It was in the month of May—I won’t confess to the year—that I found myself, after trying various hotels in the Place Royale, at last deposited at the door of the Hôtel de France. It seemed to me, in my then ignorance, like apis aller, when the postillion said, ‘Let us try the “France,”’ and little prepared me for the handsome, but somewhat small, hotel before me. It was nearly five o’clock when I arrived, and I had only time to make some slight change in my dress when the bell sounded for table d’hôte.
The guests were already seated when I entered, but a place had been reserved for me, which completed the table. I was a young—perhaps after reading a little farther you’ll say avery young—traveller at the time, but was soon struck by the quiet and decorous style in which the dinner was conducted. The servants were prompt, silent, and observant; the guests, easy and affable; the equipage of the table was even elegant; and the cookery, Biennais! I was the only Englishman present, the party being made up of Germans and French; but all spoke together like acquaintances, and before the dinner had proceeded far were polite enough to include me in the conversation.
At the head of the table sat a large and strikingly handsome man, of about eight-and-thirty or forty years of age—his dress a dark frock, richly braided, and ornamented by the decorations of several foreign orders; his forehead high and narrow, the temples strongly indented; his nose arched and thin, and his upper lip covered by a short black moustache raised at either extremity and slightly curled, as we see occasionally in a Van Dyck picture; indeed, his dark-brown features, somewhat sad in their expression, his rich hazel eyes and long waving hair, gave him all the character that great artist loved to perpetuate on his canvas. He spoke seldom, but when he did there was something indescribably pleasing in the low, mellow tones of his voice; a slight smile too lit up his features at these times, and his manner had in it—I know not what; some strange power it seemed, that made whoever he addressed feel pleased and flattered by his notice of them, just as we see a few words spoken by a sovereign caught up and dwelt upon by those around.
At his side sat a lady, of whom when I first came into the room I took little notice; her features seemed pleasing, but no more. But gradually, as I watched her I was struck by the singular delicacy of traits that rarely make their impression at first sight. She was about twenty-five, perhaps twenty-six, but of a character of looks that preserves something almost childish in their beauty. She was pale, and with brown hair—that light sunny brown that varies in its hue with every degree of light upon it; her face was oval and inclined to plumpness; her eyes were large, full, and lustrous, with an expression of softness and candour that won on you wonderfully the longer you looked at them; her nose was short, perhaps faultily so, but beautifully chiselled, and fine as a Greek statue; her mouth, rather large, displayed, however, two rows of teeth beautifully regular and of snowy whiteness; while her chin, rounded and dimpled, glided by an easy transition into a throat large and most gracefully formed. Her figure, as well as I could judge, was below the middle size, and inclined to embonpoint; and her dress, denoting some national peculiarity of which I was ignorant, was a velvet bodice laced in front and ornamented with small silver buttons, which terminated in a white muslin skirt; a small cap, something like what Mary Queen of Scots is usually represented in, sat on the back of her head and fell in deep lace folds on her shoulders. Lastly, her hands were small, white, and dimpled, and displayed on her taper and rounded fingers several rings of apparently great value.
I have been somewhat lengthy in my description of these two persons, and can scarcely ask my reader to accompany me round the circle; however, it is with them principally I have to do. The others at table were remarkable enough. There was a leading member of the Chamber of Deputies—an ex-minister—a tall, dark-browed, ill-favoured man, with a retiring forehead and coal-black eyes; he was a man of great cleverness, spoke eloquently and well, and was singularly open and frank in giving his opinion on the politics of the time. There was a German or two, from the grand-duchy of something—somewhat proud, reserved personages, as all the Germans of petty states are; they talked little, and were evidently impressed with the power they possessed of tantalising the company by not divulging the intention of the Gross Herzog of Hoch Donnerstadt regarding the present prospects of Europe. There were three Frenchmen and two French ladies, all pleasant, easy, and affable people; there was a doctor from Louvain, a shrewd, intelligent man; a Prussian major and his wife—well-bred, quiet people, and, like all Prussians, polite without inviting acquaintance. An Austrian secretary of legation, a wine-merchant from Bordeaux, and a celebrated pianist completed the party.
I have now put my readers in possession of information which I only obtained after some days myself; for though one or other of these personages was occasionally absent from table d’hôte, I soon perceived that they were all frequenters of the house, and well known there.
If the guests were seated at table wherever chance or accident might place them, I could perceive that a tone of deference was always used to the tall man, who invariably maintained his place at the head; and an air of even greater courtesy was assumed towards the lady beside him, who was his wife. He was always addressed as Monsieur le Comte, and her title of Countess was never forgotten in speaking to her. During dinner, whatever little chit-chat or gossip was the talk of the day was specially offered up to her. The younger guests occasionally ventured to present a bouquet, and even the rugged minister himself accomplished a more polite bow in accosting her than he could have summoned up for his presentation to royalty. To all these little attentions she returned a smile or a look or a word, or a gesture with her white hand, never exciting jealousy by any undue degree of favour, and distributing her honours with the practised equanimity of one accustomed to it.
Dinner over and coffee, a handsome britzka, drawn by two splendid dark-bay horses, would drive up, and Madame la Comtesse, conducted to the carriage by her husband, would receive the homage of the whole party, as they stood to let her pass. The count would then linger some twenty minutes or so, and take his leave to wander for an hour about the park, and afterwards to the theatre, where I used to see him in a private box with his wife.
Such was the little party at the ‘France’ when I took up my residence there in the month of May, and gradually one dropped off after another as the summer wore on. The Germans went back to sauer kraut and kreutzer whist; the secretary of legation was on leave; the wine-merchant was off to St. Petersburg; the pianist was in the bureau he once directed—and so on, leaving our party reduced to the count and madame, a stray traveller, a deaf abbé, and myself.
