So back we go to our eleven o'clock déjeuner in a beautifully cool room, of which repast the sweetest little cray-fish, fresh from the river, are by no means the worst part of the entertainment. Then coffee, cigars, and lounge. Yes, there are some things better managed in France than chez nous; and the division of the day between labour and refreshment is, in my humble opinion, one of them. In the contriving of dainty dishes out of the simplest materials, the French seem to hold that everything is good for food in this best of all possible worlds, if it be only treated on a wise system of variation, permutation, and combination. We discuss these subjects of the higher education until arrives the inevitable hour of departure. Let us not linger on the doorstep. Into the trap again. Bon voyage! Au revoir! And as passing out of the lodge-gate we get a last glimpse of the party waving adieux to us from the upper terrace, DAUBINET flourishes his hat, and sings out at the top of his voice, "We're leaving thee in sorrow, ANNIE," which is more or less appropriate, perhaps; and then, as the last flutter of a pocket-handkerchief is seen, he finishes with "And blass the Prince of WAILES!" After which he subsides, occasionally breaking the silence to sigh aloud, "O Maman!" and thenceforth, for the greater part of the journey to Paris, he slumbers in a more or less jumpy manner.
At the Grand Hotel, Paris.—"Aha!" cries M. le Baron BLUM,—always in full Blum at the Grand Hotel,—"At last! arrived!" as if he had expected us for several weeks past,—"How are you? I have your rooms ready for you!" He must have seen us driving into the courtyard, and settled our numbers there and then, not a minute ago. It's a great thing for weary travellers to be welcomed on arrival. No matter if they're forgotten again the next moment, and not thought of again until the hour of their departure. It is the welcome that is everything; it implies so much, and may mean so little. But, at the Grand, Paris, Avis aux Messieurs les voyageurs, "When in doubt, consult BLUM!" We enjoy a good but expensive dinner at the Maison Dorée. For myself, I prefer the simple fare at half the price to be found chez Noël, or at some other quiet and moderate restaurants that I could name. Next morning a brief but welcome breakfast at Amiens, a tranquil crossing, and we are bidding each other adieu at the Victoria Station. Music to the situation, "Home once more." Good-bye to my excellent ami DAUBINET, who stays a few hours in London, and then is off to Russia, Egypt, Iceland, Australia.
"Da Karascho! All r-r-right!"
And so ends a pleasant holiday trip to the Champagne Country, or real "Poppy-Land."
STORICULES.
V.—A BORN ARISTOCRAT.
Whenever I forgot to put the matches in my pocket on leaving the chambers, I used to buy a box from a boy who stood at the street corner, where the 'busses stop. He was a small boy, somewhat ragged and occasionally a good deal splashed with mud. He was bright and energetic, and he did a very fair trade. There was an air of complete independence about him, which one does not often find in match-boys. His method of recommending his wares was considerably above the average of the peripatetic vendor; it suggested a large emporium, plate glass, mahogany counters, and gorgeous assistants with fair hair parted in the middle:
"Now off'rin! A unooshally lawge box of wax vestas for one penny. Shop early and shop often. Foosees, Sir? Yessir. Part o' a bankrupt's stock."