Even DAUBINET feels it, for he is silent, except
when he tries to rouse himself by exclaiming "Caramba!" Only twice
does he make the attempt, and then, meeting with no response from
me, he collapses. Nor does it relieve depression to be set down in a
solemn courtyard, lighted by a solitary gas-lamp. This in itself would
be quite sufficient to make a weary traveller melancholy, without the
tolling of a gruesome bell to announce our arrival. This dispiriting
sound seems to affect nobody in the house, except a lengthy young
man in a desperate state of unwakefulness, who sleepily resents our
arrival in the midst of his first slumber (he must have gone to bed at
nine), and drowsily expresses a wish to be informed (for he will not
take the trouble to examine into the matter for himself) whether we
have any luggage; and this sense of depression becomes aggravated and
intensified when no genial Boniface (as the landlord used invariably
to be styled in romances of half a century ago) comes forth to greet
us with a hearty welcome, and no buxom smiling hostess, is there to
order the trim waiting-maid, with polished candlestick, "to show
the gentleman his room." And, at length, when a hostess, amiable but
shivering, does appear, there is still an absence of all geniality;
no questions are asked as to what we might like to take in the way
of refreshment, there is no fire to cheer us, no warm drinks are
suggested, no apparent probability of getting food or liquor, even if
we wanted it, which, thank Heaven, we don't, not having recovered from
the last hurriedly-swallowed meal at the railway buffet _en route_.
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