The Prime Minister

The sun was now setting over the mouth of the Tagus, casting a broad, glowing line of fire upon the smooth bosom of the stream, and tinging the tower of Belem, the gothic spires of the church, and the hills beyond, with its ruddy hue. Antonio rose, for he calculated that it would be dark by the time he reached the Quinta of the Marquis of Tavora. He met but few people on the way, nor were any near when, without much difficulty, he clambered in at the window in the garden-wall, which Margarida had, according to her promise, left unbolted.

It was now as dark as it was likely to be in a star-light night. Antonio carefully shut to the window, and looked around, but Margarida was nowhere to be seen. He softly called her name, but she did not answer. He then observed a building, which appeared to be a summer-house, at the end of a walk. “Ah! she will probably go there to look for me; and if any one by chance comes into the garden, I shall not be exposed to view as I am here.” He accordingly advanced towards it, but when he arrived there, he found the door closed. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He just then heard a step at a distance. He listened attentively; it was too heavy for the elastic little feet of his mistress. It approached nearer, and in the direction of the spot where he stood. “I must find some place to hide in, or I shall be caught,” he muttered.

At the back of the summer-house there were some shrubs growing closely together, a window overlooking them, which spot Antonio, as he looked about, selected to conceal himself till the person who was coming near had retired. He shrunk down on the ground, under the walls of the building; and he had scarcely done so, when a person, applying the key to the door, entered. Striking a light, the man lit a lamp on the table, in the centre of the apartment, which, from the noise he made, he appeared to be placing in order. After having performed this office, he again opened the door, when, at that instant, Antonio heard a light step coming along the path, and which he fancied he could recognise as Margarida’s. Of this he was soon convinced, by hearing a voice, which he knew to be hers, exclaim —

“Oh! Senhor Ferreira, is that you? You quite frighten me! What are you doing?”

“Let me rather ask you what you are doing here at this hour of the evening, Senhora Margarida,” was the answer.

“I came out to pick some flowers for my mistress, which I forgot to do in the day-time, so, if you are gallant, you will come and assist me,” said Senhora Margarida.

“An odd time, to pick flowers in the dark,” answered the man-servant; “but I cannot assist you now; I must return to the house.”

“Many thanks for your gallantry, Senhor Ferreira,” she responded, as he turned away; “I dare say I shall find enough myself;” and she stooped over the flower-beds, as if in search of flowers.

Antonio guardedly peeped out of his concealment, and seeing his mistress alone, “Hist, Margarida, hist!” he whispered. “Come beneath the shade of the summer-house; that prying servant will be less likely to observe us.”

“Oh, Senhor Antonio, I am so glad to have found you, for when I passed by I found the window closed, and I was afraid you might not have got in,” said Margarida.

They sat themselves down on a stone bench placed against the side of the building. Antonio, while declaring his affection for the young lady, some of which he had really begun to feel, at the same time managed to draw from her various pieces of information he was anxious to gain. A few minutes had thus passed rapidly away, when the sound of approaching footsteps was again heard.

“For the love of Heaven, conceal yourself,” exclaimed Margarida, jumping up and seizing a bunch of flowers, with which she had wisely provided herself previously to coming into the garden. “They will see you, if you attempt to reach the window. Down behind the summer-house. ’Tis the young Marquis and some visitors. I must away.” And she tripped along the walk towards the house. “Who goes there?” exclaimed a stern voice, as she passed the party by a different though parallel pathway.

“I have been gathering flowers, Senhor Duque – see, here they are,” answered Margarida, quickly.

“Gathering flowers at this time of night, indeed! Say rather, looking for a lover, senhora,” exclaimed the voice; “think you we can distinguish them in this light? Go, Manoel, and watch her safely into the house – we must have no prying eyes and listening ears to what we are about.”

Manoel being despatched to follow Margarida until he saw her out of their way, the party advanced and entered the summer-house, where, fresh lamps being lit, they took their seats round the table which the servant had arranged.

