“Wretched man,” said D'Esmonde, passionately, “by what fatality did you rush upon your fate? Why did you ever return to this country?”
“It is to tell you that—ay, that very thing—I asked you to come here to-night,” said the prisoner, with a firm, full voice. “I came here for you—just so—for you yourself, There, there,” continued he, naughtily, “don't look as if I wanted to trick you. Is it here. Is it now, that a lie would sarve me? Listen to me, and don't stop me, for I want to turn my thoughts to something else when this is off my heart. Listen to me. Very soon after you saved me at Venice, I knew all about you; who you were, and what you were planning,—ay, deep as you thought yourself, I read every scheme in you, and opened every letter you wrote or received. You don't believe me. Shall I give you a proof? Did you accept eight bills for money Morlache the Jew sent you, from Florence, in March last? Did Cardinal Antinori write to say that the Bull that named you cardinal must have your birth set forth as noble? Did the Austrian Field-Marshal send you the cross of St. Joseph, and did you not return it, as to wear it would unmask you to the Italians?”
“What if all this were true?” said D'Esmonde, proudly. “Is it to one like you I am to render account for my actions? What is it to you if—”
“What is it to me?” cried the other, fiercely,——“what is it to me? Isn't it everything? Isn't it what brought me here, and what in three days more will bring me to the gallows? I tell you again, I saw what you were bent on, and I knew you 'd succeed,—ay, that I did. If it was good blood you wanted to be a cardinal, I was the only one could help you.”
“You knew the secret of my birth, then?” cried D'Esmonde, in deep earnestness. “You could prove my descent from the Godfreys?”
“No! but I could destroy the only evidence against it,” said the other, in a deep, guttural voice. “I could tear out of the parish registry the only leaf that could betray you; and it was for that I came back here; and it was for that I 'm now here. And I did do it. I broke into the vestry of the chapel at midnight, and I tore out the page, and I have it here, in my hand, this minute. There was a copy of this same paper at the college at Louvain, but I stole that, too; for I went as porter there, just to get an opportunity to take it,—that one I destroyed.”
“But whence this interest in my fortunes?” said D'Esmonde, half proudly, for he was still slow to believe all that he heard.
“The paper will tell you that,” said the other, slowly unfolding it, and flattening it out on his knee. “This is the certificate of your baptism! Wait—stop a minute,” cried he, catching D'Esmonde's arm, as, in his impatience, he tried to seize the paper. “This piece of paper is the proof of who you are, and, moreover, the only proof that will soon exist to show it.”
“Give it to me—let me see it!” cried D'Esmonde, eagerly. “Why have you withheld till this time what might have spared me anxious days and weary nights; and by what right have you mixed yourself up with my fortunes?”
“By what right is it—by what right?” cried the other, in a voice which passion rendered harsh and discordant. “Is that what you want to know?” And, as he spoke, he bent down and fixed his eyes on the Abbé with a stern stare. “You want to know what right I have,” said he, and his face became almost convulsed with passion. “There's my right—read that!” cried he, holding out the paper before D'Esmonde's eyes. “There's your birth proved and certified: 'Matthew, son of Samuel and Mary Eustace, of Ballykinnon, baptized by me this 10th day of April, 18——. Joseph Barry, P.P.' There's the copy of your admission into the convent, and here's the superior's receipt for the first quarter's payment as a probationer. Do you know who you are now? or do you still ask me what right I have to meddle in your affairs?”