Kitabı oku: «Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel», sayfa 27

CHAPTER XIX. TWO VISITORS

A FEW days after, and just as evening was falling, a travelling-carriage halted at the park gate of the Cardinal’s villa. Some slight injury to the harness occasioned a brief delay, and the travellers descended and proceeded leisurely at a walk towards the house. One was a very large, heavily-built man, far advanced in life, with immense bushy eyebrows of a brindled grey, giving to his face a darksome and almost forbidding expression, though the mouth was well rounded, and of a character that bespoke gentleness. He was much bent in the shoulders, and moved with considerable difficulty; but there was yet in his whole figure and air a certain dignity that announced the man of condition. Such, indeed, was Sir Capel Crosbie, once a beau and ornament of the French court in the days of the Regency. The other was a spare, thin, but yet wiry-looking man of about sixty-five or six, deeply pitted with small-pox, and disfigured by a strong squint, which, as the motions of his face were quick, imparted a character of restless activity and impatience to his appearance, that his nature, indeed, could not contradict. He was known as – that is, his passport called him – Mr. Simon Purcell; but he had many passports, and was frequently a grandee of Spain, a French abbé, a cabinet courier of Russia, and a travelling monk, these travesties being all easy to one who spoke fluently every dialect of every continental language and seemed to enjoy the necessity of a deception. You could mark at once in his gestures and his tone as he came forward the stamp of one who talked much and well. There was ready self-possession, that jaunty cheerfulness dashed with a certain earnest force, that bespoke the man who had achieved conversational success, and felt his influence in it.

The accident to the harness had seemingly interrupted an earnest conversation, for no sooner was he on the ground than Purcell resumed: ‘Take my word for it, baronet; it is always a bad game that does not admit of being played in two ways – the towns to which only one road leads are never worth visiting.’

The other shook his head; but it was difficult to say whether in doubt of the meaning or dissent from the doctrine.

‘Yes,’ resumed the other, ‘the great question is what will you do with your Prince if you fail to make him a king? He will always be a puissance; it remains to be seen in whose hands and for what objects.’

The baronet sighed, and looked a picture of hopeless dullness.

‘Come, I will tell you a story, not for the sake of the incident, but for the illustration; though even as a story it has its point. You knew Gustave de Marsay, I think?’

‘Le beau Gustave? to be sure I did. Ah! it was upwards of forty years ago,’ sighed he sorrowfully.

‘It could not be less. He has been living in a little Styrian village about that long, seeing and being seen by none. His adventure was this: He was violently enamoured of a very pretty woman whom he met by chance in the street, and discovered afterward to be the wife of a “dyer,” in the Rue de Marais. Whether she was disposed to favour his addresses or acted in concert with her husband to punish him, is not very easy to say; the result would recline to the latter supposition. At all events, she gave him a rendezvous at which he was surprised by the dyer himself – a fellow strong as a Hercules and of an ungovernable temper. He rushed wildly on De Marsay, who defended himself for some time with his rapier; a false thrust, however, broke the weapon at the hilt, and the dyer springing forward, caught poor Gustave round the body, and actually carried him off over his head, and plunged him neck and heels into an enormous tank filled with dye-stuff. How he escaped drowning – how he issued from the house and ever reached his home he never was able to tell. It is more than probable the consequences of the calamity absorbed and obliterated all else; for when he awoke next day he discovered that he was totally changed – his skin from head to foot being dyed a deep blue! It was in vain that he washed and washed, boiled himself in hot baths, or essayed a hundred cleansing remedies, nothing availed in the least – in fact, many thought that he came out only bluer than before. The most learned of the faculty were consulted, the most distinguished chemists – all in vain. At last a dyer was sent for, who in an instant recognised the peculiar tint, and said, “Ah! there is but one man in Paris has the secret of this colour, and he lives in the Rue de Marais.”

