CHAPTER XXIV. FLORENCE.
It was of a calm but starless night in winter that Florence was illuminated in honor of a victory over the Austrian troops at Goito. Never was patriotic ardor higher,—never were stronger the hopes of Italian independence. From the hour of their retreat from Milan, the imperial forces had met with little but reverses, and, as day by day they fell back towards the Tyrol Alps, the hosts of their enemies swelled and increased around them; and from Genoa to the Adriatic all Italy was in march to battle. It is not to speculate on the passable current of events, nor yet to dwell on the causes of that memorable failure, by which dissentient councils and false faith—the weakness of good men and the ambition of bad ones—brought rain when there might have been victory, still less is it to gaze upon the brilliant spectacle of the rejoicing city, that we are now wending our way along the Arno, scarcely stopping to notice the thousand stars that glitter on the Duomo, nor the flickering lines of light which trace out the gigantic tower of the Palazzo Vecchio. Our theme is more humble than the former, and far too serious for such dalliance as the latter.
Leaving the crowded streets, resounding with the wild acclamations and wilder songs of the people, we pass over the Ponte Vecchio, and enter once again the dark abode of Racca Morlache. Whether from any suspicion of his unpopularity with the people, or from some secret necessity for precaution, the door is fastened by many an extra bolt, and more than one massive chain retains the iron shutters of the window. Perhaps there is something in this conscious security that has made him so sparing in his display of external joy, for two dim, discolored lamps were all that appeared above the door, and these were soon hurled down in contemptuous anger by the populace, leaving the little building in total darkness.
In easy indifference to such harmless insult, and not heeding the loud knock which, from stick or stone, the iron shutters resounded under, the Jew sat at his table in that little chamber beside the Arno, of which the reader already knows the secret. Several decanters of wine are before him, and as he sips his glass and smashes his filbert, his air is that of the very easiest unconcern.
Attempting, but with inferior success, an equal degree of calm, sits the Abbé D'Esmonde on the opposite side of the table. With all his training, his calm features betray at moments certain signs of anxiety, and, while he speaks, you can see that he is listening to the noises in the street without.
“How I detest that song!” said Morlache, as the full swell of a deep-voiced chorus filled the air. “I verily believe the Revolution has not inflicted us with anything more outraging to good taste than the air of 'Viva Pio Nono.'”
“Always excepting Pio Nono himself,” said D'Esmonde, “who is far more the child than the father of this movement.”
“Not bad for a priest to renounce allegiance to his holy master!” said Racca, laughing.
“You mistake me, Signor Morlache,” said D'Esmonde, eagerly. “I spoke of Pio Nono, the politician,—the rash innovator of time-honored institutions, the foolish donor of concessions that must be won back at the price of blood, the man who has been weak enough to head a movement which he ought to have controlled in secret. How the people shout! I hear many a voice in accents of no Italian origin.”
“Yes, the city is full of Poles and Hungarians.”
“It will soon be time to drop the curtain on this act of the drama, Morlache; enough has been done to show the world the dangerous doctrines of these fanatics. They who cry 'No property in France,' shout 'No King in Germany,' 'No Pope in Rome.' The peaceful or well-ordered must be taught to see in us their safeguard against these men. They must learn to think the Church the sanctuary it was of old. From all these convulsions which shatter empires, we are the refuge!”
“But you yourself gave the first impulse to this very movement, Abbé?”
“And wisely and well we did it! Should we have stood passive to watch the gradual growth of that cursed spirit they miscall independent judgment,—that rankest heresy that ever corrupted the human heart? Should we have waited till Protestantism with its Bible had sowed the seeds of that right of judgment which they proclaim is inherent in all men? Would it have been safe policy to admit of discussing what was obligatory to obey, and look on while this enlightenment—as they blasphemously term it—was arraigning the dogma of the Church as unblushingly as they questioned the decree of a minister?”
“I perceive,” said the Jew, laughing, “You great politicians are not above taking a lesson from the 'Bourse,' and know the trick of puffing up a bad scheme to a high premium, prepared to sell out the day before 'the fall.'”
