Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel

‘Whence, have you derived this most ingenious tissue of falsehood, Monseigneur?’ cried she passionately.

‘Nay, Madame, I speak “from book” now. The Chevalier is intimately known to Monsieur de Mirabeau – lived at one time in close companionship with him – and is, indeed, deeply indebted to his kindness.’

‘How glad I am, Monseigneur,’ said she quickly, ‘at length to undeceive you!’

A knock at the door here interrupted the Marquise. It was a servant with a letter from Versailles that demanded immediate attention.

‘Here is more of it, Monseigneur,’ cried she passionately. ‘Her Majesty’s ears have been outraged by these base calumnies, and I am summoned to her presence in all haste.’

‘I foresaw it, Madame,’ said the Bishop, as he arose to withdraw. ‘I wish you a most pleasant journey, Madame la Marquise, and all that can render the conclusion of it agreeable.

CHAPTER V. A SUDDEN REVERSE

‘What is it? – what has happened?’ cried Gerald, as he awoke suddenly from a deep sleep, the first he had enjoyed after some nights of pain. ‘Oh, it is you, Count Dillon,’ and he tried to smile an apology for his abruptness.

‘Lie down again, my lad, and listen to me, patiently too, if you can, for I have tidings that might try your patience.’

‘I see you have bad news for me,’ said Gerald calmly; ‘out with it at once.’

The other made no reply, but turned toward him a look of compassionate tenderness.

‘Come, Count, uncertainty is the worst of penalties – what are your tidings?’

‘Tell me, first of all, Gerald, is it true that you supped on Friday last at Paris with a party, at the house of a certain Monsieur du Saillant, and there met Desmoulins, Rivarol, and several others of that party?’

‘Yes, quite true.’

‘And they drank patriotic toasts – which means that they pledged bumpers in insult to the court?’

‘They made an attempt to do so, which I resisted. I said that I would not sit there and hear one word to disparage my sovereign or his cause, on which one of them cried out, “And who are you who dares to prescribe to us how we are to speak, or what to toast?” “He is my friend,” said Du Saillant, “and that is enough.” “Nay,” broke in the others, “it is not enough. We have placed our necks in a halter, if this youth should turn out a spy of the court, or a Garde du Corps.” “And I am a Garde du Corps,” said I. “Parbleu!” said one, “I know him well now; he is the fellow they call the Ecossais – the Queen’s minion.” With that I struck him across the face – the others fell upon me, and pressed me toward the window, I believe, to throw me out; at all events there was a severe struggle, from which I escaped, roughly handled and bruised, into an adjoining room. Here they followed and arranged that meeting of which you have heard.’

‘You ran him through?’

‘Yes, a bad wound, I fear; but it was no time to measure consequences; besides, three others claimed to fight me.’

‘And did they?’

‘No, the affair stands over; for Carcassone – that’s his name – they thought was dying, and all their care was turned to him. Meanwhile I was bleeding tremendously, for he had cut a blood-vessel in my arm.’

‘Well, and then – ’

‘Then I can’t well tell you what happened. I found myself in the street, with my cravat bound round my arm, and one man, they called Boulet, beside me. He said all he could to cheer me, bade me be of good heart, and that if I liked to make my fortune he would show me the way. “Come with me,” said he, “to the ‘Trois Étoiles,’ declare yourself for us: you are well known in Paris – every one has heard how the Queen likes you.” I tried to strike him, but I only tore off the bandage by my effort, and fell all bathed in blood on the pavement.’

‘And it was in that state you were found underneath the Queen’s window?’

‘I know no more,’ said Gerald drearily, as he lay back, and crossed his eyes with his hand. ‘I have a hundred confused memories of what followed, but can trust none of them. I can recall something of a calèche driven furiously along, while I lay half-fainting within; something of wine or brandy poured down my throat; something of being carried in men’s arms, but through all these are drifting other thoughts, vague, incoherent, almost impossible.’

‘Is it true that the Queen, with one of her ladies, found you still lying in the garden when day broke?’

‘It may have been the Queen – I did not know her,’ said he despondently. ‘Now, then, for your tidings.’

‘You remember, of course, the events which have occurred since your illness, that you have been examined by a military commission, in presence of two persons deputed by the “States-General?”

‘Yes – yes, I have had two weary days of it; ten minutes might have sufficed for all I was going to tell them.’

