The Potentate: a romance

Front matter

A ROMANCE BY FRANCES FORBES-ROBERTSON AUTHOR OF "ODD STORIES " " THE DEVIL'S pronoun" etc ALL RIGHTS RESERVED WESTMINSTER ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE & CO IS98 COPYRIGHT IN U.S. OF AMERICA 1898 BY ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE & CO DEDICATION The Corner House Chelsea To you, my dearest Daisy, I dedicate this book in remembrance of the old days . . . and of those four dukes who never came. . . . Ever your devoted Sister, FRANCKIE. To Miss Forbes-Robertson Villa Monceau, Paris CONTENTS

Chapter I

T T AGUE enough in history is this name — " Everard Vai Dernement, yet across centuries the fragrance of the man's sweet life reaches us, and the story of his death, with his child-son's untimely knowledge of it, stand out among the countless tragedies that colour our chronicles of the Middle Ages. It is said that when he was a stripling he had features chiselled as a young Greek's — eyes with a wistful look in them, and flaxen curls that fell about his shoulders like any pretty maid's. Indeed, we read that a burly merchant had been tempted on an occasion to call after him, " Thou resemblest a wench, and art nothing better." For the appraisement the good trader found himself biting Mother Earth in the gutter. "Thy mug only, methinks," he had added, at which the passers-by laughed, and gave a hand to raise him up.

Thus we imagine the lad's body was ever correcting the evidence of his features to the routing of his enemies. Where the bully thought to find a likely prey for jesting at, he must, on the contrary, have discovered a veritable wight for the breaking of bones. But withal it seems he was a dreamer, this pretty boy of iron frame, and possessed a heart like a woman's, so full was it of pity for all creatures that suffered, beasts or men, and desires for the bettering of others' condition. He would be at a coward with his sword — his eyes aflame, his jerkin awry, and his golden hair flying in the wind ; then shoulder his man and bear him off to dress his wounds, and read him lengthy homilies that the cur liked no better than the sword thrusts, but perforce must hear from an inability to make a timely retreat.

That the miscreants went little better than they came was no fault of the young enthusiast, if so it happened, but that of Nature, who, having cast her work in one mould, defies a change of shape till breaking time, when it is hoped things may reform themselves. In Bresali shapes were mostly crooked. The hearts of men seemed awry, however fair were their outward bodies, for an evil man governed, and evil governing, as the wise know, maketh the governed evil. " The root of the matter is in the head," quoth a wag, and spoke something of the truth, which perhaps dawned on the minds of his listeners — made their fingers itch to be at that head. Indeed, we read of one among them remarking, " They grow too thick ; at the falling of one up sprouts another, and who is to know it would not be even an uglier one ?

" In truth, the Duchy of Bresali was wholly ill-governed by one Cosmo of numerous titles, Count of this, and Lord of that, and at last Duke of Bresali. His enemies declared that he had usurped the throne, lawfully the heritage of the Count Alberto, whilst he (the Count) was detained a prisoner in the East. How much of truth there was in this statement, history has been unable to certify. Undoubtedly the Count Alberto had a party who were enthusiastically attached to his person, and who, against his wishes, were constantly plotting to reinstate him. He himself denied the claims, and only when hearing of the cruel outrages committed by his cousin on the people, was he pushed to admitting that the fall of the tyrant would surely come at last — and happily for the State. For indeed Cosmo reigned with the de spotic power of a petty king ; he discarded every right and privilege of the people, and maltreated them at his pleasure.

The peasants and townsfolk bore their suffering with a philosophical indifference notable among all animals sufficiently thrashed to submission. Things were thus and thus, and must be borne ; for generations they had been so. The wise man should learn to combine the management of his affairs with a little cunning, and be ready to strike a blow when none was looking. Born into servitude, it seemed that such disposition was the eternal order of things ; and if a more kindly governor occasionally fell to their lot, the routine of evil administration had become so customary, and official underlings so anxious to maintain a tyrannous policy, that the change could hardly have been felt by the oppressed people. This Everard Vai Dernement, of noble descent, something of a philosopher, yet mostly renowned for kindly deeds and his great heart, a lover, too, of the poor, must have been strangely out of place in such a century — in a way hardly conceivable to us who have ab sorbed into our every-day life moral theories then only thundered from pulpit, or gathered from the lips of philosophers.

