With less than two hours of sleep, D'Esmonde arose refreshed and ready
for the day. Jekyl was not awake as the priest quitted his quarters,
and, repairing to his own lodgings, dressed himself with more than
usual care. Without any of the foppery of the Abbé, there was a studied
elegance in every detail of his costume, and as he stepped into the
carriage which awaited him, many turned their looks of admiration at the
handsome priest.
“To the Crocetto,” said he, and away they went.
It was already so early that few persons were about as they drove into
the court of the palace, and drew up at a private door. Here D'Esmonde
got out and ascended the stairs.
“Ah, Monsignore!” said a young man, somewhat smartly Attired in a
dressing-gown and velvet cap. “He did not return here last night.”
“Indeed!” said the Abbé, pondering.
“He dismissed the carriage at the Pitti, so that in all likelihood he
passed the night at the palace.”
“Most probably,” said D'Esmonde, with a bland smile; And then, with a
courteous “Good-morning,” he returned to his carriage.
“Where to, Signore?” asked the driver.
“Towards the Duomo,” said he. But scarcely had the man turned the second
corner, than he said, “To the 'Moskova,' Prince Midchekoffs villa.”
“We 're turning our back to it, Signore. It's on the hill of Fiesole.”
D'Esmonde nodded, but said no more. Although scarcely a league from
the city, the way occupied a considerable time, being one continued and
steep ascent. The Abbé was, however, too deeply engaged with his own
thoughts to bestow attention on the pace they journeyed, or the scene
around. He was far from being insensible to the influence of the
picturesque or the beautiful; but now other and weightier considerations
completely engrossed his mind, nor was he aware how the moments passed
till the carriage came to a stop.
“The Prince is absent, sir, in Lombardy,” said a gruff-looking porter
from within the gate.
D'Esmonde descended, and whispered some words between the bars.
“But my orders----my orders!” said the man, in a tone of deference.
“They would be peremptory against any other than _me_,” said D'Esmonde,
calmly; and, after a few seconds' pause, the man unlocked the gate, and
the carriage passed in.
“To the back entrance,” called out D'Esmonde. And they drove into
a spacious courtyard, where a number of men were engaged in washing
carriages, cleaning horses, and all the other duties of the stable. One
large and cumbrous vehicle, loaded with all the varied “accessories” of
the road, and fortified by many a precaution against the accidents of
the way, stood prominent. It was covered with stains and splashes,
and bore unmistakable evidence of a long Journey. A courier, with
a red-brown beard descending to his breast, was busy in locking and
unlocking the boxes, as if in search of some missing article.
“How heavy the roads are in the north!” said D'Esmonde, addressing him
in German.
The man touched his cap in a half-sullen civility, and muttered an
assent.
“I once made the same journey myself, in winter,” resumed the Abbé,
“and I remembered thinking that no man undergoes such real hardship as
a courier. Sixteen, seventeen, ay, twenty days and nights of continued
exposure to cold and snows, and yet obliged to have all his faculties
on full stretch the whole time, to remember every post station, every
bridge and ferry,--the steep mountain passes, where oxen must be
hired,--the frontiers of provinces, where passports are vised.”
“Ay, and when the lazy officials will keep you standing in the deep snow
a full hoar at midnight, while they ring every copeck to see it be good
money.”
“That's the true and only metal for a coinage,” said D'Esmonde, as he
drew forth a gold Napoleon, and placed it in the other's hand. “Take it,
my worthy fellow,” said he; “it's part of a debt I owe to every man who
wears the courier's jacket. Had it not been for one of _your_ cloth, I
'd have been drowned at the ford of Ostrovitsch.”
“It's the worst ferry in the Empire,” said the courier. “The Emperor
himself had a narrow escape there. The raft is one half too small.”
“How many days have you taken on the way?” asked D'Esmonde, carelessly
“Twenty-eight--yesterday would have made the twenty-ninth--but we
arrived before noon.”
“Twenty-eight days!” repeated D'Esmonde, pondering.
“Ay, and nights too! But remember that Vradskoi Noteki is three hundred
and eighty versts below St. Petersburg.”
“I know it well,” said D'Esmonde, “and with a heavily loaded carriage
it's a weary road. How did she bear the journey?” said he, in a low,
scarcely uttered whisper.
“Bear it I----better than I did; and, except when scolding the
postilions for not going twelve versts an hour, in deep snow, she
enjoyed herself the entire way.”
D'Esmonde gave a knowing look and a smile, as though to say that he
recognized her thoroughly in the description.
“You know her, then?” asked the courier.
“This many a year,” replied the Abbé, with a faint sigh.
