‘Puisque l’herbe et la fleur parlent mieux que les mots,Puisque un aveu d’amour s’exhale de la rose,Que le “ne m’oublie pas” de souvenir s’arrose,Que le laurier dit Gloire! et cyprès sanglots.’
At last the wicket of the garden slowly opened, and a little procession of young girls, all dressed in white, with white roses in their hair, and each carrying bouquets in their hands, entered, and with steady step came forward. We watched them attentively, believing that they were celebrating some little devotional pilgrimage, when to our surprise they approached where we sat, and with a low curtsy each dropped her bouquet at Laura’s feet, whispering in a low silver voice as they passed, ‘May thy feet always tread upon flowers!’ Ere we could speak our surprise and admiration of this touching scene—for it was such, in all its simplicity—they were gone, and the last notes of their chant were dying away in the distance.
‘How beautiful! how very beautiful!’ said Laura; ‘I shall never forget this.’
‘Nor I,’ said I, making a desperate effort at I know not what avowal, which the appearance of thepèreat once put to flight. He had just seen the boy returning along the river-side with the mule and cart, and came to apprise us that we had better descend.
‘It will be very late indeed before we reach Dinant,’ said Laura; ‘we shall scarcely get there before midnight.’
‘Oh, you’ll be there much earlier. It is now past six; in less than ten minutes you can been route. I shall not cause you much delay.’
Ah, thought I, the good Father is still dreaming about his album; we must indulge his humour, which, after all, is but a poor requital for all his politeness.
As we entered the parlour of the ‘Toison d’Or,’ we found the host in all the bravery of his Sunday suit, with a light-brown wig, and stockings blue as the heaven itself, standing waiting our arrival. The hostess, too, stood at the other side of the door, in the full splendour of a great quilted jupe, and a cap whose ears descended half-way to her waist. On the table, in the middle of the room, were two wax-candles, of that portentous size which we see in chapels. Between them there lay a great open volume, which at a glance I guessed to be the priest’s album. Not comprehending what the worthy host and hostess meant by their presence, I gave a look of interrogation to thepère, who quickly whispered—
‘Oh, it is nothing; they are only the witnesses.’
I could not help laughing outright at the idea of this formality, nor could Laura refrain either when I explained to her what they came for. However, time passed; the jingle of the bells on the mules’ harness warned us that our equipage waited, and I dipped the pen in the ink and handed it to Laura.
‘I wish he would excuse me from performing this ceremony,’ said she, holding back; ‘I really am quite enough ashamed already.’
‘What says mademoiselle?’ inquired thepère, as she spoke in English.
I translated her remark, when he broke in, ‘Oh, you must comply; it’s only a formality, but still every one does it.’
‘Come, come,’ said I, in English, ‘indulge the old man; he is evidently bent on this whim, and let us not leave him disappointed.’
‘Be it so, then,’ said she; ‘on your head, Mr. O’Leary, be the whole of this day’s indiscretion’; and so saying, she took the pen and wrote her name, ‘Laura Alicia Muddleton.’
‘Now, then, for my turn,’ said I, advancing; but thepèretook the pen from her fingers and proceeded carefully to dry the writing with a scrap of blotting-paper.
‘On this side, monsieur,’ said he, turning over the page; ‘we do the whole affair in orderly fashion, you see. Put your name there, with the date and the day of the week.’
‘Will that do?’ said I, as I pushed over the book towards him, where certainly the least imposing specimen of calligraphy the volume contained now stood confessed.
‘What a droll name!’ said the priest, as he peered at it through his spectacles. ‘How do you pronounce it?’
While I endeavoured to indoctrinate the father into the mystery of my Irish appellation, the mayor and the mayoress had both appended their signatures on either page.
‘Well, I suppose now we may depart at last,’ said Laura; ‘it’s getting very late.’
‘Yes,’ said I, aloud; ‘we must take the road now; there is nothing more, I fancy, Père José?’
‘Yes, but there is though,’ said he, laughing.
At the same moment the galloping of horses and the rumble of wheels were heard without, and a carriage drew up in the street. Down went the steps with a crash; several people rushed along the little gallery, till the very house shook with their tread. The door of the salon was now banged wide, and in rushed Colonel Muddleton, followed by the count, the abbé, and an elderly lady.
‘Where is he?’—‘Where is she?’—‘Where is he?’—‘Where is she?’—‘Where are they?’ screamed they, in confusion, one after the other.
‘Laura! Laura!’ cried the old colonel, clasping his daughter in his arms; ‘I didn’t expect this from you!’
‘Monsieur O’Leary, vous êtes un——’
‘Before the count could finish, the abbé interposed between us, and said ‘No, no! Everything may be arranged. Tell me, in one word, is it over?’
‘Is what over?’ said I, in a state two degrees worse than insanity—‘is what over?’
‘Are you married?’ whispered he.
‘No, bless your heart! never thought of it.’
‘Oh, the wretch!’ screamed the old lady, and went off into strong kickings on the sofa.
222-322
‘It’s a bad affair,’ said the abbé, in a low voice; ‘take my advice—propose to marry her at once.’
‘Yes,parbleu!’ said the little count, twisting his moustaches in a fierce manner; ‘there is but one road to take here.’
Now, though unquestionably but half an hour before, when seated beside the lovely Laura in the garden of the château, such a thought would have filled me with delight, the same proposition, accompanied by a threat, stirred up all my indignation and resistance.
Not on compulsion, said Sir John; and truly there was reason in the speech.
But, indeed, before I could reply, the attention of all was drawn towards Laura herself, who from laughing violently at first had now become hysterical, and continued to laugh and cry at intervals; and as the old lady continued her manipulations with a candlestick on an oak table near, while the colonel shouted for various unattainable remedies at the top of his voice, the scene was anything but decorous—the abbé, who alone seemed to preserve his sanity, having as much as he could do to prevent the little count from strangling me with his own hands; such, at least, his violent gestures seemed to indicate. As for the priest and the mayor and the she-mayor, they had all fled long before. There appeared now but one course for me, which was to fly also. There was no knowing what intemperate act the count might commit under his present excitement; it was clear they were all labouring under a delusion, which nothing at the present moment could elucidate. A nod from the abbé and a motion towards the open door decided my wavering resolution. I rushed out, over the gallery and down the road, not knowing whither, nor caring.
