CHAPTER XIX.

,andalwaysdobusinesslikewomenmenmechanicallyputadateandaddresstotheircommunications.Andthesefive-francpieces?”—(Ihauledthemforthfrommypurse)—“ifshehadofferedmethemherselfinsteadoftyingthemupwithathreadofgreensilkinakindofLilliputianpacket,Icouldhavethrustthembackintoherlittlehand,andshutupthesmall,taperfingersoverthem—so—andcompelledhershame,herpride,hershyness,alltoyieldtoalittlebitofdeterminedWill—nowwhereisshe?HowcanIgetather?” OpeningmychamberdoorIwalkeddownintothekitchen. “Whobroughtthepacket?”Iaskedoftheservantwhohaddeliveredittome. “Unpetitcommissionaire,monsieur.” “Didhesayanything?” “Rien.” AndIwendedmywayuptheback-stairs,wondrouslythewiserformyinquiries. “Nomatter,”saidItomyself,asIagainclosedthedoor.“Nomatter—I’llseekherthroughBrussels.” AndIdid.IsoughtherdaybydaywheneverIhadamoment’sleisure,forfourweeksIsoughtheronSundaysalldaylongIsoughtherontheBoulevards,intheAlleeVerte,intheParkIsoughtherinSte.GuduleandSt.JacquesIsoughtherinthetwoProtestantchapelsIattendedtheselatterattheGerman,French,andEnglishservices,notdoubtingthatIshouldmeetheratoneofthem.Allmyresearcheswereabsolutelyfruitlessmysecurityonthelastpointwasprovedbytheeventtobeequallygroundlesswithmyothercalculations.Istoodatthedoorofeachchapelaftertheservice,andwaitedtilleveryindividualhadcomeout,scrutinizingeverygowndrapingaslenderform,peeringundereverybonnetcoveringayounghead.InvainIsawgirlishfigurespassme,drawingtheirblackscarfsovertheirslopingshoulders,butnoneofthemhadtheexactturnandairofMdlle.Henri’sIsawpaleandthoughtfulfaces“encadrees”inbandsofbrownhair,butIneverfoundherforehead,hereyes,hereyebrows.AllthefeaturesofallthefacesImetseemedfritteredaway,becausemyeyefailedtorecognizethepeculiaritiesitwasbentuponanamplespaceofbrowandalarge,dark,andseriouseye,withafinebutdecidedlineofeyebrowtracedabove. “ShehasprobablyleftBrussels—perhapsisgonetoEngland,asshesaidshewould,”mutteredIinwardly,asontheafternoonofthefourthSunday,Iturnedfromthedoorofthechapel-royalwhichthedoor-keeperhadjustclosedandlocked,andfollowedinthewakeofthelastofthecongregation,nowdispersedanddispersingoverthesquare.IhadsoonoutwalkedthecouplesofEnglishgentlemenandladies.(Graciousgoodness!whydon’ttheydressbetter?Myeyeisyetfilledwithvisionsofthehigh-flounced,slovenly,andtumbleddressesincostlysilkandsatin,ofthelargeunbecomingcollarsinexpensivelaceoftheill-cutcoatsandstrangelyfashionedpantaloonswhicheverySunday,attheEnglishservice,filledthechoirsofthechapel-royal,andafterit,issuingforthintothesquare,cameintodisadvantageouscontrastwithfreshlyandtrimlyattiredforeignfigures,hasteningtoattendsalutatthechurchofCoburg.)IhadpassedthesepairsofBritons,andthegroupsofprettyBritishchildren,andtheBritishfootmenandwaiting-maidsIhadcrossedthePlaceRoyale,andgotintotheRueRoyale,thenceIhaddivergedintotheRuedeLouvain—anoldandquietstreet.Irememberthat,feelingalittlehungry,andnotdesiringtogobackandtakemyshareofthe“gouter,”nowontherefectory-tableatPelet’s—towit,pistoletsandwater—Isteppedintoabaker’sandrefreshedmyselfonaCOUC(?)