“We had higher and nobler views,” said D'Esmonde, proudly. “The men who will not come to the altars of the Church must be taught her doctrines before the portals. Our task is to proclaim Rome——eternal Rome—to Europe!”
“Up to this your success has not been signal,” said Morlache, with a sneer. “This victory at Goito has given fresh vigor to the Republicans. The Austrians once driven beyond the Alps, Monarchy wilt be short-lived in Italy.”
“And who says that they will be so driven? Who ever dreams of such a result, save some wild fanatic of Genoa, or some half-informed minister at London? The King of Naples only waits for the excuse of a Calabrian disturbance to recall his contingent. The Pope has already issued an order to Durando not to pass the Po. The Piedmontese themselves are on the verge of an irreparable quarrel,—the men of Savoy and the north for Monarchy; the Genoese, wild with their own ancient ideas of a Ligurian Republic. Is it the Lombards, think you, will conquer Lombardy? or do you fancy that Florence and Pisa are the nurseries of heroes? No, Morlache, the game of revolt is played out in Italy; the last trump is Goito.”
“But if, flushed with conquest, the Piedmontese press on to greater successes?”
“They cannot,—they would not, even if they could,” broke in D'Esmonde. “Is it the Republicans will shed their blood to conquer a kingdom of Upper Italy for Carlo Alberto? Is it the interest of Rome or Naples to see such a power in the Peninsula? Will the troops of the Monarchy, on the other hand, fight for a cause that is to obliterate the throne? No; believe me, their mutual grudges have been well weighed and estimated. We never dared this bold policy without seeing clearly that their interests could never be reconciled.—I think I hear the sound of oars; yes, he must be coming at last!” D'Esmonde opened the window as he spoke, and looked out upon the river, which, reflecting along the sides the gorgeous pageantry of the illumination, was dark as ink in the middle of the stream. “Not a word of this, Morlache, when he joins us,” added D'Esmonde.
“He is not in your confidence, then?” asked the other.
“He? Of course he is not! If for no weightier reasons than that he is English and a Protestant,—two things which, however weak they may prove either in patriotism or religion, never fail in their hatred of the Church and her cause. Like one of the Condottieri of old, he has joined the quarrel because hard knocks are usually associated with booty. Whenever he finds that he has no stake on the table, he 'll throw down his cards.”
“And the other,—the Russian?”
“He is more difficult to understand; but I hope to know him yet Hush, the boat is close in; be cautious!” And, so saying, he filled his glass, and reseated himself in all the seeming ease of careless dalliance. In a few minutes after, the prow of a light skiff touched the terrace, and a man stepped out and knocked at the shutter.
“Welcome at last,” said D'Esmonde, shaking hands with him. “We had almost despaired of seeing you to-night you appear to have been favored with a long audience!”
“Yes, confound it!” cried the other, who, throwing off his travelling-cloak, showed the figure of Lord Norwood. “We were kept dangling in an antechamber for nigh an hour. Midchekoff's fault, for he would not give his name, nor say anything more than that we were two officers with secret despatches from the camp. The people in waiting appeared to think the claim a poor one, and came and went, and looked at us, splashed and dirty as we were; but not, even out of curiosity, did one ask us what tidings we brought. We might have stayed till now, I believe, if I had not taken the resolution to follow an old priest—a bishop, I fancy—who seemed to have the entrée everywhere; and pushing vigorously after him, I passed through half a dozen ill-lighted rooms, and at last entered a small drawing-room, where the great man was seated at piquet with old Cassandroni, the minister. I must say that, considering the unauthorized style of my approach, nothing could be more well-bred and urbane than his reception of me. I was blundering out some kind of apology for my appearance, when he pointed to a chair, and begged me to be seated. Then, recognizing Midchekoff, who had just come in, he held out his hand to him. I gave him the despatches, which he pushed across the table to Cassandroni, as if it were more his 'affair;' and then turning to Midchekoff, conversed with him for some time in a low voice. As it would not have been etiquette to observe him too closely, I kept my eyes on the minister; and, faith, I must say that he could scarcely have looked more blank and out of sorts had the news reported a defeat. I suppose these fellows have a kind of official reserve which represses every show of feeling; but I own that he folded up the paper with a degree of composure that quite piqued me.
