Part 76 (1/2)
He gave Henry the second fifty francs, and continued his journey on foot, trusting somewhat to chance.
It was not until towards evening that he reached a railway station. He got into a train, and at nightfall he arrived at the Southern Railway Station at Brussels.
He had left Paris on the preceding morning, had not slept an hour, had been walking all night, and had eaten nothing. On searching in his pocket he missed his pocket book, but found a crust of bread. He was more delighted at the discovery of the crust than grieved at the loss of his pocket-book. He carried his money in a waistband; the pocket-book, which had probably disappeared in the pond, contained his letters, and amongst others an exceedingly useful letter of introduction from his friend M. Ernest Koechlin, to the Representatives Guilgot and Carlos Forel, who at that moment were refugees at Brussels, and lodged at the Hotel de Brabant.
On leaving the railway station he threw himself into a cab, and said to the coachman,--
”Hotel de Brabant.”
He heard a voice repeat, ”Hotel de Brabant.” He put out his head and saw a man writing something in a notebook with a pencil by the light of a street-lamp.
It was probably some police agent.
Without a pa.s.sport, without letters, without papers, he was afraid of being arrested in the night, and he was longing for a good sleep. A good bed to-night, he thought, and to-morrow the Deluge! At the Hotel de Brabant he paid the coachman, but did not go into the hotel. Moreover, he would have asked in vain for the Representatives Forel and Guilgot; both were there under false names.
He took to wandering about the streets. It was eleven o'clock at night, and for a long time he had begun to feel utterly worn out.
At length he saw a lighted lamp with the inscription ”Hotel de la Monnaie.”
He walked in.
The landlord came up, and looked at him somewhat askance.
He then thought of looking at himself.
His unshaven beard, his disordered hair, his cap soiled with mud, his blood-stained hands, his clothes in rags, he looked horrible.
He took a double louis out of his waistband, and put it on the table of the parlor, which he had entered and said to the landlord,--
”In truth, sir, I am not a thief, I am a proscript; money is now my only pa.s.sport. I have just come from Paris, I wish to eat first and sleep afterwards.”
The landlord was touched, took the double louis, and gave him bed and supper.
Next day, while he was still sleeping, the landlord came into his room, woke him gently, and said to him,--
”Now, sir, if I were you, I should go and see Baron Hody.”
”Who and what is Baron Hody?” asked Cournet, half asleep.
The landlord explained to him who Baron Hody was. When I had occasion to ask the same question as Cournet, I received from three inhabitants of Brussels the three answers as follows:--
”He is a dog.”
”He is a polecat.”
”He is a hyena.”
There is probably some exaggeration in these three answers.
A fourth Belgian whom I need not specify confined himself to saying to me,--
”He is a beast.”