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

My momentary embarrassment about the road completely routed all my musings, and I now turned my thoughts to the comforts of the inn, and to the pleasant little supper I promised myself on reaching it. I debated as to what was in season and what was not. I spelled October twice to ascertain if oysters were in, and there came a doubt across me whether the Flemish name for the month might have an r in it, and then I laughed at my own bull; afterwards I disputed with myself as to the relative merits of Chablis and Hochheimer, and resolved to be guided by the garçon. I combated long a weakness I felt growing over me for a pint of mulled claret, as the air was now becoming fresh; but I gave in at last, and began to hammer my brain for the French words for cloves and nutmeg.

In these innocent ruminations did an hour pass by, and yet no sign of human habitation, no sound of life, could I perceive at either side of me. The night, ‘tis true, was brighter as it became later, and there were stars in thousands in the sky; but I would gladly have exchanged Venus for the chambermaid of the humblest auberge, and given the Great Bear himself for a single slice of bacon. At length, after about two hours’ walking, I remarked that the road was becoming much more steep; indeed, it had presented a continual ascent for some miles, but now the acclivity was very considerable, particularly at the close of a long day’s march. I remembered well that Spa lay in a valley, but for the life of me I could not think whether a mountain was to be crossed to arrive there. ‘That comes of travelling by post,’ said I to myself; had I walked the road, I had never forgotten so remarkable a feature.’ While I said this, I could not help confessing that I had as lief my present excursion had been also in a conveyance.

‘Forwärts! fort, und immer fort!’

hummed I, remembering Körner’s song; and taking it for my motto, on I went at a good pace. It needed all my powers as a pedestrian, however, to face the mountain, for such I could see it was that I was now ascending; the pathway, too, less trodden than below, was encumbered with loose stones, and the trees which lined the way on either side gradually became thinner and rarer, and at last ceased altogether, exposing me to the cold blast which swept from time to time across the barren heath with a chill that said October was own brother to November. Three hours and a half did I toil along, when at last the conviction came over me that I must have taken the wrong road. This could not possibly be the way to Spa; indeed, I had great doubts that it led anywhere. I mounted a little rock, and took a survey of the bleak mountain-side; but nothing could I see that indicated that the hand of man had ever laboured in that wild region. Fern and heath, clumps of gorse and misshapen rocks, diversified the barren surface on every side, and I now seemed to have gained the summit, a vast tableland spreading away for miles. I sat down to consider what was best to be done. The thought of retracing so many leagues of way was very depressing; and yet what were my chances if I went forward?

Ah, thought I, why did not some benevolent individual think of erecting lighthouses inland? What a glorious invention would it have been! Just think of the great mountain districts which lie in the very midst of civilisation, pathless, trackless, and unknown, where a benighted traveller may perish within the very sound of succour, if he but knew where to seek it. How cheering to the wayworn traveller as he plods along his weary road, to lift from time to time his eyes to the guide-star in the distance! Had the monks been in the habit of going out in the dark, there’s little doubt they’d have persuaded some good Catholics to endow some institutions like this. How well they knew how to have their chapels and convents erected! I’m not sure but I’d vow a little lighthouse myself to the Virgin, if I could only catch a glimpse of a gleam of light this moment.

Just then I thought I saw something twinkle, far away across the heath. I climbed up on the rock, and looked steadily in the direction. There was no doubt of it-there was a light; no Jack-o’-Lantern either, but a good respectable light, of domestic habits, shining steadily and brightly. It seemed far off; but there is nothing so deceptive as the view over a flat surface. In any case, I resolved to make for it; and so, seizing my staff, I once more set forward. Unhappily, however, I soon perceived that the road led off in a direction exactly the reverse of the object I sought, and I was now obliged to make my choice of quitting the path or abandoning the light; my resolve was quickly made, and I started off across the plain, with my eyes steadily fixed upon my beacon.

The mountain was marshy and wet – that wearisome surface of spongy hillock, and low, creeping brushwood, the most fatal thing to a tired walker – and I made but slow progress; besides, frequently, from inequalities of the soil, I would lose sight of the light for half an hour together, and then, on its reappearing suddenly, discover how far I had wandered out of the direct line. These little aberrations did not certainly improve my temper, and I plodded along, weary of limb and out of spirits.

