CHAPTER I. A CARDINAL’S CHAMBER

Produced by David Widger

GERALD FITZGERALD

THE CHEVALIER

By Charles Lever

Author of ‘Haury Lorrequer’ Etc.

With A Frontispiece By A. D. M’Cormick

London Downey And Co., Limited

12 York Street, Covent Garden 1899

PUBLISHERS’ NOTE

The Publishers feel that some explanation is necessary concerning

the tardy publication in book form of this story. _Gerald Fitzgerald_

appeared as a serial in the _Dublin University Magazine_. The Magazine

at the time was changing hands, Lever’s old friend and publisher, James

M’Glashan, having just died. Lever was always eager to avoid trouble,

and ever readier to undertake new work than to concern himself about

work already done; and possibly--for there is not sufficient evidence to

speak with certainty--owing to some trouble with the new proprietors

of the _Dublin University Magazine_, he decided to put aside _Gerald

Fitzgerald_. When he was rearranging his novels for a fresh issue,

shortly before his death, he omitted a few of his stories from the

collection, but for no adequate reason which can be discovered. He was

assisted in the preparation of this collected edition by his daughter,

Mrs. Nevill, who died last year. Mrs. Nevill could not account, for

the omission of _Gerald Fitzgerald_, and left it to the judgment of the

present publishers whether the work should be issued or not. After very

careful consideration, and with full respect for Lever’s memory and

reputation, they have decided that the novel should be issued as a

substantive work. It is evident that Lever spent much pains upon

the story; and though it is not to be expected that it will rival

in popularity his earlier and more boisterous performances, yet the

publishers believe it will not in any way damage his reputation as a

story-teller.

London, March 1899.

GERALD FITZGERALD

BOOK THE FIRST

CHAPTER I. THE THIEVES’ CORNER

At the foot of the hill on which stands the Campidoglio at Rome, and

close beneath the ruins that now encumber the Tarpeian rock, runs a

mean-looking alley, called the Viccolo D’Orsi, but better known to the

police as the ‘Viccolo dei Ladri,’ or ‘Thieves’ Corner’--the epithet

being, it is said, conferred in a spirit the very reverse of calumnious.

Long and straggling, and too narrow to admit of any but foot-passengers,

its dwellings are marked by a degree of poverty and destitution even

greater than such quarters usually exhibit. Rudely constructed of

fragments taken from ancient temples and monuments, richly carved

architraves and finely cut friezes are to be seen embedded amid

masses of crumbling masonry, and all the evidences of a cultivated and

enlightened age mingled up with the squalor and misery of present want.

Not less suggestive than the homes themselves are the population of this

dreary district; and despite rags, and dirt, and debasement, there they

are--the true descendants of those who once, with such terrible truth,

called themselves ‘Masters of the World.’ Well set-on heads of massive

mould, bold and prominent features, finely fashioned jaws, and lips

full of vigour and sensual meaning, are but the base counterfeits of

the traits that meet the eye in the Vatican. No effort of imagination

is needed to trace the kindred. In every gesture, in their gait, even in

the careless ease of their ragged drapery, you can mark the traditionary

signs of the once haughty citizen.

With a remnant of their ancient pride, these people reject all hired

occupation, and would scorn, as an act of slavery, the idea of labour;

and, as neither trade nor calling prevails among them, their existence

would seem an inscrutable problem, save on the hypothesis which dictated

the popular title of this district. But without calling to our aid this

explanation, it must be remembered how easily life is supported by those

satisfied with its meanest requirements, and especially in a land so

teeming with abundance. A few roots, a handful of chestnuts, a piece

of black bread, a cup of wine, scarcely more costly than so much water,

these are enough to maintain existence; and in their gaunt and famished

faces you can see that little beyond this is accomplished.

About the middle of the alley, and over a doorway of sculptured marble,

stands a small statue of Vesta, which, by the aid of a little paint, a

crown of gilt paper, and a candle, some pious hands had transformed into

a Madonna. A little beneath this, and on a black board, scrawled with

letters of unequal size, is the word ‘Trattoria’ or eating-house.

Nothing, indeed, can be well further from the ordinary aspect of a

tavern than the huge vaulted chamber, almost destitute of furniture,

and dimly lighted by the flame of a single lamp; a few loaves of coarse

black bread, some wicker-bound flasks of common wine, and a wooden bowl

containing salad, laid out upon a table, constituting all that the place

affords for entertainment. Some benches are ranged on either side of the

table, and two or three more are gathered around a little iron tripod,

supporting a pan of lighted charcoal, over which now two figures are

to be seen cowering down to the weak flame, while they converse in low

whispers together.

It is a cold and dreary night in December; the snow has fallen not only

on the higher Apennines, but lies thickly over Albano, and is even seen

in drifts along the Campagna. The wailing wind sighs mournfully through

the arches of the Colosseum and among the columns of the old Forum,

while at intervals, with stronger gusts, it sweeps along the narrow

alley, wafting on high the heavy curtain that closes the doorway of the

Trattoria, and leaving its occupants for the time in total darkness.

Twice had this mischance occurred; and now the massive table is drawn

over to the door, to aid in forming a barricade against the storm.

‘‘Tis better not to do it, Fra Luke,’ said a woman’s voice, as the stout

friar arranged his breastwork. ‘You know what happened the last time

there was a door in the same place.’

‘Never mind, Mrs. Mary,’ replied the other; they ‘re not so ready with

their knives as they used to be, and, moreover, there’s few of them will

be out to-night.’

Both spoke in English, and with an accent which told of an Irish origin;

and now, as they reseated themselves beside the brazier, we have time

to observe them. The woman is scarcely above forty years of age, but

she looks older from the effects of sorrow: her regular features and

deeply-set eyes bear traces of former beauty. Two braids of rich brown

hair have escaped beneath her humble widow’s cap and fallen partly over

her cheeks, and, as she tries to arrange them, her taper and delicately

formed fingers proclaim her of gentle blood: her dress is of the

coarsest woollen stuff worn by the peasantry, but little cuffs of crape

show how, in all her poverty, she had endeavoured to maintain some

semblance to a garb of mourning. The man, whose age might be fifty-seven

or eight, is tall, powerfully built, and although encumbered by the long

dress of a friar, shows in every motion that he is still possessed

of considerable strength and activity. The closely cut hair over his

forehead and temples gives something of coarseness to the character of

his round full head; but his eyes are mild and gentle-looking, and there

is an unmistakable good-nature in his large and thick-lipped mouth.

If there is an air of deference to his companion in the way he seats

himself a little distance from the ‘brazier,’ there is, more markedly

still, a degree of tender pity in the look that he bestows on her.

‘I want to read you the petition, Mrs. Mary,’ said he, drawing a small

scroll of paper from his pocket, and unfolding it before the light.

‘‘Tis right you’d hear it, and see if there’s anything you ‘d like

different--anything mispleasing you, or that you ‘d wish left out.’ She

sighed heavily, but made no answer. He waited for a second or two,

and then resumed: ‘‘Tisn’t the like of me--a poor friar, ignorant as I

am--knows well how to write a thing of the kind, and, moreover, to one

like _him_; but maybe the time’s coming when you ‘ll have grander and

better friends.’

‘Oh, no! no!’ cried she passionately; ‘not better, Fra Luke--not better;

that they can never be.’

‘Well, well, better able to serve you,’ said he, as though ashamed that

any question of himself should have intruded into the discussion; ‘and

that they may easily be. But here’s the writing; and listen to it now,

for it must be all copied out to-night, and ready for to-morrow morning.

The cardinal goes to him at eleven. There’s to be some grandees from

Spain, and maybe Portugal, at twelve. The Scottish lords come after

that; and then Kelly tells me he ‘ll see any that likes, and that has

letters or petitions to give him. That’s the time for us, then; for ye

see, Kelly doesn’t like to give it himself: he doesn’t know what the

Prince would say, and how he ‘d take it; and, natural enough, he ‘d not

wish to lose the favour he’s in by any mistake. That’s the word he said,

and sure enough it sounded a strange one for helping a friend and a

countrywoman; so that I must contrive to go myself, and God’s my judge,

if I wouldn’t rather face a drove of the wild cattle out there on the

Campagna, than stand up before all them grand people!’ The very thought

of such an ordeal seemed too much for the poor friar, for he wiped his

forehead with the loose cuff of his robe, and for some minutes appeared

to be totally lost in reflection.

With a low sigh he at last resumed: ‘Here it is, now; and I made it

short, for Kelly said, “if it’s more than one side of a sheet he ‘ll

never look at it, but just say ‘Another time, my good friend, another

time. This is an affair that requires consideration; I ‘ll direct

Monsignore to attend to it.’ When he says that, it’s all over with you,”

says Kelly. Monsignore Bargalli hates every one of us--Scotch, English,

and Irish alike, and is always belying and calumniating us; but if he

reads it himself, there’s always a chance that he may do something, and

that’s the reason I made it as short as I could.’

With this preface, he flattened out the somewhat crumpled piece of

paper, and read aloud:

‘“To His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, the true-born descendant

of the House of Stuart, and rightful heir to the Crown of England, the

humble and dutiful petition of Mary Fitzgerald, of Cappa-Glyn, in the

County Kildare, Ireland------”

‘Eh, what?’ cried he suddenly; for a scarcely audible murmur proclaimed

something like dissent or correction.

‘I was thinking, Fra Luke,’ said she mildly, ‘if it wouldn’t be better

not to say “of Cappa-Glyn.” ‘Tis gone away from us now for ever,

and--and----’

‘What matter--it was yours once. Your ancestors owned it for hundreds

and hundreds of years; and if you’re not there now, neither is he

himself where he ought to be.’

The explanation seemed conclusive, and he went on:

‘“County Kildare, Ireland. Ay! May it please your illustrious Royal

Highness--The only sister of Grace Géraldine, now in glory with the

saints, implores your royal favour for the orphan boy that survives her.

Come from a long way off, in great distress of mind and body, she has no

friend but your highness and the Virgin Mary--that was well known never

deserted nor forsook them that stood true to your royal cause--and

being in want, and having no shelter or refuge, and seeing that Gerald

himself, with the blood in his veins that he has, and worthy of being

what your Royal Highness knows he is--”

‘That’s mighty delicately expressed, ye see, not to give offence,’ said

the friar, with a most complacent smile at his dexterity--

’”----hasn’t as much as a rag of clothes under his student’s gown, nor a

pair of shoes, barring the boots that the sub-rector lent him; without a

shirt to his back, or a cross in his pocket; may at a minute’s warning

be sent away from the college by reason of his great distress--having no

home to go to, nor any way to live, but to starve and die in nakedness,

bringing everlasting disgrace on your royal house, and more misery to

her who subscribes herself in every humility and contrite submission,

your Royal Highness’s most dutiful, devoted, and till death release her

from sorrows, ever attached servant, Mary Fitzgerald.”

‘I didn’t put any address,’ said the Fra, ‘for, you see, this isn’t one

of the genteelest quarters of the town. Here they are, Mrs. Mary--here

they are!’ cried he suddenly, and while he spoke, the hasty tramp of

many feet and the discordant voices of many people talking noisily was

heard from without.

‘Sangue dei Santi!’ shouted a rude voice, ‘is this a fortress we have

here, or a public tavern?’ and at the same instant a strong hand seized

the table in the doorway and flung it on the floor.

The fellow who thus made good his entrance was tall and muscular, his

stature seeming even greater from the uncouth covering of goat-skins,

which in every conceivable fashion he wore around him, while in his hand

he carried a long lance, terminating with a goad, such as are used by

the cattle-drivers of the Campagna.

‘A hearty reception, truly, Signora Maria, you give your customers.’

cried he, as he strode into the middle of the chamber.

‘It was a barrier against the storm, not against our friends------’

‘Ha! you there, Fra Luke!’ shouted the other, interrupting him, while he

burst out into a fit of coarse laughter.

‘Who could doubt it, though?--wherever there’s a brazier, a wine-shop,

and a pretty woman, there you will find a Frate! But come in, lads,’

added he, turning once more toward the doorway; ‘here are only

friends--neither spies nor Swiss among them.’

A ragged group of half-starved wretches now came forward, from one

of whom the first speaker took a small leathern portmanteau that he

carried, and threw it on the table.

‘A poor night’s work, lads,’ said he, unstrapping the leather fastenings

around it; ‘but these travellers have grown so wary nowadays, it’s rare

to pick up anything on the Campagna; and what with chains, bolts, and

padlocks around their luggage, you might as well strive to burst open

the door of the old Mamertine Prison yonder. There’s no money here,

boys--not a baiocco--nor even clothes, nothing but papers. Cursed be

those who ever taught the art of writing!--it serves for nothing but to

send brave men to the galleys.’

‘I knew he was a courier,’ said a small decrepit-looking man, with a

long stiletto stuck in his garter, ‘and that he could have nothing of

any use to us.’

‘Away with the trunk, then! throw it over the parapet into the ditch,

and make a jolly blaze with the papers. Ah, Signora Maria, time was when

a guidatore of the Campagna seldom came back at night without his purse

filled with sequins. Many a gay silk kerchief have I given a sweetheart,

ay, and many a gold trinket too, in those days. Cattle-driving would be

but a poor trade if the Appian Way didn’t traverse the plain.’ While he

spoke he continued to feed the flame with the papers, which he tore and

threw on the burning charcoal. ‘Heap them on the fire, Fra, and don’t

lose time spelling out their meaning. You get such a taste for learning

people’s secrets at the confessional, you can’t restrain the passion.’

‘If I mistake not,’ said Fra Luke, ‘these papers are worth more than

double their weight in gold. They treat of very great matters, and are

in the writing of great people.’

‘Per Bacco! they shall never bring me to the galleys, that I’ll swear,’

cried the herdsman. ‘Popes and princes would fret little about me when

they gained their ends. There, on with them, Fra. If I see you steal one

of them inside those loose robes of yours, by the blood of the martyrs,

I ‘ll pin it to your side with my poniard.’

‘You mangy, starved hound of a goatherd!’ cried Fra Luke, seizing the

massive iron tongs beside him; ‘do you think it’s one of yourselves

I am, or that I have the same cowardly heart that can be frightened

because you wear a knife in your sleeve? May I never see glory, if I

wouldn’t clear the place of you all with these ould tongs, ay, and hunt

every mother’s son of you down the alley.’ The sudden spring forward as

he said this, seeming to denote an intention of action, so appalled his

hearers that they rushed simultaneously to the door, and, in all the

confusion of terror, fled into the street, the herdsman making use of

all his strength to cleave his way through the rest.

‘Think of the Vendetta, Fra Luke! They never forgive!’ tried the woman,

in a voice of anguish.

‘Faix, it’s more of the police I ‘m thinking, Mrs. Mary,’ said the

friar. ‘You’ll see, them fellows will be off now to bring the Swiss

guard. Burn the papers as fast as you can; God knows what mischief we

‘re doing, but we can’t help it. Oh dear! isn’t it a sin and a shame?

Here’s a letter, signed Alberoni, the great Cardinal in Spain. Here’s

two in English, and what’s the name--Watson, is it? No; Wharton, the

Duke of Wharton, as I live! There, fan the coals; quick, there’s no

time to lose. Oh dear, what’s this about Ireland! I must read this, Mrs.

Mary, come what may. “Cromarty says that the P------regrets he didn’t

try Ireland in the place of Scotland. Kelly persuades him that the

Irish would never have abandoned his cause for any consideration for

themselves or their estates.” That’s true, anyhow,’ cried the Fra. ‘“And

that as long as he only wanted rebellion, and did not care to make them

loyal subjects, the Irish would stand to him to the last.” Faix, Kelly’s

right!’ murmured the Fra. ‘“The Scotch, besides, grow weary of civil

war, and desire to have peace and order; while the others think fighting

a government the best diversion of all, and would ask for nothing better

than its continuance. For these reasons, and another that is more of

a secret, the Prince is sorry for the choice he made. As to the secret

one: there was a certain lady of good family, one of the best in the

Island, they say, called Grace Fitzgerald------’”

A shriek from the woman arrested the Fra at this instant, and with a

spring forward she tore the paper from his hand to read the name.

‘What of her--what of Grace?’ cried she, in a voice of heartrending

anxiety.

‘Be calm, and I ‘ll read it all, Mrs. Mary. It was God’s will, may be,

put this into our hands to-night. There, now, don’t sob and agitate

yourself, but listen. “She followed him to France,”’ continued he,

reading.

‘‘She did--she did!’ burst out the other, in a passion of tears.

--‘“To France, where they lived in retirement at the Château de Marne,

in Brittany. Kelly says they were married, and that the priest who

solemnised the marriage was a nephew of Cardinal Tencin, called

Danneton, or Banneton, but well known as Father Ignatius, at the

Seminary of Soissons. To his own dishonour and disgrace, and perhaps to

his ruin also, this happy union did not long continue. He was jealous

at first; at last he neglected her. Be this as it may, Godfrey Moore and

O’Sullivan broke with him for ever on her account; and Ruttledge tore

his patent of Baron to pieces, and swore, to his face, that one

who could be so false to his love could be little relied on in his

friendship.”’

‘Who writes this, Fra Luke? Who knew these things so well?’ cried the

woman.

‘It is signed “E. W.,” and dated from Ancona, something more than ten

years back. The remainder treats of money matters, and of names that are

new to us. Here is the postscript: “You are right in your estimate of

him--too right; still I am inclined to think that Kelly’s influence has

worked more ill than all his misfortunes. They drink together all day,

and even his brother cannot see him without permission; and if you but

saw the man--coarse, low-minded, and ill-educated as he is--so unlikely

in every way to have gained this ascendency over one of cultivated taste

and refinement; but Kinloch said truly, ‘What have your Royal

Highness’s ancestors done, that God should have cursed you with such

companionship!’ To what end, then, this new plan--this last attempt to

avert failure? I ‘ll go, if I must, but it will be only to expose myself

to the same impertinences as before.”

‘I wish I could make out his name, or even to whom it was addressed;

but it is only inscribed “G. H., care of Thomas Foster.” Is that any one

coming, Mrs. Mary?‘’

‘No, it’s only the wind; it often sounds like voices moaning through

those old corridors,’ said the woman sorrowfully. ‘You’ll keep that

letter safe, Fra Luke:’

‘That I will, Mrs. Mary. I ‘ll put it now with the rest, in that old

iron box in the wall behind the chimney.’

‘But if we should have to leave this?’

‘Never fear, I ‘ll take care to have it where we can come at it.’ He

paused for a second or so, and then said, ‘Yes, you can’t stay here any

longer; you must go at once too.’

‘Let it be, then, to some spot where I can see him,’ cried she eagerly.

‘I ‘ve borne the misery of this gloomy spot for years back, just because

that each day he passes near my door. Down the Capitoline, to the

old Forum, is their walk; and how my heart beats as I see the dark

procession winding slowly down the hill, till my eyes rest on him--my

own dear Gerald. How proudly he steps in all his poverty!--how sorrowful

in his youth! What would I not suffer to speak to him--to tell him that

I am the sister of his mother--that he is not all forgotten or forsaken,

but that through long days and nights I sit to think on him!’

‘But you know this cannot be, as yet.’

‘I know it--I know it I’ cried she bitterly. ‘It is not to a home of

crime and infamy--to such pollution as this--I would bring him. Nor need

this any longer be endured. The slavery is now unrecompensed. I can earn

nothing. It is four months since I last sent him a few pauls.’

‘Come, come, do not give way thus; to-morrow may be the turn to better

fortune. Ask of the Virgin to aid us--pray fervently to those who see

our need, and hope--ay, hope, Mrs. Mary, for hope is faith.’

‘My heart grows too cold for hope,’ said she with a faint shudder; and

then, with a low ‘good-night,’ she lighted the little lamp that stood

beside her, and ascended the narrow stairs to her room, while the Fra

proceeded to gather up the papers that lay scattered about: having

accomplished this task, he listened for a while, to ascertain that all

was quiet without, and then, drawing his cowl over his head, set out for

his humble home--a small convent behind the Quirinal.

CHAPTER II. THE LEVEE

For many a year after the failure of the Jacobite expedition--long after

all apprehension from that quarter had ceased to disturb the mind of

England--the adherents of Charles Edward abroad continued to plot,

and scheme, and plan, carrying on intrigues with nearly every court of

Europe, and maintaining secret intercourse with all the disaffected

at home. It would, at first sight, seem strange that partisans should

maintain a cause which its chief had virtually abandoned as hopeless;

but a little consideration will show us that the sympathy felt by

foreign Governments for the Stuarts was less based on attachment to

their house, than a devotion to the religious principles of which they

were the assertors. To Catholicise England was the great object at

heart--to crush that heresy, whose right of private judgment was

as dangerous to despotism as to bigotry--this was a cause far too

portentous and important to be forsaken for any casual check or

momentary discouragement. Hence, for years after the hopes of the

‘Pretender’s’ friends had died out in Scotland, his foreign followers

traversed the Continent on secret missions in every direction, exerting

at times no slight influence even in the cabinets which England believed

to be best affected toward her.

There was, it is true, nothing in the state of Europe generally, nor of

England itself, to revive the hopes of that party. Of the adherents to

the Stuart cause, the staunchest and the best had paid the penalty

of their devotion: some were exiles, and some, like Lord Lovatt, had

purchased safety by dishonour, but scarcely one was to be found ready

to peril life and fortune once more in so barren an enterprise. None,

indeed, expected that ‘the king should have his own again,’ but many

thought that the claim of a disputed succession might be used as a

terrible agency for disturbance, and the cause of a dethroned monarch

be made an admirable rallying-point for Catholic Europe. These intrigues

were carried on in every court of the Continent, but more especially at

Rome and Madrid, between which two capitals the emissaries of the Prince

maintained a close and frequent intercourse.

With all the subtlety of such crafty counsellors, every question of

real moment was transacted in the strictest secrecy, but all trivial and

unimportant affairs were blazoned forth to the world with a degree of

display that seemed to court publicity. In this way, for instance, every

eventful era of the Stuart family was singled out for observance, and

the ceremonies of the Church were employed to give the epochs a due

solemnity. It is to an occasion of this kind we would now invite our

reader’s presence--no less a one than the birthday of Charles Edward.

From an early hour on the morning of the 20th December 178--, the

courtyard of the Altieri Palace was a scene of unusual stir and

movement. Country carts, loaded with orange-trees and rare plants from

the conservatories of the princely villas around Rome, great baskets

of flowers--bouquets which had cost a twelvemonth’s care to bring to

perfection--were unpacking on every side, while delicious fruits and

wines of extreme rarity were among the offerings of the auspicious

day. Servants in the well-known livery of every noble house passed and

repassed, and the lodge of the porter was besieged by crowds who were

desirous of testifying their respect for the exiled majesty of England,

even though their rank did not entitle them to be presented. The street

front of the palace was decorated with gorgeous hangings from all the

windows, some emblazoned with the armorial insignia of royalty, some

with the emblems of different orders of knighthood, and some simply with

the fleur-de-lis or the cross of St. Andrew. A guard of honour of the

Pope’s Swiss stood at the gate, and two trumpeters, with two heralds in

full costume, were mounted on white chargers within the arched entrance,

ready, when the clock struck eleven, to proclaim the birthday of the

king of England.

For years back the occasion had been merely marked by a levee, at

which the Prince’s personal friends and followers were joined by a few

cardinals and one or two of the elders among the noble families; but

now, for some unexplained reason, a greater display was made, and an

unusual degree of splendour and preparation betokened that the event

was intended to be singled out for peculiar honour. Pickets of dragoons,

stationed at intervals through the neighbouring streets, also showed

that measures were taken to secure public tranquillity, and prevent the

inconvenience which might arise from overcrowded thoroughfares. That

such precautions were not unneeded, the dense mass of people that now

crowded the streets already showed.

Few, indeed, of the assembled multitude knew the meaning of the

ceremonial before them. To most, the name of England was like that of

some fabulous dream-land. Others clearly saw some vassalage to the Pope

in this temporary display of royalty; a yet smaller number looked on

with compassionate sorrow at this solemn mockery of a state so unreal

and unsubstantial. Meanwhile, a certain cautious reserve, a degree of

respectful quiet, pervaded all the arrangements within the palace. The

windows of the apartments occupied by the Prince were still closed, and

the noiseless tread of the servants, as they passed in that direction,

showed the fear of disturbing him. For above a year back Charles Edward

had been suffering severely from ill health. Two attacks of apoplexy,

one following quickly on the other, had left him weak and debilitated,

while from the abandonment of his habits of dissipation, enforced by his

physician, there ensued that low and nervous condition, the invariable

penalty exacted from debauchery.

He had lived of late years much secluded from society, passing his time

in the company of a few intimates whose character and station were,

indeed, but ill-adapted to his rank. Of these the chief was a certain

Kelly, an Irishman, and a friar of the order of Cordeliers, with whom

the Prince had become acquainted in his wanderings in Spain, and by

whose influence he first grew attached to habits of low dissipation.

Kelly’s recommendations to favour were great personal courage, high

animal spirits, and a certain dashing recklessness, that even to his

latest hour had a fascination for the mind of Charles Edward. Perhaps,

however, there was nothing in Kelly’s character which so much disposed

the Prince toward him as the confidence--real or pretended--with which

he looked forward to the restoration of the exiled family, and the

return of the Stuarts to the throne of England. The prophecies of

Nostradamus and the predictions of Kelly fostered hopes that survived

every discomfiture, and survived when there was really not even a chance

for their accomplishment. This friar had become, in fact, though not

formally, the head of the Prince’s household, of which he affected to

regulate the expenditure and watch over the conduct. The reckless waste,

however, that prevailed; the insubordination of the servants; and the

utter disorganisation of everything, were far from being complimentary

to his administrative powers.

The income of the Prince was small and precarious. The sums contributed

by Spain came irregularly. The French contingent was scarcely better

paid. The Roman portion alone could be relied upon to maintain the cost

of a household which, for its ill-management and profusion, was

the scandal of the city. There were many rumours current of Kelly’s

financial resources--traits of pecuniary strategy which might have

shamed a Chancellor of the Exchequer; but these, of course, were

difficult to prove, and only natural to prevail on such a subject.

Although there is abundant evidence of the man’s debasement and

immorality, it is equally well known that he amassed no wealth in the

service of the Prince. We have been somewhat prolix in this reference

to one who is not a chief figure in our picture, but without whom any

sketch of the Stuart household would be defective. The Fra Laurentio,

as he was called, was indeed a person of importance, nor was any name so

often uttered as his on the eventful morning we have referred to.

Soon after ten o’clock, a certain movement in the streets, and the

appearance of the dragoons waving back the populace, showed that

the visitors were about to arrive; and at last a stately old coach,

containing some officials of the Pope’s household, drove into the

courtyard. This was quickly followed by the judges of the superior

courts and the secretaries of the tribunals, to whom succeeded a long

line of Roman nobles, their sombre equipages broken occasionally to the

eye by the scarlet panels of a cardinal or the emblazoned hammercloth

of a foreign ambassador. Despite the crowd, the movement, the glitter

of uniform and the gorgeous glare of costume, there was an air of

indescribable gloom in the whole procession. There was none of that

gorgeous courtesy, that look of pleasure, so associated with the

trace of a royal birthday; on the contrary, there was an appearance of

depression--almost of shame--in the faces of the principal persons, many

seeming to shrink from the public gaze and to feel abashed at the chance

mention of their names by the people in the street, as they passed.

Among those who watched the proceedings with a more than common interest

was a large burly man, in the brown robe of a Carthusian, whose bald,

bare head overtopped the surrounders. Closely stationed near the gate,

he had formed an acquaintance with a stranger who seemed familiar with

almost every face that came by. The friar was our friend Fra Luke; and

truly his bluff, honest features, his clear blue eye, and frank brow,

were no unpleasing contrast to the treacherous expressions and gaunt,

sallow cheeks on either side of him. Few of the names were familiar to

the honest Carthusian; and it is but truth to say that he heard of the

great Spanish diplomatist, Guadalaraxa, the wily Cardinal Acquavesia,

and the intriguing envoy, Count Boyer, without a particle of interest in

them; but when his informant whispered, ‘There goes the Earl of Dunbar,

that sallow-faced man in deep mourning; that yonder is the Irish

chieftain, O’Sullivan,’ then the friar’s eyes brightened, and his

whole countenance gleamed with animation and excitement. This faithful

adherent to the Stuart cause was now in his eighty-seventh year, but

still carried himself erect, and walked with the measured step of an

old soldier; his three-cornered hat, trimmed with ostrich feathers, and

wide-skirted blue coat, turned up with red, recalling the time of Louis

xiv., of whose court he had once been a distinguished ornament. Soon

after him came MacNiel of Barra, a tall, hard-visaged man, but whose

muscular figure and well-knit limbs were seen to great advantage in the

full dress of a Highland chieftain. He was preceded by the piper of his

clan, and a henchman, with a pistol on full cock in his hand, walked

after him. A few of lesser note, many of whom exhibited unmistakable

signs of narrow fortune, came after these. It was a group which had gone

on diminishing each year, and now, by the casualties of death, sickness,

and exile, had dwindled down at last to scarcely a dozen; and even of

these few, it was plain to see, some were offering the last homage they

were ever like to render on earth. Equipage after equipage rolled into

the court; and although a vast number had now arrived, the rumour ran

that the windows of the Prince’s apartment were still closed, nor was

there any sign of preparation in that part of the palace. The vague

doubts and surmises which prevailed among the crowd without were shared

in by the guests assembled within doors. Gathered in knots, or walking

slowly along through the vast salons, they conversed in low whispers

together--now stopping to listen for anything that might indicate

the approach of the Prince, and then relapsing into the same muttered

conversation as before. So estranged had Charles Edward lived latterly

from all his former associates, that it was in vain to ask for any

explanation from those whose titles implied the duties of his household;

and Keith, Murray, MacNiel, and Upton frankly avowed that they were as

great strangers within those walls as any of those who now came to offer

their formal compliments. Kelly alone, it would seem, by the frequent

mention of his name, could account for the Prince’s absence; and yet

Kelly was not to be found.

Ill-regulated and ill-ordered as were all the arrangements of that

household, there seemed something beyond all bounds in this neglect of

fitting courtesy; and many did not scruple to say aloud how deeply they

felt the insult. At one moment they half resolved on deputing a message

to the chamber of the Prince; at another they discussed the propriety of

departing in a body. Various opinions were given as to the most fitting

course to follow; in the midst of which their debate was interrupted

by the hoarse flourish of trumpets without, and the loud-voiced

proclamation by the heralds, ‘That his Majesty of England had entered

into his fifty-second year.’ A faint cheer--the tribute of the careless

crowd in the street--and a salvo of cannon from the Quirinal, closed the

ceremony, and all was still--so still that for some seconds not a word

was heard in those thronged and crowded salons.

‘_Ma foi!_’ cried Count Boyer at last, I suppose we may go home again.

Not ours the fault if our duty has not been offered with sufficient

respect.’

‘My master,’ said the Spanish envoy haughtily, ‘will probably think my

patience but little deserving of his praise.’

‘And I,’ said a German baron, all covered with decorations, ‘have

brought this letter of gratulation from the Margrave of Baden, and, for

aught I see, am like to carry it back to his Serene Highness.’

‘As for me,’ said Count Bjosterna, the Swedish minister, ‘I serve a

master who never brooked an insult; and lest this should become such, I

‘ll take my leave.’

‘Not so, messieurs,’ cried O’Sullivan, stepping forward, and placing

himself in front of the door. ‘You have come here to pay my master, the

king of England, certain marks of your respect. It is for him to choose

the time he will accept of them. By heaven! not a man of you shall leave

this till his good pleasure in that matter be known.’

‘Well said, O’Sullivan!’ said General Upton, grasping the old man’s

hand; while MacNiel and some other chieftains pushed forward and ranged

themselves before the door in solemn silence.

‘Nay, nay, gentlemen,’ interposed the cardinal-secretary, Gualtieri--a

man whose venerable appearance commanded universal respect; ‘this would

be most unseemly on every hand. We are all here animated by one feeling

of sincere deference and attachment to a great prince. There may be good

and sufficient reasons why he has not received our homage. It would ill

become us to inquire into these. Not enough for us that our intentions

are those of respectful duty; we must mark, by our conduct, that we

appreciate the rank of him to whom we offer them.’To these words,

uttered aloud, he added something in a whisper to the principal persons

at either side; and, seeming to yield to his instances, they fell back,

while O’Sullivan, bowing respectfully to the cardinal, in token of

acquiescence, moved slowly away, followed by the chieftains.

This little incident, as may be supposed, contributed nothing to remove

the constraint of the scene; and an almost unbroken stillness now

prevailed, when at length a carriage was seen to drive from the

courtyard.

‘There goes Monsignore Alberti,’ said Count Boyer. ‘Where the secretary

of the Pope gives the initiative, it is surely safe to follow. My duty

is paid.’ And so saying, and with a deep obeisance to all at either side

of him, he passed out. The Spanish minister followed; and now the whole

assemblage gradually moved away, so that in less than an hour the salons

were deserted, and none remained of all that crowded mass which so

late had filled them, except O’Sullivan, MacNiel, and a few Highland

chieftains of lesser note.

‘One might be tempted to say that there was a curse upon this cause,’

said MacNiel sternly, as he threw himself down into a seat. Who ever saw

a morning break with brighter hopes; and see already, scarcely an hour

past the noon, and they are all gone--wafted to the winds.’

‘No, no, MacNiel,’ said O’Sullivan gravely; ‘you are wrong, believe me.

These butterflies knew well that it was only a gleam of sunshine, not a

summer. The hopes of the Stuarts are gone for ever.’

‘Why are you here, then, if you think so?’ cried the other impetuously.

‘For that very reason, sir. I feel, as you and all these gentlemen here

do, that fidelity is a contract made for life.’

‘They were the luckiest that closed that account first,’ muttered one of

the lairds, half aloud. ‘By my saul, Culloden wasn’t colder lying than

the Campagna.’

‘Come along, we may as well follow the rest,’ said MacNiel, rising.

‘Will you dine with us, O’Sullivan? Mac-Allister and Brane are coming.’

‘No, MacNiel. I have made this anniversary a day of fasting for many a

year back. I took a vow never to taste meat or wine on this festival,

till I should do so beneath the king’s roof, in his own land.’

‘Ye ‘re like to keep a black Lent o’ it, then,’ muttered the old laird,

with a dry laugh, and shuffled along after his chieftain, as he led the

way toward the door.

O’Sullivan waited till they had gone; and then, with a sad glance around

him, as if like a leave-taking, left the palace and turned homeward.

CHAPTER III. THE ALTIERI PALACE

In a large and splendid chamber, whose only light was a small lamp

within a globe of alabaster, Charles Edward lay, full-dressed, upon his

bed. His eyes were closed, but his features did not betoken sleep: on

the contrary, his flushed cheek told of intemperance, and the table,

covered with wine-decanters and glasses, beside him, confirmed the

impression. His breathing was thick and laboured, and occasionally

broken by a dry, short cough. There was, indeed, little to remind one of

the handsome chevalier in the bloated face, the heavy, hanging jaws, and

the ungainly figure of him who, looking far older than his real age,

now lay there. Though dressed with peculiar care, and covered with the

insignia of several orders, his embroidered vest was unbuttoned, and

showed the rich lace of his jabot, stained and discoloured by wine. A

splendidly ornamented sword lay beside him, on which one hand rested,

the fingers tremulously touching the richly embossed hilt. Near the foot

of the bed, on a low, well-cushioned chair, sat another figure, whose

easy air of jocularity and good-humoured, sensual countenance presented

a strong contrast to the careworn expression of the Prince’s face.

Dressed in a long loose robe of white cloth, which he wore not

ungracefully, his well-rounded legs crossed negligently in front of him,

and his hands clasped with an air of quiet and happy composure, the man

was a perfect picture of a jolly friar, well-to-do and contented. This

was George Kelly, the very type of happy, self-satisfied sensuality. If

a phrenologist would have augured favourably from the noble development

of forehead and temples, the massive back-head and widely spreading

occiput would have quickly shown that nature had alloyed every good gift

with a counterpoise of low tastes and bad passions, more than enough to

destroy the balance of character.

‘Who ‘s there? Who ‘s in waiting?’ muttered the Prince, half aloud, as

if suddenly arousing himself.

‘Kelly--only Kelly,’ answered the friar. ‘Then the wine is not finished,

George, eh? that’s certain; the decanters are not empty. What hour is

it?’ ‘As well as I can see, it wants a few minutes of five.’

‘Of five! of five! Night or morning, which?’

‘Five in the evening. I believe one might venture to call it night, for

they’re lighting the lamps in the streets already.’

‘What’s this here for, George,’ said the Prince, lifting up the sword.

‘We’re not going to Bannockburn, are we? Egad! if we be, I trust they

‘ll give me a better weapon. What nonsense of yours is all this?’

‘Don’t you remember it was your Majesty’s birthday, and that you dressed

to receive the ministers?’

‘To be sure I do; and we did receive them, George, didn’t we? Have I not

been drinking loyal toasts to every monarchy of Europe, and wishing

well to those who need it not? Fifty-one, or fifty-two, which are we,

George?’

‘Faith, I forget,’ said Kelly carelessly; ‘but, like this Burgundy,

quite old enough to be better.’

‘The reproach comes well from _you_, you old reprobate! Whose counsels

have made me what I am? Bolingbroke warned me against you many a

long year back. Atterbury knew you too, and told me what you were. By

Heaven!’ cried he, with a wilder energy, ‘it was that very spirit of

dictation, that habit of prescribing to me whom to know, where to

lean, what to say, and what to leave unsaid, has made me so rash and

headstrong through life. A fellow of your caste had otherwise obtained

no hold upon me; a lowbred, illiterate drunkard----’

A hearty burst of laughter from Kelly here stopped the speaker, who

seemed actually overwhelmed by the cool insolence of the friar.

‘Leave me, sir; leave the room!’ cried Charles Edward haughtily. ‘Let

Lord Nairn--no, not him; let Murray of Blair, or Kinloch, attend me.’

Kelly never stirred nor uttered a word, but sat calm and motionless,

while Charles, breathing heavily from his recent outburst of passion,

lay back, half-exhausted, on the bed. After a few minutes he stretched

out his hand and caught his wine-glass; it was empty, and Kelly filled

it.

‘I say, George,’ cried he, after a pause, ‘it must be growing late.

Shall we not have these people coming to our levee soon?’

‘They ‘ve come and gone, sire, six hours ago. I would not permit your

Majesty to be disturbed for such a pack of falsehearted sycophants; the

more that they sent such insolent messages, demanding as a right to be

received, and asking how long they were to wait your royal pleasure.’

‘Did they so, George? Is this true?’

‘True as Gospel. That Spaniard, with the red-brown beard, came even to

your Majesty’s antechamber, and spoke so loud I thought he’d have awoke

you’; nor was Count Boyor much better-mannered----’

‘Come and gone!’ broke in Charles. ‘What falsehoods will grow out of

this! You should have told me, Kelly. Health, ease, happiness--I ‘d have

sacrificed all to duty. Ay, George, kings have duties like other men.

Were there many here?’

‘I never saw one-half the number. The carriages filled the Corso to the

Piazza del Popolo. There was not a minister absent.’

‘And of our own people?’

‘They were all here. O’Sullivan, Barra, Clangavin----’

‘Where was Tullybardine?--Ah! I forgot,’ broke in Charles, with a deep

sigh. ‘“Here’s to them that are gone,” George, as the old song says. Did

they seem dissatisfied at my absence?--how did you explain it?’

‘I said your Majesty was indisposed; that State affairs had occupied

you all the preceding night, and that you had at last fallen into a

slumber.’

‘Was Glengariff among them?’

‘You forget, sire. We buried him six weeks ago.’

‘To be sure we did. Show me that glass, George--no, the looking-glass,

man--and light those tapers yonder.’

Kelly obeyed, but with an evident reluctance, occupying time, so as to

withdraw the other’s attention from his project. This stratagem did not

succeed, and Charles waited patiently till his orders were fulfilled,

when, taking the mirror in his hand, he stared long and steadfastly at

the reflection of his features. It was several minutes before he spoke,

and when he did, the voice was tremulous and full of deep feeling.

‘George, I am sadly changed; there is but little of the handsome

Chevalier here. I didn’t think to look like this these fifteen years to

come.’

‘Faith! for one who has gone through all that you have, I see no

such signs of wear and tear,’ said Kelly. ‘Had you been a Pope or a

Cardinal--had you lived like an Elector of Hanover, with no other perils

than a bare head in a procession, or the gouty twinges of forty years’

“sauer kraut----“’

‘Keep your coarse ribaldry for your equals, sirrah. Let there be some,

at least, above the mark of your foul slander,’ cried Charles angrily;

and then, throwing the looking-glass from him, he fell back upon his bed

like one utterly exhausted. Kelly (who knew him too well to continue an

irritating topic, his habit being to leave quietly alone the spirit that

forgot more rapidly than it resented) sipped his wine in silence for

some minutes. ‘This day, sixteen years ago, I breakfasted in Carlisle,

at the house of a certain Widow Branards. It’s strange how I remember a

name I have never heard since,’ said Charles, in a voice totally altered

from its late tone of excitement. ‘Do you know, Kelly, that it was on

the turn of a straw the fate of England hung that morning? Keppoch

had cut his hand with the hilt of his claymore, and instead of

counselling--as he ever did--a forward movement, he joined those who

advised retreat. Had we gone on, George, the game was our own. There is

now no doubt on the matter.’

‘I have always heard the same,’ said Kelly; ‘and that your Majesty

yielded with a profound conviction that the counsel was ruinous. Is it

true, sire, that O’Sullivan agreed with your Majesty?’

‘Quite true, George; and the poor fellow shed tears--perhaps for the

only time in his life--when he heard that the decision was given against

us. Stuart of Appin and Kerr were of the same mind; but _Dits aliter

visum_, George. We turned our back on Fortune that morning, and she

never showed us her face after.’

‘You are not forgetting Falkirk, surely?’ said Kelly, who never lost an

opportunity of any flattering allusion to the Prince’s campaigns.

‘Falkirk was but half what it ought to have been. The chieftains got

to quarrel among themselves, and left Hawley to pursue his retreat

unmolested; as the old song says,

‘“The turnkey spat in the jailer’s face,

While the prisoner ran away!”

And now they are all gone, George--gone where you and I must meet them

some day--not a far-off one, maybe.’

‘O’Sullivan was here to-day, sire, to wish your Majesty long life and

happiness; and the old fellow looked as hearty and high-spirited as

ever. I saw him as he passed out of the courtyard, and you ‘d have

guessed, by his air and step, that he was a man of forty.’

‘He’s nigh to eighty-five, then, or I mistake me.’ ‘Life’s strong in

an Irishman--there’s no doubt of it,’ cried Kelly enthusiastically;

‘there’s no man takes more out of prosperity, nor gives way less to bad

fortune.’ ‘What’s that song of yours, George, about Paddy O’Flynn--isn’t

that the name?’ said the Prince, laughing. ‘Let ‘s have it, man.’

‘You mean Terry O’Flynn, sire,’ said Kelly; ‘and, faith, ‘twould puzzle

me to call to mind one verse of the same song.’

‘Do you even remember the night you made it, George, in the little

wayside shrine, eight miles from Avignon? I’ll never forget the

astonished faces of the two friars that peeped in and saw you, glass in

hand, before the fire, chanting that pleasant melody.’

‘The Lord forgive you! ‘tis many a bad thing you led me into,’ said

Kelly with affected sorrow, as he arose and walked to the window.

Meanwhile the Prince, in a low kind of murmuring voice, tried to recall

some words of the song. ‘Talking of friars,’ said Kelly, ‘there’s a

thumping big one outside, with his great face shining like the dial of a

clock. I ‘m much mistaken if he’s not a countryman of my own!’

‘Can he sing, George? Has he the gift of minstrelsy, man?’

‘If your Royal Highness would like to hear the canticles, I’m sure

he’d oblige you. Faith, I was right; it’s poor Luke MacManus--a simple,

kind-hearted creature as ever lived. I remember now that he asked me

when it was possible to see your Royal Highness; and I told him that he

must put down into writing whatever he wanted to say, and come here with

it on the 20th; and sure enough, there he is now.’

‘And why did you tell him any such thing, sir?’ said the Prince angrily.

‘What are these petitions but demands for aid that we have not to

bestow--entreaties we cannot satisfy? Are we not pensioners ourselves?

ay, by the Lord Harry, are we, and beggarly enough in our treatment too.

None knows this better than yourself, Master Kelly. It is not ten days

since you pawned my George. Ay, and, by the way, you never brought me

the money. What do you say to that?’

‘I received twenty-four thousand francs, sire,’ said Kelly calmly;

‘eighteen of which I paid, by your Royal Highness’s order, to the

Countess.’

‘I never gave such an order--where is it?’

‘Spoken, sire, in the words of a prince; and heard by one who never

betrayed him,’ said the friar quickly--‘the Countess herself----’

‘No more of this, sir. We are not before a court of justice. And now let

me tell you, Kelly, that the town is full of the malversation of this

household; and that however proverbial Irish economy and good management

be in its own country, climate and change of air would seem to have

impaired its excellence. My brother tells me that our waste and

extravagance are public town talk.’

‘So much the better, sire--so much the better!’

‘What do you mean by that, sirrah?’ cried the Prince angrily.

‘Your Royal Highness has heard of Alcibiades, and why he cut the tail

off his dog! Well, isn’t it a comfort to think that they never say worse

of us here than that we spend freely what’s given grudgingly; and

that the penury of others never contaminated the spirit of your Royal

Highness?’

‘Have a care, sir,’ said the Prince, with more dignity than he had shown

before: ‘there will come a day, perhaps, when we may grow weary of this

buffoonery.’

‘I’m sorry for it, then,’ replied Kelly unabashed; ‘for when it does,

your Royal Highness will just be as little pleased with wisdom.’

It was thus alternately flattering and outraging Charles Edward--now

insinuating the existence of qualities that he had not;--now disparaging

gifts which he really possessed--that this man maintained an influence

which others in vain tried to obtain over the Prince. It was a relief,

too, to find one whose pliancy suited all his humours, and whose

character had none of that high-souled independence which animated his

Scottish followers. Lastly, Kelly never asked favours for himself or

for others. Enough for him the privilege of the intimacy he enjoyed.

He neither sought nor cared for more. Perhaps, of all his traits, none

weighed more heavily in his favour than this one. It was, then, in a

kind of acknowledgment of this single-mindedness that the Prince, after

a pause, said:

‘Let your countryman come up here, George. I see he ‘s the only courtier

that remains to us.’

Kelly rose without a word, and left the room to obey the command.

Little as those in waiting on the Prince were ever disposed to

resist Kelly in any proceeding, they were carried very nearly to

insubordination, as they saw him conducting through the long line of

salons the humbly-clad, barefooted friar, who, with his arms reverently

crossed on his breast, threw stealthy glances, as he passed, at the

unwonted splendour around him.

