Great conflict—Returning to Paris—Count Albert married—Marriages declined—Love buried in the grave of Arouya—Frivolities—Napoleon at the Tuileries—Illness—Doctors' errors—Days of horror—Vow registered—Between life and death—Victory—Home again—Abbé's objections—Resolve strengthened—Death of the Abbé—Taking vows—Life of energy and action—Rapid sketch—Sympathies—All ordained—"Monseigneur"—"Mon ami"—Cry of the watchmen—Candles wax dim and blue—Wandering in dreams—False prophet—H. C. rises with the lark—Beauty of Gerona—Pathetic scene—Colonel administers consolation—Widow's heart sings for joy—In the cloisters again—Good-bye—In the cathedral—Anselmo—Sunshine over all—Miguel—On the ruined citadel—Anselmo's signal—A glory departs.
Great conflict—Returning to Paris—Count Albert married—Marriages declined—Love buried in the grave of Arouya—Frivolities—Napoleon at the Tuileries—Illness—Doctors' errors—Days of horror—Vow registered—Between life and death—Victory—Home again—Abbé's objections—Resolve strengthened—Death of the Abbé—Taking vows—Life of energy and action—Rapid sketch—Sympathies—All ordained—"Monseigneur"—"Mon ami"—Cry of the watchmen—Candles wax dim and blue—Wandering in dreams—False prophet—H. C. rises with the lark—Beauty of Gerona—Pathetic scene—Colonel administers consolation—Widow's heart sings for joy—In the cloisters again—Good-bye—In the cathedral—Anselmo—Sunshine over all—Miguel—On the ruined citadel—Anselmo's signal—A glory departs.
"IHAVEtold you of the great romance of my life," he presently continued. "Now let me tell you of its great conflict.
"After many wanderings I returned to Paris. Here the great world opened wide its doors to me. In a short time I wasl'enfant de la maisonamongst all people worth knowing. Count Albert had married one of the most charming women in the great world. You can picture my welcome. Few days passed but I spent some portion of my time with them. I was naturally sought after, my wealth and position rendering that inevitable. Fathers proposed marriage for their daughters after the French fashion, offering the bribe of large dowries. But they knew not my secret. All my love was buried in a quiet Algerian grave, within sight of the ever-sounding sea. I had never loved before; I should never love again. I shuddered at the idea of a meremariage de convenance. Love and love only could make the chains of matrimony bearable. Who could love again after such a love, such a marriage as mine?
"I soon felt the life of Paris feverish, enervating. There was no rest, or repose, or freedom about it. A wild series of frivolities succeeded each other: court ceremonies—Napoleon III. reigned at the Tuileries—balls, receptions, the life of the clubs. I hated wine, yet indulged freely in it to help me through the days. I had not been made for this kind of life; all the better parts of my nature were being stifled. Still I went on from week to week, partly because I could not tear myself away from Albert and his charming wife.
"At last I fell ill of a nervous malady which prostrated my strength. The doctors ordered brandy in large doses. They should rather have forbidden it. The day came when I saw that brandy was my master. I could not live without it. Nothing could exceed my horror when I made the discovery. Then the moral struggle began, and that my nature was strong only made the conflict more severe. But the evil was more physical than mental or moral and so far beyond my control.
"At length, almost in despair, sick of this frivolous, aimless life, I vowed to devote my days to the service of Heaven if I might be permitted to conquer.
"Again I fell ill, but this time of a malady for which all stimulant was forbidden. For weeks I kept my bed, part of the time hovering between life and death. Heaven was merciful. My vow had been heard, my prayer answered. When I recovered, the victory had been gained for me. I hated the very sight of all stimulant. From that hour nothing stronger than tea or coffee has passed my lips.
"I left Paris and returned to my home in Provence. What delight, what repose, what charm I found there. Paradise had once more opened its gates. There, with the Abbé, I spent a whole year in calm and quiet retreat. Health and vigour of mind, strength of body, returned to me.
"But I did not forget my vow. The Abbé treated me to many an argument and disquisition upon the subject. He showed me the life of an ecclesiastic in all its lights and shadows; the sacrifice of domestic happiness it entailed; the constant self-denials if I would do my duty in the spirit as well as letter. He pointed out how by nature and position I was eminently fitted to take my part in the world; to marry;become the ruler of a little kingdom, as it were; the father of sons and daughters. He was growing old, he declared, and certainly in the last year had greatly changed. An expression on his face told me he was not far from heaven. He felt his own end approaching.
"All this only strengthened my resolve. If anything could have made me more in favour of a religious life, it was the quiet ecstasy with which he contemplated passing to celestial regions. Nothing could be more saintly and beatific than his last days. He was in perfect happiness, and frequently said so. I was permitted to be with him when his eyes looked their last upon the world. I was the last object they rested on; my name was on his lips as his soul winged its flight to heaven. For the fourth time the hand of affliction was laid upon me. My last link with the world was severed. I stood alone.
"In due time I took upon myself the vows of the Church. Never for a moment had I contemplated the cloister. Mine must be a life of energy and activity. Whether it be a weakness or not, I have ever loved to command; to rule mankind; to have the ordering of things. There I feel in my element. I have a capacity for organisation which will not lie dormant. It has been my lot to have it more or less fully exercised. With all humility, and giving the sole glory to Heaven, I may say that I have succeeded in every work or mission I ever undertook; advanced every cause in which I have been concerned. The great moral, the great secret of my life, is this: I have first of all been convinced of the soundness of my intentions; I have held decided views; I have never entered upon a single act of importance without first placing it under the guidance of Heaven, as Hezekiah went up into the Temple and spread the letter before the Lord. And then I have gone forward, nothing doubting. Paul may plant and Apollos may water in vain, if they trust to their own strength. That has been my rule and conviction through life. I have constantly endeavoured to have no will of my own; no personal ends and aims and prejudices; but to obey the great Master, whose I am and Whom I serve."
