Our reader is already fully aware of the reasons which influenced the
Père Massoni to adopt the cause of young Fitzgerald. It was not any
romantic attachment to an ancient and illustrious house; as little was
it any conviction of a right. It was simply an expedient which seemed to
promise largely for the one cause which the Jesuit father deemed worthy
of a man’s life-long devotion--the Church. To impart to the terrible
struggle which in turn ravaged every country in Europe a royalist
feature, seemed, to his thoughtful mind, the one sole issue of present
calamity. His theory was: after the homage to the throne will come back
reverence to the altar.
For a while the Père suffered himself to indulge in the most sanguine
hopes of success. Throughout Europe generally men were wearied of
that chaotic condition which the French Revolution had introduced, and
already longed for the reconstruction of society in some shape or other.
By the influence of able agents, the Church had contrived to make her
interest in the cause of order perceptible, and artfully suggested the
pleasant contrast of a society based on peace and harmony, with the
violence and excess of a revolutionary struggle.
Had the personal character of young Gerald been equal, in Massoni’s
estimation, to the emergency, the enterprise might have been deemed
most hopeful. If the youth had been daring, venturous, and enthusiastic,
heedless of consequences and an implicit follower of the Church, much
might have been made of him; out of his sentiment of religious devotion
would have sprung a deference and a trustfulness which would have
rendered him manageable. But, though he was all these, at times, he was
fifty other things as well.
There was not a mood of the human mind that did not visit him in
turns, and while one day would see him grave, earnest, and thoughtful,
dignified in manner, and graceful in address, on the next he would
appear reckless and indifferent, a scoffer, and a sceptic. The old
poisons of his life at the Tana still lingered in his system and
corrupted his blood; and if, for a moment, some high-hearted ambition
would move him--some chivalrous desire for great things--so surely would
come back the terrible lesson of Mirabeau to his mind, and distrust
darken, with its ill-omened frown, all that had seemed bright and
glorious.
After the first burst of proud elation on discovering his birth and
lineage, he became thoughtful and serious, and at times sad. He dwelt
frequently and painfully upon the injustice with which his early
youth was treated, and seemed fully to feel that, if some political
necessity--of what kind he could not guess--had not rendered the
acknowledgment convenient, his claims might still have slept on,
unrecognised and unknown. Among his first lessons in life Mirabeau had
instilled into him a haughty defiance of all who would endeavour to use
him as a tool.
‘Remember,’ he would say, ‘that the men who achieve success in life the
oftenest, are they who trade upon the faculties of others. Beware of
these men; for their friendship is nothing less than a servitude.’
‘To what end, for what object, am I now withdrawn from obscurity?’ were
his constant questions to himself. The priest and his craft were objects
of his greatest suspicion, and the thought of being a mere instrument to
their ends was a downright outrage. In this way, Massoni was regarded
by him with intense distrust; nor could even his gratitude surmount the
dread he felt for the Jesuit father. These sentiments deepened, as he
lay, hours long, awake at night till, at length, a low fever seized him,
and long intervals of dreary incoherency would break the tenor of his
sounder thoughts. It had been deemed expedient by the Cardinal York and
his other friends that young Gerald should continue to reside at the
Jesuit College till some definite steps were taken to declare his rank
to the world, and the very delay in this announcement was another reason
of suspicion.
‘If I be the prince you call me, why am I detained in this imprisonment?
Why am I not among my equals; why not confronted with some future that
I can look boldly in the face? Would they make a priest of me, as they
have done with my uncle? Where are the noble-hearted followers who
rallied around my father? Where the brave adherents who never deserted
even his exile? Are they all gone, or have they died, and, if so, is not
the cause itself dead?’
These and suchlike were the harassing doubts that troubled him, until
eventually his mind balanced between a morbid irritability and an
intense apathy. The most learned physicians of Rome had been called to
see him, but, though in a great measure agreeing in the nature of his
case, none succeeded in suggesting any remedy for it. Some advised
society, travelling, amusement, and so on. Others were disposed to
recommend rest and quietude; others, again, deemed that he should be
engaged in some scheme or enterprise likely to awaken his ambition;
but all these plans had soon to give place to immediate cares for his
condition, for his strength was perceived to be daily declining, and
his energy of body as well as of mind giving way. For some days back
the Père had debated with himself whether he would not unfold to him the
grand enterprise which he meditated; point out to the youth the glorious
opportunity of future distinction, and the splendid prize which should
reward success. He would have revealed the whole plot long before had
he not been under a pledge to the Cardinal Caraffa not to divulge it
without his sanction, and in his presence; and now came the question
of Gerald’s life, and whether he would survive till the return of his
Eminence from Paris, whither he had gone to fetch back his niece. Such
was the state of things when Doctor Danizetti declared that medicine had
exhausted its resources in the youth’s behalf, and suggested, as a last
resource, that a certain Egyptian lady, whose marvellous powers had
attracted all the attention of Rome, should be called in to see him, and
declare what she thought of his case.
