Arthur O'Leary: His Wanderings And Ponderings In Many Lands

‘“Ay, these fifteen,” interposed Ned.

‘“No, it isn’t though,” said the captain crossly, “it isn’t more than three at most – cut off in her prime too. She was the last of an old stock – I knew them all well. There was Dick – blazing Dick O’Kelly, as they called him – that threw the sheriff into the mill-race at Kilmacud, and had to go to France afterwards; and there was Peter – Peter got the property, but he was shot in a duel. Peter had a son – a nice devil he was too; he was drowned at sea; and except the little girl that has the school up there, Sally O’Kelly – she is one of them – there’s none to the fore.”

‘“And who was she, sir?”

‘“Sally was – what’s this? Ay, Sally is daughter to a son Dick left in France. He died in the war in Germany, and left this creature; and Miss Judy heard of her, and got her over here, just the week she departed herself. She’s the last of them now – the best family in Kerry – and keeping a child’s school! Ay, ay, so it is; and there’s property too coming to her, if they could only prove that chap’s death, Con O’Kelly. But sure no one knows anything where it happened. Sam Fitzsimon advertised him in all the papers, but to no use.”

‘I did not wait for more of the old captain’s reminiscences, but snatching up my hat I hurried down the street, and in less than an hour was closeted with Mr. Samuel Fitzsimon, attorney-at-law, and gravely discussing the steps necessary to be taken for the assumption of my right to a small property, the remains of my Aunt Judy’s – a few hundred pounds, renewal fines of lands, that had dropped since my father’s death. My next visit was to the little school, which was held in the parlour where poor Aunt Judy used to have her little card parties. The old stuffed macaw – now from dirt and smoke he might have passed for a raven – was still over the fireplace, and there was the old miniature of my father, and on the other side was one which I had not seen before, of Father Donnellan in full robes. All the little old conchologies were there too; and except the black plethoric-looking cat that sat staring fixedly at the fire as if she was grieving over the price of coals, I missed nothing. Miss Sally was a nice modest-looking woman, with an air of better class about her than her humble occupation would seem to imply. I made known my relationship in a few words, and having told her that I had made all arrangements for settling whatever property I possessed upon her, and informed her that Mr. Fitzsimon would act as her guardian, I wished her good-bye and departed. I saw that my life must be passed in occupation of one kind or other – idleness would never do; and with the only fifty I reserved to myself of my little fortune, I started for Paris. What I was to do I had no idea whatever; but I well knew that you have only to lay the bridle on Fortune’s neck, and you ‘ll seldom be disappointed in adventures.

‘For some weeks I strolled about Paris, enjoying myself as thoughtlessly as though I had no need of any effort to replenish my failing exchequer. The mere human tide that flowed along the Boulevards and through the gay gardens of the Tuileries would have been amusement enough for me. Then there were theatres and cafés and restaurants of every class – from the costly style of the “Rocher” down to the dinner beside the fountain Des Innocents, where you feast for four sous, and where the lowest and poorest class of the capital resorted. Well, well, I might tell you some strange scenes of those days, but I must hurry on.

‘In my rambles through Paris, visiting strange and out-of-the-way places, dining here and supping there, watching life under every aspect I could behold it, I strolled one evening across the Pont Neuf into the Ile St. Louis, that quaint old quarter, with its narrow straggling streets, and its tall gloomy houses, barricaded like fortresses. The old portes cochères studded with nails and barred with iron, and having each a small window to peer through at the stranger without, spoke of days when outrage and attack were rife, and it behoved every man to fortify his stronghold as best he could. There were now to be found the most abandoned and desperate of the whole Parisian world; the assassin, the murderer, the housebreaker, the coiner, found a refuge in this confused wilderness of gloomy alleys and dark dismal passages. When night falls, no lantern throws a friendly gleam along the streets; all is left in perfect darkness, save when the red light of some cabaret lamp streams across the pavement. In one of these dismal streets I found myself when night set in, and although I walked on and on, somehow I never could extricate myself, but continually kept moving in some narrow circle – so I guessed at least, for I never wandered far from the deep-toned bell of Notre Dame, that went on chanting its melancholy peal through the stillness of the night air. I often stopped to listen. Now it seemed before, now behind me; the rich solemn sound floating through those cavernous streets had something awfully impressive. The voice that called to prayer, heard in that gloomy haunt of crime, was indeed a strange and appalling thing. At last it ceased, and all was still. For some time I was uncertain how to act. I feared to knock at a door and ask my way; the very confession of my loneliness would have been an invitation to outrage, if not murder. No one passed me; the streets seemed actually deserted.

