The Fortunes Of Glencore Part 24

"'I have n't sixpence in my pack, I have n't small clothes to my back.'

carryin' the bag many a weary mile, through sleet and snow, for six pounds tin per annum, and no pinsion for wounds or superannuation; and now I 'm to be--it is n't easy to say what--to the young lord a s.p.a.cies of humble companion,--not maniai, do you mind, nothing manial; what the Latins called a __famulus, which was quite a different thing from a _servus_. The former bein' a kind of domestic adviser, a deputy-a.s.sistant, monitor-general, as a body might say. There, now, if I discoorsed for a month, I could n't tell you more about myself and my future prospects. I own to you that I 'm proud of my good luck, and I would n't exchange it to be Emperor of Jamaica, or King of the Bahamia Islands."

If we have been prolix in our office of reporter to Billy Traynor, our excuse is that his discourse will have contributed so far to the reader's enlightenment as to save us the task of recapitulation. At the same time, it is but justice to the accomplished orator that we should say we have given but the most meagre outline of an address which, to use the newspaper phrase, "occupied three hours in the delivery." The truth was, Billy was in vein; the listeners were patient, the punch strong: nor is it every speaker who has had the good fortune of such happy accessories.

CHAPTER XIX. THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE

It was spring, and in Italy! one of those half-dozen days, at very most, when, the feeling of winter departed, a gentle freshness breathes through the air; trees stir softly, and as if by magic; the earth becomes carpeted with flowers, whose odors seem to temper, as it were, the exciting atmosphere. An occasional cloud, fleecy and jagged, sails lazily aloft, marking its shadow on the mountain side. In a few days--a few hours, perhaps--the blue sky will be unbroken, the air hushed, a hot breath will move among the leaves, or pant over the trickling fountains.

In this fast-flitting period,--we dare not call it season,--the Cascine of Florence is singularly beautiful; on one side, the gentle river stealing past beneath the shadowing foliage; on the other, the picturesque mountain towards Fiesole, dotted with its palaces and terraced gardens. The ancient city itself is partly seen, and the ma.s.sive Duomo and the Palazzo Vecchio tower proudly above the trees!

What other people of Europe have such a haunt?--what other people would know so thoroughly how to enjoy it? The day was drawing to a close, and the Piazzone was now filled with equipages. There were the representatives of every European people, and of nations far away over the seas,--splendid Russians, brilliant French, splenetic, supercilious English, and ponderous Germans, mingled with the less marked nationalities of Belgium and Holland, and even America. Everything that called itself Fashion was there to swell the tide; and although a choice military band was performing with exquisite skill the favorite overtures of the day, the noise and tumult of conversation almost drowned their notes. Now, the Cascine is to the world of society what the Bourse is to the world of trade. It is the great centre of all news and intelligence, where markets and bargains of intercourse are transacted, and where the scene of past pleasure is revived, and the plans of future enjoyment are canva.s.sed. The great and the wealthy are there, to see and to meet with each other. The proud equipages lie side by side, like great liners; while phaetons, like fast frigates, shoot swiftly by, and solitary dandies flit past in varieties of conveyance to which sea-craft can offer no a.n.a.logies. All are busy, eager, and occupied. Scandal holds here its festival, and the misdeeds of every capital of Europe are now being discussed. The higher themes of politics occupy but few; the interests of literature attract still less. It is essentially of the world they talk, and it must be owned they do it like adepts. The last witticism of Paris,--the last duel at Berlin,--who has fled from his creditors in England,--who has run away from her husband at Naples,--all are retailed with a serious circ.u.mstantiality that would lead one to believe that gossip maintained its "own correspondent" in every city of the Continent. Moralists might fancy, perhaps, that in the tone these subjects are treated they would mingle a reprobation of the bad, and a due estimate of the opposite, if it ever occurred at all; but as surely would they be disappointed. Never were censors more lenient,--never were critics so charitable. The transgressions against good-breeding--the "gaucheries" of manner, the solecisms in dress, language, or demeanor--do indeed meet with sharp reproof and cutting sarcasm; but, in recompense for such severity, how gently do they deal with graver offences! For the felonies they can always discover "the attenuating circ.u.mstances;" for the petty larcenies of fashion they have nothing but whipcord.

