The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II

“A new kingdom of Upper Italy, with Milan for the capital, and Viscount Norwood the resident minister plenipotentiary,” there was the whole episode, in three volumes, with its “plot,” “catastrophe,” and “virtue rewarded,” in appropriate fashion; and as times were bad, neither racing nor cards profitable, patriotism was the only unexplored resource he could think of.

Not that my Lord had much faith in the Abbé. Far from it. He thought all priests were knaves; but he also thought “that he ‘ll not cheat me. No, no; too wide awake for that He ‘ll not try that dodge. Knows where I ‘ve graduated. Remembers too well what school I come of.” He was perfectly candid, too, in this mode of reasoning, calmly telling D’Esmonde his opinions of himself, and frankly showing that any attempt at a “jockey” of him must inevitably fail. The Abbé, to do him justice, took all this candor well, – affected to deem it the mere ebullition of honest John Bullism; and so they were well met. At times, indeed, the priest’s enthusiasm carried him a little away, and he ventured to speculate on the glorious career that conversion would open to the noble Viscount, and the splendid fruits such a change would be certain to produce. Norwood was, however, too practical for such remote benefits; and if the Abbé couldn’t “make the thing safe,” as he styled it, would not listen to this suggestion. A rich Italian princess, – there were two or three such prizes in the wheel, – or an infanta of Spain, might solace many a theological doubt; but Norwood said there was no use in quoting the “fathers” when he was thinking only of the “daughters.”

And the priest wisely seemed to take him at his word. As for Lady Hester, political intrigue was quite new to her, and, consequently, very delightful. Since the Cardinal’s departure for Rome, she had begun to weary somehow of the ordinances of her new faith. The canonico but ill replaced his Eminence. He had none of that velvety smoothness of manner, that soft and gentle persuasiveness of the dignitary He could neither smile away a doubt nor resolve a difficulty by a “bon mot” It is but fair to say that he was no ascetic, that he loved good cheer and pleasant converse, and was free to let others participate in the enjoyment. Lady Hester, was, however, too much habituated to such indulgences to reckon them other than necessaries. D’Esmonde, if he had had time, might have compensated for all these deficiencies, but he was far too deeply engaged with other cares, and his air of grave preoccupation was more suited to awe her Ladyship than suggest ease in his presence. And now we come to Albert Jekyl, – the last member of this incongruous family. Nothing was less to his taste than any fanaticism, whether it took the form of religion or politics. All such extravagances were sure to interfere with society, impede intercourse, and disturb that delightful calm of existence wherein vices ripen, and where men of his stamp gather the harvest.

To overthrow a Government, to disturb the settled foundations of a State, were, to his thinking, a species of inconvenance that savored of intense vulgarity; and he classified such anarchists with men who would like to smash the lamps, tear down the hangings, and destroy the decorations of a salon in which they were asked to pass the evening, preferring to sit down amid ruin and wreck rather than eat their supper at a well-ordered and well-furnished board.

To Jekyl’s eyes it was a very nice world as it was, if people would only let it alone. “A world of bright eyes and soft tresses and white shoulders, with Donizetti’s music and Moët’s champagne, was not to be despised, after all.” He had no sympathies, therefore, with these disturbers; but he was too well bred ever to oppose himself to the wishes of the company, and so he seemed to concur with what he could not prevent. He could have wished that the Italians would take a lesson from the Swiss, who only revolt when there is nothing else to do, and never take to cutting each other’s throats during the season when there are travellers to be cheated; “but, perhaps,” said he, “they will soon get enough of it, and learn that their genius lies more in ballets and bonbons than in bombs and rockets.”

Of such various hopes and feelings were the party made up who now awaited D’Esmonde’s presence at the supper-table. It was past midnight, and they had been expecting him with impatience for above an hour back. Twice had the canonico fallen asleep, and started up with terror at what he called a “fantasma di fame.” Jekyl had eaten sardines and oysters till he was actually starving. Lady Hester was fidgety and fretful, as waiting always made her; while Norwood walked from the room to the terrace, and out upon the grass to listen, uneasy lest any mischance should have befallen one who was so deeply involved in their confidences.

“It is but three or four and twenty miles to Milan,” muttered Norwood; “he might easily have been here by this.”

“The road is infested with banditti,” growled out the padre.