‘Here was a terrible blow to all hope, and in the discouragement it inflicted three long months were passed, De Marsay growing thin and wretched from fretting, and by his despondency occasioning his friends the deepest solicitude. At length, one of his relatives resolved on a bold step. He went direct to the Rue de Marais and demanded to speak with the dyer. It is not very easy to say how he opened a negotiation of such delicacy; that he did so with consummate tact and skill there can be no doubt, for he so worked oh the dyer’s compassion by the picture of a poor young fellow utterly ruined in his career, unable to face the world, to meet his regiment, even to appear before the enemy, being blue! that the dyer at last confessed his pity, but at the same time cried out, “What can I do? there is no getting it off again!”

‘"No getting it off again! do you really tell me that?” exclaimed the wretched negotiator.

‘"Impossible! that’s the patent,” said the other with an ill-dissembled pride. “I have spent seven years in the invention. I only hit upon it last October. Its grand merit is that it resists all attempts to efface it.”

‘"And do you tell me,” cries the friend, in terror, “that this poor fellow must go down to his grave in that odious – well, I mean no offence – in that unholy tint?”

‘"There is but one thing in my power, sir.”

‘"Well, what is it, in the name of mercy? Out with it, and name your price.”

‘"I can make him a very charming green! un beau vert, monsieur.”’

When the baronet had ceased to laugh at the anecdote, Purcell resumed: ‘And now for the application. It is always a good thing in life to be able to become un beau vert, even though the colour should not quite suit you. I say this, because for the present project I can augur no success. The world has lived wonderfully fast, Sir Capel, since you and I were boys. That same Revolution in France that has cut off so many heads, has left those that still remain on men’s shoulders very much wiser than they used to be. Now nobody in Europe wants this family again; they have done their part; and they are as much bygones as chain-armour or a battle-axe.’

‘The rightful and the legitimate are never bygone – never obsolete,’ said the other resolutely.

‘A’n’t they, faith! The guillotine and the lantern are the answers to that. I do not mean to say it must be always this way. There may, though I see no signs of it, come a reaction yet; but for the present men have taken a practical turn, and they accept nothing, esteem nothing, employ nothing that is not practical. Mirabeau’s last effort was to give this colour to the Bourbons, and he failed. Do not tell me, then, that where Gabriel Riquetti broke down, a Jesuit father will succeed!’

The other shook his head in dissent, but without speaking.

‘Remember, baronet, these convictions of mine are all opposed to my interest. I should be delighted to see your fairy palace made habitable, and valued for the municipal taxes. Nothing could better please me than to behold your Excellency Master of the Horse except to see myself Chancellor of the Exchequer. But here we are, and a fine princely-looking pile it is!’

They both stopped suddenly, and gazed with wondering admiration at one noble façade of the palace right in front of them. A wide terrace of white marble, ornamented with groups or single figures in statuary, stretched the entire length of the building, beneath which a vast orangery extended, the trees loaded with fruit or blossom, gave but slight glimpses of the rockwork grottoes and quaint fountains within.

‘This is not the Cardinal’s property,’ said Purcell. ‘Nay, I know well what I am saying; this belongs, with the entire estate, down to San Remo, yonder, to the young Countess Ridolfi. Nay more, she is at this very moment in bargain with Cæsare Piombino for the sale of it. Her price is five hundred thousand Roman scudi, which she means to invest in this bold scheme.’

‘She, at least, has faith in a Stuart,’ exclaimed the baronet eagerly.

‘What would you have? The girl’s in love with your Prince. She has paid seventy thousand piastres of Albizzi’s debts that have hung around his neck these ten or twelve years back, all to win him over to the cause, just because his brother-in-law is Spanish Envoy here. She destined some eight thousand more as a present to Our Lady of Ravenna, who, it would seem, has a sort of taste for bold enterprises; but Massoni stopped her zeal, and suggested that instead of candles she should lay it out in muskets.’

‘You scoff unseasonably, sir,’ said the baronet, indignant at the tone he spoke in.

‘Nor is that all,’ continued Purcell, totally heedless of the rebuke; ‘her very jewels, the famous Ridolfi gems, the rubies that once were among the show objects of Rome, are all packed up and ready to be sent to Venice, where a company of Jews have contracted to buy them. Is not this girl’s devotion enough to put all your patriotism to the blush?’

