In less than a fortnight after the interview I have just recorded, I received a letter from De Minérale, enclosing another, addressed to himself, and whose royal seal at once proclaimed the writer. De Minérale's was only a few lines, thus:—
“Dear C,—I forward you the 'Duke's' reply to my note, by which you will see that we have been in time, and fortunate enough to secure your appointment. Lose not a moment in fulfilling the instructions contained in it, and dine with me to-day at the 'Frères,' at seven.
“Yours,
“P. deM.”
The Duke's epistle, almost equally brief, was to the effect:
“Headquarters, Oran.
“My Dear De Minérale,—Of course I remember perfectly our friend the 'Quatorzième,' whose lucubrations in the journals I have since been much amused with. In some respects he would suit me well, being a fellow of high animal spirits, great readiness, and, if I mistake not, well fitted for the rough usage of a campaign. But it strikes me that if his position be such as you represent it, the exchange would be anything but profitable. This is a land of few pleasures and no luxuries. Tell him that we never see truffles, that champagne is only a tradition, and, except Moorish damsels, who never show us more of their faces than a pair of eyes,— —darting fire and anger,—we have no beauties. Yet if, despite all these drawbacks, he be still willing to tempt his fortune, and trust to 'a razzia' for the rest, let him call on Count du Verguoble, at the 'Ministère de la Guerre,' where he will find everything in readiness for his appointment.
“Should he desire it, he can also receive his commission in my own regiment, the 13th Chasseurs-à-cheval; and as he will not be called on for duty, he might as well accept an appointment that will at least give him forage for his horses and some other advantages.
“Send me all the new things that are out, and tell me what you and Alphonse are doing. 'Mes amitiés' to our fair friend in the Rue Ponchaule, and the like—indiscriminately— to all the others.
“Yours affectionately,
M. dk St. C.
“You call him 'Le Comte de Creganne,' and so I have written it for the Minister: is this right?”
I read and re-read the letter till I knew every sentence of it by heart; and then, dressing myself with a degree of care the importance of the occasion suggested, I drove off for the Minister's office. It was not the hour of his usual reception; but on sending in my name, which I did as Le Comte de Creganne, I was at once admitted.
His Excellency was all smiles and affability, praised his Royal Highness's selection of a name so greatly honored in literature, and paid me many flattering compliments on my writings,—which, by the way, he confounded with those of half-a-dozen others; and then, after a variety of civil speeches, gently diverged into a modest inquiry as to my native country, rank, and fortune. “We live in days, mon cher Comte,” said he, laughing, “in which high capacity and talent happily take precedence of mere lineage; but still, an illustrious personage has always insisted upon the necessity of those immediately about the person of the princes being of noble families. I am quite aware that you can fulfil every condition of the kind, and only desire such information as may satisfy his Majesty.”
I replied by relating the capture of my property at Malaga, which, among other things, contained all the title-deeds of my estates, and the patent of my nobility. “These alone,” said I, producing the banker's letters addressed to me as Condé de Cregano, “are all that remain to me now to remind me of my former standing; and although, as born a British subject, I might at once apply to my minister to substantiate my claims, the unhappy events of Ireland which enlisted my family in the ranks of her patriots have made us exiles,—proscribed exiles forever.”
This explanation went further than my previous one. The old French antipathy to England found sympathy for Irish rebellion at once; and after a very brief discussion, my appointment was filled up, and I was named Private Secretary to the Duc de St. Cloud, and Lieutenant in the 13th Regiment of Chasseurs-à-cheval.
A new career had now opened before me, and it was one of all others the most to my choice. The war in Africa had become by that time a kind of crusade; it was the only field where Frenchmen could win fame and honor in arms, and the military fever of the nation was at its height. Into this enthusiasm I threw myself ardently; nor did it need the stimulation derived from a new and most becoming uniform to make me fancy myself a very Bayard in chivalry.
A truly busy week was spent by me in preparations for departure: as I had to be presented at a private audience of the Court, to wait upon various high official personages, to receive instructions on many points, and, lastly, to preside at a parting dinner which I was to give to my literary brethren, before retiring from the guild forever.
Last dinners and leave-takings are generally sad affairs; this of mine was, however, an exception: it was a perfect orgie of wild and enthusiastic gayety. All the beauty which the theatres and the “artiste” class generally could boast, was united with the brilliancy and convivial excellence of the cleverest men in Paris,—the professional sayers of smart things, the ready-witted ones, whose epigrams were sufficient to smash a cabinet, or laugh down a new treaty; and all in high spirits, since what promoted me, also left a vacancy in the corps that gave many others a step in the ranks of letters.
What speeches were made in my honor, what toasts, prefaced by all the exaggeration of praise that would have been fulsome, save for the lurking diablerie of fun that every now and then burst forth in the midst of them! And then there were odes, and sonnets, and songs, in which my future achievements were pictured in a vein half-flattering, half-satirical,—that peculiar eau sucré, with a squeeze of lemon, that only a Frenchman knows how to concoct!
During one of my most triumphant moments, when two of the very prettiest actresses of the “Odéon” were placing a laurel crown upon my brow, a cabinet-messenger was announced, and presented me with an order to repair at once to the Tuileries with my official letter of appointment, as his Majesty, by some accident, had forgotten to append to it his signature. Apologizing to my worthy friends for a brief absence, which they assured me should be devoted to expatiating on those virtues of my character which my presence interdicted them from enlarging upon, I arose, and left the room. It was necessary to arrange the disorder of my dress and appearance, and I made a hurried dressing, bathing my temples in cold water, and composing myself, so far as might be, into a condition fit to meet the eyes of royalty,—two of my friends accompanying me the while, and lending their assistance to my toilet. They at length pronounced me perfect, and I drove off.
Although already past midnight, the King, with several members of the royal family, were seated at tea: two of the ministers, a few general officers, and a foreign ambassador being of the party.
Into this circle, in which there was nothing to inspire awe, save the actual rank of the illustrious personages themselves, I was now introduced by the Minister of War. “Le Comte de Creganne, please your Majesty,” said he, twice, ere the King heard him.
“Ah, very true,” said the King, turning round, and, with a smile of most cordial expression, adding, “My dear Count, it seems I had forgotten to sign your appointment,—a mistake that might have caused you some inconvenience and delay at Algiers. Pray let me amend this piece of forgetfulness.”
I bowed respectfully, and deposited before him the great square envelope, with the huge official seal annexed, that contained my nomination.
“The Princess de Verneuil will be happy to give you some tea, Count,” said the King, motioning me to sit down; and I obeyed, while my heart, beating violently at my side, almost overpowered me with emotion. Only to think of it!—the son of an Irish peasant seated at the family tea-table of a great sovereign, and the princess herself, the daughter of a king, pouring out his tea!
If nothing short of the most consummate effrontery can maintain a cool, unaffected indifference in presence of royalty, there is another frame of mind, indicative of ease and self-possession, perfectly compatible with a kingly presence; and this is altogether dependent on the manner and tone of the sovereign himself. The King—I have heard it was his usual manner—was as free from any assumption of superiority as would be any private gentleman under his own roof; his conversation was maintained in a tone of perfect familiarity with all around him, and even when differing in opinion with any one, there was a degree of almost deference in the way he insinuated his own views.
