THE ABBÉ CERUTTI.
“The sudden change from the frivolous _papillotage_ of the _ancien
régime_ to the sombre enthusiasm which broke out at the epoch of the
American war, made but little impression on M. de Talleyrand. He was
evidently prepared, and at once declared his opinion, not by pamphlets
or inflammatory speeches, but by an argument far more forcible than
either. Conjointly with his friend, the Count Choiseul Gouffier, he
equipped a privateer, which he called the ‘Holy Cause,’ and which left
the harbour of Brest in the month of May, 1779. The Duc de Castries,
then minister of marine, furnished the guns. This single fact would
almost serve to paint the time. A vessel of war armed and equipped by
the _agent-général du clergé de France_, aided by a _savant_ of the
_haute noblesse_, and countenanced by one of the ministers, exhibits at
once the utter confusion of ideas which must have existed just then.
“I have heard that the privateer, which, placed under command of a
runaway scion of nobility, was to have carried death and destruction
among the English merchant ships trading from the West Indies, never
more made its appearance on the French coast. Be this as it may, I
know that the prince does not like to talk of this little episode
in his life, and the other day, when questioned rather closely upon
the subject, he answered, ‘_Laissons cela, c’est un de mes péchés de
jeunesse_.’
“One of the most curious documents in the world, and which I hope
will be preserved in the prince’s memoirs, must be his answer to the
letter of Pope Benedict XIV. His holiness had thought fit to pass
censure upon the warlike demonstration of the Abbé de Perigord, and
the Abbé de Perigord had excused himself in a reply so full of wit
and eloquence, so full of instances taken from the history of every
country, that the good-natured prelate fairly owned himself vanquished,
and withdrew, with much grace and frankness, from the contest. This
I think is the first action by which the Abbé de Perigord publicly
displayed his adherence to the new principles, and separated himself
in opinion from the _haute clergé_ and the _haute noblesse_, who all,
with scarcely an exception, were loud in their disapprobation of the
unjust and unjustifiable interference of France in the quarrel between
Great Britain and her rebellious colony. The step was considered in the
light of a secession from the society of which he was a member, both
by his lofty birth and holy profession; and many and many a prognostic
was now beginning to be drawn of his future eminence or his approaching
degradation, according to the mind which judged him.
“It was during the few years which elapsed between this period, and the
events of 1789, that M. de Talleyrand first became acquainted with the
Abbé Cerutti, the friend and colleague of Mirabeau, and that, together
with them, he laid the foundation of the very first popular journal
ever published in France. The design was spirited and bold; it was
addressed to the inhabitants of the distant provinces of the kingdom;
and, immediately on its appearance, obtained a success hitherto
unrivalled in this species of literature.
“It has been falsely accused of having excited many of the atrocities
of the Revolution. It did not appear until the flames had spread, and
could no longer be repressed, and he who now turns to the _Feuille
Villageoise_, will recognise at once, amid the burning columns from
the pen of Mirabeau, and the cold, bitter irony of Cerutti, the calm
reflective genius of Talleyrand, in those articles on the Division of
Church Property—on the Improvements in National Education—on the Abuse
of Power—on the Unity of Weights and Measures—which served to act as
soothing balsam to the irritation produced by the fiery appeals of his
more impassioned colleagues.
“He puts forth, in these addresses to the people, the promulgation
of which has been deemed so criminal, nothing which he had not said
before—not a single word of which he does not retain the most powerful
conviction, ay, even to this very hour. Some of them might be quoted as
models of reasoning and eloquence, although failing in the refinement
of style and diction, which can only be acquired by that early
familiarity with the classics, the want of which he has lamented all
his life.
“Cerutti was a man gifted with the most splendid talents. His peculiar
position claimed, perhaps, undue attention, from the very moment when
he first appeared upon the revolutionary horizon. The reception of
this champion of the people was most enthusiastic. Wherever he went,
he was followed by an admiring crowd—every public meeting resounded
with his praise—streets were called after his name; in short, he tasted
every gratification of _amour propre_ arising from popularity. But
Cerutti was a misanthrope, and, far from seeking distinction, he shrank
with disgust from publicity. The canker-worm was at his heart, and I
have heard M. de Talleyrand declare that, during the whole time their
intimacy lasted, he never once beheld him smile. His was another of
those anomalous existences created by the revolution. A gentleman, bred
in indolence, yet adopting the obligations and active vigilance of a
Jesuit; then becoming even a priest, the better to defend the cause
of his beloved order; chosen as the private counsellor and friend of
the dauphin (father of Louis Seize), and then suddenly—without pause,
without gradation,—plunging headlong into the delirium of democracy.
“It is singular that the cause of this unnatural course of events
should never have been thoroughly investigated by any of the historians
of the time, who all seem to agree in passing over without comment
the motives which actuated Cerutti, or else in declaring them either
altogether inscrutable or the instigations of insanity. The close
observer of the human heart can, however, at once discern the existence
of some secret spring of action, some powerful incentive to this
inconsistency, and will not remain satisfied with the abuse heaped
upon poor Cerutti by the Abbé Georgel, the wordy historian of the
diamond necklace, defender, _coûte que coûte_, of Louis de Rohan; nor
yet with the light indifference with which he is mentioned by another
author, who describes him in these words—‘A man of some capacity both
as an orator and writer, but whose career was too short to allow him
to display that ability in government which he seemed confident of
possessing. He was of a sombre and taciturn character, which, combined
with his almost total deafness, rendered him of difficult access. ’Tis
said that the hopeless passion he had conceived for one of the ladies
of the court brought on paralysis, which occasioned his infirmity, and
ultimately ended in his death.’
