I must ask of my reader to leave this chamber, where, overwhelmed by her sorrows, poor Kate poured out her grief in tears, and follow me to a small but brilliantly lighted apartment, in which a little party of four persons was seated, discussing their wine, and enjoying the luxury of their cigars. Be not surprised when we say that one of the number was a lady. Madame de Heidendorf, however, puffed her weed with all the zest of a smoker; the others were the Archduke Ernest, a plain, easy-tempered looking man, in the gray undress of an Austrian General, the Foreign Minister, Count Nõrinberg, and our old acquaintance, the Abbé D'Esmonde.
The table, besides the usual ornaments of a handsome dessert, was covered with letters, journals, and pamphlets, with here and there a colored print in caricature of some well-known political personage. Nothing could be more easy and unconstrained than the air and bearing of the guests. The Archduke sat with his uniform coat unbuttoned, and resting one leg upon a chair before him. The Minister tossed over the books, and brushed off the ashes of his cigar against the richly damasked table-cloth; while even the Abbé seemed to have relaxed the smooth urbanity of his face into a look of easy enjoyment Up to this moment the conversation had been general, the principal topics being the incidents of the world of fashion, the flaws and frivolities, the mishaps and misadventures of those whose names were familiar to his Imperial Highness, and in whose vicissitudes he took the most lively interest. These, and a stray anecdote of the turf in England, were the only subjects he cared for, hating politics and State affairs with a most cordial detestation. His presence, however, was a compliment that the Court always paid “the Countess,” and he submitted to his torn of duty manfully.
Deeply involved in the clouds of his cigar-smoke, and even more enveloped in the misty regions of his own reveries, he sipped his wine in silence, and heard nothing of the conversation about him. The Minister was then perfectly free to discuss the themes most interesting to him, and learn whatever he could of the state of public opinion in Italy.
“You are quite right, Abbé,” said he, with a sage shake of the head. “Small concessions, petty glimpses of liberty, only give a zest for more enlarged privileges. There is nothing like a good flood of popular anarchy for creating a wholesome disgust to freedom. There must be excesses!”
“Precisely so, sir,” said the Abbé. “There can be no question of an antidote if there has been no poisoning.”
“Ay; but may not this system be pushed too far? Is not his Holiness already doing so?”
“Some are disposed to think so, but I am not of the number,” said D'Esmonde. “It is necessary that he should himself be convinced that the system is a bad one; and there is no mode of conviction so palpable as by a personal experience. Now, this he will soon have. As yet, he does not see that every step in political freedom is an advance towards the fatal heresy that never ceases its persecutions of the Church. Not that our Revolutionists care for Protestantism or the Bible either; but, by making common cause with those who do, see what a large party in England becomes interested for their success. The right of judgment conceded in religious matters, how can you withhold it in political ones? The men who brave the Church will not tremble before a cabinet. Now the Pope sees nothing of this; he even mistakes the flatteries offered to himself for testimonies of attachment to the Faith, and all those kneeling hypocrites who implore his blessing he fancies are faithful children of Rome. He must be awakened from this delusion; but yet none save himself can dispel it He is obstinate and honest.”
“If the penalty were to be his own alone, it were not so much matter,” said the Minister; “but it will cost a revolution.”
“Of course it will; but there is time enough to prepare for it.”
“The state of the Milanais is far from satisfactory,” said the Minister, gravely.
“I know that; but a revolt of a prison always excuses double irons,” said D'Esmonde, sarcastically.
“Tell him of Sardinia, Abbé,” said Madame de Heidendorf.
“Your real danger is from that quarter,” said D'Esmonde. “There is a growing spirit of independence there,—a serious desire for free institutions, wide apart from the wild democracy of the rest of Italy. This is a spirit you cannot crush; but you can do better,—you can corrupt it Genoa is a hotbed of Socialist doctrine; the wildest fanaticism of the 'Reds' is there triumphant, and our priests are manfully aiding the spread of such opinions. They have received orders to further these notions; and it is thus, and by the excesses consequent on this, you will succeed in trampling down that moderated liberty which is the curse that England is destined to disseminate amongst us. It is easy enough to make an excited people commit an act of indiscretion, and then, with public opinion on your side—”
“How I detest that phrase!” said Madame de Heidendorf; “it is the lowest cant of the day.”
