Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel

by Charles James Lever

  CHAPTER XXII. 'IL PASTORE'

  After the first few moments of astonishment which followed Gerald'sawaking to see himself in a strange place, with strange and novelobjects around him, his first thought was to return to Orvieto. Hepictured to himself all the alarm his absence must have occasioned,and imagined how each in turn would have treated the event. The angryastonishment of the Cardinal, ready to adopt any solution of the mysterythat implied intrigue and plot: the haughty indignation of the Contessa,that he had dared to take any step unauthorised by herself: the hundredrumours in the household: the questionings as to who had saddled andprepared his horse, what road he had taken, and so on.

  There are natures--there are even families--in which a strongpredominating trait exists to do or say whatever creates astonishmentor attracts wonder. It is a distinct form of egotism, and was remarkablyconspicuous in the House of Stuart. They all liked much to be objects ofmarvel and surprise; to have men lost in wonderment over their wordsor their motives, or speculating with ingenuity as to their secretintentions.

  To Gerald himself this taste was a perfect passion, and he loved tosee couriers arriving and departing in hot haste, while groups of eagerloungers questioned and guessed at what it all might mean. He liked tofancy the important place he thus occupied in men's thoughts, and wouldany day have been willing to encounter an actual danger could heonly have assured himself of it being widely discussed. This dramatictendency was strongly marked in the character of Charles Edward;still the actual events of his life were in themselves sufficientlyadventurous to display it less prominently; but he ever delighted inthese stage effects which strike by situation or a picturesque costume.Gerald inherited this trait, and experienced intense delight in itsexercise. He fancied his Eminence the Cardinal, balancing between fearand anger, sending out emissaries on every side, asking counsels here,rejecting suggestions there, while Guglia, too haughty to confessastonishment, would be lost in conjecturing what had become of him.

  If it should be wondered at that Gerald felt no more tender sentimenttoward the lovely Countess with whom he had been closely domesticated,and who enjoyed so fully all the confidence of his fortunes, let us ownfrankly that it was not his fault; he did his very best to be in lovewith her, and for that very reason, perhaps, he failed! Not all thedesire in the world will enable a man to catch a contagious malady, norall his precautions suffice to escape it; so is it with love. Gerald sawin her one who would have adorned the highest station: she was eminentlybeautiful, and with a grace that was a fascination; she possessed toperfection those arts which charm in society, and had that blending ofreadiness in repartee with a sort of southern languor that makes a rareelement of captivation; and yet with all this he did not fall in love.And the reason was this: Guglia had none of those sudden caprices, thosemoods of exorbitant hope or dark despondency, those violent alternationsof temperament which suggest quick resolve, or quicker action. Shewas calm--too calm; reflective--too reflective--and, as _he_ thought,infinitely too much occupied in preparing for eventualities either toenjoy the present or boldly to dare the future.

  These traits of hers, too, wounded his self-love; they made him feelinferior to her; and he smarted under counsels and advice which camewith the authority of dictations. A casual wound to his pride also aidedthis impression; it was an accidental word he had once overheard, asshe was walking one evening with the Cardinal in an alley of the gardenadjoining one in which he was standing. They had been discussing hisfortunes and his character; and she remarked, with a certain bitternessin her tone, as if contradicting some hopeful anticipation of her uncle.'_Non, caro zio non, E piu capace de farsi Prete_.' 'No, my dear uncle:more likely is he to turn priest!' Strange and significant words fromone who held that order in depreciation, and could even dare to avowthis estimate to one of themselves.

  These words never left Gerald's mind; they flashed across him as heawoke of a morning; they broke upon him as he lay thinking in his bed;they mingled with his speculations on the future; and, more fatallystill, came to his memory at moments when, seated at his side, sheinspired hopes of a glorious destiny. Again and again did he askhimself, how was it that esteeming him thus she was willing to joinher fate to his? And the only answer was one still more wounding to hisself-love.

  What if she should have totally misconstrued this weak, uncertainnature? What if she should have misinterpreted this character so full ofindecision? How, if this would-be priest were to turn out one recklessin daring, and indifferent to all consequences? How, if the next tidingsshe were to hear of him were from some far-away country: some scene thatmight show how cheaply he held the tinsel decoration of a mock station,the miserable pretension to a rank he was never to enjoy! 'At allevents,' said he, 'they shall have matter for their speculations,and shall not see me for some days to come!' And with thisdetermination--rather like the resolve of a pettish child than of agrown man--he sauntered into the mill, where the miller was now busilyengaged.

  'Your master's despatches have nothing very pressing in them, I see,'said the miller; I scarcely thought to have met you this morning.'

