Having told our readers that the villa was called La Rocca, it is
perhaps needless that we should say that the lady was our old friend
Lady Hester, who, under the spiritual guidance of the Canon of the
Duomo, was now completing her religious education, while Lord Norwood
was fain to escape the importunity of duns and the impertinence of
creditors by a few weeks' retirement in this secluded region. Not that
this was his only inducement. For some time back he had pressed his
claim on various members of his Government for place or employment. He
had in vain represented the indignity of a peer reduced to beggary,
or the scarcely better alternative of play for support He had
tried--unsuccessfully, however--every sort of cajolery, menace, and
flattery, to obtain something; and after successively offering his
services for or against Carlism in Spain, with Russia or against her in
the Caucasus, with twenty minor schemes in Mexico, Sicily, Greece, and
Cuba, he at last determined on making Northern Italy the sphere of his
abilities, wisely calculating that before the game was played out he
should see enough to know what would be the winning side.
An accidental meeting with D'Esmonde, which renewed this old intimacy,
had decided him on taking this step. The Abbé had told him that the
English Government of the day was secretly favorable to the movement;
and although, from the necessities of State policy and the requirements
of treaties, unable to afford any open or avowed assistance, would still
gladly recognize his participation in the struggle, and, in the event of
success, liberally reward him.
“A new kingdom of Upper Italy, with Milan for the capital, and Viscount
Norwood the resident minister plenipotentiary,” there was the whole
episode, in three volumes, with its “plot,” “catastrophe,” and “virtue
rewarded,” in appropriate fashion; and as times were bad, neither racing
nor cards profitable, patriotism was the only unexplored resource he
could think of.
Not that my Lord had much faith in the Abbé. Far from it. He thought all
priests were knaves; but he also thought “that he 'll not cheat _me_.
No, no; too wide awake for that He 'll not try that dodge. Knows where
I 've graduated. Remembers too well what school I come of.” He was
perfectly candid, too, in this mode of reasoning, calmly telling
D'Esmonde his opinions of himself, and frankly showing that any attempt
at a “jockey” of him must inevitably fail. The Abbé, to do him justice,
took all this candor well,--affected to deem it the mere ebullition of
honest John Bullism; and so they were well met. At times, indeed,
the priest's enthusiasm carried him a little away, and he ventured to
speculate on the glorious career that conversion would open to the noble
Viscount, and the splendid fruits such a change would be certain to
produce. Norwood was, however, too practical for such remote benefits;
and if the Abbé couldn't “make the thing safe,” as he styled it, would
not listen to this suggestion. A rich Italian princess,--there were two
or three such prizes in the wheel,--or an infanta of Spain, might solace
many a theological doubt; but Norwood said there was no use in quoting
the “fathers” when he was thinking only of the “daughters.”
And the priest wisely seemed to take him at his word. As for Lady
Hester, political intrigue was quite new to her, and, consequently, very
delightful. Since the Cardinal's departure for Rome, she had begun to
weary somehow of the ordinances of her new faith. The canonico but ill
replaced his Eminence. He had none of that velvety smoothness of manner,
that soft and gentle persuasiveness of the dignitary He could neither
smile away a doubt nor resolve a difficulty by a “bon mot” It is
but fair to say that he was no ascetic, that he loved good cheer
and pleasant converse, and was free to let others participate in the
enjoyment. Lady Hester, was, however, too much habituated to such
indulgences to reckon them other than necessaries. D'Esmonde, if he had
had time, might have compensated for all these deficiencies, but he
was far too deeply engaged with other cares, and his air of grave
preoccupation was more suited to awe her Ladyship than suggest ease in
his presence. And now we come to Albert Jekyl,--the last member of this
incongruous family. Nothing was less to his taste than any fanaticism,
whether it took the form of religion or politics. All such extravagances
were sure to interfere with society, impede intercourse, and disturb
that delightful calm of existence wherein vices ripen, and where men of
his stamp gather the harvest.
To overthrow a Government, to disturb the settled foundations of a
State, were, to his thinking, a species of _inconvenance_ that savored
of intense vulgarity; and he classified such anarchists with men who
would like to smash the lamps, tear down the hangings, and destroy the
decorations of a _salon_ in which they were asked to pass the evening,
preferring to sit down amid ruin and wreck rather than eat their supper
at a well-ordered and well-furnished board.
