Gerald Fitzgerald, "the chevalier."

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“THE CHEVALIER”

BOO

CHAPTER I. THE thieves’ corner

At the foot of the hill on which stands the Campidoglio at Rome, and close beneath the ruins that now encumber the Tarpeian rock, runs a mean-looking alley, called the Viccolo D’Orsi, but better known to the police as the “Viccolo dei Ladri,” or “ Thieves’ Corner” — the epithet being, it is said, conferred in a spirit the very reverse of calumnious.

Long and straggling, and too narrow to admit of any but foot-passengers, its dwellings are marked by a degree of poverty and destitution even greater than such quarters usually exhibit. Rudely constructed of fragments taken from ancient temples and monuments, richlycarved architraves and finely-cut friezes are to be seen embedded amid masses of crumbling masonry, and all the evidences of a cultivated and enlightened age mingled up with the squalor and miseiy of present want.

Not less suggestive than the homes themselves are the population of this dreary district ; and despite rags, and dirt, and debasement, there they are — the true descendants of those who once, with such terrible truth, called themselves “Masters of the World.” Well set-on heads of massive mould, bold and prominent features, finely-fashioned jaws, and lips full of vigor and sensual meaning, are but the base counterfeits of the traits that meet the eye in the Vatican. No effort of imagination is needed to trace the kindred. In every gesture, in their gait, even in the careless ease of their ragged drapery, you can mark the traditionary signs of the once haughty citizen.

With a remnant of their ancient pride, these people reject all hired occupation, and would scorn, as an act of slavery, the idea of labor ; and, as neither trade nor calling prevails among them, their existence would seem an inscrutable problem, save on the hypothesis which dictated the popular title of this district. But without calling to our aid this explanation, it must be remembered how easily life is supported by those satisfied with its meanest requirements, and especially in a land so teeming with abundance. A few roots, a handful of chestnuts, a piece of black bread, a cup of wine.

K I.

scarcely more costly than so much water, the-'TG are enough to maintain existence ; and in their gaunt and famished faces you can see that little beyond this is accomplished.

About the middle of this alley, and over a doorway of sculptured marble, stands a small statue of Vesta, which, by the aid of a little paint, a crown of gilt paper, and a candle, some pious hands had transformed into a Madonna. A little beneath this, and on a black board, scrawled with letters of unequal size, is the word “ Trattoria,” or eating-house.

Nothing, indeed, can be well farther from the ordinary aspect of a tavern than the huge vaulted chamber, almost destitute of furniture, and dimly lighted by the flame of a single lamp. A few loaves of coarse black bread, some wicker-bound flasks of common wine, and a wooden bowl containing salad, laid out upon a table, constituting all that the place affords for entertainment. Some benches are ranged on either side of the table, and two or three more arc gathered around a little iron tripod, supporting a pan of lighted charcoal, and over which now two figures are to be seen cowering down to the weak flame, while they conversed in low whispers together.

It is a cold and dreary night of December; the snow has fallen not only on the higher Apennines, but lies thickly over Albano, and is even seen in drifts along the Campagna. The wailing wind sighs mournfully through the arches of the Colosseum and among the columns of the old Forum, while at intervals, with stronger gusts, it sweeps along the narrow alley, wafting on high the heavy curtain that closes the doorway of the Trattoria, and leaving its occupants for the time in total darkness.

Twice had this mischance occurred; and now the massive table is drawn over to the door, to aid in forming a barricade against the storm..

“ ’Tis better not to do it. Fra Luke,” said a woman’s voice, as the stout friar arranged his breastwork. “You know what happened the last time there was a door in the same'place.”

“Never mind, Mrs. Mary,” replied the other; “ they’re not so ready witliiheir knives as they used to be, and, moreover, there’s few of them will be out to-night.”