The dog-days in a Continental city are, every one knows, stupid and tiresome enough. Every one has taken his departure either to his château, if he has one, or to the watering-places; the theatre has no attraction, even if the heat permitted one to visit it; the streets are empty, parched, and grass-grown; and except the arrival and departure of that incessant locomotive, John Bull, there is no bustle or stir anywhere. Hapless, indeed, is the condition then of the man who is condemned from any accident to toil through this dreary season; to wander about in solitude the places he has seen filled by pleasant company; to behold the park and promenades given up to Flemishbonnesor Norman nurses, where he was wont to glad his eye with the sight of bright eyes and trim shapes, flitting past in all the tasty elegance of Parisian toilette; to see the lazyfrotteursleeping away his hours at theporte cochere, which a month before thundered with the deep roll of equipage coming and going. All this is very sad, and disposes one to be dull and discontented too.
For what reason I was detained at Brussels it is unnecessary to inquire. Some delay in remittances, if I remember aright, had its share in the cause. Who ever travelled without having cursed his banker or his agent or his uncle or his guardian, or somebody, in short, who had a deal of money belonging to him in his hands, and would not send it forward? In all my long experience of travelling and travellers, I don’t remember meeting with one person, who, if it were not for such mischances, would not have been amply supplied with cash. Some with a knowing wink throw the blame on the ‘Governor’; others, more openly indignant, confound Coutts and Drummond; a stray Irishman will now and then damn the ‘tenantry that haven’t paid up the last November’; but none, no matter how much their condition bespeaks that out-at-elbows habit which a ways-and-means style of life contracts, will ever confess to the fact that their expectations are as blank as their banker’s book, and that the only land they are ever to pretend to is a post-obit right in some six-feet-by-two in a churchyard. And yet the world is full of such people—well-informed, pleasant, good-looking folk, who inhabit first-rate hotels; drink, dine, and dress well; frequent theatres and promenades; spend their winters at Paris or Florence or Rome, their summers at Baden or Ems or Interlachen; have a strange half-intimacy with men in the higher circles, and occasionally dine with them; are never heard of in any dubious or unsafe affair; are reputed safe fellows to talk to; know every one, from the horse-dealer who will give credit to the Jew who will advance cash; and notwithstanding that they neither gamble nor bet nor speculate, yet contrive to live—ay, and well, too—without any known resources whatever. If English (and they are for the most part so), they usually are called by some well-known name of aristocratic reputation in England: they are thus Villiers or Paget or Seymour or Percy, which on the Continent is already a kind of half-nobility at once; and the question which seemingly needs no reply, ‘Ah, vous êtes parent de milord!’ is a receipt in full rank anywhere.
These men—and who that knows anything of the Continent has not met such everywhere—are the great riddles of our century; and I ‘d rather give a reward for their secret than all the discoveries about perpetual motion, or longitude, or North-west Passages, that ever were heard of. And strange it is, too, no one has ever blabbed. Some have emerged from this misty state to inherit large fortunes and live in the best style; yet I have never heard of a single man having turned king’s evidence on his fellows. And yet what a talent theirs must be, let any man confess who has waited three posts for a remittance without any tidings of its arrival! Think of the hundred-and-one petty annoyances and ironies to which he is subject! He fancies that the very waiters know he isà sec; that the landlord looks sour, and the landlady austere; the very clerk in the post-office appears to say, ‘No letter for you, sir,’ with a jibing and impertinent tone. From that moment, too, a dozen expensive tastes that he never dreamed of before enter his head: he wants to purchase a hack or give a dinner-party or bet at a racecourse, principally because he has not got a sou in his pocket, and he is afraid it may be guessed by others—such is the fatal tendency to strive or pretend to something which has no other value in our eyes than the effect it may have on our acquaintances, regardless of what sacrifices it may demand.
Forgive, I pray, this long digression, which although I hope not without its advantages would scarcely have been entered into were it notà proposto myself. And to go back—I began to feel excessively uncomfortable at the delay of my money. My first care every morning was to repair to the post-office; sometimes I arrived before it was open, and had to promenade up and down the gloomy Rue de l’Evecque till the clock struck; sometimes the mail would be late (a foreign mail is generally late when the weather is peculiarly fine and the roads good!); but always the same answer came, ‘Rien pour vous, Monsieur O’Leary’; and at last I imagined from the way the fellow spoke that he had set the response to a tune, and sang it.
Béranger has celebrated in one of his very prettiest lyrics ‘how happy one is at twenty in a garret.’ I have no doubt, for my part, that the vicinity of the slates and the poverty of the apartment would have much contributed to my peace of mind at the time I speak of. The fact of a magnificently furnished salon, a splendid dinner every day, champagne and Seltzer promiscuously, cab fares and theatre tickets innumerable being all scored against me were sad dampers to my happiness; and from being one of the cheeriest and most light-hearted of fellows, I sank into a state of fidgety and restless impatience, the nearest thing I ever remember to low spirits.
Such was I one day when the post, which I had been watching anxiously from mid-day, had not arrived at five o’clock. Leaving word with the commissionaire to wait and report to me at the hotel, I turned back to the table d’hôte. By accident, the only guests were the count and madame. There they were, as accurately dressed as ever; so handsome and so happy-looking; so attached, too, in their manner towards each other—that nice balance between affection and courtesy which before the world is so captivating. Disturbed as were my thoughts, I could not help feeling struck by their bright and pleasant looks.
‘Ah, a family party!’ said the count gaily, as I entered, while madame bestowed on me one of her very sweetest smiles.
The restraint of strangers removed, they spoke as if I had been an old friend—chatting away about everything and everybody, in a tone of frank and easy confidence perfectly delightful; occasionally deigning to ask if I did not agree with them in their opinions, and seeming to enjoy the little I ventured to say, with a pleasure I felt to be most flattering. The count’s quiet and refined manner, the easy flow of his conversation, replete as it was with information and amusement, formed a most happy contrast with the brilliant sparkle of madame’s lively sallies; for she seemed rather disposed to indulge a vein of slight satire, but so tempered with good feeling and kindliness withal that you would not for the world forego the pleasure it afforded. Long, long before the dessert appeared I ceased to think of my letter or my money, and did not remember that such things as bankers, agents, or stockbrokers were in the universe. Apparently they had been great travellers: had seen every city in Europe, and visited every court; knew all the most distinguished people, and many of the sovereigns intimately; and little stories of Metternich,bons motsof Talleyrand, anecdotes of Goethe and Chateaubriand, seasoned the conversation with an interest which to a young man like myself was all-engrossing.
