“Austerlitz has done it.”
Miss Latham raised her lustrous dark eyes with an enquiring expression and murmured, “Papa?”
Sir Charles got up and seized his stick. “Nothing, my dear, nothing.” He wanted to be alone. But on going out of the room he stopped by the embroidery frame and, bending down, kissed the forehead of his daughter — his English daughter. No issue of a great battle could affect her future. As to the other girl, she was lost to him and it couldn’t be helped. A battle had destroyed the fairness of her life. This was the disadvantage of having been born French or indeed belonging to any other nation of the continent. There were forces there that pushed people to rash or unseemly actions; actions that seemed dictated by despair and therefore wore an immoral aspect. Sir Charles understood Adele d’Armand even better than he understood his own daughter, or at least he understood her with greater sympathy. She had a generous nature. She was too young, too inexperienced to know what she was doing when she took in hand the disposal of her own person in favour of that apparently Piedmontese upstart with his obscure name and his mysteriously acquired fortune. “I only hope the fortune is there,” thought Sir Charles with grim scepticism. But as to that there could be no doubt, judging from the further letters he received from his old friend. After a short but brilliant period of London life the upstart had carried Adele off to France. He had bought an estate in Piedmont, which was his native country, and another with a splendid house, near Paris. Sir Charles was not surprised to hear a little later that the Marquise and the Marquis had also returned to France. The time of persecution was over; most of the great royalist families were returning, unreconciled in sentiment if wavering in their purposes. That his old friend should ever be dazzled by imperial grandeurs Sir Charles could not believe. Though he had abandoned his daughter to an upstart, he was too good a royalist to abandon his principles, for which certainly he would have died if that had been of any use. But he had returned to France. Most of his exiled friends had returned too, and Sir Charles understood very well that the Marquis and his wife wanted to be somewhere near their daughter. This departure closed a long chapter in his life, and afterwards Sir Charles hardly ever mentioned his French friends. The only positive thing which Henrietta knew was that Adele d’Armand had married an upstart and had returned to France. She had communicated that knowledge to her brother, who had stared with evident surprise but had made no comment. Living away from home at school and afterwards in Cambridge, his father’s French friends had remained for him as shadowy figures on the shifting background of a very poignant, very real, and intense drama of contemporary history, dominated by one enormously vital and in its greatness immensely mysterious individuality — the only man of his time.
Cosmo Latham at the threshold of life had adopted neither of the contrasted views of Napoleon Emperor entertained by his contemporaries. For him as for his father before him, the world offered a scene of conflicting emotions in which facts appraised by reason preserved a mysterious complexity and a dual character. One evening during an artless discussion with young men of his own age, it had occurred to him to say that Bonaparte seemed to be the only man amongst a lot of old scarecrows. “Look how he knocks them over,” he had explained. A moment of silence followed. Then a voice objected:
“Then perhaps he is not so great as some of you try to make him out.”
“I didn’t mean that exactly,” said Cosmo in a sobered tone. “Nobody can admire that man more than I do. Perhaps the world may be none the worse for a scarecrow here and there left on the borders of what is right or just. I only wished to express my sense of the moving force in his genius.”
“What does he stand for?” asked the same voice.
Cosmo shook his head. “Many things, and some of them too obvious to mention. But I can’t help thinking that there are some which we cannot see yet.”
“And some of them that are dead already,” retorted his interlocutor. “They died in his very hands. But there is one thing for which he stands and that will never die. You seem to have forgotten it. It is the spirit of hostility to this nation; to what we in this room, with our different views and opinions, stand for in the last instance.”
“Oh, that!” said Cosmo confidently. “What we stand for isn’t an old scarecrow. Great as he is he will never knock that over. His arm is not long enough, however far his thoughts may go. He has got to work with common men.”
“I don’t know what you mean. What else are we? I believe you admire him.”
“I do,” confessed Cosmo sturdily.
