Arthur O'Leary Part 25

Suddenly, and when I was almost on my knees to examine a picture by Memling, the door opened, and a small, sharp-looking man, dressed in the last extravagance of Paris mode, resplendent in waistcoat and glistening in jewellery, tripped lightly forward. 'Ah, mi Lor O'Leary!' said he, advancing towards me with a bow and a slide.

It was no time to discuss pedigree; so gulping the promotion, I made my acknowledgments as best I could; and by the time that we met, which on a moderate calculation might have been two minutes after he entered, we shook hands very cordially, and looked delighted to see each other. This ceremony, I repeat, was only accomplished after his having bowed round two tables, an ottoman, and an oak _armoire_, I having performed the like ceremony behind a Chinese screen, and very nearly over a vase of the original 'green dragon,' which actually seemed disposed to spring at me for my awkwardness.

Before my astonishment--shall I add, disappointment?--had subsided, at finding that the diminutive, overdressed figure before me was the representative of those bold barons I had been musing over (for such he was), the room began to fill. Portly ladies of undefined dates sailed in and took their places, stiff, stately, and silent as their grandmothers on the walls; heavy-looking gentlemen, with unp.r.o.nounceable names, bowed and wheeled and bowed again; while a buzz of _votre serviteur_, madame, or monsieur, swelled and sank amid the murmur of the room, with the sc.r.a.ping of feet on the glazed _parquet_, and the rustle of silk, whose plenitude bespoke a day when silkworms were honest.

The host paraded me around the austere circle, where the very names sounded like an incantation; and the old ladies shook their bugles and agitated their fans in recognition of my acquaintance. The circ.u.mstances of my adventure were the conversation of every group; and although, I confess, I could not help feeling that even a small spice of malice might have found food for laughter in the absurdity of my durance, yet not one there could see anything in the whole affair save a grave case of smuggled tobacco, and a most unwarrantable exercise of authority on the part of the cure who liberated me. Indeed, this latter seemed to gain ground so rapidly, that once or twice I began to fear they might remand me and sentence me to another night in the air, 'till justice should be satisfied.' I did the worthy Maire de Givet foul wrong, said I to myself; these people here are not a whit better.

The company continued to arrive at every moment; and now I remarked that it was the veteran battalion who led the march, the younger members of the household only dropping in as the hour grew later. Among these was a pleasant sprinkling of Frenchmen, as easily recognisable among Flemings as is an officer of the Blues from one of the new police; a German baron, a very portrait of his cla.s.s, fat, heavy-browed, sulky-looking, but in reality a good-hearted, fine-tempered fellow; two Americans; an English colonel, with his daughters twain; and a Danish _charge d'

affaires_--the minor characters being what, in dramatic phrase, are called _premiers_ and _premieres_, meaning thereby young people of either s.e.x, dressed in the latest mode, and performing the part of lovers; the ladies, with a moderate share of good looks, being perfect in the freshness of their toilette and in a certain air of ease and gracefulness almost universal abroad; the men, a strange mixture of silliness and savagery (a bad cross), half hairdresser, half hero.

Before the dinner was announced, I had time to perceive that the company was divided into two different and very opposite currents--one party consisting of the old Dutch or Flemish race, quiet, plodding, peaceable souls, pretending to nothing new, enjoying everything old, their souvenirs referring to some event in the time of their grandfathers; the other section being the younger portion, who, strongly imbued with French notions on dress and English on sporting matters, attempted to bring Newmarket and the Boulevards des Italiens into the heart of the Ardennes.

Between the two, and connecting them with each other, was a species of _pont du diable_, in the person of a little, dapper, olive-complexioned man of about forty. His eyes were black as jet, but with an expression soft and subdued, save at moments of excitement, when they flashed like glow-worms; his plain suit of black with deep cambric ruffles, his silk shorts and buckled shoes, had in them something of the ecclesiastic; and so it was. He was the Abbe van Praet, the cadet of an ancient Belgian family, a man of considerable ability, highly informed on most subjects; a linguist, a musician, a painter of no small pretensions, who spent his life in the _far niente_ of chateau existence--now devising a party of pleasure, now inventing a madrigal, now giving directions to the chef how to make an _omelette a la cure_, now stealing noiselessly along some sheltered walk to hear some fair lady's secret confidence; for he was privy counsellor in all affairs of the heart, and, if the world did not wrong him, occasionally pleaded his own cause when no other pet.i.tioner offered. I was soon struck by this man, and by the tact with which, while he preserved his ascendency over the minds of all, he never admitted any undue familiarity, yet affected all the ease and _insouciance_ of the veriest idler. I was flattered, also, by his notice of me, and by the politeness of his invitation to sit next him at table.

