Pride of Race E-Book

Baroness Emmuska Orczy

• Herausgeber: Classica Libris
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

A romance set in Italy in 1814 from the author of The Scarlet Pimpernel.

Leseprobe

Baroness Emmuska Orczy

PRIDE OF RACE

Copyright

First published in 1942

Copyright © 2020 Classica Libris

Chapter 1

Among the many fortresses of mediaeval Italy, which have in the past two centuries fallen into ruin and decay there is one which still defies the ravages of time and the destruction caused by revolutions and internecine warfare. It stands on a rocky eminence at the West end of the fishing village of San Francesco and overlooks the picturesque little bay in which one of England’s sweetest singers found a watery grave a hundred and twenty years ago.

There it still stands, grim and solid like a sentinel on the watch over the goddess of Liberty, and by its stern immutability safeguarding as it were the rights and privileges of a people who in this year 1814 was just awakening to a sense of its national independence and its emancipation from the tyranny of alien races.

The fortress has throughout the greater part of its history been used as a State prison. A tall, square tower into which daylight only filtrates through narrow iron-barred loopholes seems like a perpetual reminder to the free millions of today of mediaeval despotism, of reigns of terror, of torture and of death. Around the base of the tower there is on the waterside a wide circular terrace, enclosed by a low stone wall, and down the side of the perpendicular rock there are several stone buildings of various sizes used for military and defence purposes.

On this early autumn morning, when the small world of townships and villages grouped around the bay was still wrapped in slumbers, the portcullis of the great tower swung noiselessly upon its hinges. On the threshold there appeared two men dressed in unrelieved black with their hats upon their heads, and their mantles thrown over their shoulders. Their hands were clasped together in an attitude of prayer. It was mid-September, the morning air in the early dawn was soft and invigorating and gave promise of warm sunshine later, when the night was done.

One of the men who now stepped out on the terrace was old, his white hair below the brim of his hat was gently stirred by the breeze. He was tall and spare and of obvious military bearing. He walked with shoulders squared and head erect. His pale face with its stern chiselled features expressed great moral strength as well as resignation. His companion was shorter of stature and considerably younger, and there was something about his whole appearance which suggested timidity of a man more accustomed to obey than to command. He walked with a slight stoop, and his head fell forward on his breast.

Behind these two there came half-a-dozen men-at-arms. They wore the white tunics and red breeches of an Austrian regiment of guards.

At the moment when the small party came out on the terrace the church clock of San Francesco boomed out the hour of five. The booming was taken up by the neighbouring church clocks, Via Maggiore, Marigola and Sant’Urbino, until all round the air vibrated with the reverberation of their clamorous sounds. And as if they answered to a call, the townships and villages round about appeared to waken suddenly from sleep: cocks crew, dogs barked, and in the bay fishing boats unfurled their yellow and red sails, and the splash of oars, the dragging of nets, the voices of labouring folk heralded the first gleam of approaching day.

Neither of the two prisoners, for such they were, appeared to be conscious of awakening life around them. They came to a halt at a word of command from the guard and stood facing a firing squad of a dozen soldiers under the command of a young officer, a mere boy apparently scarcely out of his teens. A hooded figure, in the garb of a Franciscan monk with sandals on his bare feet, and a rosary of large brown beads descending from his girdle, now came forward from behind the squad and whispered a few words to the young officer:

“Their confession,” he murmured: “May I hear it in private?”

The young man gave a slight nod and ordered the squad to stand back up against the containing wall, which they did, and remained there whispering among themselves. He then ordered the Austrian guard to retire. The portcullis once more swung noiselessly on its hinges, and the guard withdrew into the tower, leaving the monk free to approach the prisoners. As soon as he was close to them, he raised his hood slightly. The taller of the two men uttered a short cry of surprise.

“You?”

“Hush!” the monk admonished in a hurried whisper. “Madame la Duchesse is in Padula on the watch, her eye glued on the telescope. Everything has been arranged. Five hundred of our men stand ready, some in San Francesco, some in Via Maggiore and in Padula, each with a dagger clutched in his hand underneath his coat. At a signal from you they will rush into every house and every cottage; five hundred traitors, men, women and children will be dragged out of their beds and will fall with a knife thrust in their craven hearts. In the turmoil which will ensue…”

“Silence, man,” the prisoner broke in forcefully, under his breath, “did you really think that I would lend myself to such business? That I would allow the lives of five hundred loyalists to be sacrificed in a futile effort to save my own?”

“Futile, Monsieur le Duc?” the monk admonished sternly. “Futile? It is not the lives of our men that will be sacrificed. It is the blood of five hundred traitors that will redden the earth at a signal from you.”

“And think you there would be no reprisals after such an outrage?”

“No one will know whence the blow hath come. They suspect nothing; it will fall on them like a thunderbolt from heaven…”

“And our cause will be for ever shamed by so foul a deed.”

“Worse acts have been committed by our enemies. The vassals of Austria have stooped to every outrage man or devil can conceive. And your life is precious to our cause…”

“A dishonoured life is ten thousand times worse than death.”

“Madame la Duchesse…”

“Tell my beloved wife that I die with honour untarnished and leave our cause undefiled, in her hands.”

“One moment, Monsieur le Duc, I implore you to listen to me.”

