opinions on the topics of the day, he conversed spasmodically, and in fear, lest he should commit himself.
Once, indeed, when the young avocat addressed him as his Excellency, a grave smile curled the moustache of the illustrious stranger, and he deigned a few words of answer, but in so peculiar a tone, that the avocat shrunk back, extinguished.
“Ah,” thought he. “Yes, evidently, he has heard of me. He knows of the affair at numéro dix. Perhaps he will expose me. Ten thousand thunders, what a fool I was to speak!”
The Count, also, in a high, aristocratic voice, began the tale of his ancestral grandeur, and its mournful decay, alluding to a castle which had descended to him, the sole remnant of princely estates, and whose crumbling towers were still dear.
The eye of M. the Governor was upon him; it twinkled; M. the Governor indulged in a polite shrug and an indescribable grimace; M. the Governor murmured something which sounded like an offer of “balm for the Count’s sorrows,” on which Madame became convulsed, and hid her face in her handkerchief, and the Count experienced an uncomfortable sensation, as though a castle were tumbling about his ears in fragments.
Madame, indeed, had the appearance of being highly amused, and conversed affably, with an enchanting grace of manner with the gentlemen who sat near her, and the officer and the comptroller were in ecstacies; but M. the Governor on the contrary, with the exception of that one tender of “balm” to the count, preserved a rigid taciturnity, which of course raised him in the estimation of the guests.
“What caution! What admirable reserve! What tact!”
The evening passed away genially, and a rumour spread all over the city that the new Governor had arrived.
It was morning, and the Milord Anglais was occupying himself busily with some letters. It was plain he had forgotten all about M. the Governor, and the crowd, which it had been foretold, would gather round the hotel to see him.
“Hein!” exclaimed a voice near him.
“Au nom du diable, qu’est ce qu’on voit là?” said another.
“Sacré!” cried a third.
A whole chorus of exclamations rattled about the head of Milord from the angry Frenchmen, who clustered round the windows, swearing and gesticulating.
“What’s the matter now, I wonder?” said the Englishman, rising and going also to a window.
“Eh! Pardieu! M. le Gouverneur, le voilà.”
“Confound Monsieur the Governor!” said the Englishman, testily. “There’s no peace in the house for Ah!”
And then Milord did not swear, but he sat down again, and laughed till he was exhausted, bursting into fresh fits as he looked at the group of infuriated Frenchmen, and heard the shouts in the street.
“Dame!” cried the officer. “All the world will hear of it!”
“We are disgraced!” shouted the avocat. But above all was heard the shrill voice of the lean Count, who was gnashing his teeth and shrieking:
“Le moqueur! Il m’a offert de la baume pour mes douleurs! Qu’il soit pendu! Scélérat infernal! Qu’il soit maudit!”
And still the Englishman laughed. What he had seen at the window was this.
Monsieur the Governor was seated in a small open calash, with Madame beside him. And Monsieur had on a soiled scarlet coat, and Madame a flimsy dress all glittering with tinsel. And Madame’s elegant person was too much exposed for strict good taste. And Monsieur the Governor was crying out that he was “Sole agent for, and dispenser of, the wonderful, unrivalled, and inimitable Balm of Mecca!”
Moreover, Monsieur the Governor got plenty of custom, and a goodly mob to escort him on his way through the city.
FISH AND FOWL AT THE LAND’S END.
At this time of year there are a great many people who are in want of a sea-place easily accessible, and not requiring any length of time to enjoy it properly; besides these, there are a good many who can only have a half-holiday, and must do a good deal of work in the day, who yet would be glad of a place which combines amusement and exercise, with opportunities for reading, especially in the case of University men wanting to “read in the Long.” To both these classes I recommend the Land’s End. There is fine scenery, good lodging, and, for any one fond of sea birds and fish, sport ad libitum. It is of course a trifle spoilt by excursionists not generally of a very good class; but they have one good point about them,—they all go away directly, having enjoyed themselves in their own way; viz., they never interfere with the scenery, except to be marched by a guide to the actual Land’s End Point, where they drink beer on the grass, make one joke (invariably) on the name of the village inn, “The First and Last Hotel in England,” and then go away. Of course there are many of a better sort, who really come to admire, but it is not a general rule.
Unless you lodge exactly in the high road, you will escape all the excursion vans, and pursue your own course quietly. Of course the first thing to be “done” is the coast line of cliffs, but the description of them may safely be left to the livre rouge.
I will only say that the Land’s End itself is not the finest part; but for some miles towards the south-east the coast breaks out into glorious masses of granite, and the colours of the sea and rocks on a sunny day are worth a month’s sojourn at least. If you come tolerably early in the year, that is, before the end of July, there is very good sport all along the cliffs in the way of fowling, and though the natives are not so good as the