“'Well, Cassandroni,' said his master, 'what's your news?'
“'Very good news, sir,' said the other, calmly. 'His Majesty has obtained a signal victory near Goito against a considerable force of the Imperial army, under the command of Radetzky. The action was long and fiercely contested; but a successful advance of artillery to the side of a river, and a most intrepid series of cavalry charges turned the flank of the enemy, and gained the day. The results do not, however, appear equal to the moral effect upon the army, for there were few prisoners, and no guns taken.'
“'That may perhaps be explained,' said I, interrupting; 'for when the Austrians commenced their movement in retreat—' Just as I got thus far, I stopped; for I found that the distinguished personage I was addressing had once more turned to Midchekoff, and was in deep conversation with him, totally regardless of me and my explanation.
“'You have been wounded, my Lord?' said he, after a moment.
“'A mere scratch, sir,—a poke of a lance,' said I, smarting under the cool indifference of his manner.
“'I hope you 're not too much fatigued to stop to supper,' said he; but I arose at the instant, and pleading the excuse of exhaustion and want of rest, begged to be permitted to retire; and here I am, not having tasted anything since I left Padua, and not in the very blandest of tempers, either, at the graciousness of my reception. As for Midchekoff, he kept his seat as coolly as if he meant to pass his life there. I hesitated for a second or two, expecting that he would join me; but not a bit of it He smiled his little quiet smile, as much as to say, 'Good-night,' and so I left him.”
“He is probably detained to give some particulars of the engagement,” said D'Esmonde.
“How can he?—he was never in it; he was writing letters all day at headquarters, and never came up till seven in the evening, when he rode down with a smart groom after him, and gave the Duke of Savoy a sandwich out of a silver case. That will be the only memorable fact he can retail of the day's fortune.”
“The cause looks well, however,” said D'Esmonde, endeavoring to divert his thoughts into a more agreeable direction.
“Tell me what is the cause, and I will answer you,” said Norwood, sternly. “So far as I see, we are dividing the spoils before we have hunted down the game.”
“You surely have no doubt of the result, my Lord?” replied the other, eagerly. “The Austrians must relinquish Italy.”
“Then who is to take it,—that's the question? Is Lorn-bardy to become Piedmont, or a Red Republic? or are your brethren of the slouched hat to step in and portion out the land into snug nurseries for Franciscans and Ursulines? Egad, I 'd as soon give it up to old Morlache yonder, and make it a New Jerusalem to educate a young race of moneylenders and usurers!”
“I wish we had even as much security for our loans,” said Morlache, smiling.
“I hear of nothing but money,——great loans here, immense sums raised there,” cried Norwood; “and yet what becomes of it? The army certainly has seen none of it. Large arrears of pay are due; and as for us who serve on the staff, we are actually supporting the very force we command.”
“We are told that large sums have found their way into Austria in shape of secret service,” said D'Esmonde, “and with good result too.”
“The very worst of bad policy,” broke in Norwood. “Pay your friends and thrash your enemies. Deserters are bad allies at the best, but are utterly worthless if they must be paid for desertion. Let them go over like those Hungarian fellows,—a whole regiment at a time, and bring both courage and discipline to our ranks! but your rabble of student sympathizers are good for nothing.”
“Success has not made you sanguine, my Lord,” said Morlache, smiling.
“I have little to be sanguine about,” replied he, roughly. “They have not spoiled me with good fortune; and even on this very mission that I have come now, you 'll see it is that Russian fellow will receive all the reward; and if there be a decoration conferred, it is he, not I, will obtain it.”
“And do you care for such baubles, my Lord?” asked D'Esmonde, in affected surprise.