  'I have ample time at my disposal,' said Gerald; 'so that I can reachSt. Stephano some day within the coming week I shall be soon enough;insomuch that I have half a mind to gratify the curiosity you haveexcited in me and make a short ramble through the mountains yonder.'

  'Nay, nay, leave that track to your left hand; follow the road by thehead of Lago Scuro, and don't run your neck into peril for nothing.'

  'But you told me last night this Pastore was never cruel when it servedno purpose: that he was far readier to help a poor man than to riflehim. What should I fear then?'

  'That he might look into the palm of your hand and see that it was onenot much used to daily labour. If he but thought you a spy, _per Bacco!_I 'd not be in your shoes for all the jewels in the Vatican!'

  'Couldn't you manage to disguise me as one of your own people, and giveme some sort of a letter for him?'

  'By the way, there is a letter for him these four days back,' said themiller suddenly;' and I have had no opportunity of sending it on.'

  'There, then, is the very thing we want,' broke in Gerald.

  'Here's the letter here,' said the miller, taking the document from theleaves of a book. 'It comes from the Ursuline Convent, on the other sideof the Tiber. Strange enough that the Pastore should have correspondencewith the holy ladies of St. Ursula. It was a monk, too, that fetched ithere, and his courage failed him to go any farther. Indeed, I believethat picture of the Capri pass decided him on turning back.'

  'The greater fool he! He ought to have known that the Pastore was notlikely to requite a good office with cruelty,' said Gerald.

  'As to that, it would depend on what humour he was in at the moment.'Then, after a pause, he added, 'If you like to risk the chance offinding him in a good temper, you have only to borrow a coat and capfrom one of my boys, and take that letter. You will tell him that it wasI sent you on with it, and he 'll ask no further question.'

  'And these hands of mine that you said would betray me,' said Gerald,'what shall I do to disguise them?'

  * Some fresh walnuts will soon colour them, and your face too; andnow let me direct you as to the road you 'll take.' And so the miller,drawing Gerald to the window, began to describe the route, pointing outvarious prominent objects as landmarks.

  Having acquainted himself, so far as he could, with all the details ofthe way, Gerald proceeded to costume himself for the expedition, and socompletely had the dye on his skin and the change of dress metamorphosedhim, that for a second or two the miller did not recognise him.

  With a touch of humour that he rarely gave way to, Gerald saluted himin rustic fashion, while in a strong peasant accent he asked if hishonour had no further commands for him.

  The miller laughed good-humouredly, and shook his hand in adieu. 'I morethan suspect the black mare will be mine,' muttered he, as he lookedafter Gerald till he disappeared in the distance.

  For miles
and miles Gerald walked on without paying any attention tothe scene around him; the spirit of adventure occupied his mind to theexclusion of all else, and he not only imagined every possible issue tothe present adventure, but fancied what his sensations might have beenwere it his fortune to have been launched upon the great enterprise towhich his hopes so long had tended. 'Oh, if this were but Scotland orIreland,' thought he; 'if my foot now only trod the soil that I couldcall my own; if I could but realise to myself once, even once, theglorious sense of being recognised as one of that race that once ruledthere as sovereigns; if I could but taste the intoxication of thatgenerous devotion that through all his calamities once cheered myfather, I 'd think the moment had repaid me for all the cares of life!And now it has all passed away like a dream. As Purcell said, "They wantus no longer!" "We belong to the past, and have no significance in thepresent! Strange, sad, mysterious destiny!" There was a humiliation inthat feeling that gave him intense pain; it was the sense of beingcut off from all sympathy, estranged from the wishes, the hopes, theambition of his fellow-men. Out of an isolation like _that_ it was thatGabriel Riquetti had taught him to believe men achieve their greatestsuccesses. You must first of all feel yourself alone, all alone in life,ere you can experience that liberty that ensures free action.

  This was one of his axioms which he loved to repeat; and whethersuggested by the scene where he had first met that wonderful man, ormerely induced by the course of reflection, many of Mirabeau's earlyteachings and precepts rose to his memory as he journeyed along.

  For some time he had been unconsciously ascending a somewhat steepmountain-path, so deeply imbedded between two lines of thick brushwoodas to intercept all view at either side, when suddenly the way emergedfrom the dense copse and took the mountain side, disappearing at ajutting promontory of rock around which it seemed to pass. As his eyefollowed the track thus far he saw the flutter of what seemed a scarletbanner; but on looking longer discovered it was the gay saddle-cloth ofa mule, from which the rider had apparently dismounted. He had but justtime to mark this much ere the object disappeared beyond the rock.

  Cheered to fancy that some other traveller might chance to be on thesame road with himself, he now hastened his steps. The way, however, waslonger than he had supposed, and on gaining the promontory he descriedthe mule fully two miles away, stealing carefully along over the ruggedbridle-path on the mountain. The object became now a pursuit, and hestrained his eyes to see if by some by-path he could not succeedin gaining on the chase. While thus looking he saw that two figuresfollowed the mule at a little distance, but what they were he could notascertain.

