It was of a calm but starless night in winter that Florence was illuminated in honor of a victory over the Austrian troops at Goito. Never was patriotic ardor higher,—never were stronger the hopes of Italian independence. From the hour of their retreat from Milan, the imperial forces had met with little but reverses, and, as day by day they fell back towards the Tyrol Alps, the hosts of their enemies swelled and increased around them; and from Genoa to the Adriatic all Italy was in march to battle. It is not to speculate on the passable current of events, nor yet to dwell on the causes of that memorable failure, by which dissentient councils and false faith—the weakness of good men and the ambition of bad ones—brought rain when there might have been victory, still less is it to gaze upon the brilliant spectacle of the rejoicing city, that we are now wending our way along the Arno, scarcely stopping to notice the thousand stars that glitter on the Duomo, nor the flickering lines of light which trace out the gigantic tower of the Palazzo Vecchio. Our theme is more humble than the former, and far too serious for such dalliance as the latter.
Leaving the crowded streets, resounding with the wild acclamations and wilder songs of the people, we pass over the Ponte Vecchio, and enter once again the dark abode of Racca Morlache. Whether from any suspicion of his unpopularity with the people, or from some secret necessity for precaution, the door is fastened by many an extra bolt, and more than one massive chain retains the iron shutters of the window. Perhaps there is something in this conscious security that has made him so sparing in his display of external joy, for two dim, discolored lamps were all that appeared above the door, and these were soon hurled down in contemptuous anger by the populace, leaving the little building in total darkness.
In easy indifference to such harmless insult, and not heeding the loud knock which, from stick or stone, the iron shutters resounded under, the Jew sat at his table in that little chamber beside the Arno, of which the reader already knows the secret. Several decanters of wine are before him, and as he sips his glass and smashes his filbert, his air is that of the very easiest unconcern.
Attempting, but with inferior success, an equal degree of calm, sits the Abbé D'Esmonde on the opposite side of the table. With all his training, his calm features betray at moments certain signs of anxiety, and, while he speaks, you can see that he is listening to the noises in the street without.
“How I detest that song!” said Morlache, as the full swell of a deep-voiced chorus filled the air. “I verily believe the Revolution has not inflicted us with anything more outraging to good taste than the air of 'Viva Pio Nono.'”
“Always excepting Pio Nono himself,” said D'Esmonde, “who is far more the child than the father of this movement.”
“Not bad for a priest to renounce allegiance to his holy master!” said Racca, laughing.
“You mistake me, Signor Morlache,” said D'Esmonde, eagerly. “I spoke of Pio Nono, the politician,—the rash innovator of time-honored institutions, the foolish donor of concessions that must be won back at the price of blood, the man who has been weak enough to head a movement which he ought to have controlled in secret. How the people shout! I hear many a voice in accents of no Italian origin.”
“Yes, the city is full of Poles and Hungarians.”
“It will soon be time to drop the curtain on this act of the drama, Morlache; enough has been done to show the world the dangerous doctrines of these fanatics. They who cry 'No property in France,' shout 'No King in Germany,' 'No Pope in Rome.' The peaceful or well-ordered must be taught to see in us their safeguard against these men. They must learn to think the Church the sanctuary it was of old. From all these convulsions which shatter empires, we are the refuge!”
“But you yourself gave the first impulse to this very movement, Abbé?”
“And wisely and well we did it! Should we have stood passive to watch the gradual growth of that cursed spirit they miscall independent judgment,—that rankest heresy that ever corrupted the human heart? Should we have waited till Protestantism with its Bible had sowed the seeds of that right of judgment which they proclaim is inherent in all men? Would it have been safe policy to admit of discussing what was obligatory to obey, and look on while this enlightenment—as they blasphemously term it—was arraigning the dogma of the Church as unblushingly as they questioned the decree of a minister?”
“I perceive,” said the Jew, laughing, “You great politicians are not above taking a lesson from the 'Bourse,' and know the trick of puffing up a bad scheme to a high premium, prepared to sell out the day before 'the fall.'”
“We had higher and nobler views,” said D'Esmonde, proudly. “The men who will not come to the altars of the Church must be taught her doctrines before the portals. Our task is to proclaim Rome——eternal Rome—to Europe!”
“Up to this your success has not been signal,” said Morlache, with a sneer. “This victory at Goito has given fresh vigor to the Republicans. The Austrians once driven beyond the Alps, Monarchy wilt be short-lived in Italy.”
“And who says that they will be so driven? Who ever dreams of such a result, save some wild fanatic of Genoa, or some half-informed minister at London? The King of Naples only waits for the excuse of a Calabrian disturbance to recall his contingent. The Pope has already issued an order to Durando not to pass the Po. The Piedmontese themselves are on the verge of an irreparable quarrel,—the men of Savoy and the north for Monarchy; the Genoese, wild with their own ancient ideas of a Ligurian Republic. Is it the Lombards, think you, will conquer Lombardy? or do you fancy that Florence and Pisa are the nurseries of heroes? No, Morlache, the game of revolt is played out in Italy; the last trump is Goito.”
“But if, flushed with conquest, the Piedmontese press on to greater successes?”
“They cannot,—they would not, even if they could,” broke in D'Esmonde. “Is it the Republicans will shed their blood to conquer a kingdom of Upper Italy for Carlo Alberto? Is it the interest of Rome or Naples to see such a power in the Peninsula? Will the troops of the Monarchy, on the other hand, fight for a cause that is to obliterate the throne? No; believe me, their mutual grudges have been well weighed and estimated. We never dared this bold policy without seeing clearly that their interests could never be reconciled.—I think I hear the sound of oars; yes, he must be coming at last!” D'Esmonde opened the window as he spoke, and looked out upon the river, which, reflecting along the sides the gorgeous pageantry of the illumination, was dark as ink in the middle of the stream. “Not a word of this, Morlache, when he joins us,” added D'Esmonde.
“Heis not in your confidence, then?” asked the other.
“He?Of course he is not! If for no weightier reasons than that he is English and a Protestant,—two things which, however weak they may prove either in patriotism or religion, never fail in their hatred of the Church and her cause. Like one of the Condottieri of old, he has joined the quarrel because hard knocks are usually associated with booty. Whenever he finds that he has no stake on the table, he 'll throw down his cards.”
