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

I nodded assent, and she went on.

‘Of course you can imagine the dreadful grief of the young countess when her husband broke to her his determination. If I were a novelist I’d tell you of tears and entreaties and sighs and faintings, of promises and pledges and vows, and so forth; for, indeed, it was a very sorrowful piece of business, as she didn’t at all fancy passing some three or four years alone in the old keep at Bouvigne, with no society, not one single friend to speak to. At first, indeed, she would not hear of it; and it was only at length when Henri de Bethune undertook to plead for him – for he kindly remained several days at the château, to assist his friend at this conjuncture – that she gave way, and consented. Still, her consent was wrung from her against her convictions, and she was by no means satisfied that the arguments she yielded to were a whit too sound. And this, let me remark, en passant, is a most dangerous species of assent, when given by a lady; and one she always believes to be something of the nature of certain Catholic vows, which are only binding while you believe them reasonable and just.’

‘Is that really so?’ interrupted I. ‘Do you, indeed, give me so low a standard of female fidelity as this?’

‘If women are sometimes false,’ replied she, ‘it is because men are never true; but I must go on with my tale. – Away went Count Philip, and with him his friend De Bethune – the former, if the fact were known, just as low-spirited, when the time came, as the countess herself. But, then, he had the double advantage that he had a friend to talk with and make participator of his sorrows, besides being the one leaving, not left.’

‘I don’t know,’ interrupted I at this moment, ‘that you are right there; I think that the associations which cling to the places where we have been happy are a good requital for the sorrowful memories they may call up. I ‘d rather linger around the spot consecrated by the spirit of past pleasure, and dream over again, hour by hour, day by day, the bliss I knew there, than break up the charm of such memories by the vulgar incidents of travel and the commonplace adventures of a journey.’

‘There I differ from you completely,’ replied she. ‘All your reflections and reminiscences, give them as fine names as you will, are nothing but sighings and repinings for what cannot come back again; and such things only injure the temper, and spoil the complexion, whereas – But what are you laughing at?’

‘I was smiling at your remark, which has only a feminine application.’

‘How teasing you are! I declare I ‘ll argue no more with you. Do you want to hear my story?’

‘Of all things; I ‘m greatly interested in it.’

‘Well, then, you must not interrupt me any more. Now, where was I? You actually made me forget where I stopped.’

‘You were just at the point where they set out, Philip and his friend, for the Holy Land.’

‘You must not expect from me any spirit-stirring narrative of the events in Palestine. Indeed, I’m not aware if the Chronique de Flandre, from which I take my tale, says anything very particular about Philip de Bouvigne’s performances. Of course they were in accordance with his former reputation: he killed his Saracens, like a true knight – that there can be no doubt of. As for Henri de Bethune, before the year was over he was badly wounded, and left on the field of battle, where some said he expired soon after, others averring that he was carried away to slavery. Be that as it might, Philip continued his career with all the enthusiasm of a warrior and a devotee, a worthy son of the Church, and a brave soldier – unfortunately, however, forgetting the poor countess he had left behind him, pining away her youth at the barred casements of the old château; straining her eyes from day to day along the narrow causeway that led to the castle, and where no charger’s hoof re-echoed, as of old, to tell of the coming of her lord. Very bad treatment, you ‘ll confess; and so, with your permission, we’ll keep her company for a little while. Madame la Comtesse de Bouvigne, as some widows will do, only become the prettier from desertion. Her traits of beauty mellowed by a tender melancholy, without being marked too deeply by grief, assumed an imaginative character, or what men mistake for it.’

‘Indeed!’ said I, catching at the confession.

‘Well, I’m sure it is so,’ replied she. ‘In the great majority of cases you are totally ignorant of what is passing in a woman’s mind. The girl that seemed all animation to-day may have an air of deep depression to-morrow, and of downright wildness the next, simply by changing her coiffure from ringlets to braids, and from a bandeau to a state of dishevelled disorder. A little flattery of yourselves, artfully and well done, and you are quite prepared to believe anything. In any case, the countess was very pretty and very lonely.

