Monsieur Ernest.

New Zealand Mail, 22 April 1887, Page 9

Monsieur Ernest.

‘‘A TALE OF TWO CITIES.’ One night, in passing through one of the quiet streets which run from Second to Third Avenues, New York, and which, some ten years ago, still enjoyed the reputation of being up town, one particular wirthschaft, which I had n't happened to notice before, attracted my attention from its peculiarly snug look. The narrow entrance was hall concealed by the thick foliage of a creeping vine, from behind which a lantern with the inscription “ H. Gorr —Wirthschaft,” was barely visible. A small white sign above the door exuibited above the door exhibited the word “ Sommergarten.” From inside a female voice was heard singing an old German song, accompanied by a piano. Neither the singer nor the instrument seemed to be very much out of tune. All this had a promising look, so I stepped into the establishment. The bar-room and the restaurant were deserted. An only door led out into the back yard which bad been converted into a summer garden, or rather into a bower of ivy and other creepers. Every available place in the ‘ garden’ was filled with small ronnd tables, and every chair at these tables seemed at present to have already its occupant. On my entering, however, a fleetfooted waiter came flying toward me and directed me to a small table, situated behind the piano, which had hitherto passed unobserved by the other guests. I sat down, and was just about to give my order, when the meagre form of the waiter who had welcomed me was suddenly thrust aside by a superior force, and in bis stead appeared a portly, solemn-looking man, clad with the most correct and irreproachable elegance. dress-coat, with waiEtcoat, white necktie, a napkin wound round his right hand- in a word, a model of a waiter such as any firstclass caf<s from Delmonico’a to Bignon’s might have been proud of. ‘ You can go, Franz,’ this majestic man paid to the other waiter in a mellow, eonorus voice ; ‘ I will serve this geutleman myself.' The combination of condescending civility and eelf-importance he contrived to throw iuto this one word ’myself’ was over, whelming. In the presence of this majestic official my original intention of ordering modestly ‘ one lager ’ melted away like wax I felt it would be almost a sacrilege to ask for so little of so great a being—ii would be like asking Jupiter for one of his thunderbolts to light a cigarette! I muttered bashfully,* A pint bottle of Rhine wine, if you please.’ _ The great man b iwed and moved away as majestically as he had come. He had scarcely disappeared within the restaurant, w’ueu a strange tfflf consciousness crept upon me of aVtner seen him somewhere before in very eu’cucustances, where and when it was impossible fox me to recollect.

