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

“I know it well,” said D’Esmonde, “and with a heavily loaded carriage it’s a weary road. How did she bear the journey?” said he, in a low, scarcely uttered whisper.

“Bear it I – better than I did; and, except when scolding the postilions for not going twelve versts an hour, in deep snow, she enjoyed herself the entire way.”

D’Esmonde gave a knowing look and a smile, as though to say that he recognized her thoroughly in the description.

“You know her, then?” asked the courier.

“This many a year,” replied the Abbé, with a faint sigh.

“She’s a rare one,” said the man, who grew at each instant more confidential, “and thinks no more of a gold rouble than many another would of a copeck. Is it true, as they say, she was once an actress?”

“There are stranger stories than that about her,” said D’Esmonde. “But why has she come alone? How happens it that she is here?”

“That is the secret that none of us can fathom,” said the courier. “We thought there was to have been another, and I believe there is another in the passport, but it was no affair of mine. I had my orders from the Prince’s own ‘intendant,’ who bespoke all the relays for the road, and here we are.”

“I will explain all the mystery to you at another time, courier,” said D’Esmonde; “meanwhile, let nothing of what we have been saying escape you. By the way,” added he, half carelessly, “what name did she travel under?”

“The passport was made out ‘Die Gräfin von Dalton;’ but she has a Spanish name, for I heard it once from the intendant.”

“Was it Lola de Seviglia?”

“That was it. I remember it well.”

“We are very old friends indeed!” said the Abbé; “and now be cautious; let none know that we have spoken together, and I can serve your fortune hereafter.”

The German scarcely looked quite satisfied with himself for the confidence he had been unwittingly led into; “but, after all,” thought he, “the priest knew more than I could tell him;” and so he resumed his search without further thought of the matter.

As for D’Esmonde, his first care was to inquire for Monsieur de Grasse, the Prince’s chief secretary, with whom he remained closeted for nigh an hour. It will not be necessary to inflict all the detail of that interview on the reader; enough that we state its substance to have been a pressing entreaty on the part of D’Esmonde to be admitted to an audience of the Prince, as firmly resisted by the secretary, whose orders were not to admit any one, nor, indeed, acknowledge that his Highness was then there.

“You must wait upon him at the Crocetto, Monsignore,” said De Grasse. “Your presence here will simply cause the dismissal of those who have admitted you, and yet never advance your own wishes in the least.”

“My business is too urgent, sir, to be combated by reasons so weak as these,” replied D’Esmonde; “nor am I much accustomed to the air of an antechamber.”

“You must yet be aware, Monsignore, that the orders of Prince Midchekoff are absolute in his own house.” The secretary dropped his voice almost to a whisper as he finished this sentence, for he had just overheard the Prince speaking to some one without, and could detect his step as he came along the corridor.

With a look of most meaning entreaty he besought the Abbé to keep silence, while he crept noiselessly over and turned the key. D’Esmonde uttered an exclamation of anger, and, sweeping past a window, within which stood a magnificent vase of malachite, he caught the costly object in the wide folds of his gown, and dashed it to the ground in a thousand pieces. De Grasse gave a sudden cry of horror, and at the same instant Midchekoff knocked at the door, and demanded admittance. With faltering hand the secretary turned the key, and the Prince entered the room, casting his eyes from D’Esmonde to the floor, where the fragments lay, and back again to the priest, with a significance that showed how he interpreted the whole incident. As for the Abbé, he looked as coldly indifferent to the accident as though it were the veriest trifle he had destroyed.

“I came to have a few moments’ interview with you, Prince,” said he, calmly; “can you so far oblige me?”

“I am entirely at your orders, Monsignore,” said the Russian, with a faint smile. “Allow me to conduct you to a chamber in less disorder than this one.”

The Abbé bowed, and followed him, not seeming to hear the allusion. And now, passing through a number of rooms, whose gorgeous furniture was carefully covered, they reached a small chamber opening upon a conservatory, where a breakfast-table was already spread.

“I will waste neither your time nor my own, Prince, by an apology for the hour of this visit, nor the place; my business did not admit of delay – that will excuse me in your eyes.”

The Prince gave a cold bow, but never spoke.

D’Esmonde resumed. “I have heard the news from the camp: Lord Norwood tells me that the Austrians have fallen back, and with a heavy loss too.”

“Not heavy!” said the Russian, with a smile.

