Gerald Fitzgerald, the Chevalier: A Novel. Lever Charles James
waited patiently till his orders were fulfilled, when, taking the mirror in his hand, he stared long and steadfastly at the reflection of his features. It was several minutes before he spoke, and when he did, the voice was tremulous and full of deep feeling.
‘George, I am sadly changed; there is but little of the handsome Chevalier here. I didn’t think to look like this these fifteen years to come.’
‘Faith! for one who has gone through all that you have, I see no such signs of wear and tear,’ said Kelly. ‘Had you been a Pope or a Cardinal – had you lived like an Elector of Hanover, with no other perils than a bare head in a procession, or the gouty twinges of forty years’ “sauer kraut – “’
‘Keep your coarse ribaldry for your equals, sirrah. Let there be some, at least, above the mark of your foul slander,’ cried Charles angrily; and then, throwing the looking-glass from him, he fell back upon his bed like one utterly exhausted. Kelly (who knew him too well to continue an irritating topic, his habit being to leave quietly alone the spirit that forgot more rapidly than it resented) sipped his wine in silence for some minutes. ‘This day, sixteen years ago, I breakfasted in Carlisle, at the house of a certain Widow Branards. It’s strange how I remember a name I have never heard since,’ said Charles, in a voice totally altered from its late tone of excitement. ‘Do you know, Kelly, that it was on the turn of a straw the fate of England hung that morning? Keppoch had cut his hand with the hilt of his claymore, and instead of counselling – as he ever did – a forward movement, he joined those who advised retreat. Had we gone on, George, the game was our own. There is now no doubt on the matter.’
‘I have always heard the same,’ said Kelly; ‘and that your Majesty yielded with a profound conviction that the counsel was ruinous. Is it true, sire, that O’Sullivan agreed with your Majesty?’
‘Quite true, George; and the poor fellow shed tears – perhaps for the only time in his life – when he heard that the decision was given against us. Stuart of Appin and Kerr were of the same mind; but Dits aliter visum, George. We turned our back on Fortune that morning, and she never showed us her face after.’
‘You are not forgetting Falkirk, surely?’ said Kelly, who never lost an opportunity of any flattering allusion to the Prince’s campaigns.
‘Falkirk was but half what it ought to have been. The chieftains got to quarrel among themselves, and left Hawley to pursue his retreat unmolested; as the old song says,
‘"The turnkey spat in the jailer’s face,
While the prisoner ran away!”
And now they are all gone, George – gone where you and I must meet them some day – not a far-off one, maybe.’
‘O’Sullivan was here to-day, sire, to wish your Majesty long life and happiness; and the old fellow looked as hearty and high-spirited as ever. I saw him as he passed out of the courtyard, and you ‘d have guessed, by his air and step, that he was a man of forty.’
‘He’s nigh to eighty-five, then, or I mistake me.’ ‘Life’s strong in an Irishman – there’s no doubt of it,’ cried Kelly enthusiastically; ‘there’s no man takes more out of prosperity, nor gives way less to bad fortune.’ ‘What’s that song of yours, George, about Paddy O’Flynn – isn’t that the name?’ said the Prince, laughing. ‘Let ‘s have it, man.’
‘You mean Terry O’Flynn, sire,’ said Kelly; ‘and, faith, ‘twould puzzle me to call to mind one verse of the same song.’
‘Do you even remember the night you made it, George, in the little wayside shrine, eight miles from Avignon? I’ll never forget the astonished faces of the two friars that peeped in and saw you, glass in hand, before the fire, chanting that pleasant melody.’
‘The Lord forgive you! ‘tis many a bad thing you led me into,’ said Kelly with affected sorrow, as he arose and walked to the window. Meanwhile the Prince, in a low kind of murmuring voice, tried to recall some words of the song. ‘Talking of friars,’ said Kelly, ‘there’s a thumping big one outside, with his great face shining like the dial of a clock. I ‘m much mistaken if he’s not a countryman of my own!’
‘Can he sing, George? Has he the gift of minstrelsy, man?’
‘If your Royal Highness would like to hear the canticles, I’m sure he’d oblige you. Faith, I was right; it’s poor Luke MacManus – a simple, kind-hearted creature as ever lived. I remember now that he asked me when it was possible to see your Royal Highness; and I told him that he must put down into writing whatever he wanted to say, and come here with it on the 20th; and sure enough, there he is now.’
‘And why did you tell him any such thing, sir?’ said the Prince angrily. ‘What are these petitions but demands for aid that we have not to bestow – entreaties we cannot satisfy? Are we not pensioners ourselves? ay, by the Lord Harry, are we, and beggarly enough in our treatment too. None knows this better than yourself, Master Kelly. It is not ten days since you pawned my George. Ay, and, by the way, you never brought me the money. What do you say to that?’
‘I received twenty-four thousand francs, sire,’ said Kelly calmly; ‘eighteen of which I paid, by your Royal Highness’s order, to the Countess.’
‘I never gave such an order – where is it?’
‘Spoken, sire, in the words of a prince; and heard by one who never betrayed him,’ said the friar quickly – ‘the Countess herself – ’
‘No more of this, sir. We are not before a court of justice. And now let me tell you, Kelly, that the town is full of the malversation of this household; and that however proverbial Irish economy and good management be in its own country, climate and change of air would seem to have impaired its excellence. My brother tells me that our waste and extravagance are public town talk.’
‘So much the better, sire – so much the better!’
‘What do you mean by that, sirrah?’ cried the Prince angrily.
‘Your Royal Highness has heard of Alcibiades, and why he cut the tail off his dog! Well, isn’t it a comfort to think that they never say worse of us here than that we spend freely what’s given grudgingly; and that the penury of others never contaminated the spirit of your Royal Highness?’
‘Have a care, sir,’ said the Prince, with more dignity than he had shown before: ‘there will come a day, perhaps, when we may grow weary of this buffoonery.’
‘I’m sorry for it, then,’ replied Kelly unabashed; ‘for when it does, your Royal Highness will just be as little pleased with wisdom.’
It was thus alternately flattering and outraging Charles Edward – now insinuating the existence of qualities that he had not; – now disparaging gifts which he really possessed – that this man maintained an influence which others in vain tried to obtain over the Prince. It was a relief, too, to find one whose pliancy suited all his humours, and whose character had none of that high-souled independence which animated his Scottish followers. Lastly, Kelly never asked favours for himself or for others. Enough for him the privilege of the intimacy he enjoyed. He neither sought nor cared for more. Perhaps, of all his traits, none weighed more heavily in his favour than this one. It was, then, in a kind of acknowledgment of this single-mindedness that the Prince, after a pause, said:
‘Let your countryman come up here, George. I see he ‘s the only courtier that remains to us.’
Kelly rose without a word, and left the room to obey the command.
Little as those in waiting on the Prince were ever disposed to resist Kelly in any proceeding, they were carried very nearly to insubordination, as they saw him conducting through the long line of salons the humbly-clad, barefooted friar, who, with his arms reverently crossed on his breast, threw stealthy glances, as he passed, at the unwonted splendour around him.
‘I hope, sir,’ said Fra Luke respectfully, ‘that your kindness to a poor countryman won’t harm yourself; but if ever you were to run the risk, ‘tis an occasion like this might excuse it.’
‘What do you mean?’