Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel

‘At least, I have succeeded in seeing him, thought he; ‘and why should I not go boldly forward and speak to him? ‘The resolve was no sooner formed than he proceeded to execute it. In a moment after he had descended the cliff, and, making his way through the brushwood, stood before them.

‘So, then, you will track me, youngster,’ said the friar angrily. ‘Once – twice – to-day the road was open to you to seek your own way, and you would not take it. How bent you must be to do yourself an ill turn!’

‘You are “II Pastore,”’ said Gerald boldly.

‘And thou art Gherardi mio!’ cried the woman, as she rushed wildly toward him and clasped him in her arms. It was Marietta herself who spoke.

How tell the glorious outburst of Gerald’s joy, as he overpowered her with questions – whence she came, whither going, how and why, and wherefore there? Was she really and truly the Egyptian who had visited him on his sick-bed, and not a mere vision?

‘And was it from thy lips, then,’ cried he, ‘that I learned that all this ambition was but a snare – that I was destined to be only the tool of crafty men, deep in their own designss? At times the revelation seemed to come from thee, and at times a burst of heart-felt conviction. Which was it, Marietta mia?’

‘Who is he?’ cried the Fra eagerly. ‘This surely cannot be – ay, but it is the Prince – the son of my old lord and master!’ and he knelt and kissed Gerald’s hands over and over again. ‘He knows me not – at least as I once was – the friend, the boon companion of a king’s son,’ continued he passionately.

‘Were you, then, one of his old Scottish followers – one of those faithful men who clung so devotedly to his cause?’

‘No, no; but I was one that he loved better than them all.’

‘And you, Marietta, dearest, how is it that I see you here?’ cried Gerald, again turning to her.

‘I came many a weary mile after you, mio caro,’ said she. ‘I knew of these men’s designs long, long ago, and I determined to save you from them. I believed I could have secured Massoni as your friend; but I was wrong – the Jesuit was stronger in him than the man. I remained at St. Ursula months after I might have left it, just to see the Père – to watch his game – and, if possible, attach him to me; but I failed – utterly failed. He was true to his cause, and would not accept my love. More fortunate, however, was I with the Cardinal – even, perhaps, that I wished or cared for – His Eminence was my slave. There was not a secret of the Vatican I did not learn. I read the correspondence with the Spanish minister, Arazara; I suggested the replies; I heard the whole plan for your expedition – how you were to be secretly married to the Countess Ridolfi, and the marriage only avowed when your success was assured.’

She paused, and the Fra broke in – ‘Tell all – everything – the mine has exploded now, and none are the worse for it Go on with your confession.’

‘It is of the other alternative he speaks,’ said she, dropping her voice to a faint whisper. ‘Had you failed – ’

‘And then – what then, Marietta?’

‘You were in that case to have been betrayed into the hands of the English, or poisoned! The scheme to accomplish the first was already planned. I have here the letters which are to accredit me to see and converse with Sir Horace Mann, at Florence; and which I mean to deliver too. I am resolved to trace out to the very last who are the accomplices in this guilt. The world is well edified by tales of mob violence and bloodshed. Even genius seeks its inspiration in inveighing against popular excesses. It is time to show that crimes lurk under purple as well as rags, and that the deadliest vengeances are often devised beneath gilded ceilings. We knew of one once, Gherardi, who could have told men these truths – one who carried from this world with him the “funeral trappings of the monarchy” and the wail of the people.

‘Of whom did she speak?’ asked the friar.

‘Of Gabriel Riquetti, whom she loved,’ and the last words were whispered by Gerald in her ear.

Marietta held down her head, and as she covered her face with her hands muttered – ‘But who loved not her!’

‘Gabriel Riquetti,’ broke in the friar, ‘had more of good and bad in him than all the saints and all the devils that ever warred. He had the best of principles and the worst of practices, and never did a wicked thing but he could show you a virtuous reason for it.’