“I have heard the history of Cerutti from M. de Talleyrand himself, and
it forms one of the most extraordinary episodes of this extraordinary
time. The prince related to me that, one evening after their work was
over, the three _collaborateurs_ of the _Feuille Villageoise_, led on
by the very nature of the composition upon which they had been engaged,
began to talk of the events of their past lives, and of the various
causes which had led to the desertion of caste, of which all three had
been guilty. What a glorious study would it have been for the moralist,
to have listened to those dark histories, as told by those three fiery
spirits, each the hero of his own bitter tale. One can imagine all the
hatred and the scorn of Mirabeau, as he related the circumstances of
his youth of strife and misery; of his manhood, crushed and blighted
by his father’s unjust tyranny; his burning satire and his bitter
scoffing must have been terrific. Then came the calm, deep mockery of
Talleyrand; _his_ history of neglect and injustice must have been more
frightful still. Three mighty souls were they, rising in condemnation
of the country and the times in which they had thus been spurned and
persecuted.
“Every one knows the history of Mirabeau’s long imprisonment and harsh
treatment, and I have already told you the events which marked the
youth of Talleyrand; but the story of Cerutti is known only to the few
with whom he was most intimate, and is, perhaps, more illustrative
of the spirit of the times than that of either of his friends. The
man’s career was short, and very like the flash which precedes the
tempest—everything, while he was on the stage moving before the public
eye—nothing, so soon as his part was over and the curtain dropped. He
died and left nought behind to save him from oblivion—not even the
memory of the manner in which he had performed his character, and in
which he had been so much applauded.
“His father was a wealthy silk-grower in the environs of Turin, and
his childhood was passed amid the shady groves, which stretched for
miles around the château where his family resided. His younger brother
had taken to books and learning, and had been appointed to accompany
the young Count Hercules V—— on his travels; while Joseph Cerutti, the
eldest of the family, remained at home to assist his father in the
direction of his fortune and the improvement of the estate. His life
was that of an Italian gentleman of the middle class at the time—that
is to say, his studies were neither very deep nor his occupations
very grave, and his days passed pleasantly enough in the exercise
of small practices of piety, the cultivation of small adventures of
gallantry, very little reading, and great indulgence in the _dolce far
niente_; added to which, he was compelled to superintend the progress
of the silkworms, which formed the whole wealth of the father and
the patrimony of his sons. But this occupation was far from being
sufficiently interesting to rouse him from the dream in which he lived,
and in which his days might all have passed, had it not been for the
one event which, sooner or later, will turn the tide of all men’s
lives, making the hitherto troubled sea of existence at once calm and
placid, or changing its smooth surface into a raging hell.
“Count Hercules V—— returned from Rome, whither he had been journeying
with young Cesario Cerutti, the brother of our hero. The estate of the
noble family of V—— joined that of the Cerutti, and from the friendship
which existed between the young nobleman and the companion of his
studies, sprung an intimacy between the two families, which was at
variance with the Italian habits of the period, wherein distinctions
and caste were more respected than in any other country in Europe.
“‘I was struck,’ said the Abbé Cerutti, as he told the story to his
fellow-labourers, ‘with the change which a few months had made in the
habits and temper of my brother Cesario. He had left us full of the
enthusiasm and spirit natural to his age; he had returned taciturn
and reserved in speech, gloomy and abstracted in manner. He seemed
to have a weight of care and misery upon his mind, which neither
the affectionate attentions of his family nor the fondness of his
mother, to whom he was devotedly attached, could succeed in shaking
off. I observed that he was for ever seeking me, and requesting me to
converse in private with him, as though he had something of moment to
communicate; and then he would suddenly check himself, and talk of
light matters, so much in contrast with the mournful tone of his voice
and the gloom upon his brow, that the contemplation was most painful.
But I dared not question him concerning the cause of this change in
his disposition, fearing to exasperate him, in the irritable mood in
which he was. One day, when he seemed more communicative than usual, I
sought to enliven our conversation by endeavouring to extort from him
some little narrative of his journey to Rome, concerning which he had
hitherto observed an unnatural silence.
“‘He said he had been happy, very happy with Count Hercules (and yet
he shuddered as he spoke the words,) and the kindness of the good
Abbé Giordoni, the young Count’s preceptor, had so mingled pleasure
with study, that the time had passed away swiftly and pleasantly as
in a charmed dream. Why then did he gaze upon me with that strange
expression in his eye? I could not resist the impulse which prompted
me to seize the opportunity of seeking to discover the cause of his
melancholy, and said, as I pressed his hand with affection, “Dearest
Cesario, do not suffer the secret which hangs so heavy on your soul to
crush you thus beneath its ponderous weight. Confide in me, my brother.
What is it has disturbed your happiness, and thus changed your very
nature?”
“‘You are deceived,’ replied Cesario, hastily, and with a kind of
convulsive laugh; ‘I never was more happy or in better spirits than at
this moment. Come with me this evening to the Villa V——, and see if it
be not as I tell you. By-the-bye, I had forgotten to mention, that the
whole family at the villa are anxious to welcome you, the old count and
his son, and the abbé, and—and—(he hesitated)—in short, the whole of
them will be glad to see you. So come to-night—yes, to-night—’tis time!’