“Banditti!” said Norwood, contemptuously. But whether the sneer was intended for the cut-throats’ courage, or the folly of men who would expect any booty from a priest, is hard to say; clearly the padre took it in the latter sense, for he rejoined, —

“Even so, Milordo. When I was curé of Bergamo, they stopped me one night on the Lecco road. A bishop was on a visit with me, and I had gone up to Milan to procure some fish for our Friday’s dinner. Oimè! what a turbot it was, and how deliciously it looked at the bottom of the calessino, with the lobsters keeping guard at either side of it, and a small basket of Genoa oysters, – those rock beauties that melt in the mouth like a ripe strawberry! There they were, and I had fallen asleep, and was dreaming pleasantly. I thought I saw St Cecilia dressing ‘filets de sole aux fines herbes,’ and that she was asking me for sweet marjoram, when suddenly I felt a sharp stick, as it were, in my side; and starting up, I felt the point – the very point – of a thin stiletto between my ribs.

“‘Scusi, padre mio,’ said a whining voice, and a great black-bearded rascal touched his cap to me with one hand, while with the other he held the dagger close to my side, a comrade all the time covering me with a blunderbuss on the opposite side of the cart, – ‘scusi, padre mio, but we want your pursel’ ‘Maladetto sia – ’ ‘Don’t curse,’ said he, beggingly, – ‘don’t curse, padre, we shall only have to spend more money in masses; but be quick, out with the “quattrini.”’

“‘I have nothing but the Church fund for the poor.’ said I, angrily.

“‘We are the poor, holy father,’ whined the rogue.

“‘I mean the poor who hate to do evil,’ said I.

“‘It grieves us to the soul when we are driven to it!’ sighed the scoundrel; and he gave me a gentle touch with the point of the stiletto. Dark as it was, I could see the wretch grin as I screamed out.

“‘Be quick,’ growled out the other, roughly, as he brought the wide mouth of the trombone close to my face. There was no help for it I had to give up my little leathern pouch with all my quarter’s gatherings. Many a warning did I give the villains of the ill-luck that followed sacrilege, – how palsies and blindness and lameness came upon the limbs of those who robbed the Church. They went on counting the coins without so much as minding me. At last, when they had fairly divided the booty, the first fellow said, ‘One favor more, holy father, before we part.’

“‘Would you take my coat or my cassock?’ said I, indignantly.

“‘Heaven forbid it!’ said he, piously; ‘we want only your blessing, padre mio.’

“‘My blessing on thieves and robbers!’

“‘Who need it more, holy father?’ said he, with another stick of the point, – ‘who need it more?’

“I screamed aloud, and the wretches this time laughed outright at my misery. Meanwhile they both uncovered and knelt down in the road before me. Oimè! oimè! There was no help for it I had to descend from the calessino!”

“And did you bless them, father?” asked Jekyl.

“That did I! for when I tried in the middle of the benediction to slip in a muttering of ‘Confundite ipsos qui quaerunt animam meam,’ the whining rogue popped out his accursed weapon, and cried, ‘Take care, holy father! We only bargain for the blessing.’”

“They left you the fish, however?” said Norwood.

“Not an oyster!” sighed the priest.

“‘You would not have us eat flesh on the fast, padre mio!’ said the hypocritical knave. ‘Poor fellows like us have no dispensation, nor the money to buy it’ And so they packed up everything, and then, helping me to my seat, wished me a pleasant journey, and departed.”

“I am curious to know if you really forgave them, padre?” said Jekyl, with an air of serious inquiry.

“Have I not said so!” rejoined the priest, testily.

“Why, you tried to insinuate something that surely was not a blessing, father.”

“And if I did, the fellow detected it. Ah, that rogue must have served Mass once on a time, or his ears had never been so sharp!”

“Are yours quick enough to say if that be the tramp of a horse?” asked Norwood, as he listened to the sounds.

“Yes, that is a horse,” cried Jekyl.

“Now, then, for the soup,” exclaimed the canon. “Ah, yes!” added he, with a sigh, as he turned to Lady Hester, “these are the crosses, – these are the trials of life; but they are good for us, – they are good for us! Poor mortals that we are! Non est sanitas in carne meâ. Oimè! oimè!” And so moralizing, he gave her his arm as he reentered the house. In less than a minute later, D’Esmonde galloped up to the door, and dismounted.

“Has anything occurred? – you are late to-night,” asked Norwood, hastily.

