Tom Burke Of "Ours" Volume Ii Part 43

"You may count on me, then, Monsieur," said I. "My stay here is so far uncertain, that it depends not altogether on myself; but for the present I am your guest."

I took my purse from my pocket as I spoke, knowing the custom in these humbler boarding-houses was to pay in advance; but the old man reddened slightly, and motioned with his hand a refusal.

"Monsieur is a captain in the Guards," said he, proudly; "no more is necessary."

"You mistake, friend, I am no longer so; I have left the army."

"Left it, _en retraite?_" said he, inquiringly.

"Not so; left it at my own free will and choice. And now, perhaps, I had better tell you, that as I may not enjoy any considerable share of goodwill from the police authorities here, my presence might be less acceptable to your other guests, or to yourself."

The old man's eyes sparkled as I spoke, and his lips moved rapidly, as though he were speaking to himself; then, taking my hand, he pressed it to his lips, and said,--

"Monsieur could not be more welcome than at present. Shall we expect you to-day at dinner?"

"Be it so. Your hour?"

"Four o'clock, to the moment. Do not forget the number, 46 Monsieur Rubichon; the house with a large garden in front."

"Till then," said I, bowing to my host, whose ceremonious politeness made me feel my own salute an act of rudeness in comparison.

As I parted from the old man, I was glad at the relief to my own thoughts which even thus much of speculation afforded, and sauntered on, fancying many a strange conceit about the "pension" and its inhabitants.

At last the hour drew near; and having placed my few effects in a cabriolet, I set out for the distant boulevard of Mont Parna.s.se.

I remarked with pleasure, that as we went along the streets and thoroughfares became gradually less and less crowded; scarcely a carriage of any kind was to be met with. The shops were, for the most part, the quiet, unpretending-looking places one sees in a provincial town; and an air of peacefulness and retirement prevailed, strongly at variance with the clamor and din of the heart of the capital. This was more than ever so as we emerged upon the boulevard itself: on one side of which houses, at long straggling intervals, alone were to be seen; at the other, the country lay open to the view, with its orchards and gardens, for miles away.

"_Saprelotte!_" said the driver, who, like so many of his calling, was a blunt son of Alsace,--"_saprelotte!_ we have come to the end of the world here. How do you call the strange street you are looking for?"

"The Rue de Mi-Careme."

"Mi-Careme? I 'd rather you lived there than me; that name does not promise much in regard to good feeding. Can this be it?"

As he spoke he pointed with his whip to a narrow, deserted-looking street, which opened from the boulevard. The houses were old and dilapidated, but stood in small gardens, and seemed like the remains of the villa residences of the Parisians in times long past. A few more modern edifices, flaring with red brick fronts, were here and there scattered amongst them; but for all the decay and dismantlement of the others, they seemed like persons of rank and condition in the company of their inferiors.

Few of the larger houses were inhabited. Large placards, "a louer,"

on the gateways or the broken railings of the garden, set forth the advantages of a handsome residence, situated between court and garden; but the falling roofs and broken windows were in sad discordance with the eulogy.

The unaccustomed noise of wheels, as we went along, drew many to the doors to stare at us, and in the gathering groups I could mark the astonishment so rare a spectacle as a cabriolet afforded in these secluded parts.

"Is this the Rue Mi-Careme?" said the driver to a boy, who stood gazing in perfect wonderment at our equipage.

"Yes," muttered the child,--"yes. Who are you come for now?"

"Come for, my little man? Not for any one. What do you mean by that?"

"I thought it was the commissary," said the boy.

"Ah, _sapperment!_ I knew we were in a droll neighborhood," murmured the driver. "It would seem they never see a cabriolet here except when it brings the _commissaire de police_ to look after some one."

If this reflection did not tend to allay my previous doubts upon the nature of the locality, it certainly aided to excite my curiosity, and I was determined to persist in my resolution of at least seeing the interior of the "pension."

"Here we are at last," cried the driver, throwing down his whip on the horse's back, as he sprang to the ground, and read aloud from a board fastened to a tree, "'Pension Bourgeoise. M. Rubichon, proprietaire.'

Shall I wait for monsieur?"

"No. Take out that portmanteau and cloak; I'm not going back now."

A stare of most undisguised astonishment was the only reply he made, as he took forth my baggage, and placed it at the little gate.

"You 'll be coming home at night," said he, at length; "shall I come to fetch you? Not to-night," repeated he, in amazement. "Well, adieu, Monsieur,--you know best; but I 'd not come a-pleasuring up here, if I was a young fellow like you."