“‘His head sank upon his bosom as he concluded, and he once more
relapsed into his abstracted musing. I made no observation regarding
the singular forgetfulness of which he had been guilty, nor of the
want of attention on the part of the V—— family, in not inviting me
themselves to the villa, but seized with avidity upon the opportunity
thus afforded of penetrating the secret of my brother’s altered
demeanour. I already knew Count Hercules, a studious and pious youth,
who was considered a pattern for the whole country. I had also
frequently seen the Abbé Giordoni, the preceptor, towards whom I felt
an instinctive aversion, although railed at by my friends for my too
great facility, in “taking dislikes;” but there yet remained one member
of the V—— family whom I had not yet beheld, and a sudden conviction
seized my mind, that she was the cause of my brother’s misery, and
that it was her name at which he had hesitated in his speech to me. I
was therefore determined to watch every look, to listen to every word,
which should pass between the pair, and to base my counsels to my
brother upon what I should observe.
“‘At the hour appointed, we set forth to pay our evening visit at the
villa. The gloom and pre-occupation of my brother increased as we drew
near to our destination, and I began to doubt if such would have been
the bearing of an impassioned expectant lover.
“‘We entered the great saloon unannounced. Cesario was free and
intimate as a _fils de la maison_. The room was large, and dimly
lighted by the shaded lamp upon the mantelpiece. The old count was
buried in a slumber in his large arm-chair, and his grey head stood
out from the fauteuil, calm and peaceful, the very emblem of contented
and respectable old age. Not so was the expression of the individual
who was seated near, and upon whom the light of the lamp fell, as if
on purpose to light up the shadow which was passing at the very moment
over his countenance—a very gleam of hell! It was the Abbé Giordoni,
who was seated at the small table, ostensibly playing chess with
the young Count Hercules—that is to say, the chess-board was placed
between them, and the chess-men stood upright upon the board; but I
instantly perceived that not one single piece had been disturbed from
its primitive position, and it was evident that their occupation was of
far more import, for the young man sat pale and trembling before the
abbé, whose infuriated countenance and vehement gesture plainly bespoke
the violence of the discussion in which he had been engaged, although I
could not judge of its nature, from the low tone in which it had been
carried on, doubtless through fear of disturbing the poor old count,
who slumbered on, little dreaming of the storm of hate and passion
which had been conjured up close at his very ear.
“‘Our entrance disturbed the conversation, and I was painfully struck
with the eagerness of welcome with which Count Hercules rushed forward
to greet my brother; and which, considering that he had already seen
him in the morning, and that almost every day since his return had been
spent in his company, seemed forced and unnatural. He started from
his chair, upsetting the table and the chess-board in his haste, and
throwing his arms around my brother’s neck, he exclaimed, faintly,
“God be praised, you are come at last, Cesario!”
“‘The abbé, meanwhile, advanced towards me with ecclesiastical grace
and dignity. I ought at once to have suspected the man who could so
easily replace the expression of rage which his features wore when I
entered, by the smile of intense delight with which he held forth his
hand to me, uttering, by a singular coincidence, almost the very words
which Count Hercules had whispered to my brother, “_Eccolo alfin—questo
caro amico_.”
“‘I ought to have suspected such heartiness of welcome from one who
had displayed hitherto no stronger feeling towards me than that of
common courtesy, whenever by chance we had met, which was but seldom,
in our walks and drives around the neighbourhood. I could understand
such warmth of greeting between the two young friends, but was sorely
puzzled to discover by what right and title _I_ was admitted to share
in such strong demonstrations of friendship. However, any feeling of
astonishment which I might have experienced was soon forgotten in
the courteous reception which I met with from the old count, who,
thus rudely roused from slumber, by the falling of the table and
the upsetting of the chess-men, rose to meet us with all the frank
politeness which has ever distinguished the Piedmontese gentlemen
of the old school, and completely put me at my ease, by immediately
entering upon the subject which he knew would be most interesting
to me, the improvement of my father’s land, and the culture of our
mulberry-grounds. The two young men were soon engaged in deep and
earnest conversation together, and the Abbé Giordoni shaded his eyes
with his hand and attentively watched them both.
“‘The evening passed pleasantly enough, but I thought of little beside
the young countess, whom I had not yet seen, and, when the door
opened slowly and she was announced, my heart beat so violently, for
my brother’s sake, that any one who had witnessed my emotion, would
have imagined that I was already deeply in love with her myself. She
entered without embarrassment, notwithstanding the presence of the
strangers whom she found assembled in the saloon, and whom she had not
expected to meet there, went up to her father, and kissed him on the
forehead, and then turning to us, saluted us gracefully. I was struck
with her extreme beauty, and at the first glance felt sure that my
suspicions were right, and that Cesario was enslaved; but presently
all my suspicions fell to the ground; for, as soon as she caught his
eye, she stepped lightly across the floor, and accosted him easily and
with grace, but with the happy calm of perfect indifference; while
he, although roused for an instant by the duties of courtesy, having
bowed politely, sank backward in the fauteuil from which he had risen
on her entrance, without a word—without a glance, for I watched him
narrowly—and resumed the conversation with Count Hercules, which had
been interrupted on her entrance.