Both spoke in English, and with an accent which told of an Irish origin ; and now, as they reseated themselves beside the brazier, we have time to observe them. Faint as the flicker of that flame is, it is enough to show that the woman belongs not to the land where now we see her. Scarcely above forty years of age, but looking older from the effects of sorrow, her regular features and deeply-set eyes bear traces of once beauty. Two braids of rich brown hair have escaped beneath her humble widow’s cap, and fallen partly over her cheeks, and, as she tries to arrange them, her taper and delicatelyformed fingers, even more strongly still, proclaim her of gentle blood ; her dress is of the coarsest woolen stuff worn by the peasantry, but liitle cuffs of crape show how, in all her poverty, she had endeavored to maintain some semblance to a garb of mourning. The man, whose age might be fifty-seven or eight, is tall, powerfully built, and, although encumbered by the long dress of a friar, shows in every motion that he is still possessed of considerable strength and activity. The closely-cut hair over his forehead and temples give something of coarseness to the character of his round full head; but his eyes are mild and gentle-looking, and there is an unmistakable good-nature in his large and thick-lipped mouth.

If there is an air of deference to his companion in the way he seats himself a little distance from the “brazier,” there is, more markedly still, a degree of tender pity in the look that he bestows on her.

“I want to read you the petition, Mrs. Mary,” said he, drawing a small sci’oll of paper from his pocket, and unfolding it before the light. “ ’Tis right you’d hear it, and see if mere’s any thing you’d like different — any thing mispleasing you, or that you’d wish left out.” She sighed heavily, but made no answer. He waited for a second or two, and then resumed, “’Tisn’t the like of me — a poor friar, ignorant as I am — knows well how to write a thing of the kind, and, moreover, to one like him; but maybe the time’s coming when you’ll have grander and better friends.”

“Oh, no! no!” cried she, passionately; “not better. Fra Luke — not better; that they can never be.”

“Well, w'ell, better able to serve you,” said he, as though ashamed that any question of himself should have intruded into the discussion ; “and that they may easily be. But here’s the writing ; and listen to it now, for it must be all copied out to-night, and ready for to -morrow' morning. The cardinal goes to him at eleven. There’s to be some grandees from Spain, and maybe Portugal, at twelve. The Scottish lords come after that ; and then Kelly tells me he’ll see any that likes, and that has letters or petitions to give him. That's the time for us, then ; for ye see Kelly doesn’t like to give it himself : he doesn’t know what the ^Prince would say, and how he’d take it; and natural enough, he’d not wdsh to lose the favor he’s in by any mistake. That’s the word he said, and sure enough it sounded a strange one for helping a friend and a countrywoman ; so that I must contrive to go myself, and God’s my judge, if I wouldn’t rather face a drove of the wild cattle out there on the Campagna, than stand up before all them grand people!” The very thought of such an ordeal seemed too much for the poor friar, for he wiped his forehead with the loose cuff of his robe, and for some minutes appeared totally lost in reflection ; with a low sigh he at last resumed: “Here it is, now ; and I made it short, for Kelly said, ‘ if it’s more than one side of a sheet, he’ll never look at it, but just say “ Another time, my good friend, another time. This is an affair that requires consideration ; I’ll direct Monsignore to attend to it.” When he says that, it’s all over with you,’ says Kelly. Monsignore Bargalli hates every one of us — Scotch, English, and Irish alike, and is ahvays belying and calumniating us ; but if he reads it himself, there’s a’lways a chance that he may do something, and that’s the reason I made it as short as I could.”

With this preface, he flattened out the some- Avhat crumpled piece of paper, and read aloud:

“ ‘ To his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, the true-born descendant of the House of Stuart, and rightful heir to the Crown of England, the humble and dutiful petition of Mary Fitzgerald, of Cappa-Glyn, in the county Kildare, Ireland — ’

“Eh, Avhat?” cried he, suddenly; for a scarcely audible murmur proclaimed something like dissent or correction.

“I w'as thinking. Fra Luke,” said she, mildly, “ if it wouldn’t be better not to say ‘ of Cappa- Glyn.’ ’Tis gone aw'ay from us now forever, and — and — ”

“What matter; it was your’s once. Your ancestors owned it for hundreds and hundreds of years ; and if you’re not there now, neither is he himself where he ought to be.”

