Glories of Spain.

by Charles W. Wood.

Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul[A] in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?

BYRON.

GLORIES OF SPAIN.

CHAPTER I.

AT THE GARE D'ORLeANS.

On Calais quay--At the Custom-house--A lady of the past--Ungallant examiner--Better to reign than serve--Paris--Vanity Fair--Sowing and reaping--Laughing through life--At the Hotel Chatham--A pleasant picture--In maiden meditation--M. Pascal is wise in his generation--The secrets of the Seine--Notre Dame--Ile St. Louis--A mediaeval atmosphere--Victor Hugo--Ghosts of the Hotel Lambert--H.

C. again--His little comedy--M. the Inspector--Outraged ladies--"En voiture, messieurs!"--Mystery not cleared--The Orleanais--La Vendee--Garden of France--A dilemma--Polite Chef de Gare--Crossing the Garonne--Land of corn and wine.

The Channel waters were calm and placid as the blue sky above them.

Though late autumn the temperature was that of mid-summer. At Calais every one landed as jauntily as though they had just gone through the pleasure of a short yachting trip. As usual there were all sorts and conditions of men and women, and again the curious, the grotesque, the impossible predominated. They streamed across the new quay in a disordered procession, struggling with all that amount of hand-baggage which gets into everyone's way but their own, as they hurry forward to secure for themselves the best seats and most comfortable corners.

The Custom-house was over. One ancient lady who stood near us was politely demanded by the examiner if she had cigars, tobacco or brandy to declare. Her flaxen wig seemed to stand on end as she asked if they mistook her for a New Woman: Quaker-like answering one question with another. The examiner received her query _au pied de la lettre_, and earnestly looked at the lady, who, in spite of flaxen wig, rouge, pencilled brows, was of the Past. All his intelligence in his eyes, he replied: "About the same age as the century, I should say, madame;" then marked her packages and turned to the next in waiting. Had those two found themselves alone together, judging from the lady's expression there would have been terrible paragraphs in the next day's papers. As it was she entered one of the waiting trains and we saw her no more.

Evidently she had been a beauty in her day, and it is hard to serve where one has reigned.

So we steamed on to the gay capital, in her day almost to the modern world what Rome was to the ancient. And if not altogether that now, who has she to thank but herself? Nations like people must reap as they sow.

Yet, whirling through the broad thoroughfares, we felt she still holds her own. Nowhere such floods of light, turning night into day, making one blink like owls in the sunshine. Nowhere shops so resplendent that a Jew's ransom would not purchase them. Nowhere such a Vanity Fair crowded with a light-hearted people, who dance through the world to the tune of _Away with Melancholy!_ Pa.s.sing from the Gare du Nord, the brilliant boulevards were full of life and movement.

Our coachman turned into the Rue Daunou and brought up at the Hotel Chatham: quiet, comfortable, but like all Parisian hotels terribly in want of air. The manager received us with as much attention as though we had arrived for six months instead of a couple of hours, in order to fortify ourselves for the night journey southwards.

The salle-a-manger opened its hospitable doors, disclosing a number of small tables, snow-white cloths, sparkling gla.s.s and silver; a pleasant vision. Richly dressed ladies, blazing with jewels, fanned themselves with lazy grace. In a quiet corner sat two quiet people, evidently mother and daughter, since the one must have been twenty years ago what the other was now. They were English, as one saw and heard, for we were at the next table. No other country could produce that fair specimen of girlhood; no other country own that lovely face, gentle voice, refined tones: charms of inheritance, destined one day to translate some happy swain to fields Elysian, where the sands of life are golden and run swiftly.

Then came up our cunning _maitre-d'hotel_, portly and commanding, deigned to glance at the wine card we held, and went in for a little diplomacy.

"A bottle of your excellent '87 St. Julien, M. Pascal;" knowing the wine of old.

"Ah, if monsieur only knew, the Chateau d'Irrac is superior."

"Is it possible?" incredulous but yielding. "Then let it be Chateau d'Irrac."