I might as well try to chronicle the sensations of my raving intellect in my first fever in boyhood as convey any notion of what passed through my brain for the next two hours. I sat on a rock beside the river, vainly endeavouring to collect my scattered thoughts, which only presented to me a vast chaos of a wood and a crusader, a priest and a lady, veal cutlets and music, a big book, an old lady in fits, and a man in sky-blue stockings. The rolling near me of a carriage with four horses aroused me for a second, but I could not well say why, and all was again still, and I sat there alone.
‘He must be somewhere near this,’ said a voice, as I heard the tread of footsteps approaching; ‘this is his hat. Ah, here he is.’ At the same moment the abbé stood beside me. ‘Come along, now; don’t stay here in the cold,’ said he, taking me by the arm. ‘They’ve all gone home two hours ago. I have remained to ride back the nag in the morning.’
I followed without a word.
‘Ma foi!’ said he, ‘it is the first occasion in my life where I could not see my way through a difficulty. What, in Heaven’s name, were you about? What was your plan?’
‘Give me half an hour in peace,’ said I; ‘and if I’m not deranged before it’s over, I’ll tell you.’
The abbé complied, and I fulfilled my promise—though in good sooth the shouts of laughter with which he received my story caused many an interruption. When I had finished, he began, and leisurely proceeded to inform me that Bouvigne’s great celebrity was as a place for runaway couples to get married; that the inn of the ‘Golden Fleece’ was known over the whole kingdom, and the Père Jose’s reputation wide as the Archbishop of Ghent’s; and as to the phrase ‘sous la cheminée’, it is only applied to a clandestine marriage, which is called a ‘mariage sous la cheminée.’
‘Now I,’ continued he, ‘can readily believe every word you ‘ve told me; yet there’s not another person in Rochepied would credit a syllable of it. Never hope for an explanation. In fact, before you would be listened to, there are at least two duels to fight—the count first, and then D’Espagne. I know Laura well; she ‘d let the affair have all its éclat before she will say a word about it; and, in fact, your executors may be able to clear your character—you ‘ll never do so in your lifetime. Don’t go back there,’ said the abbé, ‘at least for the present.’
‘I’ll never set my eyes on one of them,’ cried I, in desperation. ‘I’m nigh deranged as it is; the memory of this confounded affair——’
‘Will make you laugh yet,’ said the abbé. ‘And now good-night, or rather good-bye: I start early to-morrow morning, and we may not meet again.’
He promised to forward my effects to Dinant, and we parted.
‘Monsieur will have a single bed?’ said the housemaid, in answer to my summons.
‘Yes,’ said I, with a muttering I fear very like an oath.
Morning broke in through the half-closed curtains, with the song of birds and the ripple of the gentle river. A balmy gentle air stirred the leaves, and the sweet valley lay in all its peaceful beauty before me.
‘Well, well,’ said I, rubbing my eyes, ‘it was a queer adventure; and there’s no saying what might have happened had they been only ten minutes later. I’d give a napoleon to know what Laura thinks of it now. But I must not delay here—the very villagers will laugh at me.’
I ate my breakfast rapidly and called for my bill. The sum was a mere trifle, and I was just adding something to it when a knock came to the door.
‘Come in,’ said I, and thepèreentered.
‘How sadly unfortunate,’ began he, when I interrupted him at once, assuring him of his mistake—telling him that we were no runaway couple at all, had not the most remote idea of being married, and in fact owed our whole disagreeable adventure to his ridiculous misconception.
‘It’s very well to say thatnow,’ growled out thepère, in a very different accent from his former one. ‘You may pretend what you like, but’—and he spoke in a determined tone—‘you’ll paymybill.’
‘Yourbill!’ said I, waxing wroth. ‘What have I had from you. How am Iyourdebtor? I should like to hear.’
‘And you shall,’ said he, drawing forth a long document from a pocket in his cassock. ‘Here it is.’
He handed me the paper, of which the following is a transcript:—
NOCES DE MI LORD O’LEARY ET MADEMOISELLE MI LADY DE MUDDLETON.
FRANCS.Two conversations—preliminary, admonitory, and consolatory 10 0Advice to the young couple, with moral maxims interspersed 3 0Soirée, and society at wine 5 0Guide to the château, with details, artistic and antiquarian 12 0Eight children with flowers, at half a franc each 4 0Fees at the château 2 0Chorus of virgins, at one franc per virgin 10 0Roses for virgins 2 10M. le Maire et Madame ‘en grande tenue’ 1 0Book of Registry, setting forth the date of the marriage——-
‘The devil take it!’ said I; ‘it was no marriage at all.’ ‘Yes, but it was, though,’ said he. ‘It’s your own fault if you can’t take care of your wife.’
The noise of his reply brought the host and hostess to the scene of action; and though I resisted manfully for a time, there was no use in prolonging a hopeless contest, and, with a melancholy sigh, I disbursed my wedding expenses, and with a hearty malediction on Bouvigne—its château, its inn, itspère, itsmaire, and its virgins—I took the road towards Namur, and never lifted my head till I had left the place miles behind me.
It was growing late on a fine evening in autumn, as I, a solitary pedestrian, drew near the little town of Spa. From the time of my leaving Chaude Fontaine, I lingered along the road, enjoying to the utmost the beautiful valley of the Vesdre, and sometimes half hesitating whether I would not loiter away some days in one of the little villages I passed, and see if the trout, whose circling eddies marked the stream, might not rise as favourably to my fly as to the vagrant insect that now flitted across the water. In good sooth I wished for rest, and I wished for solitude; too much of my life latterly had been passed in salons and soirées; the peaceful habit of my soul, the fruit of my own lonely hours, had suffered grievous inroads by my partnership with the world, and I deemed it essential to be once more apart from the jarring influences and distracting casualties which every step in life is beset by, were it only to recover again my habitual tranquillity—to refit the craft ere she took the sea once more.
