PRESSURE
“Do you suppose I came here to amuse myself?” asked Malletort, passing
his arm under his companion’s so as to turn him round on the gravel walk
within a yard of Alice’s hiding-place. “Do you think it is agreeable
to reside in a pot-house where eggs and bacon form the _ne plus ultra_
of cookery, and if a man cannot drink sour claret he must be satisfied
with muddy ale? Every one of us has to sacrifice his own identity,
has to consecrate himself entirely to such an effort as ours. Look at
me, Florian, and ask yourself, was I born for such a life as this, to
vegetate by the wayside in the dullest province of the dullest country
in Europe—my only society, that awful landlady, my only excitement, the
daily fear of a blunder from that puzzle-headed brigand who calls himself
Captain Bold, and whom I can hang at any moment I please, or I would not
trust him five yards from my side. If I should be discovered, and unable
to get out of the way in time, why it _might_ go very hard with me, but
even against this contingency I have provided. You would find all the
directions you need drawn out in our own cipher, and consigned to my
respectable hostess. I have left the money for her weekly account sealed
up and addressed to Mrs. Dodge on my chimneypiece, also the day and hour
of your visit, as we have agreed. If we _both_ fall into difficulties,
which is most improbable, the packet will be burned, for I can trust the
woman, I believe, and with so much the more confidence, that I doubt
if any one on this side the Channel has the key to our cipher. So far,
you observe, I have provided for all contingencies; and now, my good
Florian, what have _you_ done? You tell me you have failed with his
confidential servant.”
“What, Slap-Jack!” answered Florian, and the name brought Alice’s heart
to her mouth as the two priests again approached her hiding-place.
“Impossible! I tell you he is as true as steel. Why, he sailed with us
in the brigantine. We were all like brothers. Ah, Malletort, you cannot
understand these things!”
“I can understand any scruple, any superstition, any weakness of
humanity, for I see examples every day,” replied the Abbé, “but I
cannot and _will_ not understand that such imaginary obstacles are
insurmountable. Bah! You have _carte blanche_ in promises, you have
even a round sum to draw upon in hard cash. Will you tell me that man’s
honesty or woman’s virtue is not to be bought if you bid high enough?
The whole business is simply a game of _bouillote_. Not the best card,
nor even the deepest purse, but the boldest player sweeps the stakes.
Florian, I fear you have done but little in all these long weeks; that
was why, at great risk, I sent you a note, begging an interview, that I
might urge on you the importance of despatch.”
“It was a risk,” observed Florian. “The note was brought by Sir George
himself.”
Malletort laughed. “He carried his fate without knowing it,” commented
the Abbé. “After all, it is the destiny of mankind. Every one of us
bears about with him the germ of that which shall some day prove his
destruction. I don’t know that one’s step is the heavier till palsy has
begun to tingle, or one’s appetite the worse till digestion already
fails. Come, Florian, the plot is nearly ripe now, and there is little
more time to lose. We must have Sir George in it up to his neck. He
carries this district with him, and I am then sure of all the country
north of the Trent. You have impressed on him, I trust, that it is an
earldom to begin with, if we win?”
“And if we lose?” asked the other wistfully.
Malletort smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, making, at
the same time, a significant gesture with his hand under his ear.
“A leap from a ladder would finish it,” he remarked abruptly. “For that
matter we are all in the same boat. If a plank starts, it is simply, _Bon
soir la compagnie!_”
Florian could control himself no longer. “Are you a man?” he burst out.
“A man? Are you anything less devilish than the arch-fiend himself, to
bid me take part in such a scheme? And what a part! To lure my only
friend, my comrade, whose bread has fed me in want, whose hand has kept
me in danger, down, down, step by step, to crime, ruin, and a shameful
death. What am I? What have I done, that you should ask me to join in
such a plot as this?”