‘So you really did refuse to answer the questions asked of you?’

‘I refused to speak of what was intrusted to my honour to preserve secret.’

‘Or even to tell by whom you were so intrusted?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you thus encountered the far worse peril of involving in an infamous slander the highest and purest name in France.’

‘I do not understand you,’ cried Gerald wildly.

‘Surely you know the drift of all this inquiry – you cannot be ignorant that it was to assail her Majesty with a base scandal that you were placed beneath her window, and so discovered in the morning, at the very moment of her finding you there. Are you not aware that no falsehood is too gross nor too barefaced not to meet credence if she be its object? Do not all they who plan the downfall of the monarchy despair of success while her graceful virtues adorn her high station? Is not every effort of the vile faction directed solely against her? Have you not witnessed how, one by one, have been abandoned all the innocent pleasures to which scandal attached a blame. The Trianon deserted – the graceful amusements she loved so well – all given up. Unable to meet slander face to face, she has tried to make it impossible, as if one yet could obliterate the venomous poison of this rancorous hate!’

‘And now,’ said Gerald, drawing a long breath, ‘and now for my part in this infernal web of falsehood.’

‘If you refused to state where you had passed the evening – why you wore a disguise, how you came by your wound – you must allow you furnished matter for whatever suspicion they desired to attach to you.’

‘They are free to believe of me what they may.’ ‘Ay, but not to include others in the imputation.’

‘I never so much as dreamed of that!’ said Gerald, with a weary sigh.

‘Well, boy, it is just what has happened; not that there lives one base enough to believe this slander, though ten thousand are ready to repeat it. There, see how the Gazette de Paris treats it, a journal that once held a high place in public favour. Read that.’

Gerald bent over the paper, and read, half aloud, the following paragraph: —

‘The young officer of the Garde du Corps examined by the Special Commission as to the extraordinary circumstances under which he was lately discovered in the garden of her Majesty, having refused all explanation either as to his disguise, his recent wound, or any reason for his presence there, has been adjudged guilty under the following heads: First, breach of military duty in absence from the Garde without leave; secondly, infraction of discipline in exchanging his uniform.’

‘Well, well!’ cried Gerald, ‘what is the end of all this?’

‘You are dismissed the service, boy!’ said Dillon sternly.

‘Dismissed the service!’ echoed he, in a broken voice.

‘Your comrades bore you no goodwill, Gerald; even that last scene in the Salle des Gardes had its unhappy influence on your lot. It was to the comment of the journalist, however, I had directed your attention. See there!’

And Gerald read: —

‘France will not, we assert, accept the degradation of this young officer as a sufficient expiation for what, if it means anything at all, implies a grave insult to the Majesty of the realm. In the name of an outraged public, we demand more than this. We insist on knowing how this youth, so devoid of friends, family, and fortune, became a soldier of the Garde – whence his title – who his patrons. To these questions, if not satisfactorily answered within a week, we purpose to append such explanations as mere rumour affords; and we dare promise our readers, if not all the rigid accuracy of an attested document, some compensation in what may fairly claim the interest of a very romantic story. Not ours the blame if our narrative comprise names of more exalted station than that of this fortunate adventurer.’

‘Fortunate adventurer! I am well called by such a title,’ exclaimed he bitterly. ‘And so I am dismissed the service!’

‘The sentence was pronounced yesterday, but they thought you too ill to hear it. I have, however, appealed against it. I have promised that if re-examined – ’

‘Promise nothing for me, Count; I should reject the boon if they reinstated me to-morrow,’ said Gerald haughtily.

‘But remember, too, you must have other thoughts here than for yourself.’

‘I will leave France; I will seek my fortune elsewhere; I cannot live in a network of intrigue; I have no head for plots, no heart for subtleties. Leave me, therefore, Count, to my fate.’

In broken, unconnected sentences the youth declined all aid or counsel. There are moments of such misery that all the offices of friendship bring less comfort to the heart than a stern self-reliance. A rugged sense of independence supplies at such times both energy and determination. Mayhap it is in moments like these more of real character is formed than even years accomplish in the slower accidents of fortune.

‘This journalist, at least, shall render me satisfaction for his words,’ thought he to himself. ‘I cannot meet the whole array of these slanderers, but upon this one I will fix.’

‘By what mischance, Gerald, have you made Monsieur your enemy?’ asked the Count.

