Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel

  CHAPTER V. AFTER DARK

  It was a long and weary day to the poor friar, watching for that Tuesdayevening when he should appear at the gate of the Jesuits' College andask for the young Fitzgerald. He felt, too, as though some amount ofresponsibility had been imposed on him to which he was unequal. Itseemed to his simple intelligence as if it were a case that requiredskill and dexterity. The rector might possibly ask this, or wish to knowthat; and then, how was he to respect the secrecy he had pledged to thePrince? or was he to dare to deceive the great president of the college?Supposing, too, all these difficulties over, what of the youth himself?How should he answer the inquiries he was certain to make--whitherhe was going---with what object--and to whom? Greater than all thesepersonal cares was his anxiety that the boy should please his RoyalHighness; that the impression he made should be favourable; thathis look and bearing might interest the Prince and ensure his futureadvancement. Let us own that Fra Luke had his grave misgivings on thisscore. From all he could pick up through the servitors of the convent,Gerald was a wild, headstrong youth, constantly 'in punishment,' andregarded by the superiors as the great instigator of every infractionto the discipline of the college. 'What will a prince think of suchan unruly subject?' was the sad question the simple-hearted friar everposed to himself. 'And if the rector only send a report of him, he'llhave no chance at all.' With this sorrowful thought he broughthis reflections to a close; and, taking out his beads, set himselfvigorously to implore the intercession of the saints in a causeintrusted to hands so weak and unskilful as his own.

  The grim old gate of the college, flanked with its two low towers,looked gloomy enough as the evening closed in. The little aperture, too,through which questions were asked or answered, was now shut up for thenight, and all intercourse with the world without suspended. The Fra hadyet a full hour to wait, and he was fain to walk briskly to and fro, towarm his blood, chilled by the cold wind that came over the Campagna.For a while the twinkling of a stray light, high up in the building,set him a-thinking where the cell of the boy might be; gradually theselights disappeared, and all was wrapped in gloom and darkness, whensuddenly the chapel became illuminated, and the rich, full swell of anorgan toned out its solemn sounds on the still night. The brief preludeover, there followed one of those glorious old chants of the churchwhich combine a strain of intense devotion with a highly exalted poeticfeeling. In a perfect flood of harmony the sounds blended, until thevery air seemed to hold them suspended. They ceased; and then, likethe softest melody of a flute, a young voice arose alone, and, soaringupward, uttered a passage of seraphic sweetness. It was as though thesong of some angelic spirit, telling of hope and peace; and, as a long,thrilling shake concluded the strain, the loud thunder of the organ andthe full swell of the choir closed the service. The moment after, allwas silent and in darkness.

  Bell after bell, from the great city beneath, tolled out seven o'clock;and Fra Luke knocked modestly at the gate of the college. His visitappeared to have been expected, for he was admitted at once andconducted to the large hall, which formed the waiting-room of thecollege. The friar had not long to wait; for scarcely had he taken hisseat when the door opened, and young Fitzgerald appeared. Advancing withan easy air, and a degree of gracefulness that contrasted strangely withhis poverty-struck dress, the boy said, 'I am told you wish to speak tome, father.'

  'Are you Gerald Fitzgerald, my son?' asked Fra Luke softly.

  'Yes; that's my name.'

  The Fra looked at the beaming face and the bright blue eyes, soft intheir expression as a girl's, and the dimpled cheek, over which a slightflush was mantling, and wondered to himself could this be the wild,reckless youth they called him?--had they not been calumniating thatfine and simple nature? So deeply was the Fra impressed with thissentiment that he forgot to continue the interrogatory, and stood gazingwith admiration on him.

  'Well, said the boy, smiling good-humouredly, 'what is your businesswith me, for it is nigh bed-time, and I must be going?'

  'It was _your_ voice I heard in the solo a few minutes ago,' cried theFra eagerly; 'I know it was. It was _you_ who sang the

  'Virgo virginum praeclara, Mihi jam non sis amara?'

  'Yes, yes,' said the youth, reddening. 'But what of that? You never camehere to-night to ask me this question.'

  'True enough,' said the Fra, sighing painfully--less, indeed at therebuke than the hot-tempered tone of the boy as he spoke it. 'I camehere to-night to fetch you along with me, to see one who was a friend ofyour family long, long ago; he has heard of you here, and wishes to seeand speak with you. He is a person of great rank and high station, sothat you will show him every deference, and demean yourself towardhim respectfully and modestly; for he means you well, Gerald; he willbefriend you.'