“What you _are_, is a novice of the Society of Jesus,” answered Malletort
coldly, “degraded to that rank for what you have _done_, which I need
hardly remind you. Florian, it is well that you have to deal with me,
who am a man of the world no less than a priest, instead of some stern
provincial who would report your disobedience to the Order, even before
he referred you to its statutes. Look your task firmly in the face. What
is it? To make your friend, the man for whom you profess this ludicrous
attachment, one of the first subjects in England. To raise his charming
wife—they tell me she has grown more charming than ever—to a station for
which she is eminently fitted; and all this at a certain risk of course,
but what risk?—that the best organised movement Europe has seen for a
hundred years, should fail at the moment of success, and that Sir George
should be selected for a victim, amongst a score of names nobler, richer,
more obnoxious to the Government than his own. And even then. If worst
came to worst, what would be Lady Hamilton’s position? An heiress in her
own right, a widow further enriched by marriage, beautiful, unencumbered,
and free. I cannot see why you should hesitate a moment.”
Florian groaned. “Have mercy on me!” he muttered hoarsely, writhing his
hands in despair. “Can you not spare me this one trial, remit this one
penance? Send me anywhere—Tartary, Morocco, Japan. Let me starve in
a desert, pine in a dungeon, suffer martyrdom at the stake; anything
but this, and I submit myself cheerfully, willingly, nay, thankfully.
Malletort, you _must_ have a human heart. You are talented, respected,
powerful. You have influence with the Order. You have known me since I
was a boy. For the love of Heaven have pity on me, and spare me this!”
The Abbé was not one of those abnormal specimens of humanity who take
pleasure in the sufferings of their fellow-creatures. It could not be
said of him that his heart was cruel or malicious. He had simply no heart
at all. But it was a peculiarity he shared with many governing spirits,
that he grew cooler and cooler in proportion to the agitation with which
he came in contact. He took a pinch of snuff, pausing for the refreshment
of a sneeze before he replied:
“And with the next report I furnish to the Order send in your refusal
to obey? Your refusal, Florian; you know what that means? Well, be it
so. The promotion to a coadjutor’s rank is revoked, the former novice is
recalled, and returns to St. Omer at once, where I will not enlarge on
his reception. Riding post to the seaboard he meets another traveller,
young, handsome, well provided, and unscrupulous, hurrying northward on
a mission which seems to afford him considerable satisfaction. It is
Brother Jerome, we will say, or Brother Boniface! the one known in the
world as Beauty Adolphe of the King’s Musketeers, the other as Count
Victor de Rosny, whose boast it is that love and credit are universally
forced on him, though he has never paid a tradesman nor kept faith with
a woman in his life. Either of these would be an agreeable addition to
the family party up there on the hill. Either would labour hard to obtain
influence over Sir George, and do his best or worst to be agreeable to
Lady Hamilton. Shall I forward your refusal by to-morrow’s courier,
Florian, or will you think better of it, and at least take a night to
consider the subject in all its bearings?”
Florian pondered, passed his hand across his brow, and looked wildly in
his adviser’s face.
“Not a moment!” said he, “not a moment! I was wrong—I was impatient—I
was a fool—I was wicked, _mea culpa, mea culpa_. What am I that I should
oppose the will of the Order—that I should hesitate in anything they
think fit to command? What is a Jesuit priest, what is _any_ one, after
all, but a leaf blown before the wind—a bubble floating down the stream?
There is no free agency—Destiny rules the game. The Moslem is not far
wrong when he refuses to stir out of the destroyer’s way, and says, ‘It
is ordained!’ I am wiser now—I seem to have woke up from a dream. What
is it you would have me do? Am I to put poison in his wine, or cut Sir
George’s throat to-night when he is asleep? You have only to say the
word—are you not my superior? Am I not a Jesuit? I must obey!”
Alice, still crouching behind the close-cut hedge, might well be alarmed
at the scraps she overheard of such a dialogue as this. Malletort, on
the contrary, watched his junior with the well-satisfied air of a cook
who perceives the dish on which his skill is concentrated bubbling
satisfactory towards projection. He allowed the young man’s emotion to
exhaust itself ere he plied him again with argument, and knowing that all
strong feelings have their ebb and flow like the tide, trusted to find
him more malleable than ever after his late outbreak.
It was difficult to explain to Florian that his superiors desired him
to make love to Lady Hamilton, in order that he might bring her husband
into their hands; and the task was only rendered the more delicate by
the young Jesuit’s hopeless yet sincere attachment to his hostess—an
attachment which had in it the germ of ruin or salvation according to his
own powers of self-control—such an attachment as the good call a trial
and the weak a fatality.
