We rose at once to make our excuses; and thus I lost the story of Prince Metternich, in which I already felt an uncommon interest from the similarity of the adventure to my own, though whether I was to represent the prince or the count I could not even guess.
I was soon seated beside the countess in the luxurious britzka; the count took his place on the box, and away we rattled over the stones through the Porte de Namur, and along the pretty suburbs of Etterbech, where we left the highroad, and entered the Bois de Cambre by that long and beautiful allée which runs on for miles, like some vast aisle in a Gothic cathedral—the branches above bending into an arched roof, and the tall beech-stems standing like the pillars.
The pleasant odour of the forest, the tempered light, the noiseless roll of the carriage, gave a sense of luxury to the drive I can remember vividly to this hour. Not that my enjoyment of these things was my only one; far from it. The pretty countess talked away about everything that came uppermost, in that strain of spirited and lively chit-chat which needs not the sweetest voice and the most fascinating look to make it most captivating. I felt like one in a dream; the whole thing was fairy-land; and whether I looked into the depths of the leafy wood, where some horsemen might now and then be seen to pass at a gallop, or my eyes fell upon that small and faultless foot that rested on the velvet cushion in the carriage, I could not trust the reality of the scene, and could only mutter to myself, ‘What hast thou ever done, Arthur O’Leary, or thy father before thee, to deserve happiness like this?’
Dear and kind reader, it may be your fortune to visit Brussels; and although not exactly under such circumstances as I have mentioned here, let me advise you, even without a beautiful Polonaise for your companion, to make a trip to Boitsfort, a small village in the wood of Soignies. Of course your nationality will lead you to Waterloo; and equally of course, if you have any tact (which far be it from me not to suppose you gifted with), you’ll not dine there, the little miserable cabarets that are called restaurants being wretched beyond description; you may have a glass of wine—and if so, take champagne, for they cannot adulterate it—but don’t venture on a dinner, if you hope to enjoy one again for a week after. Well, then, ‘having done your Waterloo,’ as the Cockneys say, seen Sergeant Cotton and the church, La Haye Sainte, Hougomont, and Lord Anglesey’s boot—take your road back, not by that eternal and noisy chaussée you have come by, but turn off to the right, as if going to Wavre, and enter the forest by an earth road, where you’ll neither meet waggons nor postillions nor even a ‘’pike.’ Your coachman will say, ‘Where to?’ Reply, ‘Boitsfort’—which, for safety, pronounce ‘Boshfort’—and lie back and enjoy yourself. About six miles of a delightful drive, all through forest, will bring you to a small village beside a little lake surrounded by hills, not mountains, but still waving and broken in outline, and shaded with wood. The red-tiled roofs, the pointed gables, the green jalousies, and the background of dark foliage will all remind you of one of Berghem’s pictures; and if a lazy Fleming or so are seen lounging over the little parapet next the water, they ‘ll not injure the effect. Passing over the little bridge, you arrive in front of a long, low, two-storeyed house, perforated by an arched doorway leading into the court; over the door is an inscription, which at once denotes the object of the establishment, and you read, ‘Monsieur Dubos fait noces et festins.’ Not that the worthy individual officiates in any capacity resembling the famed Vulcan of the North: as far be it from him to invade the prerogative of others as for any to rival him in his own peculiar walk. No; Monsieur D.‘s functions are limited to those delicate devices which are deemed the suitable diet of newly-married couples—those petits plats which are, like the orange-flower, only to be employed on great occasions. And as such he is unrivalled; for notwithstanding the simple and unpretending exterior, this little rural tavern can boast the most perfect cook and the best-stored cellar. Here may be found the earliest turkey of the year, with a dowry of truffles; here, the first peas of spring, the newest strawberries and the richest cream, iced champagne and grapy Hermitage, Steinberger and Johannisberg, are all at your orders. You may dine in the long salon, en cabinet; in the garden, or in the summer-house over the lake, where the carp is flapping his tail in the clear water, the twin-brother of him at table. The garden beneath sends up its delicious odours from beds of every brilliant hue; the sheep are moving homeward along the distant hills to the tinkle of the faint bell; the plash of an oar disturbs the calm water as the fisherman skims along the lake, and the subdued murmurs of the little village all come floating in the air—pleasant sounds, and full of home thoughts. Well, well! to be sure I am a bachelor, and know nothing of such matters; but it strikes me I should like to be married now and then, and go eat my wedding-dinners at Boitsfort! And now once more let me come back to my narrative—for leaving which I should ask your pardon, were it not that the digression is the best part of the whole, and I should never forgive myself if I had not told you not to stop at Brussels without dining at Boitsfort.
When we reached Boitsfort, a waiter conducted us at once to a little table in the garden where the strawberries and the iced champagne were in waiting. Here and there, at some distance, were parties of the Brussels bourgeoisie enjoying themselves at their coffee, or with ice; while a large salon that occupied one wing of the building was given up to some English travellers, whose loud speech and boisterous merriment bespoke them of that class one is always ashamed to meet with out of England.
‘Your countrymen are very merry yonder,’ said the countess, as a more uproarious burst than ever broke from the party.
‘Yes,’ said the count, perceiving that I felt uncomfortable at the allusion, ‘Englishmen always carry London about with them wherever they go. Meet them in the Caucasus, and you’ll find that they’ll have some imitation of a Blackwall dinner or a Greenwich party.’
‘How comes it,’ said I, amazed at the observation, ‘that you know these places you mention?’
‘Oh, my dear sir, I have been very much about the world in my time, and have always made it my business to see each people in their own peculiar haunts. If at Vienna, I dine not at the “Wilde Man,” but at the “Puchs” in the Leopoldstadt. If in Dresden, I spend my evening in the Grün-Garten, beyond the Elbe. The bourgeoisie alone of any nation preserve traits marked enough for a stranger’s appreciation; the higher classes are pretty much alike everywhere, and the nationality of the peasant takes a narrow range, and offers little to amuse.’
‘The count is a quick observer,’ remarked madame, with a look of pleasure sparkling in her eyes.