II

In the small hours of the next morning I was awoke by a most unearthly

sound. It was as if all the cats on all the roofs of Santa Chiara were

sharpening their claws and wailing their battle-cries. Presently out

of the noise came a kind of music--very slow, solemn, and melancholy.

The notes ran up in great flights of ecstasy, and sunk anon to the

tragic deeps. In spite of my sleepiness I was held spellbound and the

musician had concluded with certain barbaric grunts before I had the

curiosity to rise. It came from somewhere in the gallery of the inn,

and as I stuck my head out of my door I had a glimpse of Oliphant,

nightcap on head and a great bagpipe below his arm, stalking down the

corridor.

The incident, for all the gravity of the music, seemed to give a touch

of farce to my interview of the past evening. I had gone to bed with

my mind full of sad stories of the deaths of kings. Magnificence in

tatters has always affected my pity more deeply than tatters with no

such antecedent, and a monarch out at elbows stood for me as the last

irony of our mortal life. Here was a king whose misfortunes could find

no parallel. He had been in his youth the hero of a high adventure,

and his middle age had been spent in fleeting among the courts of

Europe, and waiting as pensioner on the whims of his foolish but

regnant brethren. I had heard tales of a growing sottishness, a

decline in spirit, a squalid taste in pleasures. Small blame, I had

always thought, to so ill-fated a princeling. And now I had chanced

upon the gentleman in his dotage, travelling with a barren effort at

mystery, attended by a sad-faced daughter and two ancient domestics.

It was a lesson in the vanity of human wishes which the shallowest

moralist would have noted. Nay, I felt more than the moral. Something

human and kindly in the old fellow had caught my fancy. The decadence

was too tragic to prose about, the decadent too human to moralise on.

I had left the chamber of the--shall I say de jure King of England?--a

sentimental adherent of the cause. But this business of the bagpipes

touched the comic. To harry an old valet out of bed and set him

droning on pipes in the small hours smacked of a theatrical taste, or

at least of an undignified fancy. Kings in exile, if they wish to keep

the tragic air, should not indulge in such fantastic serenades.

My mind changed again when after breakfast I fell in with Madame on the

stair. She drew aside to let me pass, and then made as if she would

speak to me. I gave her good-morning, and, my mind being full of her

story, addressed her as "Excellency."

"I see, sir," she said, "That you know the truth. I have to ask your

forbearance for the concealment I practised yesterday. It was a poor

requital for your generosity, but is it one of the shifts of our sad

fortune. An uncrowned king must go in disguise or risk the laughter of

every stable-boy. Besides, we are too poor to travel in state, even if

we desired it."

Honestly, I knew not what to say. I was not asked to sympathise, having

already revealed my politics, and yet the case cried out for sympathy.

You remember, my dear aunt, the good Lady Culham, who was our

Dorsetshire neighbour, and tried hard to mend my ways at Carteron?

This poor Duchess--for so she called herself--was just such another. A

woman made for comfort, housewifery, and motherhood, and by no means

for racing about Europe in charge of a disreputable parent. I could

picture her settled equably on a garden seat with a lapdog and

needlework, blinking happily over green lawns and mildly rating an

errant gardener. I could fancy her sitting in a summer parlour, very

orderly and dainty, writing lengthy epistles to a tribe of nieces. I

could see her marshalling a household in the family pew, or riding

serenely in the family coach behind fat bay horses. But here, on an

inn staircase, with a false name and a sad air of mystery, she was

woefully out of place. I noted little wrinkles forming in the corners

of her eyes, and the ravages of care beginning in the plump rosiness of

her face. Be sure there was nothing appealing in her mien. She spoke

with the air of a great lady, to whom the world is matter only for an

afterthought. It was the facts that appealed and grew poignant from

her courage.

"There is another claim upon your good nature," she said. "Doubtless

you were awoke last night by Oliphant's playing upon the pipes. I

rebuked the landlord for his insolence in protesting, but to you, a

gentleman and a friend, an explanation is due. My father sleeps ill,

and your conversation seems to have cast him into a train of sad

memories. It has been his habit on such occasions to have the pipes

played to him, since they remind him of friends and happier days. It

is a small privilege for an old man, and he does not claim it often."

I declared that the music had only pleased, and that I would welcome

its repetition. Where upon she left me with a little bow and an

invitation to join them that day at dinner, while I departed into the

town on my own errands. I returned before midday, and was seated at an

arbour in the garden, busy with letters, when there hove in sight the

gaunt figure of Oliphant. He hovered around me, if such a figure can

be said to hover, with the obvious intention of addressing me. The

fellow had caught my fancy, and I was willing to see more of him. His

face might have been hacked out of grey granite, his clothes hung

loosely on his spare bones, and his stockined shanks would have done no

discredit to Don Quixote. There was no dignity in his air, only a

steady and enduring sadness. Here, thought I, is the one of the

establishment who most commonly meets the shock of the world's buffets.

I called him by name and asked him his desires.

It appeared that he took me for a Jacobite, for he began a rigmarole

about loyalty and hard fortune. I hastened to correct him, and he took

the correction with the same patient despair with which he took all

things. 'Twas but another of the blows of Fate.

