Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel

‘Parbleu! that was a good guess: so he was.’

‘And kind-hearted as he looked,’ muttered Gerald.

‘He died with Gaudet, Gensonné, Louvet, and four other Maratists. You have seen most of them, I ‘m sure.’

‘Yes. Gaudet and Gensonné I remember; I forget Louvet. Had he a scar on his temple?’

‘That he had; it was a sabre-cut in a duel,’ cried one, who added in a whisper, ‘he’s not the mad fool you take him for.’

‘You used to be Gabriel Riquetti in times past?’ asked another gravely.

‘No – that is – not I; but – I forget how it was – we were – I’ll remember it by and by.’

‘Why, you told me a few days back that you were Mirabeau.’

‘No, no,’ said another, ‘he said he was Alfieri; I was present.’

‘Mirabeau’s hair was long and wiry. It was not soft like mine,’ said Gerald. ‘When he shook it back, he used to say, “I’ll show them the boar’s head.”’

‘Yes. He’s right, that was a favourite saying of Mirabeau’s,’ whispered another.

‘And they are all gone now,’ said Gerald with a deep sigh.

‘Ay, Maître, every man of them. All the Girondins; all the friends of liberty; all the kind spirits who loved men as their brothers; and the guillotine better than the men.’

‘And Vergniaud and Fonfréde, you surely knew them?’

Gerald shook his head.

‘It was your friend Robespierre sent them to the knife.’ Gerald started, and tried to understand what was said.

‘Ask him about La Gabrielle,’ whispered another. ‘What of La Gabrielle? she was Marietta,’ cried Gerald wildly.

‘She might have been. We only knew her as she figured before our own eyes. In November last she was the Goddess of Reason.’

‘No, no; I deny it,’ cried another; ‘La Gabrielle had fled from France before.’

‘She was the Goddess of Reason, I repeat,’ said the other. ‘She that used to blush scarlet, when they led her out, after the scene, to receive the plaudits of the audience, stood shameless before the mob on the steps of the Pantheon.’

‘And I tell you her name was Maillard; it was easy enough to mistake her for La Gabrielle, for she had the same long, waving, light-brown hair.’

‘Marietta’s hair was black as night,’ muttered Gerald; ‘her complexion, too, was the deep olive of the far south, and of her own peculiar race, I ought to know,’ added he aloud; ‘we wandered many a pleasant mile together through the valleys of the Apennines.’

The glance of compassionate pity they turned upon him showed how they read these remembrances of the past.

‘Which of you has dared to speak ill of her?’ cried he suddenly, as a gleam of intelligence shot through his reverie. ‘Was it you? or you? or you?’

‘Far be it from me,’ said Courtel, a young debauchee of the Jacobin party; ‘I admire her much. She has limbs for a statuary to match; and though this poor picture gives but a sorry idea of such perfections, it is not all unlike!’

As he spoke, he drew forth a coarse print of the Goddess of Reason, as she stood unveiled, almost unclad, before the populace.

Gerald caught but one glance at the ribald portrait, and then with a spring he seized and tore it into atoms. The action seemed to arouse in him all the dormant passion of his nature; for in an instant he clutched Courtel by the throat, and tried to strangle him. It was not without a severe struggle that he was rescued by the others, and Gerald thrown back, bruised and beaten, on his bed.

From this unlucky hour forth Gerald’s comrades held themselves all aloof from him. He was no longer in their eyes the poor and harmless object they had believed, but a wild and dangerous maniac. His life henceforth was one unbroken solitude; not a word of kindness or sympathy met his ear. The little fragments of cheering tidings others interchanged, none shared with him, and he sank into a state of almost sleep. Nor was it a small privilege to sleep, while millions around him were keeping their orgie of blood; when the cries of the dying and the shouts of vengeance were mingled in one long, loud strain, and the monotonous stroke of the guillotine never ceased its beat. Sleep was, indeed, a boon, when the wakeful ear and eye had nought but sounds and sights of horror before them. What a blessing not to watch the street as it trembled before the fatal car, groaning under its crowd of victims. To see them, with drooped heads and hanging arms, swaying as the rude plank shook them, not lifting an eye upon that cruel mob, whose ribald cries assailed them, and who had words of welcome but for him who followed on a low, red-coloured cart, pale, stern, and still – the headsman. The thirsty earth was so drunk with carnage that, in the words of one of the Convention, it was said: ‘We shall soon fear to drink the water of the wells, lest it be mixed with the blood of our brothers!’

Out of this deep slumber, in which no measure of time was kept, a loud and deafening shock aroused him. It was the force of the mob, who had broken-in the prison-doors, and proclaimed liberty to the captives. Robespierre had been guillotined that morning; the ‘Terror’ was over, and all Paris, in a frenzy of delight, awoke from its terrible orgie of blood, and dared to breathe with freedom. The burst of joy that broke forth was like the wild cry of delight uttered by a reprieved criminal.

