"Be it so,--be it so," muttered he. "I yield myself to anything,--'sicut pa.s.ser sub tecto,'--I have no will of my own."

"Go along with him, my Lord," whispered D'Esmonde: "the opportunity will be a good one to see the young officer. While the father talks with the sick man, you can converse with the friend. See in what frame of mind he is."

"Does he speak French? for I am but an indifferent German," said Norwood.

"Yes, French will do," said D'Esmonde, who, after a moment's hesitation as to whether he should reveal the secret of Frank's country, seemed to decide on still reserving the knowledge.

"But this could be better done to-morrow," said Norwood.

"To-morrow will be too late," whispered D'Esmonde. "Go now; you shall know my reasons at your return."

Norwood took little heed of the canonico's attempts at conversation as they went along. His mind was occupied with other thoughts. The moment of open revolt was drawing nigh, and now came doubts of D'Esmonde's sincerity and good faith. It was true that many of the priests were disposed to the wildest theories of democracy,--they were men of more than ordinary capacity, with far less than the ordinary share of worldly advantages. D'Esmonde, however, was not one of these; there was no limit to which his ambition might not reasonably aspire,--no dignity in his Church above his legitimate hopes. What benefit could accrue to him from a great political convulsion? "He'll not be nearer to the Popedom when the cannon are shaking the Vatican!" Such were the puzzling considerations that worked within him as he drew near the boat-house.

A figure was seated on the door-sill, with the head buried beneath his hands, but on hearing the approach of the others be quickly arose and drew himself up. "You are too late, sir," said he, addressing the priest sternly; "my poor comrade is no more!"

"Ah me! and they would drag me out in the chill night air," groaned the canonico.

The cruelty of that must have weighed heavily on his heart.

Frank turned away, and re-entered the house without speaking, while Norwood followed him in silence. On a low truckle-bed lay the dead soldier, his manly face calm and tranquil as the cold heart within his breast. A weather-beaten, bronzed soldier sat at the foot of the bed, the tears slowly flowing along his cheeks, as his bloodshot eyes were fixed upon his comrade. It was the first blood that had been shed in the cause of Italian independence, and Norwood stood thoughtfully staring at the victim.

"Poor fellow!" said he; "they who gave his death-wound little knew what sympathy for liberty that jacket covered, nor how truly the Hun is the brother of the Italian."

"They were a.s.sa.s.sins and murderers," cried Frank, pa.s.sionately; "fellows who attacked us from behind walls and barricades."

"Your reproach only means that they were not soldiers."

"That they were cowards, rather,----rank cowards. The liberty that such fellows strive for will be well worthy of them! But no more of this,"

cried be, impatiently; "is there a church near, where I can lay his body,--he was a Catholic?"

"There is a chapel attached to the villa; I will ask permission for what you require."

"You will confer a favor on me," said Frank, "for I am desirous of hastening on to Milan at once."

"You will scarcely find your comrades there," said Norwood.

Frank started with surprise, and the other went on,----

"There are rumors of a serious revolt in the city, and some say that the Imperial troops have retired on the Mantua road."

"They know nothing of Austrian soldiers who say these things," said Frank, haughtily; "but there is the more need that I should lose no time here."

"Come, then, I will show you the way to the chapel," said Norwood, who could not divest himself of a feeling of interest for the young soldier.

Frank spoke a few words in Hungarian to his men, and hastily wrapping the dead man in his cloak, they placed him on a door, his chako and his sword at either side of him.

"You will see that he is buried as becomes a brave and a true soldier,"

said Frank, with a faltering accent, as they went along. "This will defray the cost."

"No, no; there is no need of that," said Norwood, pushing away the proffered purse. "We'll look to it ourselves."

"Let there be some record of him preserved, too, for his friends' sake.

His name was 'Stanislas Ravitsky.'"

"And may I ask yours?" said Norwood.

"You'll hear of it in the first court-martial return for Milan," said Frank, bitterly.

"Then why go there?--why hasten to certain ruin?"

"You would say, why not desert?----why not forfeit my honor and my oath? Because I am a gentleman, sir; and if the explanation be not intelligible, so much the worse for you."

"I have left him in the chapel," said Norwood to D'Esmonde, a few minutes after this conversation; "he is kneeling beside the corpse, and praying. There is nothing to be done with him. It is but time lost to attempt it."

"So much the worse for _him,_" said D'Esmonde, significantly repeating the words that Norwood related, while he hastily left the spot and walked towards the high-road, where now an Austrian picket was standing beside the horses.

"This is your warrant, sir," said D'Esmonde to the officer, handing him a paper; "You 'll find the person you seek for in the chapel yonder."

The officer saluted in reply, and ordered his men to mount; while D'Esmonde, pa.s.sing into a thick part of the copse, was out of sight in a moment.

CHAPTER XVI. PETER DALTON ON POLITICS, LAW, AND SOCIALITIES.

We have seen Baden in the dark winter of its discontent--in the spring-time of its promise--and now we come back to it once more, in the fall blaze of its noonday splendor. It was the height of the season!