The explanation seemed conclusive, and he went on :

“‘County Kildare, Ireland. Ay! May it please your illustrious royal highness, the only sister of Grace Geraldine, now in glory with the saints, implores your royal flrvor for the orphan boy that survives her. Come from a long way off, in great distress, mind and body, she has no friend but your highness and the Virgin Mary — that was well known never deserted nor forsook them that stood true to your royal cause — and being in want, and having no shelter nor refuge, and seeing that Gerald himself, with the blood in his veins that he has, and worthy of being what your royal highness knows he is.’

“ That’s mighty delicately expressed, ye see ; not to give offense,” said the friar, with a most complacent smile at his dexterity.

“ ‘Hasn’t as much as a rag of clothes under his student’s gown, nor a pair of shoes, barring the boots that the sub-rector lent him ; wdtlioUt a shirt to his back, or a cross in his pocket; may at a minute’s warning be sent aw>»y from

‘THE CHEVALIEK.’* the college, by reason of his great distress — having no home to go to, nor any way to live, but to starve and die in nakedness, bringing everlasting disgrace on your royal house, and more misery to her who subscribes herself in every humility and contrite submission, your royal highness’s most dutiful, devoted, and till death release her from sorrows, ever attached servant, Mary Fitzgerald.’”

“I didn’t put any address,” said the Fra, “for, you see, this isn’t one of the genteelest quarters of the tovm. Here they are, Mrs. Mary — here they are!” cried he, suddenly, and Vv^hile he spoke, the hasty tramp of many feet, and the discordant voices of many people talking noisily, was heard from without.

“ Sangue dei Santi!” shouted a rude voice, “is this a fortress we have here, or a public tavern ?” and, at the same instant, a strong hand seized the table in the doorway and overwhelmed it on the floor.

' The fellow who thus made good his entrance, was tall and muscular, his stature seeming even greater from the uncouth covering of goat-skins, which in every conceivable fashion he wore around him, while in his hand he carried a long lance, terminating with a goad, such as are used by the cattle-drivers of the Campagna.

“A hearty reception, truly. Signora Maria, you give your customers,” cried he, as he strode into the middle of the chamber.

“It was a barriei; against the storm, not against our friends — ”

“Ha! you there. Fra Luke!” shouted the other, interrupting him, while he burst out into a fit of coarse laughter. “Who could doubt it, though ? wherever there’s a brazier, a Avineshop, and a pretty woman, there you will find a Frate ! But come in, lads,” added he, turning once more toward the doorway ; “here are only friends — neither spies nor Swiss among them.”

A ragged group of half-starved wretches came now forward, from one of whom the first speaker took a small leathern portmanteau that he car ried, and threw it on the table.

“A poor night’s work, lads,” said he, unstrapping the leather fastenings around it ; “ but these travelers have grown so wary now-a-days, it’s rare to pick up any thing on the Campagna; and what Avith chains, bolts, and padlocks around their luggage, you might as well strive to burst open the door of the old Mamertine Prison yonder. There’s no money here, boys — not a baiocco — nor even clothes, nothing but papers. Maladizione be on those Avho ever taught the art of Avriting! — it serves for nothing but to send braA'e men to the galleys.”

“ I kneAV he was a courier,” said a small decrepit-looking man, Avith a long stiletto stuck in his garter, “and that he could have nothing of any use to us.”

“AAvay Avith the trunk, then; throAV it OA'er the parapet into the ditch, and make a jolly blaze with the papers. Ah, Signora Maria, time Avas Avhen a guidatore of the Campagna seldom came back at night Avithout his purse filled Avith sequins. Many a gay silk kerchief have I given a SAveetheart, ay, and many a gold trinket, too, in those days. Cattle - driving Avould be but a poor trade, if the Appian Way didn’t traverse the plain.” While he spoke he continued to feed the flame Avith the papers, Avhich he tore and threAV on the burning charcoal. “Heap them on the fire, Fra, and don’t lose time spelling out their meaning. You get such a taste for learning people’s secrets at the confessional, you can’t restrain the passion.” ''

“If I mistake not,” said Fra Luke, “these papers are Avorth more than double their weight in gold. They treat of very great matters, and are in the writing of great people.”

