Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “If by the others your Eminence means my friends,” replied Gouache, quietly, “I can assure you that none of them will ever cause you the slightest inconvenience.”

  “I believe you are right — their ability to annoy me is considerably inferior to their inclination. Is it not so?”

  “If your Eminence will allow me,” said Gouache, rising suddenly and laying down his charcoal pencil, “I will pin this curtain across the window. The sun is beginning to come in.”

  He had no intention of answering any questions. If the Cardinal knew of the meetings in the Via San Basilio, that was not Gouache’s fault; Gouache would certainly not give any further information. The statesman had expected as much, and was not at all surprised at the young man’s silence.

  “One of those young gentlemen seems to have met his match, at all events,” he remarked, presently. “I am sorry it should have come about in that way.”

  “Your Eminence might easily have prevented the duel.”

  “I knew nothing about it,” answered the Cardinal, glancing keenly at

  Anastase.

  “Nor I,” said the artist, simply.

  “You see my information is not always so good as people imagine, my friend.”

  “It is a pity,” remarked Gouache. “It would have been better had poor Del

  Ferice been killed outright. The matter would have terminated there.”

  “Whereas—”

  “Whereas Del Ferice will naturally seek an occasion for revenge.”

  “You speak as though you were a friend of Don Giovanni’s,” said the

  Cardinal.

  “No; I have a very slight acquaintance with him. I admire him, he has such a fine head. I should be sorry if anything happened to him.”

  “Do you think Del Ferice is capable of murdering him?”

  “Oh no! He might annoy him a great deal.”

  “I think not,” answered the Cardinal, thoughtfully. “Del Ferice was afraid that Don Giovanni would marry Donna Tullia and spoil his own projects. But Giovanni will not think of that again.”

  “No; I suppose Don Giovanni will marry the Duchessa d’Astrardente.”

  “Of course,” replied the Cardinal. For some minutes there was silence. Gouache, while busy with his pencil, was wondering at the interest the great man took in such details of the Roman social life. The Cardinal was thinking of Corona, whom he had seen but half an hour ago, and was revolving in his mind the advantages that might be got by allying her to Giovanni. He had in view for her a certain Serene Highness whom he wished to conciliate, and whose circumstances were not so splendid as to make Corona’s fortune seem insignificant to him. But on the other hand, the Cardinal had no Serene Highness ready for Giovanni, and feared lest he should after all marry Donna Tullia, and get into the opposite camp.

  “You are from Paris, Monsieur Gouache, I believe,” said the Cardinal at last.

  “Parisian of the Parisians, your Eminence.”

  “How can you bear to live in exile so long? You have not been to your home these four years, I think.”

  “I would rather live in Rome for the present. I will go to Paris some day. It will always be a pleasant recollection to have seen Rome in these days. My friends write me that Paris is gay, but not pleasant.”

  “You think there will soon be nothing of this time left but the recollection of it?” suggested the Cardinal.

  “I do not know what to think. The times seem unsettled, and so are my ideas. I was told that your Eminence would help me to decide what to believe.” Gouache smiled pleasantly, and looked up.

  “And who told you that?”

  “Don Giovanni Saracinesca.”

  “But I must have some clue to what your ideas are,” said the Cardinal.

  “When did Don Giovanni say that?”

  “At Prince Frangipani’s. He had been talking with your Eminence — perhaps he had come to some conclusion in consequence,” suggested Gouache.

  “Perhaps so,” answered the great man, with a look of considerable satisfaction. “At all events I am flattered by the opinion he gave you of me. Perhaps I may help you to decide. What are your opinions? or rather, what would you like your opinions to be?”

  “I am an ardent republican,” said Gouache, boldly. It needed no ordinary courage to make such a statement to the incarnate chief of reactionary politics in those days — within the walls of the Vatican, not a hundred yards from the private apartments of the Holy Father. But Cardinal Antonelli smiled blandly, and seemed not in the least surprised nor offended.