‘Monsieur my enemy!’ repeated Gerald, in utter amazement.

‘Yes. The rumour goes that when the commission returned their report to the King, his Majesty was mercifully inclined, and might have felt disposed to inflict a mere reprimand, or some slight arrest, when Monsieur’s persuasions prevailed on him to take a severer course.’

‘I cannot bring myself to credit this!’ cried Fitzgerald.

‘It is generally believed, nay, it is doubted by none, and all are speculating how you came to incur this dislike.’

‘It is hard to say,’ muttered Gerald bitterly.

‘This is for you, Fitzgerald,’ said a sergeant of the Corps, entering the room hastily. ‘You are to appear on the parade to-morrow, and hear it read at the head of your company,’ and with these words he threw an open paper on the table and withdrew.

‘Open shame and insult – this is too much,’ said Gerald. ‘You must appeal, Gerald; I insist upon it,’ cried Dillon.

‘No, sir. I have done with princes and royal guards. I could not put on their livery again with the sense of loyalty that once stirred my heart. Leave me, I pray, an hour or two to collect my thoughts and grow calm again. Good-bye for a short while.

CHAPTER VI. A WANDERER

After many vicissitudes and hazards, Fitzgerald succeeded in making his escape from France, and reaching Coblentz, where a small knot of devoted Royalists lived, sharing their little resources in common, and generously contributing every aid in their power to their poorer brethren. This life, if one of painful and unceasing anxiety, was yet singularly devoid of incident. To watch the terrible course of that torrent that now devastated their native country; to see how in that resistless deluge all was submerged – throne, villa, home, and family; to sit motionless on the shore, as it were, and survey the shipwreck, was their sad fate.

According to the various temperaments they possessed did men bear this season of probation. To some it was like a dreary nightmare, a long half sleep of suffering and oppression, leaving them devoid of all energy, or all will for exertion. Others felt stimulated to be up and doing, to write and plot, and intrigue with their fellow-exiles in Italy and the north of Germany. The very transmission of the sad tidings which came from Paris became an accustomed task; while some few, half resigned to a ruin whose widespread limits seemed to menace the whole of Europe, began to weave plans for emigrating to a new world beyond the seas.

Gerald halted, and deliberated to which of these two latter he would attach himself. If the idea of a new colony and a new existence, where each should stamp his fate with his own impress, had its attractions, there was also much that fascinated in the heroism that bound men to a losing cause, and held them faithful and true where so many fell off in defection. Perhaps it was the personal character of the men who professed these opinions ultimately decided his choice; for D’Allonville, Caumartin, and Lessieux, who then lived at Coblentz, gave to these sentiments all the glowing ardour of a high and noble chivalry. Nor was it without a certain charm for a young mind to see himself, as it were, a participator and agent in the cause of great events. By zeal to encounter any difficulty, readiness to go anywhere, or dare any peril, Fitzgerald had won the esteem and confidence of men high in the exiled Prince’s favour. They grew to talk with him and confide in him, showing him private letters from exalted personages, and even at times to take his counsel in affairs which required prompt action. Young, active, able to endure fatigue without inconvenience, he offered himself for every charge where such qualities might be available; and thus he traversed Europe, from Hamburg to Italy, from the Rhine to the Vistula, bearing despatches, or as often himself charged with some special communication too delicate to commit to writing, and wherein his tact was intrusted with the details.

At last it was deemed essential to have a number of agents in France itself – men capable of watching and recording the changes of public opinion, who might note the rising discontents of the popular mind, and observe where they had their source. It was a rooted faith in the Royalist party that sooner or later the nation would react against the terrible doctrines of the anarchists, and welcome back to France the men whose very names and titles were part of her glory: the mistake was in supposing that the time for this reaction was at hand, and in believing that every passing shadow was its herald.

Gerald’s personal courage, his adroitness in the use of disguise, his unfailing resources in every difficulty, pointed him out as one well adapted for this employ; and he was constantly intrusted with secret missions to this or that part of France, occasions on which he as invariably distinguished himself by his capacity. The very isolation in which he stood, without family or connections, favoured him, removing him from the sphere of those jealousies which oftentimes marred and defeated the wisest plans of the Royalists. He was not a Rohan nor a Courcelles – a Grammont nor a Tavanne – whose family influence was one day or other to be dreaded. Let him win what fame he might, gain what credit, attract what notice, he carried with him no train of followers to profit by his success and bar up the avenues of promotion; for so was it – strange and scarce credible though it seems – men were already quarrelling over the spoils ere the victory was won; ere, indeed, the battle was engaged, or the enemy encountered.