Here Delormais rapidly sketched his life in the Church. He described every office he had held in succession; thedifficulties he had contended with; the evils he had suppressed; the reforms he had made; the manner in which he had once fought with and at length convinced the Consistory of Rome. Through all he spoke with the utmost humility, recognising himself an agent, not a principal to whom any credit was due.
Over this portion of his life we draw a discreet veil. It was disclosed under secrecy. Partly to prevent identification; partly because other names were inevitably introduced, some of which were as household words in the world of the French Church.
The time had passed unconsciously. There was a singular charm and attraction about Delormais. His fine presence and high breeding, his animated way of talking and graphic powers of description, all carried you beyond yourself. Everything was forgotten but the man before you. For the moment you were lost in the scenes he portrayed so vividly. Underlying all, running through all like a fine silken warp, his sympathetic nature was evident. Strong, decided, commanding, loving to rule, he was yet singularly lovable. When was this ever otherwise where sympathy was the keynote of the disposition? He was a man to come to for advice and consolation. Broad-minded above all the small views and judgments of human nature, if he chastised with the one hand, he took care to heal with the other. No one need dread his condemnation. We had been so recently under the influence of both men it was impossible to help contrasting this strong, admirable nature with the calm, retiring, almost celestial beauty of Anselmo: each perfect in its way. We mentioned him to Delormais as a type.
"Ay, I know him well," he replied: "have known him always. The Canon who was his protector and left him a portion of his wealth, was one of my few intimate friends. A purer spirit than Anselmo's never breathed. He might be advanced to high places in the Church, but is better and happier where he is. In all my wide experiences I have never met his equal. Of course I know his story, and his love for Rosalie—hers for him: an idyll almost too perfect for earth. I know her well also, and all her saintliness. Such love and faith are rare: a consistency worth all thesermons that ever were preached. How different was my fevered love from theirs; my rash, unreflecting impulse in that Algerian paradise. And yet, Heaven be praised, nothing but good came of it. All is ordained; all is for the best if only our heart's desire is to do well. All comes right in the end. I have never known it otherwise. If ever I feel in the slightest degree discouraged, if ever my faith in human nature is unduly tried, I immediately think of these two saintly people, and courage revives."
Once more he paused, and seemed lost in thought. Whether it was given to Anselmo and Rosalie, or whether to retrospection, we could not tell. The clock ticked its faint warning of the passing of time. All else was profound silence. But he soon roused himself to the present, and again turned to us with an expression in which humour was mixed with kindliness.
"And now," said Delormais, with that peculiar smile that had puzzled us at the beginning of our interview, "I am going to surprise you. Life is full of the strangest coincidences and combinations, which would be laughed to scorn in fiction. It is the unexpected which happens. You remarked some time ago that my palace would be known as a shining light, if I ever were made a bishop. I shall never be made a bishop," he laughed, "and for this reason."
Here he quietly took an official-looking document out of a capacious side pocket, and placed it in our hands. It was an intimation of his elevation to the See of X.—— a place we knew by heart, and loved.
"Can this be true?" we asked in perplexity.
"It is indeed," laughed Delormais. "So you see I cannot be made a bishop, for I am one already; though not duly enthroned. You will have to be present at that ceremony. I am not surprised. I knew it was coming, though I could not tell the exact day and hour. It reached me only this evening. And you are the first to whom I have told it."
"Then," we replied, rising and making him a profound bow, "let us be the first to greet you by your title,Monseigneur. The first to wish you all honour and success in that high office Heaven has destined you to fill."
"Nay," he returned; "Monseigneur to others it may be; but to you it shall be evermon ami. For with your permission I intend our acquaintance to ripen into friendship. You shall come and visit the old Bishop in his palace. We will make it a shining light together. The oftener you come, the longer you stay, the more welcome you will be. You know that X. is surrounded by antiquities, endless monuments of interest. Amidst these attractions you will feel at home. Your visits will not be a mere sacrifice to friendship."
"You are sketching a delightful picture. Will it ever be realised?"
"That only depends upon yourself," laughed Delormais. "The Bishop has not to be made, nor the palace to be built; the guest-chamber awaits you with the blue skies and balmy airs of spring. Of all appointments it is the one I would have chosen. A life of activity, of responsibility and usefulness; a wide sphere of action; opportunities for doing much good in public, still more in private. The latter brings the greater blessing."
"You are a wonderful man," we could not help exclaiming. "Your life ought to be written. We should love to make it known to the world."
"You shall become my biographer," laughed Delormais, "if you will undertake it in French. Do what you will with what I have told you to-night. Only keep to yourself all my ecclesiastical history. That is sacred and private, at any rate as long as I am living. For the rest, change names and dates only sufficiently to prevent recognition. Not that it would matter. My life is my own, as I have said. And not that I have anything to conceal. My faults, follies and indiscretions have been those of impulse; of the head, not of the heart, I would fain believe. I cannot remember the time when I did not at least wish to do well. Of evil men and deliberate sin I have ever had a wholesome horror. But all and everything by God's grace, not of my own strength."
At that moment we were startled by a cry in the street: the well-known call of El sereno.
"Another watchman," cried Delormais. "What is the hour?"
We had not thought of time. A few months earlier andthe sun would long have been up. Want of space prevents our giving more than a mere outline of Delormais' life. He filled in an infinite number of details impossible to be recorded here. They would swell to a volume, but a volume of singular interest. He spoke rapidly and with few pauses. Our watches marked the hour of five. It was that period of the night when darkness is greatest before dawn. The watchman's voice cried the hour and the starry night for the last time.