“Nothing. The city, however, was in great alarm, and the tocsin was twice sounded in the churches when I left at ten o’clock; the guards were doubled at the gates, and mounted patrols making the rounds in every quarter.”

“What was this for?” asked Norwood.

“A mere false alarm, – nothing more. The Austrians are harassed beyond measure by these frequent calls to arms; and men grumble that they are mustered twice or thrice during the night without any cause. A petard exploded in the street, or a church bell rung, is sure to call out the whole garrison.”

“I begin to suspect that our Italian friends will be satisfied with this, and never go further,” said Norwood, contemptuously.

“You are wrong there. It is by the frequency and impunity of these demonstrations, that they are working up courage for an overt movement By the time that the Austrians have grown indifferent to such nightly disturbances, the others will have gained hardihood for a real outbreak.”

“If they only be persuaded that war is assassination on a grand scale, they might make excellent soldiers,” simpered Jekyl; but the others seemed to take no heed of his pleasantry.

“Have they not fixed a time?” asked Norwood, eagerly; “or is it all left vague and uncertain as ever?”

“The Swiss are quite ready; we only wait now for the Piedmontese. Genoa is with us at a word; so are Leghorn and the towns of the Romagna. The signal once given, there will be such a rising as Italy has not seen for centuries. England will supply arms, ammunition – ”

“All but men,” sighed Norwood; “and it is exactly what are wanting.”

“And France – ”

“Will give her sympathies,” broke in Jekyl. “That dear France! that always says God speed to disturbance and trouble wherever it be.”

“What of that Austrian soldier?” said D’Esmonde, who did not quite like the tone of either of his companions, – “is he better?”

“The surgeon says that he cannot recover,” replied Jekyl; “and for that reason I suspect that he ‘s in no danger.”

“Have you seen the officer to-day?” asked the priest again.

“No,” replied Norwood. “Jekyl and I twice endeavored to speak with him; but he slept half the forenoon, and since that he has been writing innumerable despatches to headquarters.”

“They say at Milan that he ‘ll be shot for this misadventure,” said D’Esmonde; “that he acted in contravention to his orders, or did something, I know not what, which will be treated as a grave military offence.”

“The canonico is furious with us for this delay,” said Jekyl, laughing, as he returned from a peep into the salon.

The Abbé was, meanwhile, deep in a whispered conversation with Norwood. “Ay,” said the latter, doubtingly, “but it’s a serious thing to tamper with a soldier’s fidelity. The Austrians are not the people to suffer this with impunity.”

“How are they to know it?”

“If it fail, – if this young fellow reject our offers, which, as a Hungarian, it is just as likely that he will do?”

“But he is not a Hungarian. I know him, and all about him.”

“And can you answer for his readiness to join us?”

“I cannot go that far; but seeing the position he stands in, what can be more probable? And, take the worst case: suppose that he refuses, I have him still!”

“How do you mean?”

“Simply that I have in my hands the means to destroy all his credit, and peril his very life!” The sudden energy of passion in which he delivered these words appeared to have escaped him unawares; for, as quickly recovering his wonted smoothness of tone, he said, “Not that anything short of the last necessity would drive me to such an alternative.”

“May I never have to trust to your tender mercies, Abbé!” said Norwood, with a laugh, in which there was far more of earnest than of jesting; “but let us talk of these things after supper.” And with the careless ease of a mere idler, he lounged into the house, followed by the others.

Once seated at supper, the conversation took a general turn, requiring all the Abbé's skill and Jekyl’s tact at times to cover from the servants who waited the secret meaning of many of those allusions to politics and party which Lady Hester uttered, in the perfect conviction that she was talking in riddles. Her indiscretion rendered her, indeed, a most perilous associate; and in spite of hints, warnings, and signs, she would rattle on upon the dangerous theme of revolt and insurrection; the poor devices of deception she employed being but sorry blinds to the native quickness of Italian shrewdness.

This little fire of cross-purposes sadly perplexed the canonico, who looked up now and then from his plate with a face of stupid astonishment at all that went forward.

“You have heard, I suppose, canon,” said the Abbé, adroitly addressing him, “that the city authorities have only granted twelve thousand crowns for the festival of San Giovanni?”

“Twelve thousand crowns! It will not pay for the throne of the Virgin,” growled out the canon, “not to speak of the twenty-six angels in sprigged muslin!”

