“Mine, or Shakespeare’s,” answered Zouche indolently; “Does it matter which?”
Pequita laughed, and her cue being just then called, again she bounded on to the stage; but this time she played her part, as the stock phrase goes, ‘to the gallery,’ and did not once turn her eyes towards the place where the King sat withdrawn into the shadow of his box, giving no sign of applause. She, however, had caught sight of Sergius Thord and some of her Revolutionary friends seated ‘among the gods,’ and that was enough inspiration for her. Something, — a quite indefinable something, — a touch of personal or spiritual magnetism, had been fired in her young soul; and gradually as the Opera went on, her fellow-players became infected by it. Some of them gave her odd, half-laughing glances now and then, — being more or less amazed at the unusual vigour with which she sang, in her pure childish soprano, the few strophes of recitative and light song attached to her part; — the very prima-donna herself caught fire, — and the distinguished tenor, who had travelled all the way from Buda Pesth in haste, so that he might ‘create’ the chief rôle in the work of his friend Valdor, began to feel that there was something more in operatic singing than the mere inflation of the chest, and the careful production of perfectly-rounded notes. Valdor himself played the various violin solos which occurred frequently throughout the piece, and never failed to evoke a storm of rapturous plaudits, — and many were the half-indignant glances of the audience towards the Royal shrine of draped satin, gilding, and electric light, wherein the King, like an idol, sat, — undemonstrative, and apparently more bored than satisfied. There was a general feeling that he ought to have shown, — by his personal applause in public, — a proper appreciation of the many gifted artists playing that evening, especially in the case of Louis Valdor, the composer of the Opera itself. But he sat inert, only occasionally glancing at the stage, and anon carelessly turning away from it to converse with the members of his suite.
The piece went on; — and more and more the passion of Pequita’s pent-up little soul communicated itself to the other performers, — till they found themselves almost unconsciously obeying her ‘lead.’ At last came the grand final act, — where, in accordance with the progress of the story, the bold band of ‘New Christians’ are fought back from the gates of the Vatican by the Papal Guard; and the Roman populace, roused to enthusiasm, gather round their defeated ranks to defend and to aid them with sympathy and support in their combat, — breaking forth all together at last in the triumphant ‘Song of Freedom.’ Truly grand and majestic was this same song, — pulsating with truth and passion, — breathing with the very essence of liberty, — an echo of the heart and soul of strong nations who struggle, even unto death, for the lawful rights of humanity denied to them by the tyrants in place and power. As the superb roll and swell of the glorious music poured through the crowded house, there was an almost unconscious movement among the audience, — the people in the gallery rose en masse, and at the close of the first verse, responded to it by a mighty cheer, which reverberated through and through the immense building like thunder. The occupants of the stalls and boxes exchanged wondering and half-frightened looks, — then as the cheer subsided, settled themselves again to listen, more or less spell-bound, as the second verse began. Just before this had merged into its accompanying splendid and soul-awakening chorus, — Pequita, — having obtained the consent of the manager to execute her ‘Dagger Dance’ in the middle of the song, instead of at the end, — suddenly sprang towards the footlights in a pirouette of extravagant and exquisite velocity — while, — checked by a sign from the conductor, the singers ceased. Without music, in an absolute stillness as of death, the girl swung herself to and fro, like a bell-flower in the breeze, — anon she sprang and leaped like a scarlet flame — and again sank into a slow and voluptuous motion, as of a fairy who dreamingly glides on tiptoe over a field of flowers. Then, on a sudden, while the fascinated spectators watched her breathlessly, — she seemed to wake from sleep, — and running forward wildly, began to toss and whirl her scarlet skirts, her black curls streaming, her dark eyes flashing with mingled defiance and scorn, while drawing from her breast an unsheathed dagger, she flung it in the air, caught it dexterously by the hilt again, twisted and turned it in every possible way, — now beckoning, now repelling, now defending, — and lastly threatening, with a passionate intensity of action that was well-nigh irresistible.
