It was at most true that he had acquired a set of artificially precise
habits to which he clung most tenaciously, and which certainly
harmonised with the natural appearance of neatness that had formerly
been his despair. Why he had taken so much trouble to become orderly
was his own business. Possibly he had got tired of that state of life
in which it is impossible to find anything in less than half an hour
when one wants it in half a minute. At all events, he had taken pains
to acquire orderliness, and, for reasons which will appear hereafter,
it is worth while to note the fact.
When everything was arranged to his satisfaction, he sat down in the
most comfortable chair in the room, filled another of the three wooden
pipes that now lay side by side on the writing-table, and continued to
smoke as if his welfare depended on consuming a certain quantity of
tobacco in a given time. He must have had a sound heart and a strong
head, for he did not desist from his occupation for many hours, though
he had not eaten anything particular at breakfast, at Mrs. Rushmore's,
and nothing at all since.
The afternoon was wearing on when he knocked the ashes out of his pipe
very carefully, laid it in its place, rose from his seat and uttered a
single profane ejaculation.
'Damn!' Having said this, he said no more, for indeed, if taken literally,
there could be nothing more to be said. The malediction, however, was
directed against nothing particular, and certainly against no person
living or dead; it only applied to the aggregate of the awkward
circumstances in which he found himself, and as he was alone he felt
quite sure of not being misunderstood.
He did not even take a servant with him when he travelled, though he
had an excellent Scotchman for a valet, who could do a great variety of
useful things, besides holding his tongue, which is one of the finest
qualities in the world, in man or dog. And he also had a dog in London,
a particularly rough Irish terrier called Tim; but as Tim would have
been quarantined every time he came home it was practically impossible
to bring him to the Continent. It will be seen, therefore, that
Lushington was really quite alone in the quiet hotel in the Rue des
Saints Pères.
He might have had company enough if he had wanted it, for he knew many
men of letters in Paris and was himself known to them, which is another
thing. They liked him, too, in their own peculiar way of liking their
foreign colleagues. Most of them, without affectation and in perfect
good faith, are convinced that there never was, is not, and never can
be any literature equal to the French except that of Edgar Poe; but
they feel that it would be rude and tactless of them to let us know
that they think so. They are the most agreeable men in the world, as a
whole, and considering what they really think of us--rightly or
wrongly, but honestly--the courtesy and consideration they show us are
worthy of true gentlemen. The most modest among ourselves seem a little
arrogant and self-asserting in comparison with them. They praise us,
sometimes, and not faintly either; but their criticism of us compares
us with each other, not with them. The very highest eulogy they can
bestow on anything we do is to say that it is 'truly French,' but they
never quite believe it and they cannot understand why that is perhaps
the very compliment that pleases us least, though we may have the
greatest admiration for their national genius. With all our vanity,
should we ever expect to please a French writer by telling him that his
work was 'truly English'?