“Enough, however, to raise the hopes and strengthen the courage of the others. Goito was, at least, a victory.” A faint shrug of the shoulders was the only reply the Prince made, and the Abbé went on: “Things are too critical, Prince, to treat the event slightingly. We cannot answer either for France or England; still less can we rely on the politicians of Vienna. A second or a third reverse, and who can say that they will not treat for a peace, at the cost of half the States of Lombardy. Nay, sir, I am not speaking without book,” added he, more warmly; “I know – I repeat it – I know that such a negotiation has been entertained, and that at this moment the Cabinet of England has the matter in its consideration.”

“It may be so,” said the Prince, carelessly, as he poured out his coffee.

“Then there is not a moment to be lost,” cried the Abbé, impetuously. “A cession of the Milanais means a Republic of Upper Italy, – the downfall of the Popedom, – the rule of infidelity over the Peninsula. Are we– are you prepared for this? Enough has been done to show that Italian ‘unity’ is a fiction. Let us complete the lesson by proving that they cannot meet the Austrian in arms. The present generation, at least, will not forget the chastisement, if it be but heavy enough.”

“We may leave that task to the Imperialists,” said the Prince, with a cold smile.

“I do not think so. I know too much of German sluggishness and apathy. The reinforcements, that should pour in like a flood, creep lazily along. The dread of France – the old terror of those wars that once crushed them – is still uppermost. They know not how far Europe will permit them to punish a rebellious province; and while they hesitate, they give time for the growth of that public opinion that will condemn them.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said the Russian, as he sipped his coffee carelessly.

“And if I be,” cried D’Esmonde, passionately, “are we to sit tranquilly here till the ruin overtake us? Will Russia wait till the flame of a red republic throws its lurid glare over Europe, and even gleam over the cold waters of the Neva? Is it her wish, or to her benefit, that the flag of the democrat and the infidel is to float over the Continent?”

“You conjured up the monster yourself, Monsignore. It is for you to order him back to the depths he came from.”

“And we are ready for the task,” said the priest. “We fostered this revolt, because we saw it was better to lop off a diseased limb than to suffer the gangrene to spread over the entire body; better to cast down into utter perdition the wild democrats, who but half believed us, than peril the countless millions of true Catholics. Nay, more, we acted with your counsel and concurrence. That revolt has already borne its fruits. Men see no issue to the struggle they are engaged in. The men of moderation are overborne by the wild clamor of the factionist. Anarchy is amongst them, and now is our moment to bid the contest cease, and earn from mankind the glorious epithet of ‘peacemaker.’ The tide of victory once turned, see how the mind of Europe will turn with it. Good wishes are prone to go with the battalions that advance!”

“Good wishes are not too costly a sympathy,” said the Russian, coolly.

“It is to that point I am coming, Prince,” said the Abbé; “nor have I intruded myself on your privacy to-day merely to discuss the public opinion of Europe. The whole of this question lies in a narrow compass. It is time that this struggle should cease, – it is, at least, time that the tide of conquest should turn. Were Austria free to use her strength, we might trust the issue to herself; but she is not, and we must help her. I hold here the means,” said he, placing on the table a heavy pocket-book crammed with letters. “This,” said he, taking up one large sealed packet, “is an autograph from his Holiness, commanding Durando to halt at the Po, and under no circumstances to cross the frontier. This,” continued he, showing another, “is to Ghirardi, to grant leave of absence to all officers who desire to return to their homes. This is to Krasaletzki, to provide for the disbandment of his legion. The King of Naples waits but for the signal to recall General Pepe and his contingent, fifteen thousand strong. And now, Prince, there is but one other voice in Europe we wait for – the Czar’s!”

“His Imperial Majesty has ever wished well to the cause of order,” said the Russian, with a studied calm of manner.

“Away with such trifling as this!” said D’Esmonde, passionately; “nor do not try to impose on me by those courteous generalities that amuse cabinets. Russia speaks to Western Europe best by her gold. The ‘rouble’ can come where the ‘Cossack’ cannot! There are men with those armies that comprehend no other argument – whose swords have their price. Our treasures are exhausted; the sacred vessels of our altars – the golden ornaments of our shrines – are gone. You alone can aid us at this moment. It is no barren generosity, Prince! you are combating your Poles more cheaply beside the Po and the Adige than on the banks of the Vistula! you are doing more! you are breaking up those ancient alliances of Europe whose existence excluded you from continental power! you are buying your freedom to sit down among the rulers of the Old World, and accustoming the nations of the West to the voice of the Boyard in their councils! And, greatest of all, you are crushing into annihilation that spirit of revolt that now rages like a pestilence. But why do I speak of these things to one like you? you know full well the terms of the compact Your own handwriting has confessed it.”

Midchekoff gave a slight – a very slight – movement of surprise, but never spoke.

