Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel

What if she should have totally misconstrued this weak, uncertain nature? What if she should have misinterpreted this character so full of indecision? How, if this would-be priest were to turn out one reckless in daring, and indifferent to all consequences? How, if the next tidings she were to hear of him were from some far-away country: some scene that might show how cheaply he held the tinsel decoration of a mock station, the miserable pretension to a rank he was never to enjoy! ‘At all events,’ said he, ‘they shall have matter for their speculations, and shall not see me for some days to come!’ And with this determination – rather like the resolve of a pettish child than of a grown man – he sauntered into the mill, where the miller was now busily engaged.

‘Your master’s despatches have nothing very pressing in them, I see,’ said the miller; I scarcely thought to have met you this morning.’

‘I have ample time at my disposal,’ said Gerald; ‘so that I can reach St. Stephano some day within the coming week I shall be soon enough; insomuch that I have half a mind to gratify the curiosity you have excited in me and make a short ramble through the mountains yonder.’

‘Nay, nay, leave that track to your left hand; follow the road by the head of Lago Scuro, and don’t run your neck into peril for nothing.’

‘But you told me last night this Pastore was never cruel when it served no purpose: that he was far readier to help a poor man than to rifle him. What should I fear then?’

‘That he might look into the palm of your hand and see that it was one not much used to daily labour. If he but thought you a spy, per Bacco! I ‘d not be in your shoes for all the jewels in the Vatican!’

‘Couldn’t you manage to disguise me as one of your own people, and give me some sort of a letter for him?’

‘By the way, there is a letter for him these four days back,’ said the miller suddenly;’ and I have had no opportunity of sending it on.’

‘There, then, is the very thing we want,’ broke in Gerald.

‘Here’s the letter here,’ said the miller, taking the document from the leaves of a book. ‘It comes from the Ursuline Convent, on the other side of the Tiber. Strange enough that the Pastore should have correspondence with the holy ladies of St. Ursula. It was a monk, too, that fetched it here, and his courage failed him to go any farther. Indeed, I believe that picture of the Capri pass decided him on turning back.’

‘The greater fool he! He ought to have known that the Pastore was not likely to requite a good office with cruelty,’ said Gerald.

‘As to that, it would depend on what humour he was in at the moment.’ Then, after a pause, he added, ‘If you like to risk the chance of finding him in a good temper, you have only to borrow a coat and cap from one of my boys, and take that letter. You will tell him that it was I sent you on with it, and he ‘ll ask no further question.’

‘And these hands of mine that you said would betray me,’ said Gerald, ‘what shall I do to disguise them?’

* Some fresh walnuts will soon colour them, and your face too; and now let me direct you as to the road you ‘ll take.’ And so the miller, drawing Gerald to the window, began to describe the route, pointing out various prominent objects as landmarks.

Having acquainted himself, so far as he could, with all the details of the way, Gerald proceeded to costume himself for the expedition, and so completely had the dye on his skin and the change of dress metamorphosed him, that for a second or two the miller did not recognise him.

With a touch of humour that he rarely gave way to, Gerald saluted him in rustic fashion, while in a strong peasant accent he asked if his honour had no further commands for him.

The miller laughed good-humouredly, and shook his hand in adieu. ‘I more than suspect the black mare will be mine,’ muttered he, as he looked after Gerald till he disappeared in the distance.

For miles and miles Gerald walked on without paying any attention to the scene around him; the spirit of adventure occupied his mind to the exclusion of all else, and he not only imagined every possible issue to the present adventure, but fancied what his sensations might have been were it his fortune to have been launched upon the great enterprise to which his hopes so long had tended. ‘Oh, if this were but Scotland or Ireland,’ thought he; ‘if my foot now only trod the soil that I could call my own; if I could but realise to myself once, even once, the glorious sense of being recognised as one of that race that once ruled there as sovereigns; if I could but taste the intoxication of that generous devotion that through all his calamities once cheered my father, I ‘d think the moment had repaid me for all the cares of life! And now it has all passed away like a dream. As Purcell said, “They want us no longer!” “We belong to the past, and have no significance in the present! Strange, sad, mysterious destiny!” There was a humiliation in that feeling that gave him intense pain; it was the sense of being cut off from all sympathy, estranged from the wishes, the hopes, the ambition of his fellow-men. Out of an isolation like that it was that Gabriel Riquetti had taught him to believe men achieve their greatest successes. You must first of all feel yourself alone, all alone in life, ere you can experience that liberty that ensures free action.

This was one of his axioms which he loved to repeat; and whether suggested by the scene where he had first met that wonderful man, or merely induced by the course of reflection, many of Mirabeau’s early teachings and precepts rose to his memory as he journeyed along.

For some time he had been unconsciously ascending a somewhat steep mountain-path, so deeply imbedded between two lines of thick brushwood as to intercept all view at either side, when suddenly the way emerged from the dense copse and took the mountain side, disappearing at a jutting promontory of rock around which it seemed to pass. As his eye followed the track thus far he saw the flutter of what seemed a scarlet banner; but on looking longer discovered it was the gay saddle-cloth of a mule, from which the rider had apparently dismounted. He had but just time to mark this much ere the object disappeared beyond the rock.

Cheered to fancy that some other traveller might chance to be on the same road with himself, he now hastened his steps. The way, however, was longer than he had supposed, and on gaining the promontory he descried the mule fully two miles away, stealing carefully along over the rugged bridle-path on the mountain. The object became now a pursuit, and he strained his eyes to see if by some by-path he could not succeed in gaining on the chase. While thus looking he saw that two figures followed the mule at a little distance, but what they were he could not ascertain.

