Kitabı oku: «The Prime Minister», sayfa 40
Luis first felt inclined to be disgusted with the Friar’s open acknowledgment of his contempt for the sacred office he performed; but the imperturbable coolness and thorough good nature of the latter, at last conquered that feeling, and, forgetting that he had come to perform a religious rite, he could no longer refrain from pledging him in return.
“Well, my dear Count, I am glad to find that you have at length conquered your scruples,” said Frè Diogo, laughing. “I have always said it is impossible to know what a man really is till you learn his works. Now, if I had put on a sanctimonious face, played shriver, and betrayed you, you would have considered me a very pious man; and now, because I tell you the truth, and kick hypocrisy to the devil who invented it, you, in your heart of hearts, believe me a knave. Well, it cannot be helped, such is the way of the world. Come, Count, don’t be cast down, you have many years to enjoy life yet before you, if I mistake not. Fill your glass, and drive away care. I wish I could venture to sing a stave, it would wonderfully rouse your spirits, but it would not do to be heard – even I could not pass it off as a hymn.” And the Friar hummed a few lines of a song in a low tone. “Bah! the effect is spoilt; you ought to hear it trolled forth by a jovial set of us, the roof of the old hall of our convent rings again. Oh, that would do your heart good!”
Luis, in spite of himself, could not help joining in the Friar’s merriment, which seemed to give the latter much satisfaction. “That is as it should be, my friend; I wish the gaolers were deaf, and that the rascally Governor was not likely to be prowling this way, for we might drink and sing away to our heart’s content. Come, help me to finish the bottle, or I shall not be quite in a clerical state to make a clear report to the Governor of your confession.”
There was such a laughing devil in the Friar’s eye all the time, that it struck Luis he might even then be playing off some trick upon him.
“How comes it, Frè Diogo, that I see you here in Lisbon as a professed Friar, when, the last time we met, you acknowledged you had never taken the vows?” he asked.
“Don’t you remember, that I told you, at the same time, I intended to repent of my sins, to return to the convent in which I once served, and to take the vows? I did so, and have ever since been a most exemplary Friar; so much so, that I soon rose to a responsible situation in my convent, and was sent up to Lisbon on a mission, when I was selected for my peculiar qualifications and knowledge of mankind, as confessor to the inmates of this and some other prisons in the metropolis. I was obliged to accept the office, though I cannot say I like it; for I miss my jovial brothers, and hate the hypocrisy and treachery I am obliged to be guilty of, though, to say the truth, I have saved many a poor wretch from committing himself, which is some consolation to my conscience.”
Luis had not forgotten poor Gonçalo’s request; but he was considering in his mind whether the priest in question was a person qualified to administer the consolations of religion to a dying man; but there was a sincerity in the eccentric Friar’s manner, which at last determined him, for want of a better, to confide in him. At all events, he felt that it might afford satisfaction to the dying youth. He, therefore, told the Friar of his interview with his fellow-prisoner, the young Gonçalo Christovaö, whom he had been accused of killing, recalling to his mind their fruitless search, and finished, by begging him to administer, with the utmost decorum he could assume, the rites of the Church appointed for the sick or dying.
“You seem by your words, to suppose that I am not as capable as the most rigid and sanctimonious confessor, who ever shrived a fair penitent, to put on a serious air when necessary,” said the Friar, laughing. “There you are wrong again; and I will show you that I can equal the best of them. By the way, now you mention the name of Gonçalo Christovaö, it reminds me that, in a most wonderful way, I came into possession of the very letter I gave you with the jewels in the cave, and which you lost before you could deliver it to the person to whom it was directed, – the father of this same hapless youth. You will not press me to explain exactly how I got it – suffice it to say, I found it in the pocket of a coat which, doubtless, had been yours, and which I strongly suspect had been stolen.”
“Have you the letter still?” inquired Luis, eagerly. “I have ever since had cause to regret its loss; for, though I know its contents, I have had a feeling that it might have saved much wretchedness to one I love dearer than life itself.”