On this occasion he directed nearly all his attention to myself, and made Ireland the subject, asking a vast variety of questions, chiefly regarding the condition of the peasantry, their modes of life, habits of thinking, education, and future prospects. I saw that my statements were all new to him, that he was not prepared for much that I told him, and he very soon avowed it by saying, “These, I must own, are not the opinions I have usually heard from your countrymen, Count; but I conclude that the opportunities of travel, and the liberalism of thought which intercourse with foreign countries begets, may lead you to take views not quite in accordance with mere stay-at-home politicians.” I could have given him another and more accurate explanation of the difference. It was the first and only time that his Majesty had conversed with the son of a peasant,—one, himself born and bred beneath the thatch of a cabin, and who had felt the very emotions which others merely draw from their imaginations. As it grew late, his Majesty arose, and the Ministers one by one retired, leaving me the only stranger present. “Now, Count, I must not detain you longer; you leave Paris early to-morrow morning, and I should have remembered how large a portion of your night I have monopolized. This paper,—where is it?”
I at once took up the envelope, and drew forth a document; but conceive my horror when I discerned that it was a piece of verse,—a droll song upon my new dignity that one of my villanous companions had stuffed into the envelope in place of my official letter of appointment. Crushing it in my hand, I pulled out another. Worse again! It was the bill-of-fare of our dinner at Very's, where “entrées” and “hors-d'ouvres, salmis and macédoines,” figured in imposing array. One document still remained, and I drew it out; but as his Majesty's eyes were this time bent upon me, I had not a moment to see what might be its contents,—indeed, I half suspected the King saw my indecision; and, determining to put a bold face on the matter, I doubled down a blank piece of the paper, and placed it for his Majesty. Apparently his thoughts were wandering in some other direction, for he took up the pen abstractedly, and wrote the words, “Approved by us,” with his name in a routine sort of way that showed he gave no attention to the act whatever.
It was all I could do! To avoid any indecent show of haste in enclosing the paper within the envelope, my hand trembled so that I could scarcely accomplish it. When I had replaced it in my pocket, I felt like a drowning man at the moment he touches land.
The King dismissed me with many flattering speeches, and I returned to Very's, where my friends were still at table. Resolved not to gratify the triumph of their malice, I affected to have discovered the trick in time to remedy it, and to replace my appointment in its enclosure. Of course the possibility of what might have occurred gave rise to many a droll fancy and absurd conceit, and I plainly saw how very little compunction there would have been for my disaster if a ludicrous scene had ensued between the king and myself.
We separated now, with all the testimonies of sincere affection,—some of my fair friends even wept; and our parting had all the parade and about the same amount of sincerity as a scene in a drama. Paul alone showed any real feeling: he liked me probably because he had served me,—a stronger bond of affection than many people are aware of. “Tell me one thing, Creganne,” cried he, as he shook my hand for the last time,—“we are perhaps never to meet again, life has so many vicissitudes,—tell me frankly, then, if your Mexican history, your riches and gems and gold, your diamonds, your rubies, your doubloons, and your moidores, are not all a humbug, together with your imprisonment in Malaga, and all its consequences?”
“True, every word of it,” said I, impressively.
“Come, come, now, your secret is safe with me. Be open and above-board; say honestly that the whole was a 'get up.' I promise you fairly that, if you do, I 'll have a higher value for your talents at an episode than I now place upon your lost wealth and your countship to boot.”
“I'm sorry for it,” replied I; “there are few men whose esteem I set more store by. If I could oblige you by becoming a cheat, my regard for you might possibly overmaster my better judgment; but, unhappily, I am what I represent myself, and what I trust one day yet to convince you.” With this we parted. As the diligence drove away, I could see Paul still standing in the same place, evidently unable to resolve the difficult problem of my veraciousness.
And now I am approaching a chapter of my history whose adventures and chances are alone a story in themselves. The varied fortunes of a campaign in a strange land, with strange enemies, new scenes and climate, of course were not without incidents to diversify and interest them; and although I could probably select more passages of curious adventure from this than from any other portion of my life, I am forced to pass by all in silence; and for these reasons: first, the narrative would lead me to a greater length than I have any right to presume upon in this history, or to believe that my reader would be a willing party to; and, secondly, the recital would entail the acquaintance with a vast variety of characters, not one of whom ever again occurred to me in life, and of whom, when I quitted Africa, their very names never were heard by me more. And here I may be pardoned for saying that I have been sadly constrained, in these my Confessions, to avoid, upon the one hand, any mention of those persons who merely exercised a passing influence on my fortunes, and yet to show by what agencies of personal acquaintanceship my character became formed and moulded. In a novel, the world would seem to consist of only the very characters introduced, or, rather, the characters serve as abstractions to represent certain qualities and passions of mankind; but in real life is this the case? Nay, is it not precisely the reverse? Do not the chance intimacies we form in the steamboat or the diligence very frequently leave deep and lasting impressions behind them? Are not phrases remembered, and words treasured up as axioms, that we have heard passingly from those we are never to see again? Of how many of our strongest convictions the origin was mere accident,—ideas dropped like those seeds of distant plants that are borne for thousands of miles upon the wind, and let fall in some far-away land to take root and fructify? And are these the agencies to be omitted when a man would give a “confession” to the world? Why are the letters of an individual his best biography, save as recording his judgment upon passing events or people, with whom, in all likelihood, he has little subsequent connection? But enough of this; I have said sufficient for apology to those who see the difficulty of the case. To those who do not, I have been prolix without being profitable.
Of Africa, then, I must not speak. Three years of its burning sun and parched soil—the life of bivouac and battle—had done the work of ten upon my constitution and appearance. I was bronzed almost to a Moorish tint; a few straggling hairs of gray showed themselves in my dark beard and moustache; while emergencies and hazards of different kinds had imparted a sterner character to my features, that little resembled the careless gayety of my earlier days. In addition to this, I was wounded: a sabre cut received in defending the Prince from an attack of Arab horsemen had severed the muscles of my right arm; and although encouraged to believe that I should yet recover its use, I was for the time, at least, totally disabled, and as incompetent to wield a sword as a pen. A very flattering mention of me in “general orders,” my name recorded in a despatch, and the ribbon of the “Legion,” well rewarded me for these mishaps; and now, as a season of peace intervened, I was about to return to France with the rank of “Chef d'Escadron” and the fame of a distinguished officer. As the Prince, my master, was to make a tour in the provinces before his return to Paris, permission was given me to visit Italy, whither the physician advised me to repair to recruit my strength, before adventuring upon the trials of a more northern climate. The “Duc” overwhelmed me with kind protestations at parting, and gave me a letter to the French Minister at Naples, especially commending me to his friendship, and speaking of my services in terms that my modesty cannot permit me to repeat. Thus was Fortune once more my friend; and could I have but obliterated all memory of the past, and of those fatal riches,—the brief enjoyment of which had given an impulse to all my desires,—I might now have been well contented. High character as a soldier, a certain rank in the service, and the friendship of a Royal Prince, were not trifling advantages to one who had often sued destiny with success, even “in forma pauperis;” still, the “great game” I should have played, as the man of large fortune, was never out of my thoughts, and in secret I resolved to return to Mexico, and, as the phrase has it, “look after my affairs.”
