“So I anticipate,” was my reply; “but I must observe, that I love difficulties, in order to surmount them. And with the power so graciously conferred upon me by Lord Panmure, I cannot fail to do some good, if my health does not fail me.”
“I hope,” said Mrs. Herbert, “you will succeed, and shall be happy to hear of an amelioration. When do you think of going?”
“To-morrow.” Bidding her adieu, and thanking her for her kind reception, I retired.
On reaching home, I found the promised letters from Mr. Stafford, all my luggage packed, and was on the point of starting, when I learned that the gentleman who was going with me as secretary, and had his passport ready, declined to accompany me. His relations and friends had persuaded him not to go, the fever being so bad there, and so many deaths occurring daily. I was thus placed in an awkward position, and was, moreover, pestered at home by intrusive visitors, and no end of ridiculous letters. I thought of starting alone; but, upon reflection, I decided upon passing the evening at the Adelaide Hotel, at London Bridge, and in the morning looking out for another party; thus, to my great annoyance, losing another day. To start alone without a first-class companion for so long a journey was a sad affair. I must observe that I had previously engaged two young men, at high wages, as cooks, one of whom declined going to Scutari, but did not mind the Crimea; the other fell ill. Thus, my prospects on the eve of my departure were anything but favourable.
Next morning, while driving along Piccadilly, I met a friend, who, in congratulating me upon my proposed journey, and wishing me success in my undertaking, said, “So Mr. L—— is going with you as secretary, is he not?”
“No, he is not! he has left me in the lurch at the last minute; and, my dear fellow, I can tell you what, there is a chance for you—it is only for two or three months—you will be well paid, and all expenses defrayed.”
“It is very kind of you to make me the offer,” he replied; “but I cannot leave my business at a minute’s notice. How long could you give me to prepare?”
“Oh! I am off this evening by the mail.”
“I have no clothes ready for travelling.”
“Never mind that; you can get all you require in Paris, where I shall remain two days upon business.”
“Indeed! then in two hours I will give you a decided answer.”
At the expiration of that time my friend made his appearance. We drew up an agreement, got his passport, and started the same evening; but not on the sly, as I had anticipated. Having forgotten to warn T. G. not to mention the fact of our intended journey, he had called upon several of his friends, with some of whom I was acquainted, and to my surprise, when I reached the station, I found about twenty assembled to bid us farewell. If I mention this circumstance, it is only to have an opportunity of publicly thanking those gentlemen for their hearty farewell, and three cheers—the echo of which still vibrates in my heart, and was through the whole of my culinary campaign a high source of gratification to my feelings. That night we slept at the Pavilion Hotel, Folkestone.
CHAPTER IV.
DELIGHTS OF TRAVEL.
The lost pocket-book—Found at last—Scene at a station—Caught in a fog—Arrival at Boulogne—The Emperor’s first valet-de-chambre—An avalanche of earth—Table talk—Napoleon’s projected trip to the Crimea—News of the death of the Czar—An incredulous auditor—A bet quickly won—Paris—Lyons—Marseilles.
THE Boulogne steamer was to start at half-past seven in the morning; the weather was anything but favourable, as rain was falling in torrents, and a thick fog coming on. T. G. and myself were ready to start, when a sad adventure occurred—my pocket-book, containing the best part of my cash and my official letters, was not to be found.[5] As I recollected having put it safely in the side pocket of my great coat before leaving the Adelaide Hotel, I feared that during the journey (owing to the fatigues of the day I had slept some time in the train) it might have been abstracted from my pocket.
After hunting in vain all about the room, I informed Mr. Giovanni and Mr. Brydes, the landlord of the hotel, of my loss, and those gentlemen immediately instituted inquiries. The news was soon known all through the hotel, and the crier was ordered to go round the town. I also dispatched T. G. to London, to make inquiries at the station and the hotel, lest by chance I had taken it out during my short visit at the London Bridge house, where I had been surrounded by a number of friends. While making a last search in the room, by accident I shook the heavy wooden frame of the bed, from which everything had been removed—bedding, beds, and all, but without success—to my astonishment and delight, I heard something fall. It was my lost pocket-book. I had thrown my great coat over me in the night (the weather being cold), and the book had worked its way out, and got between the frame of the bedstead and the wall. Upon this discovery I immediately telegraphed for T. G. to return, in these words: “Stop a gentleman of colour—it’s all right.”
On the arrival of the train at Tonbridge, the cry of “Stop the gentleman of colour” was loudly shouted along the station. “All right, all right,” cried T. G.; “here I am.” He immediately jumped into the special down train, and arrived time enough to save the steamer.
The quid pro quo of passengers as well as railway employés was, that the thief had been captured, and it served him right. I heard afterwards this was the exclamation of many at the time.
T. G.’s devotion was certainly not repaid, but, when explained at the hotel, the incident caused great mirth. This was our first tribulation, which, though unpleasant, had the merit of being the first germ of excitement.
The same morning, in a rough sea and heavy rain, we sailed for Boulogne-sur-Mer. The steamer was very much crowded with Crimean passengers, and almost every one paid the usual nautical debt to Neptune, looking more or less uninteresting. The beauty of the female part of the passengers had faded, and nothing but pale, livid faces remained, in place of the blooming, peach-like countenances. A very thick fog came on, and the speed of the steamer was of course checked. We progressed slowly through the opaque atmosphere and heavy rain. After we had made all the signals required, the steam-whistle was heard, and we found ourselves going ahead towards the round tower on the right hand side of the port, the sight of which seemed to astonish the crew of the vessel, and more so one of the passengers, an old gentleman, who exclaimed, “We are in the same position as the Amphitrite, which was wrecked in 1833, when above two hundred souls perished. A fisherman named Pierre Hénin distinguished himself so greatly on that occasion, that he was decorated by both countries—France and England.”
I observed, that the sea must have been about three times as rough at that time, and it was to be hoped, in case of danger, we should meet with several Pierre Hénins. However, by backing for about twenty minutes, and the fog clearing off by degrees, we arrived safely, but too late for the train. The jetty was rather crowded for that time of the year. Our delay and the fog had rendered our passage interesting—rather more so than pleasant. My intention was to take the first train, when, on reaching the jetty, who should I perceive but my friend M. Léon, the Emperor’s first valet-de-chambre, one of the persons that have been longest employed about his Majesty’s person, having been with him above sixteen years. He is much esteemed by his imperial master, none but himself approaching his person while in his private apartment. It is M. Léon who sleeps before the door of his illustrious master’s chamber