I wanted but little to decide my mind; the sight of an inn, some picturesque spot, a pretty face—anything, in short, would have sufficed. But somehow I suppose I must have been more fastidious than I knew of, for I continued to walk onward; and at last, leaving the little hamlet of Pepinsterre behind me, I set out with brisker pace towards Spa. The air was calm and balmy; no leaf stirred; the river beside the road did not even murmur, but crept silently along its gravelly bed, fearful to break the stillness. Gradually the shadows fell stronger and broader, and at length mingled into one broad expanse of gloom; in a few minutes more it was night.
There is something very striking, I had almost said saddening, in the sudden transition from day to darkness in those countries where no twilight exists. The gradual change by which road and mountain, rock and cliff, mellow into the hues of sunset, and grow grey in the gloaming, deepening the shadows, and by degrees losing all outline in the dimness around, prepares us for the gloom of night. We feel it like the tranquil current of years marking some happy life, where childhood and youth and manhood and age succeed in measured time. Not so the sudden and immediate change, which seems rather like the stroke of some fell misfortune, converting the cheerful hours into dark, brooding melancholy. Tears may—they do—fall lightly on some; they creep with noiseless step, and youth and age glide softly into each other without any shock to awaken the thought that says, Adieu to this! Farewell to that for ever!
Thus was I musing, when suddenly I found myself at the spot where the road branched off in two directions. No house was near, nor a living thing from whom I could ask the way. I endeavoured by the imperfect light of the stars, for there was no moon, to ascertain which road seemed most frequented and travelled, judging that Spa was the most likely resort of all journeying in these parts; but unhappily I could detect no difference to guide me. There were wheel-tracks in both, and ruts and stones tolerably equitably adjusted; each had a pathway, too—the right-hand road enjoying a slight superiority over the other in this respect, as its path was more even.
I was completely puzzled. Had I been mounted, I had left the matter to my horse; but unhappily my decision had not a particle of reason to guide it. I looked from the road to the trees, and from the trees to the stars, but they looked down as tranquilly as though either way would do—all save one, a sly little brilliant spangle in the south, that seemed to wink at my difficulty. ‘No matter,’ said I, ‘one thing is certain—neither a supper nor a bed will come to look for me here; and so now for the best pathway, as I begin to feel foot-sore.’
My momentary embarrassment about the road completely routed all my musings, and I now turned my thoughts to the comforts of the inn, and to the pleasant little supper I promised myself on reaching it. I debated as to what was in season and what was not. I spelled October twice to ascertain if oysters were in, and there came a doubt across me whether the Flemish name for the month might have an r in it, and then I laughed at my own bull; afterwards I disputed with myself as to the relative merits of Chablis and Hochheimer, and resolved to be guided by thegarçon. I combated long a weakness I felt growing over me for a pint of mulled claret, as the air was now becoming fresh; but I gave in at last, and began to hammer my brain for the French words for cloves and nutmeg.
In these innocent ruminations did an hour pass by, and yet no sign of human habitation, no sound of life, could I perceive at either side of me. The night, ‘tis true, was brighter as it became later, and there were stars in thousands in the sky; but I would gladly have exchanged Venus for the chambermaid of the humblestauberge, and given the Great Bear himself for a single slice of bacon. At length, after about two hours’ walking, I remarked that the road was becoming much more steep; indeed, it had presented a continual ascent for some miles, but now the acclivity was very considerable, particularly at the close of a long day’s march. I remembered well that Spa lay in a valley, but for the life of me I could not think whether a mountain was to be crossed to arrive there. ‘That comes of travelling by post,’ said I to myself; had I walked the road, I had never forgotten so remarkable a feature.’ While I said this, I could not help confessing that I had as lief my present excursion had been also in a conveyance.
‘Forwärts! fort, und immer fort!’
hummed I, remembering Körner’s song; and taking it for my motto, on I went at a good pace. It needed all my powers as a pedestrian, however, to face the mountain, for such I could see it was that I was now ascending; the pathway, too, less trodden than below, was encumbered with loose stones, and the trees which lined the way on either side gradually became thinner and rarer, and at last ceased altogether, exposing me to the cold blast which swept from time to time across the barren heath with a chill that said October was own brother to November. Three hours and a half did I toil along, when at last the conviction came over me that I must have taken the wrong road. This could not possibly be the way to Spa; indeed, I had great doubts that it led anywhere. I mounted a little rock, and took a survey of the bleak mountain-side; but nothing could I see that indicated that the hand of man had ever laboured in that wild region. Fern and heath, clumps of gorse and misshapen rocks, diversified the barren surface on every side, and I now seemed to have gained the summit, a vast tableland spreading away for miles. I sat down to consider what was best to be done. The thought of retracing so many leagues of way was very depressing; and yet what were my chances if I went forward?
Ah, thought I, why did not some benevolent individual think of erecting lighthouses inland? What a glorious invention would it have been! Just think of the great mountain districts which lie in the very midst of civilisation, pathless, trackless, and unknown, where a benighted traveller may perish within the very sound of succour, if he but knew where to seek it. How cheering to the wayworn traveller as he plods along his weary road, to lift from time to time his eyes to the guide-star in the distance! Had the monks been in the habit of going out in the dark, there’s little doubt they’d have persuaded some good Catholics to endow some institutions like this. How well they knew how to have their chapels and convents erected! I’m not sure but I’d vow a little lighthouse myself to the Virgin, if I could only catch a glimpse of a gleam of light this moment.
