Let us now return to Rome. The Père Massoni sat alone in his small
study; a single lamp, covered with a shade, stood beside him, throwing
its light only on his thin, attenuated figure, dressed in the long robe
of black serge, and buttoned to the very feet. One wasted, blue-veined
hand rested on his knee, the other was in the breast of his robe. It was
a wild and stormy night without: long, swooping dashes of rain came from
time to time against the windows, with blasts of strong wind borne
over the wide expanse of the Campagna. The blue lightning, too, flashed
through the half-darkened room, while the thunder rolled unceasingly
amid the stupendous ruins of old Rome. For a long time had the Père sat
thus motionless, and to all seeming, in expectancy. Some books and an
open map lay on the table beside him, but he never turned to them, but
remained in this selfsame attitude; only changing when he bent his head
to listen more attentively to the noises without. At length he arose,
and passing into a small octagonal tower that opened from the corner of
his chamber, closed the door behind him. For a second or two he stood
in perfect darkness, but suddenly a wide flash of lightning lit up the
whole air, displaying the bleak Campagna for miles and miles, while it
depicted every detail of the little tower around him. Taking advantage
of the light, he advanced and opened the windows, carefully fastening
them to the walls as he did so. He now seated himself by the open
casement, gathering his robe well about him, and drawing the hood over
his face. The storm increased as the night went on. Many an ancient
pillar rocked to its base; many a stern old ruin shook, as in distinct
blasts, like the report of cannon, the wind hurled all its force upon
them. In the same fitful gusts the rain dashed down, seething across the
wide plain, where it hissed with a sound like a breaking sea borne
away on the wild blast. The sound of the bells through the city was not
heard: all except St. Peter’s were dissipated and lost. The great bell
of the mighty dome, however, rose proudly above the crash of elements,
and struck three, and as the Père counted the strokes, he sighed
drearily. For the last hour the lightning had been less and less
frequent; and instead of that wide-spreading scene of open Campagna,
dotted with villages, and traversed by roads, suddenly flashing upon him
with a clearness more marked than at noonday, all was now wrapped in an
impenetrable darkness, only broken at rare intervals, and by weak and
uncertain gleams.
Why does he peer so earnestly through the gloom, why in every lull of
the gale, does he bend his ear to listen, and why, in the lightning
flashes, are his eyes ever turned to the winding road that leads to
Viterbo? For him, surely, no ties of kindred, no affections of the heart
are the motives which hold him thus spell-bound: nor wife nor child are
his, for whose coming he watches thus eagerly. What can it be, then,
that has awakened this feverish anxiety within him, that with every
swell of the storm he starts and listens with more intense eagerness?
‘He will not come to-night,’ muttered he at length to himself; he will
not come to-night, and to-morrow it will be too late. On Wednesday they
leave this for Gaeta, and ere they return it may be weeks, ay, months.
So is it ever: we strive, and plot, and plan; and yet it is a mere
question of seconds whether the mine explode at the right instant. The
delay is inexplicable,’ said he, after a pause. ‘They left Sienna on
Sunday last; and, even granting that they must travel slowly, they
should have been here yesterday morning. What misfortune is this? I left
the Cardinal last night, at length--and after how much labour--persuaded
and convinced. He agreed to all and every thing. Had the youth arrived
to-night, therefore, his Eminence must have pledged himself to the
enterprise; indeed he rarely changes his mind under two days!’ He paused
for a while, and then in a voice of deeper emotion, said: ‘If we needed
to be taught how small is all our wisdom--how poor, and weak, and
powerless we are--we can read the lesson in the fact that minutes decide
destinies, while whole lives of watching cannot control the smallest
event!’ A brilliant flash of lightning at this instant illuminated the
entire plain, showing every object in the wide expanse for miles. The
Père started, and leaned eagerly upon the window, his eyes fixed on
the Viterbo road. Another minute, ay, a second more, had been enough to
assure him if he had seen aright; but already it was dark again, and
the dense thunder-clouds seemed to descend to the very earth. As the low
growling sounds died away at last, the air seemed somewhat thinner, and
now the Père could make out a faintly twinkling light that flickered
through the gloom, appearing and disappearing at intervals, as the
ground rose or fell: he quickly recognised it for a carriage-lamp, and
with a fervently uttered entreaty to Heaven, that it might prove the
herald of those he watched for, he closed the window and returned to his
study.
