Thus chatting, we reached the steamer. To my intense delight, the anchor was already weighed; and scarcely had we mounted the ladder than she broached round, head to sea, and clove through the water like a fish.
Every plunge of the great ship shook the strong timbers and made her huge framework tremble, sending a thrill of pleasure through me. With each mountain wave that rolled past, I saw my chance of safety increase, and knew that no boat—manned by Spaniards, at least—would dare pursuit in such a storm. I had abundant leisure for these reflections, since my “masters” had only time to get on board when they retired to their berths, overcome by sea-sickness, so that I was at full liberty to indulge my own thoughts, and dispose of myself without the slightest interruption. From a smart little French maid I learned that the family was called Grimes; that they had recently come from England by way of Gibraltar, where one of the sons, now with them, was quartered with his regiment; that the party consisted of a widow lady with three daughters and two sons, a third being the invalid at Pisa. They were rich, good sort of folks, very ignorant of the Continent, very credulous, and altogether a satisfactory kind of connection for a cunning French femme-de-chambre and a roguish courier to fall in with. This latter fact Mademoiselle Virginie insisted upon with no small degree of self-gratulation, giving me to understand that we might have a very thriving career as fellow-laborers in the same vineyard.
Her sketches of English life, manners, and prejudices were not a little amusing, while the rules she laid down for the due management and control of her masters were a perfect chapter in domestic machiavelism. There had once been a time when I would have enlisted willingly under such a banner,—glad to reach the upper story of life, even by such a back stair; but now that I had tasted the glorious supremacy of command myself, that I had revelled in the mastery of a great household, that I had rolled along in my own chariot, clothed in fine linen and faring sumptuously every day, I felt my return to a menial situation a degradation unendurable. I determined that, once in Italy, I would escape from the thraldom of such servitude, come what might of it.
By long dwelling on the theme, I had contrived to impress myself with the most profound conviction that I was a much-injured individual, that my case, if not sufficient for a war with Spain, was a fair ground for a parliamentary “flare-up,” angry diplomatic notes, and Heaven knows what threats of our outraged Foreign Office. That a man with such a glorious grievance should sink down into a courier, to wrangle with landlords, bully waiters, and flirt with the “maid in the rumble,” was not to be thought of. I felt that I was sworn at Highgate, and destined for the inside of the travelling-carriage, and not the “out.”
Scarcely were we arrived at Leghorn, and installed at the San Marco, than I began to prepare for my emancipation,—a bold step, considering that all the available resources I possessed was a ruby ring set round with brilliants, which I had concealed in my cap along with my papers. I was admonished to lose no time in my departure, by remarking that another packet from Malaga was expected within a week, which probably would convey the rightful courier, in search of his missing baggage, and I was by no means desirous of being confronted with the real Simon Pure.
I am not sure that this latter consideration did not weigh most with me in the matter, since the novelty of my situation and the sense of its creature-comforts might have induced me to linger a little longer in a capacity even as humble. With such people as the Grimes's, the courier was supreme, and his rule despotic. From the hour at which they were to dine, to what they were to eat,—how they were to spend the day, what to see, and what to avoid,—were all at his dictation; while from the landlord came a perfect volley of civilities that plainly showed who was the real personage to whom adulation was due. If my masters dined on a chicken, I fed upon ortolans; while they made wry faces over their “Chianté,” I luxuriated on Château La Rose or Chambertin. For my table were reserved the oysters of Venice, the fresh “sardines” of Gorgona, the delicate mutton of Pistoja, the delicious Becafica of the Vai d'Arno, while Piscia was ransacked for my dessert, till I saw myself surrounded with rarities that even in my great days I scarcely dreamed of.
There was a kind of “abandon,” too, in this mode of life that pleased me well,—a delightful sense of irresponsibility pervaded everything I did or imagined.
The courier knows nothing of that hesitation which besets his master at the thought of some costly indulgence. He neither doubts nor denies himself. The Emperor of Russia may have bespoke the post-horses, but he knows how to bribe even against the Czar himself, and would intrigue for the fish intended for a cardinal's Friday dinner. He is perhaps the only traveller who is indifferent to the bill,—nay, he even glories in its extravagance, as increasing his own percentage. I was beginning to see and appreciate all these advantages when caution admonished me to escape. The real Raflfaello was doubtless already at sea, and might arrive ere I had evacuated the territory.
I only waited, then, to see “my family” snugly housed at Pisa, when I proceeded to tender my resignation. It was very flattering to my vanity to see the distress my announcement created; they evidently felt like a crew about to be deserted by the pilot in a difficult navigation. They were but indifferent linguists, and worse travellers; and I almost repented of my resolve as I perceived the dismay it occasioned, the full measure of which I was admitted to witness, since—from my supposed ignorance of English—they discussed the question very freely in my presence.
“Does he say he 's dissatisfied with his situation?” asked the old lady.