“The thing it represents is not to be despised, Madame,” said the Abbé.
“These are English notions,” said she, sneeringly.
“They will be Russian ones yet, depend upon it, Madame.”
“I 'd rather know what a few men of vast fortune, like Midchekoff, for instance, think, than have the suffrages of half the greasy mobs of Europe.”
“By the way,” said the Minister, “what is he doing? Is it true that he is coquetting with Liberals and Fourierists, and all that?”
“For the moment he is,” said Madame de Heidendorf; “and two or three of the popularity-seeking sovereigns have sent him their decorations, and if he does not behave better he will be ordered home.”
“He is of great use in Italy,” said the Minister.
“True; but he must not abuse his position.”
“He is just vain enough to lend himself to a movement,” said D'Esmonde; “but he shall be watched.”
These last words were very significantly uttered.
“You know the Princess, Abbé?” asked the Minister, with a smile; and another smile, as full of meaning, replied to the question.
“She's pretty, ain't she?” asked the Archduke.
“Beautiful is the word, sir; but if your Imperial Highness would like to pass judgment personally, I 'll beg of her to come down to the drawing-room.”
“Of all things, most kind of you to make the offer,” said he, rising and arranging his coat and sword-knot into some semblance of propriety, while Madame de Heidendorf rang the bell, and despatched a messenger to Kate with the request.
Nina was overjoyed at the commission intrusted to her. Since Kate's peremptory order, she had not ventured to intrude herself upon her; but now, armed with a message, she never hesitated about invading the precincts of that silent chamber, at whose door she often stood in doubt and speculation.
She tapped gently at the door; there was no answer. A second summons was alike unreplied to, and Nina bent down her head to listen. There were long-drawn breathings, like sleep; but a heavy sigh told that the moments were those of waking sorrow. Cautiously turning the handle of the door, without noise, she opened it and passed in. The room was shrouded in a dim half-light, and it was not till after the lapse of some seconds that Nina could distinguish the form of her young mistress, as, with her head buried in her hands, she sat before a table on which lay an open letter.
So absorbed was Kate in grief that she heard nothing, and Nina approached her, slowly, till at last she stood directly behind her, fixedly regarding the heaving figure, the dishevelled hair, and the trembling hands that seemed to clutch with eagerness some object within their grasp. Kate suddenly started, and pushing back her hair from her eyes, seemed as if trying to collect her wandering thoughts. Then, unclasping a case, she placed a miniature before her, and contemplated it attentively. Nina bent over her till she almost touched her in her eagerness. Had any one been there to have seen her features at the moment, they would have perceived the traits of intense and varied passion, surprise, rage, and jealousy, all struggling for the mastery. Her dark skin grew almost livid, and her black eyes glowed with anger; while, with a force like convulsion, she pressed her hands to her heart, as if to calm its beatings. A sea of stormy passions was warring within her, and in her changeful expression might be seen the conflict of her resolves. At last, she appeared to have decided; for with noiseless steps she gradually retreated toward the door, her eyes all the while steadily fixed on her mistress.
It seemed to require no slight effort to repress the torrent of rage within her; for even at the door she stood irresolute for a moment, and then, softly opening it, withdrew. Once outside, her pent-up passions found vent, and she sobbed violently. Her mood was, however, more of anger than of sorrow, and there was an air of almost insolent pride in the way she now knocked, and then, without waiting for reply, entered the room.
“Madame de Heidendorf requests that the Princess will appear in the drawing-room,” said she, abruptly, and confronting Kate's look of confusion with a steadfast stare.
“Say that I am indisposed, Nina,——that I feel tired and unwell,” said Kate, timidly.
“There is an Archduke, Madame.”
“What care I for an Archduke, Nina?” said Kate, trying to smile away the awkwardness of her own disturbed manner.
“I have always believed that great folk liked each other,” said Nina, sarcastically.
