The life of a man has been aptly compared to the course of a stream: now
clear, now troubled, now careering merrily onward in joyous freedom, now
forcing its turbid course amid shoals and rocks; but in no circumstance
does the comparison more truthfully apply than in those still intervals
when, the impulse of force spent, the waveless pool succeeds to
the rapid river. There are few men, even among the most active and
energetic, who have not known such periods in life. With some these are
seasons of concentration--times profitably passed in devising plans for
the future. Others chafe under the wearisome littleness of the hour, and
long for the days of activity and toil; and some there are to whom these
intervals have all the charm of a happy dream, and who love to indulge
themselves in a bliss such as in the busy world can never be their
fortune to enjoy.
Among these last, a true disciple of the school who take refuge in the
ideal and the imaginative as the sole remedy against the ills of actual
life, was Gerald Fitzgerald. When he arose from his sick-bed, it was
with a sort of dreamy, indistinct consciousness that he was of high rank
and station; one whose claims, however in abeyance now, must be admitted
hereafter; that for the great part he was yet to fill, time alone was
wanting. As to the past, it was a dream-land wherein he ventured with
fear. It was in vain he asked himself, how much of it was true or false?
Had this event really occurred? Had that man ever lived? The broken
incidents of a fevered head, mingled with the terrible realities he had
gone through; and there were many of his mere fancies that engaged
his credulity more powerfully than some of the actual events of his
chequered life.
His convalescence was passed at the Cardinal’s villa of Orvieto; and if
anything could have added to the strange confusion which oppressed him,
it was the curious indistinct impression his mind preserved of the place
itself. The gardens, fountains, statues, were all familiar. How had they
been so revealed to him? As he strolled through the great rooms, objects
struck him as well known; and yet, the Père Massoni had said to
him: ‘Orvieto will interest you; you have never been there’; and his
Eminence, in his invitation, suggested the same thought. Day after day
he pondered over this difficulty, and he continually turned over in his
mind this question: ‘Is there some inner picture in my being of all that
I am to meet with in life? Has existence only to unroll a tableau, every
detail of which is graven on my heart? Have other men these conflicts
within their minds? Is it that by some morbid condition of memory _I_ am
thus tortured? and must I seek relief by trying to forget?’ The struggle
thus suggested, rendered him daily more taciturn and thoughtful. He
would sit for hours long without a word; and time glided on absolutely
as though in a sleep.
If Gerald’s life was passed in this inactivity, the Père Massoni’s days
were fully occupied. From Ireland the tidings had long been of the most
discouraging kind. The great cause which should have been confided to
the guidance of the Church, and such as the Church could have trusted,
had been shamefully betrayed into the hands of a party deeply imbued
with all the principles of the French Revolution; men taught in the
infamous doctrines of Voltaire and Volney, and who openly professed to
hate a church even more than a monarchy. How the North of Ireland had
taken the lead in insurrection--how the Presbyterians, sworn enemies
as they were to Catholicism, had enrolled themselves in the cause of
revolt--how all the ready, active and zealous leaders were among that
class and creed, the Priest Carrol had not failed to write him word; nor
did it need the priest’s suggestive comments to make the clever
Jesuit aware of all the peril that this portended. Was it too late to
counteract these evils? by what means could men be brought back from the
fatal infatuation of those terrible doctrines? how was the banner of
the Faith to be brought to the van of the movement? were the thoughts
unceasingly in his mind. The French were willing to aid the Irish, so
also were the Dutch; but the intervention would only damage the cause
the Père cared for. Nor did he dare to confide these doubts to the
Cardinal and ask his counsel on them, since, to his Eminence he had
continually represented the case of Ireland in a totally different
light. He had taught him to believe the people all jealous for the
Faith, cruelly oppressed by England, hating the dynasty that ruled them,
and eagerly watching for the return of the Stuarts, if haply there yet
lived one to renew the traditions of that illustrious house. By dint
of instances, and no small persuasive power, he at last had so far
succeeded as to enlist the sympathies of his Eminence in the youth
personally, and was now plotting by what means he could consummate that
interest by a marriage between Gerald and the beautiful Guglia Ridolfi.
