The Abbé D'Esmonde passed a busy morning. Twice was he closeted with
the President of the Ministry, and once was he received in a lengthy
audience at the “Pitti;” after which he repaired to the house of
Morlache, where he remained till after two o'clock.
“There goes Midchekoff to the Palace,” said the Jew, as a handsome
equipage drove past.
“Then it is time for me to be away,” said D'Esmonde, rising. “I have
received orders to meet him there. Remember, Morlache, I must have this
sum in gold, ready by the evening; the bills on London can reach me by
post.”
“All shall be attended to,” said Morlache; and the Abbé entered his
carriage once more, giving orders for the Pitti.
When the carriage had passed the first turning, however, D'Esmonde
appeared to have remembered something that till then had escaped him,
and he desired the man to drive round to the San Gallo gate; thence he
directed his way to the narrow road which traverses the valley of the
Mugello, and winds along for miles at the foot of the hill of Fiesole.
Once outside the city, D'Esmonde urged the man to speed, and they drove
for nigh an hour at a rapid pace.
“There is a footpath somewhere hereabouts leads to Fiesole,” said
D'Esmonde, springing out, and casting his eyes around. “I have it Remain
here till I come down. I may be absent for an hour or more; but be sure
to wait for me.” And so saying, he passed into a vineyard beside the
road, and was soon lost to view.
The pathway was steep and rugged; but D'Esmonde traversed it with an
active step, scarcely seeming to bestow a thought upon its difficulties,
in the deeper preoccupation of his mind. As little did he notice the
peasant greetings that met him, or hear the kindly accents that bade him
“good-day” as he went. If at intervals he stopped in his career, it was
rather to take breath and to recruit vigor for new efforts, than to look
down upon the gorgeous scene that now lay beneath him. For an instant,
however, his thoughts did stray to the objects in view; and as he beheld
the dark towers of a gloomy castellated building, half hid amongst tall
yew-trees, he muttered,----
“Deeper and darker schemes than mine were once enacted there!--and what
fruits have they borne after all? They who convulsed the age they lived
in have never left an impress to ruffle the future, and, for aught that
we know or feel, the Medici might never have lived. And this,” cried he,
aloud, “because theirs was a selfish ambition. There is but one cause
whose interests are eternal,--the Church; that glorious creation which
combines power here with triumph hereafter!” His face, as he uttered
the words, was no bad emblem of the nature within,----a high and noble
brow, lit up by the impress of a great ambition, and, beneath, eyes
of changeful and treacherous meaning; while, lower down again, in
the compressed lips and projecting chin might be read the signs of an
unrelenting spirit. Passing along through many a tortuous path, he at
last reached a small private gate which led into the grounds of the
“Moskova.” He had to bethink him for a moment of the way which conducted
to the gardens, but he soon remembered the direction, and walked on.
It was the hour when in Italy the whole face of a country, the busiest
streets of a thronged city, are deserted, and a stillness far more
unbroken than that of midnight prevails. The glowing hours of noonday
had brought the “siesta,” and not a laborer was to be seen in the
fields.
D'Esmonde found the garden unlocked, and entered. He knew that by
passing directly onward to the “orangery” he could enter the villa by
a small door, which led into the private apartments of the Prince. This
was, however, locked; but the window lay open, and with a spring he
gained the sill and entered the chamber. He knew it well; it was the
little room appropriated by Midchekoff as his private library, simply
furnished, and connected with a still smaller chamber, where, in an
alcove, a species of divan stood, on which it was the rich man's caprice
at times to pass the night Although certain traces showed that the
Prince had been recently there, no letters nor papers lay about;
there was no sign of haste or negligence, nor was anything left to the
accidents of prying eyes or meddling fingers. D'Esmonde opened the door
which conducted into the corridor, and listened; but all was silent He
then sat down to think. The palace--for such, under the name of villa,
it was--was of immense extent, and he could not expect to ramble many
minutes without chancing upon some of the household. His color came
and went, as, in deep agitation, he conceived in turn every possible
project, for he was one whose mind worked with all the violent throes
of some mighty engine; and even when taking counsel with himself, the
alternate impulses of his reason became painful efforts. At last he made
up his resolve, and, entering the inner chamber, he closed the shutters
and drew the curtains; and then, throwing around his shoulders a richly
lined cloak of sable, he rang the bell loudly and violently. This done,
he lay down upon the divan, which, in the darkness of the recess, was in
complete obscurity. He had barely time to draw the folds of the mantle
about him, when a servant entered, with noiseless step, and stood at
a respectful distance, awaiting what he believed to be his master's
orders.