Struck by the contemptuous glance of Marietta, Gerald followed the look she gave, and saw that the friar’s eyes were bloodshot, and his face purple with excess.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE END

From Marietta Gerald heard how, with that strange fatality of inconsistency which ever seemed to accompany the fortunes of the Stuarts, none proved faithful followers save those whose lives of excess or debauchery rendered them valueless; and thus the drunken Fra, whose wild snatches of song and ribaldry now broke in upon the colloquy, was no other than the Carmelite, Kelly, the once associate and corrupter of his father.

In a half-mad enthusiasm to engage men in the cause of his Prince he had begun a sort of recruitment of a legion who were to land in Scotland or Ireland. The means by which he at first operated were somewhat liberally contributed to him by a secret emissary of the family, whom Kelly at length discovered to be the private secretary of Miss Walsingham, the former mistress of Charles Edward. Later on, however, he found out that this lady herself was actually a pensioner of the English government, and in secret correspondence with Mr. Pitt, who, through her instrumentality, was in possession of every plan of the Pretender, and knew of his daily movements. This treacherous intercourse had begun several years before the death of Charles Edward, and lasted for some years after that event.

Stung by the consciousness of being duped, as well as maddened by having been rendered an enemy to the cause he sought to serve, Kelly disbanded his followers, and took to the mountains as a brigand. With years he had grown only more abandoned to excess of every kind. All his experiences of life had shown little beyond baseness and corruption, and he had grown to care for nothing beyond the enjoyment of the passing hour, except when the possibility of a vengeance on those who had betrayed him might momentarily awake his passion, and excite him to some effort of vindictive anger.

In his hours of mad debauchery he would rave about landing in England, and a plan he had conceived for assassinating the king; then it was his scheme to murder Mr. Pitt, and sometimes all these were abandoned for the desire to make Miss Walsingham herself pay the penalty of her base and unwomanly treachery.

‘He came to our convent gate in his garb of a friar to beg,’ said Marietta. ‘I saw him but for an instant, and I knew him at once. He was one of those who, in the “red days” of the Revolution, mocked the order he belonged to by wearing a rosary of playing-dice! and he recognised me as one who had even more shamelessly exposed herself.’ A deep crimson flush covered her face and neck as she spoke, and as quickly fled, to leave her as pale as a corpse. ‘Oh, mio caro,’ cried she, ‘there are intoxications more maddening to the senses than those of drinking; there are wild fevers of the mind, when degradation seems a sort of martyrdom; and in the very depth of our infamy and shame we appear to ourselves to have attained to something superhuman in self-denial. It was my fate to live with one who inspired these sentiments.’ She paused for a few seconds, and then, trembling on every accent, she said: ‘To win his love, to conquer the heart that would not yield to me, I dared more than ever woman, far more than ever man, dared.’

‘Here’s to the king’s buffoon, and a bumper toast it shall be,’ burst in the friar, with a drunken ribaldry; ‘and if there are any will not drink it, let him drink to the Minister’s mistress!’

To the sudden gesture which Gerald’s anger evoked, Marietta quickly interposed her hand, and, in a low, soft voice, besought him to remain quiet.

‘If the cause were up, or the cause were down,What matter to you or to me;For though the Prince had played his crown,Our stake was a bare bawbee!’

sang out Kelly lustily. ‘Who’ll deny it? Who’ll say there wasn’t sound reason and philosophy in that sentiment? None knew it better than Prince Charlie himself.’

‘And was this man the companion of a Prince?’ whispered Gerald in her ear.

‘Even so; fallen fortunes bring degraded followers,’ said Marietta. ‘I have heard it said that many of his father’s associates were of this stamp.’

‘And how could men hope to restore a cause thus contaminated and stained?’ cried he, somewhat louder.

‘That’s what Kinloch said,’ burst in Kelly; ‘you remember the song —

‘The Prince he swore, on his broad claymore,That he ‘d sit in his father’s chair,But there wasn’t a man, outside his clan,That wanted to see him there, boys,That wanted to see him there.’

‘A black falsehood, as black as ever a traitor uttered!’ cried Gerald, whose passion burst all bounds.

‘Here’s to the traitors – hip, hip! To the traitors, for it was —

‘The traitors all in St. Cannes’s hall,They feasted merrily there,While the wearied men sought the bleak, wild glen,And tasted but sorry fare, boys,Tasted but sorry fare.‘Oh, if I ‘d a voice, and could have my choice,I know with whom I ‘d be,Not the hungry lads, with their threadbare plaids,But the lords of high degree, boys,The lords of high degree.’