“Go, man.” The prisoner broke in sternly: “And for God’s sake, let me die in peace.”

The monk turned in order to make a final appeal to the younger prisoner.

“Signor Magnese,” he pleaded earnestly: “I beg you to turn Monsieur le Duc from his cruel purpose. It rests with you to save yourself and him.”

He sunk his voice lower still, till it became almost inaudible, and went on with great rapidity:

“When the handkerchief for bandaging your eyes is offered you by the corporal, take it and at once wave it above your head. It is the signal agreed upon. Five hundred loyalists are ready to strike, remember…”

Over in the tower-room of Padula, Madame la Duchesse d’Estaing sat by the window with the telescope glued to her eye. Her old friend Hector Magnese, the rich Genoese merchant, stood behind her chair.

“What do you see now, Madame?” he asked, bending his head down to the level of her ear.

“Your son and the Duc,” the old lady replied. “Your reverend nephew,” she added, “is speaking with them.”

“The soldiers?”

“Mustering… Two of them step out, each with a handkerchief. Cosmo retires… The Duc and Sandro stand alone…”

No other word did she utter, nor did she scream. The telescope fell out of her hand and rolled down on the floor. She remained sitting bolt upright, her eyes fixed on the tower of San Francesco, whereon a black and yellow flag was being slowly hoisted above the roof, whilst a salvo of gunfire came rolling in over mountains and valley, and echoed from peak to peak till the sound expired as a sigh in the bosom of the distant heights.

Chapter 2

This occurred on the 15th day of September, in the year 1814, and the fact is recorded on a stone slab embedded in the flooring of the terrace of the castle of San Francesco, on the very spot where Monseigneur le Duc d’Estaing, peer of France and Sandro, only son of Hector Magnese, the Genoese, were shot by order of Victor Emmanuel I, King of Sardinia, at the command of the Emperor Francis II for conspiracy and incitement to sedition against the suzerainty of Austria.

The downfall of Napoleon Bonaparte, now in exile in the small island of Elba, had already brought about the crushing of Italian liberalism and its rising demand for national independence. Even before the congress of Vienna had promulgated its infamous decrees, the civil and political reforms instituted by the Napoleonic Government were abrogated, and the petty Italian sovereigns were replaced upon their beggarly thrones. Each of these slavish potentates bound himself to receive orders from Vienna, in return for which vassalage Austria guaranteed to him the possession of his pitiful crown and sceptre. They soon proved that neither revolutions nor defeat, nor exile had taught them their lesson. All those political convulsions only seemed to have terrorized them into worse tyranny and hatred against those who, like the Duc d’Estaing, had taken part in the Napoleonic Government and were known to dream dreams of an independent and united kingdom of Italy. They were spied upon and hunted down; trumpery charges of conspiracy were brought against them. Their every action and every word were reported and distorted by the informers who swarmed in the cities and by police agents in the pay of Austria. They were not allowed to carry on any kind of business, or to follow any of the liberal professions. Their relatives and even their friends were dispossessed of their estates and their goods and confined within a limited area beyond which they were not allowed to go.

Small wonder that, in the wake of so much injustice and tyranny, a reign of secret societies and revolutionary propaganda came into being. The execution of the Duc d’Estaing aroused indignation throughout the length and breadth of Italy. Marshal of France under the Emperor Napoleon, he had been made by the latter military Governor of the province of Genova. His rule as such had been both liberal and benevolent. His wife, the Duchesse, was Italian by birth, related to the great Piedmontese families of Montecorano and Sansovino. Her patriotism had always been ardent; and since the murder of her husband, for such his execution really was, it bordered on fanaticism. Hitherto, her personality, her age, and, above all, her high connections with the cream of Italian aristocracy had rendered her immune against extreme measures. She was spied upon and watched, and she knew it, but she treated all such petty pinpricks with contempt, knowing well that the preponderance of Austrian suzerainty in Italy was still in its infancy, and that the vassals of the Emperor were not yet in a position to antagonize openly the powerful princely families in the land.

And thus Madame la Duchesse d’Estaing remained what her husband had been before her, the centre of a group of zealous patriots, whose one aim in life was the restoration of Italian independence from the thrall of Austria, and the restoration of the liberal government with all its social and political reforms under the rule of the one man who had understood Italian aspirations and had given them those rights and privileges for which they craved, and for which they were ready now to shed the last drop of their blood.

That man was the fallen Emperor, the vanquished master of Europe, the exile, Napoleon Bonaparte.

No better than a prisoner within the narrow confines of a small island in the Mediterranean, watched over with affrighted eyes by all the allied powers, he still inspired dread in those who knew that the peace of Europe could only last while he was kept in bondage. Communication between the mainland and the Isle of Elba was strictly forbidden. Disobedience to this arbitrary rule was punishable by death, without trial. That had been the fate of Monsieur le Duc d’Estaing, Marshal of France, caught, according to the denunciation of paid informers, in the act of sending a postal packet across to the island through the hands of one Sandro, only son of the well-known Genoese merchant, Hector Magnese. Sandro had hired a fishing boat one morning in September for the purpose, so he said of visiting some English friends lately come to reside on the opposite shore of the bay. He had been seen, so the spies averred, in close conversation with Monsieur le Duc d’Estaing, who had surreptitiously handed him a sealed packet. The boat had been chased and intercepted by the Austrian coastguards and Sandro Magnese and the Duc d’Estaing were summarily arrested. The alleged sealed packet, however, was never found, the coastguards declaring that Sandro had, with criminal intent, thrown it into the sea.

