Kitabı oku: «Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel», sayfa 14

CHAPTER II. A NIGHT ON DUTY

Scarcely had the Count set out for Paris when Gerald remembered that it was his night for duty, he was de service in the antechamber of the king, and had but time to hasten to his quarters and equip himself in full uniform. When he reached the foot of the grand staircase he found several dismounted dragoons, splashed and travel-stained, the centres of little groups, all eagerly questioning and listening to them. They had arrived in hot haste from Paris, where a tremendous revolt had broken out. Some said the Prince of Lambesi’s regiment, the ‘Royal Allemand,’ were cut to pieces; others, that the military were capitulating everywhere; and one averred that when he passed the barrier the Bastille had just fallen. While the veterans of the Swiss Guard and the household troops conversed in low and anxious whispers together, exchanging gloomy forebodings of what was to come, the two or three courtiers whom curiosity had attracted to the spot spoke in tones of contempt and scorn of the mob.

‘They are shedding their blood freely, though, I assure you,’ said a young sous-lieutenant, whose arm was in a sling. ‘The fellow who smashed my wrist had his face laid open by a sabre-cut, but seemed never to heed it in the least.’

‘Have you despatches, Monsieur de Serrans?’ asked a very daintily-dressed and soft-voiced gentleman, with a wand of office as chamberlain.

‘No, Monsieur le Marquis. I have a verbal message for his Majesty from the Duc de Bassompierre, and I crave an early audience.’

‘His Majesty is going to supper,’ replied the chamberlain. ‘I will try and obtain admission for you to-morrow.’

‘The Duc’s orders were very pressing, Monsieur le Marquis. He was retiring for want of reinforcements, but would still hold his ground if his Majesty ordered it.’

‘I regret it infinitely, but what is to be done, Monsieur?’ said the other, with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

‘At the hazard of spoiling his Majesty’s appetite, I ‘d like to see him at once, Monsieur de Brezé,’ said the officer boldly.

The polished courtier turned a look of half astonishment, half rebuke, on the soldier, and tripped up the stairs without a word.

‘I am de service, sir,’ whispered Gerald to the young officer. ‘Could I possibly be of any use to you?’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied the other courteously. ‘I have a message to be delivered to his Majesty’s own ear, and the answer to which I was to carry to my general. What I have just mentioned to M. de Brezé was not of the importance of that with which I am charged.’

‘And will it be too late to-morrow?’

‘To-morrow! I ought to have been half-way back toward Paris already. You don’t know that a battle is raging there, and fifty thousand men are engaged in deadly conflict.’

‘The king must hear of it,’ said Gerald, as he mounted the stairs.

Very different was the scene in the splendid salons from that which presented itself below. Groups of richly attired ladies and followers of the court were conversing in all the easy gaiety their pleasant lives suggested. Of the rumours from the capital they made matter of jest and raillery; they ridiculed the absurd pretensions of the popular leaders, and treated the rising as something too contemptible for grave remark. As Gerald drew nigh, he saw, or fancied he saw, a sort of coldness in the manner of those around. The conversation changed from its tone of light flippancy to one of more guarded and more commonplace meaning. It was no longer doubtful to him that the story of his late altercation had got abroad, with, not impossibly, very exaggerated accounts of the opinions he professed. Indeed, the remark of an old Maréchal du Palais caught his ear as he passed, while the sidelong glances of the hearers told that it was intended for himself – ‘It is too bad to find the sentiments of the Breton Club from the lips of a Garde du Corps.’

It was all that Gerald could do to restrain the impulse that urged him to confront the speaker, and ask him directly if the words were applied to him, The decorous etiquette of the spot, the rigid observance of all that respect that surrounds the vicinity of a king, checked his purpose, and, having satisfied himself that he should know the speaker again, he moved on. It was on the stroke of ten, the hour that he was to relieve the soldier on guard, a duty which, in the etiquette of the Garde du Corps, was always performed by the relief appearing at the proper moment, without the usual military ceremony of a guard.