"For your own sake I must break up the assembly," laughed Delormais. "Two hours' sleep will refresh us both. Presently we shall meet again. See! our candles wax dim and blue—or is it fancy? This is a ghostly house, you know. My great-grandmother was Spanish, and for all I can tell some of its ancestors and mine may have met here in times long past and played out their comedies and tragedies together. As we are playing ours."
We parted. Sleep came to us, but scarcely unconsciousness. In our dreams we lived over again all the scenes Delormais had so graphically described, but more highly-coloured, full of impossible adventures. We wandered through endless groves of paradise peopled with myriads of Arouyas. Our only difficulty was to choose the fairest. Life was one long poem; time had passed into eternity. From such celestial regions we were awakened at eight o'clock by the entrance of our host with morning coffee and steaming rolls, accompanied by José bearing hot water. The latter had constituted himself ourcriadoorvalet de chambre.
"Señor," he said, "it is a cloudless morning. Our astronomer has proved a false prophet. My heart bleeds for him. I fear his glory has departed. Heaven send he does not commit suicide. Is it you, señor, who have influenced the stars against him?"
"Monsieur," said our host, putting down the tray, "your friend the poet rose with the lark—figuratively speaking, for who knows what time the lark rises in November? Taking his coffee, he went out with his umbrella shouldered à la militaire. For a poet, monsieur, your friend can put on a very defiant air, as if, like Don Quixote, he had a mind to fight with windmills. He told me he was inflated with inspiration. He was going tocontemplate the Pyrenees from the Citadel, and to write a sonnet to the eyebrows of a young lady he saw last night at the opera. I confess I should have thought the eyes a finer theme. Joseph tells me it was the Señorita Costello. She is considered the great beauty of Gerona; and even in Madrid, I am told, created a profound sensation. No wonder the susceptible monsieur's heart beat fast when he beheld her. Now, señor, we leave you to enjoy your coffee and perform your toilet. His reverence, Père Delormais, sends you his greeting and hopes you have slept. I have just taken his coffee also. Contrary to his usual custom, though wide awake he was still reposing. Ah! what a great character we have there!"
Upon which the attentive deputation retired and we were left in peace.
It was indeed glorious to see the blue unclouded sky, to find the cold winds departed, summer reigning once more. How changed the aspect of Gerona. How all the wonderful colouring came out, the effects of light and shadow, under the sunshine. H. C. arrived just as we left the hotel, and together we went to the bridge where we had stood not many hours ago under the stars.
It almost seemed as though we had gone through years of experience since then. This morning everything was bright and animated. The river now flashed and sparkled and reflected brilliant, broken outlines. The old houses looked older than ever in this youthful atmosphere, but seemed warmed into life. They now appeared quite habitable, almost cheerful. The towers standing above and beyond them were pencilled against the blue sky. The very air seemed full of sun-flashes. In the boulevard the trees in the sunshine made wonderful play of light and shade upon the white houses. The arcades lost their gloom. Every one seemed to rejoice and expand. No people are so responsive to atmosphere as the Spanish. Warmth and sunshine are more necessary to them than food and sleep. They are hot-house plants.
Towards ten o'clock we made our way up the street of steps to the barracks. The scene was much the same as yesterday; conscription was not yet over. We were evidently expected, and a sentry at once conducted us to the colonel's office.
"I knew you would come," he cried, with quite an English handshake. "Your interests are not of the butterfly nature, passing with the moment. And see; here is our disconsolate widow. Now you have come, we will talk to her."
We easily recognised the forlorn mother of yesterday's little drama. She was quietly seated in a chair, her mantilla drawn closely about her, a pathetic image of grief.
"Oh, señor Colonel, it is useless," she said. "Hope is dead and my heart broken. Heaven has seen fitting to afflict me at all points. I have lost my husband, my position; I am poor and in misery; my eldest son turns out a disgrace; my remaining consolation is torn from me by the cruel conscription. Nothing is left for me but to die."
"This is quite wrong," returned the colonel, pretending a severity he did not feel. "Heaven is merciful. Brighter days will dawn for you if you are patient. You will see that conscription is a blessing, not a curse. It will make a man of your boy. Discipline is good for all. It is just what he needed. He will return to you strong and vigorous; able and willing to make a home for you. I promise to make him my special charge. He shall be always about me. I will give him all the favour possible, and will keep a constant eye upon him. Heaven permitting, he shall return to you, not spoilt or lowered, but mentally and physically improved. In the meantime—I have been making enquiries—I have found you a position where you can honourably earn your living; where you will be comfortable and respected; and if you will only look at the best side of things, happy also. What do you say to it?"
Here he described the nature of the proposed occupation. The poor lady burst into tears.
"Heaven reproves me for my ingratitude by showering mercies upon me," she cried. "Hope once more kindles within me. This is the one thing for which I am fitted. Ah, colonel! it is you who have brought back life and hope to my despairing heart."
"Nay," he returned, "I am merely the humble instrument, as we all are, carrying out the purposes of Heaven. But I exact one thing of you. Cease to be sad: let hope and energyreturn; carry out your daily tasks heartily; and make up your mind that life still has much in store for you."
The change was already apparent. A drooping, grief-stricken woman had entered the office; one with hope and energy and patient waiting revived left it.
SAN FILIU, FROM WITHOUT THE WALLS: GERONA.SAN FILIU, FROM WITHOUT THE WALLS: GERONA.
"Life is full of such sorrows," said the colonel. "Unfortunately we cannot reach a millionth part of them. In this case help has been made strangely easy. It is so seldom that the wish to aid and the power go together. Let us now take a turn in your favourite cloisters."