This was a project which, if often indistinctly hinted at between them,
had never yet been seriously treated, and Massoni well knew that with
Caraffa success was a mere accident, and that what he would reject one
day with scorn he would accept the next with eagerness and joy. Besides,
the gloomy tidings he constantly received from Ireland indisposed the
Père to incur any needless hazards. If the Chevalier was not destined to
play a great part in life, the Cardinal would never forgive an alliance
that conferred neither wealth nor station. The barren honour of calling
a prince of the House of Stuart his nephew would ill requite him
for maintaining a mere pensioner and a dependant. Against these
considerations there was the calculation how far the cause of Fitzgerald
might profit by the aid such a man as Caraffa could contribute, when
once pledged to success by everything personally near and dear to
himself. Might not the great churchman, then, be led to make the cause
the main object of all his wishes?
The Cardinal was one of those men, and they are large enough to form a
class, who imagine that they owe every success they obtain in life, in
some way or other, to their own admirable skill and forethought; their
egotism blinding them against all the aid the suggestions of others have
afforded, they arrive at a self-reliance which is actually marvellous.
To turn to good account this peculiarity of disposition, Massoni now
addressed himself zealously and actively. He well knew that if the
Cardinal only fancied that the alliance of his niece with the Chevalier
was a scheme devised by himself--one of which none but a man of his deep
subtlety and sagacity could ever have thought--the plot would have an
irresistible attraction for him. The wily Jesuit meditated long over
this plan, and, at last, hit upon an expedient that seemed hopeful.
Among the many agents whom he employed over Europe, was one calling
himself the Count Delia Rocca, a fellow of infinite craft and
effrontery, and who, though of the very humblest origin and most
questionable morals, had actually gained a footing among the very
highest and most exclusive of the French royalists. He had been
frequently intrusted with confidential messages between the Courts of
France and Spain, and acquired a sort of courtier-like air and breeding,
which lost nothing by any diffidence or modesty on his part.
Massoni’s plan was to pretend to the Cardinal that Delia Rocca had been
sent out to Rome by the Count D’Artois, with the decoration of St.
Louis for the Chevalier, and a secret mission to sound the young Stuart
Prince, as to his willingness to ally himself with the House of Bourbon,
by marriage. For such a pretended mission the Count was well suited;
sufficiently acquainted with the habits of great people to represent
their conversation correctly, and well versed in that half ambiguous
tone, affected by diplomatists of inferior grade, he was admirably
calculated to play the part assigned him.
To give a greater credence to the mission, it was necessary that the
Cardinal York should be also included in the deception; but nothing
was ever easier than to make a dupe of his Royal Highness. A number of
well-turned compliments from his dear cousins of ‘France’ some little
allusions to the ‘long ago’ at St. Germains, when the exiled Stuarts
lived there, and a note, cleverly imitated, in the Count D’Artois’ hand,
were quite enough to win the old man’s confidence. The next step was
to communicate Delia Rocca’s arrival to the Cardinal Caraffa, and this
Massoni did with all due secrecy, intimating that the event was one upon
which he desired to take the pleasure of his Eminence.
Partly from offended pride, on not being himself sought for by the
envoy, and partly to disguise from Massoni the jealousy he always felt
on the score of Cardinal York’s superior rank, Caraffa protested that
the tidings had no interest for him whatever; that any sentiments he
entertained for the young Chevalier were simply such as a sincere pity
suggested; that he never heard of a cause so utterly hopeless; that even
if powerful allies were willing and ready to sustain his pretensions,
the young man’s own defects of character would defeat their views; that,
from all he could hear--for of himself he owned to know nothing--Gerald
was the last man in Europe to lead an enterprise which required great
daring and continual resources, and, in fact, none could be his partisan
save from a sense of deep compassion.