  It was very unlikely that any of the "Pasture's" followers would haveadopted a gear so striking and so easily seen as this bright trapping,and so Gerald at once set the travellers down as some peasants returningto their homes in the Maremma, or on a pilgrimage to some religiousshrine.

  With no small exertion he so far gained upon them as to be able tonote their appearance, and discover that one was a friar in the duskyolive-coloured frock of the Franciscan, and the other a woman, dressedin some conventual costume which he did not recognise. He could also seethat the mule carried a somewhat cumbrous pack, and an amount of baggagerarely the accompaniment of a travelling friar.

  Who has not felt his curiosity stimulated by some mere triflingcircumstance when occurring in a remote spot, which had it happened onthe world's crowded highway would have passed unnoticed. It was thisstrange attendant on these wayfarers that urged Gerald to press on toovertake them. Forgetting the peasant costume which he wore and the partit thus behoved him to pursue, he called out in a tone of half commandfor them to stop till he came up.

  'Halt,' cried he, 'and tell me if this be the way to the Capri Pass!'

  The friar turned hastily, and stood until Gerald approached.

  'You speak like one accustomed to give his orders on these mountains, myson,' said he, in a tone of stern reproof; 'so that even a poor followerof St. Francis is surprised to be thus accosted.'

  By this time Gerald had so far recovered his self-possession as to seehow he had compromised his assumed character, and in a voice of deepsubmission, and with a peasant accent he answered--

  I ask pardon, worthy Fra, but travelling all alone in this wild regionhas so overcome me that I scarcely know what I say, or understand what Ihear.'

  'Whence do you come?' asked the friar rudely. 'From the Mill atOrto-Molino.'

  'And whither are you going?'

  'To St. Stephano after I have delivered a letter that I have here.'

  'To whom is your letter addressed, my son?' said the Fra, in a moregentle voice.

  With difficulty did Gerald repress the sharp reply that was on his lips,and say--

  'It is for one that neither you nor I know much of--Il Pastore.'

  'I know him well,' said the friar boldly; 'and say it without fear ofcontradiction, I am the only one he makes a shrift to--ay, that doeshe, ill as you think of him,' added he, as if answering thehalf-contemptuous smile on Gerald's face. 'Let's see your letter.'

  With an awkward reluctance Gerald drew forth the letter and showed it.

  'Ah!' cried the Fra eagerly, 'he had been looking for that letter thismany a day back; but it comes too late now.'

  As he said this he pressed eagerly forward and whispered to the nun whowas walking at the side of the mule. She looked back hurriedly for aninstant, and then as rapidly turned her head again. They continued nowto converse eagerly for some time, and seemed totally to have forgottenGerald, as he walked on after them; when the Fra turned suddenly roundand said--

  'I 'll take charge of your letter, my son, while you guide our sisterdown to Cheatstone, a little cluster of houses you 'll see at the footof the mountain; and if there be an answer I 'll fetch it to-morrow, eredaybreak.'

  'Nay, Fra, I promised that I would deliver this with my own hands, andI mean to be no worse than my word.' 'You 'll have to be at least lessthan your word,' said the friar, 'for the Pastore would not see you.These are his days of penance and mortification, and I am the only onewho dares to approach him.'

  'I am pledged to deliver this into his own hand,' said Gerald calmly.

  'You may have said many a rash thing in your life, but never a rasherthan that,' said the Fra sternly. 'I tell you again, he 'll not see you.At all events, you 'll have to find the road by your own good wits, andit is a path that has puzzled shrewder heads.'

  With this rude speech, uttered in the rudest way, the Fra moved hastilyon till he overtook his companion, leaving Gerald to follow how hepleased.

  For some time he continued on after the others, vainly straining hiseyes on every side for any signs of a. pathway upward. The way which hehad trod before, with hope to cheer him, became now wearisome and sad.He was sick of his adventure, out of temper with his want of success,and dissatisfied with himself. He at last resolved that he would go nofarther on his track than a certain little olive copse which nestled ina cleft of the mountain, reaching which he would repose for a while, andthen retrace his steps.

  The sun was strong and the heat oppressive, insomuch that when at lengthhe gained the copse, he was well pleased to throw himself down beneaththe shade and take his rest. He had already forgotten the Franciscan andhis fellow-traveller, and was deeply musing over his own fortunes, whensuddenly he heard their voices, and, creeping noiselessly to the edgeof the cliff, he saw them seated at a little well, beside which theirbreakfast was spread out. The woman had thrown back her hood and showednow a beautiful head, whose long black hair fell heavily on eithershoulder, while her taper fingers, covered with many a splendid ring,plainly showed that her conventual dress was only a disguise. Nor wasthis the only sign that surprised him, for now he saw that a short brassblunderbuss, the regular weapon of the brigand, lay close to the friar'shand.

