Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “Will you, or will you not?” reiterated Del Fortis in a whisper that hissed through the close precincts of the cell like the warning of a snake about to sting— “Answer me!”

  “Suppose I say I will not!” — stammered the poor wretch, with trembling lips and appealing eyes— “Suppose I say I will not falsely accuse the innocent, even for the sake of the Church —— ?”

  “Then,” said Del Fortis slowly, rising and moving towards him;— “You had best accept the only alternative — this!”

  And he took from his breast pocket a small phial, full of clear, colourless fluid, and showed it to him— “Take it! — and so make a quick and quiet end! For, if you betray you connection with Us by so much as a look, — a sign, or a syllable, — your mode of exit from this world may be slower, less decent, and more painful!”

  The miserable boy wrung his hands in agony, and such a cry of despair broke from his lips as might have moved anyone less cruelly made of spiritual adamant than the determined servant of the cruellest ‘religious’ Order known. The dull harsh clang of the prison bell struck ten. The ‘priest’ had been an hour at the work of ‘confessing’ his penitent, — and his patience was well-nigh exhausted.

  “Swear you will attribute your intended assassination of the King, to the influence of the Socialists!” he said with fierce imperativeness— “Or with this — end all your difficulties to-night! It is a gentle quietus! — and you ought to thank me for it! It is better than solitary imprisonment for life! I will give you absolution for taking it — provided I see you swallow it before I go! — and I will declare to the Church that I left you shrived of your sins, and clean! Half an hour after I leave you, you will sleep! — and wake — in Heaven! Make your choice!”

  The last words had scarcely left his lips when the cell door was suddenly thrown open, and a blaze of light poured in. Dazzled by the strong and sudden glare, Del Fortis recoiled, and still holding the phial of poison in his hand, stumbled back against the half-fainting form of the poor crazed creature he had been terrorising, as a dozen armed men silently entered the dungeon and ranged themselves in order, six on one side and six on the other, while, in their midst one man advanced, throwing back his dark military cloak as he came, and displaying a mass of jewelled orders and insignia on his brilliant uniform. Del Fortis uttered a fierce oath.

  “The King!” he muttered, under his breath— “The King!”

  “Ay, the King!” and a glance of supreme scorn swept over him from head to foot, as the monarch’s clear dark grey eyes flashed with the glitter of cold steel in the luminance of the torches which were carried by attendants behind him; “Monsignor Del Fortis! You stand convicted of the offence of unlawfully tampering with the conscience of a prisoner of State! We have heard your every word — and have obtained a bird’s-eye view of your policy! — so that, — if necessary, — we will Ourselves bear witness against you! For the present, — you will be detained in this fortress until our further pleasure!”

  For one moment Del Fortis appeared to be literally contorted in every muscle by his excess of rage. His features grew livid, — his eyes became almost blood-red, and his teeth met on his drawn-in under-lip in a smile of intense malignity. Baffled again! — and by this ‘king,’ — the crowned Dummy, — who had cast aside all former precedent, and instead of amusing himself with card-playing and sensual intrigue, after the accepted fashion of most modern sovereigns, had presumed to interfere, not only with the Church, but with the Government, and now, as it seemed, had acted as a spy on the very secrets of a so-called prison ‘confession’! The utter impossibility of escaping from the net into which his own words had betrayed him, stood plainly before his mind and half-choked him with impotent fury, — till — all suddenly a thought crossed his brain like a flash of fire, and with a strong effort, he recovered his self-possession. Crossing his arms meekly on his breast, he bowed with a silent and profound affectation of humility, as one who is bent under the Royal displeasure, yet resigned to the Royal command, — then with a rapid movement he lifted the poison-phial he had held concealed, to his lips. His action was at once perceived. Two or three of the armed guards threw themselves upon him and, after a brief struggle, wrenched the flask from his hand, but not till he had succeeded in swallowing its contents. Breathing quickly, yet smiling imperturbably, he stood upright and calm.

