CHAPTER XXXIII. A SOIRÉE IN THE GREAT WORLD
It was not without considerable trepidation and great misgiving that I awaited the evening. What subtlety might be in store for me, I could not guess; but it seemed clear that the young secretary meditated a heavy vengeance upon me, and would not lightly pardon the insult I had passed upon him.
“I have it,” thought I, after long and deep pondering: “his plan is to introduce me into a great and crowded assembly, with ministers, ambassadors, and generals, and then, in the face of a distinguished company, to proclaim me a cheat and impostor. He has doubtless the train all laid, only waiting for the match; and as the outrage will be inflicted conjointly and diplomatically, any demand for personal satisfaction will be vain, while a very slight hint at the Prefecture would suffice to have me expelled from the country.”
Should I confront this danger, or hazard the risk of such an exposure, or should I suffer judgment to be given against me by default? What a trying alternative! In the one case, a peril the greater for its shadowy, ill-defined consequences; in the other, certain and irretrievable disgrace! How often did I curse my ambitious yearning after wealth, that had not left me contented with my own fortune,—the hard-won, but incontestable, rewards of personal distinction. As the gallant officer who had gained each step upon the field of battle, and whose services had claimed the especial notice of his prince, I ought to have rested satisfied.
My promotion would have been certain and rapid, and what higher condition should I dare to aspire to than the command of a French regiment, or possibly some brilliant staff appointment? Why will not men look downward as they climb the mountain of life, and see the humble abyss from which they have issued? Were they but to do so, how many would be convinced that they had done enough, and not risk all by striving to mount higher! The son of the poor peasant a General of Division!—one among that decorated group surrounding the sovereign of a great nation!—was not this sufficient? And so much assuredly was within my reach, merely by length of life and the ordinary routine of events! And yet all this must I jeopardize for the sake of gold! And now what course should I adopt? My whole philosophy through life had been comprised in that one word which summed up all Marshal Blucher's “tactics,”—“Forwards!” It had sufficed for me in many a trying emergency,—it had cut the black knot of many a tangle;—should I not still abide by it? Of course. This was not the moment to abandon the bold policy.
From the “host of mine inn” I learned that the Spanish minister, whose receptions were little less splendid than those of the court itself, occupied a position which in countries of more rigid morality would have left his salons less crowded. In fact, it was asserted that he owed his eminent station to his having consented to marry a lady who had once been the rival of royalty itself in Spain, and whose banishment had been thus secured. Being still in the full pride of her beauty, and possessing great wealth, the “scandal” only added to her claim, in a society where notoriety of any kind is regarded as a distinction.
She was the reigning belle of the capital. Her word was law on every theme of fashion and taste; her opinions exerted a considerable influence on matters of high political bearing; and despite the ambiguity of her position, she was the arbitress of every claim to admission into that society which arrogated to itself the name of being “the best.”
It is needless to say that a station of the kind engenders a species of tyranny to which the world responds by inventing all manner of stories and strange histories; and thus the Marchesa de la Norada was by some proclaimed a natural daughter of the Emperor Napoleon,—by others, of an English Royal Duke. She was a widow, and the wife of half-a-dozen personages together. There was not an European court into which she had not brought discord,—not a cabinet where she had not sown intrigue. Her beauty had seduced, her gold corrupted, and her wiles entrapped half the great statesmen of the age; while there was scarcely a crime within the red catalogue of the law that was not laid to her charge; and yet, with all these allegations against her, she was more sovereign in that capital than the rightful queen of the land. This was the presence into which I was to be introduced to-night, and—I frankly own it—I would have rather confronted the searching scrutiny of the most penetrating of men than meet the careless, half-bestowed glances of that woman! nor was it at all unlikely that to such a test they wished now to subject me and my pretensions.
It is far easier for many men to confront a personal danger, the peril of life or limb, than to meet the trying difficulty of a slight before the world. To myself, the former would be as nothing in comparison. I could face any amount of peril in preference to the risk of a public mark of depreciation, and from a woman, too! where redress was as impossible as reply was useless.
It was already midnight ere I could muster courage to set out,—not that the hour was inappropriate, for the Marchesa's receptions only began when the opera was over. As I drove along the Chiaia, the crowd of carriages told that this was a night of more than ordinary attraction, and more than one equipage of the Court passed by, showing that some members of the royal family would be present. This again terrified me. Was royalty to be among the witnesses of my shame? When a man's thoughts do take the turn of self-tormenting, what ingenuity will they not exhibit,—what astonishing resources of annoyance! I am convinced that my greatest enemy in life could never have inflicted a tenth part of that suffering which now I experienced from my own fancies! Among the thoughts which crossed my mind, one kept continually recurring, and made an impression that my memory will probably never lose,—it was my doubt whether I ought not to return and exchange my uniform for plain clothes, and thus avoid exposing the epaulette of a French officer, and the proud cordon I wore, to the chances of open insult.
This question was yet unsolved in my mind as I drove into the court-yard of the palace. The turmoil and confusion of the scene—carriages interlocked, poles smashing panels, and horses rearing—was an actual relief to me, and I would have felt a heart-warm gratitude for any accident that might have upset half the company, and broken up the reception in disorder. Such “good-luck” was, however, not in store for me. My calèche at length drew up at the door, and I handed my card with my name to the major-domo, who stood at the top of the stairs with an army of liveried lacqueys around him. “Le Comte de Creganne!” resounded now through the spacious antechamber, and the voices of others took it up, and the echo without repeated it, every syllable falling upon my heart like the bang of a death-bell!
