"I may be in a position to a.s.sure your Highness on that score before another day elapses. May I hope that you will receive me, even at some inconvenience, for my time is much occupied just now?"

"Whenever you call, Monsieur l'Abbe," was the prompt reply. "If you will deign to accept this ring as a souvenir of me, it will also serve to admit you at all hours and in all places to me."

"Your costly gift, Prince," said D'Esmonde, flushing, "has a greater value in my eyes than all its l.u.s.tre can express." And with a most affectionate leave-taking they parted.

"At what hour is the Prince's carriage ordered?" said the Abbe, as he pa.s.sed through the hall.

"For two o'clock precisely, Monsignore. He is to have an audience at the Pitti."

"To Florence----and with speed!" said D'Esmonde to his coachman; and away they drove.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE "MOSKOVA."

The Abbe D'Esmonde pa.s.sed a busy morning. Twice was he closeted with the President of the Ministry, and once was he received in a lengthy audience at the "Pitti;" after which he repaired to the house of Morlache, where he remained till after two o'clock.

"There goes Midchekoff to the Palace," said the Jew, as a handsome equipage drove past.

"Then it is time for me to be away," said D'Esmonde, rising. "I have received orders to meet him there. Remember, Morlache, I must have this sum in gold, ready by the evening; the bills on London can reach me by post."

"All shall be attended to," said Morlache; and the Abbe entered his carriage once more, giving orders for the Pitti.

When the carriage had pa.s.sed the first turning, however, D'Esmonde appeared to have remembered something that till then had escaped him, and he desired the man to drive round to the San Gallo gate; thence he directed his way to the narrow road which traverses the valley of the Mugello, and winds along for miles at the foot of the hill of Fiesole.

Once outside the city, D'Esmonde urged the man to speed, and they drove for nigh an hour at a rapid pace.

"There is a footpath somewhere hereabouts leads to Fiesole," said D'Esmonde, springing out, and casting his eyes around. "I have it Remain here till I come down. I may be absent for an hour or more; but be sure to wait for me." And so saying, he pa.s.sed into a vineyard beside the road, and was soon lost to view.

The pathway was steep and rugged; but D'Esmonde traversed it with an active step, scarcely seeming to bestow a thought upon its difficulties, in the deeper preoccupation of his mind. As little did he notice the peasant greetings that met him, or hear the kindly accents that bade him "good-day" as he went. If at intervals he stopped in his career, it was rather to take breath and to recruit vigor for new efforts, than to look down upon the gorgeous scene that now lay beneath him. For an instant, however, his thoughts did stray to the objects in view; and as he beheld the dark towers of a gloomy castellated building, half hid amongst tall yew-trees, he muttered,----

"Deeper and darker schemes than mine were once enacted there!--and what fruits have they borne after all? They who convulsed the age they lived in have never left an impress to ruffle the future, and, for aught that we know or feel, the Medici might never have lived. And this," cried he, aloud, "because theirs was a selfish ambition. There is but one cause whose interests are eternal,--the Church; that glorious creation which combines power here with triumph hereafter!" His face, as he uttered the words, was no bad emblem of the nature within,----a high and n.o.ble brow, lit up by the impress of a great ambition, and, beneath, eyes of changeful and treacherous meaning; while, lower down again, in the compressed lips and projecting chin might be read the signs of an unrelenting spirit. Pa.s.sing along through many a tortuous path, he at last reached a small private gate which led into the grounds of the "Moskova." He had to bethink him for a moment of the way which conducted to the gardens, but he soon remembered the direction, and walked on.

It was the hour when in Italy the whole face of a country, the busiest streets of a thronged city, are deserted, and a stillness far more unbroken than that of midnight prevails. The glowing hours of noonday had brought the "siesta," and not a laborer was to be seen in the fields.