The very giving of alms was mainly done in atonement for committed sins — a virtue to be practised — a monster form, too, of patronage. Sins were numerous ; the wily poor, therefore, throve — precariously perhaps, and by the Devil's aid — but the disinterested bettering of the lives of the lowly would have been deemed a crackbrained heresy. Vai Dernement, gifted with sensibilities abnormal in his day, sickened at the thought of this impotent helping, and in doing charity forgot to play the saint or sinner — necessary assumptions for the business to the mediæval mind. Yet in his intense individu ality he was typical enough of that great age when genius dominated the world ; when man's capacity in any given line was " sampled," as it were, for all posterity. He eventually came under the displeasure of the potentate, having, on an occasion, unwisely sided with a humble man in an affair against the ducal authority.

The irate Cosmo, stunned to find a gentleman demeaning himself by a weakness for common swine, — for the matter had come to his ear, and more besides, which events went to prove was but calumny filtered to him through the mouth of a courtly scoundrel given to such meddlings, — swore to have his life ; and in time, with the help of this same meddler, accused him of treason towards his own person, and, after some ado, decorated the city gate with his head. " An example," quoth he, " to gentlemen who must needs step down into the mud to fight the battles of common cattle." It happened that on the afternoon of that day, the murdered man's little son, a fair haired, wistful creature, was gambolling through the outer streets of the city, vastly enjoying his independence in the company of a good friar, and, as is the way with boys, laughing riotously at every sight that met his young eyes, and blustering out every thought that passed through his whimsical little head.

" I would not be a monk," said he, " and wear petticoats like a wench " ; then hugged his companion's arm for the slight suggested, and hurried him apace to stand stock still a minute after, and stare at a company of young nobles clattering down the street on horseback, their beasts bedecked with jewelled saddle-cloths and gilded trappings ; or to peer up at the blue heavens between the high roofs, all un conscious of the awful sight ahead of him. "Tis good — 'tis good to be out. Dost not find it so, brother Hypolite ? I love the city, and now we must go home. Think you we shall come again soon, quite soon ? " " Hast thou not had enough ? " answered the monk. Not nearly." Thou canst not have a holiday every day." Aye, I would." Thou wouldst grow tired." " Nay; but thou dost not care for life," he said, and dressed his little person into a swag ger.

" Not over much, little son ; it seems all bright enough to thee, but " The old man hesitated, and Everard answered, — ■ " I will no 'buts' ; it is bright," and he gam bolled on again before his companion. As they crossed an open space, the folk loitering about the great gate caught the lad's attention, and brought him up in hot haste to see what mischief was afloat ; on following the gaze of those at hand, he beheld the bleeding, dripping heads staring with glassy eyes. "Look, look!" he cried in dismay, "there are heads upon the ramparts. Let us not go by. Ah, ah ! Away, away ! There is one that has a look of my father! I cannot bear the sight of it ! " And he hid his fair face in the friar's sleeve. And the friar trembled, for he saw it was indeed Everard Vai Dernement, pitiful and benign his face even in so vile a death.

The unhappy monk could not move from the spot in sudden horror of the situa tion, and the loiterers that stood about gazed, too, up at the ghastly head, and muttered against the tyrant. " Come," at last murmured the friar ; but the little fellow had changed his mind, and, peep ing again, could not take his eyes from of the face that bore so strange a resemblance to his father ; yet it was paler, and darker too, his hair streaming almost black. " Why did they cut off his head ?" he asked. The friar was silent, whilst a ragged man near snarled, — " Because he was a saint " ; and another said, " He loved the poor" ; and another, " Because he was brave." But the boy cried, " These are no reasons at all, ye knaves ! " so that the crowd laughed at the little mannikin's choler. Then it happened that one, who had ridden up on a horse, bared his head and murmured, " The deeds of Ever ard Vai Dernement shall live, though a coward hath taken his life."

Whereat those about him looked frightened, and were for hurrying away, for the man had spoken treason. Curiosity, however, got the better of their prudence : the little boy had sprung to the horse's side, and they lingered to see the outcome of so strange a scene. "Sir! sir!" he cried, "whose is this head hanging thus vilely, whom they all so praise ? Tell me, 'tis some villain, is it not ? " The man answered quietly, " 'Tis the Count Everard Vai Dernement." "Thou liest!" shrieked the child. "The Count Everard Vai Dernement is my father, and they could not — they dare not — and he is good, and — no, they would not thus treat my father. Nay, sir, you see, 'tis foolish ; he is indeed like my father, but my father lives. He hath gone to visit our noble Duke. He will be home soon. He told me so ere he went.