“It struck me, also, at the time I found it, that it might be of some consequence, so I preserved it carefully for several months in my breviary, intending to restore it to you or Senhor Christovaö, should I meet either of you, though I had long forgot all about it; whether or no it is still there, I cannot say,” said the Friar. “I fortunately brought the book to Lisbon with me, so if the letter is in it, I will bring it to you on my next visit. I shall take care, by my account to the Governor of your confession, to be sent to you again.”
“Thanks, my kind friend,” answered Luis. “You may thus render me a great service, though, could you send it to Gonçalo Christovaö yourself, it would sooner reach him. I know not when my term of captivity may end.”
“I will endeavour to do as you wish,” answered the Friar. “Now, my dear Count, I am speaking more seriously to you than I ever did to any one in my life. I have a true regard for you, and sincerely wish to rise in your opinion. Do not think me a scoundrel, for I am better than I have too often appeared. Will you promise me this?” The Friar spoke with energy, and a tear stood in his eye, as he took Luis’s hand, and pressed it to his heart.
“I firmly trust in you,” answered Luis, “and know you to be my kind and generous friend, – one of the few I now possess on earth.”
“Thanks, Count, thanks! your words have made me a happier and better man,” said the Friar, much moved. “The knowledge that I am esteemed by one honest person, who knows me as I am, will prevent me from ever again acting the part of a knave.” He drew a deep sigh. “Ha! ha! we must not let care oppress us, so we will finish our bottle before the turnkey comes to summon me away. I will then visit your sick friend, and do what I can to comfort him. Remember, whatever happens, confide in me. If I find that your life is in the slightest danger, it shall not be my fault that you do not escape from hence.”
Luis warmly expressed his thanks to Frè Diogo, for he now felt convinced that he had gained an invaluable friend, and the dull leaden sensation he had experienced at the thoughts of his speedy execution, gave way to a renewed hope of life.
“Ah! here comes the gaoler,” exclaimed the Friar, as steps were heard in the passage; “he is a worthy fellow, and the only honest man employed in the prison. I now and then crack a bottle with him for society’s sake; – thinking of that, I must hide my friend and the glasses under my robe; so fare you well, Count, till to-morrow.” As he spoke the turnkey opened the door, when Luis, entreating him to introduce the Friar to the sick man in the next cell, he promised to comply, and the Count was left alone to meditate on his own fortunes.
Volume Three – Chapter Seventeen
Words are insufficient to describe the sufferings of the high-born captives who lay in those wretched cells, formed to contain wild beasts instead of human beings, whither the stern policy of the Minister had condemned them to be conveyed. Kept apart from each other, in darkness and solitude, though near enough to hear each other’s groans and cries, they were allowed no change of garments from those in which they were first apprehended; straw heaped in a corner on the floor, unswept since the removal of its former savage inhabitants, formed their places of rest; the coarsest food, sufficient to sustain nature, was alone supplied them, and no one but the officers of justice was allowed to visit them.
Day after day they remained thus, in anticipation of their dreadful fate; then came ferocious looking men, callous to the sufferings of their fellow-beings, whose appearance bespoke them to be the detested executioners of the law; even the guards and gaolers shuddered as they beheld them entering the prison, bearing their implements of torture. Two Desembargadors, a notary, and a surgeon followed, repairing to a large hall, round which the cells occupied by the prisoners were ranged, their fronts being now blocked up with masonry. The executioners had here erected their instruments of torture, chairs being prepared for the judges and notary, with a table for the latter to take minutes of the examination.
The first prisoner led forward was the Duke of Aveiro, but he refused to answer any of the questions put to him.
“Since you refuse to speak in any other way, we must try what effect the rack will cause,” said one of the judges. “Let the question be administered to him.”
The Duke turned pale, but answered not a word till the dislocation of his limbs commenced, when he gave way to shrieks and cries for mercy, which rang through the hall, piercing to the cells of his fellow-prisoners, and giving dreadful warning of the fate awaiting them.
“I will confess! I will confess!” at last he cried, unable longer to endure the agony; but when, on being cast loose, he again denied any knowledge of the occurrences the Desembargadors mentioned, he was once more placed upon the engine of torture, nor would they listen to his entreaties to be released till he had further felt its power.
“Mercy, mercy, mercy!” he cried, when the surgeon approached him, and his cries ceased. He had fainted. He was lifted off the machine, and carried back to his cell, where restoratives were administered, and he was left till sufficiently recovered to bear further questioning.
