A Day's Ride: A Life's Romance

“For the matter of money, he has enough of it. He is the Prince Ernest Maximilian of Wurtemberg, and, except the Emperor, has the best stable in all Paris. But I don’t think that he cares much for the old horse; it’s the Princess likes him, and she constantly drives out to the wood here, and when we come to a quiet spot, where there are no strangers, she makes me take off all the body-clothes and the hood, and she ‘ll get out of the carriage and pat him. And he knows her, that he does! and lifts up that old leg of his when she comes towards him, and tries to whinny too. But here she comes now, and it won’t do if I ‘m seen talking to you; so just drop behind, sir, and never notice me.”

I crossed the road, and had but reached the opposite pathway, when a carriage stopped, and the old horse drew up beside it. After a word or two, the groom took off the hood, and there was Blondel! But my amazement was lost in the greater shock that the Princess, whose jewelled hand held out the sugar to him, was no other than Catinka!

I cannot say with what motive I was impelled, – perhaps the action was too quick for either, – but I drew nigh to the carriage, and, raising my hat respectfully, asked if her highness would deign to remember an old acquaintance.

“I am unfortunate enough, sir, not to be able to recall you,” said she, in the most perfect Parisian French.

“My name you may have forgotten, madam, but scarcely so either our first meeting at Schaffhausen, or our last at Bregenz.”

“These are all riddles to me, sir; and I am sure you are too well bred to persist in an error after you have recognized it to be such.” With a cold smile and a haughty bow, she motioned the coachman to drive on, and I saw her no more.

Stung to the very quick, but yet not without a misgiving that I might be possibly mistaken, I hurried to the police department, where the list of strangers was preserved. By sending in my card I was admitted to see one of the chiefs of the department, who politely informed me that the princess was totally unknown as to family, and not included in the Gotha Almanack.

“May I ask,” said he, as I prepared to retire, “if this letter here – it has been with us for more than a year – is for your address? It came with an enclosure covering any possible expense in reaching your address, and has lain here ever since.”

“Yes,” said I, “my name is Algernon Sydney Potts.”

Strange are the changes and vicissitudes of life! Just as I stood there, shocked and overwhelmed with one trait of cold ingratitude, I found a letter from Kate (she who was once Kate Herbert), telling me how they had sent messengers after me through Europe, and begging, if these lines should ever reach me, to come to them in Wales. “My father loves you, my mother longs to know you, and none can be more eager to thank you than your friend Kate Whalley.”

I set off for England that night – I left for Wales the next morning – and I have never quitted it since that day.

THE END