by John Buchan
‘You know that your mistress would never consent to the request you have made of me?’
‘I ken,’ he said humbly. ‘But payin’ is my job, and I simply havena the siller. It’s no’ the first time it has happened, and it’s a sair trial for them both to be flung out o’ doors by a foreign hostler because they canna meet his charges. But, sir, if ye can lend to me, ye may be certain that her leddyship will never hear a word o’t. Puir thing, she takes nae thocht o’ where the siller comes frae, ony mair than the lilies o’ the field.’
I became a conspirator. You swear, Oliphant, by all you hold sacred, to breathe nothing of this to your mistress, and if she should suspect, to lie like a Privy Councillor?’
A flicker of a smile crossed his face. ‘I’ll lee like a Scots packman, and the Father o’ lees could do nae mair. You need have no fear for your siller, sir. I’ve aye repaid when I borrowed, though you may have to wait a bittock.’ And the strange fellow strolled off.
At dinner no Duchess appeared till long after the appointed hour, nor was there any sign of Oliphant. When she came at last with Cristine, her eyes looked as if she had been crying, and she greeted me with remote courtesy. My first thought was that Oliphant had revealed the matter of the loan, but presently I found that the lady’s trouble was far different. Her father, it seemed, was ill again with his old complaint. What that was I did not ask, nor did the Duchess reveal it.
We spoke in French, for I had discovered that this was her favourite speech. There was no Oliphant to wait on us, and the inn servants were always about, so it was well to have a tongue they did not comprehend. The lady was distracted and sad. When I inquired feelingly as to the general condition of her father’s health she parried the question, and when I offered my services she disregarded my words. It was in truth a doleful meal, while the faded Cristine sat like a sphinx staring into vacancy. I spoke of England and of her friends, of Paris and Versailles, of Avignon where she had spent some years, and of the amenities of Florence, which she considered her home. But it was like talking to a nunnery door. I got nothing but ‘It is indeed true, sir,’ or ‘Do you say so, sir?’ till my energy began to sink. Madame perceived my discomfort, and, as she rose, murmured an apology. ‘Pray forgive my distraction, but I am poor company when my father is ill. I have a foolish mind, easily frightened. Nay, nay!’ she went on when I again offered help, ‘the illness is trifling. It will pass off by tomorrow, or at the latest the next day. Only I had looked forward to some ease at Santa Chiara, and the promise is belied.’
As it chanced that evening, returning to the inn, I passed by the north side where the windows of the Count’s room looked over a little flower garden abutting on the courtyard. The dusk was falling, and a lamp had been lit which gave a glimpse into the interior. The sick man was standing by the window, his figure flung into relief by the lamplight. If he was sick, his sickness was of a curious type. His face was ruddy, his eye wild, and, his wig being off, his scanty hair stood up oddly round his head. He seemed to be singing, but I could not catch the sound through the shut casement. Another figure in the room, probably Oliphant, laid a hand on the Count’s shoulder, drew him from the window, and closed the shutter.
It needed only the recollection of stories which were the property of all Europe to reach a conclusion on the gentleman’s illness. The legitimate King of England was very drunk.
As I went to my room that night I passed the Count’s door. There stood Oliphant as sentry, more grim and haggard than ever, and I thought that his eye met mine with a certain intelligence. From inside the room came a great racket. There was the sound of glasses falling, then a string of oaths, English, French, and for all I knew, Irish, rapped out in a loud drunken voice. A pause, and then came the sound of maudlin singing. It pursued me along the gallery, an old childish song, delivered as if ‘twere a pot-house catch —
Qu’est-c’ qui passe ici si tard
Compagnons de la Marjolaine —
One of the late-going company of the Marjolaine hastened to bed. This king in exile, with his melancholy daughter, was becoming too much for him.