“And the other,—the Russian?”
“He is more difficult to understand; but I hope to know him yet Hush, the boat is close in; be cautious!” And, so saying, he filled his glass, and reseated himself in all the seeming ease of careless dalliance. In a few minutes after, the prow of a light skiff touched the terrace, and a man stepped out and knocked at the shutter.
“Welcome at last,” said D'Esmonde, shaking hands with him. “We had almost despaired of seeing you to-night you appear to have been favored with a long audience!”
“Yes, confound it!” cried the other, who, throwing off his travelling-cloak, showed the figure of Lord Norwood. “We were kept dangling in an antechamber for nigh an hour. Midchekoff's fault, for he would not give his name, nor say anything more than that we were two officers with secret despatches from the camp. The people in waiting appeared to think the claim a poor one, and came and went, and looked at us, splashed and dirty as we were; but not, even out of curiosity, did one ask us what tidings we brought. We might have stayed till now, I believe, if I had not taken the resolution to follow an old priest—a bishop, I fancy—who seemed to have theentréeeverywhere; and pushing vigorously after him, I passed through half a dozen ill-lighted rooms, and at last entered a small drawing-room, where the great man was seated at piquet with old Cassandroni, the minister. I must say that, considering the unauthorized style of my approach, nothing could be more well-bred and urbane than his reception of me. I was blundering out some kind of apology for my appearance, when he pointed to a chair, and begged me to be seated. Then, recognizing Midchekoff, who had just come in, he held out his hand to him. I gave him the despatches, which he pushed across the table to Cassandroni, as if it were morehis'affair;' and then turning to Midchekoff, conversed with him for some time in a low voice. As it would not have been etiquette to observe him too closely, I kept my eyes on the minister; and, faith, I must say that he could scarcely have looked more blank and out of sorts had the news reported a defeat. I suppose these fellows have a kind of official reserve which represses every show of feeling; but I own that he folded up the paper with a degree of composure that quite piqued me.
“'Well, Cassandroni,' said his master, 'what's your news?'
“'Very good news, sir,' said the other, calmly. 'His Majesty has obtained a signal victory near Goito against a considerable force of the Imperial army, under the command of Radetzky. The action was long and fiercely contested; but a successful advance of artillery to the side of a river, and a most intrepid series of cavalry charges turned the flank of the enemy, and gained the day. The results do not, however, appear equal to the moral effect upon the army, for there were few prisoners, and no guns taken.'
“'That may perhaps be explained,' said I, interrupting; 'for when the Austrians commenced their movement in retreat—' Just as I got thus far, I stopped; for I found that the distinguished personage I was addressing had once more turned to Midchekoff, and was in deep conversation with him, totally regardless of me and my explanation.
“'You have been wounded, my Lord?' said he, after a moment.
“'A mere scratch, sir,—a poke of a lance,' said I, smarting under the cool indifference of his manner.
“'I hope you 're not too much fatigued to stop to supper,' said he; but I arose at the instant, and pleading the excuse of exhaustion and want of rest, begged to be permitted to retire; and here I am, not having tasted anything since I left Padua, and not in the very blandest of tempers, either, at the graciousness of my reception. As for Midchekoff, he kept his seat as coolly as if he meant to pass his life there. I hesitated for a second or two, expecting that he would join me; but not a bit of it He smiled his little quiet smile, as much as to say, 'Good-night,' and so I left him.”
“He is probably detained to give some particulars of the engagement,” said D'Esmonde.
“How can he?—he was never in it; he was writing letters all day at headquarters, and never came up till seven in the evening, when he rode down with a smart groom after him, and gave the Duke of Savoy a sandwich out of a silver case. That will be the only memorable fact he can retail of the day's fortune.”
“The cause looks well, however,” said D'Esmonde, endeavoring to divert his thoughts into a more agreeable direction.
“Tell me what is the cause, and I will answer you,” said Norwood, sternly. “So far asIsee, we are dividing the spoils before we have hunted down the game.”
“You surely have no doubt of the result, my Lord?” replied the other, eagerly. “The Austrians must relinquish Italy.”
“Then who is to take it,—that's the question? Is Lorn-bardy to become Piedmont, or a Red Republic? or are your brethren of the slouched hat to step in and portion out the land into snug nurseries for Franciscans and Ursulines? Egad, I 'd as soon give it up to old Morlache yonder, and make it a New Jerusalem to educate a young race of moneylenders and usurers!”
“I wish we had even as much security for our loans,” said Morlache, smiling.
“I hear of nothing but money,——great loans here, immense sums raised there,” cried Norwood; “and yet what becomes of it? The army certainly has seen none of it. Large arrears of pay are due; and as for us who serve on the staff, we are actually supporting the very force we command.”
“We are told that large sums have found their way into Austria in shape of secret service,” said D'Esmonde, “and with good result too.”
“The very worst of bad policy,” broke in Norwood. “Pay your friends and thrash your enemies. Deserters are bad allies at the best, but are utterly worthless if they must be paid for desertion. Let them go over like those Hungarian fellows,—a whole regiment at a time, and bring both courage and discipline to our ranks! but your rabble of student sympathizers are good for nothing.”
“Success has not made you sanguine, my Lord,” said Morlache, smiling.
“I have little to be sanguine about,” replied he, roughly. “They have not spoiled me with good fortune; and even on this very mission that I have come now, you 'll see it is that Russian fellow will receive all the reward; and if there be a decoration conferred, it is he, not I, will obtain it.”
“And do you care for such baubles, my Lord?” asked D'Esmonde, in affected surprise.
“We soldiers like these vanities as women do a new shawl, or your priests admire a smart new vestment, in which I have seen a fellow strut as proudly as any coxcomb in the ballet when he had completed his pirouette. As for myself,” continued he, proudly, “I hold these stars and crosses cheaply enough. I 'd mortgage my 'San Giuseppe' to-morrow if Morlache would give me twenty Naps, on it.”
“The day of richer rewards is not distant, my Lord,” said D'Esmonde. “Lombardy will be our own ere the autumn closes, and then—and then—”
“And then we 'll cut each other's throats for the booty, you were going to say,” burst in Norwood; “but I 'm not one of those who think so, Abbé. My notion is that Austria is making a waiting race, and quietly leaving dissension to do amongstuswhat the snow did for the French at Moscow.”