Amidst the various knots where such discussions were carried on, one was eminently conspicuous. It was around a handsome open carriage, whose horses, harnessing, and liveries were all in the most perfect taste. The equipage might possibly have been deemed showy in Hyde Park; but in the Bois de Boulogne or the Cascine it must be p.r.o.nounced the acme of elegance. Whatever might have been the differences of national opinion on this point, there could a.s.suredly have been none as to the beauty of those who occupied it.

Though a considerable interval of years divided them, the aunt and her niece had a wonderful resemblance to each other. They were both--the rarest of all forms of beauty--blond Italians; that is, with light hair and soft gray eyes. They had a peculiar tint of skin, deeper and mellower than we see in Northern lands, and an expression of mingled seriousness and softness that only pertains to the South of Europe.

There was a certain coquetry in the similarity of their dress, which in many parts was precisely alike; and although the niece was but fifteen, and the aunt above thirty, it needed not the aid of flattery to make many mistake one for the other.

Beauty, like all other "Beaux Arts," has its distinctions. The same public opinion that enthrones the sculptor or the musician, confers its crown on female loveliness; and by this acclaim were they declared Queens of Beauty. To any one visiting Italy for the first time, there would have seemed something very strange in the sort of homage rendered them: a reverence and respect only accorded elsewhere to royalties,--a deference that verged on actual humiliation,--and yet all this blended with a subtle familiarity that none but an Italian can ever attain to.

The uncovered head, the att.i.tude of respectful attention, the patient expectancy of notice, the glad air of him under recognition, were all there; and yet, through these, there was dashed a strange tone of intimacy, as though the observances were but a thin crust over deeper feelings. "La Contessa"--for she was especially "the Countess," as one ill.u.s.trious man of our own country was "the Duke"--possessed every gift which claims preeminence in this fair city. She was eminently beautiful, young, charming in her manners, with ample fortune; and, lastly,--ah!

good reader, you would surely be puzzled to supply that "lastly," the more as we say that in it lies an excellence without which all the rest are of little worth, and yet with it are objects of worship, almost of adoration,--she was--separated from her husband! There must have been an epidemic, a kind of rot, among husbands at one period; for we scarcely remember a very pretty woman, from five-and-twenty to five-and-thirty, who had not been obliged to leave hers from acts of cruelty or acts of brutality, etc., that only husbands are capable of, or of which their poor wives are ever the victims.

If the moral geography of Europe be ever written, the region south of the Alps will certainly be colored with that tint, whatever it be, that describes the blessedness of a divorced existence. In other lands, especially in our own, the separated individual labors under no common difficulty in his advances to society. The story--there must be a story--of his separation is told in various ways, all, of course, to his disparagement. Tyrant or victim, it is hard to say under which t.i.tle he comes out best,--so much for the man; but for the woman there is no plea: judgment is p.r.o.nounced at once, without the merits. Fugitive, or fled from,--who inquires? she is one that few men dare to recognize.

The very fact that to mention her name exacts an explanation, is condemnatory. What a boon to all such must it be that there is a climate mild enough for their malady, and a country that will suit their const.i.tution; and not only that, but a region which actually pays homage to their infirmity, and makes of their martyrdom a triumph! As you go to Norway for salmon-fishing,--to Bengal to hunt tigers,--to St. Petersburg to eat caviare, so when divorced, if you really know the blessing of your state, go take a house on the Arno. Vast as are the material resources of our globe, the moral ones are infinitely greater; nor need we despair, some day or other, of finding an island where a certificate of fraudulent bankruptcy will be deemed a letter of credit, and an evidence of insolvency be accepted as qualification to open a bank.

La Contessa inhabited a splendid palace, furnished with magnificence; her gardens were one of the sights of the capital, not only for their floral display, but that they contained a celebrated group by Canova, of which no copy existed. Her gallery was, if not extensive, enriched with some priceless treasures of art; and with all these she possessed high rank, for her card bore the name of La Comtesse de Glencore, nee Comtesse della Torre.