A slight stir now moved the leaves of the orange-trees near where they were standing. The evening was perfectly still and calm: Purcell, however, did not notice this, but went on —

‘And she is right. If there were a means of success, that means would be money. But it is growing late, and this, I take it, is the chief entrance. Let us present ourselves, if so be that we are to be honoured with an audience.’

Though the baronet had not failed to remark the sarcastic tone of this speech, he made no reply but slowly ascended the steps toward the terrace.

Already the night was closing in, and as the strangers reached the door they did not perceive that a figure had issued from the orangery beneath, and mounted the steps after them. This was the Chevalier, who usually passed the last few moments of each day wandering among the orange-trees. He had thus, without intending it, heard more than was meant for his ears.

The travellers had but to appear to receive the most courteous reception from a household already prepared to do them honour. They were conducted to apartments specially made ready for them; and being told that the Countess hoped to have their company at nine o’clock, when she supped, were left to repose after their journey.

CHAPTER XX. A WAYWORN ADVENTURER

It was by this chance alone that Gerald knew of the sacrifices Guglia had made and was making for his cause. In all their intercourse, marked by so many traits of mutual confidence, nothing of this had transpired. By the like accident, too, did he learn how some men, at least, spoke and thought of his fortunes; and what a world of speculation did these two facts suggest! They were as types of the two opposing forces that ever swayed him in life. Here, was the noble devotion that gave all; there, the cold distrust that believed nothing. Delightful as it had been for him to dwell on the steadfast attachment of Guglia Ridolfi, and think over the generous trustfulness of that noble nature, he could not turn his thoughts from what had fallen from Purcell; the ill-omened words rankled in his heart, and left no room for other reflections.

All that he had read of late, all the letters that were laid before him, were filled with the reiterated tales of Highland devotion and attachment. The most touching little episodes of his father’s life were those in which this generous sentiment figured, and Gerald had by reading and re-reading them got to believe that this loyalty was but sleeping, and ready to be aroused to life and activity at the first flutter of a Stuart tartan on the hills, or the first wild strains of a pibroch in the gorse-clad valleys.

And yet Purcell said – he had heard him say – the world has no further need of this family; the pageant they moved in has passed by for ever. The mere chance mention, too, of Mirabeau’s name – that terrible intelligence which had subjugated Gerald’s mind from very boyhood – imparted additional force to this judgment. ‘Perhaps it is even as he says,’ muttered Gerald; ‘perhaps the old fire has died out on the altars, and men want us not any more.’

Whenever in history he had chanced upon the mention of men who, once great by family and pretension, had fallen into low esteem and humble fortunes, he always wondered why they had not broken with the old world and its traditions at once, and sought in some new and far-off quarter of the globe a life untrammelled by the past. ‘Some would call this faint-heartedness; some would say that it is a craven part to turn from danger; but it is not the danger I turn from; it is not the peril that appalls me; it is the sting of that sarcasm that says, Who is he that comes on the pretext of a name, to trouble the world’s peace, unfix men’s minds and unhinge their loyalty? What does he bring us in exchange for this earthquake of opinion? Is he wiser, better, braver, more skilled in the arts of war or peace than those he would overthrow?’

As he waged conflict with these thoughts, came the summons to announce that the Countess was waiting supper for him.

‘I cannot come to-night. I am ill – fatigued. Say that I am in want of rest, and have lain down upon my bed.’ Such was the answer he gave, uttered in the broken, interrupted tone of one ill at ease with himself.

The Cardinal’s physician was speedily at his door, to offer his services, but Gerald declined them abruptly and begged to be left alone. At length a heavy step was heard in the corridor, and the Cardinal himself demanded admission.

In the hurried excuses that Gerald poured forth, the wily churchman quickly saw that the real cause of his absence was untouched.

‘Come, Prince,’ said he good-humouredly, ‘tell me frankly, you are not satisfied with Guglia and myself for having permitted this man to come here; but I own that I yielded only to Massoni’s earnest desire.’

‘And why should Massoni have so insisted,’ asked Gerald.