“Then I must lack one element of that condition, Nina,” said Kate, good-humoredly; “but pray make my excuses,—say anything you like so that I may be left in quiet.”
“How delightful Madame's reveries must be, when she attaches such value to them!”
“Can you doubt it, Nina?” replied Kate, with a forced gayety. “A betrothed bride ought to be happy; you are always telling me so. I hear of nothing from morn till night but of rich caskets of gems and jewels; you seem to think that diamonds would throw a lustre over any gloom.”
“And would they not?” cried Nina, passionately “Has not the brow nobler and higher thoughts when encircled by a coronet like this? Does not the heart beat with greater transport beneath gems like these?” And she opened case after case of sparkling jewels as she spoke, and spread them before Kate, on the table.
“And yet I have learned to look on them calmly,” said Kate, with an expression of proud indifference.
“Does not that dazzle you?” said Nina, holding up a cross of rose diamonds.
“No!” said Kate, shaking her head.
“Nor that?” cried Nina, displaying a gorgeous necklace.
“Nor even that, Nina.”
“Is Madame's heart so steeled against womanly vanities,” said Nina, quickly, while she threw masses of costly articles before her, “that not one throb, not one flush of pleasure, is called up at sight of these?”
“You see, Nina, that I can look on them calmly.”
“Then this, perchance, may move you!” cried Nina; and with a bound she sprang to the table at which Kate was seated, and, dashing the handkerchief away, seized the miniature, and held it up.
Kate uttered a shrill cry and fell back fainting. Nina gazed at her for a second or so with a look of haughty disdain, and sprinkling the pale features with a few drops of water, she turned away. With calm composure she replaced each precious gem within its case, laid the miniature once more beneath the handkerchief, and then left the room.
“Your Princess will not honor us, it seems, with her company,” said the Archduke, half in pique, as the messenger returned with Kate's excuses; “and yet I looked for her coming to get rid of all the farrago of politics that you wise folk will insist upon talking.”
The Countess and the Minister exchanged most significant glances at this speech, while D'Esmonde politely assented to the remark, by adding something about the relaxation necessary to overwrought minds, and the need that princes should enjoy some repose as well as those of lower degree. “I can, however, assure your Imperial Highness,” said he, “that this is no caprice of the young Princess. She is really far from well, and was even unable to receive her own relative this afternoon, the Count von Dalton.”
“What, is old Auersberg a relative of hers?”
“An uncle, or a grand-uncle,—I forget which, sir.”
“Then that wild youth in the Franz Carl must be a connection too?”
“The cadet is her brother, sir.”
“Indeed! What an extravagant fellow it is! They say that, counting on being Auersberg's heir, he spends money in every possible fashion; and as the tradespeople take the succession on trust, his debts are already considerable. It was only yesterday his colonel spoke to me of sending him to the Banat, or some such place. His family must be rich, I suppose?”
“I believe quite the reverse, sir. Poor to indigence. Their entire hope is on the Count von Auersberg.”
“He held a frontier command for many years, and must have saved money. But will he like to see it in hands like these?”
“I believe—at least so the story goes,” said D'Esmonde, dropping his voice to a whisper, “that the boy's arguments have scarcely assisted his object in that respect. They say that he told the Count that in times like these no man's fortune was worth a year's purchase; that when monarchs were tottering and thrones rocking, it were better to spend one's means freely than to tempt pillage by hoarding it.”
“Are these his notions?” cried the Archduke, in amazement
“Yes; the wildest doctrines of Socialism are his creed,—opinions, I grieve to say, more widely spread than any one supposes.”
“How is this, then? I see the private regimental reports of every corps, I read the conduct-rolls of almost every company, and yet no hint of this disaffection has reached me.
“A priest could reveal more than an adjutant, sir,” said the Abbé, smiling. “These youths who fancy themselves neglected,—who think their claims disregarded,—who, in a word, imagine that some small pretension, on the score of family, should be the spring of their promotion, are easily seduced into extravagant ideas about freedom and so forth.”
“Austria is scarce the land for such fruit to ripen in,” said the Archduke, laughing. “Let him try France, or the United States.”
“Very true, your Highness,” chimed in the Abbé; “but such boys ought to be watched,—their conduct inquired strictly into.”