This determination grew more fixed the longer I considered it; and here I may remark that the document to which the King had appended his signature and approval was a statement of my claims on Spain, drawn up by myself,—one of those hundred representations which I made, in idle hours, to while away time and amuse hope. If I was well aware that the signature was obtained by a mere accident, and without knowledge of the contents, I was not deterred from speculating as to what useful purpose it might be employed,—scruples of conscience being of all things in the world those I best knew how to dispose of.
On reaching Naples I discovered that the Envoy to whom my letter was addressed had just been recalled, and in his place a young Secretary of Embassy was officiating,—one of those admirably dressed and inimitably gloved young gentlemen whom France despatches to foreign countries as representatives of her skill in neckcloths and waistcoats, and her incomparable superiority in lacquered leather. Monsieur de Bussenaç was a veritable type of Paris dandyism,—vain, empty, and conceited, with considerable smartness in conversation, and unquestionable personal courage; his life was passed in abusing England and affecting the most ludicrous imitation of all that was English,—in dress, equipage, and livery.
Although my name was not unknown to him, he received me with the condescending courtesy the diplomatist usually assumes in his intercourse with the soldier: protested his regret that the gay season was over, that Naples was thinning every day, that he hardly knew where, or to whom, to present me.
I assured him that pleasure was not among the ambitions of an invalid like myself; but, next to the care of my health, one of my objects in Naples was to press a claim upon the Spanish Government, to which the residence of a Spanish Minister of high rank at that court gave a favorable opportunity; and with this preface I gave a brief history of my loss and imprisonment. The young Chargé d'Affaires looked horridly bored by my story, of which, it was clear, he only heard a very small part; and when I concluded, he made a few notes of my statement, and promised to see the Spanish Ambassador upon it that very day.
I believe that my experience is not a singular one; but from the moment that I announced myself as a person claiming the aid of the “Mission,” the doors of the Embassy were hermetically sealed against me. If I called, “His Excellency” (everything is Excellency to an embassy porter) was either in conference with a colleague, or replying to a despatch, or with the court. If I wrote, my answer was always a polite acknowledgment of my note, and no more. Even when we met passingly in the street, his salute was cold and markedly distant; so that I began to suspect that either he had heard something to my disadvantage among his colleagues, or that he had received some hint respecting me.
I knew if I were to address the Duc de St. Cloud on the subject, that my essenced friend would at once receive a check, and possibly a heavy reprimand; but I was too proud to descend to this, and resolved to right myself without calling in the aid of others. With this intention, I repaired one day to the Mission, and having waited for some time, till I saw a person leave the cabinet, from whom I learned that the Envoy was at home, I advanced to the door. “Out, sir,” said the porter, barring the way. I pushed him aside, with the air of one who was not to be trifled with, and, opening the door, walked in.
Whether it was that the suddenness of my appearance unmanned him, or that something in my manner showed there was no time for further deception, he arose to receive me, and handed me a chair.
“I have come, sir,” said I, calmly but resolutely, “to ask if, in the matter which I intrusted to your hands, any progress has been made, or if I am still to be the patient recipient of notes which tell me nothing?”
“What if there be nothing to tell, sir?” said the young diplomatist, now recovering his self-possession, and standing with his back to the fire, in the very easiest of attitudes.
“I will beg of you to be more explicit,” said I.
“You shall not have to complain of me on that score, sir,” said he, with a most affected air of courtesy; “and, as brevity is the very essence of clearness, I may as well state that on representing the case of El Condé de Cregano to the Minister of Spain, he very gravely assured me that I was inventing a personage, for that no such name existed among the nobility of his land. The dignity may be recognized in Mexico,” added he, “but the Mexician Minister is equally perverse, and disclaims having so much as heard of you. I spoke of your wealth and great treasures, and they actually were rude enough to laugh,—not at you, sir, don't be angry,—but at me. The Spanish Ambassador, indeed, said that nothing was more common than for Carlist agents of inferior station to assume styles and titles which might entitle them to greater consideration if taken prisoner, and that in this wise you might have succeeded to your countship; but that to real rank, he persisted in asserting you had no claim whatever. This you must allow, sir, is awkward.”
“For you, certainly, it will prove so,” said I, haughtily. “You may rely upon it, sir, that your career as a diplomatist will end where it begun. You have dared to insult one whose slightest word could crush you, did he not feel that such an exercise of influence would be ludicrously disproportioned to the object it was directed against. There, sir, there is a written statement of my claim; there a full and explicit demand for reparation; and there, the signature of your master the King, at the foot of it. You cannot be ignorant of the hand, nor can you dare to pretend it is a forgery.”
If my insulting language had brought the flush of anger to his cheek, this “damning proof” completely overcame all his presence of mind, and left him in a state of confusion and perplexity that any one, save myself, must have pitied.
“The writing is certainly in the King's hand,” said he, “and therefore I am obliged to concede the fact that your claim possesses features I was not previously aware of; with your leave, then, I will lay this document before the Spanish Minister—”
“You shall do no such thing, sir,” said I, haughtily; “my asserted right is just what it was before I showed you that paper; nor shall I stoop to any corroborative testimony of my claim, even from the hand of royalty;” and with this impertinent speech I advanced towards the grate and thrust the paper into the fire, pressing it down into the blaze with my foot, and watching till I saw it consumed.
The diplomatist watched me narrowly throughout this brief proceeding, and I half feared that he had seen through my stratagem, as he said, “Well, Count, as not a shadow of doubt can exist now as to the authentic character of your demand, the best course will be to have a personal interview with the Spanish Ambassador. He 'receives' this evening at his palace, and, with your leave, we will wait upon him together. Of course the time and place will not admit of any discussion of this claim, but you can be presented,—a necessary preliminary to the intercourse that will follow.”
This all looked marvellously like a trap; but as any doubt or indecision now would be ruin, I affected to be much pleased with the proposal, and we parted.
It was not without considerable trepidation and great misgiving that I awaited the evening. What subtlety might be in store for me, I could not guess; but it seemed clear that the young secretary meditated a heavy vengeance upon me, and would not lightly pardon the insult I had passed upon him.
“I have it,” thought I, after long and deep pondering: “his plan is to introduce me into a great and crowded assembly, with ministers, ambassadors, and generals, and then, in the face of a distinguished company, to proclaim me a cheat and impostor. He has doubtless the train all laid, only waiting for the match; and as the outrage will be inflicted conjointly and diplomatically, any demand for personal satisfaction will be vain, while a very slight hint at the Prefecture would suffice to have me expelled from the country.”
Should I confront this danger, or hazard the risk of such an exposure, or should I suffer judgment to be given against me by default? What a trying alternative! In the one case, a peril the greater for its shadowy, ill-defined consequences; in the other, certain and irretrievable disgrace! How often did I curse my ambitious yearning after wealth, that had not left me contented with my own fortune,—the hard-won, but incontestable, rewards of personal distinction. As the gallant officer who had gained each step upon the field of battle, and whose services had claimed the especial notice of his prince, I ought to have rested satisfied.