Reposing under the blue skies, in the strong light and shade thrown by the sunshine, they were even more beautiful and effective than yesterday. In presence of their colonel, the men kept at a respectful distance. They were all occupied in the same way; drawing water from the well, mending clothes, running to and fro; some diligently doing nothing. All seemed happy and contented.
"And they are so," said the colonel. "To a large number the change is infinitely better in every way. They all find their own level. Those of the better class discover each other, soon fraternise, and form themselves into cliques. Youth is the age of friendship and enthusiasm. Even these have their popes and go in for hero-worship. Life has its charms for them. Yes," looking around, "no doubt these cloisters have a beauty of their own. They influence me more to-day than ever before. I think you would convert me in time," he laughed; "widen my interests and enlarge my sympathies. You see, to me they are mere military barracks. The men come first, and you will admit that they are not romantic. Plant these cloisters in the midst of a desert, and no doubt I should be duly impressed with their refined atmosphere."
We left them and stood at the head of the long flight of steps, admiring the picturesque scene. To-day everything was radiant with light and sunshine. The very crowd outside the Conscription-house looked more hopeful. Even misfortune was less depressing under such blue skies. The wonderful houses to our right, in their deep lights and shadows, looked more rare and more artistic than ever. The ancient red roofs of the town sloping downwards were deep and glowing. Many a gable stood out vividly, many a dormer window and lattice pane seemed on fire as it reflected in crimson flashes the rays of the ascending sun.
We reluctantly said good-bye to our colonel. These passing episodes, possessing all the charm of the unexpected, are one of the delights of travel. But they leave behind them a regret, for too often there can be no renewal of the intimacy. Yet we realise that the world holds many pleasant people, and that life is too short for all its possibilities.
"If you ever visit Gerona again," he said, with a finalhand-shake, "you will come and see me. If I am no longer quartered here, find out where I am, send me a telegram, and follow quickly. May we meet again!"
Then we took our winding way up to the cathedral.
The fine square was in full sunshine. Deep lights and shadows lay upon cathedral and palace. The house in which Alvarez once lived looked as though human tragedy had never touched it. A golden glow lay on the grey stone, restoring its lost youth. The ancient windows with their wonderful ironwork, seemed kindled into life, ready to reveal a thousand secrets of the dead-and-gone centuries. There was no gloom and mystery to-day. The long, magnificent flight of steps were in full sunshine also. Sunshine lay upon the town with its clustering roofs; flashed here and there upon the surface of the winding river; gilded the snow-tops of the far-off Pyrenees. The skies were blue and laughing; all nature was radiant.
We passed through the west doorway into the cathedral.
Even here there was a change. The dim religious light might still be felt; nothing could take that away. A sense of vastness and grandeur still lay upon the splendid nave; a feeling of mystery still haunted pillars and aisles and arches, and the deep recesses of the east end. But to-day shafts of wonderful light flowed in, redeeming all from the faintest suspicion of gloom. Rainbow-coloured beams from the upper windows fell athwart the nave in rich prismatic streams. Beautiful as the interior had been yesterday, it was yet more so this morning. These shafts of light piercing the semi-darkness created a marvellous effect of contrast, adding infinitely to the charm of the lovely building.
There was no mistaking the tall slender figure that approached us with its quiet grace. It was Anselmo, his face lighted up with its rare smile.
"We meet again," he said, in tones subdued to the sacred spot on which we stood. "And yesterday I know that you met and conversed with Rosalie. As we went together this morning to the bedside of a dear maiden whose days are numbered, she told me of your encounter. I am glad. Now you know us both and will keep us together in your memory. You must have seen that she is more angel than woman walking theearth. I often wonder how all her deep affection, purified and exalted, can be given to one so unworthy. You smile! You think ours a strange history, we a singular pair. I suppose it is so. Ours must be almost a unique experience; and I believe that to few in this world is given the peace and happiness we enjoy."
Talking, we passed on to the cloisters, lovelier than ever in their brilliant light and shade. Once more we went through the north doorway and gazed down upon San Pedro, the desecrated church, the ancient town walls, and ruined citadel crowning the slopes. Sunshine everywhere; hope upon all; the gloomy skies of yesterday forgotten; earth seemed many degrees nearer heaven. We climbed down into the narrow streets and found Miguel at his door waiting to give us a morning salutation.
"The photograph, señor. Is it a success?"
We told him that still lay in the uncertain future.
Again we found ourselves seated upon the ruined citadel. It was difficult to realise all the horrors of that long past invasion under the influence of these glorious skies, the gladness of this laughing sunshine. The air was scented with wild thyme. The outlines of the towers stood out wonderfully; the blue of heaven shone through the open work of San Filiu's lovely steeple. All the sunshine glinted upon the leaves of the trees in the hollow and traced patterns in the hanging gardens.
"How beautiful it all is," said Anselmo. "On such days how thin the veil separating the seen from the unseen. Our vision seems only just withholden. What an awakening it will be to the higher life!"
With him, also, we had to part; a yet more reluctant farewell than that lately gone through at the barracks. But we hoped to meet again. This must not be our only visit to Gerona; and here Anselmo wished to live and die. He had no ambition for a higher destiny, though even this, it has lately been whispered to us, may one day come to him without change of scene.
We parted as friends part, not mere acquaintances of a day. There is, we have said, a magnetic power that bridgesover time and conventionality. As in dreams we sometimes live a lifetime in a moment, so in friendship an hour may do the work of years. Again the clock struck twelve; Anselmo's signal. History repeats itself. To-day he went alone, leaving us standing amidst the ruins. We watched him as he climbed the rugged heights of the cathedral, a tall, dark, graceful figure upon the landscape. At the north doorway he turned, gazed steadily at us for a few moments, raised his hands as though in benediction, and the next moment was lost to sight.