At length I came to the verge of a declivity. Beneath me lay a valley, winding and rugged, with a little torrent brawling through rocks and stones – a wild and gloomy scene by the imperfect light of the stars. On the opposite mountain stood the coveted light, which now I could discover proceeded from a building of some size, at least so far as I could pronounce from the murky shadow against the background of sky.

I summoned up one great effort, and pushed down the slope – now sliding on hands and feet, now trusting to a run of some yards where the ground was more feasible. After a fatiguing course of two hours, I reached the crest of the opposite hill, and stood within a few hundred yards of the house – the object of my wearisome journey. It was indeed in keeping with the deserted wildness of the place. A ruined tower, one of those square keeps which formerly were intended as frontier defences, standing on a rocky base, beside the edge of a steep cliff, had been made a dwelling of by some solitary herdsman – for so the sheep collected within a little inclosure bespoke him. The rude efforts to make the place habitable were conspicuous in the door formed of wooden planks nailed coarsely together, and the window, whose panes were made of a thin substance like parchment, through which, however, the blaze of a fire shone brightly without.

Creeping carefully forward to take a reconnaissance of the interior before I asked for admission, I approached a small aperture, where a single pane of glass permitted a view. A great heap of blazing furze, that filled the old chimney of the tower, lit up the whole space, and enabled me to see a man who sat on a log of wood beside the hearth, with his head bent upon his knees. His dress was a coarse blouse of striped woollen descending to his knees, where a pair of gaiters of sheepskin were fastened by thongs of untanned leather; his head was bare, and covered only by a long mass of black hair, that fell in tangled locks down his back, and even over his face as he bent forward. A shepherd’s staff and a broad hat of felt lay on the ground beside him; there was neither chair nor table, nor, save some fern in one corner, anything that might serve as a bed; a large earthenware jug and a metal pot stood near the fire, and a knife, such as butchers kill with, lay beside them. Over the chimney, however, was suspended, by two thongs of leather, a sword, long and straight, like the weapon of the heavy cavalry of France; and, higher again, I could see a great piece of printed paper was fastened to the wall. As I continued to scan, one by one, these signs of utter poverty, the man stretched out his limbs and rubbed his eyes for a minute or two, and then with a start sprang to his feet, displaying, as he did so, the proportions of a most powerful and athletic frame.

He was, as well as I could guess, about forty-five years of age; but hardship and suffering had worn deep lines about his face, which was sallow and emaciated. A black moustache, that hung down over his lip and descended to his chin, concealed the lower part of his face; the upper was bold and manly, the forehead high and well developed; but his eyes – and I could mark them well as the light fell on him – were of an unnatural brilliancy; their sparkle had the fearful gleam of a mind diseased, and in their quick, restless glances through the room I saw that he was labouring under some insane delusion. He paced the room with a steady step, backwards and forwards, for a few minutes, and once, as he lifted his eyes above the chimney, he stopped abruptly and carried his hand to his forehead in a military salute, while he muttered something to himself. The moment after he threw open the door, and stepping outside, gave a long shrill whistle; he paused for a few seconds, and repeated it, when I could hear the distant barking of a dog replying to his call. Just then he turned abruptly, and with a spring seized me by the arm.

‘Who are you? What do you want here?’ said he, in a voice tremulous with passion.

A few words – it was no time for long explanations – told him how I had lost my way in the mountain, and was in search of shelter for the night.

‘It was a lucky thing for you that one of my lambs was astray,’ said he, with a fierce smile. ‘If Tête-noir had been at home, he’d have made short work of you. Come in.’

With that he pushed me before him into the tower, and pointed to the block of wood where he had been sitting previously, while he threw a fresh supply of furze upon the hearth, and stirred up the blaze with his foot.

‘The wind is moving round to the southard,’ said he; ‘we ‘ll have a heavy fall of rain soon.’

‘The stars look very bright, however.’

‘Never trust them. Before day breaks, you’ll see the mountain will be covered with mist.’

As he spoke, he crossed his arms on his breast, and recommenced his walk up and down the chamber. The few words he spoke surprised me much by the tones of his voice, so unlike the accents I should have expected from one of his miserable and squalid appearance; they were mild, and bore the traces of one who had seen very different fortunes from his present ones.

