The Lady of the Shroud - Page 13/16

Trieste. Steamer.

Eggs a la cocotte. Scrambled eggs on toast.

Stewed chicken, with paprika. Cold chicken.

Devilled slices of Westphalian Cold ham.

ham (boiled in wine).

Tunny fish, pickled. Bismarck herrings.

Rice, burst in cream. Stewed apples.

Guava jelly. Swiss cheese.

Consequence: Yesterday I was well and happy, and looked forward to a good

night's sleep, which came off. To-day I am dull and heavy, also

restless, and I am convinced that at sleeping-time my liver will have it

all its own way.

The journey to Ragusa, and thence to Plazac, is writ large with a pigment

of misery on at least one human heart. Let a silence fall upon it! In

such wise only can Justice and Mercy join hands.

Plazac is a miserable place. There is not a decent hotel in it. It was

perhaps on this account that the new King, Rupert, had erected for the

alleged convenience of his guests of the Press a series of large

temporary hotels, such as were in evidence at the St. Louis Exposition.

Here each guest was given a room to himself, somewhat after the nature of

the cribs in a Rowton house. From my first night in it I am able to

speak from experience of the sufferings of a prisoner of the third class.

I am, however, bound to say that the dining and reception rooms were,

though uncomfortably plain, adequate for temporary use. Happily we shall

not have to endure many more meals here, as to-morrow we all dine with

the King in the State House; and as the cuisine is under the control of

that cordon bleu, Gaston de Faux Pas, who so long controlled the

gastronomic (we might almost say Gastonomic) destinies of the Rois des

Diamants in the Place Vendome, we may, I think, look forward to not going

to bed hungry. Indeed, the anticipations formed from a survey of our

meagre sleeping accommodation were not realized at dinnertime to-night.

To our intense astonishment, an excellent dinner was served, though, to

be sure, the cold dishes predominated (a thing I always find bad for

one's liver). Just as we were finishing, the King (nominated) came

amongst us in quite an informal way, and, having bidden us a hearty

welcome, asked that we should drink a glass of wine together. This we

did in an excellent (if rather sweet) glass of Cliquot '93. King Rupert

(nominated) then asked us to resume our seats. He walked between the

tables, now and again recognizing some journalistic friend whom he had

met early in life in his days of adventure. The men spoken to seemed

vastly pleased--with themselves probably. Pretty bad form of them, I

call it! For myself, I was glad I had not previously met him in the same

casual way, as it saved me from what I should have felt a

humiliation--the being patronized in that public way by a prospective

King who had not (in a Court sense) been born. The writer, who is by

profession a barrister-at-law, is satisfied at being himself a county

gentleman and heir to an historic estate in the ancient county of Salop,

which can boast a larger population than the Land of the Blue Mountains.