“We soldiers like these vanities as women do a new shawl, or your priests admire a smart new vestment, in which I have seen a fellow strut as proudly as any coxcomb in the ballet when he had completed his pirouette. As for myself,” continued he, proudly, “I hold these stars and crosses cheaply enough. I 'd mortgage my 'San Giuseppe' to-morrow if Morlache would give me twenty Naps, on it.”
“The day of richer rewards is not distant, my Lord,” said D'Esmonde. “Lombardy will be our own ere the autumn closes, and then—and then—”
“And then we 'll cut each other's throats for the booty, you were going to say,” burst in Norwood; “but I 'm not one of those who think so, Abbé. My notion is that Austria is making a waiting race, and quietly leaving dissension to do amongst us what the snow did for the French at Moscow.”
D'Esmonde's cheek grew pale at this shrewd surmise; but he quickly said, ——
“You mistake them, my Lord. The interests at stake are too heavy for such a critical policy; Austria dare not risk so hazardous a game.”
“The wiseheads are beginning to suspect as much,” said Norwood; “and certainly amongst the prisoners we have taken there is not a trait of despondency nor even a doubt as to the result of the campaign. The invariable reply to every question is, the Kaiser will have his own again,—ay, and this even from the Hungarians. We captured a young fellow on the afternoon of Goito, who had escaped from prison, and actually broke his arrest to take his share in the battle. He was in what Austrians call Stockhaus arrest, and under sentence either of death or imprisonment for life, for treason. Well, he got out somehow, and followed his regiment on foot till such time as one of his comrades was knocked over; then he mounted, and I promise you he knew his work in the saddle. Twice he charged a half-battery of twelves, and sabred our gunners where they stood; and when at last we pushed the Austrian column across the bridge, instead of retreating, as he might, he trusted to saving himself by the river. It was then his horse was shot under him, as he descended the bank, and over they both rolled into the stream. I assure you it was no easy matter to capture him even then, and we took him under a shower of balls from his comrades, that showed how little his life was deemed, in comparison with the opportunity of damaging us. When he was brought in, he was a pitiable object; his forehead was laid open from a sabre cut, his collar-bone and left arm broken by the fall, and a gunshot wound in the thigh, which the surgeon affirmed had every appearance of being received early in the action. He would n't tell us his name, or anything about his friends, for he wished to have written to them; the only words he ever uttered were a faint attempt at 'Hurrah for the Emperor!'”
“And this a Hungarian?” said D'Esmonde, in surprise.
“He might have been a Pole, or a Wallach, for anything I know; but he was a hussar, and as gallant a fellow as ever I saw.”
“What was the uniform, my Lord?” asked the Abbé.
“Light blue, with a green chako,—they call them the regiment of Prince Paul of Wurtemberg.”
“Tell me his probable age, my Lord; and something of his appearance generally,” said D'Esmonde, with increasing earnestness.
“His age I should guess to be two or three and twenty,—not more, certainly, and possibly even less than that In height he is taller than I, but slighter. As to face, even with all his scars and bruises, he looked a handsome fellow, and had a clear blue eye that might have become an Englishman.”
“You did not hear him speak?” asked the priest, with heightening curiosity.
“Except the few words I have mentioned, he never uttered a syllable. We learned that he had broken his arrest from one of his comrades; but the fellow, seeing our anxiety to hear more, immediately grew reserved, and would tell us nothing. I merely allude to the circumstance to show that the disaffection we trust to amongst the Hungarians is not universal; and even when they falter in their allegiance to the State, by some strange contradiction they preserve their loyalty to the 'Kaiser.'”
“I wish I could learn more about your prisoner, my Lord,” said the Abbé, thoughtfully. “The story has interested me deeply.”
“Midchekoff can, perhaps, tell you something, then, for he saw him later than I did. He accompanied the Duke of Genoa in an inspection of the prisoners just before we left the camp.”
“And you said that he had a fair and Saxon-looking face?” said the Abbé.
“Faith, I 've told you all that I know of him,” said Norwood, impatiently. “He was a brave soldier, and with ten thousand like him on our side I 'd feel far more at my ease for the result of this campaign than with the aid of those splendid squadrons they call the 'Speranza d' Italia'.”