Although our progress was soon arrested by the dense crowd, and all chance of moving farther, for a time at least, out of the question, the lacquey continued to call my name aloud, with what I deemed a most needless importunity of announcement. At last he ceased, leaving me to the enjoyment of a momentary tranquillity in mixing with the crowd. It was indeed but momentary; for the young attaché had made his way through the throng, and whispered in my ear, “Let us retire this way, and I 'll lead you by another passage, otherwise you will run a great risk of never being presented to the Marchesa.” I could have told him that I would have borne even this misfortune like a man; but I did not, and merely followed him as he led the way through a suite of rooms, of which only one was occupied, and that by a card-party.
The buzz and hum of voices apprised me that we were again approaching the company, and suddenly, on opening a door, we found ourselves in a small but gorgeously furnished chamber, where three or four ladies and about a dozen men were assembled, while the main body of the guests passed through in defile, each stopping to salute and say a few words to a lady who did the honors of the reception. As her back was towards me, I could only mark that she was tall, and of an air that was queenly in state and dignity. The stars and decorations around her showed that some of the party were princes of the blood, and others, ambassadors and ministers of state.
“Wait where you are,” whispered my companion; and he moved forward and entered the crowd. I stood an eager spectator of the scene, in which, despite all my anxieties, I could not but feel interested. It was the first great review I had ever witnessed of that fashionable world whose recognition and acceptance I so ardently coveted. Its slightest gestures, its least and most insignificant observances, were all matters of study to me. Every deep reverence, each motion of respectful courtesy, were things to mark and imitate, and I was storing up many a hint for future guidance, when I observed that a gentleman, whom I had rightly conjectured to be a royal prince, appeared to press some remark upon the “Marchesa,” to which at last she replied, “I believe I must follow your Royal Highness's counsel, and take a few minutes' rest;” and, so saying, she dropped back from the group, and retired within a few paces of where I stood.
“May I beg you to hand that chair, sir,” said the Prince to me, and in a tone in which I own a certain haughtiness seemed to rebuke my want of thoughtfulness in not presenting it unbidden. I hastened to perform this service. The lady turned to acknowledge it; our eyes met, and we stood fixed and rooted to the spot, each speechless and pale with emotion. In those few seconds I felt as if I had lived years.
“La Senhora Dias,” murmured I, unconsciously to myself.
“Lupo!” ejaculated she, as if in answer, and she trembled from head to foot.
“You have really over-exerted yourself,” said the prince, as, taking her hand, he pressed her down into a seat.
Her eyes never quitted me for an instant, and the expression of her features became almost that of agonizing pain as she motioned me to approach her. “Is it possible that I see before me my old friend the Duke of———?” She stopped, and, with a look of entreaty I can never forget, intimated that I should fill up the blank.
“Le Comte de Creganne, Madame,” said I, coming to the rescue, “who is but too happy to find himself remembered by the Marchesa de la Norada.”
“Very true, Comte; I was confounding you with your constant companion, the Duke de la Breanza; I hope he is well, and the dear duchess. And you,—when did you arrive from the Brazils? I trust very lately, or you have treated me shamefully.”
Rapidly as these words were uttered, they were enough to give me the “consigne” of what rank my intimate friends held, in what class we met, and from whence I came. While I replied to her questions, she motioned me to a seat beside her, and, with a smile and a courteous apology to the prince for devoting herself to the old friend who had so unexpectedly presented himself, she dropped her voice to a whisper and said, “Not now, nor here, but to-morrow we will speak together.”
“Enough,” said I, rapidly; “I am your old and esteemed friend the Comte de Creganne; you are not compromised in calling me so.”
“Nor can your memory fail to recall me as a Lady of Honor at the Brazilian court!”
And now some of the company had gathered around us, to most of whom she presented me, always adding some few courteous expressions, indicative of our ancient friendship, and of the pleasure she felt at our unexpected meeting. If I have occasionally given way to those erratic flights of fancy which led me to believe myself a scion of a noble house, well born and nurtured, with wealth at my command and a high station in store, all these delusions were nothing to the creative efforts of her imagination, who commenced by reminding me of a hundred people who never existed, and places and incidents which were all as unreal. How we did bewail the death of some, rejoice over the good fortune of other “dear, dear friends” who had never breathed! and with what pleasant laughter we remembered eccentricities and oddities that once used to amuse us so much!
Never can I forget the look of astonishment of the young attache as he came up and found me seated on the ottoman beside the Marchesa, with her pet spaniel upon my lap, while my whole air was redolent of that triumphant expression so unmistakably denoting security.
“I perceive,” said he, with difficulty repressing his ill-humor, “that Madame la Marchesa is acquainted with the Comte de Creganne.”