“Or better still, Monsieur l'Abbé,” said the Archduke, sternly, “dismissed the service. I see no profit in retaining amongst us the seeds of this French malady.”
“I believe your Highness takes the true view of the difficulty,” said D'Esmonde, as though reflecting over it. “And yet you will be asked to make an officer of him in a day or two.”
“An officer of this boy, and why, or by whom?”
“The Princess, his sister, will make the request; probably through Von Auersberg.”
“But when I tell the Feld—”
“Ah, your Imperial Highness could not betray a confidence!” said D'Esmonde. “I have ventured to disclose to you what has come to my knowledge by means only accessible to myself; I therefore rely on your Highness not to divulge, however you may use it.”
“He shall not continue to wear our cloth; that you may certainly rely on, Monsieur l'Abbé,” said the Archduke, sternly.
“In any case, wait for his sister's departure, sir,” said D'Esmonde, anxiously; “a few days or hours. As soon as this silly old lady has made up that budget of gossip and scandal she fancies to be political news, we 'll see her leave this, and then he can be dealt with as you think proper.”
The Archduke made no reply,—not seeming either to assent to or reject the counsel. “It would break the old Marshal's heart,” said he, at last; “that gallant old soldier would never survive it.”
“A treason might, indeed, kill him,” said D'Esmonde. “But your Highness will anticipate exposure by dismissal—dismissal, peremptory and unexplained.”
Again the Archduke was silent, but his lowering brow and dark expression told that the subject was giving him deep and serious thought. “I paid no attention to your conversation this evening, Abbé,” said be, at last; “but it struck me, from a chance word here and there, that you suspect these same 'Liberal' notions are gaining ground.”
“Heresies against the Faith, sir, have begotten their natural offspring, heresies against the State; and Governments do not yet awaken to the fact that they who scorn the altar will not respect the throne. The whole force of what are called Liberal institutions has been to weaken the influence of the clergy; and yet it is precisely on that same influence you will have to fall back. It is beneath the solemn shadow of the Church you'll seek your refuge yet!”
“No, no, father,” said the Archduke, with a laugh; “we have another remedy.”
“The mitre is stronger than the mitraille, after all,” said D'Esmonde, boldly. “Believe me, sir, that the solemn knell that tolls an excommunication will strike more terror through Christendom than all your artillery.”
Either the remark or the tone in which it was uttered was unpleasing to the Prince; indeed, all the Abbe's courtesy at times gave way to an almost impetuous boldness, which royalty never brooks, for he turned away haughtily, and joined the others at a distant part of the room.
There was something of scorn in the proud look which D'Esmonde gave after him, and then slipped from the chamber with noiseless step and disappeared. Inquiring the way to the Princess's apartment, the Abbé slowly ascended the stairs, pondering deeply as he went. Nina was passing the corridor at the moment, and, supposing that he had mistaken the direction, politely asked if she could offer him any guidance. Scarcely noticing the questioner, he replied,——
“I was looking for the Princesse de Midchekoff's apartments.”
“It is here, sir; but she is indisposed.”
“If you would say that the Abbé D'Esmonde—”
He had got thus far when, lifting his eyes, his glance fell upon her features; and then, as if spell-bound, he stood silently gazing at her. Nina's cheek grew crimson under the stare; but her eyes met his with unshaken firmness.
“If I were to disbelieve all probabilities,” said he, slowly, “I should say that I see an old friend before me. Are you not the daughter of Huertos, the Toridor of Seville?”
“Fra Eustace!” said Nina, stepping back and staring steadily at him.
“No longer so, Lola; I am the Abbé D'Esmonde now,” said he, while a faint flush tinged his pale features.
“And I am Nina, the 'Cameriera,'” replied she, scornfully. “See how unequally fortune has dealt with us!”
D'Esmonde made a sign towards the door, which she at once understood and answered,——
“Yes, in the service of the Princess.”
“This is indeed a strange meeting, Lola.”
“Call me Nina,” said the girl, flushing, “or I shall remember old times, and my Spanish blood will little bear such memories.”
