The Relics of General Chasse: A Tale of Antwerp Read online

had not, for there is little difference; a button that wason a coat of Napoleon’s, or on that of one of his lackeys; a bullet saidto have been picked up at Waterloo or Bunker’s Hill; these, and suchlikethings are great treasures. And their most desirable characteristic isthe ease with which they are attained. Any bullet or any button does thework. Faith alone is necessary. And now these ladies had madethemselves happy and glorious with “Relics” of General Chassé cut fromthe ill-used habiliments of an elderly English gentleman!

  They departed at last, and Mr. Horne, for once in an ill humour, followedme into the bedroom. Here I must be excused if I draw a veil over hismanly sorrow at discovering what fate had done for him. Remember whatwas his position, unclothed in the Castle of Antwerp! The nearestsuitable change for those which had been destroyed was locked up in hisportmanteau at the Hôtel de Belle Rue in Brussels! He had nothing leftto him—literally nothing, in that Antwerp world. There was no otherwretched being wandering then in that Dutch town so utterly denuded ofthe goods of life. For what is a man fit,—for what can he be fit,—whenleft in such a position? There are some evils which seem utterly tocrush a man; and if there be any misfortune to which a man may be allowedto succumb without imputation on his manliness, surely it is such asthis. How was Mr. Horne to return to his hotel without incurring thedispleasure of the municipality? That was my first thought.

  He had a cloak, but it was at the inn; and I found that my friend wasoppressed with a great horror at the idea of being left alone; so that Icould not go in search of it. There is an old saying, that no man is ahero to his valet de chambre, the reason doubtless being this, that it iscustomary for his valet to see the hero divested of those trappings inwhich so much of the heroic consists. Who reverences a clergyman withouthis gown, or a warrior without his sword and sabre-tasche? What wouldeven Minerva be without her helmet?

  I do not wish it to be understood that I no longer reverenced Mr. Hornebecause he was in an undress; but he himself certainly lost much of hiscomposed, well-sustained dignity of demeanour. He was fearful andquerulous, cold, and rather cross. When, forgetting his size, I offeredhim my own, he thought that I was laughing at him. He began to be afraidthat the story would get abroad, and he then and there exacted a promisethat I would never tell it during his lifetime. I have kept my word; butnow my old friend has been gathered to his fathers, full of years.

  At last I got him to the hotel. It was long before he would leave thecastle, cloaked though he was;—not, indeed, till the shades of eveninghad dimmed the outlines of men and things, and made indistinct theoutward garniture of those who passed to and fro in the streets. Then,wrapped in his cloak, Mr. Horne followed me along the quays and throughthe narrowest of the streets; and at length, without venturing to returnthe gaze of any one in the hotel court, he made his way up to his ownbedroom.

  Dinnerless and supperless he went to his couch. But when there he didconsent to receive some consolation in the shape of mutton cutlets andfried potatoes, a savory omelet, and a bottle of claret. The muttoncutlets and fried potatoes at the Golden Fleece at Antwerp are—or werethen, for I am speaking now of well-nigh thirty years since—remarkablygood; the claret, also, was of the best; and so, by degrees, the look ofdespairing dismay passed from his face, and some scintillations of theold fire returned to his eyes.

  “I wonder whether they find themselves much happier for what they havegot?” said he.

  “A great deal happier,” said I. “They’ll boast of those things to alltheir friends at home, and we shall doubtless see some account of theirsuccess in the newspapers.”

  “It would be delightful to expose their blunder,—to show them up. Wouldit not, George? To turn the tables on them?”

  “Yes,” said I, “I should like to have the laugh against them.”

  “So would I, only that I should compromise myself by telling the story.It wouldn’t do at all to have it told at Oxford with my name attached toit.”

  To this also I assented. To what would I not have assented in my anxietyto make him happy after his misery?

  But all was not over yet. He was in bed now, but it was necessary thathe should rise again on the morrow. At home, in England, what wasrequired might perhaps have been made during the night; but here, amongthe slow Flemings, any such exertion would have been impossible. Mr.Horne, moreover, had no desire to be troubled in his retirement by atailor.