BOOK THE THIRD

CHAPTER I. A CARDINAL’S CHAMBER

We must ask of our reader to pass over both time and space, and accompany us, as night is falling, to a small chamber in the house of the Cardinal Caraffa at Rome, where his Eminence is now closeted in secret converse with a tall, sickly, but still handsome man, in a long robe of black serge, buttoned almost to his feet, and wearing on his head a low square cap, of the same coarse material; he is the Père Massoni, superior of the College of Jesuits.

The Cardinal had but just returned from a conclave, and had not taken time to change a dress, whose splendour formed a strong contrast with the simple attire of his guest.

‘It is, happily, the last council for the season,’ said his Eminence, as he seated himself in a deep easy-chair. ‘His Holiness leaves for Gaeta to-morrow, the Cardinal Secretary Piombino retires to Albano during the hot weather, and I am free to confer with my esteemed friend the Père Massoni, and discuss deeper themes than the medallions in the nave of San Giovanni di Laterano. There were to have been fourteen on either side last Tuesday; on Friday, we came down to twelve; to-day, we deemed eleven enough; in fact, Massoni, we are less speculative as to the future, and have left but four spaces to be filled up; but enough of this, – have your letters arrived?’

‘Yes, your Eminence, the Priest Carroll from Ireland has brought me several, and much information besides of events in England.’

‘It is of France I want to hear,’ broke in the Cardinal impatiently. ‘It is of the man in the throes of death I would learn tidings, not of him lingering in the long stages of a chronic malady. Did this priest pass through Paris?’

‘He did, your Eminence; he was two days there. The fever of blood still rages. ‘Twas but Monday week, thirty-two nobles of La Vendée were guillotined, and, worse still, eight priests, old and venerable men, curés of the several parishes. They met their death as became true sons of the holy Church, declaring with their last breath that the sacrifice would bring a blessing on the faith.’

‘So it will – they are right – truth must triumph at last, Massoni,’ said the Cardinal hurriedly; ‘but we are passing through a fiery ordeal; sparks of the same fire have been seen among ourselves too. Grave fears exist that all is not well at Viterbo.’

‘The flame must be trodden out quickly and completely, your Eminence; deal with traitors with speed, and you can treat true men with justice. The Abbé Guescard, whose book on private judgments you have seen, was buried this morning.’

‘I had not heard that he was ill.’

‘It was a sudden seizure, your Eminence, but the convulsions resisted all treatment, and death closed his sufferings about midnight. The doctrines of Diderot and Jean Jacques form but sorry homilies. They who preach them go to a heavy reckoning hereafter.’

‘And meet with sudden deaths besides,’ said the Cardinal, with a glance in which there was fully as much jollity as gloom.

The Jesuit Father’s pale face remained calm and passionless as before, nor did a syllable escape from him in reply. At length the Cardinal said, ‘All accounts agree in one thing, the pestilence is spreading, At Aranguez, in Spain, a secret society has been discovered in correspondence with Des-moulins. At Leipsic a record for future proscription throughout Germany has been found, exactly fashioned after the true Paris model; and even in sluggish England the mutter-ings of discontent are heard, but with them we have less sympathy – or rather we might say, God speed the hand that would pull down the heretic Church!’ ‘Carroll tells me that Ireland is ripe, though for what, it is yet hard to pronounce. The cry of “Liberty” in France has awakened her to the memory of all her hatred to England. Men of great ability and daring are eagerly feeding the flame; the difficulty will be to direct its ravages when once it breaks out. If the principles of France sway them, the torrent that will overwhelm the heretic will also sweep away the faith.’

‘Much will depend upon the men who direct the movement.’

‘No, no,’ said the Jesuit, ‘next to nothing. Each in his turn will be the victim of the event he seems to control. It is not the riven tree carried along by the current that directs the stream. It is to human passions and their working we must look, to see the issue out of these troubles. Once men emerge out of the storm-tossed ocean of their excesses, they strain their eyes to catch some haven – some resting-place. Some find it in religion; some in ambition, which is the religion of this world. The crime of France has been that no such goal has ever existed. In their lust to destroy, they have forfeited the power to rebuild. As well endeavour to reanimate the cold corpses beneath the guillotine as revive that glorious monarchy. For men like these there is no hope – no hereafter. Have no trust in them.’