  “Republicanism is an exceedingly vague term, Monsieur Gouache,” he said. “But with what other opinions do you wish to reconcile your republicanism?”

  “With those held by the Church. I am a good Catholic, and I desire to remain one — indeed I cannot help remaining one.”

  “Christianity is not vague, at all events,” answered the Cardinal, who, to tell the truth, was somewhat astonished at the artist’s juxtaposition of two such principles. “In the first place, allow me to observe, my friend, that Christianity is the purest form of a republic which the world has ever seen, and that it therefore only depends upon your good sense to reconcile in your own mind two ideas which from the first have been indissolubly bound together.”

  It was Gouache’s turn to be startled at the Cardinal’s confidence.

  “I am afraid I must ask your Eminence for some further explanation,” he said. “I had no idea that Christianity and republicanism were the same thing.”

  “Republicanism,” returned the statesman, “is a vague term, invented in an abortive attempt to define by one word the mass of inextricable disorder arising in our times from the fusion of socialistic ideas with ideas purely republican. If you mean to speak of this kind of thing, you must define precisely your position in regard to socialism, and in regard to the pure theory of a commonwealth. If you mean to speak of a real republic in any known form, such as the ancient Roman, the Dutch, or the American, I understand you without further explanation.”

  “I certainly mean to speak of the pure republic. I believe that under a pure republic the partition of wealth would take care of itself.”

  “Very good, my friend. Now, with regard to the early Christians, should you say that their communities were monarchic, or aristocratic, or oligarchic?”

  “None of those three, I should think,” said Gouache.

  “There are only two systems left, then — democracy and hierarchy. You will probably say that the government of the early Christians was of the latter kind — that they were governed by priests, in fact. But on the other hand, there is no doubt that both those who governed, and those who were governed by them, had all things in common, regarded no man as naturally superior to another, and preached a fraternity and equality at least as sincere as those inculcated by the first French Republic. I do not see how you can avoid calling such community a republic, seeing that there was an equal partition of wealth; and defining it as a democratic one, seeing that they all called each other brethren.”

  “But the hierarchy — what became of it?” inquired Gouache.

  “The hierarchy existed within the democracy, by common consent and for the public good, and formed a second democracy of smaller extent but greater power. Any man might become a priest, any priest might become a bishop, any bishop might become pope, as surely as any born citizen of Rome could become consul, or any native of New York may be elected President of the United States. Now in theory this was beautiful, and in practice the democratic spirit of the hierarchy, the smaller republic, has survived in undiminished vigour to the present day. In the original Christian theory the whole world should now be one vast republic, in which all Christians should call each other brothers, and support each other in worldly as well as spiritual matters. Within this should exist the smaller republic of the hierarchy, by common consent, — an elective body, recruiting its numbers from the larger, as it does now; choosing its head, the sovereign Pontiff, as it does n
ow, to be the head of both Church and State; eminently fitted for that position, for the very simple reason that in a community organised and maintained upon such principles, in which, by virtue of the real and universal love of religion, the best men would find their way into the Church, and would ultimately find their way to the papal throne.”

  “Your Eminence states the case very convincingly,” answered Gouache. “But why has the larger republic, which was to contain the smaller one, ceased to exist? or rather, why did it never come into existence?”

  “Because man has not yet fulfilled his part in the great contract. The matter lies in a nutshell. The men who enter the Church are sufficiently intelligent and well educated to appreciate the advantages of Christian democracy, fellowship, solidarity, and brotherly love. The republic of the Church has therefore survived, and will survive for ever. The men who form the majority, on the other hand, have never had either the intelligence or the education to understand that democracy is the ultimate form of government: instead of forming themselves into a federation, they have divided themselves into hostile factions, calling themselves nations, and seeking every occasion for destroying and plundering each other, frequently even turning against the Church herself. The Church has committed faults in history, without doubt, but on the whole she has nobly fulfilled her contract, and reaps the fruits of fidelity in the vigour and unity she displays after eighteen centuries. Man, on the other hand, has failed to do his duty, and all races of men are consequently suffering for their misdeeds; the nations are divided against each other, and every nation is a house divided against itself, which sooner or later shall fall.”