There were tears in his eyes, for it was cold, he said, though 'twas not cold at all. See, see, his hair was not so dark. And why look ye all so strange ? Tell me, some of ye — tell me, good friar, he is mistaken." Then, as none spoke, and the man on horse back dropped his head upon his breast, and one murmured, "Take him away"; and another, " By the saints ! 'tis dastardly to leave a babe to stare at his own father's swinging head," he cried, — "Nay, I will not away!" and a wild look crept into his eyes, and the child hands im potently beat the air. " I will to the Duke, to the Duke ! he will give me back my father ! " " Go not to the cursed murderer, lest he kill thee too," said a woman. "Kill me too! Ah! mistress, will you not tell them all this is not my father ? " " It is thy father," quoth a paltry creature in the crowd, agog to tell the news.

Whereat a murmur of indignation rose among the lookers on, which died in a sudden hush. The boy for one moment stood erect, with wide-open eyes and blanched face, then fell to the ground, a little heap, his hair streaming in the mud, and above him the dead eyes of his father, staring into futurity from out the sad, white face of the mutilated head.

Chapter II

' I strange rider, a gentleman evidently of noble birth, remained some seconds, dazed at the shocking occurrence. Then he stooped from his horse, and motioned with an angry gesture to the bewildered monk to lift the boy to his saddle. The crowd opened to let the horseman and his burden through, and a stout tradesman in it pushed his way to the front to get a better view of the audacious stranger who had dared to defy the tyrant in the public streets, and openly bear off the son of the dishonoured Vai Dernement. "By the saints! 'tis the Count Alberto," he mur mured under his breath, and turned pale, then hastened away, lest he should be caught in treasonable company. And indeed the square was hardly emptied than the cortege of the Duke appeared at the lower end of the narrow THE POTENTATE street.

The nobles and gentlemen approached leisurely, talking and laughing the while, toy ing with the bejewelled reins, and twisting in their saddles to speak with a comrade behind, or better to view a street sight. On passing the hideous gate, a casual glance from them denoted that they were hardly aware of any unusual atrocity at hand. Only the young Duke, seated in a great gilded carriage with unglazed windows, and drawn by four horses fantastically mantled in crimson caparisons, turned his eyes deliberately to the ramparts with a momentary smile of triumph. His pallid face, artificially whitened, under the straight, straw-coloured hair hanging lank on either side, and scarlet lips, suggested the mask of a painted effigy animated to sudden life for some malevolent purpose. When the cavalcade, a stream of changing colour, had passed, the people about dispersed ; only a few beggars remained loitering near the ghastly gate, as if there were something here in sympathy with their own condition. c THE POTENTATE The dead were comrades they had no reason to shun.

These mendicants were used to ghastly enough faces among the living ; more awful, perhaps, — beings dying alive, as it were, the flesh rotting on the bones, whilst imminent death was still unthought of; hidden lepers, sometimes, or maimed creatures with mutilated bodies, who were glad of this for the revenue it brought, and were cleverly enough mimicked on occasions by hardier folk. To such daily sights actual death could bring no more grue some addition. On the contrary, a certain peace and hallowedness came with it — the friendly intruder, to the over-suffering. Yet in the Middle Ages the beggar had his reign of greatness, his day of uncontested right to be — and to be himself, and nothing better nor worse. The dignity of a position was his ; not very high salaried, it is true, but a staple one, if varying daily in its remuneration.

Respect was paid to his person, the medium through which the sins of the wealthy might be washed out, — and they sinned well, the THE POTENTATE wealthy. To clothe the naked and give in charity were commandments of the Church, without the keeping of which no pardon could be obtained ; at least, theoretically. Beggars therefore were in demand. These street philosophers, who laughed at the laws, civil or religious, defied creeds, and, with their tongue in their cheek, watched the world play its game of civilizing, with a ready grin for its woeful strategems — who lived their vagrant lives under the heavens, assuming, according to their humour, the cloak of any sect or party, masquerading with most convincing zeal, sometimes for nearly a lifetime, but always with a wink at last — pagans never really con verted, too sacred in their calling to attack, too vile to punish, were perhaps the freest souls in town or province.

Their actual lives were seemingly charmed at a time when life was little valued, and when an ordinary man, for thieving, was hanged, or a pious merchant put to torture for no greater sin than heresy. One of these ragged creatures, after the passing of the Duke, hobbled out into the open from the shadow of an arch, like a morsel of the grey masonry quickened to crawling life, and, standing just where the wheels of the tyrant's carriage had rolled, spat upon the ground and said, — " The rotting bowels of him aloft are worth more than thou and thy immortal soul and the whole crew of thy dandies and harlots, thou painted faced hell cat in a man's body!" And a blue-jerkined butcher near, roared with laughter at the vehemence of the beggar. " Thou deservest, by all that's holy, better reward than thou'rt ever likely to get, for such an eloquent tongue.

