There is something of mediaeval look and air about the Ponte Vecchio
in Florence, which gives it a peculiar interest to the traveller. The
quaint little low shops on either side, all glittering with gold and
gems; the gorgeous tiaras of diamonds; the richly enamelled cups and
vases aside of the grotesque ornaments of peasant costume; the cumbrous
ear-rings of stamped gold; the old-fashioned clasps and buckles of
massive make; the chains fashioned after long-forgotten models; the
strings of Oriental pearls, costly and rare enough for queens to wear,
are all thrown about in a rich profusion, curiously in contrast to the
humble sheds for they are little more that hold them.
The incessant roll of equipages,--the crowd and movement of a great
city; the lingering peasant, gazing with rapturous eyes at the
glittering wares; the dark Israelitish face that peers from within;
the ever-flowing tide of population of every rank and age and country,
giving a bustle and animation to the scene, so beautifully relieved by
the view that opens on the centre of the bridge, and where, in a vacant
space, the Arno is seen wending peacefully along, and scattering its
circling eddies beneath the graceful arches of the “Santa Trinita,” that
little glimpse of hill and vineyard and river, the cypress-clad heights
of San Miniato, and the distant mountain of Vallombrosa, more beautiful
far than all the gold Pactolus ever rolled, or all the gems that ever
glittered on crown or coronet.
There was one stall at the end of the bridge so humble-looking and so
scantily provided that no stranger was seen to linger beside it. A few
coral ornaments for peasant wear, some stamped medals for pious use,
and some of those little silver tokens hung up by some devout hands as
votive offerings at a holy shrine, were all that appeared; while, as
if to confirm the impression of the scanty traffic that went on, the
massive door was barred and bolted like the portal of a prison. An
almost erased inscription, unrenewed for nigh half a century, told that
this was the shop of “Racca Morlache.”
There may have been much of exaggeration in the stories that went of
the Jew's enormous wealth; doubtless many of the accounts were purely
fabulous; but one fact is certain, that from that lowly roof went forth
sums sufficient to maintain the credit of many a tottering state, or
support the cost of warlike struggles to replace a dynasty. To him came
the heads of despotic governments, the leaders of rebellious democracy,
the Russian and the Circassian, the Carlist and the Cristino. To the
proud champion of divine right, or the fearless promulgator of equality,
to all he was accessible. Solvency and his profit were requirements he
could not dispense with; but, for the rest, in what channel of future
good and evil his wealth was to flow, whether to maintain a throne or
sap its foundation, to uphold a faith or to desecrate its altars, to
liberate a people or to bind their fetters more closely, were cares that
sat lightly on his heart.
He might, with his vast means, have supported a style like royalty
itself. There was no splendor nor magnificence he need have denied
himself; nor, as the world goes, any society from which he should be
debarred, gold is the picklock to the doors of palaces as of prisons;
but he preferred this small and miserable habitation, which for above
two centuries had never borne any other name than the “Casa Morlache.”
Various reasons were given out for a choice so singular; among others,
it was said that the Grand-Duke was accustomed to visit the Jew by means
of a secret passage from the “Pitti;” while some alleged that the secret
frequenters of Morlache's abode all came by water, and that in the dark
night many a boat skimmed the Arno, and directed its course to the last
arch of the Ponte Vecchio. With these rumors we have no concern, nor
with Morlache himself have we more than a passing business.
When Kate Dalton had driven up to the door, she had all but determined
to abandon her intention. The arguments which in the morning had taken
her by surprise seemed now weak and futile, and she was shocked with
herself for even the momentary yielding to Jekyl's counsels. Her only
doubt was whether to drive on without further halt, or leave some short
message, to the effect that she had called but could not delay there.
This seemed the better and more courteous proceeding; and while she was
yet speaking to the dark-eyed, hook-nosed boy who appeared at the door,
Jekyl came up.
“Be quick, Miss Dalton! Don't lose an instant,” said he. “Morlache is
going to the palace, and we shall miss him.”
“But I have changed my mind. I have resolved not to accept this
assistance. It is better far better that I should not.”
“It is too late to think of that now,” said he, interrupting, and
speaking with some slight degree of irritation.
“How too late? What do you mean?”
“That I have already told Morlache the whole story, and obtained his
promise for the loan.”