“Per Bacco ! they shall neAxr bring me to the galleys, that I’ll swear,” cried the herdsman. “Popes and Princes Avould fret little about me when they gained their ends. There, on Avith them. Fra. If I see you steal one of them inside those loose robes of yours, by the blood of the martyrs, I’ll pin it to your side Avith my poniard.”

“You mangy, staiwed hound of a goatherd,” cried Fra Luke, seizing the masshx iron tongs beside him ; “do you think it’s one of yourselves I am, or that I have the same cowardly heart, that can be frightened because you Avear a knife in your sleev'e. May I never see glory, if I Avouldn’t clear the place of you all Avith these ould tongs, ay, and hunt every mother’s son of you down the alley.” The sudden spring foi’Avard as he said this, seeming to denote an intention of action, so appalled his hearers that they rushed simultaneously to the door, and, in all the confusion of terror, fled into the street, the herdsman making use of all his strength to cleave his Avay through the rest.

“Think of the Vendetta, Fra Luke! They never forgiA'e !” cried the Avoman, in a voice of anguish.

“Faix, it’s more of the police. I’m thinking, Mrs. Mary,” said the friar. “ You’ll see, them felloAA's Avill be off noAv, to bring the SAviss guard. Burn the papers as fast as you can; God knows Avhat mischief AA'e’re doing, but we can’t help it. Oh, dear ! isn’t it a sin and a shame ? Here’s a letter, signed Alberoni, the great Cardinal in Spain. Here’s tAVO in English, and Avhat’s the name — Watson, is it? No; Wharton, the Duke of Wharton, as I liA^e ! There, fan the coals ; quick, there’s no time to lose. Oh, dear, Avhat’s this about Ireland ! I must read this, Mrs. Mary, come Avhat may. ‘ Cromarty says that the P regrets he didn’t try Ire-

land in place of Scotland. Kelly persuadea him that the Irish Avould never have abandoned his cause, for any consideration for themselves or their estates.’ That’s true, any how,” cried the Fra. “ ‘ And that as long as he only Avanted rebellion, and did not care to make them loyal subjects, the Irish Avould stand to him to the last.’ Faix, Kelly’s right!” murmured the Fri>. “‘The Scotch, besides, groAV weary of civil war, and desire to have peace and order | while the otlicrs think fighting a government the best diversion at all, and would ask for nothing better than its continuance. For these reasons, and another that is more of a secret, the Prince is sorry for the choice he made. As to the secret one : there was a certain lady, of good family, one of the best in the Island, they say, called Grace Fitzgerald — ’ ”

A shriek from the woman arrested the Fra at this instant, and with a spring forward, she tore the paper from his hand to read the name.

“What of her — what of Grace?” cried she, in a voice of heart-rending anxiety.

“ Be calm, and I’ll read it all, Mrs. Mary. It was God’s will, may be, put this into our hands to-night. There, now, don’t sob and agitate yourself, but listen. ‘ She followed him to France,’ ” continued he, reading.

“ She did — she did !” burst out the other, in a passion of tears.

“‘To France, where they lived in retirement, at the Chateau de Marne, in Brittany. Kelly says they were married, and that the priest who solemnized the marriage was a nephew of Cardinal Tencin, called Danneton, or Banneton, but well known as Father Ignatius, at the Seminary of Soissons. To his own dishonor and disgrace, and perhaps to his ruin also, this happy union did not long continue. He was jealous at first ; at last he neglected her. Be this as it may, Godfrey Moore, and O’Sullivan broke with him forever, on her account; and Ruttledge tore his patent of Baron to pieces, and swore, to his face, that one who could be so false to his love, could be little relied on in his friendship.’ ”

“Who writes this. Fra Luke? Who knew these things so well ?” cried the woman.

