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

‘Would you like to hear a sad story?’ said she, smiling faintly, with a look of indefinable sweetness.

‘If it were yours, it would make my heart ache,’ said I, carried away by my feelings at the instant.

‘I ‘ll tell it to you one of these days, then: not now! not now, though! – I could not here; and there comes Gustav. How he laughs!’

And true enough, the merry sounds of his voice were heard through the garden as he approached; and strangely, too, they seemed to grate and jar upon my ear, with a very different impression from what before they brought to me.

Our way back to Brussels led again through the forest, which now was wrapped in the shade, save where the moon came peeping down through the leafy branches, and fell in bright patches on the road beneath. The countess spoke a little at first, but gradually relapsed into perfect silence. The stillness and calm about seemed only the more striking from the hollow tramp of the horses, as they moved along the even turf; the air was mild and sweet, and loaded with that peculiar fragrance which a wood exhales after nightfall; and all the influences of the time and place were of that soothing, lulling kind that wraps the mind in a state of dreamy reverie. But one thought dwelt within me: it was of her who sat beside me, her head cast down, and her arms folded. She was unhappy; some secret sorrow was preying upon that fair bosom, some eating care corroding her very heart. A vague, shadowy suspicion shot through me that her husband might have treated her cruelly and ill. But why suspect this? Was not everything I witnessed the very reverse of such a fact? What could surpass the mutual kindliness and good feeling that I saw between them! And yet their dispositions were not at all alike: she seemed to hint as much. The very waywardness of his temperament; the incessant demand of his spirit for change, excitement, and occupation – how could it harmonise with her gentle and more constant nature? From such thoughts I was awakened by her saying, in a low faint voice —

‘You must forget what I said to-night. There are moments when some strong impulse will force the heart to declare the long-buried thoughts of years. Perhaps some secret instinct tells us that we are near to those who can sympathise and feel for us; perhaps these are the overflowings of grief, without which the heart would grow full to bursting. Whatever they be, they seem to calm and soothe us, though afterwards we may sorrow for having indulged in them. You will forget it all, won’t you?’

‘I will do my best,’ said I timidly, ‘to do all you wish; but I cannot promise you what may be out of my power. The few words you spoke have never left my mind since; nor can I say when I shall cease to remember them.’

‘What do you think, Duischka?’ said the count, as he flung away the fragment of his cigar, and turned round on the box – ’ what do you think of an invitation to dinner I have accepted for Tuesday next?’

‘Where, pray?’ said she, with an effort to seem interested.

‘I am to dine with my worthy friend Van Houdicamp, Rue de Lacken, No. 28. A very high mark, let me tell you; his father was burgomaster at Alost, and he himself has a great sugar bakery, or salt raffinerie, or something equivalent, at Scharbeck.’

‘How can you find any pleasure in such society, Gustav?’

‘Pleasure you call it! – delight is the word. I shall hear all the gossip of the Basse Ville – quite as amusing, I ‘m certain, as of the Place and the Boulevards. Besides, there are to be some half-dozen échevins, with wives and daughters, and we shall have a round game for the most patriarchal stakes. I have also obtained permission to bring a friend; so you see, Monsieur O’Leary – ’

‘I ‘m certain,’ interposed madame, ‘he has much better taste than to avail himself of your offer.’

‘I ‘ll bet my life on it he ‘ll not refuse.’

‘I say he will,’ said the lady.

‘I ‘ll wager that pearl ring at Mertan’s that if you leave him to himself he says “Yes.”’

‘Agreed,’ said madame; ‘I accept the bet. We Poles are as great gamblers as yourselves, you see,’ added she, turning to me. ‘Now, monsieur, decide the question. Will you dine with Van Hottentot on Tuesday next – or with me?’

The last three words were spoken in so low a tone as made me actually suspect that my imagination alone had conceived them.

‘Well,’ cried the count, ‘what say you?’

‘I pronounce for the – Hôtel de. France,’ said I, fearing in what words to accept the invitation of the lady.

‘Then I have lost my bet,’ said the count, laughing; ‘and, worse still, have found myself mistaken in my opinion.’

‘And I,’ said madame, in a faint whisper, ‘have won mine, and found my impressions more correct.’