“‘I was fairly puzzled by this unexpected _denoûment_ to the intrigue
I had been at so much pains to invent. It was in vain that I sought
to detect the slightest intelligence between them—there was none. The
young girl seemed engrossed during supper by her attentions to her
father, and scarcely raised her eyes towards any of us, save in the
courtesy which she might consider to be due from the hostess to her
guests; whilst my brother, whose seat at table was immediately opposite
to hers, never once even glanced towards her. I left the villa that
night full of strange feelings, and from that hour my existence was
changed.
“‘How _can_ I tell you, my friends, how it became so? I know not
myself, save that a web was spun around me, from which I am not free
at this very hour! There seemed, from the very first, an overstrained
demonstration of attachment towards me, and absolute _appropriation_
of my time and of my actions, nay, my very thoughts were no more my
own. The Abbé Giordoni was never absent from my side, and, what seemed
stranger still, he was acquainted with the most minute secrets of our
existence—the value of our land—the produce of our plantations—the
revenue which we drew from the silkworms; he even knew of the
circumstances of the loan which we had been compelled to raise a few
years before, and which, as we thought, had been kept a profound
mystery between ourselves and the party of whom the money had been
borrowed. I have lain awake whole nights to discover how this could be,
and yet could not compass the mystery. I cannot tell you how much this
circumstance preyed upon my spirit, for Heaven had gifted me with an
independent soul, and an utter abhorrence of control, and the invisible
fetters with which I felt myself manacled became more and more galling
as I grew more determined to be free.
“‘It was on the occasion of my father’s death that I felt this most of
all. The abbé took upon himself, unsolicited and unapproved, the whole
management of our affairs. He it was who arranged the retirement of our
mother to the neighbouring convent of the Annunciata, to which I most
decidedly objected; but my opinion in this, as well as in everything
else, was entirely overruled by that of the abbé. The next occurrence
in the family, which gave me the strangest trouble and perplexity, was
the determination of Cesario to sell the portion of the estate which
had become his by my father’s will; and my amazement was increased
tenfold upon learning who was the purchaser—it was the Abbé Giordoni. I
was angry with my brother, and reproached him bitterly, but he replied,
in a despairing voice, and with the tears flowing from his eyes, “What
could I do? The land was needed by the good abbé!”
“‘My God, what could be the meaning of all this? How came it that this
man had thus obtained such influence? Day by day did it increase and
grow more irksome, still drawing, as it were, a charmed circle round
my very existence, diminishing in circumference until it had grown
so small that I could not even turn without feeling wounded by its
pressure; every day and every hour drew the coils yet closer. It was
then that I ended where I ought to have begun, and set myself earnestly
to work to examine the character of the man, who had, in spite of me,
gained such ascendancy over my family. To my great astonishment, I
found him a man of the keenest wit and most consummate knowledge of
the world, whose practical learning and experience were universal,
whose energy and perseverance were dauntless. I soon discovered, with
a feeling of terror which I cannot describe, that he had fathomed my
character with as much accuracy as though I had lived with him from
my youth upwards. He _knew_ of my scorn and hatred of restraint, and
therefore had used none. He _knew_ that I was of a proud and melancholy
temperament, and therefore had never roused my ire by opposition. I
felt a bitter contempt for myself, when I found that in all things it
was his system to _humour_ me. The hour came at last, however, for the
unravelling of all the mystery.
“‘One day, Giordoni came to me with busy and important looks, and with
a hurried air, to consult me upon the plan of a building he was about
to erect upon the ground which he had bought of Cesario. It was within
view of the windows of my own château, and therefore it was the act of
a friend to consult me upon the form and fashion of its structure, and,
as in duty bound, I thanked him heartily for the kind attention.
“‘It was a chapel to Saint Ignatius which he was about to erect, “_en
attendant_ the convent,” he added, with a smile bland and affable,
“which it was his intention to found when he should grow richer.” The
dedication startled me.
“‘Not a convent of Jesuits?’ said I, faintly, for I had imbibed a share
of the popular hatred, which, just at that time, the Order had inspired
throughout the whole of Europe.
“‘The abbé smiled again, yet more peaceably than before. “Pardon me,”
replied he, in a gentle tone, “our Order has need of a station in this
part of the country. We are poorly represented, my friend, observe—”
and he drew forth his memorandum-book, “from Saint Tomaso to Mabli,
eight leagues, from Mabli to this place, seventeen; it is too far.”
“‘The secret then was out; the whole mystery of the man, his
perseverance and his patience, his confidence in himself, his utter
contempt of me. He was a Jesuit—an active, busy, meddling Jesuit—one
who held a degree in the Order—one who had command and authority, and
could bid any of his underlings, slaves to his will, who was himself a
slave, do his pleasure at the moment and without a murmur, even though
the order should have been to murder his best friend, or betray to
death his own mother; who himself durst not hesitate in the commission
of any crime, provided it were done for the honour and advancement of
the “Blessed Order of Jesus!”
