Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/109

96 except the Emperor, whom he never mentions, and himself only now and then. I asked him several questions, in a careless off-hand manner, about his antecedents, more for civility’s sake than anything else, before finding out that the antecedents were delicate ground. And then I became very anxious to know all about him—of course—but I had to guess him, for he was hard to pump.

He was in England from 1848 to 1851, and how he can have been there so long and know so little of the language and everything English, would be unaccountable, if we had not evidence of how completely men can shut eyes and ears when determined not to use them. Instances are known in which emigrés of the first Revolution returned to France on the restoration of the Bourbons, without being able to speak a single word of English. Young France is learning English with a French accent which gives our language a peculiar cadence; but the generation just beginning to pass away, to which Blot belongs, thought French enough to pass a man through the whole world.

It may be taken as a rule that a man never learns the language of a nation that learns his, and vice versâ—man never works when another will work for him. Everybody learns French, and a Frenchman seldom, if over, speaks any language but his own. Nobody learns Russ, and the Russians are the best linguists in the world. Hence it is that a Frenchman is so much discontented when out of his own country. He cannot learn a language if he tries, and he is literally deprived of speech till he gets home again.

When Mon Blot was in England, Madame remained in Paris. He was en garçon, and says so, as if he wished to make it appear he had been there for his own pleasure, and had enjoyed himself. I asked a few questions, as it were casually:

“Was he chef in a nobleman’s family?”

“Oh, non.”

“Was he in the suite of the ambassador?”

This question had a wide margin, including every place in the embassy, from valet upwards.

“Oh, non. He was in the country—in the west of Scotland—fishing à la ligne—it was rather triste.”

Fishing! in the west of Scotland with a rod and line! A strange thing for a Frenchman to do.

An idea flashes across me that the years of his absence tally with a revolution, a coup d’état, and a general amnesty that took place about that time—so I must ask no more questions. What does his beard say? Nothing, for there is not a bristle to be seen. In countries where there is neither liberty of the press, nor liberty of speech, men endeavour to express political tendencies by their hats and beards. And a very unbecoming way it is of speaking; because, if a man were to say I am an admirer of the Emperor Napoleon, he would not be believed unless he wore a beard à la Billygoat, which is the beard adopted by his Majesty. This is not the most fashionable beard in France, but it is by far the most common, for it is worn by the army to a man, and not only by the whole body of officials of every branch, but also by every one who hopes some day or other to be in the pay of government. The present fashion, however, of wearing the hair is very becoming. It is cut quite short in the nape of the neck, increasing in length to the top of the head; when still short it is divided on one side, and brushed rather back so as to show the temples. With a well shaped head and muscular neck and throat, this cut gives a fellow a very manly appearance. There are, however, in the streets of Paris all sorts of beards, from the full Italian to the clean shave. This last is the pledge of total political abstinence, and is adopted by Mon Blot, who probably on one occasion, to which he does not allude, said as much as will serve him to the next revolution. His tongue may have brought him to grief, but he takes very good care that his beard shall never send him a second time fly-fishing into the west of Scotland.

A young man of the name of Louis Velay dines with us in the kitchen nearly every day. He is about twenty years of age, and has been studying for the last two years to enable him to pass an examination for the Engineers, and the other high branches of military science. He has great versatility of talent, and is pretty well informed without being well read, but he is the most thoroughly conceited French puppy that ever was seen. He says the examinations are very severe, which I believe they are, but he could succeed easily enough if he only gave his mind to the subjects. When he tried to pass, there were eight hundred candidates, and only one hundred appointments vacant. He was unlucky—he was plucked—he means to try again; but he is not very anxious about it, for he now thinks that diplomacy, or la haute finance (which is a cross between the business of Baron Rothschild and that of the Chancellor of the Exchequer) will be a better field for his talents. He says this quite seriously.

I was puzzled for a long time how to account for a genius like Louis Velay failing in anything that he undertook, for he lives in the room next to mine, and reads very hard—until I found out that he had the perversity of giving his whole mind, by fits and starts, to subjects not required in his examination. Music, for instance, on which science he talks very learnedly, though he does not sing or play any instrument. The French not being very strong in modern languages, he is only required to take up a little bit of German; but being true to his perversity, he has for the last year and a half devoted three hours a day of his precious time to the study of the English language. He has gone through a regular course of English literature, and is well informed on the merits of our old classics and the poets of the time of Queen Anne. Unfortunately, his professor of English is a Frenchman, and when he quotes Shakspeare, which he delights to do, it might be Molière, for I do not understand a word he says.

There is another, but not a regular, diner in the kitchen, one Alfred Duchêne, a sous-lieutenant in the Cent Gardes. He is six feet high, manly looking, and well made, which is not often the case with the French when above a certain height. Of course he wears a beard à la bouc, and shaves his cheeks and part of his temples, by which he would spoil his looks if he were not one of the handsomest men I ever saw. He also tries to