“And the Crociati, my Lord, what are they like?” said Morlache, smiling.
“A horde of robbers; a set of cowardly rascals who have only courage for cruelty; the outpourings of jails and offcasts of convents; degraded friars and escaped galley-slaves.”
“My Lord, my Lord!” interrupted Morlache, suppressing his laughter with difficulty, and enjoying to the full this torrent of indignant anger. “You are surely not describing faithfully the soldiers of the Pope,—the warriors whose banners have been blessed by the Holy Father?”
“Ask their General, Ferrari, whom they have three times attempted to murder. Ask him their character,” said Norwood, passionately, “if D'Esmonde himself will not tell you.”
“Has it not been the same in every land that ever struck a blow for liberty?” said the Abbé. “Is it the statesman or the philosopher who have racked their brains and wasted their faculties in thought for the good of their fellow-men that have gone forth to battle? or is it not rather the host of unquiet spirits who infest every country, and who seek in change the prosperity that others pursue in patient industry? Some are enthusiastic for freedom, some seek a field of personal distinction, some are mere freebooters; but whatever they be, the cause remains the same.”
“You may be right,——for all I know you are right,” said Norwood, doggedly; “but, for my own part, I have no fancy to fight shoulder to shoulder with cut-throats and housebreakers, even though the Church should have hallowed them with its blessing.” Norwood arose as he said this, And walked impatiently up and down the chamber.
“When do you propose to return to the army, my Lord?” said D'Esmonde, after a pause.
“I'm not sure; I don't even know if I shall return at all!” said Norwood, hastily. “I see little profit and less glory in the service! What say you, Morlache? Have they the kind of credit you would like to accept for a loan?”
“No, my Lord,” said the Jew, laughing; “Lombardy scrip would stand low in our market. I 'd rather advance my moneys on the faith of your good friend the Lady Hester Onslow.”
Norwood bit his lip and colored, but made no reply.
“She has crossed into Switzerland, has she not?” asked D'Esmonde, carelessly.
“Gone to England!” said the Viscount, briefly.
“When——how? I never heard of that,” said the Abbé. “I have put off writing to her from day to day, never suspecting that she was about to quit the Continent.”
“Nor did she herself till about a week ago, when Sir Stafford took an equally unexpected departure for the other world—”
“Sir Stafford dead! Lady Hester a widow!”
“Such is, I believe, the natural course of things for a woman to be when her husband dies.”
“A rich widow, too, I presume, my Lord?” said the Abbé, with a quiet but subtle glance at Norwood.
“That is more than she knows herself at this moment, I fancy; for they say that Sir Stafford has involved his bequests with so many difficulties, and hampered them with such a mass of conditions, that whether she will be a millionnaire or be actually poor must depend upon the future. I can answer for one point, however, Abbé,” said he, sarcastically; “neither the Sacred College nor the blessed brethren of the 'Pace' are like to profit by the banker's economies.”
“Indeed, my Lord,” said the Abbé, slowly, while a sickly pallor came over his countenance.
“He has left a certain Dr. Grounsell his executor,” continued Norwood; “and, from all that I can learn, no-man has less taste for painted windows, stoles, or saints' shin-bones.”
“Probably there may be other questions upon which he will prove equally obdurate,” said the Abbé, in a voice only audible to the Viscount “Is her Ladyship at liberty to marry again?”
“I cannot, I grieve to say, give you any information on that point,” said Norwood, growing deep red as he spoke.
“As your Lordship is going to England—”
“I didn't say so. I don't remember that I told you that!” cried he, hastily.
“Pardon me if I made such a palpable mistake; but it ran in my head that you said something to that purport.”
“It won't do, Abbé! it won't do,” said Norwood, in a low whisper. “We, who have graduated at the 'Red House' are just as wide awake as you of Louvain and St. Omer.”
D'Esmonde looked at him with an expression of blank astonishment, and seemed as if he had not the most vague suspicion as to what the sarcasm referred.
