‘Will you please to tell me, Mr. O’Leary,’ said Laura, in the easy tone
of one who asked for information’s sake, ‘what are your plans here; for
up to this moment I only perceive that we have been increasing the
distance between us and Rochepied.’
‘Quite true,’ said I; ‘but you know we agreed it was impossible to hope
to find our way back through the forest. Every _allée_ here has not only
its brother, but a large family, so absolutely alike no one could
distinguish between them; we might wander for weeks without extricating
ourselves.’
‘I know all that,’ said she somewhat pettishly; ‘still my question
remains unanswered. What do you mean to do here?’
‘In the first place,’ said I, with the affected precision of one who had
long since resolved on his mode of proceeding, ‘we ‘ll dine.’
I stopped here to ascertain her sentiments on this part of my
arrangement. She gave a short nod, and I proceeded. ‘Having dined,’ said
I, ‘we’ll obtain horses and a calèche, if such can be found, for
Rochepied.’
‘I ‘ve told you already there are no such things here. They never see a
carriage of any kind from year’s end to year’s end; and there is not a
horse in the whole village.’
‘Perhaps, then, there may be a château near, where, on making known our
mishap, we might be able----’
‘Oh, that’s very simple, as far as you ‘re concerned,’ said she, with a
saucy smile; ‘but I’d just as soon not have this adventure published
over the whole country.’
Ha! by Jove, thought I, there’s a consideration completely overlooked by
me; and so I became silent and thoughtful, and spoke not another word as
we led our horses up the little rocky causeway towards the ‘Toison
d’Or.’
If we did not admire the little _auberge_ of the ‘Golden Fleece,’ truly
the fault was rather our own than from any want of merit in the little
hostelry itself. Situated on a rocky promontory on the river, it was
built actually over the stream--the door fronting it, and approachable
by a little wooden gallery, along which a range of orange-trees and
arbutus was tastefully disposed, scenting the whole air with their
fragrance. As we walked along we caught glimpses of several rooms
within, neatly and even handsomely furnished--and of one salon in
particular, where books and music lay scattered on the tables, with that
air of habitation so pleasant to look on.
So far from our appearance in a neighbourhood thus remote and secluded
creating any surprise, both host and hostess received us with the most
perfect ease, blended with a mixture of cordial civility very acceptable
at the moment.
‘We wish to dine at once,’ said I, as I handed Laura to a chair.
‘And to know in what way we can reach Rochepied,’ said she; ‘our horses
are weary and not able for the road.’
‘For the dinner, mademoiselle, nothing is easier; but as to getting
forward to-night----’
‘Oh, of course I mean to-night--at once.’
‘Ah, voilà,’ said he, scratching his forehead in bewilderment; ‘we’re
not accustomed to that, never. People generally stop a day or two; some
spend a week here, and have horses from Dinant to meet them.’
‘A week here!’ exclaimed she; ‘and what in Heaven’s name can they do
here for a week?’
‘Why, there’s the château, mademoiselle--the château of Philip de
Bouvigne, and the gardens terraced in the rock; and there’s the well of
St. Sèvres, and the Ile de Notre Dame aux bois; and then there’s such
capital fishing in the stream, with abundance of trout.’
‘Oh, delightful, I’m sure,’ said she impatiently; ‘but we wish to get
on. So just set your mind to that, like a worthy man.’
‘Well, we’ll see what can be done,’ replied he; ‘and before dinner’s
over, perhaps I may find some means to forward you.’
With this he left the room, leaving mademoiselle and myself _tête-à-
tête_. And here let me confess, never did any man feel his situation
more awkwardly than I did mine at that moment; and before any of my
younger and more ardent brethren censure me, let me at least ‘show
cause’ in my defence. First, I myself, however unintentionally, had
brought Mademoiselle Laura into her present embarrassment; but for me
and the confounded roan she had been at that moment cantering away
pleasantly with the Comte d’Espagne beside her, listening to his
_fleurettes_ and receiving his attentions. Secondly, I was, partly from
bashfulness, partly from fear, little able to play the part my present
emergency demanded, which should either have been one of downright
indifference and ease, or something of a more tender nature, which
indeed the very pretty companion of my travels might have perfectly
justified.
‘Well,’ said she, after a considerable pause, ‘this is about the most
ridiculous scrape I’ve ever been involved in. What _will_ they think at
the château?’
