“No, not Marnier, nor any man. Listen. It is necessary that when once her Highness is rescued we must get so much start as will make pursuit vain. We shall be hampered with a coach, and a coach will travel slowly on the passes of Tyrol. The pursuers will ride horses; they must not come up with us. From Innspruck to Italy, if we have never an accident, will take us at the least four days; it will take our pursuers three. We must have one clear day before her Highness’s evasion is discovered. Now, the chief magistrate of Innspruck visits her Highness’s apartments twice a day, — at ten in the morning and at ten of the night. The Princess must be rescued at night; and if her escape is discovered in the morning she will never reach Italy, she will be behind the bars again.”
“But the Princess’s mother will be left,” said Gaydon. “She can plead that her daughter is ill.”
“The magistrate forces his way into the very bedroom. We must take with us a woman who will lie in her Highness’s bed with the curtains drawn about her and a voice so weak with suffering that she cannot raise it above a whisper, with eyes so tired from sleeplessness she cannot bear a light near them. Help me in this. Name me a woman with the fortitude to stay behind.”
Gaydon shook his head.
“She will certainly be discovered. The part she plays in the escape must certainly be known. She will remain for the captors to punish as they will. I know no woman.”
“Nay,” said Wogan; “you exaggerate her danger. Once the escape is brought to an issue, once her Highness is in Bologna safe, the Emperor cannot wreak vengeance on a woman; it would be too paltry.” And now he made his appeal to Misset.
“No, my friend,” Misset replied. “I know no woman with the fortitude.”
“But you do,” interrupted O’Toole. “So do I. There’s no difficulty whatever in the matter. Mrs. Misset has a maid.”
“Oho!” said Gaydon.
“The maid’s name is Jenny.”
“Aha!” said Wogan.
“She’s a very good friend of mine.”
“O’Toole!” cried Misset, indignantly. “My wife’s maid — a very good friend of yours?”
“Sure she is, and you didn’t know it,” said O’Toole, with a chuckle. “I am the cunning man, after all. She would do a great deal for me would Jenny.”
“But has she courage?” asked Wogan.
“Faith, her father was a French grenadier and her mother a vivandière. It would be a queer thing if she was frightened by a little matter of lying in bed and pretending to be someone else.”
“But can we trust her with the secret?” asked Gaydon.
“No!” exclaimed Misset, and he rose angrily from his chair. “My wife’s maid — O’Toole — O’Toole — my wife’s maid. Did ever one hear the like?”
“My friend,” said O’Toole, quietly, “it seems almost as if you wished to reflect upon Jenny’s character, which would not be right.”
Misset looked angrily at O’Toole, who was not at all disturbed. Then he said, “Well, at all events, she gossips. We cannot take her. She would tell the whole truth of our journey at the first halt.”
“That’s true,” said O’Toole.
Then for the second time that evening he cried, “I have an idea.”
“Well?”
“We’ll not tell her the truth at all. I doubt if she would come if we told it her. Jenny very likely has never heard of her Highness the Princess, and I doubt if she cares a button for the King. Besides, she would never believe but that we were telling her a lie. No. We’ll make up a probable likely sort of story, and then she’ll believe it to be the truth.”
“I have it,” cried Wogan. “We’ll tell her that we are going to abduct an heiress who is dying for love of O’Toole, and whose merciless parents are forcing her into a loveless, despicable marriage with a tottering pantaloon.”
O’Toole brought his hand down upon the arm of the chair.
“There’s the very story,” he cried. “To be sure, you are a great man, Charles. The most probable convincing story that was ever invented! Oh! but you’ll hear Jenny sob with pity for the heiress and Lucius O’Toole when she hears it. It will be a bad day, too, for the merciless parents when they discover Jenny in her Highness’s bed. She stands six feet in her stockings.”
“Six feet!” exclaimed Wogan.
“In her stockings,” returned O’Toole. “Her height is her one vanity. Therefore in her shoes she is six feet four.”
“Well, she must take her heels off and make herself as short as she can.”