“When can I have half an hour with you, Morlache?” said the Viscount
“Whenever it suits you, my Lord. What say you to to-morrow morning at eleven?”
“No, no! let it be later; I must have a ten hours' sleep after all this fatigue, and the sooner I begin the better.”
“Where do you put up, my Lord,—at the Hôtel de l'Arno?” asked the Abbé.
“No; I wish we were there with all my heart; but, to do us honor, they have given us quarters at the 'Crocetto,' that dreary asylum for stray archdukes and vagabond grand-duchesses, in the farthest end of the city. We are surrounded with chamberlains, aides-de-camp, and guards of honor. The only thing they have forgotten is a cook. So I 'll come and dine here to-morrow.”
“You do me great honor, my Lord. I 'm sure the Abbé D'Esmonde will favor us with his company also.”
“If it be possible, I will,” said the Abbé. “Nothing but necessity would make me relinquish so agreeable a prospect.”
“Well, till our next meeting,” said the Viscount, yawning, as he put on his hat “It's too late to expect Midchekoff here to-night, and so good-bye. The streets are clear by this time, I trust.”
“A shrewd fellow, too,” said Morlache, looking after him.
“No, Morlache, not a bit of it!” said D'Esmonde. “Such intellects bear about the same proportion to really clever men as a good swordsman does to a first-rate operator in surgery. They handle a coarse weapon, and they deal with coarse antagonists. Employ them in a subtle negotiation or a knotty problem, and you might as well ask a sergeant of the Blues to take up the femoral artery. Did you not remark awhile ago that, for the sake of a sneer, he actually betrayed a secret about Sir Stafford Onslow's will?”
“And you believe all that to be true?”
“Of course I do. The only question is whether the Irish property, which, if I remember aright, was settled on Lady Hester at her marriage, can be fettered by any of these conditions? That alone amounts to some thousands a year, and would be a most grateful accession to those much-despised brethren his Lordship alluded to.”
“You can learn something about that point to-morrow, when he dines here.”
“He'll not be our guest to-morrow, Morlache. I must continue to occupy him for a day or two. He shall be invited to dine at court to-morrow,—the request is a command,—so that you will not see him. Receive Midchekoff if he calls, for I want to hear what he is about here; his money requirements will soon give us the clew. And I, too,” said he, stretching and speaking languidly,—“I, too, would be the better of some repose; it is now thirty-six hours, Morlache, since I closed my eyes in sleep. During that space I have written and dictated and talked and argued, urging on the lukewarm, restraining the rash, giving confidence to this one, preaching caution to that; and here I am, at the end of all, with my task as far as ever from completion. Events march faster than we, do what we will; and as the child never comes up with the hoop he has set in motion till it has fallen, so we rarely overtake the circumstances we have created till they have ceased to be of any value to us. Now, at this precise moment I want to be in the Vatican, at the camp of Goito, in the council-chamber at Schönbrunn,—not to speak of a certain humble homestead in a far-away Irish county; and yet I have nothing for it but to go quietly off to bed, leaving to fortune—I believe that is as good a name for it as any other—the course of events which, were I present, I could direct at will. Napoleon left a great example behind him; he beat his enemies always by rapidity. Believe me, Morlache, men think very much upon a par in this same world of ours; the great difference being that some take five minutes where others take five weeks: the man of minutes is sure to win.”
Just as the Abbé had spoken, Norwood returned, saying,——
“By the way, can either of you tell me if Jekyl is here now?”
“I have not seen him,” said Morlache, “which is almost proof that he is not His first visit is usually to me.”
The streets were silent. A few stray lamps yet flickered over the spacious cupola of the Duomo, and a broken line of light faintly tracked one angle of the tower of the Piazza Vecchia; but except these last lingering signs of the late rejoicings, all Florence lay in darkness.
“How quiet is everything!” said Morlache, as he took leave of his guests at his door.' “The streets are empty already.”
“Ay,” muttered the Abbé, “the rejoicing, like the victory, was but short-lived. Do our roads lie the same way, my Lord?” asked he of Norwood.