  “God’s will and mine — not your Majesty’s — be done!” he said. “In half an hour — or less — Mother Church may add to her list of martyrs the name of Andrea Del Fortis! — who died rather than sacrifice the dignity of his calling to the tyranny of a king!”

  A slight convulsion passed over his features, — he staggered backward. The King, horror-stricken, signed to the prison warders standing by, to support him. He muttered a word of thanks, as they caught him by both arms.

  “Take me where I can die quietly!” he said to them, “It will soon be over! I shall give you little trouble!”

  A cold, weak, trembling hand clasped his. It was the hand of the King’s wretched assassin.

  “Let me go with you!” he cried— “Let me die with you! You have been cruel to me! — but you could not have meant it! — you were once kind!”

  Del Fortis thrust him aside.

  “Curse you!” he said thickly— “You are the cause — you — you are the cause of this damned mischief! You! — God! — to think of it! — you devil’s spawn! — you cur!”

  His voice failed him, and he reeled heavily against the sturdy form of one of the warders who held him — his lips were flecked with blood and foam. Shocked and appalled, no less at his words, than at the fiendish contortion of his features, the King drew near.

  “Curse not a fellow-mortal, unhappy priest, in thine own passage towards the final judgment!” he said in grave accents— “The blessing of this poor misguided creature may help thee more than even a king’s free pardon!”

  And he extended his hand; — but with all the force of his now struggling and convulsed body, Del Fortis beat it back, and raised himself by an almost superhuman effort.

  “Pardon! Who talks of pardon!” he cried, with a strong voice— “I do not need it — I do not seek it! I have worked for the Church — I die for the Church! For every one that says ‘The King!’ — I say, ‘Rome’!”

  He drew himself stiffly upright; his dark eyes glittered; his face, though deadly pale, scarcely looked like the face of a dying man.

  “I say, ‘Rome’!” he repeated, in a harsh whisper;— “Over all the world! — over all the kingdoms of the world, and in defiance of all kings— ‘Rome’!”

  He fell back, — not dead, — but insensible, in the stupor which precedes death; — and was quickly borne out of the cell and carried to the prison infirmary, there to receive medical aid, though that could only now avail to soothe the approaching agonies of dissolution.

  The King stood mute and motionless, lost in thought, a heavy darkness brooding on his features. How strange the impulse that had led him to be the mover and witness of this scene! By merest chance he had learned that Del Fortis had applied for permission to ‘confess’ the would-be destroyer of his life, — the life which Lotys had saved, — and acting — as he had lately accustomed himself to do — on a sudden first idea or instinct, he had summoned General Bernhoff to escort him to the prison, and make the way easy for him to watch and overhear the interview between priest and penitent, — himself unobserved. And from so slight an incident had sprung a tragedy, — which might have results as yet undreamed-of!

  And while he yet mused upon this, General Bernhoff ventured respectfully to approach him, and ask if it was now his pleasure to return to the Palace? He roused himself, — and with a heavy sigh looked round on the damp and dismal cell in which he stood, and at the crouching, fear-stricken form of the semi-crazed and now violently weeping lad who had attempted his life.

  “Take that poor wretch away from here!” he said in hushed tones— “Give him light, and warmth, and food! His evil des
ires spring from an unsound brain; — I would have him dealt with mercifully! Guard him with all necessary and firm restraint, — but do not brutalise his body more than Rome has brutalised his soul!”

  With that he turned away, — and his armed guard and attendants followed him.

  That self-same midnight a requiem mass was sung in a certain chapel before a silent gathering of black-robed stern-featured men, who prayed “For the repose of the soul of our dear brother, Andrea Del Fortis, servant of God, and martyr to the cause of truth and justice, — who departed this life suddenly, in the performance of his sacred duties.” In the newspapers next day, the death of this same martyr and shining light of the Church was recorded with much paid-for regret and press-eulogy as ‘due to heart-failure’ and his body being claimed by the Jesuit brotherhood, it was buried with great pomp and solemn circumstance, several of the Catholic societies and congregations following it to the grave. One week after the funeral, — for no other ostensible cause whatever, save the offence of openly publishing his official refusal of a grant of Crown lands to the Jesuits, — the Holy Father, the Evangelist and Infallible Apostle enthroned in St. Peter’s Chair, launched against the King who had dared to deny his wish and oppose his will, the once terrible, but now futile ban of excommunication; and the Royal son of the Church who had honestly considered the good of his people more than the advancement of priestcraft, stood outside the sacred pale, — barred by a so-called ‘Christian’ creed, from the mercy of God and the hope of Heaven.

