The fifth night after the Eletto’s election was closing in, a light
rain was falling, and no sound was heard in the deserted streets of the
encampment except now and then the footsteps of a sentinel, or the cries
of a child. In Zorrillo’s tent, which was usually brightly lighted until
a late hour of the night, only one miserable brand was burning, beside
which sat the sleepy bar-maid, darning a hole in her frieze-jacket. The
girl did not expect any one, and started when the door of the tent was
violently torn open, and her master, followed by two newly-appointed
captains, came straight up to her.
Zorrillo held his hat in his hand, his hair, slightly tinged with grey,
hung in a tangled mass over his forehead, but he carried himself as
erect as ever. His body did not move, but his eyes wandered from one
corner of the tent to another, and the girl crossed herself and held
up two fingers towards him, for his dark glance fell upon her, as he at
last exclaimed, in a hollow tone:
“Where is the mistress?”
“Gone, I could not help it” replied the girl.
“Where?”
“To the Eletto, to Navarrete.”
“When?”
“He came and took her and the child, directly after you had left the
camp.”
“And she has not returned?”
“She has just sent a roast chicken, which I was to keep for you when
you came home. There it is.” Zorrillo laughed. Then he turned to his
companions, saying:
“I thank you. You have now.... Is she still with the Eletto?”
“Why, of course.”
“And who--who saw her the night before the election--let me sit
down--who saw her with him then?”
“My brother,” replied one of the captains. “She was just coming out of
the tent, as he passed with the guard.”
“Don’t take the matter to heart,” said the other. “There are plenty of
women! We are growing old, and can no longer cope with a handsome fellow
like Navarrete.”
“I thought the sibyl was more sensible,” added the younger captain. “I
saw her in Naples sixteen years ago. Zounds, she was a beautiful woman
then! A pretty creature even now; but Navarrete might almost be her
son. And you always treated her kindly, Pasquale. Well, whoever expects
gratitude from women....”
Suddenly the quartermaster remembered the hour just before the election,
when Florette had thrown herself upon his breast, and thanked him for
his kindness; clenching his teeth, he groaned aloud.
The others were about to leave him, but he regained his self-control,
and said:
“Take him the count’s letter, Renato. What I have to say to him, I will
determine later.”
Zorrillo was a long time unlacing his jerkin and taking out the paper.
Both of his companions noticed how his fingers trembled, and looked at
each other compassionately; but the older one said, as he received the
letter:
“Man, man, this will do no good. Women are like good fortune.”
“Take the thing as a thousand others have taken it, and don’t come to
blows. You wield a good blade, but to attack Navarrete is suicide. I’ll
take him the letter. Be wise, Zorrillo, and look for another love at
once.”
“Directly, directly, of course,” replied the quartermaster; but as soon
as he had sent the maid-servant away, and was entirely alone, he bowed
his forehead upon the table and his shoulders heaved convulsively. He
remained in this attitude a long time, then paced to and fro with forced
calmness. Morning dawned long ere he sought his couch.
Early the next day he made his report to the Eletto before the assembled
council of war, and when it broke up, approached Navarrete, saying, in
so loud a tone that no one could fail to hear:
“I congratulate you on your new sweetheart.”
“With good reason,” replied the Eletto. “Wait a little while, and I’ll
wager that you’ll congratulate me more sincerely than you do to-day.”
The offers from Brussels had again proved unacceptable. It was necessary
now to act, and the insurgent commander profited by the time at his
disposal. It seemed as if “power” doubled his elasticity and energy. It
was so delightful, after the march, the council of war, and the day’s
work were over, to rest with his mother, listen to her, and open his own
heart. How had she preserved--yes, he might call it so--her aristocratic
bearing, amid the turmoil, perils, and mire of camp-life, in spite of
all, all! How cleverly and entertainingly she could talk about men and
things, how comical the ideas, with which she understood how to spice
the conversation, and how well versed he found her in everything that
related to the situation of the regiments and his own position. She had
not been the confidante of army leaders in vain.
By her advice he relinquished his plan of capturing Mechlin, after
learning from spies that it was prepared and expecting the attack of the
insurgents.
He could not enter upon a long siege with the means at his command;
his first blow must not miss the mark. So he only showed himself near
Brussels, sent Captain Montesdocca, who tried to parley again, back with
his mission unaccomplished, marched in a new direction to mislead his
foes, and then unexpectedly assailed wealthy Aalst in Flanders.
The surprised inhabitants tried to defend their well-fortified city, but
the citizens’ strength could not withstand the furious assault of the
well-drilled, booty-seeking army.