Just then I thought I saw something twinkle, far away across the heath. I climbed up on the rock, and looked steadily in the direction. There was no doubt of it-there was a light; no Jack-o’-Lantern either, but a good respectable light, of domestic habits, shining steadily and brightly. It seemed far off; but there is nothing so deceptive as the view over a flat surface. In any case, I resolved to make for it; and so, seizing my staff, I once more set forward. Unhappily, however, I soon perceived that the road led off in a direction exactly the reverse of the object I sought, and I was now obliged to make my choice of quitting the path or abandoning the light; my resolve was quickly made, and I started off across the plain, with my eyes steadily fixed upon my beacon.
The mountain was marshy and wet—that wearisome surface of spongy hillock, and low, creeping brushwood, the most fatal thing to a tired walker—and I made but slow progress; besides, frequently, from inequalities of the soil, I would lose sight of the light for half an hour together, and then, on its reappearing suddenly, discover how far I had wandered out of the direct line. These little aberrations did not certainly improve my temper, and I plodded along, weary of limb and out of spirits.
At length I came to the verge of a declivity. Beneath me lay a valley, winding and rugged, with a little torrent brawling through rocks and stones—a wild and gloomy scene by the imperfect light of the stars. On the opposite mountain stood the coveted light, which now I could discover proceeded from a building of some size, at least so far as I could pronounce from the murky shadow against the background of sky.
I summoned up one great effort, and pushed down the slope—now sliding on hands and feet, now trusting to a run of some yards where the ground was more feasible. After a fatiguing course of two hours, I reached the crest of the opposite hill, and stood within a few hundred yards of the house—the object of my wearisome journey. It was indeed in keeping with the deserted wildness of the place. A ruined tower, one of those square keeps which formerly were intended as frontier defences, standing on a rocky base, beside the edge of a steep cliff, had been made a dwelling of by some solitary herdsman—for so the sheep collected within a little inclosure bespoke him. The rude efforts to make the place habitable were conspicuous in the door formed of wooden planks nailed coarsely together, and the window, whose panes were made of a thin substance like parchment, through which, however, the blaze of a fire shone brightly without.
Creeping carefully forward to take a reconnaissance of the interior before I asked for admission, I approached a small aperture, where a single pane of glass permitted a view. A great heap of blazing furze, that filled the old chimney of the tower, lit up the whole space, and enabled me to see a man who sat on a log of wood beside the hearth, with his head bent upon his knees. His dress was a coarse blouse of striped woollen descending to his knees, where a pair of gaiters of sheepskin were fastened by thongs of untanned leather; his head was bare, and covered only by a long mass of black hair, that fell in tangled locks down his back, and even over his face as he bent forward. A shepherd’s staff and a broad hat of felt lay on the ground beside him; there was neither chair nor table, nor, save some fern in one corner, anything that might serve as a bed; a large earthenware jug and a metal pot stood near the fire, and a knife, such as butchers kill with, lay beside them. Over the chimney, however, was suspended, by two thongs of leather, a sword, long and straight, like the weapon of the heavy cavalry of France; and, higher again, I could see a great piece of printed paper was fastened to the wall. As I continued to scan, one by one, these signs of utter poverty, the man stretched out his limbs and rubbed his eyes for a minute or two, and then with a start sprang to his feet, displaying, as he did so, the proportions of a most powerful and athletic frame.
231-333
He was, as well as I could guess, about forty-five years of age; but hardship and suffering had worn deep lines about his face, which was sallow and emaciated. A black moustache, that hung down over his lip and descended to his chin, concealed the lower part of his face; the upper was bold and manly, the forehead high and well developed; but his eyes—and I could mark them well as the light fell on him—were of an unnatural brilliancy; their sparkle had the fearful gleam of a mind diseased, and in their quick, restless glances through the room I saw that he was labouring under some insane delusion. He paced the room with a steady step, backwards and forwards, for a few minutes, and once, as he lifted his eyes above the chimney, he stopped abruptly and carried his hand to his forehead in a military salute, while he muttered something to himself. The moment after he threw open the door, and stepping outside, gave a long shrill whistle; he paused for a few seconds, and repeated it, when I could hear the distant barking of a dog replying to his call. Just then he turned abruptly, and with a spring seized me by the arm.
‘Who are you? What do you want here?’ said he, in a voice tremulous with passion.
A few words—it was no time for long explanations—told him how I had lost my way in the mountain, and was in search of shelter for the night.
‘It was a lucky thing for you that one of my lambs was astray,’ said he, with a fierce smile. ‘If Tête-noir had been at home, he’d have made short work of you. Come in.’
With that he pushed me before him into the tower, and pointed to the block of wood where he had been sitting previously, while he threw a fresh supply of furze upon the hearth, and stirred up the blaze with his foot.
‘The wind is moving round to the southard,’ said he; ‘we ‘ll have a heavy fall of rain soon.’
‘The stars look very bright, however.’
‘Never trust them. Before day breaks, you’ll see the mountain will be covered with mist.’
As he spoke, he crossed his arms on his breast, and recommenced his walk up and down the chamber. The few words he spoke surprised me much by the tones of his voice, so unlike the accents I should have expected from one of his miserable and squalid appearance; they were mild, and bore the traces of one who had seen very different fortunes from his present ones.
I wished to speak, and induce him to converse with me; but the efforts I made seeming only to excite his displeasure, I abandoned the endeavour with a good grace; and having disposed my knapsack as a pillow, stretched myself full length before the hearth, and fell sound asleep.
When I awoke, the shepherd was not to be seen. The fire, which blazed brightly, showed, however, that he had not long been absent; a huge log of beech had recently been thrown upon it. The day was breaking, and I went to the door to look out. Nothing, however, could I see; vast clouds of mist were sweeping along before the wind, that sighed mournfully over the bleak mountains and concealed everything a few yards off, while a thin rain came slanting down, the prelude to the storm the shepherd had prophesied.