Antonio, in the mean time, unable to escape, was obliged to resume his position among the bushes, expecting every instant that the party would search round the building, and feeling confident from what he had learnt from Margarida of their proceedings, that he should fall an instant sacrifice to their fears. He was somewhat relieved when he heard their feet on the floor of the summer-house, and their voices speaking in tones which showed that they had no suspicion of the presence of a spy upon their actions.

After waiting some time, the persons within the summer-house having become highly excited in their discussion, whatever it was, Antonio thought he might venture to move his position, so as to gain a view of what was going forward. The shutters of the window, which looked over the shrubbery in which he was concealed, were left partially open, so that by carefully lifting his head among the branches of the evergreens, he was able to see clearly into the room without incurring any risk of being himself observed.

At one end of the table, sat, or rather now stood, the Duke of Aveiro, who was, with vehement gestures, addressing the party: on each side were various members and connexions of the Tavora family, among them being the young Marquis and his brother, the Conde d’Atouquia, the old Marchioness, and the Jesuit Malagrida.

“Ah! ah! thou old hypocrite,” muttered Antonio, as he observed the last-mentioned personage. “Wherever thou art there is sure to be mischief brewing; but I have thee now, if I mistake not;” and, like an Indian warrior approaching his foes, he crept close to the window, placing himself behind the shutter, so that, although he could hear more clearly, he was less able to distinguish what was taking place, till he discovered a broad chink, and, by putting his eye to it, he had complete command of the greater part of the room.

“The very persons who met at the Jesuit’s vault down the river,” he thought to himself, “when they all fancied themselves so secure and unobserved; as did yon mad priest deem himself hidden from the searching eye of the Minister: yet, forsooth, he made a capital bait to catch others. Ah! I am glad to find my young friend the Conde d’Almeida is not among them, and he has certainly not fled the country, for I saw him this very morning.”

We do not intend to give the whole particulars of the conversation which Antonio overheard; suffice it to say, that he heard enough to prove that a dangerous and powerful conspiracy existed to overthrow the power of the Minister; and more, that one had existed to destroy the sovereign, fomented and encouraged by some of those now present, if indeed the actual would-have-been assassins were not among them. Antonio noted well every word they uttered, every gesture they made, words sufficient to bring the speakers, as they themselves well knew, to the scaffold, had they deemed that an ear was listening to them; but, infatuated as they were, they triumphed in fancied security, calling on Heaven to aid them in their wickedness. Now some were seen to draw their swords, and to kiss the blades, as they ratified some dreadful oath; others grasped their fire-arms, and vowed to use them to better effect than before; when Malagrida stood up and blessed the assembled conspirators and their cause.

Some movement now taking place among them, Antonio, fearful lest his face might be perceived through the casement, stole back to his leafy shelter; and fortunate was it for him that he did so, for some one, perceiving that the shutter was unclosed, sent Manoel round to fasten it. Antonio held his breath, hiding his face beneath his cloak, for the man’s feet almost touched his as he passed; and had not the eyes of the latter been dazzled by the light within, he could not have avoided perceiving him; as it was, the man performed his orders, and quickly returned to hear what his superiors were saying. Suddenly the lights were extinguished, and Antonio heard the party hurrying from the building towards the house. He waited some further time, with eager anxiety to bear the important information, for which he had so long toiled, to his employer, till the sound of voices and footsteps had died away. He listened attentively – not a sound was heard. He started from his lair towards the garden window, which afforded the easiest means of escape; for, if found in the grounds after what had occurred, he well knew he must expect nothing short of death from the conspirators. As he gained the front of the summer-house, what was his horror to perceive two men standing beneath the porch before it, so earnestly engaged in a whispered conversation, that they did not perceive him! He stepped back cautiously a couple of paces, so as to be out of their sight, but was afraid to retreat further, lest he might attract their notice. The movement was not, however, entirely unremarked.

“Did you not hear a noise, Senhor Policarpio?” said one of the persons.

“Stay! listen, Manoel. I hear nothing. Oh, it was but the wind rustling the leaves,” answered Senhor Policarpio, and they continued the subject of their discussion, but in so low a tone that it was impossible to distinguish what they said.