‘In those good days when gentlemen left home, there were neither theatres nor concerts to amuse their poor neglected wives; they had no operas nor balls nor soirées nor promenades. No; their only resource was to work away at some huge piece of landscape embroidery, which, begun in childhood, occupied a whole life, and transmitted a considerable labour of background and foliage to the next generation. The only pleasant people in those times, it seems to me, were the jongleurs and the pilgrims; they went about the world fulfilling the destinies of newspapers; they chronicled the little events of the day – births, marriages, deaths, etc. – and must have been a great comfort on a winter’s evening.

‘Well, it so chanced that as the countess sat at her window one evening, as usual, watching the sun go down, she beheld a palmer coming slowly along up the causeway, leaning on his staff, and seeming sorely tired and weary —

‘But see,’ cried Laura, at this moment, as we gained the crest of a gentle acclivity, ‘yonder is Bouvigne; it is a fine thing even yet.’

We both reined in our horses, the better to enjoy the prospect; and certainly it was a grand one. Behind us, and stretching for miles in either direction, was the great forest we had been traversing; the old Ardennes had been a forest in the times of Caesar, its narrow pathways echoing to the tread of Roman legions. In front was a richly cultivated plain, undulating gently towards the Meuse, whose silver current wound round it like a garter – the opposite bank being formed by an abrupt wall of naked rocks of grey granite, sparkling with its brilliant hues, and shining doubly in the calm stream at its foot. On one of the highest cliffs, above an angle of the river, and commanding both reaches of the stream for a considerable way, stood Bouvigne. Two great square towers rising above a battlemented wall, pierced with long loopholes, stood out against the clear sky; one of them, taller than the other, was surmounted by a turret at the angle, from the top of which something projected laterally, like a beam.

‘Do you see that piece of timber yonder?’ said Laura. ‘Yes,’ said I; ‘it’s the very thing I’ve been looking at, and wondering what it could mean.’

‘Carry your eye downward,’ said she, ‘and try if you can’t make out a low wall connecting two masses of rock together, far, far down: do you see it?’

‘I see a large archway, with some ivy over it.’ ‘That’s it; that was the great entrance to the schloss; before it is the fosse – a huge ditch cut in the solid rock, so deep as to permit the water of the Meuse, when flooded, to flow into it. Well, now, if you look again, you ‘ll see that the great beam above hangs exactly over that spot. It was one of the rude defences of the time, and intended, by means of an iron basket which hung from its extremity, to hurl great rocks and stones upon any assailant. The mechanism can still be traced by which it was moved back and loaded; the piece of rope which opened the basket at each discharge of its contents was there not many years ago. There’s a queer, uncouth representation of the panier de la mort, as it is called, in the Chronique, which you can see in the old library at Rochepied. But here we are already at the ferry.’

As she spoke we had just reached the bank of the Meuse, and in front was a beautifully situated little village, which, escarped in the mountain, presented a succession of houses at different elevations, all looking towards the stream. They were mostly covered with vines and honeysuckles, and with the picturesque outlines of gable and roof, diamond windows and rustic porches, had a very pleasing effect.

As I looked, I had little difficulty in believing that they were not a very equestrian people – the little pathways that traversed their village being inaccessible save to foot-passengers, frequently ascending by steps cut in the rock, or by rude staircases of wood which hung here and there over the edge of the cliff in anything but a tempting way, the more so, as they trembled and shook with every foot that passed over them. Little mindful of this, the peasants might now be seen leaning over their frail barriers, and staring at the unwonted apparition of two figures on horseback, while I was endeavouring, by signs and gestures, to indicate our wish to cross over.

At last a huge raft appeared to move from beneath the willows of the opposite bank, and by the aid of a rope fastened across the stream two men proceeded slowly to ferry the great platform over. Leading our horses cautiously forward, we embarked in this frail craft, and landed safely in Bouvigne.

CHAPTER XV. A NARROW ESCAPE

‘Will you please to tell me, Mr. O’Leary,’ said Laura, in the easy tone of one who asked for information’s sake, ‘what are your plans here; for up to this moment I only perceive that we have been increasing the distance between us and Rochepied.’

‘Quite true,’ said I; ‘but you know we agreed it was impossible to hope to find our way back through the forest. Every allée here has not only its brother, but a large family, so absolutely alike no one could distinguish between them; we might wander for weeks without extricating ourselves.’

