Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel. Lever Charles James
little incident, as may be supposed, contributed nothing to remove the constraint of the scene; and an almost unbroken stillness now prevailed, when at length a carriage was seen to drive from the courtyard.
‘There goes Monsignore Alberti,’ said Count Boyer. ‘Where the secretary of the Pope gives the initiative, it is surely safe to follow. My duty is paid.’ And so saying, and with a deep obeisance to all at either side of him, he passed out. The Spanish minister followed; and now the whole assemblage gradually moved away, so that in less than an hour the salons were deserted, and none remained of all that crowded mass which so late had filled them, except O’Sullivan, MacNiel, and a few Highland chieftains of lesser note.
‘One might be tempted to say that there was a curse upon this cause,’ said MacNiel sternly, as he threw himself down into a seat. Who ever saw a morning break with brighter hopes; and see already, scarcely an hour past the noon, and they are all gone – wafted to the winds.’
‘No, no, MacNiel,’ said O’Sullivan gravely; ‘you are wrong, believe me. These butterflies knew well that it was only a gleam of sunshine, not a summer. The hopes of the Stuarts are gone for ever.’
‘Why are you here, then, if you think so?’ cried the other impetuously.
‘For that very reason, sir. I feel, as you and all these gentlemen here do, that fidelity is a contract made for life.’
‘They were the luckiest that closed that account first,’ muttered one of the lairds, half aloud. ‘By my saul, Culloden wasn’t colder lying than the Campagna.’
‘Come along, we may as well follow the rest,’ said MacNiel, rising. ‘Will you dine with us, O’Sullivan? Mac-Allister and Brane are coming.’
‘No, MacNiel. I have made this anniversary a day of fasting for many a year back. I took a vow never to taste meat or wine on this festival, till I should do so beneath the king’s roof, in his own land.’
‘Ye ‘re like to keep a black Lent o’ it, then,’ muttered the old laird, with a dry laugh, and shuffled along after his chieftain, as he led the way toward the door.
O’Sullivan waited till they had gone; and then, with a sad glance around him, as if like a leave-taking, left the palace and turned homeward.
CHAPTER III. THE ALTIERI PALACE
In a large and splendid chamber, whose only light was a small lamp within a globe of alabaster, Charles Edward lay, full-dressed, upon his bed. His eyes were closed, but his features did not betoken sleep: on the contrary, his flushed cheek told of intemperance, and the table, covered with wine-decanters and glasses, beside him, confirmed the impression. His breathing was thick and laboured, and occasionally broken by a dry, short cough. There was, indeed, little to remind one of the handsome chevalier in the bloated face, the heavy, hanging jaws, and the ungainly figure of him who, looking far older than his real age, now lay there. Though dressed with peculiar care, and covered with the insignia of several orders, his embroidered vest was unbuttoned, and showed the rich lace of his jabot, stained and discoloured by wine. A splendidly ornamented sword lay beside him, on which one hand rested, the fingers tremulously touching the richly embossed hilt. Near the foot of the bed, on a low, well-cushioned chair, sat another figure, whose easy air of jocularity and good-humoured, sensual countenance presented a strong contrast to the careworn expression of the Prince’s face. Dressed in a long loose robe of white cloth, which he wore not ungracefully, his well-rounded legs crossed negligently in front of him, and his hands clasped with an air of quiet and happy composure, the man was a perfect picture of a jolly friar, well-to-do and contented. This was George Kelly, the very type of happy, self-satisfied sensuality. If a phrenologist would have augured favourably from the noble development of forehead and temples, the massive back-head and widely spreading occiput would have quickly shown that nature had alloyed every good gift with a counterpoise of low tastes and bad passions, more than enough to destroy the balance of character.
‘Who ‘s there? Who ‘s in waiting?’ muttered the Prince, half aloud, as if suddenly arousing himself.
‘Kelly – only Kelly,’ answered the friar. ‘Then the wine is not finished, George, eh? that’s certain; the decanters are not empty. What hour is it?’ ‘As well as I can see, it wants a few minutes of five.’
‘Of five! of five! Night or morning, which?’
‘Five in the evening. I believe one might venture to call it night, for they’re lighting the lamps in the streets already.’
‘What’s this here for, George,’ said the Prince, lifting up the sword. ‘We’re not going to Bannockburn, are we? Egad! if we be, I trust they ‘ll give me a better weapon. What nonsense of yours is all this?’
‘Don’t you remember it was your Majesty’s birthday, and that you dressed to receive the ministers?’
‘To be sure I do; and we did receive them, George, didn’t we? Have I not been drinking loyal toasts to every monarchy of Europe, and wishing well to those who need it not? Fifty-one, or fifty-two, which are we, George?’
‘Faith, I forget,’ said Kelly carelessly; ‘but, like this Burgundy, quite old enough to be better.’
‘The reproach comes well from you, you old reprobate! Whose counsels have made me what I am? Bolingbroke warned me against you many a long year back. Atterbury knew you too, and told me what you were. By Heaven!’ cried he, with a wilder energy, ‘it was that very spirit of dictation, that habit of prescribing to me whom to know, where to lean, what to say, and what to leave unsaid, has made me so rash and headstrong through life. A fellow of your caste had otherwise obtained no hold upon me; a lowbred, illiterate drunkard – ’
A hearty burst of laughter from Kelly here stopped the speaker, who seemed actually overwhelmed by the cool insolence of the friar.
‘Leave me, sir; leave the room!’ cried Charles Edward haughtily. ‘Let Lord Nairn – no, not him; let Murray of Blair, or Kinloch, attend me.’
Kelly never stirred nor uttered a word, but sat calm and motionless, while Charles, breathing heavily from his recent outburst of passion, lay back, half-exhausted, on the bed. After a few minutes he stretched out his hand and caught his wine-glass; it was empty, and Kelly filled it.
‘I say, George,’ cried he, after a pause, ‘it must be growing late. Shall we not have these people coming to our levee soon?’
‘They ‘ve come and gone, sire, six hours ago. I would not permit your Majesty to be disturbed for such a pack of falsehearted sycophants; the more that they sent such insolent messages, demanding as a right to be received, and asking how long they were to wait your royal pleasure.’
‘Did they so, George? Is this true?’
‘True as Gospel. That Spaniard, with the red-brown beard, came even to your Majesty’s antechamber, and spoke so loud I thought he’d have awoke you’; nor was Count Boyor much better-mannered – ’
‘Come and gone!’ broke in Charles. ‘What falsehoods will grow out of this! You should have told me, Kelly. Health, ease, happiness – I ‘d have sacrificed all to duty. Ay, George, kings have duties like other men. Were there many here?’
‘I never saw one-half the number. The carriages filled the Corso to the Piazza del Popolo. There was not a minister absent.’
‘And of our own people?’
‘They were all here. O’Sullivan, Barra, Clangavin – ’
‘Where was Tullybardine? – Ah! I forgot,’ broke in Charles, with a deep sigh. ‘“Here’s to them that are gone,” George, as the old song says. Did they seem dissatisfied at my absence? – how did you explain it?’
‘I said your Majesty was indisposed; that State affairs had occupied you all the preceding night, and that you had at last fallen into a slumber.’
‘Was Glengariff among them?’
‘You forget, sire. We buried him six weeks ago.’
‘To be sure we did. Show