The Marquis of Tavora was then brought forward, and subjected to the same system of examination; but not a word, to criminate either himself or others, could be elicited from him. His sons, the Conde d’Atouquia, and the servants of both houses, followed in succession; the agony of their sufferings drawing statements from some of them which the others denied. Young Jozé de Tavora was the only one, who, like his father, boldly and firmly persisted in the declaration of his innocence of the crime laid to his charge.
“Were I guilty of the deed of which you accuse me, I would acknowledge it,” he exclaimed; “but no tortures the cruelty of Sebastiaö Jozé can invent have power to make me speak a falsehood.”
“Take him to his cell,” thundered the Magistrate; “he is obdurate. Bring back the Duke.”
The same scene of horror was again enacted, when the wretched noble, overcome by terror, made a long statement, which was eagerly committed to paper by the Notary, accusing himself, his fellow-prisoners, and numerous others of the highest nobility in the land, of conspiring against the life of the King. Whether his account was true, or whether it was the invention of his brain wrought into madness by agony, has never yet been satisfactorily determined. We leave our readers to form their own conclusions.
We do not venture to describe more minutely the dreadful scene of tyranny, injustice, and human suffering; for we have yet in store horrors sufficient to make the heart of the strongest sicken at the recital; and we would advise those who would avoid having their feelings harrowed with the tale which truth compels us to narrate, to pass over the chapter succeeding this.
At last, all the evidence which could be wrung by torture from the prisoners, or obtained from other witnesses, being collected, their trial formally took place. On the first day, the judges appointed by the Minister to preside could not come to an agreement; two of them firmly refusing to sign the process. Carvalho, probably, firmly believed most, if not all, of the prisoners guilty; and, after the violent steps he had taken, his own existence depended on their condemnation; but, owing to the absence of clear and satisfactory evidence, this was difficult to be obtained. He therefore instituted another court, taking care that the presidents should be creatures entirely devoted to his service, and the result of the trial may be anticipated.
The weak and timid Monarch yet remained a close prisoner in his palace, suspecting a traitor in each noble of his court, and starting at every sound, fancying it a signal of rebellion. His physician had just quitted him, Teixeira was absent, and the Minister had himself gone to watch the proceedings at the trial of the conspirators. He was alone – his feelings were oppressed, his thoughts gloomy; for his disposition was naturally mild, and indisposed to bloodshed; and he now knew that the blood of his first nobles was about to flow like water for his safety. Yet what injustice will not fear make a man commit! He wept.
“Alas!” he cried, “they must die. The trial must, ere this, have been concluded, and I shall then know the punishment awarded them. It must be so; I cannot feel security till they are no more.”
The King heard a suppressed sob near him, and looking round, he beheld a young page kneeling at a short distance from where he sat. He started, and rising, retired a few paces, for in every human being he had been taught to suspect an agent of treason.
“What brings you here, boy? How could you have entered unperceived?” he exclaimed rapidly, as a strange thrill shot across his bosom. “Speak! who are you?”
“A wretched suppliant for your Majesty’s clemency,” answered the Page, in a low and broken voice.
“What mean you, boy? There are too many such in our dominions,” exclaimed the Monarch, bitterly. “But rise, boy, and retire: this intrusion ought to have been prevented. Whatever petition you have to make, present it to our Minister, Sebastiaö Jozé, two or three days hence, when he will have time to attend to you. We would be alone.”
“Alas! two days hence will be too late,” responded the Page, in the same low tone as before. “It is not to that cruel unbending man I would make my prayer. It is to your Majesty’s compassionate heart alone, a miserable guilty creature would appeal. Hear me, my liege; hear me. By my guilty conduct, many of those I was bound to love and honour – my kindred and connexions – have been, like the vilest felons, imprisoned and tortured, and some have, within this hour, been condemned to an agonising death and everlasting disgrace. For them I come to plead – their lives, their honour, are in your power. Spare them, my liege, and let me be the victim; for I, and I alone, have been the cause of all their sufferings.”
“Great Heavens! Whose voice is that?” exclaimed the King, more agitated than his suppliant, towards whom he hurriedly advanced, and whom he raised from the ground. “Donna Theresa!”