‘I know all that,’ said she somewhat pettishly; ‘still my question remains unanswered. What do you mean to do here?’

‘In the first place,’ said I, with the affected precision of one who had long since resolved on his mode of proceeding, ‘we ‘ll dine.’

I stopped here to ascertain her sentiments on this part of my arrangement. She gave a short nod, and I proceeded. ‘Having dined,’ said I, ‘we’ll obtain horses and a calèche, if such can be found, for Rochepied.’

‘I ‘ve told you already there are no such things here. They never see a carriage of any kind from year’s end to year’s end; and there is not a horse in the whole village.’

‘Perhaps, then, there may be a château near, where, on making known our mishap, we might be able – ’

‘Oh, that’s very simple, as far as you ‘re concerned,’ said she, with a saucy smile; ‘but I’d just as soon not have this adventure published over the whole country.’

Ha! by Jove, thought I, there’s a consideration completely overlooked by me; and so I became silent and thoughtful, and spoke not another word as we led our horses up the little rocky causeway towards the ‘Toison d’Or.’

If we did not admire the little auberge of the ‘Golden Fleece,’ truly the fault was rather our own than from any want of merit in the little hostelry itself. Situated on a rocky promontory on the river, it was built actually over the stream – the door fronting it, and approachable by a little wooden gallery, along which a range of orange-trees and arbutus was tastefully disposed, scenting the whole air with their fragrance. As we walked along we caught glimpses of several rooms within, neatly and even handsomely furnished – and of one salon in particular, where books and music lay scattered on the tables, with that air of habitation so pleasant to look on.

So far from our appearance in a neighbourhood thus remote and secluded creating any surprise, both host and hostess received us with the most perfect ease, blended with a mixture of cordial civility very acceptable at the moment.

‘We wish to dine at once,’ said I, as I handed Laura to a chair.

‘And to know in what way we can reach Rochepied,’ said she; ‘our horses are weary and not able for the road.’

‘For the dinner, mademoiselle, nothing is easier; but as to getting forward to-night – ’

‘Oh, of course I mean to-night – at once.’

‘Ah, voilà,’ said he, scratching his forehead in bewilderment; ‘we’re not accustomed to that, never. People generally stop a day or two; some spend a week here, and have horses from Dinant to meet them.’

‘A week here!’ exclaimed she; ‘and what in Heaven’s name can they do here for a week?’

‘Why, there’s the château, mademoiselle – the château of Philip de Bouvigne, and the gardens terraced in the rock; and there’s the well of St. Sèvres, and the Ile de Notre Dame aux bois; and then there’s such capital fishing in the stream, with abundance of trout.’

‘Oh, delightful, I’m sure,’ said she impatiently; ‘but we wish to get on. So just set your mind to that, like a worthy man.’

‘Well, we’ll see what can be done,’ replied he; ‘and before dinner’s over, perhaps I may find some means to forward you.’

With this he left the room, leaving mademoiselle and myself tête-à-tête. And here let me confess, never did any man feel his situation more awkwardly than I did mine at that moment; and before any of my younger and more ardent brethren censure me, let me at least ‘show cause’ in my defence. First, I myself, however unintentionally, had brought Mademoiselle Laura into her present embarrassment; but for me and the confounded roan she had been at that moment cantering away pleasantly with the Comte d’Espagne beside her, listening to his fleurettes and receiving his attentions. Secondly, I was, partly from bashfulness, partly from fear, little able to play the part my present emergency demanded, which should either have been one of downright indifference and ease, or something of a more tender nature, which indeed the very pretty companion of my travels might have perfectly justified.

‘Well,’ said she, after a considerable pause, ‘this is about the most ridiculous scrape I’ve ever been involved in. What will they think at the château?’

‘If they saw your horse when he bolted – ’

‘Of course they did,’ said she; ‘but what could they do? The Comte d’Espagne is always mounted on a slow horse: he couldn’t overtake me; then the maîtres couldn’t pass the grand maître.’

‘What!’ cried I, in amazement; ‘I don’t comprehend you perfectly.’

‘It’s quite clear, nevertheless,’ replied she; ‘but I see you don’t know the rules of the chasse in Flanders.’