Never was there anything more dreary within or without; the miserable poverty of the ruined tower was scarcely a shelter from the coming hurricane. I returned to my place beside the fire, sad and low at heart. While I was conjecturing within myself what distance I might be from Spa, and how I could contrive to reach it, I chanced to fix my eyes on the sabre above the chimney, which I took down to examine. It was a plain straight weapon, of the kind carried by the soldiery; its only sign of inscription was the letter ‘N’ on the blade. As I replaced it, I caught sight of the printed paper, which, begrimed with smoke and partly obliterated by time, was nearly illegible. After much pains, however, I succeeded in deciphering the following; it was headed in large letters—
‘Ordre du Jour, de l’Armée Française. Le 9 Thermidor.’
The lines which immediately followed were covered by another piece of paper pasted over them, where I could just here and there detect a stray word, which seemed to indicate that the whole bore reference to some victory of the republican army. The last four lines, much clearer than the rest, ran thus:—
‘Le citoyen Aubuisson, chef de bataillon de Grenadiers, de cette demi-brigade, est entré le premier dans la redoute. Il a eu son habit criblé de balles.’
I read and re-read the lines a dozen times over; indeed, to this hour are they fast fixed in my memory. Some strange mystery seemed to connect them with the poor shepherd; otherwise, why were they here? I thought over his figure, strong and well-knit, as I saw him stand upright in the room, and of his military salute; and the conviction came fully over me that the miserable creature, covered with rags and struggling with want, was no other than the citizen Aubuisson. Yet, by what fearful vicissitude had he fallen to this? The wild expression of his features at times did indeed look like insanity; still, what he said to me was both calm and coherent. The mystery excited all my curiosity, and I longed for his return, in the hope of detecting some clue to it.
The door opened suddenly. A large dog, more mastiff than sheep-dog, dashed in; seeing me, he retreated a step, and fixing his eyes steadily upon me, gave a fearful howl. I could not stir from fear. I saw that he was preparing for a spring, when the voice of the shepherd called out, ‘Couche-toi, Tête-noir, couche!’ The savage beast at once slunk quietly to a corner, and lay down—still never taking his eyes from me, and seeming to feel as if his services would soon be in request in my behalf; while his master shook the rain from his hat and blouse, and came forward to dry himself at the fire. Fixing his eyes steadfastly on the red embers as he stirred them with his foot, he muttered some few and broken words, among which, although I listened attentively, I could but hear, ‘Pas un mot; silence, silence, à la mort!’
‘You were not wrong in your prophecy, shepherd; the storm is setting in already,’ said I, wishing to attract his attention.
‘Hush!’ said he, in a low whisper, while he motioned me with his hand to be still—‘hush! not a word!’
The eager glare of madness was in his eye as he spoke, and a tremulous movement of his pale cheek betokened some great inward convulsion. He threw his eyes slowly around the miserable room, looking below and above with the scrutinising glance of one resolved to let nothing escape his observation; and then kneeling down on one knee beside the blaze he took a piece of dry wood, and stole it quietly among the embers.
‘There, there!’ cried he, springing to his legs, while he seized me rudely by the shoulder, and hurried me to the distant end of the room. ‘Come quickly! stand back, stand back there! see, see!’ said he, as the crackling sparks flew up and the tongued flame rose in the chimney, ‘there it goes!’ Then putting his lips to my ear he muttered, ‘Not a word! silence! silence to the death!’
As he said this, he drew himself up to his full height, and crossing his arms upon his breast stood firm and erect before me, and certainly, covered with rags the meanest poverty would have rejected, shrunk by famine and chilled by hunger and storm, there was still remaining in him the traits of a once noble face and figure. The fire of madness, unquenched by every misery, lit up his dark eye, and even on his compressed lip there was a curl of pride. Poor fellow! some pleasant memory seemed to flit across him; he smiled, and as he moved his hair from his forehead he bowed his head slightly, and murmured, ‘Oui, sire!’ How soft, how musical that voice was then! Just at this instant the deep bleating of the sheep was heard without, and Tête-noir, springing up, rushed to the door, and scratched fiercely with his fore-paws. The shepherd hastened to open it, and to my surprise I beheld a boy about twelve years of age, poorly clad and dripping with wet, who was carrying a small canvas bag on his back.
‘Has the lamb been found, Lazare?’ said the child, as he unslung his little sack.
‘Yes; ‘tis safe in the fold.’
‘And the spotted ewe? You don’t think the wolves could have taken her away so early as this——’
‘Hush, hush!’ said the shepherd, with a warning gesture to the child, who seemed at once to see that the lunatic’s vision was on him; for he drew his little blouse close around his throat, and muttered a ‘Bonjour, Lazare,’ and departed.
‘Couldn’t that boy guide me down to Spa, or some village near it?’ said I, anxious to seize an opportunity of escape.
He looked at me without seeming to understand my question. I repeated it more slowly, when, as if suddenly aware of my meaning, he replied quickly—
‘No, no; little Pierre has a long road to go home; he lives far away in the mountains. I ‘ll show you the way myself.
With that, he opened the sack, and took forth a loaf of coarse wheaten bread, such as the poorest cottagers make, and a tin flask of milk. Tearing the loaf asunder, he handed me one-half, which more from policy than hunger, though I had endured a long fast, I accepted. Then passing the milk towards me he made a sign for me to drink, and when I had done, seized the flask himself, and nodding gaily with his head, cried, ‘A vous, camarade.’ Simple as the gesture and few the words, they both convinced me that he had been a soldier once; and each moment only strengthened me in the impression that I had before me in the shepherd Lazare an officer of the Grande Armée—one of those heroes of a hundred fights, whose glory was the tributary stream in the great ocean of the Empire’s grandeur.
Our meal was soon concluded, and in silence; and Lazare, having replenished his fire, went to the door and looked out.
‘It will be wilder ere night,’ said he, as he peered into the dense mist, which, pressed down by rain, lay like a pall upon the earth; ‘if you are a good walker, I ‘ll take you by a short way to Spa.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said I, ‘to follow you.’