Chapter 3

Close on three months had gone by since the tragedy enacted on that early autumn day on the terrace of San Francesco. Madame la Duchesse had spent those months in strict retirement and unrelieved mourning, seeing no one but her attendant maids and her grandchild, Veronica, the orphaned daughter of her only son killed in the hour of Napoleon’s great victory of Austerlitz. Veronica’s mother died a year later of a broken heart, and the Duchesse took the little girl, then aged eleven, under her care and protection. Inwardly, she loved the child as she had loved her son with that outward sternness and repression which effectually concealed the affection of which she was half-ashamed. “He loveth well who chastiseth well” was one of the dictates of her life. And she chastised the little orphan whom she really loved with the lash of her sarcastic tongue as she had once chastised the son whom she had never ceased to mourn.

Her rule over Veronica, as indeed it was over her household, her relatives, and even her friends, was arbitrary; her attitude towards all those who approached her was that of an inflexible dictator, of a queen who demanded implicit obedience, and who strangely enough, got it, for the power of her personality was very great. Figuratively speaking, every member of the secret society of patriots which had its headquarters in Porto Vecchio, and over which she presided, bowed the knee before her. Her word for them was law, her decisions irrevocable, and accepted with a humility which was akin to veneration. It is a little difficult for an English mind to grasp the importance in an Italian household of a century ago of the head of one of the great princely houses; the authority which emanated from him (the head of the house was seldom a woman) never had its counterpart in the family life of any other country in Europe. No one in his house, neither his wife nor his children, nor his guests would be allowed to sit while he was standing, nor could they walk in front of him from one room to another or pass him on the stairs. His children would never speak in his presence unless directly addressed by him, and any request, however trivial, they might wish to make to him could only be proffered by special permission and were invariably couched in a form that was akin to a prayer. Any infraction to these rules even by a friend or a guest would be denounced as serious disrespect and sternly censured; in the children, it would be severely punished.

It was seldom, however, that this family dictatorship was vested in a woman. The widowed Duchesse d’Estaing was one of these few exceptions. While her husband lived, she had been as submissive to him as she now expected her relatives, her adherents and her household to be to her. As far as her grand-daughter was concerned it had never entered her head that the child might have ideals and feelings of her own. Let alone an independent will; and since the age of twelve Veronica had seen all her girlish hopes and all her desires, the promptings of her heart and the aspirations of her soul, made subservient to the attainment of those ideals which constituted the life of those placed in authority over her; the independence of Italy and the freedom of its people. It was Madame la Duchesse rather than the Duc who moulded the girl’s character until she became as wax in her hands, passive and obedient, willing to believe in the love that underlay the old lady’s fanaticism, yet not daring to rebel against the bonds that enslaved her thoughts and smothered all individuality in her.

After the comparatively mild days at the beginning of December, the middle of the month brought back the winter with all its usual rigour. Genova itself, always a victim to the tramontane with its train of icy rain, and sometimes of snow, had shivered for the past week or ten days in a temperature that never rose above freezing point. In the villages the poor were huddled in their stuffy cottages and kept themselves as warm as they could with mulled sour wine and scanty feeds of pasta. The well-to-do kept indoors and sat around their hearths wrapped in fur coats and mantles, their love for their province marred by their hatred of its abominable climate.

But despite the inclement weather and difficulty of travel over hard and stony roads, meetings were held in the Castle of Porto Vecchio, distant some eight kilometres from Genova, meetings at which a hundred and more enthusiastic patriots assembled in the great hall, under the presidency of the widowed Duchesse d’Estaing. Here they formed plans and discussed the various aspects of the great subject which absorbed the minds of every thoughtful Genoese, the liberation of their country from the suzerainty of Austria and the unification of a free kingdom of Italy. Napoleon Bonaparte had attempted to establish such a kingdom, had himself, in fact, crowned King of Italy in Turin, but schemes more ambitious soon absorbed his mind, and in the end the whole project ended in smoke with his defeat and exile in Elba. They came in their dozens and their scores these patriots, rich men, influential patricians most of them. They came riding and driving up the heights to Porto Vecchio through wind and rain storms, journeying by day and resting o’nights in outlying farms or wayside inns, enduring fatigue and every kind of privation as stoically as they would the strain and stress of a hapless campaign.

The castle of Porto Vecchio was the goal of their pilgrimage. Here Madame la Duchesse d’Estaing entertained her guests with lavish hospitality. Her establishment was run on an almost regal scale. She had her chamberlain and her major-domo, her master of the horse and her almoner. She dined and supped with a privileged few in the huge dining hall on a raised platform under a dais upholstered in rich Genoese velvet interwoven with gold and silver threads. The remainder of the household, most of the gentlemen and ladies of quality, had their meals on the floor of the hall, a foot and a half lower than the ducal table. The meals were served with mediaeval splendour and lavishness. Madame la Duchesse and her special guests and the higher officials of her household ate off silver and gold plates. They drank out of priceless crystal glasses.

