of refreshment, there is no fire to cheer us, no warm drinks are
suggested, no apparent probability of getting food or liquor, even if
we wanted it, which, thank Heaven, we don't, not having recovered from
the last hurriedly-swallowed meal at the railway buffet _en route_.
Yes, at the "Lion d'Or" at Reims, on this occasion, _hic et nunc_, is
a combination of melancholy circumstances which would have delighted
_Mark Tapley_, and, as far as I know, _Mark Tapley_ only.

"On an occasion like this," I murmur to myself, having no one else to
whom I can murmur it confidentially,--for DAUBINET, having a knowledge
of the house, has disappeared down some mysterious passage in order to
examine and choose our rooms,--"there is, indeed, some merit in being
jolly."

DAUBINET returns. He has found the rooms. The somnolent boots will
carry our things upstairs. Which of the two rooms will I have? They
are _en suite_. I make no choice. It is, I protest, a matter of
perfect indifference to me; but one room being infinitely superior
to the other, I select it, apologetically. DAUBINET, being more of a
_Mark Tapley_ than I am, is quite satisfied with the arrangement, and
has almost entirely recovered his wonted high spirits.

[Illustration]

"Very good. _Très bien!_ Da! Petzikoff! Pedadjoi! I shall sleep like
a top. _Bon soir! Buono notte! Karascho!_ Blass the Prince of WAILES!"
and he has disappeared into his bedroom. I never knew a man so quick
in unpacking, getting into bed, and going to sleep. He hasn't far
to go, or else Morpheus must have caught him up, _en route_, and
hypnotised him. I hear him singing and humming for two minutes; I hear