“You will have trouble, my friend, to persuade her to that,” said O’Toole.
“Hush!” said Gaydon. He rose and unlocked the door. The doctor was knocking for admission below. Gaydon let him in, and he dressed Wogan’s wounds with an assurance that they were not deep and that a few days’ quiet would restore him.
“I will sleep the night here if I may,” said Wogan, as soon as the doctor had gone. “A blanket and a chair will serve my turn.”
They took him into Gaydon’s bedroom, where three beds were ranged.
“We have slept in the one room and lived together since your message came four days ago,” said Gaydon. “Take your choice of the beds, for there’s not one of us has so much need of a bed as you.”
Wogan drew a long breath of relief.
“Oh! but it’s good to be with you,” he cried suddenly, and caught at Gaydon’s arm. “I shall sleep to-night. How I shall sleep!”
He stretched out his aching limbs between the cool white sheets, and when the lamp was extinguished he called to each of his three friends by name to make sure of their company. O’Toole answered with a grunt on his right, Misset on his left, and Gaydon from the corner of the room.
“But I have wanted you these last three days!” said Wogan. “To-morrow when I tell you the story of them you will know how much I have wanted you.”
They got, however, some inkling of Wogan’s need before the morrow came. In the middle of the night they were wakened by a wild scream and heard Wogan whispering in an agony for help. They lighted a lamp and saw him lying with his hand upon his throat and his eyes starting from his head with horror.
“Quick,” said he, “the hand at my throat! It’s not the letter so much, it’s my life they want.”
“It’s your own hand,” said Gaydon, and taking the hand he found it lifeless. Wogan’s arm in that position had gone to sleep, as the saying is. He had waked suddenly in the dark with the cold pressure at his throat, and in the moment of waking was back again alone in the inn near Augsburg. Wogan indeed needed his friends.
CHAPTER IX
THE NEXT MORNING Wogan was tossing from side to side in a high fever. The fever itself was of no great importance, but it had consequences of a world-wide influence, for it left Wogan weak and tied to his bed; so that it was Gaydon who travelled to Rome and obtained the Pope’s passport. Gaydon consequently saw what otherwise Wogan would have seen; and Gaydon, the cautious, prudent Gaydon, was careful to avoid making an inopportune discovery, whereas Wogan would never have rested until he had made it.
Gaydon stayed in Rome a week, lying snug and close in a lodging only one street removed from that house upon the Tiber where his King lived. Secrets had a way of leaking out, and Gaydon was determined that this one should not through any inattention of his. He therefore never went abroad until dark, and even then kept aloof from the house which overlooked the Tiber. His business he conducted through his servant, sending him to and fro between Edgar, the secretary, and himself. One audience of his King alone he asked, and that was to be granted him on the day of his departure from Rome.
Thus the time hung very heavily upon him. From daybreak to dusk he was cooped within a little insignificant room which looked out upon a little insignificant street. His window, however, though it promised little diversion, was his one resource. Gaydon was a man of observation, and found a pleasure in guessing at this and that person’s business from his appearance, his dress, and whether he went fast
or slow. So he sat steadily at his window, and after a day or two had passed he began to be puzzled. The moment he was puzzled he became interested. On the second day he drew his chair a little distance back from the window and watched. On the third day he drew his chair close to the window, but at the side and against the wall. In this way he could see everything that happened and everyone who passed, and yet remain himself unobserved.