‘Fatigued with walking, I sat down on a door-sill and began to consider what was best to be done, when I heard the sound of heavy feet moving along towards me, the clattering of sabots on the rough pavement, and shortly after a man came up, who, I could just distinguish, seemed to be a labourer. I suffered him to pass me a few paces, and then called out —

‘“Halloa, friend! can you tell me the shortest way to the Pont Neuf?”

‘He replied by some words in a patois so strange I could make nothing of it. I repeated my question, and endeavoured by signs to express my wish. By this time he was standing close beside me, and I could mark was evidently paying full attention to all I said. He looked about him once or twice, as if in search of some one, and then turning to me said, in a thick guttural voice —

‘“Halte-là, I’ll come”; and with that he moved down in the direction he originally came from, and I could hear the clatter of his heavy shoes till the sounds were lost in the winding alleys.

‘A sudden thought struck me that I had done wrong. The fellow had evidently some dark intention by his going back, and I repented bitterly having allowed him to leave me. But then, what were easier for him than to lead me where he pleased, had I retained him! and so I reflected, when the noise of many voices speaking in a half-subdued accent came up the street. I heard the sound, too, of a great many feet. My heart sickened as the idea of murder, so associated with the place, flashed across me; and I had just time to squeeze myself within the shelter of the doorway, when the party came up.

‘“Somewhere hereabouts, you said, wasn’t it?” said one in a good accent and a deep clear voice.

‘“Oui-da!” said the man I had spoken to, while he felt with his hands upon the walls and doorway of the opposite house. “Halloa there!” he shouted.

‘“Be still, you fool! don’t you think that he suspects something by this time? Did the others go down the Rue des Loups?”

‘“Yes, yes,” said a voice close to where I stood.

‘“Then all’s safe; he can’t escape that way. Strike a light, Pierre.”

‘A tall figure, wrapped up in a cloak, produced a tinder-box, and began to clink deliberately with a steel and flint. Every flash showed me some savage-looking face, where crime and famine struggled for mastery; while I could mark that many had large clubs of wood, and one or two were armed with swords. I drew my breath with short efforts, and was preparing myself for the struggle, in which, though I saw death before me, I resolved to sell life dearly, when a hand was passed across the pillar of the door, and rested on my leg. For a second it never stirred; then slowly moved up to my knee, where it stopped again. My heart seemed to cease its beating; I felt like one around whose body some snake is coiling, fold after fold, his slimy grasp. The hand was gently withdrawn, and before I could recover from my surprise I was seized by the throat and hurled out into the street. A savage laugh rang through the crowd, and a lantern, just lighted, was held up to my face, while he who spoke first called out —

‘“You didn’t dream of escaping us, bête, did you?” ‘At the same moment hands were thrust into my various pockets; the few silver pieces I possessed were taken, my watch torn off, my hat examined, and the lining of my coat ripped open – and all so speedily, that I saw at once I had fallen into experienced hands.

‘“Where do you live in Paris?” said the first speaker, still holding the light to my face, and staring fixedly at me.

‘“I am a stranger and alone,” said I, for the thought struck me that in such a circumstance frankness was as good policy as any other. “I came here to-night to see the cathedral, and lost my way in returning.”

‘“But where do you live – in what quarter of Paris?” ‘“The Rue d’Alger; No. 12; the second storey.” ‘“What effects have you there in money?” ‘“One English bank-note for five pounds; nothing more.”

‘“Any jewels, or valuables of any kind?”

‘“None; I am as poor as any man in Paris.”

‘“Does the porter know your name, in the house?”

‘“No; I am only known as the Englishman of No. 12.”

‘“What are your hours – irregular, are they not?”

‘“Yes, I often come home very late.”

‘“That’s all right. You speak French well. Can you write it?”

‘“Yes, sufficiently so for any common purpose.”