“It is signed ‘R. W.,’ and dated from Ancona, something more than ten years back. The remainder treats of money matters, and of names that are new to us. Here is the postscript : ‘You are right in your estimate of him — too right; still I am inclined to think that Kelly’s influence has worked more ill than all his misfortunes. They drink together all day, and even his brother can not see him without his permission ; and if you but saw the man — coarse, low-minded, and ill-educated, as he is — so unlikely in every way to have gained this ascendency over one of cultivated taste and refinement; but Kinloch said truly, “What have your Royal Highness’s ancestors done, that God should have cursed you with such companionship!” To what end, then, this new plan — this last attempt to avert failure? I’ll go, if I must, but it will be only to expose myself to the .same impertinences as before.’

“ I wish I could make out his name, or even to whom it was addressed; but it is only inscribed ‘ G. H., care of Thomas Foster.’ Is that any one coming, Mrs. Mary?”

“ No, it’s only the wind ; it often sounds like voices moaning through those old corridors,” sOtid the woman, sorrowfully. “You’ll keep that letter safe. Fra Luke ?”

“That I will, Mrs. Mary. I’ll put it now with the rest, in that old iron box in the wall behind the chimney.”

“But if we should have to leave this?”

“Never fear. I’ll take care to have it where we can come at it.” He paused for a second or so, and then said, “Yes, you can’t stay here any longer ; you must go at once, too.”

“Let it be, then, to some spot where I can see him,” cried she, eagerly. “I’ve borne the misery of this gloomy spot for years back, just because that each day he passes near my door. Down the Capitoline, to the old Forum, is their walk ; and how my heart beats as I see the dark procession winding slowly down the hill, till my eyes rest on him — my own dear Gerald. How proudly he steps in all his poverty! — how sorrowful in his youth! What would I not suffer to speak to him — to tell him that I am the sister of his mother — that he is not all forgotten or forsaken, but that through long days and nights I sit to think on him.”

“But you know this can not be, as yet.”

“ I know it — I know it,” cried she, bitterly. “It is not to a home of crime and infamy — to such pollution as this — I would bring him. Nor need this any longer be endured. The slavery is now unrecompensed. I can earn nothing. It is four months since I last sent him a few pauls.”

“Come, come, do not give way thus; to-morrow may be the turn to better fortune. Ask of the Virgin to aid us — pray fervently to those who see our need, and hope — ay, hope, Mrs. Mary, for hope is faith.”

“ My heart grows too cold for hope,” said she, with a faint shudder ; and then, with a low “good-night,” she lighted the little lamp that stood beside her, and ascended the narrow stairs to her room, while the Fra proceeded to gather up the papers that lay scattered about; which done he listened for a while, to ascertain that all was quiet without; and then, drawing his cowl over his head, set out for his humble horns —a small convent behind the Quirinal.

CHATTER 11.

THE LEVEE.

For many a year after the failure of the Jacobite expedition — long after all apprehension from that quarter had ceased to disturb the mind of England — the adherents of Charles Edward, abroad, continued to plot, and scheme, and plan, carrying on intrigues with nearly every court of Europe, and maintaining treasonable intercourse with all the disaffected at home. It would, at first sight, seem strange that partisans should maintain a cause which its chief had virtually abandoned as hopeless ; but a little consideration will show us that the sympathy felt by foreign Governments for the Stuarts was less based on attachment to their house, than a devotion to the religious principles of which they were the as-

“THE CHEVALIEK.”

sertors. To Catholiciz3 England was the great object at heart — to crush that heresy, whose right of private judgment was as dangerous to despotism as to bigotry — this was a cause far too portentous and important to he forsaken for any casual check or momentary discouragement. Hence, for years after the hopes of the Pretender’s friends had died out in Scotland, his foreign followers traversed the Continent on secret missions in every direction, exerting at times no slight influence even in the cabinets we believed to be best aflected toward us.

