Passage Illustrated: Lorrequer is "Sick of Masquerading en postillion"

The infernal noise of floor-cleansing, assisted by a Norman peasant's "chanson du pays," the time being well marked by her heavy sabots, gave even less chance to me within; so that after more than half an hour passed in weighing difficulties, and canvassing plans, upon donning the blue and yellow, and setting out for my own room without delay, hoping sincerely, that with proper precaution, I should be able to reach it unseen and unobserved.

As I laid but little stress upon the figure I should make in my new habiliments, it did not cause me much mortification to find that the clothes were considerably too small, the jacket scarcely coming beneath my arms, and the sleeves being so short that my hands and wrists projected beyond the cuffs like two enormous claws; the leathers were also limited in their length, and when drawn up to a proper height, permitted my knees to be seen beneath, like the short costume of a Spanish Tauridor, but scarcely as graceful; not wishing to encumber myself in the heavy and noisy masses of wood, iron, and leather, they call "les bottes forts," I slipped my feet into my slippers, and stole gently from the room. How I must have looked at the moment I leave my reader to guess, as with anxious and stealthy pace I crept along the low gallery that led to the narrow staircase, down which I proceeded, step by step; but just as I reached the bottom, perceived a little distance from me, with her back turned towards me, a short, squat peasant on her knees, belabouring with a brush the well waxed floor; to pass therefore, unobserved was impossible, so that I did not hesitate to address her, and endeavour to interest her in my behalf, and enlist her as my guide.

"Bon jour, ma chere," said I in a soft insinuating tone; she did not hear me, so I repeated,

"Bon jour, ma chere, bon jour."

Upon this she turned round, and looking fixedly at me for a second, called out in a thick pathos, "Ah, le bon Dieu! qu'il est drole comme ca, Francois, savez vous, mais ce n'est pas Francois;" saying which, she sprang from her kneeling position to her feet, and with a speed that her shape and sabots seemed little to promise, rushed down the stairs as if she had seen the devil himself.

"Why, what is the matter with the woman?" said I, "surely if I am not Francois — which God be thanked is true — yet I cannot look so frightful as all this would imply." I had not much time given me for consideration now, for before I had well deciphered the number over a door before me, the loud noise of several voices on the floor beneath attracted my attention, and the moment after the heavy tramp of feet followed, and in an instant the gallery was thronged by the men and women of the house — waiters, hostlers, cooks, scullions, filles de chambre, mingled with gens-d'armes, peasants, and town's people, all eagerly forcing their way up stairs; yet all on arriving at the landing-place, seemed disposed to keep at a respectful distance, and bundling themselves at one end of the corridor, while I, feelingly alive to the ridiculous appearance I made, occupied the other — the gravity with which they seemed at first disposed to regard me soon gave way, and peal after peal of laughter broke out, and young and old, men and women, even to the most farouche gens-d'armes, all appearing incapable of controlling the desire for merriment my most singular figure inspired; and unfortunately this emotion seemed to promise no very speedy conclusion; for the jokes and witticisms made upon my appearance threatened to renew the festivities, ad libitum.

"Regardez donc ses epaules," said one.

Ah, mon Dieu! Il me fait l'idee d'une grenouille aves ses jambes jaunes," cried another.

"Il vaut son pesant de fromage pour une Vaudeville," said the director of the strolling theatre of the place.

"I'll give seventy francs a week, 'd'appointment,' and 'Scribe' shall write a piece express for himself, if he'll take it." [Chapter XXV, "The Inn at Chantraine," pp. 189-190]

Commentary

Serial readers may well have wondered about the circumstances that have compelled the protagonist to "masquerade" as a postillion, and how the crowd of chamber-maids and other interested spectators, including local police officers (as distinguished by their hats) and led by one particularly judgmental fille-de-chambre, have found him out in a hallway of the inn at Chantraine.

After a night at the Hotel du Nord in Calais, Lorrequer, Mrs. Bingham, and her daughter Isabella once again take to the road, bound for Paris. Lorrequer makes himself indispensable to the ladies by his fluency in French, particularly in ordering meals. In the inn at Chantraine the bed in Lorrequer's room, No. 28, is uncomfortably short, and the room itself is terribly cold owing to the cold autumn air. Thus, unable to find the bell, he wanders the halls, naked, looking for assistance — and some warmer bedcovers.

His adventure begins when, having stolen the bedcovers of a sleeping Irishman in a room down the hall, Lorrequer finds himself pursued and takes refuge in the first available room. This, as it turns out, is regularly occupied by a small postillion, who has conveniently left his uniform hanging neatly on a rack. And Harry, having left his own bedchamber wearing no clothes, upon waking decides to avail himself of the kit he had noticed before falling asleep:

An old demi-peak saddle, capped and tipped with brass, some rusty bits, and stray stirrup-irons lay here and there upon the floor; while upon a species of clothes-rack, attached to a rafter, hung a tarnished suit of postillion's livery, cap, jacket, leathers, and jack-boots, all ready for use; and evidently from their arrangement supposed by the owner to be a rather creditable "turn out." [189]

As befits the "confessional" nature of Harry's story, he decides to wear the postillion's garb in order to return to his own room, despite the fact that the whole outfit is ridiculously small. And now we arrive at the moment realised as Harry encounters a chamber-maid scouring the floor. She recognizes the livery as that of her friend Francois, and summons other servants of the inn to enjoy the early morning spectacle. Regarding him as a thief, one of the gens-d'armes determines to take him to cityhall (Bureau) to face the judgment of the Mayor (maire). Four police officers summarily march their chagrined and embarrassed prisoner through the village marketplace.

Bibliography

Buchanan-Brown, John. Phiz! Illustrator of Dickens' World. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1978.

Lester, Valerie Browne Lester. Phiz! The Man Who Drew Dickens. London: Chatto and Windus, 2004.

Lever, Charles. The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer. Illustrated by Phiz [Hablot Knight Browne]. Dublin: William Curry, Jun. London: W. S. Orr, 1839.

Steig, Michael. Chapter Two: "The Beginnings of 'Phiz': Pickwick, Nickleby, and the Emergence from Caricature." Dickens and Phiz. Bloomington: Indiana U. P., 1978. Pp. 24-85.

Steig, Michael. Chapter Seven: "Phiz the Illustrator: An Overview and a Summing Up." Dickens and Phiz. Bloomington: Indiana U. P., 1978. Pp. 299-316.

Stevenson, Lionel. Chapter V, "Renegade from Physic, 1839-1841." Dr. Quicksilver: The Life of Charles Lever. London: Chapman and Hall, 1939. Pp. 73-93.

_______. "The Domestic Scene." The English Novel: A Panorama. Cambridge, Mass.: Houghton Mifflin and Riverside, 1960.

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Created 17 April 2023