‘I hope, sir,’ said Fra Luke respectfully, ‘that your kindness to a

poor countryman won’t harm yourself; but if ever you were to run the

risk, ‘tis an occasion like this might excuse it.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Kelly hastily, and staring him full in the

face.

‘Why, that the petition I hold here is about one that has the best blood

of Ireland in his veins; but maybe, for all that, if you knew what was

in it, you mightn’t like to give it.’

Kelly paused for a few seconds, and then, as if having formed his

resolution, said:

‘If that be the case, Luke, it is better that I should not see it.

There’s no knowing when my favour here may come to an end. There’s not

a morning breaks, nor an evening closes, that I don’t expect to hear I’m

discarded, thrown off, abandoned. Maybe it would bring me luck if I was

to do one, just _one_, good action, by way of a change, before I go.’

‘I hope you’ve done many such afore now,’ said Luke piously.

Kelly did not reply, but a sudden change in his features told how

acutely the words sank into his heart.

‘Wait for me here a minute,’ said he; and motioning to Luke to be

seated, he passed noiselessly into the chamber of the Prince.

CHAPTER IV. THE PRINCE’S CHAMBER

Brief as Kelly’s absence had been, it was enough to have obliterated

from the Prince’s mind all the reasons for his going. No sooner was he

alone than he drank away, muttering to himself, as he filled his glass,

snatches of old Jacobite songs--words of hope and encouragement; or

at times, with sad and broken utterance, phrases of the very deepest

despondency.

It was in this half-dreamy state that Kelly found him as he entered.

Scotland--Rome--the court of France--the château at St. Germains--the

shelling where he sought refuge in Skye--the deck of the French

privateer that landed him at Brest--were, by turns, the scenes of his

imagination; and it was easy to mark how, through all the windings of

his fancy, an overweening sense of his own adventurous character upheld

and sustained him. If he called up at times traits of generous devotion

and loyalty--glorious instances wherein his followers rose to the height

of heroes--by some artful self-complacency he was ever sure to ascribe

these to the great cause they fought for; or, oftener still, to his own

commanding influence and the fascination of his presence. In the midst

of all, however, would break forth some traits that bespoke a nobler

nature. In one of these was it that he alluded to the proposition of

Cardinal Tencin, to make the cession of Ireland the price of the French

adhesion to his cause. ‘No, no, Monsieur le Cardinal,’ cried he several

times energetically; ‘_tout ou rien!_ _tout ou rien!_... Must not my

cause have been a poor one, when he dared to make me such an offer? Ay,

Kelly, and I swear to you he did so!’

These last words were the first that showed a consciousness of the

other’s presence.

‘The Dutchman was better than that, George, eh?--a partition of the

kingdom!--never, never. Ireland, too! The very men who stood truest to

me--the very men who never counselled retreat. Think of Lovatt, George.

If you had but seen him that day! He could not bide the time I took to

eat a morsel of breakfast, so eager was he to be rid of me. I laughed

outright at his impatience, and said that he remembered but the worst

half of the old Highland adage which tells you “to speed the parting

guest.” He never offered me a change of linen, George, and I had worn

the same clothes from the day before Culloden. “Wae’s me for Prince

Charlie!”’

‘It’s a proud thing for me to hear how you speak of my countrymen,

sire,’ said Kelly.

‘Glorious fellows they were, every man of them!’ cried the Prince with

enthusiasm. ‘Light-hearted and buoyant, when all others looked sad and

downcast; always counselling the bold course, and readier to do than say

it! I never met--if I ever heard of--but one Irishman who was not a man

of honour. _He_ was enough, perhaps, to leaven a whole nation--a low,

mean sycophant, cowardly, false, and foul-tongued; a fellow to belie you

and betray you--to track you into evil that others might stare at you

there. I never thought ill of mankind till I knew him. Do you know whom

I mean--eh, George?’

‘Faith, if the portrait be not intended for myself, I am at a loss to

guess,’ said Kelly good-humouredly.

‘So it is, you arch-scoundrel; and, shameless though you be, does it

never occur to you how you will go down to posterity? The corrupter of a

Prince; the fellow who debauched and degraded him!’

‘Isn’t it something that posterity will ever hear of me at all?’ said

Kelly. ‘Is it not fame, at any rate? If there should be any records of

our life together, who knows but a clever commentator will find out

that but for me and my influence the Prince of Wales would have been a

downright beast?--“that Kelly humanised your Royal Highness, kept you

from all the contamination of cardinals and scheming Monsignori, rallied

your low spirits, comforted your dark hours, and enjoyed your bright

ones.”’

‘For what--for what? what was his price?’ cried Charles eagerly.

‘Because he felt in his heart that, sooner or later, you ‘d be back,

King of England and Ireland, and George Kelly wouldn’t be forgotten. No,

faith; Archbishop of Westminster; and devil a less I’d be--that’s the

price, if you wish to hear it!’

The Prince laughed heartily, as he ever did when the friar gave way to

his impertinent humour, and then, sitting up in his bed, told Kelly

to order coffee. To his last hour, coffee seemed to exercise the most

powerful effect on him, clearing his faculties after hours of debauch,

and enabling him to apply himself to business when he appeared to be

utterly exhausted. Kelly, who well knew how to adapt himself to

each passing shade of temperament, followed the Prince into a small

dressing-room in silence, and remained standing at a short distance

behind his chair.

‘Tell Conway,’ said he, pointing to a mass of papers on the table, ‘that

these must wait. I ‘ll go down to Albano tomorrow or next day for

a change of air. I ‘ll not hear of anything till I return. Cardinal

Altieri knows better than I do what Sir Horace Mann writes home to

England. This court is in perfect understanding with St. James’s. As to

the Countess, Kelly, let it not be spoken of again; you hear me? What

paper is that in your hand?’

‘A petition, I believe, sire; at least, the quarter it comes from would

so bespeak it.’

‘Throw it on the fire, then. Is it not enough to live thus, but that I

must be reminded thirty, forty times a day of my poverty and incapacity?

Am I to be flouted with my fallen fortune? On the fire with it, at

once!’

‘Poor Luke’s prayers were offered at an untimely moment,’ said Kelly,

untying the scroll, as if preparing to obey. ‘Maybe, after all, he is

asking for a new rosary, or a pair of sandals. Shall I read it, sire?’

The Prince made no reply, and Kelly, who thoroughly understood his

humour, made no further effort to obtain a hearing for his friend; but,

tearing the long scroll in two, he muttered the first line that caught

his eye:

‘“Petition of Mary Fitzgerald.”’

‘What--of--whom? Fitzgerald! what Fitzgerald?’ cried Charles, catching

the other’s wrist with a sudden grasp.

‘“Sister of Grace Géraldine.”’

The words were not well uttered when Charles snatched the paper from

Kelly’s hand, and drew near to the lamp.

‘Leave me; wait in the room without, Kelly!’ said he; and the tone of

his voice implied a command not to be gainsaid. The Prince now flattened

out the crumpled document before him, holding the fragments close

together; but, although he bent over them attentively for several

minutes, he made little progress in their contents, for drop by drop the

hot tears rose to his eyes, and fell heavily on the paper. Gradually,

too, his head declined, till at last it fell forward on the table, where

he lay, sobbing deeply. It was a long time before he arose from this

attitude; and then his furrowed cheeks and glazed eyes told of intense

sorrow. ‘What ruin have I brought everywhere!’ was the exclamation that

broke from him, in a voice tremulous with agony. ‘Kinloch said truly:

“We must have sinned heavily, to be so heavily cursed!”’ Again and again

did he bend over the paper, and, few as were the lines, it was long

before he could read them through, such was the gush of emotion they

excited. ‘Was there ever a cause so hallowed by misfortune?’ cried he,

in an accent of anguish. ‘Oh! Grace, had you been spared to me, I might

have been other than this. But, if it were to be--if it were indeed

fated that I should become the thing I am, thank God you have not lived

to see it! George,’ cried he suddenly, ‘who brought this paper?’

Kelly came at once at his call, and replied that the bearer was a poor

friar, by name MacManus.

‘Let me see him alone,’ said the Prince; and the next moment Fra Luke

entered the chamber, and, with a low and deferential gesture, stooped

down to kiss his hand. ‘You are an Irishman.’ said Charles, speaking

with a thick but rapid utterance; ‘from none of your countrymen have

I met with anything but loyalty and affection. Tell me, then, frankly,

what you know of this paper--who wrote it?’

‘I did, myself, your Royal Highness,’ said Luke, trembling all over with

fear.

‘Its contents are all true--strictly true?’

‘As the words of this holy Book.’ said Luke, placing his hand on his

breviary.

‘Why were they not made known to me before--answer me that?’ cried

Charles angrily.

‘I’ll tell your Royal Highness why,’ replied Luke, who gained courage

as he was put upon the defensive. ‘She that ‘s gone--the Heavens be her

bed!--made her sister promise, in her last hour, never to ask nor look

for favour or benefit from your Royal Highness.’

‘I will not believe this,’ broke in Charles indignantly; ‘you are more

than bold, sir, to dare to tell me so.’

‘‘Tis true as Gospel,’ replied the friar. ‘Her words were: “Let there be

one that went down to the grave with the thought that loving him was its

best reward! and leave me to think that I live in his memory as I used

in his heart.”’

The Prince turned away, and drew his hand across his eyes.

‘How came she here--since when?’ asked he suddenly.

‘Four years back; we came together. I bore her company all the way from

Ireland, and on foot too, just to put the child into the college here.’

‘And she has been in poverty all this while?’

‘Poverty! faith, you might call it distress!--keeping a little trattoria

in the Viccolo d’Orso, taking sewing, washing--whatever she could;

slaving and starving, just to get shoes and the like for the boy.’

‘How comes it, then, that she has yielded at last to write me this?’

said Charles, who, in proportion as his self-accusings grew more

poignant, sought to turn reproach on any other quarter.

‘She didn’t, nor wouldn’t,’ said the Fra; ‘‘twas I did it myself. I told

her that she might ease her conscience, by never accepting anything;

that I’d write the petition and go up with it, and that all I ‘d ask was

a trifle for the child.’

‘She loves him, then,’ said Charles tenderly. The friar nodded his head

slowly twice, and muttered, ‘God knows she does.’

‘And does he repay her affection?’

‘How can he? Sure he doesn’t know her; he never sees her. When we were

on the way here, he always thought it was his nurse she was; and from

that hour to this he never set eyes on her.’

‘What motive was there for all this?’

‘Just to save him the shame among the rest, that they couldn’t say his

mother’s sister was in rags and wretchedness, without a meal to eat.’

‘She never sees him, then?’

‘Only when he walks out with the class, every Friday; they come down the

hill from the Capitol, and then she’s there, watching to get a look at

him.’

‘And he--what is he like?’

The friar stepped back, and gazed at the Prince from head to foot in

silence, and then at length said: ‘He’s like a Prince, sorrow less! The

black serge gown, the coarse shoes, the square cap, ugly as they are,

can’t disfigure him; and though they cut off his beautiful hair, that

curled half-way down his back, they couldn’t spoil him. He has the great

dark blue eyes of his mother, and the long lashes, almost girlish to

look at.’

‘He’s mild and gentle, then?’ said Charles pensively.

‘Indeed and I won’t tell you a lie,’ said Luke, half mournfully, ‘but

that ‘s just what I believe he isn’t. The sub-rector says there’s

nothing he couldn’t learn, either in the sciences or the humanities.

He can write some of the ancient and three of the modern tongues. His

disputations got him the medal; but somehow----’

‘Well--go on. Somehow----’

‘He’s wild--wild,’ said the friar, and as if he was glad to have found

the exact word he wanted; ‘he ‘d rather go out on the Campagna there

and ride one of the driver’s ponies all day, than he ‘d walk in full

procession with all the cardinals. He ‘d like to be fighting the

shepherds’ dogs, wicked as they are, or goading their mad cattle till

they turn on him. Many a day they ‘ve caught him at that sport; and, if

I ‘m not mistaken, he’s in punishment now, though Mrs. Mary doesn’t know

it, for putting a ram inside the railings of a fountain, so that the

neighbours durstn’t go near to draw water. ‘Tis diversions like these

has made him as ragged and tattered as he is.’

‘Bad stuff for the cloister,’ said Charles, with a faint smile.

‘Who knows? Sure Cardinal Guidotti was at every mischief when a boy; and

there’s Gardoni, the secretary of the Quirinal, wasn’t he the terror of

the city with his pranks?’

‘Can I see this boy--I mean, could he be brought here without his

knowing or suspecting to whom he was presented?’

‘Sure, if Kelly was to----’

‘Ay, ay, I know as well as you do.’ broke in the Prince, ‘George Kelly

has craft and cunning enough for more than that; but supposing, my

worthy Fra, that I did not care to intrust Kelly with this office:

supposing that, for reasons known to myself, I wished this matter a

secret, can you hit upon the means of bringing the lad here, that I

might see and speak with him?’

‘It should be after dark, your Royal Highness, or he would know the

palace again, and then find out who lived in it.’

‘Well, be it so.’

‘Then there’s the rules of the college; without a special leave a

student cannot leave the house, and even then he must have a professor

with him.’

‘A cardinal’s order would, of course, be sufficient,’ said the Prince.

‘To be sure it would, sir,’ said the friar, with a gesture that showed

how implicitly his confidence was given to such a conjuncture.

‘The matter shall be done then, and thus: on Tuesday next Kelly goes to

Albano, and will not return till Wednesday or Thursday evening. At seven

o’clock on Tuesday evening you will present yourself at the college, and

ask for the president: you will only have to say that you are come for

the youth Fitzgerald. He will be at once given into your charge; drive

then at once to the Corso, where you can leave the carriage, and proceed

hither on foot. When you arrive here, you shall be admitted at once.

One only caution I have to give you, friar, and it is this: upon your

reserve and discretion it depends whether I ever befriend this boy,

or cast him off for ever. Should one syllable of this interview

transpire--should I ever discover that, under any pretence or from

any accident, you have divulged what has passed between us here--and

discover it I must, if it be so--from that instant I cease to take

interest in him. I know your cloth well; you can be secret if you will:

let this be an occasion for the virtue. I need not tell you more; nor

will I add one threat to enforce my caution. The boy’s own fortune in

life is on the issue; that will be enough.’

‘Is Mrs. Mary to be intrusted with the secret?’ said the Fra timidly.

‘No; not now at least.’ The Prince sat down, and leaned his forehead on

his hand in thought. At length he said: ‘The boy will ask you, in all

likelihood, whither you are leading him. You must say that a countryman

of his own, a man of some influence, and who knew his friends, desires

to see and speak with him. That he is one with whom he may be frank

and open-hearted; free to tell whatever he feels; whether he likes his

present life or seeks to change it. He is to address me as the Count,

and be careful yourself to give me no higher title. I believe I have

said all.’

‘If Kelly asks me what was my business with your Royal Highness?’

‘Ay; well thought of. Say it was a matter of charity; and take these few

crowns, that you may show him as you pass out.’

‘Well, did you succeed?’ asked Kelly, as the poor friar, flushed and

excited from the emotion of his interview, entered the antechamber.

‘I did indeed; and may the saints in heaven stand to _you_ for the same!

It ‘s a good work you done, and you ‘ll have your reward!’

‘Egad,’ cried Kelly, in a tone of levity, ‘if I had any friends among

the saints, I must have tried their patience pretty hard these last

eight or nine years; but who is this Mary Fitzgerald--I just caught the

name on the paper?’

‘She’s--she’s--she’s--a countrywoman of our own,’ stammered out Fra

Luke, while he moved uneasily from foot to foot, and fumbled with his

hands up the sleeves of his robe.

‘It was lucky for you, then, we were just talking about Ireland before

you went in. He was saying how true and staunch the Irish always showed

themselves.’

‘And does he talk of them times?’ asked the Fra in astonishment.

‘Ay, by the hour. Sometimes it’s breaking day before I go to bed, he

telling me about all his escapes and adventures. I could fill a book

with stories of his.’

‘Musha! but I’d like to hear them,’ cried Luke with honest enthusiasm.

‘Come up here, then--let me see what evening--it mustn’t be Tuesday--nor

Wednesday--maybe, indeed, I won’t be back before Friday. Oh, there’s the

bell now; that’s for _me,_’ cried he; and before he could fix the time

he hurried off to the Prince’s chamber.

CHAPTER V. AFTER DARK

It was a long and weary day to the poor friar, watching for that Tuesday

evening when he should appear at the gate of the Jesuits’ College and

ask for the young Fitzgerald. He felt, too, as though some amount of

responsibility had been imposed on him to which he was unequal. It

seemed to his simple intelligence as if it were a case that required

skill and dexterity. The rector might possibly ask this, or wish to know

that; and then, how was he to respect the secrecy he had pledged to the

Prince? or was he to dare to deceive the great president of the college?

Supposing, too, all these difficulties over, what of the youth himself?

How should he answer the inquiries he was certain to make--whither

he was going---with what object--and to whom? Greater than all these

personal cares was his anxiety that the boy should please his Royal

Highness; that the impression he made should be favourable; that

his look and bearing might interest the Prince and ensure his future

advancement. Let us own that Fra Luke had his grave misgivings on this

score. From all he could pick up through the servitors of the convent,

Gerald was a wild, headstrong youth, constantly ‘in punishment,’ and

regarded by the superiors as the great instigator of every infraction

to the discipline of the college. ‘What will a prince think of such

an unruly subject?’ was the sad question the simple-hearted friar ever

posed to himself. ‘And if the rector only send a report of him, he’ll

have no chance at all.’ With this sorrowful thought he brought

his reflections to a close; and, taking out his beads, set himself

vigorously to implore the intercession of the saints in a cause

intrusted to hands so weak and unskilful as his own.

The grim old gate of the college, flanked with its two low towers,

looked gloomy enough as the evening closed in. The little aperture, too,

through which questions were asked or answered, was now shut up for the

night, and all intercourse with the world without suspended. The Fra had

yet a full hour to wait, and he was fain to walk briskly to and fro, to

warm his blood, chilled by the cold wind that came over the Campagna.

For a while the twinkling of a stray light, high up in the building,

set him a-thinking where the cell of the boy might be; gradually these

lights disappeared, and all was wrapped in gloom and darkness, when

suddenly the chapel became illuminated, and the rich, full swell of an

organ toned out its solemn sounds on the still night. The brief prelude

over, there followed one of those glorious old chants of the church

which combine a strain of intense devotion with a highly exalted poetic

feeling. In a perfect flood of harmony the sounds blended, until the

very air seemed to hold them suspended. They ceased; and then, like

the softest melody of a flute, a young voice arose alone, and, soaring

upward, uttered a passage of seraphic sweetness. It was as though the

song of some angelic spirit, telling of hope and peace; and, as a long,

thrilling shake concluded the strain, the loud thunder of the organ and

the full swell of the choir closed the service. The moment after, all

was silent and in darkness.

Bell after bell, from the great city beneath, tolled out seven o’clock;

and Fra Luke knocked modestly at the gate of the college. His visit

appeared to have been expected, for he was admitted at once and

conducted to the large hall, which formed the waiting-room of the

college. The friar had not long to wait; for scarcely had he taken his

seat when the door opened, and young Fitzgerald appeared. Advancing with

an easy air, and a degree of gracefulness that contrasted strangely with

his poverty-struck dress, the boy said, ‘I am told you wish to speak to

me, father.’

‘Are you Gerald Fitzgerald, my son?’ asked Fra Luke softly.

‘Yes; that’s my name.’

The Fra looked at the beaming face and the bright blue eyes, soft in

their expression as a girl’s, and the dimpled cheek, over which a slight

flush was mantling, and wondered to himself could this be the wild,

reckless youth they called him?--had they not been calumniating that

fine and simple nature? So deeply was the Fra impressed with this

sentiment that he forgot to continue the interrogatory, and stood gazing

with admiration on him.

‘Well, said the boy, smiling good-humouredly, ‘what is your business

with me, for it is nigh bed-time, and I must be going?’

‘It was _your_ voice I heard in the solo a few minutes ago,’ cried the

Fra eagerly; ‘I know it was. It was _you_ who sang the

‘Virgo virginum præclara, Mihi jam non sis amara?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the youth, reddening. ‘But what of that? You never came

here to-night to ask me this question.’

‘True enough,’ said the Fra, sighing painfully--less, indeed at the

rebuke than the hot-tempered tone of the boy as he spoke it. ‘I came

here to-night to fetch you along with me, to see one who was a friend of

your family long, long ago; he has heard of you here, and wishes to see

and speak with you. He is a person of great rank and high station, so

that you will show him every deference, and demean yourself toward

him respectfully and modestly; for he means you well, Gerald; he will

befriend you.’

‘But what need have I of his friendship or his good offices?’ said the

youth, growing deadly pale as he spoke. ‘Look at this serge gown--see

this cap--they can tell you what I am destined for. I shall be a

priest one of these days, Fra; and what has a priest to do with ties of

affection or friendship?’

‘Oh! for the blessed Joseph’s sake,’ whispered the Fra, ‘be careful

what you say. These are terrible words to speak--and to speak them here,

too,’ added he, as he threw his eyes over the walls of the room.

‘Is this man a cardinal?’

‘No,’ said the Fra; ‘he is a layman, and a count.’

‘Better that; had he been a cardinal, I ‘d not have gone. Whenever the

old cardinal, Caraffa, comes here, I’m sure to have a week’s punishment;

and I hate the whole red-stockinged race----’

‘There, there--let us away at once,’ whispered the Fra. ‘Such discourse

as this will bring misfortune upon us both.’

‘Have you the superior’s permission for my going out with you?’ asked

Gerald.

‘Yes; I have his leave till eleven o’clock--we shall be back here before

that time.’

‘I’m sorry for it,’ said the boy sternly. ‘I’d like to think I was

crossing that old courtyard there for the last time.’

‘You will be cold, my poor boy,’ said the friar, ‘with no other covering

but that light frock; but we shall find a carriage as we go along.’

‘No, no, no,’ cried the boy eagerly. ‘Let us walk, Fra; let us walk, and

see everything. It’s like one of the old fairy tales nurse used to tell

me long ago--to see the city all alight thus, and the troops of people

moving on, and all these bright shops with the rich wares so temptingly

displayed. Ah! how happy must they be who can wander at will among all

these--exchanging words and greetings, and making brotherhood with their

fellows! See, Fra--see!’ cried he, ‘what is it comes yonder, with all

the torches, and the men in white?’

‘It is some great man’s funeral, my child. Let us say a _Pax eterna_,’

and he fumbled for his beads as he spoke.

‘Let us follow them,’ said the boy; ‘they are bearing the catafalque

into that small church--how grand and solemn it all is!’ and now,

attaching himself to the long line of acolytes, the boy walked step for

step with the procession, mingling his clear and liquid notes in the

litany they were chanting. While he sang with all the force of intense

expression, it was strange to mark how freely his gaze wandered over

all the details of the scene--his keen eyes scrutinised everything--the

costumes, the looks, the gestures of all; the half tawdry splendour

below--the dim and solemn grandeur of the Gothic roof overhead. If there

was nothing of levity, as little was there anything of reverence in his

features. The sad scene, with all its trappings of woe, was a spectacle,

and no more, to him; and, as he turned away to leave the spot, his face

betrayed the desire he felt for some new object of interest. Nor had he

long to search for such; for, just as they entered the Piazza di

Spagna, they found a dense crowd gathered around a group of those humble

musicians from Calabria--the Pifferari, they call them--stunted in form,

and miserably clad: these poor creatures, whose rude figures recall

old pictures of the ancient Pan, have a wonderful attraction for

the populace. They were singing some wild, rude air of their native

mountains, accompanying the refrain with a sort of dance, while their

uncouth gestures shook the crowd with laughter.

‘Oh! I love these fellows, but I never have a chance of seeing them,’

cried the boy; so bursting away, he dashed into the thick of the

assembled throng. It was not without a heartfelt sense of shame that the

poor friar found himself obliged to follow his charge, whom he now began

to fear might be lost to him.

‘Per Bacco! cried one of the crowd, ‘here’s a Frate can’t resist the

charms of profane melody, and is elbowing his way, like any sinner,

among us.’

‘It’s the cachuca he wants to see,’ exclaimed another; ‘come, Marietta,

here’s a connoisseur worth showing your pretty ankles to.’

‘By the holy rosary!’ cried a third, ‘she is determined on the

conquest.’

This outburst was caused by the sudden appearance of a young girl, who,

though scarcely more than a child, bore in her assured look and flashing

eyes all the appearances of more advanced years. She was a deep brunette

in complexion, to which the scarlet cloth that hung from her black hair

gave additional brilliancy. Her jupe, of the same colour, recrossed and

interlaced with tawdry gold tinsel, came only to the knee, below which

appeared limbs that many a Roman statuary had modelled, so perfect were

they in every detail of symmetry and beauty. Her whole air was redolent

of that _beauté du diable_, as the French happily express it, which

seems never to appeal in vain to the sympathies of the populace. It

was girlhood, almost childlike girlhood, but dashed with a conscious

effrontery that had braved many a libertine stare--many a look

significant in coarseness.

With one wild spring she bounded into the open space, and there she

stood now on tiptoe, her arms extended straight above her head, while

with clasped hands she remained motionless, so that every line and

lineament of her faultless figure might be surveyed in unbroken

symmetry.

‘Ah carina--che bellezza! come e graziosa!’ broke from those who,

corrupt, debased, and degraded in a hundred ways as they were, yet

inherited that ancient love of symmetry in form which the games and the

statues of antique Rome had fostered. With a graceful ease no ballarina

of the grand opera could have surpassed, she glided into those slow and

sliding movements which precede the dance--movements meant to display

the graces of form, without the intervention of action. Gradually,

however, the time of the music grew quicker, and now her heightened

colour and more flashing eye bespoke how her mind lent itself to the

measure. The dance was intended to represent the coy retirings of a

rustic beauty from the advances of an imaginary lover; and, though

she was alone, so perfectly did she convey the storied interest of the

scene, that the enraptured audience could trace every sentiment of the

action. At one moment her gestures depicted the proudest insolence and

disdain; at the next a half-yielding tenderness--now, it was passion to

the very verge of madness--now, it was a soul-subduing softness, that

thrilled through every heart around her. Incapable, as it seemed, of

longer resisting the solicitations of love, her wearied steps grew

heavier, her languid head drooped, and a look of voluptuous waywardness

appeared to steal over her. Wherever her eye turned a murmured sigh

acknowledged how thoroughly the captivation held enthralled every bosom

around, when suddenly, with a gesture that seemed like a cry--so full of

piercing agony it seemed--she dashed her hands across her forehead

and stared with aching eye-balls into vacancy,--it was jealousy: the

terrible pang had shot through her heart, and she was wild. The horrible

transitions from doubt to doubt, until full conviction forced itself

upon her, were given with extraordinary power. Over her features, in

turn, passed every expression of passion. The heartrending tenderness of

love--the clinging to a lost affection--the straining effort to recall

him who had deserted her--the black bitterness of despair--and then,

with a wild spring, like the bound of a tiger, she counterfeited a leap

over a precipice to death!

She fell upon the ground, and as the mingled sobs and cries rose through

the troubled crowd, a boy tore his way through the dense mass, and

fighting with all the energy of infuriated strength, gained the open

space where she lay. Dropping on his knees, he bent over, and clasping

her hand kissed it wildly over and over, crying out in a voice of broken

agony, ‘Oh! Marietta, Marietta mia, come back to us--come back, we will

love you and cherish you.’

A great roar of laughter--the revulsion to that intensity of feeling so

lately diffused among them--now shook the mob. Revenging, as it were,

the illusion that had so enthralled themselves, they now turned all

their ridicule upon the poor boy.

‘Santissima Virginia! if he isn’t a scholar of the Holy Order!’ shouted

one.

‘Ecco! a real Jesuit!’ said another; ‘had he been a little older,

though, he ‘d have done it more secretly.’

‘The little priest is offering the consolation of his order,’ cried a

third; and there rained upon him, from every side, words of mockery and

sarcasm.

‘Don’t you see that he is a mere boy--have you no shame that you can

mock a simple-hearted child like this?’ said the burly Fra, as he pushed

the crowd right and left, and forced a passage through the mob. ‘Come

along, Gerald, come along. They are a cowardly pack, and if they were

not fifty to one, they ‘d think twice ere they ‘d insult us.’ This

speech he delivered in Italian, with a daring emphasis of look and

gesture that made the craven listeners tremble. They opened a little

path for the friar and his charge to retire; nor was it until they had

nearly gained the corner of the Piazza that they dared to yell forth a

cry of insult and derision.

The boy grasped the Fra’s hand as he heard it, and looked up in his face

with an expression there was no mistaking, so full was it of wild and

daring courage.

‘No, no, Gerald,’ said he, ‘there are too many of them, and what should

we get by it after all? See, too, how they have torn your soutane all

to pieces. I almost suspect we ought to go back again to the college, my

boy. I scarcely like to present you in such a state as this.’

Well indeed might the Fra have come to this doubtful issue, for the

youth’s gown hung in ribbons around him, and his cap was flattened to

his head.

‘I wish I knew what was best to be done, Gerald,’ said he, wiping the

sweat from his brawny face. ‘What do you advise yourself?’

‘I’d say, go on,’ cried the youth. ‘Will a great signor think whether my

poor and threadbare frock be torn or whole?--he ‘ll not know if I be in

rags or in purple. Tell him, if you like, that we met with rough usage

in the streets. Tell him, that in passing through the crowd they left me

thus. Say nothing about Marietta, Fra; you need not speak of her.’

The boy’s voice, as he uttered the last words, became little louder than

a mere whisper.

‘Come along then; and, with the help of the saints, we ‘ll go through

with what we ‘ve begun.’

And with this vigorous resolve the stout friar strode along down the

Corso.

CHAPTER VI. THE INTERVIEW

It was full an hour after the time appointed when the friar, accompanied

by young Gerald, entered the arched gate of the Altieri Palace.

‘You have been asked for twice, Frate,’ said the porter; ‘and I doubt

if you will be admitted now. It is the time his Royal Highness takes his

siesta.’

‘I must only hope for the best,’ sighed out the Fra, as he ascended the

wide stairs of white marble, with a sinking heart.

‘Let us go a little slower, Fra Luke,’ whispered the boy; ‘I ‘d like to

have a look at these statues. See what a fine fellow that is strangling

the serpent; and, oh! is she not beautiful, crouching in that large

shell?’

‘Heathen vanities, all of them,’ muttered the Fra; ‘what are they

compared to the pure face of our blessed Lady?’

The youth felt rebuked, and was silent. While the friar, however, was

communicating with the servant in waiting, the boy had time to stroll

down the long gallery, admiring as he went the various works of art it

contained. Stands of weapons, too, and spoils of the chase abounded,

and these he examined with a wistful curiosity, reading from short

inscriptions attached to the cases, which told him how this wolf had

been killed by his Royal Highness on such a day of such a year, and how

that boar had received his death-wound from the Prince’s hand at such

another time.

It almost required force from the friar to tear him away from objects

so full of interest, nor did he succeed without a promise that he should

see them all some other day. Passing through a long suite of rooms,

magnificently furnished, but whose splendour was dimmed and faded

by years, they reached an octagonal chamber of small but beautiful

proportions; and here the friar was told the youth was to wait, while he

himself was admitted to the Prince.

Charles Edward had just dined--and, as was his wont, dined freely--when

the Fra was announced. ‘You can retire,’ said the Prince to the servants

in waiting, but never turning his head toward where the friar was

standing. The servants retreated noiselessly, and all was now still in

the chamber. The Prince had drawn his chair toward the fire, and sat

gazing at the burning logs in deep reverie. Apparently he followed his

thoughts so far as to forget that the poor friar was yet in waiting; for

it was only as a low, faint sigh escaped him that the Prince suddenly

turning his head, cried out, ‘Ah! our Frate. I had half forgotten you.

You are somewhat late, are you not?’

In a voice tremulous with fear and deference Fra Luke narrated how

they had been delayed by a misadventure in the Piazza, contriving

to interweave in his story an apology for the torn dress and ragged

habiliments the boy was to appear in. ‘He is not in a state to be seen

by your Royal Highness at all. If it wasn’t that your Royal Highness

will think little of the shell where the kernel is sound----’

‘And who is to warrant me that, sir?’ said the Prince angrily. ‘Is it

your guarantee I ‘m to take for it?’

The poor friar almost felt as if he were about to faint at the stern

speech, nor did he dare to utter a word of reply. So far, this was in

his favour, since, when unprovoked by anything like rejoinder, Charles

Edward was usually disposed to turn from any unpleasant theme, and

address his thoughts elsewhere.

‘I ‘m half relenting, my good friar,’ said he, in a calmer tone, ‘that I

should have brought you here on this errand. How am _I_ to burden myself

with the care of this boy? I am but a pensioner myself, weighed down

already with a mass of followers. So long as hope remained to us we

struggled on manfully enough. Present privation was to have had its

recompense--at least we thought so.’ He stopped suddenly, and then, as

if ashamed of speaking thus confidentially to one he had seen only once

before, his voice assumed a harsher, sterner accent as he said: ‘These

are not your concerns. What is it you propose I should do? Have you a

plan? What is it?’

Had Fra Luke been required to project another scheme of invasion, he

could not have been more dumbfounded and confused, and he stood the very

picture of hopeless incapacity.

Charles Edward’s temper was in that state when he invariably sought to

turn upon others the reproaches his own conscience addressed to him, and

he angrily said: ‘It is by this same train of beggarly followers that my

fortunes are rendered irretrievable. I am worried and harassed by

their importunities; they attach the plague-spot of their poverty to me

wherever I go. I should have freed myself from this thraldom many a year

ago; and if I had, where and what might I not have been to-day? You, and

others of your stamp, look upon me as an almoner, not more nor less.’

His passion had now spent itself, and he sat moodily gazing at the fire.

‘Is the lad here?’ asked he, after a long pause.

‘Yes, your Royal Highness,’ said the friar, while he made a motion

toward the door.

Charles Edward stopped him quickly as he said, ‘No matter, there is not

any need that I should see him. He and his aunt--she is his aunt, you

said--must return to Ireland; this is no place for them. I will see

Kelly about it to-morrow, and they shall have something to pay their

journey. This arrangement does not please you, Frate, eh? Speak out,

man. You think it cold, unnatural, and unkind--is it not so?’

‘If your gracious Highness would just condescend to say a word to

him--one word, that he might carry away in his heart for the rest of his

days.’

‘Better have no memory of me,’ sighed the Prince drearily. ‘Oh, don’t

say so, your Royal Highness; think what pride it will be to him yet, God

knows in what far-away country, to remember that he saw you once, that

he stood in your presence, and heard you speak to him.’

‘It shall be as you wish, Frate; but I charge you once more to be sure

that he may not know with whom he is speaking.’

‘By this holy Book,’ said the Fra, with a gesture implying a vow of

secrecy.

‘Go now; send him hither, and wait without till I send for you.’

The door had scarcely closed behind the friar when it opened again

to admit the entrance of the youth. The Prince turned his head, and,

whether it was the extreme poverty of the lad’s appearance, more

striking from the ragged and torn condition of his dress, or that

something in Gerald’s air and look impressed him painfully, he passed

his hand across his eyes and averted his glance from him.

‘Come forward, my boy,’ said he at last. ‘How are you called?’

‘Gerald Fitzgerald, Signor Conte,’ said he, firmly but respectfully.

‘You are Irish by birth?’ said the Prince, in a voice slightly

tremulous.

‘Yes, Signor Conte,’ replied he, while he drew himself up with an air

that almost savoured of haughtiness.

‘And your friends have destined you for the priesthood, it seems.’

‘I never knew I had friends,’ said the boy; ‘I thought myself a sort of

castaway.’

‘Why, you have just told me of your Irish blood--how knew you of that?’

‘So long as I can remember I have heard that I was a Géraldine, and they

call me Irish in the college.’

There was a frank boldness in his manner, totally removed from the

slightest trace of rudeness or presumption, that already interested the

Prince, who now gazed long and steadily on him.

‘Do I remind you of any one you ever saw or cared for, Signor Conte?’

asked the boy, with an accent of touching gentleness.

‘That you do, child,’ said he, laying his hand on the youth’s shoulder,

while he passed the other across his eyes.

‘I hope it was of none who ever gave you sorrow,’ said the boy, who saw

the quivering motion of the lip that indicates deep grief.

Charles Edward now removed his hand, and turned away his head for some

seconds.

At last he arose suddenly from his chair, and with an effort that seemed

to show he was struggling for the mastery over his own emotions, said,

‘Is it your own choice to be a priest, Gerald?’

‘No; far from it. I ‘d rather be a herd on the Campagna! You surely know

little of the life of the convent, Signor Conte, or you had not asked me

that question.’

Far from taking offence at the boy’s boldness, the Prince smiled

good-naturedly at the energy of his reply.

‘Is it the stillness, the seclusion that you dislike?’ asked he,

evidently wanting the youth to speak of himself and of his temperament.

‘No, it is not that,’ said Gerald thoughtfully. ‘The quiet, peaceful

hours, when we are left to what they call meditation, are the best of

it. Then one is free to range where he will, in fancy. I ‘ve had as many

adventures, thus, as any fortune-seeker of the Arabian Nights. What

lands have I not visited! what bold things have I not achieved! ay, and

day after day, taken up the same dream where I had left it last,

carrying on its fortunes, till the actual work of life seemed the

illusion, and this, the dream-world, the true one.’

‘So that, after all, this same existence has its pleasures, Gerald?’

‘The pleasures are in forgetting it! ignoring that your whole life is a

falsehood! They make me kneel at confession to tell my thoughts, while

well I know that, for the least blamable of them, I shall be scourged.

They oblige me to say that I hate everything that gives a charm to life,

and cherish as blessings all that can darken and sadden it. Well,

I swear the lie, and they are satisfied! And why are they

satisfied?--because out of this corrupt heart, debased by years of

treachery and falsehood, they have created the being that they want to

serve them.’

‘What has led you to think thus hardly of the priesthood?’

‘One of themselves, Signor Conte. He told me all that I have repeated

to you now, and he counselled me, if I had a friend--one friend on

earth--to beseech him to rescue me ere it was too late, ere I was like

him.’

‘And he--what became of him?’

‘He died, as all die who offend the Order, of a wasting fever. His hair

was white as snow, though he was under thirty, and his coffin was light

as a child’s. Look here, Signor Conte,’ cried he, as a smile of half

incredulity, half pity, curled the Prince’s lip, ‘look here. You are a

great man and a rich: you never knew what it was in life to suffer any,

the commonest of those privations poor men pass their days in----’

‘Who can dare to say that of me?’ cried Charles Edward passionately.

‘There’s not a toil I have not tasted, there’s not a peril I have not

braved, there’s not a sorrow nor a suffering that have not been my

portion; ay, and, God wot, with heavier stake upon the board than ever

man played for!’

‘Forgive me, Signor Conte,’ stammered out the boy, as his eyes filled

up at the sight of the emotion he had caused, ‘I knew not what I was

saying.’

The Prince took little heed of the words, for his aroused thoughts bore

him sadly to the mist-clad mountain and the heathery gorges far away;

and he strode the room in deep emotion. At last his glance fell upon

the youth as, pale and terror-stricken, he stood watching him, and he

quickly said: ‘I’m not angry with you, Gerald; do not grieve, my poor

boy. You will learn, one of these days, that sorrow has its place at

fine tables, just as at humbler boards. It helps the rich man to don his

robe of purple, just as it aids the beggar to put on his rags. It’s a

stern conscription that calls on all to serve. But to yourself: you will

not be a priest, you say? What, then, would you like--what say you to

the life of a soldier?’

‘But in what service, Signor Conte?’

‘That of your own country, I suppose.’

‘They tell me that the king is a usurper, who has no right to be king;

and shall I swear faith and loyalty to him?’

‘Others have done so, and are doing it every day, boy. It was but

yesterday, Lord Blantyre made what they call his submission; and he was

the bosom friend of--the Pretender’; and the last words were uttered in

a half-scornful laugh.

‘I will not hear him called by that name, Signor Conte. So long as I

remember anything, I was taught not to endure it.’

‘Was that your mother’s teaching, Gerald?’ said the Prince tenderly.

‘It was, sir. I was a very little child; but I can never forget the last

prayer I made each night before bed: it was for God’s protection to the

true Prince; and when I arose I was to say, “Confusion to all who call

him the Pretender!”’

‘He is not even _that_ now,’ muttered Charles Edward, as he leaned his

head on the mantelpiece.

‘I hope, Signor Conte,’ said the boy timidly, ‘that you never were for

the Elector.’

‘I have done little for the cause of the Stuarts,’ said Charles, with a

deep sigh.

‘I wish I may live to serve them,’ cried the youth, with energy.

The Prince looked long and steadfastly at the boy, and, in a tone that

bespoke deep thought, said:

‘I want to befriend you, Gerald, if I but knew how. It is clear you have

no vocation for the church, and we are here in a land where there is

little other career. Were we in France something might be done. I

have some friends, however, in that country, and I will see about

communicating with them. Send the Frate hither.’

The boy left the room, and speedily returned with Fra Luke, whose

anxious glances were turned from the Prince to the youth, in eager

curiosity to learn how their interview had gone off.

‘Gerald has no ambition to be a monsignore, Frate,’ said the Prince

laughingly, ‘and we mustn’t constrain him. They who serve the church

should have their hearts in the calling. Do you know of any honest

family with whom he might be domesticated for a short time--not in Rome,

of course, but in the country; it will only be for a month or two at

farthest?’

‘There is a worthy family at Orvieto, if it were not too far----’

‘Nothing of the kind; Orvieto will suit admirably. Who are these

people?’

‘The father is the steward of Cardinal Caraffa; but it is a villa

that his eminence never visits, and so they live there as in their own

palace; and the mountain air is so wholesome there, sick people used

to seek the place; and so Tonino, as they call him, takes a boarder, or

even two----’

‘That is everything we want,’ said the Prince, cutting short what he

feared might be a long history. ‘Let the boy go back now to the college,

and do you yourself come here on Saturday morning, and Kelly will

arrange all with you.’

‘I wish I knew why you are so good to me, Signor Conte,’ said the boy,

as his eyes filled up with tears.

‘I was a friend of your family, Gerald,’ said Charles, as he fixed his

eyes on the friar, to enforce his former caution.

‘And am I never to see you again, signor,’ cried he eagerly.

‘Yes, to be sure, you shall come here; but I will settle all that

another time--on Saturday, Fra; and now, good-bye.

The boy grasped the hand with which the Prince waved his farewell, and

kissed it rapturously; and Charles, overcome at length by feelings

he had repressed till then, threw his arms around the boy’s neck, and

pressed him to his bosom.

Fra Luke, terrified how such a moment might end, hurried the youth from

the room, and retired.

CHAPTER VII. THE VILLA AT ORVIETO

If the villa life of Italy might prove a severe trial of temper and

spirits to most persons, to young Gerald, trained in all the asceticism

of a convent, it was a perfect paradise. The wild and far-spreading

landscape imparted a glorious sense of liberty, which grew with each

day’s enjoyment of it. It was a land of mountain and forest--those deep,

dark woods of chestnut-trees traversed with the clear and rapid rivulets

so common in the Roman States, with here and there, at rare intervals,

the solitary hut of a charcoal-burner. In these vast solitudes, silent

as the great savannahs of the South, he passed his days--now roaming in

search of game, now dreamily lying, book in hand, beside a river’s bank,

or strolling listlessly along, tasting, in the very waywardness of

an untrammelled will, an ecstasy only known to those who have felt

captivity.

Though there were several young people in the family of the Intendente,

Gerald had no companionship with any of them: the boys were boorish,

uneducated, and coarse-minded, and the girls, with one exception, were

little better. Ninetta, it is true, was gentler; her voice was soft,

and her silky hair and soft, dark eyes had a strange, subduing influence

about them; but even she was far from that ideal his imagination had

pictured, nor could he, by all his persuasions, induce her to share his

raptures for Ariosto, or the still more passionate delight that Petrarch

gave him. He was just opening that period of youth when the heart yearns

for some object of affection--some centre around which its own hopes and

fears, its wishes and aspirations, may revolve. It is wonderful how much

imagination contributes in such cases, supplying graces and attractions

where nature has been a niggard, and giving to the veriest commonplace

character traits of distinctive charm.

Ninetta was quite pretty enough for all this, but she was no more.

Without a particle of education, she had never raised her mind beyond

the commonest daily cares; and what with the vines, the olives, the

chestnuts, the festivals of the church, and little family gatherings,

her life had its sphere of duties so full as to leave no time for the

love-sick wanderings of an idle boy.

If she was disposed to admire him when, in fits of wild energy, he would

pass nights and days in chase of the wild boar, or follow the track of

a wolf, with the steadfast tenacity of a hound, she cared little for

his intervals of dreamy fancy, nor lent any sympathy to joys or sorrows

which had no basis in reality; and when her indifference had gone so far

as to offend him, she would gently smile and say, ‘Never mind, Gerald;

the Contessina will come one of these days, and she’ll be charmed with

all these “moonings.”’ Whether piqued by the tone of this commiseration,

or careless as to its meaning, he never thought of asking who the

Contessina might be, until one morning a showily-dressed courier arrived

at the villa to announce that, ere the end of the week, the Cardinal’s

niece and her governante were to arrive, and remain for, probably,

several weeks there.

It was two years since her last visit, and great was the commotion to

prepare a suitable reception for her. Saloons that had been carefully

closed till now were immediately opened, and all the costly furniture

uncovered. Within doors and without the work of preparation went briskly

on. Troops of labourers were employed in the grounds and the gardens.

Fresh parterres of flowers were planted beneath the windows; fountains

long dried up were taught to play, and jets of many a fantastic kind

threw their sportive showers on the grass.

Gerald took immense interest in all these details, to which his natural

taste imparted many a happy suggestion. By his advice the statues were

arranged in suitable spots, and a hundred little devices of ingenuity

came from his quick intelligence. ‘The Contessina will be delighted with

this! How she will love that!’ were exclamations that rewarded him for

every fresh exertion; and, doubtless, he had fashioned to his own heart

a Contessina, for he never asked a question, nor made one single

inquiry about her, the real one. As little was he prepared for the great

_cortège_ which preceded her coming--troops of servants, saddle-horses,

fourgons of luggage, even furniture kept pouring in, until the villa,

so tranquil and deserted in its appearance, became like some vast

and popular hotel. There was something almost regal in the state and

preparation that went forward; and when, at the close of a long

summer day, two mounted couriers dashed up to the door, all heated and

dust-covered, quickly followed by two heavy coaches with scarlet panels,

Gerald’s curiosity at length got the upper hand, and he stole to a

window to watch the descent of her for whom all these cares had been

provided. What was his astonishment to see a little girl, apparently

younger than himself, spring lightly to the ground, and, after a brief

gesture of acknowledgment to the welcome tendered her, pass into

the house. He had seen enough, however, to remark that her long and

beautiful hair was almost golden in tint, and that her eyes, whatever

their colour, were large and lustrous. He would have dwelt with more

pleasure on her beauty had he not marked, in the haughty gestures

she vouchsafed and the proud carriage of her head, a bearing he,

not unfairly, ascribed to a character imperious and exacting--almost

insolent, indeed, in its requirement of respect.

