The Potiphar Papers Part 11

"Oh! ah! I remember now," said Mr. Boosey. "I saw the De Familles all getting into a carriage for a little drive, as Mr. De F., said, about two o'clock this afternoon."

Mr. Potiphar looked like a thunder-storm. "What the devil does it mean?" asked he of the clerk, while the pa.s.sengers hustled him, and punched him, and the hook of an umbrella-stick caught in his cravat-knot, and untied it.

"Send up immediately, and say that Mr. Potiphar wants his state-rooms," said he to the clerk.

In a few minutes the messenger returned and said--

"Mr. De Famille's compliments to Mr. Potiphar. Mr. De Famille and his family have retired for the night, but upon arriving in the morning he will explain everything to Mr. Potiphar's satisfaction.

"Jolly!" whispered Mr. Boosey, rubbing his hands, to Mr. Firkin, on whose arm I was leaning.

"Are you fond of the Italian opera, Mr. Potiphar?" inquired Kurz Pacha, blandly, Mrs. P. sat down upon a settee and looked at nothing.

"O Patience! do verify the quotation and smile," said the Amba.s.sador to her.

"It's a mean swindle," said Mr. Potiphar. "I'll have satisfaction. I'll go break open the door," and he started.

"My dear, don't be in a pa.s.sion," said Mrs. Potiphar, "and don't be a fool. Remember that the De Familles are not people to be insulted. It won't do to quarrel with the De Familles."

"Splendid!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Kurz Pacha.

"I've no doubt he'll explain it all in the morning," continued Mrs. Potiphar, "there's some mistake; why not be cool about it?

Besides, Mr. De Famille is an elderly gentleman and requires his rest. I do think you're positively unchristian, Mr. Potiphar. The idea of insulting the De Familles!"

And Mrs. Potiphar patted her little feet upon the floor in front of the ladies' cabin, where we were all collected.

"Where are you going to sleep?" asked Mr. Potiphar mildly.

"I'm sure I don't know," answered she.

We had an awful night. It was worse than any night at sea. Mrs. P. was propped up in one corner of a settee and I in the other, and when I was fixed comfortably there would come a great sea, and the boat would lurch, and I had to disarrange my position. It was horrid. But Mr. Potiphar was very good all night. He kept coming to see if Polly wanted anything, and if she were warm enough, and if she were well. Gauche Boosey, who was on the floor in the saloon, said he saw Mr. P. crawl up softly and try his state-room door. But it was locked, "and the snoring of old De Famille, who was enjoying his required rest," said he, "came in regular broadsides through the blinds."

I don't know how Mr. De Famille explained. I only know Mrs. P. charged old Pot. to be satisfied with anything.

"There are some people, my darling Caroline," she said to me, "with whom it does not do to quarrel. It isn't christian to quarrel. I can't afford to be on bad terms with the De Familles."

"It is odd, isn't it," said Kurz Pacha to Mrs. P., as we were sailing down the harbor on our way to Europe, and talking of the circ.u.mstance of the state-rooms, "it is so odd, that in Sennaar, where to be sure, civilization has scarcely a foothold--I mean such civilization as you enjoy--this proceeding would have been called dishonest! They do have the oddest use of terms in Sennaar! Why, I remember that I once bought a sheep, and as it was coming to my fold in charge of my shepherd, a man in a mask came out of a wood and walked away with the sheep, and appropriated the mutton-chops to his own family uses. And those singular people in Sennaar called it stealing. Shall I ever get through laughing at them when I return! There ought to be missionaries sent to Sennaar. Do you think the Rev. Cream Cheese would go? How gracefully he would say: 'Benighted brethren, in my country when a man buys a sheep or a state-room, and pays money for it, and another man appropriates it, depriving the rightful buyer of his chops and sheep, what does the buyer do? Does he swear? Does he rail? Does he complain?