“Where can we talk together, Nina?”
“Come this way, holy father,” said she, with a half-sneering smile. “I suppose a poor girl may receive her confessor in her chamber.”
D'Esmonde walked after her without speaking. While crossing a gallery, she unlocked a door, and admitted him into a small but neatly furnished room.
“Dear Lola,” said the priest, as, taking her hand, he looked affectionately at her,—“I must needs call you by the old name,—what turn of fortune has brought you here?”
“It is a question well becomes you,” said the girl, releasing her hand from his grasp, and drawing herself proudly up. “You cut the bark adrift, and you wonder that it has become a wreck!”
“How this old warmth of temper recalls the past, and how I love you for it, as I grieve over it, Lola; but be calm, and tell me everything, just as you used to tell me years ago.”
“Oh, if I had the same pure heart as then!” cried the girl, passionately. “Oh, if I could but shed tears, as once I did, over each slight transgression, and not have my spirit seared and hardened, as the world has made it!”
“We cannot carry the genial freshness of youth into the ripe years of judgment, Lola. Gifts decay, and others succeed them.”
“No more of this casuistry. You are, I see, the same, whatever changes time may have made in me; but I have outlived these trickeries. Tell me, frankly, what do you want with me?”
“Must there needs be some motive of self-interest in renewing an old but interrupted friendship, Lola? You remember what we once were to each other?”
“Oh that I could forget it!——oh that I could wash out the thought, or even think it but a dream! But how can you recall these memories? If the sorrow be mine, is not the shame all yours?”
“The shame and the sorrow are alike mine,” said D'Es-monde, in a voice of deep dejection, “You alone, of all the world, were ever able to shake within me the great resolves that in prayer and devotion I had formed. For you, Lola, I was, for a space, willing to resign the greatest cause that ever man engaged in. Ay, for love of you, I was ready to peril everything—even to my soul! Is not this enough for shame and sorrow too? Is not this humiliation for one who wears the robe that I do?”
“You were a student in those days,” said Nina, with a sneering smile; “and I never heard you speak of all those dreadful sacrifices. You used to talk of leaving the college with a light heart. You spoke of the world as if you were impatient to mingle with it. You planned I know not how many roads to fortune and advancement. Among other careers, I remember”—and here she burst into a scornful laugh, that made the priest's cheek grow crimson with passion——“I remember how you hit upon one which speaks rather for your ardor than your prudence. Do you forget that you would be a Toridor,—you whose cheek grew pale and whose heart sickened as my father's horse lay embowelled in the ring, and who fainted outright when the bull's horns were driven into the barricade near you. You a Toridor! A Toridor should have courage!” And as she spoke, her eyes flashed with the fire of passion.
“Courage!” said the priest, in a voice almost guttural from emotion; “and is there no other courage than the vulgar defiance of personal danger,—the quality of the veriest savage and the merest brute in creation? Is there nothing more exalted in courage than to face bodily peril? Are all its instincts selfishness? What think you of the courage of him who, in all the conscious strength of intellect, with powers to win an upward way amongst the greatest and the highest, can stoop to a life of poverty and neglect, can give up all that men strive for,—home, affection, family, citizenship,——content to toil apart and alone, ——to watch, to fast, and pray, and think,——ay, think till the very brain reels with labor,—and all this for a cause in which he is but a unit! Courage! Tell me not of courage beside that of him who dares to shake the strongest thrones, and convulses empires with his word, whose counsels brave the might of armies, and dare even kings to controvert; and, greatest of all, the courage that for a cause can risk salvation! Yes, Lola, he who to save others hazards his own eternity! Have I not done it?” cried he, carried away by an impetuous rush of feeling. “Have I not overborne the truth and sustained the falsehood? Have I not warped the judgments, and clouded the faculties, and misdirected the aspirations of many who came to me for counsel, knowing that if there might be evil now there would be good hereafter, and that for present and passing sorrow there would be a glorious day of rejoicing? To this end have I spoke Peace to the guilty man and Hope to the hardened! Not for him, nor for me, but for the countless millions of the Church,—for the mighty hosts who look to her for succor and consolation! This I call courage!”
