A NIGHT IN STRASBOURG.
[Illustration: Lorrequer’s Debut at Strasburg]
With the dawn of day my miseries recommenced; for after letting down
the sash, and venting some very fervent imprecations upon the
postillion for not going faster than his horses were able, the courier
once more recurred to his last night’s blunder, and proceeded very
leisurely to catechise me as to my probable stay at Strasbourg, when I
should go from there, &c. As I was still in doubt what or whom he took
me for, I answered with the greatest circumspection—watching, the
while, for any clue that might lead me to a discovery of myself. Thus,
occasionally evading all pushing and home queries, and sometimes, when
hard pressed, feigning drowsiness, I passed the long and anxious
day—the fear of being overtaken ever mingling with the thoughts that
some unlucky admission of mine might discover my real character to the
courier, who, at any post station, might hand me over to the
authorities. Could I only guess at the part I am performing, thought I,
and I might manage to keep up the illusion; but my attention was so
entirely engrossed by fencing off all his threats, that I could find
out nothing. At last, as night drew near, the thought that we were
approaching Strasbourg rallied my spirits, suggesting an escape from
all pursuit, as well as the welcome prospect of getting rid of my
present torturer, who, whenever I awoke from a doze, reverted to our
singular meeting with a pertinacity that absolutely seemed like malice.
“As I am aware that this is your first visit to Strasbourg,” said the
courier, “perhaps I can be of service to you in recommending a hotel.
Put up, I advise you, at the ‘Bear’—a capital hotel, and not ten
minutes’ distance from the theatre.”
I thanked him for the counsel; and, rejoicing in the fact that my
prototype, whoever he might be, was unknown in the city, began to feel
some little hope of getting through this scrape, as I had done so many
others.
“They have been keeping the ‘Huguenots’ for your arrival, and all
Strasbourg is impatient for your coming.”
“Indeed!” said I, mumbling something meant to be modest. “Who the devil
am I, then, to cause all this fracas? Heaven grant, not the new
‘prefect,’ or the commander of the forces.”
“I am told the ‘Zauberflotte’ is your favourite opera?”
“I can’t say that I ever heard it—that is, I mean that I could say—well
got up.”
Here I floundered on having so far forgot myself as to endanger every
thing.
“How very unfortunate! Well, I hope you will not long have as much to
say. Meanwhile, here we are—this is the ‘Bear.’”
We rattled into the ample porte cochere of a vast hotel—the postillion
cracking his enormous whip, and bells ringing on every side, as if the
crown prince of Russia had been the arrival, and not a poor sub. in the
—th.
The courier jumped out, and running up to the landlord, whispered a few
words in his ear, to which the other answered by a deep “ah, vraiment!”
and then saluted me with an obsequiousness that made my flesh quake.
“I shall make ‘mes hommages’ in the morning,” said the courier, as he
drove off at full speed to deliver his despatches, and left me to my
own devices to perform a character, without even being able to guess
what it might be. My passport, too, the only thing that could throw any
light upon the affair, he had taken along with him, promising to have
it vised, and save me any trouble.
Of all my difficulties and puzzling situations in life, this was
certainly the worst; for however often my lot had been to personate
another, yet hitherto I had had the good fortune to be aware of what
and whom I was performing. Now I might be any body from Marshal Soult
to Monsieur Scribe; one thing only was certain, I must be a
“celebrity.” The confounded pains and trouble they were taking to
receive me, attested that fact, and left me to the pleasing reflection
that my detection, should it take place, would be sure of attracting a
very general publicity. Having ordered my supper from the landlord,
with a certain air of reserve, sufficient to prevent even an Alsace
host from obtruding any questions upon me, I took my opportunity to
stroll from the inn down to the river side. There lay the broad, rapid
Rhine, separating me, by how narrow a gulph, from that land, where, if
I once arrived, my safety was certain. Never did that great boundary of
nations strike me so forcibly, as now when my own petty interests and
fortunes were at stake. Night was fast settling upon the low flat banks
of the stream, and nothing stirred, save the ceaseless ripple of the
river. One fishing barque alone was on the water. I hailed the solitary
tenant of it, and after some little parley, induced him to ferry me
over. This, however, could only be done when the night was farther
advanced—it being against the law to cross the river except at certain
hours, and between two established points, where officers of the
revenue were stationed. The fisherman was easily bribed, however, to
evade the regulation, and only bargained that I should meet him on the
bank before daybreak. Having settled this point to my satisfaction, I
returned to my hotel in better spirits; and with a Strasbourg pate, and
a flask of Nierensteiner, drank to my speedy deliverance.