Antonio waited, intending to dodge round to the back of the summer-house as soon as Policarpio and his companion moved, when the sound of their footsteps would conceal his own. He wished they would hasten, for he longed to be off, to give the information he had gained; but minute after minute passed by, and still they continued in the same place. His impatience prompted him to make a bold push for the window, but his prudence withheld him. At last they moved away, taking the walk leading past the window, and he slid behind the summer-house; but what was his vexation to hear them stop at the only outlet for escape that he was aware of, one of the men exclaiming, “Curses on this window, ’tis the second time it has blown open to-night; I will secure the bolts well this time;” then followed a noise as if the bolts were driven down by a stone.

The footsteps of the men receding, he again advanced from his hiding-place, and, seeing no one, hurried to the window. It was securely closed. He tried to force up the bolts, but they resisted his efforts. He then groped about for the stone which had served the purpose of a hammer to the others, and, after some time, having discovered it, he attempted to drive up the bolts. He knocked away till one only remained to set him at liberty, when suddenly a gleam of light fell on the shutter before him, and, turning his head, to his dismay, he beheld the two persons who he thought had entered the house hurrying towards him. Not a moment was to be lost, if he would escape with his life. He knocked away at the bolt, but it had been driven deep down.

“Death to the cursed spy!” shouted the voice of Senhor Policarpio, as he rushed forward, with his sword gleaming in his hand. The threat did not the less cause Antonio to endeavour to loosen the obstinate bolt. The point of the sword was within a few paces of him, when the bolt gave way. He threw open the shutter, and leaped on the window-sill. Policarpio made a thrust with his rapier at him; but, jumping fearlessly down, he alighted safely on the ground. Stopping not to see if any followed, and diving among the narrow lanes in the neighbourhood, he was soon safe from pursuit.

Volume Three – Chapter Thirteen

The Prime Minister was seated in the private council chamber of the King, to which we have frequently before introduced our readers. A lamp stood on the table, throwing its light on numerous packets of papers strewed around, and on the sheet on which he was earnestly employed in writing.

Who would, we again ask, seek to occupy such a post as he filled? What can make a man sacrifice his health, his strength, peace, happiness, and safety, – to toil for hours while others sleep, – to bear the abuse of his adversaries, the revilings of the mob, the obstinacy of coadjutors, and the caprices of the Monarch, – but ambition? The ambition of some leads them to noble ends; for others, it wins but the hatred of mankind. It is ambition which excites the warrior to deeds of heroism, – the merchant to gain wealth, – the poet, the painter, and the sculptor, to win fame; and it is ambition which causes us to spend day after day, secluded in our study, employed on this work – the ambition of gaining the approbation of our countrymen.

Carvalho wrote on, unmindful of the lateness of the hour, when he heard a knock at the door, and, ordering the person who knocked to enter, a page appeared, informing him that one waited without who sought an audience on some important matter, which would admit of no delay.

“Let him be admitted,” said the Minister; and before a minute had elapsed, Antonio stood before him. The attendants who had conducted him thither, to guard against treachery, were ordered forthwith to retire.

“What information do you bring me, my friend?” inquired the Minister.

“That which you have long sought, please your Excellency,” answered Antonio.

“Ah! let me hear it without delay,” said Carvalho, eagerly.

“I have learned the whole of the plot against the lives of your Excellency and his Majesty, and discovered many of those engaged in it;” and he gave an exact account of all which had taken place in the summer-house, and the names of the persons assembled there, of which the Minister took notes as he proceeded in his description.