  'It is the Pastore himself,' thought Gerald, as he gazed down at thebrawny limbs and well-knit proportions of the stranger. 'How couldI ever have mistaken him for a friar?' The more he thought ov
er thefriar's manner--his eagerness to get the letter, and the carelessindifference afterward with which he suffered Gerald to leave him--themore he felt assured that this was no other than the celebrated chiefhimself.

  'At least, I have succeeded in seeing him, thought he; 'and why shouldI not go boldly forward and speak to him? 'The resolve was no soonerformed than he proceeded to execute it. In a moment after he haddescended the cliff, and, making his way through the brushwood, stoodbefore them.

  'So, then, you _will_ track me, youngster,' said the friar angrily.'Once--twice--to-day the road was open to you to seek your own way, andyou would not take it. How bent you must be to do yourself an ill turn!'

  'You are "II Pastore,"' said Gerald boldly.

  'And thou art _Gherardi mio!'_ cried the woman, as she rushed wildlytoward him and clasped him in her arms. It was Marietta herself whospoke.

  How tell the glorious outburst of Gerald's joy, as he overpoweredher with questions--whence she came, whither going, how and why, andwherefore there? Was she really and truly the Egyptian who had visitedhim on his sick-bed, and not a mere vision?

  'And was it from thy lips, then,' cried he, 'that I learned that allthis ambition was but a snare--that I was destined to be only the toolof crafty men, deep in their own designss? At times the revelationseemed to come from thee, and at times a burst of heart-felt conviction.Which was it, Marietta _mia_?'

  'Who is he?' cried the Fra eagerly. 'This surely cannot be--ay, butit is the Prince--the son of my old lord and master!' and he knelt andkissed Gerald's hands over and over again. 'He knows me not--at least asI once was--the friend, the boon companion of a king's son,' continuedhe passionately.

  'Were you, then, one of his old Scottish followers--one of thosefaithful men who clung so devotedly to his cause?'

  'No, no; but I was one that he loved better than them all.'

  'And you, Marietta, dearest, how is it that I see you here?' criedGerald, again turning to her.

  'I came many a weary mile after you, _mio caro_,' said she. 'I knew ofthese men's designs long, long ago, and I determined to save you fromthem. I believed I could have secured Massoni as your friend; but I waswrong--the Jesuit was stronger in him than the man. I remained at St.Ursula months after I might have left it, just to see the Pere--to watchhis game--and, if possible, attach him to me; but I failed--utterlyfailed. He was true to his cause, and would not accept my love. Morefortunate, however, was I with the Cardinal--even, perhaps, that Iwished or cared for--His Eminence was my slave. There was not a secretof the Vatican I did not learn. I read the correspondence with theSpanish minister, Arazara; I suggested the replies; I heard the wholeplan for your expedition--how you were to be secretly married to theCountess Ridolfi, and the marriage only avowed when your success wasassured.'

  She paused, and the Fra broke in--'Tell all--everything--the mine hasexploded now, and none are the worse for it Go on with your confession.'

  'It is of the other alternative he speaks,' said she, dropping her voiceto a faint whisper. 'Had you failed----'

  'And then--what then, Marietta?'

  'You were in that case to have been betrayed into the hands of theEnglish, or poisoned! The scheme to accomplish the first was alreadyplanned. I have here the letters which are to accredit me to see andconverse with Sir Horace Mann, at Florence; and which I mean to delivertoo. I am resolved to trace out to the very last who are the accomplicesin this guilt. The world is well edified by tales of mob violence andbloodshed. Even genius seeks its inspiration in inveighing againstpopular excesses. It is time to show that crimes lurk under purpleas well as rags, and that the deadliest vengeances are often devisedbeneath gilded ceilings. We knew of one once, Gherardi, who could havetold men these truths--one who carried from this world with him the"funeral trappings of the monarchy" and the wail of the people.

  'Of whom did she speak?' asked the friar.

  'Of Gabriel Riquetti, whom she loved,' and the last words were whisperedby Gerald in her ear.

  Marietta held down her head, and as she covered her face with her handsmuttered--'But who loved not her!'

  'Gabriel Riquetti,' broke in the friar, 'had more of good and bad in himthan all the saints and all the devils that ever warred. He had the bestof principles and the worst of practices, and never did a wicked thingbut he could show you a virtuous reason for it.'

  Struck by the contemptuous glance of Marietta, Gerald followed the lookshe gave, and saw that the friar's eyes were bloodshot, and his facepurple with excess.