At times the Abbé almost wished he had selected some less scrupulous
novice for the execution of this critical manœuvre—one like Brother
Jerome or Brother Boniface, who would have disposed himself to it with
all the relish and good-will of those who resume a favourite occupation
which circumstances have obliged them, for a time, to forego. Such
tools would have been easier to manipulate; but perhaps, he reflected,
their execution would not be so effectual and complete. The steel was
dangerously flexible and elastic, but then it was of the truest and
finest temper forged. He flattered himself it was now in the hands of a
workman.
“Let us talk matters over like men of the world my dear Florian,”
said the Abbé, after they had made two turns of the walk in silence,
approaching within a foot of Alice while he spoke. “We are neither of us
boys, but men playing a game at _bouillote_, _ombre_, _picquet_, what
you will, and holding nearly all the winning cards in our hands. You are
willing, I think, to believe I am your friend?”
Florian shuddered, but nodded assent.
“Well, then, as friends,” continued the Abbé, “let there be no
concealment between us. I have already gone over the details of our
programme. I need not recapitulate the plan of the campaign, nor, to a
man of intelligence like yourself, need I insist on the obvious certainty
of success. All dispositions of troops and such minor matters are left
to our commanders, and they number some of the first soldiers of the
age. With such affairs we need not meddle. Intellect confines itself to
intrigue, and leaves hard knocks to the hard-fisted, hard-headed fools
whose business it is to give and take them. I have been busy since I came
here—busier almost than you could believe. I have made acquaintance with
―, and ―, and ―.”
Here the Abbé sank his voice to a cautious whisper, so that Alice,
straining her ears to listen, could not catch the names he enumerated.
“Although they seemed lukewarm at first, and are esteemed loyal subjects
of King George, they are ripe for a restoration now. By the by with
these people never forget to call it a Restoration. Nothing affects an
Englishman so strongly as a phrase, if it be old enough. I have seen a
red-nosed squire of to-day fidget uneasily in his chair, and get quite
hot and angry if you mentioned the Warrant of the Parliament; call it the
law of the land and he submits without a murmur. They eat beef, these
islanders, and they drink ale, muddy ale, so thick, my dear Florian, you
might cut it with a knife. Perhaps that is what makes them so stupid. It
is hard work to drive an idea into their heads; but when once there, it
must be admitted, you cannot eradicate it. If they are the most obstinate
of opponents, they are also the staunchest of partisans. Well, I have
a score of names here in my pocket—men who have pledged themselves to
go through with us, even if it comes to cold steel, sequestration—ay,
hanging for high treason! Not a man of them will flinch. I can undertake
to say so much; and this, you observe, my dear Florian, would greatly
facilitate _our_ escape in the event of a failure. But in the entire list
I have none fit to be a leader—none whose experience would warrant him in
taking command of the others, or whose adventurous spirit would urge him
to assume such authority. Sir George Hamilton is the very man I require.
He is bold, reckless, ambitious, not entirely without brains, and has
been a soldier of France. Florian, we _must_ have him at the head of the
movement. It is your duty to put him there.”
Florian bowed submissively.
“I can only persuade,” said he; “but you do not know your man as well as
I do. Nothing will induce Sir George so much as to have a horse saddled
until he can see for himself that there is a reasonable prospect of
success. I have heard him say a hundred times, ‘Never show your teeth
till your guns are shotted;’ and he has acted up to his maxim, ever
since I have known him, in all the relations of life. It is, perhaps,
presumptuous in me to advise one of your experience and abilities, but
I warn you to be careful in this instance. On every account I am most
anxious that our undertaking should not miscarry. I am pledged to you
myself, but, believe me, I must have something more than empty assurances
to enlist my friend.”