“Now, then, ye haughty nobles, I have ye within my power!” exclaimed Carvalho, exultingly. “Sooner will the vulture abandon his prey than I will allow you to escape my grasp! Friend, you have well won any reward you may please to ask, – the treasury shall supply you – ”

“Stay, your Excellency,” interrupted Antonio. “I before said, I serve you not for money. I am, as you well know, of the race of Abraham; but I am not, therefore, of necessity, mercenary. Think you that any gold you can bestow could repay me for all I have endured to serve you, – for the degradation, the toil, the dangers I have undergone, – the deceit, the disguises, the watchfulness I have practised, for many years past, because you assured me you could find no other to do the work you required, in whom you could confide? Think you that it was for gold I abandoned my home and my kindred, to mingle with the most base and vile on earth, to curb their passions, and to guide them according to your will? – that for this I introduced myself into the palaces of the rich and powerful, to learn their secrets, and to act as a spy on their actions? No! your Excellency has known me long, and knows me better. What I ask, you have power to grant. I demand freedom for my people! We have in all things conformed to the customs of those among whom we dwell; to their religion, in every outward observance, which is all you can require; we pay tithes to your priests; we give alms to the poor; our manners, our language, have become the same; we obey the King and the law; and yet have we not been allowed to enjoy the rights of citizenship in the land which we enrich by our industry and our commerce. A mark has been set upon us; and wherever we move, still is the stigma of being New Christians attached to us. I demand, then, as my reward, that you should abolish that invidious distinction, and that, from henceforth, if we conform to the worship of your Church, we may likewise enjoy all the privileges of the other subjects of his Majesty.”

“Your demands, my friend, are somewhat extravagant,” returned the Minister, taken rather by surprise by Antonio’s unexpected harangue; “but I will consult his Majesty on the subject, and be guided by his decision: if unfavourable to your wishes, you must make some other request. You know well that, of myself, I have no power to grant this one.”

“Pardon me, your Excellency, I know well the power, both to will and act, rests with you, and you alone,” answered Antonio, vehemently. “And this is the only reward which I seek, or will receive. If you grant it me not, my labour has indeed been labour in vain.”

Carvalho was secretly pleased with the disinterested, and, more than that, the dauntless spirit of the speaker, so like his own, and perhaps also with the confidence he placed in his power to fulfil his wishes. The measure was, indeed, one he had before contemplated, and which he was anxious to bring about, though he was too good a diplomatist to acknowledge his intentions, or to commit himself by making any definite promise to perform what he might afterwards have reason to wish left undone; he therefore gave Antonio a vague answer to his petition.

“The matter you propose, my good friend, is one of vast importance, which will require mature deliberation before I can give you any hopes favourable to your wishes; but, believe me, I will do my utmost to gain that justice for your people which has so long been denied them: in the mean time, you may perform for me many more important services; for to crush this vile conspiracy at present demands all my attention.”

“I would willingly serve your Excellency and the state yet another year, to gain justice for my people,” answered Antonio. “In your word have I trusted, and in that do I still trust. Has your Excellency any further commands?”

“None, my friend; for this night you may retire. Call here to-morrow morning, and I shall claim your services.”

As the door closed upon Antonio, the Minister, securing most of his papers in the bureau, took in his hand the notes he had made from Antonio’s information, and, late as was the hour, repaired to the chamber of the King.

Joseph was about to retire to his couch when the Minister entered: his cheek was thinner and paler even than usual, from sickness and confinement, though he moved his arms without difficulty, as if perfectly recovered from the wounds he had received. Re-seating himself in a large, high-backed arm-chair, before a table on which his supper had been spread, he desired, in rather a querulous tone, to be informed why business was thus brought before him.

“It is a matter of the utmost importance, which will admit of no delay, Sire,” answered Carvalho. “I have, at length, the strongest evidence of who were the perpetrators of the sacrilegious outrage against your Majesty.”

The King’s tone and manner instantly changed. “Ah! and you can prevent any like attempt for the future, my good friend,” he answered eagerly. “Let me hear the particulars.”

On this the Minister laid before him several papers, with the notes he had taken of Antonio’s account, and a long list of the persons he had cause to suspect; many of whom Antonio had also mentioned. As the King read on, Carvalho leaned over him, making his observations on the different points of the case.

“Holy Virgin!” exclaimed Joseph, his voice trembling with agitation as his eye glanced down the long list of names. “Here are many of the most powerful and wealthy nobles of my land. It is impossible that they can all be traitors. Some of them I have ever deemed the most loyal and obedient of my subjects.”