D'Esmonde found the garden unlocked, and entered. He knew that by pa.s.sing directly onward to the "orangery" he could enter the villa by a small door, which led into the private apartments of the Prince. This was, however, locked; but the window lay open, and with a spring he gained the sill and entered the chamber. He knew it well; it was the little room appropriated by Midchekoff as his private library, simply furnished, and connected with a still smaller chamber, where, in an alcove, a species of divan stood, on which it was the rich man's caprice at times to pa.s.s the night Although certain traces showed that the Prince had been recently there, no letters nor papers lay about; there was no sign of haste or negligence, nor was anything left to the accidents of prying eyes or meddling fingers. D'Esmonde opened the door which conducted into the corridor, and listened; but all was silent He then sat down to think. The palace--for such, under the name of villa, it was--was of immense extent, and he could not expect to ramble many minutes without chancing upon some of the household. His color came and went, as, in deep agitation, he conceived in turn every possible project, for he was one whose mind worked with all the violent throes of some mighty engine; and even when taking counsel with himself, the alternate impulses of his reason became painful efforts. At last he made up his resolve, and, entering the inner chamber, he closed the shutters and drew the curtains; and then, throwing around his shoulders a richly lined cloak of sable, he rang the bell loudly and violently. This done, he lay down upon the divan, which, in the darkness of the recess, was in complete obscurity. He had barely time to draw the folds of the mantle about him, when a servant entered, with noiseless step, and stood at a respectful distance, awaiting what he believed to be his master's orders.

"Send the Signora," muttered D'Esmonde, with the cloak folded across his mouth, and then turned on his side. The servant bowed and retired.

D'Esmonde started up, and listened to the retiring footfalls, till they were lost in distance, and then the strong pulsations of his own heart seemed to mock their measured pace. "Would the stratagem succeed?"

"Would she come, and come alone?" were the questions which he asked himself, as his clasped hands were clinched, and his lips quivered in strong emotion. An unbroken stillness succeeded, so long that, to his aching senses, it seemed like hours of time. At last a heavy door was heard to bang; another, too,--now voices might be detected in the distance; then came footsteps, it seemed, as of several people; and, lastly, these died away, and he could mark the sweeping sounds of a female dress coming rapidly along the corridor. The door opened and closed; she was in the library, and appeared to be waiting. D'Esmonde gave a low, faint cough; and now, hastily pa.s.sing on, she entered the inner chamber, and, with cautious steps traversing the darkened s.p.a.ce, she knelt down beside the couch. D'Esmonde's hand lay half uncovered, and on this now another hand was gently laid. Not a word was uttered by either; indeed, their very breathings seemed hushed into stillness.

If the secrets of hearts were open to us, what a history, what a life-long experience lay in those brief moments! and what a conflict of pa.s.sion might be read in those two natures! A slight shudder shook D'Esmonde's frame at the touch of that hand which so often had been clasped within his own, long, long ago, and he raised it tenderly, and pressed it to his lips. Then, pa.s.sing his other arm around her, so as to prevent escape, he said, but in a voice barely audible, the one word, "Lola!"

With a violent effort she tried to disengage herself from his grasp; and although her struggles were great, not a cry, not a syllable escaped her. "Hear me, Lola," said D'Esmonde; "hear me with patience and with calm, if not for my sake, for your own."

"Unhand me, then," said she, in a voice which, though low, was uttered with all the vehemence of strong emotion. "I am not a prisoner beneath this roof."

"Not a prisoner, say you?" said D'Esmonde, as he locked the door, and advanced towards her. "Can there be any bondage compared to this? Does the world know of any slavery so debasing?"

"Dare to utter such words again, and I will call to my aid those who will hurl you from that window," said she, in the same subdued accents.

"That priestly robe will be but a poor defence here."

"You'd scarcely benefit by the call, Lola," said D'Esmonde, as he stole one hand within the folds of his robe.

"Would you kill me?" cried she, growing deathly pale.

"Be calm, and hear me," said the priest, as he pressed her down upon a seat, and took one directly opposite to her. "It never could be my purpose, Lola, to have come here either to injure or revile you. I may, indeed, sorrow over the fall of one whose honorable ambitions might have soared so high; I may grieve for a ruin that was so causeless; but, save when anguish may wring from me a word of bitterness, I will not hurt your ears, Lola. I know everything,--all that has happened; yet have I to learn who counselled you to this flight."

"Here was my adviser,----here!" said she, pressing her hand firmly against her side. "My heart, bursting and indignant,----my slighted affection,----my rejected love! you ask me this,----you, who knew how I loved him."

For some seconds her emotion overcame her, and, as she covered her face with her hands, she swayed and rocked from side to side, like one in acute bodily pain.