How to consume the long, dreary hours between this time and that of my
departure, I knew not; for though greatly fatigued, I felt that sleep
was impossible; the usual resource of a gossip with the host was
equally out of the question; and all that remained was the theatre,
which I happily remembered was not far from the hotel.
It was an opera night, and the house was crowded to excess; but with
some little management, I obtained a place in a box near the stage. The
piece was “Les Franc Macons,” which was certainly admirably supported,
and drew down from the audience—no mean one as judges of music—the
loudest thunders of applause. As for me, the house was a great a
curiosity as the opera. The novel spectacle of some hundred (thousand?)
people relishing and appreciating the highest order of musical genius,
was something totally new and surprising to me. The curtain at length
fell upon the fifth act.
And now the deafening roar of acclamation was tremendous; and amid a
perfect shout of enthusiasm, the manager announced the opera for the
ensuing evening. Scarcely had this subsided, when a buzz ran through
the house; at first subdued, but gradually getting louder—extending
from the boxes to the balcone—from the balcone to the parterre—and
finally even to the galleries. Groups of people stood upon the benches,
and looked fixedly in one part of the house; then changed and regarded
as eagerly the other.
What can this mean? thought I. Is the theatre on fire? Something surely
has gone wrong!
In this conviction, with the contagious spirit of curiosity, I mounted
upon a seat, and looked about me on every side; but unable still to
catch the object which seemed to attract the rest, as I was about to
resume my place, my eyes fell upon a well-known face, which in an
instant I remembered was that of my late fellow-traveller the courier.
Anxious to avoid his recognition, I attempted to get down at once; but
before I could accomplish it, the wretch had perceived and recognised
me; and I saw him, even with a gesture of delight, point me out to some
friends beside him.
“Confound the fellow,” muttered I; “I must leave this at once, or I
shall be involved in some trouble.”
Scarcely was my my resolve taken, when a new burst of voices arose from
the pit—the words “l’Auteur,” “l’Auteur,” mingling with loud cries for
“Meerberger,” “Meerberger,” to appear. So, thought I, it seems the
great composer is here. Oh, by Jove! I must have a peep at him before I
go. So, leaning over the front rail of the box, I looked anxiously
about to catch one hasty glimpse of one of the great men of his day and
country. What was my surprise, however, to perceive that about two
thousand eyes were firmly rivetted upon the box I was seated in; while
about half the number of tongues called out unceasingly, “Mr.
Meerberger—vive Meerberger—vive l’Auteur des Franc Macons—vive Franc
Macons,” &c. Before I could turn to look for the hero of the scene, my
legs were taken from under me, and I felt myself lifted by several
strong men and held out in front of the box, while the whole audience,
rising en masse, saluted me—yes, me, Harry Lorrequer—with a cheer that
shook the building. Fearful of precipitating myself into the pit
beneath, if I made the least effort, and half wild with terror and
amazement, I stared about like a maniac, while a beautiful young woman
tripped along the edge of the box, supported by her companion’s hand,
and placed lightly upon my brow a chaplet of roses and laurel. Here the
applause was like an earthquake.
“May the devil fly away with half of ye,” was my grateful response, to
as full a cheer of applause as ever the walls of the house re-echoed
to.