The elaborate pains he took to impress all this upon Massoni convinced
the Père that it was not the real sentiment of his Eminence, and he was
not much surprised at a hasty summons to the Cardinal’s palace on the
evening of the day he had first communicated the news.
‘The first mine has been sprung!’ muttered Massoni, as he read the
order and prepared to obey it.
The Cardinal was in his study when the Père arrived, and, continued to
pace up and down the room, briefly addressing a few words as Massoni
entered and saluted him.
‘The old Cardinal Monga had a saying, that if some work were not found
out to employ the Jesuits, they were certain to set all Europe in a
flame. Was there not some truth in the remark, Père Massoni? Answer me
frankly and fairly, for you know the body well!’ Such was the speech by
which he addressed him.
‘Had his Eminence reckoned the times in which Jesuit zeal and wisdom had
rescued the world from peril, it would have been a fitter theme for his
wisdom.’
‘It is not to be denied that they are meddlers, sir,’ said the Cardinal
haughtily.
‘So are the sailors in a storm-tossed vessel. The good Samaritan
troubled himself with what, others might have said, had no concern for
him.’
‘I will not discuss it,’ said his Eminence abruptly. ‘The world has
formed its own vulgar estimate of your order, and I, at least, agree
with the majority. He paused for a second or two, and then, with a tone
of some irritation, said, ‘What is this story Rome is full of, about
some Egyptian woman, or a Greek, arrested and confined by a warrant of
the Holy Office; they have mingled your name with it, somehow?’
‘A grave charge, your Eminence; Satanic possession and witchcraft----’
‘Massoni,’ broke in Caraffa, with a malicious twinkle of his dark eye,
‘remember, I beseech you, that we are alone. What do you mean, then, by
witchcraft?’
‘Were I to say to your Eminence that, after a certain interview with
you, I had come away, assuring myself that other sentiments were in your
heart than those you had avowed to me; that you had but half revealed
this, totally ignored that, affected credulity here, disbelief there,
my subtlety, whether right or wrong, would resolve itself into a mere
common gift--the practised habit of one skilled to decipher motives; but
if, while in your presence, standing as I now do here, I could, with an
effort of argument or abstraction, open your whole heart before me,
and read there as in a book, and, while doing this, place you in
circumstances where your most secret emotions must find vent, so that
not a corner nor a nook of your nature should be strange to me, by what
name would you call such an influence?’
‘What you describe now has never existed, Massoni. Tricksters and
mountebanks have pretended to such power in every age, but they have had
no other dupes than the unlettered multitude.’
‘How say you, then, if I be a believer here? What say you, if I have
tested this woman’s power, and proved it? What say you, if all she has
predicted has uniformly come to pass; not a day, nor a date, nor an
hour mistaken! I will give an instance. Of Delia Rocca’s mission and its
objects here, I had not the very faintest anticipation. That the exiled
family of France cherished hope enough to speculate on some remote
future, I did not dream of suspecting; and yet, through her foretelling,
I learned the day he would arrive at Rome, the very hotel he would put
up at, the steps he would adopt to obtain an audience of the Chevalier,
the attempts he would make to keep his mission a secret from me; nay,
to the very dress in which he would present himself, I knew and was
prepared for all.’
‘All this might be concerted; what more easy than to plan any
circumstance you have detailed, and by imposing on your credulity secure
your co-operation?’
‘Let me finish, sir. I asked what success would attend his plan, and
learned that destiny had yet left this doubtful--that all was yet
dependent on the will of one whose mind was still unresolved. I pressed
eagerly to learn his name, she refused to tell me, openly avowing that
she would thwart his influence, if in her power. I grew angry and even
scoffed at her pretended powers, declaring, as you have just suggested,
that all she had told me might be nothing beyond a well-arranged scheme.
