Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel
‘Let it but repudiate the law of debt and discountenance marriage,’ said another, ‘and I am its first convert.’
‘Good-bye, Mirabeau, adieu,’ cried several together, and they were now heard descending the stairs. Meanwhile, Mirabeau drew back the curtain and looked out upon the street.
‘Whom have we got here?’ said the first who issued forth from the door, and saw Gerald standing before him.
‘What is it? who does he want?’ cried Mirabeau, as he saw them in conversation.
‘One of your peasants, Mirabeau, with, doubtless, a Provencal cheese and some olives for you.’
‘Or a letter of loving tidings from that dear uncle,’ cried another; ‘the only one who ever knew the real goodness of your nature.’
‘Let him come up,’ said Mirabeau, as he closed the window.
When Gerald reached the top of the stair, he saw in front of him a large, powerfully-built man, who, standing with his back to the light, had his features in deep shadow.
‘You are the Count de Mirabeau?’ began Gerald.
‘And you – who are you?’ responded he quickly.
‘That you shall know, when I am certain of whom I am addressing/
‘Come in,’ said the Count, and walked before him into the room. He turned about just as the door closed, and Gerald, fixing his eyes upon him, cried out, ‘Good heavens! is it possible? Signor Gabriel!’
‘Now for your own name, my friend,’ said Mirabeau calmly.
‘Don’t you know me, then? don’t you remember the boy you saved years ago from death in the Roman Maremma – Fitzgerald?’
‘What!’ said Mirabeau, in the same calm voice, ‘you Fitzgerald? I should never have recognised you.’
‘And are you really the Count de Mirabeau?’
‘Gabriel Riquetti, Count de Mirabeau, is my name,’ replied he slowly. ‘How did you find me out? What chance led you here?’
‘No chance, nor accident. I have come expressly to see and speak with you. I am a Garde du Corps, and have assumed this disguise to gain access to you unremarked.’
‘A Garde du Corps!’ said the Count, in some surprise.
‘Yes, Signor Gabriel. My life has had its turns of good and ill fortune since we parted – the best being that I serve a great prince and a kind master.’
‘Well said, but not over-prudent words to utter in the Faubourg St. Antoine,’ rejoined the Count, smiling. ‘Go on.’
‘I have come with a message from Monsieur, to desire you will hasten immediately to St. Cloud, where he will meet you. Secrecy and speed are both essential, for which reasons he intrusted me with a mere verbal message, but to secure me your confidence he gave me this ring.’
Mirabeau smiled, and with such a scoffing significance that Gerald stopped, unable to proceed further.
‘And then?’ said Mirabeau.
‘I have no more to add, Monsieur,’ said Gerald haughtily. ‘My commission is fulfilled already.’
‘Take some wine; you are heated with your long ride,’ said the Count, filling out a large goblet, while he motioned to Gerald to be seated.
‘Nay, sir; it is not of me there is time to think now. Pray, let me have your answer to my message, for Monsieur told me, if I either failed to find you, or from any casualty you were unable to repair to St. Cloud, that I should come back with all speed to apprise him, my not returning being the sign that all went well.’
‘All went well,’ muttered Mirabeau to himself. ‘How could it go worse?’
Gerald sat gazing in wonderment at the massive, stern features before him, calling up all that he could remember of their first meeting, and scarcely able, even yet to persuade himself that he had been the companion of that great Count de Mirabeau whose fame filled all France.
‘In the event of my compliance, you were then to accompany me to St. Cloud?’ said the Count, in a tone of inquiry.
‘Yes, sir; so I understood my orders.’
‘There is mention in history of a certain Duc de Guise – ’
He stopped short, and walked to and fro for some time in silence; then, turning abruptly around, he asked: ‘How came it that you stood so high in Monsieur’s confidence that he selected you for this mission?’
‘By mere accident,’ said Gerald, and he recounted how the incident had occurred.
‘And your horse – what has become of him?’ asked the Count.
‘He is fastened to the ring of the large porte cochère– the third house from this.’
Mirabeau leaned out of the window as if to satisfy himself that this statement was true.
‘Supposing, then, that I agree to your request, what means have you to convey me to St. Cloud? – what preparations are made?’
‘None, sir. There was no time for preparation. It was, as I have told you, late last night when Monsieur gave me this order. It was in the briefest of words.’