  'But what need have I of his friendship or his good offices?' said theyouth, growing deadly pale as he spoke. 'Look at this serge gown--seethis cap--they can tell you what I am destined for. I shall be apriest one of these days, Fra; and what has a priest to do with ties ofaffection or friendship?'

  'Oh! for the blessed Joseph's sake,' whispered the Fra, 'be carefulwhat you say. These are terrible words to speak--and to speak them here,too,' added he, as he threw his eyes over the walls of the room.

  'Is this man a cardinal?'

  'No,' said the Fra; 'he is a layman, and a count.'

  'Better that; had he been a cardinal, I 'd not have gone. Whenever theold cardinal, Caraffa, comes here, I'm sure to have a week's punishment;and I hate the whole red-stockinged race----'

  'There, there--let us away at once,' whispered the Fra. 'Such discourseas this will bring misfortune upon us both.'

  'Have you the superior's permission for my going out with you?' askedGerald.

  'Yes; I have his leave till eleven o'clock--we shall be back here beforethat time.'

  'I'm sorry for it,' said the boy sternly. 'I'd like to think I wascrossing that old courtyard there for the last time.'

  'You will be cold, my poor boy,' said the friar, 'with no other coveringbut that light frock; but we shall find a carriage as we go along.'

  'No, no, no,' cried the boy eagerly. 'Let us walk, Fra; let us walk, andsee everything. It's like one of the old fairy tales nurse used to tellme long ago--to see the city all alight thus, and the troops of peoplemoving on, and all these bright shops with the rich wares so temptinglydisplayed. Ah! how happy must they be who can wander at will among allthese--exchanging words and greetings, and making brotherhood with theirfellows! See, Fra--see!' cried he, 'what is it comes yonder, with allthe torches, and the men in white?'

  'It is some great man's funeral, my child. Let us say a _Pax eterna_,'and he fumbled for his beads as he spoke.

  'Let us follow them,' said the boy; 'they are bearing the catafalqueinto that small church--how grand and solemn it all is!' and now,attaching himself to the long line of acolytes, the boy walked step forstep with the procession, mingling his clear and liquid notes in thelitany they were chanting. While he sang with all the force of intenseexpression, it was strange to mark how freely his gaze wandered overall the details of the scene--his keen eyes scrutinised everything--thecostumes, the looks, the gestures of all; the half tawdry splendourbelow--the dim and solemn grandeur of the Gothic roof overhead. If therewas nothing of levity, as little was there anything of reverence in hisfeatures. The sad scene, with all its trappings of woe, was a spectacle,and no more, to him; and, as he turned away to leave the spot, his facebetrayed the desire he felt for some new object of interest. Nor had helong to search for such; for, just as they entered the Piazza diSpagna, they found a dense crowd gathered around a group of those humblemusicians from Calabria--the Pifferari, they call them--stunted in form,and miserably clad: these poor creatures, whose rude figures recallold pictures of the ancient Pan, have a wonderful attraction forthe populace. They were singing some wild, rude air of their nativemountains, accompanying the refrain with a sort of dance, while theiruncouth gestures shook the crowd with laughter.

  'Oh! I
love these fellows, but I never have a chance of seeing them,'cried the boy; so bursting away, he dashed into the thick of theassembled throng. It was not without a heartfelt sense of shame that thepoor friar found himself obliged to follow his charge, whom he now beganto fear might be lost to him.

  'Per Bacco! cried one of the crowd, 'here's a Frate can't resist thecharms of profane melody, and is elbowing his way, like any sinner,among us.'

  'It's the cachuca he wants to see,' exclaimed another; 'come, Marietta,here's a connoisseur worth showing your pretty ankles to.'

  'By the holy rosary!' cried a third, 'she is determined on theconquest.'

  This outburst was caused by the sudden appearance of a young girl, who,though scarcely more than a child, bore in her assured look and flashingeyes all the appearances of more advanced years. She was a deep brunettein complexion, to which the scarlet cloth that hung from her black hairgave additional brilliancy. Her jupe, of the same colour, recrossed andinterlaced with tawdry gold tinsel, came only to the knee, below whichappeared limbs that many a Roman statuary had modelled, so perfect werethey in every detail of symmetry and beauty. Her whole air was redolentof that _beaute du diable_, as the French happily express it, whichseems never to appeal in vain to the sympathies of the populace. Itwas girlhood, almost childlike girlhood, but dashed with a consciouseffrontery that had braved many a libertine stare--many a looksignificant in coarseness.

  With one wild spring she bounded into the open space, and there shestood now on tiptoe, her arms extended straight above her head, whilewith clasped hands she remained motionless, so that every line andlineament of her faultless figure might be surveyed in unbrokensymmetry.