“There are to be no angels this time. The priests of the Santa Croce are to walk behind the canopy.”

“It will ruin the procession,” muttered the canon.

“They certainly look as little like angels as need be,” interposed Jekyl, slyly.

“Sixty lamps and two hundred tapers are a scant allowance,” continued D’Esmonde.

“Darkness, – positive darkness!” ejaculated the canon; “ubi evasit pietas nostra? – what has become of our ancient faith?”

“The soldier, your reverence, wishes to see you immediately,” said a servant, entering in haste; “he fears that he is sinking fast.”

“The heavy dews of the morning are falling – can he not wait till the sun rises, Giuseppe?”

“You had better see him at once, canon,” whispered the Abbé.

“Oimè! oimè!” sighed the priest, “mine is a weary road – ‘potum meum cum fletu miscebam,’” added he, finishing off his champagne, “is it far from this?”

“Only to the boat-house, father,” said Lady Hester.

“Per mares et ignos! it’s a good half-hour’s walk,” growled he.

“You can have the pony carriage, father,” interposed she.

“He starts at everything by night – don’t trust the pony,” said Jekyl.

“Well, then, be carried in my chair, father.”

“Be it so, – be it so,” muttered he. “I yield myself to anything, – ‘sicut passer sub tecto,’ – I have no will of my own.”

“Go along with him, my Lord,” whispered D’Esmonde: “the opportunity will be a good one to see the young officer. While the father talks with the sick man, you can converse with the friend. See in what frame of mind he is.”

“Does he speak French? for I am but an indifferent German,” said Norwood.

“Yes, French will do,” said D’Esmonde, who, after a moment’s hesitation as to whether he should reveal the secret of Frank’s country, seemed to decide on still reserving the knowledge.

“But this could be better done to-morrow,” said Norwood.

“To-morrow will be too late,” whispered D’Esmonde. “Go now; you shall know my reasons at your return.”

Norwood took little heed of the canonico’s attempts at conversation as they went along. His mind was occupied with other thoughts. The moment of open revolt was drawing nigh, and now came doubts of D’Esmonde’s sincerity and good faith. It was true that many of the priests were disposed to the wildest theories of democracy, – they were men of more than ordinary capacity, with far less than the ordinary share of worldly advantages. D’Esmonde, however, was not one of these; there was no limit to which his ambition might not reasonably aspire, – no dignity in his Church above his legitimate hopes. What benefit could accrue to him from a great political convulsion? “He’ll not be nearer to the Popedom when the cannon are shaking the Vatican!” Such were the puzzling considerations that worked within him as he drew near the boat-house.

A figure was seated on the door-sill, with the head buried beneath his hands, but on hearing the approach of the others be quickly arose and drew himself up. “You are too late, sir,” said he, addressing the priest sternly; “my poor comrade is no more!”

“Ah me! and they would drag me out in the chill night air,” groaned the canonico.

The cruelty of that must have weighed heavily on his heart.

Frank turned away, and re-entered the house without speaking, while Norwood followed him in silence. On a low truckle-bed lay the dead soldier, his manly face calm and tranquil as the cold heart within his breast. A weather-beaten, bronzed soldier sat at the foot of the bed, the tears slowly flowing along his cheeks, as his bloodshot eyes were fixed upon his comrade. It was the first blood that had been shed in the cause of Italian independence, and Norwood stood thoughtfully staring at the victim.

“Poor fellow!” said he; “they who gave his death-wound little knew what sympathy for liberty that jacket covered, nor how truly the Hun is the brother of the Italian.”

“They were assassins and murderers,” cried Frank, passionately; “fellows who attacked us from behind walls and barricades.”

“Your reproach only means that they were not soldiers.”

“That they were cowards, rather, – rank cowards. The liberty that such fellows strive for will be well worthy of them! But no more of this,” cried be, impatiently; “is there a church near, where I can lay his body, – he was a Catholic?”

“There is a chapel attached to the villa; I will ask permission for what you require.”

“You will confer a favor on me,” said Frank, “for I am desirous of hastening on to Milan at once.”

“You will scarcely find your comrades there,” said Norwood.

Frank started with surprise, and the other went on, —

“There are rumors of a serious revolt in the city, and some say that the Imperial troops have retired on the Mantua road.”

“They know nothing of Austrian soldiers who say these things,” said Frank, haughtily; “but there is the more need that I should lose no time here.”