Caught by the marvellous subtlety of her performance, quite one half the audience now rose instinctively, all eyes being fixed on the strange evolutions of this whirling, flying thing that seemed possessed by the very devil of dancing! The King at last attracted, leaned slightly forward from his box with a tolerant smile, — the Queen’s face was as usual, immovable, — the Princes Rupert and Cyprian stared, open-mouthed — while over the whole brilliant scene that remarkable silence brooded, like the sultry pause before the breaking of a storm. Triumphant, reckless, panting, — scarcely knowing what she did in her excitement, — Pequita, suddenly running backward, with the lightness of thistle-down flying before the wind, snatched the flag of the country from a super standing by, and dancing forward again, waved it aloft, till with a final abandonment of herself to the humour of the moment, she sprang with a single bound towards the Royal box, and there — the youthful incarnation of living, breathing passion, fury, patriotism, and exultation in one, — dropped on one knee, the flag waving behind her, the dagger pointed straight upward, full at the King!
A great roar, — like that of hundreds of famished wild beasts, — answered this gesture; mingled with acclamations, — and when ‘The Song of Freedom’ again burst out from the singers on the stage, the whole mass of people joined in the chorus with a kind of melodious madness. Shouts of ‘Pequita! Pequita!’ rang out on all sides, — then ‘Valdor! Valdor!’ — and then, — all suddenly, — a stentorian voice cried ‘Sergius Thord!’ At that word the house became a chaos. Men in the gallery, seized by some extraordinary impulse of doing they knew not what, and going they knew not whither, leaped over each other’s shoulders, and began to climb down by the pillars of the balconies to the stalls, — and a universal panic and rush ensued. Terrified women hurried from the stalls and boxes in spite of warning, and got mixed with the maddened crowd, a section of which, pouring out of the Opera-house came incontinently upon the King’s carriage in waiting, — and forthwith, without any reflection as to the why or the wherefore, smashed it to atoms! Then, singing again ‘The Song of Freedom,’ — the people, pouring out from all the doors, formed into a huge battalion, and started on a march of devastation and plunder.
Sergius Thord, grasping the situation from the first, rushed out of the Opera-house in all haste, anxious to avert a catastrophe, but he was too late to stop the frenzied crowd, — nothing could, or would have stopped them at that particular moment. The fire had been too long smouldering in their souls; and Pequita, like a little spark of fury, had set it in a blaze. Through private ways and back streets, the King and Queen and their sons, escorted by the alarmed manager, escaped from the Opera unhurt, — and drove back unobserved to the Palace in a common fiacre — and a vast multitude, waiting to see them come out by the usual doors, and finding they did not come, vented their rage and disgust by tearing up and smashing everything within their reach. Then, remembering in good time, despite their excitement, that the manager of the Opera had done nothing to deserve injury to himself or his property, they paused in this work of destruction, and with the sudden caprice of children, gave out ringing cheers for him and for Pequita; — while their uncertainty as to what to do next was settled for them by Paul Zouche, who, mounting on one of the pedestals which supported the columns of the entrance to the Opera, where his wild head, glittering eyes and eager face looked scarcely human, cried out:
“Damnation to Carl Pérousse! Why do you idle here, my friends, when you might be busy! If you want Freedom, seek it from him who is to be your new Prime Minister!”
A prolonged yell of savage approval
answered him, — and like an angry tide, the crowd swept on and on, gathering strength and force as it went, and pouring through the streets with fierce clamour of shouting, and clash of hastily collected weapons, — on and on to the great square, in the centre of which stood the statue of the late King, and where the house of Carl Pérousse occupied the most prominent position. And the moon, coming suddenly out of a cloud, stared whitely down upon the turbulent scene, — one too often witnessed in history, when, as Carlyle says, ‘a Nation of men is suddenly hurled beyond the limits. For Nature, as green as she looks, rests everywhere on dread foundations, and Pan, to whose music the Nymphs dance, has a cry in him that can drive all men distracted!’
In such distraction, and with such wild cry, the night of Pequita’s long-looked-for dance before the King swept stormily on towards day.