‘For this good reason, that they are both devoted adherents of your house; men ready to hazard all for your cause.’

Gerald smiled superciliously, and the Cardinal seeing it, said —

‘Nay, Prince, distrust was no feature of your race, and, from what the Père Massoni says, these gentlemen do not deserve it.’ He paused to let Gerald reply, but, as he did not speak, the Cardinal went on: ‘The younger of the two, who speaks out his mind more freely, is a very zealous partisan of your cause. He has worn a miniature of your father next his heart since the memorable day at Preston, when he acted as aide-de-camp to his Royal Highness; and when he had shown it to us he kissed it with a devotion that none could dare to doubt.’

‘This is he that is called Purcell,’ asked Gerald.

‘The same. He held the rank of colonel in the Scottish army, and was rewarded with a patent of nobility, too, of which, however, he has not availed himself.’

Again there flashed across Gerald’s mind the words he had overhead from the orangery, and the same cold smile again settled on his features, which the Cardinal noticed and said —

‘If it were for nothing else than the close relation which once bound him to his Royal Highness, methinks you might have wished to see and speak with him.’

‘And so I mean to do, sir; but not to-night.’

‘Chevalier,’ said the Cardinal resolutely, ‘it is a time when followers must be conciliated, not repulsed; flattered instead of offended. Reflect, then, I entreat you, ere you afford even a causeless impression of distance or estrangement. On Monday last, an old Highland chief, the lord of Barra, I think they called him, was refused admittance here, on the plea that it was a day reserved for affairs of importance. On Wednesday, the Count D’Arigny was told that you only received envoys, and not mere Chargés d’Affaires; and even yesterday, I am informed, the Duc de Terracina was sent away because he was a few minutes behind the time specified for his audience. Now these are trifles, but they leave memories which are often disastrous.’

‘If I had to render an account of my actions, sir,’ said Gerald haughtily, ‘a humiliation which has not yet reached me – I might be able to give sufficient explanation for all you have just mentioned.’

‘I did but speak of the policy of these things,’ said the Cardinal, with an air of humility.

‘It is for me to regard them in another light,’ said Gerald hastily. He paused, and, after a few minutes, resumed in a voice whose accents were full and well weighed: ‘When men have agreed together to support the cause of one they call a Pretender, they ever seem to me to make a sort of compromise with themselves, and insist that he who is to be a royalty to all others, invested with every right and due of majesty, must be to them a plaything and a toy; and then they gather around him with fears, and threats, and hopes, and flatteries – now menacing, now bribing – forgetting the while that if fortune should ever destine such a man to have a throne, they will have so corrupted and debased his nature, while waiting for it, that not one fitting quality, not one rightful trait would remain to him. If history has not taught me wrongly, even usurpers have shown more kingly conduct than restored monarchs.’

‘What would you, Prince?’ said the Cardinal sorrowfully. ‘We must accept the world as we find it.’

‘Say, rather, as we make it.’

The Cardinal rose to take his leave, but evidently wishing that Gerald might say something to detain him. He was very reluctant to leave the young man to ponder in solitude such sentiments as he had avowed.

‘Good-night, sir, good-night. Your Eminence will explain my absence, and say that I will receive these gentlemen tomorrow. What are the papers you hold in your hand – are they for me?’

‘They are some mere routine matters, which your Royal Highness may look over at leisure – appointments to certain benefices, on which it has been the custom to take the pleasure of the Prince your father; but they are not pressing; another time will do equally well.’

There was an adroitness in this that showed how closely his Eminence had studied the Stuart nature, and marked that no flattery was ever so successful with that house as that which implied their readiness to sacrifice time, pleasure, inclination, even health itself to the cares and duties of station. To this blandishment they were never averse or inaccessible, and Gerald inherited the trait in all its strength.

‘Let me see them, sir,’ said Gerald, seating himself at the table, while he gave a deep sigh – fitting testimony of his sense of sacrifice.

‘This is the nomination of John Decloraine Hackett to the see of Elphin; an excellent priest, and a sound politician. He has ever contrived to impress the world so powerfully with his religious devotion, that there are not twelve men in Europe know him to be the craftiest statesman of his time.’