Madame la Duchesse d’Estaing was rich and spent her money with a prodigality which she felt was worthy of the traditions of her house, and of her high position in the social world. The deference that was paid to her because of that position and because of her wealth, was as the breath of life to her, and she imbibed the flattery of sycophants as well as that of her genuine friends with equal satisfaction. Far be it for any biographer to suggest that this display of splendour was mere vulgar ostentation. In England nowadays, with our democratic ideals we certainly would call it so. But Madame la Duchesse d’Estaing was not ostentatious and anything but vulgar. She was a great lady with lofty, if already rather antiquated notions of what was due to rank; and her Italian friends understood those notions and appreciated her point of view, for the seeds of democracy had not yet been sown among them, either by self-seekers or high-minded humanitarians.

On this cold December evening the great hall of the castle was brilliantly lighted with a hundred candles in crystal sconces and silver candelabra. A huge fire of olive wood blazed up gaily in the monumental hearth. Some hundred or so guests of Madame la Duchesse were here assembled: The men stood about talking in subdued tones and the ladies sat in small, isolated groups whispering to one another. The chief subject of conversation with everyone there was the tragedy which had been enacted in the castle of San Francesco. Everyone here was in possession of the real facts connected with the execution of the Duc d’Estaing and of Sandro Magnese. They all knew that the alleged sealed packet had never existed, that the spies had been suborned, and that the charge of conspiracy had been founded on perjured evidence. The execution of those two men was in fact nothing short of a foul murder. They knew all that, these great gentlemen and ladies here assembled tonight. They knew that perjured evidence was equally likely to be sworn against them, and that death lay in wait for them on the most trumpery charge. They knew it and yet here they were, planning, scheming, conspiring, swearing to give up their lives and their fortunes for the welfare of their country and for her freedom.

How was this going to be done? Who was going to rid Italy of the hated Austrian domination?

But every murmuring and conversation ceased when presently Madame la Duchesse preceded by her major-domo entered the great hall and took her stand at the further end of the room, in front of the monumental hearth. Everyone remarked that she had laid aside her mourning this evening. Her dress, fashioned after the latest Parisian mode, with the high waist just below her firm breasts, caused her to appear taller even than she was. Made entirely of the finest Mechlin lace, interwoven with gold threads, it clung to her figure, accentuating its statuesque lines, down to her feet, where peeped out the points of her white satin shoes. A gorgeous train of emerald green velvet, heavily embroidered in gold and silver, hung from her shoulders, its folds spread out behind her in sculptural lines. Though a grandmother, Madame la Duchesse appeared that evening extraordinarily young.

Satisfied that she held the fervid attention of all her guests, she now began to speak.

“You will agree with me, my friends,” she said, after a few conventional preliminaries, “that there is only one man who can rid our beloved country from those abominable tyrants. That man is Napoleon Bonaparte. We have gathered an army together! our soldiers are the bravest of the brave and are full of enthusiasm. But they need a leader, a man whom they can trust and in whom they can believe. Bonaparte is that man. His military genius is second to none. His prestige still stands high, whatever his enemies might say or do. He can lead our army to victory, to another glorious Austerlitz, to Iena, Eckmühl and Wagram. He understands Italy as no other statesman has ever done. He created a free kingdom of Italy, which the Allies have destroyed as they have tried to destroy him. But he will recreate it, let no one doubt it, a kingdom more free, more united than it ever was before.”

Her impassioned words and hard, authoritative voice, found an echo in the heart of all those here present. A murmur of enthusiastic approval rose as soon as she had finished speaking. They were all of one mind over that. Bonaparte was their hero. He would be their deliverer. A message across a narrow sea to that lonely island where the whilom master of the world sat eating out his heart in exile and loneliness, and he would come to them. He would fire their army with the enthusiasm which burned in his own soul. And they would follow him as his own great army followed him, certain that victory awaited them in the end.

And as Madame la Duchesse now turned to welcome a group of new arrivals, saying gracious words to all they formed themselves into groups once more and discussed the great project from every possible point of view. A message over to Elba with all its attendant risks, dodging the spies, the informers, the coastguard. Young and old, they were all ready to take the risk, to follow on if one or more did fail.

There was Hector Magnese, the rich Genoese merchant, the friend and financial adviser of Madame la Duchesse, the father of Sandro Magnese, the martyr of San Francesco: a tall, handsome Piedmontese of almost herculean build, who stood for patriotism in its most heroic aspect, who was ready to sacrifice his fortune, his estate, his business for the country which he loved. There was the young Prince Carnovaro, the Marchese di Montefiasconi, the brothers Bisenzone, all thirsting for an adventure which might mean death for them, but triumph to their cause.

Nor were they all Italian, those who were here tonight, nor all of them patricians. There were two protestant ministers, a Franciscan monk and a Jewish rabbi. French was freely spoken in different parts of the hall, and three or four men who sat in a window embrasure were talking together in English.

“I am going to do that job, you know,” one of the latter said, nodding his head in the direction of the rest of the company. He was a young man, with unruly brown hair and deep-set blue eyes, in which humour appeared to be at constant war with a kind of passionate intensity. He spoke with the soft voice and attractive brogue of the born Irishman.

“You?” one of the others retorted, with a slight shrug and a laugh.