“Oh, sir! why have you done this?” cried she, in a voice of anguish.
“I had your free permission for it, Miss Dalton. When we parted this
morning, the matter was fully agreed on between us; but still, if
you desire to retract, your secret is in safe keeping. Morlache never
betrays a confidence.”
“And he has heard my name!” cried she, in a broken, sobbing tone.
“Not for the first time, be assured. Even Croesus looked up from his
ingots to ask if it were 'la belle Dalton;' and when I said 'Yes,'
'That's enough,' replied he; 'would that all my moneys had so safe
investment!' But stay; there is Purvis yonder. He is pretending to
examine an eye-glass in that shop opposite, but I see well that he is
there only en vedette.”
“What shall I do?” exclaimed the poor girl, now torn by impulses and
emotions the most opposite.
“One thing you must do at once,” said Jekyl; “get out of the carriage
and visit two or three of the shops, as if in quest of some article of
jewelry. His anxiety to learn the precise object of your search will
soon draw him from his 'lair.'”
The decision of this counsel, almost like a command, so far imposed upon
Kate that she at once descended, and took Jekyl's arm along the bridge.
They had not gone many yards when the short, little, shuffling step of
Purvis was heard behind them. Lingering to gaze at some of the splendid
objects exposed for sale, they at last reached a very splendid stall,
where diamonds, pearls, and rubies lay in heaps of gorgeous profusion.
And now Purvis had stationed himself exactly behind them, with his head
most artistically adjusted to hear everything that passed between them.
Jekyl seemed to feel his presence as if by an instinct, and without
even turning his eye from the glass case, said, in a voice of some
disparagement,
“All modern settings! very lustrous very brilliant, but not at all what
we are looking for.”
Kate made no reply; for, while she had scruples about abetting a mere
scheme, she was not the less eager to be free of the presence of the
“Great Inquisitor.”
“That, perhaps,” said Jekyl, pointing to a magnificent cross of
brilliants, “would not go ill with the necklace, although the stones are
smaller. Say something, anything,” added he, in a lower tone; “the spell
is working.”
“That is very handsome,” said Kate, pointing at a venture to an object
before her.
“So it is,” said Jekyl, quickly. “Let us see what value they place upon
it. Oh, here is Mr. Purvis; how fortunate! Perhaps in all Florence there
is not one so conversant with all that concerns taste and elegance, and,
as an old resident, happily exempt from all the arts and wiles played
off upon our countrymen.”
“How d'ye do d'ye do?” cried Purvis, shaking hands with both. “You heard
of the bl-bl-blunder I made last night about the Ar-Archduke?”
“Not a word of it,” replied Jekyl.
“I told him he was a-a-a fool,” cried Purvis, with a scream and a cackle
that very constantly followed any confession of an impertinence.
“Meno male!” exclaimed Jekyl. “Even princes ought to hear truth
sometimes; but you can help us here. Mr. Purvis, do you see that
chatelaine yonder, with a large emerald pendant; could you ascertain the
price of it for Miss Dalton? They'll not attempt to be extortionate upon
you, which they would, assuredly, if she entered the shop.”
“To be sure; I'll do it with pl-pleasure. Who is it for?”
“That 's a secret, Mr. Purvis; but you shall hear it afterwards.”
“I guess al-ready,” said Scroope, with a cunning leer. “You 're going to
be m-m-m-married, ain't you?”
“Mr. Purvis, Mr. Purvis, I must call you to order,” said Jekyl, who saw
that very little more would make the scene unendurable to Kate.
“I hope it 's not an It-It-Italian fellow; for they 're all as poor as
Laza-Laza-Laza--”
“Yes, yes, of course; we know that. Your discretion is invaluable,” said
Jekyl; “but pray step in, and ask this question for us.”
“I'll tell who'll do better,” said Purvis, who, once full of a
theme, never paid any attention to what was said by others.
“Midche-Midche-Midche-k-k-off; he owns half of--”
“Never mind what he owns, but remember that Miss Dalton is waiting
all this time,” said Jekyl, who very rarely so far lost command of his
temper; and at last Purvis yielded, and entered the shop.
“Come now,” said Jekyl to his companion; “it will take him full five
minutes to say 'chatelaine,' and before that we shall be safely housed.”