The distinctions I have hinted at already, made the dinner conversation a strange medley of Flemish history and sporting anecdotes; of reminiscences of the times of Maria Theresa, and dissertations on weights and ages; of the genealogies of Flemish families, and the pedigrees of English racehorses. The young English ladies, both pretty and delicate-looking girls, with an air of good-breeding and tone in their manner, shocked me not a little by the intimate knowledge they displayed on all matters of the turf and the stable--their acquaintance with the details of hunting, racing, and steeplechasing, seeming to form the most wonderful attraction to the moustached counts and whiskered barons who listened to them. The colonel was a fine, mellow-looking old gentleman, with a white head and a red nose, and with that species of placid expression one sees in the people who perform those parts in Vaudeville theatres called _peres n.o.bles_. He seemed, indeed, as if he had been daily in the habit of bestowing a lovely daughter on some happy, enraptured lover, and invoking a blessing on their heads; there was a rich unction in his voice, an almost imperceptible quaver, that made it seem kind and affectionate; he finished his shake of the hand with a little parting squeeze, a kind of 'one cheer more,' as they say nowadays, when some misguided admirer calls upon a meeting for enthusiasm they don't f eel. The Americans were (and one description will serve for both, so like were they) sallow, high-boned, silent men, with a species of quiet caution in their manner, as if they were learning, but had not yet completed, a European education as to habits and customs, and were studiously careful not to commit any solecisms which might betray their country.

As dinner proceeded, the sporting characters carried the day. The _ouverture de la cha.s.se_, which was to take place the following morning, was an all-engrossing topic, and I found myself established as judge on a hundred points of English jockey etiquette, of which as my ignorance was complete I suffered grievously in the estimation of the company, and, when referred to, could neither apportion the weight to age, nor even tell the number of yards in a 'distance.' It was, however, decreed that I should ride the next day--the host had the 'very horse to suit me'; and, as the abbe whispered me to consent, I acceded at once to the arrangement.

When we adjourned to the drawing-room, Colonel Muddleton came towards me with an easy smile and an outstretched snuff-box, both in such perfect keeping: the action was a finished thing.

'Any relation, may I ask, of a very old friend and brother officer of mine, General Mark O'Leary, who was killed in Canada?' said he.

'A very distant one only,' replied I.

'A capital fellow, brave as a lion, and pleasant. By Jove, I never met the like of him! What became of his Irish property?--he was never married, I think?'

'No, he died a bachelor, and left his estates to my uncle; they had met once by accident, and took a liking to each other.'

'And so your uncle has them now?'

'No; my uncle died since. They came into my possession some two or three years ago.'

'Eh--ah--upon my life!' said he, with something of surprise in his manner; and then, as if ashamed of his exclamation, and with a much more cordial vein than at first, he resumed: 'What a piece of unlooked-for good fortune to be sure! Only think of my finding my old friend Mark's nephew!'

'Not his nephew. I was only----'

'Never mind, never mind; he was kind of an uncle, you know--any man might be proud of him. What a glorious fellow!--full of fun, full of spirit and animation. Ah, just like all your countrymen! I've a little Irish blood in my veins myself; my mother was an O'Flaherty or an O'Neil, or something of that sort; and there's Laura--you don't know my daughter?' 'I have not the honour.'

'Come along, and I'll introduce you to her; a little reserved or so,'

said he, in a whisper, as if to give me the _carte du pays_--' rather cold, you know, to strangers; but when she hears you are the nephew of my old friend Mark--Mark and I were like brothers.--Laura, my love,'

said he, tapping the young lady on her white shoulder as she stood with her back towards us; 'Laura, dear---the son of my oldest friend in the world, General O'Leary.'