Alone at last, in that vast chamber where he had passed many an hour of sentinel’s watch, Gerald had time to compose his thoughts, and calm down the passionate impulses that swayed him. He walked for above an hour his weary round, stopping at times to gaze on the splendid tapestries which, on the walls, represented certain incidents of the Æneid. The faint, far-away sounds of the band, which performed during the supper of the king, occasionally met his ear, and he could not help contrasting the scene which they accompanied with the wild and terrible incidents then going forward at Paris. His mind ever balanced and vacillated between two opinions. Were they right who maintained the supremacy of the royal cause, and the inviolability of that princely state whose splendours were such a shock to misery! Or had the grievances of the people a real ground – were there great wrongs to be redressed, cruel inequalities to be at least compromised? How much had he listened to on either side? What instincts and prejudices were urged for this! what strength of argument enlisted to support that! And he himself, what a position was his! – one of a corps whose very boast it was to reject all save of ancient lineage! What could he adduce as his claim to high descent? If they questioned him to-morrow, how should he reply? What meant his title of Chevalier? might he not be arraigned as a pretender, a mere impostor for assuming it? If the Count Dillon decided that he should challenge Maurepas, might not his claim to gentle blood be litigated? And what a history should he give if asked for the story of his life! From these thoughts he rambled on to others, scarcely less depressing: the cause of the king, of the very monarchy itself. Bold as the pretensions, high as the language was of those about the court, the members of the royal family exhibited the most intense anxiety. Within view of the palace windows, in that same week, tumultuous assemblages had taken place, and thousands of men passed in solemn procession to the place where the ‘States General’ had appointed for their meeting. The menacing gestures, the wild and passionate words, all so unlike what formerly had marked such demonstrations, were terribly significant of the change that had come over public opinion. Over and over had Gabriel predicted all this to him. Again and again had he impressed upon him that a time was coming when the hard evils of poverty would arouse men to ask the terrible question, Why are we in wretchedness while others revel in excess?’ On that day, and coming it is,’ said he, ‘all the brain-spun theories of statecraft will be thrown aside like rubbish, and they alone will be listened to who are men of action.’ Was this dark prophecy now drawing nigh to accomplishment? were these the signs of that dread consummation? Gabriel had told him that the insane folly and confidence of those about the court would be the greatest peril of the monarchy. ‘Mark my words,’ said he, ‘it will be all insolence and contempt at first, abject terror and mean concession after.’ Was not the conduct of De Brezé a very type of the former? he had not even a word of passing courtesy for the brave fellow who wounded and exhausted, stood there waiting like a lackey.

Gerald was startled by the sudden opening of a door; and, as he turned, he saw a figure which he speedily recognised as the brother of the king, or, as he was called in court phrase, ‘Monsieur.’

‘Are you Maurice de Courcel’ asked he, addressing Gerald hastily.

‘No, Monseigneur; I am Fitzgerald.’

‘Where is De Courcel, can you tell me?’

‘He went on leave this morning, Monseigneur, to shoot in the forest of Soissons.’

‘Peste!’ muttered he angrily. ‘Methinks you gentlemen of the Garde du Corps have little other idea of duty than in plotting how to evade it. It was De Courcel’s night of duty, was it not?’

‘Yes, sir; I took it in his place.’

‘Who relieves you?’

‘The Chevalier de Monteroue, sir.’

‘You are l’Écossais – at least they call you so, eh?’

‘Yes, Monseigneur, they call me so,’ said Gerald, flushing.

The Prince hesitated, turned to speak, and then moved away again. It was evident that he laboured under some irresolution that he could not master.

Resolved not to lose an opportunity so little likely to recur, Gerald advanced toward him, and, with an air of deep respect, said: ‘If I might dare to approach your Royal Highness on such a pretext, I would say that some tidings of deepest moment have been brought this evening by an officer from Paris, charged to deliver them to the king; and that he yet waits unable to see his Majesty.’

‘How – what – why has he not sent up his despatches?’

‘He had none, sir; he was the bearer of a verbal message from the Duc de Bassompierre.’

‘Impossible, sir; none could have dared to assume this responsibility. Who told you this story?’