My promotion would have been certain and rapid, and what higher condition should I dare to aspire to than the command of a French regiment, or possibly some brilliant staff appointment? Why will not men look downward as they climb the mountain of life, and see the humble abyss from which they have issued? Were they but to do so, how many would be convinced that they had done enough, and not risk all by striving to mount higher! The son of the poor peasant a General of Division!—one among that decorated group surrounding the sovereign of a great nation!—was not this sufficient? And so much assuredly was within my reach, merely by length of life and the ordinary routine of events! And yet all this must I jeopardize for the sake of gold! And now what course should I adopt? My whole philosophy through life had been comprised in that one word which summed up all Marshal Blucher's “tactics,”—“Forwards!” It had sufficed for me in many a trying emergency,—it had cut the black knot of many a tangle;—should I not still abide by it? Of course. This was not the moment to abandon the bold policy.
From the “host of mine inn” I learned that the Spanish minister, whose receptions were little less splendid than those of the court itself, occupied a position which in countries of more rigid morality would have left his salons less crowded. In fact, it was asserted that he owed his eminent station to his having consented to marry a lady who had once been the rival of royalty itself in Spain, and whose banishment had been thus secured. Being still in the full pride of her beauty, and possessing great wealth, the “scandal” only added to her claim, in a society where notoriety of any kind is regarded as a distinction.
She was the reigning belle of the capital. Her word was law on every theme of fashion and taste; her opinions exerted a considerable influence on matters of high political bearing; and despite the ambiguity of her position, she was the arbitress of every claim to admission into that society which arrogated to itself the name of being “the best.”
It is needless to say that a station of the kind engenders a species of tyranny to which the world responds by inventing all manner of stories and strange histories; and thus the Marchesa de la Norada was by some proclaimed a natural daughter of the Emperor Napoleon,—by others, of an English Royal Duke. She was a widow, and the wife of half-a-dozen personages together. There was not an European court into which she had not brought discord,—not a cabinet where she had not sown intrigue. Her beauty had seduced, her gold corrupted, and her wiles entrapped half the great statesmen of the age; while there was scarcely a crime within the red catalogue of the law that was not laid to her charge; and yet, with all these allegations against her, she was more sovereign in that capital than the rightful queen of the land. This was the presence into which I was to be introduced to-night, and—I frankly own it—I would have rather confronted the searching scrutiny of the most penetrating of men than meet the careless, half-bestowed glances of that woman! nor was it at all unlikely that to such a test they wished now to subject me and my pretensions.
It is far easier for many men to confront a personal danger, the peril of life or limb, than to meet the trying difficulty of a slight before the world. To myself, the former would be as nothing in comparison. I could face any amount of peril in preference to the risk of a public mark of depreciation, and from a woman, too! where redress was as impossible as reply was useless.
It was already midnight ere I could muster courage to set out,—not that the hour was inappropriate, for the Marchesa's receptions only began when the opera was over. As I drove along the Chiaia, the crowd of carriages told that this was a night of more than ordinary attraction, and more than one equipage of the Court passed by, showing that some members of the royal family would be present. This again terrified me. Was royalty to be among the witnesses of my shame? When a man's thoughts do take the turn of self-tormenting, what ingenuity will they not exhibit,—what astonishing resources of annoyance! I am convinced that my greatest enemy in life could never have inflicted a tenth part of that suffering which now I experienced from my own fancies! Among the thoughts which crossed my mind, one kept continually recurring, and made an impression that my memory will probably never lose,—it was my doubt whether I ought not to return and exchange my uniform for plain clothes, and thus avoid exposing the epaulette of a French officer, and the proud cordon I wore, to the chances of open insult.
This question was yet unsolved in my mind as I drove into the court-yard of the palace. The turmoil and confusion of the scene—carriages interlocked, poles smashing panels, and horses rearing—was an actual relief to me, and I would have felt a heart-warm gratitude for any accident that might have upset half the company, and broken up the reception in disorder. Such “good-luck” was, however, not in store for me. My calèche at length drew up at the door, and I handed my card with my name to the major-domo, who stood at the top of the stairs with an army of liveried lacqueys around him. “Le Comte de Creganne!” resounded now through the spacious antechamber, and the voices of others took it up, and the echo without repeated it, every syllable falling upon my heart like the bang of a death-bell!
Although our progress was soon arrested by the dense crowd, and all chance of moving farther, for a time at least, out of the question, the lacquey continued to call my name aloud, with what I deemed a most needless importunity of announcement. At last he ceased, leaving me to the enjoyment of a momentary tranquillity in mixing with the crowd. It was indeed but momentary; for the young attaché had made his way through the throng, and whispered in my ear, “Let us retire this way, and I 'll lead you by another passage, otherwise you will run a great risk of never being presented to the Marchesa.” I could have told him that I would have borne even this misfortune like a man; but I did not, and merely followed him as he led the way through a suite of rooms, of which only one was occupied, and that by a card-party.
The buzz and hum of voices apprised me that we were again approaching the company, and suddenly, on opening a door, we found ourselves in a small but gorgeously furnished chamber, where three or four ladies and about a dozen men were assembled, while the main body of the guests passed through in defile, each stopping to salute and say a few words to a lady who did the honors of the reception. As her back was towards me, I could only mark that she was tall, and of an air that was queenly in state and dignity. The stars and decorations around her showed that some of the party were princes of the blood, and others, ambassadors and ministers of state.
“Wait where you are,” whispered my companion; and he moved forward and entered the crowd. I stood an eager spectator of the scene, in which, despite all my anxieties, I could not but feel interested. It was the first great review I had ever witnessed of that fashionable world whose recognition and acceptance I so ardently coveted. Its slightest gestures, its least and most insignificant observances, were all matters of study to me. Every deep reverence, each motion of respectful courtesy, were things to mark and imitate, and I was storing up many a hint for future guidance, when I observed that a gentleman, whom I had rightly conjectured to be a royal prince, appeared to press some remark upon the “Marchesa,” to which at last she replied, “I believe I must follow your Royal Highness's counsel, and take a few minutes' rest;” and, so saying, she dropped back from the group, and retired within a few paces of where I stood.
“May I beg you to hand that chair, sir,” said the Prince to me, and in a tone in which I own a certain haughtiness seemed to rebuke my want of thoughtfulness in not presenting it unbidden. I hastened to perform this service. The lady turned to acknowledge it; our eyes met, and we stood fixed and rooted to the spot, each speechless and pale with emotion. In those few seconds I felt as if I had lived years.
“La Senhora Dias,” murmured I, unconsciously to myself.
“Lupo!” ejaculated she, as if in answer, and she trembled from head to foot.
“You have really over-exerted yourself,” said the prince, as, taking her hand, he pressed her down into a seat.
Her eyes never quitted me for an instant, and the expression of her features became almost that of agonizing pain as she motioned me to approach her. “Is it possible that I see before me my old friend the Duke of———?” She stopped, and, with a look of entreaty I can never forget, intimated that I should fill up the blank.
“Le Comte de Creganne, Madame,” said I, coming to the rescue, “who is but too happy to find himself remembered by the Marchesa de la Norada.”
