CHAPTER VI. THE INTERVIEW
It was full an hour after the time appointed when the friar, accompaniedby young Gerald, entered the arched gate of the Altieri Palace.
'You have been asked for twice, Frate,' said the porter; 'and I doubtif you will be admitted now. It is the time his Royal Highness takes hissiesta.'
'I must only hope for the best,' sighed out the Fra, as he ascended thewide stairs of white marble, with a sinking heart.
'Let us go a little slower, Fra Luke,' whispered the boy; 'I 'd like tohave a look at these statues. See what a fine fellow that is stranglingthe serpent; and, oh! is she not beautiful, crouching in that largeshell?'
'Heathen vanities, all of them,' muttered the Fra; 'what are theycompared to the pure face of our blessed Lady?'
The youth felt rebuked, and was silent. While the friar, however, wascommunicating with the servant in waiting, the boy had time to strolldown the long gallery, admiring as he went the various works of art itcontained. Stands of weapons, too, and spoils of the chase abounded,and these he examined with a wistful curiosity, reading from shortinscriptions attached to the cases, which told him how this wolf hadbeen killed by his Royal Highness on such a day of such a year, and howthat boar had received his death-wound from the Prince's hand at suchanother time.
It almost required force from the friar to tear him away from objectsso full of interest, nor did he succeed without a promise that he shouldsee them all some other day. Passing through a long suite of rooms,magnificently furnished, but whose splendour was dimmed and fadedby years, they reached an octagonal chamber of small but beautifulproportions; and here the friar was told the youth was to wait, while hehimself was admitted to the Prince.
Charles Edward had just dined--and, as was his wont, dined freely--whenthe Fra was announced. 'You can retire,' said the Prince to the servantsin waiting, but never turning his head toward where the friar wasstanding. The servants retreated noiselessly, and all was now still inthe chamber. The Prince had drawn his chair toward the fire, and satgazing at the burning logs in deep reverie. Apparently he followed histhoughts so far as to forget that the poor friar was yet in waiting; forit was only as a low, faint sigh escaped him that the Prince suddenlyturning his head, cried out, 'Ah! our Frate. I had half forgotten you.You are somewhat late, are you not?'
In a voice tremulous with fear and deference Fra Luke narrated howthey had been delayed by a misadventure in the Piazza, contrivingto interweave in his story an apology for the torn dress and raggedhabiliments the boy was to appear in. 'He is not in a state to be seenby your Royal Highness at all. If it wasn't that your Royal Highnesswill think little of the shell where the kernel is sound----'
'And who is to warrant me that, sir?' said the Prince angrily. 'Is ityour guarantee I 'm to take for it?'
The poor friar almost felt as if he were about to faint at the sternspeech, nor did he dare to utter a word of reply. So far, this was inhis favour, since, when unprovoked by anything like rejoinder, CharlesEdward was usually disposed to turn from any unpleasant theme, andaddress his thoughts elsewhere.
'I 'm half relenting, my good friar,' said he, in a calmer tone, 'that Ishould have brought you here on this errand. How am _I_ to burden myselfwith the care of this boy? I am but a pensioner myself, weighed downalready with a mass of followers. So long as hope remained to us westruggled on manfully enough. Present privation was to have had itsrecompense--at least we thought so.' He stopped suddenly, and then, asif ashamed of speaking thus confidentially to one he had seen only oncebefore, his voice assumed a harsher, sterner accent as he said: 'Theseare not your concerns. What is it you propose I should do? Have you aplan? What is it?'
Had Fra Luke been required to project another scheme of invasion, hecould not have been more dumbfounded and confused, and he stood the verypicture of hopeless incapacity.
Charles Edward's temper was in that state when he invariably sought toturn upon others the reproaches his own conscience addressed to him, andhe angrily said: 'It is by this same train of beggarly followers that myfortunes are rendered irretrievable. I am worried and harassed bytheir importunities; they attach the plague-spot of their poverty to mewherever I go. I should have freed myself from this thraldom many a yearago; and if I had, where and what might I not have been to-day? You, andothers of your stamp, look upon me as an almoner, not more nor less.'His passion had now spent itself, and he sat moodily gazing at the fire.
'Is the lad here?' asked he, after a long pause.
'Yes, your Royal Highness,' said the friar, while he made a motiontoward the door.