‘“Here, then,” said he, opening a large pocket-book, “write an order, which I’ll tell you, to the concierge of the house. Take this pen.”

‘With a trembling hand I took the pen, and waited for his direction.

‘“Is it a woman keeps the door of your hotel?”

‘“Yes,” said I.

‘“Well, then, begin: – ”

‘“Madame La Concierge, let the bearer of this note have the key of my apartment – ”

‘As I followed with my hand the words, I could mark that one of the party was whispering in the ear of the speaker, and then moved slowly round to my back.

‘“Hush! what’s that?” cried the chief speaker. “Be still there!” and as we listened, the chorus of a number of voices singing in parts was heard at some little distance off.

‘“That infernal nest of fellows must be rooted out of this, one day or other,” said the chief; “and if I end my days on the Place de Grève, I’ll try and do it. Hush there! be still! they’re passing on.”

‘True enough, the sound began to wax fainter, and my heart sank heavily, as I thought the last hope was leaving me. Suddenly a thought dashed through my mind – “Death in one shape is as bad as another. I’ll do it!” I stooped down as if to continue my writing, and then collecting my strength for the effort, and taking a deep breath, I struck the man in front a blow with all my might that felled him to the ground, and clearing him with a spring, I bounded down the street. My old Indian teaching had done me good service here; few white men could have caught me in an open plain, with space and sight to guide me, and I gained at every stride. But, alas! I dared not stop to listen whence the sounds proceeded, and could only dash straight forward, not knowing where it might lead me. Down a steep, rugged street, that grew narrower as I went, I plunged, when – horror of horrors! – I heard the Seine plashing at the end; the rapid current of the river surged against the heavy timbers that defended the banks, with a sound like a death-wail. A solitary, trembling light lay afar off in the river from some barge that was at anchor there; I fixed my eye upon it, and was preparing for a plunge, when, with a half-suppressed cry, my pursuers sprang up from a low wharf I had not seen, below the quay, and stood in front of me. In an instant they were upon me; a shower of blows fell upon my head and shoulders, and one, armed with desperate resolution, struck me on the forehead and felled me on the spot.

‘“Be quick now, be quick!” said a voice I well knew; “into the river with him – the filets de St. Cloud will catch him by daybreak – into the river with him!”

‘They tore off my coat and shoes, and dragged me along towards the wharf. My senses were clear, though the blow had deprived me of all the power to resist, and I could calculate the little chance still left me when once I had reached the river, when a loud yell and a whistle was heard afar off – another, louder, followed; the fellows around me sprang to their legs, and with a muttered curse and a cry of terror darted off in different directions. I could hear now several pistol-shots following quickly on one another, and the noise of a scuffle with swords; in an instant it was over, and a cheer burst forth like a cry of triumph.

‘“Any one wounded there?” shouted a deep manly voice, from the end of the street. I endeavoured to call out, but my voice failed me. “Halloa, there! any one wounded?” said the voice again, when a window was opened over my head, and a man held a candle out, and looked into the street.

‘“This way, this way!” said he, as he caught sight of my shadow where I lay.

‘“Ay, I guessed they went down here,” said the same voice I heard first, as he came along, followed by several others. “Well, friend, are you much hurt? any blood lost?”

‘“No, only stunned,” said I, “and almost well already.”

‘“Have you any friends here? Were you quite alone?”

‘“Yes; quite alone.”

‘“Of course you were; why should I ask? That murderous gang never dared to face two men yet. Come, are you able to walk? Oh, you’re a stout fellow, I see; come along with us. Come, Ludwig, put a hand under him, and we ‘ll soon bring him up.”

‘When they lifted me up, the sudden motion caused a weakness so complete that I fainted, and knew little more of their proceedings till I found myself lying on a sofa in a large room, where some forty persons were seated at a long table, most of them smoking from huge pipes of regular German proportions.

‘“Where am I?” was my question, as I looked about, and perceived that the party wore a kind of blue uniform, with fur on the collar and cuffs, and a greyhound worked in gold on the arm.

‘“Why, you’re safe, my good friend,” said a friendly voice beside me; “that’s quite enough to know at present, isn’t it?”

‘“I begin to agree with you,” said I coolly; and so, turning round on my side, I closed my eyes, and fell into as pleasant a sleep as ever I remember in my life.