“For many years, sir, the Comte and I have known each other, and I have only to own my surprise that none of my friends at Naples ever mentioned to me the arrival of one in every way so distinguished. But here is the Marquese; I must present you, Comte.” So saying, she introduced me to a tall, pompous-looking elderly gentleman, who, it is but fair to add, did not evince half so much satisfaction at sight of me as his wife showed. And now was I the lion of the evening. I, who had walked the Chiaia every day for weeks back without notice or recognition, and who might, had the idea occurred to me, have fallen down and died without one to pity me,—I became all of a sudden a most “interesting personage”! My African campaign was exalted into a perfect career of glory, and even my modesty was pushed hard to accept the praises most lavishly bestowed upon acts of heroism of which I had not even heard.
The Duke of Vallabretta, the younger brother of the king, was certain he had often heard of me from his “friend De St. Cloud.” He was quite positive that I was the officer of dragoons who, with one squadron of horse, captured “a Smala” defended by twelve hundred Arabs, while fully one half of the illustrious cruelties of the Oran war was generously laid to my charge. A dash of atrocity adds immensely to the charm of heroism in Italian estimation; and so I discovered that various acts of roasting prisoners, sending a cargo of noses to Toulon, and such like, were exceedingly popular with the ladies, who regarded me as a modern “Bayard.”
Not all these sensations of triumph, however, gave me one half the pleasure that I felt in trampling upon the little French attaché, whom I persecuted with a proud disdain that nearly drove him mad. All my ignorance of Neapolitan society, the obscurity in which I had lived hitherto, I laid at his door. I deplored most feelingly to the prince the inefficient mode in which we were represented at his court, and promised to use my influence in effecting a change. I fear my disposition is not so angelic as I usually conceive it, for I actually taxed my ingenuity for little subjects of attack against the unlucky diplomatist, and saw him at length retire from the salons crushed, crest-fallen, and miserable.
Another consideration, perhaps, added venom to my malignity: I knew not how short-lived might be my power, and determined to “make my running while the course was free.” The vicissitudes of fortune had often reversed in one short day all the prospect I trusted to be the most stable and certain; and, for the future, I was fully resolved never to forego the stroke to-day for which my arm might be too weak to-morrow. As I saw him depart, I felt like a naval hero when his enemy has struck, and, in the pride of victory, abandoned myself to pleasure.
If the Marchesa watched me at first with an uneasy and anxious eye, doubtful, perhaps, how I should acquit myself in that high and polished world, I soon saw that her fears were allayed as she saw the easy quietude of my manner, and that tranquil self-possession which is supposed to be only acquired by long admixture with the world of fashion. It was evident, too, that if any failure on my part would entail disgrace, success was just as certain to do her honor and credit, since I was a strong rebutting evidence against all those who denied that the Marchesa was ever known or recognized before in the high circles of a court.
“To-morrow, at noon,” said she, as I made my bow at parting; and it was not likely I should forget the appointment.
It was with very different feelings I drove up to the palace of the Marchesa on the day following, from those I had experienced on approaching it on the evening of the reception; nor was I long without perceiving that my confidence was well founded. The Groom of the Chambers received me with his most bland courtesy, and by his manner showed that he expected my arrival.
Preceding me through a suite of rooms whose magnificence I had not time to observe on the previous evening, he ushered me into a small chamber leading into a conservatory, from which the view extended over the wide Bay of Naples, and presented Vesuvius from base to summit. As I was left by myself here for some minutes, I had leisure to notice the varied elegance by which I was surrounded. Rare plants and flowers in jars of costly porcelain; alabaster statues and rich bronzes appeared amid the clustering foliage; and in the midst of all, two tiny swans, of the rare breed of Morocco, lay tranquilly in a little basin, whose water spouted from a silver fountain of most elaborate workmanship.
While yet gazing on the tasteful objects around, the Marchesa had entered, and so noiselessly that she was at my side ere I knew it. Paler than on the previous evening, she looked even handsomer; but in the sunken eye and the wearied expression of the mouth I could see that she had passed a sleepless night.
Having taken a seat upon a sofa, and motioned me to seat myself beside her, she looked fixedly at me for several minutes without a word. At last, in a voice of deep feeling, she said, “Do you remember the pledge with which we parted? Do you recollect the oath by which you bound yourself?'
“Perfectly, Señhora!” said I; “nor was I aware yesterday, till the very moment of our meeting, in whose presence I was standing.”
“But you had heard of me here?”
“Only as the Marchesa de la Norada, not as the Señhora.”
“Hush! let that name never escape your lips; I believe you and trust you. The commission I gave you was well and faithfully executed: were it otherwise, and did I deem you false, it would not be difficult for me to rid myself of the embarrassment. We live in a city where such things are well understood.” My blood ran cold at this threat, for I remembered the accusation which hung over her, in Mexico. She saw what was passing in my mind, and added, “You have nothing to fear; we shall be good friends while you remain here; but that time must be brief. I cannot, I will not, live a life of terror; a moment of impatience, an unguarded word, a hasty expression of yours, might compromise me, and then—When can you leave Naples?”
“To-morrow—to-day, if you desire it.”
“That would be too hurried,” she said thoughtfully. “We must not encourage suspicion. Why are you here?”
I gave the restoration of my health as the reason, and then alluded to the circumstances of my Spanish claim, which I had hoped Naples would have proved a suitable place for pressing.