‘The mountain is easy enough; but there may be a stream or two swollen by the rains. They are sometimes dangerous.’
‘What distance are we then from Spa?’
‘Four leagues and a half by the nearest route—seven and a half by the road. Come, Tête-noir, bonne bête,’ said he, patting the savage beast, who with a rude gesture of his tail evinced his joy at the recognition. ‘Thou must be on guard to-day; take care of these for me—that thou wilt, old fellow; farewell, good beast, good-bye!’
The animal, as if he understood every word, stood with his red eyes fixed upon him till he had done, and then answered by a long low howl. Lazare smiled with pleasure, as he waved his hand towards him, and led the way from the tower.
I had but time to leave two louis-d’ors on the block of wood, when he called out to me to follow him. The pace he walked at, as well as the rugged course of the way he took, prevented my keeping at his side; and I could only track him as he moved along through the misty rain, like some genius of the storm, his long locks flowing wildly behind him, and his tattered garments fluttering in the wind.
It was a toilsome and dreary march, unrelieved by aught to lessen the fatigue. Lazare never spoke one word the entire time; occasionally he would point with his staff to the course we were to take, or mark the flight of some great bird of prey soaring along near the ground, as if fearless of man in regions so wild and desolate; save at these moments, he seemed buried in his own gloomy thoughts. Four hours of hard walking brought us at last to the summit of a great mountain, from which, as the mist was considerably cleared away, I could perceive a number of lesser mountains surrounding it, like the waves of the sea. My guide pointed to the ground, as if recommending a rest, and I willingly threw myself on the heath, damp and wet as it was.
The rest was a short one; he soon motioned me to resume the way, and we plodded onward for an hour longer, when we came to a great tableland of several miles in extent, but which still I could perceive was on a very high level. At last we reached a little grove of stunted pines, where a rude cross of stone stood—a mark to commemorate the spot where a murder had been committed, and to entreat prayers for the discovery of the murderers. Here Lazare stopped, and pointing to a little narrow path in the heather, he said—
‘Spa is scarce two leagues distant; it lies in the valley yonder; follow this path, and you ‘ll not fail to reach it.’
While I proffered my thanks to him for his guidance, I could not help expressing my wish to make some slight return for it. A dark, disdainful look soon stopped me in my speech, and I turned it off in a desire to leave some souvenir of my night’s lodging behind me in the old tower. But even this he would not hear of; and when I stretched out my hand to bid him good-bye, he took it with a cold and distant courtesy, as though he were condescending to a favour he had no fancy for.
‘Adieu, monsieur,’ said I, still tempted, by a last effort of allusion to his once condition, to draw something from him—‘adieu!’
He approached me nearer, and with a voice of tremulous eagerness, he muttered—
‘Not a word yonder, not a syllable! Pledge me your faith in that!’
Thinking now that it was merely the recurrence of his paroxysm, I answered carelessly, ‘Never fear, I’ll say nothing.’
‘Yes, but swear it,’ said he, with a fixed look of his dark eye; ‘swear it to me now, that so long as you are below there’—he pointed to the valley—‘you will never speak of me.’
I made him the promise he required, though with great unwillingness, as my curiosity to learn something about him was becoming intense.
‘Not a word!’ said he, with a finger on his lip, ‘that’s theconsigne.
‘Not a word!’ repeated I, and we parted.
Two hours after, I was enjoying the pleasant fire of the Hôtel de Flandre, where I arrived in time for table d’hôte, not a little to the surprise of the host and six waiters, who were totally lost in conjectures to account for my route, and sorely puzzled to ascertain the name of my last hotel in the mountains.
A watering-place at the close of a season is always a sad-looking thing. The barricades of the coming winter already begin to show; the little statues in public gardens are assuming their greatcoats of straw against the rigours of frost; thejets d’ eaucease to play, or perform with the unwilling air of actors to empty benches; the tables d’hôte present their long dinner-rooms unoccupied, save by a little table at one end, where some half-dozen shivering inmates still remain, the débris of the mighty army who flourished their knives there but six weeks before—these half-dozen usually consisting of a stray invalid or two, completing his course of the waters, having a fortnight of sulphuretted hydrogen before him yet, and not daring to budge till he has finished his ‘heeltap’ of abomination. Then there’s the old half-pay major, that has lived in Spa, for aught I know, since the siege of Namur, and who passes his nine months of winter in shooting quails and playing dominoes; and there’s an elderly lady, with spectacles, always working at a little embroidery frame, who speaks no French, and seems not to be aware of anything going on around her—no one being able to guess why she is there, she probably not knowing why herself. Lastly, there is a very distracted-looking young gentleman, with a shooting-jacket and young moustaches, who having been ‘cleaned out’ atrouge et noir, is waiting in the hope of a remittance from some commiserating relative in England.
The theatre is closed; its little stars, dispersed among the small capitals, have shrunk back to their former proportions of third and fourth-rate parts—for though butterflies in July, they are mere grubs in December. The clink of the croupier’s mace is no longer heard, revelling amid the five-franc pieces; all is still and silent in that room which so late the conflict of human passion, hope, envy, fear, and despair, had made a very hell on earth.
The donkeys, too, who but the other day were decked in scarlet trappings, are now despoiled of their gay panoply, and condemned to the mean drudgery of the cart. Poor beasts! their drooping ears and fallen heads seem to show some sense of their changed fortunes; no longer bearing the burden of some fair-cheeked girl or laughing boy along the mountain-side, they are brought down to the daily labour of the cottage, and a cutlet is no more like a mutton-chop than a donkey is like an ass.
