"
Our trusty guide, M. VESQUIER, is well ahead, and DAUBINET follows
closely at my heels. Thus we proceed, and if this order is preserved
throughout, I feel that the sensational romance above mentioned will
not be written, at least not on this occasion. We are in stalactite
caverns; I expect a subterranean lake,--of still champagne of
course,--and a boat; strange silver foil and gold foil fish ought to
be swimming about, and the name of the subterranean lake should be
Loch Foil, Loch Gold or Silver Foil, according to the material. No,
nothing of the sort. It is all quite dry; uncommonly dry; atmosphere
dry; ground dry; and, gradually, throats dry. Probably, champagne also
dry. But remembering what I have heard of someone else's experience of
Dock-visiting, which I presume is similar to cave-visiting, I do not
mention my sudden drought. I feel that, while down here, if I took
one glass of champagne, my head first, and then my legs, might become
unsteady, whereupon nothing would be more likely than for me to take
the wrong turning and lose my companions; if I did, what are the
chances against my ever finding them again? Or if my legs failed me
and I disappeared between the casks, who would think of looking for
me there? Then, years afterwards, in some specially and unaccountably
good vintage year, when there would be a run upon these particular
casks, my mouldering skeleton would be found, among the sawdust,
between the barrels, and some purveyor of ballads would write a
song whereof the burden would not be unlike that of the once popular
"_Mistletoe Bough_.
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