This did not prevent him from joining the army in Spain before the year was out, and that without asking for Sir Charles’s approval. Sir Charles condemned severely the policy of using the forces of the Crown in the Peninsula. He did not like the ministry of the day, and he had a strong prejudice against all the W7ellesleys to whose aggrandizement this whole policy seemed effected. But when at the end of a year and a half, after the final victory of Toulouse, his son appeared in Yorkshire, the two made up for the past coolness by shaking hands warmly for nearly a whole minute. Cosmo really had done very little campaigning and soon declared to his father the wish to leave the army. There would be no more fighting for years and years, he argued, and though he did not dislike fighting in a good cause, he had no taste for mere soldiering. He wanted to see something of the world which had been closed to us for so long. Sir Charles, ageing and dignified, leaned on his stick on the long terrace.
“All the world was never closed to us,” he said.
“I wasn’t thinking of the East, sir,” explained Cosmo. “I heard some people talk about its mystery, but I think Europe is mysterious enough just now, and even more interesting.”
Sir Charles nodded his bare gray head in the chill evening breeze.
“France, Germany,” he murmured.
Cosmo thought that he would prefer to see something of Italy first. He would go north afterwards.
“Through Vienna, I suppose,” suggested Sir Charles with an impassive face.
“I don’t think so, sir,” said Cosmo frankly. “I don’t care much for the work which is going on there and perhaps still less for the men who are putting their hands to it.”
This time Sir Charles’s slow nod expressed complete agreement. He too had no liking for the work that was about to begin there. But no objection could be raised against Italy. He had known Italy well thirty or more years ago, but it must have been changed out of his knowledge. He remained silent, gazing at the wide landscape of blue wooded rises and dark hollows under the gorgeous colours of the sunset. They began to die out.
“You may travel far before you see anything like this,” he observed to his son. “And don’t be in a hurry to leave us. You have only just come home. Remember I am well over sixty.”
Cosmo was quite ready to surrender himself to the peace of his Yorkshire home, so different from the strenuous atmosphere of the last campaign in the South of France. Autumn was well advanced before he fixed the day for his departure. On his last day at home Sir Charles addressed him with perfect calmness.
“When you pass into Italy you must not fail to see my old friend the Marquis d’Armand. The French King has appointed him as ambassador in Turin. It’s a sign of high favour, I believe. He will be either in Turin or Genoa. . . .” Sir Charles paused, then after a perfectly audible sigh added with an effort: “The Marquise is dead. I knew her in her youth. She was a marvellous woman. . . .” Sir Charles checked himself, and then with another effort, “But the daughter of my old friend is I believe with her father now, a married daughter, the Countess of Montevesso.”
“You mean little Adele, sir,” said Cosmo, with interest, but on Sir Charles’s face there passed a distinct shade of distress.
“Oh, you remember the child,” he said, and his tone was tender but it changed to contempt as he went on. “I don’t know whether the fellow, I mean the man she married, is staying with them or whether they are living with him, or whether ... I kn
ow nothing!”
The word “upstart,” heard many years ago from his sister Henrietta, crossed Cosmo’s mind. He thought to himself, “There is something wrong there,” and to his father he said, “I will be able to tell you all about it.”
“I don’t want to know,” Sir Charles replied with a surprising solemnity of tone and manner which hid some deeper feeling. “But give the Marquis my love and tell him that when he gets tired of all his grandeurs he may remember that there is a large place for him in this house as long as I live.”
Late that evening Cosmo, saying good-bye to his sister, took her in his arms, kissed her forehead, and holding her out at arm’s length said:
“You have grown into a charming girl, Henrietta.”
“I am glad you think so,” she said. “Alas, I am too dark. I can never be as charming as Adele must have been at my age. You seem to have forgotten her.”
“Oh no,” protested Cosmo carelessly. “A marvel of fairness, wasn’t she? I remember you telling me years ago that she married an upstart.”
“That was Father’s expression. You know what that means, Cosmo.”