"At any rate," he said in a broad Scotch accent, "ye come of kin that

has helpit my maister afore this. I've many times heard tell o'

Herveys and Townshends in England, and a' folk said they were on the

richt side. Ye're maybe no a freend, but ye're a freend's freend, or I

wadna be speirin' at ye."

I was amused at the prologue, and waited on the tale. It soon came.

Oliphant, it appeared, was the purse-bearer of the household, and

woeful straits that poor purse-bearer must have been often put to. I

questioned him as to his master's revenues, but could get no clear

answer. There were payments due next month in Florence which would

solve the difficulties for the winter, but in the meantime expenditure

had beaten income. Travelling had cost much, and the Count must have

his small comforts. The result in plain words was that Oliphant had

not the wherewithal to frank the company to Florence; indeed, I doubted

if he could have paid the reckoning in Santa Chiara. A loan was

therefore sought from a friend's friend, meaning myself.

I was very really embarrassed. Not that I would not have given

willingly, for I had ample resources at the moment and was mightily

concerned about the sad household. But I knew that the little Duchess

would take Oliphant's ears from his head if she guessed that he had

dared to borrow from me, and that, if I lent, her back would for ever

be turned against me. And yet, what would follow on my refusal? In a

day of two there would be a pitiful scene with mine host, and as like

as not some of their baggage detained as security for payment. I did

not love the task of conspiring behind the lady's back, but if it could

be contrived 'twas indubitably the kindest course. I glared sternly at

Oliphant, who met me with his pathetic, dog-like eyes.

"You know that your mistress would never consent to the request you

have made of me?"

"I ken," he said humbly. "But payin' is my job, and I simply havena

the siller. It's no the first time it has happened, and it's a sair

trial for them both to be flung out o' doors by a foreign hostler

because they canna meet his charges. But, sir, if ye can lend to me,

ye may be certain that her leddyship will never, hear a word o't. Puir

thing, she takes nae thocht o' where the siller comes frae, ony mair

than the lilies o' the field."

I became a conspirator. "You swear, Oliphant, by all you hold sacred,

to breathe nothing of this to your mistress, and if she should suspect,

to lie like a Privy Councillor?"

A flicker of a smile crossed his face. "I'll lee like a Scotch

packman, and the Father o' lees could do nae mair. You need have no

fear for your siller, sir. I've aye repaid when I borrowed, though you

may have to wait a bittock." And the strange fellow strolled off.

At dinner no Duchess appeared till long after the appointed hour, nor

was there any sign of Oliphant. When she came at last with Cristine,

her eyes looked as if she had been crying, and she greeted me with

remote courtesy. My first thought was that Oliphant had revealed the

matter of the loan, but presently I found that the lady's trouble was

far different. Her father, it seemed, was ill again with his old

complaint. What that was I did not ask, nor did the Duchess reveal it.

We spoke in French, for I had discovered that this was her favourite

speech. There was no Oliphant to wait on us, and the inn servants were

always about, so it was well to have a tongue they did not comprehend.

The lady was distracted and sad. When I inquired feelingly as to the

general condition of her father's health she parried the question, and

when I offered my services she disregarded my words. It was in truth a

doleful meal, while the faded Cristine sat like a sphinx staring into

vacancy. I spoke of England and of her friends, of Paris and

Versailles, of Avignon where she had spent some years, and of the

amenities of Florence, which she considered her home. But it was like

talking to a nunnery door. I got nothing but "It is indeed true, sir,"

or "Do you say so, sir!" till my energy began to sink. Madame

perceived my discomfort, and, as she rose, murmured an apology. "Pray

forgive my distraction, but I am poor company when my father is ill. I

have a foolish mind, easily frightened. Nay, nay!" she went on when I

again offered help, "the illness is trifling. It will pass off by

to-morrow, or at the latest the next day. Only I had looked forward to

some ease at Santa Chiara, and the promise is belied."

As it chanced that evening, returning to the inn, I passed by the north

side where the windows of the Count's room looked over a little

flower-garden abutting on the courtyard. The dusk was falling, and a

lamp had been lit which gave a glimpse into the interior. The sick man

was standing by the window, his figure flung into relief by the

lamplight. If he was sick, his sickness was of a curious type. His

face was ruddy, his eye wild, and, his wig being off, his scanty hair

stood up oddly round his head. He seemed to be singing, but I could

not catch the sound through the shut casement. Another figure in the

room, probably Oliphant, laid a hand on the Count's shoulder, drew him

from the window, and closed the shutter.

It needed only the recollection of stories which were the property of

all Europe to reach a conclusion on the gentleman's illness. The

legitimate King of England was very drunk.

As I went to my room that night I passed the Count's door. There stood

Oliphant as sentry, more grim and haggard than ever, and I thought that

his eye met mine with a certain intelligence. From inside the room

came a great racket. There was the sound of glasses falling, then a

string of oaths, English, French, and for all I know, Irish, rapped out

in a loud drunken voice. A pause, and then came the sound of maudlin

singing. It pursued me along the gallery, an old childish song,

delivered as if 'twere a pot-house catch--

"Qu'est-ce qui passe ici si tard,

Compagnons de la Marjolaine--"

One of the late-going company of the Marjolaine hastened to bed. This

king in exile, with his melancholy daughter, was becoming too much for

him.