All of a sudden a name flashed upou me, Waldheim—Count von Waldheim—was ihe man this waiter reminded me of, and to whom he bore a most striking resemblance. Poor Waldheim, he was one of the maddest viveurof Paris ! As open-handed and generous as he was reckless, always in good spirits, he was the universal favourite of that tout Paris, whose centre is the Boulevard'des Italions. How well I remember the last supper the poor fellow gave us in the corner room of the Cafd Anglais ! There were not more than a .lozsu of ue —three or four ladies iu the number who, by virtue of their beauty then diamonds, were the leading ’ stars iu that strange hemisphere. I do believe that was the merriest night I ever spent iu my life. A sort of frenzy of childish light-heartedness seemed to have seizid on all the guests at that. * funeral banquet,’ as Waldheim called it. So uproarious were we in our merriment that about 3 o’clock in the morning a sergeant de villa sent up one of the waiters to request us either t > stmt the window or make less noise, as we were disturbing the neighbourhood. A-. at daybreak Waldheim sprang up from his seat, filled bis glass for the last time, and, opening the balcony door, pointing to the boulevardes stretching quiet and deserted at our fett in the dim, grey light of dawn. ‘My last toast, ladies and gentlemen,’he exclaimed, ‘is to tbi» great living monster of Paris, which has devoured me and so many others 1 For thee, in tby enchanting embrace, I have lost all I possessed in the world. lam a beggar now, I bid thee farewell 1 Meriturus, Cse<ar, te aaluto !’ He emptied his glass, and threw it out of the window on the pavement below. Then he took leave of us, making us promise not to follow him and not to search for him during at least three days, and was about to quit the room, when Valentine Ghemar, one of the ladiee present, a well-known opera singer of the time, sprang up, and flinging her arms impetuously around Waldheim’s neck, exclaimed — * You are a man, a brave man, and I love yon 1 Wherever you go, let me go with you !’ ‘ My dear little Valentiue,’ answered Waldheim, with a sad smile, ‘no romance if you please. Tbe times of love in a cottage are passed. Here in Paris, it the cottage took the shape of a little hotel in the Champa Elysee.i, it might be nil very well. But where lam now going things will look different it will be uphill work, a fierce battle w.th want and death, and not a life you a delicite, hothouse fl >wer, might share with me. No, no ; let me go,’ he said gently disengaging himself from her embrace, ‘ Farewell, and be happy, all of you.’ .. . With these words he disappeared, leaving us all moved to the heart, and poor Valentine sobbing disconsolately. In Paris everyone still remembers the dreadful scandal Count Waldheim’s sudden disappearance occasioned. The scandal was perhaps, the greater because the Count had left no debts unpaid. Such conduct society judged to be preposterous, incomprehensible. What business has a man to run away after paying all his debta, when by paying half of them and cheating his cred tors out of tbe rest, he could have gone on living like a gentleman ? Two days later the scandle-mongers had a new and still more sensational topic to comment upon—Valentine Ghemar had broken all her engagements and quittel Paris tbe same night. All the newspapers were fuil of romantic stories -about this double disappearance, till at last an enterprisi g reporter of the Figaro succeeded in ascertaining that Count Waldheim had sailed from Havre to New York, and that Valentine Ghemar had been on board the same vessel. Since then nobody had ever heard from either of the fugitives ; the waves of Parisian life closed over them and in a month both were forgotten. This old story was revived iu my memory by the sight of the majestic waiter in a small New York wirthschaft. * What an extraordinary resemblance I’ I thought ; * could it be possible V But I laughed at. the bare suggestion that the brilliant dashing Count Waldheim could have been transformed into a kellner. ... Presently this personage returned, bearing the bottle of wine I had ordered, neatly wrapped up in a napkin. While he was uncorking it, an elderly gentlencaD, apparently an habitue of the place, entered the garden, and passing by the waiter, tapped him familiarly on the shoulder, saving,* How do yon do to night, Herr Baron V I started involuntarily on hearing this title, and again looked fixedly at the man. Tbe resemblance to Waldheim was perfectly won. derf nl. _ ‘Why do they call you Herr Baron?’ I asked, while he was filling my glass. *lt is a joke, sir. of some of the friends of tbe house, ’ he answered, smiling discreetly : t they pretend that I look like a baron. « jgot like a baron.’ I retorted, staring him straight in the face, ‘but very much like a Count. Bid yon ever hear of a Count von Waldheim V He turned suddenly pale, and his band shook as be put the bottle down on the table. «jjo, sir,’ he answered with difficulty ; I never beard tbe name.’ . His discomfiture, however, already Defrayed him. So I rose, stretched out my band to him, and said in an undertone — « Waldheim, do you know me V *By all that is wonderful,’ he exclaimed, •can this really be you, S—? For heaven’s sake do not Bpeak to me here 1 Nobody knows me. And, ob, that you should be the first to see ms in such a plight !’ *My dear friend', I observed, do not let this circumstance put you out in the least* If one of us is to be pitied, it is I. lam a journalist.’ ■Waldheim laughed, and said in a more cheerful tone—- « Well, I am heartily glad to see you, all tbe same. In half-an-hour we close here. Will you then wait a momeut for me onleide ? We can have a talk about old times ?’ I of course assented and an hour later we were both established in a snug corner of a Third Avenue oyßter saloon, in company of a bottle of champagne to which the * Herr Biron’ had insisted on treating me. * And Valentine Ghemar, where is she ?’ waa rny first question. * The papers said at the time that you had gone together.’ < Yes—quite in spite of me, however. I had not the slightest notion' of the girl’s escapade until she all at once appeared on the ship when we were already oat of the harbour. Poor girl 1 she was a madcap, but a good, loviDg soul,’