I wished to speak, and induce him to converse with me; but the efforts I made seeming only to excite his displeasure, I abandoned the endeavour with a good grace; and having disposed my knapsack as a pillow, stretched myself full length before the hearth, and fell sound asleep.

When I awoke, the shepherd was not to be seen. The fire, which blazed brightly, showed, however, that he had not long been absent; a huge log of beech had recently been thrown upon it. The day was breaking, and I went to the door to look out. Nothing, however, could I see; vast clouds of mist were sweeping along before the wind, that sighed mournfully over the bleak mountains and concealed everything a few yards off, while a thin rain came slanting down, the prelude to the storm the shepherd had prophesied.

Never was there anything more dreary within or without; the miserable poverty of the ruined tower was scarcely a shelter from the coming hurricane. I returned to my place beside the fire, sad and low at heart. While I was conjecturing within myself what distance I might be from Spa, and how I could contrive to reach it, I chanced to fix my eyes on the sabre above the chimney, which I took down to examine. It was a plain straight weapon, of the kind carried by the soldiery; its only sign of inscription was the letter ‘N’ on the blade. As I replaced it, I caught sight of the printed paper, which, begrimed with smoke and partly obliterated by time, was nearly illegible. After much pains, however, I succeeded in deciphering the following; it was headed in large letters —

‘Ordre du Jour, de l’Armée Française. Le 9 Thermidor.’

The lines which immediately followed were covered by another piece of paper pasted over them, where I could just here and there detect a stray word, which seemed to indicate that the whole bore reference to some victory of the republican army. The last four lines, much clearer than the rest, ran thus: —

‘Le citoyen Aubuisson, chef de bataillon de Grenadiers, de cette demi-brigade, est entré le premier dans la redoute. Il a eu son habit criblé de balles.’

I read and re-read the lines a dozen times over; indeed, to this hour are they fast fixed in my memory. Some strange mystery seemed to connect them with the poor shepherd; otherwise, why were they here? I thought over his figure, strong and well-knit, as I saw him stand upright in the room, and of his military salute; and the conviction came fully over me that the miserable creature, covered with rags and struggling with want, was no other than the citizen Aubuisson. Yet, by what fearful vicissitude had he fallen to this? The wild expression of his features at times did indeed look like insanity; still, what he said to me was both calm and coherent. The mystery excited all my curiosity, and I longed for his return, in the hope of detecting some clue to it.

The door opened suddenly. A large dog, more mastiff than sheep-dog, dashed in; seeing me, he retreated a step, and fixing his eyes steadily upon me, gave a fearful howl. I could not stir from fear. I saw that he was preparing for a spring, when the voice of the shepherd called out, ‘Couche-toi, Tête-noir, couche!’ The savage beast at once slunk quietly to a corner, and lay down – still never taking his eyes from me, and seeming to feel as if his services would soon be in request in my behalf; while his master shook the rain from his hat and blouse, and came forward to dry himself at the fire. Fixing his eyes steadfastly on the red embers as he stirred them with his foot, he muttered some few and broken words, among which, although I listened attentively, I could but hear, ‘Pas un mot; silence, silence, à la mort!’

‘You were not wrong in your prophecy, shepherd; the storm is setting in already,’ said I, wishing to attract his attention.

‘Hush!’ said he, in a low whisper, while he motioned me with his hand to be still – ‘hush! not a word!’

The eager glare of madness was in his eye as he spoke, and a tremulous movement of his pale cheek betokened some great inward convulsion. He threw his eyes slowly around the miserable room, looking below and above with the scrutinising glance of one resolved to let nothing escape his observation; and then kneeling down on one knee beside the blaze he took a piece of dry wood, and stole it quietly among the embers.

‘There, there!’ cried he, springing to his legs, while he seized me rudely by the shoulder, and hurried me to the distant end of the room. ‘Come quickly! stand back, stand back there! see, see!’ said he, as the crackling sparks flew up and the tongued flame rose in the chimney, ‘there it goes!’ Then putting his lips to my ear he muttered, ‘Not a word! silence! silence to the death!’

