Читать книгу The Adventures of M. D'Haricot - J. Storer Clouston - Страница 7

It was in the morning that I arrived in London, and my first day I spent in losing my way through the labyrinth of streets, which are set never at a right angle to one another, and are of such different lengths that I could scarcely persuade myself it had not all been specially arranged to mislead me.

About one o'clock I entered a restaurant and ordered a genuine English steak—the porter-house, it was called. In quality, I admit this segment of an ox was admirable; but as for its quantity—my faith! I ate it till half-past two and scarcely had made an impression then. Half stupefied with this orgy, and the British beer I had taken to assist me in the protracted effort, I returned to my hotel, and there began the journal on which these memoirs are founded. As showing my sensations at the time, they are now of curious interest to me. I shall give the extract I wrote then:

“Amusing, absorbing, entertaining as a Chinese puzzle where all the pieces are alive; all these things is the city of London. Why, then, has it already begun to pall upon me? Ah, it is the loneliness of a crowd! In Paris I can walk by the hour and never see a face I know, and yet not feel this sense of desolation. Friends need not be before the eye, but they must be at hand when you wish to call them. For myself, I call them pretty frequently, yet often can remain for a time content to merely know that they are somewhere not too far away. But here—I may turn north, south, east, or west, and walk as far as I like in any direction, and not one should I find!

“Shall I ever make a friend among this old, phlegmatic, business-like people? Some day perhaps, an acquaintance may be struck with some such reticent and frigid monster as my fair-haired companion of the journey. Would such a one console or cheer or share a single sentiment? Impossible! Mon Dieu! I shall leave this town in three days; I swear it. And where then? The devil knows!”

At this point the writing of these notes was unexpectedly interrupted, only to be resumed, as it chanced, after some adventurous days.

A waiter entered, bearing a letter for me. I sprang up and seized it eagerly. It was addressed to Mr. Nelson Bunyan, Esq., and marked “Immediate and confidential.” These words were written in English and execrably misspelled.

It could come from but one source, for who else knew my nom de plume, who else would write “Immediate and confidential,” and, I grieve to say it, who else would take their precautions in such a way as instantly to raise suspicions? Had the secretary of the “Une, Deux, Trois” no English dictionary, that he need make the very waiter stare at this very extraordinary address? I did my best to pass it off lightly.

“From a lady,” I said to the man. “One not very well educated, perhaps; but is education all we seek in women?”

“No, sir,” said he, replying to my glance with insufferable familiarity, “not all by no means.”

Alas that the fugitive cannot afford to take offence!

I opened the letter, and, as I expected, it was headed by the letters U. D. T:

“Go at once to the house of Mr. Frederick Hankey, No. 114 or 115 George Road, Streatham. Knock thrice on the third window, and when he comes say distinctly 'For the King.' He will give directions for your safety.”

This missive was only signed F. II, but, of course, I knew the writer—our most indefatigable, our most enthusiastic, the secretary himself.

Well, here was something to be done; a friend, perhaps, to be made; a spice of interest suddenly thrown into this city of strangers. After my fashion, my spirits rose as quickly as they had fallen. I whistled an air, and began to think this somewhat dreary hotel not a bad place, after all. I should only wait till darkness fell and then set out to interview Mr. Frederick Hankey.