Guglia Ridolfi was, however, the greatest heiress in the Roman States:

she was the niece of a cardinal, the granddaughter of a grandee of

Spain, and, more than all, had been taught to reflect on these facts

from the earliest years of her girlhood. It had been for years the

policy of the Cardinal to increase the _prestige_ of her position by

every means in his power; and they who knew the ambitious nature of the

man could easily see how, in the great game he played, his own future

aggrandisement was as much included as was her elevation. Left without

a father or mother when a mere infant, she had been confided to the care

of her uncle. Surrounded with teachers of every kind, she only learned

what and when she pleased, her education being, in fact, the result of

certain impulses which swayed her from time to time. As she was gifted

with great quickness, however, and a remarkable memory, she seemed to

make the most astonishing progress, and her fame as a linguist and her

reputation for accomplishments were the talk of Rome.

She had all the waywardness, caprice, and instability such a discipline

might be supposed to produce, and so completely sated with amusement and

pleasure was she that now, as a mere child, or little more, she actually

pined away from sheer _ennui_ of life. A momentary change of place

afforded her a slight passing satisfaction, and so she had come down to

Orvieto to stay some time, and persuade herself, if she could, that she

enjoyed it. Strangely enough, nothing in either her general appearance

or her gestures betrayed this weariness of the world: her eyes were

bright, her look animated, her step active. It was only when watching

her closely that one could see how estranged her thoughts were from what

seemed to fill them; and how, at times, a low, faint sigh would escape

her, even when she was apparently occupied and interested.

It was rumoured that these very traits of her disposition were what had

attached her uncle so fondly to her, and that he recognised in them the

indications of a blood and a race which had always made their way in

life, subjecting others to their rule, and using them as mere tools for

their own advancement. One thing was certain: he curbed her in nothing;

every wild weed of her heart grew up in all its own luxuriance, and she

was the ideal of imperiousness and self-will.

Either from caprice or settled purpose--it were hard to say which--the

Cardinal affected to submit his own plans to her, and he consulted her

about many things which were clearly beyond the sphere of either her

years or her knowledge, but to which her replies gave him the sort of

guidance that gamblers are wont to accept for the accidents of play; and

often had ‘Da Guglia’s’ counsels decided him when his mind was wavering

between two resolves. Whether from perceiving the ascendency she thus

obtained over her uncle’s mind, or that really, to her pleasure-sick

heart, these sterner themes gave her a gleam of interest, but gradually

she turned her thoughts to the great events of the day, and listened

with eagerness only to subjects of State craft and intrigue.

Such was she to whose morning levee Gerald was summoned on the day after

her arrival, when, in a sort of vassalage, the Intendente, followed by

his family and the villagers, were admitted to pay their homage. It was

not without a certain compulsion Gerald yielded to this customary act

of deference; nor was his compliance more gracefully accorded when he

learned that he was supposed to be a member of the steward’s family, as,

if he were known to be a stranger, it was almost certain the Contessina

would not suffer him to remain there.

It solved much of his difficulty to be told that in all likelihood she

would never notice nor remark him. She rarely did more than listen to

the few words of routine gratulation the Intendente spoke, and with a

slight nod of her head intimate that they might retire. ‘Then, why am I

needed at all? Why can’t this ceremony go on without me?’ cried he half

peevishly.

‘Because, if she were afterwards to see you about the grounds, she is

quite capable of remembering that you had not presented yourself on her

arrival. She forgets nothing.’

‘That’s true,’ broke in the Intendente. ‘It was but the last time she

came here she remarked that the lace border of my hat was torn, and said

to me, “Signor Maurizio, you must have lazy daughters, for I saw that

piece of gold braid torn, as it is now, on the last two visits I made

here.”’

Gerald turned away in ill-humour, for he was vexed that any act of

servitude should be required of him.

There is a strange mystery in that atmosphere of deference which arises

from the united submission of many to one whom they would honour and

reverence. The most stubborn asserter of equality has not failed to own

this, as he has stood among the crowd before a throne. The sentiment

of homage is quickly contagious, and few there are who can steel their

hearts against the feelings of that homage which fills every breast

about him. Gerald experienced this as he found himself moving slowly

along in the procession toward the chamber where the Contessina held

her court. The splendid suite of rooms, filled with objects of art, the

massive candelabra of gilded bronze, the costly tables of malachite

and agate, all obtained their full share of admiration from the simple

villagers, whose whispered words almost savoured of worship, until,

awe-stricken, they found themselves in a magnificent chamber, hung with

pictures from floor to ceiling. In a deep window recess, from which a

vast view opened over mountain and forest, the Contessina was standing,

book in hand, gazing listlessly on the landscape, and never noticing in

the slightest that dense throng which now gathered in the lower part of

the room.

‘Maurizio and the peasants have come to pay their duty, whispered a

thin, elderly lady, who acted as governante to the young countess.

‘Well, be it so,’ said she languidly. And now a very meanly-clad priest,

poor and wretched in appearance, came crouchingly forward to kiss her

hand. She gave it with averted head, and in a way that indicated little

of courtesy, while he bent tremblingly over it, as beseemed one whose

lips touched the fingers of a great cardinal’s niece. Maurizio followed,

and then the other members of his household. When it came to Gerald’s

turn to advance, ‘You must, you must; it is your duty,’ whispered the

steward, as, rebel-like, the youth wished to pass on without the act of

deference.

‘Is this Tonino?’ asked the Contessina, suddenly turning her head, for

her quick ears had caught the words of remonstrance. ‘Is this Tonino?’

‘No, Eccelenza; Tonino was drawn in the conscription, muttered the

steward, in confusion. ‘He knew your Excellency would have got him off,

if you were here, but----’

‘Which is this, then--your second son, or your third?’

‘Neither, Eccelenza, neither; he is a sort of connection----‘’

‘Nothing of the kind,’ broke in Gerald. ‘I’m of the blood of the

Geraldines.’

‘Native princes,’ said the Contessina quickly. ‘Irish, too! How came you

here?’

‘He has been living with us, Eccelenza, for some months back,’ chimed in

the steward; ‘an honest Frate, one----’

‘Let himself answer me,’ said the Contessina.

‘They took, me from the Jesuit college and placed me here,’ said the

boy.

‘Who do you mean by they?’ asked she.

‘The Frate, and the Count; perhaps, indeed, I owe the change more to

him.’

‘What is his name?’

‘I never heard it. I only saw him once, and then for a short time.’

‘How old are you?’

‘I think, fifteen.’

‘Indeed. I should have thought you younger than I am,’ said she, half

musingly.

‘Oh, no; I look much, much older,’ said Gerald, as he gazed at her

bright and beautiful features.

‘Don Cesare,’ said she, turning to a pale old man beside her, ‘you must

write to the rector of the college, and let us learn about this boy--how

he came there, and why he left. And so,’ said she, addressing Gerald,

‘you think it beneath your quality to kiss a lady’s hand?’

‘No, no!’ cried he rapturously, as he knelt down and pressed her hand to

his lips.

‘It is not so you should do it, boy,’ broke in the governante. ‘Yours

has been ill training, wherever you have got it.’

‘Alas! I have had little or none,’ said Gerald sorrowfully.

‘Pass on, boy; move on,’ said the governante, and Gerald’s head drooped

as his heavy footsteps stole along. He never dared to look up as he

went. Had he done so, what a thrill might his heart have felt to know

that the Contessina’s eyes had followed him to the very door.

‘There, you have done for me and yourself too, with your stupid pride

about your blood,’ cried the Intendente, when they gained the courtyard.

‘The next thing will be an order to send me to Rome, to explain why I

have taken you to live here.’

‘Well, I suppose you can give your reasons for it,’ said Gerald gravely.

‘Except that it was my evil fortune, I know of none other/ broke out the

other angrily, and turned away. From each, in turn, of the family did

he meet with some words of sarcasm and reproof; and though Ninetta said

nothing, her tearful eyes and sorrow-stricken features were the hardest

of all the reproaches he endured.

‘What am I, that I should bring shame and sorrow to those who befriend

me!’ cried he, as with an almost bursting heart he threw himself upon

his bed; and sobbed there till he fell asleep. When the first gleam of

sunlight broke upon him he awoke, and as suddenly remembered all his

griefs of the day before, and he sat down upon his bed to think over

what he should do.

‘If I could but find out the Conte at Rome, or even the Fra Luke,’

thought he; but alas! he had no clue to either. ‘I know it; I have it,’

exclaimed he at last. ‘There is a life which I can live without fearing

reproach from those about me. I’ll go and be a charcoal-burner in the

Maremma. The Carbonari will not refuse to have me, and I’ll set out for

the forest at once.’

When Gerald had uttered this resolve it was in the bitterness of despair

that he spoke, since of all the varied modes by which men earned

a livelihood, none was in such universal disrepute as that of a

charcoal-burner; and when the humblest creature of the streets said ‘I

‘d as soon be a charcoal-burner,’ he expressed the direst aspect of his

misery.

It was not, indeed, that either the life or the labour had anything

degrading in itself, but, generally, they who followed it were outcasts

and vagabonds--the irreclaimable sweepings of towns, or the incorrigible

youth of country districts, who sought in the wild and wandering

existence a freedom from all ties of civilisation; the life of the

forest in all its savagery, but in all its independence. The chief

resort of these men was a certain district in those low-lying lands

along the coast, called Maremmas, and where, from the undrained

character of the soil and rapid decomposition of vegetable matter ever

going on, disease of the most deadly form existed--ague and fever

being the daily condition of all who dwelt there. Nothing but habits of

wildest excess, and an utter indifference to life, could make men brave

such an existence; but their recompense was, that this district was

a species of sanctuary where the law never entered. Beyond certain

well-known limits the hardiest carbineer never crossed; and it was well

known that he who crossed that frontier came as fugitive, and not as

foe. Many, it is true, of those who sojourned here were attainted

with the deepest crimes--men for whom no hope of return to the world

remained, outcasts branded with undying infamy; but others there

were, mere victims of dissipation and folly--rash youths, who had so

irretrievably compromised their fair fame that they had nothing left but

to seek oblivion.

The terrible stories Gerald had heard of these outcasts from his

school-fellows, the horror in which they were held by all honest

villagers, inspired him with a strange interest to see them with his

own eyes. It savoured, too, of courage; it smacked, to his heart, like

bravery, to throw himself among such reckless and daredevil associates,

and he felt a sort of hero to himself when he had determined on it.

‘Ay,’ said he, ‘they have been taunting me here for some time back, that

my friends take little trouble about me--that they half forget me, and

so on. Let us see if I cannot make a path for myself, and spare them all

future trouble.’

CHAPTER VIII. THE TANA IN THE MAREMMA

Simply turning his steps westward, in the direction where he knew the

Maremma lay, Gerald set out on his lonely journey. It was nothing new

in his habits to be absent the entire day, and even night, so that no

attention was drawn to his departure till late the following day; nor,

perhaps, would it have been noticed then, if a summons had not come from

the Contessina that she desired to speak with him. A search was at once

made, inquiries instituted on every side, and soon the startling fact

acknowledged, that he had gone away, none knew whither or why.

The Contessina at once ordered a pursuit; he was to be overtaken and

brought back. Mounted couriers set off on every side, scouring the

high-roads, interrogating hotel-keepers, giving descriptions of the

fugitive at passport stations--taking, in short, all the palpable and

evident means of discovery; while he--for whose benefit this solicitude

was intended--was already deep among the dreary valleys to the west of

the Lake of Bolseno. The country through which he journeyed was, indeed,

sad-coloured as his own thoughts. Hills, not large enough to be called

mountains, succeeded each other in unbroken succession, their sides

covered with a poor and burned-up herbage, interspersed with masses of

rock or long patches of shingle; no wood, no cultivation on any side. A

few starved and wretched sheep, watched by one even more wretched still,

were all that represented life; while in the valleys, a stray hut or

two, generally on the borders of a swampy lake, offered the only thing

in the shape of a village. After he had crossed the great post-road from

Sienna to Rome, Gerald entered a tract of almost perfect desolation.

He bought two loaves of rye-bread and some apples at a small house on

the road, and with this humble provision slung in a handkerchief at his

side, set out once more. At first it was rather a relief to him to be

utterly alone; his own thoughts were his best companions, and he would

have shrunk from the questionings his appearance was certain to elicit;

but as the time wore on, and the noon of the second day was passed, he

felt the dreariness of the solitude creeping over him, and would gladly

have met with one with whom he could have interchanged even a few words

of greeting. Not a human trace, however, was now to be seen; for he had

gained that low-lying district which, stretching beneath the mountain of

Bolseno, extends, in patches of alternate lake and land, to the verge

of the Maremma. This tract is not even a sheep-walk, and although in

mid-winter the sportsman may venture in pursuit of the wild duck or the

mallard, the pestilential atmosphere produced by summer heat makes the

spot a desert. Gerald was not long a stranger to the sickly influences

of the place: a strange sense of dizziness would now and then come over

him--something less than sickness, but usually leaving him confused and

half stunned; great weariness, too, beset him; a desire to lie down and

sleep, so strong as almost to be irresistible, seized him, but a dread

of wild beasts--not unfrequent in these places--enabled him to conquer

this tendency. The sun bore down with all its noonday force upon him,

while an offensive odour from the stagnant waters oppressed him almost

to choking.

He walked on, however, on and on, but almost like one in a dream.

Thoughts of the past superseded all sensations of the present in his

mind, and he fancied he was back once more in the old college of the

Jesuit fathers. He heard the bell that summoned him to the schoolroom,

and he hastened to put himself in his place, marching with crossed arms

and bent-down head, in accustomed fashion. Then he heard his name called

aloud, and one of the fathers told him to stand aside, for he was ‘up’

for punishment; and Fra Luke was there, wishing to speak to him, but not

admitted; and then--how, he knew not--but he was gazing on grizzly bears

and white-tusked boars, in great cages; and there they stood spell-bound

and savage, but unable to spring out, though it was but glass confined

them; and through all these scenes the wild strains of the tarantella

sounded, and the light gestures and wistful looks of Marietta, whose

hair, however, was no longer dark, but golden and bright, like the

Contes-sina’s. And as suddenly all changed, and there stood the

Contessina herself, with one hand pressed to her eyes, and she was

weeping, and Gerald felt--but how he did not know--he had offended her;

and he trembled at his fault and hated himself, and, stooping down, he

fell at last at her feet, and sobbed for pardon.

And there he lay, and there night found him sleeping--the long sleep

that awakes to fever. Damp mists arose, charged with all the deadly

vapours of the spot; foul airs steamed from the hot earth, to mingle

with his blood, and thicken and corrupt it. Though the sky was

freckled with stars, their light was dimmed by the dull atmosphere that

prevailed, for the place was pestilential and deadly.

When day broke racking pains tortured him in every limb, and his head

felt as though splitting with every throb of its arteries. A dreadful

thirst, almost maddening in its craving, was on him, and though a

rivulet rippled close by, he could not crawl to it; and now the hot

sun beamed down upon him, and the piercing rays darted into his brain,

penetrating it in all directions--sending wild fancies, horrible and

ghastly visions, through his mind. And combats with wild beasts, and

wounds, and suffering, and long days of agony and suspense, all came

pouring in upon him, as vial after vial of misery bathed his poor,

distracted intellect.

Three days of this half-conscious state--like so many long years of

suffering they were--and then he sank into the low torpor that forms the

last stage of the fever. It was thus, insensible and dying, a traveller

found him, as the third evening was falling. The stranger stooped down

to examine the almost lifeless figure, and it was long before he could

convince himself that vitality yet lingered there: from the dried and

livid lips no breath seemed to issue; the limbs fell heavily to

either side as they were moved; and it was only after a most careful

examination that he could detect a faint fluttering motion of the heart.

Whether it was that the case presented so little of hope, or that he was

one not much given to movements of charity, but the traveller, after all

these investigations, turned again to pursue his path. He had not gone

far, however, when, gaining the rise of a hill, he cast his eyes back

over the dreary landscape, and again they fell upon that small mound of

human clay beside the lake. Moved by an impulse that, even to himself,

was unaccountable, he returned to the spot and stood for some minutes

contemplating Gerald. It might be that in the growing shades of the

evening the gloomy desolation spoke more touchingly to his heart; it

might be that a feeling of compassionate pity stirred him; as likely as

either was it a mere caprice, as, stooping down, he raised the wasted

form, and threw it loosely over one shoulder, and then strode out upon

his way once more.

The stranger was a man of great size and personal strength, and though

heavily framed, possessed considerable activity. His burden seemed

little to impede his movements, and almost as little to engage his

thoughts, and as he breasted the wild mountain, or waded the many

streams that crossed his path, he went along without appearing to think

more of him he was rescuing. It was a long road, too, and it was deep

into the night ere he reached a solitary house, in a little slip of

land between two lakes, and over whose door a withered bough denoted a

cabaret.

‘What, in the name of all the saints, have you brought us here?’ said an

old man who quickly responded to his knock at the door.

‘I found him as you see beside the Lagoscuro,’ said the other, laying

down his burden. ‘How he came there I can’t tell you, and I don’t

suspect you’ll ever get the report from himself.’

‘He’s not a contadino,’ said the old man, as he examined the boy’s

features, and then gazed upon the palms of his hands.

‘No; nor is he a Roman, I take it: he’s of German or English blood. That

fair skin and blonde hair came from the north.’

‘One of the Cavalrista, belike!’

‘Just as likely one of the circus people; but why they should leave

him there to die seems strange, except that strangers deem this Maremma

fever a sort of plague, and, perhaps, when he was struck down they only

thought of saving themselves from the contagion.’

‘That wouldn’t be human, Master Gabriel----’

‘Wouldn’t it, though!’ cried Gerald’s rescuer, with a bitter laugh.

‘That’s exactly the name for it, caro Pippo. It is the beasts of

prey--the tiger and lion--that defend their young; it is the mild rabbit

and the tender woman that destroy theirs.’ The innkeeper shook his head,

as though the controversy were too subtle for him, and, bending down to

examine the boy more closely, ‘What’s this, Master Gabriel,’ said he,

taking a peculiar medal that hung suspended round his neck.

‘He was a colleger of some sort certainly,’ cried Gabriel. ‘It’s clear,

therefore, he wasn’t, as we suspected, one of the Cavalrista. I’ll tell

you, Pippo; I have it: this lad has made his escape from some of the

seminaries at Rome, and in his wanderings has been struck down by the

fever. The worthy Frati have, ere this, told his parents that he died in

all the hopes of the church, and is an angel already----’

‘There, there,’ interposed Pippo rebukingly; ‘no luck ever came of

mocking a priest. Let’s try if we can do anything for the lad. Tina

will be up presently, and look to him’; and with this he spread out some

leaves beside the wall, and covering them with a cloak, laid the sick

boy gently on them.

‘There, see; his lips are moving--he has swallowed some of the

water--he’ll get about--I’ll swear to it!’ cried the other. ‘A fellow

that begins life in that fashion has always his mission for after years.

At all events, Pippo, don’t disturb me for the next twelve hours, for

I mean to sleep so long; and let me tell you, too, I have taken my last

journey to Bon Convento. The letters may lie in the post-office till

doomsday, ere I go in seach of them.’

‘Well, well, have your sleep out, and then----’

‘And then?’ cried Gabriel, turning suddenly round, as he was about to

quit the room. ‘I wish to Heaven you could tell me, what then!’

Old Pippo shook his head mournfully, heaved a heavy sigh, and turned

away.

Tina, a peasant girl, pale and sickly, but with that energy of soul

that belongs to the Roman race, soon made her appearance, and at once

addressed herself to nurse the sick boy. ‘I ought to know this Maremma

fever well,’ said she, with a faint sigh; ‘it struck me down when a

child, and has never left my blood since.’ Making a polenta with some

strong red wine, she gave him a spoonful from time to time, and by

covering him up warmly induced perspiration, the first crisis of the

disease. ‘There,’ cried she, after some hours of assiduous care; ‘there,

he is safe; and God knows if he ‘ll bless me for this night’s work after

all! It is a sad, dreary life, even to the luckiest!’

While Gerald lay thus--and it was his fate in this fashion to pass

some six long weeks, ere he had strength to sit up or move about the

house--let us say a few words of those to whose kindness he owed his

life. Old Pippo Baldi had kept the little inn of Borghetto all his

life. It was his father’s and grandfather’s before him. Situated in

this dreary, unwholesome tract, with a mere mountain bridle-path--not

a road--leading to it, there seemed no reason why a house of

entertainment--even the humblest--could be wanted in such a spot; and,

indeed, the lack of all comfort and accommodation bespoke how little

trade it drove. The ‘Tana,’ however, as it was called, had a brisk

business in the long dark nights of winter, since it was here that the

smugglers from the Tuscan frontier resorted, to dispose of their wares

to the up-country dealers; and bargains for many a thousand scudi went

on in that dreary old kitchen, while bands of armed contrabandieri

scoured the country. To keep off the Pope’s carbineers--in case that

redoubtable corps could persuade themselves to adventure so

far--the Maremma fever, a malady that few ever eradicated from their

constitution, was the best protection the smugglers possessed; and the

Tana was thus a sanctuary as safe as the rocky islands that lay off St.

Stephano. A disputed question of boundary also added to the safety

of the spot, and continual litigation went on between the courts of

Florence and Rome as to which the territory belonged--contests the

scandal-mongering world implied might long since have been terminated,

had not the cardinal-secretary Manini been suspected of being in secret

league with the smugglers. The Tana was, therefore, a sort of refuge;

and more than one, gravely compromised by crime, had sought out that

humble hostel, as his last place of security. To the refugee from the

north of Italy it was easily available, lying only a few miles beyond

the Tuscan frontier, while it was no less open to those who gained any

port of the shore near St. Stephano.

In a wild and melancholy waste, with two dark and motionless lakes girt

in by low mountains, the Tana stood, the very ideal of desolation. The

strip of land on which it was built was little wider than a mere bridge,

between the lakes, and had evidently been selected as a position

capable of defence against the assault of a strong force, and two rude

breastworks of stone yet bore witness that a military eye had scanned

the place, and improved its advantages. Within, a stray loop-hole for

musketry still showed that defence had occupied the spirits of those who

held it, while a low, flat-bottomed boat, moored at a stake before the

door, provided for escape in the last extremity. The great curiosity

of the place, however, was a kind of large hall or chamber, where the

smugglers transacted business with their customers, and the walls of

which had been decorated with huge frescoes, in charcoal, by no less a

hand than Franzoni himself, whose fate it had once been to pass months

here. Taking for his subjects the lives of the various refugees who had

sojourned in the Tana, he had illustrated them in a series of bold and

vigorous sketches, and assuredly every breach of the Decalogue had here

its portraiture, with some accompanying legend beneath to show in whose

honour the picture had been painted. Pippo, who had supplied from

memory all the incidents thus communicated, regarded these as

perfect treasures, and was wont to show them with all the pride of a

connoisseur. ‘The maestro ‘--so he ever called Franzoni--‘the maestro,’

said he, ‘never saw Cimballi, who strangled the Countess of Soissons,

and yet, just from my description, he has made a likeness his brother

would swear to. And there, look at that fellow asking alms of the

Cardinal Frescobaldi--that ‘s Fornari. He ‘s merely there to see the

cardinal, and he’s sure he can recognise him; for he is engaged to stab

him on his way to the Quirinal, the day of his election for Pope. The

little fellow yonder with the hump is the Piombino, who poisoned his

mother. He was drowned in the lake out there. I don’t think it was quite

fair of the maestro to paint him in that fashion’; and here he would

point to a little humped-backed creature rowing in a boat, with the

devil steering, the flashing eyes of the fiend seeming to feast on the

tortures of fear depicted in the other’s face.

Several there were of a humorous kind. Here, a group of murderous

ruffians were kneeling to receive a pontifical blessing. There, a party

of Papal carbineers were in full flight from the pursuit of a single

horseman armed with a bottle; while, in an excess of profanity that

Pippo shuddered to contemplate, there was a portrait of himself, as a

saint, offering the safeguard of the Tana to all persecuted sinners; and

what an ill-favoured assemblage were they who thus congregated at his

shrine!

Poor Gerald had lain for days gazing on the singular groupings and

strange scenes these walls presented. At first, to his disordered

intellect, they were but shapes of horror, wild and incongruous. The

savage faces that scowled on him in paint sat, in his dreams, beside his

pillow. The terrible countenances and frantic gestures were carried into

his sleeping thoughts, and often did he awake, with a cry of agony,

at some fearful scene of crime thus suggested. As his mind acquired

strength, however, they became a source of endless amusement.

Innumerable stories grew out of them: romances, whose adventures

embraced every land and sea; and his excited imagination revelled in

inventing trials and miseries for some, while for others he sought out

every possible escape from disaster. His solitude had no need of either

companionship or books; his mind, stimulated by these sketches, could

invent unweariedly, so that, at last, he really lived in an ideal world,

peopled with daring adventurers, and abounding in accidents by flood and

field.

One day, as Gerald lay musing on his bed of chestnut-leaves, the door of

his room was opened quietly, and a large, powerfully-built man entered.

He walked with noiseless steps forward, placed a chair in front of

Gerald, and sat down. The boy gazed steadfastly at him, and so they

remained a considerable time, each staring fixedly at the other. To one

who, like Gerald, had passed weeks in weaving histories from the looks

and expressions of the faces around him, the features on which he now

gazed might well excite interest. Never was there, perhaps, a face in

which adverse and conflicting passions were more palpably depicted. A

noble and massive head, covered with a profusion of black hair, rose

from temples of exquisite symmetry, greatly indented at either side, and

forming the walls of two orbits of singular depth. His eyes were large,

dark, and lustrous, the expression usually sad. Here, however, ended all

that indicated good in the face. The nose was short, with wide expanded

nostrils, and the mouth large, coarse, and sensual; but the lower jaw,

which was of enormous breadth, and projected forward, gave a character

of actual ferocity that recalled the image of a wild boar. The whole

meaning of the face was power--power and indomitable will. Whatever he

meditated of good or evil, you could easily predict that nothing could

divert him from attempting; and there was in the carriage of his head,

all his gestures, and his air, the calm self-possession of one that

seemed to say to the world, ‘I defy you.’

As Gerald gazed in a sort of fascination at these strange features, he

was almost startled by the tone of a voice so utterly unlike what he

was prepared for. The stranger spoke in a low, deep strain of exquisite

modulation, and with that peculiar mellowness of accent that seems to

leave its echo in the heart after it. He had merely asked him how he

felt, and then, seeing the difficulty with which the boy replied, he

went on to tell how he himself had discovered him on the side of the

Lagoscuro at nightfall, and carried him all the way to the Tana. ‘The

luck was,’ said he, ‘that _you_ happened to be light, and _I_ strong.’

‘Say, rather, that _you_ were kind-hearted and _I_ in trouble,’ muttered

the boy, as his eyes filled up.

‘And who knows, boy, but you may be right!’ cried he, as though a sudden

thought had crossed him; ‘your judgment has just as much grounds as

that of the great world!’ As he spoke, his voice rose out of its tone

of former gentleness and swelled into a roll of deep, sonorous meaning;

then changing again, he asked--‘By what accident was it that you came

there?’

Gerald drew a long sigh, as though recalling a sorrowful dream; and

then, with many a faltering word, and many an effort to recall events as

they occurred, told all that he remembered of his own history.

‘A scholar of the Jesuit college; without father or mother; befriended

by a great man, whose name he has never heard,’ muttered the other to

himself. ‘No bad start in life for such a world as we have now before

us. And your name?’

‘Gerald Fitzgerald. I am Irish by birth.’

The stranger seemed to ponder long over these words, and then said: ‘The

Irish have a nationality of their own--a race--a language--traditions.

Why have they suffered themselves to be ruled by England?’

‘I suppose they couldn’t help it,’ said Gerald, half smiling.

‘Which of us can say that? who has ever divined where the strength lay

till the day of struggle called it forth? Chance, chance--she is the

great goddess!’

‘I’d be sorry to think so,’ said Gerald resolutely.

‘Indeed, boy!’ cried the other, turning his large, full eyes upon the

youth, and staring steadfastly at him; then passing his hand over his

brow, he added, in a tone of much feeling: ‘And yet it is as I have

said. Look at the portraits around us on these walls. There they are,

great or infamous, as accident has made them. That fellow yonder, with

that noble forehead and generous look, he stabbed the confessor who gave

the last rites to his father, just because the priest had heard

some tales to his disadvantage; a scrupulous sense of delicacy moved

him--there was a woman’s name in it--and he preferred a murder to a

scandal! There, too, there’s Marocchi, who poisoned his mother the day

of her second marriage. Ask old Pippo if he ever saw a gentler-hearted

creature: he lived here two years, and died of the Maremma fever, that

he caught from a peasant whom he was nursing. And there again, that

wild-looking fellow with the scarlet cap--he it was who stole the

Medici jewels out of the Pitti to give his mistress, and killed himself

afterwards when she deserted him. Weigh the good and evil of these men’s

hearts, boy, and you have subtle weights if you can strike the balance

for or against them. We are all but what good or evil fortune makes us,

just as a landscape catches its tone from light; and what is glorious

in sunshine is bleak and desolate and dreary beneath a leaden sky and

lowering atmosphere!’

‘I’ll not believe it,’ said the boy boldly. ‘I have read of fellows

that never showed the great stuff they were made of until adversity had

called it forth. They were truly great!’

‘Truly great!’ repeated the other, with an intense mockery. ‘The truly

great we never hear of. They die in workhouses or garrets--poor, dreary

optimists, working out of their finespun fancies hopeful destinies for

those who sneer at them.

The idols men call great are but the types of Force--mere Force. One day

it is courage; another, it is money; another day, political craft is the

object of worship. Come, boy,’ said he, in a lighter vein, ‘what have

these worthy Jesuits taught you?’

‘Very different lessons from yours,’ said the youth stoutly. ‘They

taught me to honour and reverence those set in authority over me.’

‘Good; and then----’

‘They taught me the principles of my faith; the creed of the Church.’

‘What Church?’

‘What but the one Church--the Catholic!’

‘Why, there are fifty, child, and each with five hundred controversies

within it. Popes denying Councils; Councils rejecting Popes; Synods

against Bishops; Bishops against Presbyters. What a mockery is it all!’

cried he passionately. ‘We who, in our imperfect forms of language,

have not even names for separate odours, but say, “this smells like the

violet,” and “that like the rose,” presume to talk of eternity and that

vast universe around us, as though our paltry vocabulary could compass

such themes! But to come back: were you happy there?’

‘No; I could not bear the life, nor did I wish to be a priest.’

‘What would you be, then?’

‘I wish I knew,’ said the boy fervently.

‘I’m a bad counsellor,’ said the other, with a bitter smile; ‘I have

tried several things, and failed in all.’

‘I never could have thought that you could fail,’ said Gerald slowly, as

in calm composure he gazed on the massive features before him.

‘I have done with failure now,’ said the other; ‘I mean to achieve

success next. It is something to have learned a great truth, and this is

one, boy--our world is a huge hunting-ground, and it is better to play

wolf than lamb. Don’t turn your eyes to those walls, as if the fellows

depicted there could gainsay me--they were but sorry scoundrels, the bad

ones; the best were but weakly good.’

‘You do but pain me when you speak thus,’ said Gerald; ‘you make me

think that you are one who, having done some great crime, waits to

avenge the penalty he has suffered on the world that inflicted it.’

‘What if you were partly right, boy! Not but I would protest against the

word crime, or even fault, as applied to me; still you are near enough

to make your guess a good one. I have a debt to pay, and I mean to pay

it.’

‘I wish I had never quitted the college.’ said the boy, and the tears

rolled heavily down his cheeks.

‘It is not too late to retrace your steps. The cell and the scourge--the

fathers know the use of both--will soon condone your offence; and when

they have sapped the last drop of manhood out of your nature, you will

be all the fitter for your calling.’

With these harsh words, uttered in tones as cruel, the stranger left the

room; while Gerald, covering his face with both hands, sobbed as though

his heart were breaking.

‘Ah! Gabriel has been talking to him. I knew how it would be,’ muttered

old Pippo, as he cast a glance within the room. ‘Poor child! better for

him had he left him to die in the Maremma.’

CHAPTER IX. THE ‘COUR’ OF THE ALTIERI

A LONG autumn day was drawing to its close in Rome, and gradually here

and there might be seen a few figures stealing listlessly along, or

seated in melancholy mood before the shop-doors, trying to catch a

momentary breath of air ere the hour of sunset should fall. All the

great and noble of the capital had left a month before for the sea-side,

or for Albano, or the shady valleys above Lucca. You might walk for days

and never meet a carriage. It was a city in complete desolation. The

grass sprang up between the stones, and troops of seared leaves, carried

from the gardens, littered the empty streets. The palaces were barred

up and fastened, the massive doors looking as if they had not opened for

centuries. In one alone, throughout the entire city, did any signs of

habitation linger, and here a single lamp threw its faint light over a

wide courtyard, giving a ghost-like air to the vaulted corridors and dim

distances around. All was still and silent within the walls; not a light

gleamed from a window, not a sound issued. A solitary figure walked with

weary footsteps up and down, stopping at times to listen, as if he heard

the noise of one approaching, and then resuming his dreary round again.

As night closed in, a second stranger made his appearance, and timidly

halting at the porter’s lodge, asked leave to enter; but the porter had

gone to refresh himself at a neighbouring café, and the visitor passed

in of his own accord. He was in a friar’s robe, and by his dusty

dress and tired look showed that he had had a long journey; indeed, so

overcome was he with fatigue that he sat down at once on a stone bench,

depositing his heavy bag beside him. The oppressive heat, the fatigue,

the silence of the lonesome spot, all combined, composed him to sleep;

and poor Fra Luke, for it was he, crossed his arms before him, and

snored away manfully.

Astonished by the deep-drawn breathing, the other stranger drew nigh,

and, as well as the imperfect light permitted, examined him. He himself

was a man of immense stature, and, though bowed and doubled by age,

showed the remnant of a powerful frame: his dress was worn and shabby,

but in its cut and in the fashion he wore it, bespoke the gentleman. He

gazed long and attentively at the sleeping friar, and then approaching,

he took up the bag that lay on the bench. It was weighty, and contained

money--a considerable sum, too, as the stranger remarked, while he

replaced it. The heavy bang of a door at this moment, and the sound of

feet, however, recalled him from this contemplation, and at the same

time a low whistle was heard, and a voice, in a subdued tone, called

out, ‘O’Sullivan!’

‘Here!’ cried the stranger, who was quickly joined by another.

‘I am sorry to have kept you so long, chief,’ said the latter; ‘but he

detained me, watching me so closely, too, that I feared to leave the

room.’

‘And how is he--better?’

‘Far from it; he seems to be sinking every hour. His irritability is

intense; eternally asking who have called to inquire after him--if Boyer

had been to ask, if the Cardinal Caraffa had come. In fact, so eagerly

set is his mind on these things, I have been obliged to make the

coachman drive repeatedly into the courtyard, and by a loud uproar

without convey the notion of a press of visitors.’

‘Has he asked after Barra or myself?’ said the chieftain, after a pause.

‘Yes; he said twice, “We must have our old followers up here--to-morrow

or the next day.” But his mind is scarcely settled, for he talked of

Florence and the duchess, and then went off about the insult of that

arrest in France, which preys upon him incessantly.’

‘And why should it not, Kelly? Was there ever such baseness as that of

Louis? Take my word for it, there’s a heavy day of reckoning to come to

that house yet for this iniquity. It’s a sore trouble to me to think it

will not be in my time, but it is not far off.’

‘Everything is possible now,’ said Kelly. ‘Heaven knows what’s in store

for any of us! Men are talking in a way I never heard before. Boyer

told me, two days ago, that the garrison of Paris was to be doubled, and

Vincennes placed in a perfect state of defence.’

A bitter laugh from the old chieftain showed how he relished these

symptoms of terror.

‘It will be no laughing matter when it comes,’ said Kelly gravely.

‘But who _have_ called here? Tell me their names,’ said O’Sullivan

sternly.

‘Not one, not one--stay, I am wrong. The cripple who sells the

water-melons at the corner of the Babuino, he has been here; and

Giacchino, the strolling actor, comes every morning and says, “Give my

duty to his Royal Highness.”’

A muttered curse broke from O’Sullivan, and Kelly went on: ‘It was on

Wednesday last he wished to have a mass in the chapel here, and I went

to the Quirinal to say so. They should, of course, have sent a cardinal;

but who came?--the Vicar of Santa Maria maggiore. I shut the door in his

face, and told him that the highest of his masters might have been proud

to come in his stead.’

‘They are tired of us all, Kelly,’ sighed the chieftain. ‘I have walked

every day of the eight long years I have passed here in the Vatican

gardens, and it was only yesterday a guard stopped me to ask if I were

noble?--ay, by Heaven, if I were noble! I gulped down my passion and

answered, “I am a gentleman in the service of his Royal Highness of

England”; and he said, “That may well be, and yet give you no right to

enter here.” The old Cardinal Balfi was passing, so I just said to his

Eminence, “Give me your arm, for you are my junior by three good years.”

Ay, and he did it too, and I passed in; but I’ll go there no more! no

more!’ muttered he sadly. ‘Insults are hard to bear when one’s arm is

too feeble to resent them.’

Kelly sighed too; and neither spoke for some seconds. ‘What heavy

breathings are those I hear?’ cried Kelly suddenly; ‘some one has

overheard us.’

‘Have no fear of that,’ replied the other; ‘it is a stout friar, taking

his evening nap, on the stone bench yonder.’

Kelly hastened to the spot, and by the struggling gleam of the lamp

could just recognise Fra Luke as he lay sleeping, snoring heavily.

‘You know him, then?’ asked O’Sullivan.

‘That do I: he is a countryman of ours, and as honest a soul as lives;

but yet I’d just as soon not see him here Fra Luke,’ said he, shaking

the sleeper’s shoulder, ‘Fra Luke. By St. Joseph! they must have hard

mattresses up there at the convent, or he ‘d not sleep so soundly here.’

The burly friar at last stirred, and shook himself like some great

water-dog, and then turning his eyes on Kelly, gradually recalled where

he was. ‘Would he see me, Laurence? would he just let me say one word to

him?’ muttered he in Kelly’s ear.

‘Impossible, Fra Luke; he is on a bed of sickness. God alone knows if he

is ever to rise up from it!’

The Fra bent his head, and for some minutes continued to pray with great

fervour, then turning to Kelly, said: * If it’s dying he is, there’s no

good in disturbing his last moments; but if he was to get well enough to

hear it, Laurence, will you promise to let me have two or three minutes

beside his bed? Will you, at least* ask him if he ‘d see Fra Luke? He

‘ll know why himself.’

‘My poor fellow,’ said Kelly kindly, ‘like all the world, you fancy that

the things which touch yourself must be nearest to the hearts of others.

I don’t want to learn your secret, Luke--Heaven knows I have more than I

wish for in my keeping already!--but take my word for it, the Prince has

cares enough on his mind without your asking him to hear yours.’

‘Will you give him this, then,’ said the Fra, handing him the bag with

the money; ‘there’s a hundred crowns in it just as he gave it to me,

Monday was a fortnight. Tell him that--‘here he stopped and wiped his

forehead, in confusion of thought; ‘tell him that it ‘s not wanting any

more for--for what he knows; that it’s all over now; not that he’s dead,

though--God be praised!--but what am I saying? Oh dear! oh dear! after

my swearing never to speak of him!’

‘You are safe with me, Luke, depend on that. Only, as to the money, take

my advice, and just keep it. He ‘ll never want to hear more of it.

Many a hundred crowns have left this on a worse errand, whatever be its

fate.’

‘I wouldn’t, to save my life! I wouldn’t, if it was to keep me from the

galleys!’

‘Have your own way, then,’ said Kelly sharply; ‘I must not loiter here’;

and so saying, took the bag from the friar’s hand, and moved over toward

where O’Sullivan was standing.

‘Come along home with me, friar,’ said O’Sullivan, as Kelly wished them

good-night; ‘I’ll give you a glass of Vermouth, and we ‘ll have a talk

about the old country.’

CHAPTER X. GABRIEL DE------

‘I wish I knew how I could ever repay you, Pippo, for all your kindness

to me,’ said Gerald, as he sat one fine evening with the old man at the

door; ‘but when I tell you that I am as poor and as friendless in the

world as on that same night when Signor Gabriel found me beside the

lake----’

‘Not a whit poorer or more alone in the world than the rest of us,’ said

Pippo good-naturedly. ‘We have all a rough journey before us in life,

and the least we can do is to help one another.’

The youth grasped the old man’s hand and pressed it to his heart.

‘Besides,’ continued Pippo, ‘all your gratitude is owing to Signor

Gabriel himself. Any little comforts you have had here have been of his

procuring. He it was fetched that doctor from Bolseno, and his own hands

carried the little jar of honey from St. Stephano.’

‘What a kind heart he has!’ cried Gerald eagerly.

‘Well,’ said Pippo, with a dry, odd smile, ‘that’s not exactly what

people say of him; not but he can do a kind thing too, just as he can do

anything.’

‘Is he so clever, then?’ asked Gerald curiously.

‘Is he not!’ exclaimed Pippo; ‘where has he not travelled, what has he

not seen! And then the books he has written--scores of them, they

tell me: he’s always writing still--whole nights through; after which,

instead of going to his bed like any one else, he is off for a plunge in

the lake there, though I’ve told him over and over, that the water that

kills fish can never be healthy for a human being!’

‘What a strange nature his must be! And what brings him here?’

‘That’s _his_ secret, and it would be _mine_ too, if I knew it; for, I

promise you, he ‘s not one it’s over safe to talk about.’

‘Where does he come from?’

‘He ‘s French, and that’s all I can tell you.’

‘It can’t be for the _chasse_ he comes here,’ said Gerald musingly.

‘There’s no game in these mountains. It can scarcely be for seclusion,

for he’s always rambling away to some village or town near. It’s now

more than a week since we have seen him. I wish I could make out who or

what he is!’

‘Would you indeed?’ cried a deep voice, as a large, heavy hand fell upon

his shoulder; ‘and what would the knowledge benefit you, boy?’ Gerald

looked up, and there stood Gabriel. He was dressed in a loose peasant’s

frock, and seemed by his mien as if he had come off a long day’s march.

‘Go in, Pippo, and make me a good salad. Grill me that old hen yonder,

and I’ll give you a share of a flask of Orvieto that was in the bishop’s

cellar last night.’

He threw off his knapsack as he spoke, and removing his hat, wiped his

heated forehead, and then turning to the youth at his side, he said:

‘So, boy, I am a sort of mystery to you, it seems--mayhap others share

in that same sentiment--at least I have heard as much. But whence this

curiosity on your part? You were a stranger to me, and you are so still.

What can it signify to either of us what has happened before we met and

knew each other? Life is not a river running in one bed, but a series

of streams that follow fifty channels--some pure and limpid, some,

perchance, turbid and foul enough. What you have been gives no guarantee

to what you may be, remember that!’

He spoke with a tone of sternness that made his words sound like

reproof, and the youth held down his head abashed.

‘Don’t suppose I am angry with you,’ continued the other, but in the

self-same tone as before; ‘nor that I regard this curious desire of

yours as ingratitude. You owe me nothing, or next to nothing, and you

‘re a rare instance of such in life, if within the next ten years the

wish will not occur to you at least twenty times, that I had left you to

die beside the dark shores of Bolseno!’

‘I can well believe it may be so,’ said Gerald with a sigh.

‘Not that this is my own philosophy,’ said the other, in a voice of

powerful meaning. ‘I soon made the discovery that life was not a garden,

but a hunting-ground, and that the wolves had the best of it! Ay, boy,’

cried he, with a kind of savage exultation, ‘there’s the experience of

one whose boast it is to know something of his fellows!’

Gerald was silent, and for some time Gabriel also did not speak. At

last, looking steadfastly at the youth, he said: ‘I have been up to

Rome these last three days. My errand there was to learn something about

_you_.’

‘About _me_?’ said Gerald, blushing deeply.

‘Yes. It was a whim--(I am the slave of such caprices)--seized me to

learn how you came among the Jesuit brothers, and why you left them.’

‘I thought I had told you why myself,’ said the youth proudly.

‘So you had; but I am one of those who can only build on the foundation

their own hands have laid, and so I went myself to learn your history.’

‘And has the journey rewarded your exertions?’ said the boy, half

mockingly.

A sudden start, and a look of almost savage ferocity on Gabriel’s

features, made Gerald tremble for his own rashness; and then, with a

measured voice, he repeated the boy’s words:

‘The journey _has_ rewarded my exertions.’

‘May I venture to ask what you have discovered?’ said Gerald timidly.

‘I went to satisfy my own curiosity, not yours, boy. What I have learned

may suffice for the one, and not for the other. Here comes Pippo with

pleasanter tidings than all this gossip,’ said he, rising, and entering

the house.

‘Won’t you come in and have a bit of supper with us, Gerald?’ asked

Pippo kindly.

‘No, I cannot eat,’ said the boy, as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

‘Come and taste a glass of the generous Orvieto, however.’

‘No, Pippo; I could not swallow it,’ said he, in a half-choking voice.

‘Ah!’ muttered the old man with a sigh, ‘Signor Gabriel’s talk rarely

makes one relish the meal they wait for,’ and with bent-down head he

re-entered the house.

The feeling Gerald had long experienced toward Gabriel was one of fear,

almost verging upon terror. There was about the man’s look, his voice,

his manner, something that portended danger. Do what he would, the boy

never could make his sense of gratitude rise superior to his fear. He

tried, over and over again, to think of him only as one who had saved

his life, and to whom he owed all the present comforts he enjoyed; but

above these thoughts there triumphed a terrible dread of the man, and a

strange, mysterious belief that he possessed a sort of control over his

destiny.

‘If it were indeed so,’ muttered he to himself, ‘and that his shadow

were to be over me through life, I ‘d curse the day he carried me from

the shore of the Lagoscuro!’

Night was rapidly closing in, and the dreary landscape was every moment

growing sadder and drearier. As the sun sank beneath the hills the heavy

exhalations began to well up from the damp earth, till a bluish haze of

vapour rested over the plains and even partly up the mountain side.