“Who knows of this transaction? What evidence have you of its truth?” said she, hurriedly.
“The minister by whose order I was imprisoned, the Governor of Malaga, his official underlings, all know of it.”
“Enough. Now, by whom was the information given on which you were arrested?”
“A man who called himself the Consul at Campecho, and to whose early history I am disposed to suspect I have the clew, but to whom, unfortunately, in a hasty moment, I betrayed that secret knowledge.”
“And thus he dreads and hates you,” said she, fixing her dark eyes sternly on me.
“He rather fears me without reason,” said I.
“But still you would have traded on that fear, had it served your purpose?” reiterated she, with a pointedness that showed how the application to her own case was uppermost in her thoughts.
“You are less than just to me, Señhora!” said I, proudly. “A variety of circumstances led me to connect this man with a very unhappy incident which took place years ago in England, and wherein his conduct—supposing him to be the same—was base to the last degree. This suspicion I was weak enough to let escape me. His enmity was the consequence, and from it followed all the misfortunes I have suffered.”
“Was he a murderer?”
“No,—not that.”
“Nor a forger?—for methinks in English esteem such is the parallel offence.”
“In the case I speak of, forgery was the least of his crimes: he seduced the wife of his friend and benefactor.”
“Oh, the wretch!” exclaimed she, with a derisive smile that gave her features—beautiful as they were—an almost demoniac expression. “I trust he never prospered after such iniquity.”
Not heeding the tone of sneer in which she uttered this, I replied, “You are right, Señhora; he lived a life of terror and misery. He was a coward; and the man he had injured never ceased to track him from country to country. Over sea and land he followed him; the thirst for vengeance stimulating a heart dead to every other emotion. Accident, when I was a mere boy, brought me into close relation with poor Broughton.”
“With whom?” said she, grasping my wrist, while her eyes strained till the very blood started in them.
“Sir Dudley Broughton,” said I; but the words were not out ere she fell senseless on the floor. I raised her, and placed her on a sofa; and then, dipping her handkerchief in the fountain, bathed her temples and her lips. But she gave no sign of returning animation; her arms dropped powerless at either side; she did not even seem to breathe. What was I to do? I knew not where to find a bell to summon the servants, even should I dare to leave her. In my excitement, I believed that she was dead, and that I had killed her; aud then there darted through my brain the terrible conviction that this could be no other than Lady Broughton herself,—the unhappy Lydia Delmar. With a long-drawn sigh she at length awoke, and, opening her eyes, looked up at me. A convulsive shudder speedily followed, and she closed them again, and remained still, with her hands clasped tightly over her heart.
“Have I been dreaming a terrible dream,” said she, at last, in a weak and broken voice, “or are my dreadful thoughts realities? Tell me of what were we speaking?”
I did not answer. I could not tell her of the sad theme, nor did I dare to deceive her. In this dilemma I became silent; but my confusion did not escape her, and with a voice, every syllable of which struck deep into my heart, she said, “Is this secret your own, or have you ever revealed it to another?”
“I have never told it, nor, indeed, till now, was the full mystery known to myself.”
These few words, which served to confirm her own wavering terrors, at the same time that they showed how she herself had betrayed her dreadful secret, increased her suffering, and for a space she seemed overwhelmed by affliction.
“Let us speak of this no more,” said she at last, in the same hurried voice which once before had made me suspect the soundness of her intellect. “I cannot, I dare not, trust myself to dwell upon this theme; nor will I suffer any one to usurp an ascendency over me from terror. No, sir; you shall not deceive yourself by such a delusion. I have friends—great and powerful friends—who will protect me. I have money, and can buy the aid that outstrips patronage. Beware, then, how you threaten me!”
“You are unjust to me, lady,” said I, calmly, but resolutely. “I never meant to threaten. A mere accident hae put me in possession of a secret which, while you live, none shall ever hear from my lips; nor need you fear any allusion to it will ever escape me, to yourself.”
“Then let us part. Let us see each other no more,” said she, rising, and approaching a small ivory cabinet which she unlocked. “See, here is enough to satisfy the desire for mere money, if your heart be so set upon wealth that it has no other idol. Take these, and these, and these; they are gems of price, and taken from a royal crown. That necklace of rubies once graced the shoulders of an empress; and here are rings, whose value will buy long years of dissipation and excess.”
“I must interrupt you, Señhora,” said I, offended at the tone she assumed towards me. “There is no need to 'buy me off;' I am ready to take my leave,—to quit Naples within an hour,—and I pledge myself that we shall never meet again, or if we do, as utter strangers to each other.”
“These were the terms of our contract once before,” said she, fixing her gaze steadfastly on me.
“And by whom broken, and how?” said I.
“True,—too true!” exclaimed she, in a voice of deep emotion. “Fate, that did this, has doubtless other punishments in store for me! It is plain, then, that I must trust you,—I, who can feel confidence in none!”
“I do not seek for it, Señhora,” replied I; “my offer is to leave this city, where already I see but little prospect of urging my suit with success. Why should we meet again in life, when both of us are travelling opposite roads?”
“This suit of yours is, then, a real demand, founded upon an actual loss,—matter of fact throughout?” This, although said in these few words, had nothing offensive in its tone, and I replied by an assurance of my good faith and veracity.
