Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 102: what you’re looking at

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

Pickwick Abroad. 69 _‘‘ What is the matter, now?” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, rising from his chair, and putting his hands under his coat-tails, to give a more determined air to his already imposing attitude. “Sir,” said M. Cailliez, very civilly, ‘I shall say nothing about the ill-treatment I received at the hands of your domestic and friends last evening—” _“ You'd better not,” interrupted Mr. Winkle, from the opposite side of the table, and glancing round to see if there were not a poker or shovel in his immediate vicinity. ** But,”” continued M. Cailliez, without deigning to notice this inter- ruption, “*] must request, in every possible term of respect, that you suit yourselves with other apartments as speedily as possible.” “ Bring the bill!” ejaculated Mr. Crashem ; “‘ and as for staying any longer in your confounded hotel, strike me stupid if I would not sooner be—” “There are two or three gentlemen desirous of speaking to you, Sir, down stairs,” quietly interrupted M. Cailliez, addressing himself with . bow to Mr. dolphus Crashem, who turned pale, hesitated, and held IS peace. “* If any one wish to see Mr. Crashem,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ let him walk up; and in the course of the morning send me your account. You have only anticipated me in my intentions. Show Mr. Crashem’s friends up immediately ;’—and extricating his right hand from beneath his coat-tails, Mr. Pickwick waved it impressively in the air—a signal M. Cailliez, with all the native politeness of a Frenchman, immediately coeyed, retreating from the room, followed by his two clerks, whom he had brought with him, as meet aid, in case of a renewed attack. “‘T wonder who it can be,” observed Mr. Crashem, somewhat un- easily, when the door had closed behind M. Cailliez and his myrmidons. ‘I do not think they could have the impudence to send a gendarme to take you up,” said Mr, Pickwick, recalling to mind the adventure of Mr. Weller, at the theatre in Calais. “Oh! Arabella! Arabella!’ exclaimed Mr. Winkle im a fitof most unfeigned agony, as he sank into a chair, and proceeded to bury his face in his hands. ‘ But you will be good to her, Pickwick—Tupman— if I should fall ;—you won't desert her! And if I die—in—in— a land —of—strangers—” Here Mr. Winkle’s voice was lost in sobs; and at the moment when Mr. Pickwick was about to approach his disconsolate friend, the door again opened, and a quiet procession of four gentlemen, dressed in a variety of garbs, marched into the room. The first was a stout personage, attired in the extreme of fashion, and decorated with the order of the Legion of Honour. Thesecond was a short, sallow-visaged, sharp-eyed, straight-haired, thin-looking in- dividual, holding a parcel of papers in his hand, and glancing around him with keenness and suspicion. The third and fourth members of this little procession were two seedy-dressed, coarse-visaged, tobacco- smelling vagabonds, with thread-bare coats, boots airily contrived to admit the fresh breezes at the tocs, and shirts as dirty as if they had pen part of a reversionary interest in the property of a deceased coal- eaver. “Parlez-cous Francais, Messieurs #’ enquired the thin gentleman with the papers. COL (©) DGe SS (c@