The young lady turned quickly round, and, as she drew herself up somewhat haughtily, dropped me a low curtsy, and then resumed her conversation with a very much whiskered gentleman near. The colonel seemed, despite all his endeavours to overcome it, rather put out by his daughter's hauteur to the _son_ of his old friend; and what he would have said or done I know not, but the abbe came suddenly up, and with a card invited me to join a party at whist. The moment was so awkward for all, that I would have accepted an invitation even to ecarte to escape from the difficulty, and I followed him into a small boudoir where two ladies were awaiting us. I had just time to see that they were both pleasing-looking, and of that time of life when women, without forfeiting any of the attractions of youth, are much more disposed to please by the attractions of manner and _esprit_ than by mere beauty, when we sat down to our game. La Baronne de Meer, my partner, was the younger and the prettier of the two; she was one of those Flemings into whose families the race of Spain poured the warm current of southern blood, and gave them the dark eye and the olive skin, the graceful figure and the elastic step, so characteristic of their nation.

'A la bonne heure,' said she, smiling; 'have we rescued one from the enchantress?'

'Yes,' replied the abbe, with an affected gravity; 'in another moment he was lost.'

'If you mean me,' said I, laughing, 'I a.s.sure you I ran no danger at all; for whatever the young lady's glances may portend, she seemed very much indisposed to bestow a second on me.'

The game proceeded with its running fire of chitchat, from which I could gather that Mademoiselle Laura was a most established man-killer, no one ever escaping her fascinations save when by some strange fatality they preferred her sister Julia, whose style was, to use the abbe's phrase, her sister's 'diluted.' There was a tone of pique in the way the ladies criticised the colonel's daughters, which I have often remarked in those who, accustomed to the attentions of men themselves, without any unusual effort to please on their part, are doubly annoyed when they perceive a rival making more than ordinary endeavours to attract admirers. They feel as a capitalist would, when another millionaire offers money at a lower rate of interest. It is, as it were, a breach of conventional etiquette, and never escapes being severely criticised.

As for me, I had no personal feeling at stake, and looked on at the game of all parties with much amus.e.m.e.nt.

'Where is the Comte d'Espagne to-night?' said the baronne to the abbe.

'Has he been false?'

'Not at all; he was singing with mademoiselle when I was in the salon.'

'You'll have a dreadful rival there, Monsieur O'Leary,' said she laughingly; 'he is the most celebrated swordsman and the best shot in Flanders.'

'It is likely he may rust his weapons if he have no opportunity for their exercise till I give it,' said I.

'Don't you admire her, then?' said she.

'The lady is very pretty, indeed,' said I.

'The heart led,' interrupted the abbe suddenly, as he touched my foot beneath the table--'play a heart.'

Close beside my chair, and leaning over my cards, stood Mademoiselle Laura herself at the moment.

'You have no heart,' said she, in English, and with a singular expression on the words, while her downcast eye shot a glance--one glance--through me.

'Yes, but I have though,' said I, discovering a card that lay concealed behind another; 'it only requires a little looking for.'

'Not worth the trouble, perhaps,' said she, with a toss of her head, as I threw the deuce upon the table; and before I could reply she was gone.

'I think her much prettier when she looks saucy,' said the baronne, as if to imply that the air of pique a.s.sumed was a mere piece of acting got up for effect.

I see it all, said I to myself. Foreign women can never forgive English for being so much their superior in beauty and loveliness. Meanwhile our game came to a close, and we gathered around the buffet.

There we found the old colonel, with a large silver tankard of mulled wine, holding forth over some campaigning exploit, to which no one listened for more than a second or two--and thus the whole room became joint-stock hearers of his story. Laura stood eating her ice with the Comte d'Espagne, the black-whiskered cavalier already mentioned, beside her. The Americans were prosing away about Jefferson and Adams; the Belgians talked agriculture and genealogy; and the French collecting into a group of their own, in which nearly all the pretty women joined, discoursed the ballet, the Chambre, the court, the coulisses, the last mode, and the last murder, and all in the same mirthful and lively tone.

