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