Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 62: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

34 PICKW1CK ABROAD. ‘No, not this morning, Sir; but last night,” responded the waiter. “‘In fact, Sir, your servant is in the Volon.” ‘In the what?” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his spectacles, wiping them, and putting them on again—an action which his his- torian fancies to have manifested an unusual degree of impatience on the part of that most perfect of Job’s votaries. ‘¢In a sort of prison, Sir—for having knocked down two gendarmes, and disturbed the whole theatre last night.” ‘¢ At what time did this happen, waiter?’ enquired Mr. Pickwick angrily. 2 About half-past nine o'clock, Sir,’”’ was the reply. ‘¢ And why was I not informed of it, then, when it took place?” ex- claimed Mr. Pickwick still more angrily. ‘‘ We did not break up till eleven.” ‘‘T did mention it last evening, Sir,” said the waiter: ‘‘ but Aon- sieur had drank a little wine, and the wine was rather strony, and when I mentioned the word Violon in English, which means Vzolzn, Monsieur merely said, ‘ No, I thank’ee, waiter—we don’t want any music now;’ so I thought it better to hold my tongue till this morning.” ‘‘ Bring me up some hot water, waiter,” said Mr. Pickwick, after a moment’s consideration, during which a cloud passed over his brow like a vapour on the placid waters of a lake, as Mr. Snodgrass re- marked with poetic beauty on another occasion. And having utterec these words, Mr. Pickwick rolled out of his couch, and fell heavily or. the floor; for he had forgotten the bed was much higher than those in England, and he was impelled by that haste to assist his faithful servant in his dilemma which invariably characterized his good actions. By the aid of the waiter he was speedily raised upon his legs once more; and, strange to relate, no oath escaped the lips of that extraor- linary man. A terrible grimace alone expressed the extent of the ain he had experienced from the fall. A quarter of an hour was sufficient to complete Mr. Pickwick’s toilet , and when his ablutions were performed, his garments donned, and his gaiters hastily buttoned, he descended to the coffee-room, rang the ell with unusual violence, and desired the waiter, who answered the summons, to conduct him to the office of the Commissary of Police. To the Town-hall he accordingly repaired, and was introduced into a small room with a very large window looking upon the Grande Place. There was a long desk covered with papers in the middle of the room, and behind it was seated a venerable-looking old man, with hair as white as snow, and a red riband in his buttonhole. He were round his waist a wide scarf of three colours, blue, white, and red; but other- wise he was dressed in plain clothes of fashionable cut. On one side of the desk stood a couple of stern-looking functionaries of the police, the same whom Mr. Weller had insulted the previous evening; and on the other side was that gentleman himself, looking particularly dirty end seedy after having passed a night in the Violon. “*Mornin’, Sir,” said Sam, when Mr. Pickwick’s glance encoun- ered that of his delinquent domestic. ‘‘ How air you, Sir, by this ime? as the prize-fighter said to his an-tagonist ven he’d a-knocked von of his eyes ana au nis teeth out How air you, Sir ®” a S 5} a JOO .S (COIN