Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 83: what you’re looking at

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

50 Pickwick Abroad. that ret within its walls, and the happy seclusion in which its in- mates dwelt. One evenitg— ct me direct your attention to the little perlour of that respectable house—the supper was concluded, the servant was engaged in clearing away the plates and dishes, and the other two inmates of the room were sitting in silence, awaiting the de- ure of the domestic to commence their discourse. One was an veteran soldier, whose years had numbered some sixty-eight or sixty-nine ; and the other was a young man of about three-and-twenty. The former was Hector Dumont—the latter was myself. When the servant-girl had entirely cleared the table of its encum- brances, the old cutrassier lit his pipe, and motioned me to place the brandy upon the board. I obeyed, foreseeing at the same time that a serious conversation was about to ensue. Nor was I wrong in my conjecture. Dumont took several long whiffs of his pipe, drank a petit verre de cognac, and then addressed me as follows :— ‘¢ Alfred Dumont,” said he,—for I enjoyed, and still do enjoy the use of my benefactor’s patronymic, having none of my own,—“ you are now arrived at that age when it is important to decide upon something for your future welfare in life. I have—thanks to the bounty of our great Emperor, many, many years ago—amassed a few crowns, and they have always been intended to forward your views, and place you in some honourable profession. I say honourable, because you bear my name ;—it was never sullied, Alfred ;—and I am certain you will not disgrace it. Therefore, my dear boy,” continued the old man, very seriously, ‘‘ you shall not bea tailor, because he steals more cloth than he uses; nor shall you be a grocer, because he puts sand into his sugar, and the leaves of currant-bushes into his tea, so that when you think you are drinking real bohea, you are imbibing an infernal mix+ ture of vile herbs. A baker grinds bones to mingle with his flour; and a wine-merchant uses log-wood to adulterate his claret. A sau- sage- maker patronizes dog-stealers and cat-killers; and a huissier* throws people into prison. As for the army and navy, they are useless in times of peace.” ‘“‘ Mon Dieu!’ cried I, interrupting this fine dissertation on trades and professions, with a disconsolate look; ‘‘ and what does remain, then, my dear father, for me to do?” Old Dumont assumed an aspect so peculiarly knowing that one would have thought he had fallen upon an idea capable of confound- ing the politics of Talleyrand and Metternich themselves; and he winked his eye with such an extraordinary expression of cunning, that I imagined he meant to make a deputy or a judge of me at least. Full one minute elapsed in the execution of these telegraphic signs; and when he deemed it time to be more explanatory,— which measure was very necessary, considering the dull state of my comprehension,—I was on the tiptoe of curiosity and suspense. ‘‘ Alfred,” said he, with awful importance, “ I have been thinking you had better become a—” ‘‘A what?’ cried I in breathless haste. ‘‘ A Gendarme !” was the solemn reply. I could not help recollecting that my worthy benefactor had re- ® Sheriff's officer, or bailiff. COL (©) NOOO KS (c@