They want glasses of eau sucrée, and to sit before a café staring at a passing crowd of idlers. They want to see many things which they do not see—and they care very little about seeing what they do see. Above all things, they want to be seen themselves, and nobody seems to notice the fact of their existence.
Is not this the true secret of a Frenchman's discomfort in London? His own utter insignificance in the midst of this busy, jostling, hurried multitude. I should say that the best chance for our friends MM. Corbillard et Canard would be a lounge in Regent Street, if the afternoon be reasonably fine. They have a correct appreciation of the beauty of the charmantes Miss whom they meet in the course of their walk; but they make a slight mistake as to their own irresistible qualities vis-à-vis du beau sexe. Mrs. John Smith and her swanlike progeny, last from Montague Place, who are sailing down Regent Street in so stately a manner, their minds intent upon the newest patterns in the silk-mercers' windows, care very little for the murderous glances of our two friends. Mrs. Thomas Mitten and daughters, who are on their way to Exeter Hall, rather regard them as specimens of the wholly reprobate, and entirely lost; and if they give them a thought at all, it is just such a one as a sentimental connoisseur bestows upon those unfortunate persons in Rubens' famous picture, who are well-committed to that portion of the performance upon which the great artist has lavished such an abundance of yellows and reds. But, soft, whom have we here? The two brothers Thompson—one a stout and most respectable solicitor, resident in St. John's Wood; the other a tall thin West Indian merchant, living at Highgate. MM. Corbillard et Canard had a slight acquaintance with these gentlemen in Paris; they are to them here as manna in the wilderness. I protest the two brothers do not appear as gratified as they ought to be when they see their French friends bearing down upon them, and seem disposed to pass them with a frigid British nod. Such a conclusion, however, does not enter into the views of the MM. CC. They stop the way, and, to the astonishment and disgust of the Thompson brothers, Corbillard embraces John Thompson, and Canard embraces Thomas Thompson, in the manner of the French nation on the occasion of arrivals and departures at the railway stations. John Thompson's hat falls off in the process, and the little boys gather round to see the fun. Well, it is tiresome for a respectable middle-aged Englishman to be kissed in the public streets by a foreign gentleman with an exuberance of beard and moustaches, just as if he was a sweet girl in the embraces of her long-lost, long-loved Roderick just returned from the Punjaub—but in the young lady's case, without any damage to the proprieties, as the transaction occurs in the back drawing-room of 510, Welbeck Street. Whatever his feelings might have been, Roderick would never have ventured upon such a thing in Regent Street at 4 p.m., as the French gentlemen have done with regard to the Messrs. Thompson, who someway or another do not seem to enjoy the process. "Et comment se porte Madame Tonson, votre aimable épouse, et Miss Elise, ce charmant petit bouton de rose, qui vous ressemble comme deux gouttes d'eau?" These and other such inquiries are entirely thrown away upon the two brothers, whose one idea is to escape as speedily as possible from the grasp of their two Parisian acquaintances, and from the somewhat too lively demonstrations of their affection.
Really, after this meeting, the afternoon and evening do hang somewhat heavily on hand. If they had any friends or acquaintances in London who would receive them at their houses, or invite them to their clubs, and, above all, be competent to converse with them in their own language, the whole aspect of affairs would be entirely changed. London, as far as a foreign visitor is concerned, is a picture with a curtain before it—and no other than an English hand can draw the curtain. To the bulk of foreigners who visit London this curtain is the picture.
I am not the least surprised if, being left to their own devices, and driven to seek for their dinner in some of those dreadful dens near Leicester Square, they leave our shores under the impression that the human race cannot dine in London. It may be that, as the dens in question seem to them but spurious imitations of their own establishments in this kind, they boldly make their way into some third-class London eating-house, and appease their hunger with under-done boiled beef and greens, and when they return to their own country, and record their "Impressions de Voyage," they set it forth in a very solemn way that "la cuisine anglaise est infâme." They do not pause to consider how many English people—save driven to it by hard necessity—ever do take their meals in these Restaurants, as they would call them. I am not sure that Parisian dinners, served at the rate of 2 francs, or 1 f. 25 c., would receive the entire approval of gastronomic connoisseurs.
But what are our two "Fish out of Water" to do with their evening? I could not suggest anything better for them than the Café Chantant, in Leicester Square. They would there at any rate find cups of coffee, and great facilities in the way of eau sucrée, and meet with many of their countrymen. English Theatres are out of the question. Perhaps in the hey-day of summer, Cremorne, if they could find their way there, might prove a resource, and be to them a substitute for the Jardin des Fleurs, and other establishments such as those which are found in the Champs Elysées at Paris. If MM. Corbillard et Canard are compelled to spend a Sunday in London, I am truly sorry for them.
I do not know how many foreigners are to be found in England at any given time. We know from official sources—but then the French keep such registers in a more accurate way than we do—that at the present time there are 66,000 English residents in France; and assuming the average expenditure of each to be five francs a day, the sum total would amount to about 4,820,000l. a year. The number of the French in London alone must be very considerable; and it would be well in the present period of the world's history if we were always to do our best