And truly, let people condemn as they will this superficial style of conversation, there is none equal to it; it avoids the prosaic flatness of German, and the monotonous pertinacity of English, which seems more to partake of the nature of discussion than dialogue. French chit-chat takes a wider range--anecdotic, ill.u.s.trative, and discursive by turns; it deems nothing too light, nothing too weighty for its subject; it is a gay b.u.t.terfly, now floating with gilded wings above you, now tremulously perched upon a leaf below, now sparkling in the sunbeam, now loitering in the shade; embodying not only thought, but expression, it charms by its style as well as by its matter. The language, too, suggests shades and nuances of colouring that exist not in other tongues; you can give to your canvas the precise tint you wish, for when mystery would prove a merit, the equivoque is there ready to your hand--meaning so much, yet a.s.serting so little. For my part I should make my will in English; but I'd rather make love in French.

While thus digressing, I have forgotten to mention that people are running back and forward with bedroom candles; there is a confused hum of _bonsoir_ on every side; and, with many a hope of a fine day for the morrow, we separate for the night.

I lay awake some hours thinking of Laura, and then of the baronne--they were both arch ones; the abbe too crossed my thoughts, and once or twice the old colonel's roguish leer; but I slept soundly for all that, and did not wake till eight o'clock the next morning. The silence of the house struck me forcibly as I rubbed my eyes and looked about. Hang it, thought I, have they gone off to the _cha.s.se_ without me? I surely could never have slept through the uproar of their trumpets. I drew aside the window-curtains, and the mystery was solved: such rain never fell before; the clouds, actually touching the tops of the beech-trees, seemed to ooze and squash like squeezed sponges. The torrent came down in that splashing stroke as if some force behind momentarily propelled it stronger; and the long-parched ground seethed and smoked like a heated caldron.

Pleasant this, was reflection number one, as I endeavoured to peer through the mist, and beheld a haze of weeping foliage--pleasant to be immured here during Heaven knows how many days, without the power to escape. Lucky fellow, Arthur, was my second thought; capital quarters you have fallen into. Better far the snug comforts of a Flemish chateau than the chances of a wayside inn. Besides, here is a goodly company met together; there will needs be pleasant people among them. I wish it may rain these three weeks; chateau life is the very thing I 'm curious about. How do they get through the day? There's no _Times_ in Flanders; no one cares a farthing about who's in and who's out. There's no Derby, no trials for murder. What can they do? was the question I put to myself a dozen times over. No matter; I have abundant occupation; my journal has never been posted up since--since--alas, I can scarcely tell!

It might be from reflections like these, or perhaps because I was less of a sportsman than my companions, but certainly, whatever the cause, I bore up against the disappointment of the weather with far more philosophy than they, and dispersed a sack of proverbs about patience, hope, equanimity, and contentment which Sancho Panza himself might have envied, until at length no one ventured a malediction on the day in my presence, for fear of eliciting a hailstorm of moral reflections. The company dropped down to breakfast by detachments, the elated looks and flashing eyes of the night before saddened and overcast at the unexpected change. Even the elders of the party seemed discontented; and except myself and an old gentleman with the gout, who took an airing about the hall and the drawing-room in a wheel-chair, all seemed miserable.

Each window had its occupant posted against the gla.s.s, vainly endeavouring to catch one bit of blue amid the dreary waste of cloud. A little group, sulky and silent, were gathered around the weather-gla.s.s; a literary inquirer sat down to con over the predictions of the almanac.

You might as well have looked for sociability among the inhabitants of a private madhouse as here. The weather was cursed in every language from Cherokee to Sanskrit; all agreed that no country had such an abominable climate. The Yankee praised the summers of America, the Dane upheld his own, and I took a patriotic turn, and vowed I had never seen such rain in Ireland. The master of the house could scarcely show himself amid this torrent of abusive criticism; and when he did by chance appear, he looked as much ashamed as though he himself had pulled out the spigot, and deluged the whole land with water.

Meanwhile, none of those I looked for appeared. Neither the colonel's daughter nor the baronne came down; the abbe too, did not descend to the breakfast room, and I was considerably puzzled and put out by the disappointment.

After then enduring a good hour's boredom from the old colonel on the subject of my late lamented parent, Mark O'Leary; after submitting to a severe cross-examination from the Yankee gentleman as to the reason of my coming abroad, what property and expectations I had, my age and birthplace, what my mother died of, and whether I did not feel very miserable from the abject slavery of submitting to an English Government--I escaped into the library, a fine, comfortable old room, which I rightly conjectured I should find unoccupied.