"This matter does not admit of delay. Circ.u.mstances will soon require my presence in England, and with a strong sum at my command; besides--"

"If I understand you aright," said Jekyl, "You are to conduct the whole negotiations to a successful end, and that I shall have neither a bill to endorse, nor a duel to fight, throughout the affair."

"You shall be scathless."

"There is another point," said Jekyl, quickly. "How shall I figure in the newspapers,--Albert Jekyl, Esquire, of where? Have you thought of that? I wish I had even an uncle a baronet."

"Pooh, pooh!" said D'Esmonde, impatiently. "You marry into the peerage; that's quite enough."

"Perhaps you 're right," said Jekyl. "All that enumeration of family connection----'niece to the Chief Justice of Rembouk,' or 'cousin-german to the Vice-Consul at Gumdalloo'--smacks terribly of 'Moses and Son.'"

"We are agreed, then," said the Abbe, rising.

"I swear," said Jekyl, rising, and throwing out his hand in the att.i.tude of the well-known picture of the "Marshals." "The step that I am about to take will throw its gloom over many a dinner-party, and bring sadness into many a _salon_; but I 'll retire at least with dignity, and, like Napoleon, I'll write my memoirs."

"So far, then, so good," said D'Esmonde; "now, with your leave, I throw myself on this sofa and s.n.a.t.c.h an hour's sleep." And ere Jekyl had arranged the folds of what he called his "sable pelisse" as a covering, the Abbe was in deep slumber.

CHAPTER XXV. PRIESTCRAFT.

With less than two hours of sleep, D'Esmonde arose refreshed and ready for the day. Jekyl was not awake as the priest quitted his quarters, and, repairing to his own lodgings, dressed himself with more than usual care. Without any of the foppery of the Abbe, there was a studied elegance in every detail of his costume, and as he stepped into the carriage which awaited him, many turned their looks of admiration at the handsome priest.

"To the Crocetto," said he, and away they went.

It was already so early that few persons were about as they drove into the court of the palace, and drew up at a private door. Here D'Esmonde got out and ascended the stairs.

"Ah, Monsignore!" said a young man, somewhat smartly Attired in a dressing-gown and velvet cap. "He did not return here last night."

"Indeed!" said the Abbe, pondering.

"He dismissed the carriage at the Pitti, so that in all likelihood he pa.s.sed the night at the palace."

"Most probably," said D'Esmonde, with a bland smile; And then, with a courteous "Good-morning," he returned to his carriage.

"Where to, Signore?" asked the driver.

"Towards the Duomo," said he. But scarcely had the man turned the second corner, than he said, "To the 'Moskova,' Prince Midchekoffs villa."

"We 're turning our back to it, Signore. It's on the hill of Fiesole."

D'Esmonde nodded, but said no more. Although scarcely a league from the city, the way occupied a considerable time, being one continued and steep ascent. The Abbe was, however, too deeply engaged with his own thoughts to bestow attention on the pace they journeyed, or the scene around. He was far from being insensible to the influence of the picturesque or the beautiful; but now other and weightier considerations completely engrossed his mind, nor was he aware how the moments pa.s.sed till the carriage came to a stop.

"The Prince is absent, sir, in Lombardy," said a gruff-looking porter from within the gate.

D'Esmonde descended, and whispered some words between the bars.

"But my orders----my orders!" said the man, in a tone of deference.

"They would be peremptory against any other than _me_," said D'Esmonde, calmly; and, after a few seconds' pause, the man unlocked the gate, and the carriage pa.s.sed in.

"To the back entrance," called out D'Esmonde. And they drove into a s.p.a.cious courtyard, where a number of men were engaged in washing carriages, cleaning horses, and all the other duties of the stable. One large and c.u.mbrous vehicle, loaded with all the varied "accessories" of the road, and fortified by many a precaution against the accidents of the way, stood prominent. It was covered with stains and splashes, and bore unmistakable evidence of a long Journey. A courier, with a red-brown beard descending to his breast, was busy in locking and unlocking the boxes, as if in search of some missing article.

"How heavy the roads are in the north!" said D'Esmonde, addressing him in German.

The man touched his cap in a half-sullen civility, and muttered an a.s.sent.

"I once made the same journey myself, in winter," resumed the Abbe, "and I remembered thinking that no man undergoes such real hardship as a courier. Sixteen, seventeen, ay, twenty days and nights of continued exposure to cold and snows, and yet obliged to have all his faculties on full stretch the whole time, to remember every post station, every bridge and ferry,--the steep mountain pa.s.ses, where oxen must be hired,--the frontiers of provinces, where pa.s.sports are vised."

"Ay, and when the lazy officials will keep you standing in the deep snow a full h.o.a.r at midnight, while they ring every copeck to see it be good money."

"That's the true and only metal for a coinage," said D'Esmonde, as he drew forth a gold Napoleon, and placed it in the other's hand. "Take it, my worthy fellow," said he; "it's part of a debt I owe to every man who wears the courier's jacket. Had it not been for one of _your_ cloth, I 'd have been drowned at the ford of Ostrovitsch."

"It's the worst ferry in the Empire," said the courier. "The Emperor himself had a narrow escape there. The raft is one half too small."

"How many days have you taken on the way?" asked D'Esmonde, carelessly

"Twenty-eight--yesterday would have made the twenty-ninth--but we arrived before noon."

"Twenty-eight days!" repeated D'Esmonde, pondering.

"Ay, and nights too! But remember that Vradskoi Noteki is three hundred and eighty versts below St. Petersburg."

"I know it well," said D'Esmonde, "and with a heavily loaded carriage it's a weary road. How did she bear the journey?" said he, in a low, scarcely uttered whisper.

"Bear it I----better than I did; and, except when scolding the postilions for not going twelve versts an hour, in deep snow, she enjoyed herself the entire way."

D'Esmonde gave a knowing look and a smile, as though to say that he recognized her thoroughly in the description.

"You know her, then?" asked the courier.

"This many a year," replied the Abbe, with a faint sigh.

"She's a rare one," said the man, who grew at each instant more confidential, "and thinks no more of a gold rouble than many another would of a copeck. Is it true, as they say, she was once an actress?"

"There are stranger stories than that about her," said D'Esmonde. "But why has she come alone? How happens it that she is here?"

"That is the secret that none of us can fathom," said the courier. "We thought there was to have been another, and I believe there is another in the pa.s.sport, but it was no affair of mine. I had my orders from the Prince's own 'intendant,' who bespoke all the relays for the road, and here we are."

"I will explain all the mystery to you at another time, courier," said D'Esmonde; "meanwhile, let nothing of what we have been saying escape you. By the way," added he, half carelessly, "what name did she travel under?"

"The pa.s.sport was made out 'Die Grafin von Dalton;' but she has a Spanish name, for I heard it once from the intendant."

"Was it Lola de Seviglia?"

"That was it. I remember it well."

"We are very old friends indeed!" said the Abbe; "and now be cautious; let none know that we have spoken together, and I can serve your fortune hereafter."