“Still greater, therefore, is their treachery, Sire; and greater must be their punishment,” returned Carvalho, firmly.

“But what cause can they have to seek my death?” said the King. “Have they not already all they can desire? Do they not enjoy the highest rank, and fill all the posts of honour I have to give?”

“As their ambition and pride are boundless, they would create yet higher ones,” answered Carvalho. “If your Majesty would again enjoy security and repose, these guilty persons, without distinction of their rank or station, must suffer the penalty of their crimes.”

“Alas! I fear it must be so,” said the King, hesitatingly; “but I had never supposed my nobles could have been guilty of so great a crime. Surely the assassins must have been villains of a lower order. Aveiro, the Tavoras, never could have done the deed.”

“There are strong proofs of their guilt; and on their trial there will yet appear stronger,” answered the Minister. “On my head be their blood, if they be innocent. I must request your Majesty to sign these warrants for their apprehension, and I will issue them when I see a favourable opportunity. We must proceed with caution, for they have a powerful party in their favour. Unless this is done, I cannot, Sire, answer from day to day for the security of your life or crown.”

The King unwillingly took the blank warrants which the Minister had brought, and signing them, returned them to him, as he wrote on each the name of some person from the list before him.

“According to the information I receive, I may have occasion to apprehend some of these criminals before your Majesty rises to-morrow morning; but perhaps it may be advisable to allow some days further to elapse, that any others who are engaged in the conspiracy may further commit themselves,” observed Carvalho, collecting the warrants.

“You have on your list the name of the Marquis of Tavora; but he is not mentioned as having been present at any of the meetings with the others,” said the King.

“But most of his family were, Sire,” returned the Minister. “They must inevitably suffer, as being the most guilty; and he must not be allowed to escape, lest he endeavour to avenge their deaths. He, also, in the eye of the law, is equally criminal, for he might have prevented their guilt; and the safety of the state demands his punishment.”

“Be cautious that none but the guilty suffer,” said the King.

“That shall be my care, Sire,” answered Carvalho. “Your Majesty’s sacred life has been, and will be still, in jeopardy, if their punishment is not severe; but I will make their fate such a lesson to others, that, from thenceforth, treason shall be unknown in the land; and these proud fidalgos shall no longer insult your Majesty with their haughty bearing. Have I, Sire, your full authority to act as I deem requisite on this momentous occasion?”

“You have, you have, my friend,” answered the King. “Your judgment is always right.”

“Then, haughty fidalgos, you are mine own,” muttered the Minister, as he retired from the presence of the King.

The meanest subject in those realms slept more calmly that night than did King Joseph and his Prime Minister.

Volume Three – Chapter Fourteen

The young Count d’Almeida had, since his arrival in Lisbon, been leading a life of complete retirement, at the quiet abode Pedro had selected for him. He had withdrawn himself from the society of the Tavoras, even from that of young Jozé de Tavora, whom he could not entirely forgive for the deceit he had practised on him, in leading him into the meeting of the conspirators on the fatal night of the attempted assassination of the King. He could not banish from his mind the suspicion that some of the persons he had there met were, in some way or other, connected with that diabolical outrage; and he felt assured, from knowing the character of the Minister, that it would not, as people supposed, be overlooked; so that, notwithstanding the apparent tranquillity which reigned in the city, the culprits would, sooner or later, be discovered. Of his own safety, though innocent of any criminal design, he was not at all satisfied; and each day that he rose he felt might be the last without the walls of a prison.

His friend, Captain Pinto, was at sea in the frigate he now commanded; and she was not, it was said, expected in the Tagus for some time.

When he inquired for Senhor Mendez, he was informed that, as soon as his health had been restored, he had sailed for England, nor did any one know when he was likely to return; so that Luis found himself deprived of the advice of the two persons in whom he could most confide. For his cousin, the Father Jacinto, he had long conceived the most complete distrust; and had not, therefore, even informed him of his return to Lisbon, nor did he believe the holy Jesuit was aware of the circumstance.