Part 54 (1/2)

When the baronet had ceased to laugh at the anecdote, Purcell resumed: 'And now for the application. It is always a good thing in life to be able to become _un beau vert_, even though the colour should not quite suit you. I say this, because for the present project I can augur no success. The world has lived wonderfully fast, Sir Capel, since you and I were boys. That same Revolution in France that has cut off so many heads, has left those that still remain on men's shoulders very much wiser than they used to be. Now n.o.body in Europe wants this family again; they have done their part; and they are as much bygones as chain-armour or a battle-axe.'

'The rightful and the legitimate are never bygone--never obsolete,' said the other resolutely.

'A'n't they, faith! The guillotine and the lantern are the answers to that. I do not mean to say it must be always this way. There may, though I see no signs of it, come a reaction yet; but for the present men have taken a practical turn, and they accept nothing, esteem nothing, employ nothing that is not practical. Mirabeau's last effort was to give this colour to the Bourbons, and _he_ failed. Do not tell me, then, that where Gabriel Riquetti broke down, a Jesuit father will succeed!'

The other shook his head in dissent, but without speaking.

'Remember, baronet, these convictions of mine are all opposed to my interest. I should be delighted to see your fairy palace made habitable, and valued for the munic.i.p.al taxes. Nothing could better please me than to behold your Excellency Master of the Horse except to see myself Chancellor of the Exchequer. But here we are, and a fine princely-looking pile it is!'

They both stopped suddenly, and gazed with wondering admiration at one n.o.ble facade of the palace right in front of them. A wide terrace of white marble, ornamented with groups or single figures in statuary, stretched the entire length of the building, beneath which a vast orangery extended, the trees loaded with fruit or blossom, gave but slight glimpses of the rockwork grottoes and quaint fountains within.

'This is not the Cardinal's property,' said Purcell. 'Nay, I know well what I am saying; this belongs, with the entire estate, down to San Remo, yonder, to the young Countess Ridolfi. Nay more, she is at this very moment in bargain with Caesare Piombino for the sale of it. Her price is five hundred thousand Roman scudi, which she means to invest in this bold scheme.'

'She, at least, has faith in a Stuart,' exclaimed the baronet eagerly.

'What would you have? The girl's in love with your Prince. She has paid seventy thousand piastres of Albizzi's debts that have hung around his neck these ten or twelve years back, all to win him over to the cause, just because his brother-in-law is Spanish Envoy here. She destined some eight thousand more as a present to Our Lady of Ravenna, who, it would seem, has a sort of taste for bold enterprises; but Ma.s.soni stopped her zeal, and suggested that instead of candles she should lay it out in muskets.'

'You scoff unseasonably, sir,' said the baronet, indignant at the tone he spoke in.

'Nor is that all,' continued Purcell, totally heedless of the rebuke; 'her very jewels, the famous Ridolfi gems, the rubies that once were among the show objects of Rome, are all packed up and ready to be sent to Venice, where a company of Jews have contracted to buy them. Is not this girl's devotion enough to put all your patriotism to the blush?'

A slight stir now moved the leaves of the orange-trees near where they were standing. The evening was perfectly still and calm: Purcell, however, did not notice this, but went on--

'And she is right. If there were a means of success, that means would be money. But it is growing late, and this, I take it, is the chief entrance. Let us present ourselves, if so be that we are to be honoured with an audience.'

Though the baronet had not failed to remark the sarcastic tone of this speech, he made no reply but slowly ascended the steps toward the terrace.

Already the night was closing in, and as the strangers reached the door they did not perceive that a figure had issued from the orangery beneath, and mounted the steps after them. This was the Chevalier, who usually pa.s.sed the last few moments of each day wandering among the orange-trees. He had thus, without intending it, heard more than was meant for his ears.

The travellers had but to appear to receive the most courteous reception from a household already prepared to do them honour. They were conducted to apartments specially made ready for them; and being told that the Countess hoped to have their company at nine o'clock, when she supped, were left to repose after their journey.

CHAPTER XX. A WAYWORN ADVENTURER

It was by this chance alone that Gerald knew of the sacrifices Guglia had made and was making for his cause. In all their intercourse, marked by so many traits of mutual confidence, nothing of this had transpired.

By the like accident, too, did he learn how some men, at least, spoke and thought of his fortunes; and what a world of speculation did these two facts suggest! They were as types of the two opposing forces that ever swayed him in life. Here, was the n.o.ble devotion that gave all; there, the cold distrust that believed nothing. Delightful as it had been for him to dwell on the steadfast attachment of Guglia Ridolfi, and think over the generous trustfulness of that n.o.ble nature, he could not turn his thoughts from what had fallen from Purcell; the ill-omened words rankled in his heart, and left no room for other reflections.

All that he had read of late, all the letters that were laid before him, were filled with the reiterated tales of Highland devotion and attachment. The most touching little episodes of his father's life were those in which this generous sentiment figured, and Gerald had by reading and re-reading them got to believe that this loyalty was but sleeping, and ready to be aroused to life and activity at the first flutter of a Stuart tartan on the hills, or the first wild strains of a pibroch in the gorse-clad valleys.

And yet Purcell said--he had heard him say--the world has no further need of this family; the pageant they moved in has pa.s.sed by for ever. The mere chance mention, too, of Mirabeau's name--that terrible intelligence which had subjugated Gerald's mind from very boyhood--imparted additional force to this judgment. 'Perhaps it is even as he says,' muttered Gerald; 'perhaps the old fire has died out on the altars, and men want us not any more.'

Whenever in history he had chanced upon the mention of men who, once great by family and pretension, had fallen into low esteem and humble fortunes, he always wondered why they had not broken with the old world and its traditions at once, and sought in some new and far-off quarter of the globe a life untrammelled by the past. 'Some would call this faint-heartedness; some would say that it is a craven part to turn from danger; but it is not the danger I turn from; it is not the peril that appalls me; it is the sting of that sarcasm that says, Who is he that comes on the pretext of a name, to trouble the world's peace, unfix men's minds and unhinge their loyalty? What does he bring us in exchange for this earthquake of opinion? Is he wiser, better, braver, more skilled in the arts of war or peace than those he would overthrow?'

As he waged conflict with these thoughts, came the summons to announce that the Countess was waiting supper for him.

'I cannot come to-night. I am ill--fatigued. Say that I am in want of rest, and have lain down upon my bed.' Such was the answer he gave, uttered in the broken, interrupted tone of one ill at ease with himself.

The Cardinal's physician was speedily at his door, to offer his services, but Gerald declined them abruptly and begged to be left alone.

At length a heavy step was heard in the corridor, and the Cardinal himself demanded admission.