It was of a calm but starless night in winter that Florence was
illuminated in honor of a victory over the Austrian troops at Goito.
Never was patriotic ardor higher,--never were stronger the hopes of
Italian independence. From the hour of their retreat from Milan, the
imperial forces had met with little but reverses, and, as day by day
they fell back towards the Tyrol Alps, the hosts of their enemies
swelled and increased around them; and from Genoa to the Adriatic all
Italy was in march to battle. It is not to speculate on the passable
current of events, nor yet to dwell on the causes of that memorable
failure, by which dissentient councils and false faith--the weakness
of good men and the ambition of bad ones--brought rain when there might
have been victory, still less is it to gaze upon the brilliant spectacle
of the rejoicing city, that we are now wending our way along the Arno,
scarcely stopping to notice the thousand stars that glitter on the
Duomo, nor the flickering lines of light which trace out the gigantic
tower of the Palazzo Vecchio. Our theme is more humble than the former,
and far too serious for such dalliance as the latter.
Leaving the crowded streets, resounding with the wild acclamations and
wilder songs of the people, we pass over the Ponte Vecchio, and enter
once again the dark abode of Racca Morlache. Whether from any suspicion
of his unpopularity with the people, or from some secret necessity for
precaution, the door is fastened by many an extra bolt, and more than
one massive chain retains the iron shutters of the window. Perhaps there
is something in this conscious security that has made him so sparing in
his display of external joy, for two dim, discolored lamps were all that
appeared above the door, and these were soon hurled down in contemptuous
anger by the populace, leaving the little building in total darkness.
In easy indifference to such harmless insult, and not heeding the loud
knock which, from stick or stone, the iron shutters resounded under, the
Jew sat at his table in that little chamber beside the Arno, of which
the reader already knows the secret. Several decanters of wine are
before him, and as he sips his glass and smashes his filbert, his air is
that of the very easiest unconcern.
Attempting, but with inferior success, an equal degree of calm, sits the
Abbé D'Esmonde on the opposite side of the table. With all his training,
his calm features betray at moments certain signs of anxiety, and, while
he speaks, you can see that he is listening to the noises in the street
without.
“How I detest that song!” said Morlache, as the full swell of a
deep-voiced chorus filled the air. “I verily believe the Revolution has
not inflicted us with anything more outraging to good taste than the air
of 'Viva Pio Nono.'”
“Always excepting Pio Nono himself,” said D'Esmonde, “who is far more
the child than the father of this movement.”
“Not bad for a priest to renounce allegiance to his holy master!” said
Racca, laughing.
“You mistake me, Signor Morlache,” said D'Esmonde, eagerly. “I spoke
of Pio Nono, the politician,--the rash innovator of time-honored
institutions, the foolish donor of concessions that must be won back at
the price of blood, the man who has been weak enough to head a movement
which he ought to have controlled in secret. How the people shout! I
hear many a voice in accents of no Italian origin.”
“Yes, the city is full of Poles and Hungarians.”
“It will soon be time to drop the curtain on this act of the drama,
Morlache; enough has been done to show the world the dangerous doctrines
of these fanatics. They who cry 'No property in France,' shout 'No King
in Germany,' 'No Pope in Rome.' The peaceful or well-ordered must be
taught to see in us their safeguard against these men. They must
learn to think the Church the sanctuary it was of old. From all these
convulsions which shatter empires, we are the refuge!”
“But you yourself gave the first impulse to this very movement, Abbé?”
“And wisely and well we did it! Should we have stood passive to watch
the gradual growth of that cursed spirit they miscall independent
judgment,--that rankest heresy that ever corrupted the human heart?
Should we have waited till Protestantism with its Bible had sowed the
seeds of that right of judgment which they proclaim is inherent in all
men? Would it have been safe policy to admit of discussing what was
obligatory to obey, and look on while this enlightenment--as they
blasphemously term it--was arraigning the dogma of the Church as
unblushingly as they questioned the decree of a minister?”
“I perceive,” said the Jew, laughing, “You great politicians are not
above taking a lesson from the 'Bourse,' and know the trick of puffing
up a bad scheme to a high premium, prepared to sell out the day before
'the fall.'”