See here, I will spit with thee, good friend — that for Cosmo, our noble Duke ! " and he spat upon the ground with a comical look of comtempt on his ruddy countenance. The stranger, meanwhile, drew rein at a lowly apothecary's, and shouted to those with in. An aged man, in a long gown with a fur collar, hastened out, and, after a glance at the boy, administered a cordial that quickly brought life back to the inanimate little body. Then the rider threw a silver piece, and spurred on his horse again, making straight out of the city by the western gate, along the white road that intersected the plains in an endless serpentine line, rising and dipping with the low undulations. They passed the great monastery, on the brow of a low hill, with its outlying houses and chapels and farm buildings. The same where the little fellow passed most of his time with the good monks, who taught him to tend the fruit trees with themselves in the high-walled garden, making him construe a Latin verse the while.

From thence he had evidently wandered on this day, wild with spirits at the thought of paying a visit to the city, looking back again and again to wave a hand to the old prior who watched the two depart. Now, he was not aware even that they were passing the well loved old place. The monotonous movement of the steady canter lulled the child to sleep, and only at last, when they had reached the Manor with its fort-like walls, and low, arched gateways, and towers, did he wake to full con sciousness. He clutched the hand convulsively that helped him to the ground, and then stood trembling from head to foot. "Take my lord at once to the Countess," said the stranger, and turning about he rode out of the court. The servants stood irresolute, gaping for the moment after the departing horseman, then looking pitifully at the lad, with the expression that he had seen in the eyes of the poor foil about the great gate.

Their demeanour to wards him was more respectful than usual — he had sported with them often enough — so that, on the threshold of his home, the boy noticed an appreciable change. The atmosphere seemed laden with the weight of a pause : the hush, surely, after something awful that had passed. Their white faces frightened him, their new attitude of respect, like the mock courtesy of phantoms in a nightmare, THE POTENTATE was intolerable, detestable. He ran past them swiftly into the house and up the wide stair way. Did his mother know then ? Did she know that they had slain his father— they had slain his father — unless it were a terrible mistake? His little feet went the swifter at the thought. His mother would tell him it was not true ; but, perhaps, she did not know. Then it would be for him to tell her, and the excitement and importance of bearing the terrible news nerved him to his task.

At the entrance to the Countess's apartments there was a frightened-looking page who opened the door quietly, and announced, " My lord, the Count Everard Vai Dernement." Everard started. His father, then, was here on his footsteps. He looked over his shoulder with a scared face, as if expecting to see the dangling head ; but no one was there. The ladies-in-waiting made reverences as he passed, they too wore that look of infinite pity, and he suddenly understood. His father would never cross the threshold again. He himself THE POTENTATE was my lord, the Count Everard Vai Derne ment. He crossed the apartment like one in a dream. The Lady Eldis moved aside a heavy curtain, and motioned to him to pass through. He went in, and stood still in the centre of the darkened room. A woman's figure, entirely clad in white, rose from the ground and faced him.

" My son !" she said, but the boy dared not move. The sight of that face so full of awful anguish, the tear streaming eyes, red-rimmed and surrounded by deep black shadows that melted in the pallor of her cheeks, paralysed his will. Everard had never seen a grown person weeping. Tears, to him, had meant a childish weapon against insisted authority : a weakness to be ashamed of, to be put away in all haste, humiliating withal, pertaining to childhood in disgrace. A grown person weeping, that was awful ! He dared not approach. The reve lation of a sorrowing world, hitherto unknown to him, broke upon the boy. Something separate from himself — that he was too young to take part in — and terrifying. Would those eyes before him weep for ever ? He remembered that the good friar Hypolite had nar rated to him how that St. Peter had wept till two furrows marked his face where the tears had fallen, and the thing had seemed strange to him and unreal ; and now he understood.

Would not she, too, have those marks of tears shed, and he could do nothing. Might he not creep away into a dark corner, and cry his own childish tears of loneliness and pity for those who were sorrowing. That he too was feeling this great pain that had brought that look into his mother's face, did not occur to him. He should weep because others suffered, and they had slain his father, and he was alone, very much alone and frightened. The mystery of this woman's sorrow was infinite, something he could not reach, and associated with it was that dangling head on the ramparts that they had told him was his father. "Everard, my boy, will you not come to me ? " He stirred, and, as she stretched out a hand, rushed forward, and putting his arms about her, held her tightly, as if actually to protect her from a tangible force that should be over whelming.