Nothing more occurred worth mentioning on our way back; when we reached the hotel in safety, we separated with many promises to meet early next day.

From that hour my intimacy took a form of almost friendship. I visited the count, or the countess if he was out, every morning; chatted over the news of the day; made our plans for the evening, either for Boitsfort or Lacken, or occasionally the allée verte or the theatre, and sometimes arranged little excursions to Antwerp, Louvain, or Ghent.

It is indeed a strange thing to think of what slight materials happiness is made up. The nest that incloses our greatest pleasure is a thing of straws and feathers, gathered at random or carried towards us by the winds of fortune. If you were to ask me now what I deemed the most delightful period of my whole life, I don’t hesitate to say I should name this. In the first place, I possessed the great requisite of happiness – every moment of my whole day was occupied; each hour was chained to its fellow by some slight but invisible link; and whether I was hammering away at my Polish grammar, or sitting beside the pianoforte while the countess sang some of her country’s ballads, or listening to legends of Poland in its times of greatness, or galloping along at her side through the forest of Soignies, my mind was ever full; no sense of weariness or ennui ever invaded me, while a consciousness of a change in myself – I knew not what it was – suggested a feeling of pleasure and delight I cannot account for or convey. And this, I take it – though speaking in ignorance and merely from surmise – this, I suspect, is something like what people in love experience, and what gives them the ecstasy of the passion. There is sufficient concentration in the admiration of the loved object to give the mind a decided and firm purpose, and enough of change in the various devices to win her praise to impart the charm of novelty.

Now, for all this, my reader, fair or false as she or he may be, must not suspect that anything bordering on love was concerned in the present case. To begin – the countess was married, and I was brought up at an excellent school at Bangor, where the catechism, Welsh and English, was flogged into me until every commandment had a separate welt of its own on my back. No; I had taken the royal road to happiness. I was delighted without stopping to know why, and enjoyed myself without ever thinking to inquire wherefore. New sources of information and knowledge were opened to me by those who possessed vast stores of acquirement; and I learned how the conversation of gifted and accomplished persons may be made a great agent in training and forming the mind, if not to the higher walks of knowledge, at least to those paths in which the greater part of life is spent, and where it imports each to make the road agreeable to his fellows. I have said to you I was not in love – how could I be, under the circumstances? – but still I own that the regular verbs of the Polish grammar had been but dry work, if it had not been for certain irregular glances at my pretty mistress; nor could I ever have seen my way through the difficulties of the declensions if the light of her eyes had not lit up the page, and her taper finger pointed out the place.

And thus two months flew past, during which she never even alluded most distantly to our conversation in the garden at Boitsfort, nor did I learn any one particular more of my friends than on the first day of our meeting. Meanwhile, all ideas of travelling had completely left me; and although I had now abundant resources in my banker’s hands for all the purposes of the road, I never once dreamed of leaving a place where I felt so thoroughly happy.

Such, then, was our life, when I began to remark a slight change in the count’s manner – an appearance of gloom and preoccupation, which seemed to increase each day, and against which he strove, but in vain. It was clear something had gone wrong with him; but I did not dare to allude to, much less ask him on the subject. At last, one evening, just as I was preparing for bed, he entered my dressing-room, and closing the door cautiously behind him, sat down. I saw that he was dressed as if for the road, and looking paler and more agitated than usual.

‘O’Leary,’ said he, in a tremulous voice, ‘I am come to place in your hands the highest trust a man can repose in another. Am I certain of your friendship?’ I shook his hand in silence, and he went on. ‘I must leave Brussels to-night, secretly. A political affair, in which the peace of Europe is involved, has just come to my knowledge; the Government here will do their best to detain me; orders are already given to delay me at the frontier, perhaps send me back to the capital; in consequence, I must cross the boundary on horseback, and reach Aix-la-Chapelle by to-morrow evening. Of course, the countess cannot accompany me.’ He paused for a second. ‘You must be her protector. A hundred rumours will be afloat the moment they find I have escaped, and as many reasons for my departure announced in the papers. However, I’m content if they amuse the public and occupy the police; and meanwhile I shall obtain time to pass through Prussia unmolested. Before I reach St. Petersburg, the countess will receive letters from me, and know where to proceed to; and I count on your friendship to remain here until that time – a fortnight, three weeks at farthest. If money is any object to you – ’

‘Not in the least; I have far more than I want.’ ‘Well, then, may I conclude that you consent?’ ‘Of course you may,’ said I, overpowered by a rush of sensations I must leave to my reader to feel, if it has ever been his lot to be placed in such circumstances, or to imagine if he has not.

