THE INN AT CHANTRAINE.
[Illustration: Lorrequer as Postillion]
When contrasted with the comforts of an English bed-room in a good
hotel, how miserably short does the appearance of a French one fall in
the estimation of the tired traveller. In exchange for the carpeted
floor, the well-curtained windows, the richly tapestried bed, the well
cushioned arm-chair, and the innumerable other luxuries which await
him; he has nought but a narrow, uncurtained bed, a bare floor,
occasionally a flagged one, three hard cane-bottomed chairs, and a
looking-glass which may convey an idea of how you would look under the
combined influence of the cholera, and a stroke of apoplexy, one half
of your face being twice the length of the other, and the entire of it
of a bluish-green tint—pretty enough in one of Turner’s landscapes, but
not at all becoming when applied to the “human face divine.” Let no
late arrival from the continent contradict me here by his late
experiences, which a stray twenty pounds and the railroads—(confound
them for the same)—have enabled him to acquire. I speak of matters
before it occurred to all Charing-Cross and Cheapside to “take the
water” between Dover and Calais, and inundate the world with the wit of
the Cider Cellar, and the Hole in the Wall. No! In the days I write of,
the travelled were of another genus, and you might dine at Very’s or
have your loge at “Les Italiens,” without being dunned by your tailor
at the one, or confronted with your washer-woman at the other. Perhaps
I have written all this in the spite and malice of a man who feels that
his louis-d’or only goes half as far now as heretofore; and attributes
all his diminished enjoyments and restricted luxuries to the unceasing
current of his countrymen, whom fate, and the law of imprisonment for
debt, impel hither. Whether I am so far guilty or not, is not now the
question; suffice it to say, that Harry Lorrequer, for reasons best
known to himself, lives abroad, where he will be most happy to see any
of his old and former friends who take his quarters en route; and in
the words of a bellicose brother of the pen, but in a far different
spirit, he would add, “that any person who feels himself here alluded
to, may learn the author’s address at his publishers.” “Now let us go
back to our muttons,” as Barney Coyle used to say in the Dublin Library
formerly—for Barney was fond of French allusions, which occasionally
too he gave in their own tongue, as once describing an interview with
Lord Cloncurry, in which he broke off suddenly the conference, adding,
“I told him I never could consent to such a proposition, and putting my
chateau (chapeau) on my head, I left the house at once.”
It was nearly three o’clock in the morning, as accompanied by the
waiter, who, like others of his tribe, had become a kind of
somnambulist ex-officio, I wended my way up one flight of stairs, and
down another, along a narrow corridor, down two steps, through an
antechamber, and into another corridor, to No. 82, my habitation for
the night. Why I should have been so far conducted from the habitable
portion of the house I had spent my evening in, I leave the learned in
such matters to explain; as for me, I have ever remarked it, while
asking for a chamber in a large roomy hotel, the singular pride with
which you are ushered up grand stair-cases, down passages, through
corridors, and up narrow back flights, till the blue sky is seen
through the sky-light, to No. 199, “the only spare bed-room in the
house,” while the silence and desolation of the whole establishment
would seem to imply far otherwise—the only evidence of occupation being
a pair of dirty Wellingtons at the door of No. 2.
“Well, we have arrived at last,” said I, drawing a deep sigh, as I
threw myself upon a ricketty chair, and surveyed rapidly my
meagre-looking apartment.
“Yes, this is Monsieur’s chamber,” said the waiter, with a very
peculiar look, half servile, half droll. “Madame se couche, No. 28.”
“Very well, good night,” said I, closing the door hastily, and not
liking the farther scrutiny of the fellow’s eye, as he fastened it on
me, as if to search what precise degree of relationship existed between
myself and my fair friend, whom he had called “Madame” purposely to
elicit an observation from me. “Ten to one though,” said I, as I
undressed myself, “but they think she is my wife—how good—but again—ay,
it is very possible, considering we are in France. Numero vingt-huit,
quite far enough from this part of the house I should suppose from my
number,—that old gen-d’arme was a fine fellow—what strong attachment to
Napoleon; and the story of the pope; I hope I may remember that.
Isabella, poor girl—this adventure must really distress her—hope she is
not crying over it—what a devil of a hard bed—and it is not five feet
long too—and, bless my soul, is this all by way of covering; why I
shall be perished here. Oh! I must certainly put all my clothes over me
in addition, unfortunately there is no hearth-rug—well, there is no
help for it now—so let me try to sleep—numero vingt-huit.”