“Quite right,” answered the other, slapping him cheerfully on the
shoulder; “quite right. A man who goes blindly into these matters seldom
sees his way very clearly afterwards. But what would your friend have? We
possess all the material of success, only waiting to be set in motion;
and this I can prove to him in black and white. We have men, arms,
artillery, ammunition, and money. This insurrection shall not fail, like
some of its predecessors, for lack of the grease that keeps all human
machinery in motion. A hundred thousand louis are ready at an hour’s
notice, and another hundred thousand every week till the new coinage of
James the Third is issued from the mint. Here, in the next province, in
Lancashire, where the sun never shines, every _seigneur_, squire—what are
they called?—has mounted his dependents, grooms, falconers, huntsmen,
tenants—all horsemen of the first force. Five thousand cavalry will
be in the saddle at twenty-four hours’ notice. Several battalions of
Irish soldiers, brave and well-disciplined as our own, are assembled
on the coast of Normandy, waiting only the signal to embark. Our
infantry have shoes and clothes; our cavalry are provided with farriers
and accoutrements; our artillery, on _this_ occasion, not without
draught-horses and harness. Come to me to-morrow afternoon, and I will
furnish you with a written statement of our resources for Sir George’s
information. And, Florian, you believe honestly that he might be tempted
to join us?”
The other was revolving a thousand probabilities in his mind.
“I will do my best,” he answered, absently.
“Then I will risk it,” replied Malletort. “You shall also have a list of
the principal noblemen and gentlemen who have given their adhesion to
their rightful sovereign. I have upstairs a manifesto, to which these
loyal cavaliers have attached their signatures. I never trust a man by
halves, Florian, just as I never trust a woman at all. Nothing venture,
nothing have. That paper would hang us all, no doubt; but I will confide
it to you and take the risk. Yours shall be the credit of persuading Sir
George to subscribe to it in his own hand.”
Florian assented, with a nod. Too much depressed to speak, he felt
like some poor beast driven to the shambles, blundering on, dogged and
stupefied, to its fate.
Malletort’s keen perceptions detected this despondency, and he
endeavoured to cheer him up.
“At the new Court,” said he, “we shall probably behold our retired
Musketeer commanding the Guards of his Sovereign, and carrying his gold
baton on the steps of the throne. A peer, a favourite, a Councillor of
State—what you will. His beautiful wife the admired and envied of the
three kingdoms. They will owe their rank, their grandeur, their all, to
Florian de St. Croix. Will not he—will not she be grateful? And Florian
de St. Croix shall choose his own reward. Nothing the Church can offer
will be esteemed too precious for such a servant. I am disinterested for
once, since I shall return to France. In England, a man may exist; were
it not for the climate he might even vegetate; but it is only in Paris
that he can be said to live. Florian, it is a glorious prospect, and the
road to fortune lies straight before us.”
“Through an enemy’s country,” replied the other, gravely. “Nothing
shall persuade me but that the mass of the people are staunch to the
Government.”
“The mass of the people!” repeated Malletort, contemptuously; “the mass
of the people neither make revolutions nor oppose them. In point of
fact they are the women and children who sit quietly at home. It is the
highest and the lowest who are the discontented classes, and if you set
these in motion, the one to lead in front, the other to push behind, why,
the mass of the people, as you call them, may be driven whichever way
you please, like a flock of sheep into a pen. Listen to those peasants
singing over their liquor, and tell me if their barbarian ditties do
not teach you which way the tide of feeling acts at present amongst the
rabble?”
They stopped in their walk, and through the open window of the tap-room
could hear Captain Bold’s treble quavering out a Jacobite ballad of the
day, no less popular than nonsensical, as was attested by the stentorian
chorus and wild jingling of glasses that accompanied it.
“We are done with sodden kale,
Are we not? Are we not?
We are done with sodden kale,
Are we not?
And the reptile in his mail,
Though he tore with tooth and nail,
We have got him by the tail,
Have we not?
“We will bring the Stuart back,
Will we not? Will we not?
We will bring the Stuart back,
Will we not?
With a whip to curl and crack
Round the Hanoverian pack,
And ’twill lend King George a smack,
Will it not?
“We are done with rebel rigs,
Are we not? Are we not?
We are done with rebel rigs,
Are we not?
We will teach them ‘Please the pigs!’
English tunes for foreign jigs,
And the devil take the Whigs!
Will he not? Will he not?
And the devil take the Whigs!
Will he not?”
While the priests were thus occupied, Alice darting past them unobserved,
took refuge in the house.