“Very seldom, I suspect,” replied the Viscount, with a laugh. “Mine is in this direction.”
“And mine lies this way,” said D'Esmonde, bowing coldly, but courteously, as he passed on, and entered the narrow street beyond the bridge. “You are quite right, my Lord,” muttered he to himself; “our paths in life are very different. Yours may be wider and pleasanter, but mine, with all its turnings, goes straighter.” He paused and listened for some seconds, till Norwood's steps had died away in the distance, and then turning back, he followed in the direction the other had taken.
Norwood walked rapidly along till he came to that small house on the Arno where Jekyl lived, and stopping in front of it, he threw a handful of sand against the window. To this signal, twice repeated, no reply was given to the Viscount He waited a few seconds, and then moved on. The Abbé stood under the shadow of the tall palaces till the other was out of sight, and then, approaching the door, gave a long, low whistle. Within a few seconds the sash was opened, and Jekyl's voice heard,——
“It's you, Abbé. There 's the key. Will you excuse ceremony, and let yourself in?”
D'Esmonde opened the door at once, and, mounting the stairs, entered the little chamber in which now Jekyl stood in his dressing-gown and slippers; and although suddenly roused from sleep, with a smile of courteous welcome on his diminutive features,——
“I paid no attention to your first signal, Abbé,” said he, “scarcely thinking it could be you.”
“Nor was it,” said D'Esmonde, seating himself. “It was Lord Norwood, who doubtless must have had some important reason for disturbing you at this hour. I waited till he went off before I whistled. When did you arrive?”
“About three hours ago. I came from Lucerne, and was obliged to take such a zig-zag course, the roads being all blocked up by marching soldiers, guns, and wagons, that I have been eight days making the journey of three.”
“So, Lady Hester is a widow! Strange, I only heard it an hour ago.”
“The post has been interrupted, or you would have known it a week back. I wrote to you from Zurich. I accompanied her so far on her way to England, and was to have gone the whole way, too, but she determined to send me back here.”
“Not to settle her affairs in Florence,” said D'Esmonde, with a quiet slyness.
“Rather to look after Lord Norwood's,” said Jekyl. “I never could exactly get to the bottom of the affair; but I suppose there must be some pledge or promise which, in a rash moment, she has made him, and that already she repents of.”
“How has she been left in the will?” asked D'Esmonde, abruptly.
“Her own words are, 'Infamously treated.' Except a bequest of ten thousand pounds, nothing beyond the Irish estate settled at the time of her marriage.”
“She will easily get rid of Norwood, then,” rejoined the Abbé, with a smile. “His price is higher.”
“I'm not so sure of that,” broke in Jekyl; “the noble Viscount's late speculations have all proved unfortunate, even to his book on Carlo Alberto. He thinks he has gone wrong in not hedging on Radetzky.”
“What does he know of the changes of politics?” said D'Esmonde, contemptuously. “Let him stick to his stablemen and the crafty youths of Newmarket, but leave state affairs for other and very different capacities. Does she care for him, Jekyl? Does she love him?”
“She does, and she does not,” said Jekyl, with a languishing air, which he sometimes assumed when asked for an opinion. “She likes his fashionable exterior, his easy kind of drawing-room assurance, and, perhaps not least of all, the tone of impertinent superiority he displays towards all other men; but she is afraid of him,——afraid of his temper and his tyrannical humor, and terribly afraid of his extravagance.”
“How amusing it is!” said D'Esmonde, with a yawn. “A minister quits the cabinet in disgust, and retires into private life forever, when his first step is to plot his return to power. So your widow is invariably found weighing the thoughts of her mourning with speculations on a second husband. Why need she marry again; tell me that?”
“Because she is a widow, perhaps. I know no other reason,” lisped out Jekyl.
“I cannot conceive a greater folly than that of these women, with ample fortune, sacrificing their independence by marriage. The whole world is their own, if they but knew it. They command every source of enjoyment while young, and have all the stereotyped solaces of old age when it comes upon them; and with poodles, parrots, and parasites, mornings of scandal and evenings of whist, eke out a very pretty existence.”