How long I remained in a kind of uneasy, fitful slumber, I cannot tell;
but I awoke shivering with cold—puzzled to tell where I was, and my
brain addled with the broken fragments of half a dozen dreams, all
mingling and mixing themselves with the unpleasant realities of my
situation. What an infernal contrivance for a bed, thought I, as my
head came thump against the top, while my legs projected far beyond the
foot-rail; the miserable portion of clothing over me at the same time
being only sufficient to temper the night air, which in autumn is
occasionally severe and cutting. This will never do. I must ring the
bell and rouse the house, if only to get a fire, if they don’t possess
such a thing as blankets. I immediately rose, and groping my way along
the wall endeavoured to discover the bell, but in vain; and for the
same satisfactory reason that Von Troil did not devote one chapter of
his work on “Iceland” to “snakes,” because there were none such there.
What was now to be done? About the geography of my present abode I
knew, perhaps, as much as the public at large know about the Coppermine
river and Behring’s straits. The world, it was true, was before me,
“where top choose,” admirable things for an epic, but decidedly an
unfortunate circumstance for a very cold gentleman in search of a
blanket. Thus thinking, I opened the door of my chamber, and not in any
way resolved how I should proceed, I stepped forth into the long
corridor, which was dark as midnight itself.
Tracing my path along the wall, I soon reached a door which I in vain
attempted to open; in another moment I found another and another, each
of which were locked. Thus along the entire corridor I felt my way,
making every effort to discover where any of the people of the house
might have concealed themselves, but without success. What was to be
done now? It was of no use to go back to my late abode, and find it
comfortless as I left it; so I resolved to proceed in my search; by
this time I had arrived at the top of a small flight of stairs, which I
remembered having come up, and which led to another long passage
similar to the one I had explored, but running in a transverse
direction, down this I now crept, and reached the landing, along the
wall of which I was guided by my hand, as well for safety as to
discover the architrave of some friendly door, where the inhabitant
might be sufficiently Samaritan to lend some portion of his
bed-clothes; door after door followed in succession along this
confounded passage, which I began to think as long as the gallery of
the lower one; at last, however, just as my heart was sinking within me
from disappointment, the handle of a lock turned, and I found myself
inside a chamber. How was I now to proceed? for if this apartment did
not contain any of the people of the hotel, I had but a sorry excuse
for disturbing the repose of any traveller who might have been more
fortunate than myself in the article of blankets. To go back however,
would be absurd, having already taken so much trouble to find out a
room that was inhabited—for that such was the case, a short, thick
snore assured me—so that my resolve was at once made, to waken the
sleeper, and endeavour to interest him in my destitute situation. I
accordingly approached the place where the nasal sounds seemed to issue
from, and soon reached the post of a bed. I waited for an instant, and
then began,
“Monsier, voulez vous bien me permettre—”
“As to short whist, I never could make it out, so there is an end of
it,” said my unknown friend, in a low, husky voice, which, strangely
enough, was not totally unfamiliar to me: but when or how I had heard
it before I could not then think.
Well, thought I, he is an Englishman at all events, so I hope his
patriotism may forgive my intrusion, so here goes once more to rouse
him, though he seems a confoundedly heavy sleeper. “I beg your pardon,
sir, but unfortunately in a point like the present, perhaps—”
“Well, do you mark the points, and I’ll score the rubber,” said he.
“The devil take the gambling fellow’s dreaming,” thought I, raising my
voice at the same time.
“Perhaps a cold night, sir, may suffice as my apology.”
“Cold, oh, ay! put a hot poker to it,” muttered he; “a hot poker, a
little sugar, and a spice of nutmeg—nothing else—then it’s delicious.”
“Upon my soul, this is too bad,” said I to myself. “Let us see what
shaking will do. Sir, sir, I shall feel obliged by—”
“Well there, don’t shake me, and I’ll tell you where I hid the
cigars—they are under my straw hat in the window.”
“Well, really,” thought I, “if this gentleman’s confessions were of an
interesting nature, this might be good fun; but as the night is cold, I
must shorten the ‘seance,’ so here goes for one effort more.
