Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel

  CHAPTER XV. THE PERE AND THE PRINCESS

  Gerald was lying on a couch in his habitual mood of half dreamyconsciousness, when the Egyptian entered. Her tall and stately figure,veiled to the very feet, moving with a proud but graceful step, seemedscarcely to arrest his notice for a moment, and his eyes fell again upona few wild-flowers that lay beside him.

  Making a sign to the servant that she would be alone, the Egyptian drewnigh the couch, and stood silently regarding him. After a while, sheraised one arm till the hand was extended over his head, and held itthus some minutes. He lifted up his eyes toward her, and then, with asort of wearied motion, dropped them again, heaved a heavy sigh, andseemed to sink into a sleep.

  Touching the centre of his forehead with her forefinger, she stood forsome minutes motionless; and then slowly passed her hand over his face,and laid it gently on his heart; a slight, scarcely perceptible shuddershook the youth's frame at this instant, and then he was still; so stilland so motionless, that he appeared like one dead. She now breathedstrongly two or three times over his face, making with her hands amotion, as though sprinkling a fluid over him. As she did so, theyouth's lips slightly opened, and something like a faint smile seemed tosettle on his features. Bending down she laid her ear close to his lips,like one listening: she waited a few seconds, and then, in a voice thatslightly trembled, with a thrill of joyous emotion, she whispered out--

  'You have not, then, forgotten, _Gherardi mio_; those happy hours stilllive within your memory.'

  The sleeper's mouth moved without a sound, but she seemed to gather themeaning of the motion: as, after a brief pause, she said: 'And the wellunder the old myrtle-tree at San Domino: hast forgotten _that_? Trueenough,' added she, as if replying; 'it seems like an age since wewalked that mountain road together; but we will stroll there again, dearbrother: nay, start not, thou knowest well why I call thee so. Andwe will wander along the little stream under the old walls of Massa,beneath the orange-trees; and listen to the cicala in the hot noon, andcatch glimpses of the blue sea through the olives. Happier days! thatthey were. No, no, child,' cried she eagerly; 'thou art not of a mouldfor such an enterprise; besides, they would but entrap thee--there is nohonesty in these men. He that we have lost--he that has left us--mighthave guided you in this difficult path; but there is not another likehim. There are plants that only flower once in a whole century, and sowith humanity; great genius only visits the earth after long intervalsof years. What is it?' broke she in hurriedly; 'thou seest something;tell me of it?' With an intense eagerness she now seemed to drink insomething that his silent lips revealed, a sort of impatient anxietyurging her, as she said, 'And then, and then; yes! a wild dreary wastewithout a tree; but thou knowest not where--and a light in an old towerhigh up--yes! watching for thee; they have expected thee; go on. Ah!thou hast arrived there at last; with what honour they receive thee;they fill the hall. No, no, do not let him kneel; thou art right, he isan old, old man. That was a mild cheer, and see how the tears run downhis cheeks; they are, indeed, glad to see thee, then. What now,' criedshe hurriedly; 'thou wilt not go on, and why? Tell me, then, why,_Gherardi mio_ cried she, in an accent of deep feeling; _is it thatperil scares thee? Thou a Prince, and not willing to pay for thyheritage by danger? Ah! true,' broke she in despondingly; _they havemade thee but a tool, and they would now make thee a sacrifice. A longpause now ensued, and she sat with his hand pressed between both her ownin silence. At length a slight noise startled her; she turned her head,and beheld the Pere Massoni standing close beside her. She arose atonce, and drew the folds of her veil more closely across her features.

  'Is your visit over? If so, I would speak with you,' said the Pere.

  She bowed her head in assent, and followed him from the room. Massoninow led the way to the little tower which formed his study; enteringwhich, he motioned her to a seat, and having locked the door, took aplace in front of her.

  'What say you of this young man?' said he, coldly and sternly. 'Will helive?'

  'He will live,' said she, in a low, soft voice.

  'For that you pledge yourself; I mean, your skill and craft!'

  'I have none, holy father--I have but that insight into human naturewhich is open to all; but I can promise, that of his present malady hewill not die.'

  'How call you his disease?'

  'Some would name it atrophy; some low fever; some would say that an oldhereditary taint was slowly working its poisonous path through a oncevigorous frame.'

  'How mean you by that; would you imply madness in his race?'

  'There are many disordered in mind whom affluence presents as butcapricious,' said she, with a half supercilious accent.

  'Be frank with me,' said he boldly, 'and say if you suspect derangementhere.'

  'Holy father,' replied she, in the calm voice of one appealing to amature judgment, 'you, who read men's natures, as others do a printedpage, well know, that he who is animated strongly by some singlesentiment, which infuses itself into every thought, and every action,pervading each moment of his daily life, so as to seem a centre aroundwhich all events revolve--that such a man, in the world's esteem, is ofless sane mind than he who gives to fortune but a passing thought, andmakes life a mere game of accident. Between these two opposing statesthis young man's mind now balances.'

  'But cannot balance long,' muttered the Pere to himself, reflecting onher words. 'Will his intellect bear the struggle?' asked he hastily.

