Night has spread its shutters over London. All is still, save a spirituous cry of "Va-ri-e-ty," that comes at muffled intervals leaping through the air. There is not a Gent to be seen. Even Lord Ellam has retired to his bed under the ducal counter. Sleep snores heavily in the Strand, and the nightmare rules in the City. All humanity, save editors and milkmen, is between the sheets.
All, did I say? It is false. There is one figure still, very still, on its legs. He is no purveyor of chalk, or human kindness. He is not a thief either, save one of Time; and better to rob him than Rogers' bank,—though, it is true, the notes may be stopped, but the minutes, alas! never. Whose is that figure? Egad! It is the Frenchman's.
There he stands, opposite the same identical emporium. He is wrapt in mystery and a Spanish cloak, with a collar borrowed from the poodle. He has not moved the whisper of a pig to the right or to the left. What fearful secret can chain him to that awful spot?
His iron glances seem as if they would pierce like nails at tenpence a-piece the shutters of that Depôt. The hunger on his countenance is not yet appeased. I offer him an Havannah, the best that the Green of Turnham can produce. He answers me only with a sallow smile. No complaint escapes his lips, though it is clear as Thames water that is filtered that he is ill at ease. Ah! perhaps he is doing penance for some early crime? Perhaps it is a vow he has registered in some album to please his Love? Perhaps—but I waste the valuable ink of the printer with these idle sur-mises; be the awful cause what it will, from the bottom of my purse, noble stranger from the noble Land of the Cancan, I do feel for thee! Thou wouldst never remain outside a piscatorial pastrycook's for nine long hours, transfixed like a pose plastique (only thou art dressed), unless there were some strange mystery at the bottom of it!
THE SPIRIT LEVEL.
I cannot sleep. My pillow is burning hot. Fever shares my bed. The vision of that unhappy Frenchman keeps pulling aside the curtains, and crying aloud in my ear, "Curiosity doth murder sleep." It is too true! Who can close his eyes, though they be weighed down with two bottles of port, of the best Public Dinner vintage, and sealed with the smoke of three-times-ten cigars, when he has a secret gnawing at his heart? I don my morning suit, and walk breathless, breakfastless to the Strand.
Clerks are plodding to their high stools in the City. All waistcoats are turned towards St. Paul's. Omnibuses are laden with cashiers—strict lovers of punctuality—who eat, and drink, and sleep, and make love, by the chronometer. The antique apple-woman is putting on her great coat, the relic of her late relict, a deceased cabman. Holloway determines to have an immense spread, and lays down a roll of ointment eight yards without a seam. Newspaper boys sing in quires as they canter along with wet bundles under their arms. The sun rises; the puddles reflect its golden smiles; the cocks and hens visit their daily cab-stand; the postman's knock is heard; the clock of St. Clement's strikes nine. London has begun a new day.
But what are these facts to me? No more than Spanish Bonds, for I do not even look at them. I have but one object in view, and that is the Frenchman.