Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 5, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 October 1874 — HOTEL INCIDENT IN THE RIVIERA. [ARTICLE]

HOTEL INCIDENT IN THE RIVIERA.

No one who lias sojourned for a while in the Riviera is surprised at the crowds of foreigners that are collected from all parts of Europe into its various nooks and retreats. We English go there to escape mist and log; the Russians, to avoid extreme cold; the invalid Germans, to put a barrier between themselves and the withering east wind. Some again visit it for other than sanitary reasons. Monaco, with its gambling attractions,' entices and detains some, and the mere enjoyment of a climate luxurious even in winter invites many more. We —that is, my wife and myself—were a few weeks at one of the large hotels that are so numerously dotted along this coast. It might have been at Hyeres, Cannes, or Nice, at Monaco or Mentone, Bordigliera or San Remo, Savona or Pegli; or it might have been at no one of all these. We had been staying—it is sufficient to say —at the Hotel du Bon Vivant about a week, when there appeared at the table d’hote a very striking personage. As soon as dinner was over my wife found herself (by accident) near the visitors’ book, and discovered that the new arrival had entered himself as the Baron Mon-teggiana-Tavernelle, We were chiefly English at the hotel, there was no Italian there, and our acquaintance with the national Burke Was limited; so we easily accepted the theory that this lengthy appellation w r as one of the most ancient titles in the land. We -were subsequently informed by the Baron that it was Sicilian, which made our ignorance the more excusable. I don’t think it was his title, or, at least, it was not only that, which made us all so charmed with him. It must have been “ liis noble bearing, his perfect manners, his evident desire to please, his modest evasion of all topics hearing on his own career, and his handsome face. He was apparently about, thirty years of age, his black hair was as glossy as a raven’s plumage, and his black, flashing eyes betrayed a passionate soul; while his thick mustache framed, rather than concealed', a smile that irradiated his intellectual countenance with sweetness and light.” Such at least was the description given of him in one of my wife’s letters to my mother-in-law; and I am glad I happened to look into that letter, as it has saved me some little trouble in attempting to describe him in words of my own. The Baron mixed very little with his own countrymen, and, as I ventured to suggest to my wife, seemed rather shy of them. He pever went to the public amusements and declined to subscribe to the Circolo. She explained to me in

reply that he was the only nobleman in the place and was perhaps a little haughty toward his compatriots of a lower rank. He had also informed her himself that he had selected our hotel for the express purpose of mixing with the English, as he was expecting shortly to a governmental appointment, and for the better discharge of his prospective duties a little knowledge of English was desirable. 1 should have mentioned before that I only speak my own language, but my wife can converse in Italian with ease and fluency, and the Baron very naturally talked with her a good deal, and occasionally condescended to speak to me < by her interpretation. Shortly after the arrival of the Baron Monteggiana-Tavernelle we were further enlivened by another. This time it was a Russian lady, attended by her maid. There were no other Russians at the Hotel du Bon Vivant, and she appeared to have come there rather from necessity than by choice, as there were no rooms vacant4n the inn usually frequented by those of her nation-, She declined to enter her name in the visitors’ book, and for the first two or three days dined in her own room and held aloof from the rest of us. This, added to the effect produced by a stateliness, not to say grandeur,of deportment and rich sobriety of dress, prepared us all for the discovery which in a few days oozed out, that she was a Russian Princess, a widow, who wished to remain incognita and to live quietly in the enjoyment of an unfreedom from the obliga tions of nobility—an enjoyment beyond her command at home. We never fully understood how this oozed out. Her female attendant could understand nothing, and therefore could divulge nothing. The maitre d’hotel assured his guests that he knew no more than the rest of the world, and, by his mysterious shruggings, his self-contradic-tions, and, above all, by his manner, impressed us all with the firm belief that there was a secret in hih possession. This, oT course, confirmed the truth of the report, and it became an established fact that the lady was a Russian Princess. After a few days of seclusion she vouchsafed to make her appearance at the table d’hote, and retired with the rest of the ladies to the Salle des Dames afterward. Then it was that the Baron exhibited his inborn as well as inherited nobility. He attended to her table wants, placed her an arm-ebair by the fragrant wood-fire, and, on receiving her thanks in his mother-tongue—bis parents’ pride lxad no doubt prevented him from learn-