‘And so thought the Prince too, cried he out fiercely, and in a tone meant for an insolent taunt. ‘He liked the easy life and the soft couch of St. Germains far better than the long march and the heather-bed in the Highlands.’

‘How long must I endure this fellow’s insolence?’ whispered Gerald to Marietta, in a voice trembling with passion.

‘For my sake, Gherardi,’ she began; but the Fra overheard the words, and with a drunken laugh broke in —

‘If you have a drop of Stuart blood in you, you ‘ll yield to the woman, whatever it is she asks.’

Stung beyond control of reason, Gerald sprang to his feet; but before he could even approach Kelly, the stout friar had grasped his short blunderbuss and cocked it.

‘Another step – one step more, and if you were the anointed King himself, instead of his bastard, I ‘ll send you to your reckoning!’

With a spring like the bound of a tiger, Gerald dashed at him; but the Fra was prepared, and, raising the weapon to his side, he fired. A wild, mad cry, blended with the loud report echoed in many a mountain gorge, and the youth fell dead on the sward.

Marietta threw herself down upon the corpse, kissing the lifeless lips, and clasping her arms around the motionless body. With every endearing word she tried to call him back to life, even for a momentary consciousness of her devotion. The love she had so long denied him, she now offered; she would be his and his only. With the wild eloquence of a mind on fire, she pictured forth a future, now brightened with all that successful ambition could confer, now blessed with the tranquil joys of some secluded existence. Alas! he was beyond the reach of either fortune. The last of the Stuarts lay still and stark on the cold earth, his blue eyes staring without a blink at the strong sun.

When some peasants passed on the following day they found Marietta seated beside the dead body, the cold hand clasped within both her own, and her eyes riveted upon the features; her mind was gone, and, save a few broken, indistinct mutterings, she never spoke again.

As for Kelly, none ever could trace him. Some allege that he dashed over the precipice and was killed; others aver that he sailed that same night from St. Stephano for America, where he was afterwards seen and recognised by many.

The little cypress tree in the mountains which once marked the grave of the last of the Stuarts has long since withered.

THE END

APPENDIX

NOTE I

There is a fragment of a letter from Sir Conway Seymour to Horace Walpole, written from Rome, where the writer had gone for reasons of health, and in which the passing news and gossip of the day are narrated in all the careless freedom of friendly confidence. Much, by far the greater part, of the epistle is filled up by artistic discussion about pictures and statues, with little histories of the frauds and rogueries to which connoisseurship was exposed; there is also a sprinkling of scandal, a light and flippant sketch of Roman moralities, which really might have been written in our own day; some passing allusions to political events there are also; and lastly, there comes the part which more peculiarly concerns my story. After a little flourish of trumpets about his own social success, and the cordial intimacy with which he was admitted into the best houses of Rome, he says, ‘Atterbury’s letters of course opened many a door that would have been closed against me as an Englishman, and gave me facilities rarely extended to one of our country. To this happy circumstance am I indebted for a scene which I can never cease to remember, as one of the strangest of my life. You are aware that though at the great levées of the cardinals large crowds are assembled, many presenting themselves who have no personal acquaintance with the host, at the smaller receptions an exclusiveness prevails unknown in any other land. To such an excess has this been carried, that to certain houses, such as the Abbezi and the Piombino, few out of the rank of royalty are ever invited. To the former of these great families it was my fortune to be invited last Wednesday, and although my gout entered a bold protest against dress shoes and buckles, I determined to go.