And with these words he hurried her along, laughing, in spite of all her
anxieties, at the absurdity of the adventure. “He 'll see the carriage
when he comes out,” added he, “and so I 'll tell the coachman to drive
slowly on towards the Pitti.” And thus, without asking her consent, he
assumed the full guidance at once; and, ere she well knew how or why,
she found herself within the dark and dusty precincts of Morlache's
shop.
Jekyl never gave Kate much time for hesitation, but hurried her along
through a narrow passage, from which a winding flight of stone steps
led downwards to a considerable distance, and at last opened upon a
neat little chamber on the level of the Arno, the window opening on the
stream, and only separated from it by a little terrace, covered with
geraniums in full flower. There was a strange undulating motion that
seemed communicated from the stream to the apartment, which Jekyl at
once explained to his companion as a contrivance for elevating and
depressing the chamber with the changes in the current of the river;
otherwise the room must have been under water for a considerable portion
of the year. While he descanted on the ingenuity of the mechanism,
and pointed attention to the portraits along the walls, the Kings and
Kaisers with whom Morlache had held moneyed relations, the minutes
slipped on, and Jekyl' s powers as a talker were called upon to speak
against time, the figety nervousness of his manner, and the frequent
glances he bestowed at the timepiece, showing how impatiently he longed
for the Jew's arrival. To all Kate's scruples he opposed some plausible
pretext, assuring her that, if she desired it, no mention should be made
of the loan; that the visit might be as one of mere curiosity, to
see some of those wonderful gems which had once graced the crowns of
royalty; and that, in any case, the brief delay would disembarrass them
on the score of Purvis, whose spirit of inquiry would have called him
off in some other direction. At last, when now upwards of half an hour
had elapsed, and no sound nor sight bore token of the Jew's coming,
Jekyl resolved to go in search of him; and requesting Kate to wait
patiently for a few minutes, he left the room.
At first, when she found herself alone, every noise startled and
terrified her; the minutes, as she watched the clock, seemed drawn out
to hours. She listened with an aching anxiety for Jekyl's return, while,
with a sorrowing heart, she reproached herself for ever having come
there. To this state of almost feverish excitement succeeded a low
and melancholy depression, in which the time passed without her
consciousness; the half-dulled sounds of the city, the monotonous plash
of the stream as it flowed past, the distant cries of the boatmen
as they guided their swift barks down the strong current, aiding and
increasing a feeling that was almost lethargic. Already the sun had sunk
below the hills, and the tall palaces were throwing their giant shadows
across the river, the presage of approaching night, and still she sat
there all alone. Jekyl had never returned, nor had any one descended the
stairs since his departure. Twice had she shaken off the dreamy stupor
that was over her, and tried to find the door of the chamber, but,
concealed in the wainscoting, it defied her efforts; and now, worn out
with anxiety and disappointed, she sat down beside the window, gazing
listlessly at the water, and wondering when and how her captivity was to
end.
The lamps were now being lighted on the quays, and long columns of light
streaked the dark river. Across these a black object was seen to glide,
and as it passed, Kate could perceive it was a boat that advanced slowly
against the current, and headed up the stream. As she watched, it came
nearer and nearer; and now she could hear distinctly the sound of voices
talking in French. What, however, was her surprise when, instead of
making for the centre arches of the bridge, the boat was vigorously
impelled across the river, and its course directed towards the very
place where she sat?
However painful her situation before, now it became downright agony.
It was clear there were persons coming; in another moment she would
be discovered, unable to explain by what course of events she had come
there, and thus exposed to every surmise and suspicion that chance
or calumny might originate. In that brief but terrible moment what
self-accusings, what reproaches of Jekyl crossed her mind; and yet all
these were as nothing to the misery which coming events seemed full of.
For a second or two she stood irresolute, and then with something like
an instinct of escape, she stepped out upon the little terrace that
supported the flowers, and, trembling with fear, took her stand beneath
the shadow of one of the great buttresses of the bridge. The frail and
half-rotten timbers creaked and bent beneath her weight, and close under
her feet rolled along the dark river, with a low and sullen sound like
moaning. Meanwhile the boat came nearer, and slowly gliding along, was
at last brought up at the window. Two figures passed into the chamber,
and the boatmen, as if performing a long-accustomed task, rowed out a
few lengths into the stream to wait.