“Very true, Comte; I was confounding you with your constant companion, the Duke de la Breanza; I hope he is well, and the dear duchess. And you,—when did you arrive from the Brazils? I trust very lately, or you have treated me shamefully.”
Rapidly as these words were uttered, they were enough to give me the “consigne” of what rank my intimate friends held, in what class we met, and from whence I came. While I replied to her questions, she motioned me to a seat beside her, and, with a smile and a courteous apology to the prince for devoting herself to the old friend who had so unexpectedly presented himself, she dropped her voice to a whisper and said, “Not now, nor here, but to-morrow we will speak together.”
“Enough,” said I, rapidly; “I am your old and esteemed friend the Comte de Creganne; you are not compromised in calling me so.”
“Nor can your memory fail to recall me as a Lady of Honor at the Brazilian court!”
And now some of the company had gathered around us, to most of whom she presented me, always adding some few courteous expressions, indicative of our ancient friendship, and of the pleasure she felt at our unexpected meeting. If I have occasionally given way to those erratic flights of fancy which led me to believe myself a scion of a noble house, well born and nurtured, with wealth at my command and a high station in store, all these delusions were nothing to the creative efforts of her imagination, who commenced by reminding me of a hundred people who never existed, and places and incidents which were all as unreal. How we did bewail the death of some, rejoice over the good fortune of other “dear, dear friends” who had never breathed! and with what pleasant laughter we remembered eccentricities and oddities that once used to amuse us so much!
Never can I forget the look of astonishment of the young attache as he came up and found me seated on the ottoman beside the Marchesa, with her pet spaniel upon my lap, while my whole air was redolent of that triumphant expression so unmistakably denoting security.
“I perceive,” said he, with difficulty repressing his ill-humor, “that Madame la Marchesa is acquainted with the Comte de Creganne.”
“For many years, sir, the Comte and I have known each other, and I have only to own my surprise that none of my friends at Naples ever mentioned to me the arrival of one in every way so distinguished. But here is the Marquese; I must present you, Comte.” So saying, she introduced me to a tall, pompous-looking elderly gentleman, who, it is but fair to add, did not evince half so much satisfaction at sight of me as his wife showed. And now was I the lion of the evening. I, who had walked the Chiaia every day for weeks back without notice or recognition, and who might, had the idea occurred to me, have fallen down and died without one to pity me,—I became all of a sudden a most “interesting personage”! My African campaign was exalted into a perfect career of glory, and even my modesty was pushed hard to accept the praises most lavishly bestowed upon acts of heroism of which I had not even heard.
The Duke of Vallabretta, the younger brother of the king, was certain he had often heard of me from his “friend De St. Cloud.” He was quite positive that I was the officer of dragoons who, with one squadron of horse, captured “a Smala” defended by twelve hundred Arabs, while fully one half of the illustrious cruelties of the Oran war was generously laid to my charge. A dash of atrocity adds immensely to the charm of heroism in Italian estimation; and so I discovered that various acts of roasting prisoners, sending a cargo of noses to Toulon, and such like, were exceedingly popular with the ladies, who regarded me as a modern “Bayard.”
Not all these sensations of triumph, however, gave me one half the pleasure that I felt in trampling upon the little French attaché, whom I persecuted with a proud disdain that nearly drove him mad. All my ignorance of Neapolitan society, the obscurity in which I had lived hitherto, I laid at his door. I deplored most feelingly to the prince the inefficient mode in which we were represented at his court, and promised to use my influence in effecting a change. I fear my disposition is not so angelic as I usually conceive it, for I actually taxed my ingenuity for little subjects of attack against the unlucky diplomatist, and saw him at length retire from the salons crushed, crest-fallen, and miserable.
Another consideration, perhaps, added venom to my malignity: I knew not how short-lived might be my power, and determined to “make my running while the course was free.” The vicissitudes of fortune had often reversed in one short day all the prospect I trusted to be the most stable and certain; and, for the future, I was fully resolved never to forego the stroke to-day for which my arm might be too weak to-morrow. As I saw him depart, I felt like a naval hero when his enemy has struck, and, in the pride of victory, abandoned myself to pleasure.
If the Marchesa watched me at first with an uneasy and anxious eye, doubtful, perhaps, how I should acquit myself in that high and polished world, I soon saw that her fears were allayed as she saw the easy quietude of my manner, and that tranquil self-possession which is supposed to be only acquired by long admixture with the world of fashion. It was evident, too, that if any failure on my part would entail disgrace, success was just as certain to do her honor and credit, since I was a strong rebutting evidence against all those who denied that the Marchesa was ever known or recognized before in the high circles of a court.
“To-morrow, at noon,” said she, as I made my bow at parting; and it was not likely I should forget the appointment.
It was with very different feelings I drove up to the palace of the Marchesa on the day following, from those I had experienced on approaching it on the evening of the reception; nor was I long without perceiving that my confidence was well founded. The Groom of the Chambers received me with his most bland courtesy, and by his manner showed that he expected my arrival.
Preceding me through a suite of rooms whose magnificence I had not time to observe on the previous evening, he ushered me into a small chamber leading into a conservatory, from which the view extended over the wide Bay of Naples, and presented Vesuvius from base to summit. As I was left by myself here for some minutes, I had leisure to notice the varied elegance by which I was surrounded. Rare plants and flowers in jars of costly porcelain; alabaster statues and rich bronzes appeared amid the clustering foliage; and in the midst of all, two tiny swans, of the rare breed of Morocco, lay tranquilly in a little basin, whose water spouted from a silver fountain of most elaborate workmanship.
While yet gazing on the tasteful objects around, the Marchesa had entered, and so noiselessly that she was at my side ere I knew it. Paler than on the previous evening, she looked even handsomer; but in the sunken eye and the wearied expression of the mouth I could see that she had passed a sleepless night.
Having taken a seat upon a sofa, and motioned me to seat myself beside her, she looked fixedly at me for several minutes without a word. At last, in a voice of deep feeling, she said, “Do you remember the pledge with which we parted? Do you recollect the oath by which you bound yourself?'
“Perfectly, Señhora!” said I; “nor was I aware yesterday, till the very moment of our meeting, in whose presence I was standing.”
“But you had heard of me here?”
“Only as the Marchesa de la Norada, not as the Señhora.”
“Hush! let that name never escape your lips; I believe you and trust you. The commission I gave you was well and faithfully executed: were it otherwise, and did I deem you false, it would not be difficult for me to rid myself of the embarrassment. We live in a city where such things are well understood.” My blood ran cold at this threat, for I remembered the accusation which hung over her, in Mexico. She saw what was passing in my mind, and added, “You have nothing to fear; we shall be good friends while you remain here; but that time must be brief. I cannot, I will not, live a life of terror; a moment of impatience, an unguarded word, a hasty expression of yours, might compromise me, and then—When can you leave Naples?”
“To-morrow—to-day, if you desire it.”
“That would be too hurried,” she said thoughtfully. “We must not encourage suspicion. Why are you here?”
I gave the restoration of my health as the reason, and then alluded to the circumstances of my Spanish claim, which I had hoped Naples would have proved a suitable place for pressing.