“For once, then, you shall have a proof,” said she, “and never shall it
be repeated; fold that sheet of paper there, as a letter, and seal it
carefully and well. The name I have alluded to is written within,” said
she. I started, for the paper contained no writing--not a word, not
a syllable--I had scanned it carefully ere I folded it. Of this I can
pledge my solemn and sacred word.’
‘Well, when you broke the seal,’ burst in the Cardinal.
‘I have not yet done so,’ said the Père calmly, ‘there is the letter,
just as I folded and sealed it; from that moment to this it has never
quitted my possession. It may be, that, as you would suspect, even this
might be sleight-of-hand. It may be, sir, that the paper contains no
writing.’
‘Let us see,’ cried the Cardinal, taking the letter and breaking it
open. ‘Madonna!’ exclaimed he suddenly. ‘Look here’; and his finger then
tremblingly pointed to the word, ‘Caraffa,’ traced in small letters and
with a very faint ink in the middle of the page.
‘And to this you swear, on your soul’s safety,’ cried Caraffa eagerly.
He bent forward till his lips touched the large golden cross which, as a
pectoral, the Cardinal wore, and muttered, ‘By this emblem, I swear it.’
‘Such influence is demoniacal, none can doubt it; who is this woman, and
whence came she?’
‘So much of her story as I know is briefly told,’ said Massoni, who
related all that he had heard of the Egyptian, concluding with the steps
by which he had her arrested and confined in the convent of St. Maria
Maggiore, on the Tiber.
‘There was an age when such a woman had been sent to the stake,’ said
Caraffa fiercely. ‘Is it a wiser policy that pardons her?’
‘Yes; if by her means a good end can be served,’ interrupted the Père;
‘if through what she can reveal, errors may be avoided, perils averted,
and successes gained; if, in short, Satan can be used as slave, not
master.’
‘And wherefore should she be opposed to _me_? broke in Caraffa, whose
thoughts reverted to what concerned himself personally.
‘As a true and faithful priest, as an honoured prince of the Church, you
must be her enemy,’ said the Père; and, though the words were spoken in
all seeming sincerity, the Cardinal’s dark eyes scanned the speaker’s
face keenly and severely. As if failing, however, to detect any
equivocation in his manner, Caraffa addressed himself to another course
of thought and said--
‘Have you questioned her, then, as to this young man’s chances?’
‘She will not speak of them,’ was the abrupt reply.
‘Have they met?’
‘Once, and only once; and of the meeting his memory preserves no trace
whatever, since it was during his fever, and when his mind was wandering
and incoherent.’
‘Could I see her, without being known? could I speak with her myself?’
Massoni shook his head doubtingly, ‘No disguise would avail against her
craft.’
Caraffa pondered long over his thoughts, and at last said--‘I have a
strong desire to see her, even though I should not speak to her. What
say you, Massoni?’
‘It shall be as pleases your Eminence,’ was the meek answer.
‘So much I know, sir; but it is your counsel that I am now asking; what
would you advise?’
‘So far as I can guess,’ answered the Père cautiously, ‘it is her
marvellous gift to exert influence over those with whom she comes in
contact--a direct palpable sway. Even I, cold, impassive, as I am,
unused to feel, and long beyond the reach of such fascination--even _I_
have known what it is to confront a nature thus strangely endowed,’
‘These are mere fancies, Massoni.’
‘Fancies that have the force of convictions. For my own part, depositary
as I am of much that the world need not, should not, know, I would not
willingly expose my heart to one like her.’
‘Were it even as you say, Massoni, of what could the knowledge avail
her? Bethink you for a moment of what strange mysteries of the human
heart every village curate is the keeper; how he has probed recesses,
dived into secret clefts, of which, till revealed by strict search, the
very possessor knew not the existence; and yet how valueless, how inert,
how inoperative in the great game of life does not this knowledge prove.
If this were power, the men who possessed it would sway the universe.’