And he drew himself proudly up, and folded his arms on his breast with an air of haughty composure; while the girl, awed by his manner, and subdued by the impetuosity of his speech, gazed at him in half fear and wonderment.
“Tell me of your father, Lola,” said D'Esmonde, in a low, soft voice, as he drew her low seat to his side.
“He was killed at Madrid; he died before the Queen!” said she, proudly.
“The death of a Toridor!” muttered the priest, mournfully.
“Yes, and Pueblos too,—he is dead!”
“Not the little child that I remember—”
“The same. He grew up to be a fine man; some thought him handsomer than my father. My mother's family would have made a priest of him, but he chose the prouder destiny.”
“I cannot think of him but as the child,—the little fellow who played about my knees; dressed like a matador, his long silky hair in a net.”
“Oh, do not——do not speak of him,” cried the girl, burying her face between her hands; “my heart will not bear those memories.”
The priest's face was lighted up with a malevolent delight as he bent over her, as if revelling in the thought the emotions could call up.
“Poor little fellow!” said he, as if to himself. “How I remember his bolero that he danced for me.” He stopped, and she sobbed bitterly. “He said that Lola taught him.”
She looked up; the tears were fast coursing along her cheeks, which were pale as death.
“Eustace,” said she, tremulously, “these thoughts will drive me mad; my brain is reeling even now.”
“Let us talk of something else, then,” said he. “When did you leave the 'Opera'—and why?”
“How can you ask? you were at Seville at the time. Have you forgotten that famous, marriage, to which, by your persuasion, I consented; was this scheme only one of those unhappy events which are to be the seed of future good?”
The sneer made no impression on the priest, who calmly answered, “Even so, Lola.”
“What do you mean, sir?” cried she, angrily; “to what end am I thus? Was I so base born and so low? Was my lot in life so ignominious that I should not have raised my ambition above a fortune like this,—the waiting-woman of one whose birth is not better than my own?”
“You are right, Lola,——perfectly right; and with patience and prudence you will be her equal yet. Acton is an English noble—”
“What care I for that?” said she, passionately; “the marriage was a counterfeit.”
“The marriage was a true and valid one.”
“And yet you yourself told me it was not binding.”
“I had my reasons for the deceit, Lola,” said he, persuasively. “You were deserted and desolate; such widowhood would have brought you to the grave with sorrow. It were better that you should strive against misery.”
“Even in shame?” asked she, scornfully.
“Even in shame, for the shame would be short-lived; but Lord Norwood is alive, and you are his wife.”
“Lord Norwood! I have heard that name so often,” said she, musingly.
“At Florence, of course, he was every night at the Mazzarini Palace; the same Gerald Acton you remember long ago.”
“And he is a lord,—an English noble?”
“And you are an English peeress, Lola. There is not a coronet more safe upon a titled head than I can make yours,—can and will make,” added he, slowly. “But you must be patient; I must now speak to you, Lola, of themes in which you can take no interest, and subjects of which you know nothing. But listen to me attentively, and hear me; for fortune has not thus thrown us together without a meaning.
“The hour is come, Lola, when heretics and infidels have determined on an attack of our faith; not as they have hitherto attempted, and with such signal failure, by the weapons of controversy and discussion, but by brute force; by the might of millions driven to madness from want and misgovernment To avert this terrible calamity is now the unceasing thought of the Church. Some have counselled one thing, some another; some would go forth to the fight, trusting that, as of old, God would not forget his people; there are others who deem this course presumptuous and unwise. The hearts of kings are not as they once were,—in their confessors' keeping. Our age and manners would send forth no crusade. The battle must be otherwise contested. You could not follow me, Lola, were I to tell you either of the perils or their antidotes. Enough that I say we must have trusty and faithful agents in every land of Europe, and in every rank in every people. From the secret whisperings of the Czar to the muttered discontent of the Irish peasant, we must know them all. To this end have we labored anxiously and eagerly for some time back, and already have we made great progress. From every Court of Europe we now receive tidings, and there is not a royal palace where our interests are unguarded. Some serve us for the glorious cause itself, some have their own price, some again are in our own hands from motives of self-interest or terror, but all are alike true. This Princess—this Dalton—I destined for a duty of the same nature. Married to a man of Midchekoff's wealth and influence, she might have done good service, but I scarcely dare to trust her; even at the sacrifice of herself she might fail me, and, although in my power, I cannot count upon her. Think, then, of my joy at finding you, one on whose fidelity I may hazard life itself. You can be all to me, and a thousand times more than ever she could.”