The conquered city belonged to the king. It was the pledge of what the
rebels required, and they indemnified themselves in it for the pay that
had been with held. All who attempted to offer resistance fell by the
sword, all the citizens’ possessions were seized by the soldiers, as the
wages that belonged to them.
In the shops under the Belfry, the great tower from whence the bell
summoned the inhabitants when danger threatened, lay plenty of cloth for
new doublets. Nor was there any lack of gold or silver in the treasury
of the guild-hall, the strong boxes of the merchants, the chests of the
citizens. The silver table-utensils, the gold ornaments of the women,
the children’s gifts from godparents fell into the hands of the
conquerors, while a hundred and seventy rich villages near Aalst were
compelled to furnish food for the mutineers.
Navarrete did not forbid the plundering. According to his opinion, what
soldiers took by assault was well-earned booty. To him the occupation of
Aalst was an act of righteous self-defence, and the regiments shared his
belief, and were pleased with their Eletto.
The rebels sought and found quarters in the citizens’ houses, slept in
their beds, eat from their dishes, and drank their wine-cellars empty.
Pillage was permitted for three days. On the fifth discipline was
restored, the quartermaster’s department organized, and the citizens
were permitted to assemble at the guild-hall, pursue their trades and
business, follow the pursuits to which they had been accustomed. The
property they had saved was declared unassailable; besides, robbery had
ceased to be very remunerative.
The Eletto was at liberty to choose his own quarters, and there was no
lack of stately dwellings in Aalst. Ulrich might have been tempted to
occupy the palace of Baron de Hierges, but passed it by, selecting as
a home for his mother and himself a pretty little house on the
market-place, which reminded him of his father’s smithy. The
bow-windowed room, with the view of the belfry and the stately
guildhall, was pleasantly fitted up for his mother, and the city
gardeners received orders to send the finest house-plants to his
residence. Soon the sitting-room, adorned with flowers and enlivened by
singing-birds, looked far handsomer and more cosy than the nest of which
he had dreamed. A little white dog, exactly like the one Florette had
possessed in the smithy, was also procured, and when in the evening the
warm summer air floated into the open windows, and Ulrich sat alone
with Florette, recalling memories of the past, or making plans for the
future, it seemed as if a new spring had come to his soul. The citizens’
distress did not trouble him. They were the losing party in the grim
game of war, enemies--rebels. Among his own men he saw nothing but
joyous faces; he exercised the power--they obeyed.
Zorrillo bore him ill-will, Ulrich read it in his eyes; but he made him
a captain, and the man performed his duty as quartermaster in the most
exemplary manner. Florette wished to tell him that the Eletto was her
son, but the latter begged her to wait till his power was more firmly
established, and how could she refuse her darling anything? She had
grieved deeply, very deeply, but this mood soon passed away, and now she
could be happy in Ulrich’s society, and forget sorrow and heartache.
What joy it was to have him back, to be loved by him! Where was there
a more affectionate son, a pleasanter home than hers? The velvet and
brocade dresses belonging to the Baroness de Hierges had fallen to the
Eletto. How young Florette looked in them! When she glanced into the
mirror, she was astonished at herself.
Two beautiful riding-horses for ladies’ use and elegant trappings had
been found in the baron’s stable. Ulrich had told her of it, and the
desire to ride with him instantly arose in her mind. She had always
accompanied Grandgagnage, and when she now went out, attired in a long
velvet riding-habit, with floating plumes in her dainty little hat,
beside her son, she soon noticed how admiringly even the hostile
citizens and their wives looked after them. It was a pretty sight to
behold the handsome soldier, full of pride and power, galloping on the
most spirited stallion, beside the beautiful, white-haired woman, whose
eyes sparkled with vivacious light.
Zorrillo often met them, when they passed the guildhall, and Florette
always gave him a friendly greeting with her whip, but he intentionally
averted his eyes or if he could not avoid it, coldly returned her
recognition.
This wounded her deeply, and when alone, it often happened that she sunk
into gloomy reverie and, with an aged, weary face, gazed fixedly at the
floor. But Ulrich’s approach quickly cheered and rejuvenated her.
Florette now knew what her son had experienced in life, what had moved
his heart, his soul, and could not contradict him, when he told her that
power was the highest prize of existence.
The Eletto’s ambitious mind could not be satisfied with little Aalst.
The mutineers had been outlawed by an edict from Brussels, but the king
had nothing to do with this measure; the shameful proclamation was only
intended to stop the wailing of the Netherlanders. They would have to
pay dearly for it! There was a great scheme in view.