‘It is, then, a good appointment,’ said Gerald, taking the pen. ‘But what is this? The Cardinal York has already signed this.’

In Caraffa’s eagerness to play out his game he had forgotten this fact, and that the Irish bishops had always been submitted to the approval of his Royal Highness.

‘I say, sir,’ reiterated Gerald, ‘here is the signature of my uncle. What means this, or who really is it that makes these appointments?’

The Cardinal began with a sort of mumbled apology about a divided authority and an ecclesiastical function; but Gerald stopped him abruptly —

‘If we are to play this farce out, let our parts be assigned us; and let none assume that which is not his own. Take my word for it, Cardinal, that if the day comes when the English will carry me to the scaffold, at Smithfield or Tyburn, or wherever it be, you will not find any one so ready to be my substitute. There, sir, take your papers, and henceforth let there be no more mockeries of office. I will myself speak of this to my uncle.’

The Cardinal bowed submissively and moved toward the door.

‘You will receive these gentlemen to-morrow?’ said he interrogatively.

‘To-morrow,’ said Gerald, as he turned away.

The Cardinal bowed deeply, and retired. Scarcely, however, had his footsteps died out of hearing, when Gerald rang for his valet, and said —

‘When these visitors retire for the night, follow the Signor Purcell to his room, and desire him to come here to me; do it secretly, and so that none may remark you.’

The valet bowed, and Gerald was once more alone.

It was near midnight when the door again opened, and Mr. Purcell was introduced. Making a low and deep obeisance, but without any other demonstration of deference for Gerald’s rank, he stood patiently awaiting to be addressed.

‘We have met before, sir,’ said Gerald, flushing deeply.

‘So I perceive, sir,’ was the quiet reply given with all the ease of one not easily abashed, ‘and the last time was at a pleasant supper-table, of which we are the only survivors.’

‘Indeed!’ sighed Gerald sadly, and with some astonishment.

‘Yes, sir; the “Mountain” devoured the Girondists, and the reaction devoured the “Mountain.” If the present people have not sent the reactionnaires to the guillotine, it is because they prefer to make soldiers of them.’

‘And how did you escape the perils of the time?’ asked Gerald eagerly.

‘Like Monsieur de Talleyrand sir, I always treated the party in disgrace as if their misfortune were but a passing shadow, and that the day of their triumph was assured. For even this much of consideration men in adversity are grateful.’

‘How heartily you must despise humanity!’ burst out Gerald, more struck by the cold cynicism of the other’s look than even by his words.

‘Not so,’ replied he, in a half careless tone; ‘Jean Jacques expected too much; Diderot thought too little of men. The truth lies midway, and they are neither as good nor as bad as we deem them.’

‘And now, what is your pursuit? what career do you follow?’ asked Gerald abruptly.

‘I have none, sir; the attraction that binds the ruined gambler to sit at the table and watch the game at which others are staking heavily, ties me to any enterprise wherein men are willing to risk much. I have seen so much high play in life, I cannot stand by petty ventures. They told me at Venice of the plot that was maturing here, and I agreed with old Sir Capel Crosbie to come over and hear about it.’

‘You little suspected, perhaps, who was the hero of the adventure?’ said Gerald half doubtingly.

‘Nay, sir, I saw your picture, and recognised you at once.

‘I never knew there had been a portrait of me!’ cried Gerald, in astonishment.

‘It was taken, I fancy, during your illness; but the resemblance is still complete, and recalls to those who knew the Prince, your father, every trait and lineament of his face.’

‘You yourself knew him?’ said Gerald feelingly.

A deep, cold bow was the only acknowledgment of this question.

‘They told me you were one of his trusted and truest friends?’

‘We wore each other’s miniature for many a year; our happiness was to talk of what might have chanced to be our destiny had he won back the throne that was his right, and I succeeded to what my father’s gold should have purchased. I see I am alluding to what you never heard of. You see before you one who might have been a King of Poland.’

Gerald stared in half-credulous astonishment, and the other went on —

‘You have heard of the Mississippi scheme, and of Law, its founder?’