  CHAPTER XXVI.— “ONE WAY, — ONE WOMAN!”

  For several days after the foregoing events, the editors and proprietors of newspapers had more than enough ‘copy’ to keep them busy. The narrow escape of the King from assassination, followed by his excommunication from the Church, worked a curious effect on the minds of the populace, who were somewhat bewildered and uncertain as to the possible undercurrent of political meaning flowing beneath the conjunction of these two events; and their feelings were intensified by the announcement that the youth who had attempted the monarch’s life, — being proved as suffering from hereditary brain disease, — had received a free pardon, and was placed in a suitable home for the treatment of such cases, under careful restraint and medical supervision. The tide of popular opinion was now divided into two ways, — for, and against their Sovereign-ruler. By far the larger half were against; — but the ban pronounced upon him by the Pope had the effect of making even this disaffected portion inclined to consider him more favourably, — seeing that the Church’s punishment had fallen upon him, apparently because he had done his duty, as a king, by granting the earnest petitions of thousands of his subjects. David Jost, who had always made a point of flattering Royalty in all its forms, now let his pen go with a complete passion of toadyism, such as disgraced certain writers in Great Britain during the reigns of the pernicious and vicious Georges, — and, seeing the continued success of the rival journal which the King had personally favoured, he trimmed his sails to the Court breeze, and dropped the Church party as though it had burned his fingers. But he found various channels on which he had previously relied for information, rigorously closed to him. He had written many times to the Marquis de Lutera to ask if the report of his having sent in his resignation was correct, — but he had received no answer. He had called over and over again on Carl Pérousse, hoping to obtain a few minutes’ conversation with him, but had been denied an interview. Cogitating upon these changes, — which imported much, — and wishing over and over again that he had been born an Englishman, so that by the insidious flattery of Royalty he might obtain a peerage, — as a certain Jew associate of his concerned in the same business in London, had recently succeeded in doing, — he decided that the wisest course to follow was to continue to ‘butter’ the King; — hence he laid it on with a thick brush, wherever the grease of hypocrisy could show off best. But work as he would, the ‘shares’ in his journalistic concerns were steadily going down, — none of his numerous magazines or ‘half-penny rags,’ paid so well as they had hitherto done; while the one paper which had lately been so prominently used by the King, continued to prosper, the public having now learned to accept with avidity and eagerness the brilliant articles which bore the signature of Pasquin Leroy, as though they were somewhat of a new political gospel. The charm of mystery intensified this new writer’s reputation. He was never seen in ‘fashionable’ society, — no ‘fashionable’ person appeared to know him, — and the general impression was that he resided altogether out of the country. Only the members of the Revolutionary Committee were aware that he was one of them, and recognised his work as part of the carrying out of his sworn bond. He had grown to be almost the right hand of Sergius Thord; wherever Thord sought supporters, he helped to obtain them, — wherever the sick and needy, the desolate and distressed, required aid, he somehow managed to secure it, — and next to Thord, — and of course Lotys, — he was the idol of the Socialist centre. He never spoke in public, — he seldom appeared at mass meetings; but his influence was always felt; and he made himself and his work almost a necessity to the Cause. The action of Lotys in saving the life of the King, had created considerable discussion among the Revolutionists, not unmixed with anger. When she first appeared among them after the incident, with her arm in a sling, she was greeted with mingled cheers and groans, to neither of which she paid the slightest attention. She took her seat at the head of the Committee table as usual, with her customary indifference and grace, and appeared deaf to the conflicting murmurs around her, — till, as they grew louder and more complaining and insistent, she raised her head and sent the lightning flash of her blue eyes down the double line of men with a sweeping scorn that instantly silenced them.