D'Esmonde's cheek grew pale at this shrewd surmise; but he quickly said, ——
“You mistake them, my Lord. The interests at stake are too heavy for such a critical policy; Austria dare not risk so hazardous a game.”
“The wiseheads are beginning to suspect as much,” said Norwood; “and certainly amongst the prisoners we have taken there is not a trait of despondency nor even a doubt as to the result of the campaign. The invariable reply to every question is, the Kaiser will have his own again,—ay, and this even from the Hungarians. We captured a young fellow on the afternoon of Goito, who had escaped from prison, and actually broke his arrest to take his share in the battle. He was in what Austrians call Stockhaus arrest, and under sentence either of death or imprisonment for life, for treason. Well, he got out somehow, and followed his regiment on foot till such time as one of his comrades was knocked over; then he mounted, and I promise you he knew his work in the saddle. Twice he charged a half-battery of twelves, and sabred our gunners where they stood; and when at last we pushed the Austrian column across the bridge, instead of retreating, as he might, he trusted to saving himself by the river. It was then his horse was shot under him, as he descended the bank, and over they both rolled into the stream. I assure you it was no easy matter to capture him even then, and we took him under a shower of balls from his comrades, that showed how little his life was deemed, in comparison with the opportunity of damaging us. When he was brought in, he was a pitiable object; his forehead was laid open from a sabre cut, his collar-bone and left arm broken by the fall, and a gunshot wound in the thigh, which the surgeon affirmed had every appearance of being received early in the action. He would n't tell us his name, or anything about his friends, for he wished to have written to them; the only words he ever uttered were a faint attempt at 'Hurrah for the Emperor!'”
“And this a Hungarian?” said D'Esmonde, in surprise.
“He might have been a Pole, or a Wallach, for anything I know; but he was a hussar, and as gallant a fellow as ever I saw.”
“What was the uniform, my Lord?” asked the Abbé.
“Light blue, with a green chako,—they call them the regiment of Prince Paul of Wurtemberg.”
“Tell me his probable age, my Lord; and something of his appearance generally,” said D'Esmonde, with increasing earnestness.
“His age I should guess to be two or three and twenty,—not more, certainly, and possibly even less than that In height he is taller than I, but slighter. As to face, even with all his scars and bruises, he looked a handsome fellow, and had a clear blue eye that might have become an Englishman.”
“You did not hear him speak?” asked the priest, with heightening curiosity.
“Except the few words I have mentioned, he never uttered a syllable. We learned that he had broken his arrest from one of his comrades; but the fellow, seeing our anxiety to hear more, immediately grew reserved, and would tell us nothing. I merely allude to the circumstance to show that the disaffection we trust to amongst the Hungarians is not universal; and even when they falter in their allegiance to the State, by some strange contradiction they preserve their loyalty to the 'Kaiser.'”
“I wish I could learn more about your prisoner, my Lord,” said the Abbé, thoughtfully. “The story has interested me deeply.”
“Midchekoff can, perhaps, tell you something, then, for he saw him later than I did. He accompanied the Duke of Genoa in an inspection of the prisoners just before we left the camp.”
“And you said that he had a fair and Saxon-looking face?” said the Abbé.
“Faith, I 've told you all that I know of him,” said Norwood, impatiently. “He was a brave soldier, and with ten thousand like him on our side I 'd feel far more at my ease for the result of this campaign than with the aid of those splendid squadrons they call the 'Speranza d' Italia'.”
“And the Crociati, my Lord, what aretheylike?” said Morlache, smiling.
“A horde of robbers; a set of cowardly rascals who have only courage for cruelty; the outpourings of jails and offcasts of convents; degraded friars and escaped galley-slaves.”
“My Lord, my Lord!” interrupted Morlache, suppressing his laughter with difficulty, and enjoying to the full this torrent of indignant anger. “You are surely not describing faithfully the soldiers of the Pope,—the warriors whose banners have been blessed by the Holy Father?”
“Ask their General, Ferrari, whom they have three times attempted to murder. Askhimtheir character,” said Norwood, passionately, “if D'Esmonde himself will not tell you.”
“Has it not been the same in every land that ever struck a blow for liberty?” said the Abbé. “Is it the statesman or the philosopher who have racked their brains and wasted their faculties in thought for the good of their fellow-men that have gone forth to battle? or is it not rather the host of unquiet spirits who infest every country, and who seek in change the prosperity that others pursue in patient industry? Some are enthusiastic for freedom, some seek a field of personal distinction, some are mere freebooters; but whatever they be, the cause remains the same.”
“You may be right,——for all I know youareright,” said Norwood, doggedly; “but, for my own part, I have no fancy to fight shoulder to shoulder with cut-throats and housebreakers, even though the Church should have hallowed them with its blessing.” Norwood arose as he said this, And walked impatiently up and down the chamber.
“When do you propose to return to the army, my Lord?” said D'Esmonde, after a pause.
“I'm not sure; I don't even know if I shall return at all!” said Norwood, hastily. “I see little profit and less glory in the service! What say you, Morlache? Have they the kind of credit you would like to accept for a loan?”
“No, my Lord,” said the Jew, laughing; “Lombardy scrip would stand low in our market. I 'd rather advance my moneys on the faith of your good friend the Lady Hester Onslow.”
Norwood bit his lip and colored, but made no reply.
“She has crossed into Switzerland, has she not?” asked D'Esmonde, carelessly.
“Gone to England!” said the Viscount, briefly.
“When——how? I never heard of that,” said the Abbé. “I have put off writing to her from day to day, never suspecting that she was about to quit the Continent.”
“Nor did she herself till about a week ago, when Sir Stafford took an equally unexpected departure for the other world—”
“Sir Stafford dead! Lady Hester a widow!”
“Such is, I believe, the natural course of things for a woman to be when her husband dies.”
“A rich widow, too, I presume, my Lord?” said the Abbé, with a quiet but subtle glance at Norwood.