‘But you yourself told me,’ cried the Cardinal, ‘how vain it were to pledge men to the cause of the Church.’

‘And truly did I say so. Men will serve no cause but that which secures them a safe recompense. In France they have that recompense – there is vengeance and there is pillage; but both will be exhausted after a time – there will be satiety for one and starvation for the other, and then woe to those who spirited them on to this pursuit. The convulsion in Ireland, if it should come, need not have this peril; there, there is a race to expel and a heresy to exterminate; in both the prospect of the future is implied. Let us aid this project.’

‘Ah! it is your old project lurs there,’ cried the Cardinal; ‘I see a glimpse of it already; but what a dream is the restoration of that house!’

‘Nor do I mean it should be more; the phantom of a Stuart in the procession is all I ask for. By that dynasty the Church is typified. Instead of encountering the thousand enemies of a faith, we rally to us the adherents of a monarchy. If we build up this throne, he who sits on it is our viceroy; we have made, and can unmake him.’

‘And how can the Cardinal York serve these plans?’

‘I never intended that he should; his gown alone would exempt him, even had he – which he has not – personal qualities for such a cause.’

‘Yet with him the race is extinct.’

‘Of that I am not so certain, and it is precisely the point on which I want to confer with you.’ So saying, the Père drew a packet of papers from the breast of his robe, and placed it on the table. ‘I have there beneath my hand, said he, ‘the copy of a marriage certificate between Charles Edward, Prince of Wales, and Grace Géraldine, of Cappa Glyn, County Kildare, Ireland. It is formally drawn up, dated, signed, and witnessed with due accuracy. The Father Ignatius, in whose hand the document is, is dead; but there are many alive who could recognise his writing. One of the witnesses, too, is believed still to be living in a remote part of Ireland; I have his name and can trace him; but even better than this, the Cardinal York admits the fact, and owns that he retains in his possession a last legacy of the Prince for the child born of this marriage.

‘Your Eminence smiles incredulously; but what will you say when I add that the same child was inscribed in our College under the name of Gerald Fitzgerald; was well known to my predecessor, the present Bishop of Orvieto; quitted the College to acquire the protection of the Prince, from which he most unaccountably strayed or was withdrawn, and ultimately reached France.’

‘Where he has, doubtless, been guillotined for his royal blood,’ broke in the Cardinal.

‘No, your Eminence; he lives, and I have traced him. Nay, more, I have found that he is one in every way adapted for such an enterprise as I speak of; possessed of the most heroic courage, with a character fertile in resources; all the winning graces of his father are united in him, with a steadfast energy that few of the Stuarts could ever have laid claim to. In a life of struggle and adversity – for he has never known his rank, nor has the slightest suspicion of his birth – he has never once descended to a single act that could impugn the highest station. In a word, to declare him a Prince to-morrow needs not that we should obliterate his past life or conceal its vicissitudes.’

‘Be it so as you say. Is it such pretensions you would oppose to the recognised and established monarchy of England? A youth of at least highly questionable legitimacy, friendless and penniless; and this, too, in an age when thrones propped up by all that can aid their prestige are tottering to their fall!’

‘We want him but as the banner to rally around; we need him as the standard which will draw Scotland to the side of Ireland, and both for one cause – the Church. A Prince of the House of Stuart is the emblem of all that defies the heresy when the day of trouble comes. It is vital that Ireland should not follow in the steps of France, and Christian blood be shed to establish the reign of the infidel! If the pestilence that now rages in France extend through Europe, as many wise heads predict it will, the day will come that the last resting-place of our faith will be that small island in the west. Think, then, how important it is that we should give to the struggle that is approaching a guidance and direction. If the Irish insurrection be capable of a royalist colouring, we can take advantage of that feature to awaken the dormant chivalry of those who would risk nothing in the cause of a Republic. The old Catholic families of England, the Scottish chiefs, men who can bring into the field the fiercest partisans and the most intrepid followers; all Ireland, save that small garrison which assumes to subject it to English rule, will rally round a Stuart: and that Stuart will be in our hands to deal with – to elevate to a throne on the claim of his birth; or, if need be, to proclaim an illegitimate pretender!’