“Send me the memorial this evening; to-morrow, or the day after at farthest, you shall have an answer. As for your demand upon the Havannah, the banker is my own, and I can answer for your being honorably dealt with; all your property in his keeping, I will guarantee.”
“If that be so, Señhora, I am indifferent about the Spanish Minister's reply; I shall have wealth more than enough for all my desires, without him.”
“How do you call yourself in these papers?” asked she, hurriedly.
“El Condé de Cregano.”
“And you were known by that title in Mexico?”
“Certainly; I have no other.”
She stared at me fixedly for a minute or two, and then muttered to herself, “By what pretension should I question his rank!” then, turning to me, said, “Señhor el Condé de Cregano, I receive the world at large every evening save Saturday; that night I reserve for my friends. Come as often as you can during the week, but never omit a Saturday; visit me at the opera frequently; speak to me always when we meet in public places; be my intimate friend, in fact, but not more,—you have too much tact to be my admirer.” With this she gave me her hand, which I pressed respectfully to my lips, and bowing deeply, moved towards the door.
“We understand each other,” said she, calmly.
“Perfectly, Madame,” replied I.
“Then never say, sir,” resumed she, in a stern, determined voice, “never say that you are not an adventurer; never dare to tell me that one who so quickly assumes a part is not a professed actor on the great boards of life, ready to take the character assigned him, be it broad farce or comedy,—ay, or even tragedy, if needs were. Do not deny or seek to contradict me; I did not care that your countship had fourteen quarterings behind it,—nay, I like you even better as you are. There, now you look natural and at your ease. Adieu, Monsieur le Comte.”
“Adieu, Madame la Marquise,” said I putting as much irony into my accent as might repay her; and then we parted. Whatever her feelings, I know not,—mine, I own, were scarcely of the pleasantest; prompting me to make my residence at Naples as brief as might be, and to see no more of my “dear friend of former years” than was absolutely indispensable.
Were I to dwell upon those portions of my history which afforded me the highest amount of enjoyment, while passing I might linger upon the weeks I spent in Naples as perhaps the very pleasantest of my life. The world of fashion was new to me. All those fascinations to which habit renders men either apathetic or indifferent, came fresh upon me. The outward show of splendor in dress and jewels, gorgeous saloons, rare flowers, exquisite pictures and statues, soon cease to astonish and amaze; but it takes a long while ere the charm of intercourse with really brilliant society begins to wear off, and ere a man recognizes a degree of sameness in the pleasures and amusements of his fashionable friends.
I am not sure that the society which I frequented had not more power of captivation than a more rigidly scrupulous circle, since, while exacting all the observances of polished life, it yet admitted a degree of liberty, almost of familiarity, among its members, that I have since remarked is not common in the wider intercourse of the world.
Pretty women were not ashamed to look their best, and dress the most becomingly; witty men were not chary of their smartness; courtiers were confidential; statesmen were candid; men of the world unbent, as if in a circle where their freedom would not be misinterpreted, and said a hundred things that in other societies would have been, to say the least, indiscreet. It is true that individuals were more discussed than events, and that characters, not facts, formed the staple of the talk; but how amusing was it, what stores of anecdote were opened, what strange histories and curious illustrations of life unfolded! Pretension was ridiculed, vulgarity exposed, stupidity laughed at, awkwardness criticized, and want of tact condemned, with most unsparing ridicule; but I am bound to own that there were few commendations reserved for virtuous conduct or honorable action. The debtor side of the account was full, but the credit had not an item on it!
No rank, however exalted, could escape the judgments of a “set” who, with all the exclusiveness of fashion, affected a most democratic spirit of equality. It was, however, a “communism” that assumed to start on the basis of every one haviug at least ten thousand a year,—not so bad a theory, were it only practicable.
I must not linger longer on this subject, on which I have only touched to remark that here it was where I acquired that knowledge of forms and conventionalities which constitute the tactique of life,—those “gambits” and “openings,” to use a chess phrase, by which you at once obtain an advantage over an equal adversary, and secure yourself against injury with even a superior player. I learned when to use an illustration or a story; when to become a mere listener; how to assist a slow man without his detecting the aid; and how to close a discussion with an epigram,—and all this without the faintest show of premeditation or the very slightest sign of forethought. While my education as a man of the world was progressing, my material fortune was also advancing. The Spanish Ambassador, who had referred my case to his court, ascertained that I had been most infamously treated; that not alone my rank and fortune were indisputable, but that the individual on whose affirmation I was arrested was himself a Carlist spy, and the noted agent of a great Northern power. In fact, so manifold were his infractions against law, in every country in Europe, that the only difficulty was to what particular power to hand him over, so many laying claim to the honor of punishing him. In the end, Naples obtained this distinction! and at the very period I was enjoying the luxurious pleasures of that capital, “my friend the Consul” was expanding his chest and his faculties in the less captivating career of a galley-slave. “Fortune is just,” said I, as I arranged my cravat at the window which overlooked the Bay, on whose glassy surface some half-dozen boats moved sluggishly, as the red and yellow rowers kept time to the “stroke” by the clanking of their fetters.