As he drove away, I turned to look at the building before me, which up to this time I had not sufficiently noted. It was a long, two-storied house, which evidently at an early period had been a mansion of no mean pretension. The pilasters which ornamented the windows, the bal.u.s.trades of the parapet, and the pediment above the entrance, were still remaining, though in a dilapidated condition. The garden in front showed also some signs of that quaint taste originally borrowed from the Dutch, and the yew-trees still preserved some faint resemblance to the beasts and animals after which they had once been fashioned, though time and growth had altered the outlines, and given to many a goodly lion or stag the bristly coat of a porcupine. A little fountain, which spouted from a sea-monster's nostrils, was gra.s.s-grown and choked with weeds.

Everything betokened neglect and ruin; even the sundial had fallen across the walk, and lay moss-grown and forgotten; as though to say that Time had no need of a record there. The _jalousies_, which were closed in every window, permitted no view of the interior; nor did anything, save a faint curl of light blue smoke from one chimney, give token of habitation.

I could not help smiling to myself at the absurd fancy which had suffered me to feel that this deserted quarter, this lonesome dwelling, contained anything either adventurous or strange about it, or that I should find either in the "pension" or its guests wherewithal to interest or amuse me. With this thought I opened the wicket, and, crossing the garden, pulled the bell-rope that hung beside the door.

The deep clanging echoed again and again to my summons, and ere it ceased the door was opened, and M. Rubichon himself stood before me: no longer, however, the M. Rubichon of the morning, in garments of worn and tattered poverty, but attired in a suit which, if threadbare, was at least clean and respectable-looking,--a white vest, and ruffles also, added to the air of neatness of his costume; and whether from his own deserts, or my surprise at the transformation, he seemed to me to possess the look and bearing of a true gentleman.

Having welcomed me with the well-bred and easy politeness of one who knew the habits of society, he gave orders to a servant girl to conduct me to a room, adding, "May I beg of monsieur to make a rapid toilet, for the dinner will be served in less than ten minutes?"

The M. Rubichon of the morning no more prepared me for that gentleman at evening than did the ruinous exterior of the dwelling for the neat and comely chamber into which I was now installed. The articles of furniture were few, but scrupulously clean; and the white curtains of the little bed, the cherry-wood chairs, the table, with its gray marble top,--all were the perfection of that propriety which gives even to humble things a look of elegance.

I had but time to make a slight change in my dress when the bell sounded for dinner, and at the same instant a gentle knock came to my door. It was M. Rubichon, come to conduct me to the _salle_, and anxious to know if I were satisfied with my chamber.

"In summer, Monsieur, if we shall have the happiness of possessing you here at that season, the view of the garden is delightful from this window; and,--you have not noticed it, of course, but there is a little stair, which descends from the window into the garden, which you will find a great convenience when you wish to walk. This way, now. We are a small party to-day, and indeed shall be for a few weeks. What name shall I have the honor to announce?"

"Mr. Burke."

"Ah! an Irish name," said he, smiling, as he threw open the door of a s.p.a.cious but simply furnished apartment, in which about a dozen persons were standing or sitting around the stove.

I could not help remarking, that as Monsieur Rubichon presented me to his other guests, my name seemed to meet a kind of recognition from each in turn. My host perceived this, and explained it at once by saying,--

"We have a namesake of yours amongst us; not exactly at this moment, for he is in Normandy, but he will be back in a week or so. Madame de Langeac, let me present Mr. Burke."

Monsieur Rubichon's guests were all persons somewhat advanced in life; and though in their dress evincing a most unvarying simplicity and economy, had yet a look of habitual good tone and breeding which could not be mistaken. Among these, the lady to whom I was now introduced was conspicuous, and in her easy and graceful reception of me, showed the polished manners of one accustomed to the best society.

After some half-jesting observations, expressive of surprise that a young man--and consequently, as she deemed, a gay one--should have selected as his residence an unvisited quarter and a very retired house, she took my arm, and proceeded to the dinner-room.

The dinner itself, and the table equipage, were in keeping with the simplicity of the whole establishment; but if the fare was humble and the wine of the very cheapest, all the habitudes of the very highest society presided at the meal, and the polished ease and elegance, so eminently the gift of ancient French manners, were conspicuous.

There prevailed among the guests all the intimacy of a large family; at the same time a most courteous deference was remarkable, which never approached familiarity. And thus they talked lightly and pleasantly together of mutual friends and places they had visited; no allusion ever being made to the popular topics of the day,--to me a most inexplicable circ.u.mstance, and one which I could not avoid slightly expressing my astonishment at to the lady beside me. She smiled significantly at my remark, and merely said,--

"It is so agreeable to discuss matters where there can be no great difference of opinion,--at least, no more than sharpens the wit of the speakers,--that you will rarely hear other subjects talked of here."

"But have the great events which are yet pa.s.sing no interest?"

"Perhaps they interest too deeply to admit of much discussion," said she, with some earnestness of manner.

"But I am myself transgressing; and, what is still worse, losing you the observations of Monsieur de Saint George on Madame de Sevigne."