“If, sir, you could kindly spare me even a small portion of your
bed-clothes.”
“No, thank you, no more wine; but I’ll sing with pleasure;” and here
the wretch, in something like the voice of a frog with the quinsy,
began, “‘I’d mourn the hopes that leave me.’”
“You shall mourn something else for the same reason,” said I, as losing
all patience, I seized quilts and blankets by the corner, and with one
vigourous pull wrenched them from the bed, and darted from the room—in
a second I was in the corridor, trailing my spoil behind—which in my
haste I had not time to collect in a bundle. I flew rather than ran
along the passage, reached the stairs, and in another minute had
reached the second gallery, but not before I heard the slam of a door
behind me, and the same instant the footsteps of a person running along
the corridor, who could be no other than my pursuer, effectually
aroused by my last appeal to his charity. I darted along the dark and
narrow passage; but soon to my horror discovered that I must have
passed the door of my chamber, for I had reached the foot of a narrow
back stair, which led to the grenier and the servants’ rooms, beneath
the roof. To turn now would only have led me plump in the face of my
injured countryman, of whose thew and sinew I was perfectly ignorant,
and did not much like to venture upon. There was little time for
reflection, for he had now reached the top of the stair, and was
evidently listening for some clue to guide him on; stealthily and
silently, and scarcely drawing breath, I mounted the narrow stairs step
by step, but before I had arrived at the landing, he heard the rustle
of the bed-clothes, and again gave chace. There was something in the
unrelenting ardour of his pursuit, which suggested to my mind the idea
of a most uncompromising foe; and as fear added speed to my steps, I
dashed along beneath the low-roofed passage, wondering what chance of
escape might yet present itself. Just at this instant, the hand by
which I had guided myself along the wall, touched the handle of a
door—I turned it—it opened—I drew in my precious bundle, and closing
the door noiselessly, sat down, breathless and still, upon the floor.
Scarcely was this, the work of a second, accomplished, when the heavy
tread of my pursuer resounded on the floor.
“Upon my conscience it’s strange if I haven’t you now, my friend,” said
he: “you’re in a cul de sac here, as they say, if I know any thing of
the house; and faith I’ll make a salad of you, when I get you, that’s
all. Devil a dirtier trick ever I heard tell of.”
Need I say that these words had the true smack of an Irish accent,
which circumstance, from whatever cause, did not by any means tend to
assuage my fears in the event of discovery.
However, from such a misfortune my good genius now delivered me; for
after traversing the passage to the end, he at last discovered another,
which led by a long flight to the second story, down which he
proceeded, venting at every step his determination for vengeance, and
his resolution not to desist from the pursuit, if it took the entire
night for it.
“Well now,” thought I, “as he will scarcely venture up here again, and
as I may, by leaving this, be only incurring the risk of encountering
him, my best plan is to stay where I am if it be possible.” With this
intent I proceeded to explore the apartment, which from its perfect
stillness, I concluded to be unoccupied. After some few minutes groping
I reached a low bed, fortunately empty, and although the touch of the
bed-clothes led to no very favourable augury of its neatness or
elegance, there was little choice at this moment, so I rolled myself up
in my recent booty, and resolved to wait patiently for day-break to
regain my apartment.
As always happens in such circumstances, sleep came on me unawares—so
at least every one’s experience I am sure can testify, that if you are
forced to awake early to start by some morning coach, and that
unfortunately you have not got to bed till late at night, the chances
are ten to one, that you get no sleep whatever, simply because you are
desirous for it; but make up your mind ever so resolutely, that you’ll
not sleep, and whether your determination be built on motives of
propriety, duty, convenience, or health, and the chances are just as
strong that you are sound and snoring before ten minutes.