CHAPTER XXVIII.— “FATE GIVES — THE KING!”
News of this fresh and more violent disturbance among the people brought the soldiery out in hot haste, who galloped down to the scene of excitement, only to find the mounted police before them, headed by General Bernhoff, who careering to and fro, cool and composed, forbade, ‘in the name of the King!’ any attempt to drive the mob out of the square. Swaying uneasily round and round, the populace yelled and groaned, and cheered and hissed; not knowing exactly whereunto they were so wildly moved, but evidently waiting for a fresh ‘lead.’ The house of Carl Pérousse, with its handsome exterior and stately marble portico, offered itself as a tempting target to the more excitable roughs, and a stone sent crashing through one of the windows would have certainly been the signal for a general onslaught had not a man’s figure suddenly climbed the pedestal which supported the statue of the late King in the centre of the square, and lifted its living visible identity against the frowning cold stone image of the dead. A cry went up from thousands of throats— ‘Sergius Thord!’ — followed by an extraordinary clamour of passionate plaudits, as the excited people recognised the grand head and commanding aspect of their own particular Apostle of Liberty. He, — stretching out his hands with a gesture of mingled authority and entreaty, — pacified the raging sea of contradictory and conflicting voices as if by magic, — and the horrid clamour died down into a dull roar, which in its turn subsided into silence.
“Friends and brothers!” he cried; “Be calm! Be patient! What spirit possesses you to thus destroy the chances of your own peace! What is your aim? Justice? Ay — justice! — but how can you gain this by being yourselves unjust? Will you remedy Wrong by injuring Right? Nay — this must not be! — this cannot be, with you, whose passion for liberty is noble, — whose love for truth is fixed and resolute, — and who seek no more than is by human right your own! This sudden tempest, by which your souls are tossed, is like an angry gust upon the sea, which wrecks great vessels and drowns brave men; — be something more than the semblance of the capricious wind which destroys without having reason to know why it is bent on destruction! What are you here for? What would you do?”
A confused shouting answered him, in which cries of ‘Pérousse!’ and ‘The King!’ were most prominent.
Sergius Thord looked round upon the seething mass below him, with a strange sense of power and of triumph. He — even he — who could claim to be no more than a poor Thinker, speaker and writer, — had won these thousands to his command! — he had them here, willing to obey his lightest word, — ready to follow his signal wheresoever it might take them! His eyes glowed, — and the light of a great and earnest inspiration illumined his strong features.
“You call for Carl Pérousse!” he said; “Yonder he dwells! — in the regal house he has built for himself out of the sweating work of the poor!” A fierce yell from the populace and an attempt at a rush, was again stopped by the speaker’s uplifted hand; “Wait, friends — wait! Think for a moment of the result of action, before you act! Suppose you pulled down that palace of fraud; suppose your strong hands righteously rent it asunder; — suppose you set fire to its walls, — suppose you dragged out the robber from his cave and slew him here, before sunrise — what then? You would make of him a martyr! — and the hypocritical liars of the present policy, who are involved with him in his financial schemes, — would chant his praises in every newspaper, and laud his virtues in every sermon! Nay, we should probably hear of a special ‘Memorial Service’ being held in our great Cathedral to sanctify the corpse of the vilest stock-jobbing rascal that ever cheated the gallows! Be wiser than that, my friends! Do not soil your hands either with the body of Carl Pérousse or his ill-gotten dwelling. What we want for him is Disgrace, not Death! Death is far too easy! An innocent child may die; do not give to a false-hearted knave the simple exit common to the brave and true! Disgrace! — disgrace! Shame, confusion, and the curse of the country, — let these be your vengeance on the man who seeks to clutch the reins of government! — the man who would drive the people like whipped horses to their ruin!”
Another roar answered him, but this time it was mingled with murmurs of dissatisfaction. Thord caught these up, and at once responded to them.