III
It was just before noon next day that the travellers arrived. I was sitting in the shady loggia of the inn, reading a volume of De Thou, when there drove up to the door two coaches. Out of the first descended very slowly and stiffly four gentlemen; out of the second four servants and a quantity of baggage. As it chanced there was no one about, the courtyard slept its sunny noontide sleep, and the only movement was a lizard on the wall and a buzz of flies by the fountain. Seeing no sign of the landlord, one of the travellers approached me with a grave inclination.
‘This is the inn called the Tre Croci, sir?’ he asked.
I said it was, and shouted on my own account for the host. Presently that personage arrived with a red face and a short wind, having descended rapidly from his own cellar. He was awed by the dignity of the travellers, and made none of his usual protests of incapacity. The servants filed off solemnly with the baggage, and the four gentlemen set themselves down beside me in the loggia and ordered each a modest flask of wine.
At first I look them for our countrymen, but as I watched them the conviction vanished. All four were tall and lean beyond the average of mankind. They wore suits of black, with antique starched frills to their shirts; their hair was their own and unpowdered. Massive buckles of an ancient pattern adorned their square-toed shoes, and the canes they carried were like the yards of a small vessel. They were four merchants, I had guessed, of Scotland, maybe, or of Newcastle, but their voices were not Scotch, and their air had no touch of commerce. Take the heavy-browed preoccupation of a Secretary of State, add the dignity of a bishop, the sunburn of a fox-hunter, and something of the disciplined erectness of a soldier, and you may perceive the manner of these four gentlemen. By the side of them my assurance vanished. Compared with their Olympian serenity my person seemed fussy and servile. Even so, I mused, must Mr Franklin have looked when baited in Parliament by the Tory pack. The reflection gave me the cue. Presently I caught from their conversation the word ‘Washington’, and the truth flashed upon me. I was in the presence of four of Mr Franklin’s countrymen. Having never seen an American in the flesh, I rejoiced at the chance of enlarging my acquaintance.
They brought me into the circle by a polite question as to the length of road to Verona. Soon introductions followed. My name intrigued them, and they were eager to learn of my kinship to Uncle Charles. The eldest of the four, it appeared, was Mr Galloway out of Maryland. Then came two brothers, Sylvester by name, of Pennsylvania, and last Mr Fish, a lawyer of New York. All four had campaigned in the late war, and all four were members of the Convention, or whatever they call their rough-and-ready Parliament. They were modest in their behaviour, much disinclined to speak of their past, as great men might be whose reputation was world-wide. Somehow the names stuck in my memory. I was certain that I had heard them linked with some stalwart fight or some moving civil deed or some defiant manifesto. The making of history was in their steadfast eye and the grave lines of the mouth. Our friendship flourished mightily in a brief hour, and brought me the invitation, willingly accepted, to sit with them at dinner.
There was no sign of the Duchess or Cristine or Oliphant. Whatever had happened, that household today required all hands on deck, and I was left alone with the Americans. In my day I have supped with the Macaronies, I have held up my head at the Cocoa Tree, I have avoided the floor at hunt dinners, I have drunk glass to glass with Tom Carteron. But never before have I seen such noble consumers of good liquor as those four gentlemen from beyond the Atlantic. They drank the strong red Cyprus as if it had been spring water. ‘The dust of your Italian roads takes some cleansing, Mr Townshend,’ was their only excuse, but in truth none was needed. The wine seemed only to thaw their iron decorum. Without any surcease of dignity they grew communicative, and passed from lands to peoples and from peoples to constitutions. Before we knew it we were embarked upon high politics.
Naturally we did not differ on the war. Like me, they held it to have been a grievous necessity. They had no bitterness against England, only regret for her blunders. Of His Majesty they spoke with respect, of His Majesty’s advisers with dignified condemnation. They thought highly of our troops in America; less highly of our generals.
‘Look you, sir,’ said Mr Galloway, ‘in a war such as we have witnessed the Almighty is the only strategist. You fight against the forces of Nature, and a newcomer little knows that the success or failure of every operation he can conceive depends not upon generalship, but upon the conformation of a vast country. Our generals, with this in mind and with fewer men, could make all your schemes miscarry. Had the English soldiery not been of such stubborn stuff, we should have been victors from the first. Our leader was not General Washington, but General America, and his brigadiers were forests, swamps, lakes, rivers, and high mountains.’