How many a man has found it impossible, with every effort of his heart
and brain aiding his good wishes, to sit with unclosed eyes and ears
through a dull sermon in the dog-days; how many an expectant, longing
heir has yielded to the drowsy influence when endeavouring to look
contrite under the severe correction of a lecture on extravagance from
his uncle. Who has not felt the irresistible tendency to “drop off” in
the half hour before dinner at a stupid country-house? I need not
catalogue the thousand other situations in life infinitely more
“sleep-compelling” than Morphine; for myself, my pleasantest and
soundest moments of perfect forgetfulness of this dreary world and all
its cares, have been taken in an oaken bench, seated bolt upright and
vis a vis to a lecturer on botany, whose calming accents, united with
the softened light of an autumnal day, piercing its difficult rays
through the narrow and cobwebbed windows, the odour of the recent
plants and flowers aiding and abetting, all combined to steep the soul
in sleep, and you sank by imperceptible and gradual steps into that
state of easy slumber, in which “come no dreams,” and the last sounds
of the lecturer’s “hypogenous and perigenous” died away, becoming
beautifully less, till your senses sank into rest, the syllables
“rigging us, rigging us,” seemed to melt away in the distance and fade
from your memory—Peace be with you, Doctor A. If I owe gratitude any
where I have my debt with you. The very memory I bear of you has saved
me no inconsiderable sum in hop and henbane. Without any assistance
from the sciences on the present occasion, I was soon asleep, and woke
not till the cracking of whips, and trampling of horses’ feet on the
pavement of the coach-yard apprised me that the world had risen to its
daily labour, and so should I. From the short survey of my present
chamber which I took on waking, I conjectured it must have been the den
of some of the servants of the house upon occasion—two low truckle-beds
of the meanest description lay along the wall opposite to mine; one of
them appeared to have been slept in during the past night, but by what
species of animal the Fates alone can tell. An old demi-peak saddle,
capped and tipped with brass, some rusty bits, and stray stirrup-irons
lay here and there upon the floor; while upon a species of
clothes-rack, attached to a rafter, hung a tarnished suit of
postillion’s livery, cap, jacket, leathers, and jack-boots, all ready
for use; and evidently from their arrangement supposed by the owner to
be a rather creditable “turn out.”
I turned over these singular habiliments with much of the curiosity
with which an antiquary would survey a suit of chain armour; the long
epaulettes of yellow cotton cord, the heavy belt with its brass buckle,
the cumbrous boots, plaited and bound with iron like churns were in
rather a ludicrous contrast to the equipment of our light and
jockey-like boys in nankeen jackets and neat tops, that spin along over
our level “macadam.”
“But,” thought I, “it is full time I should get back to No. 82, and
make my appearance below stairs;” though in what part of the building
my room lay, and how I was to reach it without my clothes, I had not
the slightest idea. A blanket is an excessively comfortable article of
wearing apparel when in bed, but as a walking costume is by no means
convenient or appropriate; while to making a sorti en sauvage, however
appropriate during the night, there were many serious objections if
done “en plein jour,” and with the whole establishment awake and
active; the noise of mopping, scrubbing, and polishing, which is
eternally going forward in a foreign inn amply testified there was
nothing which I could adopt in my present naked and forlorn condition,
save the bizarre and ridiculous dress of the postillion, and I need not
say the thought of so doing presented nothing agreeable. I looked from
the narrow window out upon the tiled roof, but without any prospect of
being heard if I called ever so loudly.
The infernal noise of floor-cleansing, assisted by a Norman peasant’s
“chanson du pays,” the time being well marked by her heavy sabots, gave
even less chance to me within; so that after more than half an hour
passed in weighing difficulties, and canvassing plans, upon donning the
blue and yellow, and setting out for my own room without delay, hoping
sincerely, that with proper precaution, I should be able to reach it
unseen and unobserved.
As I laid but little stress upon the figure I should make in my new
habiliments, it did not cause me much mortification to find that the
clothes were considerably too small, the jacket scarcely coming beneath
my arms, and the sleeves being so short that my hands and wrists
projected beyond the cuffs like two enormous claws; the leathers were
also limited in their length, and when drawn up to a proper height,
permitted my knees to be seen beneath, like the short costume of a
Spanish Tauridor, but scarcely as graceful; not wishing to encumber
myself in the heavy and noisy masses of wood, iron, and leather, they
call “les bottes forts,” I slipped my feet into my slippers, and stole
gently from the room. How I must have looked at the moment I leave my
reader to guess, as with anxious and stealthy pace I crept along the
low gallery that led to the narrow staircase, down which I proceeded,
step by step; but just as I reached the bottom, perceived a little
distance from me, with her back turned towards me, a short, squat
peasant on her knees, belabouring with a brush the well waxed floor; to
pass therefore, unobserved was impossible, so that I did not hesitate
to address her, and endeavour to interest her in my behalf, and enlist
her as my guide.