‘"Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau that his Majesty would speak with him,”’ said the Count, suggesting to Gerald’s memory the tenor of his message.
‘No, sir. “Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau to hasten to St. Cloud, where I will meet him.”’
‘How did you become a noble guard?’ asked he quickly. ‘They say abroad that the difficulties to admission are great?’
‘I owe my admission to the favour of Madame de Bauflremont, sir.’
‘A great patron, none more so. She would have befriended me once,’ added he, with an insolent sneer, ‘but that my ugliness displeased the Queen. Since that time, however, her Majesty has condescended to accustom herself to these harsh features, and even smiles benignly on them. There is little time to criticise the visage of your pilot, while the breakers are before and the rocks beside you. I will go, Gerald. Give me that ring.’
Gerald hesitated for a second; the Prince had not bestowed the ring on him, but only confided it to his care.
‘I will not compromise you, young man,’ said Mirabeau gravely: ‘I will simply enclose that ring in a letter which you shall see, when I have written it,’ and he immediately sat down to a table, and in a rapid hand dashed off some lines, which he threw across to Gerald to read. They ran thus:
‘Dear Friend and Nephew, – I am summoned to a meeting at St. Cloud, by the owner of the ring which I enclose. If I do not return to Paris by noon on Saturday, it is because ill has befallen yours,
‘Gabriel Riquetti, Count de Mirabeau.
‘To Mons. du Saillant, Rue d’Ascour, 170. ‘Friday, 3 a.m,’
‘There is the ring,’ said Gerald, as he took it from his finger.
Mirabeau sealed the note, enclosing it in a strong envelope, and placing it on the table among other letters, ready sealed and addressed.
‘You will carry this letter to its address, Gerald, and you will remain there till – till my return.’
‘I understand,’ said Gerald; ‘I am a hostage.’
‘You a hostage for me!’ cried the other haughtily. ‘Do you fancy, young man, that the whole corps you belong to could requite the loss of Gabriel Riquetti? Would the Court – would the Assembly – would France accept such a price? Go, sir, and tell Monsieur du Saillant that if any evil befall his uncle, he is to make use of you as the clue to trace it, and be sure that you discharge this trust well.’
‘And if I refuse this mission?’
‘If you refuse, you shall bear back to Monseigneur the reasons for which I have not obeyed his commands,’ said Mirabeau coldly. ‘Methought you remembered me better. I had fancied you knew me as one who had such confidence in himself, that he believed his own counsels the wisest, and who never turned from them. There is the letter – yes or no?’
‘Yes – I will take it.’
‘I will, with your leave, avail myself of your horse till I pass the barrier. You can meanwhile take some rest here. You will be early enough with Du Saillant by eight o’clock,’ and with this the Count withdrew into a room adjoining to complete his preparations for the road. While thus occupied, he left the door partly open, and continued to converse with Gerald, asking him various questions as to what had befallen him after having quitted the Tana, and eagerly entering into the strange vicissitudes of his life as a stroller.
‘I met your poet, I think it was at Milan. We were rivals at the time, and I the victor. A double insult to him, since he hated France and Frenchmen,’ said the Count carelessly. ‘There was a story of his having cut the fingers of his right hand to the bone with a razor, to prevent his assassinating me. What strange stuff your men of imagination are made of – ordinary good sense had reserved the razor for the enemy!’
‘His is a great and noble nature,’ exclaimed Gerald enthusiastically.
‘So much the better, then, is it exercised upon fiction: real events and real men are sore tests to such temperaments. There, I am ready now; one glass to our next meeting, and good-bye.’
With a hearty shake-hands they parted, and as Gerald looked from the window, he saw the Count ride slowly down the street. Closing the window, he threw himself upon a couch and slept soundly.
CHAPTER IV. A SALON UNDER THE MONARCHY
Long after the events which heralded the great Revolution in France had assumed proportions of ominous magnitude, after even great reverses to the cause of monarchy, the nobles, whether from motives of hardihood or from downright ignorance of the peril, continued to display in their equipages, their mode of living, and their costly retinues, an amount of splendour terribly in contrast with the privations of the people.