‘And so they might,’ burst in Massoni, ‘if they would adapt to the
great events of life the knowledge which they now dissipate in the small
circle of family existence. If they would apply to statecraft the same
springs by which they now awaken jealousies, kindle passions, lull
just suspicions, and excite distrusts! With powder enough to blow up
a fortress, they are contented to spend it in fireworks! The order of
which I am an unworthy member alone conceived a different estimate of
the duty.’
‘The world gives credit to your zeal,’ said the Cardinal slyly.
‘The world is an ungrateful taskmaster. It would have its work done, and
be free to disparage those who have laboured for it.’
A certain tone of defiance in this speech left an awkward pause for
several minutes. At last Caraffa said carelessly--
‘Of what were we speaking a while ago? Let us return to it.’
‘It was of the Count Delia Rocca and his mission, your Eminence.’
‘True. You said that he wished to see the Chevalier, to present his
letters. There can be no objection to that. The road to Orvieto is an
excellent one, and my poor house there is quite capable of affording
hospitality for even a visitor so distinguished.’ With all his efforts
to appear tranquil, the Cardinal spoke in a broken, abrupt way, that
betrayed a mind very ill at ease.
‘I am not aware, Massoni,’ resumed he, ‘that the affair concerns _me_,
nor is there occasion to consult me upon it.’ This address provoked no
reply from the Père, who continued patiently to scan the speaker, and
mark the agitation that more and more disturbed him.
‘I conclude, of course,’ said the Cardinal again, ‘that the Chevalier’s
health is so firmly re-established this interview cannot be hurtful to
him; that he is fully equal to discuss questions touching his gravest
interests. You who hear frequently from him can give me assurance on
this point.’
‘I am in almost daily correspondence----‘’
‘I know it,’ broke in Caraffa.
‘I am in almost daily correspondence with the Chevalier, and can answer
for it that he is in the enjoyment of perfect health and spirits.’
‘They who speculated on his being inferior to his destiny will perhaps
feel disappointed!’ said Caraffa, in a low, searching accent.
‘They acknowledge as much already, your Eminence. In the very last
despatches Sir Horace Mann sent home there is a gloomy prediction of
what trouble a youth so gifted and so ambitious may one day occasion
them in England.’
‘Your friend the Marchesa Balbi, then, still wields her influence at the
British legation?’ said Caraffa, smiling cunningly; ‘or you had never
known these sentiments of the Minister.’
‘Your Eminence reads all secrets,’ was the submissive reply, as the Père
bowed his head.
‘Has she also told you what they think of the youth in England?’
‘No further than that there is a great anxiety to see him, and assure
themselves that he resembles the House of Stuart.’
‘Of that there is no doubt,’ broke in Caraffa; ‘there is not a look,
a gesture, a trait of manner, or a tone of the voice, he has not
inherited.’
‘These may seem trifles in the days of exile and adversity, but they are
title-deeds fortune never fails to adduce when better times come round.’
‘And do you really still believe in such, Massoni? Tell me, in the
sincerity of man to man, without disguise, and, if you can, without
prejudice--do you continue to cherish hopes of this youth’s fortune?’
‘I have never doubted of them for a moment, sir,’ said the Père
confidently. ‘So long as I saw him weak and broken, with weary looks and
jaded spirits, I felt the time to be distant; but when I beheld him
in the full vigour of his manly strength, I knew that his hour was
approaching; it needed but the call, the man was ready.’
‘Ah! Massoni, if I had thought so--if I but thought so,’ burst out
the Cardinal, as he leaned his head on his hand, and lapsed into deep
reflection.
The wily Père never ventured to break in upon a course of thought, every
motive of which contributed to his own secret purpose. He watched him
therefore, closely, but in silence. At last Caraffa, lifting up his
head, said--
‘I have been thinking over this mission of Delia Rocca, Massoni, and it
were perhaps as well--at least it will look kindly--were I to go over
to Orvieto myself, and speak with the Chevalier before he receives him.
Detain the Count, therefore, till you hear from me; I shall start in the
morning.’ The Père bowed, and after a few moments withdrew.