  'Ah carina--che bellezza! come e graziosa!' broke from those who,corrupt, debased, and degraded in a hundred ways as they were, yetinherited that ancient love of symmetry in form which the games and thestatues of antique Rome had fostered. With a graceful ease no ballarinaof the grand opera could have surpassed, she glided into those slow andsliding movements which precede the dance--movements meant to displaythe graces of form, without the intervention of action. Gradually,however, the time of the music grew quicker, and now her heightenedcolour and more flashing eye bespoke how her mind lent itself to themeasure. The dance was intended to represent the coy retirings of arustic beauty from the advances of an imaginary lover; and, thoughshe was alone, so perfectly did she convey the storied interest of thescene, that the enraptured audience could trace every sentiment of theaction. At one moment her gestures depicted the proudest insolence anddisdain; at the next a half-yielding tenderness--now, it was passion tothe very verge of madness--now, it was a soul-subduing softness, thatthrilled through every heart around her. Incapable, as it seemed, oflonger resisting the solicitations of love, her wearied steps grewheavier, her languid head drooped, and a look of voluptuous waywardnessappeared to steal over her. Wherever her eye turned a murmured sighacknowledged how thoroughly the captivation held enthralled every bosomaround, when suddenly, with a gesture that seemed like a cry--so full ofpiercing agony it seemed--she dashed her hands across her foreheadand stared with aching eye-balls into vacancy,--it was jealousy: theterrible pang had shot through her heart, and she was wild. The horribletransitions from doubt to doubt, until full conviction forced itselfupon her, were given with extraordinary power. Over her features, inturn, passed every expression of passion. The heartrending tenderness oflove--the clinging to a lost affection--the straining effort to recallhim who had deserted her--the black bitterness of despair--and then,with a wild spring, like the bound of a tiger, she counterfeited a leapover a precipice to death!

  She fell upon the ground, and as the mingled sobs and cries rose throughthe troubled crowd, a boy tore his way through the dense mass, andfighting with all the energy of infuriated strength, gained the openspace where she lay. Dropping on his knees, he bent over, and claspingher hand kissed it wildly over and over, crying out in a voice of brokenagony, 'Oh! Marietta, Marietta mia, come back to us--come back, we willlove you and cherish you.'

  A great roar of laughter--the revulsion to that intensity of feeling solately diffused among them--now shook the mob. Revenging, as it were,the illusion that had so enthralled themselves, they now turned alltheir ridicule upon the poor boy.

  'Santissima Virginia! if he isn't a scholar of the Holy Order!' shoutedone.

  'Ecco! a real Jesuit!' said another; 'had he been a little older,though, he 'd have done it more secretly.'

  'The little priest is offering the consolation of his order,' cried athird; and there rained upon him, from every side, words of mockery andsarcasm.

  'Don't you see that he is a mere boy--have you no shame that you canmock a simple-hearted child like this?' said the burly Fra, as he pushedthe crowd right and left, and forced a passage through the mob. 'Comealong, Gerald, come along. They are a cowardly pack, and if they werenot fifty to one, they 'd think twice ere they 'd insult us.' Thisspeech he delivered in Italian, with a daring emphasis of look andgesture that made the craven listeners tremble. They opened a littlepath for the friar and his charge to retire; nor was it until they hadnearly gained the corner of the Piazza that they dared to yell forth acry of insult and derision.

  The boy grasped the Fra's hand as he heard it, and looked up in his facewith an expression there was no mistaking, so full was it of wild anddaring courage.

  'No, no, Gerald,' said he, 'there are too many of them, and what shouldwe get by it after all? See, too, how they have torn your soutane allto pieces. I almost suspect we ought to go back again to the college, myboy. I scarcely like to present you in such a state as this.'

  Well indeed might the Fra have come to this doubtful issue, for theyouth's gown hung in ribbons around him, and his cap was flattened tohis head.

  'I wish I knew what was best to be done, Gerald,' said he, wiping thesweat from his brawny face. 'What do you advise yourself?'

  'I'd say, go on,' cried the youth. 'Will a great signor think whether mypoor and threadbare frock be torn or whole?--he 'll not know if I be inrags or in purple. Tell him, if you like, that we met with rough usagein the streets. Tell him, that in passing through the crowd they left methus. Say nothing about Marietta, Fra; you need not speak of her.'

  The boy's voice, as he uttered the last words, became little louder thana mere whisper.

  'Come along then; and, with the help of the saints, we 'll go throughwith what we 've begun.'

  And with this vigorous resolve the stout friar strode along down theCorso.