‘And now,’ I said, ‘having won, you have the greatest of human experiments before you. Your business is to show that the Saxon stock is adaptable to a republic.’
It seemed to me that they exchanged glances.
‘We are not pedants,’ said Mr Fish, ‘and have no desire to dispute about the form of a constitution. A people may be as free under a king as under a senate. Liberty is not the lackey of any type of government.’ These were strange words from a member of a race whom I had thought wedded to the republicanism of Helvidius Priscus.
‘As a loyal subject of a monarchy,’ I said, ‘I must agree with you. But your hands are tied, for I cannot picture the establishment of a House of Washington, and — if not, where are you to turn for your sovereign?’
Again a smile seemed to pass among the four.
‘We are experimenters, as you say, sir, and must go slowly. In the meantime, we have an authority which keeps peace and property safe. We are at leisure to cast our eyes round and meditate on the future.’
‘Then, gentlemen,’ said I, ‘you take an excellent way of meditation in visiting this museum of old sovereignties. Here you have the relics of any government you please — a dozen republics, tyrannies, theocracies, merchant confederations, kingdoms, and more than one empire. You have your choice. I am tolerably familiar with the land, and if I can assist you I am at your service.’
They thanked me gravely. ‘We have letters,’ said Mr Galloway; ‘one in especial is to a gentleman whom we hope to meet in this place. Have you heard in your travels of the Count of Albany?’
‘He has arrived,’ said I, ‘two days ago. Even now he is in the chamber above us at dinner.’
The news interested them hugely.
‘You have seen him?’ they cried. ‘What is he like?’
‘An elderly gentleman in poor health, a man who has travelled much, and, I judge, has suffered something from fortune. He has a fondness for the English, so you will be welcome, sirs; but he was indisposed yesterday, and may still be unable to receive you. His daughter travels with him and tends his old age.’
‘And you — you have spoken with him?’
‘The night before last I was in his company. We talked of many things, including the late war. He is somewhat of your opinion on matters of government.’
The four looked at each other, and then Mr Galloway rose.
‘I ask your permission, Mr Townshend, to consult for a moment with my friends. The matter is of some importance, and I would beg you to await us.’ So saying, he led the others out of doors, and I heard them withdraw to a corner of the loggia. Now, thought I, there is something afoot, and my long-sought romance approaches fruition. The company of the Marjolaine, whom the Count had sung of, have arrived at last.
Presently they returned and seated themselves at the table.
‘You can be of great assistance to us, Mr Townshend, and we would fain take you into our confidence. Are you aware who is this Count of Albany?’
I nodded. ‘It is a thin disguise to one familiar with history.’
‘Have you reached any estimate of his character or capabilities? You speak to friends, and, let me tell you, it is a matter which deeply concerns the Count’s interests.’
‘I think him a kindly and pathetic old gentleman. He naturally bears the mark of forty years’ sojourn in the wilderness.’
Mr Galloway took snuff.
‘We have business with him, but it is business which stands in need of an agent. There is no one in the Count’s suite with whom we could discuss affairs?’
‘There is his daughter.’
‘Ah, but she would scarcely suit the case. Is there no man — a friend, and yet not a member of the family, who can treat with us?’
I replied that I thought I was the only one in Santa Chiara who answered the description.
‘If you will accept the task, Mr Townshend, you are amply qualified. We will be frank with you and reveal our business. We are on no less an errand than to offer the Count of Albany a crown.’
I suppose I must have had some suspicion of their purpose, and yet the revelation of it fell on me like a thunderclap. I could only stare owlishly at my four grave gentlemen.