Many of the old families deemed it a point of honour to abate nothing of the haughty pretensions they had exhibited for centuries; and treating the widespread discontent as a mere passing irritation, they scoffed at the fears of those who would regard it as of any moment. Indeed, to their eyes, the only danger lay in the weak, submissive policy of the court – a line of action based on the gentle and tender qualities of the king’s own nature, which made him prefer an injury to his own influence, to even the slightest attack on those who assailed him. Truthfully or not, it is somewhat hard to say, a certain section of the nobles asserted that the Queen was very differently minded; that she not only took a just measure of the difficulty, but saw how it was to be met and combated. Far from any paltering with the men of the movement, it was alleged that she would at once have counselled force, and, throwing the weight of the royal cause upon the loyalty of the army, have risked the issue without a fear. Around Marie Antoinette were, therefore, grouped those who took the highest ground in the cause of monarchy, and who resisted almost the bare thought of what savoured of compromise or concession.
Among those who were conspicuous for adherence to these opinions, was the Marquise de Bauffremont. To high rank, a large fortune, no inconsiderable share of court favour, she added a passion for everything like political intrigue. She was one of a school – of which some disciples have been seen in our own day – who deem that there are questions of statecraft too fine and too delicate for the rough handling of men, and where the finer touch of woman is essentially needed. So far as matters of policy are moulded by the tempers of those who treat them, and so far as it is of moment to appreciate finer traits of character – to trace their origin, their leanings and their sympathies – there is no doubt that the quicker and more subtle instincts of a woman have an immense advantage over the less painstaking and less minute habits of a manly mind. If the Marquise did not inaugurate this school, she gave a great development to its principles, and, assuredly, she practised her art at a period when its resources were to be submitted to the severest of all tests. Her spacious ‘hotel’ in the Place Louis Quinze was the centre of all those who assumed to be the last bulwark of the monarchy, and there might be found the Rochejaquelins, the Noailles, the Tavannes, the Valmys, and a host of others not less distinguished, while the ministers and envoys of various foreign courts resorted to these salons as the most authentic source of news to be transmitted to their governments. Partly from predilection, partly from that policy which affected to despise popular dictation, these receptions were conducted with considerable display and ostentation, and all that costly luxury and expense could impart lent its aid to give them an air of almost princely state. For a while there was a pretence of treating the passing events as incidents too slight and too vulgar for notice, but after a time this affectation gave way to another scarcely less absurd: of alluding to them in a tone of scoff and derision, ridiculing those who were their chief actors, and actually making them subjects of witty pasquinade and caricature. As each new actor on the popular scene appeared, he was certain to be the mark of their insulting comments; and traits of low origin, and vulgarity of manner, were dwelt on with a significance that showed how contemptuously they regarded all whose condition was beneath their own. How little did they suspect, as they mocked Rabaut St. Etienne, Petion, and Robespierre, that this ‘ill-dressed and ill-mannered crew’ – these ‘noisy screamers of vapid nonsense’ – these ‘men of sinister aspect and ignoble look,’ would one day become the scourge of their order, and the masters of France! So far was this thought from all their speculation, that their indignation knew no bounds in discussing those who admitted this canaille to anything like consideration; and thus the Bishop of Autun and Lafayette were the constant subjects of sarcasm and attack.
‘What do they want, Madame la Marquise!’ exclaimed the old Marquis de Ribaupierre, as he stood, one evening, the centre of a group eagerly discussing the views and objects of these innovators. ‘I ask, what do they want? It cannot be the destruction of the noblesse, for they are noble. It cannot be the extinction of property, for they are rich. It cannot be – surely it cannot be – that they believe the monarchy would be more faithfully guarded by a rabble than by the best chivalry of France. If Monseigneur Maurice Talleyrand were here now, I would simply ask him – ’
The door opened as he uttered these words, and a servant, in a loud voice, announced, ‘Monseigneur the Bishop of Autun.’
Small of stature and lame, there was yet in the massive head, the broad full brow, and the large orbits of the eyes, a certain command and dignity that marked him for no ordinary man; and, though the suddenness of his entrance at this moment had created a sensation, half painful, half ludicrous, there was a calm self-possession in his manner, as he advanced to kiss the hand of the Marquise, that quickly changed the feeling for one of deference and respect.
‘I was fortunate enough to be the subject of discussion as I came into the room – will my esteemed friend the Marquis de Ribaupierre inform me to what I owe this honour?’
