al fresco hospitality, we form a cheerful group round two tables put together for our accommodation. Puller's hospitality has taken the form of grenadines, chartreuses, and "sherry-gobblers,"—he loves this word too,—for us all round, and he has ordered for himself a strange mixture, which perfumes the night air as if some nauseous draught had been brought out of a chemist's shop, and which looks like green stagnant water in a big glass. It is called by Puller, with great glee, an "Absinthe gummy."
Anything nastier to look at or to smell I am not acquainted with in the way of drinks. However, he is our host, and I have a grenadine before me of his ordering, and between my lips an excellent cigar which is his gift. I can only say mildly, "It looks nasty;" and Cousin Jane expresses herself to the same effect, remarking also as she looks significantly towards me, that it is late, and that I am not keeping Royat hours. I promise to come away in ten minutes. Puller is in the highest possible spirits: surrounded by this company, all drinking his drinks, he as it were takes the chair and presides. He knocks on the table, which brings the waiter, to whom he says, holding up a couple of fingers "Two with you,"—whereat the waiter only smiles upon the eccentric Englishman, shakes his head, and wisely retires.
"Ah, Miladi," says Puller, "you must take a course of Roberts. He's a rum 'un." Then he sings, "He's all right when you know him, but you've got to hear him fust."
His guests politely smile, all except the Countess. I preserve a discreet silence. Taking this on the whole for encouragement, Puller commences the song from which he has already quoted the chorus. What the words are I do not catch, but as Puller reproduces to the life the style and manner of a London Music-Hall singer, and cocks his hat on one side, it is no wonder that the French people at the other table turn towards us in amazement.
"For goodness sake, Mr. Puller!" cries the Countess, rising from her chair in consternation. Jane also rises, Miss Casanova is laughing nervously. The Metterbruns look utterly astonished. I feel I must stop this at once.
"My dear fellow," I say, magisterially, "you really mustn't do this sort of thing"—he is breaking out again with "O what a surprise!"—but I get up from my seat to reprove him gravely. "You would not do this if you were in a London Restaurant."
"No," he replies, not in the least offended—"that's the lark of it. I belong to 'The Out-for-a-lark-and-Two-with-you Society.' Don't you mind me," he adds; then turning with a pleasant wink to the ladies, who have been putting on their wraps and mantles, and are preparing to leave, he sings again,—
"I'm all right when you know me—
But——"