“Who knows of this transaction? What evidence have you of its truth?” said she, hurriedly.
“The minister by whose order I was imprisoned, the Governor of Malaga, his official underlings, all know of it.”
“Enough. Now, by whom was the information given on which you were arrested?”
“A man who called himself the Consul at Campecho, and to whose early history I am disposed to suspect I have the clew, but to whom, unfortunately, in a hasty moment, I betrayed that secret knowledge.”
“And thus he dreads and hates you,” said she, fixing her dark eyes sternly on me.
“He rather fears me without reason,” said I.
“But still you would have traded on that fear, had it served your purpose?” reiterated she, with a pointedness that showed how the application to her own case was uppermost in her thoughts.
“You are less than just to me, Señhora!” said I, proudly. “A variety of circumstances led me to connect this man with a very unhappy incident which took place years ago in England, and wherein his conduct—supposing him to be the same—was base to the last degree. This suspicion I was weak enough to let escape me. His enmity was the consequence, and from it followed all the misfortunes I have suffered.”
“Was he a murderer?”
“No,—not that.”
“Nor a forger?—for methinks in English esteem such is the parallel offence.”
“In the case I speak of, forgery was the least of his crimes: he seduced the wife of his friend and benefactor.”
“Oh, the wretch!” exclaimed she, with a derisive smile that gave her features—beautiful as they were—an almost demoniac expression. “I trust he never prospered after such iniquity.”
Not heeding the tone of sneer in which she uttered this, I replied, “You are right, Señhora; he lived a life of terror and misery. He was a coward; and the man he had injured never ceased to track him from country to country. Over sea and land he followed him; the thirst for vengeance stimulating a heart dead to every other emotion. Accident, when I was a mere boy, brought me into close relation with poor Broughton.”
“With whom?” said she, grasping my wrist, while her eyes strained till the very blood started in them.
“Sir Dudley Broughton,” said I; but the words were not out ere she fell senseless on the floor. I raised her, and placed her on a sofa; and then, dipping her handkerchief in the fountain, bathed her temples and her lips. But she gave no sign of returning animation; her arms dropped powerless at either side; she did not even seem to breathe. What was I to do? I knew not where to find a bell to summon the servants, even should I dare to leave her. In my excitement, I believed that she was dead, and that I had killed her; aud then there darted through my brain the terrible conviction that this could be no other than Lady Broughton herself,—the unhappy Lydia Delmar. With a long-drawn sigh she at length awoke, and, opening her eyes, looked up at me. A convulsive shudder speedily followed, and she closed them again, and remained still, with her hands clasped tightly over her heart.
“Have I been dreaming a terrible dream,” said she, at last, in a weak and broken voice, “or are my dreadful thoughts realities? Tell me of what were we speaking?”
I did not answer. I could not tell her of the sad theme, nor did I dare to deceive her. In this dilemma I became silent; but my confusion did not escape her, and with a voice, every syllable of which struck deep into my heart, she said, “Is this secret your own, or have you ever revealed it to another?”
“I have never told it, nor, indeed, till now, was the full mystery known to myself.”
These few words, which served to confirm her own wavering terrors, at the same time that they showed how she herself had betrayed her dreadful secret, increased her suffering, and for a space she seemed overwhelmed by affliction.
“Let us speak of this no more,” said she at last, in the same hurried voice which once before had made me suspect the soundness of her intellect. “I cannot, I dare not, trust myself to dwell upon this theme; nor will I suffer any one to usurp an ascendency over me from terror. No, sir; you shall not deceive yourself by such a delusion. I have friends—great and powerful friends—who will protect me. I have money, and can buy the aid that outstrips patronage. Beware, then, how you threaten me!”
“You are unjust to me, lady,” said I, calmly, but resolutely. “I never meant to threaten. A mere accident hae put me in possession of a secret which, while you live, none shall ever hear from my lips; nor need you fear any allusion to it will ever escape me, to yourself.”
“Then let us part. Let us see each other no more,” said she, rising, and approaching a small ivory cabinet which she unlocked. “See, here is enough to satisfy the desire for mere money, if your heart be so set upon wealth that it has no other idol. Take these, and these, and these; they are gems of price, and taken from a royal crown. That necklace of rubies once graced the shoulders of an empress; and here are rings, whose value will buy long years of dissipation and excess.”
“I must interrupt you, Señhora,” said I, offended at the tone she assumed towards me. “There is no need to 'buy me off;' I am ready to take my leave,—to quit Naples within an hour,—and I pledge myself that we shall never meet again, or if we do, as utter strangers to each other.”
“These were the terms of our contract once before,” said she, fixing her gaze steadfastly on me.
“And by whom broken, and how?” said I.
“True,—too true!” exclaimed she, in a voice of deep emotion. “Fate, that did this, has doubtless other punishments in store for me! It is plain, then, that I must trust you,—I, who can feel confidence in none!”
“I do not seek for it, Señhora,” replied I; “my offer is to leave this city, where already I see but little prospect of urging my suit with success. Why should we meet again in life, when both of us are travelling opposite roads?”
“This suit of yours is, then, a real demand, founded upon an actual loss,—matter of fact throughout?” This, although said in these few words, had nothing offensive in its tone, and I replied by an assurance of my good faith and veracity.
“Send me the memorial this evening; to-morrow, or the day after at farthest, you shall have an answer. As for your demand upon the Havannah, the banker is my own, and I can answer for your being honorably dealt with; all your property in his keeping, I will guarantee.”
“If that be so, Señhora, I am indifferent about the Spanish Minister's reply; I shall have wealth more than enough for all my desires, without him.”
“How do you call yourself in these papers?” asked she, hurriedly.
“El Condé de Cregano.”
“And you were known by that title in Mexico?”
“Certainly; I have no other.”
She stared at me fixedly for a minute or two, and then muttered to herself, “By what pretension should I question his rank!” then, turning to me, said, “Señhor el Condé de Cregano, I receive the world at large every evening save Saturday; that night I reserve for my friends. Come as often as you can during the week, but never omit a Saturday; visit me at the opera frequently; speak to me always when we meet in public places; be my intimate friend, in fact, but not more,—you have too much tact to be my admirer.” With this she gave me her hand, which I pressed respectfully to my lips, and bowing deeply, moved towards the door.
“We understand each other,” said she, calmly.
“Perfectly, Madame,” replied I.
“Then never say, sir,” resumed she, in a stern, determined voice, “never say that you are not an adventurer; never dare to tell me that one who so quickly assumes a part is not a professed actor on the great boards of life, ready to take the character assigned him, be it broad farce or comedy,—ay, or even tragedy, if needs were. Do not deny or seek to contradict me; I did not care that your countship had fourteen quarterings behind it,—nay, I like you even better as you are. There, now you look natural and at your ease. Adieu, Monsieur le Comte.”
“Adieu, Madame la Marquise,” said I putting as much irony into my accent as might repay her; and then we parted. Whatever her feelings, I know not,—mine, I own, were scarcely of the pleasantest; prompting me to make my residence at Naples as brief as might be, and to see no more of my “dear friend of former years” than was absolutely indispensable.