ing any other—-lie entered into a respectful and courtly conversation with her. There were plenty of other men in the room who could have done it; but the Baron was naturally the fittest person to begin; and I will give him credit for boundless self-possession—not to call it impudence. The acquaintance thus begun grew with a, tropical rapidity. The cold northern temperament softly but quickly thawed beneath the warm rays of Italian sweetness and light. Fragments of their talk occasionally reached the ears of my wife and others who could understand them, from which it appeared that their main topic was the opera. “Ah, Madame”—he was interpreted to me as saying—“ if I could but he honored with your presence in my box at Florence! The music would be angelic then.” “ The Signor does me a great, favor in expressing the wish.” Yes; it was clear that he was hard hit, and that she knew it, and had no desire to dismiss him, And yet she was in no single point guilty of indiscretion, forwardness, or coquetry, in my opinion. “That woman,” said my wife, “is abominable! Look how-she hunts that poor man down. I suppose she fancies Sicily a nicer country than Siberia, or wherever it is she comes from.” “Well, my dear,” I replied, “it seems to me that the hunting is mutual. Really, I don’t see why he shouldn’t marry her, if they both like it.” “She may be a mere tuft-hunting adventuress, for all we know,” said she. “ I don’t believe in her.” “ Well, but perhaps he knows more than We do.” “I don’t believe in her a hit. She’s hunting him down for his wealth and title, and is as much a Princess as I am!”

The season was now r at its height, and every room was occupied; the very last attic in the Hotel du Bon Vivant being secured by a German Count, the Count Sigismund von Borokopek. lie put down lus name in the visitors’ hook like a man, and his whole demeanor was frank, open, and robust. He was extraordinarily fluent in English, as well as in French and Italian. German, of course, was his mother-tongue, a few dialectial peculiarities noticeable in his pronunciation, arising, he explained, from the circumstance of his being partly of Austrian, partly of Hungarian origin; the Borokopck estates being in fHe" vfcTnity of Tokay. We now numbered about eighty guests, And began to know one another pretty well; hut somehow the Count knew us all better than we knew one another before he had been a w T eek among us. He was a big, burly, fair ffian, so thoroughly British in appearance and in his general characteristics as to render it difficult, Jmt for his proficiency in other lan guages, to believe that he was not a Briton born. He had knocked about the world a good deal, he said. Of the forty years he had passed in it, twenty had been spent in traveling, half of which time had been parsed in England, and a good deaTof the rest in America. Russia, too, he was acquainted witli; and on the strength of that lie introduced himself to the Princess, and was evidently as much disposed to admire her as the Baron himself. Indeed, before very long, the attentions paid by Count Sigismund von Borokopek to that lady began seriously to disturb the serenity of the Baron MonteggianaTavernelle; and, in proportion as their rivalry progressed, so did the interest and amusement of the company progress With it.. , “My dear Charles,” said my wife, “ isn’t she abominable now ? She’s a regular flirt: and at her age, too!—forty, if she’s a day. And after entangling the Baron to go and egg on the Count, and all in public, too! It’s had enough to make love in public at all, but to do it to two men, one after the other 1 say she’s simply abominable!” “ Well, but, mydear.” I expostulated, “ they are both making love to her at the same time. You see, the Count’s castles are much nearer to Russia than Sicily is, so perhaps she prefers to become Mrs. Count, etc., to the other thing.” Those of us who were not in love with the Princess began to wish the absurd affair at an end. The lady was most unfairly fair to each; for she gave each of them enough encouragement to make them savagely jealous of one another, without going far enough with either to "give the other any grounds of complaint. But for her beautiful eyes I would compare her to a tableau vivant of Justice holding the scales. I can, however, safely liken her to Helen; for she was setting by the ears not only the two most interested individuals, but also the whole World about her; and it wanted but a spark to commence a conflagration, certainly an explosion, between the two. We had an American at the Hotel du Bon Vivant, a quiet, thoughtful man, too much of an invalid to talk much, and very reserved in his manners. We little thought that the dreaded spark would be dropped by him; but so it was. The Baron was describing to a knot of us, including the Count, as we were lounging in the entrance-hall after luncheon, his Syracusan villa, with its exquisite gardens. The American was listening with his usual air of abstraction and quietly interposed a question: “ Did I understand you to say that the Villa d’Aosta, in the Strada di Palerma, belongs to you?” “ Si, signor, the Villa d’Aosta you speak of is the one. It is mine. It has been in my family for several generations.” « “ You’ve got a tenant there now who’s a friend of mine ” “ No, signor, no; I do not let my villa, nor other of my residences.” “Well, that’s queer, I consider,” said the American. “ 1 camq, direct from Sicily last month, and a friend of mine was tenant of that villa for ffie Winter, and I stayed a day or two with him in that very house. Guess there’s some bu*kum somewhere!” ———’