And presently we realised that the '87 St. Julien was growing low in the cellar, whilst many bins of Chateau d'Irrac cried out to be consumed. We sent for the great man and confided our suspicions, adding, "You cannot compare the two wines." "Monsieur donc knows the St. Julien? Ah," with a keener glance, "I had not remarked. I ask a thousand pardons of monsieur. After all, it is a matter of taste. The Chateau d'Irrac is much appreciated--especially by the English. Monsieur will allow me to change the wine?"

_Amende honorable_, but not accepted; and the Chateau d'Irrac remained.

Presently we entered upon our longer drive to the Gare d'Orleans. Paris had put up her shutters and toned down her illuminations. Shops were closed, lights were out, Vanity Fair had disappeared.

The streets grew more and more empty. Our driver found his way to the river and went down the quays, where on summer evenings lovers of old books spend hours examining long rows of stalls, on which sooner or later every known and unknown literary treasure makes its appearance.

Perhaps he was a man who liked the tragic side of life--and where is it more suggested than on the banks of the Seine? Night after night its turbid waters close over the heads of the rashly despairing. The ghastly Morgue is weighted with secrets. Every bridge is surrounded by an atmosphere of sighs. One last look upon the world, the sky, the quiet stars, then the fatal plunge into the silent waters, and another soul has risked the unknown.

Once more in the darkness uprose the outlines of Notre Dame in all the beauty of Gothic refinement; all the delicate lacework and flying b.u.t.tresses subdued and dreamlike under the night sky.

Who can look upon this architectural wonder without thinking of those historical, twelfth-century days when the first stone was laid, and it slowly rose to perfection? All the centuries that have since rolled on, changing and destroying much of its charm? The perils it went through and did not altogether escape in those terrible days of '93 when, condemned, it was saved by a miracle? That Age of Reason, which drove half the excitable Frenchmen of Paris stark staring mad.

How can we haunt these precincts without thinking of their high priest Victor Hugo, who loved them as Scott and Burns loved their wholesomer banks and braes? Everywhere uprises a vision of the old grey-headed man as we remember him, with pale heavy face, grave earnest manner, deep thoughtful eyes, and on the surface, so little that was light, excitable and French; for ever pondering upon the mysteries of life, human suffering and endurance, broken destinies. His face looks at you from every dark and vacant window in the neighbouring Ile St. Louis. The shadows of Notre Dame fall upon its mediaeval roofs; the dark waters of the river wash their foundations, and sometimes flood them also. If they could only whisper their secrets of human sin and suffering, that great army of martyrs who have died, not in defence of the good but in consequence of the evil, the world would surely dissolve and disappear.

Many a time has he stood contemplating these problems, planning the destinies of his characters, from the windows of the Hotel Lambert. Its painted ceilings recall the days of Lebrun, and up and down the old staircases and deserted corridors one hears the cynical laugh of Voltaire and the tripping footsteps of Madame de Chatet.

We left this delightful and romantic atmosphere behind us as our driver pursued his way down the right bank of the Seine.

Another world, inhabited by another people. Darkness reigned; lamps were few and far between; the roar of the great city sounded afar off, and amidst that roar dwelt all the rank and fashion, wealth and intrigue, that turn the heaven-sent manna to ashes of the Dead Sea fruit.

Presently he crossed a bridge and there was a flash of lamps upon the dark waters below. The Seine was pursuing her relentless course, carrying her burden of sorrows to the far-off sea, burying them in the ocean of eternity, recording them in the books of heaven.

A few moments more, and at the Gare d'Orleans we dismissed our man with his _pourboire_. We were in good time, and had the place almost to ourselves. "Le train n'est pas encore fait, monsieur," said a polite official. "Ah! there it comes. You will not be over-crowded to-night, I imagine."

Good hearing, for a night journey in a full train without a reserved carriage means martyrdom. We marked our seats, then walked up and down the lighted platform. It was nearly ten o'clock and pa.s.sengers were arriving.

Presently, missing H. C., we turned and saw him at the lower end of the train examining the last carriage. What did it mean? Evidently mischief of some sort. The hundred-and-one occasions rose up before us in which we had saved him from ladies with matrimony on the brain, from intrigues, from his susceptible self. Only a year ago there had been that narrow escape in the Madrid hotel with the siren who had married the Russian count. He saw us coming, turned and met us with laughter.