“That is more than she knows herself at this moment, I fancy; for they say that Sir Stafford has involved his bequests with so many difficulties, and hampered them with such a mass of conditions, that whether she will be a millionnaire or be actually poor must depend upon the future. I can answer for one point, however, Abbé,” said he, sarcastically; “neither the Sacred College nor the blessed brethren of the 'Pace' are like to profit by the banker's economies.”
“Indeed, my Lord,” said the Abbé, slowly, while a sickly pallor came over his countenance.
“He has left a certain Dr. Grounsell his executor,” continued Norwood; “and, from all that I can learn, no-man has less taste for painted windows, stoles, or saints' shin-bones.”
“Probably there may be other questions upon which he will prove equally obdurate,” said the Abbé, in a voice only audible to the Viscount “Is her Ladyship at liberty to marry again?”
“I cannot, I grieve to say, give you any information on that point,” said Norwood, growing deep red as he spoke.
“As your Lordship is going to England—”
“I didn't say so. I don't remember that I told you that!” cried he, hastily.
“Pardon me if I made such a palpable mistake; but it ran in my head that you said something to that purport.”
“It won't do, Abbé! it won't do,” said Norwood, in a low whisper. “We, who have graduated at the 'Red House' are just as wide awake as you of Louvain and St. Omer.”
D'Esmonde looked at him with an expression of blank astonishment, and seemed as if he had not the most vague suspicion as to what the sarcasm referred.
“When can I have half an hour with you, Morlache?” said the Viscount
“Whenever it suits you, my Lord. What say you to to-morrow morning at eleven?”
“No, no! let it be later; I must have a ten hours' sleep after all this fatigue, and the sooner I begin the better.”
“Where do you put up, my Lord,—at the Hôtel de l'Arno?” asked the Abbé.
“No; I wish we were there with all my heart; but, to do us honor, they have given us quarters at the 'Crocetto,' that dreary asylum for stray archdukes and vagabond grand-duchesses, in the farthest end of the city. We are surrounded with chamberlains, aides-de-camp, and guards of honor. The only thing they have forgotten is a cook. So I 'll come and dine here to-morrow.”
“You do me great honor, my Lord. I 'm sure the Abbé D'Esmonde will favor us with his company also.”
“If it be possible, I will,” said the Abbé. “Nothing but necessity would make me relinquish so agreeable a prospect.”
“Well, till our next meeting,” said the Viscount, yawning, as he put on his hat “It's too late to expect Midchekoff here to-night, and so good-bye. The streets are clear by this time, I trust.”
“A shrewd fellow, too,” said Morlache, looking after him.
“No, Morlache, not a bit of it!” said D'Esmonde. “Such intellects bear about the same proportion to really clever men as a good swordsman does to a first-rate operator in surgery. They handle a coarse weapon, and they deal with coarse antagonists. Employ them in a subtle negotiation or a knotty problem, and you might as well ask a sergeant of the Blues to take up the femoral artery. Did you not remark awhile ago that, for the sake of a sneer, he actually betrayed a secret about Sir Stafford Onslow's will?”
“And you believe all that to be true?”
“Of course I do. The only question is whether the Irish property, which, if I remember aright, was settled on Lady Hester at her marriage, can be fettered by any of these conditions? That alone amounts to some thousands a year, and would be a most grateful accession to those much-despised brethren his Lordship alluded to.”
“You can learn something about that point to-morrow, when he dines here.”
“He'll not be our guest to-morrow, Morlache. I must continue to occupy him for a day or two. He shall be invited to dine at court to-morrow,—the request is a command,—so that you will not see him. Receive Midchekoff if he calls, for I want to hear what he is about here; his money requirements will soon give us the clew. And I, too,” said he, stretching and speaking languidly,—“I, too, would be the better of some repose; it is now thirty-six hours, Morlache, since I closed my eyes in sleep. During that space I have written and dictated and talked and argued, urging on the lukewarm, restraining the rash, giving confidence to this one, preaching caution to that; and here I am, at the end of all, with my task as far as ever from completion. Events march faster than we, do what we will; and as the child never comes up with the hoop he has set in motion till it has fallen, so we rarely overtake the circumstances we have created till they have ceased to be of any value to us. Now, at this precise moment I want to be in the Vatican, at the camp of Goito, in the council-chamber at Schönbrunn,—not to speak of a certain humble homestead in a far-away Irish county; and yet I have nothing for it but to go quietly off to bed, leaving to fortune—I believe that is as good a name for it as any other—the course of events which, were I present, I could direct at will. Napoleon left a great example behind him; he beat his enemies always by rapidity. Believe me, Morlache, men think very much upon a par in this same world of ours; the great difference being that some take five minutes where others take five weeks: the man of minutes is sure to win.”
Just as the Abbé had spoken, Norwood returned, saying,——
“By the way, can either of you tell me if Jekyl is here now?”
“I have not seen him,” said Morlache, “which is almost proof that he is not His first visit is usually to me.”
The streets were silent. A few stray lamps yet flickered over the spacious cupola of the Duomo, and a broken line of light faintly tracked one angle of the tower of the Piazza Vecchia; but except these last lingering signs of the late rejoicings, all Florence lay in darkness.
“How quiet is everything!” said Morlache, as he took leave of his guests at his door.' “The streets are empty already.”
“Ay,” muttered the Abbé, “the rejoicing, like the victory, was but short-lived. Do our roads lie the same way, my Lord?” asked he of Norwood.
“Very seldom, I suspect,” replied the Viscount, with a laugh. “Mineis in this direction.”
“Andminelies this way,” said D'Esmonde, bowing coldly, but courteously, as he passed on, and entered the narrow street beyond the bridge. “You are quite right, my Lord,” muttered he to himself; “our paths in life are very different.Yoursmay be wider and pleasanter, but mine, with all its turnings, goes straighter.” He paused and listened for some seconds, till Norwood's steps had died away in the distance, and then turning back, he followed in the direction the other had taken.
Norwood walked rapidly along till he came to that small house on the Arno where Jekyl lived, and stopping in front of it, he threw a handful of sand against the window. To this signal, twice repeated, no reply was given to the Viscount He waited a few seconds, and then moved on. The Abbé stood under the shadow of the tall palaces till the other was out of sight, and then, approaching the door, gave a long, low whistle. Within a few seconds the sash was opened, and Jekyl's voice heard,——
“It's you, Abbé. There 's the key. Will you excuse ceremony, and let yourself in?”