“Send the Sigñora,” muttered D'Esmonde, with the cloak folded across his
mouth, and then turned on his side. The servant bowed and retired.
D'Esmonde started up, and listened to the retiring footfalls, till they
were lost in distance, and then the strong pulsations of his own heart
seemed to mock their measured pace. “Would the stratagem succeed?”
“Would she come, and come alone?” were the questions which he asked
himself, as his clasped hands were clinched, and his lips quivered in
strong emotion. An unbroken stillness succeeded, so long that, to his
aching senses, it seemed like hours of time. At last a heavy door
was heard to bang; another, too,--now voices might be detected in the
distance; then came footsteps, it seemed, as of several people; and,
lastly, these died away, and he could mark the sweeping sounds of a
female dress coming rapidly along the corridor. The door opened and
closed; she was in the library, and appeared to be waiting. D'Esmonde
gave a low, faint cough; and now, hastily passing on, she entered the
inner chamber, and, with cautious steps traversing the darkened space,
she knelt down beside the couch. D'Esmonde's hand lay half uncovered,
and on this now another hand was gently laid. Not a word was uttered by
either; indeed, their very breathings seemed hushed into stillness.
If the secrets of hearts were open to us, what a history, what a
life-long experience lay in those brief moments! and what a conflict
of passion might be read in those two natures! A slight shudder shook
D'Esmonde's frame at the touch of that hand which so often had been
clasped within his own, long, long ago, and he raised it tenderly, and
pressed it to his lips. Then, passing his other arm around her, so as
to prevent escape, he said, but in a voice barely audible, the one word,
“Lola!”
With a violent effort she tried to disengage herself from his grasp;
and although her struggles were great, not a cry, not a syllable escaped
her. “Hear me, Lola,” said D'Esmonde; “hear me with patience and with
calm, if not for my sake, for your own.”
“Unhand me, then,” said she, in a voice which, though low, was uttered
with all the vehemence of strong emotion. “I am not a prisoner beneath
this roof.”
“Not a prisoner, say you?” said D'Esmonde, as he locked the door, and
advanced towards her. “Can there be any bondage compared to this? Does
the world know of any slavery so debasing?”
“Dare to utter such words again, and I will call to my aid those who
will hurl you from that window,” said she, in the same subdued accents.
“That priestly robe will be but a poor defence here.”
“You'd scarcely benefit by the call, Lola,” said D'Esmonde, as he stole
one hand within the folds of his robe.
“Would you kill me?” cried she, growing deathly pale.
“Be calm, and hear me,” said the priest, as he pressed her down upon
a seat, and took one directly opposite to her. “It never could be my
purpose, Lola, to have come here either to injure or revile you. I may,
indeed, sorrow over the fall of one whose honorable ambitions might have
soared so high; I may grieve for a ruin that was so causeless; but, save
when anguish may wring from me a word of bitterness, I will not hurt
your ears, Lola. I know everything,--all that has happened; yet have I
to learn who counselled you to this flight.”
“Here was my adviser,----here!” said she, pressing her hand firmly
against her side. “My heart, bursting and indignant,----my slighted
affection,----my rejected love! you ask me this,----you, who knew how I
loved him.”
For some seconds her emotion overcame her, and, as she covered her face
with her hands, she swayed and rocked from side to side, like one in
acute bodily pain.
“I stooped to tell him all,--how I had thought and dreamed of him; how
followed his footsteps; sought out the haunts that he frequented, and
loved to linger in the places where he had been. I told him, too, of one
night when I had even ventured to seek him in his own chamber, and was
nearly detected by another who chanced to be there; my very dress was
torn in my flight. There was no confession too humiliating for my lips
to utter, nor my pen to trace; and what has been the return? But why do
I speak of these things to one whose heart is sealed against affection,
and whose nature rejects the very name of love? you will be a merciless
judge, Eustace!”
