It was by this chance alone that Gerald knew of the sacrifices Guglia
had made and was making for his cause. In all their intercourse, marked
by so many traits of mutual confidence, nothing of this had transpired.
By the like accident, too, did he learn how some men, at least, spoke
and thought of his fortunes; and what a world of speculation did these
two facts suggest! They were as types of the two opposing forces that
ever swayed him in life. Here, was the noble devotion that gave all;
there, the cold distrust that believed nothing. Delightful as it had
been for him to dwell on the steadfast attachment of Guglia Ridolfi, and
think over the generous trustfulness of that noble nature, he could
not turn his thoughts from what had fallen from Purcell; the ill-omened
words rankled in his heart, and left no room for other reflections.
All that he had read of late, all the letters that were laid before
him, were filled with the reiterated tales of Highland devotion and
attachment. The most touching little episodes of his father’s life
were those in which this generous sentiment figured, and Gerald had by
reading and re-reading them got to believe that this loyalty was but
sleeping, and ready to be aroused to life and activity at the first
flutter of a Stuart tartan on the hills, or the first wild strains of a
pibroch in the gorse-clad valleys.
And yet Purcell said--he had heard him say--the world has no further
need of this family; the pageant they moved in has passed by for
ever. The mere chance mention, too, of Mirabeau’s name--that
terrible intelligence which had subjugated Gerald’s mind from very
boyhood--imparted additional force to this judgment. ‘Perhaps it is even
as he says,’ muttered Gerald; ‘perhaps the old fire has died out on the
altars, and men want us not any more.’
Whenever in history he had chanced upon the mention of men who, once
great by family and pretension, had fallen into low esteem and humble
fortunes, he always wondered why they had not broken with the old world
and its traditions at once, and sought in some new and far-off quarter
of the globe a life untrammelled by the past. ‘Some would call this
faint-heartedness; some would say that it is a craven part to turn from
danger; but it is not the danger I turn from; it is not the peril that
appalls me; it is the sting of that sarcasm that says, Who is he that
comes on the pretext of a name, to trouble the world’s peace, unfix
men’s minds and unhinge their loyalty? What does he bring us in exchange
for this earthquake of opinion? Is he wiser, better, braver, more
skilled in the arts of war or peace than those he would overthrow?’
As he waged conflict with these thoughts, came the summons to announce
that the Countess was waiting supper for him.
‘I cannot come to-night. I am ill--fatigued. Say that I am in want of
rest, and have lain down upon my bed.’ Such was the answer he gave,
uttered in the broken, interrupted tone of one ill at ease with himself.
The Cardinal’s physician was speedily at his door, to offer his
services, but Gerald declined them abruptly and begged to be left alone.
At length a heavy step was heard in the corridor, and the Cardinal
himself demanded admission.
In the hurried excuses that Gerald poured forth, the wily churchman
quickly saw that the real cause of his absence was untouched.
‘Come, Prince,’ said he good-humouredly, ‘tell me frankly, you are not
satisfied with Guglia and myself for having permitted this man to come
here; but I own that I yielded only to Massoni’s earnest desire.’
‘And why should Massoni have so insisted,’ asked Gerald.
‘For this good reason, that they are both devoted adherents of your
house; men ready to hazard all for your cause.’
Gerald smiled superciliously, and the Cardinal seeing it, said--
‘Nay, Prince, distrust was no feature of your race, and, from what the
Père Massoni says, these gentlemen do not deserve it.’ He paused to
let Gerald reply, but, as he did not speak, the Cardinal went on: ‘The
younger of the two, who speaks out his mind more freely, is a very
zealous partisan of your cause. He has worn a miniature of your father
next his heart since the memorable day at Preston, when he acted as
aide-de-camp to his Royal Highness; and when he had shown it to us he
kissed it with a devotion that none could dare to doubt.’
‘This is he that is called Purcell,’ asked Gerald.
‘The same. He held the rank of colonel in the Scottish army, and was
rewarded with a patent of nobility, too, of which, however, he has not
availed himself.’