D'Esmonde opened the door at once, and, mounting the stairs, entered the little chamber in which now Jekyl stood in his dressing-gown and slippers; and although suddenly roused from sleep, with a smile of courteous welcome on his diminutive features,——
“I paid no attention to your first signal, Abbé,” said he, “scarcely thinking it could be you.”
“Nor was it,” said D'Esmonde, seating himself. “It was Lord Norwood, who doubtless must have had some important reason for disturbing you at this hour. I waited till he went off before I whistled. When did you arrive?”
“About three hours ago. I came from Lucerne, and was obliged to take such a zig-zag course, the roads being all blocked up by marching soldiers, guns, and wagons, that I have been eight days making the journey of three.”
“So, Lady Hester is a widow! Strange, I only heard it an hour ago.”
“The post has been interrupted, or you would have known it a week back. I wrote to you from Zurich. I accompanied her so far on her way to England, and was to have gone the whole way, too, but she determined to send me back here.”
“Not to settle her affairs in Florence,” said D'Esmonde, with a quiet slyness.
“Rather to look after Lord Norwood's,” said Jekyl. “I never could exactly get to the bottom of the affair; but I suppose there must be some pledge or promise which, in a rash moment, she has made him, and that already she repents of.”
“How has she been left in the will?” asked D'Esmonde, abruptly.
“Her own words are, 'Infamously treated.' Except a bequest of ten thousand pounds, nothing beyond the Irish estate settled at the time of her marriage.”
“She will easily get rid of Norwood, then,” rejoined the Abbé, with a smile. “His price is higher.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” broke in Jekyl; “the noble Viscount's late speculations have all proved unfortunate, even to his book on Carlo Alberto. He thinks he has gone wrong in not hedging on Radetzky.”
“What does he know of the changes of politics?” said D'Esmonde, contemptuously. “Let him stick to his stablemen and the crafty youths of Newmarket, but leave state affairs for other and very different capacities. Does she care for him, Jekyl? Does she love him?”
“She does, and she does not,” said Jekyl, with a languishing air, which he sometimes assumed when asked for an opinion. “She likes his fashionable exterior, his easy kind of drawing-room assurance, and, perhaps not least of all, the tone of impertinent superiority he displays towards all other men; but she is afraid of him,——afraid of his temper and his tyrannical humor, and terribly afraid of his extravagance.”
“How amusing it is!” said D'Esmonde, with a yawn. “A minister quits the cabinet in disgust, and retires into private life forever, when his first step is to plot his return to power. So your widow is invariably found weighing the thoughts of her mourning with speculations on a second husband. Why need she marry again; tell me that?”
“Because she is a widow, perhaps. I know no other reason,” lisped out Jekyl.
“I cannot conceive a greater folly than that of these women, with ample fortune, sacrificing their independence by marriage. The whole world is their own, if they but knew it. They command every source of enjoyment while young, and have all the stereotyped solaces of old age when it comes upon them; and with poodles, parrots, and parasites, mornings of scandal and evenings of whist, eke out a very pretty existence.”
“Dash the whole with a little religion, Abbé,” cried Jekyl, laughing, “and the picture will be tolerably correct.”
“She shall not marry Lord Norwood; that, at least, I can answer for,” said D'Esmonde, not heeding the other.
“It will be difficult to prevent it, Abbé,” said the other, dryly.
“Easier than you think for. Come, Master Jekyl, assume a serious mood for once, and pay attention to what I am about to say. This line of life you lead cannot go on forever. Even were your own great gifts to resist time and its influences, a new generation will spring up with other wants and requirements, and another race will come who knew not Joseph. With all your versatility it will be late to study new models, and acquire a new tongue. Have you speculated, then, I ask you, on this contingency?”
“I 've some thoughts of a 'monkery,'” lisped out Jekyl; “if the good folk could only be persuaded to adopt a little cleanliness.”
“Would not marriage suit you better; a rich widow, titled, well-connected, and good-looking, of fashionable habits, and tastes that resemble your own?”
“There are difficulties in the case,” said Jekyl, calmly.
“State them,” rejoined the Abbé.
“To begin. There is Lady Hester herself,—for, of course, you meanher.”
“I engage to solve all on that head.”
“Then there is the Viscount.”
“For him, too, I hold myself responsible.”
“Lastly, there is Albert Jekyl, who, however admirably he understands garçon life, might discover that the husband was not among the range of his characters. As it is, my dear Abbé, I lead a very pretty existence. I am neither bored nor tormented, I never quarrel with anybody, nor is the rudest man ever discourteous to me. I possess nothing that any one envies, except that heaven-born disposition to be pleased, of which nothing can rob me. I dine well, drive in rich equipages, and, if I liked, might ride the best horses; have at least a dozen Opera-boxes ready to receive me, and sweeter smiles to welcome me than would become me to boast of.”
“Well, then, my proposal is to give you all these on a life interest instead of being a tenant-at-will,” broke in D'Esmonde.
“And all this out of pure regard for me?” asked Jekyl, with a sly look.
“As a pure matter of bargain,” replied D'Esmonde. “Lady Hester has advanced large sams to the cause in which I am interested. It would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to repay them. We still want means, and that ten thousand pounds' legacy would render us immense service at this moment. Her income can well spare the sacrifice.”
“Yes, yes,” said Jekyl, musingly; and then looking fondly at his own image in the glass, he said, “I shall be a dead bargain, after all.”
D'Esmonde bit his lip to repress some movement of impatience, and after a pause said,——
“This matter does not admit of delay. Circumstances will soon require my presence in England, and with a strong sum at my command; besides—”
“If I understand you aright,” said Jekyl, “You are to conduct the whole negotiations to a successful end, and that I shall have neither a bill to endorse, nor a duel to fight, throughout the affair.”
“You shall be scathless.”
“There is another point,” said Jekyl, quickly. “How shall I figure in the newspapers,—Albert Jekyl, Esquire, of where? Have you thought of that? I wish I had even an uncle a baronet.”
“Pooh, pooh!” said D'Esmonde, impatiently. “You marry into the peerage; that's quite enough.”