Charles Edward stopped him quickly as he said, 'No matter, there is notany need that I should see him. He and his aunt--she is his aunt, yousaid--must return to Ireland; this is no place for them. I will seeKelly about it to-morrow, and they shall have something to pay theirjourney. This arrangement does not please you, Frate, eh? Speak out,man. You think it cold, unnatural, and unkind--is it not so?'
'If your gracious Highness would just condescend to say a word tohim--one word, that he might carry away in his heart for the rest of hisdays.'
'Better have no memory of me,' sighed the Prince drearily. 'Oh, don'tsay so, your Royal Highness; think what pride it will be to him yet, Godknows in what far-away country, to remember that he saw you once, thathe stood in your presence, and heard you speak to him.'
'It shall be as you wish, Frate; but I charge you once more to be surethat he may not know with whom he is speaking.'
'By this holy Book,' said the Fra, with a gesture implying a vow ofsecrecy.
'Go now; send him hither, and wait without till I send for you.'
The door had scarcely closed behind the friar when it opened againto admit the entrance of the youth. The Prince turned his head, and,whether it was the extreme poverty of the lad's appearance, morestriking from the ragged and torn condition of his dress, or thatsomething in Gerald's air and look impressed him painfully, he passedhis hand across his eyes and averted his glance from him.
'Come forward, my boy,' said he at last. 'How are you called?'
'Gerald Fitzgerald, Signor Conte,' said he, firmly but respectfully.
'You are Irish by birth?' said the Prince, in a voice slightlytremulous.
'Yes, Signor Conte,' replied he, while he drew himself up with an airthat almost savoured of haughtiness.
'And your friends have destined you for the priesthood, it seems.'
'I never knew I had friends,' said the boy; 'I thought myself a sort ofcastaway.'
'Why, you have just told me of your Irish blood--how knew you of that?'
'So long as I can remember I have heard that I was a Geraldine, and theycall me Irish in the college.'
There was a frank boldness in his manner, totally removed from theslightest trace of rudeness or presumption, that already interested thePrince, who now gazed long and steadily on him.
'Do I remind you of any one you ever saw or cared for, Signor Conte?'asked the boy, with an accent of touching gentleness.
'That you do, child,' said he, laying his hand on the youth's shoulder,while he passed the other across his eyes.
'I hope it was of none who ever gave you sorrow,' said the boy, who sawthe quivering motion of the lip that indicates deep grief.
Charles Edward now removed his hand, and turned away his head for someseconds.
At last he arose suddenly from his chair, and with an effort that seemedto show he was struggling for the mastery over his own emotions, said,'Is it your own choice to be a priest, Gerald?'
'No; far from it. I 'd rather be a herd on the Campagna! You surely knowlittle of the life of the convent, Signor Conte, or you had not asked methat question.'
Far from taking offence at the boy's boldness, the Prince smiledgood-naturedly at the energy of his reply.
'Is it the stillness, the seclusion that you dislike?' asked he,evidently wanting the youth to speak of himself and of his temperament.
'No, it is not that,' said Gerald thoughtful
ly. 'The quiet, peacefulhours, when we are left to what they call meditation, are the best ofit. Then one is free to range where he will, in fancy. I 've had as manyadventures, thus, as any fortune-seeker of the Arabian Nights. Whatlands have I not visited! what bold things have I not achieved! ay, andday after day, taken up the same dream where I had left it last,carrying on its fortunes, till the actual work of life seemed theillusion, and this, the dream-world, the true one.'
'So that, after all, this same existence has its pleasures, Gerald?'
'The pleasures are in forgetting it! ignoring that your whole life is afalsehood! They make me kneel at confession to tell my thoughts, whilewell I know that, for the least blamable of them, I shall be scourged.They oblige me to say that I hate everything that gives a charm to life,and cherish as blessings all that can darken and sadden it. Well,I swear the lie, and they are satisfied! And why are theysatisfied?--because out of this corrupt heart, debased by years oftreachery and falsehood, they have created the being that they want toserve them.'
'What has led you to think thus hardly of the priesthood?'
'One of themselves, Signor Conte. He told me all that I have repeatedto you now, and he counselled me, if I had a friend--one friend onearth--to beseech him to rescue me ere it was too late, ere I was likehim.'
'And he--what became of him?'