So does everything suffer a ‘sea-change.’ The modiste, whose pretty cap with its gay ribbons was itself an advertisement of her wares, has taken to a close bonnet and a woollen shawl—a metamorphosis as complete as is the misshapen mass of cloaks and mud-boots of the agile danseuse, who flitted between earth and air a few moments before. Even the doctor—and what a study is the doctor of a watering-place!—even he has laid by his smiles and his soft speeches, folded up in the same drawer with his black coat for the winter. He has not thrown physic to the dogs, because he is fond of sporting, and would not injure the poor beasts, but he has given it anau revoir; and as grouse come in with autumn, and black-cock in November, so does he feel chalybeates are in season on the first of May. Exchanging his cane for a Manton, and his mild whisper for a dog-whistle, he takes to the pursuit of the lower animals, leaving men for the warmer months.
All this disconcerts one. You hate to be present at thosedéménagements, where the curtains are coming down, and the carpet is being taken up; where they are nailing canvas across pictures, and storing books into pantries. These smaller revolutions are all very detestable, and you gladly escape into some quiet and retired spot, and wait till the fussing be over. So felt I. Had I come a month later, this place would have suited me perfectly, but this process of human moulting is horrible to witness; and so, say I once more,En route.
Like a Dutchman who took a run of three miles to jump over a hill, and then sat down tired at the foot of it, I flurried myself so completely in canvassing all the possible places I might, could, would, should, or ought to pass the winter in, that I actually took a fortnight to recover my energies before I could set out.
Meanwhile I had made a close friendship with a dyspeptic countryman of mine, who went about the Continent with a small portmanteau and a very large medicine-chest, chasing health from Naples to Paris, and from Aix-la-Chapelle to Wildbad, firmly persuaded that every country had only one month in the year at most wherein it were safe to live there—Spa being the appropriate place to pass the October. He cared nothing for the ordinary topics that engross the attention of mankind; kings might be dethroned and dynasties demolished; states might revolt and subjects be rebellious—all he wanted to know was, not what changes were made in the code but in the pharmacopoeia. The liberty of the Press was a matter of indifference to him; he cared little for what men might say, but a great deal for what it was safe to swallow, and looked upon the inventor of blue-pill as the greatest benefactor of mankind. He had the analysis of every well and spring in Germany at his fingers’ end, and could tell you the temperature and atomic proportions like his alphabet. But his great system was a kind of reciprocity treaty between health and sickness, by which a man could commit any species of gluttony he pleased when he knew the peculiar antagonist principle. And thus he ate—I was going to say like a shark, but let me not in my ignorance calumniate the fish; for I know not if anything that ever swam could eat a soup with a custard pudding, followed by beef and beetroot, stewed mackerel and treacle, pickled oysters and preserved cherries, roast hare and cucumber, venison, salad, prunes, hashed mutton, omelettes, pastry, and finally, to wind up with effect, a sturgeon baked with brandy-peaches in his abdomen—a thing to make a cook weep and a German blessed. Such was my poor friend, Mr. Bartholomew Cater, the most thin, spare, emaciated, and miserable-looking man that ever sipped at Schwalbach or shivered at Kissingen.
To permit these extravagances in diet, however, he had concocted a code of reprisals, consisting of the various mineral waters of Germany and the poisonous metals of modern pharmacy; and having established the fact that ‘bitter wasser’ and ‘Carlsbad,’ the ‘Powon’ and ‘Pilnitz,’ combined with blue-pill, were the natural enemies of all things eatable, he swallowed these freely, and then left the matter to the rebellious ingredients—pretty much as the English used to govern Ireland in times gone by: set both parties by the ears, and wait the result in peace, well aware that a slight derangement of the balance, from time to time, would keep the contest in motion. Such was the state policy of Mr. Cater, and I can only say thathisconstitution survived it, though that of Ireland seems to suffer grievously from the experiment.
This lively gentleman was then my companion; indeed, with that cohesive property of your true bore, he was ever beside me, relating some little interesting anecdote of a jaundice or a dropsy, a tertian or a typhus, by which agreeable souvenirs he preserved the memory of Athens or Naples, Rome or Dresden, fresh and unclouded in his mind. Not satisfied, however, with narration, like all enthusiasts he would be proselytising; and whether from the force of his arguments or the weakness of my nature, he found a ready victim in me, insomuch that under his admirable instruction I was already beginning to feel a dislike and disgust to all things edible, with an appetite only grown more ravenous, while my reverence for all springs of unsavoury taste and smell—once, I must confess, at a deplorably low ebb—was gradually becoming more developed. It was only by the accidental discovery that my waistcoat could be made to fit by putting it twice round me, and that my coat was a dependency of which I was scarcely the nucleus, that I really became frightened. ‘What!’ thought I, ‘can this be that Arthur O’Leary whom men jested on his rotundity? Is this me, around whom children ran, as they would about a pillar or a monument, and thought it exercise to circumambulate? Arthur, this will be the death of thee; thou wert a happy man and a fat before thou knewest Kochbrunnens and thermometers; run while it is yet time, and be thankful at least that thou art in racing condition.’
With noiseless step and cautious gesture, I crept downstairs one morning at daybreak. My enemy was still asleep. I heard him muttering as I passed his door; doubtless he was dreaming of some new combination of horrors, some infernal alliance of cucumbers and quinine. I passed on in silence; my very teeth chattered with fear. Happy was I to have them to chatter! another fortnight of his intimacy, and they would have trembled from blue-pill as well as panic! With a heavy sigh I paid my bill, and crossed the street towards the diligence office. One place only remained vacant—it was in thebanquette. No matter, thought I, anywhere will do at present.
‘Where is monsieur going?—for there will be a place vacant in thecoupéat—’
‘I have not thought of that yet,’ said I; ‘but when we reach Verviers we ‘ll see.’
‘Allons, then,’ said theconducteur, while he whispered to the clerk of the office a few words I could not catch.
‘You are mistaken, friend,’ said I; ‘it’s not creditors, they are only chalybeates I ‘m running from’; and so we started.
Before I follow out any further my own ramblings, I should like to acquit a debt I owe my reader—if I dare flatter myself that he cares for its discharge—by returning to the story of the poor shepherd of the mountains, and which I cannot more seasonably do than at this place; although the details I am about to relate were furnished to me a great many years after this, and during a visit I paid to Lyons in 1828.