‘The countess,’ I said, ‘is of course aware – ’

‘Of everything,’ interrupted he, ‘and bears it all admirably. Much, however, is attributable to the arrangement with you, which I promised her was completed even before I asked your consent – such was my confidence in your friendship.’

‘You have not deceived yourself,’ was my reply, while I puzzled my brain to think how I could repay such proofs of his trust. ‘Is there, then, anything more,’ said I – ‘can you think of nothing else in which I may be of service?’

‘Nothing, dear friend, nothing,’ said he. ‘Probably we shall meet at St. Petersburg.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said I; ‘that is my firm intention.’

‘That’s all I could wish for,’ rejoined he. ‘The grand-duke will be delighted to acknowledge the assistance your friendship has rendered us, and Potoski’s house will be your own.’ So saying, he embraced me most affectionately, and departed; while I sat to muse over the singularity of my position, and to wonder if any other man was ever similarly situated.

When I proceeded to pay my respects to the countess the next morning, I prepared myself to witness a state of great sorrow and depression. How pleasantly was I disappointed at finding her gay – perhaps gayer than ever – and evidently enjoying the success of the count’s scheme!

‘Gustav is at St. Tron by this,’ said she, looking at the map; ‘he ‘ll reach Liege two hours before the post; fresh horses will then bring him rapidly to Battiste. Oh, here are the papers; let us see the way his departure is announced.’ She turned over one journal after another without finding the wished-for paragraph, until at last, in the corner of the Handelsblad, she came upon the following: —

‘Yesterday morning an express reached the minister for the home affairs that the celebrated escroc, the Chevalier Duguet, whose famous forgery on the Neapolitan bank may be in the memory of our readers, was actually practising his art under a feigned name in Brussels, where, having obtained his entrée among some respectable families of the lower town, he has succeeded in obtaining large sums of money under various pretences. His skill at play is, they say, the least of his many accomplishments.’

She threw down the paper in a fit of laughter at these words, and called out, ‘Is it not too absurd? That’s Gustav’s doing; anything for a quiz, no matter what. He once got himself and Prince Carl of Prussia brought up before the police for hooting the king.’

‘But Duguet,’ said I – ‘what has he to do with Duguet?’

‘Don’t you see that’s a feigned name,’ replied she – ‘assumed by him as if he had half-a-dozen such? Read on, and you’ll learn it all.’

I took the paper, and continued where she ceased reading —

‘This Duguet is then, it would appear, identical with a very well-known Polish Count Czaroviski, who with his lady had been passing some weeks at the Hôtel de France. The police have, however, received his signalement, and are on his track.’

‘But why, in Heaven’s name, should he spread such an odious calumny on himself?’ said I.

‘Dear me, how very simple you are! I thought he had told you all. As a mere escroc, money will always bribe the authorities to let him pass; as a political offender, and as such the importance of his mission would proclaim him, nothing would induce the officials to further his escape – their own heads would pay for it. Once over the frontier, the ruse will be discovered, the editors obliged to eat their words and be laughed at, and Gustav receive the Black Eagle for his services. But see, here’s another.’

‘Among the victims at play of the well-known Chevalier Duguet – or, as he is better known here, the Count Czaroviski – is a simple Englishman, resident at the Hôtel de France, and from whom it seems he has won every louis-d’or he possessed in the world. This miserable dupe, whose name is O’Learie, or O’Leary – ’

At these words the countess leaned back on the sofa and laughed immoderately.

‘Have you, then, suffered so deeply?’ said she, wiping her eyes; ‘has Gustav really won all your louis-d’ors?’

‘This is too bad, far too bad,’ said I; ‘and I really cannot comprehend how any intrigue could induce him so far to asperse his character in this manner. I, for my part, can be no party to it.’