To Jekyl's eyes it was a very nice world as it was, if people would
only let it alone. “A world of bright eyes and soft tresses and white
shoulders, with Donizetti's music and Moët's champagne, was not to
be despised, after all.” He had no sympathies, therefore, with these
disturbers; but he was too well bred ever to oppose himself to the
wishes of the company, and so he seemed to concur with what he could not
prevent. He could have wished that the Italians would take a lesson from
the Swiss, who only revolt when there is nothing else to do, and never
take to cutting each other's throats during the season when there are
travellers to be cheated; “but, perhaps,” said he, “they will soon
get enough of it, and learn that their genius lies more in ballets and
bonbons than in bombs and rockets.”
Of such various hopes and feelings were the party made up who now
awaited D'Esmonde's presence at the supper-table. It was past midnight,
and they had been expecting him with impatience for above an hour back.
Twice had the canonico fallen asleep, and started up with terror at what
he called a “fantasma di fame.” Jekyl had eaten sardines and oysters
till he was actually starving. Lady Hester was fidgety and fretful,
as waiting always made her; while Norwood walked from the room to the
terrace, and out upon the grass to listen, uneasy lest any mischance
should have befallen one who was so deeply involved in their
confidences.
“It is but three or four and twenty miles to Milan,” muttered Norwood;
“he might easily have been here by this.”
“The road is infested with banditti,” growled out the padre.
“Banditti!” said Norwood, contemptuously. But whether the sneer was
intended for the cut-throats' courage, or the folly of men who would
expect any booty from a priest, is hard to say; clearly the padre took
it in the latter sense, for he rejoined,----
“Even so, Milordo. When I was curé of Bergamo, they stopped me one night
on the Lecco road. A bishop was on a visit with me, and I had gone up to
Milan to procure some fish for our Friday's dinner. Oimè! what a turbot
it was, and how deliciously it looked at the bottom of the calessino,
with the lobsters keeping guard at either side of it, and a small basket
of Genoa oysters,--those rock beauties that melt in the mouth like
a ripe strawberry! There they were, and I had fallen asleep, and was
dreaming pleasantly. I thought I saw St Cecilia dressing 'filets de sole
aux fines herbes,' and that she was asking me for sweet marjoram, when
suddenly I felt a sharp stick, as it were, in my side; and starting up,
I felt the point--the very point--of a thin stiletto between my ribs.
“'Scusi, padre mio,' said a whining voice, and a great black-bearded
rascal touched his cap to me with one hand, while with the other he held
the dagger close to my side, a comrade all the time covering me with a
blunderbuss on the opposite side of the cart,--'scusi, padre mio,
but we want your pursel' 'Maladetto sia--' 'Don't curse,' said he,
beggingly,--'don't curse, padre, we shall only have to spend more money
in masses; but be quick, out with the “quattrini.”'
“'I have nothing but the Church fund for the poor.' said I, angrily.
“'We are the poor, holy father,' whined the rogue.
“'I mean the poor who hate to do evil,' said I.
“'It grieves us to the soul when we are driven to it!' sighed the
scoundrel; and he gave me a gentle touch with the point of the stiletto.
Dark as it was, I could see the wretch grin as I screamed out.
“'Be quick,' growled out the other, roughly, as he brought the wide
mouth of the trombone close to my face. There was no help for it I had
to give up my little leathern pouch with all my quarter's gatherings.
Many a warning did I give the villains of the ill-luck that followed
sacrilege,--how palsies and blindness and lameness came upon the limbs
of those who robbed the Church. They went on counting the coins without
so much as minding me. At last, when they had fairly divided the booty,
the first fellow said, 'One favor more, holy father, before we part.'
“'Would you take my coat or my cassock?' said I, indignantly.
“'Heaven forbid it!' said he, piously; 'we want only your blessing,
padre mio.'
“'My blessing on thieves and robbers!'
“'Who need it more, holy father?' said he, with another stick of the
point,----'who need it more?'