“Come, then, I will show you the way to the chapel,” said Norwood, who could not divest himself of a feeling of interest for the young soldier.

Frank spoke a few words in Hungarian to his men, and hastily wrapping the dead man in his cloak, they placed him on a door, his chako and his sword at either side of him.

“You will see that he is buried as becomes a brave and a true soldier,” said Frank, with a faltering accent, as they went along. “This will defray the cost.”

“No, no; there is no need of that,” said Norwood, pushing away the proffered purse. “We’ll look to it ourselves.”

“Let there be some record of him preserved, too, for his friends’ sake. His name was ‘Stanislas Ravitsky.’”

“And may I ask yours?” said Norwood.

“You’ll hear of it in the first court-martial return for Milan,” said Frank, bitterly.

“Then why go there? – why hasten to certain ruin?”

“You would say, why not desert? – why not forfeit my honor and my oath? Because I am a gentleman, sir; and if the explanation be not intelligible, so much the worse for you.”

“I have left him in the chapel,” said Norwood to D’Esmonde, a few minutes after this conversation; “he is kneeling beside the corpse, and praying. There is nothing to be done with him. It is but time lost to attempt it.”

“So much the worse for him,” said D’Esmonde, significantly repeating the words that Norwood related, while he hastily left the spot and walked towards the high-road, where now an Austrian picket was standing beside the horses.

“This is your warrant, sir,” said D’Esmonde to the officer, handing him a paper; “You ‘ll find the person you seek for in the chapel yonder.”

The officer saluted in reply, and ordered his men to mount; while D’Esmonde, passing into a thick part of the copse, was out of sight in a moment.

CHAPTER XVI. PETER DALTON ON POLITICS, LAW, AND SOCIALITIES

We have seen Baden in the dark winter of its discontent – in the spring-time of its promise – and now we come back to it once more, in the fall blaze of its noonday splendor. It was the height of the season! And what a world of dissipation does that phrase embody! What reckless extravagance, what thoughtless profusion, what systematic vice glossed over by the lacquer of polished breeding, what beauty which lacks but innocence to be almost divine! All the attractions of a lovely country, all the blandishments of wealth, the aids of music and painting, the odor of flowers, the songs of birds, – all pressed into the service of voluptuous dissipation, and made to throw a false lustre over a scene where vice alone predominates.

It was the camp of pleasure, to which all rallied who loved to fight beneath that banner. And there they were, a mingled host of princes, ministers, and generals. The spoiled children of fashion, the reckless adventurer, the bankrupt speculator, the nattered beauty in all the pride of her loveliness, the tarnished virtue in all the effrontery of conquest! Strange and incongruous elements of good and evil, – of all that is honored in heroism, and all that men shrink from with shame, – there they were met as equals.

As if by some conventional relaxation of all the habits which rule society, men admitted to their intimacy here those they would have strenuously avoided elsewhere. Vice, like poverty, seemed to have annihilated all the distinctions of rank, and the “decorated” noble and the branded felon sat down to the same board like brethren.

Amid all the gay company of the Cursaal none appeared to have a greater relish for the glittering pleasures of the scene than a large elderly man, who, in a coat of jockey cut and a showy waistcoat, sat at the end of one of the tables, – a post which the obsequious attention of the waiters proclaimed to be his own distinctively. Within a kind of ring-fence of bottles and decanters of every shape and size, he looked the genius of hospitality and dissipation; and it was only necessary to mark how many a smile was turned on him, how many a soft glance was directed towards him, to see that he was the centre of all designing flattery. There was a reckless, unsuspecting jollity in his look that could not be mistaken; and his loud, hearty laugh bespoke the easy self-satisfaction of his nature. Like “special envoys,” his champagne bottles were sent hither and thither down the table, and at each instant a friendly nod or a courteous bow acknowledged his hospitable attention. At either side of him were seated a knot of his peculiar parasites, and neither was wit nor beauty wanting to make their society agreeable. There is a species of mock affection, a false air of attachment in the homage rendered to such a man as this, that makes the flattery infinitely more seductive than all the respectful devotion that ever surrounded a monarch. And so our old friend Peter Dalton – need we to name him? – felt it. “Barring the glorious burst of a fox-hunting chorus, or the wild ‘hip, hip’ of a favorite toast, it was almost as good as Ireland.” Indeed, in some respects, it had rather the advantage over the dear island.