“We had higher and nobler views,” said D'Esmonde, proudly. “The men who
will not come to the altars of the Church must be taught her doctrines
before the portals. Our task is to proclaim Rome----eternal Rome--to
Europe!”
“Up to this your success has not been signal,” said Morlache, with a
sneer. “This victory at Goito has given fresh vigor to the Republicans.
The Austrians once driven beyond the Alps, Monarchy wilt be short-lived
in Italy.”
“And who says that they will be so driven? Who ever dreams of such a
result, save some wild fanatic of Genoa, or some half-informed minister
at London? The King of Naples only waits for the excuse of a Calabrian
disturbance to recall his contingent. The Pope has already issued an
order to Durando not to pass the Po. The Piedmontese themselves are on
the verge of an irreparable quarrel,--the men of Savoy and the north for
Monarchy; the Genoese, wild with their own ancient ideas of a Ligurian
Republic. Is it the Lombards, think you, will conquer Lombardy? or
do you fancy that Florence and Pisa are the nurseries of heroes? No,
Morlache, the game of revolt is played out in Italy; the last trump is
Goito.”
“But if, flushed with conquest, the Piedmontese press on to greater
successes?”
“They cannot,--they would not, even if they could,” broke in D'Esmonde.
“Is it the Republicans will shed their blood to conquer a kingdom of
Upper Italy for Carlo Alberto? Is it the interest of Rome or Naples to
see such a power in the Peninsula? Will the troops of the Monarchy, on
the other hand, fight for a cause that is to obliterate the throne? No;
believe me, their mutual grudges have been well weighed and estimated.
We never dared this bold policy without seeing clearly that their
interests could never be reconciled.--I think I hear the sound of oars;
yes, he must be coming at last!” D'Esmonde opened the window as he
spoke, and looked out upon the river, which, reflecting along the sides
the gorgeous pageantry of the illumination, was dark as ink in the
middle of the stream. “Not a word of this, Morlache, when he joins us,”
added D'Esmonde.
“_He_ is not in your confidence, then?” asked the other.
“_He?_ Of course he is not! If for no weightier reasons than that he is
English and a Protestant,--two things which, however weak they may prove
either in patriotism or religion, never fail in their hatred of the
Church and her cause. Like one of the Condottieri of old, he has joined
the quarrel because hard knocks are usually associated with booty.
Whenever he finds that he has no stake on the table, he 'll throw down
his cards.”
“And the other,--the Russian?”
“He is more difficult to understand; but I hope to know him yet Hush,
the boat is close in; be cautious!” And, so saying, he filled his glass,
and reseated himself in all the seeming ease of careless dalliance. In a
few minutes after, the prow of a light skiff touched the terrace, and a
man stepped out and knocked at the shutter.
“Welcome at last,” said D'Esmonde, shaking hands with him. “We had
almost despaired of seeing you to-night you appear to have been favored
with a long audience!”
“Yes, confound it!” cried the other, who, throwing off his
travelling-cloak, showed the figure of Lord Norwood. “We were kept
dangling in an antechamber for nigh an hour. Midchekoff's fault, for
he would not give his name, nor say anything more than that we were two
officers with secret despatches from the camp. The people in waiting
appeared to think the claim a poor one, and came and went, and looked at
us, splashed and dirty as we were; but not, even out of curiosity, did
one ask us what tidings we brought. We might have stayed till now, I
believe, if I had not taken the resolution to follow an old priest--a
bishop, I fancy--who seemed to have the _entrée_ everywhere; and pushing
vigorously after him, I passed through half a dozen ill-lighted rooms,
and at last entered a small drawing-room, where the great man was
seated at piquet with old Cassandroni, the minister. I must say that,
considering the unauthorized style of my approach, nothing could be more
well-bred and urbane than his reception of me. I was blundering out
some kind of apology for my appearance, when he pointed to a chair, and
begged me to be seated. Then, recognizing Midchekoff, who had just come
in, he held out his hand to him. I gave him the despatches, which
he pushed across the table to Cassandroni, as if it were more _his_
'affair;' and then turning to Midchekoff, conversed with him for some
time in a low voice. As it would not have been etiquette to observe him
too closely, I kept my eyes on the minister; and, faith, I must say that
he could scarcely have looked more blank and out of sorts had the news
reported a defeat. I suppose these fellows have a kind of official
reserve which represses every show of feeling; but I own that he folded
up the paper with a degree of composure that quite piqued me.