“Yes, sir,” the Irishman countered: “Michael Delany at your service. They are all jabbering over there about which of them is going to risk a firing squad by sending a gracious invitation to Napoleon Bonaparte to lead an Italian army against the Austrians. Well! As I have had the honour to remark before, I, Michael Delany, am going to do that job.”

“But by what right? You, an Irishman? What have you to do with all these Italian intrigues?”

Delany threw back his head and laughed loudly, though not altogether heartily:

“You have said it, my dear sir,” he responded: “I am an Irishman, and I hate England and the English… not you in particular, of course, nor our reverend brother here… By the way, I didn’t catch your names…”

“Piers-Wymond,” the Englishman replied. “Graham Piers-Wymond.” He put his hand on the Franciscan’s arm, and added: “This is my young brother, the reverend Cosmo of the Order of St. Francis, both at your service.”

The Irishman gave a quick sigh.

“English,” he murmured. “I am sorry. I was quite beginning to like you both,” he added quaintly.

“There is no distinction of race,” the Franciscan here put in gently, “in the sight of God.”

“Don’t you believe it, Reverend Father. The good God knows who are his sheep and who are his goats. I’ll admit if you like that my hatred of everything English does not extend to those who are of our faith.”

“That’s kind and thoughtful of you,” the elder Piers-Wymond commented drily, “but your toleration I am afraid does not in that case extend to me, only to my brother. In his eyes, as well as in yours, I am an English heretic, a double reason for your hatred, I am afraid.”

He spoke with a slight suspicion of irony in his deep well-modulated voice, but without any acerbity. This good-looking young Irishman seemed so enthusiastic and withal so ingenuous in his childish intolerance that it was difficult to be really angry with him.

“But even now,” Piers-Wymond went on after a slight pause, during which he threw a quick mocking glance on the Irishman, “I don’t quite see why—even hating us all English heretics as you do—you should engage in a conspiracy that cannot benefit your own country in any way and may cost you your life.”

“It probably will,” the other rejoined negligently, “but you see Napoleon Bonaparte is the arch-enemy of England. At the height of his power he tried to destroy her, and he failed. After a successful campaign against the Austrians and at the head of our Italian army, he will once more dominate Europe and this time England shall not escape.”

All the latent humour went out of his Irish blue eyes while he said this, and the fierce intensity which appeared to be a part of his dual nature gained for the time being the upper hand. Throughout this wordy warfare, carried on quite pleasantly by the other two the Franciscan monk had only made one quiet admonishing remark. All he did now was to sigh, and after placing a restraining hand on the young man’s arm to murmur a paternal rebuke: “My son, God is love! Hatred must have no part in a Christian soul!” while the elder Piers-Wymond merely remarked dryly:

“I see.”

The Franciscan was rather shorter and of slighter build than his brother, and the only facial likeness between them was the straight nose and wide forehead. The whole face, however, was so different in expression that this slight resemblance was easily lost sight of. The eyes were so unlike. The monk’s eyes were dark like Italian eyes, the heavy lids more often than not, veiled every flash whether of anger, of scorn, or of enthusiasm. Above them the arched eyebrows met at the root of the nose, giving the face a look of stern concentration of mind. The lips were seldom parted in a smile. He spoke little and when he did it was always with a soft deprecating accent, like one who has thoroughly mastered the precepts of obedience to his superiors and of deference to the opinions of others.

He appeared quite at home, however, among all these Italian patricians and foreign hangers-on of Madame la Duchesse d’Estaing; every man who passed him closely by gave him respectful greeting: haughty signors saluted him with grave courtesy, some even with respectful homage. The ladies curtsied to him; the young girls went so far as to kiss his hand. The elder Piers-Wymond had watched all this ceremonial, at first with amazement. He had but recently arrived in Genova and had apparently no idea that his younger brother was held in such high esteem in this exalted social milieu. After a time amazement turned to amusement. He had the usual British kindly tolerance of an older brother—athlete and man of the world—for his somewhat effeminate junior.

At Palsgrave, in Yorkshire, the family seat of the Piers-Wymonds, there is a very fine portrait by Lawrence of the two brothers, aged then fifteen and thirteen respectively, in which the salient characteristics of each face are insisted on with more vigour than is usually to be found in the works of that lady-like artist. Gaiety, good nature, not unmixed with obstinacy or irony and a kind of devil-may-care insouciance are well expressed in the grey eyes and humorous mouth of the elder brother, and though still boyish and unformed, the features at once suggest the Northerner, the English father, the member of an old-established and prosperous social world; while self-deprecation, and a gentle appeal for sympathy are revealed in the depths of the other boy’s dark Italian eyes. Their father was General Sir Anthony Piers-Wymond, a Yorkshire man and distinguished soldier, who was killed at Corunna five years before this. Their mother was Donna Paulina, sister to Hector Magnese.

Chapter 4

The small group in the window embrasure now broke up when the Irishman, after a nod and a pleasant “See you anon”, went to join the rest of the company. He was seen presently at the other end of the room holding forth in broken Italian to a number of very young men who had crowded round him and were listening to him open-mouthed and with glowing eyes.