Suddenly the door opened, and the commissionaire called out, ‘No letter for Monsieur O’Leary!’ I immediately became pale and faint; and though the count was too well bred to take any direct notice of what he saw was caused by my disappointment, he contrived adroitly to direct some observation to madame, which relieved me from any burden of the conversation.
‘What hour did you order the carriage, Duischka?’ said he.
‘At half-past six. The forest is so cool that I like to go slowly through it.’
‘That will give us ample time for a walk, too,’ said he; ‘and if Monsieur O’Leary will join us, the pleasure will be all the greater.’
I hesitated, and stammered out an apology about a headache, or something of the sort.
‘The drive will be the best thing in the world for you,’ said madame; ‘and the strawberries and cream of Boitsfort will complete the cure.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said the count, as I shook my head half sadly, ‘La comtesse is infallible as a doctor.’
‘And, like all the faculty, very angry when her skill is called in question,’ said she.
‘Go, then, and find your shawl, madame,’ said he, ‘and, meanwhile, monsieur and I will discuss our liqueur, and be ready for you.’
Madame smiled gaily, as if having carried her point, and left the room.
The door was scarcely closed when the count drew his chair closer to mine, and, with a look of kindliness and good-nature I cannot convey, said, ‘I am going, Monsieur O’Leary, to take a liberty—a very great liberty indeed—with you, and perhaps you may not forgive it.’ He paused for a minute or two, as if waiting some intimation on my part. I merely muttered something intended to express my willingness to accept of what he hinted, and he resumed: ‘You are a very young man; I not a very old, but a very experienced one. There are occasions in life in which such knowledge as I possess of the world and its ways may be of great service. Now, without for an instant obtruding myself on your confidence, or inquiring into affairs which are strictly your own, I wish to say that my advice and counsel, if you need either, are completely at your service. A few minutes ago I perceived that you were distressed at hearing there was no letter for you——’
‘I know not how to thank you,’ said I, ‘for such kindness as this; and the best proof of my sincerity is to tell you the position in which I am placed.’
‘One word, first,’ added he, laying his hand gently on my arm—‘one word. Do you promise to accept of my advice and assistance when you have revealed the circumstances you allude to? If not, I beg I may not hear it.’
‘Your advice I am most anxious for,’ said I hastily.
‘The other was an awkward word, and I see that your delicacy has taken the alarm. But come, it is spoken now, and can’t be recalled. I must have my way; so go on.’
I seized his hand with enthusiasm, and shook it heartily. ‘Yes,’ said I, ‘you shall have your way. I have neither shame nor concealment before you.’ And then, in as few words as I could explain such tangled and knotted webs as envelop all matters where legacies and lawyers and settlements and securities and mortgages enter, I put him in possession of the fact that I had come abroad with the assurance from my man of business of a handsome yearly income, to be increased after a time to something very considerable; that I was now two months in expectation of remittances, which certain forms in Chancery had delayed and deferred; and that I watched the post each day with an anxious heart for means to relieve me from certain trifling debts I had incurred, and enable me to proceed on my journey.
The count listened with the most patient attention to my story, only interfering once or twice when some difficulty demanded explanation, and then suffering me to proceed to the end. Then leisurely withdrawing a pocket-book from the breast of his frock, he opened it slowly.
‘My dear young friend,’ said he, in a measured and almost solemn tone, ‘every hour that a man is in debt is a year spent in slavery. Your creditor is your master; it matters not whether a kind or a severe one, the sense of obligation you incur saps the feeling of manly independence which is the first charm of youth—and, believe me, it is always through the rents in moral feeling that our happiness oozes out quickest. Here are five thousand francs; take as much as you want. With a friend, and I insist upon you believing me to be such, these things have no character of obligation: I accommodate you to-day; you do the same for me to-morrow. And now put these notes in your pocket; I see madame is waiting for us.’
For a second or two I felt so overpowered I could not speak. The generous confidence and friendly interest of one so thoroughly a stranger were too much for my astonished and gratified mind. At last I recovered myself enough to reply, and assuring my worthy friend that when I spoke of my debts they were in reality merely trifling ones; that I had still ample funds in my banker’s hands for all necessary outlay, and that by the next post, perhaps, my long-wished-for letter might arrive.
‘And if it should not?’ interposed he, smiling.
‘Why then the next day——’
‘And if not then?’ continued he, with a half-quizzing look at my embarrassment.
‘Then your five thousand francs shall tremble for it.’
‘That’s a hearty fellow!’ cried he, grasping my hand in both of his; ‘and now I feel I was not deceived in you. My first meeting with Metternich was very like this. I was at Presburg in the year 1804, just before the campaign of Austerlitz opened—’
‘You are indeed most gallant, messieurs,’ said the countess, opening the door, and peeping in. ‘Am I to suppose that cigars and maraschino are better company than mine?’
We rose at once to make our excuses; and thus I lost the story of Prince Metternich, in which I already felt an uncommon interest from the similarity of the adventure to my own, though whether I was to represent the prince or the count I could not even guess.
I was soon seated beside the countess in the luxurious britzka; the count took his place on the box, and away we rattled over the stones through the Porte de Namur, and along the pretty suburbs of Etterbech, where we left the highroad, and entered the Bois de Cambre by that long and beautifulalléewhich runs on for miles, like some vast aisle in a Gothic cathedral—the branches above bending into an arched roof, and the tall beech-stems standing like the pillars.
