"Also that is not the question agitated, but
I must have my fare absolutely (with the
Parisian chant), s'il vous plait, Monsieur."

"Continue! no farces, my friend, continue;
I shall lose the train." The wretch is
immovable, and still howls "Pay!" The first
bell making itself heard at the station, and a
short impatient scream from the steam-engine
frightentng me, I pay six francs, with a wry
face at the roguery of the triple charge. And
the "drink money?" It is no use wrangling,
so I give another franc for pour boire and am
at length driven to the station; either the
rules of the Company, or the regulations of
the Paris police—for I had not time to find
out which was in fault having caused me
to be robbed of at least four francs without
the smallest means of redress.

I take my ticket, first class, to Lyons—
forty-seven francs odd sous—and my
baggage is weighed. It is little enough—the
bare necessaries of a man with few wants—
yet I have to pay for it extra. I have given
my great-coat, cloak, and umbrella to a
commissioner, one of the staff of the railway
—number nineteen, be he whom he may—and
I expect he will carry them for me to the
carriage; perhaps take my place for me the
corner seat with my back to the engine. But
I am disappointed; he leaves me at the
waiting-room door, the "Rules of the
Company" not allowing him to go further;
though they appear to allow him to take the
gratuity for which he asks. The waiting-room
is like an oven, and I am much worried by a
man following me about, and telling me I
have "only to choose my newspaper."

We are off at last. During the journey,
every time I am dropping off to sleep, a person
—who appears to watch his opportunity with
great address—insists upon seeing my ticket.
It is the same man every time, and he takes
a perverse pleasure in observing me unbutton
my coat.

Châlons—and four o'clock in the morning.
A good bumping in a most unaccommodating
omnibus brings us to the boat. One of us
incurs the displeasure of the conducteur, and
is rated soundly; but, nevertheless, we get
safely on board, and are packed together like
herrings in a barrel, in a long wretched
cabin, with a stove that smells and smokes.
I would rather go upstairs in the rain by
many chalks, and up I go. And now we start,
of course long after the time fixed—I am used
to that, for I have been in Germany—but I
am glad to be off at any price this miserable
morning. Phizz! phizz! phizz! Something
makes a noise like a hundred shovels grating
edgeways over a hundred hearthstones.
Plopp! plopp! plopp! we are letting in
water. Bang! crash! The steamer reels, and
no wonder; she is broken in two, as it has
been expected she would be every voyage time
out of mind, for she was too old and
worthless to repair. Let us scramble out as we
may, through the rain and the cold and the
mire. Will our luggage be saved? Perhaps;
but we must not expect too much: at all
events, it is likely to be wetted. We shall
make the Company responsible, not only for
our luggage, but for finding us another
conveyance. We may do what we like; the next
boat starts at five to-morrow morning.

What a lucky thing that our agreeable
acquaintance in Paris recommended us to an
hotel here! Could he have had a presentiment
of what was going to happen; and are
stoppages in Châlons as frequent as I have
been told? At all events we will go to this
hotel. Curious—how striking a resemblance
mine host bears to the agreeable gentleman;
I declare even his whiskers are cut in the
same style. It seems to me that they must be
near relations; I inquire, and am not
disappointed. I wish I could say the same of
the accommodation.

The same scene of noise and scrambling,
and scolding, and rain, and cold, and bad
smells on the following morning, and then
Châlons is left behind us, and we are paddling
down at a great rate, in a smart little boat
called the Parisien, to Lyons. Why could we
not have gone on by the Parisien yesterday?
I am bound to do justice to the Parisien; and
if one or two of her crew had spoken French
instead of a most incomprehensible patois,
there would have been little to desire, except
cleaner cabins and seats on deck. The fare
was pretty good, the wine not bad, and the
prices moderate.

It is half-past eleven, and there is Lyons.
What time shall we be at Marseilles? Oh,
not to-day. We must remain at Lyons
all night. The only boat starting has just
left. She started directly we were signalled;
we can see the smoke of her furnaces just
ahead there, and even she only goes as
far as Valence. We may take the mailpost,
indeed, and it starts at two o'clock;
but we shall gain no time, and it will
be more expensive. Of course it will;
for, on pretence of sending us forward at
once, a fat individual with a rusty beard
has just induced us to take tickets by the
same Company to Avignon, price twenty
francs, which would be lost money if we
were to go on by the malle poste. Let us go,
therefore, to the Hôtel de l'Europe. Here
we make the acquaintance of two very polite
waiters (brothers), who take quite a paternal
interest in us, and get ready a very excellent
dinner at five o'clock. They also point out
to us, in a hushed voice, a great theatrical
star from Paris, who invariably dines off
cotelettes à la Soubise.

Oh, to be sure, we shall be called at four
o'clock to-morrow, if we please—but we do
not start till six. Then Monsieur would
like some breakfast.

What a cold raw morning; with the same
soft silent rain always falling, falling, till
there seems something sad and solemn in it.
Is that the omnibus? Yes. Well, hoist up