It was very unlikely that any of the “Pasture’s” followers would have adopted a gear so striking and so easily seen as this bright trapping, and so Gerald at once set the travellers down as some peasants returning to their homes in the Maremma, or on a pilgrimage to some religious shrine.

With no small exertion he so far gained upon them as to be able to note their appearance, and discover that one was a friar in the dusky olive-coloured frock of the Franciscan, and the other a woman, dressed in some conventual costume which he did not recognise. He could also see that the mule carried a somewhat cumbrous pack, and an amount of baggage rarely the accompaniment of a travelling friar.

Who has not felt his curiosity stimulated by some mere trifling circumstance when occurring in a remote spot, which had it happened on the world’s crowded highway would have passed unnoticed. It was this strange attendant on these wayfarers that urged Gerald to press on to overtake them. Forgetting the peasant costume which he wore and the part it thus behoved him to pursue, he called out in a tone of half command for them to stop till he came up.

‘Halt,’ cried he, ‘and tell me if this be the way to the Capri Pass!’

The friar turned hastily, and stood until Gerald approached.

‘You speak like one accustomed to give his orders on these mountains, my son,’ said he, in a tone of stern reproof; ‘so that even a poor follower of St. Francis is surprised to be thus accosted.’

By this time Gerald had so far recovered his self-possession as to see how he had compromised his assumed character, and in a voice of deep submission, and with a peasant accent he answered —

I ask pardon, worthy Fra, but travelling all alone in this wild region has so overcome me that I scarcely know what I say, or understand what I hear.’

‘Whence do you come?’ asked the friar rudely. ‘From the Mill at Orto-Molino.’

‘And whither are you going?’

‘To St. Stephano after I have delivered a letter that I have here.’

‘To whom is your letter addressed, my son?’ said the Fra, in a more gentle voice.

With difficulty did Gerald repress the sharp reply that was on his lips, and say —

‘It is for one that neither you nor I know much of – Il Pastore.’

‘I know him well,’ said the friar boldly; ‘and say it without fear of contradiction, I am the only one he makes a shrift to – ay, that does he, ill as you think of him,’ added he, as if answering the half-contemptuous smile on Gerald’s face. ‘Let’s see your letter.’

With an awkward reluctance Gerald drew forth the letter and showed it.

‘Ah!’ cried the Fra eagerly, ‘he had been looking for that letter this many a day back; but it comes too late now.’

As he said this he pressed eagerly forward and whispered to the nun who was walking at the side of the mule. She looked back hurriedly for an instant, and then as rapidly turned her head again. They continued now to converse eagerly for some time, and seemed totally to have forgotten Gerald, as he walked on after them; when the Fra turned suddenly round and said —

‘I ‘ll take charge of your letter, my son, while you guide our sister down to Cheatstone, a little cluster of houses you ‘ll see at the foot of the mountain; and if there be an answer I ‘ll fetch it to-morrow, ere daybreak.’

‘Nay, Fra, I promised that I would deliver this with my own hands, and I mean to be no worse than my word.’ ‘You ‘ll have to be at least less than your word,’ said the friar, ‘for the Pastore would not see you. These are his days of penance and mortification, and I am the only one who dares to approach him.’

‘I am pledged to deliver this into his own hand,’ said Gerald calmly.

‘You may have said many a rash thing in your life, but never a rasher than that,’ said the Fra sternly. ‘I tell you again, he ‘ll not see you. At all events, you ‘ll have to find the road by your own good wits, and it is a path that has puzzled shrewder heads.’

With this rude speech, uttered in the rudest way, the Fra moved hastily on till he overtook his companion, leaving Gerald to follow how he pleased.

For some time he continued on after the others, vainly straining his eyes on every side for any signs of a. pathway upward. The way which he had trod before, with hope to cheer him, became now wearisome and sad. He was sick of his adventure, out of temper with his want of success, and dissatisfied with himself. He at last resolved that he would go no farther on his track than a certain little olive copse which nestled in a cleft of the mountain, reaching which he would repose for a while, and then retrace his steps.

The sun was strong and the heat oppressive, insomuch that when at length he gained the copse, he was well pleased to throw himself down beneath the shade and take his rest. He had already forgotten the Franciscan and his fellow-traveller, and was deeply musing over his own fortunes, when suddenly he heard their voices, and, creeping noiselessly to the edge of the cliff, he saw them seated at a little well, beside which their breakfast was spread out. The woman had thrown back her hood and showed now a beautiful head, whose long black hair fell heavily on either shoulder, while her taper fingers, covered with many a splendid ring, plainly showed that her conventual dress was only a disguise. Nor was this the only sign that surprised him, for now he saw that a short brass blunderbuss, the regular weapon of the brigand, lay close to the friar’s hand.

‘It is the Pastore himself,’ thought Gerald, as he gazed down at the brawny limbs and well-knit proportions of the stranger. ‘How could I ever have mistaken him for a friar?’ The more he thought over the friar’s manner – his eagerness to get the letter, and the careless indifference afterward with which he suffered Gerald to leave him – the more he felt assured that this was no other than the celebrated chief himself.

‘At least, I have succeeded in seeing him, thought he; ‘and why should I not go boldly forward and speak to him? ‘The resolve was no sooner formed than he proceeded to execute it. In a moment after he had descended the cliff, and, making his way through the brushwood, stood before them.

‘So, then, you will track me, youngster,’ said the friar angrily. ‘Once – twice – to-day the road was open to you to seek your own way, and you would not take it. How bent you must be to do yourself an ill turn!’

‘You are “II Pastore,”’ said Gerald boldly.