The pleasant odour of the forest, the tempered light, the noiseless roll of the carriage, gave a sense of luxury to the drive I can remember vividly to this hour. Not that my enjoyment of these things was my only one; far from it. The pretty countess talked away about everything that came uppermost, in that strain of spirited and lively chit-chat which needs not the sweetest voice and the most fascinating look to make it most captivating. I felt like one in a dream; the whole thing was fairy-land; and whether I looked into the depths of the leafy wood, where some horsemen might now and then be seen to pass at a gallop, or my eyes fell upon that small and faultless foot that rested on the velvet cushion in the carriage, I could not trust the reality of the scene, and could only mutter to myself, ‘What hast thou ever done, Arthur O’Leary, or thy father before thee, to deserve happiness like this?’
Dear and kind reader, it may be your fortune to visit Brussels; and although not exactly under such circumstances as I have mentioned here, let me advise you, even without a beautiful Polonaise for your companion, to make a trip to Boitsfort, a small village in the wood of Soignies. Of course your nationality will lead you to Waterloo; and equally of course, if you have any tact (which far be it from me not to suppose you gifted with), you’ll not dine there, the little miserable cabarets that are called restaurants being wretched beyond description; you may have a glass of wine—and if so, take champagne, for they cannot adulterate it—but don’t venture on a dinner, if you hope to enjoy one again for a week after. Well, then, ‘having done your Waterloo,’ as the Cockneys say, seen Sergeant Cotton and the church, La Haye Sainte, Hougomont, and Lord Anglesey’s boot—take your road back, not by that eternal and noisychausséeyou have come by, but turn off to the right, as if going to Wavre, and enter the forest by an earth road, where you’ll neither meet waggons nor postillions nor even a ‘’pike.’ Your coachman will say, ‘Where to?’ Reply, ‘Boitsfort’—which, for safety, pronounce ‘Boshfort’—and lie back and enjoy yourself. About six miles of a delightful drive, all through forest, will bring you to a small village beside a little lake surrounded by hills, not mountains, but still waving and broken in outline, and shaded with wood. The red-tiled roofs, the pointed gables, the green jalousies, and the background of dark foliage will all remind you of one of Berghem’s pictures; and if a lazy Fleming or so are seen lounging over the little parapet next the water, they ‘ll not injure the effect. Passing over the little bridge, you arrive in front of a long, low, two-storeyed house, perforated by an arched doorway leading into the court; over the door is an inscription, which at once denotes the object of the establishment, and you read, ‘Monsieur Dubos fait noces et festins.’ Not that the worthy individual officiates in any capacity resembling the famed Vulcan of the North: as far be it from him to invade the prerogative of others as for any to rival him in his own peculiar walk. No; Monsieur D.‘s functions are limited to those delicate devices which are deemed the suitable diet of newly-married couples—thosepetits platswhich are, like the orange-flower, only to be employed on great occasions. And as such he is unrivalled; for notwithstanding the simple and unpretending exterior, this little rural tavern can boast the most perfect cook and the best-stored cellar. Here may be found the earliest turkey of the year, with a dowry of truffles; here, the first peas of spring, the newest strawberries and the richest cream, iced champagne and grapy Hermitage, Steinberger and Johannisberg, are all at your orders. You may dine in the long salon,en cabinet; in the garden, or in the summer-house over the lake, where the carp is flapping his tail in the clear water, the twin-brother of him at table. The garden beneath sends up its delicious odours from beds of every brilliant hue; the sheep are moving homeward along the distant hills to the tinkle of the faint bell; the plash of an oar disturbs the calm water as the fisherman skims along the lake, and the subdued murmurs of the little village all come floating in the air—pleasant sounds, and full of home thoughts. Well, well! to be sure I am a bachelor, and know nothing of such matters; but it strikes me I should like to be married now and then, and go eat my wedding-dinners at Boitsfort! And now once more let me come back to my narrative—for leaving which I should ask your pardon, were it not that the digression is the best part of the whole, and I should never forgive myself if I had not told you not to stop at Brussels without dining at Boitsfort.
When we reached Boitsfort, a waiter conducted us at once to a little table in the garden where the strawberries and the iced champagne were in waiting. Here and there, at some distance, were parties of the Brussels bourgeoisie enjoying themselves at their coffee, or with ice; while a large salon that occupied one wing of the building was given up to some English travellers, whose loud speech and boisterous merriment bespoke them of that class one is always ashamed to meet with out of England.
‘Your countrymen are very merry yonder,’ said the countess, as a more uproarious burst than ever broke from the party.
‘Yes,’ said the count, perceiving that I felt uncomfortable at the allusion, ‘Englishmen always carry London about with them wherever they go. Meet them in the Caucasus, and you’ll find that they’ll have some imitation of a Blackwall dinner or a Greenwich party.’
‘How comes it,’ said I, amazed at the observation, ‘that you know these places you mention?’
‘Oh, my dear sir, I have been very much about the world in my time, and have always made it my business to see each people in their own peculiar haunts. If at Vienna, I dine not at the “Wilde Man,” but at the “Puchs” in the Leopoldstadt. If in Dresden, I spend my evening in the Grün-Garten, beyond the Elbe. The bourgeoisie alone of any nation preserve traits marked enough for a stranger’s appreciation; the higher classes are pretty much alike everywhere, and the nationality of the peasant takes a narrow range, and offers little to amuse.’
‘The count is a quick observer,’ remarked madame, with a look of pleasure sparkling in her eyes.
‘I flatter myself,’ rejoined he, ‘I seldom err in my guesses. I knew my friend here tolerably accurately without an introduction.’
There was something so kind in the tone he spoke in that I could have no doubt of his desire to compliment me.
‘Independently, too, of speaking most of the languages of Europe, I possess a kind of knack for learning a patois,’ continued he. ‘At this instant, I’ll wager a cigar with you that I ‘ll join that little knot of sober Belgians yonder, and by the magic of a few words of genuine Brussels French, I’ll pass muster as a Boss.’
The countess laughed heartily at the thought, and I joined in her mirth most readily.
‘I take the wager,’ cried I—‘and hope sincerely to lose it.’
‘Done!’ said he, springing up and putting on his hat, while he made a short circuit in the garden, and soon afterwards appeared at the table with the Flemings, asking permission, as it seemed, to light a cigar from a lantern attached to the tree under which they sat.