The two brothers were left alone for the moment, and the Franciscan was on the point of speaking when the double doors of the great hall were suddenly thrown open and there was a general commotion among the assembly. The men who were seated rose from their chairs, the ladies ceased chattering and gathered together in groups, all eyes turned to the doors where a major-domo in magnificent livery struck his tall wand of office three times against the floor, and announced in a stentorian voice:

“La Sua Altessa Serenissima Donna Veronica d’Estaing, Hereditary Principessa di Sansovino.”

They all craned their necks the better to see the dainty, rather insignificant little figure of a young girl, who entered the room in the wake of the gorgeous major-domo. He preceded her the whole length of the hall, waving his silver-mounted ebony wand, while ladies and gentlemen stood aside to form a double avenue through which she passed. She seemed so small, almost pathetic, as she walked between this double row of scrutinizing eyes, her own eyes downcast, her hands holding a bouquet of hothouse flowers. At the other end of the hall Madame la Duchesse stood waiting for her. She had risen as soon as her grand-daughter had been announced, and now when the girl was close to her she put out her hand. Veronica went down almost on her knees and kissed the hand extended to her. Madame thereupon kissed her on the forehead, and drew her down beside her, until they both stood side by side facing the brilliant company. There was a frou-frou of silken skirts as all the ladies swept a deep curtsey. All the men bowed very low. Those who wore swords put their left hand on the hilt, and all of them pressed their right against their breast. An involuntary exclamation broke through Piers-Wymond’s lips:

“What in the world…?”

The Franciscan put a restraining hand on his brother’s arm.

“Hush!” he said hurriedly. “Listen!”

Madame la Duchesse was speaking:

“My dear friends,” she began, “on this my beloved grand-daughter’s eighteenth birthday I desire to present her to you all as one of the youngest amongst you, one whose whole heart and soul are already filled with the same passionate love of our beautiful country that animates every one of you here tonight. I have had the great privilege of initiating her into the sacred obligations demanded of us by our cause: they are, above all others, the sacrifice of self, and the surrendering of will to the demands of our beloved Italy. And I may tell you that Donna Veronica d’Estaing has already of her own free will taken the same oath that all of you have sworn before God: Obedience, Courage and Self-Sacrifice.”

The men drew their swords, and holding them aloft, kissed the blade, and spoke the same three words in unison in a loud voice:

“Obedience. Courage. Self-Sacrifice.”

All of which caused the blunt Englishman to mutter between his teeth:

“Well! Of all the… ”

His deep-set grey eyes from which all expression of humour had slowly vanished, were fixed upon that pathetic little figure over there, who seemed so small, so forlorn, so weak; while those grandiloquent words were being spoken. She looked so like a timid child. Her soft brown hair was dressed in loose curls each side of her young face. Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks had little if any colour in them. Only her lips were cherry-red and slightly parted, but not in a happy smile for they drooped slightly at the corners.

Piers-Wymond felt intensely sorry for her, and when his brother murmured with fervour: “Isn’t it wonderful? And she so young,” he turned on him almost savagely:

“It’s damnable!” he ejaculated under his breath. And then added: “How you can stand all this flummery I can’t imagine!”

He didn’t say anything more just then, for Madame la Duchesse, taking Veronica’s hand in hers, was walking with slow majesty down the length of the hall, between the rows of bowing courtiers and curtseying ladies, presenting her grand-daughter to the company in general, but pausing from time to time to speak a few gracious words to specially privileged friends. Thus, moving along they came very near to where the two brothers were standing, and it seemed to Graham as if the Duchesse’s commanding glance was fixed for a second or two searchingly upon him.

“You will know me again when you see me, my lady,” his own eyes seemed to say in response. He met the scrutinizing glance with unaffected indifference while the monk bent his back in a profound bow, so overwhelmed was he by the graciousness of Madame la Duchesse, who had deigned to bestow a slight nod upon him.

“You are a stranger here, signor,” Madame now condescended to say, addressing the Englishman, and turning to her grand-daughter she added: “Veronica, you see an English gentleman before you. One who is, I hope, a friend of our country. Isn’t that so, Sir?”

“A Cosmopolitan, Madame la Duchesse,” Piers-Wymond replied. “A friend therefore of every country kind enough to give him hospitality.”

Madame gave a short laugh, while Veronica raised a pair of shy velvety eyes to the tall stranger.

“Oh, la, la!” the Duchesse commented, with a short laugh. “You are more glib of tongue, signor, than your countrymen usually are.”

“A heritage from my Italian mother, perhaps, Your Grace,” he responded.

“Perhaps,” the old lady remarked with another gracious nod to the two brothers, a nod which caused the monk’s spine to assume an almost semi-circular arc.

“Come, Veronica,” she said finally, and passed on, holding the young girl by the hand. Piers-Wymond’s earnest glance followed the two retreating figures, one so tall, so imposing, so majestic, the other such a contrast in its helplessness and in that feminine weakness which invariably makes a strong appeal to the protective instinct in such men as are conscious of their strength.

A few moments later the Duchesse was once more seated on her throne-like chair by the fire, while the ladies crowded round Donna Veronica, and took as it were possession of her. They guided her to a chair and stood around her in groups, conversing in whispers among themselves, or giving answer always with the greatest deference, to the few words that passed through the child’s lips.