  Now the landlord of the Golden Fleece was a very stout man,—a very stoutman indeed. Looking at him as he stood with his hands in his pockets atthe portal of his own establishment, I could not but think that he wasstouter even than Mr. Horne. But then he was certainly much shorter, andthe want of due proportion probably added to his unwieldy appearance. Iwalked round him once or twice wishfully, measuring him in my eye, andthinking of what texture might be the Sunday best of such a man. Theclothes which he then had on were certainly not exactly suited to Mr.Horne’s tastes.

  He saw that I was observing him, and appeared uneasy and offended. I hadalready ascertained that he spoke a little English. Of Flemish I knewliterally nothing, and in French, with which probably he was alsoacquainted, I was by no means voluble. The business which I had totransact was intricate, and I required the use of my mother-tongue.

  It was intricate and delicate, and difficult withal. I began byremarking on the weather, but he did not take my remarks kindly. I aminclined to fancy that he thought I was desirous of borrowing money fromhim. At any rate he gave me no encouragement in my first advances.

  “Vat misfortune?” at last he asked, when I had succeeded in making himunderstand that a gentleman up stairs required his assistance.

  “He has lost these things,” and I took hold of my own garments. “It’s along story, or I’d tell you how; but he has not a pair in the world tillhe gets back to Brussels,—unless you can lend him one.”

  “Lost hees br-?” and he opened his eyes wide, and looked at me withastonishment.

  “Yes, yes, exactly so,” said I, interrupting him. “Most astonishingthing, isn’t it? But it’s quite true.”

  “Vas hees money in de pocket?” asked my auspicious landlord.

  “No, no, no. It’s not so bad as that, his money is all right. I had themoney, luckily.”

  “Ah! dat is better. But he have lost hees b-?”

  “Yes, yes;” I was now getting rather impatient. “There is no mistakeabout it. He has lost them as sure as you stand there.” And then Iproceeded to explain that as the gentleman in question was very stout,and as he, the landlord, was stout also, he might assist us in this greatcalamity by a loan from his own wardrobe.

  When he found that the money was not in the pocket, and that his billtherefore would be paid, he was not indisposed to be gracious. He would,he said, desire his servant to take up what was required to Mr. Horne’schamber. I endeavoured to make him understand that a sombre colour wouldbe preferable; but he only answered that he would put the best that hehad at the gentleman’s disposal. He could not think of offering anythingless than his best on such an occasion. And then he turned his back andwent his way, muttering as he went something in Flemish, which I believedto be an exclamation of astonishment that any man should, under anycircumstances, lose such an article.

  It was now getting late; so when I had taken a short stroll by myself, Iwent to bed without disturbing Mr. Horne again that night. On thefollowing morning I thought it best not to go to him unless he sent forme; so I desired the boots to let him know that I had ordered breakfastin a private room, and that I would await him there unless he wished tosee me. He sent me word back to say that he would be with me veryshortly.

  He did not keep me waiting above half an hour, but I confess that thathalf hour was not pleasantly spent. I feared that his temper would betried in dressing, and that he would not be able to eat his breakfast ina happy state of mind. So that when I heard his heavy footstep advancingalong the passage my heart did misgive me, and I felt that I wastrembling.

>   That step was certainly slower and more ponderous than usual. There wasalways a certain dignity in the very sound of his movements, but now thisseemed to have been enhanced. To judge merely by the step one would havesaid that a bishop was coming that way instead of a prebendary.

  And then he entered. In the upper half of his august person noalteration was perceptible. The hair was as regular and as graceful asever, the handkerchief as white, the coat as immaculate; but below hiswell-filled waistcoat a pair of red plush began to shine in unmitigatedsplendour, and continued from thence down to within an inch above hisknee; nor, as it appeared, could any pulling induce them to descendlower. Mr. Horne always wore black silk stockings,—at least so the worldsupposed, but it was now apparent that the world had been wrong inpresuming him to be guilty of such extravagance. Those, at any rate,which he exhibited on the present occasion were more economical. Theywere silk to the calf, but thence upwards they continued their career inwhite cotton. These then followed the plush; first two snowy, full-sizedpillars of white, and