“She's a rare one,” said the man, who grew at each instant more
confidential, “and thinks no more of a gold rouble than many another
would of a copeck. Is it true, as they say, she was once an actress?”
“There are stranger stories than that about her,” said D'Esmonde. “But
why has she come alone? How happens it that she is here?”
“That is the secret that none of us can fathom,” said the courier. “We
thought there was to have been another, and I believe there is another
in the passport, but it was no affair of mine. I had my orders from the
Prince's own 'intendant,' who bespoke all the relays for the road, and
here we are.”
“I will explain all the mystery to you at another time, courier,” said
D'Esmonde; “meanwhile, let nothing of what we have been saying escape
you. By the way,” added he, half carelessly, “what name did she travel
under?”
“The passport was made out 'Die Gräfin von Dalton;' but she has a
Spanish name, for I heard it once from the intendant.”
“Was it Lola de Seviglia?”
“That was it. I remember it well.”
“We are very old friends indeed!” said the Abbé; “and now be cautious;
let none know that we have spoken together, and I can serve your fortune
hereafter.”
The German scarcely looked quite satisfied with himself for the
confidence he had been unwittingly led into; “but, after all,” thought
he, “the priest knew more than I could tell him;” and so he resumed his
search without further thought of the matter.
As for D'Esmonde, his first care was to inquire for Monsieur de Grasse,
the Prince's chief secretary, with whom he remained closeted for nigh
an hour. It will not be necessary to inflict all the detail of that
interview on the reader; enough that we state its substance to have
been a pressing entreaty on the part of D'Esmonde to be admitted to
an audience of the Prince, as firmly resisted by the secretary, whose
orders were not to admit any one, nor, indeed, acknowledge that his
Highness was then there.
“You must wait upon him at the Crocetto, Monsignore,” said De Grasse.
“Your presence here will simply cause the dismissal of those who have
admitted you, and yet never advance your own wishes in the least.”
“My business is too urgent, sir, to be combated by reasons so weak as
these,” replied D'Esmonde; “nor am I much accustomed to the air of an
antechamber.”
“You must yet be aware, Monsignore, that the orders of Prince Midchekoff
are absolute in his own house.” The secretary dropped his voice almost
to a whisper as he finished this sentence, for he had just overheard
the Prince speaking to some one without, and could detect his step as he
came along the corridor.
With a look of most meaning entreaty he besought the Abbé to keep
silence, while he crept noiselessly over and turned the key. D'Esmonde
uttered an exclamation of anger, and, sweeping past a window, within
which stood a magnificent vase of malachite, he caught the costly object
in the wide folds of his gown, and dashed it to the ground in a thousand
pieces. De Grasse gave a sudden cry of horror, and at the same instant
Midchekoff knocked at the door, and demanded admittance. With faltering
hand the secretary turned the key, and the Prince entered the room,
casting his eyes from D'Esmonde to the floor, where the fragments lay,
and back again to the priest, with a significance that showed how he
interpreted the whole incident. As for the Abbé, he looked as coldly
indifferent to the accident as though it were the veriest trifle he had
destroyed.
“I came to have a few moments' interview with you, Prince,” said he,
calmly; “can you so far oblige me?”
“I am entirely at your orders, Monsignore,” said the Russian, with a
faint smile. “Allow me to conduct you to a chamber in less disorder than
this one.”
The Abbé bowed, and followed him, not seeming to hear the allusion. And
now, passing through a number of rooms, whose gorgeous furniture
was carefully covered, they reached a small chamber opening upon a
conservatory, where a breakfast-table was already spread.
“I will waste neither your time nor my own, Prince, by an apology for
the hour of this visit, nor the place; my business did not admit of
delay--that will excuse me in your eyes.”
The Prince gave a cold bow, but never spoke.
D'Esmonde resumed. “I have heard the news from the camp: Lord Norwood
tells me that the Austrians have fallen back, and with a heavy loss
too.”
“Not heavy!” said the Russian, with a smile.
“Enough, however, to raise the hopes and strengthen the courage of the
others. Goito was, at least, a victory.” A faint shrug of the shoulders
was the only reply the Prince made, and the Abbé went on: “Things are
too critical, Prince, to treat the event slightingly. We cannot answer
either for France or England; still less can we rely on the politicians
of Vienna. A second or a third reverse, and who can say that they will
not treat for a peace, at the cost of half the States of Lombardy. Nay,
sir, I am not speaking without book,” added he, more warmly; “I know--I
repeat it----I know that such a negotiation has been entertained,
and that at this moment the Cabinet of England has the matter in its
consideration.”
“It may be so,” said the Prince, carelessly, as he poured out his
coffee.