If we were to judge from the merriment of the little group, his success was perfect, and we soon saw him seated amongst them, busily occupied in concocting a bowl of flamingponche, of which it was clear by his manner he had invited the party to partake.
‘Now Gustav is in his delight,’ said the countess, in a tone of almost pique; ‘he is a strange creature, and never satisfied if not doing something other people never think of. In half an hour he’ll be back here, with the whole history of Mynheer van Houdendrochen and his wife and their fourteen “mannikins”; all their little absurdities and prejudices he ‘ll catch up, and for a week to come we shall hear nothing but Flemish French, and the habitudes of the Montagne de la Cour.’
For a few seconds I was vastly uncomfortable; a thought glanced across me, what if it were for some absurd feature in me, in my manner or my conversation, that he had deigned to make my acquaintance. Then came the recollection of his generous proposal, and I saw at once that I was putting a somewhat high price on my originality, if I valued it at five thousand francs.
‘What ails you?’ said the countess, in a low, soft voice, as she lifted her eyes and let them fall upon me with a most bewitching expression of interest. ‘I fear you are ill, or in low spirits.’ I endeavoured to rally and reply, when she went on—
‘We must see you oftener. Gustav is so pleasant and so gay, he will be of great use to you. When he really takes a liking, he is delightful; and he has in your case, I assure you.’
I knew not what to say, nor how to look my gratitude for such a speech, and could only accomplish some few and broken words of thanks.
‘Besides, you are about to be a traveller,’ continued she; ‘and who can give you such valuable information of every country and people as the count? Do you intend to make a long absence from England?’
‘Yes, at least some years. I wish to visit the East.’ ‘You ‘ll go into Poland?’ said she quickly, without noticing my reply.
‘Yes, I trust so; Hungary and Poland have both great interest for me.’
‘You know that we are Poles, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘We are both from beyond Varsovie. Gustav was there ten years ago. I have never seen my native country since I was a child.
At the last words her voice dropped to a whisper, and she leaned her head upon her hand, and seemed lost in thought. I did not dare to break in upon the current of recollections I saw were crowding upon her, and was silent. She looked up at length, and by the faint light of the moon, just risen, I saw that her eyes were tearful and her cheeks still wet.
‘What,’ said I to myself, ‘and has sorrow come even here—here, where I imagined if ever the sunny path of life existed, it was to be found?’
‘Would you like to hear a sad story?’ said she, smiling faintly, with a look of indefinable sweetness.
‘If it were yours, it would make my heart ache,’ said I, carried away by my feelings at the instant.
‘I ‘ll tell it to you one of these days, then: not now! not now, though!—I could not here; and there comes Gustav. How he laughs!’
And true enough, the merry sounds of his voice were heard through the garden as he approached; and strangely, too, they seemed to grate and jar upon my ear, with a very different impression from what before they brought to me.
Our way back to Brussels led again through the forest, which now was wrapped in the shade, save where the moon came peeping down through the leafy branches, and fell in bright patches on the road beneath. The countess spoke a little at first, but gradually relapsed into perfect silence. The stillness and calm about seemed only the more striking from the hollow tramp of the horses, as they moved along the even turf; the air was mild and sweet, and loaded with that peculiar fragrance which a wood exhales after nightfall; and all the influences of the time and place were of that soothing, lulling kind that wraps the mind in a state of dreamy reverie. But one thought dwelt within me: it was of her who sat beside me, her head cast down, and her arms folded. She was unhappy; some secret sorrow was preying upon that fair bosom, some eating care corroding her very heart. A vague, shadowy suspicion shot through me that her husband might have treated her cruelly and ill. But why suspect this? Was not everything I witnessed the very reverse of such a fact? What could surpass the mutual kindliness and good feeling that I saw between them! And yet their dispositions were not at all alike: she seemed to hint as much. The very waywardness of his temperament; the incessant demand of his spirit for change, excitement, and occupation—how could it harmonise with her gentle and more constant nature? From such thoughts I was awakened by her saying, in a low faint voice—
‘You must forget what I said to-night. There are moments when some strong impulse will force the heart to declare the long-buried thoughts of years. Perhaps some secret instinct tells us that we are near to those who can sympathise and feel for us; perhaps these are the overflowings of grief, without which the heart would grow full to bursting. Whatever they be, they seem to calm and soothe us, though afterwards we may sorrow for having indulged in them. You will forget it all, won’t you?’
‘I will do my best,’ said I timidly, ‘to do all you wish; but I cannot promise you what may be out of my power. The few words you spoke have never left my mind since; nor can I say when I shall cease to remember them.’
‘What do you think, Duischka?’ said the count, as he flung away the fragment of his cigar, and turned round on the box—’ what do you think of an invitation to dinner I have accepted for Tuesday next?’
‘Where, pray?’ said she, with an effort to seem interested.
‘I am to dine with my worthy friend Van Houdicamp, Rue de Lacken, No. 28. A very high mark, let me tell you; his father was burgomaster at Alost, and he himself has a great sugar bakery, or saltraffinerie, or something equivalent, at Scharbeck.’
‘How can you find any pleasure in such society, Gustav?’
‘Pleasure you call it!—delight is the word. I shall hear all the gossip of the Basse Ville—quite as amusing, I ‘m certain, as of the Place and the Boulevards. Besides, there are to be some half-dozenéchevins, with wives and daughters, and we shall have a round game for the most patriarchal stakes. I have also obtained permission to bring a friend; so you see, Monsieur O’Leary——’
‘I ‘m certain,’ interposed madame, ‘he has much better taste than to avail himself of your offer.’
‘I ‘ll bet my life on it he ‘ll not refuse.’
‘I say he will,’ said the lady.
‘I ‘ll wager that pearl ring at Mertan’s that if you leave him to himself he says “Yes.”’
‘Agreed,’ said madame; ‘I accept the bet. We Poles are as great gamblers as yourselves, you see,’ added she, turning to me. ‘Now, monsieur, decide the question. Will you dine with Van Hottentot on Tuesday next—or with me?’