‘I was present, sir, when the officer arrived – spoke with him – and heard M. de Brezé say, “You can, perhaps, have an audience to-morrow.”’

‘He deserves the Bastille for this!’

‘He would have deserved it, sir, yesterday.’ ‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘That there is no Bastille to-day. The officer I mentioned saw it carried by the populace as he left Paris: the garrison are all cut to pieces.’

With something like a cry of agony, half-smothered by an effort, the Prince hurried from the room.

While the clock was yet striking, the sentinel in relief arrived, and Gerald was released from duty. As he wended his way along through room after room, he was struck by the air of silence and desertion around; nowhere were to be seen the groups of lounging courtiers and ‘officiers de service.’ A few inferior members of the household rose and saluted him, and even they wore something ominous and sad in their look, as though evil tidings were abroad.

A light, soft rain was falling as Gerald left the palace toward the pavilion, where Count Dillon’s quarters were established. He knew it was impossible that the Count could yet have returned from Paris, but somehow he found himself repairing to the spot without well knowing why.

As he drew nigh he perceived a light in the little salon, and could distinguish the figure of a man writing at the table. Curious to learn if the Count had unexpectedly turned back, Gerald opened the door and entered. The person at the table turned quickly about, and to his utter confusion Gerald saw it was Monsieur.

‘Come in, come in; you will, perhaps, spare me some writing.’ cried he, in an easy, familiar tone: ‘you may indeed read what I have just written.’ and so saying he handed him a paper with these lines:

‘Dear Count Dillon, – Give me the earliest and fullest information with respect to a young countryman of yours, Fitzgerald, called “L’Écossais.” May we employ him on a mission of secrecy and importance? It is of consequence – that is, it were far better – that the person intrusted with our commands were not a Frenchman – ’

The Prince had but written so much as Gerald entered, and he now sat calmly watching the effect produced upon the young soldier as he read it.

‘Am I to answer for myself, ‘Monseigneur,’ said he modestly.

‘It is exactly what I intended,’ was the calm reply.

‘I can pledge for my fidelity and devotion, sir, but not for any skill or ability to execute your orders.’

‘They will require little beyond speed and exactitude. You know Paris well?’

‘Perfectly, sir.’

‘At the Rue de Turenne there is a small street called l’Avenue aux Abois – do you know it? – well, the second or third house, I am not sure which, is inhabited by a gentleman called the Count Mirabeau.’

‘He who spoke so lately at the Assembly?’

‘The same. You will see him, and induce him to repair with you to St. Cloud. Haste is everything. If your mission speed well, you can be at St. Cloud by noon to-morrow. It is possible that the Count may distrust your authority to make this appointment, for I dare not give you anything in writing; you will then show him this ring, which he will recognise as mine. Spare no entreaties to accomplish the object, nor, so far as you are able, permit anything to thwart it. Let nothing that you see or hear divert you from your purpose. Pay no attention to the events at Paris, whatever they be. You have one object – only one – that Count Mirabeau reach the Château de St. Cloud by the earliest moment possible, and in secrecy. Remember that, sir – in secrecy.’

‘I cannot wear my uniform,’ began Gerald.

‘Of course not, nor suffer any trace of powder to remain in your hair. I will send you clothes which will disguise you perfectly; and, if questioned, you can call yourself a peasant on the estate of the Mirabeaus, come up from Provence to see the Count. You must stain your hands, and be particular about every detail of your behaviour. There is but one thing more,’ said he, after a moment’s reflection; ‘if Monsieur de Mirabeau refuse, if he even seek to defer the interview I seek for – but he will not, he dare not.’

‘Still, Monseigneur, let me be provided for every emergency possible – what if he should refuse?’

‘You will be armed, you will have your pistols – but no, no, under no circumstances,’ muttered he below his breath. ‘There will be then nothing for you to do, but to hasten back to me with the tidings.’ Monsieur arose as he said these words, and stood in apparently deep thought. ‘I believe,’ said he at last, ‘that I have not forgotten anything. Ah, it were well to take one of the remount horses that are not branded – I will look to that.’