“Perhaps you 're right,” said Jekyl. “All that enumeration of family connection——'niece to the Chief Justice of Rembouk,' or 'cousin-german to the Vice-Consul at Gumdalloo'—smacks terribly of 'Moses and Son.'”
“We are agreed, then,” said the Abbé, rising.
“I swear,” said Jekyl, rising, and throwing out his hand in the attitude of the well-known picture of the “Marshals.” “The step that I am about to take will throw its gloom over many a dinner-party, and bring sadness into many asalon; but I 'll retire at least with dignity, and, like Napoleon, I'll write my memoirs.”
“So far, then, so good,” said D'Esmonde; “now, with your leave, I throw myself on this sofa and snatch an hour's sleep.” And ere Jekyl had arranged the folds of what he called his “sable pelisse” as a covering, the Abbé was in deep slumber.
With less than two hours of sleep, D'Esmonde arose refreshed and ready for the day. Jekyl was not awake as the priest quitted his quarters, and, repairing to his own lodgings, dressed himself with more than usual care. Without any of the foppery of the Abbé, there was a studied elegance in every detail of his costume, and as he stepped into the carriage which awaited him, many turned their looks of admiration at the handsome priest.
“To the Crocetto,” said he, and away they went.
It was already so early that few persons were about as they drove into the court of the palace, and drew up at a private door. Here D'Esmonde got out and ascended the stairs.
“Ah, Monsignore!” said a young man, somewhat smartly Attired in a dressing-gown and velvet cap. “He did not return here last night.”
“Indeed!” said the Abbé, pondering.
“He dismissed the carriage at the Pitti, so that in all likelihood he passed the night at the palace.”
“Most probably,” said D'Esmonde, with a bland smile; And then, with a courteous “Good-morning,” he returned to his carriage.
“Where to, Signore?” asked the driver.
“Towards the Duomo,” said he. But scarcely had the man turned the second corner, than he said, “To the 'Moskova,' Prince Midchekoffs villa.”
“We 're turning our back to it, Signore. It's on the hill of Fiesole.”
D'Esmonde nodded, but said no more. Although scarcely a league from the city, the way occupied a considerable time, being one continued and steep ascent. The Abbé was, however, too deeply engaged with his own thoughts to bestow attention on the pace they journeyed, or the scene around. He was far from being insensible to the influence of the picturesque or the beautiful; but now other and weightier considerations completely engrossed his mind, nor was he aware how the moments passed till the carriage came to a stop.
“The Prince is absent, sir, in Lombardy,” said a gruff-looking porter from within the gate.
D'Esmonde descended, and whispered some words between the bars.
“But my orders——my orders!” said the man, in a tone of deference.
“They would be peremptory against any other thanme,” said D'Esmonde, calmly; and, after a few seconds' pause, the man unlocked the gate, and the carriage passed in.
“To the back entrance,” called out D'Esmonde. And they drove into a spacious courtyard, where a number of men were engaged in washing carriages, cleaning horses, and all the other duties of the stable. One large and cumbrous vehicle, loaded with all the varied “accessories” of the road, and fortified by many a precaution against the accidents of the way, stood prominent. It was covered with stains and splashes, and bore unmistakable evidence of a long Journey. A courier, with a red-brown beard descending to his breast, was busy in locking and unlocking the boxes, as if in search of some missing article.
“How heavy the roads are in the north!” said D'Esmonde, addressing him in German.
The man touched his cap in a half-sullen civility, and muttered an assent.
“I once made the same journey myself, in winter,” resumed the Abbé, “and I remembered thinking that no man undergoes such real hardship as a courier. Sixteen, seventeen, ay, twenty days and nights of continued exposure to cold and snows, and yet obliged to have all his faculties on full stretch the whole time, to remember every post station, every bridge and ferry,—the steep mountain passes, where oxen must be hired,—the frontiers of provinces, where passports are vised.”
“Ay, and when the lazy officials will keep you standing in the deep snow a full hoar at midnight, while they ring every copeck to see it be good money.”
“That's the true and only metal for a coinage,” said D'Esmonde, as he drew forth a gold Napoleon, and placed it in the other's hand. “Take it, my worthy fellow,” said he; “it's part of a debt I owe to every man who wears the courier's jacket. Had it not been for one ofyourcloth, I 'd have been drowned at the ford of Ostrovitsch.”
“It's the worst ferry in the Empire,” said the courier. “The Emperor himself had a narrow escape there. The raft is one half too small.”
“How many days have you taken on the way?” asked D'Esmonde, carelessly
“Twenty-eight—yesterday would have made the twenty-ninth—but we arrived before noon.”
“Twenty-eight days!” repeated D'Esmonde, pondering.
“Ay, and nights too! But remember that Vradskoi Noteki is three hundred and eighty versts below St. Petersburg.”
“I know it well,” said D'Esmonde, “and with a heavily loaded carriage it's a weary road. How did she bear the journey?” said he, in a low, scarcely uttered whisper.
“Bear it I——better than I did; and, except when scolding the postilions for not going twelve versts an hour, in deep snow, she enjoyed herself the entire way.”
D'Esmonde gave a knowing look and a smile, as though to say that he recognized her thoroughly in the description.
“You know her, then?” asked the courier.
“This many a year,” replied the Abbé, with a faint sigh.
“She's a rare one,” said the man, who grew at each instant more confidential, “and thinks no more of a gold rouble than many another would of a copeck. Is it true, as they say, she was once an actress?”
“There are stranger stories than that about her,” said D'Esmonde. “But why has she come alone? How happens it that she is here?”
“That is the secret that none of us can fathom,” said the courier. “We thought there was to have been another, and I believe there is another in the passport, but it was no affair of mine. I had my orders from the Prince's own 'intendant,' who bespoke all the relays for the road, and here we are.”
“I will explain all the mystery to you at another time, courier,” said D'Esmonde; “meanwhile, let nothing of what we have been saying escape you. By the way,” added he, half carelessly, “what name did she travel under?”
“The passport was made out 'Die Gräfin von Dalton;' but she has a Spanish name, for I heard it once from the intendant.”
“Was it Lola de Seviglia?”
“That was it. I remember it well.”
