PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 101.

September 12, 1891.

SOME CIRCULAR NOTES.

CHAPTER IV.

Reims—Solemnity—Relief—En voiture—Politeness—Calling—Calves—Caves—Starting—Cocher—Duet.

Seen the Cathedral. Grand. As I am not making notes for a Guide-book, shall say nothing about it. "Don't mention it." I shan't. Much struck by the calm air of repose about Reims. So silent is it, that DAUBINET's irrepressible singing in the solemn court-yard of the Hotel comes quite as a relief. It is an evidence of life. This Hotel's exceptional quietude suggests the idea of its being conducted like a prison on the silent system, with, of course, dumbwaiters to assist in the peculiarly clean and tidy salle à manger.

"Petzikoff! Blass the Prince of WAILES!" sings out DAUBINET, whose Mark-Tapley-like spirits would probably be only exhilarated by a lonely night in the Catacombs. Then he shakes hands with me violently. In France he insists upon shaking hands on every possible occasion with anybody, in order to convey to his own countrymen the idea of what a thorough Briton he is.

"Vous avez eu votre café? Eh bien alors—allons! pour passer chez mon ami VESQUIER," says DAUBINET, at the same time signalling a meandering fly-driver who, having pulled up near the Cathedral, is sitting lazily on his box perusing a newspaper. He looks up, catches sight of DAUBINET, nods, folds up the paper, sits on it, gives the reins one shake to wake up the horse, and another, with a crack of his whip, to set the sleepy animal in motion, and, the animal being partially roused, he drives across the street to us. DAUBINET directs him, and on we go, lumbering and rattling through the town, meeting only one other voiture, whose driver appears infinitely amused at his friend having obtained a fare. Some chaff passes between them, which to me is unintelligible, and which DAUBINET professes not to catch, but I fancy, whatever it is, it is not highly complimentary to our cocher's fares. In one quarter through which we drive, they are setting up the booths and roundabouts for a Fair.

"They can't do much business here," I observe to my companion.

"Immense!" he replies.—"But there's no one about."

"There will be," he returns. "Manufacturing town—everybody engaged in business. Bell rings—Caramba!—out they come, like the cigarette-makers in Carmen." Here he hums a short musical extract from BIZET's Opera, then resumes—"Town's all alive—then, after dinner, back to business—evening time out to play, to cafés, to the Fair! God save the QUEEN!"

"But there's nothing doing at night, as we saw when we arrived yesterday," I observe.

"No," says DAUBINET; "it is an early place." Then he sings, "If you're waking"—he pronounces it "whacking"—"call me early, mothair dear!" finishing up with a gay laugh, and a guttural ejaculation in Russian; at least, I fancy it is Russian. "Ah! voilà!" We have pulled up before a very clean-looking and handsome façade. The carriage-gates are closed, but a side-door is immediately opened, and a neat elderly woman answers DAUBINET's inquiries to his perfect satisfaction. "VESQUIER est chez lui. Entrez donc!" We enter, profoundly saluting the porteress. When abroad, an Englishman should never omit the smallest chance of taking off his hat and bowing profoundly, no matter to whom it may be. Every Englishman abroad represents "All England"—not the eleven, but the English character generally, and therefore, when among people noted for their politeness, he should be absolutely remarkable for his courteous manners. As a rule, to which there can be no exception taken, never lose any opportunity of lifting your hat, and making your most polished bow. This, in default of linguistic facility, is universally understood and appreciated in all civilised countries. In uncivilised countries, to remove your hat, or to bow, may be taken as a gross outrage on good manners, or as signifying some horrible immorality, in which case the offender would not have the chance of repeating his well-intentioned mistake. But within the limits of Western enlightenment to bow is mere civility, and may be taken as a preface to conversation; to omit it is to show lack of breeding and to court hostility. Therefore, N.B. Rule in travelling—Bow to everybody. And this, by the way, is, after all, only Sir Pertinax Macsycophant's receipt for getting on in the world by "boo'ing and boo'ing."

We pass through a courtyard, reminding me of the kind of courtyard still to be seen in some of our old London City houses-of-business. This, however, is modernised with whitewash. Here also, it being a Continental court-yard, are the inevitable orange-trees in huge green tubs placed at the four corners. A few pigeons feeding, a blinking cat curled up on a mat, pretending to take no sort of interest in the birds, and a little child playing with a cart. Such is this picture. Externally, not much like a house of business; but it is, and of big business too. We enter a cool and tastefully furnished apartment. Here M. VESQUIER receives us cordially. He has a military bearing, suggesting the idea of a Colonel en retraite. I am preparing compliments and interrogatories in French, when he says, in good plain English, with scarcely an accent—

"Now DAUBINET has brought you here, we must show you the calves, and then back to breakfast. Will that suit you?"

"Perfectly." I think to myself—why "calves"? It sounded like "calves," only without the "S." Must ask presently.

M. VESQUIER begs to be excused for a minute; he will return directly. I look to DAUBINET for an explanation. "We are, then, going to see a farm, I presume?" I say to him. "Farm!" exclaims DAUBINET, surprised. "Que voulez-vous dire, mon cher?"—"Well, didn't Mister—Mister—" "VESQUIER," suggests DAUBINET.

"Yes, Mister VESQUIER—didn't he say we were to go and 'see the calves'?—C'est à dire," I translate, in despair at DAUBINET's utterly puzzled look, "que nous irons avec lui à la ferme pour voir les veaux—the calves."—"Ha! ha! ha!" Off goes DAUBINET into a roar. Evidently I've made some extraordinary mistake. It flashes across me suddenly. Owing to M. VESQUIER's speaking such excellent English, it never occurred to me that he had suddenly interpolated the French word "caves" as an anglicised French word into his speech to me. This accounts for his suppression of the final consonant.

"Ah!" I exclaim, suddenly enlightened; "I see—the cellars."

"Pou ni my?" cries DAUBINET, still in ecstasies, and speaking Russian or modern Greek. "Da!—of course—c'est ça—nous allons voir les caves—the cellars—where all the champagne is. Karrascho!"

At this moment M. VESQUIER returns. He will just take us through the offices to his private rooms. Clerks at work everywhere. Uncommonly like an English place of business: not much outward difference between French clerks in a large house like this and English ones in one of our great City houses; only this isn't the