It was more than likely that Monsieur H—— was mixed up in this disturbance, as he disappeared from England about that time, and although he annually makes a holiday visit to Paris or Berlin, Geneva or Vienna, he never favours London with his presence.
The land he could see on a clear day without the aid of glasses appeared to be forbidden ground to him. That he had mingled in the fast life of the metropolis in his younger days you would be thoroughly convinced by a few minutes' conversation with him.
One tangible fact connected with the little man is to be obtained from the journals of the period; his wife was successful in getting a divorce from him. The lady who found him too wayward in his affection and a little too ready with his hands, was not frightened at her unfortunate matrimonial experiences, for when that troublesome individual, the Queen's Proctor, could no longer interfere, she was led a second time to the altar, on this occasion by Mr. R——, who recently had a favourite for one of the largest races of the year.
This Monsieur H——, with a history in the background, kept a small hotel at a French watering place.
The autumn of life seemed to give him a great amount of pleasure in a temperate manner. His early youth, however mild it might have been, had evidently not clogged his sense of enjoyment.
In addition to his hotel—which was well managed—he had two other possessions on which he prided himself, and I put them in the order in which he judged them; first, was a long-tailed half-bred hack, and the second a big, strapping black-eyed wife, for he had also sought connubial bliss once again.
If it had not been for this horse this narrative would not have been written.
It was a rough-coated, badly-groomed mare of a chestnut colour, with a blaze face and two white heels, a little doubtful about the forelegs, standing as near as possible sixteen hands high. Good fun was often to be got out of the series of tremendous efforts the diminutive landlord had to make before he could mount his tall steed. Once in the pigskin, however, he seemed comfortable enough, and did not appear as if even buck-jumping would dislodge him.
In his private bar and round the billiard table at night the prowess of Clotilde—that was the hack's name—was often the subject of much animated talk. Her early life was shrouded in mystery like her owner's, but taking into account her formation, the white marks and chestnut colour, the astute Monsieur H—— was inclined to admit Blair Athol to the dignity of having been her male progenitor.