—itisaFlemishword,Idon’tknowhowtospellit—ACORINTHE-ANGLICE,acurrantbun—andacupofcoffeeandthenIstrolledontowardsthePortedeLouvain.VerysoonIwasoutofthecity,andslowlymountingthehill,whichascendsfromthegate,Itookmytimefortheafternoon,thoughcloudy,wasverysultry,andnotabreezestirredtorefreshtheatmosphere.NoinhabitantofBrusselsneedwanderfartosearchforsolitudelethimbutmovehalfaleaguefromhisowncityandhewillfindherbroodingstillandblankoverthewidefields,sodrearthoughsofertile,spreadouttreelessandtracklessroundthecapitalofBrabant.Havinggainedthesummitofthehill,andhavingstoodandlookedlongovertheculturedbutlifelesscampaign,Ifeltawishtoquitthehighroad,whichIhadhithertofollowed,andgetinamongthosetilledgrounds—fertileasthebedsofaBrobdignagiankitchen-garden—spreadingfarandwideeventotheboundariesofthehorizon,where,fromaduskgreen,distancechangedthemtoasullenblue,andconfusedtheirtintswiththoseofthelividandthunderous-lookingsky.AccordinglyIturnedupaby-pathtotherightIhadnotfolloweditfarereitbroughtme,asIexpected,intothefields,amidstwhich,justbeforeme,stretchedalongandloftywhitewallenclosing,asitseemedfromthefoliageshowingabove,somethicklyplantednurseryofyewandcypress,forofthatspecieswerethebranchesrestingonthepaleparapets,andcrowdinggloomilyaboutamassivecross,planteddoubtlessonacentraleminenceandextendingitsarms,whichseemedofblackmarble,overthesummitsofthosesinistertrees.Iapproached,wonderingtowhathousethiswell-protectedgardenappertainedIturnedtheangleofthewall,thinkingtoseesomestatelyresidenceIwascloseupongreatirongatestherewasahutservingforalodgenear,butIhadnooccasiontoapplyforthekey—thegateswereopenIpushedoneleafback—rainhadrusteditshinges,foritgroaneddolefullyastheyrevolved.Thickplantingemboweredtheentrance.Passinguptheavenue,Isawobjectsoneachhandwhich,intheirownmutelanguageofinscriptionandsign,explainedclearlytowhatabodeIhadmademyway.Thiswasthehouseappointedforalllivingcrosses,monuments,andgarlandsofeverlastingsannounced,“TheProtestantCemetery,outsidethegateofLouvain.” Theplacewaslargeenoughtoaffordhalfanhour’sstrollingwithoutthemonotonyoftreadingcontinuallythesamepathand,forthosewholovetoperusetheannalsofgraveyards,herewasvarietyofinscriptionenoughtooccupytheattentionfordoubleortreblethatspaceoftime.Hitherpeopleofmanykindreds,tongues,andnations,hadbroughttheirdeadforintermentandhere,onpagesofstone,ofmarble,andofbrass,werewrittennames,dates,lasttributesofpomporlove,inEnglish,inFrench,inGerman,andLatin.HeretheEnglishmanhaderectedamarblemonumentovertheremainsofhisMarySmithorJaneBrown,andinscribeditonlywithhername.TheretheFrenchwidowerhadshadedthegraveofhisElmireorCelestinewithabrilliantthicketofroses,amidstwhichalittletabletrising,boreanequallybrighttestimonytohercountlessvirtues.Everynation,tribe,andkindred,mournedafteritsownfashionandhowsoundlesswasthemourningofall!Myowntread,thoughslowanduponsmooth-rolledpaths,seemedtostartle,becauseitformedthesolebreaktoasilenceotherwisetotal.Notonlythewinds,buttheveryfitful,wanderingairs,werethatafternoon,asbycommonconsent,allfallenasleepintheirvariousquartersthenorthwashushed,thesouthsilent,theeastsobbednot,nordidthewestwhisper.Thecloudsinheavenwerecondensedanddull,butapparentlyquitemotionless.Underthetreesofthiscemeterynestledawarmbreathlessgloom,outofwhichthecypressesstoodupstraightandmute,abovewhichthewillowshunglowandstillwheretheflowers,aslanguidasfair,waitedlistlessfornightdeworthunder-showerwherethetombs,andthosetheyhid,layimpassibletosunorshadow,torainordrought. Importunedbythesoundofmyownfootsteps,Iturnedoffupontheturf,andslowlyadvancedtoagroveofyewsIsawsomethingstiramongthestemsIthoughtitmightbeabrokenbranchswinging,myshort-sightedvisionhadcaughtnoform,onlyasenseofmotionbuttheduskyshadepassedon,appearinganddisappearingattheopeningsintheavenue.Isoondiscerneditwasalivingthing,andahumanthingand,drawingnearer,Iperceiveditwasawoman,pacingslowlytoandfro,andevidentlydeemingherselfaloneasIhaddeemedmyselfalone,andmeditatingasIhadbeenmeditating.ErelongshereturnedtoaseatwhichIfancyshehadbutjustquitted,orIshouldhavecaughts