Governments move slowly, particularly when the case is one of refunding a previous spoliation; meanwhile they admitted my claim; and by way of keeping me in good-humor, they sent me a cross of the Order of Isabella, of the first class,—a very gratifying recognition of my noble birth and merits. My intimacy with the Duke of Medina—the brother of the king—obtained for me the Neapolitan Order; and thus was I decorated with three very distinguished cordons, which I wore in my button-hole as a “tricolor,”—a fact insignificant in itself; but I mention it here, as many of my imitators have since that affected to be the inventors of the method.
Periods of expectancy are generally deemed great trials, making inroads upon the health, and sapping the energies of the mind. Such was not my case here; I waited like one who loiters in some delicious garden, surrounded with blooming flowers and sweet odors. The delays and procrastinations of cabinets—for which the most profuse apologies were made—I bore with a degree of calm equanimity that won for me the appellation of a most finished gentleman; and thus was I almost unconsciously perfecting myself in that grand element of breeding whose triumph is “impassiveness.”
There were moments when I actually dreaded the termination of my cause, so agreeable had Naples become to me; but as the rich gamester is certain to win, while the poor player is luckless ever, successes crowded on me, because I was half indifferent to them.
Six months had now nearly elapsed since my arrival at Naples, and I was paying a morning visit to the Marchesa, whom I was engaged to accompany to a grand déjeuner, to be given on board of a British ship of war in the Bay. It was one of those gorgeous days of brilliant coloring, which, in Italy, seem to exaggerate the effect of landscape, and defy all efforts of art to imitate; the scene was heightened, too, by the objects moving across the bay. The various boats, with ensigns floating and music playing; the swift “La-teeners,” skimming along the glassy surface, almost without a breath of wind; and then the great three-decker herself, in all the pride of her majestic size, with flags of every nation fluttering from her halyards,—were splendid adjuncts to the picture.
“Here are three letters for you, Monsieur le Comte,” said the Marchesa, “they came in the Spanish Minister's bag this morning; but I suppose there is nothing sufficiently interesting in them to withdraw your thoughts from that magnificent panorama.”
Of course I affected concurrence in the sentiment, and thrust them into my pocket with assumed indifference. The room soon after filled with arriving visitors, and among the rest the Spanish Ambassador.
“Ha, Señhor Condé,” said he, approaching me, “let me offer my warmest felicitations. How happy am I to be the means through which your good tidings have reached you!”
I bowed, smiled, and seemed charmed, without the slightest notion wherein lay my good fortune. His practised eye, however, soon detected my game, and he said, “You have received your letters, I hope?”
“Yes,” replied I, carelessly; “the Marchesa has been kind enough to give them to me.”
“And you have read them?” asked he again.
“Not yet,” said I; “I make it a rule never to risk the pleasure of a happy day by opening a letter at hazard.”
“What if its contents were but to increase the enjoyment; what if the tidings were to fill up the very measure of your wishes, Señhor?”
“In that case,” rejoined I, as coldly as before, “they will be very acceptable to-morrow morning; and thus I shall have gained two days of happiness, vice one.”
“Admirable philosophy, indeed,” said he. “Still, I must be pardoned for interfering with its exercise. I shall therefore take upon me to inform the honorable company that her Majesty, my royal mistress, has named the Count de Cregano a Grand Cordon of the Fleece, in consideration of his distinguished services in arranging the Mexican debt; that all his property, taken from him under a false and traitorous imputation, shall be at once restored; that any additional recompense he may demand for his imprisonment and other inconveniences incurred shall be immediately accorded; and that all Envoys and Ministers of the Court of Spain are instructed to receive the Count de Cregano with every honor and distinction, affording him every protection, and facilitating him in the prosecution of any project in which he may be interested.”
This speech, delivered in a very imposing manner, was followed by a round of felicitation from the assembled company the Marchesa offering me her hand in congratulation, and whispering the words, “How soon?”
“To-morrow, if I must,” replied I, sorrowfully.
“To-morrow be it,” said she, and turned away hastily.
The information conveyed to me by the Ambassador was what formed the substance of two of the letters; the third I contrived to peep into unobserved, was a formal notification from the Havannah that my bills for the amount in the bankers' hands would be accepted and negotiated at a well-known house in Paris. Thus, then, and in one moment, was I once more rich,—the possessor of immense wealth, and not alone of mere fortune, but of all the honors and dignities which can grace and adorn it. Of course I became the hero of the day. To me was intrusted the arm of the Marchesa as we descended to the pier; to me was accorded the seat of honor beside her in the boat. All the pleasant flatteries that are reserved for rich men were heaped upon me, and I felt that life had but one prize more with which to fill up the most ambitious of my cravings. That, alas! could never be,—Donna Maria was the wife of another; and thus should I learn that complete happiness is never to be the lot of any mere mortal!
The fête on board the “Tariffa” was very splendid; but it had another charm still more rarely met with,—I mean that hearty cordiality which graces every entertainment where British sailors are the hosts, their courtesy being blended with an actual warmth of hospitality that wins even upon the coldest guest, and gives a tone of friendliness to the most promiscuous gathering.
Every one appeared to experience the influence of this peculiar magic, and all gave way to the impulse that suggested the fullest enjoyment of the hour.