‘Rather let me become the interpreter,’ broke in the Marquise, who saw the speechless misery that now covered the old Marquis’s countenance. ‘Distressed at the length of time that had elapsed since we saw you among us here – grieved at what we could not but imagine a desertion of us – pained, above all, Monseigneur, by indications that you had sought and found friends in other ranks than those of your own high station – ’
‘A bishop, Madame la Marquise – forgive my interruption – a bishop only knows mankind as his brethren.’ There was a malignant twinkle in his eye as he spoke, that deprived the sentiment of all its charitable meaning.
‘Fortune has been very unkind to you in certain members of your family, Monseigneur,’ said the Count de Noailles tartly.
‘Younger branches, somewhat ill-cared-for and neglected,’ said Talleyrand dryly.
‘Nay, Monseigneur, your Christian charity goes too far and too fast,’ said De Noailles. ‘Our lackeys were never called our frères cadets before.’
‘What a charming dress, Madame de Langeac!’ said the bishop, touching a fold of the rich silk with a veneration he might have bestowed on a sacred relic.
‘The favourite colour of the Queen, Monseigneur,’ said she pointedly.
‘Lilac is the emblem of hope; her Majesty is right to adopt it,’ was the quick response.
‘Is that like Monsieur de Mirabeau, Monseigneur?’ said the Duc de Valmy, as he handed a coarse engraving to the bishop.
‘There is a certain resemblance, unquestionably. It is about as like him – as – as – what shall I say – as the general estimate of the man is to the vast resources of his immense intelligence!’
‘Immense intelligence!’ exclaimed the Marquise de Bauf-fremont. ‘I could more readily believe in his immense profligacy.’
‘You might assent to both, Madame, and yet make no great mistake, save only that the one is passing away, the other coming,’ said Talleyrand courteously.
‘Which is the rising, which the setting sun, Monseigneur?’ said De Valmy.
‘I sincerely trust it may not shock this distinguished company if I say that it is the dawn of intellect, and the last night of incapacity, we are now witnessing. You have heard that this gentleman has seen the king?’
‘Mirabeau been received by his Majesty!’ ‘Mirabeau admitted to the presence!’ exclaimed three or four, in tones of utter incredulity.
‘I can be positive as to the fact,’ resumed the bishop. ‘I can be even more – I can tell this honourable company what passed at the interview. It was, then, last night – (thank you, Monsieur le Duc, I accept your chair, since it allows me a more convenient spot to speak from) – it was last night, at a late hour, that a messenger arrived at the Avenue aux Abois with an order – I suppose it is etiquette I should call it order – for Monsieur de Mirabeau to hasten to St. Cloud, where the king desired to confer with him.’
‘I ‘ll never believe it!’ cried the Marquis de Ribaupierre impetuously.
‘If I had the happiness of being confessor to the Marquis, I would enjoin an extension of faith – particularly in the times we live in, said Talleyrand, with a dry humour in his look. ‘At all events, it is as I have the honour to acquaint you. Monsieur de Mirabeau received this message and obeyed it.’
‘Par St. Louis, I can believe he obeyed it!’ exclaimed the Duc de Valmy.
‘And yet, Monsieur,’ said the bishop, ‘it was not till after very grave reflection the Count de Mirabeau determined to accept that same invitation.’
‘Ah, Monseigneur, you would presume upon our credulity,’ broke in De Valmy.
‘Far from it, Duc; I cherish every crumb of faith that falls from a table so scantily dressed; but once more I repeat, the Count de Mirabeau weighed well the perils on either side, and then decided on accepting those which attached to the court.’
‘The perils which attached to the court!’ cried the Marquis de Langeac scoflingly. ‘Monseigneur doubtless alludes to all the seductive temptations that would assail the cold, impassive temperament of his friend.’
‘My friend! I accept the phrase, and wish it might be mutually acknowledged. My friend has little to boast of on the score of impassiveness, nor would the quality stand him in great stead just now. What the king wants he has got, however.’
‘And pray what may that be, Monseigneur?’
‘I will tell you, Monsieur: great promptitude, great eloquence, great foresight, and, better than all these, great contempt for a pretentious class, whose vanity would lead them to believe that a wound to themselves must be the death-blow to the monarchy. Now, sir, Monsieur de Mirabeau has these gifts, and by their influence he has persuaded the king to accept his services – ’
‘Oh, Monseigneur, if any one has dared to make you the subject of a mystification!’