The last three words were spoken in so low a tone as made me actually suspect that my imagination alone had conceived them.
‘Well,’ cried the count, ‘what say you?’
‘I pronounce for the—Hôtel de. France,’ said I, fearing in what words to accept the invitation of the lady.
‘Then I have lost my bet,’ said the count, laughing; ‘and, worse still, have found myself mistaken in my opinion.’
‘And I,’ said madame, in a faint whisper, ‘have won mine, and found my impressions more correct.’
Nothing more occurred worth mentioning on our way back; when we reached the hotel in safety, we separated with many promises to meet early next day.
From that hour my intimacy took a form of almost friendship. I visited the count, or the countess if he was out, every morning; chatted over the news of the day; made our plans for the evening, either for Boitsfort or Lacken, or occasionally theallée verteor the theatre, and sometimes arranged little excursions to Antwerp, Louvain, or Ghent.
It is indeed a strange thing to think of what slight materials happiness is made up. The nest that incloses our greatest pleasure is a thing of straws and feathers, gathered at random or carried towards us by the winds of fortune. If you were to ask me now what I deemed the most delightful period of my whole life, I don’t hesitate to say I should name this. In the first place, I possessed the great requisite of happiness—every moment of my whole day was occupied; each hour was chained to its fellow by some slight but invisible link; and whether I was hammering away at my Polish grammar, or sitting beside the pianoforte while the countess sang some of her country’s ballads, or listening to legends of Poland in its times of greatness, or galloping along at her side through the forest of Soignies, my mind was ever full; no sense of weariness or ennui ever invaded me, while a consciousness of a change in myself—I knew not what it was—suggested a feeling of pleasure and delight I cannot account for or convey. And this, I take it—though speaking in ignorance and merely from surmise—this, I suspect, is something like what people in love experience, and what gives them the ecstasy of the passion. There is sufficient concentration in the admiration of the loved object to give the mind a decided and firm purpose, and enough of change in the various devices to win her praise to impart the charm of novelty.
Now, for all this, my reader, fair or false as she or he may be, must not suspect that anything bordering on love was concerned in the present case. To begin—the countess was married, and I was brought up at an excellent school at Bangor, where the catechism, Welsh and English, was flogged into me until every commandment had a separate welt of its own on my back. No; I had taken the royal road to happiness. I was delighted without stopping to know why, and enjoyed myself without ever thinking to inquire wherefore. New sources of information and knowledge were opened to me by those who possessed vast stores of acquirement; and I learned how the conversation of gifted and accomplished persons may be made a great agent in training and forming the mind, if not to the higher walks of knowledge, at least to those paths in which the greater part of life is spent, and where it imports each to make the road agreeable to his fellows. I have said to you I was not in love—how could I be, under the circumstances?—but still I own that the regular verbs of the Polish grammar had been but dry work, if it had not been for certain irregular glances at my pretty mistress; nor could I ever have seen my way through the difficulties of the declensions if the light of her eyes had not lit up the page, and her taper finger pointed out the place.
And thus two months flew past, during which she never even alluded most distantly to our conversation in the garden at Boitsfort, nor did I learn any one particular more of my friends than on the first day of our meeting. Meanwhile, all ideas of travelling had completely left me; and although I had now abundant resources in my banker’s hands for all the purposes of the road, I never once dreamed of leaving a place where I felt so thoroughly happy.
Such, then, was our life, when I began to remark a slight change in the count’s manner—an appearance of gloom and preoccupation, which seemed to increase each day, and against which he strove, but in vain. It was clear something had gone wrong with him; but I did not dare to allude to, much less ask him on the subject. At last, one evening, just as I was preparing for bed, he entered my dressing-room, and closing the door cautiously behind him, sat down. I saw that he was dressed as if for the road, and looking paler and more agitated than usual.
‘O’Leary,’ said he, in a tremulous voice, ‘I am come to place in your hands the highest trust a man can repose in another. Am I certain of your friendship?’ I shook his hand in silence, and he went on. ‘I must leave Brussels to-night, secretly. A political affair, in which the peace of Europe is involved, has just come to my knowledge; the Government here will do their best to detain me; orders are already given to delay me at the frontier, perhaps send me back to the capital; in consequence, I must cross the boundary on horseback, and reach Aix-la-Chapelle by to-morrow evening. Of course, the countess cannot accompany me.’ He paused for a second. ‘You must be her protector. A hundred rumours will be afloat the moment they find I have escaped, and as many reasons for my departure announced in the papers. However, I’m content if they amuse the public and occupy the police; and meanwhile I shall obtain time to pass through Prussia unmolested. Before I reach St. Petersburg, the countess will receive letters from me, and know where to proceed to; and I count on your friendship to remain here until that time—a fortnight, three weeks at farthest. If money is any object to you——’
‘Not in the least; I have far more than I want.’ ‘Well, then, may I conclude that you consent?’ ‘Of course you may,’ said I, overpowered by a rush of sensations I must leave to my reader to feel, if it has ever been his lot to be placed in such circumstances, or to imagine if he has not.
‘The countess,’ I said, ‘is of course aware——’
‘Of everything,’ interrupted he, ‘and bears it all admirably. Much, however, is attributable to the arrangement with you, which I promised her was completed even before I asked your consent—such was my confidence in your friendship.’
‘You have not deceived yourself,’ was my reply, while I puzzled my brain to think how I could repay such proofs of his trust. ‘Is there, then, anything more,’ said I—‘can you think of nothing else in which I may be of service?’
‘Nothing, dear friend, nothing,’ said he. ‘Probably we shall meet at St. Petersburg.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said I; ‘that is my firm intention.’
‘That’s all I could wish for,’ rejoined he. ‘The grand-duke will be delighted to acknowledge the assistance your friendship has rendered us, and Potoski’s house will be your own.’ So saying, he embraced me most affectionately, and departed; while I sat to muse over the singularity of my position, and to wonder if any other man was ever similarly situated.