An odour, oppressive and sickening, accompanied this mist, which

embarrassed the respiration, and made the senses dull and weary; and yet

there sat Gerald, drinking in these noxious influences, careless of his

fate, and half triumphing in his own indifference as to life. A drowsy

stupor was rapidly gaining on him, when he felt his arm violently

shaken, and, looking up, saw Gabriel at his side. In a gruff, rude

voice, he chided him for his imprudence, and told him to go in.

‘Isn’t my life, at least, my own?’ said Gerald boldly.

‘That it is not,’ said the other. ‘Your priestly teachers might have

told you that you hold it in trust for Him who gave it. I, and men like

me, would say that each of us here has his allotted task to do in life;

and that he is but a coward, or as bad as a coward, who skulks his share

of it. Go in, I say, boy.’

Gerald obeyed without a word; and now a slavish sense of fear came over

him, and he felt that this man swayed and controlled him as he pleased.

‘There, Gerald, drink that,’ said Gabriel, filling him out a goblet of

red wine. ‘That’s the liquor inspires the pious sentiments of the

Bishop of Orvieto. From that generous grape-juice spring his Christian

charities and his heavenly precepts. Let us see what miracles it can

work upon two such sinful mortals as you and me. Well done, boy; drain

off another,’ and he refilled his glass as he spoke.

Old Pippo had retired and left them alone together. The moon was slowly

rising beyond the lake, and threw a long yellow stream upon the floor,

the only light in the chamber where they sat, thus giving a sort of

solemnity to a moment when each felt too deeply sunk in his own thoughts

for much conversation.

‘Do you remark how that streak of moonlight seems to separate us,

Gerald?’ said Gabriel. ‘A superstitious mind would find food for

speculation there, and trace some mysterious meaning--perhaps a

warning--from it. Are you superstitious?’

‘I can scarcely say I am not,’ said the boy diffidently.

‘None of us are,’ said the other boldly. ‘If we affect to despise

spirits we are just as eager slaves of our own presentiments. What

we dignify by the name of reason is just as often a mere prompting of

instinct. It amuses us to believe that we steer the bark of our destiny;

but the truth comes upon us at last, that the tiller was lashed when the

voyage began.’ After a long silence on both sides, Gabriel said: ‘I have

told you, Gerald, that I made a journey to Rome on your account. I have

been to the Jesuit College; conversed with the superior; saw your

cell, your torn school-books, your little table carved over with

your pen-knife; and, by a date scratched on a window-pane, was led to

discover where you had passed the evening of the fifth of January.’

‘And did you go _there_ also?’ asked Gerald eagerly.

‘Ay, boy. I gave an afternoon to the Altieri and the café in front of

it.’

‘You saw the Count, then?’

‘No, I have not seen him,’ said Gabriel dryly. ‘He was away from Rome

at a villa, I believe; but I have learned that, indignant at your flight

from the Cardinal’s villa, he absolves himself of all further interest

in you.’

‘Have you seen Fra Luke?’ asked the boy, who now talked as if the other

had known every incident of his life.

‘No; he too was away. In fact, Gerald, there was little to learn, and I

came back very nearly as I went. I only know that you are about as much

alone in the world as myself. We are meet companions. You said, a while

ago, you were curious to know who and what I was. You shall hear. I

am of a good Provençal family, originally derived from Italy. We are

counts, from a date before the Medici; so much for blood. As to fortune,

my grandfather was rich, and my own father enjoyed a reasonable

fortune. I was, however, brought up to believe all men my brothers; all

interested alike in serving and aiding each other: helping in the cause

of that excellent thing we are pleased to call Humanity; and as a creed

firmly believing that, bating a chance yielding to temptation, a little

backsliding now and then on the score of an evil passion, men and women

were wonderfully good, and were on the road to be better. We were most

ingenious in our devices to build up this belief. My father wrote books

and delivered lectures to prove it. He did more: he squandered all his

patrimony in support of his theory, and he trained me up to be--what I

am.’ And the last words were uttered in a voice of intense solemnity.

‘I am not going to give you a story of my life,’ said he, after some

time; ‘I mean only to let you hear its moral. Till I was eighteen I

was taught to believe that men were honest, truthful, brave, and

affectionate; and that women were pure-hearted, gentle, forgiving, and

trustful. Before I was nineteen I knew men to be scoundrels; it took me

about a year more to think worse of the others. Then began my real

life. I ceased to be a dupe, and felt a man. I am a quick learner, and

I acquired their vices rapidly, all but one, that is still my

stumbling-block--hypocrisy. All that I have done,’ said he, in half

soliloquy, ‘might have passed harmlessly had I known but how to

shroud it. Slander, theft, and seduction must not walk naked in this

well-dressed world; but, with fine clothes on, they make very good

company. I was curious to see if other lands were the same slaves of

conventionalities, and I travelled. I went to Holland and to England;

I found both as bad--nay worse--than France. If I obtained a momentary

success in life I was certain to be robbed of it by some allegation

foreign to the question. My book was clever; but I had deserted my

wife. My treatise was admirable; but I had seduced the daughter of my

protector. My views were just, right-minded, and true; but I had robbed

my father. Thus, with a subtlety the stupidest possess, they were

able to detract from my genius by charging it with the defects of my

character, as if it behoved one to pay the debts of the other. I went on

insisting that it was my opinions alone were before the world; they as

steadily persisted in dragging myself there. At last they have had their

will, and I wish them joy of the victory.’ There was a savage triumph

in his eyes as he spoke this that made Gerald tremble while he looked at

him.

‘If you care for my story, boy,’ resumed he, ‘old Pippo there will

give it to you for a flask of Monte Pulciano. He ‘ll tell you of all my

cruelties in my first campaign in Corsica; how I won my wife by first

blasting her reputation; how I left her; how I was imprisoned and fined,

and how escaped from both by a seduction. If he forget the name, you may

remind him of Sophie De Mounier. They beheaded me in effigy for this

at Dole. But why go on with vulgar incidents which have happened to

so many! It is the moral of it all I would impress, boy, which is

this--take nothing from the world but solid gifts. Laugh at its praises,

and drink deep of its indulgences! Those born great are able to do this

by prerogative; you and I may succeed to it by skill. Remember, too,

that my theory is a wide, a most catholic one; and to follow it you

need assume no special discipline, but be priest, soldier, statesman,

scholar, just as you will. I have been all these in turn, and may be so

again; but whether I wear a cassock or a cuirass, my knowledge of men

will guide me to but one mode of dealing with them.’

‘There is nothing in what you have told me of your life to make me

revere your principles,’ said Gerald, with a courageous boldness.

‘Because I have told you how I fell, and not how I was tempted; because

I have stooped to say of myself that which none dare say to my face;

because whatever I have been to the world it was that same world

fashioned me to. What would it avail me that I made out a case of

undeserving hardships and injustice, proved myself an injured, martyred

saint: would your wondering sympathy heal any the least of those wounds

that fester here, boy? Every man’s course in life is but one swing of

the pendulum. I have vowed that with mine I shall cleave the dense mob

and scatter the vile multitude. As to you,’ said he, suddenly turning

his glaring eyes upon the youth, ‘you are free to leave this to-morrow.

I’ll take care that you are safely restored to those you came from, if

you wish to return. If you prefer it, you may remain here for a month or

two; by that time I shall return.’

‘Are you going, then, from this?’ asked Gerald.

‘Yes. I am on my trial at Aix, for cruelty and desertion of my wife.

They have spread a report that I have no intention to appear; that,

having fled France, I mean never to return to it. Ere the week’s over

they shall learn their mistake. I shall be there before them; and, if

instances from the uses of court and courtiers are admissible, show,

that when they prove me guilty, they must be ready to include Versailles

in the next prosecution. Watch this case, boy; I’ll send you the

newspapers daily. Watch it closely, and you ‘ll see that the file is at

work noiselessly now, but still at work on those old fetters that have

bound mankind so long. But first say if you desire to stay here.’

Gerald held down his head and muttered a half audible ‘Yes.’

‘To-night, then, I will jot down the names of certain books you ought

to read. I shall leave you many others too, and take your choice among

them. Read and think, and, if you are able, write too: I care not on

what theme, so the thoughts be your own.’

Gerald wished to thank him, but even gratitude could not surmount the

dread he felt for him. Gabriel saw the struggle that was engaged in the

boy’s heart, and, smiling half sadly, said, ‘To our next meeting, lad!’

CHAPTER XI. LAST DAYS AT THE TANA

If Gerald breathed more freely the next morning, on hearing that Signor

Gabriel had departed, it is, perhaps, no great wonder. The Tana was not

a very agreeable abode. Dreariness within doors and without, a poverty

unredeemed by that graceful content which so often sheds its influence

over humble fortune, a wearisome round of life--these were the

characteristics of a spot which, in a manner, was associated in his mind

with all the sufferings of a sickbed. Yet no sooner had he learned that

Gabriel was gone, than he felt as if a load were removed from his heart,

and that even by the shores of that gloomy lake, or on the sides of

those barren hills, he might now indulge his own teeming fancies, and

live in a world of his own thoughts.

It was no common terror that possessed him; his studies as a child had

stored his memory with many a dreadful story of satanic temptation. One

in particular he remembered well, of St. Francis, who, accompanied by a

chance traveller, had made a journey of several days; but whenever the

saint, passing some holy shrine or sacred spot, would kneel to pray, the

most terrible blasphemies would issue from his lips instead of prayer;

for his fellow-traveller was the Evil One himself. What if Gabriel had

some horrible mission of this kind? There was enough in his look, his

manner, and his conversation to warrant the belief. He half laughed

when the thought first crossed his mind, but it came up again and

again, gaining strength and consistency at each recurrence; nor was the

melancholy desolation of the scene itself ill suited to aid the dreary

conjecture. Though Gabriel had confided to him the key of his chamber

where all his books were kept, Gerald passed days before he could summon

resolution to enter it. A vague terror--a dread to which he could not

give shape or form--arrested his steps, and he would turn away from

the door and creep noiselessly down the stairs, as though afraid of

confessing, even to himself, what his errand had been.

At last, ashamed of yielding to this childish fear, he took a moment

when old Pippo and his niece were at work in the garden, to explore

the long-dreaded chamber. The room was very different from what he had

anticipated, and presented a degree of comfort singularly in contrast to

the rest of the Tana. Maps and book-shelves covered the walls, with

here and there prints, mostly portraits of celebrated actresses. A large

table was littered with letters and papers, left just as Gabriel had

quitted the spot. Great piles of manuscript, too, showed what laborious

hours had been spent there, while books of reference were strewn about,

the pages marked by pencil-notes and interlineations. All indicated a

life of study and labour. One trait alone gave another and different

impression; it was a long rapier that hung over the fire-place, around

whose blade, at about a foot from the point, was tied a small bow of

sky-blue ribbon. As, curious to divine the meaning of this, Gerald

examined the weapon closely, he perceived that the steel was stained

with blood up to the place where the ribbon was attached. What strange,

wild fancies did not the boy weave as he gazed on this curious relic!

Some fatal encounter there had been. Doubtless the unwiped blood upon

that blade had once welled in a human heart. Some murderous hand had

grasped that strong hilt, and some silk tresses had once been fastened

with that blue band which now marked where the blade had ceased to

penetrate. ‘A sad tale, surely, would it be to hear,’ said he, as he sat

down in deep thought.

Tired of these musings, he turned to the objects on the table. The

writings that were scattered about showed that almost every species of

composition had engaged his pen. Essays on education, a history of the

Illuminati, love-songs, a sketch of Cagliostroa, a paper on the commerce

of the Scheldt, a life of Frederic, with portions of an unfinished

novel, all indicated the habits of a daily labourer of literature;

while passages selected from classic authorities, with great care and

research, evinced that much pains had been expended in cultivating that

rich intelligence.

The last work which had occupied his hand--it still lay open, with

an unfinished sentence in the pen--was a memoir of the Pretender’s

expedition in ‘45. The name of Charles Edward was like a spell to

Gerald’s heart. From the earliest day he could remember he was taught

to call him his own Prince, and among the prayers his infant lips had

syllabled, none were uttered with more intense devotion than for the

return of that true and rightful sovereign to the land of his

fathers. And now, how his eyes filled up, and his heart swelled, as

a long-forgotten verse arose to his mind! He had learned it when its

meaning was all mystery, but the clink of the rhythm had left it stored

in his memory:

‘Though for a time we see Whitehall

With cobwebs hanging on the wall,

Instead of gold and silver bright,

That glanced with splendour day and night,

With rich perfume

In every room,

That did delight that princely train,

These again shall be,

When the time we see,

That the king shall enjoy his own again.’

Heavy and hot were the tears that rolled down the youth’s cheeks, for

he was thinking of home and long ago--of that far-away home where loving

hearts had clustered round him. He could recall, too, the little room,

the little bed he slept in, and he pondered over his strange, forlorn

destiny. And yet, thought he suddenly, ‘What is there in my fate equal

to that poor Prince’s? I am a Géraldine, they say, but I have none to

own or acknowledge me. Who knows in what condition of shame I came into

the world, since none will call me theirs? This noble name is little

better than a scoff upon me.’ The boy’s heart felt bursting at this sad

retrospect of his lot. ‘Would that I had never left the college!’ cried

he in his misery. ‘Another year or two had, doubtless, calmed down the

rebellious longings of my heart for a life of action, and then I should

have followed my calling humbly, calmly, perhaps contentedly.’

Partly to divert his thoughts from this theme, he turned to the memoir

of the Prince’s expedition, and soon became so deeply interested in its

details as to forget himself and his own sorrows. Brief and sketchy as

the narrative was, it displayed in all the warm colouring of a

romance that glorious outburst of national chivalry which gathered

the chieftains around their sovereign--all the graces, too, of his own

captivating manner, his handsome person, his courtly address, were dwelt

upon, exerting as they did an almost magical influence upon every

one who came before him. The short and bloody struggle which began at

Preston and ended at Culloden was before his eyes, with all its errors

exposed, all its mistakes displayed; every fault of strategy dwelt upon,

and every miscalculation criticised. All the train of events which might

have occurred had this or that policy been adopted was set forth in most

persuasive form; till, when the youth arose from the perusal, such a

conviction was forced upon him that rashness alone had defeated the

enterprise, that he sprang to his feet, and paced the room in passionate

indignation. As he thought over the noble devotion of Charles Edward’s

followers, he felt as if such a cause could not die. ‘The right is

there,’ muttered he, ‘and there must yet be brave men who think so. It

cannot, surely, be possible that for one defeat so great a claim could

be abandoned for ever! Where is the Prince now? how is he occupied? who

are his adherents and counsellors?’ were the questions which quickly

succeeded each other in his mind. ‘Would I were a soldier, that I could

lay my services at his feet, or that I had skill or ability to aid his

cause in any way!’

He turned eagerly again to the memoir, whose concluding words were, ‘He

landed once more in France, on the 20th of September.’ ‘And that is

now many a year ago,’ said he, and with a dreary sigh; ‘mayhap, of his

wrecked fortune, not a plank now remains. Who could guide me in this

matter--who advise me? ‘He knew of but one, and yet he shuddered at the

idea of seeking counsel from Gabriel. The more Gerald reflected on it,

the more was he assured that if he could obtain access to the Prince,

his Royal Highness would remember his name. ‘It is impossible,’ thought

he, ‘but that some of my family must have been engaged in his cause, or

why should I, as a mere child, have been taught to pray each night for

his success, and ask for a blessing on his head?’ Yearning as his heart

was for some high purpose in life, it sent a thrill of intense delight

through him to think of such a destiny.

It was a part of the training in the Jesuit College, to induce the youth

to select some saintly model for imitation in life, and while some chose

St. Francis Xavier, or St. Vincent de Paul, others took St. Anthony

of Padua, St. Francis d’Assisi, or any other illustrious martyr of the

faith; each votary being from the hour of his selection a most strenuous

upholder of the patron he assumed. Indeed, of the enthusiasm in this

respect some strange and almost incredible stories ran, showing how, in

their zeal, many had actually submitted to most painful self-tortures,

to resemble the idols of their ambition. How easy was it now for

Gerald to replace any of these grim saints and martyrs by an image

that actually filled his whole heart--one who possessed every graceful

attribute and every attractive quality. The seed of hero-worship thus

sown in his nature ripened to a harvest very different from that it

was intended to bear, and Charles Edward occupied the shrine some pious

martyr should have held. He little knew, indeed, how easily affections,

nurtured for one class of objects, are transferred to others totally

unlike them, and how often are the temples we rear and mean to dedicate

to our highest and holiest aspirations made homes for most worldly

passions! And what a strange chaos did that poor boy’s mind soon become!

for now he read whole days, and almost whole nights long, hurrying from

his meals back to that lonely chamber, where he loved to be. With

the insatiable thirst for new acquirement he tasted of all about him:

dramatists, historians, essay-writers, theologians; the wildest theories

of the rights of man, the most uncompromising asserters of divine

authority for royalty, the sufferings and sorrows of noble-hearted

missionaries, the licentious lives of courtly debauchees--all poured in

like a strong flood over the soil of his mind, enriching, corrupting,

ennobling, and debasing it by turns. Like some great edifice reared

without plan, his mind displayed the strangest and most opposite

combinations, and thus the noble eloquence of Massillon, the wit of

Molière, the epigrammatic pungency of Pascal, blended themselves with

the caustic severity of Voltaire, the touching pathos of Rousseau, and

the knowledge of life so eminently the gift of Le Sage. To see that

world of which these great men presented such a picture, became now his

all-absorbing passion. To mingle with his fellow-men as actor, and not

spectator. To be one of that immense _dramatis persono_ who moved about

the stage of life, seemed enough for all ambition. The strong spirit of

adventure lay deeply in his heart, and he felt a kind of pride to think

that if any future success was to greet him, he could recall the days

at the Tana, and say, there never was one who started in life poorer or

more friendless.

There was no exaggeration in this. His clothes were rags, his shoes

barely held together, and the only covering he had for his head was the

little skullcap he used to wear in school hours. Even old Pippo began

to scoff at his miserable appearance, and hinted a hope, that before the

season of the contraband begun Gerald would have taken his departure, or

be able to make a more respectable figure. As Gabriel had now been gone

many weeks, and no tidings whatever come of him, the old man’s reserve

and deference daily decreased. He grumbled at Gerald’s habits of study,

profitless and idle as they seemed to him, while there was many a thing

to be done about the house and the garden. He was not weak or sickly

now: he could help to chop the wood for winter firing; he could raise

those heavy water-buckets that swung over the deep well in the garden;

he could draw the net in the little stream behind the house, or trench

about the few stunted olives that struggled for life on the hillside.

Gerald would willingly have done any or all of these, if the idea had

occurred to himself. He was not indolent by nature, and liked the very

fact of active occupation. As a task, however, he rejected the notion at

once. It savoured of servitude to his mind, and who was this same Pippo

who aspired to be his master?

The more the boy’s mind became stored with knowledge, the fuller his

intelligence grew of great examples and noble instances--the more

indignantly did he repulse the advances of Pippo’s companionship.

‘What!’ he would mutter to himself, ‘leave Bossuet and his divine

teachings for his coarse converse! Quit the sarcastic intensity of

Voltaire’s ridicule for the vulgar jests of this illiterate boor!

Exchange the glorious company of wits and sages, and poets and

moralists, for a life of daily drudgery, with a mean peasant to talk

to! Besides, I am not his guest, nor a burden upon his charity. It is to

Gabriel I owe my shelter here.’

When driven by many a sarcasm to assume this position, Pippo gravely

remarked: ‘True enough, boy, so long as he was here; but he is gone now,

and who ‘ll tell us will he ever come back? He may have been sentenced

by the tribunal. At the hour we are talking here he may be in prison--at

the galleys, for aught we know; and I promise you one thing, there’s

many a better man there.’

‘And I, too, promise one thing,’ replied Gerald angrily, ‘if he ever do

come, he shall hear how you have dared to speak of him.’

Old Pippo started at the words, and his face became lividly pale, and

muttering a few words beneath his breath, he left the spot. Nothing was

further from Gerald’s mind than any defence of Gabriel, for whom, do

what he might, he could feel neither affection nor gratitude. In what

he had said he merely yielded to a momentary impatience to sting the

old man by an angry reply. For the remainder of that day not a word was

exchanged between them. They met and parted without saluting; they sat

silently opposite each other at their meals. The following day opened

with the same cold distance between them, the old man barely eyeing

Gerald, when the youth was not observing him, and casting toward him

glances of doubtful meaning. Too deeply engaged in his books to pay

much attention to these signs of displeasure, Gerald passed his hours as

usual in Gabriel’s room.

He was seated, reading, when the door opened gently, and the old man’s

niece entered: her step was so noiseless, that she was nearly beside

Gerald’s chair before he noticed her.

‘What is it, Tina,’ said he, starting; ‘what makes you look so

frightened?’

She placed her finger on her lip, a sign of caution, and looked

anxiously around her.

‘He has not been cruel or angry with you, poor girl?’ asked the boy;

‘tell me this.’

‘No, Gerald,’ said she, in a low and broken voice; ‘but there is danger

over you--ay, and near too, if you can’t escape it. He sent me last

night over to St. Stephano, twelve weary miles across the mountain,

after nightfall, to fetch the Gobbino----’

‘The Gobbino--who is he?’

‘The hunch-back, that was at the galleys in Messina,’ said the girl,

trembling all over; and then went on, ‘and to tell him to come over to

the Tana, for he wanted him.’

‘Well, and then----’

‘And then,’ muttered the girl, ‘and then,’ and she made a pantomimic

gesture of drawing a knife suddenly across the throat. ‘It is so with

him, they say; he ‘d think no more of it than do I of killing a hen!’

‘No, no, Tina,’ said the boy, smiling at her fears. ‘You wrong old Pippo

and the Gobbo too. Take my word for it, there is something else he

wants him for; besides, why should he dislike _me_? What have I done to

provoke such a vengeance?’

‘Haven’t you threatened him?’ said the girl eagerly. ‘Have you not said

that when Signor Gabriel comes back you will tell him something Pippo

said of him?’ Is that not enough? Is the Signor Gabriel one who ever

forgives an injury?’

‘I ‘ll not believe, I can’t believe it,’ said Gerald musingly.

‘But I tell you it is true; I tell you I know it,’ cried the girl

passionately.

‘But what am I to do, then? How can I defend myself,‘’ ‘Fly--leave

this--get over to Bolseno, or cross the frontier; neither of them can

follow you into Tuscany.’

‘Remember, Tina, I have no money. I am almost naked. I know no one.’

‘What matters all that if you have life?’ said she boldly.

‘Well said, girl!’ cried he, warmed by the same daring spirit that

prompted her words. A slight noise in the garden underneath the window

startled Tina, and she stepped quietly from the room and closed the

door.

It was some time before Gerald could thoroughly take in the full force

of the emergency that threatened him. He knew well that in the Italian

nature the sentiment of vengeance occupies no low nor ignominious

place, but is classed among high and generous qualities; and that he who

submits tamely to an injury is infinitely meaner than the man who, at

any cost of treachery, exacts his revenge for it.

That a terrible vengeance was often exacted for some casual slight, even

a random word, the youth well knew. These were the points of honour in

that strange national character of which, even to this hour, we know

less than of any people’s in Europe; and certainly, no crime could

promise an easier accomplishment or less chance of discovery. ‘Who is

ever to _know_ if I sunk under the Maremma fever,’ said he, ‘and who to

_care_?’

He gazed out upon the lonesome waste of mountain and the black and

stagnant lake at its foot, and thought the spot, at least, was well

chosen for such an incident. If there were moments in which the dread

of a terrible fate chilled his blood and made his heart cold with fear,

there were others in which the sense of peril rallied and excited him.

The stirring incidents of his readings were full of suchlike adventures,

and he felt a sort of heroism in seeing himself thus summoned to meet an

emergency. ‘With this good rapier,’ said he, taking down Gabriel’s sword

from its place, ‘methinks I might offer a stout resistance. That blade,

if I mistake not, already knows the way to a man’s heart,’ and he

flourished the weapon so as to throw himself into an attitude of

defence. Too much excited to read, except by snatches, he imagined to

his own mind every possible species of attack that might be made upon

him. He knew that a fair fight would never enter into _their_ thoughts;

that even before the fate reserved for him would come the plan for their

own security; and so he pictured the various ways in which he might be

taken unawares and disposed of without even a chance of reprisal. As

night drew near his anxieties increased. The book in which from time

to time he had been reading was the _Life of Benvenuto Cellini_, an

autobiography filled with the wildest incidents of personal encounter,

and well suited to call up ideas of conflict and peril. Not less,

however, was it calculated to suggest notions of daring and defiance;

for in every perilous strait and hair-breadth emergency the great

Florentine displayed the noblest traits of calm and reasoning courage.

‘They shall not do it without cost,’ said Gerald, as he stole up

noiselessly to his room, never appearing at the supper-table, but

retiring to concert his future steps. Gerald’s first care on entering

his room was to search it thoroughly, though there was not a corner nor

a cupboard capable of concealing a child. He went through the process of

investigation with all the diligence his readings prompted. He sounded

the walls for secret panels, and the floor for trapdoors; but all was

so far safe. He next proceeded to barricade his door with chairs; not,

indeed, to prevent an entrance, but arrayed so skilfully that they must

topple down at the least touch, and thus apprise him of his peril if

sleeping. He then trimmed and replenished his lamp, and with his trusty

rapier at his side, lay down, all dressed as he was, to await what might

happen.

He who has experienced in life what it is to lie watching for the dawn

of a day full of Heaven-knows-what fatalities, patiently expecting the

sun to rise upon what may prove his saddest, his last hour of existence,

even he, however, will fall short of imagining the intense anxiety of

one who with aching ears watches for the slightest sound, the lightest

footfall, or the lowest word that may betoken the approach of danger.

With the intensity of the emotion the senses become preternaturally

acute, and the brain, overcharged with thought, suggests the wildest

and strangest combinations. Through Gerald’s mind, too, Cellini’s daring

adventures were passing. The dark and narrow streets of old Florence;

the muffled ‘sbirri’ crowding in the dim doorways; the stealthy

footsteps heard and lost again; the sudden clash of swords and the cries

of combat; the shouts for succour, and the heavy plash into the dark

waters of the Arno, all filled his waking, ay, and his dreamy thoughts,

for he fell asleep at last and slept soundly. The day was just breaking,

a grey, half-pinkish light faintly struggling through his window, when

Gerald started up from his sleep. He had surely heard a sound. It was

his name was called. Was it a human voice that uttered it? or was the

warning from a more solemn world? He bent down his head to listen again;

and now he distinctly heard a low, creaking sound, and as distinctly saw

that the door was slightly moved, and then the words ‘Gerald, Gerald,’

whispered. He arose at once, and quickly recognising Tina’s voice, drew

nigh the door.

‘You have no time to lose, Gerald,’ said she rapidly. ‘Pippo has taken

the boat and is rowing across the lake; and even by this half light

I can see a figure standing on the rock at the foot of the mountain

waiting for him, just where the pathway from St. Stephano comes down to

the water.’

‘The Gobbo, I suppose,’ said Gerald, half mockingly, as he showed the

rapier he still held in his hand.

‘And if it be he, boy, there is no need to laugh,’ said Tina,

shuddering. ‘The dark waters of that lake there, that cover some of his

handiwork, if they could speak, would tell you so.’

‘Then what am I to do, Tina?‘’ said he, throwing open the door. ‘You

‘d not have me meet them on the shore there and begin the attack, would

you?’

If Gerald threw out this suggestion as impracticable, it was yet

precisely the course he was longing himself to follow, and most eager

that she should assent to.

‘The Blessed Virgin forbid it!’ cried she, crossing herself. ‘There is

but one road to take, and that is yonder,’ and she pointed to a little

rugged footpath that wound its way over the mountain, which joined the

frontier with Tuscany.

‘And am I in meet condition to travel, Tina?’ said he jestingly, as he

showed his ragged dress and pulled out the lining of his empty pockets.

‘There is Signor Gabriel’s cape,’ said she; ‘it is almost as good as a

cloak: he left it with me, but I have no need of it; and there is the

crown-piece you gave me yourself when you were ill of the fever, and I

want it just as little.’

The boy struggled hard to refuse both, but the sorrow Tina felt for

the rejection at last overcame him, and, half in shame and half in

pleasure--for the sense of exacting sacrifice is pleasure, deny it how

we may--he yielded, and accepted her gift.

‘Oh, Tina, will there ever come a day when I can repay this kindness?’

said he. ‘I almost think there will.’

‘To be sure, Gerald, and you ‘ll not forget me even if there should not.

You who were taught by the pious Frati how to pray will surely say a

good word in your devotions for a poor girl like Tina.’

The boy’s heart overflowed with emotion at the trait of simple piety,

and he kissed her twice with all the affection of a fond brother.

‘Good-bye, Tina,’ said he, sobbing; ‘I feel stronger and stouter in

heart, now that I know your kind wishes are going along with me--they

are better to me, love, than a purse full of money.’

‘Do not take that sword, Gerald,’ said she, trying to take the weapon

from him. ‘If you enter a village with a rapier at your side, they ‘ll

call you a brigand, and give you up to the carabinieri.’

‘I’ll not quit the good blade so long as I can wear it,’ said he

resolutely; and then added to himself, ‘I am nobly born, and have a

right to a sword. “Cinctus gladio,” says the old statute of knighthood;

and if I be a Géraldine, I am noble!’

And with these words the boy bade his last farewell, and issued from the

house.

CHAPTER XII. A FOREST SCENE

Once more did Gerald find himself alone and penniless upon the world. He

was not, however, as when first he issued forth, timid, depressed, and

diffident. Short as had been the interval since that time, his mind had

made a considerable progress. His various readings had taught him much;

and he had already learned that in the Mutual Assurance Company we call

Life men are ever more or less dependent on their fellows. ‘There must,

then,’ said he to himself, ‘be surely some craft or calling to which I

can bring skill or aptitude, and some one or other will certainly accept

of services that only require the very humblest recognition.’ He walked

for hours without seeing a living thing: the barren mountain had not

even a sheep-walk; and save the path worn by the track of smugglers,

there was nothing to show that the foot of man had ever traversed its

dreary solitudes. At last he gained the summit of the ridge, and could

see the long line of coast to the westward, jagged and indented with

many a bay and promontory. There lay St. Stephano: he could recognise it

by the light cloud of pale blue smoke that floated over the valley, and

marked where the town stood; and, beyond, he could catch the masts and

yards of a few small craft that were sheltering in the offing. Beyond

these again stretched the wide blue sea, marked at the horizon by some

far-away sails. The whole was wrapped in that solemn calm, so striking

in the noon of an Italian summer’s day. Not a cloud moved, not a leaf

was stirring; a faint foam-line on the beach told that there the waves

crept softly in, but, except this, all nature was at rest.

In the dead stillness of night our thoughts turn inward, and we mingle

memories with our present reveries; but in the stillness of noonday,

when great shadows lie motionless on the hillside, and all is hushed

save the low murmur of the laden bee, our minds take the wide range of

the world--visiting many lands--mingling with strange people. Action,

rather than reflection, engages us; and we combine, and change, and

fashion the mighty elements before us as we will. We people the

plains with armed hosts; we fill the towns with busy multitudes--gay

processions throng the squares, and banners wave from steeple and tower;

over the blue sea proud fleets are seen to move, and thundering echoes

send back their dread cannonading: and through these sights and sounds

we have our especial part--lending our sympathies here, bearing our

warmest wishes there. If we dream, it is of the real, the actual, and

the true; and thus dreaming, we are but foreshadowing to ourselves

the incidents and accidents of life, and garnering up the resources

wherewith to meet them.

Stored as was his mind with recent reading, Gerald’s fancy supplied him

with innumerable incidents, in every one of which he displayed the

same heroic traits, the same aptitude to meet emergency, and the same

high-hearted courage he had admired in others. Vain-gloriousness may be

forgiven when it springs, as his did, out of thorough ignorance of the

world. It is, indeed, but the warm outpouring of a generous temperament,

where self-esteem predominates. The youth ardently desired that the good

should prosper and the bad be punished: his only mistake was, that he

claimed the chief place in effecting both one and the other.

Eagerly bent upon adventure, no matter where, how, or with whom, he

stood on the mountain’s peak, gazing at the scene beneath him. A waving

tract of country, traversed by small streams, stretched away toward

Tuscany, but where the boundary lay between the states he could not

detect. No town or village could be descried; and, so far as he could

see, miles and miles of journey yet lay before him ere he could arrive

at a human dwelling. This was indeed the less matter, since Tina had

fastened up in his handkerchief sufficient food for the day; and even

were night to overtake him, there was no great hardship in passing it

beneath that starry sky.

‘Many there must be,’ thought he, ‘campaigning at this very hour, in

far-away lands, mayhap amid the sand deserts of the East, or crouching

beneath the shelter of the drifted snows in the North; and even here are

troops of gypsies, who never know what means the comfort of a roof over

them.’ Just as he said these words to himself, his eyes chanced to rest

upon a thin line of pale blue smoke that arose from a group of alders

beside a stream in the valley. Faint and thin at first, it gradually

grew darker and fuller, till it rose into the clear air, and was wafted

slowly along toward the sea.

‘Just as if I had conjured them up,’ cried Gerald, ‘there are the

gypsies; and if there be a Strega in the company, she shall have this

crown for telling me my fortune! What marvels will she not invent for

this broad piece--what dragons shall I not slay--what princesses not

marry; not but in reality they do possess some wondrous insight into the

future! Signor Gabriel sneered at it, as he sneered at everything-; but

there’s no denying they read destiny, as the sailor reads the coming

storm in signs unseen by others. There is something fine, too, in their

clanship; how, poor and houseless, despised as they are, they cling

together, hoarding up their ancient rites and traditions--their only

wealth--and wandering through the world, pilgrims of centuries old.’

As he descended the mountain path he continued thus to exalt the gypsies

in his estimation, and with that unfailing resource in similar cases,

that what he was unable to praise he at least found picturesque. The

path led through a wood of stunted chestnut-trees, on issuing from whose

shade he could no longer detect the spot he was in search of; the fire

had gone out, and the smoke ceased to linger over the place.

‘Doubtless the encampment has broken up; they are trudging along toward

the coast, where the villages lie,’ thought he, ‘and I may come up with

them to-morrow or next day,’ and he stepped out briskly on his way.

The day was intensely hot, and Gerald would gladly have availed himself

of any shade, to lie down and enjoy the ‘siesta’ hours in true Italian

fashion. The only spot, however, he could procure likely to offer such

shelter was a little copse of olives, at a bend of the river, about a

mile away. A solitary rock, with a few ruined walls upon it, rose above

the trees, and marked the place as one once inhabited. Following the

winding of the stream, he at length drew nigh, and quickly noticed that

the grass was greener and deeper, with here and there a daffodil or a

wild-flower, signs of a soil which, in some past time, had been cared

for and cultivated. The river, too, as it swept around the base of the

rock, deepened into a clear, calm pool, the very sight of which was

intensely grateful and refreshing. As the youth stood in admiring

contemplation of this fair bath, and inwardly vowing to himself the

luxury of a plunge into it, a low rustling noise startled him, and a

sound like the sharp stamp of a beast’s foot. He quickly turned, and,

tracing the noise, saw a very diminutive ass, who, tethered to an

olive-tree, was busily munching a meal of thistles, and as busily

stamping off the stray forest flies that settled on him. Two panniers,

covered over with some tarnished scarlet cloth, and a drum of

considerable size and very gaudy colouring, lay on the grass, with three

or four painted poles, a roll of carpet, and a bright brass basin, such

as conjurers use for their trade. There was also a curiously-shaped box,

painted in checkers, doubtless some mysteriously gifted ‘property.’

Curious to discover the owners of these interesting relics, Gerald

advanced into the copse, when his quick hearing was arrested by the

long-drawn breathings of several people fast asleep--so, at least, they

seemed, by the full-toned chorus of their snorings; though the next

moment showed him that they consisted of but three persons, an old,

stunted, and very emaciated man; an equally old woman, immensely fat

and misshapen, to which her tawdry finery gave something indescribably

ludicrous in effect; and a young girl, whose face was buried in the bend

of her arms, but whose form, as she lay in the graceful abandonment of

sleep, was finely and beautifully proportioned. A coarse dress of brown

stuff was her only covering, leaving her arms bare, while her legs, but

for the sandals of some tawdry tinsel, were naked to the knees and as

brown as the skin of an Indian, yet in shape and symmetry they might

have vied with the most faultless statue of the antique--indeed, to

a sleeping nymph in the gallery of the Altieri Palace was Gerald now

comparing her, as he stood gazing on her. The richly floating hair,

which, as a protection against the zanzari, she had let fall over her

neck and shoulders, only partially defended her, and so she stirred at

times, each motion displaying some new charm, some fresh grace of form.

At last, perhaps startled by a thought of her dreams, she gave a sudden

cry, and sprang up to a sitting posture, her eyes widely staring and her

half-opened lips turned to where Gerald stood. As for him, the amazement

that seized him overcame him--for she was no other than the tarantella

dancer of the Piazza di Spagna, the Marietta who had so fascinated him

on the night he left the convent.

‘Babbo! Babbo!’ screamed she, in terror, as she caught sight of the

naked rapier at the youth’s side; and in a moment both the old man and

the woman were on their legs.

‘We are poor, miserably poor, Signore!’ cried the old man piteously;

‘mere “vagabonds,” and no more.’

‘We have not a Bajocclo among us, Signore mio,’ blubbered out the old

woman.

An honest burst of laughter from Gerald, far more reassuring than words,

soon satisfied them that their fears were needless.

‘Who are you, then?’ cried the girl, as she darted her piercing black

eyes toward him; ‘and why are you here?’

‘The world is wide, and open to all of us, _cara mia_,’ said the youth

good-humouredly. ‘Don’t be angry with me because I ‘m not a brigand.’

‘He says truly,’ said the old man.

‘_Sangue dei Santi_, but you have given me a hearty fright, boy, what

ever brought you here!’ said the fat old woman, as she wiped the hot

drops from her steaming face.

There is some marvellous freemasonry in poverty--some subtle sympathy

links poor men together--for scarcely had Gerald told that he was

destitute and penniless as themselves, than these poor outcasts bade him

a frank welcome among them, and invited him to a share of their little

scanty supper.

‘I ‘ll warrant me that you have drawn a low number in the conscription,

boy; and that’s the reason you have fled from home,’ said the old woman;

and Gerald laughed good-humouredly, as though accepting the suggestion

as a happy guess; nor was he sorry to be spared the necessity of

recounting his story.

‘But why not be a soldier?’ broke in Marietta.

‘Because it’s a dog’s life,’ retorted the hag savagely.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Gerald. ‘When I saw the noble guard of his

Holiness prancing into the Piazza del Popolo, I longed to be one of

them. They were all glittering with gold and polished steel, and their

horses bounded and caracoled as if impatient for a charge.’

‘Ah!’ sighed the old man drearily, ‘there’s only one happy road in this

life.’

‘And what may that be, Babbo?’ said Gerald, addressing him by the

familiar title the girl had given him.

‘A Frate’s, boy, a Frate’s. I don’t care whether he be a Dominican or an

Ignorantine. Though, myself, I like the Ignorantines. Theirs is truly

a blessed existence: no wants--no cares--no thoughts for the morrow! I

never watched one of them stepping along, with firm foot and sack on

his arm, that I didn’t say to myself, “There’s freedom--there’s

light-heartedness.”’

‘I should have called your own a pleasanter life.’

‘Mine!’ groaned he.

‘Ay, Babbo, and so is it,’ burst in the girl, in an excited tone. ‘Show

me the Frate has such a time as we have! Whenever the friar comes, men

shuffle away to escape giving him their “quattrini.” They know well

there’s no such sturdy beggar as he who asks no alms, but shows you the

mouth of his long empty sack; but where we appear the crowds gather,

mothers snatch up their babies and hurry out to greet us; hard-worked

men cease their toil; children desert their games; all press round

eagerly at the first roll of Gaetana’s drum, and of poor Chico’s fife,

when he was with us,’ added she, dropping her head, while a heavy tear

rolled down her swarthy cheek.

‘_Maladizione a Chico!_’ screamed out the old man, lifting up both his

clenched hands in passion.

‘What was it he did?’ asked Gerald of the old man.

‘He fancied himself a patriot, boy, and he stabbed a spy of the police

at the St. Lucia one evening; and they have him now at the galleys, and

they ‘ll keep him there for life!

‘Ah! if you saw him on the two poles,’ cried the girl, ‘only strapped

so, over his instep, and he could spring from here to the tree yonder;

and then he ‘d unfasten one, and holding it on his forehead, balance

Babbo’s basin on the top, all the while playing the tambourine! And who

could play it like him? It was a drum with cymbals in his hands.’

‘Was he handsome, too?’ asked Gerald, with a half-sly glance toward her;

but she only hung her head in silence.

‘He handsome!’ cried the old woman, catching at the words. ‘Brutto!

brutto! he had a hare-lip, with a dog’s jaw!’

‘No, truly,’ muttered Babbo; ‘he was not handsome, though he could do

many a thing well-favoured ones couldn’t attempt. He was a sore loss to

us,’ said he, with a deep sigh.

‘There wasn’t a beast of the field nor a bird that flies he couldn’t

imitate,’ broke in Marietta; ‘and with some wondrous cunning, too, he

could blend the sounds together, and you ‘d hear the cattle lowing and

the rooks cawing all at the same time.’

‘The owl was good; that was his best,’ said Babbo.

‘Oh, was it not fine!--the wild shriek of the owl, while the tide was

breaking on the shore, and the waves came in plash, plash, in the still

night.’

‘May his toil be hard and his chains heavy!’ exclaimed the hag; ‘we have

had nothing but misery and distress since the day he was taken.’

‘Poor fellow,’ said Gerald, ‘his lot is harder still.’ The girl’s dark

eyes turned fully upon him, with a look of grateful meaning, that well

repaid his compassionate speech.

‘So may it be,’ chimed in the hag; ‘and so with all who ill-treat those

whose bread they’ve eaten,’ and she turned a glance of fiery anger on

the girl. ‘What art doing there, old fool!’ cried she to the Babbo,

who, having turned his back to the company, was telling over his beads

busily. He made no reply, and she went on: ‘That’s all he’s good for

now. There was a time he could sing Punch’s carnival from beginning to

end, keep four dancing on the stage, and two talking out of windows; but

now he’s ever at the litanies: he’d rather talk to you about St. Francis

than of the Tombola, he would!’

As the old hag, with bitter words and savage energy, inveighed against

her old associate, Gerald had sense to mark that, small as the company

was, it yet consisted of ingredients that bore little resemblance, and

were attached by the slenderest sympathies to each other. He was young

and inexperienced enough in life to imagine that they who amuse the

world by their gifts, whatever they be, carry with them to their homes

the pleasant qualities which delight the audiences. He fancied that,

through all their poverty, the light-hearted gaiety that marked them in

public would abide with them when alone, and that the quips and jests

they bandied were but the outpourings of a ready wit always in exercise.

The Babbo had been a servitor of a convent in the Abruzzi, and,

dismissed for some misdemeanour, had wandered about the world in

vagabondage till he became a conjurer, some talent or long-neglected

gift of slight-of-hand coming to the rescue of his fortune. The woman,

Donna Gaetana, had passed through all the stages of ‘Street Ballet,’

from the prodigy of six years old, with a wreath of violets on her

brow, to the besotted old beldame, whose specialty was the drum. As for

Marietta, where she came from, of what parentage, or even of what

land, I know not. The Babbo called her his niece--his grandchild--his

‘figliuola’ at times, but she was none of these. In the wayward turns

of their fortune these street performers are wont to join occasionally

together in the larger capitals, that by their number they may attract

more favourable audiences; and so, when Gerald first saw them at Rome,

they were united with some Pifferari from Sicily; but the same destiny

that decides more pretentious coalitions had separated theirs, and the

three were now trudging northward in some vague hope that the land of

promise lay in that direction. It is needless to say how Gerald felt

attracted by the strange adventurous life of which they spoke. The

Babbo, mingling his old convent traditions, his scraps of monkish Latin,

his little fragments of a pious training, with the descriptions of his

subtle craft, was a study the youth delighted in, while from his own

early teaching, it was also a character he could thoroughly appreciate.

Donna Gaetana, indeed, offered little in the way of interest, but did

not Marietta alone compensate for more than this? The wild and fearless

grace of this young girl, daring to the very verge of shamelessness, and

yet with a strange instinctive sense of womanly delicacy about her, that

lifted her, in her raggedness, to a sphere where deference was her due;

her matchless symmetry, her easy motion, a mingled expression of energy

and languor about her, all met happily in one who but needed culture

to have become a great artiste. She possessed, besides, a voice of

exquisite richness, one of those deep-toned organs whose thrilling

expression seems to attain at once the highest triumph of musical art

in the power of exciting the sensibilities: such was that poor neglected

child, as she hovered over the brink where vice and wretchedness and

crime run deep and fast below!

When the meal was over, and the little vessels used in preparing it were

all duly washed and packed, old Gaetana lighted her pipe, and once in

full puff proceeded to drag from a portentous-looking bag a mass of

strange rags, dirty and particoloured, the slashed sleeves and spangled

skirts proclaiming them as ‘properties.’

‘Clap that velvet cap on thy head, boy, and let’s see what thou lookest

like,’ cried she, handing Gerald a velvet hat, looped up in front, and

ornamented with an ostrich feather.

‘What for?’ cried he rudely; ‘I am no mountebank.’ And then, as he

caught Marietta’s eyes, a deep blush burned all over his face, and he

said, in a voice of shame, ‘To be sure! Anything you like. I’ll wear

this too,’ and he snatched up a tawdry mantle and threw it over his

shoulders.

‘_Come e bellino!_’ said Marietta, as she clasped her hands across her

bosom, and gazed on him in a sort of rapture. ‘He’s like Paolo in the

Francesca,’ muttered she.

‘He’ll never be Chico,’ growled out the hag. ‘Birbante that he was, who

‘ll ever jump through nine hoops with A lighted taper in his hand? Oh,

_Assassino!_ it won’t serve you now!’

‘Do you know Paolo’s speech?’ whispered Marietta.

‘No,’ said he, blushing, half angry, half ashamed.

‘Then I ‘ll teach it to you.’

‘Thou shouldst have been an acolyte at San Giovanni di Laterano when the

Pope says the high mass, boy,’ cried Babbo enthusiastically. ‘Thy figure

and face would well become the beauteous spectacle.’

‘Does not that suit him?’ cried the girl, as she replaced the hat by a

round cap, such as pages wear, with a single eagle’s feather. ‘Does not

that become him?’

‘Who cares for looks?’ muttered the hag. ‘Chico was ugly enough to bring

bad luck; and when shall we see his like again?’

‘Who knows! who knows?’ said Babbo slowly. ‘This lad may, if he join us,

have many a good gift we suspect not. Canst sing?’

‘Yes; at least the litanies.’

‘Ah, bravo, Giovane!’ cried the old man. ‘Thou It bring a blessing upon

us.’