‘It was not without surprise I found that, although there were scarcely above a dozen carriages in waiting, the great Abbezi Palace was lighted throughout its whole extent, the whole cour being illuminated with the blaze. I was aware that etiquette debarred his Holiness from ever being present at these occasions. And yet there was an amount of preparation and splendour now displayed that might well have indicated such an event The servants’ coats were, I am told, white; but they were so plastered with gold that the original colour was concealed. As for the magnificence of the Palace itself, I will spare you all description, the more as I know your heart still yearns after that beautiful Guercino of the “two angels,” and the small Salvator of “St. John,” for which the Duke of Strozzi gave his castle at San Marcello; neither will I torment your curious soul by any allusion to those great vases of Sèvres, with landscapes painted by both. With more equanimity will you hear of the beautiful Marquesa d’Arco, in her diamond stomacher, and the Duchessa de Forti, with a coronet of brilliants that might buy a province, not to tell of the Colonna herself, whose heavy train, all studded over with jewels, turned many an eye from her noble countenance to gaze upon the floor. There were not above forty guests assembled when I arrived, nor at any time were there more than sixty present, but all apparelled with a magnificence that shamed the undecorated plainness of my humble court suit. After paying my homage to his Eminence, I turned to seek out those of my most intimate acquaintance present; but I soon discovered that, from some mysterious cause, none were disposed to engage in conversation – nay, they did but converse in whispers, and with an abruptness that bespoke expectancy of something to come.

‘To while away the time pleasantly, I strolled through the rooms, all filled as they were with objects to win attention, and having made the tour of the quadrangle was returning to the great gallery, when, passing the ante-chamber, I perceived that Cardinal York’s servants were all ranged there, dressed in their fine scarlet liveries, a sight quite new to see. Nor was this the less remarkable, from the fact that his Royal Highness is distinguished for the utter absence of all that denotes ostentation or display. I entered the great gallery, therefore, with something of curiosity, to know what this might betoken. The company was all ranged in a great circle, at one part of which a little group was gathered, in which I had no difficulty in detecting the thin, sickly face of the Cardinal York, looking fully twenty years beyond his age, his frail figure bent nearly double. I could mark, besides, that presentations were being made, as different persons came up, made their reverence and were detained, some more, some less time in conversation, who then retired, backing out as from a royal presence. While I stood thus in wonderment, Don Cæsare, the brother of the Cardinal Abbezi, came up, and taking me by the arm, led me forward, saying —

‘"Caro Natzio,” so he now calls me, “you must not be the last to make your homage here.”

‘"And to whom am I to offer it?” asked I eagerly.

‘"To whom but to him it is best due. To the Prince who ought to be King.”

‘"I am but a sorry expounder of riddles, Don Caesare,” said I, somewhat hurt,’ as you can well imagine, by a speech so offensive to my loyalty.

‘"There is less question here,” replied he, “of partisanship than of the courteous deference which every gentleman ungrudgingly accords to those of royal birth. This is the Prince of Wales, at least till he be called the King. He is the son of Charles Edward, and the last of the Stuarts.”

‘Ere I had rallied from the astonishment of this strange announcement, the crowd separated in front of me, and I found myself in the presence of a tall and sickly-looking youth, whose marvellous resemblance to the Pretender actually overcame me. Nor was any artifice of costume omitted that could help out the likeness, for he wore a sash of Stuart tartan over his suit of maroon velvet, and a curiously elaborate claymore hung by his side. Mistaking me for the Prince D’Arco, he said, in the low, soft voice of his race —

‘"How have you left the Princess; or is she at Rome?”

‘"This is the Chevalier de Seymour, may it please your Royal Highness,” whispered the Cardinal Gualterio, “a gentleman of good and honourable name, though allied with a cause that is not ours.”

‘"Methinks all Englishmen might be friends of mine,” said the Prince, smiling sadly; “at all events they need not be my enemies.” He held out his hand as he spoke: and so much of dignity was there in his air, so much of regal condescension in his look, that I knelt and kissed it.

‘Amid a low, murmuring comment on his princely presence, yet not so low but that he himself could hear it, I moved forward to give place to the next presentation. And so did the tide flow on for above an hour. Well knowing what a gloss men would put upon all this, I hastened home, and wrote it all to Sir Horace Mann at Florence, assuring him that my loyal attachment to the house of Hanover was unbroken, and that his Majesty had no more faithful subject or adherent than myself. His reply is now before me as I write.

‘"We know all about this youth,” says he. “Lord Chatham has had his portrait taken; and if he come to England we shall take measures in his behalf. As to yourself, you are no greater fool than were the Duke of Beaufort and Lord Westmoreland with the lad’s father.”