“Would to God you had never known that name, my liege. I am that wretched woman,” ejaculated the seeming page, still keeping her hands in a suppliant attitude before her, while the King gazed fondly at her care-worn, though yet lovely, countenance. “I have braved all dangers and difficulties, – I have deceived your guards, – I have penetrated to your Majesty’s retirement, to throw myself at your feet, and plead for my kindred’s lives. They cannot be guilty of the foul deed for which they are condemned; – they never could have sought to injure your Majesty, though even I have been accused by some (to heap greater wretchedness on my head) of having falsely accused them of the crime. Your Majesty knows I am thus far guiltless; and, if my injured husband, incited by jealousy and indignation of his wrongs, should have harboured a thought of malice, oh! show your magnanimity, by pardoning him and his family. Disarmed by your clemency, they could not then further injure you; or let them retire to some other land, where they may repent of ever having given cause of suspicion to so good and kind a master. This act of mercy alone would put down sedition, and bind more firmly all the nobles of the land to your service, and, revered while you live, your name would descend to posterity as a magnanimous and generous prince, who feared not to pardon those who had offended him. But, if your cruel Minister requires some one on whom to vent his hatred, of the aristocracy of the land, the legitimate and noble guardians of your person, whose jealousy he well knows has been aroused at his persevering interference, let me be delivered up as the victim of his vengeance. My fatal love for my sovereign first kindled the spark which has never yet burnt into a flame, and I alone ought to be sacrificed for my crime, if so your Majesty deems it.”
The King was deeply moved at the energy of her passion, her tears, and prayers. He led her gently to a chair, and insisted on her being seated, while he stood before her with his arms folded on his bosom; but, as soon as she perceived it, she rose, and threw herself kneeling on the ground.
“This must not be, Donna Theresa,” said the agitated Monarch, again attempting to raise her, but she would not quit her suppliant posture.
“Rise, madam, rise. I have no enmity against your relations. It is not I who accuse them. They have been tried by the laws of the country, and, if guilty, I have resigned all power over them. My crown, my life, the happiness of my people, and the tranquillity of the land, require their punishment. It is by my Minister’s advice I act thus, and to him you must plead their cause.”
“Oh, say not so, your Majesty. Do not thus yield to the grasping ambition of that enemy of our race, who seeks to rise by their destruction,” exclaimed Donna Theresa. “Exert your own royal authority, and act according to the generous dictates of your heart. You have the power – exert it, and be merciful; if not, before two suns have set, such deeds of cruelty will have been perpetrated as will cause the nations of Europe to execrate the very name of a Portuguese.”
The King’s firmness was fast yielding to the entreaties of his lovely petitioner. “I will endeavour to mitigate the rigour of their sentence for your sake, fair lady,” he answered. “If clearly proved, for the sake of my successors, I have no right to overlook their crime.”
“Rather let it be supposed by posterity that such a crime was impossible in Portugal,” interrupted Donna Theresa; “or teach your successors the virtue of clemency.”
“You plead most powerfully to my heart, Donna Theresa, nor can I longer withstand the energy of your prayers,” said the King. “Rise, then, and let me rather ask pardon for the anguish I have caused you. I it was who ought to have knelt to you.”
“I cannot rise till I hear their pardon pronounced by your gracious lips,” returned Donna Theresa. “Let me, to prove my innocence of betraying them, be the bearer of your forgiveness.”
“I do forgive them,” answered the King; “yet, in so important a matter, I may not act further without consulting my Minister.”
“Then their doom is sealed!” cried the unhappy lady. “Sebastiaö Jozé has moved heaven and earth to destroy them; and unless your Majesty rescues them by a determined act, they can in no way escape death.”
The King still looked as if he was about to deny her.
“Oh! hear me, your Majesty, – by the devoted love you so lately professed to bear me, by all your tender endearments, by your vows of constancy, by the sacrifice of my name and reputation to your passion, pardon those innocent ones – at all events, comparatively innocent – and let the punishment fall upon my guilty head!”