To waltzes had succeeded the manolo and the bolero; dances of the wild regions of Calabria and Sicily were performed by men of noble birth, the petty princes of those countries; and all were vying who should introduce something new and unknown to the rest, when, suddenly, the distant sound of the church bells of the city was borne along the water, announcing the “Vinti quatro,” as it is called,—the hour of evening prayer. In a moment a sudden air of devotional seriousness spread itself over the company, and most bent their heads in pious reverence while they recited to themselves the words of the “Angelus.” If there seemed, to the sense of English Protestantism, something strange and unnatural in this great revulsion, there was a degree of earnestness and sincerity in the features of the worshippers that showed their piety to be unfeigned; and here I might leave the theme, were it not for an incident which, taking place at the same moment, will remain forever associated in my mind with that brief interval of prayer.
The hour of sunset, or, as the Neapolitans term it, the “Vinti quatro,” is that in which the galley-slaves, employed from dawn of day at convict labor, return to their prisons; and while the streets at that period exhibit long lines of men whose terrible appearance needs not the heightening accessories of a shocking dress and a heavy lumbering chain to pronounce them criminals, over the bay are seen boats moving in sad procession, the clanking of the fetters creaking mournfully upon the ear, and sounding like the wail of hopeless captivity.
No scene of pleasurable enjoyment can stand the contrast of such a sight; the revulsion is too sudden and too painful from the light frivolity of mirth to the terrible reality of suffering and sorrow. To escape, therefore, from the gloomy picture, the officers of the vessel endeavored to withdraw their guests from the deck to the shelter of the cabin. The change was accomplished well and naturally, and we were all gathered between decks in that turmoil and confusion which form no insignificant part of the success of every entertainment, the buzz of talking and the sounds of pleasant laughter were heard on every side,—when suddenly a cry was heard above, and then the loud voice of the officer of the watch, commanding a boat to be instantly manned and lowered.
A hundred conjectures at once ran round as to the meaning of the order; but one of the officers hastily entering, a few minutes later, put an end to all guessing, by informing us that a very dreadful incident had just occurred within a short distance from where we lay. “You may have remarked a handsome yacht, which anchored last night in the bay, coming up from the eastward: she belonged to an English gentleman, with whose name we were not acquainted, but whose conduct is calculated to confirm all that Frenchmen are accustomed to say of our national taste for eccentricity, even in crime. It would seem that at an early hour this morning he landed at the Mole, and by means of letters with which he was provided to the Minister of Police, obtained leave to inspect the different prisons of the city, and to pass under the most minute examination all those condemned to the galleys for life. As already all those who work at Castelamare had been sent away, he obtained an order to visit the galleys there, being determined, as it would seem, to leave nothing unseen. On reaching Castelamare, it is said that he again commenced his tour of inspection, going over the roll of the prisoners, with the muster-book in his hand, as if to compare their features with the crimes alleged against them, and scrutinizing each with a most searching look. The visit lasted till nigh evening; and although the governor was not a little astonished at the proceeding of the stranger, still less was he prepared for the singular request which succeeded: it was, that he might be permitted to return to Naples in one of the convict boats instead of in his own gig. The demand might have been treated lightly, or altogether refused, but that the Englishman's appearance and manner indicated rank, while the letter he carried from the minister showed him to be one with claims for consideration. The governor, therefore, gave the permission, smiling at the same time at a caprice which could not have proceeded from the native of any other country.
“The Englishman took his seat in the stern of the boat, and, as I am told by the steersman, never spoke nor moved for nigh an hour's time, muffling himself up in his cloak so that his very face was concealed; he neither cast his eyes over the bay, nor looked towards the shore, but sat like one in deep reflection. As we neared the 'Tariffa,'” said my informant, “our passenger affected to feel cold and chilly,—he might have been so, since the evening breeze was just springing up,—and said that he would like to row for a spell, just to warm himself. The petty officer in charge explained that the request could not be complied with, since, amongst other reasons, the men were chained two and two on every bench, and then obliged to tug at the same oar.
“The Englishman, who throughout the day had invariably overruled every objection opposed to him, grew only more positive in his demand, and at last produced the minister's order, to strengthen his proposal; and finally said, that as he had obtained the permission to learn all he could of the condition of the convicts, he was determined not to depart without experiencing in his own person the amount of labor exacted from them. 'You shall chain me to that fellow in the bow of the boat,' said he, 'for I have my doubts that this same punishment is not equal to what our own sailors perform every day, as a mere duty.'
“I need not dwell upon the arguments he used, and the reason he pressed; and although I have not heard it, I have little doubt that bribery was among the rest. His demand was granted, and he was actually placed beside the convict, and his left wrist enclosed in the same fetter with the other's right.
“His face became almost purple as he grasped the oar, and his eyes glared fiercely round upon his fellow-laborer, like the red and staring orbs of a wild beast. 'So dreadful was the expression of his face,' said the steersman, 'that I believed him to be insane; and a shocking fear of evil consequences shot through me for having yielded to him.'
“I at once called out to the crew to ship their oars, determining to make him resume his place beside me. The order was obeyed by the bow-oar as by the rest. I was then about to issue a command for him to be released when, with a yell that I shall never forget, he sprang up in the boat, and then, calling out something in English which I could not understand, he seized his comrade by the throat and shook him violently.