‘If the Count should be from home, am I to seek for him elsewhere, sir?’

‘That will depend upon your own address; if you are satisfied that you can defy detection. I leave all to yourself, Chevalier. It is a great and a holy cause you serve, and no words of mine can add to what your own heart will teach you. Only remember, that hours are like weeks, and time is everything.’

Gerald kissed the hand that Monsieur extended to him; and lighting him down the little stairs, saw him take his way across the park.

CHAPTER III. THE MISSION

The day had not yet dawned when Gerald, admirably disguised as a Provençal peasant, arrived at the Avenue aux Abois. The night had been hot and sultry, and many of the windows of the houses were left open; but from none save one were any lights seen to gleam. This one was brilliant with the glare of wax-lights; and the sounds of merriment from within showed it was the scene of some festivity. Light muslin curtains filled the spaces of the open casements, through which at moments the shadowy traces of figures could be detected.

While Gerald stood watching, with some curiosity, this strange contrast to the unbroken silence around, a rich deep voice caught his ear, and seemed to awaken within him some singular memory. Where, and when, and how he had heard it before, he knew not; but every accent and every tone struck him as well known.

‘No, no, Mirabeau,’ broke in another; ‘when men throw down their houses, it is not to rebuild them with the old material.’

‘I did not speak of throwing down,’ interposed the same deep voice; ‘I suggested some safe and easy alteration. I would have the doors larger, for easy access; the windows wider, for more light.’

‘And more wood, generally, in the construction, for easy burning, I hope,’ chimed in a third.

‘Make your best provisions for stability: destruction will always be a simple task,’ cried the deep voice. ‘You talk of burning,’ cried he, in a louder tone; ‘what do you mean to do when your fire goes out? materials must fail you at last. What then? You will have heaped many a good and useful thing upon that pile you will live to regret the loss of. What will you do, besides, with those you have taught to dance round these bonfires?’

‘Langeac says it is an experiment we are trying,’ replied another; ‘and, for my part, I am satisfied to accept it as such.’

‘Nay, nay,’ interposed a soft, low voice; ‘I said that untried elements in government are an experiment only warrantable in extreme cases; just as the physician essays even a dangerous remedy, when he deems his patient hopeless.’

‘But it’s your own quackeries here have made all the mischief,’ broke in the deep voice. ‘If the sick man sink, it is yourselves have been the cause.’

‘Was there ever a royal cause that had not its own fatal influences?’ said another.

‘There is an absurd reliance on prestige, a trust in that phantom called Divine right, that blinds men against their better reason. This holiday faith is but a sorry creed in times of trouble.’

‘Far from this being the case,’ said the deep voice, ‘you will not concede to kings what you would freely grant to your equals. You reject their word, you distrust their oath, you prejudge their intentions, and suspect their honour.’

‘Why, Mirabeau, you ought to be at Versailles,’ said another, laughing. ‘The pavilion of the Queen is more your place than the table of the Tiers-État.’

‘So thinks he himself,’ broke in the low voice. ‘He expects to pilot the wreck after we have gone off on the raft.’

‘Four o’clock,’ exclaimed another, pushing his chair hastily back as he arose; ‘and here is D’Entraigues fast asleep these two hours.’

‘No, parbleu! muttered a drowsy voice. ‘I closed my eyes when the Bordeaux was finished, and began to reflect on Lafayette’s breakfast. Isn’t this the day?’

‘To be sure. You are coming, Mirabeau?’

‘Of course, we will all be there.’

‘I must be at St. Frotin by seven o’clock,’ said one.

‘And I have to see Marigni at the mill of Montmorency, by the same hour.’

‘A duel?’

‘Yes; they are both Vendéans, and may kill each other without damage to the State.’

‘He was going to say Republic!’ cried another, laughing.

‘Who talks of a Republic?’ interposed a rough voice angrily.

‘Be calm, messieurs – all religions are to be respected,’

‘True, Mirabeau; but this is to proclaim none.’

