DOUBT DISPELLED.
It was ten o’clock on the morning of the thirtieth of August, 1724, when
Tito, thoroughly instructed by that negative Power, entered the palace of
San Ildefonso, and asked audience of Philip V., of whose position at that
time we wish to remind the reader.
First Bourbon of Spain, nephew of Louis XIV., of France, he accepted the
Spanish crown only when he had found it impossible to secure that of
France. But princes were dying, uncles and cousins of his, who separated
him from the throne of his native land; therefore, in order to place
himself in readiness to occupy it, should his nephew, Louis XV., die
(at that time very ill and but fourteen years of age), he abdicated, in
favor of his son Louis I., and retired to San Ildefonso. At this stage
the health of Louis XV. greatly improved, and Louis I. was suddenly
taken so ill, that grave fears were entertained for his life. Couriers
were kept in constant service between the Granja palace and Madrid,
bringing Philip hourly bulletins concerning the condition of his son. The
ambitious father, incited further by his celebrated second wife, Isabel
Farnesio (much more ambitious than he), did not know what part to take in
this hopeless and serious conflict. Would the throne of Spain be vacant
before that of France? Should he declare his intention of reigning anew
in Madrid, preparing himself to seize the heritage of his son? But should
Louis I. not die? Would it not be a blunder to expose the depth of his
perfidy to all Europe? Would not such action render useless his seven
months of solitude? And would it not be to renounce forever the sweet
hope of seating himself on the coveted throne of Saint Louis? What should
he do? To hope, was only wasting precious time! He was hated by the
Assembly, and denied all influence in affairs of State. To take but one
step, might compromise his life’s ambition, and his name to posterity.
False Philip V! The temptations of the world assailed him in the desert,
and he paid very dearly in those hours of doubt for the hypocrisy of his
abdication!
Such was the condition of affairs when Tito presented himself before the
scheming Philip as a courier bearing important tidings.
“What do you wish?” asked the king, without turning, when he heard him
enter the chamber.
“Look at me, your majesty,” answered Tito, unabashed. “Do not fear that I
may read your thoughts; they are no mystery to me.”
Philip turned quickly towards that man, whose voice, dry and cold as the
truth it revealed, had frozen his heart’s blood; but his anger melted
before the funereal smile of the Friend of Death.
He felt a superstitious terror on fixing his eyes on Tito’s; and raising
a tremulous hand to the bell beside him, repeated his first question.
“What do you wish?”
“Sire, I am a physician,” answered Tito, quietly, “and I have such
confidence in my science, that I dare tell your majesty the day, hour and
instant when Louis I. will die.”
Philip looked with more attention at the ragged boy, whose countenance
was as supernatural as beautiful.
“Speak!” said the king.
“Ah, no!” replied Tito, with a degree of sarcasm; “we must first arrange
the price.”
The king started on hearing these words as if waking from a dream; he saw
the matter in another light, and was almost ashamed of having tolerated
it.
“Here!” said he, touching the bell, “arrest this man!”
A captain of guards appeared, and placed his hand on Tito’s shoulder. The
boy remained perfectly quiet.
The king, returning to his first superstition, cast a side glance at
the strange physician, then rising with difficulty (for the weakness he
had suffered for some years had lately augmented), said to the officer:
“Leave us alone.”
Planting himself finally in front of Tito, as if to banish his fear, he
asked him with feigned calmness,
“Well, owl-face! who the devil are you?”
“I am the Friend of Death,” answered Tito, with a steady, quiet look.
“Who is the friend of all sinners,” gayly added the king, as if to ward
off his puerile fear. “And what have you to say of our son?”
“I say,” said Tito, taking a step toward the king, who involuntarily
retreated, “that I bring you a crown; I do not say whether it is that of
Spain or of France, as that is the secret for which you must pay me. I
also say that we are losing precious time, and that consequently I must
speak to you soon and clearly. Listen to me, therefore, with attention.
