[Illustration:  “Au revoir!”]

Being already carried away in imagination to Reims, and returning by Paris, I am at once inclined to reply,

“Enchante! with the greatest pleasure.”

“Hoch!  Hoch!  Hurra!” he cries, by way of response, waving his hat.  Then he sings loudly, “And—­bless the Prince of WALES!” After which, being rather proud of his mastery of Cockneyisms, he changes the accent, still singing, “Blaass the Prince of WAILES!” which he considers his chef d’oeuvre as an imitation of a genuine Cockney tone, to which it bears exactly such resemblance as does a scene of ordinary London life drawn by a French artist.  Then he says, seriously—­“Eh bien! allons!  C’est fixe—­it is fixed.  We meet Victoria, et alors, par London, Chatham & Dover, from Reims via Calais, tres bien,—­train d’onze heures precises,—­bien entendu.  J’y suis.  Ihr Diener!  Adios!  A reverderla!  Addio, amico caro!” Then he utters something which is between a sneeze and a growl, supposed to be a term of endearment in the Russian tongue.  Finally he says in English, “Good-bye!”

His hat is on in a jiffy (which I take to be the hundredth part of a second) and he is down the stairs into the hall, and out at the door “like a flying light comedian” with an airy “go” about him, which recalls to my mind the running exits of CHARLES WYNDHAM in one of his lightest comedy-parts. “Au revoir!  Pour Jeudi alors!” I hear him call this out in the hall; the door bangs as if a firework had exploded and blown my vivacious friend up into the air, and he has gone.

“Jeudi alors” arrives, and I am at Victoria for the eleven o’clock Express to the minute, having decided that this is the best, shortest, and cheapest holiday I can take.  I’ve never yet travelled with my excellent French friend DAUBINET.  I am to be his guest; all responsibility is taken off my shoulders except that of my ticket and luggage, and to travel without responsibility is in itself a novelty.  To have to think of nothing and nobody, not even of oneself!  Away! away!

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[Illustration]

POLITESSE.—­The following version of our great popular Naval Anthem will be issued, it is hoped, from Whitehall (the French being supplied by the Lords of the Admiralty in conjunction) to all the musical Naval Captains in command at Portsmouth.  The graceful nature of the intended compliment cannot escape the thickest-headed land-lubber:—­

  Dirige, Madame la France,
  Madame la France dirigera les vagues! 
  Messieurs les Francais ne seront jamais, jamais, jamais,
      Esclaves!

The effect of the above, when the metre is carefully fitted to the tune (which is a work of time), and sung by a choir (with accent) of a thousand British Blue-jackets, will doubtless be quite electrical.

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