[Illustration: 362]
“Go on; let me hear you out, Lola,” said the priest, gently.
“The tale is soon told,” rejoined she, hurriedly. “My letter reached him
on the eve of a great battle. The army, it appears, had been marching
for weeks, and suddenly came upon the enemy without expecting it. He
told me so much in about as many words, and said that he was passing
what might, perhaps, prove his last hours of life in replying to me.
'Outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, nothing remains but to sell our lives
dearly, and even in our defeat make the name of Englishmen one of terror
to our enemies.' So he wrote, and so I could have read, with a swelling
but not a breaking heart, had he not added that, for my warm affection,
my whole soul's devotion, he had nothing but his friendship to give in
return; that his heart had long since been another's, and that, although
she never could be his, never in all likelihood know of his affection,
he would die with her name upon his lips, her image in his heart. 'It
matters little,' added he, 'in what channel flow the feelings of one,
where to-morrow, in all likelihood, the course will be dried up forever.
Let me, however, with what may be the last lines I shall ever write,
thank you--nay, bless you--for one passage of your letter, and the
thought of which will nerve my heart in the conflict now so near, and
make me meet my last hour with an unbroken spirit.' The mystery of these
words I never could penetrate, nor have I the slightest clew to their
meaning. But why should I care for them? Enough that I am slighted,
despised, and rejected! This letter came to my hands six weeks ago. I at
once wrote to the Prince Midchekoff, telling him that the woman he was
about to marry loved, and was loved, by another; that she entertained no
feeling towards himself but of dread and terror. I told him, too, that
her very beauty would not withstand the inroads of a sorrow that was
corroding her heart He replied to me, and I wrote again. I was now his
confidante, and he told me all,----how that he had addressed a formal
demand to the Emperor for leave to marry, and how he had taken safe
measures to have his prayer rejected. Then came the tidings of the
Czar's refusal to Madame de Heidendorf, and _my_ triumph; for I told
her, and to her face, that once more we were equals. It was then, stung
by this taunt, that she refused to travel with me, refused to accept the
splendid dowry to which her betrothal entitled her, and demanded to be
restored to her family and friends, poor as she had left them. It was
then that I resolved on this bold step. I had long been learning the
falsehood of what are called friends, and how he who would achieve
fortune must trust to himself alone. Midchekoff might not love me, but
there was much in my power to secure his esteem. My head could be as
fertile in schemes as his own. I had seen much and heard more. The
petty plottings of the Heidendorf and the darker counsels of the Abbé
D'Esmonde were all known to me--”
“You did not dare to write my name?” asked the priest, in a slow,
deliberate voice.
“And why should I not?” cried she, haughtily. “Is it fear, or is it
gratitude should hold my hand?”
“You forget the past, Lola, or you had never said these words.”
“I remember it but as a troubled dream, which I will not suffer to
darken my waking hours. At last I begin to live, and never till now have
I known the sensation of being above fear.”
“You told the Prince, then, of our relations together? You showed him my
letters and your own replies?” said D'Esmonde, as he fixed his dark eyes
upon her.
“All,--all!” said she, with a haughty smile.
“You, perhaps, told him that I had engaged you to write to me of all you
heard or saw at St Petersburg?”
“I said so, in a most unpolished phrase: I called myself a spy.”
“You were probably not less candid when designating your friends, Lola,”
said D'Esmonde, with a faint smile. “How, pray, did you name _me_?”
“It was a better word,----one of cutting reproach, believe me,” said
she. “I called you a 'priest,' sir; do you think there is another
epithet that can contain as much?”
“In the overflowing of those frank impulses, Lola, of course you spoke
of Norwood,--of Gerald Acton, I mean, as you may remember him better by
that name. You told the Prince of your marriage to this Englishman,--a
marriage solemnized by myself, and of which I retain the written
evidence.”
