"He'll not be our guest to-morrow, Morlache. I must continue to occupy him for a day or two. He shall be invited to dine at court to-morrow,--the request is a command,--so that you will not see him.

Receive Midchekoff if he calls, for I want to hear what he is about here; his money requirements will soon give us the clew. And I, too,"

said he, stretching and speaking languidly,--"I, too, would be the better of some repose; it is now thirty-six hours, Morlache, since I closed my eyes in sleep. During that s.p.a.ce I have written and dictated and talked and argued, urging on the lukewarm, restraining the rash, giving confidence to this one, preaching caution to that; and here I am, at the end of all, with my task as far as ever from completion. Events march faster than we, do what we will; and as the child never comes up with the hoop he has set in motion till it has fallen, so we rarely overtake the circ.u.mstances we have created till they have ceased to be of any value to us. Now, at this precise moment I want to be in the Vatican, at the camp of Goito, in the council-chamber at Schonbrunn,--not to speak of a certain humble homestead in a far-away Irish county; and yet I have nothing for it but to go quietly off to bed, leaving to fortune--I believe that is as good a name for it as any other--the course of events which, were I present, I could direct at will. Napoleon left a great example behind him; he beat his enemies always by rapidity. Believe me, Morlache, men think very much upon a par in this same world of ours; the great difference being that some take five minutes where others take five weeks: the man of minutes is sure to win."

Just as the Abbe had spoken, Norwood returned, saying,----

"By the way, can either of you tell me if Jekyl is here now?"

"I have not seen him," said Morlache, "which is almost proof that he is not His first visit is usually to me."

The streets were silent. A few stray lamps yet flickered over the s.p.a.cious cupola of the Duomo, and a broken line of light faintly tracked one angle of the tower of the Piazza Vecchia; but except these last lingering signs of the late rejoicings, all Florence lay in darkness.

"How quiet is everything!" said Morlache, as he took leave of his guests at his door.' "The streets are empty already."

"Ay," muttered the Abbe, "the rejoicing, like the victory, was but short-lived. Do our roads lie the same way, my Lord?" asked he of Norwood.

"Very seldom, I suspect," replied the Viscount, with a laugh. "_Mine_ is in this direction."

"And _mine_ lies this way," said D'Esmonde, bowing coldly, but courteously, as he pa.s.sed on, and entered the narrow street beyond the bridge. "You are quite right, my Lord," muttered he to himself; "our paths in life are very different. _Yours_ may be wider and pleasanter, but mine, with all its turnings, goes straighter." He paused and listened for some seconds, till Norwood's steps had died away in the distance, and then turning back, he followed in the direction the other had taken.

Norwood walked rapidly along till he came to that small house on the Arno where Jekyl lived, and stopping in front of it, he threw a handful of sand against the window. To this signal, twice repeated, no reply was given to the Viscount He waited a few seconds, and then moved on. The Abbe stood under the shadow of the tall palaces till the other was out of sight, and then, approaching the door, gave a long, low whistle.

Within a few seconds the sash was opened, and Jekyl's voice heard,----

"It's you, Abbe. There 's the key. Will you excuse ceremony, and let yourself in?"

D'Esmonde opened the door at once, and, mounting the stairs, entered the little chamber in which now Jekyl stood in his dressing-gown and slippers; and although suddenly roused from sleep, with a smile of courteous welcome on his diminutive features,----

"I paid no attention to your first signal, Abbe," said he, "scarcely thinking it could be you."

"Nor was it," said D'Esmonde, seating himself. "It was Lord Norwood, who doubtless must have had some important reason for disturbing you at this hour. I waited till he went off before I whistled. When did you arrive?"

"About three hours ago. I came from Lucerne, and was obliged to take such a zig-zag course, the roads being all blocked up by marching soldiers, guns, and wagons, that I have been eight days making the journey of three."

"So, Lady Hester is a widow! Strange, I only heard it an hour ago."

"The post has been interrupted, or you would have known it a week back.

I wrote to you from Zurich. I accompanied her so far on her way to England, and was to have gone the whole way, too, but she determined to send me back here."

"Not to settle her affairs in Florence," said D'Esmonde, with a quiet slyness.

"Rather to look after Lord Norwood's," said Jekyl. "I never could exactly get to the bottom of the affair; but I suppose there must be some pledge or promise which, in a rash moment, she has made him, and that already she repents of."