“Bon jour, ma chere,” said I in a soft insinuating tone; she did not
hear me, so I repeated,
“Bon jour, ma chere, bon jour.”
Upon this she turned round, and looking fixedly at me for a second,
called out in a thick pathos, “Ah, le bon Dieu! qu’il est drole comme
ca, Francois, savez vous, mais ce n’est pas Francois;” saying which,
she sprang from her kneeling position to her feet, and with a speed
that her shape and sabots seemed little to promise, rushed down the
stairs as if she had seen the devil himself.
“Why, what is the matter with the woman?” said I, “surely if I am not
Francois—which God be thanked is true—yet I cannot look so frightful as
all this would imply.” I had not much time given me for consideration
now, for before I had well deciphered the number over a door before me,
the loud noise of several voices on the floor beneath attracted my
attention, and the moment after the heavy tramp of feet followed, and
in an instant the gallery was thronged by the men and women of the
house—waiters, hostlers, cooks, scullions, filles de chambre, mingled
with gens-d’armes, peasants, and town’s people, all eagerly forcing
their way up stairs; yet all on arriving at the landing-place, seemed
disposed to keep at a respectful distance, and bundling themselves at
one end of the corridor, while I, feelingly alive to the ridiculous
appearance I made, occupied the other—the gravity with which they
seemed at first disposed to regard me soon gave way, and peal after
peal of laughter broke out, and young and old, men and women, even to
the most farouche gens-d’armes, all appearing incapable of controlling
the desire for merriment my most singular figure inspired; and
unfortunately this emotion seemed to promise no very speedy conclusion;
for the jokes and witticisms made upon my appearance threatened to
renew the festivities, ad libitum.
“Regardez donc ses epaules,” said one.
“Ah, mon Dieu! Il me fait l’idee d’une grenouille aves ses jambes
jaunes,” cried another.
“Il vaut son pesant de fromage pour une Vaudeville,” said the director
of the strolling theatre of the place.
“I’ll give seventy francs a week, ‘d’appointment,’ and ‘Scribe’ shall
write a piece express for himself, if he’ll take it.”
“May the devil fly away with your grinning baboon faces,” said I, as I
rushed up the stairs again, pursued by the mob at full cry; scarcely,
however, had I reached the top step, when the rough hand of the
gen-d’arme seized me by the shoulder, while he said in a low, husky
voice, “c’est inutile, Monsieur, you cannot escape—the thing was well
contrived, it is true; but the gens-d’armes of France are not easily
outwitted, and you could not have long avoided detection, even in that
dress.” It was my turn to laugh now, which, to their very great
amazement, I did, loud and long; that I should have thought my present
costume could ever have been the means of screening me from
observation, however it might have been calculated to attract it, was
rather too absurd a supposition even for the mayor of a village to
entertain; besides, it only now occurred to me that I was figuring in
the character of a prisoner. The continued peals of laughing which this
mistake on their part elicited from me seemed to afford but slight
pleasure to my captor, who gruffly said—
“When you have done amusing yourself, mon ami, perhaps you will do us
the favour to come before the mayor.”
“Certainly,” I replied; “but you will first permit me to resume my own
clothes, I am quite sick of masquerading ‘en postillion.’”
“Not so fast, my friend,” said the suspicious old follower of
Fouche—“not so fast; it is but right the maire should see you in the
disguise you attempted your escape in. It must be especially mentioned
in the proces verbal.”
“Well, this is becoming too ludicrous,” said I. “It need not take five
minutes to satisfy you why, how, and where, I put on these confounded
rags—”
“Then tell it to the maire, at the Bureau.”
“But for that purpose it is not necessary I should be conducted through
the streets in broad day, to be laughed at. No, positively, I’ll not
go. In my own dress I’ll accompany you with pleasure.”
“Victor, Henri, Guillame,” said the gen-d’arme, addressing his
companions, who immediately closed round me. “You see,” added he,
“there is no use in resisting.”
Need I recount my own shame and ineffable disgrace? Alas! it is too,
too true. Harry Lorrequer—whom Stultze entreated to wear his coats, the
ornament of Hyde Park, the last appeal in dress, fashion, and
equipage—was obliged to parade through the mob of a market-town in
France, with four gens-d’armes for his companions, and he himself
habited in a mongrel character—half postillion, half Delaware Indian.