As he said this, he drew himself up to his full height, and crossing his arms upon his breast stood firm and erect before me, and certainly, covered with rags the meanest poverty would have rejected, shrunk by famine and chilled by hunger and storm, there was still remaining in him the traits of a once noble face and figure. The fire of madness, unquenched by every misery, lit up his dark eye, and even on his compressed lip there was a curl of pride. Poor fellow! some pleasant memory seemed to flit across him; he smiled, and as he moved his hair from his forehead he bowed his head slightly, and murmured, ‘Oui, sire!’ How soft, how musical that voice was then! Just at this instant the deep bleating of the sheep was heard without, and Tête-noir, springing up, rushed to the door, and scratched fiercely with his fore-paws. The shepherd hastened to open it, and to my surprise I beheld a boy about twelve years of age, poorly clad and dripping with wet, who was carrying a small canvas bag on his back.

‘Has the lamb been found, Lazare?’ said the child, as he unslung his little sack.

‘Yes; ‘tis safe in the fold.’

‘And the spotted ewe? You don’t think the wolves could have taken her away so early as this – ’

‘Hush, hush!’ said the shepherd, with a warning gesture to the child, who seemed at once to see that the lunatic’s vision was on him; for he drew his little blouse close around his throat, and muttered a ‘Bonjour, Lazare,’ and departed.

‘Couldn’t that boy guide me down to Spa, or some village near it?’ said I, anxious to seize an opportunity of escape.

He looked at me without seeming to understand my question. I repeated it more slowly, when, as if suddenly aware of my meaning, he replied quickly —

‘No, no; little Pierre has a long road to go home; he lives far away in the mountains. I ‘ll show you the way myself.

With that, he opened the sack, and took forth a loaf of coarse wheaten bread, such as the poorest cottagers make, and a tin flask of milk. Tearing the loaf asunder, he handed me one-half, which more from policy than hunger, though I had endured a long fast, I accepted. Then passing the milk towards me he made a sign for me to drink, and when I had done, seized the flask himself, and nodding gaily with his head, cried, ‘A vous, camarade.’ Simple as the gesture and few the words, they both convinced me that he had been a soldier once; and each moment only strengthened me in the impression that I had before me in the shepherd Lazare an officer of the Grande Armée – one of those heroes of a hundred fights, whose glory was the tributary stream in the great ocean of the Empire’s grandeur.

Our meal was soon concluded, and in silence; and Lazare, having replenished his fire, went to the door and looked out.

‘It will be wilder ere night,’ said he, as he peered into the dense mist, which, pressed down by rain, lay like a pall upon the earth; ‘if you are a good walker, I ‘ll take you by a short way to Spa.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said I, ‘to follow you.’

‘The mountain is easy enough; but there may be a stream or two swollen by the rains. They are sometimes dangerous.’

‘What distance are we then from Spa?’

‘Four leagues and a half by the nearest route – seven and a half by the road. Come, Tête-noir, bonne bête,’ said he, patting the savage beast, who with a rude gesture of his tail evinced his joy at the recognition. ‘Thou must be on guard to-day; take care of these for me – that thou wilt, old fellow; farewell, good beast, good-bye!’

The animal, as if he understood every word, stood with his red eyes fixed upon him till he had done, and then answered by a long low howl. Lazare smiled with pleasure, as he waved his hand towards him, and led the way from the tower.

I had but time to leave two louis-d’ors on the block of wood, when he called out to me to follow him. The pace he walked at, as well as the rugged course of the way he took, prevented my keeping at his side; and I could only track him as he moved along through the misty rain, like some genius of the storm, his long locks flowing wildly behind him, and his tattered garments fluttering in the wind.

It was a toilsome and dreary march, unrelieved by aught to lessen the fatigue. Lazare never spoke one word the entire time; occasionally he would point with his staff to the course we were to take, or mark the flight of some great bird of prey soaring along near the ground, as if fearless of man in regions so wild and desolate; save at these moments, he seemed buried in his own gloomy thoughts. Four hours of hard walking brought us at last to the summit of a great mountain, from which, as the mist was considerably cleared away, I could perceive a number of lesser mountains surrounding it, like the waves of the sea. My guide pointed to the ground, as if recommending a rest, and I willingly threw myself on the heath, damp and wet as it was.