When I proceeded to pay my respects to the countess the next morning, I prepared myself to witness a state of great sorrow and depression. How pleasantly was I disappointed at finding her gay—perhaps gayer than ever—and evidently enjoying the success of the count’s scheme!
‘Gustav is at St. Tron by this,’ said she, looking at the map; ‘he ‘ll reach Liege two hours before the post; fresh horses will then bring him rapidly to Battiste. Oh, here are the papers; let us see the way his departure is announced.’ She turned over one journal after another without finding the wished-for paragraph, until at last, in the corner of theHandelsblad, she came upon the following:—
‘Yesterday morning an express reached the minister for the home affairs that the celebratedescroc, the Chevalier Duguet, whose famous forgery on the Neapolitan bank may be in the memory of our readers, was actually practising his art under a feigned name in Brussels, where, having obtained hisentréeamong some respectable families of the lower town, he has succeeded in obtaining large sums of money under various pretences. His skill at play is, they say, the least of his many accomplishments.’
She threw down the paper in a fit of laughter at these words, and called out, ‘Is it not too absurd? That’s Gustav’s doing; anything for a quiz, no matter what. He once got himself and Prince Carl of Prussia brought up before the police for hooting the king.’
‘But Duguet,’ said I—‘what has he to do with Duguet?’
‘Don’t you see that’s a feigned name,’ replied she—‘assumed by him as if he had half-a-dozen such? Read on, and you’ll learn it all.’
I took the paper, and continued where she ceased reading—
‘This Duguet is then, it would appear, identical with a very well-known Polish Count Czaroviski, who with his lady had been passing some weeks at the Hôtel de France. The police have, however, received hissignalement, and are on his track.’
‘But why, in Heaven’s name, should he spread such an odious calumny on himself?’ said I.
‘Dear me, how very simple you are! I thought he had told you all. As a mereescroc, money will always bribe the authorities to let him pass; as a political offender, and as such the importance of his mission would proclaim him, nothing would induce the officials to further his escape—their own heads would pay for it. Once over the frontier, the ruse will be discovered, the editors obliged to eat their words and be laughed at, and Gustav receive the Black Eagle for his services. But see, here’s another.’
‘Among the victims at play of the well-known Chevalier Duguet—or, as he is better known here, the Count Czaroviski—is a simple Englishman, resident at the Hôtel de France, and from whom it seems he has won every louis-d’or he possessed in the world. This miserable dupe, whose name is O’Learie, or O’Leary——’
At these words the countess leaned back on the sofa and laughed immoderately.
‘Have you, then, suffered so deeply?’ said she, wiping her eyes; ‘has Gustav really won all your louis-d’ors?’
‘This is too bad, far too bad,’ said I; ‘and I really cannot comprehend how any intrigue could induce him so far to asperse his character in this manner. I, for my part, can be no party to it.’
As I said this, my eyes fell on the latter part of the paragraph, which ran thus:—
‘This poor boy—for we understand he is no more—has been lured to his ruin by the beauty and attraction of Madame Czaroviski.’
I crushed the odious paper without venturing to see more, and tore it in a thousand pieces; and, not waiting an instant, hurried to my room and seized a pen. Burning with indignation and rage, I wrote a short note to the editor, in which I not only contradicted the assertions of his correspondent, but offered a reward of a hundred louis for the name of the person who had invented the infamous calumny.
It was some time before I recovered my composure sufficiently to return to the countess, whom I now found greatly excited and alarmed at my sudden departure. She insisted with such eagerness on knowing what I had done that I was obliged to confess everything, and show her a copy of the letter I had already despatched to the editor. She grew pale as death as she read it, flushed deeply, and then became pale again, while she sank faint and sick into a chair.
‘This is very noble conduct of yours,’ said she, in a low, hollow voice; ‘but I see where it will lead to. Czaroviski has great and powerful enemies; they will become yours also.’
‘Be it so,’ said I, interrupting her. ‘They have little power to injure me; let them do their worst.’
‘You forget, apparently,’ said she, with a most bewitching smile, ‘that you are no longer free to dispose of your liberty: that asmyprotector you cannot brave dangers and difficulties which may terminate in a prison.’ ‘What, then, would you have me do?’ ‘Hasten to the editor at once; erase so much of your letter as refers to the proposed reward. The information could be of no service to you if obtained—somemisérable, perhaps some spy of the police, the slanderer. What could you gain by his punishment, save publicity? A mere denial of the facts alleged is quite sufficient; and even that,’ continued she, smiling, ‘how superfluous is it after all! A week—ten days at farthest—and the whole mystery is unveiled. Not that I would dissuade you from a course I see your heart is bent upon, and which, after all, is a purely personal consideration.’
‘Yes,’ said I, after a pause, ‘I’ll take your advice; the letter shall be inserted without the concluding paragraph.’ The calumnious reports on the count prevented madame dining that day at the table d’hôte; and I remarked, as I took my place at table, a certain air of constraint and reserve among the guests, as though my presence had interdicted the discussion of a topic which occupied all Brussels. Dinner over, I walked into the park to meditate on the course I should pursue under present circumstances, and deliberate with myself how far the habits of my former intimacy with the countess might or might not be admissible during her husband’s absence. The question was solved for me sooner than I anticipated, for a waiter overtook me with a short note, written with a pencil; it ran thus:—
‘They play theZauberflotteto-night at the Opera. I shall go at eight: perhaps you would like a seat in the carriage? Duischka.’
‘Whatever doubts I might have conceived about my conduct, the manner of the countess at once dispelled them. A tone of perfect ease, and almost sisterly confidence marked her whole bearing; and while I felt delighted and fascinated by the freedom of our intercourse, I could not help thinking how impossible such a line of acting would have been in my own more rigid country, and to what cruel calumnies and aspersions it would have subjected her. ‘Truly,’ thought I, ‘if they manage these things—as Sterne says they do—“better in France,” they also far excel in them in Poland.’ And so my Polish grammar and the canzonettes and the drives to Boitsfort all went on as usual, and my dream of happiness, interrupted for a moment, flowed on again in its former channel with increased force.