“On the stage—on the stage!” shouted that portion of the audience who,
occupying the same side of the house as myself, preferred having a
better view of me; and to the stage I was accordingly hurried, down a
narrow stair, through a side scene, and over half the corps de ballet
who were waiting for their entree. Kicking, plunging, buffetting like a
madman, they carried me to the “flats,” when the manager led me forward
to the foot lights, my wreath of flowers contrasting rather ruefully
with my bruised cheeks and torn habiliments. Human beings, God be
praised, are only capable of certain efforts—so that one-half the
audience were coughing their sides out, while the other were hoarse as
bull-frogs from their enthusiasm in less than five minutes.
“You’ll have what my friend Rooney calls a chronic bronchitis for this,
these three weeks,” said I, “that’s one comfort,” as I bowed my way
back to the “practicable” door, through which I made my exit, with the
thousand faces of the parterre shouting my name, or, as fancy dictated,
that of one of “my” operas. I retreated behind the scenes, to encounter
very nearly as much, and at closer quarters, too, as that lately
sustained before the audience. After an embrace of two minutes duration
from the manager, I ran the gauntlet from the prima donna to the last
triangle of the orchestra, who cut away a back button of my coat as a
“souvenir.” During all this, I must confess, very little acting was
needed on my part. They were so perfectly contented with their
self-deception, that if I had made an affidavit before the mayor—if
there be such a functionary in such an insane town—they would not have
believed me. Wearied and exhausted at length, by all I had gone
through, I sat down upon a bench, and, affecting to be overcome by my
feelings, concealed my face in my handkerchief. This was the first
moment of relief I experienced since my arrival; but it was not to last
long, for the manager, putting down his head close to my ear,
whispered—
“Monsieur Meerberger, I have a surprise for you—such as you have not
had for some time, I venture to say”—
“I defy you on this head,” thought I. “If they make me out king Solomon
now, it will not amaze me”—
“And when I tell you my secret,” continued he, “you will acknowledge I
cannot be of a very jealous disposition. Madame Baptiste has just told
me she knew you formerly, and that—she—that is, you—were—in fact, you
understand—there had been—so to say—a little ‘amourette’ between you.”
I groaned in spirit as I thought, now am I lost without a chance of
escape—the devil take her reminiscences.
“I see,” continued le bon mari, “you cannot guess of whom I speak; but
when I tell you of Amelie Grandet, your memory will, perhaps, be
better.”
“Amelie Grandet!” said I, with a stage start. I need not say that I had
never heard the name before. “Amelie Grandet here!”
“Yes, that she is,” said the manager, rubbing his hands; “and my wife,
too”—
“Married!—Amelie Grandet married! No, no; it is impossible—I cannot
believe it. But were it true—true, mark me—for worlds would I not meet
her.”
“Comment il est drole,” said the manager, soliloquising aloud; “for my
wife takes it much easier, seeing they never met each other since they
were fifteen.”
“Ho, ho!” thought I, “the affair is not so bad either—time makes great
changes in that space.” “And does she still remember me?” said I, in a
very Romeo-in-the-garden voice.
“Why, so far as remembering the little boy that used to play with her
in the orchard at her mother’s cottage near Pirna, and with whom she
used to go boating upon the Elbe, I believe the recollection is
perfect. But come along—she insists upon seeing you, and is this very
moment waiting supper in our room for you.”
“A thorough German she must be,” thought I, “with her sympathies and
her supper—her reminiscences and her Rhine wine hunting in couples
through her brain.”
Summoning courage from the fact of our long absence from each other, I
followed the manager through a wilderness of pavilions, forests, clouds
and cataracts, and at length arrived at a little door, at which he
knocked gently.