“Ido know what it means, exactly,” he said, laughing. “But from what Father said this afternoon it seems as if he were a rather nasty upstart. What made Adele do it?”
“I am awed,” confessed Henrietta. “I don’t know what made her do it. I was never told. Father never talked much about the D’Armands afterwards. I was with him in the yellow drawing room the evening he got the letter from the Marquis. After he read it he said something very extraordinary. You know it’s full nine years ago and I was yet a child, yet I could not have dreamed it. I heard it distinctly. He dropped his hands and said, ‘Austerlitz has done it/ What could he have meant?”
“It would be hard to guess the connection,” said Cosmo, smiling at his sister’s puzzled face. “Father must have been thinking of something else.”
“Father was thinking of nothing else for days,” affirmed Henrietta positively.
“You must have been a very observant child,” remarked her brother. “But I believe you were always a clever girl, Henrietta. Well, I am going to see Adele.”
“Oh yes, you start in the morning to travel ever so far and for ever so long,” said Miss Latham enviously. “Oh Cosmo, you are going to write to me — lots?”
He looked at her appreciatively and gave her another brotherly hug.
“Certainly I will write, whole reams,” he said.
IV
On his way from the harbour to the upper part of the town where his inn was situated Cosmo Latham met very few people. He had to pass through a sort of covered way; its arch yawned in front of him very black with only a feeble glimmer of a light in its depths. It did not occur to him that it was a place where one could very well be knocked on the head by evil-intentioned men if there were any prowling about in that early part of the evening, for it was early yet, though the last gleams of sunset had gone out completely off the earth and out of the sky. On issuing from the dark passage a maze of narrow streets presented itself to his choice, but he knew that as long as he kept walking uphill he could not fail to reach the middle of the town. Projecting at long intervals from the continuous mass of thick walls, wrought-iron arms held lanterns containing dim gleams of light. The enormous doors of the lofty gateways he passed were closed, and the only sound he could hear was that of his own deliberate footsteps. At a wider spot where several of those lanes met he stopped, and looking about him asked himself whether all those enormous and palatial houses were empty, or whether it was the thickness of walls that killed all the signs of life within; for as to the population being already asleep he could not believe it for a moment. All at once he caught sight of a muffled feminine form. In the heavy shadow she seemed to emerge out of one wall and gliding on seemed to disappear into another. It was un- doubtedly a woman. Cosmo was startled by this noiseless apparition and had a momentary feeling of being lost in an enchanted city. Presently the enchanted silence was broken by the increasing sound of an iron-shod stick tapping the flagstones, till there walked out of one of the dark and tortuous lanes a man who by his rolling gait, general outline, and the characteristic shape of the hat, Cosmo could not doubt, was a seaman belonging to the English man-of-war in the harbour. The tapping of his stick ceased suddenly and Cosmo hailed him in English, asking for the way.
The sturdy figure in the tarpaulin hat put its cudgel under its arm and answered him in a deep pleasant voice. Yes, he knew the inn. He was just coming from there. If His Honour followed the street before him he would come to a large open space and His Honour’s inn would be across the square. In the deep shadows Cosmo could make out of the seaman’s face nothing but the bushy whiskers and the gleam of the eyes. He was pleased at meeting the very day he had reached the Mediterranean shore (he had come down to Genoa from Turin) such a fine specimen of a man-of-war’s man. He thanked him for the direction and the sailor, touching his hat, went off at his slightly rolling gait. Cosmo observed that he took a turning very near the spot where the muffled woman had a moment before vanished from his sight. It was a very dark and a very narrow passage between two towering buildings. Cosmo, continuing on his way, arrived at a broad thoroughfare badly lighted but full of people. He knew where he was then. In a very few moments he found himself at the door of his inn in a great square which in comparison with the rest of the town might have been said to blaze with lights.