This Egyptian Princess, as report called her, had taken up her abode
at a small deserted convent near Albano, living a life of strict
retirement, and known only to the peasants of the neighbourhood by the
extraordinary cures she had performed, and the wonderful recoveries
which her instrumentality had effected. The secrecy of her mode of life,
and the impossibility of learning any details of her history, added to
the fact that no one had yet seen her unveiled, gave a romantic interest
to her which soon spread into a sort of fame. Besides these, the most
astonishing tales were told of epileptic cases cured, deaf and dumb men
restored to hearing and speech, even instances of insanity successfully
treated, so that, at length, the little shrines of patron saints, once
so devoutly sought after by worshipping believers, praying that St.
Agatha or St. Nasala might intercede on their behalf, were now
forsaken, and crowds gathered in the little court of the convent eagerly
entreating the Princess to look favourably on their sufferings. These
facts--at first only whispered--at length gained the ears of Rome, and
priests and cardinals began to feel that out of this trifling incident
grave consequences might arise, and counsel was held among them whether
this dangerous foreigner should not be summarily sent out of the State.
The decision would, doubtless, have been quickly come to had it not been
that at the very moment an infant child of the Prince Altieri owed its
life to a suggestion made by the Egyptian, to whom a mere lock of the
child’s hair was given. Sorcery or not, here was a service that could
not be overlooked; and, as the Prince Altieri was one whose influence
spread widely, the thought of banishment was abandoned.
The Père Massoni, who paid at first but little attention to the stories
of her wondrous powers, was at length astonished on hearing from the
Professor Danizetti some striking instances of her skill, which seemed,
however, less that of a consummate physician than of one who had studied
the mysterious influences of the moral oyer the material part of our
nature. It was in estimating how far the mind swayed and controlled the
nervous system, whether they acted in harmony or discordance, seemed
her great gift; and to such a degree of perfection had she brought her
powers in this respect, that the tones of a voice, the expression of an
eye, and the texture of the hair, appeared often sufficient to intimate
the fate of the sick man. Danizetti confessed, that, though long a
sceptic as to her powers, he could no longer resist the force of what he
witnessed, and owned that in her art were secrets unrevealed to science.
He had made great efforts to see and to know her, but in vain; indeed
she did not scruple to confess, that for medicine and its regular
followers, she had slight respect. She deemed them as walkers in the
dark, and utterly lost to the only lights which could elucidate disease.
Through the Prince Altieri’s intervention, for he had met her in the
East, she consented to visit the Jesuit College, somewhat proud, it must
be owned, to storm, as it were, the very stronghold of that incredulity
which priestcraft professed for her abilities. For this reason was it
she insisted that her visit should be paid in open day--at noon. ‘I will
see none but the sick man.’ said she, ‘and yet all shall mark my coming,
and perceive that even these great and learned fathers have condescended
to ask for my presence and my aid. I would that the world should see how
even these holy men can worship an unknown God!’
Nor did the Père Massoni resent this pride; on the contrary, he felt
disposed to respect it. It was a bold assumption that well pleased him.
As the hour of her visit drew nigh, Massoni having given all the
directions necessary to ensure secrecy, repaired himself to the little
tower from which a view extended over the vast campagna. A solitary
carriage traversed it on the road from Albano, and this he watched with
unbroken anxiety, till he saw it enter the gate of Rome, and gradually
ascend the Pincian hill.
‘The Egyptian has come to her time,’ said he to Giacomo: ‘yonder is her
carriage at the gate; and the youth, is he still sleeping?’
‘Yes, he has not stirred for hours; he breathes so lightly that he
scarcely seems alive, and his cheeks are colourless as death.’
‘There, yonder she comes; she walks like one in the prime of life. She
is evidently not old, Giacomo.’
From the window where they stood, they could mark a tall, commanding
figure moving slowly along the garden walk, and stopping at moments to
gather flowers. A thick black veil concealed in some degree her form,
but could not altogether hide the graceful motion with which she
advanced.