1 ‘You speak of her in the past— is Bho dead !’ • Worse,’ rejoined Waldheim, sorrowfully ; ’ Bhe is married !’ * Married !’ I exclaimed ; ‘Jb it possible ? To whom ?’ • To a i Alsatian named Schmittherger. :i head clerk at one of the most important breweries iu the city.’ 4 How very extraordinary all that sounds,’ I exclaimed. ‘But no-v yoi must make a clear, breast of it, my dear fellow. Come, tell mo all that has befallen you on your glorious soil of liberty.’ Waldheim filled both our glasses, and began by reciting in a lugubrious voice—--4 Infanduno, regina, jubes renovare delorem 1’ *My career so far has not been a glorious one, I have been alternately a washer in a pub’ic bath, a street cleaner, a reporter on a German paper, a ‘boy’ on a farm iD Jersey (the people actually called me ‘boy’ and gave me the romantic name of Jimmy), a tramp, a sleeper in the parks, and a car-driver. My last position was that of a ‘sandwich,’ I trotted up and down Broadway clad as an Indian, with a groat advertisement for Indian clubs on my back, and another for some miraculous toothache drops’ on my breast. . I was a combination sandwich. Two enterprising minds had on ted their energies in utilising my back »Dd front. * Once I narrowly escaped becoming a valet da chambre. That was after having passed three nights in Madison Park. An advertisement in the paper caught my eye of a lady wanting a manservant of distinguished appearance in a firss-class household. I called at once at the house (which was indeed S:t up in the most elegant style), and proffered my service?. The lady seemed greatly pleased with my appearance, and the thiDg was all settled between us when she remarked— * Of coarse you will have to shave your whiskers and moustache ; it is the rule of my house.’ The blood shot up into my face at these words. All of a sudden I became painfully away of the position I was about to accept with all the consequences it involved. I declined and went back to tbe park. And ret, as you see, I have not escaped my fate, Instead of serving one, I serve many. I will tell you what it is, my dear feUow, a European aristocrat iu this country is about the most useless being who ever trod the earth, unless he is rich.’ ‘Poor Waldheim ?’ I exclaimed, langhiog in spite of myself at the serio comic good humour with which he told me all his woes. ‘But you have not yet,told me what became of Valentine in all this Odyssey.’ ‘Oh 1 she is a Parisian ; and Parisian woman act like cats—they always fall on their feet. The first weeks of her stay here all went on smoothly. When I had finally - got down to my last 500 francs I gave them to the girl and said, *My dear Valentine, the best you can do now is to return _to Paris ; but Bhe refused peremptorily, saying that she would never leave ms. Yet I was obliged to leave her to seek for work, for I was penniless. It was then that I passed a season on the Jtrsy farm as * Jimmy.’ While there, I received a letter from Valentine, in which, after glowing protestations of love and fidelity, she announced to me her approaching marriage with that man Schmittherger, whose offer, she said, ebe had accepted for my sake ! As soon as they were married, she added, she would procure me a suitable position in the brewery, of which her bridegroom was head clerk, and then I could live happy for evermore—emphasising the words with three dashes ! As you may imagine, I respectfully declined this tempting effer, and have never seen Mrs Schmittherger E 1D ‘ Reqiiescat in pace !’ I exclaimed, racing my glass, ‘ But to return to your own affairs. Is it possible you have got used to this business V • My dear fellow, honestly and truly, yes ! Behold the decay of a great character. This hnsiness is not so bad after all. I am excellently paid, and in the two years during wbiib I have worn this mask of * Ernest’ (this is the name I hear in the profession) I have saved a good deal of money. *So you are content with your lot ? I said. • Content, no ; I take things as they are, without making them worse.’ ‘ Well, my dear Waldheim, I am heartily glad to have met you, I said rising aod shaking him by the band. * I hope, to see you again soon. Now it is late, time for both of us to go to sleep.’ We took leave of one another like old friends, with mutual promises to meet often. Some three weeks after oux first meeting, however, I was sent on newspaper business to aouth Carolina, and remained their over three months. When I returned the ‘Herr Baron ’ had left H. Gorr’s little wirthschalt, and had gone—whither, no one knew, A year passed without my hearing anything of Waldheim. A few days agp I caught sight by chance of a copy < f the Saratoga Advertiser, in which I noticed the announcement of the opening of a new ‘firstclass hotel ’ in that fashionable watering-place. After tbe umal flourishes of rhetoric, promising the * distinguished traveller all thfa advantages of a diminutive paradise on earth, I read tbe following words : ‘ The manager, M. Ernest, will devote all his energies aad extensive experience in hotel business to the direction of his new and vast enterprise.’ There was no doubt possible ; this must be tbe ‘Herr Baron.’ I wrote to him, and received a jubilant reply ; his hotel was thriving, aud fast becoming one of tho most fashionable hauuts of the place. And Jthus Heinrich Kurd, Count von Waldheim, the briliant Parisian viveur, son of the ex-grand marshal of the nobility of liivonia, some of whose forefathers had shed their blood in the Crusades, others of whom had at one time aspired to the throne of the German empire, became the manager of a thriving hotel at Saratoga !