A LITTLE TOUR IN FRANCE.

“Mr. Punch, Sir,

“I am obliged to you for your invitation to me to give you a full and graphic account of the visit, 1 which at your request, I have just made to the dominions of the Emperor Louis Napoleon. I am the more obliged because I shall be enabled to confound certain spiteful parties (this is a very spiteful world, Mr. Punch) who I find have hinted that my temporary absence from England was caused by what a recent writer on finance prettily called ‘the disturbance of the desirable equilibrium between receipts and expenditure.’ I paid my laundress to the last shilling before leaving (including eightpence for the mending one of my shoes), and yet had another with which to guerdon a postman whose Christmas box I had forgotten. These details may seem trifling, Mr. Punch, but a great man has said that the sooner a lie is trampled out the better.

“You desired me to go to France and adjust with the Emperor and M. Fould various points in the Commercial Treaty which were too intricate to be settled by Mr. Cobden. Had I not gone, the Treaty, as you are aware, would never have been signed.2

“It may not be necessary for me to describe minutely my journey to the station near London Bridge, or my progress by rail to the point of embarkation. Suffice it to say, that the South Eastern Line performed its engagements with its usual punctuality, and that I am able to speak in favourable terms of a Bath-bun purchased for me by the obliging guard, at Ashford. The whole of the females who embarked at Folkestone had made up their minds to be ill (though the sea was as calm as your mind, Mr. Punch) and woman, as usual, did what she had determined to do. Under the circumstances, and believing that you would wish me to escape observation as far as possible, (though it is difficult for a distinguished-looking man of thirty-nine3 to avoid it,) I felt myself justified in abstaining from offering any assistance to any of my fellow-passengers, and in enveloping myself in a cloud of smoke raised by myself in a comfortable corner under the bridge.4 The way some of the foolish persons in the cabin goaned and moaned was very objectionable, and I think those who cannot take a volunteered voyage without making such helpless idiots of themselves had better stay at home, or seck inland recreation.

“Moored alongside Boulogne, and the gangway ascended (ladies with indifferent ancles comlain of its steepness), I passed into the Douane. My ears are keen, and I detected an affected sternness in the demand of the gendarme who inquired whether I had a passport. A glance at his face showed me that my telegram had been received. It was the Count de M—y, sent on by his imperial patron to see that no difficulty was thrown in my way. Needless to say that in another minute I was passed out at the other door, and amid a chorus of touters recommending the thousand and one hotels of Boulogne to my patronage, I caught a well-known voice, that suggested “Hotel du Nord.” Of course he would recommend anything Du Nord – that Walewski – no admirer of despotism like your converted patriot. However, as I knew that he had been ordered to give me the hint, I took it, the rather that I have loved Mublberque’s ever since the evening when at the table d’hote I indiced the sparkling yet affectionate Anna Matilda * * * * to own that of all the – but I will not intrude these recollections upon you. I went to the Hotel du Nord, in Five Bob Street, Boulogne.

“I shall have occasion hereafter to allude to what I ate and drank, and therefore will only remark, that my duty to my country dictated my denying myself nothing that could tend to make me comfortable and fit for the duty which you had imposed upon me. But shortly before eight o’clock I threw over me a noble Inverness cape (would I could have ‘thrown in’ some noble Inverness whiskey, not that the Marasquin was had, but ’tis woman’s drink, Mr. Punch5), and lighting a cigarette, I proceeded to the end of the eastern pier. It was deserted. Moonlight played upon the lapping and plashing billows, and shone out on the big letters all along the roof of the Imperial Hotel. The pier lighthouse had been newly whitewashed, not without a purpose.