“Yes,” continued D’Esmonde, “I have within that pocket-book at this moment the receipt of Count Grünenburg, the Austrian Secretary-at-War, for the second instalment of a loan advanced by Prince Midchekoff to the Imperial Government. I have a copy of the order in council acknowledging in terms of gratitude the aid, and recommending that the cross of St. Stephen should be conferred on the illustrious lender. And, less gracious than these,” added he, with sarcastic bitterness, “I have the record of the Emperor’s scruples about according the first-class order of the Empire to one whose nobility was but left-handed. Were these to appear to-morrow in the Razionale, is it only your pride as a prince that would be humbled? Or think you that a single stone would rest upon another in this gorgeous edifice where we are standing? Who or what could restrain an infuriated populace from wreaking their vengeance on the traitor? Who would lift a hand against the pillage of this splendor, and the desecration of this magnificence? It is not willingly that I tell you these things, nor had I ever spoken of them if you had but heard me with fitting attention. I know, too, the price at which they are uttered. We never can be friends; but that is of small moment Our cause – ours, I say, for it is yours no less than mine – is above such consideration.”

“How much do you require?” said Midchekoff, as he leaned his arm on the chimney-piece, and stared calmly at the Abbé.

“Ghirardi and his staff demand two hundred thousand francs; Albizi will be a cheaper bargain. Marionetti and his force will be surrounded, and retire from Lombardy on parole of not serving during the campaign, – he only asks enough to emigrate with. Then, there is the Commissary of the Crociati, – he is quite ready to become his own paymaster. There are others of inferior rank and pretensions, with whom I shall treat personally. The press, particularly of England, will be the difficulty; but its importance is above all price. The public mind must be brought back, from its sympathy for a people, to regard the rulers more favorably. Anarchy and misrule must be displayed in their most glaring colors. The Crociati will do us good service here; their crimes would sully a holier crusade than this! But I weary you, sir,” said the Abbé, stopping suddenly, and observing that Midchekoff, instead of seeming to listen, was busily occupied in writing.

“Morlache holds bills of mine to this amount,” said the Prince, showing a list of several large sums; “he will place them at your disposal on your giving a receipt for them. This is an order, also, regarding certain emeralds I have commissioned him to have mounted in gold. He need not do so, but will dispose of the gems, as I shall not want them.” A very slight flush here colored his cheek, and he paused as if some bitter thought had crossed his mind.

D’Esmonde’s quick eye read the meaning of the expression, and he said, “Am I to congratulate your Highness on the approach of a certain happy event?”

“His Majesty has not deigned to accord me the necessary permission,” was the reply.

“Then I will be bold enough to say I congratulate you,” cried D’Esmonde. “Your alliance should be with a royal house, Prince. Your position in Europe is exceptional; such should be your marriage. Besides, the day is not very distant when there must come another dissection of the map of Europe. There will be new principalities, but wanting heads to rule them. The world is tired of Coburgs, and would gladly see another name amongst its royalties.”

“I am at the disposal of my Emperor,” said Midchekoff, coldly; for whatever effect the flatteries might produce within, neither his words nor his looks would betray it, and now by his manner he showed that he wished the interview over.

“Mademoiselle, then, returns to her family?” asked D’Esmonde.

“To the care of the Count von Auersberg.”

“The reputation of having attracted your Highness will be a fortune to her.”

“She has refused a settlement of eighty thousand roubles a year.”

“A most princely offer!” cried D’Esmonde.

“His Majesty fixed the sum,” said Midchekoff, as coolly as though talking of an indifferent matter.

D’Esmonde now rose to take his leave, but there was a reluctance in his manner that showed he was unwilling to go. At last he said, “Does your Highness intend to return to the camp?”

“The day after to-morrow.”

“I ask,” said the Abbé, “inasmuch as I am hourly in expectation of hearing from Cardinal Maraffa with reference to a certain decoration which you should long since have received – ”

“Indeed! has his Holiness been pleased to consider me amongst his most ardent well-wishers?” cried the Prince, interrupting.

“I may be in a position to assure your Highness on that score before another day elapses. May I hope that you will receive me, even at some inconvenience, for my time is much occupied just now?”

“Whenever you call, Monsieur l’Abbé,” was the prompt reply. “If you will deign to accept this ring as a souvenir of me, it will also serve to admit you at all hours and in all places to me.”

“Your costly gift, Prince,” said D’Esmonde, flushing, “has a greater value in my eyes than all its lustre can express.” And with a most affectionate leave-taking they parted.