‘Who knows? They never excavate near Rome but they discover some long-forgotten deity! Can you or I venture to say what new faith may not arise out of these ashes?’

‘Let it but repudiate the law of debt and discountenance marriage,’ said another, ‘and I am its first convert.’

‘Good-bye, Mirabeau, adieu,’ cried several together, and they were now heard descending the stairs. Meanwhile, Mirabeau drew back the curtain and looked out upon the street.

‘Whom have we got here?’ said the first who issued forth from the door, and saw Gerald standing before him.

‘What is it? who does he want?’ cried Mirabeau, as he saw them in conversation.

‘One of your peasants, Mirabeau, with, doubtless, a Provencal cheese and some olives for you.’

‘Or a letter of loving tidings from that dear uncle,’ cried another; ‘the only one who ever knew the real goodness of your nature.’

‘Let him come up,’ said Mirabeau, as he closed the window.

When Gerald reached the top of the stair, he saw in front of him a large, powerfully-built man, who, standing with his back to the light, had his features in deep shadow.

‘You are the Count de Mirabeau?’ began Gerald.

‘And you – who are you?’ responded he quickly.

‘That you shall know, when I am certain of whom I am addressing/

‘Come in,’ said the Count, and walked before him into the room. He turned about just as the door closed, and Gerald, fixing his eyes upon him, cried out, ‘Good heavens! is it possible? Signor Gabriel!’

‘Now for your own name, my friend,’ said Mirabeau calmly.

‘Don’t you know me, then? don’t you remember the boy you saved years ago from death in the Roman Maremma – Fitzgerald?’

‘What!’ said Mirabeau, in the same calm voice, ‘you Fitzgerald? I should never have recognised you.’

‘And are you really the Count de Mirabeau?’

‘Gabriel Riquetti, Count de Mirabeau, is my name,’ replied he slowly. ‘How did you find me out? What chance led you here?’

‘No chance, nor accident. I have come expressly to see and speak with you. I am a Garde du Corps, and have assumed this disguise to gain access to you unremarked.’

‘A Garde du Corps!’ said the Count, in some surprise.

‘Yes, Signor Gabriel. My life has had its turns of good and ill fortune since we parted – the best being that I serve a great prince and a kind master.’

‘Well said, but not over-prudent words to utter in the Faubourg St. Antoine,’ rejoined the Count, smiling. ‘Go on.’

‘I have come with a message from Monsieur, to desire you will hasten immediately to St. Cloud, where he will meet you. Secrecy and speed are both essential, for which reasons he intrusted me with a mere verbal message, but to secure me your confidence he gave me this ring.’

Mirabeau smiled, and with such a scoffing significance that Gerald stopped, unable to proceed further.

‘And then?’ said Mirabeau.

‘I have no more to add, Monsieur,’ said Gerald haughtily. ‘My commission is fulfilled already.’

‘Take some wine; you are heated with your long ride,’ said the Count, filling out a large goblet, while he motioned to Gerald to be seated.

‘Nay, sir; it is not of me there is time to think now. Pray, let me have your answer to my message, for Monsieur told me, if I either failed to find you, or from any casualty you were unable to repair to St. Cloud, that I should come back with all speed to apprise him, my not returning being the sign that all went well.’

‘All went well,’ muttered Mirabeau to himself. ‘How could it go worse?’

Gerald sat gazing in wonderment at the massive, stern features before him, calling up all that he could remember of their first meeting, and scarcely able, even yet to persuade himself that he had been the companion of that great Count de Mirabeau whose fame filled all France.

‘In the event of my compliance, you were then to accompany me to St. Cloud?’ said the Count, in a tone of inquiry.

‘Yes, sir; so I understood my orders.’

‘There is mention in history of a certain Duc de Guise – ’

He stopped short, and walked to and fro for some time in silence; then, turning abruptly around, he asked: ‘How came it that you stood so high in Monsieur’s confidence that he selected you for this mission?’

‘By mere accident,’ said Gerald, and he recounted how the incident had occurred.

‘And your horse – what has become of him?’ asked the Count.

‘He is fastened to the ring of the large porte cochère– the third house from this.’