With this she entered into a detail of the laws of the hunting-field, which more than once threw me into fits of laughter. It seemed, then, that the code decided that each horseman who followed the hounds should not be left to the wilfulness of his horse or the aspirings of his ambition, as to the place he occupied in the chase. It was no momentary superiority of skill or steed, no display of jockeyship, no blood that decided this momentous question. No; that was arranged on principles far less vacillating and more permanent at the commencement of the hunting season, by which it was laid down as a rule that the grand maître was always to ride first. His pace might be fast or it might be slow, but his place was there. After him came the maîtres, the people in scarlet, who in right of paying double subscription were thus costumed and thus privileged; while the ‘aspirants’ in green followed last, their smaller contribution only permitting them to see so much of the sport as their respectful distance opened to them – and thus that indiscriminate rush, so observable in our hunting-fields, was admirably avoided and provided against. It was no headlong piece of reckless daring, no impetuous dash of bold horsemanship; on the contrary, it was a decorous and stately canter – not after hounds, but after an elderly gentleman in a red coat and a brass tube, who was taking a quiet airing in the pleasing delusion that he was hunting an animal unknown. Woe unto the man who forgot his place in the procession! You might as well walk into dinner before your host, under the pretence that you were a more nimble pedestrian.

Besides this, there were subordinate rules to no end. Certain notes on the cor de chasse were royalties of the grand maître; the maîtres possessed others as their privileges which no ‘aspirant’ dare venture on. There were quavers for one, and semiquavers for the other; and, in fact, a most complicated system of legislation comprehended every incident, and I believe every accident, of the sport, so much that I can’t trust my memory as to whether the wretched ‘aspirants’ were not limited to tumbling in one particular direction – which, if so, must have been somewhat of a tyranny, seeing they were but men, and Belgians.

‘This might seem all very absurd and very fabulous if I referred to a number of years back; but when I say that the code still exists, in the year of grace, 1856, what will they say at Melton or Grantham? So you may imagine,’ said Laura, on concluding her description, which she gave with much humour, ‘how manifold your transgressions have been this day. You have offended the grand maître, maîtres, and aspirants, in one coup; you have broken up the whole “order of their going.”’

‘And run away with the belle of the château,’ added I, pour comble de hardiesse. She did not seem half to relish my jest, however; and gave a little shake of the head, as though to say, ‘You’re not out of that scrape yet.’

Thus did we chat over our dinner, which was really excellent, the host’s eulogy on the Meuse trout being admirably sustained by their merits; nor did his flask of Haut-Brion lower the character of his cellar. Still no note of preparation seemed to indicate any arrangements for our departure; and although, sooth to say, I could have reconciled myself wonderfully to the inconvenience of the Toison d’Or for the whole week if necessary, Laura was becoming momentarily more impatient, as she said —

‘Do see if they are getting anything like a carriage ready, or even horses; we can ride, if they’ll only get us animals.’

As I entered the little kitchen of the inn, I found my host stretched at ease in a wicker chair, surrounded by a little atmosphere of smoke, through which his great round face loomed like the moon in the grotesque engravings one sees in old spelling-books. So far from giving himself any unnecessary trouble about our departure, he had never ventured beyond the precincts of the stove, contenting himself with a wholesome monologue on the impossibility of our desires, and that great Flemish consolation, that however we might chafe at first, time would calm us in the end.

After a fruitless interrogation about the means of proceeding, I asked if there were no château in the vicinity where horses could be borrowed.

He replied,’ No, not one for miles round.’

‘Is there no mayor in the village – where is he?’

‘I am the mayor,’ replied he, with a conscious dignity.

‘Alas!’ thought I, as the functionary of Givet crossed my mind, ‘why did I not remember that the mayor is always the most stupid of the whole community?’

‘Then I think,’ said I, after a brief silence, ‘we had better see the curé at once.’

‘I thought so,’ was the sententious reply.

Without troubling my head why he ‘thought so,’ I begged that the curé might be informed that a gentleman at the inn begged to speak with him for a few minutes.

‘The Père José, I suppose?’ said the host significantly.

‘With all my heart,’ said I; ‘José or Pierre, it’s all alike to me.’