Where is the man who can withstand a lovely woman’s prayers, when, weeping, she pleads, and pleads for justice? The King could no longer resist her entreaties; he gently raised her, and, pressing his lips to her hands, he was about to pledge his kingly promise that none should suffer – the words faltered on his tongue – the door opened, he looked up, and beheld the commanding figure of the Prime Minister! The latter stopped, gazing with amazement. Donna Theresa saw not, heard not aught but her sovereign, as she waited eagerly for the words he was about to pronounce.
“You promise, then – you promise they shall be pardoned?” she ejaculated.
The King’s eye sank before the searching glance of his potent Minister.
“Pardon me, your Majesty, for my intrusion, and will you graciously deign to explain the meaning of this lady’s presence?” exclaimed the latter, advancing rapidly, for he had heard Donna Theresa’s last words, and in a moment clearly comprehended the cause of her visit. He felt that his own power hung upon a thread, and he foresaw that, if she gained her cause, he must inevitably be the sacrifice.
In an instant he had arranged his plan. “I need no explanation, – Donna Theresa de Tavora has ventured hither against your Majesty’s commands, to impose, with a false tale of her relatives’ innocence, on your gracious clemency, and, for the sake of saving the guilty, would sacrifice your life and crown to their implacable hatred. Be not deceived, Sire, by the treacherous tongue of an artful woman. I come now from the trial of the once so-called Duke of Aveiro, the Marquis of Tavora, and their associates: the judges have found them guilty of the most atrocious of conspiracies, and have condemned them accordingly. Your Majesty’s sacred life had nearly fallen a sacrifice to some unknown traitors. For months have I incessantly toiled, day and night, to discover the miscreants, and at length I have been successful, and they are about to receive the punishment of their deeds. Let not, then, all my exertions prove vain; and, above all, Sire, do not jeopard your own precious life by mistaken leniency.”
The Minister watched the King’s countenance, and saw that he had won his cause. He advanced to Donna Theresa, and grasped her arm: “Come, madam, you must no longer intrude upon his Majesty!” he exclaimed.
She started at his touch, and turned an entreating look towards the King. The Monarch’s eye was averted. “All, all is lost!” she cried, and, uttering a piercing shriek, sank senseless upon the ground.
“Pardon this seeming harshness, Sire,” said Carvalho, deprecatingly, as he raised Donna Theresa in his arms. “It is necessary for your safety.”
“You are always right, my friend,” said the King. “Let every care and attention be paid her; and let some one be with her to console her for her disappointment;” and he turned away to hide his own emotion: he longed to hide his feelings from himself.
“’Tis another step gained towards supreme power,” thought the Minister, as he bore his unconscious burden from the apartment, and committed her to the charge of his guards, with strict orders not to allow her to depart. He then returned to the King, with the fatal document in his hand, – the condemnation of the noble prisoners. His Majesty’s signature was required; nor had he now much difficulty in obtaining it.
When nearly all of the most influential in the country were interested in the preservation of the accused, and all feeling that Donna Theresa was the most calculated to persuade the Monarch to pardon them, she had experienced but little difficulty, aided by high bribes, in penetrating to the apartments of the King; though, on Carvalho’s endeavouring to discover the delinquents, every one solemnly averred that they had never seen her enter, – though, in her page’s suit, she might have passed them unobserved.
Let her fate be a warning to others. Let those consider, whom passion would lead from the strict path of duty, that not themselves alone, but many others also, whom they once loved, and by whom they were beloved, they may drag down to perdition.
When Donna Theresa returned to consciousness, she found herself surrounded by her own attendants, and when she was pronounced in a fit state to be removed, she was conveyed to the Convent of Santos, where a large income was settled on her, and a retinue appointed to attend her. Though nominally a prisoner, she had perfect liberty. She did not die: – such was too happy a lot for her. For many, many years she lived on, a prey to remorse, hated and scorned by her few surviving relatives, till age had wrinkled her brow, and no trace of her former enchanting loveliness remained. Guilty of one crime she was, but not that of which she was accused; yet none would believe her assertions, when she had failed to procure the pardon of her husband. Such was her punishment!
For eighteen years did her father, the Marquis d’Alorna, his wife, and children, languish in separate dungeons, and scarcely one of his kindred escaped the like fate.
She became deaf and blind, and at length she died. On her tomb was found inscribed, “The Murderess of her Family.”
