Kitabı oku: «The Prime Minister», sayfa 37
“Did you not hear a noise, Senhor Policarpio?” said one of the persons.
“Stay! listen, Manoel. I hear nothing. Oh, it was but the wind rustling the leaves,” answered Senhor Policarpio, and they continued the subject of their discussion, but in so low a tone that it was impossible to distinguish what they said.
Antonio waited, intending to dodge round to the back of the summer-house as soon as Policarpio and his companion moved, when the sound of their footsteps would conceal his own. He wished they would hasten, for he longed to be off, to give the information he had gained; but minute after minute passed by, and still they continued in the same place. His impatience prompted him to make a bold push for the window, but his prudence withheld him. At last they moved away, taking the walk leading past the window, and he slid behind the summer-house; but what was his vexation to hear them stop at the only outlet for escape that he was aware of, one of the men exclaiming, “Curses on this window, ’tis the second time it has blown open to-night; I will secure the bolts well this time;” then followed a noise as if the bolts were driven down by a stone.
The footsteps of the men receding, he again advanced from his hiding-place, and, seeing no one, hurried to the window. It was securely closed. He tried to force up the bolts, but they resisted his efforts. He then groped about for the stone which had served the purpose of a hammer to the others, and, after some time, having discovered it, he attempted to drive up the bolts. He knocked away till one only remained to set him at liberty, when suddenly a gleam of light fell on the shutter before him, and, turning his head, to his dismay, he beheld the two persons who he thought had entered the house hurrying towards him. Not a moment was to be lost, if he would escape with his life. He knocked away at the bolt, but it had been driven deep down.
“Death to the cursed spy!” shouted the voice of Senhor Policarpio, as he rushed forward, with his sword gleaming in his hand. The threat did not the less cause Antonio to endeavour to loosen the obstinate bolt. The point of the sword was within a few paces of him, when the bolt gave way. He threw open the shutter, and leaped on the window-sill. Policarpio made a thrust with his rapier at him; but, jumping fearlessly down, he alighted safely on the ground. Stopping not to see if any followed, and diving among the narrow lanes in the neighbourhood, he was soon safe from pursuit.
Volume Three – Chapter Thirteen
The Prime Minister was seated in the private council chamber of the King, to which we have frequently before introduced our readers. A lamp stood on the table, throwing its light on numerous packets of papers strewed around, and on the sheet on which he was earnestly employed in writing.
Who would, we again ask, seek to occupy such a post as he filled? What can make a man sacrifice his health, his strength, peace, happiness, and safety, – to toil for hours while others sleep, – to bear the abuse of his adversaries, the revilings of the mob, the obstinacy of coadjutors, and the caprices of the Monarch, – but ambition? The ambition of some leads them to noble ends; for others, it wins but the hatred of mankind. It is ambition which excites the warrior to deeds of heroism, – the merchant to gain wealth, – the poet, the painter, and the sculptor, to win fame; and it is ambition which causes us to spend day after day, secluded in our study, employed on this work – the ambition of gaining the approbation of our countrymen.
Carvalho wrote on, unmindful of the lateness of the hour, when he heard a knock at the door, and, ordering the person who knocked to enter, a page appeared, informing him that one waited without who sought an audience on some important matter, which would admit of no delay.
“Let him be admitted,” said the Minister; and before a minute had elapsed, Antonio stood before him. The attendants who had conducted him thither, to guard against treachery, were ordered forthwith to retire.
“What information do you bring me, my friend?” inquired the Minister.
“That which you have long sought, please your Excellency,” answered Antonio.
“Ah! let me hear it without delay,” said Carvalho, eagerly.
“I have learned the whole of the plot against the lives of your Excellency and his Majesty, and discovered many of those engaged in it;” and he gave an exact account of all which had taken place in the summer-house, and the names of the persons assembled there, of which the Minister took notes as he proceeded in his description.