‘Canst play the fife, the tambourine, the flute?’ asked Gaetana.

‘None of them.’

‘Thou canst recite, I’m sure,’ said Marietta. ‘Thou knowest Tasso and

Petrarch, surely, and Guarini?’

‘Yes; and Dante by heart, if that be of any service to me,’ said Gerald.

‘Ah! I know nothing of him,’ said she sorrowfully; ‘but I could repeat

the Orlando from beginning to end.’

‘How art thou on the stilts or the slack-rope?’ asked the old woman;

‘for these other things never gave bread to any one.’

‘If I must depend upon the slack-rope, then,’ said Gerald,

good-humouredly, ‘I run a good chance of going supperless to bed.’

‘How they neglect them when they’re young, and their bones soft and

pliant!’ said Gaetana sternly. ‘What parents are about nowadays I can’t

imagine. I used to crouch into a flower-pot when I was five years old;

ay, and spring out of it too when the Fairy Queen touched the flower!’

Gerald could with great difficulty restrain the burst of laughter this

anecdote of her early life provoked.

‘Oh, come with us; stay with us,’ whispered Marietta in his ear.

‘If thou hast been taught the offices, boy,’ said Babbo, ‘thou deservest

an honester life than ours. Leave us, then; go thy ways, and walk in

better company.’

‘_Corpo del diavolo!_’ screamed out the hag. ‘It’s always so with him.

He has nothing but hard words for the trade he lives by.’

‘Stay with us; stay with us,’ whispered the girl, more faintly.

‘Thou mightst have a worse offer, lad; for who can tell what’s in thee?

I warrant me, thou ‘It never be great at jumping tricks,’ said Babbo.

‘Wilt stay?’ said Marietta, as her eyes swam in tears.

‘I will,’ said Gerald, with a glance that made her cheek crimson.

CHAPTER XIII. A CONTRACT

I am not certain that a great ‘Impressario’ of Paris or London would

have deemed the document which bound Gerald to his new master a very

formal instrument. But there was a document. It was written on a

fly-leaf of old Babbo’s Breviary, and set forth duly that for certain

services to be afterward detailed, ‘_un certo Gherardi_’--so was he

called--was to eat, and drink, and be clothed; always providing that

there was meat, and drink, and wearables to give him; with certain

benefices--small contingent remainders--to accrue when times were

prosperous and patrons generous, and all this for the term of a

twelvemonth. Donna Gaetana stoutly fought for five years, then three,

and then two: but she was beaten in all her amendments, though she

argued her case ably. She showed, with a force derived from great

experience, that theirs was a profession wherein there was much to

learn; that the initial stages developed very few of those gifts which

won popular applause; that, consequently, the neophyte was anything but

a profitable colleague; and it was only when his education was perfected

that he could be expected to repay the cost of his early instruction.

‘At the end of a year,’ to borrow her own forcible language, ‘he ‘ll

have smashed a dozen basins and broken twenty poles, and he ‘ll just be

as stiff in the back as you see him today.’

‘He ‘ll have had enough of a weary life ere that,’ muttered the Babbo.

‘What have _you_ to complain of, I ‘d like to know?’ asked she fiercely;

‘you that sit there all day like a prince on a throne, never so much as

giving a blast of a horn or a beat on the drum; but pulling a few cords

for your puppets, and making them patter about the stage while you tell

over the self-same story I heard forty years ago. Ah, if it was Pierno!

that was something indeed to hear! He came out with something new every

evening--droll fellow that he was--and could make the people laugh till

the Piazza rung again.’

‘Well, well,’ sighed Babbo, ‘his drollery has cost him something. He cut

a jest upon the Cardinal Balfi, and they sent him to Molo di Gaeta, to

work at the galleys. My pulcinello may be stupid, but will not make me

finish my days in chains.’

Whether Marietta feared the effect these domestic discussions might

produce upon Gerald, newly come as he was among them, or that she

desired to talk with him more at her ease, she strolled away into the

wood, giving one lingering glance as she left the place to bid him

follow. The youth was not loth to accept the hint, and soon overtook

her.

‘And so,’ said she, taking his hand between both her own, ‘you _will_

stay?’

‘I have promised it,’ replied Gerald.

‘All for me, all for me, as the little song says.’

‘I never heard it. Will you sing it, Marietta?’ said he, placing his arm

around her waist.

‘I ‘ll go and fetch my guitar, then,’ said she, and bounding away, was

soon once more beside him, sweeping her fingers over the cords as she

came.

‘It’s nothing of a song, either words or music; but I picked it up at

Capri, and it reminds me of that sweet spot.’ So saying, and after a

little prelude, she sang the canzonette, of which the following words

are a rude version:

‘I know a bark on a moonlit sea,

Pescator! Pescator!

There’s one in that bark a-thinking of me,

Oh, Pescator!

And while his light boat steals along,

Pescator! Pescator!

He murmurs my name in his evening song,

Oh, Pescator!

He prays the Madonna above my head,

Pescator! Pescator!

To bring sweet dreams around my bed,

Oh, Pescator!

And when the morning breaks on shore,

I’ll kneel and pray for my Pescator,

Who ventures alone on the stormy sea,

All for me! all for me!’!!!!

Simple as were the words, the wild beauty of the little air thrilled

through Gerald’s heart, and twice did he make her repeat it.

‘Oh, if you like barcarolles,’ said she, ‘I’ll sing you hundreds of

them, and teach you, besides, to sing them with me. We shall be so

happy, _Gherardi mio_, living thus together.

‘And not regret Chico?’ said Gerald gravely.

‘Chico was very clever, but he was cruel. He would beat me when I would

not learn quickly; and my life was very sad when he was with us. See,’

said she, drawing down her sleeve from her shoulder, ‘these stripes were

of his giving.’

‘_Briccone!_’ muttered Gerald, ‘if I had him here.’

‘Ah, he was so treacherous! He ‘d have stabbed you at the altar-foot

rather than let a vengeance escape him. He was a Corsican.’

‘And are they so treacherous always?’

‘Are they?’ cried she. ‘_Per Dio_, I believe they are.’

‘Well, let’s talk of him no more. I only mentioned his name because I

feared you loved him, Marietta.’

‘And if I had!’ asked she, with a half-malicious drollery in her dark

eyes.

‘Then I ‘d have hated him all the more--hated _you_, perhaps, too.’

‘_Poverino!_’ said she, with a sigh which ended in a laugh.

And now they walked along, side by side, while she told Gerald all about

her life, her companions, their humours, their habits, and their ways.

She liked Babbo. He was kind-hearted and affectionate; but Donna Gaetana

was all that was cruel and unfeeling. Chico, indeed, had always resisted

her tyranny, and she counselled Gerald to do the same. ‘As for me,’

added she sorrowfully, ‘I am but a girl, and must bear with her.’

‘But I’ll stand by you, Marietta,’ cried Gerald boldly. ‘We ‘ll see if

the world won’t go better with each of us as we meet it thus,’ and he

drew her arm around his waist, while he clasped hers with his own.

And what a happy hour was that as thus they rambled along under the

leafy shade, no sound but the wild wood-pigeon’s cry to break the

silence! for often they were silent with thoughts deeper than words

could render. She, full of that future where Gerald was to be the

companion of all her games; he, too, ranging in fancy over adventures

wherein, as her protector and defender, he confronted perils

unceasingly. Then he bethought him how strangely destiny should have

thus brought them together, two forsaken, friendless creatures.

One falls in love at eighteen, at eight-and-twenty, and at

eight-and-forty, with very different reasons for the process. Silky

hair, and long eye-lashes, and pearly teeth get jostled as we go on

through life, with thoughts of good connections and the three per

cents., and a strange compromise is effected between inclination and

self-interest. To know, however, the true ecstasy of the passion, to

feel it in all its impulsive force, and in the full strength of its

irresponsibility, be very young and very poor--young enough to doubt of

nothing, not even yourself; poor enough to despise riches most heartily.

Gerald was young and poor. His mind, charged with deep stores of

sentiment, was eagerly seeking where to invest its wealth. The tender

pathos of St. Pierre, the more dangerous promptings of Rousseau, were in

his heart, and he yearned for one to whom he could speak of the feelings

that struggled within him. As for Marietta, to listen to him was

ecstasy. The glowing language of poetry, its brilliant imagery, its

melting softness, came upon her like refreshing rain upon some arid

soil, scorched and sun-stricken: her spirit, half-crushed beneath daily

hardships, rose at once to the magic touch of ennobling sentiment. Oh!

what a new world was that which now opened before them: how beautiful,

how bright, how full of tenderness, how rich in generous emotions!

‘Only think,’ said she, looking into his eyes, ‘but this very morning

we had not known each other, and now we are bound together for ever and

ever. Is it not so, _Gherardi mio?_’

‘So swear I!’ cried Gerald, as he pressed her to his heart; and then,

in the full current of his warm eloquence, he poured forth a hundred

schemes for their future career. They would seek out some sweet spot of

earth, far away and secluded, like that wherein they rambled then, only

more beautiful in verdure, and more picturesque, and build themselves a

hut; there they would live together a life of bliss.

It was only by earnest persuasion she could turn him from at once

putting the project into execution. ‘Why not now?’ cried he. ‘Here we

are free, beyond the wood; you cross a little stream, and we are in

Tuscany. I saw the frontier from the mountain-top this morning.’

‘And then,’ said the girl, ‘how are we to live?’ We shall neither have

the Babbo nor Donna Gaetana; I cannot dance without her music, nor have

you learned anything as yet to do. _Mio Gherardi_, we must wait and

study hard; you must learn to be Paolo, and to declaim “Antonio,” too.

I’ll teach you these; besides, the Babbo has a volume full of things

would suit you. Our songs, too, we have not practised them together;

and in the towns where we are going, the public, they say, are harder to

please than in these mountain villages.’ And then she pictured forth

a life of artistic triumph--success dear to her humble heart, the very

memory of which brought tears of joy to her eyes. These she was longing

to display before him, and to make him share in. Thus talking, they

returned to the encampment, where, as the heat was past, the Babbo was

now preparing to set out on his journey.

CHAPTER XIV. THE ACCIDENTS OF ‘ARTIST’ LIFE

An autumnal night, in all its mellow softness, was just closing in upon

the Lungo l’Arno of Florence. Toward the east and south the graceful

outlines of San Miniato, with its tall cypresses, might be seen against

the sky, while all the city, which lay between, was wrapped in deepest

shadow. It was the season of the Ville-giatura, when the great nobles

are leading country lives; still the various bridges, and the quays at

either side of the river, were densely crowded with people. The denizens

of the close and narrow streets came forth to catch the faint breath

of air that floated along the Arno. Seated on benches and chairs, or

gathered in little knots and groups, the citizens seemed to enjoy this

hour _al fresco_ with a zest only known to those who have basked in the

still and heated atmosphere of a southern climate. Truly, no splendid

salon, in all the gorgeous splendour of its gildings, ever presented a

spot so luxurious as that river-side, while the fresh breeze came,

borne along the water’s track from the snow clad heights of Vallombrosa,

gathering perfume as it came. No loud voices, no boisterous mirth

disturbed the delicious calm of the enjoyment, but a low murmur of human

sounds, attuned as it were to the gentle ripple of the passing stream,

and here and there a light and joyous laugh, were only heard. At

the Pont St. Trinita and immediately below it the crowd was densest,

attracted, not impossibly, by the lights and movement that went on in a

great palace close by, the only one of all those on the Arno that showed

signs of habitation. Of the others the owners were absent; but here,

through the open windows, might be seen figures passing and repassing,

and at times the sounds of music heard from within. With that strange

sympathy--for it is not all curiosity--that attracts people to watch

the concourse of some gay company, the ebb and flow of intercourse,

the crowd gazed eagerly up at the windows, commenting on this or that

personage as they passed, and discussing together what they fancied

might form the charm of such society.

The faint tinkling of a guitar in the street beneath, and the motion

of the crowd, showed that some sort of street performance had attracted

attention; and soon the balcony of the palace was thronged with the gay

company, not sorry, as it seemed, to have this pretext for loitering

in the free night air. To the brief prelude of the guitar a roll of the

drum succeeded, and then, when silence had been obtained, might be

heard the voice of an old, infirm man, announcing a programme of the

entertainment. First of all--and by ‘torch-light, if the respectable

public would vouchsafe the expense’--The adventures of Don Callemaoho

among the Moors of Barbary; his capture, imprisonment, and escape; his

rescue of the Princess of Cordova, with their shipwreck afterward on

the island of Ithica: the whole illustrated with panoramic scenery,

accompanied by music, and expressed by appropriate dialogue and dancing.

The declamation to be delivered by a youth of consummate genius--the

action to be enunciated by a Signorina of esteemed merit. ‘I do not

draw attention to myself, nor to the gifts of that excellent lady who

presides over the drum,’ continued he. ‘Enough that Naples has seen,

Venice praised, Rome applauded us.

We have gathered laurels at Milan; wreathed flowers have fallen on us

at Mantua; our pleasant jests have awoke laughter in the wild valleys

of Calabria; our pathos has dimmed many an eye in the gorgeous halls of

Genoa; princes and contadini alike have shared in the enjoyment of

our talents; and so, with your favour, may each of you, _Gentilissimi

Signori_.’

Whether, however, the ‘intelligent public’ was not as affluent as it was

gifted, or that, to apply the ancient adage, ‘Le jeu ne valait pas la

chandelle,’ but so was it, that the old man had twice made the tour of

the circle without obtaining a single quatrino.

‘At Bologna, _O Signori_, they deemed this representation worthy of

wax-light. We gave it in the Piazza before two thousand spectators, who,

if less great or beautiful than those we see here, were yet bountiful in

their generosity! Sound the drum, _comare mia_ said he, addressing the

old woman, ‘and let the spirit-rousing roll inspire heroic longings.

A blast of the tromb, _figlio mio_ will set these noble hearts

high-beating for a tale of chivalry.’ The deafening clamour of drum and

trumpet resounded through the air, and came back in many an echo from

across the Arno; but, alas! they awoke no responsive sympathies in the

audience, who probably having deemed that the spectacle might be partly

gratuitous, showed already signs of thinning away. ‘Are you going,

_Illustrissimi Signori_, cried he, more energetically, ‘going without

one view, one passing glance at the castle on the Guadalquivir, with

its court of fountains, all playing and splashing like real water; going

without a look at the high-pooped galleon, as she sailed forth at morn,

with the banner of the house of Callemacho waving from the mast, while

the signal guns are firing a salute, the high cliffs of Carthagena

reverberating with the sound? ‘A loud ‘bom’ from the drum gave testimony

to the life-like reality of the description. ‘Going,’ screamed he, more

eagerly still, ‘without witnessing the palace of the Moorish king, lit

up at night--ten thousand lanterns glittering along its marble terraces,

while strains of soft music fill the air? A gentle melody, _figlio mio_,

whispered he to the boy beside him.

‘Let them go, in the devil’s name!’ broke out the old woman, whose harsh

accents at once proclaimed our old acquaintance Donna Gaetana.

‘What says she--what says the Donna?’ cried three or four of the crowd

in a breath.

‘She says that we ‘ll come back in the daylight, Signori,’ broke in the

old man, in terror, ‘and sing our native songs of Calabria, and show

our native dances. We know well, O gentle public, that poor ignorant

creatures like ourselves are but too rash to appear before you great

Florentines, citizens of Michel Angelo, dwellers with Benvenuto,

companions of Boccaccio!’

‘And not a quatrino among ye!’ yelled out the old hag, with a laugh of

scorn.

A wild cry of anger burst from the crowd, who, breaking the circle, now

rushed in upon the strollers.

In vain the Babbo protested, explained, begged, and entreated. He

declared the company to be the highest, the greatest, the richest, he

had ever addressed; himself and his companions the vilest and least

worthy of humanity. He asseverated in frantic tones his belief, that

from the hour when he should lose their favour no fortune would ever

attend on him, either in this world or the next.

But of what avail was it that he employed every eloquence at his

command, while the Donna, with words of insult, and gestures more

offensive still, reviled the ‘base rabble,’ and with all the virulence

of her coarse nature hurled their poverty in their teeth?

‘Famished curs!’ cried she. ‘How would ye have a _soldo_, when your

nobles dine on parched beans, and drink the little sour wine of

Ponteseive?’

A kick from a strong foot, that sent it through the parchment of the

drum with a loud report, answered this insolent taunt, and gave the

signal for a general attack. Down went the little wooden edifice, which

embodied the life and fortunes of the Don and the fair Princess

of Cordova; down went the Babbo himself over it, amid a crash of

properties, that created a yell of laughter in the mob. All the varied

insignia of the cunning craft, basins and bladders, juggling sticks,

hoops, and baskets, flew right and left, in wild confusion. Up to this

time Gerald had witnessed the wreck unmoved, his whole care being to

keep the crowd from pressing too rudely upon Marietta, who clung to him

for protection. Indeed, the frantic struggles of old Gaetana, as she

laid about her with her drum-sticks, had already provoked the youth’s

laughter, when, at a cry from the girl, he turned quickly around.

‘Here’s the Princess herself, I ‘ll be sworn,’ said a coarse-looking

fellow, as, seizing Marietta’s arm, he tried to drag her forward.

With a blow of his clenched fist Gerald sent him reeling back, and then,

drawing the short scimitar which he wore as part of his costume, he

swept the space in front of him, while he grasped the girl with his

other arm. So unlooked-for a defiance seemed for an instant to unman

the mob, but the next moment a shower of missiles, the fragments of old

Babbo’s fortune, were showered upon them. Had he been assailed by wild

beasts, Gerald’s assault could not have been more wildly daring: he

cut on every side, hurling back those that rushed in upon him, and even

trampling them beneath his feet.

Bleeding and bruised, half-blinded, too, by the blood that flowed from

a wound on his forehead, the youth still held his ground, not a word

escaping him, not a cry; while the reviling of the mob filled the air

around. At last, shamed at the miserable odds that had so long resisted

them, the rabble, with a wild yell of vengeance, rushed forward in a

mass, and though some of the foremost fell covered with blood, the youth

was dashed to the ground, all eagerly pressing to trample on and crush

him.

‘Over the parapet with him! Into the Arno with them both!’ cried the

mob.

‘Stand back, ye cowardly crew!’ shouted a loud, strong voice, and a

powerful man, with a heavy bludgeon in his hand, burst through the

crowd, felling all that opposed him; a throng of livery servants armed

in the same fashion followed; and the mob, far more in number though

they were, shrank back abashed from the sight of one whose rank and

station might exact a heavy vengeance.

‘It is the Principe. It is the Conte himself,’ muttered one or two, as

they stole off, leaving in a few moments the space cleared of all, save

the wounded and those who had come to the rescue. If the grief of Donna

Gaetana was loudest, the injuries of poor Gerald were the gravest there.

A deep cut had laid open his forehead, another had cleft his shoulder,

while a terrible blow of a stone in the side made his respiration

painful in the extreme.

‘Safe, _Marietta mia_; art safe?’ whispered he, as she assisted him to

rise. ‘My poor boy,’ said the Count compassionately; ‘she is safe, and

owes it all to you. You behaved nobly, lad. The Don himself, with all

his Castitian blood, could not show a more courageous front.’

Gerald looked at the speaker, and whether at the tone of his voice, or

that the words seemed to convey an unseemly jest at such a moment, he

flushed till his cheek was crimson, and drawing himself up said: ‘And

who are you? or by what right do you pronounce upon _my_ blood?’

‘_Gherardi mio, caro fratellino_,’ whispered the girl. ‘It was he that

saved us, and he is a Prince!’

‘For the first, I thank him,’ said the youth. ‘As to his rank, it is his

own affair and not mine.’

‘Well spoken, faith!’ said the noble. ‘I tell thee, Giorgio,’ added he

to a friend at his side, ‘poets may well feel proud, when they see how

the very utterance of their noble sentiments engenders noble thoughts.

Look at that tatterdemalion, and think how came he by such notions.’

The abject expression of Babbo’s gratitude, and the far more

demonstrative enunciations of old Gaetana’s misery, here interrupted the

colloquy. In glowing terms she pictured the calamity that had befallen

them--a disaster irreparable for evermore. Never again would human

ingenuity construct such mechanism as that which illustrated Don

Callemacho’s life. The conjuring tools, too, were masterpieces, not

to be replaced; and as to the drum, no contrivance of mere wood and

ram-skin ever would give forth such sounds again.

‘Who knows, worthy Donna?’ said the Count, with a grave half-smile.

‘Your own art might teach you, that even the great drama of antiquity

has its imitators--some say superiors--in our day.

‘I ‘d say so for one!’ cried Gerald, wiping the blood from his face.

‘Would you so, indeed!’ asked the Count.

‘That would I, so long as glorious Alfieri lives,’ said Gerald

resolutely.

‘What hast thou read of thy favourite poet, boy?’ asked the Count.

‘What have I not?--the Saul, the Agamemnon, Oreste, Maria Stuart.’

‘Ah, Signor Principe, you should hear him in Oreste,’ broke in Gaetana;

‘and he plays a solo on the trombone after the second act: he sets

every ass in the Campagna a-braying, when he comes to one part. Do it,

_Gherardi mio_; do it for his Highness. _Oh me!_ we have no trombone

left us,’ and she burst out into a torrent of grief.

‘Take these people to the inn at the Porta Rossa,’ said the Count to one

of his servants. ‘Let them be well cared for and attended to. Fetch

a surgeon to see this boy. _Adio_, my friends. I ‘ll come and see you

to-morrow, when you are well rested and refreshed.’

In a boisterous profusion of thanks, old Babbo and the Donna uttered

their gratitude, while Gerald and Marietta kissed their benefactor’s

hand, and moved on.

‘He’s a noble Signor,’ muttered old Gaetana; ‘and I’d swear by the

accent of his words he is no Florentine.’

‘Thou art right for once, old lady,’ said the servant, as he led the

way; ‘he’s of the north, and the best blood of Piedmont.’

CHAPTER XV. A TUSCAN POLICE COURT

Long before their generous patron had awoke the following morning, the

little company of Babbo were standing as prisoners in the dread presence

of the Prefetto. Conducted by a detachment of the carabinieri, and

secured with manacles enough to have graced the limbs of galley-slaves,

the _vagabonds_ as they were politely called, were led along through the

streets, amid the jokes and mockeries of a very unsympathising public.

Tuscan justice, we are informed by competent authority, has not made,

either in its essence or externals, any remarkable progress since the

time we are now speaking of. The same ruinous old edifice stands the

Temple of Justice; the same dirt and squalor disgraces its avenues and

approaches; the same filthy mob beset the doors--a ragged mob, in whose

repulsive features a smashed decalogue is marked, amid whom, in hot and

eager haste, are seen some others, a shadow better in dress, but more

degraded still in look--the low advocates of these courts, ‘Cavallochi,’

as they are styled--a class whose lives of ignominy and subornation

would comprise almost every known species of rascality. By these men are

others goaded on and stimulated to prefer claims against the well-to-do

and respectable; by them are charges devised, circumstances invented,

perjuries provided, at the shortest notice. They have their company

of false witnesses ready for any accusation--no impugnment upon their

credit being the fact that they live by perjury, and have no other

subsistence.

Meet president of such a court was the scowling, ill-dressed, and

ill-favoured fellow who, with two squalid clerks at his side, sat judge

of the tribunal. A few swaggering carabinieri, with their carbines on

their arms, moved in and out of the court, buffeting the crowd with

rude gestures, and deporting themselves like masters of the ignoble

herd around them. By these, as it seemed--for all was mere conjecture

here--were the cases chosen for adjudication, the selection of the

particular charges being their especial province. Elbowing their

way through the filthy corridors, where accusers and accused were

inextricably mingled--the prisoner, and the plaintiff, and the witness

all jammed up together, and not unfrequently discussing the vexed

question to be tried with all the virulence of partisans--the

carabiniere makes his choice among these, aided, not impossibly, by

a stimulant, which in Italy has its agency throughout all ranks and

gradations of men.

In this vile assemblage of all that was degrading and wretched our poor

strollers were now standing, their foreign aspect and their title

of vagabonds obtaining for them a degree of notice the reverse of

flattering. Sarcastic remarks upon their looks, their means of life,

and, stranger still, their poverty, abounded; and these from a mob whose

gaunt and famished faces and tattered rags bespoke the last stage of

destitution.

The Babbo, indeed, was a picture of abject misery; bankrupt was written

on every line of his poor old face, through which the paint of forty

years blended with the sickly hues of hunger and fear. He turned upon

the bystanders a glance of mild entreaty, however, that in a less

cruel company could not have failed to meet some success. Not so Donna

Gaetana: _her_ stare was an open defiance, and even through her bleared

eyes there shot sparks of fiery passion that seemed only in search of a

fitting object for their attack.

As for Gerald--his head bound up in a bloody rag, his arm in a sling,

and his face pale as death--he might have disarmed the malice of

sarcasm, had it not been that he held his arm clasped close round

Marietta’s waist, and even thus, in all his misery, seemed to assert

that he was her protector and defender. This was alone sufficient

to afford scope for mockery and derision, the fairer portion of the

audience distinguishing themselves by the pungent sharpness of their

criticisms; and Marietta’s swarthy skin, her tinsel ragged-ness, and her

wild, bold eyes, came in for their share of bitter commentary.

‘What a brazen-faced minx it is!’ cried one.

‘What a young creature to have come to such wickedness!’ exclaimed

another.

‘Look at the roundness of her shape, and you ‘ll see she is not so very

young neither,’ whispered a third.

‘That’s her gypsy blood,’ broke in another. ‘There was one here t’other

day, of thirteen, with an infant at her breast; and, more by token, she

had just put a stiletto into its father.’

‘The ragazza yonder looks quite equal to the same deed,’ observed the

former speaker, ‘if _I_ know anything about what an eye means.’

‘Vincenzio Bombici--where is Vincenzio Bombici?’ cried a surly-looking

brigadier, whose large cooked-hat, set squarely on, increased the

apparent breadth of an immensely wide face.

‘_Ecco mi, Eccelenza!_’ whimpered out a wretched-looking object, who,

with his face bound up, and himself all swathed like Lazarus from the

tomb, came, helped forward by two assistants.

‘Pass in, Vincenzio, and narrate your case,’ said the brigadier, as he

opened a door into the dread chamber of justice.

While public sympathy followed the Signor Bombici into the hall

of justice, fresh expressions of anger were vented on the unhappy

strollers. Any one conversant with Italy is aware that so divided is

the peninsula by national jealousies--feuds that date from centuries

back--the most opprobrious epithet that hate or passion can employ

against any one is to stigmatise him as the native of some other town

or city. And now the mob broke into such gibes as, ‘Accursed Calabrians!

Ah, vile assassins from Capri’--from Corsica, from the Abruzzi; from

anywhere, in short, save the favoured land they stood in. Donna Gaetana

was not one who suffered herself to be arraigned without reply, nor was

she remarkable for moderation in the style and manner of her

rejoinders. With a voluble ribaldry for which her nation enjoys a proud

pre-eminence, she assailed her opponents, one and all. She ridiculed

their pretensions, mocked their poverty, jeered at their cowardice,

and--last insult of all--derided their personal appearance.

Passion fed her eloquence, and the old dame vented upon them insult

after insult with a volubility that was astounding. There is no need to

record the vindictive and indecorous epithets she scattered broadcast

around her; and even as her enemies skulked craven from the field, her

wrathful indignation tracked them as they went, sending words of outrage

to bear them company. The mere numerical odds was strong against her,

and the clamour that arose was deafening, drawing crowds to the doors

and the street in front, and at last gaining such a height as to invade

the sacred precincts of justice, overbearing the trembling accents

of Bombici as lie narrated his tale of woe. Out rushed the valiant

carabinieri with the air of men hurrying to a storm, cleaving their way

through the crowd--striking, buffeting, trampling all before them. At

sight of the governmental power the crowd quailed at once, all save one,

the Donna. Standing to her guns to the last, she now turned her sarcasms

upon the gendarmes, overwhelming them with a perfect torrent of abuse,

and with such success that the mob, so lately the mark of her virulence,

actually shook with laughter at the new victims to her passion. For a

moment discipline seemed like to yield to anger. The warriors appeared

to waver in their impassive valour; but suddenly, with a gleam of wiser

counsel, they formed a semi-circle behind the accused, and marched them

bodily into the presence of the judge.

Justice was apparently accustomed to similar interruptions; at least,

it neither seemed shocked nor disconcerted, but continued to listen with

unbroken interest to Vincenzio Bombici’s sorrows--not, indeed, that he

had arrived at the incident of the night before. Far from it. He was

merely preluding in that fashion which the exactitude of the Tuscan law

requires, and replying to the interesting interrogatories regarding

his former life, so essential to a due understanding of his present

complaint.

‘You are, then, the son of Matteo Friuli Bombici, by his wife

Fiammetta?’ read out the prefect solemnly, from the notes he was taking.

‘No, Eccelenza. She was my father’s second wife. My mother’s name was

Pacifica.’

‘Pacifica,’ wrote the prefect. ‘Daughter of whom?’

‘Of Felice Corsari, tin-worker in the Borgo St. Apostoli.’

‘Not so fast, not so fast,’ interposed the judge, as he took down the

words, and then muttered to himself, ‘in the Borgo St. Apostoli.’

‘My mother was one of eight--three sons and five daughters. The eldest

boy, Onofrio----’

‘Irrelevant, irrelevant; or, if necessary, to be recorded hereafter,’

said the prefect. ‘You were bred and brought up in the Catholic faith!’

‘Yes, Eccelenza. The Prête of San Gaetano has confessed me since I

was eleven years old. I have taken out more than two hundred pauls in

private masses, and paid for three novenas and a plenary, as the Prête

will vouch.’

‘I will note your character in this respect, Vincenzio,’ said the judge

approvingly.

‘They will probably bring up before your worship the story against my

father, that he stole the cloak of the Cancelliere Martelli, when he was

performing the part of Pontius Pilate in the holy mysteries at Sienna;

but we have the documents at home----’

‘Are they registered?’

‘I believe not, Eccelenza.’

‘Are they stamped?’

‘I ‘m afraid not, Eccelenza. The Cavallochio that defended my father

couldn’t write himself, and it was one Leonardo Capprini----’

‘The sausage-maker,’ broke in the judge, with a smack of his lips.

‘The same, Eccelenza; you knew him, perhaps?’

‘Knew him well, and liked his hog’s puddings much.’ Justice seemed half

ashamed at this confession of a weakness, and in a more stern tone, told

him to ‘Go on.’

It was not very easy for honest Vincenzio to know at what part of his

history he was to take up the thread; so he shuffled from foot to foot,

and sighed despondingly.

‘I said “go on,”’ said the judge, more peremptorily than before.

‘I was talking of my father, Eccelenza,’ said he modestly.

‘No, of your good mother Fiammetta,’ said the judge, rather proud of the

accuracy with which he retained the family history.

‘She was my step-mother,’ interposed Vincenzio humbly.

‘Blockheads all!’ broke in old Gaetana, with a hearty laugh.

‘Silence!’ cried the gendarmes, as, with their muskets dropped to the

ground, they made the chamber ring again, while the judge, turning a

glance of darkening anger on the speaker, said: ‘Who is this old woman?’

‘Let _me_ tell him. Let myself speak,’ cried Gaetana, pressing forward,

while the gendarmes, with their instinct as to coming peril, prudently

held her back.

‘So then,’ said the judge, in reply to a whisper of one of his

assistants, ‘she is the principal delinquent’; and referring to the

written charge before him, read out: ‘An infuriated woman, who presided

over the drum.’

‘They smashed it, the thieves!’ cried Gaetana; ‘they smashed my drum;

but, _per Dio_, I beat a roll on their own skulls that astonished them!

They ‘ll not deny that I gave them an ear for music’ And the old hag

laughed loud at her savage jest.

Again was silence commanded, and after some trouble obtained; and

the judge, whose perceptions were evidently disturbed by these

interruptions, betook himself to the pages of the indictment, to refresh

his mind on the case. Muttering to himself the lines, he came to the

words, ‘and with a formidable weapon, of solid wood, with the use of

which long habit had rendered her familiar, and in this wise dangerous,

she, the aforesaid Gaetana, struck, beat, battered, and belaboured----’

‘Didn’t I!’ broke in the hag.

What consequences might have ensued from this last interruption must be

left to mere guess, for the door of the chamber was now opened to its

widest to admit a gentleman, who came forward with the air of one in a

certain authority. He was no other than the Count of the night before,

who had so generously thrown his protection over the strollers.

Advancing to where the Prefetto sat, he leaned one arm on the table,

while he spoke to him in a low voice.

The judge listened with deference and attention, his manner being

suddenly converted into the very lowest sycophancy. When it came to his

turn to speak, ‘Certainly, Signor Conte; unquestionable,’ muttered

he. ‘It is enough that your Excellency deigns to express a wish on the

subject,’ and, with many a bow, he accompanied him to the door. A brief

nod to the youth Gerald was the only sign of recognition he gave, and

the Count withdrew.

‘This case is prorogued,’ said the Prefetto solemnly. ‘The Court will

inform itself upon its merits, and convoke the parties on some future

day.’ And now the gendarmes proceeded to clear the hall, huddling out

together plaintiffs and prisoners and witnesses, all loudly inveighing,

protesting, denouncing, and explaining what nobody listened to or cared

for.

‘_Eh viva!_’ exclaimed old Gaetana, as she reached the open air,

‘there’s more justice here than I looked for.’

CHAPTER XVI. THE POET’S HOUSE

It was late on the evening of the same day that Gerald received a

message to say the Count desired to see him. No little jealousy was

occasioned among his companions by this invitation. The Babbo deemed

that, as ‘Impressario’ of the company, he ought himself to have been

selected. Donna Gaetana was indignant that a mere Giovane was to occupy

the responsible station of representing their dramatic guild; and even

Marietta felt her eyes to swim, as she thought over this mere passing

separation, and in her heart foreboded some ill to come of it. She,

however, did her very best to master these unworthy fears. She washed

the bloody stains carefully off his forehead. She combed and oiled his

long silky hair. She aided him to dress in the one only suit that now

remained of all his wardrobe--a page’s dress of light blue, with

a little scarlet mantle, embroidered in silver, and a small bonnet

surmounted by an ostrich feather. Nor was it without deep shame, and

something very like open rebellion, that Gerald donned these motley

habiliments.

‘The Count has not said that he wants me to exhibit before him--why am I

to masquerade in this fashion?’

‘There is no choice for you between this “tinsel bravery” and the

tattered rags, all blood-stained and torn, you wore last night.’ There

they were, scattered about, the crushed and crumpled hat, the doublet

torn to ribbons, the rapier smashed--all a wreck. ‘No, no, you could

not appear in such a presence in rags like these.’ Still was Gerald

irritated and angry: a sudden sense of shame shot through him as he saw

himself thus alone, which, had the others been joined with him, he had

doubtless never felt; and for the first time his station suggested the

idea of humiliation.

‘I will not go, Marietta,’ said he at last, as he flung himself upon a

chair, and threw his cap to the end of the room. ‘So long as thou wert

with me, sustaining the interest of the scene, replying to my words,

answering every emotion of my heart, I loved Art--I cherished it as the

fairest expression of what I felt, but could not speak. Now, alone and

without thee, it is a mere mockery--it is more, it is a degradation!’

She knelt down beside him and took his hands in hers. She turned her

full, moist eyes toward him, and in broken words besought him not to

speak slightingly of that which bound them to each other, for, ‘If the

day comes, _Gherardi mio_, that thou thinkest meanly of our art, so

surely will come another when thou wilt be ashamed of _me_,’ and she hid

her face on his knees and sobbed bitterly. With what an honest-hearted

sincerity did he swear that such a day could never come, or if it did,

that he prayed it might be his last! And then he ran over, in eager

tones, all that he owed to her teachings. How, but for her, he had not

known the true tenderness of Metastasio, the fervour of Petrarch, or the

chivalry of Ariosto. ‘How much have we found out together we had never

discovered if alone!’

And then they dried their tears; and he kissed her, and set out on his

way.

It was with a look of haughty meaning, almost defiant, that Gerald

ascended the marble stairs and passed between two lines of liveried

servants, who smiled pitifully on the strolling player, nor put the

slightest restraint upon this show of their contempt Fortunately for

him and them he had no time to mark it, for the folding doors suddenly

opening, he found himself in a large chamber, brilliantly lighted, and

with a numerous company assembled. Before the youth had well crossed the

door-sill the Count was at his side, and having kindly taken him by the

hand, expressed a hope that he no longer felt any bad effects of his

late ill-treatment.

Gerald stammered out his acknowledgments, and tried to make some excuses

for his costume, which ended, at last, by the blunt avowal, ‘It was this

or nothing, sir.’

‘The mishap is not without its advantage,’ said the Count, in that calm

voice which, but for a peculiar expression on his mouth when he spoke,

had something almost severe about it. ‘It was the resemblance you bear

to a certain portrait was the reason of my sending for you to-night:

your dress assists the likeness, for, strangely enough, it is of the

very same style and colour as that of the picture. Come forward, and I

will present you to a lady who is curious to see you.’

‘Madame la Duchesse, this is the youth,’ said the Count, as he bowed

before a lady, who was seated in a deep chair, at either side of which

some ladies and gentlemen were standing. She closed her fan and leaned

forward, and Gerald beheld a countenance which, if not beautiful, was

striking enough to be remembered for years after. She was a blonde of

the purest type, with full blue eyes, and masses of light hair, which

in long ringlets descended to her very shoulders; the features

were youthful, though she herself was no longer young; and the same

contradiction existed in their expression, for they were calm, without

softness, and had a fixity almost to sternness, while their colouring

and tint were actually girlish in freshness. There was in her air

and demeanour, too, a similar discordance, for, though with a look of

dignity, her gestures were abrupt, and her manner of speaking hurried.

‘He _is_ like,’ said she, scanning him through her eye-glass. ‘Come

nearer, boy. Yes, strangely like,’ said she, with a smile, rather

indicating sarcasm than courtesy. ‘Let us compare him with the

portrait,’ and she gave her hand languidly, as she spoke, to be assisted

to rise. The Count aided her with every show of deference, respectfully

offering his arm to conduct her; but she declined the attention with a

slight motion of the head, and moved slowly on. As she went, the various

persons who were seated arose, and they who stood in groups talking,

hushed their voices, and stood in a respectful attitude as she passed.

None followed her but the Count and Gerald, who at a signal walked

slowly behind.

After traversing three rooms, whose costly furniture amazed the youth,

they reached a small chamber, where two narrow windows opened upon a

little terrace. A single picture occupied the wall in front of these, to

either side of whose frame two small lamps were attached, with shades so

ingeniously contrived as to throw the light at will on any part of the

painting. The Duchess had seated herself immediately on entering, with

the air of one wearied and exhausted, and the Count occupied himself in

disposing the lamps to most advantage.

‘Stand yonder, boy, and hold your cap in your hand, as you see it in

the portrait,’ and Gerald turned his eyes to the picture, and actually

started at the marvellous resemblance to himself. The figure was that

of a youth somewhat older, perhaps, than himself, dressed in a suit of

velvet, with a deep lace collar and hanging ruffles; the long ringlets,

which fell in profusion on his neck, the expression of the eyes, a look

of sadness not unmixed with something stern, and a haughty gathering of

the lower lip, were all that a painter might have given to Gerald, if

endeavouring to impart to his likeness some few additional traits of

vigour and determination.

‘It is wonderful!’ said the Duchess, after a long pause.

‘So, indeed, it strikes me,’ said the Count. ‘Mark, even to the

flattening of the upper lip, how the resemblance holds.’

‘What age are you--are you a Roman--what is your name?’ asked the

Duchess, in a hurried but careless manner.

‘My name is Fitzgerald. They call me here Gherardi, for some of the race

took that name in Italy.’

‘So that you talk of blood and lineage, boy?’ asked she haughtily.

‘I am of the Geraldines, lady, and they were princes!’ said the boy, as

proudly.

‘Came they from Scotland?’ she asked eagerly. ‘No, madam, they were

Irish.’

‘Irish! Irish!’ muttered she twice or thrice, below her breath; then,

as her eyes caught sight of his features suddenly, she started and

exclaimed: ‘It is nigh incredible! And how came you to Italy?’

With that brevity which distinguished Gerald when speaking of himself,

he told of his having been a scholar with the Jesuits, where some--he

knew not exactly which--of his relatives had placed him.

‘And you left them; how, and wherefore?’ inquired the Duchess.

‘I know not by what right, madam, I am thus questioned. Is it because I

wear such tinsel rags as these?’

‘Bethink you in whose presence you stand, boy?’ said the Count sternly;

‘that lady is one before whom the haughtiest noble is proud to lay his

homage.’

‘Nay, nay,’ broke she in gently, ‘he will tell me all I ask in kindness,

not in fear.’

‘Not in fear, I promise you,’ said he proudly, and he drew himself up to

his highest.

‘Was not that like him!’ exclaimed the Duchess eagerly. ‘It was his

own voice! And what good Italian you speak, boy,’ said she, addressing

Gerald, with a pleasant smile. ‘The Jesuit Fathers have given you the

best Roman accent. Tell me, what were their teachings--what have you

read?’

‘Nothing regularly--nothing in actual study, madam; but, passingly, I

have read, in French, some memoirs, plays, sermons, poems, romances,

and suchlike; in English, very little; and in Italian, a few of the very

good?’

‘Which do you call the very good?’ ‘I call Dante.’

‘So do I.

‘Sometimes I call Tasso, always Ariosto, so.’

She nodded an assent, and told him to continue.

‘Then there is Metastasio.’

‘What say you of him!’ asked the Count.

‘I like him: his rhymes flow gracefully, and the music of his verse

floats sweetly in one’s ear; but then, there is not that sentiment,

that vigorous dash that stirs the heart, like a trumpet-call, such as we

find, for instance, in Alfieri.’

The Duchess smiled assuringly, and a faint, very faint tinge of red

coloured her pale cheek. ‘It appears, then, he is your favourite of them

all?’ said she gently. ‘Can you remember any of his verses!’

‘That can I. I knew him, at one time, off by heart, but somehow, in this

ignoble life of mine, I almost felt ashamed to recite his noble lines

to those who heard me. To think, for example, of the great poet of the

Oreste declaimed before a vile mob, impatient for some buffoonery, eager

for the moment when the jugglery would begin!’

‘But you forget, boy, this is true fame! It is little to the great poet

that he is read and admired by those to whose natures he can appeal by

all the emotions which are common to each--lasting sympathies, whose

dwelling-places he knows; the great triumph is, to have softened the

hearts seared by dusty toil--to have smitten the rock whose water is

tears of joy and thankfulness. Is not Ariosto prouder as his verses

float along the dark canals of Venice, than when they are recited under

gilded ceilings!’

‘You may be right,’ said the boy thoughtfully, as he hung his head; ‘am

I not, myself, a proof of what the bright images of poetry have cheered

and gladdened, out of depths of gloom and wretchedness? Not that I

complain of this life of mine!’ cried he suddenly.

‘Tell us about it, boy; it must present strange scenes and events,’ said

the Count, and, taking Gerald’s arm, he pressed him to a seat beside

him. The Duchess, too, bent on him one of her kindest smiles, so that he

felt encouraged in a moment.

And now Gerald talked away, as only the young can talk about themselves

and their fortunes. Their happy gift it is to have a softly tempered

tint over even their egotism, making it often not ungraceful. He

sketched a picturesque description of the stroller’s life: its freedom

compensating for the hardships; its careless ease recompensing many a

passing mishap; the strange blending of study with little quaint and

commonplace preparation; the mind now charged with bright fancies, now

busy in all the intricacies of costume; the ever-watchful attention to

the taste of that strange public that formed their patron, and who, not

unfrequently wearying of Tasso and Guarini, called loudly for Punch and

his ribaldries. The boy’s account of the Babbo and Donna Gaetana was not

devoid of humour, and he painted cleverly the simple old devotee

giving every spare hour he could snatch to penances for the life he was

leading; while the Donna took the world by storm, and started each

day to the combat, like a soldier mounting a breach. Lastly he came to

Marietta, and then his voice changed, his cheek grew red and white by

turns, and his chest heaved full and short, like one oppressed. He did

not mark the looks of intelligence that passed between the Duchess

and the Count: he never saw how each turned to listen to him with the

self-same expression on their features; he was too full of his theme to

note these things, and yet he could not dilate upon it as he had about

Babbo and the Donna.

‘I saw her,’ said the Count, as Gerald came to a pause. ‘I noticed her

at the court, and she was, indeed, very handsome. Something Egyptian in

the cast of features.’

‘But not a gypsy!’ broke in the boy quickly.

‘No, perhaps not. The eyes and brow resembled the Moorish race--the same

character of fixity in expression. Eyes, that carry--

“‘I tesori d’amore e i suoi nasconde.”’

There was a sly malice in the way the Count led the boy on, opening the

path, as it were, to his enthusiasm, and so artfully, that Gerald never

suspected it.

No longer restrained by fear or chilled by shame, he launched out into

praises of her beauty, her gracefulness, and her genius. He told

the Count that it was sufficient to read for her once over a poem of

Petrarch, and she could repeat it word for word. With the same facility

could she compose music for words that struck her fancy. The silvery

sweetness of her voice--her light and graceful step--the power of

expression she possessed by gesture, look, and mien--he went over all

these with a rapture that actually warmed into eloquence, and they who

listened heard him with pleasure, and encouraged him to continue.

‘We must see your Marietta,’ said the Duchess at last. ‘You shall bring

her here.’

Gerald’s cheek flushed, but whether with shame, or pride, or

displeasure, or all three commingled, it were hard to say. In truth,

many a hard conflict went on within him, when, out of his dream of

art and its triumphs, he would suddenly awake, and bethink him in

what humble estimation men held such as he was; how closely the world

insisted on associating poverty with meanness; and how hopeless were the

task of him who would try to make himself respected in rags.

As these thoughts arose in his mind, he lifted his eyes once more to

the portrait, and in bitterness of heart he felt how little resemblance

there was in the condition of the youth there represented and himself.

‘I see what you are thinking of,’ said the Duchess mildly. ‘Shall I show

you another picture? It is of one you profess to admire greatly--your

favourite poet.’

‘I pray you do, madam. I long to know his features. It is a face I have

painted in fancy often and often.’

‘Tell me, then, how you would portray him,’ said she, smiling.

‘Not regularly handsome; but noble-looking, with the traits of one who

had such vigour of life and mind within, that he lived more for his own

thoughts than the world, and thus would seem proud to sternness. A high,

bold forehead, narrow and indented at the temples, and a deep brow over

two fierce eyes. O! what wildly flashing eyes should Alfieri’s be when

stirred by passion and excitement!’

‘And should you find him different from all this--a man of milder mould,

more commonplace and less vigorous--will you still maintain that faith

in his genius that now you profess?’ said the Count, with slow and quiet

utterance.