“Your spy,” said the girl, steadily, but without the slightest semblance of anger.
“My friend, my counsellor, my correspondent, Lola.”
“And the price?”
“You may name it. If your heart be set on mere worldly distinction, I will prove your marriage, and although Norwood is not rich, his country never neglects the class he belongs to. Would you break the tie, the bond is in my keeping.”
“I never loved him,” cried she, passionately, “and you knew it. The marriage was one of those snares on which your mind never ceases to dwell—”
“If you loved another, Lola—?” said he, interrupting, and then waiting for her to finish her speech.
“And if I had,” burst she forth, “am I credulous enough to fancy that your word can reconcile every difference of rank and fortune,—that you can control destiny, and even coerce affection? No, no, Eustace; I have outlived all that!”
“Then were you wiser when you believed it,” said he, gravely. “Now for his name.”
There was a tone of almost commanding influence in which these last few words were uttered, and his dark full eyes were steadily fixed on her as he spoke them.
She hesitated to answer, and seemed to reflect.
“I ask no forced confession, Lola,” said he, proudly, and rising at the same time from his seat “In all the unreserve of our old affection, I told you my secret; yours is with yourself.”
“But can you—” She stopped.
“I can, and I will aid you,” said he, finishing her sentence.
“There is the name, then!” cried she, as, with a passionate gesture, she drew a sealed letter from her bosom, and showed him the superscription.
D'Esmonde almost started; but, recovering himself in an instant, he said,——
“The address is not correct, Lola. It should be thus—” And taking a pen, he drew it across the last line on the cover, and wrote, instead, “Dewanpore Barracks, Calcutta.” “We must talk together this evening,” said he, restoring the letter, and, without more, withdrew.
It will spare the reader a somewhat lengthy digression if we give him a peep at an extract from a letter written at this period by the Abbé D'Esmonde to a friend and fellow priest in Ireland. It was written on the very evening whose events we have just mentioned, and when fresh from the scenes of which he speaks.
The name or circumstances of the Abbe's confidant have no interest for us; nor need we allude to him more particularly than by stating that he was one who took a prominent part in his country's politics, and was a well-known agitator, both in print and on the platform. The present moment might not be inopportune to show the injustice of that sneer so often passed upon men of this stamp, and which assumes that their whole lives are spent in the agitation of small and irritating questions of mere local interest,—the petty intrigues of a village or a hamlet,—and without knowledge or interest for those greater themes which stir the heart of all Europe. We must not, however, be led away from our purpose, but, leaving these inferences to our reader's appreciation, keep to the sober business of our task.
We have only to premise that D'Esmonde and his friend had been schoolfellows and college companions, and that the revelations made were in all the confidence of unbounded trust and security. Neither was the hazard of a post-office incurred, for the document was forwarded, with several letters from Rome, by a private hand,—a priest, who twice each year performed the journey on a similar errand, and—shall we startle our reader if we add, in a spirit apart from all the caprices of fiction——still travels on the same mission.
After some apology for the time the epistle would be on the road, seeing that it should first return to Rome ere it began its journey northward, D'Ësmonde next alludes to some private and personal matters, and some individuals of their acquaintance, and then proceeds:——
It was already daybreak when D'Esmonde finished his letter; but, instead of retiring to bed, he opened his window, and sat enjoying the fresh air of the morning. Partly from habit, he opened his book of “offices;” but his eyes wandered, even from the oft-repeated lines, to the scene before him,——the spreading glacis,——where already the troops were mustering for parade. “What a strange thing is courage!” thought he. “I, who feel my spirit quail at the very rumbling sound of a gun-carriage, haye a soul to see all Europe convulsed, and every nation in arms, undismayed!”