“We are very old friends indeed!” said the Abbé; “and now be cautious; let none know that we have spoken together, and I can serve your fortune hereafter.”
The German scarcely looked quite satisfied with himself for the confidence he had been unwittingly led into; “but, after all,” thought he, “the priest knew more than I could tell him;” and so he resumed his search without further thought of the matter.
As for D'Esmonde, his first care was to inquire for Monsieur de Grasse, the Prince's chief secretary, with whom he remained closeted for nigh an hour. It will not be necessary to inflict all the detail of that interview on the reader; enough that we state its substance to have been a pressing entreaty on the part of D'Esmonde to be admitted to an audience of the Prince, as firmly resisted by the secretary, whose orders were not to admit any one, nor, indeed, acknowledge that his Highness was then there.
“You must wait upon him at the Crocetto, Monsignore,” said De Grasse. “Your presence here will simply cause the dismissal of those who have admitted you, and yet never advance your own wishes in the least.”
“My business is too urgent, sir, to be combated by reasons so weak as these,” replied D'Esmonde; “nor am I much accustomed to the air of an antechamber.”
“You must yet be aware, Monsignore, that the orders of Prince Midchekoff are absolute in his own house.” The secretary dropped his voice almost to a whisper as he finished this sentence, for he had just overheard the Prince speaking to some one without, and could detect his step as he came along the corridor.
With a look of most meaning entreaty he besought the Abbé to keep silence, while he crept noiselessly over and turned the key. D'Esmonde uttered an exclamation of anger, and, sweeping past a window, within which stood a magnificent vase of malachite, he caught the costly object in the wide folds of his gown, and dashed it to the ground in a thousand pieces. De Grasse gave a sudden cry of horror, and at the same instant Midchekoff knocked at the door, and demanded admittance. With faltering hand the secretary turned the key, and the Prince entered the room, casting his eyes from D'Esmonde to the floor, where the fragments lay, and back again to the priest, with a significance that showed how he interpreted the whole incident. As for the Abbé, he looked as coldly indifferent to the accident as though it were the veriest trifle he had destroyed.
“I came to have a few moments' interview with you, Prince,” said he, calmly; “can you so far oblige me?”
“I am entirely at your orders, Monsignore,” said the Russian, with a faint smile. “Allow me to conduct you to a chamber in less disorder than this one.”
The Abbé bowed, and followed him, not seeming to hear the allusion. And now, passing through a number of rooms, whose gorgeous furniture was carefully covered, they reached a small chamber opening upon a conservatory, where a breakfast-table was already spread.
“I will waste neither your time nor my own, Prince, by an apology for the hour of this visit, nor the place; my business did not admit of delay—that will excuse me in your eyes.”
The Prince gave a cold bow, but never spoke.
D'Esmonde resumed. “I have heard the news from the camp: Lord Norwood tells me that the Austrians have fallen back, and with a heavy loss too.”
“Not heavy!” said the Russian, with a smile.
“Enough, however, to raise the hopes and strengthen the courage of the others. Goito was, at least, a victory.” A faint shrug of the shoulders was the only reply the Prince made, and the Abbé went on: “Things are too critical, Prince, to treat the event slightingly. We cannot answer either for France or England; still less can we rely on the politicians of Vienna. A second or a third reverse, and who can say that they will not treat for a peace, at the cost of half the States of Lombardy. Nay, sir, I am not speaking without book,” added he, more warmly; “I know—I repeat it——I know that such a negotiation has been entertained, and that at this moment the Cabinet of England has the matter in its consideration.”
“It may be so,” said the Prince, carelessly, as he poured out his coffee.
“Then there is not a moment to be lost,” cried the Abbé, impetuously. “A cession of the Milanais means a Republic of Upper Italy,—the downfall of the Popedom,—the rule of infidelity over the Peninsula. Arewe—areyouprepared for this? Enough has been done to show that Italian 'unity' is a fiction. Let us complete the lesson by proving that they cannot meet the Austrian in arms. The present generation, at least, will not forget the chastisement, if it be but heavy enough.”
“We may leave that task to the Imperialists,” said the Prince, with a cold smile.
“I do not think so. I know too much of German sluggishness and apathy. The reinforcements, that should pour in like a flood, creep lazily along. The dread of France—the old terror of those wars that once crushed them—is still uppermost. They know not how far Europe will permit them to punish a rebellious province; and while they hesitate, they give time for the growth of that public opinion that will condemn them.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said the Russian, as he sipped his coffee carelessly.
“And if I be,” cried D'Esmonde, passionately, “are we to sit tranquilly here till the ruin overtake us? Will Russia wait till the flame of a red republic throws its lurid glare over Europe, and even gleam over the cold waters of the Neva? Is it her wish, or to her benefit, that the flag of the democrat and the infidel is to float over the Continent?”
“You conjured up the monster yourself, Monsignore. It is for you to order him back to the depths he came from.”
“And we are ready for the task,” said the priest. “We fostered this revolt, because we saw it was better to lop off a diseased limb than to suffer the gangrene to spread over the entire body; better to cast down into utter perdition the wild democrats, who but half believed us, than peril the countless millions of true Catholics. Nay, more, we acted with your counsel and concurrence. That revolt has already borne its fruits. Men see no issue to the struggle they are engaged in. The men of moderation are overborne by the wild clamor of the factionist. Anarchy is amongst them, and now is our moment to bid the contest cease, and earn from mankind the glorious epithet of 'peacemaker.' The tide of victory once turned, see how the mind of Europe will turn with it. Good wishes are prone to go with the battalions that advance!”
“Good wishes are not too costly a sympathy,” said the Russian, coolly.
“It is to that point I am coming, Prince,” said the Abbé; “nor have I intruded myself on your privacy to-day merely to discuss the public opinion of Europe. The whole of this question lies in a narrow compass. It is time that this struggle should cease,—it is, at least, time that the tide of conquest should turn. Were Austria free to use her strength, we might trust the issue to herself; but she is not, and we must help her. I hold here the means,” said he, placing on the table a heavy pocket-book crammed with letters. “This,” said he, taking up one large sealed packet, “is an autograph from his Holiness, commanding Durando to halt at the Po, and under no circumstances to cross the frontier. This,” continued he, showing another, “is to Ghirardi, to grant leave of absence to all officers who desire to return to their homes. This is to Krasaletzki, to provide for the disbandment of his legion. The King of Naples waits but for the signal to recall General Pepe and his contingent, fifteen thousand strong. And now, Prince, there is but one other voice in Europe we wait for—the Czar's!”