A glory appeared to depart; the spot seemed emptier without him; there was less brightness in the sunshine. We hastened to change the scene, and in the lively streets of the fair, to disperse the sad current of our thoughts. For our hours in Gerona the beautiful were numbered.
Sweet illusions—Everything seen and done—True devotion—In the vortex—Sunshine and blue skies—Less demon-like pit—Lights and shadows—Arcades lose their gloom—Rosalie—Charm of Anselmo—Romance not dead—H. C. in ecstasy—Escorting an angel—Cathedral steps—San Filiu—A lovely spot—Ancient house—Mullions and latticed windows—Passing away—Rosalie's ministrations—Resignation—Rosalie's farewell—"Consuelo"—Taken from the evil to come—The door closed—Ernesto's world topsy-turvy—Ernesto turns business-like—The catapult again—Up the broad staircase—Not the ghostly hour—Madame in her bureau—Posting ledger—Balance on right side—Madame philosophises—Shrieks to the rescue—"My dear daughter"—Our host and the nightingales—Waiting for next year's leaves—The Señorita Costello—Delormais on the wing—Another vigil—Promise given—Departure—Inspector quails—H. C. collapses—The susceptible age—Lady Maria alters her will—Possession nine-tenths of the law.
Sweet illusions—Everything seen and done—True devotion—In the vortex—Sunshine and blue skies—Less demon-like pit—Lights and shadows—Arcades lose their gloom—Rosalie—Charm of Anselmo—Romance not dead—H. C. in ecstasy—Escorting an angel—Cathedral steps—San Filiu—A lovely spot—Ancient house—Mullions and latticed windows—Passing away—Rosalie's ministrations—Resignation—Rosalie's farewell—"Consuelo"—Taken from the evil to come—The door closed—Ernesto's world topsy-turvy—Ernesto turns business-like—The catapult again—Up the broad staircase—Not the ghostly hour—Madame in her bureau—Posting ledger—Balance on right side—Madame philosophises—Shrieks to the rescue—"My dear daughter"—Our host and the nightingales—Waiting for next year's leaves—The Señorita Costello—Delormais on the wing—Another vigil—Promise given—Departure—Inspector quails—H. C. collapses—The susceptible age—Lady Maria alters her will—Possession nine-tenths of the law.
ITwas not an unmixed sorrow. At sunrise the next morning preparations for the cattle fair must commence. By mid-day bipeds and quadrupeds would rule the town, our beautiful palace find itself desecrated. In its present half-deserted condition an air of refinement and antiquity hung over it. One felt, almost saw and heard, the great crowd of cavaliers and dames, besacked and besworded, that had passed up and down the broad marble staircase in the picturesque and romantic Middle Ages. All the ghosts and ghostly sighs and shadows lurking in secret corners, halls and corridors, would vanish before the vulgar herd. Under this influence Gerona the beautiful would become intolerable; better leave with impressions and sweet illusions undisturbed.
And little remained. Everything had been seen, everything done. We had said farewell to Anselmo, then plunged into the vortex of the fair, where noise, crowd and confusion fought witheach other. Sunshine and blue skies were having their usual effect upon the Spanish people. Every one was in high spirits, inclined to patronise booths, monkeys, and fortune-tellers.
A GERONA PATIO.A GERONA PATIO.
Every hour spent in the ancient town strengthened our devotion. This old-world atmosphere, these marvellous outlines lost nothing by familiarity. Standing once more on the bridge we confessed how difficult it would be to look upon such a scene again. To-day, under the sunshine the chestnut-roasters appeared less demon-like, the bed of the river less a bottomlesspit. A little of the weird element had departed. The sense of mystery so strongly felt last night could not live in this brilliant atmosphere.
By way of compensation the deep lights and shadows appealed to the imagination quite as strongly as any sense of mystery. They filled the air with life and motion. The trees rustled and gleamed and glinted and drew moving pictures upon the white houses. Arcades lost their gloom, but not their charm, and these apart from all else raise Gerona far above the rank of any ordinary town. As we left the fair and turned into the quieter streets, it seemed almost a natural consequence that from one of the deep round arches there glided the quiet, graceful form of Rosalie. She had foretold that we should meet again.
"But for the last time, Rosalie," as she greeted us with her rare sweet smile. "We leave this evening. Time presses, and we would avoid to-morrow's ceremony."
"They are terrible days," returned Rosalie. "No wonder you escape them. Until they are over we keep as far as possible out of sight. You have seen Anselmo to-day, señor?"
"Yes, and wished him farewell. It was a sad moment. He alone has repaid us for our visit to Gerona. We should like to spend many days here and know him more intimately."
"Days of profit, if I may venture to say so, señor. The more you saw Anselmo, the more you would love him. It is every one's experience. Apart from his saintliness, you cannot tell on a slight acquaintance how much there is in him. His is not the goodness of a weak but of a strong nature; intellectually strong; but so refined and unambitious that to an ordinary observer it may seem passive. He is of a different order from Père Delormais, who is full of action and energy, and does so much and does all well. But Delormais was born to great things; they are his of inheritance. Anselmo had not these privileges."
"The greater merit, Rosalie; but we think you count for very much in his life. He has kept you before him, and your image has inspired him to deeper holiness."
"Ah, no, señor. Rather is it the other way. He has been my guide and king, as I told you yesterday. Anselmo isabove all earthly mortals, all human aid. But you will meet him again and know him better. This your first visit to Gerona will not be your last. Few people come here, but those who do always return. I think of it as a place apart, possessing ideal beauties, a separate atmosphere. And for me," she smiled, "everything seems imbued with the charm of Anselmo. The bells ring out his name; I hear it in the song of the birds, the whispering of the trees. Romance is not dead within me because I am Sister Anastasia."