‘They were, indeed, a very singular class of restoratives which my kind friends thought proper to administer to me; nor am I quite sure that a bavaroise of chocolate dashed with rum, and friction over the face with hot Eau de Cologne are sufficiently appreciated by the “faculty”; but this I do know, that I felt very much revived by the application without and within; and with a face somewhat the colour of a copper preserving-pan, and far too hot to put anything on, I sat up and looked about me. A merrier set of gentlemen not even my experience had ever beheld. They were mostly middle-aged, grizzly-looking fellows, with very profuse beards and moustaches; their conversation was partly French, partly German, while here and there a stray Italian diminutive crept in; and to season the whole, like cayenne in a ragoût, there was an odd curse in English. Their strange dress, their free-and-easy manner, their intimacy with one another, and, above all, the locale they had chosen for their festivities, made me, I own, a little suspicious about their spotless morality, and I began conjecturing to what possible calling they might belong – now guessing them smugglers, now police of some kind or other, now highwaymen outright, but without ever being able to come to any conclusion that even approached satisfaction. The more I listened, the more did my puzzle grow on me. That they were either the most distinguished and exalted individuals or the most confounded story-tellers was certain. Here was a fat, greasy little fellow, with a beard like an Armenian, who was talking of a trip he made to Greece with the Duke of Saxe-Weimar; apparently they were on the best of terms together, and had a most jolly time of it. There was a large handsome man, with a short black moustache, describing a night attack made by wolves on the caravan he was in, during a journey to Siberia. I listened with intense interest to his narrative; the scenery, the danger, the preparation for defence, had all those little traits that bespeak truth, when, confound him! he destroyed the whole as he said, “At that moment the Archduke Nicholas said to me– ” The Archduke Nicholas, indeed! very good that! he’s just as great a liar as the other.

‘“Come,” thought I, “there’s a respectable-looking old fellow with a bald head – let us hear him; there’s no boasting of the great people he ever met with from that one, I’m sure.”

‘“We were now coming near to Vienna,” continued he, “the night was dark as pitch, when a vedette came up to say that a party of brigands, well known thereabouts, were seen hovering about the post station the entire evening. We were well armed, but still by no means numerous, and it became a grave question what we were to do. I got down immediately, and examined the loading and priming of the carbines; they were all right, nothing had been stirred. ‘What’s the matter?’ said the duke.” (“Oh,” thought I, “then there’s a duke here also!”) “‘What’s the matter?’ said the Duke of Wellington.”

‘“Oh, by Jove! that beats all!” cried I, jumping up on the sofa, and opening both my hands with astonishment. “I ‘d have wagered a trifle on that little fellow, and hang me if he isn’t the worst of the whole set!”

‘“What ‘s the matter; what’s happened?” said they all, turning round in amazement at my sudden exclamation. “Is the man mad?”

‘“It’s hard to say,” replied I; “but if I ‘m not, you must be – unless I have the honour, which is perfectly possible, to be at this moment in company with the Holy Alliance; for, so help me, since I’ve sat here and listened to you, there is not a crowned head in Europe, not a queen, not an archduke, ambassador, and general-in-chief, whom some of you have not been intimate with; and the small man with a red beard has just let slip something about the Shah of Persia.”

‘The torrent of laughter that shook the table never ceased for a full quarter of an hour. Old and young, smooth and grizzly, they laughed till their faces were seamed with rivulets like a mountain in winter; and when they would endeavour to address me, they’d burst out again, as fresh as ever.

‘“Come over and join us, worthy friend,” said he who sat at the head of the board – “you seem well equal to it; and perhaps our character as men of truth may improve on acquaintance.”

‘“What, in Heaven’s name, are you?” said I.

‘Another burst of merriment was the only reply they made me. I never found much difficulty in making my way in certain classes of society where the tone was a familiar one. Where a bon mot was good currency and a joke passed well, there I was at home, and to assume the features of the party was with me a kind of instinct which I could not avoid; it cost me neither effort nor strain; I caught up the spirit as a child catches up an accent, and went the pace as pleasantly as though I had been bred among them. I was therefore but a short time at table when by way of matriculation I deemed it necessary to relate a story; and certainly if they had astounded me by the circumstances of their high and mighty acquaintances, I did not spare them in my narrative – in which the Emperor of Japan figured as a very commonplace individual, and the King of Candia came in, just incidentally, as a rather dubious acquaintance might do. For a time they listened, like people who are well accustomed to give and take these kinds of miracle; but when I mentioned something about a game of leap-frog on the wall of China with the Celestial himself, a perfect shout of incredulous laughter interrupted me.