Few in that vast multitude had less sympathy with that joy than Gerald Fitzgerald. Of the prisoners there was not one except himself who had not either home or friends to welcome him. Many were met as they issued forth, and clasped in the arms of loving relatives. Mothers and wives, sisters and brothers were there; children sprang wildly to their fathers’ breasts, and words of love and blessing were heard on every side.

‘Who is that yonder: the poor, sickly youth, that creeps along by himself, with his head down?’ whispered a happy girl at her brother’s side.

‘That is the “Maître Fou!”’ said he carelessly; ‘I think he scarcely knows whither he is going.’

CHAPTER IX. THE PÈRE MASSONI IN HIS CELL

Let us now return to Rome. The Père Massoni sat alone in his small study; a single lamp, covered with a shade, stood beside him, throwing its light only on his thin, attenuated figure, dressed in the long robe of black serge, and buttoned to the very feet. One wasted, blue-veined hand rested on his knee, the other was in the breast of his robe. It was a wild and stormy night without: long, swooping dashes of rain came from time to time against the windows, with blasts of strong wind borne over the wide expanse of the Campagna. The blue lightning, too, flashed through the half-darkened room, while the thunder rolled unceasingly amid the stupendous ruins of old Rome. For a long time had the Père sat thus motionless, and to all seeming, in expectancy. Some books and an open map lay on the table beside him, but he never turned to them, but remained in this selfsame attitude; only changing when he bent his head to listen more attentively to the noises without. At length he arose, and passing into a small octagonal tower that opened from the corner of his chamber, closed the door behind him. For a second or two he stood in perfect darkness, but suddenly a wide flash of lightning lit up the whole air, displaying the bleak Campagna for miles and miles, while it depicted every detail of the little tower around him. Taking advantage of the light, he advanced and opened the windows, carefully fastening them to the walls as he did so. He now seated himself by the open casement, gathering his robe well about him, and drawing the hood over his face. The storm increased as the night went on. Many an ancient pillar rocked to its base; many a stern old ruin shook, as in distinct blasts, like the report of cannon, the wind hurled all its force upon them. In the same fitful gusts the rain dashed down, seething across the wide plain, where it hissed with a sound like a breaking sea borne away on the wild blast. The sound of the bells through the city was not heard: all except St. Peter’s were dissipated and lost. The great bell of the mighty dome, however, rose proudly above the crash of elements, and struck three, and as the Père counted the strokes, he sighed drearily. For the last hour the lightning had been less and less frequent; and instead of that wide-spreading scene of open Campagna, dotted with villages, and traversed by roads, suddenly flashing upon him with a clearness more marked than at noonday, all was now wrapped in an impenetrable darkness, only broken at rare intervals, and by weak and uncertain gleams.

Why does he peer so earnestly through the gloom, why in every lull of the gale, does he bend his ear to listen, and why, in the lightning flashes, are his eyes ever turned to the winding road that leads to Viterbo? For him, surely, no ties of kindred, no affections of the heart are the motives which hold him thus spell-bound: nor wife nor child are his, for whose coming he watches thus eagerly. What can it be, then, that has awakened this feverish anxiety within him, that with every swell of the storm he starts and listens with more intense eagerness?

‘He will not come to-night,’ muttered he at length to himself; he will not come to-night, and to-morrow it will be too late. On Wednesday they leave this for Gaeta, and ere they return it may be weeks, ay, months. So is it ever: we strive, and plot, and plan; and yet it is a mere question of seconds whether the mine explode at the right instant. The delay is inexplicable,’ said he, after a pause. ‘They left Sienna on Sunday last; and, even granting that they must travel slowly, they should have been here yesterday morning. What misfortune is this? I left the Cardinal last night, at length – and after how much labour – persuaded and convinced. He agreed to all and every thing. Had the youth arrived to-night, therefore, his Eminence must have pledged himself to the enterprise; indeed he rarely changes his mind under two days!’ He paused for a while, and then in a voice of deeper emotion, said: ‘If we needed to be taught how small is all our wisdom – how poor, and weak, and powerless we are – we can read the lesson in the fact that minutes decide destinies, while whole lives of watching cannot control the smallest event!’ A brilliant flash of lightning at this instant illuminated the entire plain, showing every object in the wide expanse for miles. The Père started, and leaned eagerly upon the window, his eyes fixed on the Viterbo road. Another minute, ay, a second more, had been enough to assure him if he had seen aright; but already it was dark again, and the dense thunder-clouds seemed to descend to the very earth. As the low growling sounds died away at last, the air seemed somewhat thinner, and now the Père could make out a faintly twinkling light that flickered through the gloom, appearing and disappearing at intervals, as the ground rose or fell: he quickly recognised it for a carriage-lamp, and with a fervently uttered entreaty to Heaven, that it might prove the herald of those he watched for, he closed the window and returned to his study.

