CHAPTER V.DOUBT DISPELLED.
It was ten o’clock on the morning of the thirtieth of August, 1724, when Tito, thoroughly instructed by that negative Power, entered the palace of San Ildefonso, and asked audience of Philip V., of whose position at that time we wish to remind the reader.
First Bourbon of Spain, nephew of Louis XIV., of France, he accepted the Spanish crown only when he had found it impossible to secure that of France. But princes were dying, uncles and cousins of his, who separated him from the throne of his native land; therefore, in order to place himself in readiness to occupy it, should his nephew, Louis XV., die (at that time very ill and but fourteen years of age), he abdicated, in favor of his son Louis I., and retired to San Ildefonso. At thisstage the health of Louis XV. greatly improved, and Louis I. was suddenly taken so ill, that grave fears were entertained for his life. Couriers were kept in constant service between the Granja palace and Madrid, bringing Philip hourly bulletins concerning the condition of his son. The ambitious father, incited further by his celebrated second wife, Isabel Farnesio (much more ambitious than he), did not know what part to take in this hopeless and serious conflict. Would the throne of Spain be vacant before that of France? Should he declare his intention of reigning anew in Madrid, preparing himself to seize the heritage of his son? But should Louis I. not die? Would it not be a blunder to expose the depth of his perfidy to all Europe? Would not such action render useless his seven months of solitude? And would it not be to renounce forever the sweet hope of seating himself on the coveted throne of Saint Louis? What should he do? To hope, was only wasting precious time! He was hated by the Assembly, and denied all influence in affairs of State. To take but one step,might compromise his life’s ambition, and his name to posterity.
False Philip V! The temptations of the world assailed him in the desert, and he paid very dearly in those hours of doubt for the hypocrisy of his abdication!
Such was the condition of affairs when Tito presented himself before the scheming Philip as a courier bearing important tidings.
“What do you wish?” asked the king, without turning, when he heard him enter the chamber.
“Look at me, your majesty,” answered Tito, unabashed. “Do not fear that I may read your thoughts; they are no mystery to me.”
Philip turned quickly towards that man, whose voice, dry and cold as the truth it revealed, had frozen his heart’s blood; but his anger melted before the funereal smile of the Friend of Death.
He felt a superstitious terror on fixing his eyes on Tito’s; and raising a tremulous hand to the bell beside him, repeated his first question.
“What do you wish?”
“Sire, I am a physician,” answered Tito, quietly, “and I have such confidence in my science, that I dare tell your majesty the day, hour and instant when Louis I. will die.”
Philip looked with more attention at the ragged boy, whose countenance was as supernatural as beautiful.
“Speak!” said the king.
“Ah, no!” replied Tito, with a degree of sarcasm; “we must first arrange the price.”
The king started on hearing these words as if waking from a dream; he saw the matter in another light, and was almost ashamed of having tolerated it.
“Here!” said he, touching the bell, “arrest this man!”
A captain of guards appeared, and placed his hand on Tito’s shoulder. The boy remained perfectly quiet.
The king, returning to his first superstition, cast a side glance at the strange physician, then rising with difficulty (for the weakness he had suffered for some years had lately augmented), said to the officer: “Leave us alone.”
Planting himself finally in front of Tito, as if to banish his fear, he asked him with feigned calmness,
“Well, owl-face! who the devil are you?”
“I am the Friend of Death,” answered Tito, with a steady, quiet look.
“Who is the friend of all sinners,” gayly added the king, as if to ward off his puerile fear. “And what have you to say of our son?”
“I say,” said Tito, taking a step toward the king, who involuntarily retreated, “that I bring you a crown; I do not say whether it is that of Spain or of France, as that is the secret for which you must pay me. I also say that we are losing precious time, and that consequently I must speak to you soon and clearly. Listen to me, therefore, with attention. Louis I. is dying. Nevertheless his sickness is not incurable. Your Majesty is the dog in the manger.”
Philip interrupted him.
“Speak! Say what you wish; I desire to hear it all. In any case I propose to have you hanged.”
The Friend of Death, shrugging his shoulders, continued:
“I likened your Majesty to the dog in the manger. You had the crown of Spain upon your head: you dropped it, to seize that of France, and it fell upon the cradle of your son; Louis XV. secured his own and now you are left with neither.”
“It is true!” exclaimed Philip, as much in looks as in words.
“To-day,” continued Tito, observing the king’s expression, “to-day that you are nearer to the throne of France than that of Spain, you are about to expose yourself to the same disappointment. The two infant kings, Louis I. and Louis XV., are ill; you might be able to succeed both; but it is necessary for you to know a few hours in advance which of the two will die first. Louis I. is in the greater danger, but the crown of France is the more beautiful. Here lies your difficulty. You appreciate the situation. You dare not stretch your hand toward the sceptre of Ferdinand, apprehensive that your son may live, that your French partisans might abandon you, and that historywould ridicule you. In fact you dare not drop the bit that you hold between your teeth, fearful that the other may be a mere shadow or illusion.”
“Speak! speak!” said Philip, eagerly, fearing that Tito had concluded. “Say what you have to say, for from here you go direct to a dungeon, where only the walls will hear you. Speak! I should like to hear what the world has to say regarding my thoughts.”
The ex-shoemaker smiled derisively.
“Dungeon! Gallows!” he exclaimed. “I know all that kings can do, still I am not alarmed. Listen a little longer; I am about to conclude. Sire, I must be appointed Physician to the Court, obtain the title of Duke, with thirty thousand dollars, this very day. Your Majesty laughs; but I need all this as much as your Majesty needs to know whether Louis I. will succumb to his illness.”
“And you know that?” asked the king in a low voice, unable to overcome the terror which the boy caused him.
“I shall know it to-night.”
“How?”
“I have already told you that I am the Friend of Death.”
“And what is that? Tell me!”
“Of that I was also ignorant; but take me to the palace in Madrid, let me see the reigning king, and I will tell you the sentence which the Eternal One has written upon his brow.”
“And if you mistake?” said Philip of Anjou, drawing nearer to Tito.
“You may hang me, or hold me prisoner at your will.”
“You are a wizard then!” exclaimed Philip, attempting in a measure to justify the faith he placed in Tito’s words.
“Sire,” he answered, “there are no wizards nowadays. The last one was Louis XIV., and the last bewitched was Charles II. The crown of Spain that we sent to you in Paris, twenty-five years ago, wrapped in the will of an idiot, redeemed us from the captivity of the Devil, in which we had lived since the abdication of Charles V. You know that better than any one.”
“Physician to the Court! Duke! And thirty thousand dollars,” murmured the king.
“For a crown worth more than you imagine,” added Tito.
“You have my royal word,” replied Philip, solemnly, overpowered by that voice, that face, that mysterious bearing.
“You swear it, your Majesty?”
“I promise it,” responded the king. “I promise it, if you prove to me beforehand that you are something more than man.”
“Elena, you will be mine,” murmured Tito.
The king, calling the captain, gave him some orders.
“Now,” said he, “while they arrange your trip to Madrid, tell me your history and explain your science.”
“I desire to please you, Sire, but I fear that you would understand neither the one nor the other.”
An hour later the Captain was travelling post haste to Madrid with our hero, who for the time being had discarded his rags, and was dressed in a magnificent costume of black velvet and lace, a plumed hat, and a sword at his side.
Philip had supplied him with money andthese clothes, after concluding his strange contract with Death.
We will follow the good Tito, notwithstanding his haste, for he may meet his idolized Elena or the odious Countess of Rionuevo in the queen’s chamber, and we do not wish to be ignorant of the slightest details of such interesting encounters.