"Have you reached any estimate of his character or capabilities? You
speak to friends, and, let me tell you, it is a matter which deeply
concerns the Count's interests."
"I think him a kindly and pathetic old gentleman. He naturally bears
the mark of forty years' sojourn in the wilderness."
Mr. Galloway took snuff.
"We have business with him, but it is business which stands in need of
an agent. There is no one in the Count's suite with whom we could
discuss affairs?"
"There is his daughter."
"Ah, but she would scarcely suit the case. Is there no man--a friend,
and yet not a member of the family who can treat with us?"
I replied that I thought that I was the only being in Santa Chiara who
answered the description.
"If you will accept the task, Mr. Townshend, you are amply qualified.
We will be frank with you and reveal our business. We are on no less
an errand than to offer the Count of Albany a crown."
I suppose I must have had some suspicion of their purpose, and yet the
revelation of it fell on me like a thunderclap. I could only stare
owlishly at my four grave gentlemen.
Mr. Galloway went on unperturbed. "I have told you that in America we
are not yet republicans. There are those among us who favour a
republic, but they are by no means a majority. We have got rid of a
king who misgoverned us, but we have no wish to get rid of kingship.
We want a king of our own choosing, and we would get with him all the
ancient sanctions of monarchy. The Count of Albany is of the most
illustrious royal stock in Europe--he is, if legitimacy goes for
anything, the rightful King of Britain. Now, if the republican party
among us is to be worsted, we must come before the nation with a
powerful candidate for their favour. You perceive my drift? What more
potent appeal to American pride than to say: 'We have got rid of King
George; we choose of our own free will the older line and King
Charles'?"
I said foolishly that I thought monarchy had had its day, and that
'twas idle to revive it.
"That is a sentiment well enough under a monarchical government; but
we, with a clean page to write upon, do not share it. You know your
ancient historians. Has not the repository of the chief power always
been the rock on which republicanism has shipwrecked? If that power is
given to the chief citizen, the way is prepared for the tyrant. If it
abides peacefully in a royal house, it abides with cyphers who dignify,
without obstructing, a popular constitution. Do not mistake me, Mr.
Townshend. This is no whim of a sentimental girl, but the reasoned
conclusion of the men who achieved our liberty. There is every reason
to believe that General Washington shares our views, and Mr. Hamilton,
whose name you may know, is the inspirer of our mission."
"But the Count is an old man," I urged; for I knew not where to begin
in my exposition of the hopelessness of their errand.
"By so much the better. We do not wish a young king who may be
fractious. An old man tempered by misfortune is what our purpose
demands."
"He has also his failings. A man cannot lead his life for forty years
and retain all the virtues."
At that one of the Sylvesters spoke sharply. "I have heard such
gossip, but I do not credit it. I have not forgotten Preston and
Derby."
I made my last objection. "He has no posterity--legitimate
posterity--to carry on his line."
The four gentlemen smiled. "That happens to be his chiefest
recommendation," said Mr. Galloway. "It enables us to take the House
of Stuart on trial. We need a breathing-space and leisure to look
around; but unless we establish the principle of monarchy at once the
republicans will forestall us. Let us get our king at all costs, and
during the remaining years of his life we shall have time to settle the
succession problem.
"We have no wish to saddle ourselves for good with a race who might
prove burdensome. If King Charles fails he has no son, and we can look
elsewhere for a better monarch. You perceive the reason of my view?"
I did, and I also perceived the colossal absurdity of the whole
business. But I could not convince them of it, for they met my
objections with excellent arguments. Nothing save a sight of the Count
would, I feared, disillusion them.
"You wish me to make this proposal on your behalf?" I asked.
"We shall make the proposal ourselves, but we desire you to prepare the
way for us. He is an elderly man, and should first be informed of our
purpose."
"There is one person whom I beg leave to consult--the Duchess, his
daughter. It may be that the present is an ill moment for approaching
the Count, and the affair requires her sanction."
They agreed, and with a very perplexed mind I went forth to seek the
lady. The irony of the thing was too cruel, and my heart ached for
her. In the gallery I found Oliphant packing some very shabby trunks,
and when I questioned him he told me that the family were to leave
Santa Chiara on the morrow. Perchance the Duchess had awakened to the
true state of their exchequer, or perchance she thought it well to get
her father on the road again as a cure for his ailment.
I discovered Cristine, and begged for an interview with her mistress on
an urgent matter. She led me to the Duchess's room, and there the
evidence of poverty greeted me openly. All the little luxuries of the
menage had gone to the Count. The poor lady's room was no better than
a servant's garret, and the lady herself sat stitching a rent in a
travelling cloak. She rose to greet me with alarm in her eyes.
