The perfect comfort of this arrangement for a long journey is worth the price including the supplément, which I am paying when a cheery voice cries, "Hallo! old chap," and I recognise Puller, whom I haven't seen for some time. I return his greeting heartily. "You've got a coupé reservé?" he exclaims gleefully, and literally skipping for joy. I never saw a man in such spirits. He is not absolutely young, nearer forty than thirty for example, looking so wonderfully fresh, that turn-down collars and a jacket would suit him perfectly. He is as clean-shaved as a Benedictine Monk or a Low Comedian. He says of himself—he is the waggish companion to whom I alluded in my previous notes—"I am well preserved in high spirits." He insists on paying the extra seat and supplément. Cousin Jane (again going to Royat for the Cæsar Baths) says she shall be delighted, and so Puller is to come with us. Certainly am delighted to see Puller. Will he have his things brought here? He will, "à l'instant!"—he pronounces it "ar long stong," and roars with laughter as if he had delivered himself of the rarest witticism. Then he skips off down the platform, waving an umbrella in one hand and a stick in the other. Suddenly Puller's social characteristics all flash across me. I haven't seen him for years, and had forgotten them. I recollect now, he is what they call "an inveterate punster," and loves when abroad (though an accomplished linguist) to speak the language of the country in which he may be temporarily sojourning with a strong English accent; it is also a part of his humour to embellish his discourse with English idioms literally translated,—or, vice versâ, to give French idioms in colloquial English; so that on the whole his conversational style, when in foreign parts, is peculiar. The impression left in my memory years ago of Puller, is that he is a wonderfully good-natured fellow unless a trifle puts him out, when he flares up suddenly into red heat; but this is seldom, and he cools down directly if allowed to stand. When he is not in the highest possible spirits he is an agreeable companion, as he can give some interesting, but utterly untrustworthy, information on most subjects, and, when this comes to an end, he falls asleep suddenly,—he does everything suddenly,—but, as I have since ascertained, does not snore. When at his office in London he is the second partner of an eminent firm of Solicitors with a varied and extensive business. For a safe and sound legal opinion in any difficult matter, specially on the Chancery side, there is no one to whom I would sooner go myself, or recommend a friend than James Puller, of Horler, Puller, Puller (J.), Baker and Dayville. For the greater part of the year James Puller is hard at work, and is gravity itself, except on certain social and festive occasions. But in vacation-time he gives up Law and goes in for Lunacy. "I feel," he says, when he returns, still capering on the platform, this time with his stick in one hand and his hat in the other, "I feel like a school-boy out for a holiday," and, allowing for the difference of age and costume, he looks the character.
Travelling is very tiring; so is rising early in the morning (which is included in the process of travelling) after a night spent in fitful dozing, one's rest being broken by nervous anxiety as to whether the waiter will remember to call one at the cruel hour of 6.30, or not, and determining to be up at that time exactly, and if he doesn't appear punctually, to ring for him to bring the bath and the boots; then preternatural wakefulness, then the drowsiness, then the painful emptiness, then the necessity for extraordinary energy and bustle,—all this fatigues me so much, that when at last I find myself in a comfortable railway-carriage, I sink back, and prepare to make up for the lost sleep of the previous night.
Puller has been travelling all night right through, yet he is now as fresh, as the proverbial lark. He is smoking. He came up smoking. I am a smoker, but at an early hour on a hot day, and comparatively unbreakfasted, I do not like the smell of the last half-inch of a strong and newish cigar such as Puller is now smoking. He is sucking at this last morsel of it as if it were the only one he should take (I wish it were) for another month, and as if it went to his heart to part with it.
"Don't you smoke your cigars rather short?" I ask, mildly, by way of a hint.
"No," he replies, quickly; "I smoke them rather long. Had him there, eh?" he says playfully, turning to Cousin Jane, who, I regret to say, encourages him with an appreciative smile. After his fit of chuckles has subsided (in which I do not join), he takes off his hat à la française, and addresses himself to Cousin Jane.
"If Madame does not oppose herself to that I shall smoke."
Jane graciously returns, "Oh dear no, I do not mind smoke," which isn't at all what I want her to say on this occasion. Puller throws away what is left of his cigar, and, producing an enormous case, offers me what he calls "a beauty,"—very big, very dark one, with a bit of red and gold paper wrapped round its middle, as if it were in a delicate state of health and might suffer from rheumatism,—but I decline it, saying pointedly, "I can't stand smoking so early, and before breakfast."
"Oh," he returns in an offhand manner, "can't you? I can smoke any time, it doesn't affect me. Besides, I had a first-rate breakfast at the fork, and spoon too, at the buffet,"—he pronounces this word as written in English—this is his fun (i.e., the fun of a high-spirited Solicitor on a holiday), and forthwith he lights the big cigar, changes his seat so as to face us both, and then commences a conversation about all sorts of things, seasoned with his jokes and comic French, at which he laughs himself uproariously, and appeals to me to know if it, whatever the joke may be, "Wasn't bad, was it?" And when I beg him to spare some of his witticisms, as he'll want them for the friends he's going to meet at Royat—(thank Heaven, he isgoing to meet friends!)—he only says, "Oh, there's lots more where these came from," and off he goes again. Fortunately he turns to Cousin Jane, and instantly I close my eyes, and pretend to be overcome by fatigue. If Jane is wise she will do the same. Jane is tired, but tolerant.
Finding that neither of us is up to much talking (I have inadvertently opened an eye) he says, "Look here, I'll show you my travelling-bag," as if it was something to amuse children. This delights him immensely. He opens it and explains its compartments, tells how he shaves, what soap he uses, how he invented a peculiar pomade for travelling, and how he had thought out this bag and had everything made to fit into its place. He takes out everything, brushes, combs, razors, glass-pots, knives, brushes, one after the other, expatiating on their excellence as if he were a pedlar anxious to do a deal, and we were his casual, but likely, customers. Then finding our interest waning, he shuts it up, and saying that the best of travelling in a lit-salonis that you can stretch your legs, he forthwith begins capering, asks Jane if he mayn't have the pleasure of the next waltz and so forth, until fortunately, he discovers the secret of the seat which pulls out and becomes a bed, and is so struck with the idea that he exclaims, "By Jove! this is first-rate! pillows, mattresses, everything! I've never slept in one of these! I haven't been to bed all night. You don't mind my taking forty winks—do you?"
O dear no—take eighty if he likes.