Louis I. is dying. Nevertheless his sickness is not incurable. Your
Majesty is the dog in the manger.”
Philip interrupted him.
“Speak! Say what you wish; I desire to hear it all. In any case I propose
to have you hanged.”
The Friend of Death, shrugging his shoulders, continued:
“I likened your Majesty to the dog in the manger. You had the crown of
Spain upon your head: you dropped it, to seize that of France, and it
fell upon the cradle of your son; Louis XV. secured his own and now you
are left with neither.”
“It is true!” exclaimed Philip, as much in looks as in words.
“To-day,” continued Tito, observing the king’s expression, “to-day that
you are nearer to the throne of France than that of Spain, you are about
to expose yourself to the same disappointment. The two infant kings,
Louis I. and Louis XV., are ill; you might be able to succeed both; but
it is necessary for you to know a few hours in advance which of the two
will die first. Louis I. is in the greater danger, but the crown of
France is the more beautiful. Here lies your difficulty. You appreciate
the situation. You dare not stretch your hand toward the sceptre of
Ferdinand, apprehensive that your son may live, that your French
partisans might abandon you, and that history would ridicule you. In
fact you dare not drop the bit that you hold between your teeth, fearful
that the other may be a mere shadow or illusion.”
“Speak! speak!” said Philip, eagerly, fearing that Tito had concluded.
“Say what you have to say, for from here you go direct to a dungeon,
where only the walls will hear you. Speak! I should like to hear what the
world has to say regarding my thoughts.”
The ex-shoemaker smiled derisively.
“Dungeon! Gallows!” he exclaimed. “I know all that kings can do, still
I am not alarmed. Listen a little longer; I am about to conclude. Sire,
I must be appointed Physician to the Court, obtain the title of Duke,
with thirty thousand dollars, this very day. Your Majesty laughs; but I
need all this as much as your Majesty needs to know whether Louis I. will
succumb to his illness.”
“And you know that?” asked the king in a low voice, unable to overcome
the terror which the boy caused him.
“I shall know it to-night.”
“How?”
“I have already told you that I am the Friend of Death.”
“And what is that? Tell me!”
“Of that I was also ignorant; but take me to the palace in Madrid, let me
see the reigning king, and I will tell you the sentence which the Eternal
One has written upon his brow.”
“And if you mistake?” said Philip of Anjou, drawing nearer to Tito.
“You may hang me, or hold me prisoner at your will.”
“You are a wizard then!” exclaimed Philip, attempting in a measure to
justify the faith he placed in Tito’s words.
“Sire,” he answered, “there are no wizards nowadays. The last one was
Louis XIV., and the last bewitched was Charles II. The crown of Spain
that we sent to you in Paris, twenty-five years ago, wrapped in the will
of an idiot, redeemed us from the captivity of the Devil, in which we had
lived since the abdication of Charles V. You know that better than any
one.”
“Physician to the Court! Duke! And thirty thousand dollars,” murmured the
king.
“For a crown worth more than you imagine,” added Tito.
“You have my royal word,” replied Philip, solemnly, overpowered by that
voice, that face, that mysterious bearing.
“You swear it, your Majesty?”
“I promise it,” responded the king. “I promise it, if you prove to me
beforehand that you are something more than man.”
“Elena, you will be mine,” murmured Tito.
The king, calling the captain, gave him some orders.
“Now,” said he, “while they arrange your trip to Madrid, tell me your
history and explain your science.”
“I desire to please you, Sire, but I fear that you would understand
neither the one nor the other.”
An hour later the Captain was travelling post haste to Madrid with our
hero, who for the time being had discarded his rags, and was dressed in a
magnificent costume of black velvet and lace, a plumed hat, and a sword
at his side.
Philip had supplied him with money and these clothes, after concluding
his strange contract with Death.
We will follow the good Tito, notwithstanding his haste, for he may meet
his idolized Elena or the odious Countess of Rionuevo in the queen’s
chamber, and we do not wish to be ignorant of the slightest details of
such interesting encounters.