What now?

"Come and see," placing his arm in ours. "But don't interfere with the liberty of the subject. I will not be controlled. You shall no longer find me weak and yielding as in other years."

All this went in at one ear and out at the other, as the saying runs.

Silence is the best reply to incipient rebellion.

At the last carriage the mystery was solved. In one compartment sat two lovely ladies, waiting the departure of the train to draw down the blinds and settle themselves for the night. H. C. silently pointed to the label, which said: _Pour Fumeurs._ Fortune seemed to favour his humour for we had seldom seen the announcement on a French carriage.

Then he went on to the next compartment. Three young men had entered and were laughing, talking, blowing clouds of smoke. This was labelled _Pour Dames Seules_. H. C. had quietly changed the iron labels and turned the world upside down. The inmates were in blissful ignorance of the frightful thing that had happened.

"We had no time for the theatre to-night, yet I had a mind for a little comedy," said H. C. "Now we have it on the spot, and without paying. I had such trouble to ram the plaques into the grooves that they will never come out again. Here comes the inspector--evidently not to be trifled with; exactly the man for the occasion. Now for it."

We trembled as the great man approached, each particular hair standing on end, the pallor of death on our cheek. Appearances would have condemned us. H. C., on the other hand, looked innocence itself.

Suddenly the inspector gave a start, exactly reproduced in us; on his part, astonishment and indignation; on ours, nervous terror. Then the door of the compartment was thrown open and the scene began. The inspector's powerful ba.s.s voice made itself felt and heard.

"Gentlemen," in his deepest diapason, "what is the meaning of this? How dare you enter a compartment reserved _For Ladies Only_, fill it with vile smoke, and treat with contempt the rules of our organisation department? For this, gentlemen," waxing wrath and perhaps overstating his case, "I could fine and summons you--and believe I should be justified in handing you over to the _Police Correctionnelle_. Your act is infamous--and no doubt designed."

Instead of pouring oil upon troubled waters, the young men were combative and defiant.

"Qu'est-ce que vous nous chantez la?" said one. "Surely, my dear inspector, your sight is failing--time rolls on, you know; or you cannot read; or you have dined too well. But if you have your senses about you and examine the plaque closely, you will see that it states: _For Smokers._ And we are smokers. My compliments to you, Monsieur the famous Inspector. Like Dumas, we are here and we remain."

"Very good," said H. C. innocently looking on. "As a scene at the Vaudeville it would bring down the house and make the fortune of the piece. You ought to be grateful for this little distraction, but you don't look it. All was done so easily and develops so naturally."

The inspector listened whilst this fuel was being added to the fire of his wrath. "We will see about that," he said. "Come out this instant and read for yourself." He grasped the arm of the young man. As he was strong and the youth weak, the result was that Dumas' famous saying fell to the ground and he with it. In a moment he stood upon the platform and read the fatal notice.

"But it is conjuring, it is a miracle!" he cried. "I can a.s.sure you, Monsieur the Inspector, that before entering I read the label with my own eyes--we all did. Anatole--de Verriers--I appeal to you for confirmation. It positively stated _For Smokers_. No, oh no, I am certain of it--and I have _not_ dined too well," laughing in spite of himself. "For Ladies only! It is too good a joke. I a.s.sure you we want a quiet night's rest; we don't want to be disturbed by the gentle snoring of the fair s.e.x. An enemy hath done this. Tenez, Monsieur the Inspector," going to the next carriage and reading the label: "look at that. There are the innocent conspirators calmly seated in the compartment. The ladies themselves have done this. I was wrong in saying it was an enemy, for are we not all friends of the lovelier s.e.x? But take my word for it, they are the culprits. Remark how unconscious they look; one sees it is too natural to be real--it is a.s.sumed. Poor ladies!

They are nervous, perhaps, and want a safeguard about them during the perilous night journey. Or it may be that they even like smoking. After all, it is an innocent little ruse on their part to attain a very harmless end."