Were I to dwell upon those portions of my history which afforded me the highest amount of enjoyment, while passing I might linger upon the weeks I spent in Naples as perhaps the very pleasantest of my life. The world of fashion was new to me. All those fascinations to which habit renders men either apathetic or indifferent, came fresh upon me. The outward show of splendor in dress and jewels, gorgeous saloons, rare flowers, exquisite pictures and statues, soon cease to astonish and amaze; but it takes a long while ere the charm of intercourse with really brilliant society begins to wear off, and ere a man recognizes a degree of sameness in the pleasures and amusements of his fashionable friends.
I am not sure that the society which I frequented had not more power of captivation than a more rigidly scrupulous circle, since, while exacting all the observances of polished life, it yet admitted a degree of liberty, almost of familiarity, among its members, that I have since remarked is not common in the wider intercourse of the world.
Pretty women were not ashamed to look their best, and dress the most becomingly; witty men were not chary of their smartness; courtiers were confidential; statesmen were candid; men of the world unbent, as if in a circle where their freedom would not be misinterpreted, and said a hundred things that in other societies would have been, to say the least, indiscreet. It is true that individuals were more discussed than events, and that characters, not facts, formed the staple of the talk; but how amusing was it, what stores of anecdote were opened, what strange histories and curious illustrations of life unfolded! Pretension was ridiculed, vulgarity exposed, stupidity laughed at, awkwardness criticized, and want of tact condemned, with most unsparing ridicule; but I am bound to own that there were few commendations reserved for virtuous conduct or honorable action. The debtor side of the account was full, but the credit had not an item on it!
No rank, however exalted, could escape the judgments of a “set” who, with all the exclusiveness of fashion, affected a most democratic spirit of equality. It was, however, a “communism” that assumed to start on the basis of every one haviug at least ten thousand a year,—not so bad a theory, were it only practicable.
I must not linger longer on this subject, on which I have only touched to remark that here it was where I acquired that knowledge of forms and conventionalities which constitute the tactique of life,—those “gambits” and “openings,” to use a chess phrase, by which you at once obtain an advantage over an equal adversary, and secure yourself against injury with even a superior player. I learned when to use an illustration or a story; when to become a mere listener; how to assist a slow man without his detecting the aid; and how to close a discussion with an epigram,—and all this without the faintest show of premeditation or the very slightest sign of forethought. While my education as a man of the world was progressing, my material fortune was also advancing. The Spanish Ambassador, who had referred my case to his court, ascertained that I had been most infamously treated; that not alone my rank and fortune were indisputable, but that the individual on whose affirmation I was arrested was himself a Carlist spy, and the noted agent of a great Northern power. In fact, so manifold were his infractions against law, in every country in Europe, that the only difficulty was to what particular power to hand him over, so many laying claim to the honor of punishing him. In the end, Naples obtained this distinction! and at the very period I was enjoying the luxurious pleasures of that capital, “my friend the Consul” was expanding his chest and his faculties in the less captivating career of a galley-slave. “Fortune is just,” said I, as I arranged my cravat at the window which overlooked the Bay, on whose glassy surface some half-dozen boats moved sluggishly, as the red and yellow rowers kept time to the “stroke” by the clanking of their fetters.
Governments move slowly, particularly when the case is one of refunding a previous spoliation; meanwhile they admitted my claim; and by way of keeping me in good-humor, they sent me a cross of the Order of Isabella, of the first class,—a very gratifying recognition of my noble birth and merits. My intimacy with the Duke of Medina—the brother of the king—obtained for me the Neapolitan Order; and thus was I decorated with three very distinguished cordons, which I wore in my button-hole as a “tricolor,”—a fact insignificant in itself; but I mention it here, as many of my imitators have since that affected to be the inventors of the method.
Periods of expectancy are generally deemed great trials, making inroads upon the health, and sapping the energies of the mind. Such was not my case here; I waited like one who loiters in some delicious garden, surrounded with blooming flowers and sweet odors. The delays and procrastinations of cabinets—for which the most profuse apologies were made—I bore with a degree of calm equanimity that won for me the appellation of a most finished gentleman; and thus was I almost unconsciously perfecting myself in that grand element of breeding whose triumph is “impassiveness.”
There were moments when I actually dreaded the termination of my cause, so agreeable had Naples become to me; but as the rich gamester is certain to win, while the poor player is luckless ever, successes crowded on me, because I was half indifferent to them.
Six months had now nearly elapsed since my arrival at Naples, and I was paying a morning visit to the Marchesa, whom I was engaged to accompany to a grand déjeuner, to be given on board of a British ship of war in the Bay. It was one of those gorgeous days of brilliant coloring, which, in Italy, seem to exaggerate the effect of landscape, and defy all efforts of art to imitate; the scene was heightened, too, by the objects moving across the bay. The various boats, with ensigns floating and music playing; the swift “La-teeners,” skimming along the glassy surface, almost without a breath of wind; and then the great three-decker herself, in all the pride of her majestic size, with flags of every nation fluttering from her halyards,—were splendid adjuncts to the picture.
“Here are three letters for you, Monsieur le Comte,” said the Marchesa, “they came in the Spanish Minister's bag this morning; but I suppose there is nothing sufficiently interesting in them to withdraw your thoughts from that magnificent panorama.”
Of course I affected concurrence in the sentiment, and thrust them into my pocket with assumed indifference. The room soon after filled with arriving visitors, and among the rest the Spanish Ambassador.
“Ha, Señhor Condé,” said he, approaching me, “let me offer my warmest felicitations. How happy am I to be the means through which your good tidings have reached you!”
I bowed, smiled, and seemed charmed, without the slightest notion wherein lay my good fortune. His practised eye, however, soon detected my game, and he said, “You have received your letters, I hope?”
“Yes,” replied I, carelessly; “the Marchesa has been kind enough to give them to me.”
“And you have read them?” asked he again.
“Not yet,” said I; “I make it a rule never to risk the pleasure of a happy day by opening a letter at hazard.”
“What if its contents were but to increase the enjoyment; what if the tidings were to fill up the very measure of your wishes, Señhor?”
“In that case,” rejoined I, as coldly as before, “they will be very acceptable to-morrow morning; and thus I shall have gained two days of happiness, vice one.”
“Admirable philosophy, indeed,” said he. “Still, I must be pardoned for interfering with its exercise. I shall therefore take upon me to inform the honorable company that her Majesty, my royal mistress, has named the Count de Cregano a Grand Cordon of the Fleece, in consideration of his distinguished services in arranging the Mexican debt; that all his property, taken from him under a false and traitorous imputation, shall be at once restored; that any additional recompense he may demand for his imprisonment and other inconveniences incurred shall be immediately accorded; and that all Envoys and Ministers of the Court of Spain are instructed to receive the Count de Cregano with every honor and distinction, affording him every protection, and facilitating him in the prosecution of any project in which he may be interested.”
This speech, delivered in a very imposing manner, was followed by a round of felicitation from the assembled company the Marchesa offering me her hand in congratulation, and whispering the words, “How soon?”
“To-morrow, if I must,” replied I, sorrowfully.
“To-morrow be it,” said she, and turned away hastily.