As briefly as I could I set out the facts of my amazing mission. At
first she seemed scarcely to hear me. "What do they want with him?"
she asked. "He can give them nothing. He is no friend to the
Americans or to any people who have deposed their sovereign." Then, as
she grasped my meaning, her face flushed.
"It is a heartless trick, Mr. Townshend. I would fain think you no
party to it."
"Believe me, dear madame, it is no trick. The men below are in sober
earnest. You have but to see their faces to know that theirs is no
wild adventure. I believe sincerely that they have the power to
implement their promise."
"But it is madness. He is old and worn and sick. His day is long past
for winning a crown."
"All this I have said, but it does not move them." And I told her
rapidly Mr. Galloway's argument. She fell into a muse. "At the
eleventh hour! Nay, too late, too late. Had he been twenty years
younger, what a stroke of fortune! Fate bears too hard on us, too
hard!"
Then she turned to me fiercely. "You have no doubt heard, sir, the
gossip about my father, which is on the lips of every fool in Europe.
Let us have done with this pitiful make-believe. My father is a sot.
Nay, I do not blame him. I blame his enemies and his miserable
destiny. But there is the fact. Were he not old, he would still be
unfit to grasp a crown and rule over a turbulent people. He flees from
one city to another, but he cannot flee from himself. That is his
illness on which you condoled with me yesterday."
The lady's control was at breaking-point. Another moment and I
expected a torrent of tears. But they did not come. With a great
effort she regained her composure.
"Well, the gentlemen must have an answer. You will tell them that the
Count, my father--nay--give him his true title if you care--is vastly
obliged to them for the honour they have done him, but would decline on
account of his age and infirmities. You know how to phrase a decent
refusal."
"Pardon me," said I, "but I might give them that answer till doomsday
and never content them. They have not travelled many thousand miles to
be put off by hearsay evidence. Nothing will satisfy them but an
interview with your father himself.
"It is impossible," she said sharply.
"Then we must expect the renewed attentions of our American friends.
They will wait till they see him."
She rose and paced the room.
"They must go," she repeated many times. "If they see him sober he
will accept with joy, and we shall be the laughing-stock of the world.
I tell you it cannot be. I alone know how immense is the
impossibility. He cannot afford to lose the last rags of his dignity,
the last dregs of his ease. They must not see him. I will speak with
them myself."
"They will be honoured, madame, but I do not think they will be
convinced. They are what we call in my land 'men of business.' They
will not be content till they get the Count's reply from his own lips."
A new Duchess seemed to have arisen, a woman of quick action and sharp
words.
"So be it. They shall see him. Oh, I am sick to death of fine
sentiments and high loyalty and all the vapouring stuff I have lived
among for years. All I ask for myself and my father is a little peace,
and, by Heaven! I shall secure it. If nothing will kill your
gentlemen's folly but truth, why, truth they shall have. They shall
see my father, and this very minute. Bring them up, Mr. Townshend, and
usher them into the presence of the rightful King of England. You will
find him alone." She stopped her walk and looked out of the window.
I went back in a hurry to the Americans. "I am bidden to bring you to
the Count's chamber. He is alone and will see you. These are the
commands of madame his daughter."
"Good!" said Mr. Galloway, and all four, grave gentlemen as they were,
seemed to brace themselves to a special dignity as befitted ambassadors
to a king. I led them upstairs, tapped at the Count's door, and,
getting no answer, opened it and admitted them.
And this was what we saw. The furniture was in disorder, and on a couch
lay an old man sleeping a heavy drunken sleep. His mouth was open and
his breath came stertorously. The face was purple, and large purple
veins stood out on the mottled forehead. His scanty white hair was
draggled over his cheek. On the floor was a broken glass, wet stains
still lay on the boards, and the place reeked of spirits. The four
looked for a second--I do not think longer at him whom they would have
made their king. They did not look at each other. With one accord
they moved out, and Mr. Fish, who was last, closed the door very gently
behind him.
In the hall below Mr. Galloway turned to me. "Our mission is ended,
Mr. Townshend. I have to thank you for your courtesy." Then to the
others, "If we order the coaches now, we may get well on the way to
Verona ere sundown."
An hour later two coaches rolled out of the courtyard of the Tre Croci.
As they passed, a window was half-opened on the upper floor, and a head
looked out. A line of a song came down, a song sung in a strange
quavering voice. It was the catch I had heard the night before:
"Qu'est-ce qui passe ici si tard,
Compagnons de la Marjolaine--e!"
It was true. The company came late indeed--too late by forty
years. . . .