The Duchesse watched these groups for a little while in silence. Satisfied that everything in the room went on with the required ceremonial, she now turned to Hector Magnese, who had come to a halt close beside her chair.

“I like the look of that nephew of yours, Hector,” she was pleased to say. “For an Englishman, he is quite handsome, though I don’t care for fair hair and grey eyes in a man; it is effeminate in my opinion. But do tell me again,” she continued, “what is his unpronounceable name?”

“Piers-Wymond,” Magnese replied, “Graham Piers-Wymond, the elder son of General Sir Anthony Piers-Wymond, who married my only sister, Paulina.”

“Quel nom, Bon Dieu!” the Duchesse ejaculated. “I shall never learn to say it properly.”

“But you have known his brother for some time, Madame. Surely…”

“Oh! the Franciscan,” she retorted with a slight suspicion of sarcasm in her tone. “We always call him Reverend Father, or simply Father Cosmo. I never thought of him as having an unpronounceable English name. But tell me more,” she continued, “about the other. I really like the look of him. He looks a pleasant kind of mauvaissujet.”

“If doing no real good with a large fortune is the mark of a mauvais sujet,” Magnese assented, with a short sigh and a shrug.

“Do you doubt it?” the Duchesse broke in harshly. “A fortune, Bon Dieu. What would it mean to us if we could command it at this hour?”

“It rests with you, Madame la Duchesse…”

“I know, I know,” she rejoined impatiently. “And I would not hesitate, if…”

“What, Madame?”

“If I knew the extent of that fortune, my friend, and how far it would go for the equipment and the upkeep of our army. It would be a short campaign, with Bonaparte to lead it. Still! even a few weeks’ fighting would mean… would mean…”

She hesitated for a few seconds as if seeking for the right word to express what she meant. Magnese broke in quietly:

“Sixty million lire. Graham Piers-Wymond has that and more at his free disposal. Half my fortune will also go to him eventually. The other half goes to the Reverend Cosmo who has no use for money save to meet the demands made on him by the Church. These demands I may say are considerable; the Church is always more exacting where a convert is concerned. But if Graham is willing to help our country and its cause he can have his share for the asking.”

“You are a good friend, Hector, and a true patriot,” the old lady said gravely. She held her hand out to him and he raised it to his lips.

“Sixty million lire you said?” she murmured dreamily.

“Quite that, I should say. He inherited this immense fortune less than a year ago, from his father’s sister, who married an Indian rajah of almost fabulous wealth. The marriage caused a great deal of scandal in English society at the time, where such unions had never been thought of before, and entailed absolute social ostracism. But Miss Piers-Wymond cared nothing about that, for she was in love with her rajah, and he apparently was so enamoured of her that on his death he bequeathed the whole of his fortune to her, and this she finally passed on to my nephew.”

“How romantic!” the Duchesse murmured vaguely, and then went on: “And tell me are there no restrictions imposed on the way the money is to be spent? Are there no tiresome supervisors as we have them in Italy? People who might object to… to… you know what I mean.”

“Trustees they call them in England,” Magnese put in reassuringly. “There are Trustees in this case, but not in the same way as they usually are over there. Graham Piers-Wymond can spend his money practically as he likes. But there is one curious restriction: Not more than one-half per cent of the capital may be donated to any religious institution or to any person or persons who are members of a religious community or were so at the time of the testator’s death. This, of course, is a direct hit at our mutual friend, the Reverend Cosmo.”

“But why?” Madame exclaimed. “In heaven’s name why? Poor Cosmo, what had he done to that eccentric aunt of his?”

“He changed his religion and entered a Catholic community. The ranee was a fanatical Protestant.”

“A fanatical Protestant?” and Madame’s eyebrows went up with an expression of scornful amazement. “I didn’t know such people existed.”

Magnese couldn’t help smiling. Madame la Duchesse d’Estaing, clever woman though she was, was at times as simple-minded as a child.

“And you don’t think,” she went on, after a slight pause, “that your nephew—the lucky one, I mean—would wish to benefit his brother in a more substantial way than… what did you say?”

“One half per cent of sixty million lire.”

“Sixty million lire,” sighed Madame. “The very words make my head reel. What does one-half per cent of that fantastic sum come to?”

“Three hundred thousand, Madame.”

“A mere trifle,” she condescended to say.

“As a matter of fact, Graham has already handed that sum over to Cosmo. He came to Genova on purpose to settle this matter.”

“And I suppose he has no intention of benefiting our Reverend Father further than that.”

“He couldn’t.” Magnese responded emphatically. “As I explained to Your Grace just now, there is a board of what they call trustees over there to see that the restrictive clause in the will is strictly observed, failing which the whole of the ex-rajah’s fortune reverts to his own family. And when I tell you that the board is exclusively composed of members of that family you may be certain that there can be no question of trickery or jugglery there.”

