INN AT MUNICH.
As I had never been in Munich before, I strolled about the town till
dusk. At that time the taste of the present king had not enriched the
capital with the innumerable objects of art which render it now second
to none in Europe. There were, indeed, then but few attractions—narrow
streets, tall, unarchitectural-looking houses, and gloomy, unimpressive
churches. Tired of this, I turned towards my inn, wondering in my mind
if Antoine had succeeded in procuring me the room, or whether yet I
should be obliged to seek my lodging elsewhere. Scarcely had I entered
the porch, when I found him waiting my arrival, candle in hand. He
conducted me at once up the wide oaken stair, then along the gallery,
into a large wainscotted room, with a most capacious bed. A cheerful
wood fire burned and crackled away in the grate—the cloth was already
spread for supper—(remember it was in Germany)—the newspapers of the
day were placed before me—and, in a word, every attention showed that I
had found the true avenue to Antoine’s good graces, who now stood
bowing before me, in apparent ecstasy at his own cleverness.
“All very well done, Antoine, and now for supper—order it yourself for
me—I never can find my way in a German ‘carte de diner;’ and be sure to
have a fiacre here at nine—nine precisely.”
Antoine withdrew, leaving me to my own reflections, which now, if not
gloomy, were still of the most anxious kind.
Scarcely was the supper placed upon the table, when a tremendous
tramping of horses along the street, and loud cracking of whips,
announced a new arrival.
“Here they are,” said I, as, springing up, I upset the soup, and nearly
threw the roti into Antoine’s face, as he was putting it before me.
Down stairs I rushed, through the hall, pushing aside waiters and
overturning chambermaids in my course. The carriage was already at the
door. Now for a surprise, thought I, as I worked through the crowd in
the porch, and reached the door just as the steps were clattered down,
and a gentleman began to descend, whom twenty expectant voices, now
informed of his identity, welcomed as the new Charge d’Affaires.
[Illustration: Arrival of Charge d’Affairs]
“May all the—”
What I wished for his excellency it would not be polite to repeat, nor
most discreet even to remember; but, certes, I mounted the stairs with
as little good will towards the envoy extraordinary as was consistent
with due loyalty.
When once more in my room, I congratulated myself that now at least no
more “false starts” could occur—“the eternal Charge d’Affaires, of whom
I have been hearing since my arrival, cannot come twice—he is here now,
and I hope I’m done with him.”
The supper—some greasiness apart—was good—the wine excellent. My
spirits were gradually rising, and I paced my room in that mingled
state of hope and fear, that amid all its anxieties, has such moments
of ecstasy. A new noise without—some rabble in the street; hark, it
comes nearer—I hear the sound of wheels; yes, there go the
horses—nearer and nearer. Ah, it is dying away again—stay—yes, yes—here
it is—here they are. The noise and tumult without now increased every
instant—the heavy trot of six or eight horses shook the very street,
and I heard the round, dull, rumbling sound of a heavy carriage, as it
drew up at last at the door of the inn. Why it was I know not, but this
time I could not stir—my heart beat almost loud enough for me to
hear—my temples throbbed, and then a cold and clammy perspiration came
over me, and I sank into a chair. Fearing that I was about to faint,
sick as I was, I felt angry with myself, and tried to rally, but could
not, and only at length was roused by hearing that the steps were let
down, and shortly after the tread of feet coming along the gallery
towards my room.
They are coming—she is coming, thought I. Now then for my doom!
There was some noise of voices outside. I listened, for I still felt
unable to rise. The talking grew louder—doors were opened and shut—then
came a lull—then more slamming of doors, and more talking—then all was
still again—and at last I heard the steps of people as if retiring, and
in a few minutes after the carriage door was jammed to, and again the
heavy tramp of the horses rattled over the pave. At this instant
Antoine entered.
“Well, Antoine,” said I, in a voice trembling with weakness and
agitation, “not them yet?”
“It was his Grace the Grand Mareschal,” said Antoine, scarcely heeding
my question, in the importance of the illustrious visitor who had
arrived.
“Ah, the Grand Mareschal,” said I, carelessly; “does he live here?”
“Sappermint nein, Mein Herr; but he has just been to pay his respects
to his Excellency the new Charge d’Affaires.”
In the name of all patience, I ask, who could endure this? From the
hour of my arrival I am haunted by this one image—the Charge
d’Affaires. For him I have been almost condemned to go houseless, and
naked; and now the very most sacred feelings of my heart are subject to
his influence. I walked up and down in an agony. Another such
disappointment, and my brain will turn, thought I, and they may write
my epitaph—“Died of love and a Charge d’Affaires.”
“It is time to dress,” said the waiter.
“I could strangle him with my own hands,” muttered I, worked up into a
real heat by the excitement of my passion.
“The Charge—”
“Say that name again, villain, and I’ll blow your brains out,” cried I,
seizing Antoine by the throat, and pinning him against the wall; “only
dare to mutter it, and you’ll ever breathe another syllable.”
The poor fellow grew green with terror, and fell upon his knees before
me.
“Get my dressing things ready,” said I, in a more subdued tone. “I did
not mean to terrify you—but beware of what I told you.”
While Antoine occupied himself with the preparations for my toilette, I
sat broodingly over the wood embers, thinking of my fate.
A knock came to the door. It was the tailor’s servant with my clothes.
He laid down the parcel and retired, while Antoine proceeded to open
it, and exhibit before me a blue uniform with embroidered collar and
cuffs—the whole, without being gaudy, being sufficiently handsome, and
quite as showy as I could wish.
The poor waiter expressed his unqualified approval of the costume, and
talked away about the approaching ball as something pre-eminently
magnificent.
“You had better look after the fiacre, Antoine,” said I; “it is past
nine.”
He walked towards the door, opened it, and then, turning round, said,
in a kind of low, confidential whisper, pointing, with the thumb of his
left hand, towards the wall of the room as he spoke—
“He won’t go—very strange that.”
“Who do you mean?” said I, quite unconscious of the allusion.
“The Charge d’Aff—”
I made one spring at him, but he slammed the door to, and before I
could reach the lobby, I heard him rolling from top to bottom of the
oak staircase, making noise enough in his fall to account for the
fracture of every bone in his body.