“I screamed aloud, and the wretches this time laughed outright at my
misery. Meanwhile they both uncovered and knelt down in the road before
me. Oimè! oimè! There was no help for it I had to descend from the
calessino!”
[Illustration: 208]
“And did you bless them, father?” asked Jekyl.
“That did I! for when I tried in the middle of the benediction to slip
in a muttering of 'Confundite ipsos qui quaerunt animam meam,' the
whining rogue popped out his accursed weapon, and cried, 'Take care,
holy father! We only bargain for the blessing.'”
“They left you the fish, however?” said Norwood.
“Not an oyster!” sighed the priest.
“'You would not have us eat flesh on the fast, padre mio!' said the
hypocritical knave. 'Poor fellows like us have no dispensation, nor the
money to buy it' And so they packed up everything, and then, helping me
to my seat, wished me a pleasant journey, and departed.”
“I am curious to know if you really forgave them, padre?” said Jekyl,
with an air of serious inquiry.
“Have I not said so!” rejoined the priest, testily.
“Why, you tried to insinuate something that surely was not a blessing,
father.”
“And if I did, the fellow detected it. Ah, that rogue must have served
Mass once on a time, or his ears had never been so sharp!”
“Are yours quick enough to say if that be the tramp of a horse?” asked
Norwood, as he listened to the sounds.
“Yes, that is a horse,” cried Jekyl.
“Now, then, for the soup,” exclaimed the canon. “Ah, yes!” added
he, with a sigh, as he turned to Lady Hester, “these are the
crosses,----these are the trials of life; but they are good for
us,--they are good for us! Poor mortals that we are! Non est sanitas
in carne meâ. Oimè! oimè!” And so moralizing, he gave her his arm as he
reentered the house. In less than a minute later, D'Esmonde galloped up
to the door, and dismounted.
“Has anything occurred?--you are late to-night,” asked Norwood, hastily.
“Nothing. The city, however, was in great alarm, and the tocsin was
twice sounded in the churches when I left at ten o'clock; the guards
were doubled at the gates, and mounted patrols making the rounds in
every quarter.”
“What was this for?” asked Norwood.
“A mere false alarm,----nothing more. The Austrians are harassed beyond
measure by these frequent calls to arms; and men grumble that they are
mustered twice or thrice during the night without any cause. A petard
exploded in the street, or a church bell rung, is sure to call out the
whole garrison.”
“I begin to suspect that our Italian friends will be satisfied with
this, and never go further,” said Norwood, contemptuously.
“You are wrong there. It is by the frequency and impunity of these
demonstrations, that they are working up courage for an overt movement
By the time that the Austrians have grown indifferent to such nightly
disturbances, the others will have gained hardihood for a real
outbreak.”
“If they only be persuaded that war is assassination on a grand scale,
they might make excellent soldiers,” simpered Jekyl; but the others
seemed to take no heed of his pleasantry.
“Have they not fixed a time?” asked Norwood, eagerly; “or is it all left
vague and uncertain as ever?”
“The Swiss are quite ready; we only wait now for the Piedmontese. Genoa
is with us at a word; so are Leghorn and the towns of the Romagna. The
signal once given, there will be such a rising as Italy has not seen for
centuries. England will supply arms, ammunition--”
“All but men,” sighed Norwood; “and it is exactly what are wanting.”
“And France--”
“Will give her sympathies,” broke in Jekyl. “That dear France! that
always says God speed to disturbance and trouble wherever it be.”
“What of that Austrian soldier?” said D'Esmonde, who did not quite like
the tone of either of his companions,--“is he better?”
“The surgeon says that he cannot recover,” replied Jekyl; “and for that
reason I suspect that he 's in no danger.”
“Have you seen the officer to-day?” asked the priest again.
“No,” replied Norwood. “Jekyl and I twice endeavored to speak with
him; but he slept half the forenoon, and since that he has been writing
innumerable despatches to headquarters.”
“They say at Milan that he 'll be shot for this misadventure,” said
D'Esmonde; “that he acted in contravention to his orders, or did
something, I know not what, which will be treated as a grave military
offence.”
“The canonico is furious with us for this delay,” said Jekyl, laughing,
as he returned from a peep into the _salon_.