“'Well, Cassandroni,' said his master, 'what's your news?'
“'Very good news, sir,' said the other, calmly. 'His Majesty has
obtained a signal victory near Goito against a considerable force of the
Imperial army, under the command of Radetzky. The action was long and
fiercely contested; but a successful advance of artillery to the side of
a river, and a most intrepid series of cavalry charges turned the flank
of the enemy, and gained the day. The results do not, however, appear
equal to the moral effect upon the army, for there were few prisoners,
and no guns taken.'
“'That may perhaps be explained,' said I, interrupting; 'for when the
Austrians commenced their movement in retreat--' Just as I got thus far,
I stopped; for I found that the distinguished personage I was addressing
had once more turned to Midchekoff, and was in deep conversation with
him, totally regardless of me and my explanation.
“'You have been wounded, my Lord?' said he, after a moment.
“'A mere scratch, sir,--a poke of a lance,' said I, smarting under the
cool indifference of his manner.
“'I hope you 're not too much fatigued to stop to supper,' said he; but
I arose at the instant, and pleading the excuse of exhaustion and want
of rest, begged to be permitted to retire; and here I am, not having
tasted anything since I left Padua, and not in the very blandest of
tempers, either, at the graciousness of my reception. As for Midchekoff,
he kept his seat as coolly as if he meant to pass his life there. I
hesitated for a second or two, expecting that he would join me; but
not a bit of it He smiled his little quiet smile, as much as to say,
'Good-night,' and so I left him.”
“He is probably detained to give some particulars of the engagement,”
said D'Esmonde.
“How can he?--he was never in it; he was writing letters all day at
headquarters, and never came up till seven in the evening, when he rode
down with a smart groom after him, and gave the Duke of Savoy a sandwich
out of a silver case. That will be the only memorable fact he can retail
of the day's fortune.”
“The cause looks well, however,” said D'Esmonde, endeavoring to divert
his thoughts into a more agreeable direction.
“Tell me what is the cause, and I will answer you,” said Norwood,
sternly. “So far as _I_ see, we are dividing the spoils before we have
hunted down the game.”
“You surely have no doubt of the result, my Lord?” replied the other,
eagerly. “The Austrians must relinquish Italy.”
“Then who is to take it,--that's the question? Is Lorn-bardy to become
Piedmont, or a Red Republic? or are your brethren of the slouched hat to
step in and portion out the land into snug nurseries for Franciscans
and Ursulines? Egad, I 'd as soon give it up to old Morlache yonder,
and make it a New Jerusalem to educate a young race of moneylenders and
usurers!”
“I wish we had even as much security for our loans,” said Morlache,
smiling.
“I hear of nothing but money,----great loans here, immense sums raised
there,” cried Norwood; “and yet what becomes of it? The army certainly
has seen none of it. Large arrears of pay are due; and as for us
who serve on the staff, we are actually supporting the very force we
command.”
“We are told that large sums have found their way into Austria in shape
of secret service,” said D'Esmonde, “and with good result too.”
“The very worst of bad policy,” broke in Norwood. “Pay your friends
and thrash your enemies. Deserters are bad allies at the best, but are
utterly worthless if they must be paid for desertion. Let them go over
like those Hungarian fellows,--a whole regiment at a time, and bring
both courage and discipline to our ranks! but your rabble of student
sympathizers are good for nothing.”
“Success has not made you sanguine, my Lord,” said Morlache, smiling.
“I have little to be sanguine about,” replied he, roughly. “They have
not spoiled me with good fortune; and even on this very mission that I
have come now, you 'll see it is that Russian fellow will receive all
the reward; and if there be a decoration conferred, it is he, not I,
will obtain it.”
“And do you care for such baubles, my Lord?” asked D'Esmonde, in
affected surprise.
