confused,
yet couldn't shake him off. He was persistent. He was abject. He begged
to meet my friend, to present his, to open champagne and drink eternal
friendship. He would change the name of his _chateau_--the rotten old
rookery--from Beau Rivage to Belle Alliance. He would make this day a
_fete_ in the calendar of the Lascelles family. And then it began to
dawn on me that he had been drinking champagne before he came. I did not
catch the name of the other gentleman, a much younger man. He was very
ceremonious and polite, but distant. Then, in some way, came up the fact
that I had been trying to get a cab to take me back to barracks, and
then Lascelles declared that nothing could be more opportune. He had
secured a carriage and was just going down with Monsieur. They had _des
affaires_ to transact at once. He took me aside and said, 'In proof that
you accept my _amende_, and in order that I may make to you my personal
apologies, you must accept my invitation.' So go with them I did. I was
all the time thinking of Cram's mysterious note bidding me return at
taps. I couldn't imagine what was up, but I made my best endeavors to
get a cab. None was to be had, so I was really thankful for this
opportunity. All the way down Lascelles overwhelmed me with civilities,
and I could only murmur and protest, and the other party only murmured
approbation. He hardly spoke English at all. Then Lascelles insisted on
a stop at the Pelican and on bumpers of champagne, and there, as luck
would have it, was Doyle,--drunk, as usual, and determined to join the
party; and though I endeavored to put him aside, Lascelles would not
have it. He insisted on being presented to the comrade of his gallant
friend, and in the private room where we went he overwhelmed Doyle with
details of our grand reconciliation and with bumper after bumper of
Krug. This enabled me to fight shy of the wine, but in ten minutes Doyle
was fighting drunk, Lascelles tipsy. The driver came in for his pay,
saying he would go no further. They had a row. Lascelles wouldn't pay;
called him an Irish thief, and all that. I slipped my last V into the
driver's hand and got him out somehow. Monsieur Philippes, or whatever
his name was, said he would go out,--he'd get a cab in the neighborhood;
and the next thing I knew, Lascelles and Doyle were in a fury of a row.
Lascelles said all the Irish were knaves and blackguards and swindlers,
and Doyle stumbled around after him. Out came a