“Then there is not a moment to be lost,” cried the Abbé, impetuously. “A
cession of the Milanais means a Republic of Upper Italy,--the downfall
of the Popedom,--the rule of infidelity over the Peninsula. Are
_we_--are _you_ prepared for this? Enough has been done to show that
Italian 'unity' is a fiction. Let us complete the lesson by proving that
they cannot meet the Austrian in arms. The present generation, at least,
will not forget the chastisement, if it be but heavy enough.”
“We may leave that task to the Imperialists,” said the Prince, with a
cold smile.
“I do not think so. I know too much of German sluggishness and apathy.
The reinforcements, that should pour in like a flood, creep lazily
along. The dread of France--the old terror of those wars that once
crushed them--is still uppermost. They know not how far Europe will
permit them to punish a rebellious province; and while they hesitate,
they give time for the growth of that public opinion that will condemn
them.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said the Russian, as he sipped his coffee
carelessly.
“And if I be,” cried D'Esmonde, passionately, “are we to sit tranquilly
here till the ruin overtake us? Will Russia wait till the flame of a
red republic throws its lurid glare over Europe, and even gleam over
the cold waters of the Neva? Is it her wish, or to her benefit, that the
flag of the democrat and the infidel is to float over the Continent?”
“You conjured up the monster yourself, Monsignore. It is for you to
order him back to the depths he came from.”
“And we are ready for the task,” said the priest. “We fostered this
revolt, because we saw it was better to lop off a diseased limb than to
suffer the gangrene to spread over the entire body; better to cast down
into utter perdition the wild democrats, who but half believed us, than
peril the countless millions of true Catholics. Nay, more, we acted with
your counsel and concurrence. That revolt has already borne its fruits.
Men see no issue to the struggle they are engaged in. The men of
moderation are overborne by the wild clamor of the factionist. Anarchy
is amongst them, and now is our moment to bid the contest cease, and
earn from mankind the glorious epithet of 'peacemaker.' The tide of
victory once turned, see how the mind of Europe will turn with it. Good
wishes are prone to go with the battalions that advance!”
“Good wishes are not too costly a sympathy,” said the Russian, coolly.
“It is to that point I am coming, Prince,” said the Abbé; “nor have
I intruded myself on your privacy to-day merely to discuss the public
opinion of Europe. The whole of this question lies in a narrow compass.
It is time that this struggle should cease,--it is, at least, time that
the tide of conquest should turn. Were Austria free to use her strength,
we might trust the issue to herself; but she is not, and we must help
her. I hold here the means,” said he, placing on the table a heavy
pocket-book crammed with letters. “This,” said he, taking up one large
sealed packet, “is an autograph from his Holiness, commanding Durando to
halt at the Po, and under no circumstances to cross the frontier.
This,” continued he, showing another, “is to Ghirardi, to grant leave of
absence to all officers who desire to return to their homes. This is to
Krasaletzki, to provide for the disbandment of his legion. The King
of Naples waits but for the signal to recall General Pepe and his
contingent, fifteen thousand strong. And now, Prince, there is but one
other voice in Europe we wait for--the Czar's!”
“His Imperial Majesty has ever wished well to the cause of order,” said
the Russian, with a studied calm of manner.
“Away with such trifling as this!” said D'Esmonde, passionately; “nor
do not try to impose on me by those courteous generalities that amuse
cabinets. Russia speaks to Western Europe best by her gold. The 'rouble'
can come where the 'Cossack' cannot! There are men with those armies
that comprehend no other argument----whose swords have their price. Our
treasures are exhausted; the sacred vessels of our altars--the golden
ornaments of our shrines--are gone. You alone can aid us at this moment.
It is no barren generosity, Prince! you are combating your Poles more
cheaply beside the Po and the Adige than on the banks of the Vistula!
you are doing more! you are breaking up those ancient alliances of
Europe whose existence excluded you from continental power! you are
buying your freedom to sit down among the rulers of the Old World, and
accustoming the nations of the West to the voice of the Boyard in their
councils! And, greatest of all, you are crushing into annihilation that
spirit of revolt that now rages like a pestilence. But why do I speak
of these things to one like you? you know full well the terms of the
compact Your own handwriting has confessed it.”
Midchekoff gave a slight--a very slight--movement of surprise, but never
spoke.