Almost opposite to his window stood a small mean house fallen into neglect and disrepair. The windows were curtained with dust, many of the panes were broken, the shutters hung upon broken hinges, the paint was peeling from the door. The house had the most melancholy aspect of long disuse. It seemed to belong to no one and to be crumbling pitifully to ruin like an aged man who has no friends. Yet this house had its uses, which Gaydon could not but perceive were of a secret kind. On the very first day that Gaydon sat at his window a man, who seemed from his dress to be of a high consideration, came sauntering along that sordid thoroughfare, where he seemed entirely out of place, like a butterfly on the high seas. To Gaydon’s surprise he stopped at the door, gave a cautious look round, and rapped quickly with his stick. At once the door of that uninhabited house was opened. The man entered, the door was closed upon him, and a good hour by Gaydon’s watch elapsed before it was opened again to let him out. In the afternoon another man came and was admitted with the same secrecy. Both men had worn their hats drawn down upon their foreheads, and whereas one of them held a muffler to his face, the other had thrust his chin within the folds of his cravat. Gaydon had not been able to see the face of either. After nightfall he remarked that such visits became more frequent. Moreover, they were repeated on the next day and the next. Gaydon watched, but never got any nearer to a solution of the mystery. At the end of the sixth day he was more puzzled and interested than ever, for closely as he had watched he had not seen the face of any man who had passed in and out of that door.
But he was to see a face that night.
At nine o’clock a messenger from Edgar, the secretary, brought him a package which contained a letter and the passport for these six days delayed. The letter warned him that Edgar himself would come to fetch him in the morning to his audience with James. The passport gave authority to a Flemish nobleman, the Count of Cernes, to make a pilgrimage to Loretto with his wife and family. The name of Warner had served its turn and could no longer be employed.
As soon as the messenger had gone, Gaydon destroyed Edgar’s letter, put the passport safely away in his breast, and since he had not left his room that day, put on his hat. Being a prudent man with a turn for economy, he also extinguished his lamp. He had also a liking for fresh air, so he opened the window, and at the same moment the door of the house opposite was opened. A tall burly man with a lantern in his hand stepped out into the street; he was followed by a slight man of a short stature. Both men were wrapped in their cloaks, but the shorter one tripped on a break in the road and his cloak fell apart. His companion turned at once and held his lantern aloft. Just for a second the light therefore flashed upon a face, and Gaydon at his dark window caught a glimpse of it. The face was the face of his King.
Gaydon was more than ever puzzled. He had only seen the face for an instant; moreover, he was looking down upon it, so that he might be mistaken. He felt, however, that he was not, and he began to wonder at the business that could take his King to this mysterious house. But there was one thing of which he was sure amidst all his doubts, Rome was not the safest city in the world for a man to walk about at nights. His King would be none the worse off for a second guardian who would follow near enough to give help and far enough for discretion. Gaydon went down his stairs into the street. The lantern twinkled ahead; Gaydon followed it until it stopped before a great house which had lights burning here and there in the windows. The smaller man mounted the steps and was admitted; his big companion with the lantern remained outside.
Gaydon, wishing to make sure of his conjectures one way or the other, walked quickly past him and stole a glance sideways at his face. But the man with the lantern looked at Gaydon at the same moment. Their eyes met, and the lantern was immediately held aloft.
“It is Major Gaydon.”
Gaydon had to make the best of the business. He bowed.
“Mr. Whittington, I think.”
“Sir,” said Whittington, politely, “I am honoured by your memory. For myself, I never forget a face though I see it but for a moment between the light and the dark, but I do not expect the like from my acquaintances. We did meet, I believe, in Paris? You are of Dillon’s regiment?”
“And on leave in Rome,” said Gaydon, a trifle hastily.
“On leave?” said Whittington, idly. “Well, so far as towns go, Rome is as good as another, though, to tell the truth, I find them all quite unendurable. Would I were on leave! but I am pinned here, a watchman with a lantern. I do but lack a rattle, though, to be sure, I could not spring it. We are secret to-night, major. Do you know what house this is?”
“No,” replied Gaydon. “But I am waited for and will bid you good-night.”
He had a thought that the Chevalier, since he would be secret, had chosen his watchman rather ill. He had no wish to pry, and so was for returning to his lodging; but that careless, imprudent man, Whittington, would not lose a companion so easily. He caught Gaydon by the arm.
“Well, it is the house of Maria Vittoria, Mademoiselle de Caprara, the heiress of Bologna, who has only this evening come to Rome. And so no later than this evening I am playing link-boy, appointed by letters patent, one might say. But what will you? Youth is youth, whether in a ploughboy or a — But my tongue needs a gag. Another word, and I had said too much. Well, since you will be going, good-night. We shall meet, no doubt, in a certain house that overlooks the Tiber.”