If the law that condemns the priest to a life of isolation and estrangement from all human affections be severe and pitiless, there is what many would deem a proud compensation in the immensity of that ambition offered to men thus separated from their fellows. Soaring above the cares and anxieties, whose very egotism renders them little, these men fix their contemplation upon the great events of the world, and, in a spirit that embraces ages yet unborn, uninfluenced by the emotions that sway others, untouched by the yearnings that control them, they alone of all mankind can address themselves to the objects of their ambition without selfish interests. The aggrandisement of the Church, the spread and pre-eminence of the Catholic faith, formed a cause which for centuries engaged the greatest intellects and the most devoted hearts of her followers. Among these were many of more eminence, in point of station, than Massoni; many more learned, many more eloquent, many whose influence extended further and wider, but not one who threw more steadfast devotion into the cause, nor who was readier to peril all – even to life itself – in its support. He had been for years employed by the Papal Government as a secret agent at the different courts of Europe. He had been in Spain, in Austria, in France, and the Low Countries; he had travelled through England, and passed nearly a year in Ireland. Well versed in modern languages, and equally acquainted with the various forms of European government, he was one whose opinion had a great weight upon every question of political bearing. Far too crafty to employ this knowledge in self-advancement, where, at the very utmost, it might have led to some inferior dignity at home, or some small ‘Nunciate’ abroad, he devoted himself to the service of the Cardinal Çaraffa, a man of immense wealth, high family, overweening pretensions, but of an intellect the very weakest, and so assailable by flattery, as to be the slave of those who had access to him. His Eminence saw all the advantages to be derived from such a connection. Whatever the point that occupied the Consulta, he was sure to be thoroughly informed upon it by his secret adviser; and so faithfully and so adroitly was he served, that the mystery of their intimacy was unfathomed by his brother cardinals. Caraffa spoke of Massoni as a person of whom ‘he had heard, indeed’; a man trustworthy, and of some attainments, but that was all; ‘he had seen him, too, and spoken with him occasionally!’

As for the Père, the name of his Eminence never passed his lips, except in company with those of other cardinals. In fact, he knew few great people; their ways and habits little suited his humble mode of life, and he never frequented the grand receptions of the princes of the Church, nor showed himself at their salons. Such, in brief, was the Jesuit father, who now walked up and down the little study, in a state of feverish impatience it was rarely his lot to suffer. At last the heavy roll of a carriage resounded in the court beneath, the clank of descending steps was heard, and soon after the sound of approaching feet along the corridor.

‘Are they come? is it Carrol?’ cried the Père, flinging wide the door of his chamber.

‘Yes, most reverend rector,’ said a full, rich voice; and a short, rosy-faced little man, in the prime of life, entered and obsequiously kissed Massoni’s extended hand.

‘What an anxious time you have given me, Carrol!’ said the Père hastily. ‘Have you brought him? Is he with you?

‘Yes; he’s in the carriage below at this moment, but so wearied and exhausted that it were better you should not see him to-night.’ Massoni paused to reflect, and after a moment said – ‘We have no time, not even an hour, to throw away, Carrol; the sooner I see this youth, the better prepared shall I be to speak of him to his Eminence. A few words to welcome him will be enough for me. Yes, let him come; it is for the best.’

Carrol left the room, and after some delay, was heard returning, his slow steps being accompanied by the wearied foot-falls of one who walked with difficulty. Massoni threw the door wide, and as the light streamed out he almost started at the figure before him. Pale, wan, and worn-looking as the stranger appeared, the resemblance to Charles Edward was positively startling. The same lustrous gleam of the deep blue eyes: the same refinement of brow; the same almost womanly softness of expression in the mouth; and stronger than all these, the mode in which he carried his head somewhat back, and with the chin slightly elevated, were all marks of the Prince.

Massoni welcomed him with a courteous and respectful tone, and conducted him to a seat.

‘This is a meeting I have long and ardently desired, sir,’ said the Père, in the voice of one to whom the arts of the courtier were not unknown; ‘nor am I the only one here who has cherished this wish.’

A faint smile, half gracious half surprised, acknowledged this speech, and Carrol watched with a painful anxiety even this mark of recognition.

‘The Chevalier is fatigued to-night, reverend father,’ said he; ‘his endeavours to fulfil our wishes have cost him much exertion and weariness. We have journeyed day and night from Geneva.’

‘In this ardour he has only given us a deeper pledge of his high deservings. May I offer you some refreshments, sir?’ said he, hastily, struck by the weak pallor of the young man’s countenance.

A gentle gesture of refusal declined the offer.

‘Shall I show you to your room, then?’ said the Père, rising and opening a door into a small chamber adjoining; ‘my servant will attend you.’