It was past seven o’clock when the lights of Pauillac sparkled ahead of us on the river bank, and we thankfully gathered together our baggage, suborned our sailor, and desired him to lead us to the Grand Hôtel, the one to which we had been recommended. It was a good deal of a shock when he told us that the Grand Hôtel had been closed for a year on account of the death of the proprietor. It was not the kind of intelligence to encourage strangers, arriving in darkness, believing there was but one hotel in the town, and having desired all letters to be addressed to them there. However, the sailor rose to the occasion. He was a wizened little man, with the tentacles of a cuttle fish and the administrative powers of a Cook. ‘But there are many other hotels, mesdames,’ he said, while he attached some ten or twelve _articles de voyage_ to his person. ‘Come, I will conduct you to the best of them.’ My second cousin’s portmanteau, ballasted by the Kodak and the medicine chest, was hanging round his neck, and gave deadly impetus to his charge through the dense throng of jabbering peasants that was slowly squeezing itself up the gangway. But in spite of the confidence inspired by the sailor, it was in some anxiety of spirit that we hurried along after him, in darkness that was only streaked here and there by the rays of indifferent oil-lamps across a high-backed wooden bridge, and out on to a long and pathless tract of grass. Everything had for the moment a painful resemblance to the landing of Martin Chuzzlewit and Mark Tapley on the swampy [Illustration: A PLUNGE INTO THE UNKNOWN--ARRIVAL AT PAUILLAC.] bank of the Mississippi in search of the city of Eden. How did we know what sort of stifling den above a restaurant it would be that the sailor called a hotel? How did we know what _compôtes_ of grease and garlic we might have to eat there? We breathed more freely when we were deposited in the narrow hall of a house that had something of the air of a real hotel, and were met by an obsequious _garçon_ and a highly-respectable smell of beefsteak. We were shown our room, a palatially large one, with a light paper that would be an excellent background for mosquito-hunting, and we were told that _table d’hôte_ was nearly over, but that we could have whatever we wished. We said, ‘_Œufs sur le plat_,’ as we always feebly do when in doubt, and descended to a very warm and dinnerish little _salle-à-manger_, full of black-haired fat men, and black bottles of _vin ordinaire_, and pervaded by the satisfaction of those who have dined largely and well. Much strange talk buzzed round us in the thick Bordelais accent, while we waited for our eggs on the [Illustration: THE DOG APPROACHED WITH A SLOW POLITENESS.]