“‘I am now convinced that, natural and simple as this avowal then
appeared, it had been prepared _de longue main_, and that much was
at that very moment depending upon the manner in which it would be
received by me. He managed well, however, in hiding the emotion which
my startled manner and my exclamations of surprise and displeasure
must have occasioned him, and launched forth at once, with graceful
eloquence, upon the advantages of the Order of Jesus over all
others—the power, the influence, which the meanest member of the
“Society” possessed over every individual within his sphere. He said
that the confidence and strength of the association were so great, that
nought could resist its influence. He showed me on the map how its
ramifications had spread throughout Europe, until they had enveloped
every civilized country as in a web, from which it was impossible to
get free, and, when he had concluded, he took me out to inspect the
workmen at the chapel, and to view the new plantation which he had
commenced. I beheld it indeed, and with a sad presentiment remarked
that the avenues of lime trees, which were already laid down, were
all turned in the direction of my own château. I scarcely knew what
it was that I dreaded, and yet felt a certainty of coming evil which
completely overpowered every faculty.
“‘You will smile at the determination which I took that very night—you
will say that it was that of a schoolboy—a coward—but you cannot know
the terror which pervaded the population of our country at that very
period, on account of the subtlety of the Jesuits. It had become the
bugbear of society. The feeling had been nursed by the secret enemies
of the Order, sent from France, where its dissolution had already
been decreed in the boudoirs of Trianon, by the vindictive hatred of
Madame de Pompadour. I determined, then, to flee—to leave my property
in the hands of the agent, and to travel for a while, until the power
of the serpent which was thus gaining ground upon me was weakened, or
that I felt myself strong enough to encounter its cold and slimy coils
without fear. I passed several days in making my preparations for the
journey I meant to take, and confided my intentions to no one on earth
save the overseer of the estate in whose hands I was about to place my
interests. Cesario was absent. I would not even venture to write to him
until I had set forth, for my terror of betrayal had grown so puerile
that I even feared the letter might be opened!
“‘Everything was ready for my departure. The agent, a plain, honest
man, had sworn to be as secret as the grave, and when, one evening,
I took my leave of the eternal Giordoni, who now passed not a single
day without paying me his lengthened visit, I laughed at his form of
farewell. “_À demain, à demain!_” called he from the gate; “to-morrow
we will talk about the road from your grounds to my chapel—there _must_
be a road, Cerutti—the high wall must come down. What need of walls
between such friends as we?”
“‘I laughed as I pressed his hand in feigned warmth, echoing his
portentous words of adieu. I knew that on the morrow I should be far
enough away. He smiled likewise as he exclaimed, once more looking me
earnestly in the face, “Farewell, my friend, my dearest friend, _à
demain donc, à demain_!”
“‘He turned, and I watched his retreating form gradually fade in the
moonlight, with a heart bounding with gratitude and joy at the prospect
of my approaching deliverance. The horses were waiting on the by-road
by the side of the château, and I could hear their joyous neigh from
the gate where I was leaning to gaze after Giordoni. Everything seemed
to breathe of peace and happiness. There was a nightingale perched
among the branches of the mulberry tree beneath which I stood, and
her joyous melody gushed forth unsubdued, more free and unconstrained
methought when the shadow of Giordoni no longer darkened the pathway;
multitudes of the bright green glow-worms peculiar to the summer nights
of our country, were chasing each other over the smooth turf. I thought
I had never beheld a night of such calm, such placid beauty.
“‘I was like the schoolboy about to escape the dominion of his
pedagogue; eager to be free, yet scarcely as yet decided on the use
that he would make of his long-coveted liberty. I had many plans in
view, but none as yet decided.
“‘I will go from hence to Lyons,’ said I to myself, as I returned
with light step towards the house; ‘there will I remain for a while,
to study the manners of the people of whom I have heard so much; then
on—on to Paris; ’tis there and there alone “_qu’on trouve le génie si
on n’en a pas_.” I could scarcely contain my feelings at the thought
of the change which by my own address and discretion I was about to
work in my destiny, and I whistled and sang aloud in glee at the bare
thought of so much happiness.
“‘No more slavery, no more espionnage, and—shall I own it, my
friends?—no more fear of a cold and disdainful love! Yes, _there_ was
the secret of the discontented misery of the last few months of my
existence. From the evening of my first visit at the villa of Count
V——, I had become the slave of the fair Signora Isabella. Her disdain
of my advances, her coldness, had served to increase my passion, but
had changed its character. Hope had given way to defiance, defiance
to despair, yet still I loved, _and this was the reason why I wished
to flee in secret_ from the home where I was born, like a thief or an
usurper—this it was that drove me forth to seek elsewhere the liberty
I felt that I had lost—the repose which I so greatly needed. All these
subjects for the future passed rapidly through my mind as I returned up
the avenue. I had just gained the hall, I was ascending the steps which
led to my apartment, when I was startled by the sound of footsteps
close behind me. I was alarmed: I knew that the domestics had been all
dismissed, and had long before retired from that part of the building,
while the agent had my orders to await me with the horses. I turned in
trepidation, my heart fluttered in my bosom, and my cheek grew pale as
marble—it was _Giordoni who followed me_!
“‘Such was the state of abject fear in which I lived that, in the
nervous agitation of the moment, I was about to confess my guilty
design, and to sue for pardon; but there was neither anger nor
suspicion upon the brow of the Jesuit, and it was with a calm and
gracious smile that he spoke, as he held up before me a little billet
which scented the air with the sweetest perfume.
“‘See what a faithless messenger am I,’ said he, shaking his head with
a _bonhomie_ quite paternal; ‘I was commissioned to deliver this letter
with great dispatch, and had well-nigh forgotten it altogether! ’Twas
well I thought of it before I got home, for I know not how I might have
been received had I returned without the answer.’