“With the falsehood that for a brief moment imposed upon myself, I would
not stoop to cheat another! No, Eustace, this may be priestcraft. To
outlive a deception, and then employ it; to tremble at a fallacy first,
and to terrorize by means of it after, is excellent Popery, but most
sorry womanhood!”
“Unhappy, wretched creature!” cried D'Esmonde; “where have you learned
these lessons?--who could have taught you this?”
“You,--and you alone, Eustace. In reading _your_ nature I unread my own
faith. In seeing your falsehood, I learned to believe there was no truth
anywhere. I asked myself, what must be the religion if this man be its
interpreter?”
“Hold,----hold!” cried D'Esmonde, passionately. “It is not to such as
you I can render account of my actions, nor lay bare the secret workings
of my heart. Know this much, however, woman, and ponder over it well;
that if a man like me can make shipwreck of his whole nature, crush
his hopes, and blast his budding affections, the cause that exacts
the sacrifice must needs be holy. Bethink you that my goal is not like
_yours_. I have not plotted for a life of inglorious ease. I have not
schemed to win a pampered and voluptuous existence. It is not in a
whirlwind of passionate enjoyment I have placed the haven of my hopes.
you see me--as I have ever been--poor, meanly housed, and meanly fed;
not repining at my lot either, not deeming my condition a hard one. Why
am I thus, then? Are the prizes that worldly men contend for above
_my_ reach? Am I the inferior of those who are carrying away the great
rewards of life? Where is the stain of falsehood in all this?”
“Were I to copy the picture and paint myself in the same colors,”
said Lola,----“were I to show what I have stooped to,--a scoff and
a shame!--how I neither faltered at a crime nor trembled before
exposure----all that I might be--what I now am--”
“The mistress of a Prince!” said D'Esmonde, with a contemptuous smile.
“Was it a prouder fortune when my lover was the serge-clad seminarist of
Salamanca?” said she, laughing scornfully.
“I linked you with a higher destiny, Lola,” said D'Esmonde,
deliberately.
“Again you refer to this pretended marriage. But I put no faith in your
words; nor, were they even true, should they turn me from my path.”
“At least you should confirm your claim to his name and title,” said
D'Esmonde. “The rank you will thus attain will but strengthen your
position in the world; and they who would treat contemptuously the
Toridor's daughter will show every courtesy and deference to the English
peeress.”
“I will hazard nothing on your advice, priest!” said she, proudly.
“I know you as one who never counselled without a scheme of personal
advantage. This Acton has injured you. You desire his ruin; or, perhaps,
some deep intrigue awaits myself. It matters not; I will not aid you.”
“How you misjudge me, Lola!” said he, sorrowfully. “I meant by this act
to have repaired many an unconscious wrong, and to have vindicated
an affection which the troubled years of life have never been able to
efface. Amidst all the cares of great events, when moments are precious
as days of ordinary existence, I have come to offer you this last
reparation. Think well ere you reject it.”
“Not for an instant!” cried she, passionately. “Make weaker minds the
tools of your subtle artifices, and leave _me_ to follow my own career.”
“I will obey you,” said D'Esmonde, with an air of deep humility. “I ask
but one favor. As this meeting is unknown to all, never speak of it to
Midchekoff. My name need never pass your lips, nor shall my presence
again offend you. Adieu forever!”
Whether some passing pang of remorse shot through her heart, or that a
sudden sense of dread came across her, Lola stood unable to reply; and
it was only as he moved away towards the door that she found strength to
say, “Goodbye.”
“Let me touch that hand for the last time, Lola,” said he, advancing
towards her.
“No, no,--leave me!” cried she, with a sick shudder, and as though his
very approach suggested peril.
D'Esmonde bowed submissively, and passed out. With slow and measured
steps he traversed the alleys of the garden; but once outside the walls,
he hastened his pace. Descending the mountain with rapid strides, he
gained the road where the carriage waited in less than half an hour.
“To the city!” said he; and, throwing himself back in his seat, drew
down the blinds, while, with folded arms and closed eyes, he tasted of
what habit enabled him at any moment to command,--a refreshing sleep.