Does he even ask for the cold pickings? Not at all, brethren; he does none of these things. He sends Worcesters.h.i.+re sauce to the thief, or a pillow of poppies, and says to him, Friend, all of mine is thine, and all of thine is thine own. This, benighted people of Sennaar, is the practice of a Christian people. As one of our great poets says, 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.' Think how delicately the Rev. Cream would pat his mouth with the fine cambric handkerchief, after rounding off such a homily! He might ask you and Mrs. Potiphar to accompany him as examples of this Christian pitch of self-sacrifice. On the whole, I wouldn't advise you to go. The rude races of Sennaar, might put that beautiful forgiveness of yours to extraordinary proofs. Holloa! there's a sea!"

We were dismally sea-sick. And I cared for nothing but arriving. Oh!

dear, I think I would even have given up Paris, at least I thought so.

But, oh! how _could_ I think so! Just fancy a place where not only your own maid speaks French, but where everybody, the porters, the coachmen, the chambermaids, can't speak anything else! Where the very beggars beg, and the commonest people swear, in French! Oh! it's inexpressibly delightful. Why, the dogs understand it, and the horses--"everybody," as Kurz Pacha said to me, the morning after our arrival (for he insisted upon coming, "it was such a freak," he said,) "everybody rolls in a luxury of French, and, according to the boarding-school standard, is happy."

Everybody--but poor Mr. Potiphar!

He has a terrible time of it.

When we arrived we alighted at Meurice's,--all the fas.h.i.+onable people do; at least Gauche Boosey said Lord Brougham did, for he used to read it in Galignani and I suppose it is fas.h.i.+onable to do as Lord Brougham does. D'Orsay Firkin said that the Hotel Bristol was more _recherche_.

"Does that mean cheaper?" inquired Mr. Potiphar.

Mr. Firkin looked at him compa.s.sionately.

"I only want," said Mr. Potiphar, in a kind of gasping way, for it was in the cars on the way from Boulogne to Paris that we held this consultation--"I only want to go where there is somebody who can speak English."

"My dear sir, there are Commissionaires at all the hotels who are perfect linguists," said Mr. Firkin in a gentlemanly manner.

"Oh! dear me!" said Mr. P. wiping his forehead with the red bandanna that he always carries, despite Mrs. P., "what is a commissionaire?"

"An interpreter, a cicerone," said Mr. Firkin.

"A guide, philosopher, and friend," said Kurz Pacha.

"Kurz Pacha, do you speak French?" inquired Mr. P. nervously, as we rolled along.

"Oh! yes," replied he.

"Oh! dear me!" said Mr. Potiphar, looking disconsolately out of the window.

We arrived soon after.

"We are now at the _Barriere_" said Mr. Firkin.

"What do we do there?" asked Mr. Potiphar.

"We are inspected," said Mr. Firkin.

Mr. Potiphar drew himself up with a military air.

We alighted and walked into the room where all the baggage was arranged.

"_Est-ce qu'il y a quelque chose a declarer?_" asked an officer, addressing Mr. Potiphar.

"Good heavens! what did you say?" said Mr. P., looking at him.

The officer smiled, and Kurz Pacha said something, upon which he bowed and pa.s.sed on. We stepped outside upon the pavement, and I confess that even I could not understand everything that was said by the crowd and the coachmen. But Kurz Pacha led the way to a carriage, and we drove off to Meurice's.

"It's awful, isn't it?" said Mr. Potiphar, panting.

When we reached the hotel, a gentleman (Mr. Potiphar said he was sure he was a gentleman, from a remark he made--in English) came bowing out. But before the door of the carriage was opened, Mr. P. thrust his head out of the window, and holding the door shut, cried out, "Do you speak English here?"

"Certainly, sir," replied the clerk; and that was the remark that so pleased Mr. Potiphar.

My room was next to the Potiphars, and I heard a great deal, you may be sure. I didn't mean to, but I couldn't help it. The next morning, when they were about coming down, I heard Polly say--

"Now, Mr. Potiphar, remember, if you want to speak of your room it is _numero quatre-vingt cinq_" and she p.r.o.nounced it very slowly. "Now try, Mr. P."

"Oh! dear me. Kattery vang sank," said he.