The Antwerp of those days was called “as rich as the Indies;” the
project under consideration was the possibility of manoeuvring this
abode of wealth into the hands of the mutineers; the whole Spanish army
in the Netherlands being about to follow the example of the regiments in
Aalst.
The mother was the friend and counsellor of the son. At every step he
took he heard her opinion, and often yielded his own in its favor. This
interest in the direction of great events occupied the sibyl’s versatile
mind. When, on many occasions, pros and tons were equal in weight, she
brought out the cards, and this oracle generally turned the scale.
No high aim, no desire to accomplish good and great things in wider
spheres, influenced the thoughts and actions of this couple.
What cared they, that the weal and woe of thousands depended on their
decision? The deadly weapon in their bands was to them only a valuable
utensil in which they delighted, and with which fruits were plucked from
the trees.
Ulrich now saw the fulfilment of Don Juan’s words, that power was an
arable field; for there were many full ears in Aalst for them both to
harvest.
Florette still nursed, with maternal care, the soldier’s orphan which
she had taken to her son’s house; the child, born on a bed of straw--was
now clothed in dainty linen, laces and other beautiful finery. It was
necessary to her, for she occupied herself with the helpless little
creature when, during the long morning hours of Ulrich’s absence,
sorrowful thought troubled her too deeply.
Ulrich often remained absent a long time, far longer than the service
required. What was he doing? Visiting a sweetheart? Why not? She only
marvelled that the fair women did not come from far and near to see the
handsome man.
Yes, the Eletto had found an old love. Art, which he had sullenly
forsaken. News had reached his ears, that an artist had fallen in the
defence of the city. He went to the dead man’s house to see his works,
and how did he find the painter’s dwelling! Windows, furniture were
shattered, the broken doors of the cupboards hung into the rooms on
their bent hinges. The widow and her children were lying in the studio
on a heap of straw. This touched his heart, and he gave alms with an
open hand to the sorrowing woman. A few pictures of the saints, which
the Spaniards had spared, hung on the walls; the easel, paints and
brushes had been left untouched.
A thought, which he instantly carried into execution, entered his mind.
He would paint a new standard! How his heart beat, when he again stood
before the easel!
He regarded the heretics as heathens. The Spaniards were shortly going
to fight against them and for the faith. So he painted the Saviour on
one side of the standard, the Virgin on the other. The artist’s widow
sat to him for the Madonna, a young soldier for the Christ.
No scruples, no consideration for the criticisms of teachers now checked
his creating hand; the power was his, and whatever he did must be right.
He placed upon the Saviour’s bowed figure, Costa’s head, as he had
painted it in Titian’s studio, and the Madonna, in defiance of the stern
judges in Madrid, received the sibyl’s face, to please himself and do
honor to his mother. He made her younger, transformed her white hair to
gleaming golden tresses. One day he asked Flora to sit still and think
of something very serious; he wanted to sketch her.
She gaily placed herself in position, saying:
“Be quick, for serious thoughts don’t last long with me.”
A few days later both pictures were finished, and possessed no mean
degree of merit; he rejoiced that after the long interval he could
still accomplish something. His mother was delighted with her son’s
masterpieces, especially the Madonna, for she instantly recognized
herself, and was touched by this proof of his faithful remembrance. She
had looked exactly like it when a young girl, she said; it was strange
how precisely he had hit the color of her hair; but she was afraid it
was blaspheming to paint a Madonna with her face; she was a poor sinner,
nothing more.
Florette was glad that the work was finished, for restlessness again
began to torture her, and the mornings had been so lonely. Zorrillo--it
caused her bitter pain--had not cast even a single glance at her, and
she began to miss the society of men, to which she had been accustomed.
But she never complained, and always showed Ulrich the same cheerful
face, until the latter told her one day that he must leave her for some
time.
He had already defeated in little skirmishes small bodies of peasants
and citizens, who had taken the field against the mutineers; now Colonel
Romero called upon him to help oppose a large army of patriots, who had
assembled between Lowen and Tirlemont, under the command of the noble
Sieur de Floyon. It was said to consist Of students and other rebellious
brawlers, and so it proved; but the “rebels” were the flower of the
youth of the shamefully-oppressed nation, noble souls, who found it
unbearable to see their native land enslaved by mutinous hordes.
Ulrich’s parting with his mother was not a hard one. He felt sure of
victory and of returning home, but the excitable woman burst into tears
as she bade him farewell.
The Eletto took the field with a large body of troops; the majority of
the mutineers, with them. Captain and Quartermaster Zorrillo, remained
behind to hold the citizens in check.