CHAPTER IX. THE 'COUR' OF THE ALTIERI
A LONG autumn day was drawing to its close in Rome, and gradually hereand there might be seen a few figures stealing listlessly along, orseated in melancholy mood before the shop-doors, trying to catch amomentary breath of air ere the hour of sunset should fall. All thegreat and noble of the capital had left a month before for the sea-side,or for Albano, or the shady valleys above Lucca. You might walk for daysand never meet a carriage. It was a city in complete desolation. Thegrass sprang up between the stones, and troops of seared leaves, carriedfrom the gardens, littered the empty streets. The palaces were barredup and fastened, the massive doors looking as if they had not opened forcenturies. In one alone, throughout the entire city, did any signs ofhabitation linger, and here a single lamp threw its faint light over awide courtyard, giving a ghost-like air to the vaulted corridors and dimdistances around. All was still and silent within the walls; not a lightgleamed from a window, not a sound issued. A solitary figure walked withweary footsteps up and down, stopping at times to listen, as if he heardthe noise of one approaching, and then resuming his dreary round again.
As night closed in, a second stranger made his appearance, and timidlyhalting at the porter's lodge, asked leave to enter; but the porter hadgone to refresh himself at a neighbouring cafe, and the visitor passedin of his own accord. He was in a friar's robe, and by his dustydress and tired look showed that he had had a long journey; indeed, soovercome was he with fatigue that he sat down at once on a stone bench,depositing his heavy bag beside him. The oppressive heat, the fatigue,the silence of the lonesome spot, all combined, composed him to sleep;and poor Fra Luke, for it was he, crossed his arms before him, andsnored away manfully.
Astonished by the deep-drawn breathing, the other stranger drew nigh,and, as well as the imperfect light permitted, examined him. He himselfwas a man of immense stature, and, though bowed and doubled by age,showed the remnant of a powerful frame: his dress was worn and shabby,but in its cut and in the fashion he wore it, bespoke the gentleman. Hegazed long and attentively at the sleeping friar, and then approaching,he took up the bag that lay on the bench. It was weighty, and containedmoney--a considerable sum, too, as the stranger remarked, while hereplaced it. The heavy bang of a door at this moment, and the sound offeet, however, recalled him from this contemplation, and at the sametime a low whistle was heard, and a voice, in a subdued tone, calledout, 'O'Sullivan!'
'Here!' cried the stranger, who was quickly joined by another.
'I am sorry to have kept you so long, chief,' said the latter; 'but hedetained me, watching me so closely, too, that I feared to leave theroom.'
'And how is he--better?'
'Far from it; he seems to be sinking every hour. His irritability isintense; eternally asking who have called to inquire after him--if Boyerhad been to ask, if the Cardinal Caraffa had come. In fact, so eagerlyset is his mind on these things, I have been obliged to make thecoachman drive repeatedly into the courtyard, and by a loud uproarwithout convey the notion of a press of visitors.'
'Has he asked after Barra or myself?' said the chieftain, after a pause.
'Yes; he said twice, "We must have our old followers up here--to-morrowor the next day." But his mind is scarcely settled, for he talked ofFlorence and the duchess, and then went off about the insult of thatarrest in France, which preys upon him incessantly.'
'And why should it not, Kelly? Was there ever such baseness as that ofLouis? Take my word for it, there's a heavy day of reckoning to come tothat house yet for this iniquity. It's a sore trouble to me to think itwill not be in my time, but it is not far off.'
'Everything is possible now,' said Kelly. 'Heaven knows what's in storefor any of us! Men are talking in a way I never heard before. Boyertold me, two days ago, that the garrison of Paris was to be doubled, andVincennes placed in a perfect state of defence.'
A bitter laugh from the old chieftain showed how he relished thesesymptoms of terror.
'It will be no laughing matter when it comes,' said Kelly gravely.
'But who _have_ called here? Tell me their names,' said O'Sullivansternly.
