The Child Wife

“Très bien! Perhaps that will be sufficient.” Without farther parley, a word-painting of the ex-dictator of Hungary was done upon stamped paper.

It was a full-length portrait, giving his height, age, the hue of his hair, the colour of his skin, and the capacity in which he was to serve.

From the written description, not a bad sort of body-servant should be “James Dawkins.”

(This is an actual fact. I still have in my possession the passport. E.R.)

“Exceedingly obliged, monsieur!” said Maynard, receiving the sheet from the agent, at the same time slipping into the hand that gave it a couple of shining sovereigns. Then adding, “Your politeness has saved me a world of trouble,” he hastened out of the office, leaving the Frenchman in a state of satisfied surprise with a grimace upon his countenance that only a true son of Gaul can give.

Early in the afternoon of that same day, master and man were quite ready to start.

The portmanteaus were packed, their travelling gear arranged, and tickets had been secured for the night mail, via Dover and Calais.

They only waited for the hour of its departure from London.

It was a singular conclave – that assembled in one of the rooms of Kossuth’s residence in Saint John’s Wood.

It consisted of eight individuals; every one of whom bore a title either hereditary or honourably acquired.

All were names well-known, most of them highly distinguished. Two were counts of Hungary, of its noblest blood – one a baron of the same kingdom; while three were general officers, each of whom had commanded a corps d’armée.

The seventh, and lowest in rank, was a simple captain – Maynard himself.

And the eighth – who was he?

A man dressed in the costume of a valet, holding in his hand a cockaded hat, as if about to take departure from the place.

It was curious to observe the others as they sate or stood around this semblance of a lacquey; counts, barons, and generals, all like him, hats in hand; not like him intending departure. They were only uncovered out of respect!

They talked with him in a tone not obsequious, though still in the way one speaks to a superior; while his answers were received with a deference that spoke of the truest esteem!

If there ever was proof of a man’s greatness, it is when his associates in prosperity honour him alike in the hour of his adversity.

And such was the case with the ex-dictator of Hungary, for it is scarce necessary to say that the disguised valet was Kossuth.

Even in those dark dreary hours of his exile, when his cause seemed hopeless, and the cold world frowned scornfully upon him, he might be seen surrounded, not by a circle of needy sycophants, but the noblest blood of Hungary, all deferent, all with hats in hand, honouring him as in that hour when the destinies of their beloved country, as their own, were swayed by his will!

The writer of this tale has witnessed such a scene, and regards it as the grandest triumph of mind over matter, of truth over charlatanism, that ever came under his eyes.

The men now assembled around him were all in the secret of Kossuth’s design. They had heard of the insurrectionary rising at Milan. It was the subject of their conversation; and most of them, like Kossuth himself, were making ready to take part in the movement.

Most, too, like him, believed it to be an imprudent step on the part of Mazzini – for it was Mazzini who was citing it. Some of them pronounced it madness!

The night was a dark one, and favourable for taking departure. It needed this; for they knew of the spies that were upon them.

But Maynard had taken precautions to elude the vigilance of these cur dogs of despotism.

He had designed a ruse that could not be otherwise than successful. There were two sets of portmanteaus – one empty, to leave Kossuth’s house in the cab that carried the captain and his servant. This was to draw up at the north entrance of the Burlington Arcade, and remain there until its hirers should return from some errand to the shops of that fashionable promenade.

At the Piccadilly entrance another hansom would be found, holding the real luggage of the travellers, which had been transported the night before to the residence of the soldier-author.

They would be sharp detectives whom this scheme would not outwit.

Cunning as it was, it was never carried out. Thank God it was not!

From what became known afterward, both Kossuth and Captain Maynard might well repeat the thanksgiving speech.

Had they succeeded in running the gauntlet of the English spies, it would have been but a baneful triumph. In less than twenty hours after, they would have been both inside a French prison – Kossuth to be transferred to a more dangerous dungeon in Austria; his pretended master, perhaps, to pine long in his cell, before the flag of his country would be again extended for his extradition.

They did not enter upon the attempt; not even so far as getting into the cab that stood waiting at Kossuth’s gate. Before this preliminary step was taken, a man rushing into the house prevented their leaving it.

Chapter Seventy Four.

A Sham Insurrection

It was Count Roseveldt who caused the change of programme, of which an explanation is needed.

Shortly before, the Count, forming one of the circle around Kossuth, had slipped quietly away from it – sent forth by Kossuth himself to reconnoitre the ground.

His knowledge of London life – for he had long lived there – caused him to be thus chosen.

The object was to discover how the spies were placed.

The dark night favoured him; and knowing that the spies themselves loved darkness, he sauntered toward a spot where he supposed they might be found.

He had not been long in it, when voices in conversation admonished him that men were near. He saw two of them.

They were approaching the place where he stood.

A garden gate, flanked by a pair of massive piers, formed a niche, dark as the portals of Pluto.

Into this the Count retreated; drawing himself into the smallest dimensions of which his carcase was capable.

A fog, almost palpable to the feel, assisted in screening him.

The two men came along; and, as good luck would have it, stopped nearly in front of the gate.

They were still talking, and continued to talk, loud enough for Roseveldt to hear them.

He did not know who they were; but their conversation soon told him. They were the spies who occupied the house opposite Kossuth – the very individuals he had sallied forth in search of.

The obscurity of the night hindered him from having a view of their faces. He could only make out two figures, indistinctly traceable through the filmy envelope of the fog.

But it mattered not. He had never seen these spies, and was, therefore, unacquainted with their personal appearance. Enough to hear what they were saying.

And he heard sufficient for his purpose – sufficient to keep him silent till they were gone; and then bring him back with an excited air into the circle from which he had late parted.

He burst into the room with a speech that caused astonishment – almost consternation!