The information conveyed to me by the Ambassador was what formed the substance of two of the letters; the third I contrived to peep into unobserved, was a formal notification from the Havannah that my bills for the amount in the bankers' hands would be accepted and negotiated at a well-known house in Paris. Thus, then, and in one moment, was I once more rich,—the possessor of immense wealth, and not alone of mere fortune, but of all the honors and dignities which can grace and adorn it. Of course I became the hero of the day. To me was intrusted the arm of the Marchesa as we descended to the pier; to me was accorded the seat of honor beside her in the boat. All the pleasant flatteries that are reserved for rich men were heaped upon me, and I felt that life had but one prize more with which to fill up the most ambitious of my cravings. That, alas! could never be,—Donna Maria was the wife of another; and thus should I learn that complete happiness is never to be the lot of any mere mortal!
The fête on board the “Tariffa” was very splendid; but it had another charm still more rarely met with,—I mean that hearty cordiality which graces every entertainment where British sailors are the hosts, their courtesy being blended with an actual warmth of hospitality that wins even upon the coldest guest, and gives a tone of friendliness to the most promiscuous gathering.
Every one appeared to experience the influence of this peculiar magic, and all gave way to the impulse that suggested the fullest enjoyment of the hour.
To waltzes had succeeded the manolo and the bolero; dances of the wild regions of Calabria and Sicily were performed by men of noble birth, the petty princes of those countries; and all were vying who should introduce something new and unknown to the rest, when, suddenly, the distant sound of the church bells of the city was borne along the water, announcing the “Vinti quatro,” as it is called,—the hour of evening prayer. In a moment a sudden air of devotional seriousness spread itself over the company, and most bent their heads in pious reverence while they recited to themselves the words of the “Angelus.” If there seemed, to the sense of English Protestantism, something strange and unnatural in this great revulsion, there was a degree of earnestness and sincerity in the features of the worshippers that showed their piety to be unfeigned; and here I might leave the theme, were it not for an incident which, taking place at the same moment, will remain forever associated in my mind with that brief interval of prayer.
The hour of sunset, or, as the Neapolitans term it, the “Vinti quatro,” is that in which the galley-slaves, employed from dawn of day at convict labor, return to their prisons; and while the streets at that period exhibit long lines of men whose terrible appearance needs not the heightening accessories of a shocking dress and a heavy lumbering chain to pronounce them criminals, over the bay are seen boats moving in sad procession, the clanking of the fetters creaking mournfully upon the ear, and sounding like the wail of hopeless captivity.
No scene of pleasurable enjoyment can stand the contrast of such a sight; the revulsion is too sudden and too painful from the light frivolity of mirth to the terrible reality of suffering and sorrow. To escape, therefore, from the gloomy picture, the officers of the vessel endeavored to withdraw their guests from the deck to the shelter of the cabin. The change was accomplished well and naturally, and we were all gathered between decks in that turmoil and confusion which form no insignificant part of the success of every entertainment, the buzz of talking and the sounds of pleasant laughter were heard on every side,—when suddenly a cry was heard above, and then the loud voice of the officer of the watch, commanding a boat to be instantly manned and lowered.
A hundred conjectures at once ran round as to the meaning of the order; but one of the officers hastily entering, a few minutes later, put an end to all guessing, by informing us that a very dreadful incident had just occurred within a short distance from where we lay. “You may have remarked a handsome yacht, which anchored last night in the bay, coming up from the eastward: she belonged to an English gentleman, with whose name we were not acquainted, but whose conduct is calculated to confirm all that Frenchmen are accustomed to say of our national taste for eccentricity, even in crime. It would seem that at an early hour this morning he landed at the Mole, and by means of letters with which he was provided to the Minister of Police, obtained leave to inspect the different prisons of the city, and to pass under the most minute examination all those condemned to the galleys for life. As already all those who work at Castelamare had been sent away, he obtained an order to visit the galleys there, being determined, as it would seem, to leave nothing unseen. On reaching Castelamare, it is said that he again commenced his tour of inspection, going over the roll of the prisoners, with the muster-book in his hand, as if to compare their features with the crimes alleged against them, and scrutinizing each with a most searching look. The visit lasted till nigh evening; and although the governor was not a little astonished at the proceeding of the stranger, still less was he prepared for the singular request which succeeded: it was, that he might be permitted to return to Naples in one of the convict boats instead of in his own gig. The demand might have been treated lightly, or altogether refused, but that the Englishman's appearance and manner indicated rank, while the letter he carried from the minister showed him to be one with claims for consideration. The governor, therefore, gave the permission, smiling at the same time at a caprice which could not have proceeded from the native of any other country.
“The Englishman took his seat in the stern of the boat, and, as I am told by the steersman, never spoke nor moved for nigh an hour's time, muffling himself up in his cloak so that his very face was concealed; he neither cast his eyes over the bay, nor looked towards the shore, but sat like one in deep reflection. As we neared the 'Tariffa,'” said my informant, “our passenger affected to feel cold and chilly,—he might have been so, since the evening breeze was just springing up,—and said that he would like to row for a spell, just to warm himself. The petty officer in charge explained that the request could not be complied with, since, amongst other reasons, the men were chained two and two on every bench, and then obliged to tug at the same oar.
“The Englishman, who throughout the day had invariably overruled every objection opposed to him, grew only more positive in his demand, and at last produced the minister's order, to strengthen his proposal; and finally said, that as he had obtained the permission to learn all he could of the condition of the convicts, he was determined not to depart without experiencing in his own person the amount of labor exacted from them. 'You shall chain me to that fellow in the bow of the boat,' said he, 'for I have my doubts that this same punishment is not equal to what our own sailors perform every day, as a mere duty.'
“I need not dwell upon the arguments he used, and the reason he pressed; and although I have not heard it, I have little doubt that bribery was among the rest. His demand was granted, and he was actually placed beside the convict, and his left wrist enclosed in the same fetter with the other's right.
“His face became almost purple as he grasped the oar, and his eyes glared fiercely round upon his fellow-laborer, like the red and staring orbs of a wild beast. 'So dreadful was the expression of his face,' said the steersman, 'that I believed him to be insane; and a shocking fear of evil consequences shot through me for having yielded to him.'
“I at once called out to the crew to ship their oars, determining to make him resume his place beside me. The order was obeyed by the bow-oar as by the rest. I was then about to issue a command for him to be released when, with a yell that I shall never forget, he sprang up in the boat, and then, calling out something in English which I could not understand, he seized his comrade by the throat and shook him violently.
“The convict—himself a strong man, yet in the prime of life—seemed nothing in the grasp of the other, who held him at arm's length, as though he were a child; and then, letting go his hold, clasping him round the waist with both arms, he jumped into the sea.
“They were seen in mortal conflict for a second or two as they sank in the clear water, but they never rose to the surface; the weight of the massive fetters and their own struggles soon finished their sufferings!”
Such was the terrible story which now broke in upon the gay current of our festivity, and threw a gloom over a scene of brilliant pleasure. Of course various surmises as to the motive of this fearful act were uttered, but they all tended to the conclusion that it proceeded from insanity, which occasionally displays amongst its wonderful phenomena all the premeditation and circumspection of accomplished guilt.