“‘I was seized with sudden faintness as I mechanically unsealed the
billet and gazed at the signature. It was from the demoiselle Isabella
de V——, and, as I read the contents, my very soul gave way beneath the
influence of the kindness and the _tender_ tone it breathed.
“‘Need I say that I departed not that night—that I even retired to
rest _rejoicing_ that I had been prevented from listening to the rash
suggestions of my evil genius, for such I was soon taught to believe
the secret warnings of my better reason, to which had I but hearkened
then, I should have been saved a whole life of misery.
“‘To you, who are both men of the world, there is no need to describe
the sequel. Before three months had elapsed, I had become as fervent
a proselyte to the principles which governed the “blessed Order” as
Giordoni himself!—In three months more, the land which my father
had saved with so much care and pains, and which I myself had toiled
so assiduously to improve, deeming it a heritage to descend to my
children’s children, was no longer my own; it belonged by promise to
the holy society of Jesus, of whom I now was proud to sign myself a
weak, unworthy member. During all this time I had lived in a dream—a
delusion the more wild and stirring, inasmuch as I am of a cold and
torpid character, requiring the most powerful emotions to rouse me from
my apathy. I do not think that I ever reflected on the future. It was
enough that the Contessa Isabella loved me. She told me so again and
again, and each time that she had spoken the words, I had granted some
concession of which I repented not, deeming no sacrifice too great to
win that single smile which I had by this time learned to prize more
highly than my fortune—than my very life—to deem more precious than my
father’s memory or my mother’s love! I was roused from the trance into
which I had fallen by a letter from my brother Cesario, which was put
into my hand on my return home late one evening from the villa V——. It
contained but few words, full of darkness and mystery—the restraint of
one labouring under the terror of discovery.
“‘I have much to tell you,’ wrote he; ‘beware! you are deceived. I
shall be with you to-night, but let it not be known. I wish to say but
one word to you, and must depart again before dawn, without leaving the
slightest trace of my visit. Let the gate at the bottom of the garden
be left unlocked to-night, and, when all in the château have retired to
rest, meet me by the tank close to the entrance. Hesitate not—I shall
wait there till you come. You will find upon the first step of the
reservoir a branch of the alder which grows there, which I will cut the
moment I arrive, as a signal that I am waiting for you.’
“‘I cannot describe to you the perplexity into which I was thrown by
the contents of this letter—nor the anxiety with which I awaited the
opportunity of complying with the request contained in it. It seemed
as if that moment was destined never to arrive, so tediously did the
evening pass—so slow did the domestics seem in their preparations for
retiring to rest.
“‘At length all was quiet in the château, and, with thanks to Heaven
that it should at last be so, I muffled myself in my cloak, and
ventured forth. The night was dark; there were neither moon nor stars;
but so impressed was I by the tone of mystery in which my brother
wrote, that I did not even carry with me the lantern with which I had
returned from the villa, and drove back with blows my faithful dog who
had attempted to follow me as usual, lest his bark might alarm the
servants. It was a calm, still night—not a whisper was heard among the
trees, nor the movement of any living thing among the bushes which
skirted the garden-path down which I passed, with beating heart,
towards the tank. It was situated in a hollow at the bottom of the
garden, and in a place well fitted for concealment, being embosomed in
trees, and surrounded by a thick hedge in order to shade the water from
the sun, so that, even in the heat of summer, the air always struck
damp and chill to any one coming to it from the broad sunlit alleys of
the garden.
“‘At the end of the narrow path, so narrow that even two persons
could not walk in it abreast, a flight of stone steps, always wet and
slippery, reached to the edge of the reservoir, which, at certain
seasons of the year, was extremely deep and dangerous. I stood upon
the steps, and endeavoured to penetrate the darkness, but I could
discern nothing, save here and there the reflection in the water of
some faint vapoury star, struggling to disperse the cloud which hung
before it. I stooped and ran my hand along the stone. Cesario was
already there—the branch of alder was laid where he had mentioned in
his letter. I called in low whispers, ‘Are you here, Cesario?’ There
was no answer—not a sound, save, just at the very moment, and almost
as if in reply, the low, melancholy howling of the dog whom I had
repulsed on leaving the château, and who had remained watching at the
door! I walked round stealthily to the gate by which my brother must
have entered—perhaps I should find him awaiting me there. But no, the
gate was open—he _must_ be in the garden. Again did I call, and again,
and still the same silence, and so I fancied that he must have arrived
early, and, tired of tarrying in the same spot, was wandering through
the grounds, but would most assuredly return to the place where he had
appointed me to meet him. I sat down on the steps of the reservoir,
consoled with this reflection, and waited on.
“‘Once or twice I fancied I heard footsteps approaching, and then I
rose and paced in the direction whence I fancied the sound came. Then
would I again call upon Cesario—again to meet with disappointment,
and to sink once more upon the cold stone, in a paroxysm of anguish
and impatience. By degrees, however, my ear became accustomed to the
silence, and my eye to the utter darkness; and it happened with me
then, as it has often done with others—my faculties became fatigued
with watching and with listening, and I bent my head upon my knees,
and fell into an unquiet slumber. I know not how long I remained thus,
but when I awoke it was already dawn—the cold grey early dawn which
precedes the rising of the sun. The birds were already twittering and
chattering in the branches above my head, and old Volpe, the hound,
whom I had beaten back on the night preceding, apparently set free by
the opening of the door, was thrusting his cold nose into my hand, to
attract my attention. I patted him kindly—he looked up into my face
with an expression I shall never forget, and howled so very piteously
that the sound thrilled to my very soul.
