The Child Wife

“You must not go, Governor?” were the words that proceeded from his lips.

“Why?” asked Kossuth, in surprise, the question echoed by all.

“Mein Gott!” responded the Austrian. “I’ve learnt a strange tale since I left you.”

“What tale?”

“A tale about this rising in Milan. Is there on the earth a man so infamous as to believe it?”

“Explain yourself, Count!”

It was the appeal of all present.

“Have patience, gentlemen! You’ll need it all, after hearing me.”

“Go on!”

“I found there forbans, as we expected. Two of them were in the street, talking. I had concealed myself in the shadow of a gateway; opposite which the scoundrels shortly after came to a stand. They did not see me; but I saw them, and, what’s better, heard them. And what do you suppose I heard? Peste! you won’t one of you believe it!”

“Tell us, and try!”

“That the rising in Milan is a sham – a decoy to entrap the noble Governor here, and others of us into the toils of Austria. It has been got up for no other purpose – so said one of these spies to the other, giving the source whence he had his information.”

“Who?”

“His employer, Lord – .”

Kossuth started. So did his companions; for the information, though strange to them, was not by any means incredible.

“Yes?” continued Roseveldt; “there can be no doubt of what I tell you. The spy who communicated it to his fellow gave facts and dates, which he must have derived from a certain source; and for my own part I was already under the belief that the thing looked like it. I know the strength of those Bohemian regiments. Besides there are the Tyrolese sharpshooters – true body-guards of a tyrant. There could have been no chance for us, whatever Guiseppe Mazzini may think of it. It’s certainly intended for a trap; and we must not fall into it. You will not go, Governor?”

Kossuth looked around the circle, and then more particularly at Maynard.

“Do not consult me,” said the soldier-author. “I am still ready to take you.”

“And you are quite sure you heard this?” asked the ex-Governor, once more turning to Roseveldt.

“Sure, your Excellency. I’ve heard it plain as words could speak. They are yet buzzing in my ears, as if they would burn them?”

“What do you say, gentlemen?” asked Kossuth, scrutinising the countenances of those around him. “Are we to believe in an infamy so atrocious?”

Before reply could be made, a ring at the gate-bell interrupted their deliberations.

The door opened, admitting a man who came directly into the room where the revolutionists were assembled.

All knew him as Colonel Ihasz, the friend and adjutant of Kossuth.

Without saying a word, he placed a slip of paper in the ex-Governor’s hands.

All could see it was the transcript of a telegraphic message.

It was in a cipher; of which Kossuth alone had the key.

In sad tone, and with trembling voice, he translated it to a circle sad as himself:

“The rising has proved only an ‘émeute.’ There has been treachery behind it. The Hungarian regiments were this morning disarmed. Scores of the poor fellows are being shot. Afazzini, myself, and others, are likely to share the same fate, unless some miraculous chance turns up in our favour. We are surrounded on all sides; and am scant escape. For deliverance must trust to the God of liberty.

“Turr.”

Kossuth staggered to a seat. He seemed as though he would have fallen on the floor!

“I too invoke the God of Liberty!” he cried, once more starting to his feet, after having a little recovered himself. “Can He permit such men as these to be sacrificed on the altar of Despotism? – Mazzini, and still more, chivalrous Turr – the bravest, the best, the handsomest of my officers?”

No man, who ever saw General Turr, would care to question the eulogy thus bestowed upon him. And his deeds done since speak its justification.

The report of Roseveldt had but foreshadowed the terrible disaster, confirmed by the telegraphic despatch.

The Count had spoken in good time. But for the delay occasioned by his discovery, Kossuth and Captain Maynard would have been on their way to Dover; too late to be warned – too late to be saved from passing their next night as guests of Louis Napoleon —in one of his prisons!

Chapter Seventy Five.

A Statesman in Private Life

Wrapped in a richly-embroidered dressing-gown, with tasselled cap set jauntily on his head – his feet in striped silk stockings and red morocco slippers – Swinton’s noble patron was seated in his library.

He was alone: soothing his solitude with a cigar – one of the best brand, from the vuelta-de-abajo.

A cloud upon his brow told that his spirit was troubled.

But it was only a slight ruffle, such as might spring from some unpleasantness. It was regret for the escape of Louis Kossuth, from the toils that had been set for him, and set according to his lordship’s own suggestions.

His lordship, along with other crown-commissioned conspirators, had expected much from the émeute at Milan. With all their cunning had they contrived that sham insurrection, in the hopes of getting within their jailors’ grasp the great leaders of the “nationalities.”

Their design was defeated by their own fears. It was a child whose teeth were too well grown to endure long nursing; and, before it could be brought to maturity, they were compelled to proclaim it a bastard.

This was shown by their sudden disarming of the Hungarian regiments, and the arrest of such of the compromised as had too rashly made appearance upon the spot.

There were shootings and hangings – a hecatomb. But the victims were among the less prominent men of revolutionary record; while the great chiefs succeeded in making good their escape.

Mazzini, the “untakeable,” got clear in a manner almost miraculous; and so too the gallant Turr.

Thanks to the electric wires, whose silent speech even kings cannot control, Kossuth was spared the humiliation of imprisonment.

It was the thought of this that shadowed the spirit of Swinton’s patron, as he sate reflecting upon the failure of the diabolical scheme.

His antipathy to the Magyar chief was twofold. He hated him diplomatically, as one whose doctrines were dangerous to the “divine right” of kings. But he had also a private spite against him; arising from a matter of a more personal kind. For words uttered by him of an offensive nature, as for acts done in connection with his employment of the spies, Kossuth had called him to account, demanding retraction. The demand was made in a private note, borne by a personage too powerful to be slighted. And it elicited a reluctant but still truckling apology.

There were not many who knew of this episode in the life of the ex-dictator of Hungary, so humiliating to the nobleman in question. But it is remembered by this writer; and was by his lordship, with bitterness, till the day of his death.