Under an iron lantern swung above a flight of three broad steps, Cosmo recognized his servant gazing into the square with a worried expression which changed at once into one of relief on perceiving his master. He touched his cap and followed Cosmo into a large hall with several doors opening into it and furnished with many wooden chairs and tables. At one of them bearing four candlesticks several British naval officers sat talking and laughing in subdued tones. A compactly built clean-shaven person with slightly sunken cheeks, wearing black breeches and a maroon waistcoat with sleeves, but displaying a very elaborate frill to his white shirt, stood in the middle of the floor, glancing about with vigilance, and bowed hurriedly to his latest client. Cosmo returned the greeting of Signor Cantelucci, who, snatching up the nearest candlestick, began to ascend a broad stone staircase with an air of performing a solemn duty. Cosmo followed him, and Cosmo’s servant followed his master. They went up and up. At every flight broad archways gave a view of dark perspective in which nothing but a few drops of dim fire were forlornly visible. At last Signor Cantelucci threw open a door on a landing and bowing again:
“See, milord! There is a fire. I know the customs and habits of the English.”
Cosmo stepped into a large and lofty room where in the play of bright flames under a heavy and tall mantelpiece the shadows seemed very much disturbed by his entrance. Cosmo approached the blaze with satisfaction.
“I had enough trouble to get them to light it,” remarked the valet in a resentful tone. “If it hadn’t been for a jack-tar with big whiskers I found down in the hall it wouldn’t be done yet. He came up from the ship with one of these sea officers downstairs. He drove the fellows with the wood in fine style up here for me. He knows the people here. He cursed them each separately by their Christian names, and then had a glass of wine in the kitchen with me.”
Meantime Signor Cantelucci, wearing the aspect of a deaf man, had lighted, on two separate tables, two clusters of candles which drove the restless gloom of the large apartment half way up to the ceiling, and retired with noiseless footsteps. He stopped in the doorway to cast a keen glance at the master and the man standing by the fire. Those two turned their heads only at the sound of the closing door.
“I couldn’t think what became of you, sir. I was getting quite worried about you. You disappeared without saying anything to me.”
“I went for a walk down to the sea,” said Cosmo while the man moved off to where several cowhide trunks were ranged against the wall. “I like to take a look round on arriving at a new place.”
; “Yes, sir; but when it got dark I wondered.”
“I tarried on a tower to watch the sunset,” murmured Cosmo.
“I have been doing some unpacking,” said the servant, “but not knowing how long you mean to stay »
“It may be a long stay.”
“Then I will go on, sir; that is if you are going to keep this room.”
“Yes. The room will do, Spire. It’s big enough.”
Spire took up one of the two candelabras and retired into the neighbourhood of a sort of state bed heavily draped at the other end of the room. There, throwing open the trunks and the doors of closets, he busied himself systematically, without noise, till he heard the quiet voice of his young master.
“Spire.”
“Yes, sir,” he answered, standing still with a pile of shirts on his arm.
‘‘Is this inn very full?”
“Yes, very,” said Spire. “The whole town is full of travellers and people from the country. A lot of our nobility and gentry are passing this way.”
He deposited the shirts on a shelf in the depths of the wall and turned round again.
“Have you heard any names, Spire?”
Spire stooped over a trunk and lifted up from it carefully a lot of white neckcloths folded neatly one within the other.
“I haven’t had much time yet, sir. I heard a few.”
He laid down the neckcloths by the side of the shirts while Cosmo, with his elbow on the mantelpiece, asked down the whole length of the room:
“Anybody I know?”
“Not in this place, sir. There is generally a party of officers from the man-of-war staying here. They come and go. I have seen some Italian gentlemen in square-cut coats and powdered hair. Very old-fashioned, sir. There are some Austrians too, I think; but I haven’t seen any ladies. ... I am afraid, sir, this isn’t the right sort of inn. There is another about a hundred yards from here on the other side of the square.”
“I don’t want to meet anybody I know,” said Cosmo Latham in a low voice.
Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) Page 494