Here H. C. struck in, unable to contain himself any longer.
"If I were here very long," he cried excitedly, "I should fall madly in love with you myself, and write reams of poetry to your lovely eyes. I have never seen such eyes. They have all the light of heaven in them, and—and—all the beauty of earth."
Rosalie laughed.
"You are very outspoken, señor. I could have told you were a poet from your look. But you must exercise your genius on a worthier theme. On me it would be wasted; my life, all I have, all I am, is dedicated to Heaven. Time is passing. Will you not go with me on my way that I may show you one of the loveliest spots in Gerona?"
So Rosalie walked through the quiet old-world streets with an escort on either side. We felt we were attending an angel. H. C. did not attempt to conceal his rapture. It is a weakness of which he seems unconscious. Rosalie pointed out many a house in which she had ministered; here soothing the pillow of the dying, there rescuing one from the grasp of death. Under her guidance the streets seemed more beautiful than ever; a holier atmosphere surrounded them.
At length we reached the wonderful steps leading to the cathedral. They were flooded with sunlight and gave dignity to the ugly west front, so unworthy of the splendid interior. Passing under the fine old gateway and turning to the left, we found ourselves close to the old church of San Filiu. In days gone by, when the Moors captured Gerona and changed its cathedral into a mosque, the Christians had worshipped here. Whatever its interior at that time, it is now dark, gloomy and depressing.
Rosalie entered a quiet street beyond, a short narrow turning of only a few yards, then halted.
It was, as she had said, one of the loveliest spots in Gerona; so hidden that few would find it by chance. A small house of great antiquity but perfectly preserved. An exquisite Gothic archway over which the house was built led into a small quadrangle. Beside this archway was a mullioned window with latticed panes. We imagined the quaint old room within and longed to enter. Above this was another latticed window with Gothic mullions and ornaments. It was open, and sweet-scented flowers threw their perfume upon the air. This was crowned by a sloping roof with red tiles bearing all the tone and beauty of age. At least three centuries must have rolled over them unmolested. Even H. C. forgot the charms of Rosalie and became enthusiastic in favour of still life.
"It is my destination," said Rosalie. "I was hastening here yesterday when you saw me crossing the square of San Pedro. Where those lovely flowers are scenting the air, a lovelier earthly flower is passing away. Consumption is doing its work. The only child of a mother who will soon have no tie left on earth. So Heaven sometimes sees well to draw our souls upwards. There are those who need this discipline. Trouble, like everything else, enters into the wise economy of God's purposes. I doubt if a single unnecessary care or pain is dealt out to us. But here the hand of affliction is charged with a heavy burden. The invalid is a fair maiden of seventeen, pure and beautiful. Her resignation is a gift from heaven, a lesson to us all. But for that I don't know what would become of the mother."
As she spoke a face appeared at the window above the flowers; the sweet gentle face of a middle-aged woman, pale and pathetic, to which the mantilla added grace and charm. There was a look of patient sorrow in the dark eyes, lightened by a momentary gleam as they caught sight of Rosalie.
"Sister Anastasia," said the subdued woman, "the sun is not more true to its course than you to your hour. My child hungers for you. Next to her mother you are her only consolation."
"I come, I come," replied Sister Anastasia. "Tell Rositathat in my bag I bring her refreshment for the mind and food for the soul. Ah, señor, this is indeed farewell, since you tell me your moments in Gerona are numbered. The sun shines, the skies are blue, let these be an omen of your life until we meet again. For by the love you bear Anselmo—you must love him; we all love him—you must return. He will be here and so shall I. We shall probably see no change until Heaven calls us to the great change of all. This fair child above will have passed away, and the mother's heart will be desolate. But Heaven that brings the sorrow will heal the wound. Adieu señor. Adieu."
OLD HOUSES ON THE RIVER: GERONA.OLD HOUSES ON THE RIVER: GERONA.
She glided through the archway and on the other side gained admittance to the house. The door opened to receive her, a quiet voice was heard in greeting. "You are an angel of light," it said. "Your new name should have been Consuelo. But, oh, Anastasia, my child is worse. I fear me a few days will see the ending, and I shall be lonely and desolate uponearth. Why did Heaven take the child and spare the mother?"
"God knows best," returned Anastasia. "Let His will be done. Be sure He who deals the blow will not forsake you. Your child is spared the sorrows of earth. You will think of her as in safe keeping; taken from the evil to come."
We heard no more. The door was closed. Let us leave Rosalie in her true element, a ministering spirit shedding abroad more happiness and consolation, more holy influence, than she at all realised; doing all with that unconscious modesty which was one of her greatest gifts. The picture of that last interview remains vividly in our memory. A little mediæval old house that has scarce its equal in Gerona; the flowers behind the latticed panes and the sad, subdued face appearing above them; Rosalie's eyes looking up in all their loveliness with an expression of almost divine sympathy.
We went our way, richer for having known her. It was our last look upon these cathedral precincts. The afternoon shadows were lengthening as we went back through the quiet streets to the hotel. All the brilliant glory of the day had departed. These repeated farewells were depressing, yet not quite over, for as we approached the Fonda who should be standing at their own door but Ernesto and his mother. We had not met them since the previous day when they had disappeared within the lion's den, and we had gone round to the reeds and the river.
"Ernesto! how is this? Why are you not at school?"
"School, señor!" opening very wide eyes. "Fair week is holiday. We should have a revolution if they attempted school upon us. For this one week in the year we change places with our fathers and mothers, pastors and teachers. They obey and we command."