'He died, as all die who offend the Order, of a wasting fever. His hairwas white as snow, though he was under thirty, and his coffin was lightas a child's. Look here, Signor Conte,' cried he, as a smile of halfincredulity, half pity, curled the Prince's lip, 'look here. You are agreat man and a rich: you never knew what it was in life to suffer any,the commonest of those privations poor men pass their days in----'
'Who can dare to say that of me?' cried Charles Edward passionately.'There's not a toil I have not tasted, there's not a peril I have notbraved, there's not a sorrow nor a suffering that have not been myportion; ay, and, God wot, with heavier stake upon the board than everman played for!'
'Forgive me, Signor Conte,' stammered out the boy, as his eyes filledup at the sight of the emotion he had caused, 'I knew not what I wassaying.'
The Prince took little heed of the words, for his aroused thoughts borehim sadly to the mist-clad mountain and the heathery gorges far away;and he strode the room in deep emotion. At last his glance fell uponthe youth as, pale and terror-stricken, he stood watching him, and hequickly said: 'I'm not angry with you, Gerald; do not grieve, my poorboy. You will learn, one of these days, that sorrow has its place atfine tables, just as at humbler boards. It helps the rich man to don hisrobe of purple, just as it aids the beggar to put on his rags. It's astern conscription that calls on all to serve. But to yourself: you willnot be a priest, you say? What, then, would you like--what say you tothe life of a soldier?'
'But in what service, Signor Conte?'
'That of your own country, I suppose.'
'They tell me that the king is a usurper, who has no right to be king;and shall I swear faith and loyalty to him?'
'Others have done so, and are doing it every day, boy. It was butyesterday, Lord Blantyre made what they call his submission; and he wasthe bosom friend of--the Pretender'; and the last words were uttered ina half-scornful laugh.
'I will not hear him called by that name, Signor Conte. So long as Iremember anything, I was taught not to endure it.'
'Was that your mother's teaching, Gerald?' said the Prince tenderly.
'It was, sir. I was a very little child; but I can never forget the lastprayer I made each night before bed: it was for God's protection to thetrue Prince; and when I arose I was to say, "Confusion to all who callhim the Pretender!"'
'He is not even _that_ now,' muttered Charles Edward, as he leaned hishead on the mantelpiece.
'I hope, Signor Conte,' said the boy timidly, 'that you never were forthe Elector.'
'I have done little for the cause of the Stuarts,' said Charles, with adeep sigh.
'I wish I may live to serve them,' cried the youth, with energy.
The Prince looked long and steadfastly at the boy, and, in a tone thatbespoke deep thought, said:
'I want to befriend you, Gerald, if I but knew how. It is clear you haveno vocation for the church, and we are here in a land where there islittle other career. Were we in France something might be done. Ihave some friends, however, in that country, and I will see aboutcommunicating with them. Send the Frate hither.'
The boy left the room, and speedily returned with Fra Luke, whoseanxious glances were turned from the Prince to the youth, in eagercuriosity to learn how their interview had gone off.
'Gerald has no ambition to be a monsignore, Frate,' said the Princelaughingly, 'and we mustn't constrain him. They who serve the churchshould have their hearts in the calling. Do you know of any honestfamily with whom he might be domesticated for a short time--not in Rome,of course, but in the country; it will only be for a month or two atfarthest?'
'There is a worthy family at Orvieto, if it were not too far----'
'Nothing of the kind; Orvieto will suit admirably. Who are thesepeople?'
'The father is the steward of Cardinal Caraffa; but it is a villathat his eminence never visits, and so they live there as in their ownpalace; and the mountain air is so wholesome there, sick people usedto seek the place; and so Tonino, as they call him, takes a boarder, oreven two----'
'That is everything we want,' said the Prince, cutting short what hefeared might be a long history. 'Let the boy go back now to the college,and do you yourself come here on Saturday morning, and Kelly willarrange all with you.'
'I wish I knew why you are so good to me, Signor Conte,' said the boy,as his eyes filled up with tears.
'I was a friend of your family, Gerald,' said Charles, as he fixed hiseyes on the friar, to enforce his former caution.
'And am I never to see you again, signor,' cried he eagerly.
'Yes, to be sure, you shall come here; but I will settle all thatanother time--on Saturday, Fra; and now, good-bye.
The boy grasped the hand with which the Prince waved his farewell, andkissed it rapturously; and Charles, overcome at length by feelingshe had repressed till then, threw his arms around the boy's neck, andpressed him to his bosom.
Fra Luke, terrified how such a moment might end, hurried the youth fromthe room, and retired.
Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel Page 6