MONACO: THE CLIFF GARDEN.
As soon as the heat of the day was over (it may be about six o’clock) the party met at supper. Bartolomeo, who sat next to his uncle, was very silent during the meal and—as it was remembered afterwards—was much preoccupied and unnaturally pale. Lucien tried to rally him; made jokes; dug him in the ribs; chaffed him and suggested that he was in love or had lost heavily at cards. Bartolomeo could only reply with a faint mechanical smile and a hollow effort to be jovial.
A moment came when a dignified chamberlain stood up and, with his goblet raised, proposed “Health and long life to the Prince.” As Bartolomeo responded to this toast it was observed that he became as livid as a dead man and that the cup chattered against his teeth. It was with a throttled gasp that he muttered the words “Long life to the Prince.” Lucien acknowledged this kindly expression with a grateful smile and pressed his own warm hand on that of his nephew.
Now hanging about his father’s chair was Lucien’s little boy. Bartolomeo had often played with the child and was curiously attached to him. Lucien, knowing the affection with which he regarded the lad, took him up and placed him in Doria’s arms. The boy was delighted and began to prattle of the doings of his little world and spoke, with breathless rapture, of to-morrow when his father was going to take him, as a great treat, to the shady beach at Cap d’Ail where they would build a hut, light a fire and cook their own meal.
This talk was more than Bartolomeo could endure; for he knew that to-morrow the boy would be fatherless and sobbing his heart out in a darkened room. Bartolomeo, as he held the chattering little fellow in his arms, shook to such an extent that even the child’s talk was stilled and he began—moved by some subtle instinct—to be frightened. His father lifted him from Doria’s lap and told him to run away. Lucien could not understand his nephew this evening and ascribed his tremor to a touch of ague.
After supper Lucien invited Bartolomeo to come into his private room. As they walked along the corridor, with Lucien’s hand upon his nephew’s shoulder, Doria—looking through the window—saw four galleys approaching. He pointed them out to his uncle as the convoy of his cousin Andrea and begged the prince to convey an important message to him and to do his cousin the honour of sending an escort with it. Lucien was only too pleased to gratify his guest and at once ordered some fourteen men of his own bodyguard to welcome the on-coming fleet. In this way Bartolomeo rid the palace of fourteen formidable armed men, of nearly all, in fact, who were on duty that night. Andrea—it may be explained—was aware of the purpose of Bartolomeo’s visit to Monaco and was coming to his assistance.
Lucien and his nephew passed along the corridor, entered the prince’s room and closed the door after them. Outside the door was stationed, according to the routine of the palace, a page, a faithful negro, who was devoted to his master. Hardly had the door closed than the page heard the prince scream out “Ah! you traitor!” He burst into the room to find his master felled to the ground and Bartolomeo bending over him, stabbing him with a dagger.
He rushed back along the corridor to give the alarm; but the bodyguard were already on their way to the harbour and when the page, with the few men he could muster, returned to the prince’s room they found it already filled with Doria’s friends armed to the teeth, and the prince dead.
The alarm soon spread to the town. From every door in the narrow streets men poured forth and, armed with whatever weapon they could pick up, rushed in a furious body to the palace. Bartolomeo—who had hoped to seize the citadel—soon saw that his case was hopeless and his party outnumbered. He and his friends escaped by a back stair, made their way to the harbour and gained Andrea’s galleys which were now nearing the beach. In this way Bartolomeo fled safely to France, leaving the little town buzzing with disorder like a ravaged beehive and, in a silent room, a sobbing boy lying prostrate on the body of his dead father.