“Come in,” said a soft voice inside. We opened, and beheld a very
beautiful young woman, in Tyrolese costume. She was to perform in the
afterpiece—her low boddice and short scarlet petticoat displaying the
most perfect symmetry of form and roundness of proportion. She was
dressing her hair before a low glass as we came in, and scarcely turned
at our approach; but in an instant, as if some sudden thought had
struck her, she sprung fully round, and looking at me fixedly for above
a minute—a very trying one for me—she glanced at her husband, whose
countenance plainly indicated that she was right, and calling out,
“C’est lui—c’est bien lui,” threw herself into my arms, and sobbed
convulsively.
“If this were to be the only fruits of my impersonation,” thought I,
“it is not so bad—but I am greatly afraid these good people will find
out a wife and seven babies for me before morning.”
Whether the manager thought that enough had been done for stage effect,
I know not; but he gently disengaged the lovely Amelie, and deposited
her upon a sofa, to a place upon which she speedily motioned me by a
look from a pair of very seducing blue eyes.
“Francois, mon cher, you must put off La Chaumiere. I can’t play
to-night.”
“Put it off! But only think of the audience, ma mie—they will pull down
the house.”
“C’est possible,” said she, carelessly. “If that give them any
pleasure, I suppose they must be indulged; but I, too, must have a
little of my own way. I shall not play.”
The tone this was said in—the look—the easy gesture of command—no less
than the afflicted helplessness of the luckless husband, showed me that
Amelie, however docile as a sweetheart, had certainly her own way as
wife.
While Le cher Francois then retired, to make his proposition to the
audience, of substituting something for the Chaumiere—the “sudden
illness of Madame Baptiste having prevented her appearance,”—we began
to renew our old acquaintance, by a thousand inquiries from that
long-past time, when we were sweethearts and lovers.
“You remember me then so well?” said I.
“As of yesterday. You are much taller, and your eyes darker; but
still—there is something. You know, however, I have been expecting to
see you these two days; and tell me frankly how do you find me
looking?”
“More beautiful, a thousand times more beautiful than ever—all save in
one thing, Amelie.”
“And that is—”
“You are married.”
“How you jest. But let us look back. Do you ever think on any of our
old compacts?” Here she pulled a leaf from a rose bud in her bouquet,
and kissed it. “I wager you have forgotten that.”
How I should have replied to this masonic sign, God knows; but the
manager fortunately entered, to assure us that the audience had kindly
consented not to pull down the house, but to listen to a five act
tragedy instead, in which he had to perform the principal character.
“So, then, don’t wait supper, Amelie; but take care of Monsieur
Meerberger till my return.”
Thus, once more were we left to our souvenirs, in which, whenever hard
pushed myself, I regularly carried the war into the enemy’s camp, by
allusions to incidents, which I need not observe had never occurred.
After a thousand stories of our early loves, mingled with an occasional
sigh over their fleeting character—now indulging a soft retrospect of
the once happy past—now moralising on the future—Amelie and I chatted
away the hours till the conclusion of the tragedy.
By this time, the hour was approaching for my departure; so, after a
very tender leave-taking with my new friend and my old love, I left the
theatre, and walked slowly along to the river.
“So much for early associations,” thought I; “and how much better
pleased are we ever to paint the past according to our own fancy, than
to remember it as it really was. Hence all the insufferable cant about
happy infancy, and ‘the glorious schoolboy days,’ which have generally
no more foundation in fact than have the ‘Chateaux en Espagne’ we build
up for the future. I wager that the real Amant d’enfance, when he
arrives, is not half so great a friend with the fair Amelie as his
unworthy shadow. At the same time, I had just as soon that Lady Jane
should have no ‘premiers amours’ to look back upon, except such as I
have performed a character in.”
The plash of oars near me broke up my reflections, and the next moment
found me skimming the rapid Rhine, as I thought for the last time. What
will they say in Strasbourg to-morrow? How will they account for the
mysterious disappearance of Monsieur Meerberger? Poor Amelie Grandet!
For so completely had the late incidents engrossed my attention, that I
had for the moment lost sight of the most singular event of all—how I
came to be mistaken for the illustrious composer.