“Now, then, ye haughty nobles, I have ye within my power!” exclaimed Carvalho, exultingly. “Sooner will the vulture abandon his prey than I will allow you to escape my grasp! Friend, you have well won any reward you may please to ask, – the treasury shall supply you – ”
“Stay, your Excellency,” interrupted Antonio. “I before said, I serve you not for money. I am, as you well know, of the race of Abraham; but I am not, therefore, of necessity, mercenary. Think you that any gold you can bestow could repay me for all I have endured to serve you, – for the degradation, the toil, the dangers I have undergone, – the deceit, the disguises, the watchfulness I have practised, for many years past, because you assured me you could find no other to do the work you required, in whom you could confide? Think you that it was for gold I abandoned my home and my kindred, to mingle with the most base and vile on earth, to curb their passions, and to guide them according to your will? – that for this I introduced myself into the palaces of the rich and powerful, to learn their secrets, and to act as a spy on their actions? No! your Excellency has known me long, and knows me better. What I ask, you have power to grant. I demand freedom for my people! We have in all things conformed to the customs of those among whom we dwell; to their religion, in every outward observance, which is all you can require; we pay tithes to your priests; we give alms to the poor; our manners, our language, have become the same; we obey the King and the law; and yet have we not been allowed to enjoy the rights of citizenship in the land which we enrich by our industry and our commerce. A mark has been set upon us; and wherever we move, still is the stigma of being New Christians attached to us. I demand, then, as my reward, that you should abolish that invidious distinction, and that, from henceforth, if we conform to the worship of your Church, we may likewise enjoy all the privileges of the other subjects of his Majesty.”
“Your demands, my friend, are somewhat extravagant,” returned the Minister, taken rather by surprise by Antonio’s unexpected harangue; “but I will consult his Majesty on the subject, and be guided by his decision: if unfavourable to your wishes, you must make some other request. You know well that, of myself, I have no power to grant this one.”
“Pardon me, your Excellency, I know well the power, both to will and act, rests with you, and you alone,” answered Antonio, vehemently. “And this is the only reward which I seek, or will receive. If you grant it me not, my labour has indeed been labour in vain.”
Carvalho was secretly pleased with the disinterested, and, more than that, the dauntless spirit of the speaker, so like his own, and perhaps also with the confidence he placed in his power to fulfil his wishes. The measure was, indeed, one he had before contemplated, and which he was anxious to bring about, though he was too good a diplomatist to acknowledge his intentions, or to commit himself by making any definite promise to perform what he might afterwards have reason to wish left undone; he therefore gave Antonio a vague answer to his petition.
“The matter you propose, my good friend, is one of vast importance, which will require mature deliberation before I can give you any hopes favourable to your wishes; but, believe me, I will do my utmost to gain that justice for your people which has so long been denied them: in the mean time, you may perform for me many more important services; for to crush this vile conspiracy at present demands all my attention.”
“I would willingly serve your Excellency and the state yet another year, to gain justice for my people,” answered Antonio. “In your word have I trusted, and in that do I still trust. Has your Excellency any further commands?”
“None, my friend; for this night you may retire. Call here to-morrow morning, and I shall claim your services.”
As the door closed upon Antonio, the Minister, securing most of his papers in the bureau, took in his hand the notes he had made from Antonio’s information, and, late as was the hour, repaired to the chamber of the King.
Joseph was about to retire to his couch when the Minister entered: his cheek was thinner and paler even than usual, from sickness and confinement, though he moved his arms without difficulty, as if perfectly recovered from the wounds he had received. Re-seating himself in a large, high-backed arm-chair, before a table on which his supper had been spread, he desired, in rather a querulous tone, to be informed why business was thus brought before him.
“It is a matter of the utmost importance, which will admit of no delay, Sire,” answered Carvalho. “I have, at length, the strongest evidence of who were the perpetrators of the sacrilegious outrage against your Majesty.”
The King’s tone and manner instantly changed. “Ah! and you can prevent any like attempt for the future, my good friend,” he answered eagerly. “Let me hear the particulars.”
On this the Minister laid before him several papers, with the notes he had taken of Antonio’s account, and a long list of the persons he had cause to suspect; many of whom Antonio had also mentioned. As the King read on, Carvalho leaned over him, making his observations on the different points of the case.
“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Joseph, his voice trembling with agitation as his eye glanced down the long list of names. “Here are many of the most powerful and wealthy nobles of my land. It is impossible that they can all be traitors. Some of them I have ever deemed the most loyal and obedient of my subjects.”