Mr Galloway went on unperturbed. ‘I have told you that in America we are not yet republicans. There are those among us who favour a republic, but they are by no means a majority. We have got rid of a king who misgoverned us, but we have no wish to get rid of kingship. We want a king of our own choosing, and we would get with him all the ancient sanctions of monarchy. The Count of Albany is of the most illustrious stock in Europe — he is, if legitimacy goes for anything, the rightful King of Britain. Now, if the republican party among us is to be worsted, we must come before the nation with a powerful candidate for its favour. You perceive my drift? What more potent appeal to American pride than to say: “We have got rid of King George; we choose of own free will the older line and King Charles”?’
I said foolishly that I thought monarchy had had its day, and that ‘twas idle to revive it.
‘That is a sentiment well enough under a monarchical government; but we, with a clean page to write upon, do not share it. You know your ancient historians. Has not the repository of the chief power always been the rock on which republicanism has shipwrecked? If that power is given to the chief citizen, the way is prepared for the tyrant. If it abides peacefully in a royal house, it abides with cyphers who dignify, without obstructing, a popular constitution. Do not mistake me, Mr Townshend. This is no whim of a sentimental girl, but the reasoned conclusion of the men who achieved our liberty. There is every reason to believe that General Washington shares our views, and Mr Hamilton, whose name you may know, is the inspirer of our mission.’
‘But the Count is an old man,’ I urged; for I knew not where to begin in my exposition of the hopelessness of their errand.
‘By so much the better. We do not wish a young king who may be fractious. An old man tempered by misfortune is what our purpose demands.’
‘He has also his failings. A man cannot lead his life for forty years and retain all the virtues.’
At that one of the Sylvesters spoke sharply. ‘I have heard such gossip, but I do not credit it. I have not forgotten Preston and Derby.’
I made my last objection. ‘He has no posterity - legitimate posterity — to carry on his line.’
The four gentlemen smiled. ‘That happens to be his chiefest recommendation,’ said Mr Galloway. ‘It enables us to take the House of Stuart on trial. We need a breathing-space and leisure to look around; but unless we establish the principle of monarchy at once the republicans will forestall us. Let us get our king at all costs, and during the remaining years of his life we shall have time to settle the succession problem. We have no wish to saddle ourselves for good with a race who might prove burdensome. If King Charles fails he has no son, and we can look elsewhere for a better monarch. You perceive the reason of my view?’
I did, and I also perceived the colossal absurdity of the whole business. But I could not convince them of it, for they met my object
ions with excellent arguments. Nothing save a sight of the Count would, I feared, disillusion them.
You wish me to make this proposal on your behalf?’ I asked.
‘We shall make the proposal ourselves, but we desire you to prepare the way for us. He is an elderly man, and should first be informed of our purpose.’
‘There is one person whom I beg leave to consult — the Duchess, his daughter. It may be that the present is an ill moment for approaching the Count, and the affair requires her sanction.’
They agreed, and with a very perplexed mind I went forth to seek the lady. The irony of the thing was too cruel, and my heart ached for her. In the gallery I found Oliphant packing some very shabby trunks, and when I questioned him he told me that the family were to leave Santa Chiara on the morrow. Perchance the Duchess had awakened to the true state of their exchequer, or perchance she thought it well to get her father on the road again as a cure for his ailment.
I discovered Cristine, and begged for an interview with her mistress on an urgent matter. She led me to the Duchess’s room, and there the evidence of poverty greeted me openly. All the little luxuries of the menage had gone to the Count. The poor lady’s room was no better than a servant’s garret, and the lady herself sat stitching a rent in a travelling cloak. She rose to greet me with alarm in her eyes.
As briefly as I could I set out the facts of my amazing mission. At first she seemed scarcely to hear me. ‘What do they want with him?’ she asked. ‘He can give them nothing. He is no friend to the Americans or to any people who have deposed their sovereign.’ Then, as she grasped my meaning, her face flushed.
‘It is a heartless trick, Mr Townshend. I would fain think you no party to it.’
‘Believe me, dear madame, it is no trick. The men below are in sober earnest. You have but to see their faces to know that theirs is no wild adventure. I believe sincerely that they have the power to implement their promise.’