The rest was a short one; he soon motioned me to resume the way, and we plodded onward for an hour longer, when we came to a great tableland of several miles in extent, but which still I could perceive was on a very high level. At last we reached a little grove of stunted pines, where a rude cross of stone stood – a mark to commemorate the spot where a murder had been committed, and to entreat prayers for the discovery of the murderers. Here Lazare stopped, and pointing to a little narrow path in the heather, he said —

‘Spa is scarce two leagues distant; it lies in the valley yonder; follow this path, and you ‘ll not fail to reach it.’

While I proffered my thanks to him for his guidance, I could not help expressing my wish to make some slight return for it. A dark, disdainful look soon stopped me in my speech, and I turned it off in a desire to leave some souvenir of my night’s lodging behind me in the old tower. But even this he would not hear of; and when I stretched out my hand to bid him good-bye, he took it with a cold and distant courtesy, as though he were condescending to a favour he had no fancy for.

‘Adieu, monsieur,’ said I, still tempted, by a last effort of allusion to his once condition, to draw something from him – ‘adieu!’

He approached me nearer, and with a voice of tremulous eagerness, he muttered —

‘Not a word yonder, not a syllable! Pledge me your faith in that!’

Thinking now that it was merely the recurrence of his paroxysm, I answered carelessly, ‘Never fear, I’ll say nothing.’

‘Yes, but swear it,’ said he, with a fixed look of his dark eye; ‘swear it to me now, that so long as you are below there’ – he pointed to the valley – ‘you will never speak of me.’

I made him the promise he required, though with great unwillingness, as my curiosity to learn something about him was becoming intense.

‘Not a word!’ said he, with a finger on his lip, ‘that’s the consigne.

‘Not a word!’ repeated I, and we parted.

CHAPTER XVII. THE BORE – A SOLDIER OF THE EMPIRE

Two hours after, I was enjoying the pleasant fire of the Hôtel de Flandre, where I arrived in time for table d’hôte, not a little to the surprise of the host and six waiters, who were totally lost in conjectures to account for my route, and sorely puzzled to ascertain the name of my last hotel in the mountains.

A watering-place at the close of a season is always a sad-looking thing. The barricades of the coming winter already begin to show; the little statues in public gardens are assuming their greatcoats of straw against the rigours of frost; the jets d’ eau cease to play, or perform with the unwilling air of actors to empty benches; the tables d’hôte present their long dinner-rooms unoccupied, save by a little table at one end, where some half-dozen shivering inmates still remain, the débris of the mighty army who flourished their knives there but six weeks before – these half-dozen usually consisting of a stray invalid or two, completing his course of the waters, having a fortnight of sulphuretted hydrogen before him yet, and not daring to budge till he has finished his ‘heeltap’ of abomination. Then there’s the old half-pay major, that has lived in Spa, for aught I know, since the siege of Namur, and who passes his nine months of winter in shooting quails and playing dominoes; and there’s an elderly lady, with spectacles, always working at a little embroidery frame, who speaks no French, and seems not to be aware of anything going on around her – no one being able to guess why she is there, she probably not knowing why herself. Lastly, there is a very distracted-looking young gentleman, with a shooting-jacket and young moustaches, who having been ‘cleaned out’ at rouge et noir, is waiting in the hope of a remittance from some commiserating relative in England.

The theatre is closed; its little stars, dispersed among the small capitals, have shrunk back to their former proportions of third and fourth-rate parts – for though butterflies in July, they are mere grubs in December. The clink of the croupier’s mace is no longer heard, revelling amid the five-franc pieces; all is still and silent in that room which so late the conflict of human passion, hope, envy, fear, and despair, had made a very hell on earth.

The donkeys, too, who but the other day were decked in scarlet trappings, are now despoiled of their gay panoply, and condemned to the mean drudgery of the cart. Poor beasts! their drooping ears and fallen heads seem to show some sense of their changed fortunes; no longer bearing the burden of some fair-cheeked girl or laughing boy along the mountain-side, they are brought down to the daily labour of the cottage, and a cutlet is no more like a mutton-chop than a donkey is like an ass.