“Still greater, therefore, is their treachery, Sire; and greater must be their punishment,” returned Carvalho, firmly.
“But what cause can they have to seek my death?” said the King. “Have they not already all they can desire? Do they not enjoy the highest rank, and fill all the posts of honour I have to give?”
“As their ambition and pride are boundless, they would create yet higher ones,” answered Carvalho. “If your Majesty would again enjoy security and repose, these guilty persons, without distinction of their rank or station, must suffer the penalty of their crimes.”
“Alas! I fear it must be so,” said the King, hesitatingly; “but I had never supposed my nobles could have been guilty of so great a crime. Surely the assassins must have been villains of a lower order. Aveiro, the Tavoras, never could have done the deed.”
“There are strong proofs of their guilt; and on their trial there will yet appear stronger,” answered the Minister. “On my head be their blood, if they be innocent. I must request your Majesty to sign these warrants for their apprehension, and I will issue them when I see a favourable opportunity. We must proceed with caution, for they have a powerful party in their favour. Unless this is done, I cannot, Sire, answer from day to day for the security of your life or crown.”
The King unwillingly took the blank warrants which the Minister had brought, and signing them, returned them to him, as he wrote on each the name of some person from the list before him.
“According to the information I receive, I may have occasion to apprehend some of these criminals before your Majesty rises to-morrow morning; but perhaps it may be advisable to allow some days further to elapse, that any others who are engaged in the conspiracy may further commit themselves,” observed Carvalho, collecting the warrants.
“You have on your list the name of the Marquis of Tavora; but he is not mentioned as having been present at any of the meetings with the others,” said the King.
“But most of his family were, Sire,” returned the Minister. “They must inevitably suffer, as being the most guilty; and he must not be allowed to escape, lest he endeavour to avenge their deaths. He, also, in the eye of the law, is equally criminal, for he might have prevented their guilt; and the safety of the state demands his punishment.”
“Be cautious that none but the guilty suffer,” said the King.
“That shall be my care, Sire,” answered Carvalho. “Your Majesty’s sacred life has been, and will be still, in jeopardy, if their punishment is not severe; but I will make their fate such a lesson to others, that, from thenceforth, treason shall be unknown in the land; and these proud fidalgos shall no longer insult your Majesty with their haughty bearing. Have I, Sire, your full authority to act as I deem requisite on this momentous occasion?”
“You have, you have, my friend,” answered the King. “Your judgment is always right.”
“Then, haughty fidalgos, you are mine own,” muttered the Minister, as he retired from the presence of the King.
The meanest subject in those realms slept more calmly that night than did King Joseph and his Prime Minister.
Volume Three – Chapter Fourteen
The young Count d’Almeida had, since his arrival in Lisbon, been leading a life of complete retirement, at the quiet abode Pedro had selected for him. He had withdrawn himself from the society of the Tavoras, even from that of young Jozé de Tavora, whom he could not entirely forgive for the deceit he had practised on him, in leading him into the meeting of the conspirators on the fatal night of the attempted assassination of the King. He could not banish from his mind the suspicion that some of the persons he had there met were, in some way or other, connected with that diabolical outrage; and he felt assured, from knowing the character of the Minister, that it would not, as people supposed, be overlooked; so that, notwithstanding the apparent tranquillity which reigned in the city, the culprits would, sooner or later, be discovered. Of his own safety, though innocent of any criminal design, he was not at all satisfied; and each day that he rose he felt might be the last without the walls of a prison.
His friend, Captain Pinto, was at sea in the frigate he now commanded; and she was not, it was said, expected in the Tagus for some time.
When he inquired for Senhor Mendez, he was informed that, as soon as his health had been restored, he had sailed for England, nor did any one know when he was likely to return; so that Luis found himself deprived of the advice of the two persons in whom he could most confide. For his cousin, the Father Jacinto, he had long conceived the most complete distrust; and had not, therefore, even informed him of his return to Lisbon, nor did he believe the holy Jesuit was aware of the circumstance.
Our fair readers will naturally inquire if he had forgotten Donna Clara. He would have been unworthy of the pen of an historian if such could have been possible. He loved her as devotedly as before their separation, even though the last glow of hope was almost extinguished in his heart; but the spark still existed, for the fatal vow had not yet been pronounced, which, like death, must tear her from him for ever, and, till then, he would hope on: his love, he felt, could end but in his grave.