‘If they saw your horse when he bolted----’
‘Of course they did,’ said she; ‘but what could they do? The Comte
d’Espagne is always mounted on a slow horse: _he_ couldn’t overtake me;
then the _maîtres_ couldn’t pass the grand maître.’
‘What!’ cried I, in amazement; ‘I don’t comprehend you perfectly.’
‘It’s quite clear, nevertheless,’ replied she; ‘but I see you don’t know
the rules of the _chasse_ in Flanders.’
With this she entered into a detail of the laws of the hunting-field,
which more than once threw me into fits of laughter. It seemed, then,
that the code decided that each horseman who followed the hounds should
not be left to the wilfulness of his horse or the aspirings of his
ambition, as to the place he occupied in the chase. It was no momentary
superiority of skill or steed, no display of jockeyship, no blood that
decided this momentous question. No; that was arranged on principles far
less vacillating and more permanent at the commencement of the hunting
season, by which it was laid down as a rule that the _grand maître_ was
always to ride first. His pace might be fast or it might be slow, but
his place was there. After him came the _maîtres_, the people in
scarlet, who in right of paying double subscription were thus costumed
and thus privileged; while the ‘aspirants’ in green followed last, their
smaller contribution only permitting them to see so much of the sport as
their respectful distance opened to them--and thus that indiscriminate
rush, so observable in our hunting-fields, was admirably avoided and
provided against. It was no headlong piece of reckless daring, no
impetuous dash of bold horsemanship; on the contrary, it was a decorous
and stately canter--not after hounds, but after an elderly gentleman in
a red coat and a brass tube, who was taking a quiet airing in the
pleasing delusion that he was hunting an animal unknown. Woe unto the
man who forgot his place in the procession! You might as well walk into
dinner before your host, under the pretence that you were a more nimble
pedestrian.
Besides this, there were subordinate rules to no end. Certain notes on
the _cor de chasse_ were royalties of the _grand maître_; the _maîtres_
possessed others as their privileges which no ‘aspirant’ dare venture
on. There were quavers for one, and semiquavers for the other; and, in
fact, a most complicated system of legislation comprehended every
incident, and I believe every accident, of the sport, so much that I
can’t trust my memory as to whether the wretched ‘aspirants’ were not
limited to tumbling in one particular direction--which, if so, must have
been somewhat of a tyranny, seeing they were but men, and Belgians.
‘This might seem all very absurd and very fabulous if I referred to a
number of years back; but when I say that the code still exists, in the
year of grace, 1856, what will they say at Melton or Grantham? So you
may imagine,’ said Laura, on concluding her description, which she gave
with much humour, ‘how manifold your transgressions have been this day.
You have offended the _grand maître, maîtres_, and aspirants, in one
_coup_; you have broken up the whole “order of their going.”’
‘And run away with the belle of the château,’ added I, _pour comble de
hardiesse_. She did not seem half to relish my jest, however; and gave a
little shake of the head, as though to say, ‘You’re not out of _that_
scrape yet.’
Thus did we chat over our dinner, which was really excellent, the host’s
eulogy on the Meuse trout being admirably sustained by their merits; nor
did his flask of Haut-Brion lower the character of his cellar. Still no
note of preparation seemed to indicate any arrangements for our
departure; and although, sooth to say, I could have reconciled myself
wonderfully to the inconvenience of the Toison d’Or for the whole week
if necessary, Laura was becoming momentarily more impatient, as she
said--
‘_Do_ see if they are getting anything like a carriage ready, or even
horses; we can ride, if they’ll only get us animals.’
As I entered the little kitchen of the inn, I found my host stretched at
ease in a wicker chair, surrounded by a little atmosphere of smoke,
through which his great round face loomed like the moon in the grotesque
engravings one sees in old spelling-books. So far from giving himself
any unnecessary trouble about our departure, he had never ventured
beyond the precincts of the stove, contenting himself with a wholesome
monologue on the impossibility of our desires, and that great Flemish
consolation, that however we might chafe at first, time would calm us in
the end.
After a fruitless interrogation about the means of proceeding, I asked
if there were no château in the vicinity where horses could be borrowed.
He replied,’ No, not one for miles round.’
‘Is there no mayor in the village--where is he?’
‘I am the mayor,’ replied he, with a conscious dignity.
‘Alas!’ thought I, as the functionary of Givet crossed my mind, ‘why did
I not remember that the mayor is always the most stupid of the whole
community?’