“The convict—himself a strong man, yet in the prime of life—seemed nothing in the grasp of the other, who held him at arm's length, as though he were a child; and then, letting go his hold, clasping him round the waist with both arms, he jumped into the sea.
“They were seen in mortal conflict for a second or two as they sank in the clear water, but they never rose to the surface; the weight of the massive fetters and their own struggles soon finished their sufferings!”
Such was the terrible story which now broke in upon the gay current of our festivity, and threw a gloom over a scene of brilliant pleasure. Of course various surmises as to the motive of this fearful act were uttered, but they all tended to the conclusion that it proceeded from insanity, which occasionally displays amongst its wonderful phenomena all the premeditation and circumspection of accomplished guilt.
There is that of solemnity about an event of this nature that even frivolity itself stands rebuked by, and so, now, instead of resuming the occupations of pleasure, many took their leave suddenly; and of those who still remained, but one topic engrossed the conversation,—that of madness as an element in all great cases of guilt.
Of course, as in all similar discussions, the superiority lay with those who, with more readiness of expression, also possessed greater resources in anecdote and illustration; and of these the greater number were disposed to believe that all great criminality is allied with deranged intellect. The Marchesa, however, took the opposite side, and insisted that the passion which prompted to the most terrible and appalling acts was perfectly consistent with right reason and sound judgment.
“It is too rash in us,” said she, “to assume a mere blind impulse in cases even where recognized insanity exists. Were we to know the secrets of the human heart, we might, perhaps, see a long-cherished purpose in acts which appear to be dictated by momentary passion. These impulses may be excessive, ill-directed, and ill-judging; but still they may have their origin in some train of thought where generous feelings and noble aspirations mingle. Witness those heroic—for they are, after all, heroic—assassinations of the student Sandt and Charlotte Corday. What a perfect abrogation of self did these acts evince; what consummate devotion to a cause! Deeply as we may condemn the horrid nature of the crime, it would be a great error to class these men with vulgar criminals, or deny to them the motives, at least, of something great.”
I am not able—were I even disposed—to repeat all the ingenious arguments by which the Marchesa supported her opinion, nor the instances she so readily adduced in support of it. She became highly excited by the theme, and soon, by the eloquence of her words and the fascinations of her manner, enchained the whole company in a mute attention around her.
It was just as she concluded a very animated and glowing description of that condition of the human mind when, by a volcanic effort, as it were, the long-buried flames burst forth, to scatter ruin and destruction on every side, that a young officer entered the cabin, and stood fascinated by the powers of her fervid eloquence.
“Well, Mr. Hardy,” said the Captain, recalling the youth's attention to duty, “have you been on board of her?”
“Yes, sir, she is an English yacht, the 'Firefly,' and her late owner was an English baronet, whose name I have written down in my pocket-book.”
The Captain took the note-book from the young officer's hand, and, after reading the name, said, “If I mistake not, this is the same person that once was so well known in London life. Most of the present company must have heard of the rich and eccentric Sir Dudley Broughton.”
A low groan broke from me, and I turned my eyes slowly and stealthily towards the end of the table, where the Marchesa sat. Not a word, not the faintest sound, had issued from her lips; but she sat still and motionless, her lips slightly parted, and her eyes staring straight before her. The pallor of her features was that of death itself; and, indeed, the rigid contour of the cheeks and the firm tension of the muscles gave no evidence of life.
“You are ill, Madame la Marchesa,” said a gentleman who sat beside her; but as she made no reply, several now turned towards her, to press their attentions and suggest advice. She never spoke,—indeed, she seemed not to hear them,—but sat with her head erect, and her arms rigidly stretched out on either side, motionless as a statue.
The shocking incident that had occurred, and the discussion which followed it, were sufficient to account for this sudden attack in one whose nervous temperament was so finely strung; but as she showed no signs of recovering consciousness, nor gave the slightest indication of rallying, it was decided at once that she should be conveyed to shore, where in her own house medical aid might be had recourse to.
I was one of those who assisted to carry her to the boat, and sat beside her afterwards, and held her hand in mine; but she never recognized me; her hand, too, was cold and clammy, and the fingers felt rigid and cramped. The stern, impressive look of her features, the cold stare of her fixed eyes, were terrible to behold,—far more so than even the workings of mere bodily sufferings.
During the passage to the shore, at the landing itself, and on our way to the Palazzo, she remained in the same state; nor did she ever evince any trait of consciousness till she reached the foot of the great staircase, where a crowd of servants, in the richest liveries, awaited to offer their services. Then suddenly she moved her head from side to side, regarding the crowd with a glance of wild and terrific meaning; she raised her hand to her brow, and passed it slowly across her forehead. For an instant it seemed as if the lethargic paroxysm was about to pass away, for her features softened into a look of calm but melancholy beauty. This, too, glided away, and her mouth settled into a hard and rigid smile. It was the last change of all, for she had become an idiot!
From that hour forth she never spoke again! she never knew those about her, neither missing them while absent, nor recognizing them when they reappeared. She had none of the childish wilfulness of others in her sad condition, nor did she show the likings and dislikings they usually manifest; and thus she lingered on to her death.
Of her secret I was the sole depositary; and from that hour to this, in which I write, it has never escaped my lips.