‘“Well,” said I, “don’t believe me, if you don’t like; but here have I been the whole evening listening to you, and if I ‘ve not bolted as much as that, my name’s not Con O’Kelly.”

‘But it is not necessary to tell you how, step by step, they led me to credit all they were saying, but actually to tell my own real story to them – which I did from beginning to end, down to the very moment I sat down there, with a large glass of hot claret before me, as happy as might be.

‘“And you really are so low in purse?” said one. ‘“And have no prospect of any occupation, nor any idea of a livelihood?” cried another.

‘“Just as much as I expect promotion from my friend the Emperor of China,” said I.

‘“You speak French and German well enough, though?” ‘“And a smattering of Italian,” said I. ‘“Come, you ‘ll do admirably; be one of us.” ‘“Might I make bold enough to ask what trade that is?” ‘“You don’t know – you can’t guess even?” ‘“Not even guess,” said I, “except you report for the papers, and come here to make up the news.”

‘“Something better than that, I hope,” said the man at the head of the table. “What think you of a life that leads a man about the world from Norway to Jerusalem; that shows him every land the sun shines on, and every nation of the globe, travelling with every luxury that can make a journey easy and a road pleasant; that enables him to visit whatever is remarkable in every city of the universe – to hear Pasta at St. Petersburg in the winter, and before the year’s end to see an Indian war-dance among the red men of the Rocky Mountains; to sit beneath the shadow of the Pyramids as it were to-day, and ere two months be over to stand in the spray of Trolhattan, and join a wolf-chase through the pine-forests of the north. And not only this, but to have opportunities of seeing life on terms the most intimate, so that society should be unveiled to an extent that few men of any station can pretend to; to converse with the greatest and the wisest, the most distinguished in rank – ay! and better than all, with the most beautiful women of every land in Europe, who depend on your word, rely on your information, and permit a degree of intimacy which in their own rank is unattainable; to improve your mind by knowledge of languages, acquaintance with works of art, scenery, and more still by habits of intelligence which travelling bestows.”

‘“And to do this,” said I, burning with impatience at a picture that realised all I wished for, “to do this – ”

‘“Be a courier!” said thirty voices in a cheer. “Vive la Grande Route!” and with the word each man drained his glass to the bottom.

‘“Vive la Grande Route!” exclaimed I, louder than the rest; “and here I join you.”

‘From that hour I entered on a career that each day I follow is becoming dearer to me. It is true that I sit in the rumble of the carriage, while monseigneur, or my lord, reclines within; but would I exchange his ennui and depression for my own light-heartedness and jollity? Would I give up the happy independence of all the intrigue and plotting of the world I enjoy, for all his rank and station? Does not Mont Blanc look as grand in his hoary panoply to me as to him; are not the Danube and the Rhine as fair? If I wander through the gallery of Dresden, have I not the sweet smile of the great Raphael’s Madonna bent on me, as blandly as it is on him? Is not mine host, with less of ceremony, far more cordial to me than to him? Is not mine a rank known and acknowledged in every town, in every village? Have I not a greeting wherever I pass? Should sickness overtake me, where have I not a home? Where am I among strangers? Then, what care I for the bill – mine is a royal route where I never pay. And, lastly, how often is the soubrette of the rumble as agreeable a companion as the pale and care-worn lady within?

‘Such is my life. Many would scoff, and call it menial. Let them, if they will. I never felt it so; and once more I say, “Vive la Grande Route!”’

‘But your friends of the “Fischer’s Haus”?’

‘A jolly set of smugglers, with whom for a month or two in summer I take a cruise, less for profit than pleasure. The blue water is a necessary of life to the man that has been some years at sea. My little collection has been made in my wanderings; and if ever you come to Naples, you must visit a cottage I have at Castella Mare, where you ‘ll see something better worth your looking at. And now, though it does not seem very hospitable, I must say adieu.’