  “But,” objected Gouache, “allowing, as one easily may, that all this is true, your Eminence is always called reactionary in politics. Does that accord with these views?”

  Gouache believed the question unanswerable, but as he put it he worked calmly on with his pencil, labouring hard to catch something of the Cardinal’s striking expression in the rough drawing he was making.

  “Nothing is easier, my friend,” replied the statesman. “The republic of the Church is driven to bay. We are on a war footing. For the sake of strength we are obliged to hold together so firmly that for the time we can only think of maintaining old traditions without dreaming of progress or spending time in experiments. When we have weathered the storm we shall have leisure for improving much that needs improvement. Do not think that if I am alive twenty years hence I shall advise what I advise now. We are fighting now, and we have no time to think of the arts of peace. We shall have peace some day. We shall lose an ornament or two from our garments in the struggle, but our body will not be injured, and in time of peace our ornaments will be restored to us fourfold. But now there is war and rumour of war. There is a vast difference between the ideal republic which I was speaking of, and the real anarchy and confusion which would be brought about by what is called republicanism.”

  “In other words, if the attack upon the Church were suddenly abandoned, your Eminence would immediately abandon your reactionary policy,” said Gouache, “and adopt progressive views?”

  “Immediately,” replied the Cardinal.

  “I see,” said Gouache. “A little more towards me — just so that I can catch that eye. Thank you — that will do.”

  CHAPTER XIX.

  WHEN DEL FERICE was thought sufficiently recovered of his wound to hear some of the news of the day, which was about three weeks after the duel, he learned that Astrardente was dead, that the Duchessa had inherited all his fortune, and that she was on the point of leaving Rome. It would be hard to say how the information of her approaching departure had got abroad; it might be merely a clever guess of the gossips, or it might be the report gleaned from her maid by all the other maids in town. Be that as it may, when Del Ferice heard it he ground his teeth as he lay upon his bed, and swore that if it were possible to prevent the Duchessa d’Astrardente from leaving town he would do it. In his judgment it would be a dangerous thing to let Corona and Giovanni part, and to allow Donna Tullia free play in her matrimonial designs. Of course Giovanni would never marry Madame Mayer, especially as he was now at liberty to marry the Astrardente; but Madame Mayer herself might become fatally interested in him, as she already seemed inclined to be, and this would be bad for Del Ferice’s own prospects. It would not do to squander any of the advantages gained by the death of the old Duca. Giovanni must be hastened into a marriage with Corona; it would be time enough to think of revenge upon him afterwards for the ghastly wound that took so long to heal.

  It was a pity that Del Ferice and Donna Tullia were not allies, for if Madame Mayer hated Corona d’Astrardente, Ugo del Ferice detested Giovanni with equal virulency, not only because he had been so terribly worsted by him in the duel his own vile conduct had made inevitable, but because Donna Tullia loved him and was doing her very best to marry him. Evidently the best thing to be done was to produce a misunderstanding between the two; but it would be dangerous to play any tricks with Giovanni, for he held Del Ferice in his power by his knowledge of that disagreeable scene behind the plants in the conservatory. Saracinesca was a great man in society and celebrated for his honesty; people would believe him rather than Del Ferice, if the story got abroad. This would not do. The next best thing was to endeavour to draw Giovanni and Corona together as quickly as possible, to precipitate their engagement, and thus to clear the field of a dangerous rival. Del Ferice was a very obstinate and a very intelligent man. He meant more than ever to marry Donna Tullia himself, and he would not be hindered in the accomplishment of his object by an insignificant scruple.