‘That will I. How could I, in my presumption, doubt the power that has

moved the hearts of thousands?’

‘Come, then, and look at him,’ said the Duchess, and she arose, and

moved into a room fitted up as a library. Over the chimney was a large

picture, covered by a silk curtain. To this Gerald eagerly turned his

eyes, for he already marked that the gilded eagle that surmounted the

frame held in his beak a wreath of flowers, interwoven with laurel

leaves.

‘One whose enthusiasm equals your own, boy, placed the wreath there, on

the 17th of January last. It was the festa of Vittorio Alfieri,’ said

the Duchess, as she gently pulled the cord that drew back the curtain.

Gerald moved eagerly forward--gazed--passed his hand across his eyes,

as if to dispel a fancy--gazed again and again--and then, turning round,

stood steadfastly staring at the Count himself. A faint, sad smile was

on the calm and haughty face; but, as it passed away, the boy

dropped down upon his knees, and seizing the other’s hand, kissed it

rapturously, as he cried--

‘Oh! that I should have ever known a moment like this! Tell me, I

beseech thee, Signor Conte, is my brain wandering, or are you Alfieri?’

‘Yes, boy,’ said he, with a slight sigh, while he raised him from the

ground, laying one hand gently on his shoulder.

‘It is with reason, boy, you are proud of this event in your life,’ said

the Duchess. ‘The truly great are few in this world of ours; and you now

stand before one whose memory will be treasured when we are all dust.’

The poet did not seem to heed or hear these words, but stood calmly

watching the boy, who continued to turn his eyes alternately from the

picture to the original.

‘I suspect, boy,’ said he, with a smile, ‘that your mind-drawn picture

satisfied you better--is it not so?’

‘O! you who can so read hearts, why will you not interpret mine?’ cried

Gerald, in rapture; for now to his memory in quick succession were

rising the brilliant fancies, the splendid images, the heart-moving

words of one whose genius had been a sort of worship to him.

‘This, too, is fame!’ said the poet, turning to the Duchess.

‘But we are keeping you too long from your guests, madam; and Gherardi

and I will have many an opportunity of meeting. Come up here

to-morrow in the forenoon, and let me talk with you. The youth is more

complimentary to me than was the cardinal yesterday.’

‘What was it that he said?’ asked she.

‘He wondered I should have written the tragedy of “Saul,” since we had

it already in the Bible! To-morrow, Gherardi, about eleven, or even

earlier--_a rivederlo!_’

As with slow steps, half in a dream, and scarce daring to credit

his senses, Gerald moved down the stairs, the poet overtook him, and

pressing a purse into his hand, said--

‘You must have some more suitable dress than this, and remember

to-morrow.’

CHAPTER XVII. A LOVER’S QUARREL

When Gerald found himself once more in his little room at the Porta

Rosa, it was past midnight. He opened his window and sat down at it to

gaze out upon the starry sky and drink in the refreshing night air, but,

more than even these, to calm down the excitement of his feelings, and

endeavour to persuade himself that what he had passed through was not a

dream. It is not easy for those who have access to every grade they wish

in life--who, perhaps, confer honour where they go--to fashion to their

minds the strange, wild conflict that raged within the youth’s heart at

this moment. Little as he had seen of the great poet, he could not help

comparing him with Gabriel, his acquaintance at the Tana. They were

both proud, cold, stern men--strong in conscious power, self-reliant and

daring. Are all men of genius of that stamp, thought Gerald. Are they

who diffuse through existence its most elevating influences, its most

softening emotions--are they hard of mould and stern in character?

Does the force with which they move the world require this impulse of

temperament, as rivers that traverse great continents come down, at

first, from lofty mountains? And if it be so, is not this a heavy price

for which to buy even fame? Then, again, he bethought him, what a noble

gift to bestow must be the affection of such men--how proud must be

they who owned their love or shared their friendship! While he was thus

musing a round, warm arm clasped his neck, and Marietta sat down beside

him. She had waited hours for his return, and now stole gently to his

room to meet him.

‘I could not sleep till I had seen you, _caro_,’ said she fondly. ‘It

seemed as if in these few hours years had separated us.’

‘And if they had, Marietta, they could scarcely have brought about

anything stranger. Guess where I have been--with whom I have passed this

entire evening?’

‘How can I? Was he a prince?’

‘Greater than any prince.’

‘That must mean a king, then.’

‘Kings die, and a few lines chronicle them; but I speak of one whose

memory will be graven in his language, and whose noble sentiments will

be texts to future generations. What think you of Alfieri?’

‘Alfieri!’

‘Himself. He was the Count who rescued us from the mob, and with him

I have passed the hours since I saw you. Not that I ever knew nor

suspected it, Marietta: if I had, I had never dared to speak as I did

about ourselves and our wayward lives in such a presence. I had felt

these themes ignoble.’

‘How so?’ cried she eagerly. ‘You have ever told me that art was an

ennobling and a glorious thing; that after those whose genius embodied

grand conceptions, came he who gave them utterance. How often have you

said, the poet lives but half in men’s hearts whose verses have not

found some meet interpreter; with words like these have you stimulated

me to study, and now----’

‘And now,’ said he, sighing drearily, ‘I wake to feel what a mere

mockery it is:

‘“Tra l’ombra è bella L’istessa stella

Che in faccia del sole Non si mirô.”

Ah, _Marietta mia_, he who creates is alone an artist!’

The girl bent her head upon her bosom, and while her long waving curls

fell loosely over him, she sobbed bitterly. Gerald clasped her closer to

his heart, but never spoke a syllable.

‘I ever thought it would be so,’ murmured she at last: ‘I felt that

in this sense of birth and blood you boasted of, would one day come a

feeling of shame to be the companion of such as me. It is not from art

itself you turn away, it is the company of the strolling actor that you

shun.’

‘And who or what am I that I should do so?’ said Gerald boldly. ‘When,

or where, have I known such happiness as with you, Marietta? Bethink you

of the hours we have passed together, poring over these dear old books

there, enriching our hearts with noble thoughts, and making the poet the

interpreter between us? Telling, too, in the fervour we spoke his lines,

how tenderly we felt them; as Metastasio says:

‘“And as we lisped the verse along,

Learning to love.”’

‘And now it is over,’ said she, with a sigh of deep despondency.

‘Why so? Shall I, in learning to know the great and the illustrious--to

feel how their own high thoughts sway and rule them--be less worthy of

your love? The poet told me, to-night, that I declaimed his lines well;

but who taught me to feel them, _Marietta mia!_’ And he kissed her

cheek, bathed as it was and seamed with, hot tears. Again he tried to

bring back the dream of the past, and their oft-projected scheme

of life; but he urged the theme no longer as of old; and even when

describing the world they were about to fly from, his words trembled

with the emotion that swelled in his heart. In the midst of all these

would he break off suddenly with some recollection of Alfieri, who

filled every avenue of his thoughts: his proud but graceful demeanour,

his low, deep-toned voice, his smile so kind and yet so sad withal; a

gentleness, too, in his manner that invited confidence, seemed to dwell

in Gerald’s memory, and shed, as it were, a soft and pleasing light over

all that had passed.

‘And I am to see him again to-morrow, Marietta,’ continued he proudly;

‘he is to take me with him to the Galleries. I am to see the Pitti and

the Offizzi, where in the Tribune the great triumphs of Raffael are

placed, and the statue of Venus, too: he is to show me these, and the

portraits of all the illustrious men who have made Italy glorious.

How eager I am to know how they looked in life, and if their features

revealed the consciousness of the fame they were to inherit! And when I

come back at night to thee, Marietta, how full shall I be of all these,

and how overjoyed if I can pour into your heart the pleasures that swell

in my own! Is it not good, dearest, that I should go forth thus to bring

back to you the glad tidings of so many beautiful things--will you not

be happier for _yourself_, prouder in _me_? Will it not be better to

have the love of one whose mind is daily expanding, straining to greater

efforts, growing in knowledge and gaining in cultivation? Shall I not be

more worthy of _you_ if I win praise from others? And I am resolved to

do this, Marietta. I will not be satisfied to be ever the mean, ignoble

thing I now am.’

‘Our life did not seem so unworthy in your eyes a day or two ago,’

said she sighing. ‘You told me, as we came up the Val d’Arno, that our

wandering, wayward existence had a poetry of its own that you loved

dearly. That to you ambition could never offer a path equal to that

wayside rambling life, over whose little accidents the softening

influences of divine verse shed their mild light, so that the ideal

world dominated the actual.’

‘All these will I realise, but in a higher sphere, Marietta. The great

Alfieri himself told me that a life without labour is an ignominy and a

shame. That he who strains his faculties to attain a goal is nobler far

than one whose higher gifts lie rusting in disuse. Man lives not for

himself, but for his fellows, said he, nor is there such incarnate

selfishness as indolence.’

‘And where, and how, and when is this wondrous life of exertion to be

begun?’ said she half-scornfully. ‘Can the great poet pour into your

heart out of the fulness of his own, and make you as he is? Or are you

suddenly become rich and great, like _him_?’

The youth started, and an angry flush covered his face, and even his

forehead, as he arose and walked the room.

‘I see well what is working within you,’ said the girl. ‘The contrast

from that splendour to this misery--these poor bleak walls, where no

pictures are hanging, no gilding glitters--is too great for you. It is

the same shock to your nature as from the beautiful princess in whose

presence you stood to that humble bench beside _me_.’

‘No, by Heaven! Marietta,’ cried he passionately, ‘I have not an

ambition in my heart wherein your share is not allotted. It is that you

may walk with me to the goal----’

A scornful gesture of disbelief, one of those movements which, with

Italians, have a significance no words ever convey, interrupted his

protestation.

‘This is too bad!’ he cried; ‘nor had you ever conceived such distrust

of me if your own heart did not give the prompting. There, there,’ cried

he, as he pointed his finger at her, while her eyes flashed and sparkled

with a wild and lustrous expression, ‘your very looks betray you.’

‘Betray me! this is no betrayal,’ said she haughtily. ‘I have no shame

in declaring that I too covet fame, even as you do. Were some mighty

patron to condescend to favour _me_--to fancy that _I_ resembled, I know

not what great personage--to imagine that in _my_ traits of look and

voice theirs were reflected, it is just as likely I should thank fortune

for the accident, and bid adieu to _you_, as you intend, to-morrow or

next day, to take leave of _me_.’

She spoke boldly and defiantly, her large, full eyes gazing at his with

a steadfast and unflinching look, while Gerald held down his head in

sorrow and in shame.

Nor was it alone with himself that Gerald was at war, for Marietta had

shocked and startled him by qualities he had never suspected in her.

In her passion she had declared that her heart was set upon ambitions

daring as his own; and, even granting that much of what she said was

prompted by wounded pride, there was in her wildly excited glances

and her trembling lips the sign of a temperament that knew little

of forgiveness. If he was then amazed by discovering Marietta to be

different from all he had ever seen her, he was more in love with her

than ever.

She had opened the window, and, with her face between her hands, gazed

out upon the silent street. Gerald took his place at her side, and thus

they remained for some time without a word. A low, faint sigh at last

came from the girl, and, placing his arm around her, Gerald drew her

gently to him, murmuring softly in her ear:

‘L’onda che mormora,

Tra sponda e sponda;

L’aura che tremola,

Tra fronda e fronda.

E meno instabile,

Del vostro cor.’

She never spoke, but, averting her head still farther from him, screened

herself from his view. At last a low, soft murmuring broke from her

lips, and she sang, in accents scarcely above her breath, one of those

little native songs she was so fond of. It was a wild but plaintive air,

sounding like the wayward cadences of one who left her fancy free to

give music to the verse, each stanza ending with the words:

‘Non ho più remi,

Non ho più vele,

E al silo talento

Mi porta il mar.’

With a touching tenderness that thrilled through Gerald’s heart she

sung, with many a faltering accent, and in a tremulous tone, the simple

words:

‘In a lone, frail hark, forsaken,

I float on a nameless sea,

Nor care to what morrow I waken;

I drift where the waves bear me.

‘I look not up to the starry sky,

For I have no course to run,

Nor eagerly wait, as the dawn draws nigh,

To watch for the rising sun.

‘For noon is drear as the night to me,

To-day is as dark as to-morrow:

Forsaken, I float on the nameless sea,

To think and weep over my sorrow.*

‘Oh, Marietta, if thou wouldst not wring my heart, do not sing that sad

air,’ cried Gerald, pressing her tenderly to him. ‘I bore it ill in our

happiest hours, when all went well and hopefully with us.’

‘It bettor suits the present, then,’ said she calmly; then added, with a

sudden energy--‘at all events, it suits my humour!’

‘Thou wouldst break with me, then, Marietta?’ said Gerald, relaxing his

hold on her, and turning his eyes fully upon her face.

‘Look down there,’ cried she, pointing with her finger: ‘that street

beneath us is narrow enough, but it has two exits: why shouldn’t _you_

take one road, and _I_ the other?’

‘Agreed: so be it, then!’ said Gerald passionately, ‘only remember,

this project never came from _me_.’

‘If there be blame for it, I accept it all,’ said she calmly. ‘These

things come ever of caprice, and they go as they come. As your own poet

has it:

‘“Si sente che diletta Ma non si sa perché.”’

And with a cold smile and a light motion of the hand, as in adieu, she

turned away and left the room. Gerald buried his face between his

hands and sobbed as though his heart was breaking. Alternately accusing

Marietta and himself of cruelty and injustice, his mind was racked by a

conflict, to which nothing offered consolation.

He tried to compose himself to sleep: he lay down on his bed, and

endeavoured in many ways to induce that calm spirit which leads to

slumber; he even murmured to himself the long-forgotten litanies he had

learned, as a student, in the college; but the fever that raged within

defied all these attempts, and, foiled in his efforts, he arose and left

the house. The day was just dawning, and a pinkish streak of sky could

be seen over the mountains of Vail’ Ombrosa, while all the vale of the

Arno and Florence itself lay in deep shadow, the great ‘Duomo’ and the

tall tower at its side not yet catching the first gleam of the rising

sun.

Gerald left the gates of the city, and strode on manfully till he gained

the crest of the ‘Bello Sguardo,’ whence the view of the city and its

environs is peculiarly fine. Here he sat down to gaze on the scene

beneath him; that wondrous map, whose history contains records of

mingled greatness, crime, genius, noble patriotism, and of treachery so

base that all Europe cannot show its equal; and thus gazing, and thus

musing, he sank into deep sleep.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE DROP

The morning was already far advanced and the sun high when Gerald awoke.

The heavy dews had penetrated his frail clothing and chilled him, while

the hot gleam of the sun glowed fiercely on his face and temples. He was

so confused besides, by his dream and by the objects about him, that he

sat vainly endeavouring to remember how and why he had come there.

One by one, like stragglers falling into line, his wandering faculties

came back, and he bethought him of the poet’s house, Alfieri himself,

the Duchess, and lastly, of his quarrel with Marietta--an incident

which, do what he might, seemed utterly unaccountable to him. If he felt

persuaded that he was in the right throughout, the persuasion gave him

no pleasure--far from it. It had been infinitely easier for him now, if

he had wronged her, to seek her forgiveness, than forgive himself for

having offended her. She, so devoted to him! She, who had taken such

pains to teach him all the excellences of the poets she loved; who had

stored his mind with Petrarch, and filled his imagination with Ariosto;

who taught him to recognise in himself feelings, and thoughts, and

hopes akin to those their heroes felt, and thus elevated him in his own

esteem. And what a genius was hers!--how easily she adapted herself to

each passing mood, and was gay or sorrowful, volatile or passionate, as

fancy inclined her. How instinctively her beautiful features caught up

the expression of each passion; how wild the transports of her joy; how

terrible the agonies of her hatred!

With what fine subtlety, too, she interpreted all she read, discovering

hidden meanings, and eliciting springs of action from words apparently

insignificant; and then her memory, was it not inexhaustible? An image,

a passing simile from a poet she loved, was enough to bring up before

her whole cantos; and thus, stored with rich gems of thought, her

conversation acquired a grace and a charm that were actual fascination.

And was he now to tear himself away from charms like these, and for

ever, too? But why was she displeased with him? how had he offended

her? Surely it was not the notice of the great poet had awakened her

jealousy; and yet, when she thought over her own great gifts, the many

attractions she herself possessed--claims to notice far greater than

his could ever be--Gerald felt that she might well have resented this

neglect.

‘And how much of this is my own fault?’ cried he aloud. ‘Why did I not

tell the poet of her great genius? Why not stimulate his curiosity

to see and hear her? How soon would _he_ have recognised the noble

qualities of her nature!’

Angry with himself, and eager to repair the injustice he had done, he

arose and set out for the city, resolved to see Alfieri, and proclaim

all Marietta’s accomplishments and talents.

‘He praised _me_ last night,’ muttered he, as he went along; ‘but what

will he say of _her_? She shall recite for him the “Didone,” the lines

beginning,

‘“No! sdegnata non sono!”

If his heart does not thrill as he listens, he is more or less than man!

He shall hear, too, his own “Cleopatra” uttered in accents that he never

dreamed of. And then she shall vary her mood, and sing him one of ter

Sicilian barcarolles, or dance the Tiranna. Ah, Signor Poeta,’ said he

aloud, * even thy lofty imagination shall gain by gazing upon one gifted

and beautiful as she is.’

When Gerald reached the Roman gate he found a large cavalcade making its

exit through the deep archway, and the crowd, falling back, made way for

the mounted party. Upward of twenty cavaliers and ladies rode past, each

mounted and followed by a numerous suite, whose equipment proclaimed

the party to be of rank and consideration. As Gerald stood aside to make

place for them to pass, a pair of dark eyes were darted keenly toward

him, and a deep voice called out:

‘There’s my Cerretano, that I was telling you about! Gherardi, boy, what

brings thee here?’

Gerald looked up and saw it was the poet who addressed him; but before

he could summon courage to answer, Alfieri said:

‘Thou didst promise to be with me this morning early, and hast forgotten

it all, not to say that thou wert to equip thyself in something more

suitable than this motley. Never mind, come along with us. Cesare, give

him your pony; he is quiet and easy to ride. Fair ladies all,’ added he,

addressing the party, ‘this youth declaims the verse of Alfieri as such

a great poet merits. _Gherardi mio_, this is a public worthy of thy best

efforts to please. Get into the saddle; it’s the surest, not to say the

pleasantest, way to jog toward Parnassus!’

Gerald was not exactly in the mood to like this bantering; he was ill at

ease with himself, and not over well satisfied with the world at large,

and he had half turned to decline the poet’s invitation, when a gentle

voice addressed him, saying:

‘Pray be my cavalier, Signorino; you see I have none.’

‘Not ours the fault, Madame la Marquise,’ quickly retorted Alfieri;

‘you rejected us each in turn. Felice was too dull, Adriano too lively,

Giorgio was vain, and I--I forget what I was.’

‘Worst of all, a great genius in the full blaze of his glory. No; I ‘ll

take Signor Gherardi--that is, if he will permit me.’

Gerald took off his cap and bowed deeply in reply; as he lifted his head

he beheld for the first time the features of her who addressed him. She

was a lady no longer young, past even the prime of life, but retaining

still something more than the traces of what had once been great beauty:

fair brown hair, and blue eyes shaded by long dark lashes, preserved to

her face a semblance of youthfulness; and there was a coquetry in her

riding-dress--the hat looped up with a richly jewelled band, and the

front of her habit embroidered in gold--which showed that she maintained

pretensions to be noticed and honoured.

As Gerald rode along at her side, she drew him gradually and easily into

conversation, with the consummate art of one who had brought the gift to

high perfection. She knew how to lead a timid talker on, to induce him

to venture on opinions, and even try and sustain them. She understood

well, besides, when and how, and how far, to offer a dissent, and at

what moments to appear to yield convictions to another. She possessed

all that graceful tact which supplies to mere chit-chat that much

of epigram that elevates, without pedantry; a degree of point that

stimulates, yet never wounds.

‘The resemblance is marvellous!’ whispered she to Alfieri, as he chanced

to ride up beside her; ‘and not only in look, but actually in voice, and

in many a trick of gesture.’

‘I knew you ‘ll see it!’ cried the poet triumphantly.

‘And can nothing be known about his history? Surely we could trace him.’

‘I like the episode better as it is,’ said he carelessly. ‘Some vulgar

fact might, like a rude blow, demolish the whole edifice one’s fancy had

nigh completed. There he stands now, handsome, gifted, and a mystery.

What could add to the combination?’

‘The secret of an illustrious birth,’ whispered the Marquise.

‘I lean to the other view. I ‘d rather fancy nature had some subtle

design of her own, some deep-wrought scheme to work out by this strange

counterfeit.’

‘Yes, Gherardi,’ as the youth looked suddenly around; ‘yes, Gherardi,’

said she, ‘we were talking of you, and of your likeness to one with whom

we were both acquainted.’

‘If it be to that prince whose picture I saw last night,’ replied he,

‘I suspect the resemblance goes no further than externals. There can be,

indeed, little less like a princely station than mine.’

‘Ah, boy!’ broke in the poet, ‘there will never be in all your history

as sad a fate as has befallen him.’

‘I envy one whose fortune admits of reverses!’ said Gerald peevishly.

‘Better be storm-tossed than never launched.’

‘I declare,’ whispered the Marquise, ‘as he spoke there, I could have

believed it was Monsieur de Saint George himself I was listening to.

Those little wayward bursts of temper----’

‘Summer lightnings,’ broke in Alfieri.

‘Just so: they mean nothing, they herald nothing:

‘“They flash like anger o’er the sky,

And then dissolve in tears.”’

‘True,’ said the poet; ‘but, harmless as these elemental changes seem,

we forget how they affect others--what blights they often leave in their

track:

‘“The sport the gods delight in

Makes mortals grieve below.”’

‘It was Fabri wrote that line,’ said Gerald, catching at the quotation.

‘Yes, Madame la Marquise,’ said Alfieri, answering the quickly darted

glances of the lady’s eyes, ‘this youth has read all sorts of authors.

A certain Signor Gabriel, with whom he sojourned months long in the

Maremma, introduced him to Voltaire, Diderot, and Rousseau: his own

discursive tastes added others to the list.’

‘Gabriel! Gabriel! It could not be that it was----’ and here she bent

over and whispered a word in Alfieri’s ear.

A sudden start and an exclamation of surprise burst from the poet.

‘Tell us what your friend Gabriel was like.’

‘I can tell you how he described himself,’ said Gerald. ‘He said he was:

“Un sanglier marqué de petite vérole.”’

‘Oh, then, it was he!’ exclaimed the Marquise. ‘Tell us, I pray you, how

fortune came to play you so heartless a trick as to make you this man’s

friend?’

Half reluctantly, almost resentfully, Gerald replied to this question by

relating the incidents that had befallen him in the Maremma, and how

he had subsequently lived for months the companion of this strange

associate.

‘What marvellous lessons of evil, boy, has he not instilled into

you! Tell me frankly, has he not made you suspectful of every

one--distrusting all friendship, disowning all obligations, making

affection seem a mockery, and woman a cheat?’

‘I have heard good and bad from his lips. If he spoke hastily of the

world at times, mayhap it had not treated him with too much kindness.

Indeed he said as much to me, and that it was not his fault that he

thought so meanly of mankind.’

‘What poison this to pour into a young heart!’ broke in Alfieri. ‘The

cattle upon the thousand hills eat not of noxious herbage; their better

instincts protect them, even where seductive fruits and flowers woo

their tastes. It is man alone is beguiled by false appearances, and this

out of the very subtlety of his own nature. The plague-spot of the heart

is distrust!’

‘These are better teachings, boy, than Signor Gabriel’s,’ said the lady.

‘You know him, then?’ asked Gerald.

‘I have little doubt that we are speaking of the same person; and if so,

not I alone, but all Europe knows him.’

Gerald burned to inquire further, to know who and what this mysterious

man was, how he had earned the terrible reputation that attended him,

and what charges were alleged against him. He could not dare, however,

to put questions in such a presence, and he sat moodily thinking over

the issue.

Diverging from the high-road, they now entered a pathway which led

through the vineyards and the olive groves, and, being narrow, Gerald

found himself side by side with the Marquise, without any other near.

Here, at length, his curiosity mastered all reserve, and plucking up

courage for the effort, he said--

‘If my presumption were not too bold, madame, I would deem it a great

favour to be permitted to ask you something of this Signor Gabriel. I

know and feel that, do what I will, reason how I may, reject what I can,

yet still his words have eaten down deep into my heart; and if I cannot

put some antidote there against their influence, that they will sway me

even against myself,’

‘First, let me hear how he represented himself to you. Was he as a good

man grossly tricked and cheated by the world, his candour imposed on,

his generosity betrayed? Did he picture a noble nature basely trifled

with?’

‘No, no,’ broke in Gerald; ‘he said, indeed, at first he felt disposed

to like his fellow-men, but that the impulse was unprofitable; that the

true philosophy was unbelief. Still he avowed that he devoted himself to

every indulgence; that happiness meant pleasure, pleasure excess;

that out of the convulsive throes of the wildest debauchery, great and

glorious sensations, ennobling thoughts spring--just as the volcano in

full eruption throws up gold amid the lava: and he bade me, if I would

know myself, to taste of this same existence.’

‘Poor boy, these were trying temptations,’

‘Not so,’ broke in Gerald proudly; ‘I wanted to be something better and

greater than this,’

‘And what would you be?’ asked the Marquise, as she turned a look of

interest on him.

‘Oh, if a heart’s yearning could do it,’ cried Gerald warmly, ‘I would

be like him who rides yonder; I would be one whose words would give

voice to many an unspoken emotion--who could make sad men hopeful, and

throw over the dreariest waste of existence the soft, mild light of

ideal happiness.’

She shook her head, half-sorrowfully, and said, ‘Genius is the gift

of one, or two, or three, in a whole century!’ ‘Then I would be a

soldier,’ cried the boy; ‘I would shed my blood for a good cause. A

stout heart and a strong arm are not rare gifts, but they often win rare

honours.’

‘Count Alfieri has been thinking about you,’ said she, in a tone half

confidential. ‘He told me that, if you showed a disposition for it, he

would place you at the University of Sienna, where you could follow your

studies until such time as a career should present itself.’

‘To what do I owe this gracious interest in my fate, lady?’ asked he

eagerly. ‘Is it my casual resemblance to the prince he was so fond of?’

‘So fond!’ exclaimed she; then, as quickly correcting herself, she

added: ‘No, not altogether that--though, perhaps, the likeness may have

served you,’

‘How kind and good of him to think of one so friendless!’ muttered

Gerald, half aloud.

‘Is the proposal one you would like to close with? Tell me frankly,

Gherardi, for we are speaking now in all frankness!’

‘Perhaps I may only lose another friend if I say no!’ said he timidly;

and then, with bolder accents, added: ‘Let me own it, madame, I have no

taste for study--at least such studies as these. My heart is set upon

the world of action: I would like to win a name, no matter how brief the

time left me to enjoy it.’

‘Shall I tell you _my_ plan--’

‘_Yours!_’ broke he in. ‘Surely you too have not deigned to remember me?’

‘Yes; the Count interested me strongly in you. This morning we talked

of little else at breakfast, and up to the moment we overtook you at the

gate. His generous ardour in your behalf filled me with a like zeal, and

we discussed together many a plan for your future; and mine was, that

you should enter the service of the King----’

‘What King?’

‘What other than the King of France, boy, the heir of St. Louis?’

‘He befriended the cause of Charles Edward, did he not?’ asked Gerald

eagerly.

‘Yes,’ said she, smiling at the ardour with which he asked the question.

‘Do you feel deep interest in the fortunes of that Prince?’

The youth clasped his hands together and pressed them to his heart,

without a word.

‘Your family, perhaps, supported that cause?’

‘They did, lady. When I was an infant, I prayed for its success; as I

grew older, I learned to sorrow for its failure.’

There was something so true and so natural in the youth’s expression as

he spoke, that the Marquise was touched by it, and turned away her head

to conceal her emotion.

‘The game is not played out yet, boy,’ said she at last; ‘there are

great men, and wise ones too, who say that the condition of Europe, the

peace of the world, requires the recognition of rights so just as those

of the Stuarts. They see, too, that in the denial of these claims the

Church is wounded, and the triumph of a dangerous heresy proclaimed. Who

can say at what moment it may be the policy of the Continent to renew

the struggle?’

‘Oh, speak on, lady: tell me more of what fills my heart with highest

hope,’ exclaimed he rapturously. ‘Do not, I beseech you, look on me as

the poor stroller, the thing of tinsel and spangles, but as one in whose

veins generous blood is running. I am a Géraldine, and the Geraldines

are all noble.’

The sudden change in the youth’s aspect, the rich, full tones of his

voice, as, gaining courage with each word, he asserted his claim to

consideration, seemed to have produced an effect upon the Marquise, who

pondered for some time without speaking.

‘Mayhap, lady, I have offended you by this rash presumption,’ said

Gerald, as he watched her downcast eyes and steadfast expression; ‘but

forgive me, as one so little skilled in life, that he mistakes gentle

forbearance for an interest in his fortunes.’

‘But I _am_ interested in you, Gherardi; I _do_ wish to befriend you.

Let me hear about your kith. Who are these Geraldines you speak of?’

‘I know not, lady,’ said he, abashed; ‘but from my childhood I was

ever taught to believe that, wherever my name was spoken, men would

acknowledge me as noble.’

‘And from whom can we learn these things more accurately? have you

friends or relations to whom we could write?’

Just as she spoke, the head of the cavalcade passed beneath a deep

gateway into the court of an ancient palace, and the echoing sounds

of the horses’ feet soon drowned the voices of the speakers. ‘This is

“Camerotto,” an old villa of the Medici,’ whispered the Marquise.

‘We have come to see the frescoes; they are by Perugino, and of great

repute.’

The party descended, and entering the villa, wandered away in groups

through the rooms. It was one of those spacious edifices which were

types of mediaeval life, lofty, splendid, but comfortless. Dropping

behind the well-dressed train as they passed on, Gerald strayed alone

and at will through the palace, and at last found himself in a small

chamber, whose one window looked out on a deep and lonely valley. The

hills which formed the boundaries were arid, stony, and treeless,

but tinted with those gorgeous colours which, in Italian landscape,

compensate in some sort for the hues of verdure, and every angle and

eminence on them were marked out with that peculiar distinctness which

objects assume in this pure atmosphere. The full blaze of a noonday sun

lit up the scene, where not a trace of human habitation nor a track of

man’s culture could be seen for miles.

‘My own road in life should lie along that glen,’ said Gerald dreamily,

as he leaned out of the window and gazed on the silent landscape, and

soon dropped into a deep reverie, when past, present, and future were

all blended together. The unbroken stillness of the spot, the calm

tranquillity of the scene, steeped his spirit in a sort of dreamy

lethargy, scarcely beyond the verge of sleep itself. To his half-waking

state his restless night contributed, and hour by hour went over

unconsciously: now muttering verses of his old convent hymns, now

snatches of wild peasant legends, his mind lost itself in close-woven

fancies.

Whether the solitary tract of country before him was a reality or a mere

dreamland, he knew not. It needed an effort to resume consciousness, and

that effort he could not make; long fasting, too, lent its influence to

increase this state, and his brain balanced between fact and imagination

weariedly and hopelessly. At moments he fancied himself in some palace

of his ancestors, dwelling in a high but solitary state; then would

he suddenly imagine that he was a prisoner, confined for some great

treason--he had taken arms against his country--he had adhered to a

cause, he knew not what or whose, but it was adjudged treasonable. Then,

again, it was a monastery, and he was a novice, waiting and studying

to assume his vows; and his heart struggled between a vague craving

for active life and a strange longing for the deathlike quiet of the

cloister.

From these warring fancies he started suddenly, and, passing his hand

across his forehead, tried to recall himself to reason. ‘Where am

I?’ exclaimed he, and the very sound of his own voice, echoed by the

deep-vaulted room, almost affrighted him. ‘How came I here?’ muttered

he, hoping to extricate himself from the realm of fancy by the utterance

of the words. He hastened to the door, but the handle was broken and

would not turn; he tried to burst it open, but it was strong and firm as

the deep wall at either side of it; he shouted aloud, he beat loudly on

the oaken panels, but though the deep-arched ceiling made the noise seem

like thunder, no answer was returned to his call. He next turned to the

window, and saw to his dismay that it was at a great height from the

ground, which was a flagged terrace beneath. He yelled and cried at

the very top of his voice; he waved his cap, hoping that some one at a

distance might catch the signal; but all in vain. Wearied at last by all

his attempts to attract notice, he sat moodily down to think over his

position and devise what was to be done. Wild thoughts flashed at times

across him--that this was some deep-laid scheme to entrap him; that

he had been enticed here that he might meet his death without marks of

violence; that, somehow, his was a life of consequence enough to provoke

a crime. The Prince that he resembled had some share in it--or Marietta

had vowed a vengeance--or the Jesuit Fathers had sent an emissary to

despatch him. What were not the wild and terrible fancies that filled

his mind: all that he had read of cruel torturings, years’ long

suffering, lives passed in dreary dungeons, floated mistily before

him, till reason at last gave way, and he lost himself in these sad

imaginings.

The ringing of a church bell, faint and far away as it sounded, recalled

him from his dreamings, and he remembered it was the ‘Angelus,’ when

long ago he used to fall into line, and walk along to the chapel of the

college. ‘That, too, was imprisonment,’ thought he, but how gladly would

he have welcomed it now! He leaned from the window to try and make out

whence the sounds came, but he could not find the spot. He fancied he

could detect something moving up the hillside, but a low olive scrub

shaded the path, and it was only as the branches stirred that he

conjectured some one was passing underneath. The copse, however,

extended but a short way, and Gerald gazed wistfully to see if anything

should emerge from where it finished. His anxiety was intense as he

waited; a feverish impatience thrilled through him, and he strained his

eyes until they ached.

At last a long shadow was projected-on the road; it was broken,

irregular, and straggling. It must be more than one--several--a

procession, perhaps, and yet not that--there was no uniformity in it. He

leaned out as far as he could venture. It was coming. Yes, there it was!

A donkey with heavy panniers at his side, driven by an old man; a woman

followed, and after her a girl’s figure. Yes, he knew them and her now!

It was the Babbo! and there was Marietta herself, with bent-down head,

creeping sadly along, her arms crossed upon her breast, her whole air

unspeakably sad and melancholy. With a wild scream Gerald called to them

to turn back, that he, their companion, their comrade, was a captive. He

shouted till his hoarse throat grew raw with straining, but they heard

him not.

A deep, narrow gorge lay between them, with a brawling rivulet far

below, and though the boy shouted with all his might, the voice never

reached them. There they walked along up the steep path, whither to,

he knew not. That they meant to desert him was, however, clear enough.

Already in that far-away land to which they journeyed no part was

assigned him. And Marietta!--she to whom he had given his heart, she

whom he bound up with all his future fortunes--she to leave him thus

without a word of farewell, without one wish to meet again, without one

prayer for his welfare! Half-maddened with grief and rage--for in his

heart now each sentiment had a share--he sprang wildly to the window,

and gazed downward at the terrace. Heaven knows what terrible thoughts

ebbed and flowed within him as he looked! Life had little to attract

him to it; his heart was well-nigh broken; a reckless indifference was

momentarily gaining on him; and he crept farther and farther out upon

the window-sill, till he seemed almost to hang over the depth beneath

him. He wanted to remember a prayer, to recall some words of a litany

he had often recited, but in his troubled brain, where confusion reigned

supreme, no memory could prevail; thoughts came and went, clashing,

mingling, conflicting, like the storm-tossed sea in a dark night, and

already a stupid and fatalist indifference dulled his senses, and one

only desire struggled with him--a wish for rest!

Once more, with an effort, he raised his eyes toward the mountain side.

The little procession was still ascending, and nigh the top. At a short

distance behind, however, he could see Marietta standing and looking

apparently toward Florence. Was it that she was thus taking a last

farewell of him, muttering, among some broken words of affection, some

blessing upon him! A sudden thrill of joy--it was hope--darted through

him as he gazed; and now bending over, he perceived that the steep wall

beneath the window was broken by many a projection and architrave, the

massive pediment of a large window projecting far, about six feet from

where he sat. Could he gain this he might descend by the column which

supported it, and reach a great belt of stonework that ran about fifteen

feet from the ground, and whence he might safely venture to drop. If

there was peril to life in every step of this dangerous exploit, there

was, in the event of success, a meeting once more with Marietta--a

meeting never to part again. Whatever the reasons for having deserted

him he was determined to overbear. Some one must have calumniated him:

he would meet the slander. Marietta herself would do him justice; he

would soon show her that the passing vision of ambition had no hold upon

his heart, that he only cared for her, wished for nothing beyond their

own wayward life. As he thus reasoned, he tore his mantle into long

strips, which he twisted and knotted together, testing its strength till

assured that it would bear his weight. He then fastened one end to

the window-bars, and grasping the cord in both hands, he prepared to

descend. Could he but gain the pediment in this wise, the rest of the

descent would not be difficult.

With one fervent prayer to Her whose protection he had learned to

implore from very infancy, he glided softly from the window-sill and

began the descent. For a second or two did he grasp the stone ledge with

both hands, as if fearing to loose his hold, but at length, freeing one

hand and then the other, he gave himself up to the cord. Scarcely had

his full weight straightened the rope than the frail texture began to

give way; a low sound, as of the fibres tearing, met his ear, and just

as his feet touched the pediment the rope snapped in two, and the shock

throwing him off his balance, he swayed forward. One inch more and his

fate was certain; but his body recovered its equipoise, and he came

back to the wall, where he stood motionless, and almost paralysed with

terror. The ledge on which he stood, something less than two feet in

width, was slightly sloped from the wall, and about forty feet from

the ground. To crouch down upon this now and reach the column which

supported it» was his next task, nor was it till after a long struggle

with himself that he could once again peril life by such an attempt.

By immense caution he succeeded in so bending down that he at last

gained a sitting position on the ledge, and then, with his face to

the wall, he glided over the pediment and grasped one of the columns.

Slipping along this, he arrived at the window-sill, from which the drop

to the ground was all that now remained. Strange was it that this latter

and easier part of all the danger affrighted him more than all he had

gone through. It was as if his overtasked courage was exhausted; as

though the daring energy had no more supplies to draw upon; for there

he sat, hopelessly gazing at the ground beneath, unable to summon

resolution to attempt it.

The brief season between day and dark, the flickering moments of

half-light passed away, and a night calm and starlit spread over the

scene. Except the wild and plaintive cry of an owl from an ivy-clad

turret above him, not a sound broke the stillness, and there Gerald sat,

stunned and scarce conscious. As darkness closed round him, and he could

no longer measure the distance to the ground beneath, the peril of his

position became more appalling, and he felt like one who must await the

moment of an inevitable and dreadful fate. Already a sense of weariness

warned him that at the slightest stir he might lose his balance, and

then what a fate--mutilation perhaps, worse than any death! If he could

maintain his present position till day broke, it was certain he must be

rescued. Solitary as was the spot, some one would surely pass and see

him, but then, if overcome by fatigue, sleep should seize him--even now

a dreary lassitude swept over him: oftentimes his eyes would close, and

fancies flit across him, that boded the approach of slumber! Tortured

beyond endurance by this long conflict with his fears, he resolved, come

what might, to try his fate, and, with a shrill cry for mercy upon his

soul, he dropped from the ledge.

When the day broke he was there beneath the window, his forehead

bleeding and his ankle broken. He had tried to move, but could not,

and he waited calmly what fate might befall him. He was now calm and

self-confident. The season of struggle was over; the period of sound

thought and reflection had begun.

CHAPTER XIX. THE PLAN

When one looks back upon the story of his life, he is sure to be struck

by the reflection, that its uneventful periods, its seasons of seeming

repose, were precisely those which tended most to confirm his character.

It is in solitude--in the long watches of a voyage at sea--in those

watches more painful still, of a sick-bed, that we make up our account

with ourselves, own to our short-comings, and sorrow over our faults.

The mental culture that at such seasons we pursue, is equally certain

to exercise a powerful influence on us. Out of the busy contest of

life--removed, for the moment, from its struggles and ambitions--the

soil of our hearts is, as it were, fresh turned, and rapidly matures

the new-sown seed we throw upon it. How many date the habits of

concentration, by which they have won success in after-life, to the

thoughtful hours of a convalescence. It is not merely that isolation

and quiet have aided their minds; there is much more in the fact that at

such times the heart and the brain work together. Every appeal to reason

must be confirmed by a judgment in the higher court of the affections,

and out of our emotions as much as out of our convictions do we bend

ourselves to believe.

How fresh and invigorated do we come forth from these intervals of

peace! less confident, it may be, of ourselves, but far more trustful of

others--better pleased with life, and more sanguine of our fellow-men.

And no matter how often we may be deceived or disappointed, no matter

how frequently our warmest affections have met no requital, let us

cherish this hopeful spirit to the last--let us guard ourselves against

doubting! There is no such bankruptcy of the heart as distrust.

Gerald was for weeks long a sufferer on a sick-bed. In a small room of

the villa, kindly cared for, all his wants supplied by the directions of

his wealthy friends, there he lay, pondering over the wayward accident

of his life, and insensibly feeding his heart with the conviction that

Fate, which had never failed to befriend him in difficulty, had yet some

worthy destiny in store for him. He read unceasingly, and of everything.

The Marquise constantly sent him her books, and what now interested him

no less, the newspapers and pamphlets of the time. It was the first real

glimpse he had obtained of the actual world about him; and with avidity

he read of the ambitions and rivalries which disturbed Europe--the

pretensions of this State, the fears and jealousies of that. Stored as

his mind was with poetic images, imbued with a rapturous love for the

glowing pictures thus presented, he yet hesitated to decide whether the

life of action was not a higher and nobler ambition than the wondrous

dreamland of imagination.

In the convent Gerald’s mind had received its first lessons of religion

and morality. His sojourn at the Tana had imparted his earliest advances

into the world of knowledge through books, and now his captivity at

the ‘Camerotto’ opened to him a glance of the real world, its stirring

scenes, its deep intrigues, and all the incidents of that stormy sea

on which men charter the vessels of their hope. Was it that he forgot

Marietta? Had pain and suffering effaced her image; had ambition

obliterated it? No; she was ever in his thoughts--the most beautiful and

most gifted creature he had ever seen. If he read, it was always with

the thought, what would she have said of it? If he sank into a reverie,

she was the centre round which his dreams revolved. Her large, mild

eyes, her glowing cheek, her full lips, tremulous with feeling, were

ever before him; and what would he not have given to be her companion

again, wandering the world; blending all that was fascinating in poetic

description with scenes wayward enough to have been conjured up by

fancy! Why had they deserted him? he asked himself over and over. Had

the passing dispute with Marietta determined her to meet him no more?

And if so, what influence could she have exercised over the others to

induce them to take this step? There was but one of whom he could hope

to gain this knowledge--Alfieri himself, whose generosity had succoured

them, and in the few and brief moments of the poet’s visit to the villa

he had not courage to venture on the question.

The Marquise came frequently to see him, and seemed pleased to talk

with him, and lighten the hours of his solitude by engaging him in

conversation. Dare he ask her? Could he presume to inquire, from one

so high-born and so great what had befallen his humble comrades of the

road? How entreat her to trace their steps, or to learn their plans? Had

she, indeed, seen Marietta, there would have been no difficulty in the

inquiry. Who could have beheld her without feeling an interest in her

fate? Brief, however, as had been his intercourse with great people, he

had already marked the tone of indolent condescension with which they

treated the lives of the very poor. The pity they gave them cost no

emotion: if they sorrowed, it was with a grief that had no pang. Their

very generosity had more reference to their own sensations than to the

feelings of those they befriended. Already, young as he was, did he

catch a glimpse of that deep gulf that divides affluence from misery,

and in the bitterness of his grief for her who had left him, he

exaggerated the callousness of the rich and the sufferings of the poor.

Every comfort was supplied to him, all that care could bestow, or

kindness remember, was around him; and yet, why was it his gratitude

flowed not in a pure, unsullied stream, but came with uncertain gushes,

fitfully, unequally; now sluggish, now turbid; clogged with many a foul

weed, eddying with many an uncertain current!

The poison Gabriel had instilled into his heart, if insufficient to kill

its nobler influences, was yet enough to render them unsound. The great

lesson of that tempter was to ‘distrust,’ never to accept a benefit

in life without inquiring what subtle design had prompted it, what

deep-laid scheme it might denote. ‘None but a fool bestows without

an object,’ was a maxim he had often heard from his lips. Not all the

generosity of the youth’s nature--and it was a noble one--could lessen

the foul venom of this teaching! To reject it seemed like decrying the

wisdom of one who knew life in all its aspects. How could he, a mere

boy, ignorant, untravelled, unlettered, place his knowledge of mankind

in competition with that of one so universally accomplished as Gabriel?

His precepts, too, were uttered so calmly, so dispassionately--a tone

of regret even softened them at times, as though he had far rather have

spoken well and kindly of the world, if truth would have suffered him.

And then he would insidiously add: ‘Don’t accept these opinions, but go

out and test them for yourself. The laboratory is before you, experiment

at your will.’ As if he had not already put corruption in the crucible,

and defiled the vessel wherein the ore should be assayed!

For some days Gerald had seen neither the Count nor the Marquise. A

brief note, a few lines, from the latter, once came to say that they

continued to take an interest in his welfare, and hoped soon to see him

able to move about and leave his room; but that the arrival of a young

relative from Rome would probably prevent her being able to visit the

Camerotto for some time.

‘They have grown weary of the pleasure of benevolence,’ thought Gerald

peevishly; ‘they want some other and more rewarding excitement. The

season of the Carnival is drawing nigh, and doubtless fêtes and theatres

will be more gratifying resources than the patronage of such as I.’

It was in a spirit resentful and rebellious that he arose and dressed

himself. The very clothes he had to wear were given him--the stick he

leaned on was an alms; and his indignation scoffed at his mendicancy, as

though it were a wrong against himself.

‘After all,’ said he mockingly, ‘if it were not that I chanced to

resemble some dear prince or other, they had left me to starve. I wonder

who my prototype may be: what would he say if I proposed to change

coats with him? Should I have more difficulty in performing the part of

prince, or he that of vagabond?’

In resentful reflections like this he showed how the seeds of Gabriel’s

teaching matured and ripened in his heart, darkening hope, stifling even

gratitude. To impute to mere caprice, a passing whim, the benevolence of

the rich was a favourite theory of Gabriel; and if, when Gerald listened

first to such maxims, they made little or no impression upon him, now,

in the long silent hours of his solitude, they came up to agitate and

excite him. One startling illustration Gabriel had employed, that would

occur again and again to the boy’s mind, in spite of himself.

‘These benefactors,’ said he, ‘are like men who help a drowning swimmer

to sustain himself a little longer: they never carry him to the shore.

