Trieste. Steamer.
Eggs a la cocotte. Scrambled eggs on toast.
Stewed chicken, with paprika. Cold chicken.
Devilled slices of Westphalian Cold ham.
ham (boiled in wine).
Tunny fish, pickled. Bismarck herrings.
Rice, burst in cream. Stewed apples.
Guava jelly. Swiss cheese.
Consequence: Yesterday I was well and happy, and looked forward to a good
night's sleep, which came off. To-day I am dull and heavy, also
restless, and I am convinced that at sleeping-time my liver will have it
all its own way.
The journey to Ragusa, and thence to Plazac, is writ large with a pigment
of misery on at least one human heart. Let a silence fall upon it! In
such wise only can Justice and Mercy join hands.
Plazac is a miserable place. There is not a decent hotel in it. It was
perhaps on this account that the new King, Rupert, had erected for the
alleged convenience of his guests of the Press a series of large
temporary hotels, such as were in evidence at the St. Louis Exposition.
Here each guest was given a room to himself, somewhat after the nature of
the cribs in a Rowton house. From my first night in it I am able to
speak from experience of the sufferings of a prisoner of the third class.
I am, however, bound to say that the dining and reception rooms were,
though uncomfortably plain, adequate for temporary use. Happily we shall
not have to endure many more meals here, as to-morrow we all dine with
the King in the State House; and as the cuisine is under the control of
that cordon bleu, Gaston de Faux Pas, who so long controlled the
gastronomic (we might almost say Gastonomic) destinies of the Rois des
Diamants in the Place Vendome, we may, I think, look forward to not going
to bed hungry. Indeed, the anticipations formed from a survey of our
meagre sleeping accommodation were not realized at dinnertime to-night.
To our intense astonishment, an excellent dinner was served, though, to
be sure, the cold dishes predominated (a thing I always find bad for
one's liver). Just as we were finishing, the King (nominated) came
amongst us in quite an informal way, and, having bidden us a hearty
welcome, asked that we should drink a glass of wine together. This we
did in an excellent (if rather sweet) glass of Cliquot '93. King Rupert
(nominated) then asked us to resume our seats. He walked between the
tables, now and again recognizing some journalistic friend whom he had
met early in life in his days of adventure. The men spoken to seemed
vastly pleased--with themselves probably. Pretty bad form of them, I
call it! For myself, I was glad I had not previously met him in the same
casual way, as it saved me from what I should have felt a
humiliation--the being patronized in that public way by a prospective
King who had not (in a Court sense) been born. The writer, who is by
profession a barrister-at-law, is satisfied at being himself a county
gentleman and heir to an historic estate in the ancient county of Salop,
which can boast a larger population than the Land of the Blue Mountains.