“I hear you, O People! I hear the clamour of your hearts and souls, which is almost too strong to find expression in speech! You cannot wait, you would tell me! You would have Pérousse dragged out here, — you would tear him to pieces among you, if you could, and carry the fragments of him to the King, to prove what a people can do with a villain proposed to them as their Prime Minister!” Loud and ferocious shouts answered these words, and he went on; “I know — I understand! — and I sympathise! But even as I know you, you know me! Believe me now, therefore, and hear my promise! I swear to you before you all” — and here he extended both arms with a solemn and impressive gesture— “that this month shall not be ended before the dishonesty of Carl Pérousse is publicly and flagrantly known at every street corner, — in every town and province of the land! — and before the most high God, I take my oath to you, the People, — that he shall never be the governing head of the country!”
A hurricane of applause answered him — a tempest of shouting that seemed to surge and sway through the air and down to the earth again like the beating of a powerful wind.
“Give me your trust, O People!” he cried, carried beyond himself with the excitement and fervour of the scene— “Give me yourselves!”
Another roar replied to this adjuration. He stood triumphant; — the people pressing up around him, — some weeping — some kneeling at his feet — some climbing to kiss his hand. A few angry voices in the distance cried out— ‘The King!’ — and he turned at once on the word.
“Who needs the King?” he demanded; “Who calls for him? What is he to us? What has he ever been? Look back on his career! — see him as Heir-Apparent to the Throne, wasting his time with dishonest associates, — dealing with speculators and turf gamblers — involving himself in debt — and pandering to vile women, who still hold him in their grasp, and who in their turn rule the country by their caprice, and drain the Royal coffers by their licentious extravagance! Now look on him as the King, — a tool in the hands of financiers — a speculator among speculators — steeped to the very eyes in the love of money, and despising all men who do not bear the open blazon of wealth upon them, — what has he done for the people? Nothing! What will he ever do for the People? Nothing! Flattered by self-seekers — stuffed with eulogy by a paid Press — his name made a byword and a mockery by the very women with whom he consorts, what should we do with him in Our work! Let him alone! — let him be! Let him eat and drink as suits his nature — and die of the poison his own vices breed in his blood! — we want naught of him, or his heirs! When the time ripens to its full fruition, we, the People, can do without a Throne!”
At this, thousands of hats and handkerchiefs were tossed in the air, — thousands of voices cheered to the very echo, and to relieve their feelings still more completely the vast crowd once more took up ‘The Song of Freedom’ and began singing it in unison steadily and grandly, with all that resistless force
and passion which springs from deep-seated emotion in the soul. And while they were singing, Thord, glancing rapidly about him, saw Johan Zegota close at hand, and to his still greater satisfaction, Pasquin Leroy; and beckoning them both to his side whispered his brief orders, which were at once comprehended. The day was breaking; and in the purple east a line of crimson showed where the sun would presently rise. A few minutes’ quick organisation worked by Leroy and Zegota, and some few other of their comrades sufficed to break up the mob into three sections, and in perfect order they stood blocked for a moment, like the three wings of a great army. Then once more Thord addressed them:
“People, you have heard my vow! If before the end of the month Carl Pérousse is not ejected with contempt from office, I will ask my death at your hands! A meeting will be convened next week at the People’s Assembly Rooms where we shall make arrangements to approach the King. If the King refuses to receive us, we shall find means to make him do so! He shall hear us! He is our paid servant, and he is bound to serve us faithfully, — or the Throne shall be a thing of the past, to be looked back upon with regret that we, a great and free people, ever tolerated its vice and tyranny!”
Here he waited to let the storm of plaudits subside, — and then continued: “Now part, all of you friends! — go your ways, — and keep order for yourselves with vigilance! The soldiery are here, but they dare not fire! — the police are here, but they dare not arrest! Give them no cause even to say that it would have been well to do either! Let the spiritual force of your determined minds, — fixed on a noble and just purpose, over-rule mere temporal authority; let none have to blame you for murder or violence, — take no life, — shed no blood; but let your conquest of the Government, — your capture of the Throne, — be a glorious moral victory, outweighing any battle gained only by brute force and rapine!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 569