Their mission is not rescue, it is only to prolong a struggle, to

protract a fate.’

The snow lay on the Apennines, and even on the lower hills around

Florence, ere Gerald was sufficiently recovered to move about his room.

The great dreary house, silent and tenantless, was a dominion over which

he wandered at will, sitting hours long in contemplation of frescoed

walls and ceilings, richly carved architraves, and finely chiselled

traceries over door and window. Had they who reared such glorious

edifices left no heirs nor successors behind them? Why were such

splendours left to rot and decay? Why were patches of damp and mildew

suffered to injure these marvellous designs? Why were the floors

littered with carved and golden fretwork? What new civilisation

had usurped the place of the old one, that men preferred lowly

dwellings--tasteless, vulgar, and inconvenient--to those noble abodes,

elegant and spacious ‘Could it possibly be that the change in men’s

minds, the growing assertion of equality, had tended to suppress

whatever too boldly indicated superiority of station? Already

distinctions of dress were fading away. The embroidered jabot, the rich

falling ruffle, the ample peruke, and the slashed and braided coat, were

less and less often seen abroad. A simpler and more uniform taste in

costume began to prevail, the insignia of rank were seldom paraded in

public, and even the liveries of the rich displayed less of costliness

and show than in times past. Over and over had Gabriel directed

the youth’s attention to these signs, saying, with his own stern

significance--

‘You will see, boy, that men will not any longer wait for equality till

the churchyard.’

Was the struggle, then, really approaching?--were the real armies,

indeed, marshalling their forces for the fight? And if so, with which

should he claim brotherhood? His birth and blood inclined him to the

noble, but his want and destitution gave him common cause with the

miserable.

It was a dreary day of December, a low, leaden sky, heavily charged

with rain or snow, stretched over a landscape inexpressibly sad and

wretched-looking. The very character of Italian husbandry is one to add

greatly to the rueful aspect of a day in winter: dreary fields of

maize left to rot on the tall stalks; scrubby olive-trees, in all

the deformity of their leafless existence; straggling vine branches,

stretching from tree to tree, or hanging carelessly about--all these

damp and dripping, in a scene desolate as a desert, with no inhabitants,

and no cattle to be seen.

Such was the landscape that Gerald gazed on from a window, and, weary

with reading now, stood long to contemplate.

‘How little great folk care for those seasons of gloom!’ thought he.

‘Their indoor life has its thousand resources of luxury and enjoyment:

their palaces stored with every appliance of comfort for them--pictures,

books, music--all that can charm in converse, all that can elevate by

taste about them. What do they know of the trials of those who plod

heavily along through mire and rain, weary, footsore, and famishing?’

And Marietta rose to his mind, and he pictured her toiling drearily

along, her dress draggled, her garments dripping. He thought he could

mark how her proud look seemed to fire with indignation at an unworthy

fate, and that a feverish spot on her cheek glowed passionately at the

slavery she suffered. ‘And why am I not there to share with her these

hardships?’ cried he aloud. ‘Is not this a coward’s part in me to sit

here in indolence, and worse again, in mere dependence? I am able to

travel: I can, at least, crawl along a few miles a day; strength will

come by the effort to regain it. I will seek her through the wide

world till I find her. In her companionship alone has my heart ever met

response, and my nature been understood.’

A low, soft laugh interrupted these words. He turned, and it was the

Abbé Girardon, a friend of the Marquise de Bauffremont’s, who always

accompanied her, and acted as a sort of secretary in her household.

There was a certain half-mocking subtlety, a sort of fine raillery in

the manner of the polished Abbé which Gerald always hated; and never

was he less in the humour to enjoy the society of one whom even friends

called ‘malin.’

‘I believed I was alone, sir,’ said Gerald, half haughtily, as the other

continued to show his whole teeth in ridicule of the youth’s speech.

‘It was chance gave me the honour of overhearing you,’ replied the Abbé,

smiling. ‘I opened this door by mere accident, and without expecting to

find you here.’

Gerald’s cheek grew crimson. The exceeding courtesy of the other’s

manner seemed to him a studied impertinence, and he stared steadfastly

at him, without knowing how to reply.

‘And yet,’ resumed the Abbé, ‘it was in search of you I came out from

Florence this dreary day. I had no other object, I assure you.’

‘Too much honour, Monsieur,’ said Gerald, with a haughty bend of the

head; for the raillery, as he deemed it, was becoming insupportable.

‘Not but the tidings I bear would reward me for even a rougher journey,’

said the Abbé courteously. ‘You are aware of the deep interest the

Marquise de Bauffremont has ever taken in your fortunes. To her care and

kindness you owe, indeed, all the attentions your long illness stood in

need of. Well, her only difficulty in obtaining a career for you was

her inability to learn to what rank in life to ascribe you. You believed

yourself noble, and she was most willing to accept the belief. Now, a

mere accident has tended to confirm this assumption.’

‘Let me hear what you call this accident, Monsieur l’Abbé,’ broke in

Gerald anxiously.

‘It was an observation made yesterday at dinner by Sir Horace Mann.

In speaking of the Geraldines, and addressing Count Gherardini for

confirmation, he said: “The earldom of Desmond, which is held by a

branch of the family, is yet the youngest title of the house.” And the

Count answered quickly: “Your Excellency is right; we date from a long

time back. There ‘s an insolent proverb in our house that says, ‘_Meglio

un Gherardini bastardo che un Corsini ben nato_.’” Madame de Bauffremont

caught at the phrase, and made him repeat it. In a word, Monsieur, she

was but too happy to avail herself of what aided a foregone conclusion.

She wished you to be noble, and you were so.’

‘But I am noble!’ cried Gerald boldly. ‘I want no hazards like these

to establish my station. Let them inquire how I am enrolled in the

college.’

‘Of what college do you speak?’ asked the Abbé quickly.

‘It matters not,’ stammered out Gerald, in confusion at thus having

betrayed himself into a reference to his past. ‘None have the right to

question me on these things.’

‘A student enrolled with his due title,’ suggested the wily Abbé,

‘would at once stand independent of all generous interpretation.’

‘You will learn no more from _me_, Monsieur l’Abbé,’ said the youth

disdainfully. ‘I shall not seek to prove a rank from which I ask to

derive no advantage. They called me t’other day, at the tribunal, a

“vagabond”: that is the only title the law of Tuscany gives me.’

The Abbé, with a tact skilled to overcome far greater difficulties,

strove to allay the youth’s irritation, and smooth down the asperity

which recent illness, as well as temperament, excited, and at last

succeeded so far that Gerald seated himself at his side, and listened

calmly to the plan which the Marquise had formed for his future life. At

some length, and with a degree of address that deprived the subject

of anything that could alarm the jealous susceptibility of the boy’s

nature, the Abbé related that a custom prevailed in certain great houses

(whose alliances with royalty favoured the privilege) of attaching to

their household young cadets of noble families, who served in a capacity

similar to that of courtier to the person of the king. They were

‘gentlemen of the presence,’ pages or equerries, as their age or

pretensions decided; and, in fact, from the followers of such houses

as the De Rohan, the Noailles, the Tavannes, and the Bauffre-mont, did

royalty itself recruit its personal attendants. Monsieur de Girardon was

too shrewd a reader of character not to perceive that any description

of the splendours and fascinations of a life of voluptuous ease would

be less captivating to such a youth than a picture of a career full of

incident and adventure, and so he dwelt almost exclusively on all that

such a career could offer of high ambition, the army being chiefly

officered by the private influence of the great families of France.

‘You will thus,’ said he, at the close of a clever description; ‘you

will thus, at the very threshold of life, enjoy what the luckiest rarely

attain till later on--the choice of what road you will take. If the

splendour of a court life attract you, you can be a courtier; if the

ambitions of statesmanship engross your mind, you are sure of office; if

you aspire to military glory, here is your shortest road to it; or if,’

said he, with a graceful melancholy, ‘you can submit yourself to be a

mere guest at the banquet of life, and never a host--one whose place

at the table is assigned him, not taken by right--such, in a word, as

I am--why, then, the Abbé‘s frock is an easy dress, and a safe passport

besides.’

With a sort of unintentional carelessness, that seemed frankness itself,

the Abbé glided into a little narrative of his own early life, and how,

with a wide choice of a career before him, he had, half in indolence,

half in self-indulgence, adopted the gown.

‘Stern thinkers call men like me mere idlers in the vineyard, drones

in the great human hive: but we are not; we have our uses just as every

other luxury. We are to society what the bouquet is to the desert; our

influence on mankind is not the less real, that its exercise attracts

little notice.’

‘And what am I to be, what to do?’ asked Gerald proudly.

‘Imagine the Marquise de Bauffremont to be Royalty, and you are

a courtier; you are of her household, in attendance on her great

receptions; you accompany her on visits of ceremony--your rank securing

you all the deference that is accorded to birth, and admission to the

first circles in Paris.’

‘Is not this service menial?’ asked he quickly.

‘It is not thus the world regards it. The Melcours, the Frontignards,

the Montrouilles are to be found at this moment in these ranks.’

‘But they are recognised by these very names,’ cried Gerald; ‘but who

knows _me_, or what title do _I_ bear?’

‘You will be the Chevalier de Fitzgerald; the Marquise has influence

enough at court to have the title confirmed. Believe me,’ added he,

smiling blandly, ‘everything has been provided for--all forethought

taken already.’

‘But shall I be free to abandon this--servitude’ (the word would out,

though he hesitated to utter it)--‘if I find it onerous or unpleasant?

Am I under no obligation or pledge?’

‘None; you are the arbiter of your own fortune at any moment you wish.’

‘You smile, sir, and naturally enough, that one poor and friendless as

I am should make such conditions; but remember, my liberty is all my

wealth--so long as I have that, so long am I master of myself: free to

come and go, I am not lost to self-esteem. I accept,’ and so saying, he

gave his hand to the Abbé, who pressed it cordially, in ratification of

the compact.

‘You will return with me to Florence, Monsieur le Chevalier,’ said the

Abbé, rising, and assuming a degree of courteous respect which Gerald at

once saw was to be his right for the future.

BOOK THE SECOND

CHAPTER I. THE ‘SALLE DES GARDES’

In a large salon of the palace at Versailles, opening upon a terrace,

and with a view of the vast forest beneath it, were assembled a number

of officers, whose splendid uniforms and costly equipments proclaimed

them to be of the bodyguard of the king. They had just risen from table,

and were either enjoying their coffee in easy indolence, gathered in

little knots for conversation, or arranging themselves into parties for

play.

The most casual glance at them would have shown what it is but fair

to confess they never sought to conceal--that they were the pampered

favourites of their master. It was not alone the richness of their

embroidered dress, the boundless extravagance that all around them

displayed, but, more than even these, a certain air of haughty

pretension, the carriage and bearing of a privileged class, proclaimed

that they took their rank from the high charge that assigned them the

guard of the person of the sovereign.

When the power and sway of the monarchy suffered no check--so long as

the nation was content to be grateful for the virtues of royalty,

and indulgent to its faults--while yet the prestige of past reigns of

splendour prevailed, the ‘Garde du Corps’ were great favourites with

the public: their handsome appearance, the grace of their horsemanship,

their personal elegance, even their very waste and extravagance had its

meed of praise from those who felt a reflected pride from the glittering

display of the court. Already, however, signs of an approaching

change evidenced themselves: a graver tone of reprehension was used

in discussing the abandoned habits of the nobility; painfully drawn

pictures of the poor were contrasted with the boundless waste of

princely households; the flatteries that once followed every new caprice

of royal extravagance, and which imparted to the festivities of the

Trianon the gorgeous colours of a romance, were now exchanged for bare

recitals, wherein splendour had a cold and chilling lustre. If the

cloud were no bigger than a man’s hand, it was charged with deadliest

lightning.

The lack of that deference which they had so long regarded as their

due, made these haughty satraps but haughtier and more insolent in their

manner toward the citizens. Every day saw the breach widen between them;

and what formerly had been oppression on one side and yielding on the

other, were now occasions of actual collision, wherein the proud soldier

was not always the victor. If the newspapers were strong on one side,

the language of society was less measured on the other. The whole tone

of conversation caught its temper from the times; and ‘the bourgeois’

was ridiculed and laughed at unceasingly. The witty talker sought no

other theme; the courtly epigrammatist selected no other subject; and

even royalty itself was made to laugh at the stage exhibitions of those

whose loyalty had once, at least, been the bulwark of the monarchy.

In the spacious apartment already mentioned, and at a small table before

an open window, sat a party of three, over their wine. One was a tall,

spare, dark-complexioned man, with something Spanish in his look, the

Duc de Bourguignon, a captain in the Garde; the second was a handsome

but over-conceited-looking youth, of about twenty-two or three, the

Marquis de Maurepas. The third was Gerald, or as he was then and there

called, Le Chevalier de Fitzgerald. Though the two latter were simple

soldiers, all their equipment was as costly as that of the officer

at their side. As little was there any difference in their manner of

addressing him. Maurepas, indeed, seemed rather disposed to take the

lead in conversation, and assumed a sort of authority in all he said, to

which the Duke gave the kind of assent usually accorded to the ‘talkers

by privilege.’ The young Marquis had all the easy flippancy of a

practised narrator, and talked like one who rarely fell upon an

unwilling audience.

‘It needs but this, Duke,’ said he, after a very energetic burst of

eloquence; ‘it needs but this, and our corps will be like a regiment of

the line.’

‘_Parbleu!_’ said the Duke, as he stroked his chin with the puzzled

air of a man who saw a difficulty, but could not imagine any means of

escape.

‘I should like to know what your father or mine would have said to such

pretension,’ resumed the Marquis. ‘You remember what the great monarch

said to Colonna, when he asked a place for his son?--“You must ask

Honoré if he has a vacancy in the kitchen!” And right, too. Are we to be

all mixed up together! Are the employments of the State to be filled by

men whose fathers were lackeys! Is France going to reject the traditions

that have guided her for centuries?’

‘To what is all this apropos, Gaston!’ asked Fitzgerald calmly.

‘Haven’t you heard that M. Lescour has made interest with the king to

have his son appointed to the Garde?’

‘And who is M. Lescour?’

‘I ‘ll tell you what he is, which is more to the purpose: he himself

would be puzzled to say who. M. Lescour is a fermier-general--very rich,

doubtless, but of an origin the lowest.’

‘And his son?’

‘His son! What do I know about his son? I conclude he resembles his

father: at all events, he cannot be one of us.’

‘Pardon me if I am not able to see why,’ said Gerald calmly. ‘There is

nothing in the station of a fermier-general that should not have opened

to his son the approach to the very highest order of education, all that

liberal means could bestow----’

‘But, _mon cher_, what do we care for all that? We want good blood and

good names among our comrades; we want to know that our friendships and

our intimacies are with those whose fathers were the associates of our

fathers. Ask the Duke here, how he would fancy companionship with the

descendants of the rabble. Ask yourself, is it from such a class you

would select your bosom friends?’

‘Grant all you say to be correct: is not the king himself a good judge

of those to whom he would intrust the guardianship of his person?’

interposed Gerald. ‘The annals of the world have shown that loyalty and

courage are not peculiar to a class.’

‘A’nt they--_parbleu!_’ cried Maurepas. ‘Why, those sentiments are

worthy of the Rue Montmartre. Messieurs,’ added he, rising, and

addressing the others, scattered in groups through the room,

‘congratulate yourselves that the enlightened opinions of the age have

penetrated the darkness of our benighted corps. Here is the Chevalier de

Fitzgerald enunciating opinions that the most advanced democracy would

be proud of.’

The company thus addressed rose from their several places and came

crowding around the table where the three were seated. Gerald knew not

very accurately the words he had just uttered, and turned from one

face to the other of those around to catch something like sympathy

or encouragement in this moment of trial, but none such was there.

Astonishment and surprise were, perhaps, the most favourable among the

expressions of those who now regarded him.

‘I was telling the Duc de Bourguignon of the danger that impended

our corps,’ began Maurepas, addressing the company generally. ‘I was

alluding to what rumour has been threatening us with some time back,

the introduction into the Garde of men of ignoble birth. I mentioned

specifically one case, which, if carried through, dissolves for ever the

prestige of that bond that has always united us, when our comrade here

interposes and tells me that the person of his Majesty will be as safe

in the guardianship of the vile “Koturier” as in that of our best and

purest blood. I will not for an instant dispute with him as to

knowledge of the class whose merits he upholds.’ A faint murmur, half

astonishment, half reproof, arose throughout the room at these words;

but Gerald never moved a muscle, but sat calm and still awaiting the

conclusion of the speech.

‘I say this without offence, resumed Maurepas, who quickly saw that

he had not the sympathy of his hearers in his last sally; ‘without

the slightest offence, for, in good truth, I have no acquaintanceship

outside the world of my equals. Our comrade’s views are doubtless,

therefore, wider and broader; but I will also say that these used not to

be the traditions of our corps, and that not only our duty, but our very

existence, was involved in the idea that we were a noble guard.’

‘Well said!’ ‘True!’ ‘Maurepas is right!’ resounded through the room.

‘We are, then, agreed in this,’ resumed Maurepas, following up his

success with vigour; ‘and there is only one among us who deems that the

blood of the plebeian is wanting to lend us chivalry and devotion.’

‘Shame! shame!’ cried several together, and looks of disapprobation were

now turned on Fitzgerald.

‘If I have unintentionally misrepresented the Chevalier,’ resumed

Maurepas, ‘he is here to correct me.’

Gerald arose, his face crimson, the flush spreading over his forehead

and his temples. There was a wild energy in his glance that showed the

passion that worked within him; but though his chest heaved with high

indignation and his heart swelled, his tongue could not utter a word,

and he stood there mute and confounded.

‘There, there--enough of it!’ exclaimed an old officer, whose venerable

appearance imparted authority to his words. ‘The Chevalier retracts, and

there is an end to it.’

‘I do not. I withdraw nothing--not a syllable of what I said,’ cried

Gerald wildly.

‘It is far better thus, then,’ cried Maurepas; ‘let the corps decide

between us.’

‘Decide what,’ exclaimed Gerald passionately. ‘Monsieur de Maurepas

would limit the courage and bravery of France to the number of those who

wear our uniform. I am disposed to believe that there are some hundreds

of thousands just as valiant and just as loyal who carry less lace on

their coats, and some even----’ here he stopped confused and abashed,

when a deep voice called out--

‘And some even who have no coats at all. Is it not so you would say,

Chevalier?’

‘I accept the words as my own, though I did not use them,’ cried Gerald

boldly.

‘There is but one explanation of such opinions as these,’ broke in

Maurepas; ‘the Chevalier de Fitzgerald has been keeping other company

than ours of late.’

Gerald rose angrily to reply, but ere he could utter a word an arm was

slipped within his own, and a deep voice said--

‘Come away from this--come to my quarters, Gerald, and let us talk over

the matter.’ It was Count Dillon, the oldest captain of the corps, who

spoke, and Gerald obeyed him without a word of remonstrance.

‘Don’t you perceive, boy,’ said the Count, as soon as they reached the

open air, ‘that we Irish are in a position of no common difficulty here?

They expect us to stand by an order of nobility that we do not belong

to. To the king and the royal family you and I will be as loyal and true

as the best among them; but what do we care--what can we care--for the

feuds between noble and bourgeois? If this breach grows wider every day,

it was none of our making; as little does it concern us how to repair

it.’

‘I never sought for admission into this corps,’ said Gerald angrily.

‘Madame de Bauffremont promised me my grade in the dragoons, and then

I should have seen service. Two squadrons of the very regiment I should

have joined are already off to America, and instead of that, I am here

to lounge away my life, less a soldier than a lackey!’

‘Say nothing to disparage the Garde, young fellow, or I shall forget

we are countrymen,’ said Dillon sternly; and then, as if sorry for the

severity of the rebuke, added, ‘Have only a little patience, and you can

effect an exchange. It is what I have long desired myself.’

‘You too, Count?’ cried Gerald eagerly.

‘Ay, boy. This costly life just suits my pocket as ill as its indolence

agrees with my taste. As soldiers, we can be as good men as they,

but neither you nor I have three hundred thousand livres a year, like

Maurepas or Noailles. We cannot lose ten rouleaux of Louis every evening

at ombre, and sleep soundly after; our valets do not drink Pomard at

dinner, nor leave our service rich with two years of robbery.’

‘I never play,’ said Gerald gravely.

‘So I remarked,’ continued Dillon; ‘you lived like one whose means did

not warrant waste, nor whose principles permitted debt.’

By this time they had reached a small pavilion in the wood, at the door

of which a sentry was stationed.

‘Here we are,’ cried Dillon; ‘this is my quarter: come up and see how

luxuriously a Chef d’Escadron is lodged.’

Nothing, indeed, could be more simple or less pretentious than the

apartment into which Gerald was now ushered. The furniture was of a dark

nut-wood, and the articles few and inexpensive.

‘I know you are astonished at this humble home. You have heard many a

story of the luxury and splendour of the superior officers of our corps,

how they walk on Persian carpets and lounge on ottomans covered with

Oriental silks. Well, it’s all true, Gerald; the only exception is this

poor quarter before you. I, too, might do like them. I might tell the

royal commissary to furnish these rooms as luxuriously as I pleased. The

civil list never questions or cavils--it only pays. Perhaps, were I a

Frenchman born, I should have little scruple about this; but, like you,

Fitzgerald, I am an alien--only a guest, no more.’

The Count, without summoning a servant, produced a bottle and glasses

from a small cupboard in the wall, and drawing a table to the window,

whence a view extended over the forest, motioned to Gerald to be seated.

‘This is not the first time words have passed between you and Maurepas,’

said Dillon, after they had filled and emptied their glasses.

‘It happens too frequently,’ said Gerald, with warmth. ‘From the day I

bought that Limousin horse of his we have never been true friends.’

‘I heard as much. He thought him unrideable, and you mounted him on

parade, and that within a week.’

‘But I offered to let him have the animal back when I subdued him. I

knew what ailed the horse; he wanted courage--all his supposed vice was

only fear.’

‘You only made bad worse by reflecting on Maurepas’s riding,’ said

Dillon, smiling.

‘_Par Dieu!_ I never thought of that,’ broke in Fitzgerald.

‘Then there was something occurred at court, wasn’t there?’

‘Oh, a mere trifle. He could not dance the second figure in the minuet

with the Princesse de Clèves, and the Queen called me to take his

place.’

‘Worse than the affair of the horse, far worse,’ muttered Dillon;

‘Maurepas cannot forgive you either.’

‘I shall assuredly not ask him, sir,’ was the prompt rejoinder.

‘And then you laughed at his Italian, didn’t you? The “Nonce” said that

you caught him up in a line he had misquoted.’

‘He asked me himself if he were right, and I told him he was not; but I

never laughed at his mistake.’

‘They said you did, and that the Princesse de Lamballe made you repeat

the story. No matter, it was still another item in the score he owes

you.’

‘I am led by these remarks of yours to suppose that you have latterly

bestowed some interest in what has befallen me, Count: am I justified in

this belief?’

‘You have guessed aright, Fitzgerald. Thirty-eight years and seven

months ago I entered this service, knowing less of the world than you

do now. So little aware was I what was meant by a provocation, that I

attributed to my own deficiency in the language and my ignorance of life

what were intended as direct insults. They read me differently, and went

so far as to deliberate whether I ought not to be called on to leave

the corps. This at last aroused my indolence. I fought four of them one

morning, and three the next--two fell fatally wounded. I never got but

this--and he showed a deep scar on the wrist of his sword-arm. ‘From

that time I have had no trouble.’

‘And this is an ordeal I must pass also, said Gerald calmly.

‘I scarcely know how it is to be avoided, nor yet complied with. The

king has declared so positively against duelling, that he who sends a

challenge must consent to forgo his career in the service.’

‘But, surely, not he who only accepts a provocation?’

‘That is a difficulty none seems to have answered. Many think that all

will be treated alike--the challenger and the challenged, and even the

seconds. My own opinion is different.’

‘It is not impossible, then, that M. de Maurepas desired to push me to

demand satisfaction,’ said Gerald slowly, for the light was beginning to

break upon his mind.

Dillon nodded in silence.

‘And _you_ saw this, Count?’

Another nod was the reply.

‘And, doubtless, the rest also?’

‘Doubtless!’ said Dillon slowly.

Fitzgerald leaned his head on his hand, and sat in deep reflection for

some time.

‘This is a puzzle,’ said he at last. ‘I must be frank with you, Count

Dillon. Madame de Bauffremont cautioned me, on my entrance into the

corps, against whatever might involve me in any quarrel. There are

circumstances, family circumstances, which might provoke publicity, and

be painful--so, at least, she said--to others, whose fame and happiness

should be dearer to me than my own. Now, I know nothing of these. I only

know that there are no ties nor obligations which impose the necessity

of bearing insult. If you tell me, then, that Maurepas seeks a quarrel

with me, that he has been carrying a grudge against me for weeks back,

I will ask of you--and, as my countryman, you ‘ll not refuse me--to call

on him for satisfaction.’

‘It can’t be helped,’ said Dillon, speaking to himself.

‘Why should it be helped?’ rejoined Gerald, overhearing him.

‘And then, Maurepas is the very man to do it,’ muttered the Count again.

Then lifting his head suddenly, he said: ‘The Marquise de Bauffremont

is at Paris, I believe. I ‘ll set off there to-night; meanwhile do you

remain where you are. Promise me this; for it is above all essential

that you should take no step till I return.’

CHAPTER II. A NIGHT ON DUTY

Scarcely had the Count set out for Paris when Gerald remembered that it

was his night for duty, he was _de service_ in the antechamber of the

king, and had but time to hasten to his quarters and equip himself in

full uniform. When he reached the foot of the grand staircase he found

several dismounted dragoons, splashed and travel-stained, the centres of

little groups, all eagerly questioning and listening to them. They had

arrived in hot haste from Paris, where a tremendous revolt had broken

out. Some said the Prince of Lambesi’s regiment, the ‘Royal Allemand,’

were cut to pieces; others, that the military were capitulating

everywhere; and one averred that when he passed the barrier the Bastille

had just fallen. While the veterans of the Swiss Guard and the household

troops conversed in low and anxious whispers together, exchanging

gloomy forebodings of what was to come, the two or three courtiers whom

curiosity had attracted to the spot spoke in tones of contempt and scorn

of the mob.

‘They are shedding their blood freely, though, I assure you,’ said a

young sous-lieutenant, whose arm was in a sling. ‘The fellow who smashed

my wrist had his face laid open by a sabre-cut, but seemed never to heed

it in the least.’

‘Have you despatches, Monsieur de Serrans?’ asked a very

daintily-dressed and soft-voiced gentleman, with a wand of office as

chamberlain.

‘No, Monsieur le Marquis. I have a verbal message for his Majesty from

the Duc de Bassompierre, and I crave an early audience.’

‘His Majesty is going to supper,’ replied the chamberlain. ‘I will try

and obtain admission for you to-morrow.’

‘The Duc’s orders were very pressing, Monsieur le Marquis. He was

retiring for want of reinforcements, but would still hold his ground if

his Majesty ordered it.’

‘I regret it infinitely, but what is to be done, Monsieur?’ said the

other, with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

‘At the hazard of spoiling his Majesty’s appetite, I ‘d like to see him

at once, Monsieur de Brezé,’ said the officer boldly.

The polished courtier turned a look of half astonishment, half rebuke,

on the soldier, and tripped up the stairs without a word.

‘I am _de service_, sir,’ whispered Gerald to the young officer. ‘Could

I possibly be of any use to you?’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied the other courteously. ‘I have a message to

be delivered to his Majesty’s own ear, and the answer to which I was to

carry to my general. What I have just mentioned to M. de Brezé was not

of the importance of that with which I am charged.’

‘And will it be too late to-morrow?’

‘To-morrow! I ought to have been half-way back toward Paris already.

You don’t know that a battle is raging there, and fifty thousand men are

engaged in deadly conflict.’

‘The king _must_ hear of it,’ said Gerald, as he mounted the stairs.

Very different was the scene in the splendid salons from that which

presented itself below. Groups of richly attired ladies and followers

of the court were conversing in all the easy gaiety their pleasant lives

suggested. Of the rumours from the capital they made matter of jest and

raillery; they ridiculed the absurd pretensions of the popular leaders,

and treated the rising as something too contemptible for grave remark.

As Gerald drew nigh, he saw, or fancied he saw, a sort of coldness in

the manner of those around. The conversation changed from its tone of

light flippancy to one of more guarded and more commonplace meaning. It

was no longer doubtful to him that the story of his late altercation

had got abroad, with, not impossibly, very exaggerated accounts of the

opinions he professed. Indeed, the remark of an old Maréchal du Palais

caught his ear as he passed, while the sidelong glances of the hearers

told that it was intended for himself--‘It is too bad to find the

sentiments of the Breton Club from the lips of a Garde du Corps.’

It was all that Gerald could do to restrain the impulse that urged him

to confront the speaker, and ask him directly if the words were applied

to _him_, The decorous etiquette of the spot, the rigid observance of

all that respect that surrounds the vicinity of a king, checked his

purpose, and, having satisfied himself that he should know the speaker

again, he moved on. It was on the stroke of ten, the hour that he was

to relieve the soldier on guard, a duty which, in the etiquette of the

Garde du Corps, was always performed by the relief appearing at the

proper moment, without the usual military ceremony of a guard.

Alone at last, in that vast chamber where he had passed many an hour of

sentinel’s watch, Gerald had time to compose his thoughts, and calm down

the passionate impulses that swayed him. He walked for above an hour his

weary round, stopping at times to gaze on the splendid tapestries which,

on the walls, represented certain incidents of the _Æneid_. The faint,

far-away sounds of the band, which performed during the supper of the

king, occasionally met his ear, and he could not help contrasting the

scene which they accompanied with the wild and terrible incidents then

going forward at Paris. His mind ever balanced and vacillated between

two opinions. Were they right who maintained the supremacy of the royal

cause, and the inviolability of that princely state whose splendours

were such a shock to misery! Or had the grievances of the people a real

ground--were there great wrongs to be redressed, cruel inequalities to

be at least compromised? How much had he listened to on either side?

What instincts and prejudices were urged for this! what strength of

argument enlisted to support that! And he himself, what a position

was his!--one of a corps whose very boast it was to reject all save of

ancient lineage! What could he adduce as his claim to high descent? If

they questioned him to-morrow, how should he reply? What meant his title

of Chevalier? might he not be arraigned as a pretender, a mere impostor

for assuming it? If the Count Dillon decided that he should challenge

Maurepas, might not his claim to gentle blood be litigated? And what a

history should he give if asked for the story of his life! From these

thoughts he rambled on to others, scarcely less depressing: the cause of

the king, of the very monarchy itself. Bold as the pretensions, high

as the language was of those about the court, the members of the royal

family exhibited the most intense anxiety. Within view of the palace

windows, in that same week, tumultuous assemblages had taken place,

and thousands of men passed in solemn procession to the place where the

‘States General’ had appointed for their meeting. The menacing gestures,

the wild and passionate words, all so unlike what formerly had marked

such demonstrations, were terribly significant of the change that had

come over public opinion. Over and over had Gabriel predicted all this

to him. Again and again had he impressed upon him that a time was coming

when the hard evils of poverty would arouse men to ask the terrible

question, Why are we in wretchedness while others revel in excess?’ On

that day, and coming it is,’ said he, ‘all the brain-spun theories of

statecraft will be thrown aside like rubbish, and they alone will be

listened to who are men of action.’ Was this dark prophecy now drawing

nigh to accomplishment? were these the signs of that dread consummation?

Gabriel had told him that the insane folly and confidence of those about

the court would be the greatest peril of the monarchy. ‘Mark my words,’

said he, ‘it will be all insolence and contempt at first, abject terror

and mean concession after.’ Was not the conduct of De Brezé a very type

of the former? he had not even a word of passing courtesy for the brave

fellow who wounded and exhausted, stood there waiting like a lackey.

Gerald was startled by the sudden opening of a door; and, as he turned,

he saw a figure which he speedily recognised as the brother of the king,

or, as he was called in court phrase, ‘Monsieur.’

‘Are you Maurice de Courcel’ asked he, addressing Gerald hastily.

‘No, Monseigneur; I am Fitzgerald.’

‘Where is De Courcel, can you tell me?’

‘He went on leave this morning, Monseigneur, to shoot in the forest

of Soissons.’

‘_Peste!_’ muttered he angrily. ‘Methinks you gentlemen of the Garde du

Corps have little other idea of duty than in plotting how to evade it.

It was De Courcel’s night of duty, was it not?’

‘Yes, sir; I took it in his place.’

‘Who relieves you?’

‘The Chevalier de Monteroue, sir.’

‘You are l’Écossais--at least they call you so, eh?’

‘Yes, Monseigneur, they call me so,’ said Gerald, flushing.

The Prince hesitated, turned to speak, and then moved away again. It

was evident that he laboured under some irresolution that he could not

master.

Resolved not to lose an opportunity so little likely to recur, Gerald

advanced toward him, and, with an air of deep respect, said: ‘If I might

dare to approach your Royal Highness on such a pretext, I would say

that some tidings of deepest moment have been brought this evening by an

officer from Paris, charged to deliver them to the king; and that he yet

waits unable to see his Majesty.’

‘How--what--why has he not sent up his despatches?’

‘He had none, sir; he was the bearer of a verbal message from the Duc de

Bassompierre.’

‘Impossible, sir; none could have dared to assume this responsibility.

Who told you this story?’

‘I was present, sir, when the officer arrived--spoke with him--and heard

M. de Brezé say, “You can, perhaps, have an audience to-morrow.”’

‘He deserves the Bastille for this!’

‘He would have deserved it, sir, yesterday.’ ‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘That there is no Bastille to-day. The officer I mentioned saw it

carried by the populace as he left Paris: the garrison are all cut to

pieces.’

With something like a cry of agony, half-smothered by an effort, the

Prince hurried from the room.

While the clock was yet striking, the sentinel in relief arrived, and

Gerald was released from duty. As he wended his way along through room

after room, he was struck by the air of silence and desertion around;

nowhere were to be seen the groups of lounging courtiers and ‘officiers

de service.’ A few inferior members of the household rose and saluted

him, and even they wore something ominous and sad in their look, as

though evil tidings were abroad.

A light, soft rain was falling as Gerald left the palace toward the

pavilion, where Count Dillon’s quarters were established. He knew it

was impossible that the Count could yet have returned from Paris, but

somehow he found himself repairing to the spot without well knowing why.

As he drew nigh he perceived a light in the little salon, and could

distinguish the figure of a man writing at the table. Curious to learn

if the Count had unexpectedly turned back, Gerald opened the door and

entered. The person at the table turned quickly about, and to his utter

confusion Gerald saw it was Monsieur.

‘Come in, come in; you will, perhaps, spare me some writing.’ cried

he, in an easy, familiar tone: ‘you may indeed read what I have just

written.’ and so saying he handed him a paper with these lines:

‘Dear Count Dillon,--Give me the earliest and fullest information with

respect to a young countryman of yours, Fitzgerald, called “L’Écossais.”

May we employ him on a mission of secrecy and importance? It is of

consequence--that is, it were far better--that the person intrusted with

our commands were not a Frenchman----’

The Prince had but written so much as Gerald entered, and he now sat

calmly watching the effect produced upon the young soldier as he read

it.

‘Am I to answer for myself, ‘Monseigneur,’ said he modestly.

‘It is exactly what I intended,’ was the calm reply.

‘I can pledge for my fidelity and devotion, sir, but not for any skill

or ability to execute your orders.’

‘They will require little beyond speed and exactitude. You know Paris

well?’

‘Perfectly, sir.’

‘At the Rue de Turenne there is a small street called l’Avenue aux

Abois--do you know it?--well, the second or third house, I am not sure

which, is inhabited by a gentleman called the Count Mirabeau.’

‘He who spoke so lately at the Assembly?’

‘The same. You will see him, and induce him to repair with you to St.

Cloud. Haste is everything. If your mission speed well, you can be at

St. Cloud by noon to-morrow. It is possible that the Count may distrust

your authority to make this appointment, for I dare not give you

anything in writing; you will then show him this ring, which he will

recognise as mine. Spare no entreaties to accomplish the object, nor, so

far as you are able, permit anything to thwart it. Let nothing that you

see or hear divert you from your purpose. Pay no attention to the events

at Paris, whatever they be. You have one object--only one--that Count

Mirabeau reach the Château de St. Cloud by the earliest moment possible,

and in secrecy. Remember that, sir--in secrecy.’

‘I cannot wear my uniform,’ began Gerald.

‘Of course not, nor suffer any trace of powder to remain in your hair.

I will send you clothes which will disguise you perfectly; and, if

questioned, you can call yourself a peasant on the estate of the

Mirabeaus, come up from Provence to see the Count. You must stain your

hands, and be particular about every detail of your behaviour. There is

but one thing more,’ said he, after a moment’s reflection; ‘if Monsieur

de Mirabeau refuse, if he even seek to defer the interview I seek

for--but he will not, he dare not.’

‘Still, Monseigneur, let me be provided for every emergency

possible--what if he should refuse?’

‘You will be armed, you will have your pistols--but no, no, under

no circumstances,’ muttered he below his breath. ‘There will be then

nothing for you to do, but to hasten back to me with the tidings.’

Monsieur arose as he said these words, and stood in apparently deep

thought. ‘I believe,’ said he at last, ‘that I have not forgotten

anything. Ah, it were well to take one of the remount horses that are

not branded--I will look to that.’

‘If the Count should be from home, am I to seek for him elsewhere, sir?’

‘That will depend upon your own address; if you are satisfied that you

can defy detection. I leave all to yourself, Chevalier. It is a great

and a holy cause you serve, and no words of mine can add to what your

own heart will teach you. Only remember, that hours are like weeks, and

time is everything.’

Gerald kissed the hand that Monsieur extended to him; and lighting him

down the little stairs, saw him take his way across the park.

CHAPTER III. THE MISSION

The day had not yet dawned when Gerald, admirably disguised as a

Provençal peasant, arrived at the Avenue aux Abois. The night had been

hot and sultry, and many of the windows of the houses were left open;

but from none save one were any lights seen to gleam. This one was

brilliant with the glare of wax-lights; and the sounds of merriment from

within showed it was the scene of some festivity. Light muslin curtains

filled the spaces of the open casements, through which at moments the

shadowy traces of figures could be detected.

While Gerald stood watching, with some curiosity, this strange contrast

to the unbroken silence around, a rich deep voice caught his ear, and

seemed to awaken within him some singular memory. Where, and when, and

how he had heard it before, he knew not; but every accent and every tone

struck him as well known.

‘No, no, Mirabeau,’ broke in another; ‘when men throw down their houses,

it is not to rebuild them with the old material.’

‘I did not speak of throwing down,’ interposed the same deep voice; ‘I

suggested some safe and easy alteration. I would have the doors larger,

for easy access; the windows wider, for more light.’

‘And more wood, generally, in the construction, for easy burning, I

hope,’ chimed in a third.

‘Make your best provisions for stability: destruction will always be a

simple task,’ cried the deep voice. ‘You talk of burning,’ cried he,

in a louder tone; ‘what do you mean to do when your fire goes out?

materials must fail you at last. What then? You will have heaped many

a good and useful thing upon that pile you will live to regret the loss

of. What will you do, besides, with those you have taught to dance round

these bonfires?’

‘Langeac says it is an experiment we are trying,’ replied another; ‘and,

for my part, I am satisfied to accept it as such.’

‘Nay, nay,’ interposed a soft, low voice; ‘I said that untried elements

in government are an experiment only warrantable in extreme cases;

just as the physician essays even a dangerous remedy, when he deems his

patient hopeless.’

‘But it’s your own quackeries here have made all the mischief,’ broke

in the deep voice. ‘If the sick man sink, it is yourselves have been the

cause.’

‘Was there ever a royal cause that had not its own fatal influences?’

said another.

‘There is an absurd reliance on prestige, a trust in that phantom called

Divine right, that blinds men against their better reason. This holiday

faith is but a sorry creed in times of trouble.’

‘Far from this being the case,’ said the deep voice, ‘you will not

concede to kings what you would freely grant to your equals. You reject

their word, you distrust their oath, you prejudge their intentions, and

suspect their honour.’

‘Why, Mirabeau, you ought to be at Versailles,’ said another, laughing.

‘The pavilion of the Queen is more your place than the table of the

Tiers-État.’

‘So thinks he himself,’ broke in the low voice. ‘He expects to pilot the

wreck after we have gone off on the raft.’

‘Four o’clock,’ exclaimed another, pushing his chair hastily back as he

arose; ‘and here is D’Entraigues fast asleep these two hours.’

‘No, _parbleu!_ muttered a drowsy voice. ‘I closed my eyes when the

Bordeaux was finished, and began to reflect on Lafayette’s breakfast.

Isn’t this the day?’

‘To be sure. You are coming, Mirabeau?’

‘Of course, we will all be there.’

‘I must be at St. Frotin by seven o’clock,’ said one.

‘And I have to see Marigni at the mill of Montmorency, by the same

hour.’

‘A duel?’

‘Yes; they are both Vendéans, and may kill each other without damage to

the State.’

‘He was going to say Republic!’ cried another, laughing.

‘Who talks of a Republic?’ interposed a rough voice angrily.

‘Be calm, messieurs--all religions are to be respected,’

‘True, Mirabeau; but this is to proclaim none.’

‘Who knows? They never excavate near Rome but they discover some

long-forgotten deity! Can you or I venture to say what new faith may not

arise out of these ashes?’

‘Let it but repudiate the law of debt and discountenance marriage,’ said

another, ‘and I am its first convert.’

‘Good-bye, Mirabeau, adieu,’ cried several together, and they were now

heard descending the stairs. Meanwhile, Mirabeau drew back the curtain

and looked out upon the street.

‘Whom have we got here?’ said the first who issued forth from the door,

and saw Gerald standing before him.

‘What is it? who does he want?’ cried Mirabeau, as he saw them in

conversation.

‘One of your peasants, Mirabeau, with, doubtless, a Provencal cheese and

some olives for you.’

‘Or a letter of loving tidings from that dear uncle,’ cried another;

‘the only one who ever knew the real goodness of your nature.’

‘Let him come up,’ said Mirabeau, as he closed the window.

When Gerald reached the top of the stair, he saw in front of him a

large, powerfully-built man, who, standing with his back to the light,

had his features in deep shadow.

‘You are the Count de Mirabeau?’ began Gerald.

‘And you--who are you?’ responded he quickly.

‘That you shall know, when I am certain of whom I am addressing/

‘Come in,’ said the Count, and walked before him into the room. He

turned about just as the door closed, and Gerald, fixing his eyes upon

him, cried out, ‘Good heavens! is it possible? Signor Gabriel!’

‘Now for your own name, my friend,’ said Mirabeau calmly.

‘Don’t you know me, then? don’t you remember the boy you saved years ago

from death in the Roman Maremma--Fitzgerald?’

‘What!’ said Mirabeau, in the same calm voice, ‘you Fitzgerald? I should

never have recognised you.’

‘And are you really the Count de Mirabeau?’

‘Gabriel Riquetti, Count de Mirabeau, is my name,’ replied he slowly.

‘How did you find me out? What chance led you here?’

‘No chance, nor accident. I have come expressly to see and speak with

you. I am a Garde du Corps, and have assumed this disguise to gain

access to you unremarked.’

‘A Garde du Corps!’ said the Count, in some surprise.

‘Yes, Signor Gabriel. My life has had its turns of good and ill fortune

since we parted--the best being that I serve a great prince and a kind

master.’

‘Well said, but not over-prudent words to utter in the Faubourg St.

Antoine,’ rejoined the Count, smiling. ‘Go on.’

‘I have come with a message from Monsieur, to desire you will hasten

immediately to St. Cloud, where he will meet you. Secrecy and speed are

both essential, for which reasons he intrusted me with a mere verbal

message, but to secure me your confidence he gave me this ring.’

Mirabeau smiled, and with such a scoffing significance that Gerald

stopped, unable to proceed further.

‘And then?’ said Mirabeau.

‘I have no more to add, Monsieur,’ said Gerald haughtily. ‘My commission

is fulfilled already.’

‘Take some wine; you are heated with your long ride,’ said the Count,

filling out a large goblet, while he motioned to Gerald to be seated.

‘Nay, sir; it is not of _me_ there is time to think now. Pray, let me

have your answer to my message, for Monsieur told me, if I either failed

to find you, or from any casualty you were unable to repair to St.

Cloud, that I should come back with all speed to apprise him, my not

returning being the sign that all went well.’

‘All went well,’ muttered Mirabeau to himself. ‘How could it go worse?’

Gerald sat gazing in wonderment at the massive, stern features before

him, calling up all that he could remember of their first meeting,

and scarcely able, even yet to persuade himself that he had been the

companion of that great Count de Mirabeau whose fame filled all France.

‘In the event of my compliance, you were then to accompany me to St.

Cloud?’ said the Count, in a tone of inquiry.

‘Yes, sir; so I understood my orders.’

‘There is mention in history of a certain Duc de Guise----’

He stopped short, and walked to and fro for some time in silence; then,

turning abruptly around, he asked: ‘How came it that you stood so high

in Monsieur’s confidence that he selected you for this mission?’

‘By mere accident,’ said Gerald, and he recounted how the incident had

occurred.

‘And your horse--what has become of him?’ asked the Count.

‘He is fastened to the ring of the large _porte cochère_--the third

house from this.’

Mirabeau leaned out of the window as if to satisfy himself that this

statement was true.

‘Supposing, then, that I agree to your request, what means have you to

convey me to St. Cloud?--what preparations are made?’

‘None, sir. There was no time for preparation. It was, as I have told

you, late last night when Monsieur gave me this order. It was in the

briefest of words.’

‘“Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau that his Majesty would speak with him,”’

said the Count, suggesting to Gerald’s memory the tenor of his message.

‘No, sir. “Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau to hasten to St. Cloud, where I

will meet him.”’

‘How did you become a noble guard?’ asked he quickly. ‘They say abroad

that the difficulties to admission are great?’

‘I owe my admission to the favour of Madame de Bauflremont, sir.’

‘A great patron, none more so. She would have befriended me once,’ added

he, with an insolent sneer, ‘but that my ugliness displeased the Queen.

Since that time, however, her Majesty has condescended to accustom

herself to these harsh features, and even smiles benignly on them. There

is little time to criticise the visage of your pilot, while the breakers

are before and the rocks beside you. I will go, Gerald. Give me that

ring.’

Gerald hesitated for a second; the Prince had not bestowed the ring on

him, but only confided it to his care.

‘I will not compromise you, young man,’ said Mirabeau gravely: ‘I will

simply enclose that ring in a letter which you shall see, when I have

written it,’ and he immediately sat down to a table, and in a rapid hand

dashed off some lines, which he threw across to Gerald to read. They ran

thus:

‘Dear Friend and Nephew,--I am summoned to a meeting at St. Cloud, by

the owner of the ring which I enclose. If I do not return to Paris by

noon on Saturday, it is because ill has befallen yours,

‘Gabriel Riquetti, Count de Mirabeau.