“Lightly humming to myself the favourite French chanson which I have so often heard on the pier amid crowds of perfumed and crinolined matrons, ‘Comment, Madame-er, n’avez-vous pas un mari?‘ I lighted a second cigarette. The signal was noticed, and in another instant Three Men stood at the end of that pier, far out in the waters. The first was your Correspondent. The Second was M. Fould, who had for some reason disguised himself as a Jew with beard and gaberdine. The Third was the Elected of the Millions! We saluted, and the next moment M. Fould signed to a sentinel, whom I had not previously seen, to prevent our being intruded upon. The order was not in vain, for during our emphatic colloquy which followed I heard footsteps approaching – some one was ordered back, and was contumacious. I heard the bayonet clash, and the intruder splash heavily into the harbour – but we were engaged on too important a business to notice trifles.6

“What passed between those Three Men must be known only by the Treaty. How its provisions were then discussed and re-discussed will never be known at all. We drew out our pencils (a gold one handed to me by the Emperor I shall retain, though I do not approve of every act of his life7), and the lighthouse, newly whitewashed, was covered, as high as the hand could reach, with our chiffres – our calculations. It was whitewashed again before the public were admitted in the morning, and as the whitewashers might have revealed secrets, they were, at the conclusion of their job, deported to Cayenne, for no great food was ever achieved without a little suffering.

“The Treaty was completed. How the trio spent the remainder of that night need not be said. Perhaps we went to the Cafe Vermond, and played at dominoes. Perhaps we went to the Cafe Martin, and played billiards, and perhaps that old Hebrew Fould tried to do the old lady out of three sous, and failed in a remarkable manner. Perhaps we disguised ourselves a la matelote and went into the Fisherman’s town, and exchanged harmless jokes with the younger and prettier mermaids. Perhaps we went to the Cathedral, knocked up the Bishop and Chapter, and made them bring out their richest wines for the Eldest Son of the Church and his particular friend,- Fould the Jew sneering at the Church whenever the Emperor wasn’t looking. All this concerns not the public even in an age when Bohemia records whether a public man takes lemon-juice or lobster-sauce with his salmon. Let me only say that the Alliance is stronger by the events of that night, and that M. Fould has solemnly promised me to read Paley’s Evidences.

“Which way I returned to my native country matters not. I did return, and wishing for a quiet day to make up my despatches and memoranda of what had occurred, I remained at an English hotel. I think it was called the Quintilian. I know that it was very comfortable, and that though there was only one bell in my bed-room there, though there were four bells in my bed-room in France, that one had and advantage possessed by none of the four, namely, that it rang. I know that there was an excellent table d’hote, at which the landlord of the hotel, a foreign gentleman, took his seat among the guests, and was the loudest and freest spoken among that congregation of Swells, arguing, confuting, and rallying as if he were one of Us. Nay, I was delighted to see how the Swell (and there were grand ones) abated their Anglican haughtiness, and permitted M. Dorenavant to sit among them in the smoke room, match his experiences with theirs, travel more miles, catch larger fish, and be cured of more awful complaints than any of them, They looked surprised, certainly, but tolerant, and even permitted themselves to be occasionally amused. Truly comfortable, also, was the British bed, on which you laid down in confidence, assured that a battery of springs would not repel you, with a jerk, out of window or into the fireplace. I slept the sleep of the good.

“I have but one more revelation – a double one – to make, and it is of a financial character. I went to the French Hotel on a Monday, and I left it on the following Friday. I went to the English Hotel on a Friday, and left it on the following Saturday. I sought to live exactly in the same manner at each place – that is, I had a bed-room, and took my breakfast and dinner at the public table. I was Eighty-Six Hours at the French Hotel, I was Twenty-Six Hours at the English Hotel. My bill in France for the long term was only twice my bill in England for the short term. For all I had in three complete and two incomplete days I was charged in England for my twenty-six hours. I was perfectly comfortable at both places, and I am not complaining in the least, especially as you, Mr. Punch, have generously paid my expenses.8 But the narrative of a diplomatic mission regarding a commercial treaty may properly terminate with a financial statement.

“Agreez, Monsieur,

“&c., &c., &c.,

“Bottons, S.W.” “Your Diplomatic Young Man.”

1. Nothing of the kind. We only desired him to send in his bills.
2. This may be true.
3. Forty-seven or eight, and looks it.
4. We notice the hint, but decline to pay a bill incurred by our correspondent with our respected neighbour, Mr. Kirk, the tobacconist.
5. This burst of epicurean sentimentalism means something, we suppose, or we should excise the wiskey.
6. This anecdote we firmly believe to be an outrageous and gratuitous he.
7. If the Emperor has really given you anything, and it is worth having, you will leave it at the office, if you please.
8. On the contrary, we must see these hills before paying them. The above general statement, though interesting, will not go well into our petty cash book.

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