The Abbé was, meanwhile, deep in a whispered conversation with Norwood.
“Ay,” said the latter, doubtingly, “but it's a serious thing to tamper
with a soldier's fidelity. The Austrians are not the people to suffer
this with impunity.”
“How are they to know it?”
“If it fail,--if this young fellow reject our offers, which, as a
Hungarian, it is just as likely that he will do?”
“But he is not a Hungarian. I know him, and all about him.”
“And can you answer for his readiness to join us?”
“I cannot go that far; but seeing the position he stands in, what can be
more probable? And, take the worst case: suppose that he refuses, I have
him still!”
“How do you mean?”
“Simply that I have in my hands the means to destroy all his credit, and
peril his very life!” The sudden energy of passion in which he delivered
these words appeared to have escaped him unawares; for, as quickly
recovering his wonted smoothness of tone, he said, “Not that anything
short of the last necessity would drive me to such an alternative.”
“May I never have to trust to your tender mercies, Abbé!” said Norwood,
with a laugh, in which there was far more of earnest than of jesting;
“but let us talk of these things after supper.” And with the careless
ease of a mere idler, he lounged into the house, followed by the others.
Once seated at supper, the conversation took a general turn, requiring
all the Abbé's skill and Jekyl's tact at times to cover from the
servants who waited the secret meaning of many of those allusions to
politics and party which Lady Hester uttered, in the perfect conviction
that she was talking in riddles. Her indiscretion rendered her, indeed,
a most perilous associate; and in spite of hints, warnings, and signs,
she would rattle on upon the dangerous theme of revolt and insurrection;
the poor devices of deception she employed being but sorry blinds to the
native quickness of Italian shrewdness.
This little fire of cross-purposes sadly perplexed the canonico, who
looked up now and then from his plate with a face of stupid astonishment
at all that went forward.
“You have heard, I suppose, canon,” said the Abbé, adroitly addressing
him, “that the city authorities have only granted twelve thousand crowns
for the festival of San Giovanni?”
“Twelve thousand crowns! It will not pay for the throne of the Virgin,”
growled out the canon, “not to speak of the twenty-six angels in
sprigged muslin!”
“There are to be no angels this time. The priests of the Santa Croce are
to walk behind the canopy.”
“It will ruin the procession,” muttered the canon.
“They certainly look as little like angels as need be,” interposed
Jekyl, slyly.
“Sixty lamps and two hundred tapers are a scant allowance,” continued
D'Esmonde.
“Darkness,--positive darkness!” ejaculated the canon; “ubi evasit pietas
nostra?--what has become of our ancient faith?”
“The soldier, your reverence, wishes to see you immediately,” said a
servant, entering in haste; “he fears that he is sinking fast.”
“The heavy dews of the morning are falling--can he not wait till the sun
rises, Giuseppe?”
“You had better see him at once, canon,” whispered the Abbé.
“Oimè! oimè!” sighed the priest, “mine is a weary road--'potum meum cum
fletu miscebam,'” added he, finishing off his champagne, “is it far from
this?”
“Only to the boat-house, father,” said Lady Hester.
“Per mares et ignos! it's a good half-hour's walk,” growled he.
“You can have the pony carriage, father,” interposed she.
“He starts at everything by night--don't trust the pony,” said Jekyl.
“Well, then, be carried in my chair, father.”
“Be it so,--be it so,” muttered he. “I yield myself to anything,--'sicut
passer sub tecto,'--I have no will of my own.”
“Go along with him, my Lord,” whispered D'Esmonde: “the opportunity will
be a good one to see the young officer. While the father talks with the
sick man, you can converse with the friend. See in what frame of mind he
is.”
“Does he speak French? for I am but an indifferent German,” said
Norwood.
“Yes, French will do,” said D'Esmonde, who, after a moment's hesitation
as to whether he should reveal the secret of Frank's country, seemed to
decide on still reserving the knowledge.
“But this could be better done to-morrow,” said Norwood.
“To-morrow will be too late,” whispered D'Esmonde. “Go now; you shall
know my reasons at your return.”