If the law that condemns the priest to a life of isolation and
estrangement from all human affections be severe and pitiless, there
is what many would deem a proud compensation in the immensity of that
ambition offered to men thus separated from their fellows. Soaring above
the cares and anxieties, whose very egotism renders them little, these
men fix their contemplation upon the great events of the world, and,
in a spirit that embraces ages yet unborn, uninfluenced by the emotions
that sway others, untouched by the yearnings that control them, they
alone of all mankind can address themselves to the objects of their
ambition without selfish interests. The aggrandisement of the Church,
the spread and pre-eminence of the Catholic faith, formed a cause which
for centuries engaged the greatest intellects and the most devoted
hearts of her followers. Among these were many of more eminence, in
point of station, than Massoni; many more learned, many more eloquent,
many whose influence extended further and wider, but not one who threw
more steadfast devotion into the cause, nor who was readier to peril
all--even to life itself--in its support. He had been for years employed
by the Papal Government as a secret agent at the different courts
of Europe. He had been in Spain, in Austria, in France, and the Low
Countries; he had travelled through England, and passed nearly a year
in Ireland. Well versed in modern languages, and equally acquainted with
the various forms of European government, he was one whose opinion had a
great weight upon every question of political bearing. Far too crafty to
employ this knowledge in self-advancement, where, at the very utmost,
it might have led to some inferior dignity at home, or some small
‘Nunciate’ abroad, he devoted himself to the service of the Cardinal
Çaraffa, a man of immense wealth, high family, overweening pretensions,
but of an intellect the very weakest, and so assailable by flattery, as
to be the slave of those who had access to him. His Eminence saw all the
advantages to be derived from such a connection. Whatever the point that
occupied the Consulta, he was sure to be thoroughly informed upon it
by his secret adviser; and so faithfully and so adroitly was he served,
that the mystery of their intimacy was unfathomed by his brother
cardinals. Caraffa spoke of Massoni as a person of whom ‘he had heard,
indeed’; a man trustworthy, and of some attainments, but that was all;
‘he had seen him, too, and spoken with him occasionally!’
As for the Père, the name of his Eminence never passed his lips, except
in company with those of other cardinals. In fact, he knew few great
people; their ways and habits little suited his humble mode of life, and
he never frequented the grand receptions of the princes of the Church,
nor showed himself at their salons. Such, in brief, was the Jesuit
father, who now walked up and down the little study, in a state of
feverish impatience it was rarely his lot to suffer. At last the
heavy roll of a carriage resounded in the court beneath, the clank of
descending steps was heard, and soon after the sound of approaching feet
along the corridor.
‘Are they come? is it Carrol?’ cried the Père, flinging wide the door of
his chamber.
‘Yes, most reverend rector,’ said a full, rich voice; and a short,
rosy-faced little man, in the prime of life, entered and obsequiously
kissed Massoni’s extended hand.
‘What an anxious time you have given me, Carrol!’ said the Père hastily.
‘Have you brought him? Is he with you?
‘Yes; he’s in the carriage below at this moment, but so wearied and
exhausted that it were better you should not see him to-night.’ Massoni
paused to reflect, and after a moment said--‘We have no time, not even
an hour, to throw away, Carrol; the sooner I see this youth, the better
prepared shall I be to speak of him to his Eminence. A few words to
welcome him will be enough for me. Yes, let him come; it is for the
best.’
Carrol left the room, and after some delay, was heard returning, his
slow steps being accompanied by the wearied foot-falls of one who walked
with difficulty. Massoni threw the door wide, and as the light
streamed out he almost started at the figure before him. Pale, wan, and
worn-looking as the stranger appeared, the resemblance to Charles Edward
was positively startling. The same lustrous gleam of the deep blue
eyes: the same refinement of brow; the same almost womanly softness of
expression in the mouth; and stronger than all these, the mode in which
he carried his head somewhat back, and with the chin slightly elevated,
were all marks of the Prince.
Massoni welcomed him with a courteous and respectful tone, and conducted
him to a seat.
‘This is a meeting I have long and ardently desired, sir,’ said the
Père, in the voice of one to whom the arts of the courtier were not
unknown; ‘nor am I the only one here who has cherished this wish.’
A faint smile, half gracious half surprised, acknowledged this speech,
and Carrol watched with a painful anxiety even this mark of recognition.
‘The Chevalier is fatigued to-night, reverend father,’ said he;
‘his endeavours to fulfil our wishes have cost him much exertion and
weariness. We have journeyed day and night from Geneva.’
‘In this ardour he has only given us a deeper pledge of his high
deservings. May I offer you some refreshments, sir?’ said he, hastily,
struck by the weak pallor of the young man’s countenance.
A gentle gesture of refusal declined the offer.
‘Shall I show you to your room, then?’ said the Père, rising and opening
a door into a small chamber adjoining; ‘my servant will attend you.’
‘No,’ said the youth faintly. ‘Let us proceed with our journey; I will
not rest till I reach Rome.’
‘But you are at Rome, sir; we are at our journey’s end,’ said Carrol.
The young man heard the words without emotion--the same sad smile upon
his lips.
‘He must have rest and care,’ whispered Massoni to Carrol; and then
turning to the youth, he took him by the hand and led him away.
