CHAPTER XXVI. THE “MOSKOVA.”
The Abbé D'Esmonde passed a busy morning. Twice was he closeted with the President of the Ministry, and once was he received in a lengthy audience at the “Pitti;” after which he repaired to the house of Morlache, where he remained till after two o'clock.
“There goes Midchekoff to the Palace,” said the Jew, as a handsome equipage drove past.
“Then it is time for me to be away,” said D'Esmonde, rising. “I have received orders to meet him there. Remember, Morlache, I must have this sum in gold, ready by the evening; the bills on London can reach me by post.”
“All shall be attended to,” said Morlache; and the Abbé entered his carriage once more, giving orders for the Pitti.
When the carriage had passed the first turning, however, D'Esmonde appeared to have remembered something that till then had escaped him, and he desired the man to drive round to the San Gallo gate; thence he directed his way to the narrow road which traverses the valley of the Mugello, and winds along for miles at the foot of the hill of Fiesole. Once outside the city, D'Esmonde urged the man to speed, and they drove for nigh an hour at a rapid pace.
“There is a footpath somewhere hereabouts leads to Fiesole,” said D'Esmonde, springing out, and casting his eyes around. “I have it Remain here till I come down. I may be absent for an hour or more; but be sure to wait for me.” And so saying, he passed into a vineyard beside the road, and was soon lost to view.
The pathway was steep and rugged; but D'Esmonde traversed it with an active step, scarcely seeming to bestow a thought upon its difficulties, in the deeper preoccupation of his mind. As little did he notice the peasant greetings that met him, or hear the kindly accents that bade him “good-day” as he went. If at intervals he stopped in his career, it was rather to take breath and to recruit vigor for new efforts, than to look down upon the gorgeous scene that now lay beneath him. For an instant, however, his thoughts did stray to the objects in view; and as he beheld the dark towers of a gloomy castellated building, half hid amongst tall yew-trees, he muttered,——
“Deeper and darker schemes than mine were once enacted there!—and what fruits have they borne after all? They who convulsed the age they lived in have never left an impress to ruffle the future, and, for aught that we know or feel, the Medici might never have lived. And this,” cried he, aloud, “because theirs was a selfish ambition. There is but one cause whose interests are eternal,—the Church; that glorious creation which combines power here with triumph hereafter!” His face, as he uttered the words, was no bad emblem of the nature within,——a high and noble brow, lit up by the impress of a great ambition, and, beneath, eyes of changeful and treacherous meaning; while, lower down again, in the compressed lips and projecting chin might be read the signs of an unrelenting spirit. Passing along through many a tortuous path, he at last reached a small private gate which led into the grounds of the “Moskova.” He had to bethink him for a moment of the way which conducted to the gardens, but he soon remembered the direction, and walked on. It was the hour when in Italy the whole face of a country, the busiest streets of a thronged city, are deserted, and a stillness far more unbroken than that of midnight prevails. The glowing hours of noonday had brought the “siesta,” and not a laborer was to be seen in the fields.