"How has she been left in the will?" asked D'Esmonde, abruptly.

"Her own words are, 'Infamously treated.' Except a bequest of ten thousand pounds, nothing beyond the Irish estate settled at the time of her marriage."

"She will easily get rid of Norwood, then," rejoined the Abbe, with a smile. "His price is higher."

"I'm not so sure of that," broke in Jekyl; "the n.o.ble Viscount's late speculations have all proved unfortunate, even to his book on Carlo Alberto. He thinks he has gone wrong in not hedging on Radetzky."

"What does he know of the changes of politics?" said D'Esmonde, contemptuously. "Let him stick to his stablemen and the crafty youths of Newmarket, but leave state affairs for other and very different capacities. Does she care for him, Jekyl? Does she love him?"

"She does, and she does not," said Jekyl, with a languishing air, which he sometimes a.s.sumed when asked for an opinion. "She likes his fashionable exterior, his easy kind of drawing-room a.s.surance, and, perhaps not least of all, the tone of impertinent superiority he displays towards all other men; but she is afraid of him,----afraid of his temper and his tyrannical humor, and terribly afraid of his extravagance."

"How amusing it is!" said D'Esmonde, with a yawn. "A minister quits the cabinet in disgust, and retires into private life forever, when his first step is to plot his return to power. So your widow is invariably found weighing the thoughts of her mourning with speculations on a second husband. Why need she marry again; tell me that?"

"Because she is a widow, perhaps. I know no other reason," lisped out Jekyl.

"I cannot conceive a greater folly than that of these women, with ample fortune, sacrificing their independence by marriage. The whole world is their own, if they but knew it. They command every source of enjoyment while young, and have all the stereotyped solaces of old age when it comes upon them; and with poodles, parrots, and parasites, mornings of scandal and evenings of whist, eke out a very pretty existence."

"Dash the whole with a little religion, Abbe," cried Jekyl, laughing, "and the picture will be tolerably correct."

"She shall not marry Lord Norwood; that, at least, I can answer for,"

said D'Esmonde, not heeding the other.

"It will be difficult to prevent it, Abbe," said the other, dryly.

"Easier than you think for. Come, Master Jekyl, a.s.sume a serious mood for once, and pay attention to what I am about to say. This line of life you lead cannot go on forever. Even were your own great gifts to resist time and its influences, a new generation will spring up with other wants and requirements, and another race will come who knew not Joseph.

With all your versatility it will be late to study new models, and acquire a new tongue. Have you speculated, then, I ask you, on this contingency?"

"I 've some thoughts of a 'monkery,'" lisped out Jekyl; "if the good folk could only be persuaded to adopt a little cleanliness."

"Would not marriage suit you better; a rich widow, t.i.tled, well-connected, and good-looking, of fashionable habits, and tastes that resemble your own?"

"There are difficulties in the case," said Jekyl, calmly.

"State them," rejoined the Abbe.

"To begin. There is Lady Hester herself,--for, of course, you mean _her._"

"I engage to solve all on that head."

"Then there is the Viscount."

"For him, too, I hold myself responsible."

"Lastly, there is Albert Jekyl, who, however admirably he understands garcon life, might discover that the husband was not among the range of his characters. As it is, my dear Abbe, I lead a very pretty existence.

I am neither bored nor tormented, I never quarrel with anybody, nor is the rudest man ever discourteous to me. I possess nothing that any one envies, except that heaven-born disposition to be pleased, of which nothing can rob me. I dine well, drive in rich equipages, and, if I liked, might ride the best horses; have at least a dozen Opera-boxes ready to receive me, and sweeter smiles to welcome me than would become me to boast of."

"Well, then, my proposal is to give you all these on a life interest instead of being a tenant-at-will," broke in D'Esmonde.

"And all this out of pure regard for me?" asked Jekyl, with a sly look.

"As a pure matter of bargain," replied D'Esmonde. "Lady Hester has advanced large sams to the cause in which I am interested. It would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to repay them. We still want means, and that ten thousand pounds' legacy would render us immense service at this moment. Her income can well spare the sacrifice."

"Yes, yes," said Jekyl, musingly; and then looking fondly at his own image in the gla.s.s, he said, "I shall be a dead bargain, after all."

D'Esmonde bit his lip to repress some movement of impatience, and after a pause said,----