could work himself into a frantic state of excitement over anything in
two minutes. I heard on board that he had the reputation of being the
shrewdest business man in Southern India. He was most capital company,
rolling out perpetual jokes and _calembour_, and bubbling over with
exuberant _joie de vivre_. I think M. Bayol took a fancy to me on
account of my understanding his Provencale patois, for, as a boy, I
had learnt French in a Provencale-speaking district.

All Englishmen are supposed in France to suffer from a mysterious
disease known as "le spleen." I have not the faintest idea of what
this means. The spleen is, I believe, an internal organ whose
functions are very imperfectly understood, still it is an accepted
article of faith in France that every Briton is "devore de spleen,"
and that this lamentable state of things embitters his whole outlook
on life, and casts a black shadow over his existence. When I got to
know M. Bayol better during our evening tramps up and down the deck,
he asked me confidentially what remedies I adopted when "ronge de
spleen," and how I combated the attacks of this deplorable but
peculiarly insular disease, and was clearly incredulous when I failed
to understand him. This amazing man also told me that he had been
married five times. Not one of his first four wives had been able to
withstand the unhealthy climate of Pondicherry for more than eighteen
months, so, after the demise of his fourth French wife, he had married
a native, "ne pouvant vivre seul, j'ai tout bonnement epouse une
indigene."

M. Bayol insisted on showing me the glories of Pondicherry himself, an
offer which I, anxious to see a Franco-Indian town, readily accepted.
There is no harbour there, and owing to the heavy surf, the landing
must be made in a surf-boat, a curious keel-less craft built of thin