In Uniform.
It was a bright morning in November, in the year 1684. The people of
Milan were all flocking to the cathedral. It was the feast of the
great St. Charles. The magnificent Duomo which now covers the shrine
of this great saint was not in existence then; nevertheless, the
devotion of the people towards their apostle and patron was deep and
sincere. Perhaps in no city in Italy is there greater pomp thrown
around the patron's festival than at Milan. From morning to night
thousands gather around that venerated shrine. The prince with his
liveried servants, and the poor peasant with the snow-white handkerchief
tied on her head, kneel there side by side. From the first anniversary
of the great saint's death to the present day the musical services of
the great cathedral have been rendered by the greatest talent in Italy,
Professionals and amateurs flocked from every side to do honor to
the man who did so much honor to the city of Milan. Nowadays, since
science has shortened distance, it is one of the autumnal amusements
of the wealthy Englishman to be present at the Feast of St. Charles
at Milan. The gorgeous Duomo, hewn, as it were, out of Carrara
marble, covered with five thousand statues and pinnacles, illumined
with hundreds of thousands of lights swinging in the lofty aisles in
chandeliers of sparkling crystal; the majestic organs, accompanied
in musical harmony by hundreds of the best of human voices, rolling
in soul-stirring majesty over the heads of tens of thousands of the
kneeling children of the saint--all leave an impression never to be
forgotten. Although in modern days the city of Milan has nurtured in
her bosom some of the firebrands of Italian revolution, yet the city
honored with the names and relics of Ambrose, Augustine, and Charles
has yet thousands of pious and holy souls, who still gather with filial
devotion around the tombs of the sainted dead.
On the morning of the festival of St. Charles our heroine awoke with
a heavy heart. She knew the city was astir and repairing to the
cathedral. How strange she should have chosen the name of Charles!
How great, how holy everything connected with that name! Could the
man of God who made it so venerable to his people meet the wretch who
had assumed it to dishonor it? Could even the pious people who flocked
to the cathedral know there was amongst them a Charles whose hands were
stained with parricidal guilt? Like the wicked man who fleeth when
no man pursueth, Charles trembled lest the indignation of the people,
of the saint, and of God should crush her in punishment of her sins.
With thoughts like these she entered the cathedral. Henry was by her
side. The Pontifical High Mass had commenced, and the organ rolled
its majestic tones through the aisles of the old church. Immense
crowds had already gathered around the tomb, and Charles and Henry
repaired to a quiet and obscure portion of the building, where they
could observe without being observed.
Some years had now passed since Charles had breathed a prayer. There
was something in everything around her that softened her heart; she
buried her face in her hands and wept. An eloquent panegyric was
preached by a Dominican Father. The peroration was an appeal to the
assembled thousands to kneel and implore the blessing of the saint
on the city and on themselves. Few sent a more fervent appeal than
the poor, sinful girls who shunned the gaze of the crowd. The prayer
of Charles was heard, and God, who works wonders in the least of his
works, brought about the conversion of this child of predestination
in a manner as strange as it is interesting.
The crowd have left the cathedral. The lights are extinguished. The
service is over. Charles and Henry are amongst the last to leave.
On coming into the great square before the church they were surprised
to see large groups of men in deep conversation. Their excited and
animated manner showed at once something strange had happened. Men
of strange dress appeared also in the crowd. Charles enquired what
was the matter, and was informed that word had just come that
Charles II. of Spain had declared war with Naples, and, as the state
of Milan was subsidiary to the kingdom of the latter, he had sent
officers to cause an enrolment of troops. Large inducements were
offered to all who would join, and numbers of the youth of the city
had already given their names.
Charles scarcely hesitated in coming to a conclusion. The reduced
state of their circumstances, the perfection of her disguise, and
the still unconquered ambition of her heart made the circumstance
a change of golden hope in the sinking prospects of her career. One
thought alone deterred her. Could the delicate frame and soul of
her little sister bear the hardships of a soldier's life? She breathed
her thoughts to Henry. The latter cried and trembled. The one and
only scene of blood she had witnessed still haunted her soul with
horror--'twas in the ravine near Chamounix. But Charles still urged
on the necessity of some desperate movement, and persuaded her, if
they succeeded in joining this new service as officers, their position
would be much the same as that they had passed through during the last
two years. Poor Henry had but one tie to live for in the world; she
preferred death to separation from her sister, and in the bravery of
sisterly affection, she told Charles she would swim by her side in
the river of blood she might cause to flow.
The next morning found them enrolled as officers in the army of the
King of Naples.