From the window, which still remained open, a stream of light now
issued, and Kate's quick hearing could detect the rustling sound of
papers on the table.
“There they are,” said a voice, the first accents of which she knew to
belong to the Abbe D'Esmonde. “There they are, Signor Morlache. We have
no concealments nor reserve with you. Examine them for yourself. You
will find reports from nearly every part of the kingdom; some more, some
less favorable in their bearings, but all agreeing in the main fact,
that the cause is a great one, and the success all but certain.”
“I have told you before,” said the Jew, speaking in a thick, guttural
utterance, “that my sympathies never lead me into expense. Every solvent
cause is good, every bankrupt one the reverse, in my estimation.”
“Even upon that ground I am ready to meet you. The committee--”
“Ay, who are the committee?” interrupted the Jew, hastily.
“The committee contains some of the first Catholic names of Ireland, men
of landed fortune and great territorial influence, together with several
of the higher clergy.”
“The bishops?”
“The bishops, almost to a man, are with us in heart; but their peculiar
position requires the most careful and delicate conduct. No turn of
fortune must implicate them, or our cause is lost forever.”
“If your cause be all you say it is, if the nationality be so strong,
and the energies so powerful as you describe, why not try the issue, as
the Italians and the Hungarians are about to do?” said Morlache. “I
can understand a loan for a defined and real object, the purchase of
military stores and equipment, to provide arms and ammunition, and I can
understand how the lender, too, could calculate his risk of profit or
loss on the issue of the struggle; but here you want half a million
sterling, and for what?”
“To win a kingdom!” cried D'Esmonde, enthusiastically. “To bring back
to the fold of the Church the long-lost sheep; and make Ireland, as she
once was, the centre of holy zeal and piety!”
“I am not a pope, nor a cardinal, not even a monsignore,” said Morlache,
with a bitter laugh. “You must try other arguments with me; and once
more I say, why not join that party who already are willing to risk
their lives in the venture?”
“Have I not told you what and who they are who form this party?” said
D'Esmonde, passionately. “Read those papers before you. Study the secret
reports sent from nearly every parish in the kingdom. In some you will
find the sworn depositions of men on their death-beds, the last words
their lips have uttered on earth, all concurring to show that Ireland
has no hope save in the Church. The men who now stir up the land to
revolt are not devoid of courage or capacity. They are bold, and they
are able, but they are infidel. They would call upon their countrymen
in the name of past associations, the wrongs of bygone centuries; they
would move the heart by appeals, touching enough, Heaven knows, to the
galling sores of serfdom, but they will not light one fire upon the
altar; they will not carry the only banner that should float in the van
of an Irish army. Their bold denouncings may warn some; their poetry
will, perhaps, move others; but their prose and verse, like themselves,
will be forgotten in a few years, and, save a few grassy mounds in a
village churchyard, or a prisoner's plaint sent over the sea from a land
of banishment, nothing will remain of Ireland's patriots.”
“England is too powerful for such assailants,” said the Jew.
“Very true; but remember that the stout three-decker that never struck
to an enemy has crumbled to ruin beneath the dry rot,” said D'Esmonde,
with a savage energy of manner. “Such is the case now. All is rot and
corruption within her; pauperism at home, rebellion abroad. The
nobles, more tolerant as the commonalty grows more ambitious; resources
diminishing as taxation increases; disaffection everywhere, in the towns
where they read, in the rural districts where they brood over their
poverty; and lastly, but greatest of all, schism in the Church, a mutiny
in that disorderly mass that was never yet disciplined to obedience. Are
these the evidences of strength, or are they sure signs of coming ruin?
Mark me,” said he, hurriedly, “I do not mean from all this that such
puny revolt as we are now to see can shake powers like that of England.
These men will have the same fate as Tone and Emmet, without the
sympathy that followed them. They will fail, and fail egregiously; but
it is exactly upon this failure that our hopes of success are based. Not
a priest will join them. On the contrary, their scheme will be denounced
from our altars; our flocks warned to stand aloof from their evil
influence. Our bishops will be in close communication with the heads of
the Government; all the little coquetries of confidence and frankness
will be played off; and our loyalty, that's the phrase, our loyalty
stand high in public esteem. The very jeers and insults of our enemies
will give fresh lustre to our bright example, and our calm and dignified
demeanor form the contrast to that rampant intolerance that assails us.”