His little face was quite white, his dry eyes wide open, and his mouth set. He quivered with the intensity of his purpose, and, when she broke down, terribly weeping, he stroked her, and pressed her hand to his little person with masterful energy, passionately determined to console. And tears, less bitter, less desolate, fell hot on those others. " My little son ! " she murmured between the great sobs that would come, " my little son ! "

Chapter III In

the desolate house the widowed mother remained unmolested by the tyrant. Living as a recluse, there could hardly be found reason for disturbing her, and the tender years of the little Everard preserved him from any un wonted suspicion or calumnies. Moreover, the murder of Vai Dernement had caused a burst of ill-feeling from the people that the Duke could not safely ignore. Further interference with the unhappy family of his victim might cost too dear a price. A riot had been immi nent, and the suppressed hootings of the crowd in the streets on the morrow of the execution had had an ugly sound, sufficiently smothered to suggest a possible uproar at last — a mad dened rabble dragging him from his horse before his guards could interfere. These people, who had silently, even callously, suffered generations of oppression, who had been taxed to starvation, had seen their companions hanged for an insolent word to a tyrant's favourite, their women outraged, and their children dying from want, and yet had hardly murmured, would, at the unjust killing of one less cruel a taskmaster than the others, rise in a frenzy of rage, and assail a fortress, if must be, with no better weapons than tooth and nail.

The hissing had become exaggerated in the Duke's ears, and the soul of the potentate shrank with the terror he could never successfully conquer — the uncontrollable, unspeakable terror of death. That characteristic lust for the blood of his enemies, the passion to see their hearts torn from their bodies still fluttering with movement of life, was somehow an accompaniment of this emotion : a revenge upon those who would have had his life, who had tortured him with this fear of death. To strew the ways with the blood of others should save the spilling of his own. If he could but kill enough he would be safe from the assassin at last. Yet on his face — on the white-plas tered face — this same crowd had only seen the mocking smile of the tyrant. His scarlet lips showed no tremor, and his heavy eyelids only drooped with the tired look of a bored young noble who found the rabble unsavoury and pre-eminently foolish.

Listlessly he rode by, till his very nonchalance cowed them to submission. Though the greater part of Vai Dernement's estate was confiscated, the fortified Manor and considerable lands about it were left as patrimony for the young heir, " by the gracious clemency of Cosmo, Duke of Bresali, etc." The boy was too young to realize how much had been taken from him. There was only one great absence, one great void, that it seemed to him impossible ever to get quite used to. The longing for the lost parent became intensi fied with the passing of each day. He would wander about through the passages and halls, a desolate little child, seeking distraction in the great empty rooms and unused corridors, avoiding the intimate places where they had sported together, and yet, now and then, going thither on tip-toe, to torment his little heart with feel ings of the warm presence hardly gone, though a new and frightening atmosphere was there too.

Then, on a sudden, he would pretend to himself that he heard the clatter of horses hoofs in the court without, the sound of his father's voice, and would race along the corridor and down the wide stairs — a little flaxen-haired figure, flying in hot haste to the encounter of an imaginary parent. Over and over again he would enact this fictitious meeting of himselt and the beloved one, who, as he argued, had not, after all, been slain. It had been a mis take ; another like him — so very like him — had suffered in his stead ; here he was with them again. They must both go to my lady's apartments ! And he would hurry thither, only at the door turning away with a little sigh half suppressed, and a wistful look in his eyes for ever ending the childish play before it was finished. The good friars would at times beguile him away from the saddened house to the monastery on the hill, where he made the acquaintance of Stevio Calmani, a little fellow of his own age, with dark hair and great brown eyes, wistful and soft when not ablaze with sudden passions.

He seemed to Everard to know countless wonderful things — to be a person of great importance. His merriment was overwhelming, his sudden seriousness as solemn and convincing as an old man's, and more mysterious. They became sworn friends, rambled about the old monastery together, and learnt their lessons from one book. Thus the monks made him forget his childish pain for brief intervals, and at his departure sent him home laden with sweet fruits from the high walled garden to tempt the appetite of the sick Countess, who was growing daily more frail, and whose white face and great hollow eyes awed the boy into a timid reserve that created a barrier between them at last. The visits to those darkened apartments became oppressive and frightening. He would catch his breath on entering, and not know what to say when within.

He thought of suggesting that great game of pretence, — if they might only pretend together, — but he could never summon courage enough to suggest it. The idea seemed different, indeed impossible, when he thought of it there in the silent chamber. Outside again, he would draw a breath of relief. Yet for the sake of the boy, the unhappy woman clung to life with a pathetic tenacity that would yield nothing to the weakness of the flesh. " I must live," she explained to her physician, " till my boy is old enough to understand the message I have to leave him ; then I will die in peace, Deo volente, my good doctor." And the physician would glance furtively at the thin white hands so little corporeal now, translucent as wax, and at the emaciated figure under the numerous white robes, and calculate the possible time that frail body could live without a miracle.