As I said this, my eyes fell on the latter part of the paragraph, which ran thus: —

‘This poor boy – for we understand he is no more – has been lured to his ruin by the beauty and attraction of Madame Czaroviski.’

I crushed the odious paper without venturing to see more, and tore it in a thousand pieces; and, not waiting an instant, hurried to my room and seized a pen. Burning with indignation and rage, I wrote a short note to the editor, in which I not only contradicted the assertions of his correspondent, but offered a reward of a hundred louis for the name of the person who had invented the infamous calumny.

It was some time before I recovered my composure sufficiently to return to the countess, whom I now found greatly excited and alarmed at my sudden departure. She insisted with such eagerness on knowing what I had done that I was obliged to confess everything, and show her a copy of the letter I had already despatched to the editor. She grew pale as death as she read it, flushed deeply, and then became pale again, while she sank faint and sick into a chair.

‘This is very noble conduct of yours,’ said she, in a low, hollow voice; ‘but I see where it will lead to. Czaroviski has great and powerful enemies; they will become yours also.’

‘Be it so,’ said I, interrupting her. ‘They have little power to injure me; let them do their worst.’

‘You forget, apparently,’ said she, with a most bewitching smile, ‘that you are no longer free to dispose of your liberty: that as my protector you cannot brave dangers and difficulties which may terminate in a prison.’ ‘What, then, would you have me do?’ ‘Hasten to the editor at once; erase so much of your letter as refers to the proposed reward. The information could be of no service to you if obtained – some misérable, perhaps some spy of the police, the slanderer. What could you gain by his punishment, save publicity? A mere denial of the facts alleged is quite sufficient; and even that,’ continued she, smiling, ‘how superfluous is it after all! A week – ten days at farthest – and the whole mystery is unveiled. Not that I would dissuade you from a course I see your heart is bent upon, and which, after all, is a purely personal consideration.’

‘Yes,’ said I, after a pause, ‘I’ll take your advice; the letter shall be inserted without the concluding paragraph.’ The calumnious reports on the count prevented madame dining that day at the table d’hôte; and I remarked, as I took my place at table, a certain air of constraint and reserve among the guests, as though my presence had interdicted the discussion of a topic which occupied all Brussels. Dinner over, I walked into the park to meditate on the course I should pursue under present circumstances, and deliberate with myself how far the habits of my former intimacy with the countess might or might not be admissible during her husband’s absence. The question was solved for me sooner than I anticipated, for a waiter overtook me with a short note, written with a pencil; it ran thus: —

‘They play the Zauberflotte to-night at the Opera. I shall go at eight: perhaps you would like a seat in the carriage? Duischka.’

‘Whatever doubts I might have conceived about my conduct, the manner of the countess at once dispelled them. A tone of perfect ease, and almost sisterly confidence marked her whole bearing; and while I felt delighted and fascinated by the freedom of our intercourse, I could not help thinking how impossible such a line of acting would have been in my own more rigid country, and to what cruel calumnies and aspersions it would have subjected her. ‘Truly,’ thought I, ‘if they manage these things – as Sterne says they do – “better in France,” they also far excel in them in Poland.’ And so my Polish grammar and the canzonettes and the drives to Boitsfort all went on as usual, and my dream of happiness, interrupted for a moment, flowed on again in its former channel with increased force.

A fortnight had now elapsed without any letter from the count, save a few hurried lines written from Magdeburg; and I remarked that the countess betrayed at times a degree of anxiety and agitation I had not observed in her before. At last the secret cause came out. We were sitting together in the park, eating ice after dinner, when she suddenly rose and prepared to leave the place.

‘Has anything happened to annoy you?’ said I hurriedly. ‘Why are you going?’

‘I can bear it no longer!’ cried she, as she drew her veil down and hastened forward, and without speaking another word, continued her way towards the hotel. On reaching her apartments, she burst into a torrent of tears, and sobbed most violently.