“Dash the whole with a little religion, Abbé,” cried Jekyl, laughing, “and the picture will be tolerably correct.”
“She shall not marry Lord Norwood; that, at least, I can answer for,” said D'Esmonde, not heeding the other.
“It will be difficult to prevent it, Abbé,” said the other, dryly.
“Easier than you think for. Come, Master Jekyl, assume a serious mood for once, and pay attention to what I am about to say. This line of life you lead cannot go on forever. Even were your own great gifts to resist time and its influences, a new generation will spring up with other wants and requirements, and another race will come who knew not Joseph. With all your versatility it will be late to study new models, and acquire a new tongue. Have you speculated, then, I ask you, on this contingency?”
“I 've some thoughts of a 'monkery,'” lisped out Jekyl; “if the good folk could only be persuaded to adopt a little cleanliness.”
“Would not marriage suit you better; a rich widow, titled, well-connected, and good-looking, of fashionable habits, and tastes that resemble your own?”
“There are difficulties in the case,” said Jekyl, calmly.
“State them,” rejoined the Abbé.
“To begin. There is Lady Hester herself,—for, of course, you mean her.”
“I engage to solve all on that head.”
“Then there is the Viscount.”
“For him, too, I hold myself responsible.”
“Lastly, there is Albert Jekyl, who, however admirably he understands garçon life, might discover that the husband was not among the range of his characters. As it is, my dear Abbé, I lead a very pretty existence. I am neither bored nor tormented, I never quarrel with anybody, nor is the rudest man ever discourteous to me. I possess nothing that any one envies, except that heaven-born disposition to be pleased, of which nothing can rob me. I dine well, drive in rich equipages, and, if I liked, might ride the best horses; have at least a dozen Opera-boxes ready to receive me, and sweeter smiles to welcome me than would become me to boast of.”
“Well, then, my proposal is to give you all these on a life interest instead of being a tenant-at-will,” broke in D'Esmonde.
“And all this out of pure regard for me?” asked Jekyl, with a sly look.
“As a pure matter of bargain,” replied D'Esmonde. “Lady Hester has advanced large sams to the cause in which I am interested. It would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to repay them. We still want means, and that ten thousand pounds' legacy would render us immense service at this moment. Her income can well spare the sacrifice.”
“Yes, yes,” said Jekyl, musingly; and then looking fondly at his own image in the glass, he said, “I shall be a dead bargain, after all.”
D'Esmonde bit his lip to repress some movement of impatience, and after a pause said,——
“This matter does not admit of delay. Circumstances will soon require my presence in England, and with a strong sum at my command; besides—”
“If I understand you aright,” said Jekyl, “You are to conduct the whole negotiations to a successful end, and that I shall have neither a bill to endorse, nor a duel to fight, throughout the affair.”
“You shall be scathless.”
“There is another point,” said Jekyl, quickly. “How shall I figure in the newspapers,—Albert Jekyl, Esquire, of where? Have you thought of that? I wish I had even an uncle a baronet.”
“Pooh, pooh!” said D'Esmonde, impatiently. “You marry into the peerage; that's quite enough.”
“Perhaps you 're right,” said Jekyl. “All that enumeration of family connection——'niece to the Chief Justice of Rembouk,' or 'cousin-german to the Vice-Consul at Gumdalloo'—smacks terribly of 'Moses and Son.'”
“We are agreed, then,” said the Abbé, rising.
“I swear,” said Jekyl, rising, and throwing out his hand in the attitude of the well-known picture of the “Marshals.” “The step that I am about to take will throw its gloom over many a dinner-party, and bring sadness into many a salon; but I 'll retire at least with dignity, and, like Napoleon, I'll write my memoirs.”
“So far, then, so good,” said D'Esmonde; “now, with your leave, I throw myself on this sofa and snatch an hour's sleep.” And ere Jekyl had arranged the folds of what he called his “sable pelisse” as a covering, the Abbé was in deep slumber.