After some months of quietude, Lisbon was aroused from a lethargy (into which she was, in those days, rather more apt to fall than at present, when, every six months or so, she undergoes the excitement of a revolution) by the marriage of the eldest daughter of the Prime Minister with the Count Sampayo, to celebrate which important event preparations on a grand scale were made throughout the city. The King, who had not yet appeared in public, would, it was said, give a grand ball at the palace, to which all the first fidalgos were invited; and the foreigners had also issued invitations for a magnificent fête, which they purposed giving on the occasion, at their own ballroom, which might vie with any other in the kingdom.
The fidalgos, unsuspicious of danger, flocked into Lisbon from all parts of the country; some really anxious to pay their respects to their sovereign, and perhaps their court to his Minister; others, from very different motives, afraid of absenting themselves.
The Count d’Almeida had determined, on this occasion, to enter for the first time into society, since the death of his father. Late in the day, he rode out into the country, as was his usual custom; and, after proceeding some distance, he observed a large body of cavalry advancing rapidly towards the city. To avoid them, he turned his horse into a cross road, which led him into another highway, when he found himself in the rear of a regiment of infantry. By making a still larger circuit he hoped to escape the annoyance of having to pass them; but, to his surprise, he again encountered another body of troops.
At last, he determined to return homeward, wondering for what purpose the garrison of Lisbon was thus so suddenly increased; and, as he approached the barriers, he found each avenue to the city strongly guarded; he being allowed to enter, but several persons, who seemed anxious to go out, were detained without receiving any explanation.
We often blame ourselves that ideas should not have occurred to us, when after circumstances have proved the great advantage we might have derived from them; and so Luis had cause to think before he closed his eyes in sleep on that eventful night. He arrived at his solitary home without meeting any one from whom to inquire the cause of the sudden movement of the troops. While dressing for the fête, he inquired of Pedro if he had heard anything on the subject; but the latter, whose mind was full of the magnificence of the preparations, could only inform him that it was reported, a few more military had marched into the city to attend a review which the King was to hold on the following day.
Satisfied with this answer, Luis drove down to the palace, in front of which a large body of guards were drawn up, while carriages in great numbers were thronging to the spot. As he entered the hall of the palace, his eyes were dazzled by the brilliant illumination which met his view from hundreds of lights suspended from the roof, and above the broad staircase in front, glancing on the polished arms of the guards, who filled every part except a narrow passage for the guests between them. A military band, stationed on each side, was playing some loud and martial airs, which drowned the voices of any who attempted to speak. Luis passed on, and had reached the foot of the stairs, when two officers stepped forward.
“The Senhor Conde d’Almeida,” said one, politely bowing.
“The same,” answered Luis.
“You will please step this way, senhor, by the order of the King,” returned the officer, opening a door on one side, through which Luis was obliged to pass, and which was closed directly after them. His attendants then conducted him down a long passage, which appeared truly gloomy after the blaze of light he had quitted, and to his inquiries as to where they were going, they held an ominous silence. He could not but feel alarmed at the extraordinary circumstance, though he had but short time for reflection, before he reached the opposite side of the palace, when his former conductors delivered him into the custody of two others, who seemed prepared to expect him.
“What is the meaning of this, senhores?” he asked.
“You are our prisoner, Senhor Conde, by order of the King,” answered one of his new guards. “Please to accompany us, a carriage awaits you.”
The men placing themselves one on each side of him, so that escape was impossible, led him down a flight of steps to a small door, on the outside of which more soldiers were stationed, and where a coach was in waiting. The soldiers then formed round the coach, keeping all spectators at a distance, while his guards desired him to enter it, seating themselves, with drawn weapons, opposite to him. The coach then drove quickly away, while another appeared to take its place.
“Ah!” thought Luis, “I am, alas! not the only wretch who will this night be deprived of liberty.”
He was anxious to learn of his attendants whither they were conducting him, but the only answer he could draw from them was far from satisfactory.
