Gerald Fitzgerald: The Chevalier Part 50

From the window where they stood, they could mark a tall, commanding figure moving slowly along the garden walk, and stopping at moments to gather flowers. A thick black veil concealed in some degree her form, but could not altogether hide the graceful motion with which she advanced.

CHAPTER XV. THE PeRE AND THE PRINCESS

Gerald was lying on a couch in his habitual mood of half dreamy consciousness, when the Egyptian entered. Her tall and stately figure, veiled to the very feet, moving with a proud but graceful step, seemed scarcely to arrest his notice for a moment, and his eyes fell again upon a few wild-flowers that lay beside him.

Making a sign to the servant that she would be alone, the Egyptian drew nigh the couch, and stood silently regarding him. After a while, she raised one arm till the hand was extended over his head, and held it thus some minutes. He lifted up his eyes toward her, and then, with a sort of wearied motion, dropped them again, heaved a heavy sigh, and seemed to sink into a sleep.

Touching the centre of his forehead with her forefinger, she stood for some minutes motionless; and then slowly pa.s.sed her hand over his face, and laid it gently on his heart; a slight, scarcely perceptible shudder shook the youth's frame at this instant, and then he was still; so still and so motionless, that he appeared like one dead. She now breathed strongly two or three times over his face, making with her hands a motion, as though sprinkling a fluid over him. As she did so, the youth's lips slightly opened, and something like a faint smile seemed to settle on his features. Bending down she laid her ear close to his lips, like one listening: she waited a few seconds, and then, in a voice that slightly trembled, with a thrill of joyous emotion, she whispered out--

'You have not, then, forgotten, _Gherardi mio_; those happy hours still live within your memory.'

The sleeper's mouth moved without a sound, but she seemed to gather the meaning of the motion: as, after a brief pause, she said: 'And the well under the old myrtle-tree at San Domino: hast forgotten _that_? True enough,' added she, as if replying; 'it seems like an age since we walked that mountain road together; but we will stroll there again, dear brother: nay, start not, thou knowest well why I call thee so. And we will wander along the little stream under the old walls of Ma.s.sa, beneath the orange-trees; and listen to the cicala in the hot noon, and catch glimpses of the blue sea through the olives. Happier days! that they were. No, no, child,' cried she eagerly; 'thou art not of a mould for such an enterprise; besides, they would but entrap thee--there is no honesty in these men. He that we have lost--he that has left us--might have guided you in this difficult path; but there is not another like him. There are plants that only flower once in a whole century, and so with humanity; great genius only visits the earth after long intervals of years. What is it?' broke she in hurriedly; 'thou seest something; tell me of it?' With an intense eagerness she now seemed to drink in something that his silent lips revealed, a sort of impatient anxiety urging her, as she said, 'And then, and then; yes! a wild dreary waste without a tree; but thou knowest not where--and a light in an old tower high up--yes! watching for thee; they have expected thee; go on. Ah!

thou hast arrived there at last; with what honour they receive thee; they fill the hall. No, no, do not let him kneel; thou art right, he is an old, old man. That was a mild cheer, and see how the tears run down his cheeks; they are, indeed, glad to see thee, then. What now,' cried she hurriedly; 'thou wilt not go on, and why? Tell me, then, why, _Gherardi mio_ cried she, in an accent of deep feeling; _is it that peril scares thee? Thou a Prince, and not willing to pay for thy heritage by danger? Ah! true,' broke she in despondingly; _they have made thee but a tool, and they would now make thee a sacrifice. A long pause now ensued, and she sat with his hand pressed between both her own in silence. At length a slight noise startled her; she turned her head, and beheld the Pere Ma.s.soni standing close beside her. She arose at once, and drew the folds of her veil more closely across her features.

'Is your visit over? If so, I would speak with you,' said the Pere.

She bowed her head in a.s.sent, and followed him from the room. Ma.s.soni now led the way to the little tower which formed his study; entering which, he motioned her to a seat, and having locked the door, took a place in front of her.

'What say you of this young man?' said he, coldly and sternly. 'Will he live?'

'He will live,' said she, in a low, soft voice.

'For that you pledge yourself; I mean, your skill and craft!'

'I have none, holy father--I have but that insight into human nature which is open to all; but I can promise, that of his present malady he will not die.'

'How call you his disease?'

'Some would name it atrophy; some low fever; some would say that an old hereditary taint was slowly working its poisonous path through a once vigorous frame.'

'How mean you by that; would you imply madness in his race?'

'There are many disordered in mind whom affluence presents as but capricious,' said she, with a half supercilious accent.

'Be frank with me,' said he boldly, 'and say if you suspect derangement here.'

'Holy father,' replied she, in the calm voice of one appealing to a mature judgment, 'you, who read men's natures, as others do a printed page, well know, that he who is animated strongly by some single sentiment, which infuses itself into every thought, and every action, pervading each moment of his daily life, so as to seem a centre around which all events revolve--that such a man, in the world's esteem, is of less sane mind than he who gives to fortune but a pa.s.sing thought, and makes life a mere game of accident. Between these two opposing states this young man's mind now balances.'