Again there flashed across Gerald’s mind the words he had overhead from
the orangery, and the same cold smile again settled on his features,
which the Cardinal noticed and said--
‘If it were for nothing else than the close relation which once bound
him to his Royal Highness, methinks you might have wished to see and
speak with him.’
‘And so I mean to do, sir; but not to-night.’
‘Chevalier,’ said the Cardinal resolutely, ‘it is a time when followers
must be conciliated, not repulsed; flattered instead of offended.
Reflect, then, I entreat you, ere you afford even a causeless impression
of distance or estrangement. On Monday last, an old Highland chief, the
lord of Barra, I think they called him, was refused admittance here,
on the plea that it was a day reserved for affairs of importance. On
Wednesday, the Count D’Arigny was told that you only received envoys,
and not mere Chargés d’Affaires; and even yesterday, I am informed, the
Duc de Terracina was sent away because he was a few minutes behind the
time specified for his audience. Now these are trifles, but they leave
memories which are often disastrous.’
‘If I _had_ to render an account of my actions, sir,’ said Gerald
haughtily, ‘a humiliation which has not yet reached me--I might be able
to give sufficient explanation for all you have just mentioned.’
‘I did but speak of the policy of these things,’ said the Cardinal, with
an air of humility.
‘It is for _me_ to regard them in another light,’ said Gerald hastily.
He paused, and, after a few minutes, resumed in a voice whose accents
were full and well weighed: ‘When men have agreed together to support
the cause of one they call a Pretender, they ever seem to me to make a
sort of compromise with themselves, and insist that he who is to be a
royalty to all others, invested with every right and due of majesty,
must be to them a plaything and a toy; and then they gather around him
with fears, and threats, and hopes, and flatteries--now menacing, now
bribing--forgetting the while that if fortune should ever destine such
a man to have a throne, they will have so corrupted and debased his
nature, while waiting for it, that not one fitting quality, not one
rightful trait would remain to him. If history has not taught me
wrongly, even usurpers have shown more kingly conduct than restored
monarchs.’
‘What would you, Prince?’ said the Cardinal sorrowfully. ‘We must accept
the world as we find it.’
‘Say, rather, as we make it.’
The Cardinal rose to take his leave, but evidently wishing that Gerald
might say something to detain him. He was very reluctant to leave the
young man to ponder in solitude such sentiments as he had avowed.
‘Good-night, sir, good-night. Your Eminence will explain my absence, and
say that I will receive these gentlemen tomorrow. What are the papers
you hold in your hand--are they for _me_?’
‘They are some mere routine matters, which your Royal Highness may look
over at leisure--appointments to certain benefices, on which it has been
the custom to take the pleasure of the Prince your father; but they are
not pressing; another time will do equally well.’
There was an adroitness in this that showed how closely his Eminence
had studied the Stuart nature, and marked that no flattery was ever
so successful with that house as that which implied their readiness to
sacrifice time, pleasure, inclination, even health itself to the cares
and duties of station. To this blandishment they were never averse or
inaccessible, and Gerald inherited the trait in all its strength.
‘Let me see them, sir,’ said Gerald, seating himself at the table, while
he gave a deep sigh--fitting testimony of his sense of sacrifice.
‘This is the nomination of John Decloraine Hackett to the see of Elphin;
an excellent priest, and a sound politician. He has ever contrived to
impress the world so powerfully with his religious devotion, that there
are not twelve men in Europe know him to be the craftiest statesman of
his time.’
‘It is, then, a good appointment,’ said Gerald, taking the pen. ‘But
what is this? The Cardinal York has already signed this.’
In Caraffa’s eagerness to play out his game he had forgotten this fact,
and that the Irish bishops had always been submitted to the approval of
his Royal Highness.
‘I say, sir,’ reiterated Gerald, ‘here is the signature of my uncle.
What means this, or who really is it that makes these appointments?’
