‘Then I have lost my bet,’ said the count, laughing; ‘and, worse still, have found myself mistaken in my opinion.’
‘And I,’ said madame, in a faint whisper, ‘have won mine, and found my impressions more correct.’
Nothing more occurred worth mentioning on our way back; when we reached the hotel in safety, we separated with many promises to meet early next day.
From that hour my intimacy took a form of almost friendship. I visited the count, or the countess if he was out, every morning; chatted over the news of the day; made our plans for the evening, either for Boitsfort or Lacken, or occasionally the allée verte or the theatre, and sometimes arranged little excursions to Antwerp, Louvain, or Ghent.
It is indeed a strange thing to think of what slight materials happiness is made up. The nest that incloses our greatest pleasure is a thing of straws and feathers, gathered at random or carried towards us by the winds of fortune. If you were to ask me now what I deemed the most delightful period of my whole life, I don’t hesitate to say I should name this. In the first place, I possessed the great requisite of happiness—every moment of my whole day was occupied; each hour was chained to its fellow by some slight but invisible link; and whether I was hammering away at my Polish grammar, or sitting beside the pianoforte while the countess sang some of her country’s ballads, or listening to legends of Poland in its times of greatness, or galloping along at her side through the forest of Soignies, my mind was ever full; no sense of weariness or ennui ever invaded me, while a consciousness of a change in myself—I knew not what it was—suggested a feeling of pleasure and delight I cannot account for or convey. And this, I take it—though speaking in ignorance and merely from surmise—this, I suspect, is something like what people in love experience, and what gives them the ecstasy of the passion. There is sufficient concentration in the admiration of the loved object to give the mind a decided and firm purpose, and enough of change in the various devices to win her praise to impart the charm of novelty.
Now, for all this, my reader, fair or false as she or he may be, must not suspect that anything bordering on love was concerned in the present case. To begin—the countess was married, and I was brought up at an excellent school at Bangor, where the catechism, Welsh and English, was flogged into me until every commandment had a separate welt of its own on my back. No; I had taken the royal road to happiness. I was delighted without stopping to know why, and enjoyed myself without ever thinking to inquire wherefore. New sources of information and knowledge were opened to me by those who possessed vast stores of acquirement; and I learned how the conversation of gifted and accomplished persons may be made a great agent in training and forming the mind, if not to the higher walks of knowledge, at least to those paths in which the greater part of life is spent, and where it imports each to make the road agreeable to his fellows. I have said to you I was not in love—how could I be, under the circumstances?—but still I own that the regular verbs of the Polish grammar had been but dry work, if it had not been for certain irregular glances at my pretty mistress; nor could I ever have seen my way through the difficulties of the declensions if the light of her eyes had not lit up the page, and her taper finger pointed out the place.
And thus two months flew past, during which she never even alluded most distantly to our conversation in the garden at Boitsfort, nor did I learn any one particular more of my friends than on the first day of our meeting. Meanwhile, all ideas of travelling had completely left me; and although I had now abundant resources in my banker’s hands for all the purposes of the road, I never once dreamed of leaving a place where I felt so thoroughly happy.
Such, then, was our life, when I began to remark a slight change in the count’s manner—an appearance of gloom and preoccupation, which seemed to increase each day, and against which he strove, but in vain. It was clear something had gone wrong with him; but I did not dare to allude to, much less ask him on the subject. At last, one evening, just as I was preparing for bed, he entered my dressing-room, and closing the door cautiously behind him, sat down. I saw that he was dressed as if for the road, and looking paler and more agitated than usual.
‘O’Leary,’ said he, in a tremulous voice, ‘I am come to place in your hands the highest trust a man can repose in another. Am I certain of your friendship?’ I shook his hand in silence, and he went on. ‘I must leave Brussels to-night, secretly. A political affair, in which the peace of Europe is involved, has just come to my knowledge; the Government here will do their best to detain me; orders are already given to delay me at the frontier, perhaps send me back to the capital; in consequence, I must cross the boundary on horseback, and reach Aix-la-Chapelle by to-morrow evening. Of course, the countess cannot accompany me.’ He paused for a second. ‘You must be her protector. A hundred rumours will be afloat the moment they find I have escaped, and as many reasons for my departure announced in the papers. However, I’m content if they amuse the public and occupy the police; and meanwhile I shall obtain time to pass through Prussia unmolested. Before I reach St. Petersburg, the countess will receive letters from me, and know where to proceed to; and I count on your friendship to remain here until that time—a fortnight, three weeks at farthest. If money is any object to you——’
‘Not in the least; I have far more than I want.’ ‘Well, then, may I conclude that you consent?’ ‘Of course you may,’ said I, overpowered by a rush of sensations I must leave to my reader to feel, if it has ever been his lot to be placed in such circumstances, or to imagine if he has not.