Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/570

9, 1860.] a moment that they had interrupted the interesting conversation in which we were engaged. She was sure Mr. Cox was speaking when they came in—would he not be good enough to proceed just as if they were not present? Mr. C. would not be so ungallant as to refuse a lady’s request.

The young people must be left to settle their affairs in their own way. I have ventured to bring their names in incidentally to give a little interest and connection to a few remarks upon the subject of White-bait Dinners at Greenwich. All I can say is, that if in the course of that very evening when we were taking our stroll by the riverside, Septimus did not contrive to inspire some other expression than malice into Miss Fanny Almond’s exceedingly fascinating eyes, he was neither worthy of her nor of a white-bait dinner. I will also add, as the result of my own long experience in such matters, that if the far brighter half of the human race were but aware of the full power of the white-bait dinner as a matrimonial weapon, they would never, even in thought, malign this most valuable institution. A ball-room is the very worst arena for action in such matters; the breakfast-table in a country-house, when the fair combatants step down from their robing-rooms fairer and fresher than Venus from the sea-foam, among the best. A Roman pic-nic, with a ride home by moonlight with a too-fascinating being by your side, is also a terrible trial to the manly heart; but then Rome is a good way off, and not every English mother can give her daughter the advantage of such a canter over an empire’s dust, and the heart of a mil1ionnaire’s eldest son. For practical purposes try a Greenwich dinner!

But, all such transcendant purposes apart, the white-bait dinner is a satisfactory reason for one of the pleasantest little “outings” known to Londoners. Some way or another, I never see dull faces round me on these occasions; and happy human faces are to me the pleasantest spectacle in the world. I would at any time rather look on these than gaze upon a Swiss mountain or the Pyramid of that conceited old ape, Cheops. Far am I indeed from supposing that I have a monopoly of such feelings; and therefore I would say to our readers,—now that, after eight months of winter, the sun is shining down upon us again, try a white-bait dinner! Finally,—young ladies, and ladies not quite so young, never suffer yourselves to be deluded into the belief that a white-bait dinner is purely a man’s affair. It only requires your fair presence to make it perfect! Whenever such heretical doctrines are propounded in your presence, run up-stairs, put on your “things,” and say you are ready. Such is the advice of your devoted friend and admirer, 2em

the extremity of a little country town at no great distance from Tours, on the high coach-road from Paris to Bordeaux, there stood about thirty years ago a pretty wayside inn with white walls, and a swinging sign bearing the effigy of Le Grand Roi, otherwise Henry IV. On either side, and to the rear of the buildings, extended spacious gardens, which were carefully tended; and where trellised arbours, bowery trees, and beds of flowers framed it so charmingly that it would have looked, had its sign been removed, rather like the villa, or château, of some wealthy landholder, than a mere house of public entertainment.

Under these circumstances it is scarcely wonderful that it should have been the favourite halting-place of travellers, postillions, and merchants; and it was rarely indeed that Le Grand Roi was without other inmates than its own actual inhabitants. The interior of the establishment was, moreover, no less inviting than its exterior; for the white walls and green shutters without, were no whit more promising of comfort and cleanliness than the well-arranged and lightsome chambers within. On the ground floor there was a vast entrance-hall, from which opened on the right hand a dining-room; and, on the left, a spacious kitchen, where the cooking-utensils gleamed brightly in the light of a large fire that blazed within the ample chimney, and whence the savoury steam of many a well-cooked dish came temptingly to the craving appetite of the hungry wayfarer. Order and cleanliness were perceptible everywhere—strange features of a French roadside inn; not a broken pane of glass, not a loosened hinge, not an armful of decayed vegetables, either in front of the building or beside it; everything was swept, garnished, and arranged as though dirt and neglect had never been heard of in the district.

It was during a November evening, in the year 1818, when the wind was sighing and surging without, and the rain plashing down with uncompromising resolution, that the worthy landlord of Le Grand Roi, the honest but somewhat imperious M. Ebrard, his three children, and one of his neighbours, who had taken shelter from the inclemency of the weather at his comfortable hearth, were seated round an enormous fire of pine logs, talking over the local gossip, and enjoying themselves as those only can do who feel a sensation of security from the inflictions of such a storm.

“Just hear the rain!” exclaimed M. Ebrard, after an instant, during which all the party had been silenced by a louder and wilder blast than any by which it had been preceded. “This is the third day that it has been pouring down, without a prospect of any change for the better. I was looking at the clouds to-night before I fastened up the house, and I might as well have looked at the crown of my hat, for they were just as black and as unpromising. Even the wind has no power over it; all is as dark as the chimney-back. As to travelling in such a deluge, no one would be mad enough to attempt it; so, neighbour, it seems to me that we shall be wise to turn our feet to the warm ashes, and to make a night of it. Marie,” he pursued, addressing a young girl who was seated near him. “Go, and fetch two bottles of my best wine. You know where to find it; on the left hand, at the far-end of the cellar.”

At these words, uttered in a harsh and imperative tone, the young girl started as if awakened out of a dream; and, as it seemed, instinctively threw back upon the speaker a haughty and