The Cardinal began with a sort of mumbled apology about a divided
authority and an ecclesiastical function; but Gerald stopped him
abruptly--
‘If we are to play this farce out, let our parts be assigned us; and let
none assume that which is not his own. Take my word for it, Cardinal,
that if the day comes when the English will carry me to the scaffold,
at Smithfield or Tyburn, or wherever it be, you will not find any one so
ready to be my substitute. There, sir, take your papers, and henceforth
let there be no more mockeries of office. I will myself speak of this to
my uncle.’
The Cardinal bowed submissively and moved toward the door.
‘You will receive these gentlemen to-morrow?’ said he interrogatively.
‘To-morrow,’ said Gerald, as he turned away.
The Cardinal bowed deeply, and retired. Scarcely, however, had his
footsteps died out of hearing, when Gerald rang for his valet, and
said--
‘When these visitors retire for the night, follow the Signor Purcell to
his room, and desire him to come here to me; do it secretly, and so that
none may remark you.’
The valet bowed, and Gerald was once more alone.
It was near midnight when the door again opened, and Mr. Purcell was
introduced. Making a low and deep obeisance, but without any other
demonstration of deference for Gerald’s rank, he stood patiently
awaiting to be addressed.
‘We have met before, sir,’ said Gerald, flushing deeply.
‘So I perceive, sir,’ was the quiet reply given with all the ease of one
not easily abashed, ‘and the last time was at a pleasant supper-table,
of which we are the only survivors.’
‘Indeed!’ sighed Gerald sadly, and with some astonishment.
‘Yes, sir; the “Mountain” devoured the Girondists, and the reaction
devoured the “Mountain.” If the present people have not sent the
_reactionnaires_ to the guillotine, it is because they prefer to make
soldiers of them.’
‘And how did you escape the perils of the time?’ asked Gerald eagerly.
‘Like Monsieur de Talleyrand sir, I always treated the party in disgrace
as if their misfortune were but a passing shadow, and that the day of
their triumph was assured. For even this much of consideration men in
adversity are grateful.’
‘How heartily you must despise humanity!’ burst out Gerald, more struck
by the cold cynicism of the other’s look than even by his words.
‘Not so,’ replied he, in a half careless tone; ‘Jean Jacques expected
too much; Diderot thought too little of men. The truth lies midway, and
they are neither as good nor as bad as we deem them.’
‘And now, what is your pursuit? what career do you follow?’ asked Gerald
abruptly.
‘I have none, sir; the attraction that binds the ruined gambler to sit
at the table and watch the game at which others are staking heavily,
ties me to any enterprise wherein men are willing to risk much. I have
seen so much high play in life, I cannot stand by petty ventures. They
told me at Venice of the plot that was maturing here, and I agreed with
old Sir Capel Crosbie to come over and hear about it.’
‘You little suspected, perhaps, who was the hero of the adventure?’ said
Gerald half doubtingly.
‘Nay, sir, I saw your picture, and recognised you at once.
‘I never knew there had been a portrait of me!’ cried Gerald, in
astonishment.
‘It was taken, I fancy, during your illness; but the resemblance is
still complete, and recalls to those who knew the Prince, your father,
every trait and lineament of his face.’
‘You yourself knew him?’ said Gerald feelingly.
A deep, cold bow was the only acknowledgment of this question.
‘They told me you were one of his trusted and truest friends?’
‘We wore each other’s miniature for many a year; our happiness was to
talk of what might have chanced to be our destiny had he won back the
throne that was his right, and I succeeded to what my father’s gold
should have purchased. I see I am alluding to what you never heard of.
You see before you one who might have been a King of Poland.’
Gerald stared in half-credulous astonishment, and the other went on--
‘You have heard of the Mississippi scheme, and of Law, its founder?’
‘Yes.’