There was, it is true, nothing in the state of Europe generally, nor of England itself, to revive the hopes of that party. Of the adherents to the Stuart cause, the stanchest and the best had paid the penalty of their devotion ; some were exiles, and some, like Lord Lovatt, had purchased safety by dishonor, but scarcely one was tobe found ready to peril life and fortune once more in so barren an enterprise. None, indeed, expected that “the _king should have his own again,” but many thought that the claim of a disputed succession might he used as a terrible agency for disturbance and the cause of a dethroned monarch be made an admirable rallying-point for Catholic Europe. These intrigues were carried on in every court of the Continent, hut more especially at Eome and Madrid, between which two capitals the emissaries of the Prince maintained a close and frequent intercourse.

With all the subtlety of such crafty counselors, every question of real moment was transacted in the strictest secrecy, but all trivial and unimportant affairs were blazoned forth to the world with a degree of display that seemed to court publicity. In this way, for instance, every eventful era of the Stuart ffimily was singled out for observance, and the ceremonies of the Church were employed to give the epochs a due solemnity. It is to an occasion of this kind we would now invite our reader’s presence — no less a one than the birthday of Charles Edward.

From an early hour on the morning of the 20th December, 178 — , tlie court-yard of the Altieri Palace Avas a scene of unusual stir and moA^ement. Country carts, loaded Avith orange-trees and rare plants from the conservatories of the princely villas around Rome, great baskets of flowers — bouquets which had cost a tAvelvemonth’s care to bring to perfection — Avere unpacking on every side, Avhile delicious fruits and Avines of extreme rarity Avere among the offerings of the auspicious day. Servants in the well-known livery of every noble house, passed and repassed, and the lodge of the porter AA'as besieged by crowds, Avhose rank not entitling them to be presented, Avere still desirous of testifying by their names their respect for the exiled majesty of England. The street front of the ])alace Avas decorated Avith gorgeous hangings from all the Avindows, some emblazoned Avith the armorial insignia of royalty, some Avith the emblems of different orders of knighthood, and some simply Avith the fleur-de-lis or the cross of St. AndrcAV. A guard of honor of the Pope’s

Swiss stood at the gate, and two trumpeters, Avitli tAVO heralds in full costume, were mounted on Avhite chargers Avithin the arched entrance, ready, Avhen the clock struck eleven, to proclaim the birthday of the king of England.

For years back the occasion had been merely marked by a levee, at Avhich the Prince’s personal friends and folloAvers AA^ere joined by a few cardinals and one or tAvo of the elders among the noble families ; but noAV, from some unexplained reason, a greater display Avas made, and an unusual degree of splendor and preparation shoAved that the event Avas intended to be singled out for peculiar honor. Pickets of dragoons, stationed at intervals through the neighboring streets, also shoAved that measures were taken to secure public tranquillity, and prevent the inconA’-enience that might arise from OA^ercroAvded thoroughfares. That such precautions Avere not unneeded, the dense mass of people that now crowded the streets already shoAved.

FeAV, indeed, of the assembled multitude kneAV the meaning of the ceremonial before them. To most, the name of England Avas like that of some fabulous dream-land. Others clearly saw some vassalage to the Pope in this temporary display of royalty; a yet smaller number looked on Avith compassionate sorroAv at this solemn mockery of a state so unreal and unsubstantial. Meamvhilc, a certain cautious reserA^e, a degree of respectful quiet, pervaded all the arrangements Avithin the palace. The AvindoAvs of the apartments occupied by the Prince Avere still closed, and the noiseless tread of the serA’ants, as they passed in that direction, showed the fear of disturbing him. For aboA^e a year back Charles EdAvard had been suffering severely from ill health. Tavo attacks of apoplexy, one folloAving' quickly on the other, had left him Aveak and debilitated, while from the abandonment of his habits of dissipation, enforced by his physician, there ensued that Ioav and nerA'ous condition, the inA’ariable penalty exacted from debauchery.