The incessant yells of laughter—the screams of the children, and the
outpouring of every species of sarcasm and ridicule, at my expense,
were not all—for, as I emerged from the porte-chochere I saw Isabella
in the window: her eyes were red with weeping; but no sooner had she
beheld me, than she broke out into a fit of laughter that was audible
even in the street.
Rage had now taken such a hold upon me, that I forgot my ridiculous
appearance in my thirst for vengeance. I marched on through the
grinning crowd, with the step of a martyr. I suppose my heroic bearing
and warlike deportment must have heightened the drollery of the scene;
for the devils only laughed the more. The bureau of the maire could not
contain one-tenth of the anxious and curious individuals who thronged
the entrance, and for about twenty minutes the whole efforts of the
gens-d’armes were little enough to keep order and maintain silence. At
length the maire made his appearance, and accustomed as he had been for
a long life to scenes of an absurd and extraordinary nature, yet the
ridicule of my look and costume was too much, and he laughed outright.
This was of course the signal for renewed mirth for the crowd, while
those without doors, infected by the example, took up the jest, and I
had the pleasure of a short calculation, a la Babbage, of how many
maxillary jaws were at that same moment wagging at my expense.
However, the examination commenced; and I at length obtained an
opportunity of explaining under what circumstances I had left my room,
and how and why I had been induced to don this confounded cause of all
my misery.
“This may be very true,” said the mayor, “as it is very plausible; if
you have evidence to prove what you have stated—”
“If it’s evidence only is wanting, Mr. Maire, I’ll confirm one part of
the story,” said a voice in the crowd, in an accent and tone that
assured me the speaker was the injured proprietor of the stolen
blankets. I turned round hastily to look at my victim, and what was my
surprise to recognize a very old Dublin acquaintance, Mr. Fitzmaurice
O’Leary.
“Good morning, Mr. Lorrequer,” said he; “this is mighty like our ould
practices in College-green; but upon my conscience the maire has the
advantage of Gabbet. It’s lucky for you I know his worship, as we’d
call him at home, or this might be a serious business. Nothing would
persuade them that you were not Lucien Buonaparte, or the iron mask, or
something of that sort, if they took it into their heads.”
Mr. O’Leary was as good as his word. In a species of French, that I’d
venture to say would be perfectly intelligible in Mullingar, he
contrived to explain to the maire that I was neither a runaway nor a
swindler, but a very old friend of his, and consequently sans reproche.
The official was now as profuse of his civilities as he had before been
of his suspicions, and most hospitably pressed us to stay for
breakfast. This, for many reasons, I was obliged to decline—not the
least of which was, my impatience to get out of my present costume. We
accordingly procured a carriage, and I returned to the hotel, screened
from the gaze but still accompanied by the shouts of the mob, who
evidently took a most lively interest in the entire proceeding.
I lost no time in changing my costume, and was about to descend to the
saloon, when the master of the house came to inform me that Mrs.
Bingham’s courier had arrived with the carriage, and that she expected
us at Amiens as soon as possible.
“That is all right. Now, Mr. O’Leary, I must pray you to forgive all
the liberty I have taken with you, and also permit me to defer the
explanation of many circumstances which seem at present strange, till—”
“Till sine die, if the story be a long one, my dear sir—there’s nothing
I hate so much, except cold punch.”
“You are going to Paris,” said I; “is it not so?”
“Yes, I’m thinking of it. I was up at Trolhatten, in Norway, three
weeks ago, and I was obliged to leave it hastily, for I’ve an
appointment with a friend in Geneva.”
“Then how do you travel?”
“On foot, just as you see, except that I’ve a tobacco bag up stairs,
and an umbrella.”
“Light equipment, certainly; but you must allow me to give you a set
down as far as Amiens, and also to present you to my friends there.”
To this Mr. O’Leary made no objection; and as Miss Bingham could not
bear any delay, in her anxiety to join her mother, we set out at
once—the only thing to mar my full enjoyment at the moment being the
sight of the identical vestments I had so lately figured in, bobbing up
and down before my eyes for the whole length of the stage, and leading
to innumerable mischievous allusions from my friend Mr. O’Leary, which
were far too much relished by my fair companion.
At twelve we arrived at Amiens, when I presented my friend Mr. O’Leary
to Mrs. Bingham.