‘My grandfather was Law’s friend and confidant. By their united talents
and zeal the great plot was first conceived and matured. Law was at
first but an indifferent French scholar, and even a worse courtier. My
grandfather was an adept in both, and knew, besides, the Duke of Orleans
well. They were as much companions as the distance of their stations
could make them; and by my grandfather’s influence the Duke was induced
to listen to the scheme. On what mere accident the great events of life
depend! It was a party of quinze decided the fate of Europe. The Duke
lost a hundred and seventy thousand livres to my grandfather, and could
not pay him. While he was making excuses for the delay, my grandfather
thought of Law, and said--“Let me present to your Royal Highness
to-morrow morning a clever friend of mine, and it will never be your
fortune again to own that you have not money to any extent at your
disposal.” Law appeared at the Duke’s levée the next morning. It is not
necessary to tell the rest, only that among the deepest gamblers in that
memorable scheme, and the largest winners, my grandfather held the first
place. Such was the splendour of his retinue one day at Versailles that
the rumour ran it was some sovereign of Southern Europe had suddenly
arrived at Paris, and the troops turned out to render royal honours to
him. When the Duke heard the story he laughed heartily, and said, “Eh
bien, c’est un Gage du succès “--a _mot_ upon our family name, which was
Gage, my uncle being afterward a viscount by that title.
‘Within a very short time after that incident--which, some say, had so
captivated my grandfather’s ambition that he became feverish and restless
for greatness--he offered three millions sterling for the crown of
Poland. You may remember Pope’s allusion to it:
“The Crown of Poland, venal twice an age,
To just three millions stinted modest Gage.”
‘The contract was broken off by my grandfather’s refusal to marry a
certain Countess Boratynski, a natural daughter of the king. He then
made a bidding for the throne of Sardinia; but, while the negotiation
was yet pending, the great edifice of Law began to tremble; and within
three short weeks my grandfather, from the owner of six millions
sterling, was reduced to actual beggary.
‘He attained a more lasting prosperity later on, and died a grandee of
Spain of the first class, having highly distinguished himself in council
and the field.
‘It is not in any vaingloriousness, sir, I have related this story. Of
all the greatness that once adorned my house, these threadbare clothes
are sorry relics. We were talking of life’s reverses, however, and
probably my case is not without its moral.’
Gerald sat silently gazing with a sort of admiration at one who could
with such seeming calm discuss the most calamitous accident of fortune.
‘How thoroughly you must know the world!’ exclaimed he at last.
‘Ay, sir; in the popular acceptation of the phrase I _do_ know it.
Plenty of good and plenty of bad is there in it, and so mingled and
blended that there is nothing rarer in life than to find any nature
either all lovable or all detestable. There are dark stains in the
fairest marble, so are there in natures the world deems utterly depraved
touches of human sentiment whose tenderness no poet ever dreamed of. And
if I were to give you a lesson, it would be--never be over-sanguine, but
never despair of humanity!’
‘As you drew nigh the villa this evening,’ said Gerald slowly, and with
all the deliberation of one approaching a theme of interest, ‘I chanced
to be in the orangery beneath the terrace. You were speaking to your
companion in confidence, and I heard you say what augured but badly for
the success of my cause. Your words made so deep an impression on me
that I have asked to see and speak with you. Tell me, therefore, in all
frankness, what you know, and in equal candour what you think about this
enterprise.’
‘What claim have I upon your forbearance if I say what may be
ungracious? How shall I hope to be forgiven if I tell you what is not
pleasant to hear?’
‘The word of one who is well weary of delusions shall be your
guarantee.’
‘I accept the pledge.’
He walked three or four times up and down the room, to all seeming in
deep deliberation with himself, and then facing full round in front of
Gerald, said--
‘You were educated at the convent of the Jesuits--are you a member of
the order?’
‘No.’
‘Have they made no advances to you to become such?’
‘None.’
‘It is as I suspected,’ muttered he to himself; then added aloud: ‘They
mean to employ _you_ as the French king did your father. You are to be
the menace in times of trouble, and the sacrifice in the day of terms
and accommodations. Be neither!’
With this he waved his hand in farewell, and hastily left the room.