‘Yes.’

‘My grandfather was Law’s friend and confidant. By their united talents and zeal the great plot was first conceived and matured. Law was at first but an indifferent French scholar, and even a worse courtier. My grandfather was an adept in both, and knew, besides, the Duke of Orleans well. They were as much companions as the distance of their stations could make them; and by my grandfather’s influence the Duke was induced to listen to the scheme. On what mere accident the great events of life depend! It was a party of quinze decided the fate of Europe. The Duke lost a hundred and seventy thousand livres to my grandfather, and could not pay him. While he was making excuses for the delay, my grandfather thought of Law, and said – “Let me present to your Royal Highness to-morrow morning a clever friend of mine, and it will never be your fortune again to own that you have not money to any extent at your disposal.” Law appeared at the Duke’s levée the next morning. It is not necessary to tell the rest, only that among the deepest gamblers in that memorable scheme, and the largest winners, my grandfather held the first place. Such was the splendour of his retinue one day at Versailles that the rumour ran it was some sovereign of Southern Europe had suddenly arrived at Paris, and the troops turned out to render royal honours to him. When the Duke heard the story he laughed heartily, and said, “Eh bien, c’est un Gage du succès “ – a mot upon our family name, which was Gage, my uncle being afterward a viscount by that title.

‘Within a very short time after that incident – which, some say, had so captivated my grandfather’s ambition that he became feverish and restless for greatness – he offered three millions sterling for the crown of Poland. You may remember Pope’s allusion to it:

 
“The Crown of Poland, venal twice an age,
To just three millions stinted modest Gage.”
 

‘The contract was broken off by my grandfather’s refusal to marry a certain Countess Boratynski, a natural daughter of the king. He then made a bidding for the throne of Sardinia; but, while the negotiation was yet pending, the great edifice of Law began to tremble; and within three short weeks my grandfather, from the owner of six millions sterling, was reduced to actual beggary.

‘He attained a more lasting prosperity later on, and died a grandee of Spain of the first class, having highly distinguished himself in council and the field.

‘It is not in any vaingloriousness, sir, I have related this story. Of all the greatness that once adorned my house, these threadbare clothes are sorry relics. We were talking of life’s reverses, however, and probably my case is not without its moral.’

Gerald sat silently gazing with a sort of admiration at one who could with such seeming calm discuss the most calamitous accident of fortune.

‘How thoroughly you must know the world!’ exclaimed he at last.

‘Ay, sir; in the popular acceptation of the phrase I do know it. Plenty of good and plenty of bad is there in it, and so mingled and blended that there is nothing rarer in life than to find any nature either all lovable or all detestable. There are dark stains in the fairest marble, so are there in natures the world deems utterly depraved touches of human sentiment whose tenderness no poet ever dreamed of. And if I were to give you a lesson, it would be – never be over-sanguine, but never despair of humanity!’

‘As you drew nigh the villa this evening,’ said Gerald slowly, and with all the deliberation of one approaching a theme of interest, ‘I chanced to be in the orangery beneath the terrace. You were speaking to your companion in confidence, and I heard you say what augured but badly for the success of my cause. Your words made so deep an impression on me that I have asked to see and speak with you. Tell me, therefore, in all frankness, what you know, and in equal candour what you think about this enterprise.’

‘What claim have I upon your forbearance if I say what may be ungracious? How shall I hope to be forgiven if I tell you what is not pleasant to hear?’

‘The word of one who is well weary of delusions shall be your guarantee.’

‘I accept the pledge.’

He walked three or four times up and down the room, to all seeming in deep deliberation with himself, and then facing full round in front of Gerald, said —

‘You were educated at the convent of the Jesuits – are you a member of the order?’

‘No.’

‘Have they made no advances to you to become such?’

‘None.’

‘It is as I suspected,’ muttered he to himself; then added aloud: ‘They mean to employ you as the French king did your father. You are to be the menace in times of trouble, and the sacrifice in the day of terms and accommodations. Be neither!’

With this he waved his hand in farewell, and hastily left the room.