MUNICH.
The rest and quietness of the preceding day had so far recovered me
from the effects of my accident, that I resolved, as soon as breakfast
was over, to take leave of my kind friends, and set out for Munich.
“We shall meet to-night, Harry,” said Waller, as we parted—“we shall
meet at the Casino—and don’t forget that the Croix Blanche is your
hotel; and Schnetz, the tailor, in the Grande Place, will provide you
with every thing you need in the way of dress.”
This latter piece of information was satisfactory, inasmuch as the
greater part of my luggage, containing my uniform, &c., had been left
in the French diligence; and as the ball was patronised by the court, I
was greatly puzzled how to make my appearance.
Bad roads and worse horses made me feel the few leagues I had to go the
most tiresome part of my journey. But, of course, in this feeling
impatience had its share. A few hours more, and my fate should be
decided; and yet I thought the time would never come. If the Callonbys
should not arrive—if, again, my evil star be in the ascendant, and any
new impediment to our meeting arise—but I cannot, will not, think
this—Fortune must surely be tired of persecuting me by this time, and,
even to sustain her old character for fickleness, must befriend me now.
Ah! here we are in Munich—and this is the Croix Blanche—what a dingy
old mansion! Beneath a massive porch, supported by heavy stone pillars,
stood the stout figure of Andreas Behr, the host. A white napkin,
fastened in one button-hole, and hanging gracefully down beside him—a
soup-ladle held sceptre-wise in his right hand, and the grinding motion
of his nether jaw, all showed that he had risen from his table d’hote
to welcome the new arrival; and certainly, if noise and uproar might
explain the phenomenon, the clatter of my equipage over the pavement
might have risen the dead.
[Illustration: The Inn at Munich]
While my postillion was endeavouring, by mighty efforts, with a heavy
stone, to turn the handle of the door, and thus liberate me from my
cage, I perceived that the host came forward and said something to
him—on replying, to which, he ceased his endeavours to open the door,
and looked vacantly about him. Upon this I threw down the sash, and
called out—
“I say, is not this the Croix Blanche?”
“Ya,” said the man-mountain with the napkin.
“Well, then, open the door, pray—I’m going to stop here.”
“Nein.”
“No! What do you mean by that? Has not Lord Callonby engaged rooms
here?”
“Ya.”
“Well, then, I am a particular friend of his, and will stay here also.”
“Nein.”
“What the devil are you at, with your ya and nein?” said I. “Has your
confounded tongue nothing better than a monosyllable to reply with.”
Whether disliking the tone the controversy was assuming, or remembering
that his dinner waited, I know not, but at these words my fat friend
turned leisurely round, and waddled back into the house; where, in a
moment after, I had the pleasure of beholding him at the head of a long
table, distributing viands with a very different degree of activity
from what he displayed in dialogue.
With one vigorous jerk, I dashed open the door, upsetting, at the same
time, the poor postillion, who had recommenced his operations on the
lock, and, foaming with passion, strode into the “salle a manger.”
Nothing is such an immediate damper to any sudden explosion of temper,
as the placid and unconcerned faces of a number of people, who,
ignorant of yourself and your peculiar miseries at the moment, seem
only to regard you as a madman. This I felt strongly, as, flushed in
face and tingling in my fingers, I entered the room.
“Take my luggage,” said I to a gaping waiter, “and place a chair there,
do you hear?”
There seemed, I suppose, something in my looks that did not admit of
much parley, for the man made room for me at once at the table, and
left the room, as if to discharge the other part of my injunction,
without saying a word. As I arranged my napkin before me, I was
collecting my energies and my German, as well as I was able, for the
attack of the host, which, I anticipated from his recent conduct, must
now ensue; but, greatly to my surprise, he sent me my soup without a
word, and the dinner went on without any interruption. When the desert
had made its appearance, I beckoned the waiter towards me, and asked
what the landlord meant by his singular reception of me. The man
shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows, without speaking, as
if to imply, “it’s his way.”
“Well, then, no matter,” said I. “Have you sent my luggage up stairs?”
“No, sir, there is no room—the house is full.”
“The house full! Confound it—this is too provoking. I have most urgent
reasons for wishing to stay here. Cannot you make some arrangement—see
about it, waiter.” I here slipped a Napoleon into the fellow’s hand,
and hinted that as much more awaited the finale of the negociation.
In about a minute after, I perceived him behind the host’s chair,
pleading my cause with considerable energy; but to my complete chagrin,
I heard the other answer all his eloquence by a loud “Nein,” that he
grunted out in such a manner as closed the conference.
“I cannot succeed, sir,” said the man, as he passed behind me, “but
don’t leave the house till I speak with you again.”
What confounded mystery is there in all this, thought I. Is there any
thing so suspicious in my look or appearance, that the old bear in the
fur cap will not even admit me. What can it all mean. One thing I’m
resolved upon—nothing less than force shall remove me.
So saying I lit my cigar, and in order to give the waiter an
opportunity of conferring with me unobserved by his master, walked out
into the porch and sat down.
In a few minutes he joined me, and after a stealthy look on each side,
said—
“The Herr Andreas is a hard man to deal with, and when he says a thing,
never goes back of it. Now he has been expecting the new English Charge
d’Affaires here these last ten days, and has kept the hotel half empty
in consequence; and as mi Lor Callonby has engaged the other half, why
we have nothing to do; so that when he asked the postillion if you were
mi Lor, and found that you were not, he determined not to admit you.”
“But why not have the civility to explain that?”
“He seldom speaks, and when he does only a word or two at a time. He is
quite tired with what he has gone through to-day, and will retire very
early to bed; and for this reason I have requested you to remain, for
as he never ventures up stairs, I will then manage to give you one of
the ambassador’s rooms, which, even if he come, he’ll never miss. So
that if you keep quiet, and do not attract any particular attention
towards you, all will go well.”
This advice seemed so reasonable, that I determined to follow it—any
inconvenience being preferable, provided I could be under the same roof
with my beloved Jane; and from the waiter’s account, there seemed no
doubt whatever of their arrival that evening. In order, therefore, to
follow his injunctions to the letter, I strolled out toward the Place
in search of the tailor, and also to deliver a letter from Waller to
the chamberlain, to provide me with a card for the ball. Monsieur
Schnetz, who was the very pinnacle of politeness, was nevertheless, in
fact, nearly as untractable as my host of the “Cross.” All his “sujets”
were engaged in preparing a suit for the English Charge d’Affaires,
whose trunks had been sent in a wrong direction, and who had despatched
a courier from Frankfort, to order a uniform. This second thwarting,
and from the same source, so nettled me, that I greatly fear, all my
respect for the foreign office and those who live thereby, would not
have saved them from something most unlike a blessing, had not Monsieur
Schnetz saved diplomacy from such desecration by saying, that if I
could content myself with a plain suit, such as civilians wore, he
would do his endeavour to accommodate me.
“Any thing, Monsieur Schnetz—dress me like the Pope’s Nuncio, or the
Mayor of London, if you like, but only enable me to go.”
Although my reply did not seem to convey a very exalted idea of my
taste in costume to the worthy artiste, it at least evinced my anxiety
for the ball; and running his measure over me, he assured me that the
dress he would provide was both well looking and becoming; adding, “At
nine o’clock, sir, you’ll have it—exactly the same size as his
Excellency the Charge d’Affaires.”
“Confound the Charge d’Affaires!” I added, and left the house.