Norwood took little heed of the canonico's attempts at conversation as
they went along. His mind was occupied with other thoughts. The moment
of open revolt was drawing nigh, and now came doubts of D'Esmonde's
sincerity and good faith. It was true that many of the priests were
disposed to the wildest theories of democracy,--they were men of more
than ordinary capacity, with far less than the ordinary share of worldly
advantages. D'Esmonde, however, was not one of these; there was no limit
to which his ambition might not reasonably aspire,--no dignity in his
Church above his legitimate hopes. What benefit could accrue to him from
a great political convulsion? “He'll not be nearer to the Popedom
when the cannon are shaking the Vatican!” Such were the puzzling
considerations that worked within him as he drew near the boat-house.
A figure was seated on the door-sill, with the head buried beneath his
hands, but on hearing the approach of the others be quickly arose and
drew himself up. “You are too late, sir,” said he, addressing the priest
sternly; “my poor comrade is no more!”
“Ah me! and they would drag me out in the chill night air,” groaned the
canonico.
The cruelty of that must have weighed heavily on his heart.
Frank turned away, and re-entered the house without speaking, while
Norwood followed him in silence. On a low truckle-bed lay the dead
soldier, his manly face calm and tranquil as the cold heart within his
breast. A weather-beaten, bronzed soldier sat at the foot of the bed,
the tears slowly flowing along his cheeks, as his bloodshot eyes were
fixed upon his comrade. It was the first blood that had been shed in the
cause of Italian independence, and Norwood stood thoughtfully staring at
the victim.
“Poor fellow!” said he; “they who gave his death-wound little knew what
sympathy for liberty that jacket covered, nor how truly the Hun is the
brother of the Italian.”
“They were assassins and murderers,” cried Frank, passionately; “fellows
who attacked us from behind walls and barricades.”
“Your reproach only means that they were not soldiers.”
“That they were cowards, rather,----rank cowards. The liberty that such
fellows strive for will be well worthy of them! But no more of this,”
cried be, impatiently; “is there a church near, where I can lay his
body,--he was a Catholic?”
“There is a chapel attached to the villa; I will ask permission for what
you require.”
“You will confer a favor on me,” said Frank, “for I am desirous of
hastening on to Milan at once.”
“You will scarcely find your comrades there,” said Norwood.
Frank started with surprise, and the other went on,----
“There are rumors of a serious revolt in the city, and some say that the
Imperial troops have retired on the Mantua road.”
“They know nothing of Austrian soldiers who say these things,” said
Frank, haughtily; “but there is the more need that I should lose no time
here.”
“Come, then, I will show you the way to the chapel,” said Norwood, who
could not divest himself of a feeling of interest for the young soldier.
Frank spoke a few words in Hungarian to his men, and hastily wrapping
the dead man in his cloak, they placed him on a door, his chako and his
sword at either side of him.
“You will see that he is buried as becomes a brave and a true soldier,”
said Frank, with a faltering accent, as they went along. “This will
defray the cost.”
“No, no; there is no need of that,” said Norwood, pushing away the
proffered purse. “We'll look to it ourselves.”
“Let there be some record of him preserved, too, for his friends' sake.
His name was 'Stanislas Ravitsky.'”
“And may I ask yours?” said Norwood.
“You'll hear of it in the first court-martial return for Milan,” said
Frank, bitterly.
“Then why go there?--why hasten to certain ruin?”
“You would say, why not desert?----why not forfeit my honor and my
oath? Because I am a gentleman, sir; and if the explanation be not
intelligible, so much the worse for you.”
“I have left him in the chapel,” said Norwood to D'Esmonde, a few
minutes after this conversation; “he is kneeling beside the corpse, and
praying. There is nothing to be done with him. It is but time lost to
attempt it.”
“So much the worse for _him,_” said D'Esmonde, significantly repeating
the words that Norwood related, while he hastily left the spot and
walked towards the high-road, where now an Austrian picket was standing
beside the horses.
“This is your warrant, sir,” said D'Esmonde to the officer, handing him
a paper; “You 'll find the person you seek for in the chapel yonder.”
The officer saluted in reply, and ordered his men to mount; while
D'Esmonde, passing into a thick part of the copse, was out of sight in a
moment.