Part of these remarks were made in Italian, some ejaculated in English. “ Bagatelle!” replied the Baron; “ you are mistaken, signor! It must have been some other Villa d’Aosta." “No, it wasn’t,” responded the American; “ and for mv part I think you are no more Baron than I’m Julius Ceesar.” He certainly looked oflended, though happily the last sentence was* in English; in fact, he had been so unaccustomed to be contradicted that it positively confused him. And I .could not help noticing that the Count looked excessively tickled, as well as triumphant. That evening, when the Baron advanced to attend the Princess to the salon, she declined his offer to placgthe shawl on her shoulders, as he had always done; and in the most perfect manner, without snubbing or putting him down, allowed him to discover for himself- that she was utterly indifferent to him. It was just as if the moon were to take the place of the, sun fa a quiet and unde-

monWative way, with no explanation given. But of course an explanation was to be demanded, and as soon as the dinner was over the Baron sought and obtained a tete-a-tete in a corner of the Salles des Dames. We all had the decency to read Galignani, or play bezique, or otherwise to throw a veil over our curiosity, as we anxiously watched the development of the plot and tried to hedge our bets before it was too late. Suddenly the Baron started to liis feet and uttered a loud execrative exclamation which I decline to translate. His soul now most clearly betrayed his passionateness, but there was rather more light than sweetness in his eyes as he glared round the room in search of the hapless American. We all sprang to our feet too; the ladies near the door rapidly retreated, and the men looked at one another, halfamused, half-angrily. “ If I knew who had poisoned the mind of Madame I would ‘ dilaniate’ him — tear him in pieces,” shrieked the Baron. “That viperbf an American!” “ It was not the American,” answered the Count, coming quietly out of a recess ; “ I told the Madame what he had discovered.” The Baron so far forgot the perfectness of his manners and evident desire to please as with his open palm to slap the Count on the face. But in another second he found himself in that physical checkmate- known as chancery—he had got his head under his rival’s left arm, who was holding it down to a convenient level for the right hand to bob his nose —and there, before the Princess, in the Salle des Dames, was being displayed a scene from the British ring; chairs and tables going everywhere, as the quadrupedal monster performed its erratic revolutions, amid the screams of women, the shouts of men, the groans of the maitre, and the indescribable cries of astonishment uttered by the whole staff of the hotel, which had been gathered together at the door by the first exclamations of the Baron.

The Anglo-Saxon nationality having, in spite of the principle of non-inter-vention, separated the Latin and the Teuton, the defeated combatant was assisted to his room, and looked to by an English doctor who happened to be at the hotel, and who reported that, with TEe~exceptiorr of • a couple of broken teeth, nothing of consequence was to he apprehended beyond a further requisition of his services at a rencontre of a different character, which, however, would not be possible for some little time, owing to a difficulty the patient had of seeing. And the next morning we found that the maitre had given the Baron notice to quit the Bon Vivant forthwith; and so we saw no more of the Baron Monteggiana-Tavernelle. In ten days or so the Count received a letter from him, dated at Florence. In it the Baron demanded satisfaction, and required that the Count should meet him at Florence, or, if more convenient, at Rome. In reply the latter expressed his readiness for an interview, but positively declined to fatigue himself with an unnecessary journey. The affair could very well be settled in the place where it began. The letter was carefully and fully directed, registered, and posted by the Count himself. * In the ordinary course of events an answer was due in four or five days at the farthest;but a fortnight passed without any, and at length lie received the following, dated at Rome: Sin—l beg to acknowledge the honor which you have done me of addressing a letter to me at mv house in Florence; and must apologize for my inability to understand it. Your name is strange to me; I was never in the place from which you write; I have not been in Florence for several months; and I must conclude that i here is some mistake. It ia possible that my name has been assumed by a rascally valet who robbed me last year of several private papers and a considerable sum of money, but whom I could not conveniently prosecute. Then followed a description which tallied exactly with the appearance of our Baron. It seems that the letter, being registered, had been sent on to the real Baron at his residence in Rome, instead of being delivered to the false one at the address given by him at Florence. The Princess was, no doubt, overwhelmed with shame at finding that she had been encouraging a valet instead of his master; for she at once admitted the Count to the privilege of paying her more attentions than ever. I think, too, she really liked him. Anyhow, he had proved himself substantially able to protect her; and the scuffle with his rival had in no degree lessened him in her esteem.