“His Imperial Majesty has ever wished well to the cause of order,” said the Russian, with a studied calm of manner.
“Away with such trifling as this!” said D'Esmonde, passionately; “nor do not try to impose on me by those courteous generalities that amuse cabinets. Russia speaks to Western Europe best by her gold. The 'rouble' can come where the 'Cossack' cannot! There are men with those armies that comprehend no other argument——whose swords have their price. Our treasures are exhausted; the sacred vessels of our altars—the golden ornaments of our shrines—are gone. You alone can aid us at this moment. It is no barren generosity, Prince! you are combating your Poles more cheaply beside the Po and the Adige than on the banks of the Vistula! you are doing more! you are breaking up those ancient alliances of Europe whose existence excluded you from continental power! you are buying your freedom to sit down among the rulers of the Old World, and accustoming the nations of the West to the voice of the Boyard in their councils! And, greatest of all, you are crushing into annihilation that spirit of revolt that now rages like a pestilence. But why do I speak of these things to one like you? you know full well the terms of the compact Your own handwriting has confessed it.”
Midchekoff gave a slight—a very slight—movement of surprise, but never spoke.
“Yes,” continued D'Esmonde, “I have within that pocket-book at this moment the receipt of Count Grünenburg, the Austrian Secretary-at-War, for the second instalment of a loan advanced by Prince Midchekoff to the Imperial Government. I have a copy of the order in council acknowledging in terms of gratitude the aid, and recommending that the cross of St. Stephen should be conferred on the illustrious lender. And, less gracious than these,” added he, with sarcastic bitterness, “I have the record of the Emperor's scruples about according the first-class order of the Empire to one whose nobility was but left-handed. Were these to appear to-morrow in theRazionale, is it only your pride as a prince that would be humbled? Or think you that a single stone would rest upon another in this gorgeous edifice where we are standing? Who or what could restrain an infuriated populace from wreaking their vengeance on the traitor? Who would lift a hand against the pillage of this splendor, and the desecration of this magnificence? It is not willingly that I tell you these things, nor had I ever spoken of them if you had but heard me with fitting attention. I know, too, the price at which they are uttered. We never can be friends; but that is of small moment Our cause—ours, I say, for it is yours no less than mine—is above such consideration.”
“How much do you require?” said Midchekoff, as he leaned his arm on the chimney-piece, and stared calmly at the Abbé.
“Ghirardi and his staff demand two hundred thousand francs; Albizi will be a cheaper bargain. Marionetti and his force will be surrounded, and retire from Lombardy on parole of not serving during the campaign,——he only asks enough to emigrate with. Then, there is the Commissary of the Crociati,—he is quite ready to become his own paymaster. There are others of inferior rank and pretensions, with whom I shall treat personally. The press, particularly of England, will be the difficulty; but its importance is above all price. The public mind must be brought back, from its sympathy for a people, to regard the rulers more favorably. Anarchy and misrule must be displayed in their most glaring colors. The Crociati will do us good service here; their crimes would sully a holier crusade than this! But I weary you, sir,” said the Abbé, stopping suddenly, and observing that Midchekoff, instead of seeming to listen, was busily occupied in writing.
“Morlache holds bills of mine to this amount,” said the Prince, showing a list of several large sums; “he will place them at your disposal on your giving a receipt for them. This is an order, also, regarding certain emeralds I have commissioned him to have mounted in gold. He need not do so, but will dispose of the gems, as I shall not want them.” A very slight flush here colored his cheek, and he paused as if some bitter thought had crossed his mind.
D'Esmonde's quick eye read the meaning of the expression, and he said, “Am I to congratulate your Highness on the approach of a certain happy event?”
“His Majesty has not deigned to accord me the necessary permission,” was the reply.
“Then I will be bold enough to say I congratulate you,” cried D'Esmonde. “Your alliance should be with a royal house, Prince.Yourposition in Europe is exceptional; such should beyourmarriage. Besides, the day is not very distant when there must come another dissection of the map of Europe. There will be new principalities, but wanting heads to rule them. The world is tired of Coburgs, and would gladly see another name amongst its royalties.”
“I am at the disposal of my Emperor,” said Midchekoff, coldly; for whatever effect the flatteries might produce within, neither his words nor his looks would betray it, and now by his manner he showed that he wished the interview over.
“Mademoiselle, then, returns to her family?” asked D'Esmonde.
“To the care of the Count von Auersberg.”
“The reputation of having attracted your Highness will be a fortune to her.”
“She has refused a settlement of eighty thousand roubles a year.”
“A most princely offer!” cried D'Esmonde.
“His Majesty fixed the sum,” said Midchekoff, as coolly as though talking of an indifferent matter.
D'Esmonde now rose to take his leave, but there was a reluctance in his manner that showed he was unwilling to go. At last he said, “Does your Highness intend to return to the camp?”
“The day after to-morrow.”
“I ask,” said the Abbé, “inasmuch as I am hourly in expectation of hearing from Cardinal Maraffa with reference to a certain decoration which you should long since have received——”
“Indeed! has his Holiness been pleased to consider me amongst his most ardent well-wishers?” cried the Prince, interrupting.
“I may be in a position to assure your Highness on that score before another day elapses. May I hope that you will receive me, even at some inconvenience, for my time is much occupied just now?”
“Whenever you call, Monsieur l'Abbé,” was the prompt reply. “If you will deign to accept this ring as a souvenir of me, it will also serve to admit you at all hours and in all places to me.”
“Your costly gift, Prince,” said D'Esmonde, flushing, “has a greater value in my eyes than all its lustre can express.” And with a most affectionate leave-taking they parted.
“At what hour is the Prince's carriage ordered?” said the Abbé, as he passed through the hall.
“For two o'clock precisely, Monsignore. He is to have an audience at the Pitti.”
“To Florence——and with speed!” said D'Esmonde to his coachman; and away they drove.