Mirabeau leaned out of the window as if to satisfy himself that this statement was true.

‘Supposing, then, that I agree to your request, what means have you to convey me to St. Cloud? – what preparations are made?’

‘None, sir. There was no time for preparation. It was, as I have told you, late last night when Monsieur gave me this order. It was in the briefest of words.’

‘"Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau that his Majesty would speak with him,”’ said the Count, suggesting to Gerald’s memory the tenor of his message.

‘No, sir. “Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau to hasten to St. Cloud, where I will meet him.”’

‘How did you become a noble guard?’ asked he quickly. ‘They say abroad that the difficulties to admission are great?’

‘I owe my admission to the favour of Madame de Bauflremont, sir.’

‘A great patron, none more so. She would have befriended me once,’ added he, with an insolent sneer, ‘but that my ugliness displeased the Queen. Since that time, however, her Majesty has condescended to accustom herself to these harsh features, and even smiles benignly on them. There is little time to criticise the visage of your pilot, while the breakers are before and the rocks beside you. I will go, Gerald. Give me that ring.’

Gerald hesitated for a second; the Prince had not bestowed the ring on him, but only confided it to his care.

‘I will not compromise you, young man,’ said Mirabeau gravely: ‘I will simply enclose that ring in a letter which you shall see, when I have written it,’ and he immediately sat down to a table, and in a rapid hand dashed off some lines, which he threw across to Gerald to read. They ran thus:

‘Dear Friend and Nephew, – I am summoned to a meeting at St. Cloud, by the owner of the ring which I enclose. If I do not return to Paris by noon on Saturday, it is because ill has befallen yours,

‘Gabriel Riquetti, Count de Mirabeau.

‘To Mons. du Saillant, Rue d’Ascour, 170. ‘Friday, 3 a.m,’

‘There is the ring,’ said Gerald, as he took it from his finger.

Mirabeau sealed the note, enclosing it in a strong envelope, and placing it on the table among other letters, ready sealed and addressed.

‘You will carry this letter to its address, Gerald, and you will remain there till – till my return.’

‘I understand,’ said Gerald; ‘I am a hostage.’

‘You a hostage for me!’ cried the other haughtily. ‘Do you fancy, young man, that the whole corps you belong to could requite the loss of Gabriel Riquetti? Would the Court – would the Assembly – would France accept such a price? Go, sir, and tell Monsieur du Saillant that if any evil befall his uncle, he is to make use of you as the clue to trace it, and be sure that you discharge this trust well.’

‘And if I refuse this mission?’

‘If you refuse, you shall bear back to Monseigneur the reasons for which I have not obeyed his commands,’ said Mirabeau coldly. ‘Methought you remembered me better. I had fancied you knew me as one who had such confidence in himself, that he believed his own counsels the wisest, and who never turned from them. There is the letter – yes or no?’

‘Yes – I will take it.’

‘I will, with your leave, avail myself of your horse till I pass the barrier. You can meanwhile take some rest here. You will be early enough with Du Saillant by eight o’clock,’ and with this the Count withdrew into a room adjoining to complete his preparations for the road. While thus occupied, he left the door partly open, and continued to converse with Gerald, asking him various questions as to what had befallen him after having quitted the Tana, and eagerly entering into the strange vicissitudes of his life as a stroller.

‘I met your poet, I think it was at Milan. We were rivals at the time, and I the victor. A double insult to him, since he hated France and Frenchmen,’ said the Count carelessly. ‘There was a story of his having cut the fingers of his right hand to the bone with a razor, to prevent his assassinating me. What strange stuff your men of imagination are made of – ordinary good sense had reserved the razor for the enemy!’

‘His is a great and noble nature,’ exclaimed Gerald enthusiastically.

‘So much the better, then, is it exercised upon fiction: real events and real men are sore tests to such temperaments. There, I am ready now; one glass to our next meeting, and good-bye.’

With a hearty shake-hands they parted, and as Gerald looked from the window, he saw the Count ride slowly down the street. Closing the window, he threw himself upon a couch and slept soundly.