‘To Mons. du Saillant, Rue d’Ascour, 170. ‘Friday, 3 a.m,’

‘There is the ring,’ said Gerald, as he took it from his finger.

Mirabeau sealed the note, enclosing it in a strong envelope, and placing

it on the table among other letters, ready sealed and addressed.

‘You will carry this letter to its address, Gerald, and you will remain

there till--till my return.’

‘I understand,’ said Gerald; ‘I am a hostage.’

‘_You_ a hostage for _me_!’ cried the other haughtily. ‘Do you fancy,

young man, that the whole corps you belong to could requite the loss

of Gabriel Riquetti? Would the Court--would the Assembly--would France

accept such a price? Go, sir, and tell Monsieur du Saillant that if any

evil befall his uncle, he is to make use of you as the clue to trace it,

and be sure that you discharge this trust well.’

‘And if I refuse this mission?’

‘If you refuse, you shall bear back to Monseigneur the reasons for which

I have not obeyed his commands,’ said Mirabeau coldly. ‘Methought you

remembered me better. I had fancied you knew me as one who had such

confidence in himself, that he believed his own counsels the wisest, and

who never turned from them. There is the letter--yes or no?’

‘Yes--I will take it.’

‘I will, with your leave, avail myself of your horse till I pass the

barrier. You can meanwhile take some rest here. You will be early enough

with Du Saillant by eight o’clock,’ and with this the Count withdrew

into a room adjoining to complete his preparations for the road. While

thus occupied, he left the door partly open, and continued to converse

with Gerald, asking him various questions as to what had befallen him

after having quitted the Tana, and eagerly entering into the strange

vicissitudes of his life as a stroller.

‘I met your poet, I think it was at Milan. We were rivals at the time,

and I the victor. A double insult to him, since he hated France and

Frenchmen,’ said the Count carelessly. ‘There was a story of his having

cut the fingers of his right hand to the bone with a razor, to prevent

his assassinating me. What strange stuff your men of imagination are

made of--ordinary good sense had reserved the razor for the enemy!’

‘His is a great and noble nature,’ exclaimed Gerald enthusiastically.

‘So much the better, then, is it exercised upon fiction: real events and

real men are sore tests to such temperaments. There, I am ready now; one

glass to our next meeting, and good-bye.’

With a hearty shake-hands they parted, and as Gerald looked from the

window, he saw the Count ride slowly down the street. Closing the

window, he threw himself upon a couch and slept soundly.

CHAPTER IV. A SALON UNDER THE MONARCHY

Long after the events which heralded the great Revolution in France had

assumed proportions of ominous magnitude, after even great reverses to

the cause of monarchy, the nobles, whether from motives of hardihood

or from downright ignorance of the peril, continued to display in their

equipages, their mode of living, and their costly retinues, an amount of

splendour terribly in contrast with the privations of the people.

Many of the old families deemed it a point of honour to abate nothing of

the haughty pretensions they had exhibited for centuries; and treating

the widespread discontent as a mere passing irritation, they scoffed

at the fears of those who would regard it as of any moment. Indeed, to

their eyes, the only danger lay in the weak, submissive policy of the

court--a line of action based on the gentle and tender qualities of the

king’s own nature, which made him prefer an injury to his own influence,

to even the slightest attack on those who assailed him. Truthfully

or not, it is somewhat hard to say, a certain section of the nobles

asserted that the Queen was very differently minded; that she not only

took a just measure of the difficulty, but saw how it was to be met and

combated. Far from any paltering with the men of the movement, it was

alleged that she would at once have counselled force, and, throwing the

weight of the royal cause upon the loyalty of the army, have risked the

issue without a fear. Around Marie Antoinette were, therefore, grouped

those who took the highest ground in the cause of monarchy, and who

resisted almost the bare thought of what savoured of compromise or

concession.

Among those who were conspicuous for adherence to these opinions,

was the Marquise de Bauffremont. To high rank, a large fortune, no

inconsiderable share of court favour, she added a passion for everything

like political intrigue. She was one of a school--of which some

disciples have been seen in our own day--who deem that there are

questions of statecraft too fine and too delicate for the rough handling

of men, and where the finer touch of woman is essentially needed. So far

as matters of policy are moulded by the tempers of those who treat

them, and so far as it is of moment to appreciate finer traits

of character--to trace their origin, their leanings and their

sympathies--there is no doubt that the quicker and more subtle instincts

of a woman have an immense advantage over the less painstaking and less

minute habits of a manly mind. If the Marquise did not inaugurate this

school, she gave a great development to its principles, and, assuredly,

she practised her art at a period when its resources were to be

submitted to the severest of all tests. Her spacious ‘hotel’ in the

Place Louis Quinze was the centre of all those who assumed to be

the last bulwark of the monarchy, and there might be found the

Rochejaquelins, the Noailles, the Tavannes, the Valmys, and a host of

others not less distinguished, while the ministers and envoys of various

foreign courts resorted to these salons as the most authentic source of

news to be transmitted to their governments. Partly from predilection,

partly from that policy which affected to despise popular dictation,

these receptions were conducted with considerable display and

ostentation, and all that costly luxury and expense could impart lent

its aid to give them an air of almost princely state. For a while there

was a pretence of treating the passing events as incidents too slight

and too vulgar for notice, but after a time this affectation gave way to

another scarcely less absurd: of alluding to them in a tone of scoff

and derision, ridiculing those who were their chief actors, and actually

making them subjects of witty pasquinade and caricature. As each new

actor on the popular scene appeared, he was certain to be the mark of

their insulting comments; and traits of low origin, and vulgarity of

manner, were dwelt on with a significance that showed how contemptuously

they regarded all whose condition was beneath their own. How little

did they suspect, as they mocked Rabaut St. Etienne, Petion, and

Robespierre, that this ‘ill-dressed and ill-mannered crew’--these ‘noisy

screamers of vapid nonsense’--these ‘men of sinister aspect and ignoble

look,’ would one day become the scourge of their order, and the masters

of France! So far was this thought from all their speculation, that

their indignation knew no bounds in discussing those who admitted this

_canaille_ to anything like consideration; and thus the Bishop of Autun

and Lafayette were the constant subjects of sarcasm and attack.

‘What do they want, Madame la Marquise!’ exclaimed the old Marquis de

Ribaupierre, as he stood, one evening, the centre of a group eagerly

discussing the views and objects of these innovators. ‘I ask, what do

they want? It cannot be the destruction of the _noblesse_, for they are

noble. It cannot be the extinction of property, for they are rich. It

cannot be--surely it cannot be--that they believe the monarchy would be

more faithfully guarded by a rabble than by the best chivalry of France.

If Monseigneur Maurice Talleyrand were here now, I would simply ask

him----’

The door opened as he uttered these words, and a servant, in a loud

voice, announced, ‘Monseigneur the Bishop of Autun.’

Small of stature and lame, there was yet in the massive head, the broad

full brow, and the large orbits of the eyes, a certain command and

dignity that marked him for no ordinary man; and, though the suddenness

of his entrance at this moment had created a sensation, half painful,

half ludicrous, there was a calm self-possession in his manner, as he

advanced to kiss the hand of the Marquise, that quickly changed the

feeling for one of deference and respect.

‘I was fortunate enough to be the subject of discussion as I came into

the room--will my esteemed friend the Marquis de Ribaupierre inform me

to what I owe this honour?’

‘Rather let me become the interpreter,’ broke in the Marquise, who saw

the speechless misery that now covered the old Marquis’s countenance.

‘Distressed at the length of time that had elapsed since we saw you

among us here--grieved at what we could not but imagine a desertion of

us--pained, above all, Monseigneur, by indications that you had

sought and found friends in other ranks than those of your own high

station----’

‘A bishop, Madame la Marquise--forgive my interruption--a bishop only

knows mankind as his brethren.’ There was a malignant twinkle in his eye

as he spoke, that deprived the sentiment of all its charitable meaning.

‘Fortune has been very unkind to you in certain members of your family,

Monseigneur,’ said the Count de Noailles tartly.

‘Younger branches, somewhat ill-cared-for and neglected,’ said

Talleyrand dryly.

‘Nay, Monseigneur, your Christian charity goes too far and too fast,’

said De Noailles. ‘Our lackeys were never called our _frères cadets_

before.’

‘What a charming dress, Madame de Langeac!’ said the bishop, touching

a fold of the rich silk with a veneration he might have bestowed on a

sacred relic.

‘The favourite colour of the Queen, Monseigneur,’ said she pointedly.

‘Lilac is the emblem of hope; her Majesty is right to adopt it,’ was the

quick response.

‘Is that like Monsieur de Mirabeau, Monseigneur?’ said the Duc de Valmy,

as he handed a coarse engraving to the bishop.

‘There is a certain resemblance, unquestionably. It is about as like

him--as--as--what shall I say--as the general estimate of the man is to

the vast resources of his immense intelligence!’

‘Immense intelligence!’ exclaimed the Marquise de Bauf-fremont. ‘I could

more readily believe in his immense profligacy.’

‘You might assent to both, Madame, and yet make no great mistake, save

only that the one is passing away, the other coming,’ said Talleyrand

courteously.

‘Which is the rising, which the setting sun, Monseigneur?’ said De

Valmy.

‘I sincerely trust it may not shock this distinguished company if I say

that it is the dawn of intellect, and the last night of incapacity,

we are now witnessing. You have heard that this gentleman has seen the

king?’

‘Mirabeau been received by his Majesty!’ ‘Mirabeau admitted to the

presence!’ exclaimed three or four, in tones of utter incredulity.

‘I can be positive as to the fact,’ resumed the bishop. ‘I can be even

more--I can tell this honourable company what passed at the interview.

It was, then, last night--(thank you, Monsieur le Duc, I accept your

chair, since it allows me a more convenient spot to speak from)--it was

last night, at a late hour, that a messenger arrived at the Avenue

aux Abois with an order--I suppose it is etiquette I should call it

order--for Monsieur de Mirabeau to hasten to St. Cloud, where the king

desired to confer with him.’

‘I ‘ll never believe it!’ cried the Marquis de Ribaupierre impetuously.

‘If I had the happiness of being confessor to the Marquis, I would

enjoin an extension of faith--particularly in the times we live in, said

Talleyrand, with a dry humour in his look. ‘At all events, it is as

I have the honour to acquaint you. Monsieur de Mirabeau received this

message and obeyed it.’

‘Par St. Louis, I can believe he obeyed it!’ exclaimed the Duc de Valmy.

‘And yet, Monsieur,’ said the bishop, ‘it was not till after very

grave reflection the Count de Mirabeau determined to accept that same

invitation.’

‘Ah, Monseigneur, you would presume upon our credulity,’ broke in De

Valmy.

‘Far from it, Duc; I cherish every crumb of faith that falls from a

table so scantily dressed; but once more I repeat, the Count de Mirabeau

weighed well the perils on either side, and then decided on accepting

those which attached to the court.’

‘The perils which attached to the court!’ cried the Marquis de Langeac

scoflingly. ‘Monseigneur doubtless alludes to all the seductive

temptations that would assail the cold, impassive temperament of his

friend.’

‘My friend! I accept the phrase, and wish it might be mutually

acknowledged. My friend has little to boast of on the score of

impassiveness, nor would the quality stand him in great stead just now.

What the king wants he has got, however.’

‘And pray what may that be, Monseigneur?’

‘I will tell you, Monsieur: great promptitude, great eloquence, great

foresight, and, better than all these, great contempt for a pretentious

class, whose vanity would lead them to believe that a wound to

themselves must be the death-blow to the monarchy. Now, sir, Monsieur

de Mirabeau has these gifts, and by their influence he has persuaded the

king to accept his services----’

‘Oh, Monseigneur, if any one has dared to make you the subject of a

mystification!’

‘I have been the subject of many, my dear Marquis, and may live to

be the subject of more,’ said the bishop, with great suavity and

good-humour; ‘but I see I must not presume upon my credit with this

honourable company.’ Then, changing his tone quickly, he added: ‘Can

any one give me information about a young Garde du Corps called

Fitzgerald--Gerald Fitzgerald?’

‘I believe I am the only one he is known to,’ said Madame de

Bauffremont.

‘As, next to the honour of offering you my homage, Madame la Marquise,

that was the reason of my coming here this evening, may I trespass upon

you to give me a few minutes alone?’

Madame de Bauffremont arose, and, taking the bishop’s arm, retired into

a small room adjoining, and closed the door.

‘Who is this Chevalier de Fitzgerald, Madame?’ said he abruptly.

‘I can give you very little insight into his history,’ replied the

Marquise; ‘but dare I presume to ask how are you interested about him?’

‘You shall hear, Madame la Marquise. About six or eight months back, the

Queen’s almoner, l’Abbé Jostinard, forwarded, of course by order of her

Majesty, certain names of individuals in the royal household to Rome,

imploring on their behalf the benediction of the Holy Father--a

very laudable measure, not unfrequent in former reigns, but somehow

lamentably fallen into disuse.’ There was a strange, quaint expression

in his eye as he uttered these last words, which did not escape the

attention of the Marquise. ‘Among these,’ resumed he, ‘there was

included the Chevalier de Fitzgerald. Now, Madame, you are well aware

that His Holiness takes especial pains to know that the recipients of

the holy favour are persons worthy, by their lives and habits, of

this precious blessing: while, therefore, for each of the others so

recommended there were friends and relatives in abundance to vouch--the

Rochemards, the Guesclins, the Tresignés can always find sufficient

bail--this poor Chevalier stood friendless and alone, none to answer

for, none to acknowledge him. Now, Madame, this might seem bad enough,

but it was not all, for, not satisfied with excluding him from the

sacred benediction, the consulta began speculating who and what he might

be, whence he came, and so on. The most absurd conjectures, the wildest

speculations, grew out of these researches: some tracing him to this,

others to that origin, but all agreeing that he belonged to that

marvellous order whom people are pleased to call adventurers. In the

midst of this controversy distinguished names became entangled, some one

would have said too high for the breath of scandal to attain--your own,

Madame la Marquise----’

‘Mine! how mine?’ cried she eagerly.

‘A romantic story of a sojourn in a remote villa in the Apennines--a

tale positively interesting of a youth rescued from brigands or

Bohemians, I forget which--pray assist me.’

‘Continue, sir,’ said the Marquise, whose compressed lips and sparkling

eyes denoted the anger she could barely control.

‘I am a most inadequate narrator, Madame--in fact, I am not sure that I

should have lent much attention to this story at all if the Queen’s name

and your own had not been interwoven with it.’

‘And how the Queen’s, sir _I_?’ cried she haughtily.

‘Ah, Madame la Marquise, ask yourself how, in this terrible time in

which we live, the purest and the best are sullied by the stain of that

calumny the world sows broadcast! Is it not a feature of our age that

none can claim privilege nor immunity? Popular orators have no more

fertile theme than when showing that station, rank, high duties, even

holy cares are all maintained by creatures of mere flesh and blood,

inheritors of human frailties, heirs of mortal weakness. Cardinals have

lived whose hearts have known ambition--empresses have felt even love.’

‘Monseigneur, this is enough,’ said the Marquise, rising, and darting at

him a look of haughty indignation.

‘Not altogether, Madame,’ said he calmly, motioning her to be reseated.

‘To-morrow, or next day, this scandal--for it is a scandal--will be the

talk of Paris. Whence came this youth? who is he? how came he by his

title of Chevalier? will be asked in every salon, in every café, at

every corner. Madame de Bauffremont’s name, and one even yet higher,

will figure in these recitals. Some will suppose this, others suggest

that, and the world--the world, Madame la Marquise--will believe all!’

‘My Lord Bishop,’ she began, but passion so overwhelmed her that she

could not continue. Meanwhile he resumed--

‘The vulgar herd, who know nothing, nor can know anything, of the

emotions, noble and generous, that sway highborn natures, who must needs

measure the highest in station by the paltry standards that apply to

their own class, will easily credit that even a Marquise may have

been interested for a youth to whom, certainly, rumour attributes

considerable merit. One word more, Madame; for as this youth, educated,

some say by no less gifted a tutor than Jean Jacques Rousseau--others

pretend by the watchful care of Count Mirabeau himself----’

‘Whence, have you derived this most ingenious tissue of falsehood,

Monseigneur?’ cried she passionately.

‘Nay, Madame, I speak “from book” now. The Chevalier is intimately known

to Monsieur de Mirabeau--lived at one time in close companionship with

him--and is, indeed, deeply indebted to his kindness.’

‘How glad I am, Monseigneur,’ said she quickly, ‘at length to undeceive

you!’

A knock at the door here interrupted the Marquise. It was a servant with

a letter from Versailles that demanded immediate attention.

‘Here is more of it, Monseigneur,’ cried she passionately. ‘Her

Majesty’s ears have been outraged by these base calumnies, and I am

summoned to her presence in all haste.’

‘I foresaw it, Madame,’ said the Bishop, as he arose to withdraw. ‘I

wish you a most pleasant journey, Madame la Marquise, and all that can

render the conclusion of it agreeable.

CHAPTER V. A SUDDEN REVERSE

‘What is it?--what has happened?’ cried Gerald, as he awoke suddenly

from a deep sleep, the first he had enjoyed after some nights of pain.

‘Oh, it is you, Count Dillon,’ and he tried to smile an apology for his

abruptness.

‘Lie down again, my lad, and listen to me, patiently too, if you can,

for I have tidings that might try your patience.’

‘I see you _have_ bad news for me,’ said Gerald calmly; ‘out with it at

once.’

The other made no reply, but turned toward him a look of compassionate

tenderness.

‘Come, Count, uncertainty is the worst of penalties--what are your

tidings?’

‘Tell me, first of all, Gerald, is it true that you supped on Friday

last at Paris with a party, at the house of a certain Monsieur du

Saillant, and there met Desmoulins, Rivarol, and several others of that

party?’

‘Yes, quite true.’

‘And they drank patriotic toasts--which means that they pledged bumpers

in insult to the court?’

‘They made an attempt to do so, which I resisted. I said that I would

not sit there and hear one word to disparage my sovereign or his cause,

on which one of them cried out, “And who are you who dares to prescribe

to us how we are to speak, or what to toast?” “He is _my_ friend,” said

Du Saillant, “and that is enough.” “Nay,” broke in the others, “it is

not enough. We have placed our necks in a halter, if this youth should

turn out a spy of the court, or a Garde du Corps.” “And I am a Garde du

Corps,” said I. “_Parbleu!_” said one, “I know him well now; he is the

fellow they call the Ecossais--the Queen’s minion.” With that I struck

him across the face--the others fell upon me, and pressed me toward the

window, I believe, to throw me out; at all events there was a severe

struggle, from which I escaped, roughly handled and bruised, into an

adjoining room. Here they followed and arranged that meeting of which

you have heard.’

‘You ran him through?’

‘Yes, a bad wound, I fear; but it was no time to measure consequences;

besides, three others claimed to fight me.’

‘And did they?’

‘No, the affair stands over; for Carcassone--that’s his name--they

thought was dying, and all their care was turned to him. Meanwhile I was

bleeding tremendously, for he had cut a blood-vessel in my arm.’

‘Well, and then----’

‘Then I can’t well tell you what happened. I found myself in the street,

with my cravat bound round my arm, and one man, they called Boulet,

beside me. He said all he could to cheer me, bade me be of good heart,

and that if I liked to make my fortune he would show me the way. “Come

with me,” said he, “to the ‘Trois Étoiles,’ declare yourself for us: you

are well known in Paris--every one has heard how the Queen likes you.”

I tried to strike him, but I only tore off the bandage by my effort, and

fell all bathed in blood on the pavement.’

‘And it was in that state you were found underneath the Queen’s window?’

‘I know no more,’ said Gerald drearily, as he lay back, and crossed

his eyes with his hand. ‘I have a hundred confused memories of what

followed, but can trust none of them. I can recall something of a

calèche driven furiously along, while I lay half-fainting within;

something of wine or brandy poured down my throat; something of

being carried in men’s arms, but through all these are drifting other

thoughts, vague, incoherent, almost impossible.’

‘Is it true that the Queen, with one of her ladies, found you still

lying in the garden when day broke?’

‘It may have been the Queen--I did not know her,’ said he despondently.

‘Now, then, for your tidings.’

‘You remember, of course, the events which have occurred since your

illness, that you have been examined by a military commission, in

presence of two persons deputed by the “States-General?”

‘Yes--yes, I have had two weary days of it; ten minutes might have

sufficed for all I was going to tell them.’

‘So you really did refuse to answer the questions asked of you?’

‘I refused to speak of what was intrusted to my honour to preserve

secret.’

‘Or even to tell by whom you were so intrusted?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you thus encountered the far worse peril of involving in an

infamous slander the highest and purest name in France.’

‘I do not understand you,’ cried Gerald wildly.

‘Surely you know the drift of all this inquiry--you cannot be ignorant

that it was to assail her Majesty with a base scandal that you were

placed beneath her window, and so discovered in the morning, at the very

moment of her finding you there. Are you not aware that no falsehood is

too gross nor too barefaced not to meet credence if she be its object?

Do not all they who plan the downfall of the monarchy despair of success

while her graceful virtues adorn her high station? Is not every effort

of the vile faction directed solely against her? Have you not witnessed

how, one by one, have been abandoned all the innocent pleasures to which

scandal attached a blame. The Trianon deserted--the graceful amusements

she loved so well--all given up. Unable to meet slander face to face,

she has tried to make it impossible, as if one yet could obliterate the

venomous poison of this rancorous hate!’

‘And now,’ said Gerald, drawing a long breath, ‘and now for my part in

this infernal web of falsehood.’

‘If you refused to state where you had passed the evening--why you wore

a disguise, how you came by your wound--you must allow you furnished

matter for whatever suspicion they desired to attach to you.’

‘They are free to believe of me what they may.’ ‘Ay, but not to include

others in the imputation.’

‘I never so much as dreamed of that!’ said Gerald, with a weary sigh.

‘Well, boy, it is just what has happened; not that there lives one base

enough to believe this slander, though ten thousand are ready to repeat

it. There, see how the _Gazette de Paris_ treats it, a journal that once

held a high place in public favour. Read that.’

Gerald bent over the paper, and read, half aloud, the following

paragraph:--

‘The young officer of the Garde du Corps examined by the Special

Commission as to the extraordinary circumstances under which he was

lately discovered in the garden of her Majesty, having refused all

explanation either as to his disguise, his recent wound, or any reason

for his presence there, has been adjudged guilty under the following

heads: First, breach of military duty in absence from the Garde without

leave; secondly, infraction of discipline in exchanging his uniform.’

‘Well, well!’ cried Gerald, ‘what is the end of all this?’

‘You are dismissed the service, boy!’ said Dillon sternly.

‘Dismissed the service!’ echoed he, in a broken voice.

‘Your comrades bore you no goodwill, Gerald; even that last scene in the

Salle des Gardes had its unhappy influence on your lot. It was to the

comment of the journalist, however, I had directed your attention. See

there!’

And Gerald read:--

‘France will not, we assert, accept the degradation of this young

officer as a sufficient expiation for what, if it means anything at all,

implies a grave insult to the Majesty of the realm. In the name of an

outraged public, we demand more than this. We insist on knowing how this

youth, so devoid of friends, family, and fortune, became a soldier of

the Garde--whence his title--who his patrons. To these questions, if

not satisfactorily answered within a week, we purpose to append such

explanations as mere rumour affords; and we dare promise our readers, if

not all the rigid accuracy of an attested document, some compensation

in what may fairly claim the interest of a very romantic story. Not ours

the blame if our narrative comprise names of more exalted station than

that of this fortunate adventurer.’

‘Fortunate adventurer! I am well called by such a title,’ exclaimed he

bitterly. ‘And so I am dismissed the service!’

‘The sentence was pronounced yesterday, but they thought you too ill to

hear it. I have, however, appealed against it. I have promised that if

re-examined----’

‘Promise nothing for me, Count; I should reject the boon if they

reinstated me to-morrow,’ said Gerald haughtily.

‘But remember, too, you must have other thoughts here than for

yourself.’

‘I will leave France; I will seek my fortune elsewhere; I cannot live

in a network of intrigue; I have no head for plots, no heart for

subtleties. Leave me, therefore, Count, to my fate.’

In broken, unconnected sentences the youth declined all aid or counsel.

There are moments of such misery that all the offices of friendship

bring less comfort to the heart than a stern self-reliance. A

rugged sense of independence supplies at such times both energy and

determination. Mayhap it is in moments like these more of real character

is formed than even years accomplish in the slower accidents of fortune.

‘This journalist, at least, shall render me satisfaction for his

words,’ thought he to himself. ‘I cannot meet the whole array of these

slanderers, but upon this one I will fix.’

‘By what mischance, Gerald, have you made Monsieur your enemy?’ asked

the Count.

‘Monsieur my enemy!’ repeated Gerald, in utter amazement.

‘Yes. The rumour goes that when the commission returned their report

to the King, his Majesty was mercifully inclined, and might have felt

disposed to inflict a mere reprimand, or some slight arrest, when

Monsieur’s persuasions prevailed on him to take a severer course.’

‘I cannot bring myself to credit this!’ cried Fitzgerald.

‘It is generally believed, nay, it is doubted by none, and all are

speculating how you came to incur this dislike.’

‘It is hard to say,’ muttered Gerald bitterly.

‘This is for you, Fitzgerald,’ said a sergeant of the Corps, entering

the room hastily. ‘You are to appear on the parade to-morrow, and hear

it read at the head of your company,’ and with these words he threw an

open paper on the table and withdrew.

‘Open shame and insult--this is too much,’ said Gerald. ‘You must

appeal, Gerald; I insist upon it,’ cried Dillon.

‘No, sir. I have done with princes and royal guards. I could not put on

their livery again with the sense of loyalty that once stirred my heart.

Leave me, I pray, an hour or two to collect my thoughts and grow calm

again. Good-bye for a short while.

CHAPTER VI. A WANDERER

After many vicissitudes and hazards, Fitzgerald succeeded in making his

escape from France, and reaching Coblentz, where a small knot of

devoted Royalists lived, sharing their little resources in common,

and generously contributing every aid in their power to their poorer

brethren. This life, if one of painful and unceasing anxiety, was yet

singularly devoid of incident. To watch the terrible course of that

torrent that now devastated their native country; to see how in that

resistless deluge all was submerged--throne, villa, home, and family; to

sit motionless on the shore, as it were, and survey the shipwreck, was

their sad fate.

According to the various temperaments they possessed did men bear this

season of probation. To some it was like a dreary nightmare, a long half

sleep of suffering and oppression, leaving them devoid of all energy,

or all will for exertion. Others felt stimulated to be up and doing, to

write and plot, and intrigue with their fellow-exiles in Italy and the

north of Germany. The very transmission of the sad tidings which came

from Paris became an accustomed task; while some few, half resigned to a

ruin whose widespread limits seemed to menace the whole of Europe, began

to weave plans for emigrating to a new world beyond the seas.

Gerald halted, and deliberated to which of these two latter he would

attach himself. If the idea of a new colony and a new existence, where

each should stamp his fate with his own impress, had its attractions,

there was also much that fascinated in the heroism that bound men to a

losing cause, and held them faithful and true where so many fell off

in defection. Perhaps it was the personal character of the men

who professed these opinions ultimately decided his choice; for

D’Allonville, Caumartin, and Lessieux, who then lived at Coblentz, gave

to these sentiments all the glowing ardour of a high and noble chivalry.

Nor was it without a certain charm for a young mind to see himself, as

it were, a participator and agent in the cause of great events. By

zeal to encounter any difficulty, readiness to go anywhere, or dare any

peril, Fitzgerald had won the esteem and confidence of men high in the

exiled Prince’s favour. They grew to talk with him and confide in him,

showing him private letters from exalted personages, and even at times

to take his counsel in affairs which required prompt action. Young,

active, able to endure fatigue without inconvenience, he offered himself

for every charge where such qualities might be available; and thus he

traversed Europe, from Hamburg to Italy, from the Rhine to the Vistula,

bearing despatches, or as often himself charged with some special

communication too delicate to commit to writing, and wherein his tact

was intrusted with the details.

At last it was deemed essential to have a number of agents in France

itself--men capable of watching and recording the changes of public

opinion, who might note the rising discontents of the popular mind,

and observe where they had their source. It was a rooted faith in the

Royalist party that sooner or later the nation would react against the

terrible doctrines of the anarchists, and welcome back to France the men

whose very names and titles were part of her glory: the mistake was in

supposing that the time for this reaction was at hand, and in believing

that every passing shadow was its herald.

Gerald’s personal courage, his adroitness in the use of disguise, his

unfailing resources in every difficulty, pointed him out as one well

adapted for this employ; and he was constantly intrusted with secret

missions to this or that part of France, occasions on which he as

invariably distinguished himself by his capacity. The very isolation in

which he stood, without family or connections, favoured him, removing

him from the sphere of those jealousies which oftentimes marred and

defeated the wisest plans of the Royalists. He was not a Rohan nor a

Courcelles--a Grammont nor a Tavanne--whose family influence was one

day or other to be dreaded. Let him win what fame he might, gain what

credit, attract what notice, he carried with him no train of followers

to profit by his success and bar up the avenues of promotion; for so

was it--strange and scarce credible though it seems--men were already

quarrelling over the spoils ere the victory was won; ere, indeed, the

battle was engaged, or the enemy encountered.

BOOK THE THIRD

CHAPTER I. A CARDINAL’S CHAMBER

We must ask of our reader to pass over both time and space, and

accompany us, as night is falling, to a small chamber in the house of

the Cardinal Caraffa at Rome, where his Eminence is now closeted in

secret converse with a tall, sickly, but still handsome man, in a long

robe of black serge, buttoned almost to his feet, and wearing on his

head a low square cap, of the same coarse material; he is the Père

Massoni, superior of the College of Jesuits.

The Cardinal had but just returned from a conclave, and had not taken

time to change a dress, whose splendour formed a strong contrast with

the simple attire of his guest.

‘It is, happily, the last council for the season,’ said his Eminence, as

he seated himself in a deep easy-chair. ‘His Holiness leaves for Gaeta

to-morrow, the Cardinal Secretary Piombino retires to Albano during the

hot weather, and I am free to confer with my esteemed friend the Père

Massoni, and discuss deeper themes than the medallions in the nave of

San Giovanni di Laterano. There were to have been fourteen on either

side last Tuesday; on Friday, we came down to twelve; to-day, we deemed

eleven enough; in fact, Massoni, we are less speculative as to the

future, and have left but four spaces to be filled up; but enough of

this,--have your letters arrived?’

‘Yes, your Eminence, the Priest Carroll from Ireland has brought me

several, and much information besides of events in England.’

‘It is of France I want to hear,’ broke in the Cardinal impatiently. ‘It

is of the man in the throes of death I would learn tidings, not of him

lingering in the long stages of a chronic malady. Did this priest pass

through Paris?’

‘He did, your Eminence; he was two days there. The fever of blood

still rages. ‘Twas but Monday week, thirty-two nobles of La Vendée were

guillotined, and, worse still, eight priests, old and venerable men,

curés of the several parishes. They met their death as became true sons

of the holy Church, declaring with their last breath that the sacrifice

would bring a blessing on the faith.’

‘So it will--they are right--truth must triumph at last, Massoni,’ said

the Cardinal hurriedly; ‘but we are passing through a fiery ordeal;

sparks of the same fire have been seen among ourselves too. Grave fears

exist that all is not well at Viterbo.’

‘The flame must be trodden out quickly and completely, your Eminence;

deal with traitors with speed, and you can treat true men with justice.

The Abbé Guescard, whose book on private judgments you have seen, was

buried this morning.’

‘I had not heard that he was ill.’

‘It was a sudden seizure, your Eminence, but the convulsions resisted

all treatment, and death closed his sufferings about midnight. The

doctrines of Diderot and Jean Jacques form but sorry homilies. They who

preach them go to a heavy reckoning hereafter.’

‘And meet with sudden deaths besides,’ said the Cardinal, with a glance

in which there was fully as much jollity as gloom.

The Jesuit Father’s pale face remained calm and passionless as before,

nor did a syllable escape from him in reply. At length the Cardinal

said, ‘All accounts agree in one thing, the pestilence is spreading,

At Aranguez, in Spain, a secret society has been discovered in

correspondence with Des-moulins. At Leipsic a record for future

proscription throughout Germany has been found, exactly fashioned after

the true Paris model; and even in sluggish England the mutter-ings of

discontent are heard, but with them we have less sympathy--or rather we

might say, God speed the hand that would pull down the heretic Church!’

‘Carroll tells me that Ireland is ripe, though for what, it is yet hard

to pronounce. The cry of “Liberty” in France has awakened her to the

memory of all her hatred to England. Men of great ability and daring are

eagerly feeding the flame; the difficulty will be to direct its ravages

when once it breaks out. If the principles of France sway them, the

torrent that will overwhelm the heretic will also sweep away the faith.’

‘Much will depend upon the men who direct the movement.’

‘No, no,’ said the Jesuit, ‘next to nothing. Each in his turn will be

the victim of the event he seems to control. It is not the riven tree

carried along by the current that directs the stream. It is to human

passions and their working we must look, to see the issue out of

these troubles. Once men emerge out of the storm-tossed ocean of

their excesses, they strain their eyes to catch some haven--some

resting-place. Some find it in religion; some in ambition, which is the

religion of this world. The crime of France has been that no such goal

has ever existed. In their lust to destroy, they have forfeited the

power to rebuild. As well endeavour to reanimate the cold corpses

beneath the guillotine as revive that glorious monarchy. For men like

these there is no hope--no hereafter. Have no trust in them.’

‘But you yourself told me,’ cried the Cardinal, ‘how vain it were to

pledge men to the cause of the Church.’

‘And truly did I say so. Men will serve no cause but that which secures

them a safe recompense. In France they have that recompense--there

is vengeance and there is pillage; but both will be exhausted after a

time--there will be satiety for one and starvation for the other, and

then woe to those who spirited them on to this pursuit. The convulsion

in Ireland, if it should come, need not have this peril; there, there is

a race to expel and a heresy to exterminate; in both the prospect of the

future is implied. Let us aid this project.’

‘Ah! it is your old project lurs there,’ cried the Cardinal; ‘I see

a glimpse of it already; but what a dream is the restoration of that

house!’

‘Nor do I mean it should be more; the phantom of a Stuart in the

procession is all I ask for. By that dynasty the Church is typified.

Instead of encountering the thousand enemies of a faith, we rally to us

the adherents of a monarchy. If we build up this throne, he who sits on

it is our viceroy; we have made, and can unmake him.’

‘And how can the Cardinal York serve these plans?’

‘I never intended that he should; his gown alone would exempt him, even

had he--which he has not--personal qualities for such a cause.’

‘Yet with him the race is extinct.’

‘Of that I am not so certain, and it is precisely the point on which I

want to confer with you.’ So saying, the Père drew a packet of papers

from the breast of his robe, and placed it on the table. ‘I have there

beneath my hand, said he, ‘the copy of a marriage certificate between

Charles Edward, Prince of Wales, and Grace Géraldine, of Cappa Glyn,

County Kildare, Ireland. It is formally drawn up, dated, signed, and

witnessed with due accuracy. The Father Ignatius, in whose hand the

document is, is dead; but there are many alive who could recognise his

writing. One of the witnesses, too, is believed still to be living in

a remote part of Ireland; I have his name and can trace him; but even

better than this, the Cardinal York admits the fact, and owns that he

retains in his possession a last legacy of the Prince for the child born

of this marriage.

‘Your Eminence smiles incredulously; but what will you say when I add

that the same child was inscribed in our College under the name of

Gerald Fitzgerald; was well known to my predecessor, the present Bishop

of Orvieto; quitted the College to acquire the protection of the

Prince, from which he most unaccountably strayed or was withdrawn, and

ultimately reached France.’

‘Where he has, doubtless, been guillotined for his royal blood,’ broke

in the Cardinal.

‘No, your Eminence; he lives, and I have traced him. Nay, more, I have

found that he is one in every way adapted for such an enterprise as I

speak of; possessed of the most heroic courage, with a character fertile

in resources; all the winning graces of his father are united in him,

with a steadfast energy that few of the Stuarts could ever have laid

claim to. In a life of struggle and adversity--for he has never known

his rank, nor has the slightest suspicion of his birth--he has never

once descended to a single act that could impugn the highest station.

In a word, to declare him a Prince to-morrow needs not that we should

obliterate his past life or conceal its vicissitudes.’

‘Be it so as you say. Is it such pretensions you would oppose to the

recognised and established monarchy of England? A youth of at least

highly questionable legitimacy, friendless and penniless; and this, too,

in an age when thrones propped up by all that can aid their prestige are

tottering to their fall!’

‘We want him but as the banner to rally around; we need him as the

standard which will draw Scotland to the side of Ireland, and both for

one cause--the Church. A Prince of the House of Stuart is the emblem of

all that defies the heresy when the day of trouble comes. It is vital

that Ireland should not follow in the steps of France, and Christian

blood be shed to establish the reign of the infidel! If the pestilence

that now rages in France extend through Europe, as many wise heads

predict it will, the day will come that the last resting-place of our

faith will be that small island in the west. Think, then, how important

it is that we should give to the struggle that is approaching a guidance

and direction. If the Irish insurrection be capable of a royalist

colouring, we can take advantage of that feature to awaken the dormant

chivalry of those who would risk nothing in the cause of a Republic. The

old Catholic families of England, the Scottish chiefs, men who can bring

into the field the fiercest partisans and the most intrepid followers;

all Ireland, save that small garrison which assumes to subject it to

English rule, will rally round a Stuart: and that Stuart will be in our

hands to deal with--to elevate to a throne on the claim of his birth;

or, if need be, to proclaim an illegitimate pretender!’

The soft, mild eyes of the Jesuit grew darker and deeper in colour,

and his pale cheeks flushed, while the last words came from him with an

utterance thick and almost guttural from passion. Nor was the Cardinal

unmoved: partly in sympathy with the emotion of the speaker, partly

stimulated by the great proportions of the scheme displayed before him,

he sat, with hurried, breathing and a heated brow, gazing steadfastly at

the other.

‘There are immense difficulties, Father,’ he began.

‘I know them all,’ broke in Massoni. ‘For some I have provided, for

many more I am still reflecting; but still remember, that to launch the

project is our great care. When the rock is riven from its base, no

man can tell by what course it will descend the mountain, over what

precipice gain new force, or in what hollow lie spent and motionless.

Let us be satisfied if we start the game, and leave to destiny the

pursuit!’

‘Much money will be needed----’

‘The great families of England are rich. It will not require deep

calculation to satisfy them that the cost of supporting a loyalist cause

will be little in comparison with the consequences of a revolution to

end in a republic; a loan is ever lighter than confiscation!’

‘There is much in that if the alternative be well put and well

understood.’

‘From what I learn,’ continued the Père, ‘men of influence and fortune

will grasp eagerly at what offers any issue to the coming trouble, save

to follow in the footsteps of France. The Terror there has done us good

service, and the lesson may be still further improved. They who would

imitate Marat and Robespierre will have a short reign.’

‘Better they should have none!’

‘There must be the baptism of blood,’ said the Père, in a low but firm

voice.

‘And who is to prepare the plan of this great campaign, to gather

together the leaders, to applot the several duties, to arrange

details, conciliate interests, and reconcile rivalries? He must be one,

doubtless, of commanding ability and vast resources.’

Massoni bowed a deep and reverential assent.

‘A man of station sufficient to make his influence felt without

dispute--one whose counsel none dare gainsay.’

Again did a humble bow give acquiescence.

‘Nor,’ continued the speaker, ‘must it be from his exalted station alone

that men yield deference to him. He must needs be one well versed

in human nature; who can read the heart in its mood of strength or

weakness; a master of all the secret springs that sway motives; in a

word, he ought to combine the wide views and grand conceptions of the

politician with the deep and subtle knowledge of a churchman--where will

you find such?

‘He can be found, was the calm reply. ‘I know of one who answers to each

demand of your description.

‘You are mistaken, Père Massoni,’ said the Cardinal in a voice slightly

tremulous with agitation. ‘I know his Eminence of York well, and he is

ill fitted for a charge so vast and momentous.’

‘I never thought of him, sir,’ was the prompt answer. ‘My eyes were

fixed upon one scarcely his inferior in high descent, infinitely above

him in all the qualities of mind and intellect, one whose name in the

cause would half ensure success, and whose vast resources of thought

would be a more precious mine than the wealth of Peru.

‘And he--who is this great and transcendent genius?’ asked the Cardinal,

half angrily.

‘His Eminence the Cardinal Leo Gonzales Caraffa!’ said the Père, as he

dropped on his knees and pressed his lips fervently to the other’s hand.

The Cardinal’s florid features flushed till they were crimson; and

though he tried to speak, no sound came from his lips. A sense of

overwhelming astonishment, even more than gratified vanity, had mastered

him, and, with a gesture of modest dissent, he raised the priest from

the ground.

‘No, no, Massoni,’ said he, in a soft, low tone; ‘these are the

promptings of your own affectionate regard for me, not the fruit of that

calm reason with which you know so well how to judge your fellow-men.’

‘Read these letters, then, sir,’ said Massoni, placing a packet on the

table, ‘and see if my sentiments are not as strong in the hearts of

others.’

The Cardinal hesitated to open the documents before him; there was

a sort of modest reluctance in his manner which Massoni seemed to

understand; for, taking up one of the letters himself, he glanced his

eyes along the lines till he came to a particular passage, pointing out

which with his finger, he read: ‘“You have among the Cardinals, however,

one fully equal to this great task, the Cardinal Caraffa, a man whose

political sagacity is not surpassed in Europe, and who, by a good

fortune, rare among churchmen, possesses a mind capable of comprehending

and directing great military measures. I am informed that he served in

Spain.”’

‘Who writes this?’ broke in the Cardinal.

‘The writer is Prince Charles of Hesse.’

‘A brave soldier and an honest man,’ said the Cardinal, with evident

pleasure in the words.

‘This is from the Viscount de Noe,’ resumed Massoni, opening another

letter and reading: ‘“It is essentially the cause of the Church, and

demands a churchman at its head. Who, then, so fit as he who may, one

day or other, occupy the throne of St. Peter!”’ Here he paused as if

having concluded.

‘The expression is vague, nor has it any the least application to me,’

said Caraffa, reddening.

‘Then hear what follows,’ cried Massoni. ‘“Even if there were personal

peril, which there is not, the Cardinal Caraffa would not refuse us his

aid, nor must he remain the only man in Europe unconscious of the great

qualities which stamp him as our leader.” This,’ continued the priest,

with increased rapidity, ‘this is from Sir Godefry Wharton, an English

Catholic noble of great wealth and influence. “From all that I can

learn it must be Caraffa, not York, to lead us in this enterprise; all

agree in representing him as a man of resolute action, gifted with every

quality of statesmanship.” Troverini writes thus from Venice: “When the

day of restoration”--it is of the Church he speaks--“when the day of

restoration arrives, we shall need a man equal to the great task of

reconstructing society, without employing too ostentatiously the old

materials. I am assured that Caraffa is such a man; tell me your opinion

of him.” This,’ resumed Massoni, holding up a large letter in a strange,

rough, and irregular hand, ‘this is from the Marquis d’Allonville,

secretary to the Count d’Artois. “We all feel that if it be our fate to

return, it must be as following in the procession of the Church. Nothing

but the faith can successfully combat this infidelity baptized in crime.

To give, therefore, the impulse of religion to any of these movements,

no matter among what people, must be the first care of those who look

forward to better things. Legitimacy is the doctrine of the Gospel.”...

This is what I was in search of. “Ireland is well adapted for the

experiment. A people of believers under the sway of a nation they detest

will eagerly grasp at what will alike establish the Church they

revere and the nationality they covet. If you really have a legitimate

descendant of the Stuarts, and if he be one equal to the demands of the

crisis, it signifies little in what quarter of Europe the first essay be

made, and we will throw all our efforts into the scale with you, always

provided that you can show us some great political head, some man of

foresight and reflection, among your party concurring in this view--such

a one, for example, as the Cardinal Caraffa. We have money, men of

action and daring, only longing for occasions to employ them, but we are

sadly in want of such capacities as Caraffa represents; so at least the

Prince tells us, for I have no personal knowledge of the Cardinal.”’

‘I am flattered by his Royal Highness’s remembrance of me,’ said Caraffa

proudly.

‘And this,’ said Massoni, showing a few lines on a simple slip of paper,

‘this came enclosed within D’Allonville’s letter.

“I am willing to open direct relations with his Eminence the Cardinal

Caraffa on the subjects herein discussed.--D’Artois.”

Are these enough, sir?’

‘More than enough to gratify a loftier pride than mine,’ said Caraffa,

with a flushed cheek; ‘but let us turn to a worthier theme. What is it

that is proposed?’

‘The project, in one word, is this--to make the rising now about to

take place in Ireland a royalist, and not a revolutionary movement;

to overbear the men of destruction by the influence of wiser and safer

guides; to direct the wild energies of revolt into the salutary channels

of a restoration; and to build up once more, in all its plenitude, the

power of the Church.’

‘Remember, Massoni, what Mirabeau said; and though I do not love the

authority, the words are those of wisdom: “Revolutions are not the work

of men--they make themselves.”’

‘It is from men’s hands, however, they receive their first impulses. It

is also by a secret and firm alliance of men--steady to one purpose, and

constant to one idea--that revolutions catch their tone and colour. None

of us could expect that, in a great national struggle, there will not be

many acts to deplore--grievous crimes committed gratuitously--vain and

useless cruelties. To every great vicissitude in this world there is an

amount of power applied totally dis-proportioned to the effect produced.

To wreck one solitary ship, a whole ocean is convulsed, and desolate

shores in faraway lands are storm-lashed for days. So is it in

revolutions The unchained winds of men’s passions sweep over a larger

space than is needed. This must be borne. Let us remember, too, that

the blood thus, to all seeming, gratuitously shed has also its profit.

Terror is a great agency of revolt. Many must be intimidated. It is when

people are paralysed by fear that they who are to reconstruct society

have time to mature their plans, just as the surgeon awaits the moments

of his patient’s insensibility to commence his operation. But, above

all, your Eminence, bear in mind that where the object is good and

great, a blessing goes with those who sustain it.’

If the Cardinal bowed a submissive assent to this devout assertion,

there was something like a half motion of impatience in his manner as he

said--

‘And the men who are to lead this movement?’

‘The details are somewhat lengthy, your Eminence, but I have them here,’

said Massoni, as he laid his hand on the papers before him.

‘And this is Ireland?’ said Caraffa, as he bent over a map and gazed on

the small spot which represented the island. ‘How small it looks, and

how far away!’