‘I have been the subject of many, my dear Marquis, and may live to be the subject of more,’ said the bishop, with great suavity and good-humour; ‘but I see I must not presume upon my credit with this honourable company.’ Then, changing his tone quickly, he added: ‘Can any one give me information about a young Garde du Corps called Fitzgerald – Gerald Fitzgerald?’
‘I believe I am the only one he is known to,’ said Madame de Bauffremont.
‘As, next to the honour of offering you my homage, Madame la Marquise, that was the reason of my coming here this evening, may I trespass upon you to give me a few minutes alone?’
Madame de Bauffremont arose, and, taking the bishop’s arm, retired into a small room adjoining, and closed the door.
‘Who is this Chevalier de Fitzgerald, Madame?’ said he abruptly.
‘I can give you very little insight into his history,’ replied the Marquise; ‘but dare I presume to ask how are you interested about him?’
‘You shall hear, Madame la Marquise. About six or eight months back, the Queen’s almoner, l’Abbé Jostinard, forwarded, of course by order of her Majesty, certain names of individuals in the royal household to Rome, imploring on their behalf the benediction of the Holy Father – a very laudable measure, not unfrequent in former reigns, but somehow lamentably fallen into disuse.’ There was a strange, quaint expression in his eye as he uttered these last words, which did not escape the attention of the Marquise. ‘Among these,’ resumed he, ‘there was included the Chevalier de Fitzgerald. Now, Madame, you are well aware that His Holiness takes especial pains to know that the recipients of the holy favour are persons worthy, by their lives and habits, of this precious blessing: while, therefore, for each of the others so recommended there were friends and relatives in abundance to vouch – the Rochemards, the Guesclins, the Tresignés can always find sufficient bail – this poor Chevalier stood friendless and alone, none to answer for, none to acknowledge him. Now, Madame, this might seem bad enough, but it was not all, for, not satisfied with excluding him from the sacred benediction, the consulta began speculating who and what he might be, whence he came, and so on. The most absurd conjectures, the wildest speculations, grew out of these researches: some tracing him to this, others to that origin, but all agreeing that he belonged to that marvellous order whom people are pleased to call adventurers. In the midst of this controversy distinguished names became entangled, some one would have said too high for the breath of scandal to attain – your own, Madame la Marquise – ’
‘Mine! how mine?’ cried she eagerly.
‘A romantic story of a sojourn in a remote villa in the Apennines – a tale positively interesting of a youth rescued from brigands or Bohemians, I forget which – pray assist me.’
‘Continue, sir,’ said the Marquise, whose compressed lips and sparkling eyes denoted the anger she could barely control.
‘I am a most inadequate narrator, Madame – in fact, I am not sure that I should have lent much attention to this story at all if the Queen’s name and your own had not been interwoven with it.’
‘And how the Queen’s, sir I?’ cried she haughtily.
‘Ah, Madame la Marquise, ask yourself how, in this terrible time in which we live, the purest and the best are sullied by the stain of that calumny the world sows broadcast! Is it not a feature of our age that none can claim privilege nor immunity? Popular orators have no more fertile theme than when showing that station, rank, high duties, even holy cares are all maintained by creatures of mere flesh and blood, inheritors of human frailties, heirs of mortal weakness. Cardinals have lived whose hearts have known ambition – empresses have felt even love.’
‘Monseigneur, this is enough,’ said the Marquise, rising, and darting at him a look of haughty indignation.
‘Not altogether, Madame,’ said he calmly, motioning her to be reseated. ‘To-morrow, or next day, this scandal – for it is a scandal – will be the talk of Paris. Whence came this youth? who is he? how came he by his title of Chevalier? will be asked in every salon, in every café, at every corner. Madame de Bauffremont’s name, and one even yet higher, will figure in these recitals. Some will suppose this, others suggest that, and the world – the world, Madame la Marquise – will believe all!’
‘My Lord Bishop,’ she began, but passion so overwhelmed her that she could not continue. Meanwhile he resumed —
‘The vulgar herd, who know nothing, nor can know anything, of the emotions, noble and generous, that sway highborn natures, who must needs measure the highest in station by the paltry standards that apply to their own class, will easily credit that even a Marquise may have been interested for a youth to whom, certainly, rumour attributes considerable merit. One word more, Madame; for as this youth, educated, some say by no less gifted a tutor than Jean Jacques Rousseau – others pretend by the watchful care of Count Mirabeau himself – ’