"We congratulate you on this topsy-turvy state of things. But as you are strong be merciful. Remember that Black Monday comes. Cinderella went back to her rags at midnight; you must go back to school and good work. And the monkeys? You are still at large; we feared the opposite, as you had not brought us your report."
"Oh! I brought it, señor; but it was rather late, and SeñorLasoli said you were at the opera. You should have seen the monkeys!" And here he went off into convulsions at the recollection of the performance. "They couldn't understand what was inside the lozenges to bite their tongues so! First they would take a nibble, then rub the lozenge on the arm; then another nibble; then a whole torrent of monkey-swearing and lozenge-rubbing because it kept on biting and burning. I quite thought I should die with laughing."
From the way he laughed now, it seemed doubtful whether all danger was over.
"But that is not the worst, señor," said the mother, at length making herself heard. "Will you believe that the boy has a wretched catapult in his pocket, and there will be any number of broken windows and assassinated cats in the town. I don't know what will become of us. If there is one thing I dread more than another, it is a catapult. They are the implements of the devil."
"There is absolutely no fear," laughed Ernesto. "I never broke a window in my life—at least, hardly ever. As for cats, they are quite outside the law of murder. A dead cat is as rare as a dead donkey. Are you really going to-day, señor? Then I shall have no more pleasure in the fair, though this year it is better than usual. The lions roared like thunder, and the monkeys accepted all the lozenges. They were punished for their greediness. But will you come back to spend a whole month at Gerona? And if you allowed me, I would take you to some of the excursions in the neighbourhood. There are any number within twenty miles; ruined churches and deserted monasteries. I don't care much about them myself, but I know many who do. It seems to me that a good show and a handful of chestnuts are worth all the wretched old ruins in the world."
In spite of this vandalism, we assured Ernesto that when we spent a month in Gerona he should have the honour of escorting us, provided it was not school-time. He wished to bind us to a given date, thereby showing a decided talent for business, but we refused to be committed to the inevitable. We left mother and son together, a picture of domestic happiness. As we disappeared under the archway of the hotel,Ernesto held up his catapult in triumph, successfully parrying his mother's attempt to obtain possession of the forbidden weapon. She evidently looked upon it as only one degree below an infernal machine.
Once more up the broad marble staircase. But it was not the ghostly hour, and sighs and rustlings and shadows were in the land of the unseen. Madame in her bureau looked the picture of massive contentment. At this moment she was posting a ledger, and the balance was evidently on the right side.
MARKET PLACE: GERONA.MARKET PLACE: GERONA.
"As it need be, for they worked hard enough for their living," she assured us. "She couldn't tell how it was; no one would think from her size that she never relaxed in her exertions. Do what she would, she could not get thin. As for her husband, she made him eat all the richest bits at dinner; never allowed him to fast; supplied him with eggs and butter and beerad libitum. No; he was obstinate. Hewouldkeep thin. The consequence was they were a ridiculous couple. She was the Duomo at Florence, he was the Campanile. However, they made the best of it. Life was too short to grieve over inevitable troubles. Clearly she was an inevitable. When she was a girl, there were five ladies who might be seen walking out morning, noon, and night, and always together. Go which way you would you were sure to meet them. They knew every one, and five perpetual bows were everlastingly see-sawing like a wound-up machine going through its performance. They were called the Inevitables. No one ever thought of them by any other name. They were quite aware of it and rather liked it. It was something to be in constant evidence. What other five sisters would live together in such harmony? Well, these five ladies were for ever running in her head. For a long time past she had felt like all five ladies rolled into one. She was one great Inevitable. Fate was a little cruel. Her movements might be compared to those of the elephant. As for her husband, he could still run up and down stairs like a lamplighter—almost pass through a keyhole—but it took her five minutes to get up a dozen steps. Soon it would take her ten. And then she wanted pulling up in front and pushing up behind. It was quite a ceremony. She hadserious thoughts of having a crane and pulley adjusted to her windows, and of being hoisted up and down, but the question was whether a hempen rope would bear her weight, or anything under a cast-iron chain. Was it true that Queen Victoria was carried wherever she went, because she suffered from rheumatism? Ah! it was a great thing to be a queen. No ledgers to post up; no anxiety as to whether the balance would be on the right side at the end of every month. What a blessing to have a good, solid, comfortable margin at one's bankers to draw upon for contingencies, which was only another word for the unexpected. This year it was painting inside, next year painting outside. If there was no painting, it was chairs, tables or linen. The extras went on for ever and swallowed up all the profits."
We thought the old lady, like the extras, would also have gone on for ever, but to our infinite relief a piercing shriek was heard from an upper region. Madame turned pale and mildly echoed the scream.
"My dear daughter!" she cried. "Something has frightened her, or she is suddenly taken worse. She is always being taken worse, though worse from what I cannot possibly imagine. Sometimes I think it is fancy or hysteria. She is really perfectly well all the time."
At this moment the mysterious daughter appeared upon the scene, running downstairs at a speed that testified to the soundness of her limbs, whatever her state of nerves.
"A dreadful mouse," she moaned, throwing herself into her mother's capacious protection. "It ran right over my feet, across the room, and went into my little cupboard."
"Perhaps you have some cake there?" said this sensible mamma.
"A mere fragment," acknowledged the daughter.
"Poor little mouse," said the mother soothingly. "It is hungry, perhaps, and fond of cake. My dear, it will eat cake; it will not eat you."
We caught sight of our industrious host in his garden surveying his possessions, and escaped. The cook stood in his doorway in white cap and apron, a satisfactory object in all hotels. Over the slanting tiled roof grew the fruitful vine, apicture of beauty. Our host, surrounded by his birds and pigeons, was vainly imploring the nightingales to sing. They only looked at him with their little black eyes, opened their beaks, shook their heads, and said as plainly as possible that the song had left them. It would return with next year's leaves and garlands, more glorious for the rest.