A fortnight had now elapsed without any letter from the count, save a few hurried lines written from Magdeburg; and I remarked that the countess betrayed at times a degree of anxiety and agitation I had not observed in her before. At last the secret cause came out. We were sitting together in the park, eating ice after dinner, when she suddenly rose and prepared to leave the place.
‘Has anything happened to annoy you?’ said I hurriedly. ‘Why are you going?’
‘I can bear it no longer!’ cried she, as she drew her veil down and hastened forward, and without speaking another word, continued her way towards the hotel. On reaching her apartments, she burst into a torrent of tears, and sobbed most violently.
‘What is it?’ said I, having followed her, maddened by the sight of such sorrow. ‘For heaven’s sake tell me! Has any one dared——’
‘No, no,’ replied she, wiping the tears away with her handkerchief, ‘nothing of the kind. It is the state of doubt, of trying, harassing uncertainty I am reduced to here, which is breaking my heart. Don’t you see that whenever I appear in public, by the air of insufferable impudence of the men, and the still more insulting looks of the women, how they dare to think of me? I have borne it as well as I was able hitherto; I can do so no longer.’
‘What!’ cried I impetuously, ‘and shall one dare to——’
‘The world will always dare what may be dared in safety,’ interrupted she, laying her hand on my arm. ‘They know that you could not make a quarrel on my account without compromising my honour; and such an occasion to trample on a poor weak woman could not be lost. Well, well; Gustav may write to-morrow or next day. A little more patience; and it is the only cure for these evils.’
There was a tone of angelic sweetness in her voice as she spoke these words of resignation, and never did she seem more lovely in my eyes.
‘Now, then, as I shall not go to the opera, what shall we do to pass the time? You are tired—I know you are—of Polish melodies and German ballads. Well, well; then I am. I have told you that we Poles are as great gamblers as yourselves. What say you to a game at piquet?’
‘By all means,’ said I, delighted at the prospect of anything to while away the hours of her sorrowing.
‘Then you must teach me,’ rejoined she, laughing, ‘for I don’t know it. I’m wretchedly stupid about all these things, and never could learn any game butécarté.’
‘Then écarté be it,’ said I; and in a few minutes more I had arranged the little table, and down we sat to our party.
‘There,’ said she, laughing, and throwing her purse on the table, ‘I can only afford to lose so much; but you may win all that if you’re fortunate.’ A rouleau of louis escaped at the instant, and fell about the table.
‘Agreed,’ said I, indulging the quiz. ‘I am an inveterate gambler, and always play high. What shall be our stakes?’
‘Fifty, I suppose,’ said she, still laughing: ‘we can increase our bets afterwards.’
After some little badinage, we each placed a double louis-d’or on the board, and began. For a while the game employed our attention; but gradually we fell into conversation, the cards gradually dropped listlessly from our hands, the tricks remained unclaimed, and we could never decide whose turn it was to deal.
‘This wearies you, I see,’ said she; ‘perhaps you’d like to stop?’
‘By no means,’ said I. ‘I like the game, of all things.’ This I said rather because I was a considerable winner at the time than from any other motive; and so we played on till eleven o’clock, at which hour I usually took my leave, and by which time my gains had increased to some seventy louis.
‘Is it not fortunate,’ said she, laughing, ‘that eleven has struck? You ‘d certainly have won all my gold; and now you must leave off in the midst of your good fortune—and so,bonsoir, et à revanche.’
Each evening now saw our little party at écarté usurp the place of the drive and the opera; and though our successes ran occasionally high at either side, yet on the whole neither was a winner; and we jested about the impartiality with which fortune treated us both. At last, one evening, eleven struck when I was a greater winner than ever, and I thought I saw a little pique in her manner at the enormous run of luck I had experienced throughout.
‘Come,’ said she, laughing, ‘you have really wounded a national feeling in a Polish heart—you have asserted a superiority at a game of skill. I must beat you;’ and with that she placed five louis on the table. She lost. Again the same stake followed, and again the same fortune, notwithstanding that I did all in my power to avoid winning—of course without exciting her suspicions.
‘And so,’ said she, as she dealt the cards, ‘Ireland is really so picturesque as you say?’
‘Beautifully so,’ replied I, as, warmed up by a favourite topic, I launched forth into a description of the mountain scenery of the south and west. The rich emerald green of the valleys, the wild fantastic character of the mountains, the changeful skies, were all brought up to make a picture for her admiration; and she did indeed seem to enjoy it with the highest zest, only interrupting me in my harangue by the words, ‘Je marque le Roi,’ to which circumstance she directed my attention by a sweet smile, and a gesture of her taper finger. And thus hour followed hour; and already the grey dawn was breaking, while I was just beginning an eloquent description of the Killeries, and the countess suddenly looking at her watch, cried out—
‘How very dreadful! only think of three o’clock!’
True enough, it was that hour; and I started up to say good-night, shocked at myself for so far transgressing, and yet secretly flattered that my conversational powers had made time slip by uncounted.
‘And the Irish are really so clever, so gifted as you say?’ said she, as she held out her hand to wish me good-night.
‘The most astonishing quickness is theirs,’ replied I, half reluctant to depart; ‘nothing can equal their intelligence and shrewdness.’
‘How charming! Bonsoir,’ said she, and I closed the door.
What dreams were mine that night! What delightful visions of lake scenery and Polish countesses, of mountain gorges and blue eyes, of deep ravines and lovely forms! I thought we were sailing up Lough Corrib; the moon was up, spangling and flecking the rippling lake; the night was still and calm, not a sound save the cuckoo being heard to break the silence. As I listened I started, for I thought, instead of her wonted note, her cry was ever, ‘Je marque le Roi.’
Morning came at last; but I could not awake, and endeavoured to sink back into the pleasant realm of dreams, from which daylight disturbed me. It was noon when at length I succeeded in awaking perfectly.
‘A note for monsieur,’ said a waiter, as he stood beside the bed.
I took it eagerly. It was from the countess; its contents were these:—