“Immense!” he replies.—­“But there’s no one about.”

[Illustration]

“There will be,” he returns.  “Manufacturing town—­everybody engaged in business.  Bell rings—­Caramba!—­out they come, like the cigarette-makers in Carmen.”  Here he hums a short musical extract from BIZET’s Opera, then resumes—­“Town’s all alive—­then, after dinner, back to business—­evening time out to play, to cafes, to the Fair!  God save the Queen!”

“But there’s nothing doing at night, as we saw when we arrived yesterday,” I observe.

“No,” says DAUBINET; “it is an early place.”  Then he sings, “If you’re waking”—­he pronounces it “whacking”—­“call me early, mothair dear!” finishing up with a gay laugh, and a guttural ejaculation in Russian; at least, I fancy it is Russian.  “Ah! voila!” We have pulled up before a very clean-looking and handsome facade.  The carriage-gates are closed, but a side-door is immediately opened, and a neat elderly woman answers DAUBINET’s inquiries to his perfect satisfaction.  “VESQUIER est chez lui.  Entrez donc!” We enter, profoundly saluting the porteress.  When abroad, an Englishman should never omit the smallest chance of taking off his hat and bowing profoundly, no matter to whom it may be.  Every Englishman abroad represents “All England”—­not the eleven, but the English character generally, and therefore, when among people noted for their politeness, he should be absolutely remarkable for his courteous manners.  As a rule, to which there can be no exception taken, never lose any opportunity of lifting your hat, and making your most polished bow.  This, in default of linguistic facility, is universally understood and appreciated in all civilised countries.  In uncivilised countries, to remove your hat, or to bow, may be taken as a gross outrage on good manners, or as signifying some horrible immorality, in which case the offender would not have the chance of repeating his well-intentioned mistake.  But within the limits of Western enlightenment to bow is mere civility, and may be taken as a preface to conversation; to omit it is to show lack of breeding and to court hostility.  Therefore, N.B. Rule in travelling—­Bow to everybody.  And this, by the way, is, after all, only Sir Pertinax Macsycophant’s receipt for getting on in the world by “boo’ing and boo’ing.”

We pass through a courtyard, reminding me of the kind of courtyard still to be seen in some of our old London City houses-of-business.  This, however, is modernised with whitewash.  Here also, it being a Continental court-yard, are the inevitable orange-trees in huge green tubs placed at the four corners.  A few pigeons feeding, a blinking cat curled up on a mat, pretending to take no sort of interest in the birds, and a little child playing with a cart.  Such is this picture.  Externally, not much like a house of business; but it is, and of big business too.  We enter a cool and tastefully furnished apartment.  Here M. VESQUIER receives us cordially.  He has a military bearing, suggesting the idea of a Colonel en retraite.  I am preparing compliments and interrogatories in French, when he says, in good plain English, with scarcely an accent—­