me,
though the exclamation of a Zouave on his first appearance seemed to
forbode but an indifferent reception for the four-footed intruder.
"_Cre nom d'un chien_" cried the shaven, fez-capped warrior, "_mais
je ne t'aimerais pas pour mon camarade du lit!_"

Breakfast was served in French fashion on board at ten o'clock, and
dinner at five. With one or two exceptions, the company consisted of
French commercial travellers, and they were split up into the usual
hostile factions of north against south. North, of course, commenced
the conversation with Paris, _Paris_, and again PAR-RRI; the
southerners every now and then throwing in a doubt of the universal
superiority of the metropolis over the known world. One disputant
stood out for Marseilles, another broke a lance for Bordeaux, and the
war of words waxed so fierce that I began to tremble for the
consequences. One young man in company had been some time at Bordeaux,
and had much to say thereon; but all his remarks were on one
subject--the theatre. On its beauty, its luxury, and its actresses, he
held forth at unwearied but wearisome length.

While this conversation was going on, the inner man was by no
means neglected. Stewed pullets, potatoes, salad, and etceteras,
disappeared with marvellous celerity. The cheer was by no means
bad, though decidedly Provencal, as I remarked to my next neighbour,
a dark-looking Marsellais; which observation, by the way, brought
down upon me the anger of the Gods, as impersonated by a large, fat,
dirty Calaisien, sitting opposite. He was a big man, this champion,
and, according to Cervantes, should, by consequence, have been a
good-natured one. Giving himself a sounding blow on the chest for
emphasis, he declared the Calaisiens to be an infinitely more moral
people than the Marseillais--and washed down his own dictum with an
enormous glass of _biere blanche_. I am rather fond of going to sleep
after dinner; so I secured my nap on cheap terms, by feigning an
interest in the Picard virtues, and accordingly enjoyed a profound
rest, disturbed only at intervals by a monotonous and expostulatory
"_allons donc!_" thrown in by another dissentient southerner. He
was an enormously fat man, the new disputant, and wore a mass of very
greasy hair, hanging down over his shoulders. His flannel shirt, an
exceedingly dingy specimen of British manufacture, did duty for a
waistcoat also; but he was _decore_, though it was very doubtful to
what order the