'But cannot balance long,' muttered the Pere to himself, reflecting on her words. 'Will his intellect bear the struggle?' asked he hastily.

'Ay, if not overtaxed.'

'I know your meaning; you have told himself that he is not equal to the task before him; I heard and saw what pa.s.sed between you; I know, too, that you have met before in life; tell me, then, where and how.' There was a frank, intrepid openness in the way he spoke, that seemed to say, 'We must deal freely with each other.'

'Of _me_ you need not to know anything,' said she proudly, as she arose.

'Not if you had not penetrated a great secret of mine,' said Ma.s.soni sternly; 'you cannot deny it--you know who this youth is!'

'I know whom you would make him,' said she, in the same haughty tone.

'What birth and lineage have made him,--not any will of mine.'

'There are miracles too great for even priestcraft, holy father--this is one of them. Nay, I speak not of his birth, it is of the destiny you purpose for him. Is it now, in the midst of the glorious outburst of universal freedom, when men are but awakening out of the long and lethargic dream of slavery, that you would make them to return to it; would you call them to welcome back a race whose badge has been oppression? No, no, your Church is too wise, too far-sighted for such an error; the age of monarchies is over; take counsel from the past, and learn that, henceforth, you must side with the people.'

'So have we ever,' cried the Pere enthusiastically; 'yes, I maintain and will prove it. Stay, you must not part with me so easily. You shall tell me who you are. This weak pretence of Egyptian origin deceives not _me_.'

'You shall know nothing of me,' was the brief reply.

'The Sacred Consulta will not accept this answer.'

'They will get none other, father.'

'Such acts as yours are forbidden by the canon law; be careful how you push me to denounce them.'

'Does the Inquisition still live, then?' asked she superciliously.

'Sorcery is a crime, on the word of Holy Writ, woman; and again I say, beware!'

'This is scarcely grateful, holy father; I came here to render you a service.'

'And you are carrying away a secret, woman,' said the priest angrily.

'This must not be.'

'How would it advantage you, I ask,' said she calmly, 'were I to reveal the whole story of my past life? it would give you no guarantee for the future.'

'It is for _me_ to think of that. I only say, that I must and will know it.'

'These are words of pa.s.sion, holy father, not of that wise forethought for which the world knows and reveres your name. Farewell.'

She waved her hand haughtily, and moved toward the door; but it was locked, and resisted her hand. As she turned to remonstrate, Ma.s.soni was gone! How, and by what exit, she could not guess, since every side of the small tower was covered with books and shelves, that rose from the floor to the ceiling, and except the one by which she entered, no door to be seen. Not a word nor an exclamation escaped her, as she saw herself thus imprisoned; her first care was to examine the windows, which readily opened, but whose great height from the ground made escape impossible. She again tried the lock in various ways, but without success; and then recommenced a close scrutiny of the sides of the tower, through which she was aware there must be some means of exit. So cunningly, however, was this devised, that it evaded all her search, and she sat down at length baffled and weary.

The bright noon faded away into the mellower richness of later day, and the long shadows of solitary trees or broken columns, stretched far across the Campagna, showing that the sun was low. While she yet sat silent and watchful in that lonely tower, her eyes had ranged over the garden beneath, till she knew every bed and pathway. She had watched the Campagna too, till her sight ached with the weary toil; but, except far, far away, long out of reach, no succour appeared in view; and it seemed to her, at times, as though there was something like destiny in this dreary desolation. On that very morning, as she drove from Albano, the fields were filled with labourers, and herds of cattle roved over the great plains, with large troops of mounted followers. What had become then of these? The sudden outburst of a hundred bells, pealing in almost wild confusion now, broke upon the stillness, and seemed to make the very walls vibrate with their din. Louder and louder this grand chorus swelled out, till the sound seemed to rise from earth to heaven, filling s.p.a.ce with their solemn music; and, at length, there pealed out through these the glorious cadences of a rich orchestra, coming nearer and nearer as she listened. A grand procession soon made its appearance, issuing out of one of the city gates, and holding its way across the Campagna. There were banners and gorgeous canopies, splendidly attired figures walked beneath, and the smoke of incense rose around them in the still calm of a summer's evening. It was, then, some festival of the Church, and to this was doubtless owing the silence and desertion which reigned over the Campagna.

With a haughty and disdainful motion of her head, the Egyptian turned away from the sight, and seated herself with her back to the window. The greyish tinge of half light that foretells the coming night, was fast falling, as a slight noise startled her. She turned, and beheld two venerable monks, whose brown hoods and frocks denoted Franciscans, standing beside her.

'You are given into our charge, n.o.ble lady,' said one with a tone of deepest respect. 'Our orders are to give you a safe-conduct.'

'Whither to, venerable brother?' said she calmly.

'To the convent of St. Ursula, beyond the Tiber.'

'It is the prison of the Inquisition?' said she, questioning.

'There is no Inquisition; there are no prisons,' muttered the other monk. 'They who once met chastis.e.m.e.nt are won back now with love and gentleness.'