“We soldiers like these vanities as women do a new shawl, or your
priests admire a smart new vestment, in which I have seen a fellow
strut as proudly as any coxcomb in the ballet when he had completed his
pirouette. As for myself,” continued he, proudly, “I hold these stars
and crosses cheaply enough. I 'd mortgage my 'San Giuseppe' to-morrow if
Morlache would give me twenty Naps, on it.”
“The day of richer rewards is not distant, my Lord,” said D'Esmonde.
“Lombardy will be our own ere the autumn closes, and then--and then--”
“And then we 'll cut each other's throats for the booty, you were going
to say,” burst in Norwood; “but I 'm not one of those who think so,
Abbé. My notion is that Austria is making a waiting race, and quietly
leaving dissension to do amongst _us_ what the snow did for the French
at Moscow.”
D'Esmonde's cheek grew pale at this shrewd surmise; but he quickly said,
----
“You mistake them, my Lord. The interests at stake are too heavy for
such a critical policy; Austria dare not risk so hazardous a game.”
“The wiseheads are beginning to suspect as much,” said Norwood; “and
certainly amongst the prisoners we have taken there is not a trait
of despondency nor even a doubt as to the result of the campaign. The
invariable reply to every question is, the Kaiser will have his own
again,--ay, and this even from the Hungarians. We captured a young
fellow on the afternoon of Goito, who had escaped from prison, and
actually broke his arrest to take his share in the battle. He was in
what Austrians call Stockhaus arrest, and under sentence either of death
or imprisonment for life, for treason. Well, he got out somehow, and
followed his regiment on foot till such time as one of his comrades was
knocked over; then he mounted, and I promise you he knew his work in
the saddle. Twice he charged a half-battery of twelves, and sabred our
gunners where they stood; and when at last we pushed the Austrian column
across the bridge, instead of retreating, as he might, he trusted to
saving himself by the river. It was then his horse was shot under him,
as he descended the bank, and over they both rolled into the stream. I
assure you it was no easy matter to capture him even then, and we took
him under a shower of balls from his comrades, that showed how little
his life was deemed, in comparison with the opportunity of damaging us.
When he was brought in, he was a pitiable object; his forehead was laid
open from a sabre cut, his collar-bone and left arm broken by the fall,
and a gunshot wound in the thigh, which the surgeon affirmed had every
appearance of being received early in the action. He would n't tell us
his name, or anything about his friends, for he wished to have written
to them; the only words he ever uttered were a faint attempt at 'Hurrah
for the Emperor!'”
“And this a Hungarian?” said D'Esmonde, in surprise.
“He might have been a Pole, or a Wallach, for anything I know; but he
was a hussar, and as gallant a fellow as ever I saw.”
“What was the uniform, my Lord?” asked the Abbé.
“Light blue, with a green chako,--they call them the regiment of Prince
Paul of Wurtemberg.”
“Tell me his probable age, my Lord; and something of his appearance
generally,” said D'Esmonde, with increasing earnestness.
“His age I should guess to be two or three and twenty,--not more,
certainly, and possibly even less than that In height he is taller than
I, but slighter. As to face, even with all his scars and bruises, he
looked a handsome fellow, and had a clear blue eye that might have
become an Englishman.”
“You did not hear him speak?” asked the priest, with heightening
curiosity.
“Except the few words I have mentioned, he never uttered a syllable. We
learned that he had broken his arrest from one of his comrades; but the
fellow, seeing our anxiety to hear more, immediately grew reserved, and
would tell us nothing. I merely allude to the circumstance to show that
the disaffection we trust to amongst the Hungarians is not universal;
and even when they falter in their allegiance to the State, by some
strange contradiction they preserve their loyalty to the 'Kaiser.'”
“I wish I could learn more about your prisoner, my Lord,” said the Abbé,
thoughtfully. “The story has interested me deeply.”
“Midchekoff can, perhaps, tell you something, then, for he saw him later
than I did. He accompanied the Duke of Genoa in an inspection of the
prisoners just before we left the camp.”
“And you said that he had a fair and Saxon-looking face?” said the Abbé.
“Faith, I 've told you all that I know of him,” said Norwood,
impatiently. “He was a brave soldier, and with ten thousand like him on
our side I 'd feel far more at my ease for the result of this campaign
than with the aid of those splendid squadrons they call the 'Speranza d'
Italia'.”