  'Ay, if not overtaxed.'

  'I know your meaning; you have told himself that he is not equal to thetask before him; I heard and saw what passed between you; I know, too,that you have met before in life; tell me, then, where and how.' Therewas a frank, intrepid openness in the way he spoke, that seemed to say,'We must deal freely with each other.'

  'Of _me_ you need not to know anything,' said she proudly, as she arose.

  'Not if you had not penetrated a great secret of mine,' said Massonisternly; 'you cannot deny it--you know who this youth is!'

  'I know whom you would make him,' said she, in the same haughty tone.

  'What birth and lineage have made him,--not any will of mine.'

  'There are miracles too great for even priestcraft, holy father--thisis one of them. Nay, I speak not of his birth, it is of the destiny youpurpose for him. Is it now, in the midst of the glorious outburstof universal freedom, when men are but awakening out of the long andlethargic dream of slavery, that you would make them to return toit; would you call them to welcome back a race whose badge has beenoppression? No, no, your Church is too wise, too far-sighted for suchan error; the age of monarchies is over; take counsel from the past, andlearn that, henceforth, you must side with the people.'

  'So have we ever,' cried the Pere enthusiastically; 'yes, I maintain andwill prove it. Stay, you must not part with me so easily. You shalltell me who you are. This weak pretence of Egyptian origin deceives not_me_.'

  'You shall know nothing of me,' was the brief reply.

  'The Sacred Consulta will not accept this answer.'

  'They will get none other, father.'

  'Such acts as yours are forbidden by the canon law; be careful how youpush me to denounce them.'

  'Does the Inquisition still live, then?' asked she superciliously.

  'Sorcery is a crime, on the word of Holy Writ, woman; and again I say,beware!'

  'This is scarcely grateful, holy father; I came here to render you aservice.'

  'And you are carrying away a secret, woman,' said the priest angrily.'This must not be.'

  'How would it advantage you, I ask,' said she calmly, 'were I to revealthe whole story of my past life? it would give you no guarantee for thefuture.'

  'It is for _me_ to think of that. I only say, that I must and will knowit.'

  'These are words of passion, holy father, not of that wise forethoughtfor which the world knows and reveres your name. Farewell.'

  She waved her hand haughtily, and moved toward the door; but it waslocked, and resisted her hand. As she
turned to remonstrate, Massoni wasgone! How, and by what exit, she could not guess, since every side ofthe small tower was covered with books and shelves, that rose from thefloor to the ceiling, and except the one by which she entered, nodoor to be seen. Not a word nor an exclamation escaped her, as she sawherself thus imprisoned; her first care was to examine the windows,which readily opened, but whose great height from the ground madeescape impossible. She again tried the lock in various ways, but withoutsuccess; and then recommenced a close scrutiny of the sides of thetower, through which she was aware there must be some means of exit. Socunningly, however, was this devised, that it evaded all her search, andshe sat down at length baffled and weary.

  The bright noon faded away into the mellower richness of later day,and the long shadows of solitary trees or broken columns, stretched faracross the Campagna, showing that the sun was low. While she yet satsilent and watchful in that lonely tower, her eyes had ranged over thegarden beneath, till she knew every bed and pathway. She had watched theCampagna too, till her sight ached with the weary toil; but, except far,far away, long out of reach, no succour appeared in view; and it seemedto her, at times, as though there was something like destiny in thisdreary desolation. On that very morning, as she drove from Albano, thefields were filled with labourers, and herds of cattle roved over thegreat plains, with large troops of mounted followers. What had becomethen of these? The sudden outburst of a hundred bells, pealing in almostwild confusion now, broke upon the stillness, and seemed to make thevery walls vibrate with their din. Louder and louder this grand chorusswelled out, till the sound seemed to rise from earth to heaven, fillingspace with their solemn music; and, at length, there pealed out throughthese the glorious cadences of a rich orchestra, coming nearer andnearer as she listened. A grand procession soon made its appearance,issuing out of one of the city gates, and holding its way across theCampagna. There were banners and gorgeous canopies, splendidly attiredfigures walked beneath, and the smoke of incense rose around them inthe still calm of a summer's evening. It was, then, some festival of theChurch, and to this was doubtless owing the silence and desertion whichreigned over the Campagna.

  With a haughty and disdainful motion of her head, the Egyptian turnedaway from the sight, and seated herself with her back to the window. Thegreyish tinge of half light that foretells the coming night, was fastfalling, as a slight noise startled her. She turned, and beheld twovenerable monks, whose brown hoods and frocks denoted Franciscans,standing beside her.

  'You are given into our charge, noble lady,' said one with a tone ofdeepest respect. 'Our orders are to give you a safe-conduct.'

  'Whither to, venerable brother?' said she calmly.

  'To the convent of St. Ursula, beyond the Tiber.'

  'It is the prison of the Inquisition?' said she, questioning.

  'There is no Inquisition; there are no prisons,' muttered the othermonk. 'They who once met chastisement are won back now with love andgentleness.'

  'You will be well cared for, and with kindness, noble lady,' said theother.

  'It is alike to me; I am ready,' said she, rising, and preparing tofollow them.