"I stooped to tell him all,--how I had thought and dreamed of him; how followed his footsteps; sought out the haunts that he frequented, and loved to linger in the places where he had been. I told him, too, of one night when I had even ventured to seek him in his own chamber, and was nearly detected by another who chanced to be there; my very dress was torn in my flight. There was no confession too humiliating for my lips to utter, nor my pen to trace; and what has been the return? But why do I speak of these things to one whose heart is sealed against affection, and whose nature rejects the very name of love? you will be a merciless judge, Eustace!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: 362]

"Go on; let me hear you out, Lola," said the priest, gently.

"The tale is soon told," rejoined she, hurriedly. "My letter reached him on the eve of a great battle. The army, it appears, had been marching for weeks, and suddenly came upon the enemy without expecting it. He told me so much in about as many words, and said that he was pa.s.sing what might, perhaps, prove his last hours of life in replying to me.

'Outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, nothing remains but to sell our lives dearly, and even in our defeat make the name of Englishmen one of terror to our enemies.' So he wrote, and so I could have read, with a swelling but not a breaking heart, had he not added that, for my warm affection, my whole soul's devotion, he had nothing but his friendship to give in return; that his heart had long since been another's, and that, although she never could be his, never in all likelihood know of his affection, he would die with her name upon his lips, her image in his heart. 'It matters little,' added he, 'in what channel flow the feelings of one, where to-morrow, in all likelihood, the course will be dried up forever.

Let me, however, with what may be the last lines I shall ever write, thank you--nay, bless you--for one pa.s.sage of your letter, and the thought of which will nerve my heart in the conflict now so near, and make me meet my last hour with an unbroken spirit.' The mystery of these words I never could penetrate, nor have I the slightest clew to their meaning. But why should I care for them? Enough that I am slighted, despised, and rejected! This letter came to my hands six weeks ago. I at once wrote to the Prince Midchekoff, telling him that the woman he was about to marry loved, and was loved, by another; that she entertained no feeling towards himself but of dread and terror. I told him, too, that her very beauty would not withstand the inroads of a sorrow that was corroding her heart He replied to me, and I wrote again. I was now his confidante, and he told me all,----how that he had addressed a formal demand to the Emperor for leave to marry, and how he had taken safe measures to have his prayer rejected. Then came the tidings of the Czar's refusal to Madame de Heidendorf, and _my_ triumph; for I told her, and to her face, that once more we were equals. It was then, stung by this taunt, that she refused to travel with me, refused to accept the splendid dowry to which her betrothal ent.i.tled her, and demanded to be restored to her family and friends, poor as she had left them. It was then that I resolved on this bold step. I had long been learning the falsehood of what are called friends, and how he who would achieve fortune must trust to himself alone. Midchekoff might not love me, but there was much in my power to secure his esteem. My head could be as fertile in schemes as his own. I had seen much and heard more. The petty plottings of the Heidendorf and the darker counsels of the Abbe D'Esmonde were all known to me--"

"You did not dare to write my name?" asked the priest, in a slow, deliberate voice.

"And why should I not?" cried she, haughtily. "Is it fear, or is it grat.i.tude should hold my hand?"

"You forget the past, Lola, or you had never said these words."

"I remember it but as a troubled dream, which I will not suffer to darken my waking hours. At last I begin to live, and never till now have I known the sensation of being above fear."

"You told the Prince, then, of our relations together? You showed him my letters and your own replies?" said D'Esmonde, as he fixed his dark eyes upon her.

"All,--all!" said she, with a haughty smile.

"You, perhaps, told him that I had engaged you to write to me of all you heard or saw at St Petersburg?"

"I said so, in a most unpolished phrase: I called myself a spy."

"You were probably not less candid when designating your friends, Lola,"

said D'Esmonde, with a faint smile. "How, pray, did you name _me_?"

"It was a better word,----one of cutting reproach, believe me," said she. "I called you a 'priest,' sir; do you think there is another epithet that can contain as much?"

"In the overflowing of those frank impulses, Lola, of course you spoke of Norwood,--of Gerald Acton, I mean, as you may remember him better by that name. You told the Prince of your marriage to this Englishman,--a marriage solemnized by myself, and of which I retain the written evidence."

"With the falsehood that for a brief moment imposed upon myself, I would not stoop to cheat another! No, Eustace, this may be priestcraft. To outlive a deception, and then employ it; to tremble at a fallacy first, and to terrorize by means of it after, is excellent Popery, but most sorry womanhood!"

"Unhappy, wretched creature!" cried D'Esmonde; "where have you learned these lessons?--who could have taught you this?"