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 a _pis 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 a _very 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 Flemish _bonnes_
or 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 lazy _frotteur_ sleeping away his hours at
the _porte 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 is _à
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 not _à
propos_ to 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 mots_ of 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 beautiful _allée_ which 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 noisy _chaussée_ you 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--those _petits plats_ which 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 flaming _ponche_, 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 salt _raffinerie_, 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-dozen _échevins_,
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 the _allée verte_ or 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 the _Handelsblad_, she came upon the following:--
‘Yesterday morning an express reached the minister for the home affairs
that the celebrated _escroc_, 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 his _entrée_ among 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 his
_signalement_, 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
mere _escroc_, 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 as _my_
protector 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--some
_misérable_, 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 the _Zauberflotte_ to-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 but _écarté_.’
‘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:--
‘My dear Sir,--A hasty summons from Count Czaroviski has compelled me to
leave Brussels without wishing you good-bye, and thanking you for all
your polite attentions. Pray accept these hurried acknowledgments, and
my regret that circumstances do not enable me to visit Ireland, in
which, from your description, I must ever feel the deepest interest.
‘The count sends his most affectionate greetings.--Yours ever sincerely,
‘Duischka Czaroviski née Gutzaff.’
‘And is she gone?’ said I, starting up in a state of frenzy.
‘Yes, sir; she started at ten o’clock.’
‘By what road?’ cried I, determined to follow her on the instant.
‘Louvain was the first stage.’
In an instant I was up, and dressed; in ten minutes more I was rattling
over the stones to my banker’s.
‘I want three hundred napoleons at once,’ said I to the clerk.
‘Examine Mr. O’Leary’s account,’ was the dry reply of the functionary.
‘Overdrawn by fifteen hundred francs,’ said the other.
‘Overdrawn? Impossible!’ cried I, thunderstruck. ‘I had a credit for six
hundred pounds.’
‘Which you drew out by cheque this morning,’ said the clerk. ‘Is not
that your handwriting?’
‘It is,’ said I faintly, as I recognised my own scrawl, dated the
evening before.
I had lost above seven hundred, and had not a sou left to pay post-
horses.
I sauntered back sadly to the ‘France,’ a sadder man than ever in my
life before. A thousand tormenting thoughts were in my brain; and a
feeling of contempt for myself, somehow, occupied a very prominent
place. Well, well; it’s all past and gone now, and I must not awaken
buried griefs.
I never saw the count and countess again; and though I have since that
been in St. Petersburg, the grand-duke seems to have forgotten my
services, and a very pompous-looking porter in a bear-skin did not look
exactly the kind of person to whom I should wish to communicate my
impression about ‘Count Potoski’s house being my own.’