This patriotic obtrusiveness culminates in the Battle of the Windows. It is an oppressive evening. The Table d'Hôte-room is seething like a caldron; a few chosen conspirators and myself open the campaign early; we "tip" ADOLF "the wink." That diplomatist orders the great window to be half-opened. If things go smoothly, he will gradually open out other sources of ventilation. The Noah's Ark procession files in—all shapes and all languages, like the repast itself; DONNERWITZ, TARTARIN, SHIRTSOFF, SCAMPELINI; there is nothing in common between them—save the paper collar; they would hail international declarations of war to-morrow; but the sight of us, and that speck of air leagues them. "Mein Gott, Die Engländer!" coughs DONNERWITZ; "Ce sont de fanatiques enrhumés!" hisses TARTARIN; SHIRTSOFF sneezes the sneeze of All the Russias; "Corpo di Bacco!" cries SCAMPALINI; still nothing is done; the "Potage à la reine,"—so called from the predominance of rain-water—ebbs away in the commingled smacks and gulps of the infuriated Powers; "Saumon du Rhin, sauce Tartare" is being apportioned to the knives of all nations; it is perhaps the sight of his knife, from which soup only is sacred, that nerves the fuming DONNERWITZ to lead the attack. "Hst!" he shouts to the studiously unheeding ADOLF; "'nother bottil Pellell—ver' well sare!" chirrups ADOLF reassuringly to me; DONNERWITZ raises his knife; I fear for the consequences; he brings it down with a clang on the hardened tumbler of the Grand Hôtel; the timid pensionnaire of numberless summers starts and grows pale; SHIRTSOFF looks with peremptory encouragement towards the Teuton; "Ach, gräsglich!" rattles out DONNERWITZ, and strikes again; the cobra-like gutturality of that "Ach" is heart-rending; still no ADOLF; at a gold-fraught glance from my companions, he has ordered another detachment to the front; a fresh current of air invades the room. DONNERWITZ's knife is now brandishing peas; his offended napkin chokes him; with the yell and spring of a corpulent hyena, he rises and rushes to the windows. The timid pensionnaire and her shrinking sisterhood follow him, under the misconception that he is summoning them to admire the sunset; the sunset is their evening excitement, and DONNERWITZ can be sentimental in his calmer moments; but no "Wie wunder, wunderschön!" escapes him; a Saxon word, that even they can understand, is on his lips; the ring on his forefinger gleams luridly; bang, bang, bang; he opens fire; down go the windows, and DONNERWITZ resumes his seat of war, his napkin waving like a standard before him. It is now my turn; I don't like it; but my co-conspirators expect me to maintain the honour of our country: ADOLF cannot be trusted further; I advance furtively; the eyes of Europe are upon me; one by one I open them again and subside; a terrible silence supervenes. What next?—that is the question!
But DONNERWITZ is not only a MOLTKE, he is also a BISMARCK; flushed and moist with exertion, he has foreseen this move; it is the hour of that inevitable "Bavaroise"; the fork has succeeded to the knife: his mouth is at last free to confabulate with his neighbour—the Lady from Chicago.
"Wal, I call that slap-up rude," I hear her remark. "In Amur'ca we should just hev' him removed; but Englishmen are built that way; they fancy, I s'pose, they discovered CO-LUMBUS;" and then DONNERWITZ leans over the table and, grasping the united weapons of fork, knife, and spoon, addresses me with effervescent deliberation. "Pardon,—Mister,—but—dis—leddy,—haf—gatarrh; in a Sherman shentleman's house—most—keep—first—de—leddy zimmer; so!" I don't fully understand, but I feel that my chivalry is impugned. My confederates, too, round upon me; "Of course," they whisper, "had no idea the lady was an invalid." The brutes! I stutter an apology, and "climb down;" the windows are again hermetically sealed; and, as I slink away. I hear "Viva!" "Hoch!" and clinking glasses. Then ADOLF hurries up surreptitiously, and whispers, "Tell you vat, Sare: to-morrer you shoost dine on de terass; dere, plenty breeze, hein?" "Plenty breeze!"—and you pay three francs extra, and catch a cold.
SIGH NO MORE, LOTTIE.
["The disinfecting process has ruined all the dresses of Miss COLLINS."—New York Telegram.]
Sigh no more, LOTTIE, sigh no more,
Those gowns have gone for ever;
You've cut some capers on that shore