“Silence, senhor,” said one. “Our orders are to treat you with every respect but, if you attempt to speak, or to cry out for assistance, we are to run our swords into your body.”
After this, he deemed it the more prudent plan to keep silence, lest they might think it necessary to obey their orders to the letter.
As he was driven along through the dark and narrow streets, he knew not whither, without the remotest chance of escape, his meditations were melancholy in the extreme. He could not doubt that he was going to that dismal bourne from which so many travellers never return – a dungeon, or from which, too probably, he might be led forth but to the scaffold. After driving for a considerable distance, he again ventured to ask his destination, but a gruff “Silence, senhor! remember!” was the only answer he received. At length the carriage stopped. He heard the heavy sound of bolts being withdrawn, and chains dropped, when the mules again moved onwards a few paces. He could hear the gates, through which he had passed, again close with a loud grating and clanging noise, which struck a chill to his heart, and he was presently afterwards desired to alight. As he stepped from the vehicle, he looked round him, to endeavour to discover to what place he had been conveyed, and, by the glare of a torch which one of the under-gaolers held, it seemed to him that he was in a small court-yard, surrounded by lofty walls, and in front of a small door thickly studded with iron bolts. His attention was, however, quickly directed to other subjects, by the door opening, and the appearance of a personage who announced himself as the Governor of the prison, and to whom, with the most polite bows, his former attendants now delivered him. He was a small man, habited in a complete costume of black, with a placid expression of countenance, and a mild, conciliating tone of voice, more suited to a physician than the keeper of a prison, it appeared, on the first glance, as many of those unfortunate persons who came under his government supposed; but, on a further acquaintance, a most ominous gleam was observed to shoot from his cold grey eye, when the smile which usually played round his lips would vanish, and a frown, in spite of himself, would gather on his brow, betokening too clearly his real character.
The Governor’s first address was cordial in the extreme, though Luis would willingly have dispensed with his hospitality.
“You are welcome, Senhor d’Almeida, to my abode, and all which it contains is at your service,” he began. “I see you still wear your sword. I beg your pardon, but I must request you to deliver it up to me. None here wear arms but the guards, nor will you need it for your protection. We take very good care of our guests.”
Luis, as he was desired, unbuckled his sword, and, without speaking, delivered it into the hands of the Governor.
“Thank you, Senhor Conde,” continued the latter personage. “It is a pretty weapon, and I will take the greatest care of it for you. I will now, by your leave, conduct you to your apartment. It is rather small, and somewhat damp; but, to say the truth, we have but little room to spare, for we are likely to be crowded soon, and you will have plenty of companions. However, I am of a hospitable disposition, and I like to see my mansion full; yet I know not if you will be able to enjoy much of each other’s society, for our rules are rather severe in that respect.”
While the Governor was thus running on, he was conducting Luis through several arched passages, a man preceding them with a lantern, while four others followed close after, armed with drawn swords, as a slight hint to the prisoner that his only course must be obedience to orders. They then descended a flight of stone steps to regions where, it seemed, the light of day could never penetrate, so damp and chill struck the air they breathed.
“We lodge you on the ground-floor, Senhor Conde,” observed the facetious Governor. “It has its advantages and disadvantages. You will find some amusement in hunting the rats and toads, which are said to be rather numerous, though I confess that, in winter, the climate does not agree with some constitutions – perhaps it may with yours. Oh, here we are.”
Producing a large bunch of keys, he ordered one of the men to unlock a door, before which they stood.
“Enter, Senhor Conde. You will not find many luxuries, and, as for conveniences, I must supply those you require.”
Luis felt it was useless striving against fate, so he unresistingly walked into what was, in truth, a wretched dungeon, with little more than sufficient height to stand upright, and about eight feet square. It contained a pallet, destitute of any bedding, a single chair, and a rough deal table, with a pitcher to hold water. The only means of ventilation was through a narrow aperture, sloping upward, far too small to allow a human body to pass, even had it not been closely barred both inside and out.
“I have other guests to attend on, Senhor Conde, so I must beg you to excuse my rudeness in quitting you so soon,” said the Governor, as one of the under-gaolers lighted a small lamp which stood on the table, while the others withdrew. “I will send you such bedding as I can procure. However, for your consolation, I can assure you that some of your friends will be worse lodged to-night than you are. I wish you farewell, senhor!”