‘Then I think,’ said I, after a brief silence, ‘we had better see the
curé at once.’
‘I thought so,’ was the sententious reply.
Without troubling my head why he ‘thought so,’ I begged that the curé
might be informed that a gentleman at the inn begged to speak with him
for a few minutes.
‘The Père José, I suppose?’ said the host significantly.
‘With all my heart,’ said I; ‘José or Pierre, it’s all alike to me.’
‘He is there in waiting this half-hour,’ said the host, pointing with
his thumb to a small salon off the kitchen.
‘Indeed!’ said I; ‘how very polite the attention! I ‘m really most
grateful.’
With which, without delaying another moment, I pushed open the door, and
entered.
The Père José was a short, ruddy, astute-looking man of about fifty,
dressed in the canonical habit of a Flemish priest, which from time and
wear had lost much of its original freshness. He had barely time to
unfasten a huge napkin, which he had tied around his neck during his
devotion to a great mess of vegetable soup, when I made my bow to him.
‘The Père José, I believe?’ said I, as I took my seat opposite to him.
‘That unworthy priest!’ said he, wiping his lips, and throwing up his
eyes with an expression not wholly devotional.
‘Père José,’ resumed I, ‘a young lady and myself, who have just arrived
here with weary horses, stand in need of your kind assistance.’ Here he
pressed my hand gently, as if to assure me I was not mistaken in my man,
and I went on: ‘We must reach Rochepied to-night; now, will you try and
assist us at this conjuncture? We are complete strangers.’
‘Enough, enough!’ said he. ‘I’m sorry you are constrained for time. This
is a sweet little place for a few days’ sojourn. But if,’ said he, ‘it
can’t be, you shall have every aid in my power. I ‘ll send off to Poil
de Vache for his mule and car. You don’t mind a little shaking?’ said
he, smiling.
‘It’s no time to be fastidious, _père_, and the lady is an excellent
traveller.’
‘The mule is a good beast, and will bring you in three hours, or even
less.’ So saying, he sat down and wrote a few lines on a scrap of paper,
with which he despatched a boy from the inn, telling him to make every
haste. ‘And now monsieur, may I be permitted to pay my respects to
mademoiselle?’
‘Most certainly, Père José; she will be but too happy to add her thanks
to mine for what you have done for us.’
‘Say rather, for what I am about to do,’ said he, smiling.
‘The will is half the deed, father.’
‘A good adage, and an old,’ replied he, while he proceeded to arrange
his drapery, and make himself as presentable as the nature of his
costume would admit.
‘This was a rapid business of yours,’ said he, as he smoothed down his
few locks at the back of his head.
‘That it was, _père_--a regular runaway.’
‘I guessed as much,’ said he. ‘I said so, the moment I saw you at the
ferry.’
The _père_ is no bad judge of horse-flesh, thought I, to detect the
condition of our beasts at that distance.
‘“There’s something for me,” said I to Madame Guyon. “Look yonder! See
how their cattle are blowing! They’ve lost no time, and neither will I.”
And with that I put on my gown and came up here.’
‘How considerate of you, _père_; you saw we should need your help.’
‘Of course I did,’ said he, chuckling. ‘Of course I did. Old Grégoire,
here, is so stupid and so indolent that I have to keep a sharp lookout
myself. But he’s the _maire_, and one can’t quarrel with him.’
‘Very true,’ said I. ‘A functionary has a hundred opportunities of doing
civil things, or the reverse.’
‘That’s exactly the case,’ said the _père_. ‘Without him we should have
no law on our side. It would be all _sous la cheminée_, as they say.’
The expression was new to me, and I imagined the good priest to mean,
that without the magistrature, respect for the laws might as well be ‘up
the chimney.’
‘And now, if you will allow me, we ‘ll pay our duty to the lady,’ said
the Père José, when he had completed his toilette to his satisfaction.
When the ceremonial of presenting the _père_ was over I informed Laura
of his great kindness in our behalf, and the trouble he had taken to
provide us with an equipage.
‘A sorry one, I fear, mademoiselle,’ interposed he, with a bow. ‘But I
believe there are few circumstances in life where people are more
willing to endure sacrifices.’
‘Then monsieur has explained to you our position?’ said Laura, half
blushing at the absurdity of the adventure.