Of course, we were not behind the scenes, and could only judge of the probable course of events by such little evidences as chance might throw in our way; but it was rumored that the marriage was to take place from our. hotel before Lent. “ The sooner the better,”, said my wife; “if another man comes forward with better prospects she’ll throw over the Count, just as she did the Baron.” “ But, you see, fie wasn’t a Baron, my dear,” 1 remonstrated; “not a real one, I mean, as the children say.” “Well, and perhaps this is not a reai Count.” “ Dear me! what a joke it would be if he turned out to be somebody’s butler! I wish some Yankee would come and ask him a little about his place. We want a little life here just now.” That day we had another fresh face at the table d’hote; this time an Englishman’s. He was taciturn, but liked to look at the company and listen to the conversation, and was much struck with the Count. It occurred to me, too, that the Count noticed him a good deal, so much so as to refuse some of the choicest dishes. But no one conversed with the stranger, and after dinner he retired to his room—the Baron’s old room—and we saw no more of him till the next day at dinner. There was the same curiosity on the »part of tne Count, who, by the way, spoke German exclusively now; but the stranger was absorbed in his dinner. Afterward he strolled into the billiard-room to smoke a cigar. By and by the Count and I went in to have a quiet game, and there we found the new arrival comfortably lolling in an ample rOcking-chair by the fire. The Count played badly, missing the easiest strokes. “ You’re off your play to-night, Count,” I said; “ what’s the matter?” .

“ Don't mind me, gentlemen,” said the stranger; “ I hope my being here don’t make the Count nervous " —he put a very remarkable emphasis on the title. “I, don’t play the Continental way myself, though I do see a good many queer games at odd times. Now, was you ever in Scarboro’, sir?” addressing the Count. “No! Leeds? No! Hull, where the steamers start for Bremen? No! Manchester, perhaps? No! Not been to Manchester? Then,” lie had been sidling gradually nearer and nearer the door as he talked, and was now between it and the Count. “ Then suppose you and I

go back together, Mister ‘Alexander Jenkinson, on the warrant I’ve got against you for forgery of a check on Gleeson’s Bank at Manchester for £8,500! O yes; it’s all right, audit’s no good makings row. My name’s Inspector Rawlings, of the detective police, and me and mv man here have had a pretty hunt after you; he and the gendarmes are waiting for you outside the door.” Poor Princess, with two strings to her bow, and both of them rotten! Still my wife; wouldn’t pity her yet. “ But, my dear,” I expostulated, “ the poor thing will have to marry some Russian now, perhaps a Laplander, or one of those fellows that drink train-oil with their dinner. And she such a monstrous fine woman, too, to say nothing of her rank.” However, we had but little further Gjill on our sympathy, for the next day she left the* hotel. “So the Princess is off,” I said to the maitre the same day while paying my weekly bill. “ Monsieur said ” “ I said the Princess is off—-gonej allee, sortie , partie, you know.” “Oui, oui; but then, the Princess; who does Monsieur wish to say, Princesse?” “Why, of course the Princess of—well, the Russian Princess that didn’t marry the Baron of the ” “Ah. bah! Who would call ner a Princess?”" “ Why, you made us believe she was,” I indignantly rejoined, “by making believe she wasn't." “ But Monsieur remembers without doubt that I said she was not a Princess?” “So you did; but there’s a way of saying no and looking yes.” “ Pardon, Monsieur! The lady desired repose and to he in particular; and I—l1 —I assisted that she should so be.” “ Well—now she’s gone in fact, what is she?” “ Monsieur, she is a teacher of the dance at Marseilles.”— Chambers' Journal.