“And the Crociati, my Lord, what are _they_ like?” said Morlache,
smiling.
“A horde of robbers; a set of cowardly rascals who have only courage
for cruelty; the outpourings of jails and offcasts of convents; degraded
friars and escaped galley-slaves.”
“My Lord, my Lord!” interrupted Morlache, suppressing his laughter with
difficulty, and enjoying to the full this torrent of indignant anger.
“You are surely not describing faithfully the soldiers of the Pope,--the
warriors whose banners have been blessed by the Holy Father?”
“Ask their General, Ferrari, whom they have three times attempted to
murder. Ask _him_ their character,” said Norwood, passionately, “if
D'Esmonde himself will not tell you.”
“Has it not been the same in every land that ever struck a blow for
liberty?” said the Abbé. “Is it the statesman or the philosopher who
have racked their brains and wasted their faculties in thought for the
good of their fellow-men that have gone forth to battle? or is it not
rather the host of unquiet spirits who infest every country, and who
seek in change the prosperity that others pursue in patient industry?
Some are enthusiastic for freedom, some seek a field of personal
distinction, some are mere freebooters; but whatever they be, the cause
remains the same.”
“You may be right,----for all I know you _are_ right,” said Norwood,
doggedly; “but, for my own part, I have no fancy to fight shoulder to
shoulder with cut-throats and housebreakers, even though the Church
should have hallowed them with its blessing.” Norwood arose as he said
this, And walked impatiently up and down the chamber.
“When do you propose to return to the army, my Lord?” said D'Esmonde,
after a pause.
“I'm not sure; I don't even know if I shall return at all!” said
Norwood, hastily. “I see little profit and less glory in the service!
What say you, Morlache? Have they the kind of credit you would like to
accept for a loan?”
“No, my Lord,” said the Jew, laughing; “Lombardy scrip would stand low
in our market. I 'd rather advance my moneys on the faith of your good
friend the Lady Hester Onslow.”
Norwood bit his lip and colored, but made no reply.
“She has crossed into Switzerland, has she not?” asked D'Esmonde,
carelessly.
“Gone to England!” said the Viscount, briefly.
“When----how? I never heard of that,” said the Abbé. “I have put off
writing to her from day to day, never suspecting that she was about to
quit the Continent.”
“Nor did she herself till about a week ago, when Sir Stafford took an
equally unexpected departure for the other world--”
“Sir Stafford dead! Lady Hester a widow!”
“Such is, I believe, the natural course of things for a woman to be when
her husband dies.”
“A rich widow, too, I presume, my Lord?” said the Abbé, with a quiet but
subtle glance at Norwood.
“That is more than she knows herself at this moment, I fancy; for
they say that Sir Stafford has involved his bequests with so many
difficulties, and hampered them with such a mass of conditions, that
whether she will be a millionnaire or be actually poor must depend
upon the future. I can answer for one point, however, Abbé,” said he,
sarcastically; “neither the Sacred College nor the blessed brethren of
the 'Pace' are like to profit by the banker's economies.”
“Indeed, my Lord,” said the Abbé, slowly, while a sickly pallor came
over his countenance.
“He has left a certain Dr. Grounsell his executor,” continued Norwood;
“and, from all that I can learn, no-man has less taste for painted
windows, stoles, or saints' shin-bones.”
“Probably there may be other questions upon which he will prove equally
obdurate,” said the Abbé, in a voice only audible to the Viscount “Is
her Ladyship at liberty to marry again?”
“I cannot, I grieve to say, give you any information on that point,”
said Norwood, growing deep red as he spoke.
“As your Lordship is going to England--”
“I didn't say so. I don't remember that I told you that!” cried he,
hastily.
“Pardon me if I made such a palpable mistake; but it ran in my head that
you said something to that purport.”
“It won't do, Abbé! it won't do,” said Norwood, in a low whisper. “We,
who have graduated at the 'Red House' are just as wide awake as you of
Louvain and St. Omer.”
D'Esmonde looked at him with an expression of blank astonishment, and
seemed as if he had not the most vague suspicion as to what the sarcasm
referred.