‘Everything, my dear young lady--everything. Don’t let the thought give
you any uneasiness, however. I listen to stranger stories every day.
‘Taste that Haut-Brion, _père_,’ said I, wishing to give the
conversation a turn, as I saw Laura felt uncomfortable, ‘and give me
your opinion of it. To my judgment it seems excellent.’
‘And your judgment is unimpeachable in more respects than that,’ said
the _père_, with a significant look, which fortunately was not seen by
mademoiselle.
Confound him, said I to myself; I must try another tack. ‘We were
remarking, Père José, as we came along that very picturesque river, the
Château de Bouvigne; a fine thing in its time, it must have been.’
‘You know the story, I suppose?’ said the père.
‘Mademoiselle was relating it to me on the way, and indeed I am most
anxious to hear the dénouement.’
‘It was a sad one,’ said he slowly. ‘I’ll show you the spot where Henri
fell--the stone that marks the place.’
‘Oh, Père José,’ said Laura, ‘I must stop you--indeed I must--or the
whole interest of my narrative will be ruined. You forget that monsieur
has not heard the tale out.’
‘Ah! _ma foi_, I beg pardon--a thousand pardons. Mademoiselle, then,
knows Bouvigne?’
‘I ‘ve been here once before, but only part of a morning. I ‘ve seen
nothing but the outer court of the château and the _fosse du traître_.’
‘So, so; you know it all, I perceive,’ said he, smiling pleasantly. ‘Are
you too much fatigued for a walk that far?’
‘Shall we have time?’ said Laura; ‘that’s the question.’
‘Abundance of time. Jacob can’t be here for an hour yet, at soonest. And
if you allow me, I’ll give all the necessary directions before we leave,
so that you ‘ll not be delayed ten minutes on your return.’
While Laura went in search of her hat, I again proffered my thanks to
the kind _père_ for all his good nature, expressing the strong desire I
felt for some opportunity of requital.
‘Be happy,’ said the good man, squeezing my hand affectionately; ‘that’s
the way you can best repay me.’
‘It would not be difficult to follow the precept in your society, Père
José,’ said I, overcome by the cordiality of the old man’s manner.
‘I have made a great many so, indeed,’ said he. ‘The five-and-thirty
years I have lived in Bouvigne have not been without their fruit.’
Laura joined us here, and we took the way together towards the château,
the priest discoursing all the way on the memorable features of the
place, its remains of ancient grandeur, and the picturesque beauty of
its site.
As we ascended the steep path which, cut in the solid rock, leads to the
château, groups of pretty children came flocking about us, presenting
bouquets for our acceptance, and even scattering flowers in our path.
This simple act of village courtesy struck us both much, and we could
not help feeling touched by the graceful delicacy of the little ones,
who tripped away ere we could reward them; neither could I avoid
remarking to Laura, on the perfect good understanding that seemed to
subsist between Père José and the children of his flock--the paternal
fondness on one side, and the filial reverence on the other. As we
conversed thus, we came in front of a great arched doorway, in a curtain
wall connecting two massive fragments of rock. In front lay a deep
fosse, traversed by a narrow wall, scarce wide enough for one person to
venture on. Below, the tangled weeds and ivy concealed the dark abyss,
which was full eighty feet in depth.
‘Look up, now,’ said Laura; ‘you must bear the features of this spot in
mind to understand the story. Don’t forget where that beam projects--do
you mark it well?’
‘He’ll get a better notion of it from the tower,’ said the _père_,
‘Shall I assist you across?’
Without any aid, however, Laura trod the narrow pathway, and hasted
along up the steep and time-worn steps of the old tower. As we emerged
upon the battlements, we stood for a moment, overcome by the splendour
of the prospect. Miles upon miles of rich landscape lay beneath us,
glittering in the red, brown, and golden tints of autumn--that gorgeous
livery which the year puts on, ere it dons the sad-coloured mantle of
winter. The great forest, too, was touched here and there with that
light brown, the first advance of the season; while the river reflected
every tint in its calm tide, as though it also would sympathise with the
changes around it.
While the Père José continued to point out each place of mark or note in
the vast plain, interweaving in his descriptions some chance bit of
antiquarian or historic lore, we were forcibly struck by the thorough
intimacy he possessed with all the features of the locality, and could
not help complimenting him upon it.