Madame drew a long sigh. She herself could not have told you exactly what her feelings were at this moment. Satisfaction? Exultation? Vague doubts or even fears? All of these combined probably. To her friend Magnese she said:

“All that you say is wonderful, my good Hector, and please God I shall soon see my way clearly in all this. For the moment, I find myself wondering… wondering…”

Again she sighed. Her roaming vision had come to rest on the young millionaire. He stood somewhat isolated—so obviously a stranger—in the midst of this brilliant assembly. His fortune, she reckoned, would do much towards gaining that victory over the hated Austrians for which her patriotic soul thirsted so passionately. Money. Money. On principle she despised money. The very word grated harshly on her aristocratic ears. But what could one do these days without money? The army was there all right, full of patriotic ardour, but ardour was not sufficient. An army must be equipped, clothed, and fed, and the combined fortunes of the loyal Italian aristocracy would not go very far in the purchase of the necessities of war. The very fact of getting in touch with the exiled Emperor, of engineering his return to Italy, and providing him with a suitable staff of officers and headquarters worthy of his rank, would run away, as far as Madame la Duchesse herself was concerned, with a considerable portion of her own jointure, which in itself was considerable. But sixty millions. Bon Dieu! What could one not do with sixty millions and more to come? Her thoughts went roaming into the nearest future when Magnese’s young nephew was first introduced to her, she had not done more than cast a cursory glance on him. She had, as a matter of fact, put him down as uneducated and clumsy, because when she had deigned to extend her hand to him, he had not raised it to his lips. He had in fact taken it and slightly shaken it. Shaken it! The hand of Madame la Duchesse d’Estaing, née Princesse de Sansovino! Well! He was English, and everyone knew that Englishmen never had any manners. Anyway the possession of sixty millions covered many social solecisms.

“I suppose,” she presently remarked, naïvely, “that we couldn’t reckon on the millions without…”

She paused, hesitating for a moment or two, while her glance searched the face of her devoted friend, striving to read what went on at the back of his mind.

“To think that I am actually proposing to give my grand-daughter to an obscure foreigner,” she murmured within herself. “Italy! my Italy! Were it not for thy welfare and thy freedom, I would sooner see her immured in a convent.”

To Magnese she said again:

“We couldn’t reckon on the millions, could we, Hector, unless…”

“Unless what?”

“I gave my consent to… to the marriage?”

“Well!” he responded, more curtly than usual when speaking to her. “Hardly.”

Madame sighed again. She was greatly troubled by the alternative—both equally unpalatable, one to her pride, the other to her patriotism. She looked up with, for her, unusual indecision at her friend. Somehow, she felt, for the first time in her life that she wanted guidance, longed to be shown the right way how to act in this difficult emergency. But she couldn’t catch his eye. Magnese’s glance was searching round the room till it rested on the slight girlish figure of Donna Veronica. His glance softened, and to himself he murmured “Poor little victim!” She looked such a child, so small! so weak! so insignificant! The high-backed chair in which she sat surrounded by a bevy of elderly bejewelled ladies made her seem smaller still: a miniature set in a heavy gilt frame. “Poor little victim!” so helpless at this hour when her whole future for good or for evil was being predetermined by the one person on earth who should have loved and shielded her. Almost did this grave middle-aged man feel ashamed that circumstance and the demands of this country made it imperative for him to lend a hand in this political intrigue which involved the destiny of this simple-minded girl.

But Madame gave him no time for much reflection. Her glance, too when she got no response from him had gone roaming round the room. It rested for a few seconds on the two brothers Piers-Wymond.

“Hector,” she said abruptly, “I suppose that your nephew would raise no objections.”

“To what, Madame?”

“To a marriage with Her Serene Highness Donna Veronica d’Estaing, Hereditary Princess of Sansovino,” the Duchesse responded proudly.

“Not if he fell in love with her,” Magnese replied dryly.

“What do you mean by fell in love with her? What has love got to do with such an important affair?”

“Everything in England,” Magnese replied. “The English are a sentimental race. Sentiment enters into all their doings. Even into business relations. Let alone the question of marriage.”

“I never heard such nonsense in all my life,” the Duchesse declared hotly.

“It is a fact, nevertheless, Madame la Duchesse.”

“But your sister’s son…”

“Is also the son of his father,” the Italian retorted with a short laugh. He paused for a moment or two, and that same searching glance of his went roaming once again round the room. This time it came to rest on his nephew’s face, on Graham’s somewhat steely grey eyes, which just at the moment had lost all their humorous glitter. Yes. Graham Piers-Wymond was all right in many ways. He was manly, a fine athlete, was popular wherever he went. He had, in fact, all those qualities which are most appreciated by Englishmen of birth and position in one who belonged to their own social milieu. But they were qualities which no Italian of this epoch would value. Esteem to a certain extent, yes, but not appreciate as indicating manliness and strength of character. However, this would not matter much in this case. Graham would never make his home anywhere but in England, and Magnese knew enough of his nephew’s character to be quite certain that nothing that the dictatorial old Duchesse could say or do would make him change his mind on that point, unless, of course, his wife desired otherwise.

Hector Magnese, a self-made man, who had amassed a large fortune, and broken down the high barrier of social prejudice which for centuries had been erected in Italy between patricians and plebians, prided himself on being an unerring reader of character. In the last five years since the death of their father, he had kept a vigilant eye on his two nephews. He took a great fancy to the younger one, Cosmo, who had many more of the attributes belonging to his mother’s country than the elder one. Magnese persuaded him after a time to come and live with him in Italy. To this Cosmo readily consented, and soon yielded to his uncle’s entreaties that he should embrace the Roman Catholic faith. He even went so far as to take the vows as a lay brother in the monastic Order of St. Francis.