“When can I have half an hour with you, Morlache?” said the Viscount
“Whenever it suits you, my Lord. What say you to to-morrow morning at
eleven?”
“No, no! let it be later; I must have a ten hours' sleep after all this
fatigue, and the sooner I begin the better.”
“Where do you put up, my Lord,--at the Hôtel de l'Arno?” asked the Abbé.
“No; I wish we were there with all my heart; but, to do us honor, they
have given us quarters at the 'Crocetto,' that dreary asylum for stray
archdukes and vagabond grand-duchesses, in the farthest end of the city.
We are surrounded with chamberlains, aides-de-camp, and guards of honor.
The only thing they have forgotten is a cook. So I 'll come and dine
here to-morrow.”
“You do me great honor, my Lord. I 'm sure the Abbé D'Esmonde will favor
us with his company also.”
“If it be possible, I will,” said the Abbé. “Nothing but necessity would
make me relinquish so agreeable a prospect.”
“Well, till our next meeting,” said the Viscount, yawning, as he put
on his hat “It's too late to expect Midchekoff here to-night, and so
good-bye. The streets are clear by this time, I trust.”
“A shrewd fellow, too,” said Morlache, looking after him.
“No, Morlache, not a bit of it!” said D'Esmonde. “Such intellects bear
about the same proportion to really clever men as a good swordsman does
to a first-rate operator in surgery. They handle a coarse weapon, and
they deal with coarse antagonists. Employ them in a subtle negotiation
or a knotty problem, and you might as well ask a sergeant of the Blues
to take up the femoral artery. Did you not remark awhile ago that, for
the sake of a sneer, he actually betrayed a secret about Sir Stafford
Onslow's will?”
“And you believe all that to be true?”
“Of course I do. The only question is whether the Irish property, which,
if I remember aright, was settled on Lady Hester at her marriage, can
be fettered by any of these conditions? That alone amounts to some
thousands a year, and would be a most grateful accession to those
much-despised brethren his Lordship alluded to.”
“You can learn something about that point to-morrow, when he dines
here.”
“He'll not be our guest to-morrow, Morlache. I must continue to
occupy him for a day or two. He shall be invited to dine at court
to-morrow,--the request is a command,--so that you will not see him.
Receive Midchekoff if he calls, for I want to hear what he is about
here; his money requirements will soon give us the clew. And I, too,”
said he, stretching and speaking languidly,--“I, too, would be the
better of some repose; it is now thirty-six hours, Morlache, since I
closed my eyes in sleep. During that space I have written and dictated
and talked and argued, urging on the lukewarm, restraining the rash,
giving confidence to this one, preaching caution to that; and here I am,
at the end of all, with my task as far as ever from completion. Events
march faster than we, do what we will; and as the child never comes
up with the hoop he has set in motion till it has fallen, so we rarely
overtake the circumstances we have created till they have ceased to
be of any value to us. Now, at this precise moment I want to be in
the Vatican, at the camp of Goito, in the council-chamber at
Schönbrunn,--not to speak of a certain humble homestead in a far-away
Irish county; and yet I have nothing for it but to go quietly off to
bed, leaving to fortune--I believe that is as good a name for it as any
other--the course of events which, were I present, I could direct at
will. Napoleon left a great example behind him; he beat his enemies
always by rapidity. Believe me, Morlache, men think very much upon a par
in this same world of ours; the great difference being that some take
five minutes where others take five weeks: the man of minutes is sure to
win.”
Just as the Abbé had spoken, Norwood returned, saying,----
“By the way, can either of you tell me if Jekyl is here now?”
“I have not seen him,” said Morlache, “which is almost proof that he is
not His first visit is usually to me.”
The streets were silent. A few stray lamps yet flickered over the
spacious cupola of the Duomo, and a broken line of light faintly tracked
one angle of the tower of the Piazza Vecchia; but except these last
lingering signs of the late rejoicings, all Florence lay in darkness.
“How quiet is everything!” said Morlache, as he took leave of his guests
at his door.' “The streets are empty already.”
“Ay,” muttered the Abbé, “the rejoicing, like the victory, was but
short-lived. Do our roads lie the same way, my Lord?” asked he of
Norwood.