‘Strange and significant words, and in no way denying the youth’s birth and parentage.

‘At all events, the circumstance is curious; and all Rome talks of it and nothing else, since the Walkinshaw, who always took her airings in the Cardinal York’s carriage, and was treated as of royal rank, is now no more seen; and “the Prince,” as he is styled, has taken her place, and even sits in the post of honour, with the Cardinal on his left hand. Are they enough minded of these things at home; or do they laugh at danger so for off as Italy? For my own part, I say it, he is one to give trouble, and make of a bad cause a serious case of disaffection, in so much the more, that men say he is a fatalist, and believes it will be his destiny to sit as king in England.’

I would fain make a longer extract from this letter, were I not afraid that I have already trespassed too far upon my reader’s indulgence. It is said that in the unpublished correspondence of Sir Horace Mann – a most important contribution to the history of the time, if only given to the world in its entirety – would be found frequent allusion to the Chevalier de Fitzgerald, and the views entertained in his behalf. With all the professional craft of diplomacy, the acute envoy detected the various degrees of credence that were accorded to the youth’s legitimacy; and saw how many there were who were satisfied to take all the benefit of his great name for the purpose of intrigue, without ever sincerely interesting themselves in his cause.

NOTE II

In the correspondence to which I have already alluded there is a letter to the British Envoy at Florence, in which a reference is thus made to an incident in my story. Shall I own that without this historic allusion, I would scarcely have detained my reader by what is, after all, a mere episodical passage in the tale? Seymour writes – ‘So far as I can learn, the woman arrested under this charge of sorcery is not a British subject at all, as I at first informed you, although great reason exists to believe her to be a spy in the Jacobite cause. All my efforts to obtain a sight of her have also failed; nor can I even ascertain where it is they have confined her. The common story goes, that she has bewitched the young Chevalier of whom they want to make a Prince of the House of Stewart, and thus entirely spoiled the game the Jesuits were plotting. Vulgar rumour adds the enormous rewards she demands for disenchanting him and so forth; but more trustworthy accounts suggest that all her especial subtlety will be needed to effect her own escape. That she possesses boundless wealth, and is of peerless beauty, a miracle of learning and accomplishment, you are, of course, prepared to hear. Would that I were enabled to add my own humble testimony on any of these points. Neither Alberoni nor Casali have seen her, so that you may easily imagine how hopeless are my chances.

‘It is very hard to believe these things in our age; but so they are, and this morning I was told that the “Prince,” pardon me the title, has been so much advantaged by her visit, that he has thrown off all his old melancholy, and goes about gay and happy. Of this I cannot pronounce, for his Royal Highness has gone down to Caraffa’s villa at Orvieto, by way of recovering his health completely, and lives there in the very strictest seclusion.

‘The affair has so many aspects, that in some one or other of them it has occupied all Rome during the last five or six weeks, and we go about asking each other will the Prince marry Guglia Ridolfi, Caraffa’s niece? Will he ever be King of England? When will they crown him? When will they burn the witch? Of the latter event, if it show signs of occurring, I am to give due tidings beforehand to our friend Horatio, who, gout permitting, would come out from England to see the ceremony.

‘It is my belief that Mr. Pitt would put this female to more profitable use than by making a fagot of her, if she had but half what the world alleges in craft and acuteness. Priests, however, tolerate no rivals, and permit no legerdemain but their own. Poor creature! is it not just possible that she may be more enthusiast than cheat?

‘About the Chevalier himself I have nothing to add. I saw him on Thursday a-horseback, and I must own he sat his beast gracefully and well; he is of right manly presence, and recalls the features of his family, if they be his family, most pleasingly. He dismounted near Trajan’s column to receive the benediction of the Holy Father, who was there blessing oxen, it being the festival of St. Martin, who protects these animals; and as he knelt down and rose up again, and then saluted the noble guard, who presented arms, there was a dignity and elegance in his deportment which struck all observers; nor did I marvel as Atterbury’s nephew whispered into my ear – the “Dutchman could never have done it like that.”’

C. L.