  He was not allowed to speak much, lest the effort should retard the healing of his throat; but in the long days and nights, when he lay silent in his quiet lodging, he had ample time to revolve many schemes in his brain. At last he no longer needed the care of the Sister of Mercy; his servant took charge of him, and the surgeon came twice a-day to dress his wound. He lay in bed one morning watching Temistocle, who moved noiselessly about the room.

  “Temistocle,” he said, “you are a youth of intelligence: you must use the gifts nature has given you.”

  Temistocle was at that time not more than five-and-twenty years of age. He had a muddy complexion, a sharp hooked nose, and a cast in one eye that gave him a singularly unpleasant expression. As his master addressed him, he stood still and listened with a sort of distorted smile in acknowledgment of the compliment made him.

  “Temistocle, you must find out when the Duchessa d’Astrardente means to leave Rome, and where she is going. You know somebody in the house?”

  “Yes, sir — the under-cook; he stood godfather with me for the baby of a cousin of mine — the young man who drives Prince Valdarno’s private brougham: a clever fellow, too.”

  “And this under-cook,” said Del Ferice, who was not above entering into details with his servant— “is he a discreet character?”

  “Oh, for that, you may trust him. Only sometimes—” Temistocle grinned, and made a gesture which signified drinking.

  “And when he is drunk?” asked Del Ferice.

  “When he is drunk he tells everything; but he never remembers anything he has been told, or has said. When he is drunk he is a dictionary; but the first draught of water washes out his memory like a slate.”

  “Well — give me my purse; it is under my pillow. Go. Here is a scudo,

  Temistocle. You can make him very drunk for that.”

  Temistocle hesitated, and looked at the money.

  “Another couple of pauls would make it safer,” he remarked.

  “Well, there they are; but you must make him very drunk indeed. You must find out all he knows, and you must keep sober yourself.”

  “Leave that to me. I will make of him a sponge; he shall be squeezed dry, and sopped again and squeezed again. I will be his confessor.”

  “If you find out what I want, I will give you—” Del Ferice hesitated; he did not mean to give too much.

  “The gr
ey trousers?” asked Temistocle, with an avaricious light in the eye which did not wander.

  “Yes,” answered his master, rather regretfully; “I suppose you must have the grey trousers at last.”

  “For those grey trousers I will upset heaven and earth,” returned

  Temistocle in great glee.

  Nothing more was said on that day, but early on the following morning the man entered and opened the shutters, and removed the little oil-light that had burned all night. He kept one eye upon his master, who presently turned slowly and looked inquiringly at him.

  “The Duchessa goes to Astrardente in the Sabines on the day after to-morrow,” said Temistocle. “It is quite sure that she goes, because she has already sent out two pairs of horses, and several boxes of effects, besides the second housemaid and the butler and two grooms.”

  “Ah! that is very good. Temistocle, I think I will get up this morning and sit in the next room.”

  “And the grey trousers?”

  “Take them, and wear them in honour of the most generous master living,” said Del Ferice, impressively. “It is not every master who gives his servant a pair of grey trousers. Remember that.”

  “Heaven bless you, Signor Conte!” exclaimed Temistocle, devoutly.

  Del Ferice lost no time. He was terribly weak still, and his wound was not entirely healed yet; but he set himself resolutely to his writing-table, and did not rise until he had written two letters. The first was carefully written in a large round hand, such as is used by copyists in Italy, resembling the Gothic. It was impossible to connect the laboriously formed and conventional letters with any particular person. It was very short, as follows: —

  “It may interest you to know that the Duchessa d’Astrardente is going to her castle in the Sabines on the day after to-morrow.”

  This laconic epistle Del Ferice carefully directed to Don Giovanni Saracinesca at his palace, and fastened a stamp upon it; but he concealed the address from Temistocle. The second letter was longer, and written in his own small and ornate handwriting. It was to Donna Tullia Mayer. It ran thus: —