‘Yes, ‘_ma foi_,’ said he, ‘I know every rock and crevice, every old
tree and rivulet for miles round. In the long life I have passed here,
each day has brought me among these scenes with some traveller or other;
and albeit they who visit us here have little thought for the
picturesque, few are unmoved by this peaceful and lovely valley. You’d
little suspect, mademoiselle, how many have passed through my hands
here, in these five-and-thirty years. I keep a record of their names, in
which I must beg you will kindly inscribe yours.’
Laura blushed at the proposition which should thus commemorate her
misadventure; while I mumbled out something about our being mere passing
strangers, unknown in the land.
‘No matter for that,’ replied the inexorable father, ‘I’ll have your
names--ay, autographs too!’
‘The sun seems very low,’ said Laura, as she pointed to the west, where
already a blaze of red golden light was spreading over the horizon: ‘I
think we must hasten our departure.’
‘Follow me, then,’ said the _père_, ‘and I ‘ll conduct you by an easier
path than we came up by.’
With that he unlocked a small postern in the curtain wall, and led us
across a neatly-shaven lawn to a little barbican, where, again unlocking
the door, we descended a flight of stone steps into a small garden
terraced in the native rock. The labour of forming it must have been
immense, as every shovelful of earth was carried from the plain beneath;
and here were fruit-trees and flowers, shrubs and plants, and in the
midst a tiny _jet d’eau_, which, as we entered, seemed magically to
salute us with its refreshing plash. A little bench, commanding a view
of the river from a different aspect, invited us to sit down for a
moment. Indeed, each turn of the way seduced us by some beauty, and we
could have lingered on for hours.
As for me, forgetful of the past, careless of the future, I was totally
wrapped up in the enjoyment of the moment, and Laura herself seemed so
enchanted by the spot that she sat silently gazing on the tranquil
scene, apparently lost in delighted reverie. A low, faint sigh escaped
her as she looked; and I thought I could see a tremulous motion of her
eyelid, as though a tear were struggling within it My heart beat
powerfully against my side. I turned to see where was the _père_. He had
gone. I looked again, and saw him standing on a point of rock far
beneath us, and waving his handkerchief as a signal to some one in the
valley. Never was there such a situation as mine; never was mortal man
so placed. I stole my hand carelessly along the bench till it touched
hers; but she moved not away--no, her mind seemed quite preoccupied. I
had never seen her profile before, and truly it was very beautiful. All
the vivacity of her temperament calmed down by the feeling of the
moment, her features had that character of placid loveliness which
seemed only wanting to make her perfectly handsome. I wished to speak,
and could not. I felt that if I could have dared to say ‘Laura,’ I could
have gone on bravely afterwards--but it would not come. ‘Amen stuck in
my throat.’ Twice I got half-way, and covered my retreat by a short
cough. Only think what a change in my destiny another syllable might
have caused! It was exactly as my second effort proved fruitless that a
delicious sound of music swelled up from the glen beneath, and floated
through the air--a chorus of young voices singing what seemed to be a
hymn. Never was anything more charming. The notes, softened as they rose
on high, seemed almost like a seraph’s song--now lifting the soul to
high and holy thoughts, now thrilling within the heart with a very
ecstasy of delight. At length they paused, the last cadence melted
slowly away, and all was still.
We did not dare to move; when Laura touched my hand gently, and
whispered, ‘Hark! there it is again! And at the same instant the voices
broke forth, but into a more joyous measure. It was one of those sweet
peasant-carollings which breathe of the light heart and the simple life
of the cottage. The words came nearer and nearer as we listened, and at
length I could trace the refrain which closed each verse--
‘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 the _père_ at 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 be _en 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 the _père_, 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 the _père_, 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 the _père_ took 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.
‘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 the _père_ entered.
‘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 that _now_,’ growled out the _père_, 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 pay _my_ bill.’
‘_Your_ bill!’ said I, waxing wroth. ‘What have I had from you. How am I
_your_ debtor? 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 0
Advice to the young couple, with moral maxims interspersed 3 0
Soirée, and society at wine 5 0
Guide to the château, with details, artistic and antiquarian 12 0
Eight children with flowers, at half a franc each 4 0
Fees at the château 2 0
Chorus of virgins, at one franc per virgin 10 0
Roses for virgins 2 10
M. le Maire et Madame ‘en grande tenue’ 1 0
Book 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, its _père_, its _maire_, and its virgins--I took the
road towards Namur, and never lifted my head till I had left the place
miles behind me.