'Not one, not one--stay, I am wrong. The cripple who sells thewater-melons at the corner of the Babuino, he has been here; andGiacchino, the strolling actor, comes every morning and says, "Give myduty to his Royal Highness."'
A muttered curse broke from O'Sullivan, and Kelly went on: 'It was onWednesday last he wished to have a mass in the chapel here, and I wentto the Quirinal to say so. They should, of course, have sent a cardinal;but who came?--the Vicar of Santa Maria maggiore. I shut the door in hisface, and told him that the highest of his masters might have been proudto come in his stead.'
'They are tired of us all, Kelly,' sighed the chieftain. 'I have walkedevery day of the eight long years I have passed here in the Vaticangardens, and it was only yesterday a guard stopped me to ask if I werenoble?--ay, by Heaven, if I were noble! I gulped down my passion andanswered, "I am a gentleman in the service of his Royal Highness ofEngland"; and he said, "That may well be, and yet give you no right toenter here." The old Cardinal Balfi was passing, so I just said to hisEminence, "Give me your arm, for you are my junior by three good years."Ay, and he did it too, and I passed in; but I'll go there no more! nomore!' muttered he sadly. 'Insults are hard to bear when one's arm istoo feeble to resent them.'
Kelly sighed too; and neither spoke for some seconds. 'What heavybreathings are those I hear?' cried Kelly suddenly; 'some one hasoverheard us.'
'Have no fear of that,' replied the other; 'it is a stout friar, takinghis evening nap, on the stone bench yonder.'
Kelly hastened to the spot, and by the struggling gleam of the lampcould just recognise Fra Luke as he lay sleeping, snoring heavily.
'You know him, then?' asked O'Sullivan.
'That do I: he is a countryman of ours, and as honest a soul as lives;but yet I'd just as soon not see him here Fra Luke,' said he, shakingthe sleeper's shoulder, 'Fra Luke. By St. Joseph! they must have hardmattresses up there at the convent, or he 'd not sleep so soundly here.'
The burly friar at last stirred, and shook himself like some greatwater-dog, and then turning his eyes on Kelly, gradually recalled wherehe was. 'Would he see me, Laurence? would he just let me say one word tohim?' muttered he in Kelly's ear.
'Impossible, Fra Luke; he is on a bed of sickness. God alone knows if heis ever to rise up from it!'
The Fra bent his head, and for some minutes continued to pray with greatfervour, then turning to Kelly, said: * If it's dying he is, there's nogood in disturbing his last moments; but if he was to get well enough tohear it, Laurence, will you promise to let me have two or three minutesbeside his bed? Will you, at least* ask him if he 'd see Fra Luke? He'll know why himself.'
'My poor fellow,' said Kelly kindly, 'like all the world, you fancy thatthe things which touch yourself must be nearest to the hearts of others.I don't want to learn your secret, Luke--Heaven knows I have more than Iwish for in my keeping already!--but take my word for it, the Prince hascares enough on his mind without your asking him to hear yours.'
'Will you give him this, then,' said the Fra, handing him the bag withthe money; 'there's a hundred crowns in it just as he gave it to me,Monday was a fortnight. Tell him that--'here he stopped and wiped hisforehead, in confusion of thought; 'tell him that it 's not wanting anymore for--for what he knows; that it's all over now; not that he's dead,though--God be praised!--but what am I saying? Oh dear! oh dear! aftermy swearing never to speak of him!'
'You are safe with me, Luke, depend on that. Only, as to the money, takemy advice, and just keep it. He 'll never want to hear more of it.Many a hundred crowns have left this on a worse errand, whatever be itsfate.'
'I wouldn't, to save my life! I wouldn't, if it was to keep me from thegalleys!'
'Have your own way, then,' said Kelly sharply; 'I must not loiter here';and so saying, took the bag from the friar's hand, and moved over towardwhere O'Sullivan was standing.
'Come along home with me, friar,' said O'Sullivan, as Kelly wished themgood-night; 'I'll give you a glass of Vermouth, and we 'll have a talkabout the old country.'
Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel Page 9