Madame Rosenberg soon became impatient at the duration of his absence, and leaving word with the waiter that Mr. Hamilton might follow them to St. Peter’s cellar, she proposed herself as guide, and they set out on their excursion.
Hamilton accompanied his uncle and cousins to their very handsome travelling-carriage, and as he bade them adieu for the twentieth time, his uncle called out, “God bless you, Alfred! I shall tell your father and uncle Ralph that I found you greatly improved. If they had kept you in London, your brother John would have spoiled you, and made you just as good-for-nothing as he is himself. Nothing like travelling for enlarging the ideas. Good-by!”
The waiter informed Hamilton that the ladies were gone to St. Peter’s cellar.
“Major Stultz, you mean?” said Hamilton.
“No, sir—the ladies—perhaps they have gone to look at the excavation in the rock. The cellar is in the mountain, and is worth seeing.”
The monks of St. Peter are the actual proprietors of this cellar, which adjoins, and in fact is still a part of the monastery; it is the wine from their Hungarian vineyards which is there sold, and the entrance to the drinking-rooms is from the principal quadrangle. Arrived there, Hamilton immediately accosted a man who, in a jacket and apron, and with a green velvet cap on his head, stood before the entrance of the excavation.
“Ladies! Oh, ha—yes—they are within,” he answered, leading the way, through a small, dark passage, to two low rooms, filled with the fumes of tobacco. Hamilton entered, and found his travelling companions actually seated at a table, drinking wine, in a room crowded with Hungarian officers, who seemed equally surprised and amused at the unusual appearance of such an addition to their society. Madame Rosenberg was quietly sipping her wine, and talking earnestly to Major Stultz near a window, quite unconscious of the sensation which she and her party had created and the by no means whispered exclamations of admiration which were echoed on all sides, and which produced most opposite effects on the objects of them. Crescenz looked half-frightened, half-pleased, and blushed incessantly. Hildegarde’s countenance denoted annoyance, bordering on anger, as she sat biting her under lip, while every trace of colour had forsaken her face. Hamilton felt extremely irritated, and looked round the room with a portentous frown, to see if any one had been more forward than the others; but in vain—broad, sallow, good-humoured faces, and small, sparkling black eyes met his angry glance wherever he turned; and as the conversation was now principally carried on in their native language, he could only surmise, but no longer be certain of, the subject of discourse. The eyes of all were still turned on the two sisters; and Hamilton, after a moment’s hesitation, proposed escorting them to the Maximus chapel, which was near, and where they could wait for their mother. Hildegarde started up without asking the permission, which, however, was accorded without difficulty; and the two boys, to their infinite annoyance, were also ordered off. On perceiving their mother engaged in confidential conversation with Major Stultz, they had freely helped themselves to wine, and were now in outrageous spirits. On entering the St. Peter’s churchyard, they commenced springing over the graves in a most irreverent manner, declaring they had never before seen so jolly a churchyard! Crescenz looked infinitely shocked, entreated they would not make so much noise; and finding her remonstrance useless, she turned to the St. Margaret’s chapel, a small building in the middle of the burying-ground, and leaning against the iron railing which formed at once its door and gable-end, she folded her hands reverently, and prayed. The custom in Roman Catholic countries of leaving the church-doors constantly open, most certainly conduces to promote piety. Many a giddy girl whose thoughts have wandered as unrestrained as her glances down the crowded aisle, has sought the same spot afterwards in solitude, to offer up supplications and thanksgivings as fervent, perhaps, as ever were breathed. Much as has been said of the imposing ritual of the Church of Rome—of the almost irresistible effect of high mass, when properly celebrated—it is nothing in comparison to the solemn silence of a week-day afternoon, when the stillness around makes the solitary footfall echo, and those who come to pray can bend the knee and clasp the hand, without exciting the inquisitive gaze of a less piously disposed neighbour.
Hamilton had gone in search of the person who had the keys of the Maximus chapel. On his return he found Hildegarde standing thoughtfully opposite a newly-made tomb, on which a placard was placed, with the words:—“This tomb is to be sold.”
“I should like extremely to know your thoughts,” he said, quietly placing himself beside her.
“Should you? They would scarcely repay you for the trouble of listening.”