Having consigned him to the care of a faithful servant, the Père
re-entered the room, his face flushed, and his dark eyes flashing.
‘What miserable deception is this?’ cried he. ‘Is this the daring,
headlong spirit I have been hearing of? Are these the parts to confront
an enterprise of peril?’
‘He is----’
‘He is dying,’ broke in the Père passionately.
‘Confess, at least, he is a Stuart, in every line and lineament.’
‘Ay, Carrol, even to the word failure, written in capitals on his brow.’
‘But you see him wasted by fever and long suffering; he rose from a
sick-bed to undertake this wearisome journey.’
‘Better had he kept his bed till death released him. I tell you it is
not of such stuff as this adventurers are made. His very appearance
would dash men with discouragement.’
‘Bethink you what he has gone through, Père; the sights and scenes
of horror that have met his eyes--the daily carnage amid which he
lived--himself, twice rescued from the scaffold, by what seems like
a miracle--his days and nights of suffering in friendless misery too.
Remember, also, how little of hope there was to cheer him through all
this. If ever there was one forlorn and destitute, it was he.’
‘I think not of _him_, but of the cause he should have served,’ said the
Père; ‘and once more I say, this youth is unequal to “the event.” His
father had faults enough to have wrecked a dozen enterprises: he was
rash, reckless, and unstable; but his rashness took the form of courage,
and his very fickleness had a false air of versatility. Men regarded it
as an element full of resources; but this sickly boy only recalls in his
features every weakness of his race. What can we do with _him_?’
‘Men have fought valiantly for royalties that offered less to their
regard,’ said Carrol.
‘Ay, Carrol, when the throne is fixed, men will rally to maintain it,
even though he who wears the crown be little worthy of their reverence;
but when the question is to reestablish a fallen dynasty--to replace
one branch by another, the individual becomes of immense importance;
personal qualities assume then all the proportions of claims, and men
calculate on the future by the promises of the present. Tell me frankly
what could you augur for a cause of which this youth was to be the
champion?’
Carrol did not break silence for some time; at length he said--
‘You told me once, and I have never forgotten it, a remarkable story of
Monsignor Saffi, the Bishop of Volterra-----’
‘I know what you allude to--how the simple-minded bishop became the
craftiest of cardinals. Ay, elevation will now and then work such
miracles; but it is because they are miracles we are not to calculate on
their recurrence.’
‘I would not say that this is not the case to hope for a similar
transformation. They who knew Fitzgerald in his better, stronger days,
describe him as one capable of the most daring exploits, full of heroism
and of a boundless ambition, fed by some mysterious sentiment that
whispers within him that he was destined for high achievement. These are
inspirations that usually only die with ourselves.
‘When I look at him,’ said the Père sadly, ‘I distrust them all.’
‘You are not wont to be so easily discouraged.’ ‘Easily
discouraged--easily discouraged! It is a strange reproach to bring
against me,’ said the Père, with a calm collectedness; ‘nor is that the
character all Rome would give me. But why am I steadfast of purpose and
firm of plan? Because, ere I engage in an enterprise, I weigh well the
means of success, and canvass all its agencies. The smallest stream that
ever dashed down a mountain has strength in the impulse of its course,
while if it meandered through a plain it had been a rivulet. This is a
lesson we may reap profit from.’
Carrol did not answer, and Massoni, covering his face with his hands,
seemed lost in deep thought; at last he said--
‘What was your pretext to induce him to come back here?’
‘To hear tidings of his family and kindred.’
‘Did you intimate to him that they were of rank and station?’
‘Yes, of the very highest.’
‘How did the news affect him?’
‘It was hard at first to convince him that they could be true. He had,
besides, been so often tricked and deceived by false intelligence,
and made the sport of craftier heads, that it was difficult to win his
confidence; nor did I succeed until I told him certain facts about his
early life, whose correctness he acknowledged.’
‘I had imagined him most unlike what I see. If Charles Edward had left a
daughter she might have resembled this.’
‘Still that very resemblance is of great value.’
‘What signifies that a thing may look like gold, when at the first touch
of the chemist’s test it blackens and betrays itself?’
‘He may be more of a Stuart even than he looks. It is too rash to judge
of him as we see him now.’
‘Be it so,’ said the Père, with a sort of resignation; ‘but if I have
not lost my skill in reading temperament, this youth is not to our
purpose. At all events,’ resumed he, more rapidly, ‘his Eminence need
not see him yet. Enough when I say that the fatigues of the road have
brought on some fever, and that he is confined to bed. Within a week, or
even less, I shall be able to pronounce if we may employ him. I have no
mind to hear your news to-night; this disappointment has unmanned me;
but to-morrow, Carrol, to-morrow the day will be all our own, and I all
myself. And so good-night, and good rest.’