“Yes,” continued D'Esmonde, “I have within that pocket-book at this
moment the receipt of Count Grünenburg, the Austrian Secretary-at-War,
for the second instalment of a loan advanced by Prince Midchekoff to the
Imperial Government. I have a copy of the order in council acknowledging
in terms of gratitude the aid, and recommending that the cross of
St. Stephen should be conferred on the illustrious lender. And, less
gracious than these,” added he, with sarcastic bitterness, “I have the
record of the Emperor's scruples about according the first-class order
of the Empire to one whose nobility was but left-handed. Were these to
appear to-morrow in the _Razionale_, is it only your pride as a prince
that would be humbled? Or think you that a single stone would rest upon
another in this gorgeous edifice where we are standing? Who or what
could restrain an infuriated populace from wreaking their vengeance on
the traitor? Who would lift a hand against the pillage of this splendor,
and the desecration of this magnificence? It is not willingly that I
tell you these things, nor had I ever spoken of them if you had but
heard me with fitting attention. I know, too, the price at which they
are uttered. We never can be friends; but that is of small moment Our
cause--ours, I say, for it is yours no less than mine--is above such
consideration.”
“How much do you require?” said Midchekoff, as he leaned his arm on the
chimney-piece, and stared calmly at the Abbé.
“Ghirardi and his staff demand two hundred thousand francs; Albizi will
be a cheaper bargain. Marionetti and his force will be surrounded, and
retire from Lombardy on parole of not serving during the campaign,----he
only asks enough to emigrate with. Then, there is the Commissary of
the Crociati,--he is quite ready to become his own paymaster. There
are others of inferior rank and pretensions, with whom I shall treat
personally. The press, particularly of England, will be the difficulty;
but its importance is above all price. The public mind must be brought
back, from its sympathy for a people, to regard the rulers more
favorably. Anarchy and misrule must be displayed in their most glaring
colors. The Crociati will do us good service here; their crimes would
sully a holier crusade than this! But I weary you, sir,” said the Abbé,
stopping suddenly, and observing that Midchekoff, instead of seeming to
listen, was busily occupied in writing.
“Morlache holds bills of mine to this amount,” said the Prince, showing
a list of several large sums; “he will place them at your disposal
on your giving a receipt for them. This is an order, also, regarding
certain emeralds I have commissioned him to have mounted in gold. He
need not do so, but will dispose of the gems, as I shall not want them.”
A very slight flush here colored his cheek, and he paused as if some
bitter thought had crossed his mind.
D'Esmonde's quick eye read the meaning of the expression, and he said,
“Am I to congratulate your Highness on the approach of a certain happy
event?”
“His Majesty has not deigned to accord me the necessary permission,” was
the reply.
“Then I will be bold enough to say I congratulate you,” cried D'Esmonde.
“Your alliance should be with a royal house, Prince. _Your_ position in
Europe is exceptional; such should be _your_ marriage. Besides, the day
is not very distant when there must come another dissection of the map
of Europe. There will be new principalities, but wanting heads to rule
them. The world is tired of Coburgs, and would gladly see another name
amongst its royalties.”
“I am at the disposal of my Emperor,” said Midchekoff, coldly; for
whatever effect the flatteries might produce within, neither his words
nor his looks would betray it, and now by his manner he showed that he
wished the interview over.
“Mademoiselle, then, returns to her family?” asked D'Esmonde.
“To the care of the Count von Auersberg.”
“The reputation of having attracted your Highness will be a fortune to
her.”
“She has refused a settlement of eighty thousand roubles a year.”
“A most princely offer!” cried D'Esmonde.
“His Majesty fixed the sum,” said Midchekoff, as coolly as though
talking of an indifferent matter.
D'Esmonde now rose to take his leave, but there was a reluctance in his
manner that showed he was unwilling to go. At last he said, “Does your
Highness intend to return to the camp?”
“The day after to-morrow.”
“I ask,” said the Abbé, “inasmuch as I am hourly in expectation of
hearing from Cardinal Maraffa with reference to a certain decoration
which you should long since have received----”
“Indeed! has his Holiness been pleased to consider me amongst his most
ardent well-wishers?” cried the Prince, interrupting.
“I may be in a position to assure your Highness on that score before
another day elapses. May I hope that you will receive me, even at some
inconvenience, for my time is much occupied just now?”
“Whenever you call, Monsieur l'Abbé,” was the prompt reply. “If you will
deign to accept this ring as a souvenir of me, it will also serve to
admit you at all hours and in all places to me.”
“Your costly gift, Prince,” said D'Esmonde, flushing, “has a greater
value in my eyes than all its lustre can express.” And with a most
affectionate leave-taking they parted.
“At what hour is the Prince's carriage ordered?” said the Abbé, as he
passed through the hall.
“For two o'clock precisely, Monsignore. He is to have an audience at the
Pitti.”
“To Florence----and with speed!” said D'Esmonde to his coachman; and
away they drove.