“But for all this classic dignity,” said Morlache, sneeringly, “you
need no money; such nobility of soul is, after all, the cheapest of
luxuries.”
“You are mistaken, mistaken egregiously,” broke in D'Esmonde. “It is
precisely at that moment that we shall require a strong friend behind
us. The 'Press' is all-powerful in England. If it does not actually
guide, it is the embodiment of public opinion, without which men would
never clothe their sentiments in fitting phrase, or invest them with
those short and pithy apothegms that form the watchwords of party.
Happily, if it be great, it is venal; and although the price be a
princely ransom, the bargain is worth the money. Fifty or a hundred
thousand pounds, at that nick, would gain our cause. We shall need many
advocates; some, in assumed self-gratulation over their own prescience,
in supporting our claims in time past, and reiterating the worn
assertion of our attachment to the throne and the constitution; others,
to contrast our bearing with the obtrusive loyalty of Orangeism; and
others, again, going further than either, to proclaim that, but for
us, Ireland would have been lost to England; and had not our allegiance
stood in the breach, the cause of rebellion would have triumphed.”
“And is this character for loyalty worth so much money?” said the Jew,
slowly.
“Not as a mere empty name, not as a vain boast,” replied D'Esmonde,
quickly; “but if the tree be stunted, its fruits are above price. Our
martyrdom will not go unrewarded. The moment of peril over, the season
of concessions will begin. How I once hated the word! how I used to
despise those who were satisfied with these crumbs from the table of the
rich man, not knowing that the time would come when we should sit at the
board ourselves. Concession! the vocabulary has no one word I 'd
change for it; it is conquest, dominion, sovereignty, all together. By
concession, we may be all we strive for, but never could wrest by force.
Now, my good Signor Morlache, these slow and sententious English are
a most impulsive people, and are often betrayed into the strangest
excesses of forgiveness and forgetfulness; insomuch that I feel assured
that nothing will be refused us, if we but play our game prudently.”
“And what is the game?” said the Jew, with impatience; “for it seems to
me that you are not about to strike for freedom, like the Hungarians or
the Lombards. What, then, is the prize you strive for?”
“The Catholicism of Ireland, and then of England, the subjugation of the
haughtiest rebel to the Faith, the only one whose disaffection menaces
our Holy Church; for the Lutheranism of the German is scarce worth the
name of enemy. England once Catholic, the world is our own!”
The enthusiasm of his manner, and the excited tones of his round, full
voice seemed to check the Jew, whose cold, sarcastic features were
turned towards the priest with an expression of wonderment.
“Let us come back from all this speculation to matter of plain fact,”
said Morlache, after a long pause. “What securities are offered for the
repayment of this sum? for, although the theme be full of interest to
you, to me it has but the character of a commercial enterprise.”
“But it ought not,” said D'Esmonde, passionately. “The downfall of the
tyranny of England is your cause as much as ours. What Genoa and Venice
were in times past, they may become again. The supremacy of the seas
once wrested from that haughty power, the long-slumbering energies of
Southern Europe will awaken, the great trading communities of the Levant
will resume their ancient place, and the rich argosies of the East once
more will float over the waters of the tideless sea.”
“Not in our time, Abbe, not in our time,” said the Jew, smiling.
“But are we only to build for ourselves?” said D'Esmonde. “Was it thus
your own great forefathers raised the glorious Temple?”
The allusion called up but a cold sneer on the Israelite's dark
countenance, and D'Esmonde knew better than to repeat a blow which
showed itself to be powerless.
A tap at the door here broke in upon the colloquy, and Jekyl's voice was
heard on the outside.
“Say you are engaged, that you cannot admit him,” whispered D'Esmonde.
“I do not wish that he should see me here.”
“A thousand pardons, Morlache,” said Jekyl, from without; “but when
I followed you to the 'Pitti,' I left a young lady here, has she gone
away, or is she still here?”
“I never saw her,” said Morlache. “She must have left before I
returned.”
“Thanks, good-bye,” said Jekyl; and his quick foot was heard ascending
the stairs again.