“Very seldom, I suspect,” replied the Viscount, with a laugh. “_Mine_ is
in this direction.”
“And _mine_ lies this way,” said D'Esmonde, bowing coldly, but
courteously, as he passed on, and entered the narrow street beyond the
bridge. “You are quite right, my Lord,” muttered he to himself; “our
paths in life are very different. _Yours_ may be wider and pleasanter,
but mine, with all its turnings, goes straighter.” He paused and
listened for some seconds, till Norwood's steps had died away in the
distance, and then turning back, he followed in the direction the other
had taken.
Norwood walked rapidly along till he came to that small house on the
Arno where Jekyl lived, and stopping in front of it, he threw a handful
of sand against the window. To this signal, twice repeated, no reply was
given to the Viscount He waited a few seconds, and then moved on. The
Abbé stood under the shadow of the tall palaces till the other was out
of sight, and then, approaching the door, gave a long, low whistle.
Within a few seconds the sash was opened, and Jekyl's voice heard,----
“It's you, Abbé. There 's the key. Will you excuse ceremony, and let
yourself in?”
D'Esmonde opened the door at once, and, mounting the stairs, entered
the little chamber in which now Jekyl stood in his dressing-gown and
slippers; and although suddenly roused from sleep, with a smile of
courteous welcome on his diminutive features,----
“I paid no attention to your first signal, Abbé,” said he, “scarcely
thinking it could be you.”
“Nor was it,” said D'Esmonde, seating himself. “It was Lord Norwood, who
doubtless must have had some important reason for disturbing you at this
hour. I waited till he went off before I whistled. When did you arrive?”
“About three hours ago. I came from Lucerne, and was obliged to take
such a zig-zag course, the roads being all blocked up by marching
soldiers, guns, and wagons, that I have been eight days making the
journey of three.”
“So, Lady Hester is a widow! Strange, I only heard it an hour ago.”
“The post has been interrupted, or you would have known it a week back.
I wrote to you from Zurich. I accompanied her so far on her way to
England, and was to have gone the whole way, too, but she determined to
send me back here.”
“Not to settle her affairs in Florence,” said D'Esmonde, with a quiet
slyness.
“Rather to look after Lord Norwood's,” said Jekyl. “I never could
exactly get to the bottom of the affair; but I suppose there must be
some pledge or promise which, in a rash moment, she has made him, and
that already she repents of.”
“How has she been left in the will?” asked D'Esmonde, abruptly.
“Her own words are, 'Infamously treated.' Except a bequest of ten
thousand pounds, nothing beyond the Irish estate settled at the time of
her marriage.”
“She will easily get rid of Norwood, then,” rejoined the Abbé, with a
smile. “His price is higher.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” broke in Jekyl; “the noble Viscount's late
speculations have all proved unfortunate, even to his book on Carlo
Alberto. He thinks he has gone wrong in not hedging on Radetzky.”
“What does he know of the changes of politics?” said D'Esmonde,
contemptuously. “Let him stick to his stablemen and the crafty youths
of Newmarket, but leave state affairs for other and very different
capacities. Does she care for him, Jekyl? Does she love him?”
“She does, and she does not,” said Jekyl, with a languishing air,
which he sometimes assumed when asked for an opinion. “She likes his
fashionable exterior, his easy kind of drawing-room assurance, and,
perhaps not least of all, the tone of impertinent superiority he
displays towards all other men; but she is afraid of him,----afraid
of his temper and his tyrannical humor, and terribly afraid of his
extravagance.”
“How amusing it is!” said D'Esmonde, with a yawn. “A minister quits
the cabinet in disgust, and retires into private life forever, when his
first step is to plot his return to power. So your widow is invariably
found weighing the thoughts of her mourning with speculations on a
second husband. Why need she marry again; tell me that?”
“Because she is a widow, perhaps. I know no other reason,” lisped out
Jekyl.
“I cannot conceive a greater folly than that of these women, with ample
fortune, sacrificing their independence by marriage. The whole world is
their own, if they but knew it. They command every source of enjoyment
while young, and have all the stereotyped solaces of old age when it
comes upon them; and with poodles, parrots, and parasites, mornings of
scandal and evenings of whist, eke out a very pretty existence.”