And what a world of dissipation does that phrase embody! What reckless extravagance, what thoughtless profusion, what systematic vice glossed over by the lacquer of polished breeding, what beauty which lacks but innocence to be almost divine! All the attractions of a lovely country, all the blandishments of wealth, the aids of music and painting, the odor of flowers, the songs of birds,--all pressed into the service of voluptuous dissipation, and made to throw a false l.u.s.tre over a scene where vice alone predominates.

It was the camp of pleasure, to which all rallied who loved to fight beneath that banner. And there they were, a mingled host of princes, ministers, and generals. The spoiled children of fashion, the reckless adventurer, the bankrupt speculator, the nattered beauty in all the pride of her loveliness, the tarnished virtue in all the effrontery of conquest! Strange and incongruous elements of good and evil,--of all that is honored in heroism, and all that men shrink from with shame,--there they were met as equals.

As if by some conventional relaxation of all the habits which rule society, men admitted to their intimacy here those they would have strenuously avoided elsewhere. Vice, like poverty, seemed to have annihilated all the distinctions of rank, and the "decorated" n.o.ble and the branded felon sat down to the same board like brethren.

Amid all the gay company of the Cursaal none appeared to have a greater relish for the glittering pleasures of the scene than a large elderly man, who, in a coat of jockey cut and a showy waistcoat, sat at the end of one of the tables,--a post which the obsequious attention of the waiters proclaimed to be his own distinctively. Within a kind of ring-fence of bottles and decanters of every shape and size, he looked the genius of hospitality and dissipation; and it was only necessary to mark how many a smile was turned on him, how many a soft glance was directed towards him, to see that he was the centre of all designing flattery. There was a reckless, unsuspecting jollity in his look that could not be mistaken; and his loud, hearty laugh bespoke the easy self-satisfaction of his nature. Like "special envoys," _his_ champagne bottles were sent hither and thither down the table, and at each instant a friendly nod or a courteous bow acknowledged his hospitable attention.

At either side of him were seated a knot of his peculiar parasites, and neither was wit nor beauty wanting to make their society agreeable.

There is a species of mock affection, a false air of attachment in the homage rendered to such a man as this, that makes the flattery infinitely more seductive than all the respectful devotion that ever surrounded a monarch. And so our old friend Peter Dalton--need we to name him?--felt it. "Barring the glorious burst of a fox-hunting chorus, or the wild 'hip, hip' of a favorite toast, it was almost as good as Ireland." Indeed, in some respects, it had rather the advantage over the dear island.

Peter was intensely Irish, and had all the native relish for high company, and it was no mean enjoyment that he felt in seeing royal and serene highnesses at every side of him, and knowing that some of the great names of Europe were waiting for the very dish that was served first in honor to himself. There was a glittering splendor, too, in the gorgeously decorated "Saal," with its frescos, its mirrors, its l.u.s.tres, and its bouquets, that captivated him. The very a.s.sociations which a more refined critic would have cavilled at had their attractions for _him_, and he gloried in the noise and uproar. The clink of gla.s.ses and the crash of plates were to his ears the pleasant harmony of a convivial meeting.

He was in the very height of enjoyment. A few days back he had received a large remittance from Kate. It came in a letter to Nelly, which he had not read, nor cared to read. He only knew that she was at St. Petersburg waiting for Midchekoffs arrival. The money had driven all other thoughts out of his head, and before Nelly had glanced her eye over half the first page, he was already away to negotiate the bills with Abel Kraus, the moneychanger. As for Frank, they had not heard of him for several months back. Nelly, indeed, had received a few lines from Count Stephen, but they did not appear to contain anything very interesting, for she went to her room soon after reading them, and Dalton forgot to ask more on the subject. His was not a mind to conjure up possible misfortunes.

Always too ready to believe the best, he took the world ever on its sunniest side, and never would acknowledge a calamity while there was a loophole of escape from it.

"Why wouldn't she be happy?--What the devil could ail her?----Why oughtn't he to be well?----Wasn't he as strong as a bull, and not twenty yet!" Such were the consolations of his philosophy, and he needed no better.

His flatterers, too, used to insinuate little fragments of news about the "Princess" and the "Young Count," as they styled Frank, which he eagerly devoured, and as well as his memory served him, tried to repeat to Nelly when he returned home of a night. These were enough for him; and the little sigh with which he tossed off his champagne to their health was the extent of sorrow the separation cost him.

Now and then, it is true, he wished they were with him; he'd have liked to show the foreigners "what an Irish girl was;" he would have been pleased, too, that his handsome boy should have been seen amongst "them grinning baboons, with hair all over them." He desired this the more, that Nelly would never venture into public with him, or, if she did, it was with such evident shame and repugnance that even his selfishness could not exact the sacrifice. "'T is, maybe, the sight of the dancing grieves her, and-she lame," was the explanation he gave himself of this strange turn of mind; and whenever honest Peter had hit upon what he thought was a reason for anything, he dismissed all further thought about the matter forever. It was a debt paid, and he felt as if he had the receipt on his file.

On the day we now speak of he was supremely happy. An Irish peer had come into the Saal leaning on his arm, and twice called him "Dalton"