“By all means,” I cordially respond, for we are on a foreign soil, where loyalty to our Royal Family is no longer a duty only, but also a mark of patriotism, which should ever distinguish the true Briton,—­though, by the way, now I think of it, DAUBINET is a lively Gaul.  Subsequently, observing my friend DAUBINET, I find that he is especially English in France, and peculiarly French in England.  On what is to me foreign, but to him his own native soil, he is always bursting out into snatches of our British National Anthem, or he sings the line above quoted.  In France he will insist on talking about London, England, Ireland, Scotland, with imitations in slang or of brogue, as the case may be, on every possible or even impossible opportunity; and, when the subject of conversation does not afford him any chance for his interpolations, then, for a time, he will “lay low,” like.  Brer Fox, only to startle us with some sudden outbursts of song, generally selected from the popular English Melodies of a byegone period, such as “My Pretty Jane,” “My Love is like a red, red Rose,” or “Good-bye, Sweetheart, good-bye,” and such-like musical reminiscences, invariably finishing with a quotation from the National Anthem, “Rule Britannia,” or “Blass the Prince of WAILES!” He is a travelling chorus.

We stop—­I don’t know where, as I trust entirely to my guide and fellow-traveller—­for a good twenty minutes’ stuff, nominally dinner, en route, about seven o’clock.  It is the usual rush; the usual indecision; the usual indigestion.  DAUBINET does more execution among the eatables and drinkables in five minutes than I can manage in the full time allotted to refreshment; and not only this, but he finds plenty of time for talking nonsense to one of the nicest-looking waitresses.  Of course, he positively refuses to speak a word of his own native language, but gives his orders in English, Spanish, and Russian, to the despair of all the attendants, with the exception of the pretty waiting-maid, to whom he addresses himself in colloquial French.  She quite enters into the joke; can give and take as pleasantly as possible; can also fetch and carry; and when, finally, DAUBINET en bon prince rewards her intelligence with a two-franc piece, her bright smile, and her courteous “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur,” prove once more that she can take as well as give,—­nay, even better, and yet leave the donor her debtor. “Da Karascho! Yes, all right! Montez donc!” cries my mercurial friend, hurrying to the train; then, as he once more settles himself in the compartment, he sings “Rule Britannia!  Blass the Prince of WAILES!  O Maman!” and before I have lit my after-dinner cigar, he has made himself quite comfortable, lying at full length, and is fast asleep.  So am I soon.  When I awake, it is night; pitch-dark, and very cold.  We are stopping at some station.  A stout Frenchman enters our carriage; not that there is anything remarkable about his stoutness, as it seems to me that the majority of middle-class and middle-aged Frenchmen, and Frenchwomen, too, are all, more or less, of considerable corpulence.