“Dash the whole with a little religion, Abbé,” cried Jekyl, laughing,
“and the picture will be tolerably correct.”
“She shall not marry Lord Norwood; that, at least, I can answer for,”
said D'Esmonde, not heeding the other.
“It will be difficult to prevent it, Abbé,” said the other, dryly.
“Easier than you think for. Come, Master Jekyl, assume a serious mood
for once, and pay attention to what I am about to say. This line of life
you lead cannot go on forever. Even were your own great gifts to resist
time and its influences, a new generation will spring up with other
wants and requirements, and another race will come who knew not Joseph.
With all your versatility it will be late to study new models, and
acquire a new tongue. Have you speculated, then, I ask you, on this
contingency?”
“I 've some thoughts of a 'monkery,'” lisped out Jekyl; “if the good
folk could only be persuaded to adopt a little cleanliness.”
“Would not marriage suit you better; a rich widow, titled,
well-connected, and good-looking, of fashionable habits, and tastes that
resemble your own?”
“There are difficulties in the case,” said Jekyl, calmly.
“State them,” rejoined the Abbé.
“To begin. There is Lady Hester herself,--for, of course, you mean
_her._”
“I engage to solve all on that head.”
“Then there is the Viscount.”
“For him, too, I hold myself responsible.”
“Lastly, there is Albert Jekyl, who, however admirably he understands
garçon life, might discover that the husband was not among the range of
his characters. As it is, my dear Abbé, I lead a very pretty existence.
I am neither bored nor tormented, I never quarrel with anybody, nor is
the rudest man ever discourteous to me. I possess nothing that any one
envies, except that heaven-born disposition to be pleased, of which
nothing can rob me. I dine well, drive in rich equipages, and, if I
liked, might ride the best horses; have at least a dozen Opera-boxes
ready to receive me, and sweeter smiles to welcome me than would become
me to boast of.”
“Well, then, my proposal is to give you all these on a life interest
instead of being a tenant-at-will,” broke in D'Esmonde.
“And all this out of pure regard for me?” asked Jekyl, with a sly look.
“As a pure matter of bargain,” replied D'Esmonde. “Lady Hester has
advanced large sams to the cause in which I am interested. It would be
difficult, perhaps impossible, to repay them. We still want means, and
that ten thousand pounds' legacy would render us immense service at this
moment. Her income can well spare the sacrifice.”
“Yes, yes,” said Jekyl, musingly; and then looking fondly at his own
image in the glass, he said, “I shall be a dead bargain, after all.”
D'Esmonde bit his lip to repress some movement of impatience, and after
a pause said,----
“This matter does not admit of delay. Circumstances will soon require my
presence in England, and with a strong sum at my command; besides--”
“If I understand you aright,” said Jekyl, “You are to conduct the whole
negotiations to a successful end, and that I shall have neither a bill
to endorse, nor a duel to fight, throughout the affair.”
“You shall be scathless.”
“There is another point,” said Jekyl, quickly. “How shall I figure in
the newspapers,--Albert Jekyl, Esquire, of where? Have you thought of
that? I wish I had even an uncle a baronet.”
“Pooh, pooh!” said D'Esmonde, impatiently. “You marry into the peerage;
that's quite enough.”
“Perhaps you 're right,” said Jekyl. “All that enumeration of
family connection----'niece to the Chief Justice of Rembouk,' or
'cousin-german to the Vice-Consul at Gumdalloo'--smacks terribly of
'Moses and Son.'”
“We are agreed, then,” said the Abbé, rising.
“I swear,” said Jekyl, rising, and throwing out his hand in the attitude
of the well-known picture of the “Marshals.” “The step that I am about
to take will throw its gloom over many a dinner-party, and bring sadness
into many a _salon_; but I 'll retire at least with dignity, and, like
Napoleon, I'll write my memoirs.”
“So far, then, so good,” said D'Esmonde; “now, with your leave, I
throw myself on this sofa and snatch an hour's sleep.” And ere Jekyl
had arranged the folds of what he called his “sable pelisse” as a
covering, the Abbé was in deep slumber.