  “What do you seek from me?” she demanded;— “Why do you clamour like babes for something you cannot get, — my obedience?”

  They looked shamefacedly at one another, — then at Sergius Thord and Pasquin Leroy, who sat side by side at the lower end of the table. Max Graub and Axel Regor, Leroy’s two comrades, were for once absent; but they had sent suitable and satisfactory excuses. Thord’s brows were heavy and lowering, — his eyes were wild and unrestful, and his attitude and expression were such as caused Leroy to watch him with a little more than his usual close attention. Seeing that his companions expected him to answer Lotys before them all, he spoke with evident effort.

  “You make a difficult demand upon us, Lotys,” he said slowly, “if you wish us to explain the stormy nature of our greeting to you this evening. You might surely have understood it without a question! For we are compelled to blame you; — you who have never till now deserved blame, — for the folly of your action in exposing your own life to save that of the King! The one is valuable to us — the other is nothing to us! Besides, you have trespassed against the Seventh Rule of our Order — which solemnly pledges us to ‘destroy the present monarchy’!”

  “Ah!” said Lotys, “And is it part of the oath that the monarchy should be destroyed by murder without warning? You know it is not! You know that there is nothing more dastardly, more cowardly, more utterly loathsome and contemptible than to kill a man defenceless and unarmed! We speak of a Monarchy, not a King; — not one single individual, — for if he were killed, he has three sons to come after him. You have called me the Soul of an Ideal — good! But I am not, and will not be the Soul of a Murder-Committee!”

  “Well spoken!” said Johan Zegota, looking up from some papers which he, as secretary to the Society, had been docketing for the convenience of Thord’s perusal; “But do not forget, brave Lotys, that the very next meeting we hold is the annual one, in which we draw lots for the ‘happy dispatch’ of traitors and false rulers; and that this year the name of the King is among them!”

  Lotys grew a shade paler, but she replied at once and dauntlessly.

  “I do not forget it! But if lots are cast and traitors doomed, — it is part of our procedure to give any such doomed man six months’ steady and repeated warning, that h
e may have time to repent of his mistakes and remedy them, so that haply he may still be spared; — and also that he may take heed to arm himself, that he do not die defenceless. Had I not saved the King, his death would have been set down to us, and our work! Any one of you might have been accused of influencing the crazy boy who attempted the deed, — and it is quite possible our meetings would have been suppressed, and all our work fatally hindered, — if not entirely stopped. Foolish children! You should thank me, not blame me! — but you are blind children all, and cannot even see where you have been faithfully served by your faithfullest friend!”

  At these words a new light appeared to break on the minds of all present — a light that was reflected in their eager and animated faces. The knotted line of Thord’s brooding brows smoothed itself gradually away.

  “Was that indeed your thought, Lotys,” he asked gently, almost tenderly— “Was it for our sakes and for us alone, that you saved the King?”

  At that instant Pasquin Leroy turned his eyes, which till now had been intent on watching Thord, to the other end of the table where the fine, compact woman’s head, framed in its autumn-gold hair, was silhouetted against the dark background of the wall behind her like a cameo. His gaze met hers, — and a vague look of fear and pain flashed over her face, as a faint touch of colour reddened her cheeks.

  “I am not accustomed to repeat my words, Sergius Thord!” she answered coldly; “I have said my say!”

  Looks were exchanged, and there was a silence.

  “If we doubt Lotys, we doubt the very spirit of ourselves!” said Pasquin Leroy, his rich voice thrilling with unwonted emotion; “Sergius — and comrades all! If you will hear me, and believe me, — you may take my word for it, she has run the risk of death for Us! — and has saved Us from false accusation, and Government interference! To wrong Lotys by so much as a thought, is to wrong the truest woman God ever made!”