‘He is there in waiting this half-hour,’ said the host, pointing with his thumb to a small salon off the kitchen.

‘Indeed!’ said I; ‘how very polite the attention! I ‘m really most grateful.’

With which, without delaying another moment, I pushed open the door, and entered.

The Père José was a short, ruddy, astute-looking man of about fifty, dressed in the canonical habit of a Flemish priest, which from time and wear had lost much of its original freshness. He had barely time to unfasten a huge napkin, which he had tied around his neck during his devotion to a great mess of vegetable soup, when I made my bow to him.

‘The Père José, I believe?’ said I, as I took my seat opposite to him.

‘That unworthy priest!’ said he, wiping his lips, and throwing up his eyes with an expression not wholly devotional.

‘Père José,’ resumed I, ‘a young lady and myself, who have just arrived here with weary horses, stand in need of your kind assistance.’ Here he pressed my hand gently, as if to assure me I was not mistaken in my man, and I went on: ‘We must reach Rochepied to-night; now, will you try and assist us at this conjuncture? We are complete strangers.’

‘Enough, enough!’ said he. ‘I’m sorry you are constrained for time. This is a sweet little place for a few days’ sojourn. But if,’ said he, ‘it can’t be, you shall have every aid in my power. I ‘ll send off to Poil de Vache for his mule and car. You don’t mind a little shaking?’ said he, smiling.

‘It’s no time to be fastidious, père, and the lady is an excellent traveller.’

‘The mule is a good beast, and will bring you in three hours, or even less.’ So saying, he sat down and wrote a few lines on a scrap of paper, with which he despatched a boy from the inn, telling him to make every haste. ‘And now monsieur, may I be permitted to pay my respects to mademoiselle?’

‘Most certainly, Père José; she will be but too happy to add her thanks to mine for what you have done for us.’

‘Say rather, for what I am about to do,’ said he, smiling.

‘The will is half the deed, father.’

‘A good adage, and an old,’ replied he, while he proceeded to arrange his drapery, and make himself as presentable as the nature of his costume would admit.

‘This was a rapid business of yours,’ said he, as he smoothed down his few locks at the back of his head.

‘That it was, père– a regular runaway.’

‘I guessed as much,’ said he. ‘I said so, the moment I saw you at the ferry.’

The père is no bad judge of horse-flesh, thought I, to detect the condition of our beasts at that distance.

‘“There’s something for me,” said I to Madame Guyon. “Look yonder! See how their cattle are blowing! They’ve lost no time, and neither will I.” And with that I put on my gown and came up here.’

‘How considerate of you, père; you saw we should need your help.’

‘Of course I did,’ said he, chuckling. ‘Of course I did. Old Grégoire, here, is so stupid and so indolent that I have to keep a sharp lookout myself. But he’s the maire, and one can’t quarrel with him.’

‘Very true,’ said I. ‘A functionary has a hundred opportunities of doing civil things, or the reverse.’

‘That’s exactly the case,’ said the père. ‘Without him we should have no law on our side. It would be all sous la cheminée, as they say.’

The expression was new to me, and I imagined the good priest to mean, that without the magistrature, respect for the laws might as well be ‘up the chimney.’

‘And now, if you will allow me, we ‘ll pay our duty to the lady,’ said the Père José, when he had completed his toilette to his satisfaction.

When the ceremonial of presenting the père was over I informed Laura of his great kindness in our behalf, and the trouble he had taken to provide us with an equipage.

‘A sorry one, I fear, mademoiselle,’ interposed he, with a bow. ‘But I believe there are few circumstances in life where people are more willing to endure sacrifices.’

‘Then monsieur has explained to you our position?’ said Laura, half blushing at the absurdity of the adventure.

‘Everything, my dear young lady – everything. Don’t let the thought give you any uneasiness, however. I listen to stranger stories every day.

‘Taste that Haut-Brion, père,’ said I, wishing to give the conversation a turn, as I saw Laura felt uncomfortable, ‘and give me your opinion of it. To my judgment it seems excellent.’

‘And your judgment is unimpeachable in more respects than that,’ said the père, with a significant look, which fortunately was not seen by mademoiselle.