“At what hour is the Prince’s carriage ordered?” said the Abbé, as he passed through the hall.

“For two o’clock precisely, Monsignore. He is to have an audience at the Pitti.”

“To Florence – and with speed!” said D’Esmonde to his coachman; and away they drove.

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.

D’Esmonde found the garden unlocked, and entered. He knew that by passing directly onward to the “orangery” he could enter the villa by a small door, which led into the private apartments of the Prince. This was, however, locked; but the window lay open, and with a spring he gained the sill and entered the chamber. He knew it well; it was the little room appropriated by Midchekoff as his private library, simply furnished, and connected with a still smaller chamber, where, in an alcove, a species of divan stood, on which it was the rich man’s caprice at times to pass the night Although certain traces showed that the Prince had been recently there, no letters nor papers lay about; there was no sign of haste or negligence, nor was anything left to the accidents of prying eyes or meddling fingers. D’Esmonde opened the door which conducted into the corridor, and listened; but all was silent He then sat down to think. The palace – for such, under the name of villa, it was – was of immense extent, and he could not expect to ramble many minutes without chancing upon some of the household. His color came and went, as, in deep agitation, he conceived in turn every possible project, for he was one whose mind worked with all the violent throes of some mighty engine; and even when taking counsel with himself, the alternate impulses of his reason became painful efforts. At last he made up his resolve, and, entering the inner chamber, he closed the shutters and drew the curtains; and then, throwing around his shoulders a richly lined cloak of sable, he rang the bell loudly and violently. This done, he lay down upon the divan, which, in the darkness of the recess, was in complete obscurity. He had barely time to draw the folds of the mantle about him, when a servant entered, with noiseless step, and stood at a respectful distance, awaiting what he believed to be his master’s orders.

“Send the Sigñora,” muttered D’Esmonde, with the cloak folded across his mouth, and then turned on his side. The servant bowed and retired.

D’Esmonde started up, and listened to the retiring footfalls, till they were lost in distance, and then the strong pulsations of his own heart seemed to mock their measured pace. “Would the stratagem succeed?” “Would she come, and come alone?” were the questions which he asked himself, as his clasped hands were clinched, and his lips quivered in strong emotion. An unbroken stillness succeeded, so long that, to his aching senses, it seemed like hours of time. At last a heavy door was heard to bang; another, too, – now voices might be detected in the distance; then came footsteps, it seemed, as of several people; and, lastly, these died away, and he could mark the sweeping sounds of a female dress coming rapidly along the corridor. The door opened and closed; she was in the library, and appeared to be waiting. D’Esmonde gave a low, faint cough; and now, hastily passing on, she entered the inner chamber, and, with cautious steps traversing the darkened space, she knelt down beside the couch. D’Esmonde’s hand lay half uncovered, and on this now another hand was gently laid. Not a word was uttered by either; indeed, their very breathings seemed hushed into stillness.

If the secrets of hearts were open to us, what a history, what a life-long experience lay in those brief moments! and what a conflict of passion might be read in those two natures! A slight shudder shook D’Esmonde’s frame at the touch of that hand which so often had been clasped within his own, long, long ago, and he raised it tenderly, and pressed it to his lips. Then, passing his other arm around her, so as to prevent escape, he said, but in a voice barely audible, the one word, “Lola!”

With a violent effort she tried to disengage herself from his grasp; and although her struggles were great, not a cry, not a syllable escaped her. “Hear me, Lola,” said D’Esmonde; “hear me with patience and with calm, if not for my sake, for your own.”

“Unhand me, then,” said she, in a voice which, though low, was uttered with all the vehemence of strong emotion. “I am not a prisoner beneath this roof.”

“Not a prisoner, say you?” said D’Esmonde, as he locked the door, and advanced towards her. “Can there be any bondage compared to this? Does the world know of any slavery so debasing?”

“Dare to utter such words again, and I will call to my aid those who will hurl you from that window,” said she, in the same subdued accents. “That priestly robe will be but a poor defence here.”

“You’d scarcely benefit by the call, Lola,” said D’Esmonde, as he stole one hand within the folds of his robe.

“Would you kill me?” cried she, growing deathly pale.

“Be calm, and hear me,” said the priest, as he pressed her down upon a seat, and took one directly opposite to her. “It never could be my purpose, Lola, to have come here either to injure or revile you. I may, indeed, sorrow over the fall of one whose honorable ambitions might have soared so high; I may grieve for a ruin that was so causeless; but, save when anguish may wring from me a word of bitterness, I will not hurt your ears, Lola. I know everything, – all that has happened; yet have I to learn who counselled you to this flight.”