“‘I rose from my seat—every limb was paralysed with cold—every joint
stiffened by the uneasy posture which I had maintained so long. I
walked to and fro for an instant, in order to dissipate the sensation
of misery which I experienced, and reflected with vexation on the
situation in which I had been compelled to pass the night. I could
not help accusing Cesario of negligence and want of feeling, in thus
leaving me to watch and wait in uncertainty for so many hours. I was
about to move from the spot, when I know not what instinct prompted
me to gaze around the place once more. I even looked over the hedge
into the tank, and the dog ran hurriedly down the steps and stood at
the bottom, whining in that sorrowful, uneasy tone, which expresses a
sense of misery and danger with more power than any human language. I
was attracted by the peculiar steadiness with which the animal stood
looking towards the opposite side of the tank, and mechanically I
suffered my gaze to wander in the same direction.
“‘Suddenly the beating of my heart was stilled, my very respiration
checked, and the cold perspiration oozed in large drops from my
forehead, as though I had been standing beneath the heat of a burning
sun! There, beneath the leaden light of the misty dawn, I could
distinctly see a human form lying at the water’s-edge, still and
motionless; the face was concealed, turned downwards from the light;
but I _knew_ that it was my brother, and with a shriek of agony I
sprang forward to the spot, with frantic excitement tearing through the
bushes which impeded my path. Before I had touched the body, I knew
that life must be extinct. Not for a single moment did I labour under
the puerile delusion so common to people in the like situation, but at
once felt the certitude that my brother lay dead before me!
“‘Death is at all times a ghastly spectacle, but there are hours and
seasons wherein its presence inspires far less horror than at others;
the bed of sickness—the darkened room—the lighted tapers—the priest
murmuring consolation to the lingering soul—these are the natural
attendants on death, and soften the disgust and dread that we feel at
its approach. But here, in the full light of the rising dawn, the birds
carolling amid the branches—the distant song of the merry vintagers
who were already busy at their labours on the opposite hill—all seemed
to jar upon the feelings, and to inspire a supernatural horror, from
which I am not free even now when thinking of that hour. I raised my
brother in my arms. He had fallen forward from the bank, for his head
was in the water, which circumstance I thought at first might have
caused suffocation. The bank was steep and slippery, likely to have
given way beneath his feet, and he must have been thus precipitated
into the water, whence he could not extricate himself without help.
This was my first impression, but, as I raised that lifeless form to
the light, I perceived a deep and ghastly wound in his side, from which
the blood had flowed, not freely, but in a thick, turbid pool, and, as
it were, drop by drop! The knife with which the deed was done lay by
his side upon the grass. I recognised it as his own—my father’s gift to
him when a boy—the very knife he must have used to cut the branch from
the alder, as the signal of his arrival in the garden. Cesario had died
thus, this miserable death, while I had been the whole night within
sight of his dying struggles—within hearing of his dying groan, and yet
had seen, had heard nothing—and when tired of cursing his tardiness,
had sat me down and _slept_ almost within arm’s length of his bleeding
corpse!
“‘The event caused the greatest consternation throughout the whole
country. We were much beloved, for my father’s sake, and every inquiry
was set on foot which could lead to a discovery of the means by which
Cesario had met his death. But every measure proved fruitless, and
I was forced to console myself with the opinion of Giordoni, who
expressed a conviction that my brother, giving way to the melancholy
which so long had preyed upon his mind, had committed suicide. The
letter I had received seemed to many, by its tone of mystery, to betray
symptoms of the excitement which usually precedes the execution of such
a deed. Cesario was the first person buried in the new chapel of Saint
Ignatius, Giordoni generously consenting to give absolution for his
crime, and to attribute its commission to insanity.
“‘As my destiny had begun, so did it proceed. The whole of my property
was given up to the Order. I had been led on, step by step, by the hope
of meeting with my reward—the hand of Isabella—she who had prevailed
upon me to concede every point to Giordoni, by promises of eternal
love. In the hopes she had held out, consisted now my only happiness,
for I had no longer a future of my own. Of the flourishing fortune
which my father left me, I was permitted to claim but the share which
fell to me as one of the meanest members of the “Society.”
“‘Even then I did not despair—for how could I imagine that I was to
be deceived? How can I tell you all that followed—how the illusions,
one by one, dropped from my vision, and left me as I am—without faith,
without belief either in God or man!
“‘I had for some time observed a change in Isabella—an embarrassment
for which she herself, when taxed with it by me, would account by
attributing it to the perpetual disputes and _tracasseries_ which
she had to endure with her father, concerning her attachment to me.
The old count had long since forbidden all intercourse between us,
but we had kept up an active correspondence, and obtained frequent
interviews together by means of the Abbé Giordoni, and I was therefore
justified in believing in her truth. Judge, then, of my despair, when
told that the contessa, weary of the struggle she had to endure in her
own home on my account, had resolved to retire to a convent, with the
determination never to see or correspond with me until her father
should consent to our union! She well knew that this condition was
equivalent to a total rupture. I had given up everything for her sake,
and she now deserted me!