“Hardly,” said Gaydon, “since I leave Rome to-morrow.”
“Indeed? You leave Rome to-morrow?” said Whittington. “I would I were as fortunate,” and he jerked his thumb dolefully towards the Caprara Palace. Gaydon hesitated for a moment, considering whether or not he should ask Whittington to be silent upon their meeting. But he determined the man was too incautious in his speech. If he begged him not to mention Gaydon’s presence in Rome, he would remember it the more surely, and if nothing was said he might forget it. Gaydon wished him good-night and went back to his lodging, walking rather moodily. Whittington looked after him and chuckled.
Meanwhile, in a room of the house two people sat, — one the slight, graceful man who had accompanied Whittington and whom Gaydon had correctly guessed to be his King, the other, Maria Vittoria de Caprara. The Chevalier de St. George was speaking awkwardly with a voice which broke. Maria listened with a face set and drawn. She was a girl both in features and complexion of a remarkable purity. Of colour, but for her red lips, she had none. Her hair was black, her face of a clear pallor which her hair made yet more pale. Her eyes matched her hair, and were so bright and quick a starry spark seemed to glow in the depths of them. She was a poet’s simile for night.
The Chevalier ended and sat with his eyes turned away. Maria Vittoria did not change her attitude, nor for a while did she answer, but the tears gathered in her eyes and welled over. They ran down her cheeks; she did not wipe them away, she did not sob, nor did her face alter from its fixity. She did not even close her eyes. Only the tears rained down so silently that the Prince was not aware of them. He had even a thought as he sat with his head averted that she might have shown a trifle more of distress, and it was almost with a reproach upon his lips that he turned to her. Never was a man more glad that he had left a word unspoken. This silent grief of tears cut him to the heart.
“Maria!” he cried, and moved towards her. She made no gesture to repel him, she did not move, but she spoke in a whisper.
“His Holiness the Pope had consented to our marriage. What would I not have done for you?”
The Chevalier stooped over her and took her hand. The hand remained inert in his.
�
��Maria!”
“Would that I were poor! Would that I were powerless! But I am rich — so rich. I could have done so much. I am alone — so much alone. What would I not have done for you?”
“Maria!”
His voice choked upon the word, his lips touched her hair, and she shivered from head to foot. Then her hand tightened fast upon his; she drew him down almost fiercely until he sank upon his knees by her side; she put an arm about his shoulder and held him to her breast.
“But you love me,” she said quickly. “Tell me so! Say, ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ Oh that we both could die, you saying it, I hearing it, — die to-night, like this, my arm about you, your face against my heart! My lord, my lord!” and then she flung him from her, holding him at arm’s length. “Say it with your eyes on mine! I can see though the tears fall. I shall never hear the words again after to-night. Do not stint me of them; let them flow just as these tears flow. They will leave no more trace than do my tears.”
“Maria, I love you,” said the Chevalier. “How I do love you!” He took her hands from his shoulders and pressed his forehead upon them. She leaned forward, and in a voice so low it seemed her heart was whispering, not her mouth, she made her prayer.
“Say that you have no room in your thoughts except for me. Say that you have no scrap of love—” He dropped her hands and drew away; she caught him to her. “No, no! Say that you have no scrap of love to toss to the woman there in Innspruck!”
“Maria!” he exclaimed.
“Hush!” said she, with a woful smile. “To-morrow you shall love her; to-morrow I will not ask your eyes to dwell on mine or your hand to quiver as it touches mine. But to-night love no one but me.”
For answer he kissed her on the lips. She took his head between her hands and gave the kiss back, gently as though her lips feared to bruise his, slowly as though this one moment must content her for all her life. Then she looked at him for a little, and with a childish movement that was infinitely sad she laid his face side by side with hers so that his cheek touched hers.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 343