DEATH AND LOVE TOGETHER MATED.
When the day drags, when a man is solitary, and in a fever of
impatience and suspense; when the minute-hand of his watch
travels as slowly as the hour-hand used to do, and the hour-hand
has lost all appreciable motion; when he yawns, and beats the
devil's tatto, and flattens his handsome nose against the window,
and whistles tunes he hates, and, in short, does not know what to
do with himself, it is deeply to be regretted that he cannot make
a solemn dinner of three courses more than once in a day. The
laws of matter, to which we are slaves, deny us that resource.
But in the times I speak of, supper was still a substantial meal, and
its hour was approaching. This was consolatory. Three-quarters of an
hour, however, still interposed. How was I to dispose of that interval?
I had two or three idle books, it is true, as
travelling-companions; but there are many moods in which one
cannot read. My novel lay with my rug and walking-stick on the
sofa, and I did not care if the heroine and the hero were both
drowned together in the water-barrel that I saw in the inn-yard
under my window.
I took a turn or two up and down my room, and sighed, looking at myself
in the glass, adjusted my great white "choker," folded and tied after
Brummel, the immortal "Beau," put on a buff waistcoat and my blue
swallow-tailed coat with gilt buttons; I deluged my pocket handkerchief
with Eau-de-Cologne (we had not then the variety of bouquets with which
the genius of perfumery has since blessed us); I arranged my hair, on
which I piqued myself, and which I loved to groom in those days. That
dark-brown _chevelure_, with a natural curl, is now represented by a few
dozen perfectly white hairs, and its place--a smooth, bald, pink
head--knows it no more. But let us forget these mortifications. It was
then rich, thick, and dark-brown. I was making a very careful toilet. I
took my unexceptionable hat from its case, and placed it lightly on my
wise head, as nearly as memory and practice enabled me to do so, at that
very slight inclination which the immortal person I have mentioned was
wont to give to his. A pair of light French gloves and a rather
club-like knotted walking-stick, such as just then came into vogue, for
a year or two again in England, in the phraseology of Sir Walter Scott's
romances, "completed my equipment."
All this attention to effect, preparatory to a mere lounge in the
yard, or on the steps of the Belle Etoile, was a simple act of
devotion to the wonderful eyes which I had that evening beheld
for the first time, and never, never could forget! In plain
terms, it was all done in the vague, very vague hope that those
eyes might behold the unexceptionable get-up of a melancholy
slave, and retain the image, not altogether without secret
approbation.
As I completed my preparations the light failed me; the last
level streak of sunlight disappeared, and a fading twilight only
remained. I sighed in unison with the pensive hour, and threw
open the window, intending to look out for a moment before going
downstairs. I perceived instantly that the window underneath mine
was also open, for I heard two voices in conversation, although I
could not distinguish what they were saying.
The male voice was peculiar; it was, as I told you, reedy and
nasal. I knew it, of course, instantly. The answering voice spoke
in those sweet tones which I recognised only too easily. The
dialogue was only for a minute; the repulsive male voice laughed,
I fancied, with a kind of devilish satire, and retired from the
window, so that I almost ceased to hear it.
The other voice remained nearer the window, but not so near as at
first.
It was not an altercation; there was evidently nothing the least
exciting in the colloquy. What would I not have given that it had
been a quarrel--a violent one--and I the redresser of wrongs, and
the defender of insulted beauty! Alas! so far as I could
pronounce upon the character of the tones I heard, they might be
as tranquil a pair as any in existence. In a moment more the lady
began to sing an odd little _chanson_. I need not remind you how
much farther the voice is heard _singing_ than speaking. I could
distinguish the words. The voice was of that exquisitely sweet
kind which is called, I believe, a semi-contralto; it had
something pathetic, and something, I fancied, a little mocking in
its tones. I venture a clumsy, but adequate translation of the
words:--
"Death and Love, together mated,
Watch and wait in ambuscade;
At early morn, or else belated.
They meet and mark the man or maid.
"Burning sigh, or breath that freezes,
Numbs or maddens man or maid;
Death or Love the victim seizes,
Breathing from their ambuscade."
"Enough, Madame!" said the old voice, with sudden severity. "We
do not desire, I believe, to amuse the grooms and hostlers in the
yard with our music."
The lady's voice laughed gaily.
"You desire to quarrel, Madame!" And the old man, I presume, shut
down the window. Down it went, at all events, with a rattle that
might easily have broken the glass.
Of all thin partitions, glass is the most effectual excluder of
sound. I heard no more, not even the subdued hum of the colloquy.
What a charming voice this Countess had! How it melted, swelled,
and trembled! How it moved, and even agitated me! What a pity
that a hoarse old jackdaw should have power to crow down such a
Philomel! "Alas! what a life it is!" I moralized, wisely. "That
beautiful Countess, with the patience of an angel and the beauty
of a Venus and the accomplishments of all the Muses, a slave! She
knows perfectly who occupies the apartments over hers; she heard
me raise my window. One may conjecture pretty well for whom that
music was intended--ay, old gentleman, and for whom you suspected
it to be intended."
In a very agreeable flutter I left my room, and descending the
stairs, passed the Count's door very much at my leisure. There
was just a chance that the beautiful songstress might emerge. I
dropped my stick on the lobby, near their door, and you may be
sure it took me some little time to pick it up! Fortune,
nevertheless, did not favour me. I could not stay on the lobby
all night picking up my stick, so I went down to the hall.
I consulted the clock, and found that there remained but a
quarter of an hour to the moment of supper.
Every one was roughing it now, every inn in confusion; people
might do at such a juncture what they never did before. Was it
just possible that, for once, the Count and Countess would take
their chairs at the table-d'hôte?