‘What is it?’ said I, having followed her, maddened by the sight of such sorrow. ‘For heaven’s sake tell me! Has any one dared – ’

‘No, no,’ replied she, wiping the tears away with her handkerchief, ‘nothing of the kind. It is the state of doubt, of trying, harassing uncertainty I am reduced to here, which is breaking my heart. Don’t you see that whenever I appear in public, by the air of insufferable impudence of the men, and the still more insulting looks of the women, how they dare to think of me? I have borne it as well as I was able hitherto; I can do so no longer.’

‘What!’ cried I impetuously, ‘and shall one dare to – ’

‘The world will always dare what may be dared in safety,’ interrupted she, laying her hand on my arm. ‘They know that you could not make a quarrel on my account without compromising my honour; and such an occasion to trample on a poor weak woman could not be lost. Well, well; Gustav may write to-morrow or next day. A little more patience; and it is the only cure for these evils.’

There was a tone of angelic sweetness in her voice as she spoke these words of resignation, and never did she seem more lovely in my eyes.

‘Now, then, as I shall not go to the opera, what shall we do to pass the time? You are tired – I know you are – of Polish melodies and German ballads. Well, well; then I am. I have told you that we Poles are as great gamblers as yourselves. What say you to a game at piquet?’

‘By all means,’ said I, delighted at the prospect of anything to while away the hours of her sorrowing.

‘Then you must teach me,’ rejoined she, laughing, ‘for I don’t know it. I’m wretchedly stupid about all these things, and never could learn any game but écarté.’

‘Then écarté be it,’ said I; and in a few minutes more I had arranged the little table, and down we sat to our party.

‘There,’ said she, laughing, and throwing her purse on the table, ‘I can only afford to lose so much; but you may win all that if you’re fortunate.’ A rouleau of louis escaped at the instant, and fell about the table.

‘Agreed,’ said I, indulging the quiz. ‘I am an inveterate gambler, and always play high. What shall be our stakes?’

‘Fifty, I suppose,’ said she, still laughing: ‘we can increase our bets afterwards.’

After some little badinage, we each placed a double louis-d’or on the board, and began. For a while the game employed our attention; but gradually we fell into conversation, the cards gradually dropped listlessly from our hands, the tricks remained unclaimed, and we could never decide whose turn it was to deal.

‘This wearies you, I see,’ said she; ‘perhaps you’d like to stop?’

‘By no means,’ said I. ‘I like the game, of all things.’ This I said rather because I was a considerable winner at the time than from any other motive; and so we played on till eleven o’clock, at which hour I usually took my leave, and by which time my gains had increased to some seventy louis.

‘Is it not fortunate,’ said she, laughing, ‘that eleven has struck? You ‘d certainly have won all my gold; and now you must leave off in the midst of your good fortune – and so, bonsoir, et à revanche.’

Each evening now saw our little party at écarté usurp the place of the drive and the opera; and though our successes ran occasionally high at either side, yet on the whole neither was a winner; and we jested about the impartiality with which fortune treated us both. At last, one evening, eleven struck when I was a greater winner than ever, and I thought I saw a little pique in her manner at the enormous run of luck I had experienced throughout.

‘Come,’ said she, laughing, ‘you have really wounded a national feeling in a Polish heart – you have asserted a superiority at a game of skill. I must beat you;’ and with that she placed five louis on the table. She lost. Again the same stake followed, and again the same fortune, notwithstanding that I did all in my power to avoid winning – of course without exciting her suspicions.

‘And so,’ said she, as she dealt the cards, ‘Ireland is really so picturesque as you say?’

‘Beautifully so,’ replied I, as, warmed up by a favourite topic, I launched forth into a description of the mountain scenery of the south and west. The rich emerald green of the valleys, the wild fantastic character of the mountains, the changeful skies, were all brought up to make a picture for her admiration; and she did indeed seem to enjoy it with the highest zest, only interrupting me in my harangue by the words, ‘Je marque le Roi,’ to which circumstance she directed my attention by a sweet smile, and a gesture of her taper finger. And thus hour followed hour; and already the grey dawn was breaking, while I was just beginning an eloquent description of the Killeries, and the countess suddenly looking at her watch, cried out —

‘How very dreadful! only think of three o’clock!’

True enough, it was that hour; and I started up to say good-night, shocked at myself for so far transgressing, and yet secretly flattered that my conversational powers had made time slip by uncounted.