“‘You, my friends, have both of you passed through the ordeal of
passion, and can best judge of the storm of hate and rage which this
conviction raised within my bosom—how in my bitterness I forswore her
love, and cursed her very name! It was then that Giordoni came to my
aid with his specious arguments and eloquent reasonings. He pointed out
to me the utter nothingness of human love, and persuaded me to turn my
energies into another channel, and, by taking priest’s orders, to seek
forgetfulness of my wrongs in satisfied ambition.
“‘I was now, as I have told you, without resource, a blighted and a
disappointed man; his proposition suited well with the state of feeling
which I experienced at the time, and I accepted it without hesitation.
I was actuated, in taking this step, by a sentiment of revenge, and was
glad to prove to the faithless Isabella that I relied no longer on her
_promises_—that I reckoned no longer on her love. You know how well and
how truly I fulfilled my office—how ardently I strove in the cause of
the Jesuits—and how at Lyons I succeeded in my mission—and when the
dauphin called me to be his counsellor and director, how indefatigably
I strove to avert the evil day, which I felt was dawning for the
“Society.”
“‘I worked in earnest, and spared neither toil nor anxiety in the
fulfilment of my task. I might have persisted to this day, had it
not been for a circumstance which changed the whole end and aim of
my existence. I had not been long an inmate of Saint Cloud, when I
received, from Turin, a packet from my agent, the man whom I had
chosen to manage the estate when I was about to depart, to fly from
the influence of Giordoni. He had written to me when at the point of
death, and the torments of his conscience had instigated him to make a
full confession of the deceptions of which I had been the victim, and
in which he had been assisted by Giordoni. The Order of Jesus had long
coveted the estate belonging to the Cerutti. The abbé had undertaken to
acquire it. My unhappy brother, being of a religious turn, had fallen
an easy victim.
“‘Once a member of the order, his task was to betray every word and
action which passed in our family, to act as spy upon every proceeding
in his father’s house, it was his remorse at the part he was compelled
to play, which had caused the bitter melancholy that had so distressed
me in former years. He had been commissioned to draw me to the villa
V——. This he had resisted, well knowing to what end I was to be
attracted thither. My own desire had, however, served his vow of
blind obedience; but, as he had proved himself a weak servant, he was
dismissed in disgrace, and despatched to another station. The agent
was chosen in his stead, and well did he execute his foul task. Not a
look, not a thought of ours but what was written down and conveyed to
Giordoni; not a letter but was opened, not a message but was reported.
As you have seen, I fell an easy prey to the cunning of the Jesuit—the
falsehood of the _Jesuitess_. The man, in his confession, went on to
relate, with tears of repentance, he said, that he himself had stabbed
Cesario, by “higher command.” He had read the letter before delivering
it to me, and the person “in command” had feared that our meeting would
have marred all.
“‘There was no further revelation; the name of the person “in command”
was withheld, but hypocritical still, even at the dying hour, the
fellow ended abruptly by calling on me to offer up my prayers for the
repose of his eternal soul. _My_ prayers! he has my everlasting curses
even in his grave.’
“M. de Talleyrand told me that Cerutti had grown so excited while
relating the latter portion of his history, that the two friends
desired him to desist, and to leave the recital till another time. It
appears that, even with this dread secret on his mind, further misery
was yet in reserve for Cerutti.
“The Order of Jesus was tottering to its basis. Agents of the Society
filled every court in Europe, in spite of the contumely cast upon
them, most especially in France; yet was it there that they were most
active in their manœuvres. By a fatality, which, however, will not
appear singular when we remember the talent which she had already
displayed, and the high position she held in the Order—it was the
Contessa Isabella de V——, now become Marquise de F——t, who was deputed
to Saint Cloud, which had become the head-quarters of Jesuitical
intrigue. There was no witness to the first interview which took place
between Cerutti and his faithless love; but they say that the scene
must have been terrific, for he was carried from the apartment to his
bed in a senseless state, and remained for months paralysed in every
limb. He never recovered from the shock which this event had given to
his constitution. Twenty years afterwards, when intimate with Mirabeau
and Talleyrand, he could not mention the name of the Marquise de F——t,
without betraying every symptom of the most powerful emotion, and would
confess that, even amid the excitement of the stirring events in which
he had been called to take a part, her image was never absent from his
mind.
“There is little doubt that, had circumstances taken their natural
course, she would have regained as great an influence as she had before
possessed. It is certain that, during the proscription of the nobility,
_her_ safety alone caused anxiety to Cerutti, and even at his latest
hour, her name was hovering on his lips. The death of Cerutti was
severely felt by the republicans, who hesitated not to attribute to him
a greater share of talent than even that possessed by Mirabeau; and I
have heard M. de Talleyrand frequently declare that the plan of every
speech pronounced by the latter was submitted to Cerutti before it was
uttered in the assembly.
“The attachment of the two friends was ardent and sincere, proof
against calumny, and firm in spite of jealous intrigue. Chosen to
pronounce the funeral oration of Mirabeau, Cerutti burst into tears as
he concluded, declaring that he should not long survive the loss he had
sustained. His prediction was fulfilled. In less than a year from that
very day, he himself descended to the tomb, and M. de Talleyrand alone
remained of that all-powerful trio, whose efforts, combined, would have
given another turn to the destinies of Europe.”