"I should have liked you to hear them," said their proud owner in quite a melancholy voice. "You would have thought yourselves in Italy, as I often do."
"Or on the Rhine, or the Blue Moselle, or the Dauphiné Alps, Señor Lasoli, where the nightingales assemble in myriads, and sing and rave night and day through the weeks of spring. We have heard them."
"They are more beautiful near water," said our host. "The song gains volume and vibration by being carried across. But I have chiefly heard them in our woods on the Mediterranean shores. France to me is a sealed book. So, señor, you leave us, and I cannot even wish you to remain. To-morrow you would not be in your element. Gerona will be out of joint until we settle down again to our normal condition. I trust you will one day return, and that your friend will write an epic poem in honour of our town. It would certainly be translated and might be dedicated to the Señorita Costello. He would be fêted on his arrival; fireworks, illuminations, and municipal addresses. The hubbub of conscription would be nothing to it. At five o'clock, señor, the omnibus will be at your service."
As we went through the haunted corridors to our rooms, Delormais came up the marble staircase, apparently somewhat hurried.
"We are both on the wing," he cried, "and so I the less regret your going. I thought to have stayed until to-morrow, but sudden news compels me to leave to-night. Summoned to Rome, I must obey. I know that I have a battle before me, and also know that I shall win. Conquering as a humble Vicar of Rheims, I shall not do less as Bishop of X. You will see me dismissed with a Cardinal's hat, an honour I would not cross the road to obtain, so little do I care for the pomps of the world. With such models before me as my father and motherand the good old Abbé, one feels that the only thing worth living for is to do good and cultivate the graces of the spirit."
We were in his room, scene of last night's vigil, where he had sketched an outline of his life and the hours had passed unconsciously.
"Another night of vigil, but without companionship," said Delormais. "On the contrary, time will only place distance between us. You go southward, I northward into France, reaching my destination about two o'clock to-morrow afternoon. Would that I might accompany you to Barcelona and gaze with you upon the wonders of that loveliest of cathedrals. Again I say that the Catalonian cathedrals are the glories of Spain. But my own has its charms, and those at least we shall often see together. I have your promise?"
We gave it unconditionally, in this instance not fearing to commit ourselves to a given date. Delormais was a man whose friendship was a privilege and whose sympathy and conversation made all days a delight. We parted, hoping to meet again.
Not long after this the omnibus rattled out of the courtyard, and our host intimated that time was up.
The sun had set, darkness had fallen when we clattered through the quiet streets. Passing the deep, round arcades we looked out for Rosalie, but no light, graceful figure speeding on its errand of mercy appeared. The arcades were again mysterious and impenetrable. We turned on to the bridge and for the last time looked upon the scene as the omnibus rattled on. All down the boulevard booths were on active service. Torches flared and still the crowd sauntered to and fro. The river flowed on its way, and all the outlines of those wonderful old-world houses were faintly visible. We knew them by heart now, and they were almost as real to us by night as by day.
The station once more. Only forty-eight hours had passed since we had struggled across that crowded platform, but we had gone through so many experiences, heard and seen so much, that many days seem to have flown. When we thought of Delormais it was impossible to realise we had not known him for years, visited his early home, joined in his travels. The father and mother, still the objects of his undying affection, theold Abbé in whom he delighted, had become personal friends by his vivid descriptions.
Reflections were suddenly put to flight as the omnibus brought up with a jerk that almost landed H. C. once more on his knees. The station crowd was small compared with that previous crowd. Again we had a slight adventure with our luggage, and began to fear in earnest that we and it should never reach Barcelona together. They refused to register or have anything to do with it; luggage was never booked to Gerona by the express. One other miserably slow train left in the early morning, and the officials calmly intimated that we might wait for it.
But a worm will turn, and we felt the law must be taken into our own hands. We bade the omnibus conductor leave at his peril, made him carry our baggage through the buffet to the platform, and when the train arrived, the whole, great and small, was put into a carriage. Then we followed and mounted guard. The inspector came up and demanded an explanation, upon which H. C. put on his Napoleon air and shouldered his umbrella. He looked so much in earnest that the inspector quailed, bowed, withdrew, and gave a hasty signal for departure. Away we steamed, masters of the situation.
Then H. C.'s military aspect collapsed. He turned paler than usual. "What is it?" we asked; for his susceptible heart is subject to spasmodic attacks. The doctors declare they are functional and not organic, and will pass away with the emotional age. Lady Maria was once terribly frightened and sent post-haste for Sir William Broadbent—though he was not Sir William at that time. The report was encouraging, but Lady Maria had received a shock. "I am sure my dear nephew will never be fit for hard work in this world," she said; "he must be made independent of it." And forthwith she sent for her man of business, and altered the paltry £200 a year she had left him into four th——. Well, well; Lady Maria is still living, and nothing on earth, they say, is certain excepting death and quarter-day. "What is it, H. C.?" we asked. "Will you take a little of the century-old——"
"No, no," he cried despondently. "I am only thinking that that inspector will be one too many for us. He lookedrevengeful. At Barcelona we shall find ourselves under arrest. Instead of a comfortable night at the Four Nations, we shall occupy a dark cell in the town prison."
A gloomy prospect indeed—too terrible for reality.
"Calm yourself," we replied. "You played your part too well just now. The inspector was really alarmed and glad to get rid of you at any price. If he pursued us with vengeance, we might turn up against him, like the eastern slippers. Depend upon it we have seen the last of him."
We looked round comfortably upon our possessions. With nine points of the law on our side all must be well.