“The night air grows chilly,” said the Abbe, as he arose and shut the
window; and the boatmen, mistaking the sound for a summons to approach,
pulled up to the spot.
With a sudden spring Kate bounded into the boat, while yet some distance
off, and hurriedly said, “To the stairs beside the Santa Trinita.”
The clink of money, as she took out her purse, made the brief command
intelligible, and they shot down the stream with speed.
“Do not speak of me,” said she, covering her face with her kerchief as
she stepped from the boat; and a gold Napoleon enforced the caution.
It was now night, the lamps were all lighted, and the streets crowded by
that bustling throng of population whose hours of business or pleasure
commence when day has closed. A thin drizzling rain was falling, and
the footway was wet and muddy. Dressed in the height of fashion, all her
attire suited to a carriage, Kate set out to walk homeward, with a
heart sinking from terror. Many a time in her condition of poverty,
with patched and threadbare cloak, had she travelled the dark road from
Lichtenthal to Baden after nightfall, fearless and undismayed, no dread
of danger nor of insult occurring to her happy spirit, the “Gute nacht”
of some homeward-bound peasant the only sound that saluted her. But now,
she was no longer in the secluded valley of the great Vaterland; her
way led through the crowded thoroughfares of a great city, with all its
crash and noise and movement.
If, in her wild confusion, she had no thought for each incident of the
morning, her mind was full of “self-accusings.” How explain to Lady
Hester her long absence, and her return alone and on foot? Her very
maid, Nina, might arraign her conduct, and regard her with distrust and
suspicion. How should she appear in Jekyl's eyes, who already knew her
secret? and, lastly, what answer return to her poor father's letter,
that letter which was the cause of all her misfortunes?
“I will tell him everything,” said she to herself, as she went along. “I
will detail the whole events of this morning, and he shall see that my
failure has not come of lukewarmness. I will also strive to show him the
nature of my position, and let him know the full extent of the sacrifice
he would exact from me. If he persist, what then? Is it better to go
back and share the poverty I cannot alleviate?
“But what alternative have I? Jekyl's flatteries are but fictions. Would
I wish them to be otherwise? Alas, I cannot tell; I do not even know my
own heart now. Oh for one true-hearted friend to guide and counsel me!”
She thought of George Onslow, rash, impetuous, and ardent; she thought
of the priest, D'Esmonde, but the last scene in which he figured made
her shrink with terror from the man of dark intrigues and secret wiles.
She even thought of poor Hanserl, who, in all the simplicity of his
nature, she wished to have that moment beside her. “But he would say,
'Go back; return to the humble home you quitted; put away all the
glittering gauds that are clinging to and clasping your very heart.
Take, once more, your lowly place at hearth and board, and forget the
bright dream of pleasure you have passed through.' But how forget it?
Has it not become my hope, my very existence? How easy for those who
have not tasted the intoxicating cup, to say, 'Be cool of heart and
head!' Nor am I what I was. How then go back to be that which I have
ceased to be? Would that I had never left it! Would that I could live
again in the dreamland of the poets that we loved so well, and wander
with dearest Nelly through those forest glades, peopled with the
creations of Uhland, Tieck, and Chammisso! What a glorious world is
theirs, and how unlike the real one!”
Thus, lost in thoughts conflicting and jarring with each other, mingling
the long past with the distant future, hoping and fearing, now seeking
self-persuasion here, now controverting her own opinions there, she
walked hurriedly on, unconscious of the time, the place, and even the
rude glances bestowed upon her by many who gazed at her with an insolent
admiration. What an armor is innocence! how proof against the venomed
dart of malice? Kate never knew the ordeal through which she was
passing. She neither saw the looks nor heard the comments of those
that passed. If her mind ever turned from the throng of thoughts that
oppressed it, it was when some momentary difficulty of the way recalled
her to herself; for, as she escaped from the smaller streets, the crowd
and crash increased, and she found herself borne along as in a strong
current.
“Does this lead to the Piazza Annunziata?” asked she of a woman at a
fruit-stall.
“Tell her, Giacomo,” said the woman to a youth, who, with a water-melon
in his hand, lay at full length on the pavement.
“Per Baccho! but she 's handsome!” said he, holding up the paper lantern
to gaze at her. And Kate hurried on in terror.