And, before Luis had time to make any answer to these rather doubtful expressions, the polite Governor had disappeared, and, the door being closed, barred, and bolted, he found himself alone, and a state prisoner. We need not describe how he felt. Most people, in a like situation, would have felt the same – deprived of liberty, which, with the greater number of men, next to life, is dearer than all else. To some, life, without it, is valueless, and eagerly do they look forward to the moment when, released from all mortal bonds, their fetterless souls may range through the boundless regions of a happier world, in wondering admiration of the mighty works of their Creator. Such has been the dream of many a hapless prisoner, for many years doomed to pine on in gloom and wretchedness, waiting, in anxious expectation, for the time of his emancipation, which, day after day, has been cruelly deferred, till hope and consciousness have together fled.
As the sound of the falling bolts struck his ear, Luis stood for some minutes gazing at the iron door, like one transfixed. He then took several rapid steps the length of his narrow prison, and, at last, throwing himself on the chair, and drawing his cloak, which he had fortunately retained, around him – for his gala costume was but ill-suited to protect him against the cold and dampness of the season – he gave way to bitter and hopeless thought.
The predictions of the Governor were but too correct. During the greater part of the night, Luis could plainly hear the arrival of carriage after carriage. Then came the sound of many feet, the barring and bolting of doors, the fall of chains, and all the accompanying noises to be expected in a prison. After about an hour, his own door opened, when he observed a guard of soldiers drawn up in front, and two attendants entered, with a mattress and coverlids, which they threw on the bedstead, placing some coarse bread and fish before him on the table; and then, without uttering a syllable, they again withdrew.
In the mean time, the gaieties in the city continued unabated, though all people felt a more than usual degree of restraint on their spirits in the palace. To the great displeasure of many, the King did not make his appearance. Indeed, some suspected he had never intended to do so, though his Minister took upon himself to perform the necessary honours, and, moving among the crowd, he allowed no one of importance to pass without a word or so of compliment. One witty nobleman, indeed, whispered to another, – “If King Joseph is dead, King Sebastian has come to life again!” Before many days were over, he had cause to repent his words. Several persons who were expected by their friends did not make their appearance, though it was affirmed some were even seen on their way thither.
“Where is the Conde d’Atouquia?” asked the young Count Villela. “He owes me two hundred crowns; the dice were unfortunate to him, but I wish to give him his revenge, or I may, perhaps, double the sum.”
“He followed me through the hall of the passage, but I saw no more of him,” was the answer.
It was an admirable device of the Minister’s to prevent a disturbance, had he dreaded one; for all those whom he had reason to suspect were, like Luis, requested to walk on one side, when they were quietly apprehended, and driven off to prison, without any of their friends suspecting what had become of them.
The residences of the various members of the Tavora family were surrounded by troops, so that none could escape. The old Marchioness was one of the first seized. She had retired to her chamber, where her attendants were unrobing her, when a party of men burst into the palace and, without ceremony, entering her room, the chief of the police commanded her to accompany them without delay. Allowing her scarcely time to resume her gown, she was hurried to a carriage in waiting for her, and, without permitting her to communicate with any one, was driven to the Convent of Grillos, at some little distance from Lisbon. This convent was one belonging to the most rigid of all the monastic orders in Portugal; and tales were told of the deeds done within its walls, which make one shudder at their bare recital. It possessed damp and gloomy passages, and subterraneous chambers, into which the light of day never penetrated. The only garment which the hapless recluses wore was one of the coarsest cloth; their food, which they ate off plates of rough earthenware, was vegetables, without salt; and the singing of hymns, and the monotonous service of the Church, was their only employment. In this lugubrious retreat every warm affection of the heart was chilled – the thoughts of all its inmates were sad and mournful; for no one would have willingly entered it, unless impelled by the remorse of conscience, for some heavy crime, in hopes of gaining forgiveness from Heaven, by penance and fasting. The unfortunate Donna Leonora was committed to the charge of the Lady Abbess of this establishment, with strict orders to allow her no possible chance of escape, to ensure which a guard was also stationed outside the building. Here she was left, after being informed that every member of her family was likewise imprisoned.