In the Café de la Coupe d’Or, so conspicuous in the Place des Terreaux, where I usually resorted to pass my evenings, and indulge in the cheap luxuries of my coffee and cheroot, I happened to make a bowing acquaintance with a venerable elderly gentleman, who each night resorted there to read the papers, and amuse himself by looking over the chess-players, with which the room was crowded. Some accidental interchange of newspapers led to a recognition, and that again advanced to a few words each time we met—till one evening, chance placed us at the same table, and we chatted away several hours, and parted in the hope, mutually expressed, of renewing our acquaintance at an early period.
I had no difficulty in interrogating thedame du caféabout my new acquaintance. He was a striking and remarkable-looking personage, tall and military-looking, with an air ofgrand seigneur, which in a Frenchman is never deceptive; certainly I never saw it successfully assumed by any who had no right to it. He wore his hairen queue, and in his dress evinced, in several trifling matters, an adherence to the habitudes of the old régime—so, at least, I interpreted his lace ruffles and silk stockings, with his broad buckles of brilliants in his shoes. The ribbon of St. Louis, which he wore unostentatiously on his waistcoat, was his only decoration.
‘This is the Vicomte de Berlemont,ancien colonel-en-chef,’ said she, with an accent of pride at the mention of so distinguished a frequenter of the café; ‘he has not missed an evening here for years past.’
A few more words of inquiry elicited from her the information that the vicomte had served in all the wars of the Empire up to the time of the abdication; that on the restoration of the Bourbons he had received his rank in the service from them, and, faithful to their fortunes, had followed Louis XVIII. in exile to Ghent.
‘He has seen a deal of the world, then, madame, it would appear?’
‘That he has, and loves to speak about it too; time was when they reckoned the vicomte among the pleasantest persons in Lyons; but they say he has grown old now, and contracted a habit of repeating his stories. I can’t tell how that may be, but I think him always amiable.’ A delightful word that same ‘amiable’ is! and so thinking, I wished madame good-night, and departed.
The next evening I lay in wait for the old colonel, and was flattered to see that he was taking equal pains to discover me. We retired to a little table, ordered our coffee, and chatted away till midnight. Such was the commencement, such the course, of one of the pleasantest intimacies I ever formed.
The vicomte was unquestionably the most agreeable specimen of his nation I had ever met—easy and unaffected in his manner, having seen much, and observed shrewdly; not much skilled in book-learning, but deeply read in mankind. His views of politics were of that unexaggerated character which are so often found correct; while of his foresight I can give no higher token than that he then predicted to me the events of the year 1830, only erring as to the time, which he deemed might not be so far distant. The Empire, however, and Napoleon were his favourite topics. Bourbonist as he was, the splendour of France in 1810 and 1811, the greatness of the mighty man whose genius then ruled its destinies, had captivated his imagination, and he would talk for hours over the events of Parisian life at that period, and the more brilliant incidents of the campaigns.
It was in one of our conversations, prolonged beyond the usual time, in discussing the characters of those immediately about the person of the Emperor, that I felt somewhat struck by the remark he made, that, while ‘Napoleon did meet unquestionably many instances of deep ingratitude from those whom he had covered with honours and heaped with favours, nothing ever equalled the attachment the officers of the army generally bore to his person, and the devotion they felt for his glory and his honour. It was not a sentiment,’ he said, ‘it was a religious belief among the young men of my day that the Emperor could do no wrong. What you assume in your country by courtesy, we believedde facto. So many times had events, seeming most disastrous, turned out pregnant with advantage and success, that a dilemma was rather a subject of amusing speculation amongst us than a matter of doubt and despondency. There came a terrible reverse to all this, however,’ continued he, as his voice fell to a lower and sadder key; ‘a fearful lesson was in store for us. Poor Aubuisson——’
‘Aubuisson!’ said I, starting; ‘was that the name you mentioned?’
‘Yes,’ said he, in amazement; ‘have you heard the story, then?’
‘No,’ said I, ‘I know of no story; it was the name alone struck me. Was it not one of that name who was mentioned in one of Bonaparte’s despatches from Egypt?’
‘To be sure it was, and the same man too; he was the first in the trenches at Alexandria; he carried off a Mameluke chief his prisoner at the battle of the Pyramids.’
‘What manner of man was he?’
‘A powerful fellow, one of the largest of his regiment, and they were a Grenadier battalion; he had black hair and black moustache, which he wore long and drooping, in Egyptian fashion.’
‘The same, the very same!’ cried I, carried away by my excitement.
‘What do you mean?’ said the colonel; ‘you’ve never seen him, surely; he died at Charenton the same year Waterloo was fought.’
‘No such thing,’ said I, feeling convinced that Lazare was the person. ‘I saw him alive much later’; and with that I related the story I have told my reader, detailing minutely every little particular which might serve to confirm my impression of the identity.
‘No, no,’ said the vicomte, shaking his head, ‘you must be mistaken; Aubuisson was a patient at Charenton for ten years, when he died. The circumstances you mention are certainly both curious and strange, but I cannot think they have any connection with the fortunes of poor Lazare; at all events, if you like to hear the story, come home with me, and I ‘ll tell it; the café is about to close now, and we must leave.’
I gladly accepted the offer, for whatever doubts he had concerning Lazare’s identity with Aubuisson, my convictions were complete, and I longed to hear the solution of a mystery over which I had pondered many a day of march and many a sleepless night.
I could scarcely contain my impatience during supper. The thought of Lazare absorbed everything in my mind, and I fancied the old colonel’s appetite knew no bounds when the meal had lasted about a quarter of an hour. At last having finished, and devised his modest glass of weak wine and water, he began the story, of which I present the leading features to my readers, omitting, of course, those little occasional digressions and reflections by which the narrator himself accompanied his tale.