The reader thus knows at once, if not actually as much as we do ourselves, all that we mean to impart to him; and now let us come back to that equipage around which swarmed the fashion of Florence, eagerly pressing forward to catch a word, a smile, or even a look, and actually perched on every spot from which they could obtain a glimpse of those within. A young Russian Prince, with his arm in a sling, had just recited the incident of his' late duel; a Neapolitan Minister had delivered a rose-colored epistle from a Royal Highness of his own court. A Spanish Grandee had deposited his offering of camellias, which actually covered the front cushions of the carriage; and now a little lane was formed for the approach of the old Duke de Brignolles, who made his advance with a mingled courtesy and haughtiness that told of Versailles and long ago.

A very creditable specimen of the old _n.o.blesse_ of France was the Duke, and well worthy to be the grandson of one who was Grand Marechal to Louis XIV. Tall, thin, and slightly stooped from age, his dark eye seemed to glisten the brighter beneath his s.h.a.ggy white eyebrows. He had served with distinction as a soldier, and been an amba.s.sador at the court of the Czar Paul; in every station he had filled sustaining the character of a true and loyal gentleman,--a man who could reflect nothing but honor upon the great country he belonged to. It was amongst the scandal of Florence that he was the most devoted of La Contessa's admirers; but we are quite willing to believe that his admiration had nothing in it of love. At all events, she distinguished him by her most marked notice. He was the frequent guest of her choicest dinners, and the constant visitor at her evenings at home. It was, then, with a degree of favor that many an envious heart coveted, she extended her hand to him as he came forward, which he kissed with all the lowly deference he would have shown to that of his prince.

"_Mon cher Duc_" said she, smiling, "I have such a store of grievances to lay at your door. The essence of violets is not violets, but verbena."

"Charming Comtesse, I had it direct from Pierrot's."

"Pierrot is a traitor, then, that's all; and where's Ida's Arab? is he to be here to-day, or to-morrow? When are we to see him?"

"Why, I only wrote to the Emir on Tuesday last."

"_Mais a quoi bon l'Emir_ if he can't do impossibilities? Surely the very thought of him brings up the Arabian Nights and the Calif Haroun.

By the way, thank you for the poignard. It is true Damascus, is it not?"

"Of course. I 'd not have dared--"

"To be sure not. I told the Archd.u.c.h.ess it was. I wore it in my Turkish dress on Wednesday, and you, false man, would n't come to admire me!"

"You know what a sad day was that for me, madam," said he, solemnly. "It was the anniversary of her fate who was your only rival in beauty, as she had no rival in undeserved misfortunes."

"_Pauvre Reine!_" sighed the Countess, and held her bouquet to her face.

"What great ma.s.s of papers is that you have there, Duke?" resumed she.

"Can it be a journal?"

"It is an English newspaper, my dear Countess. As I know you do not receive any of his countrymen, I have not asked your permission to present the Lord Selby; but hearing him read out your name in a paragraph here, I carried off his paper to have it translated for me.

You read English, don't you?"

"Very imperfectly, and I detest it," said she, impatiently; "but Prince Volkoffsky can, I am sure, oblige you." And she turned away her head, in ill humor.

"It is here somewhere. _Parbleu_, I thought I marked the place,"

muttered the Duke, as he handed the paper to the Russian. "Is n't that it?"

"This is all about theatres,--Madame Pasta and the Haymarket."

"Ah! well, it is lower down; here, perhaps."

"Court news. The Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar--"

"No, no; not that."

"Oh, here it is. 'Great Scandal in High Life.--A very singular correspondence has just pa.s.sed, and will soon, we believe, be made public, between the Heralds' College and Lord Glencore.'" Here the reader stopped, and lowered his voice at the next word.

"Read on, Prince. _C'est mon mari_," said she, coldly, while a very slight movement of her upper lip betrayed what might mean scorn or sorrow, or even both.

The Prince, however, had now run his eyes over the paragraph, and crushing the newspaper in his hand, hurried away from the spot. The Duke as quickly followed, and soon overtook him.

"Who gave you this paper, Duke?" cried the Russian, angrily.

"It was Lord Selby. He was reading it aloud to a friend."

"Then he is an _infame!_ and I 'll tell him so," cried the other, pa.s.sionately. "Which is he? the one with the light moustache, or the shorter one?" And, without waiting for reply, the Russian dashed between the carriages, and thrusting his way through the prancing crowd of moving horses, arrived at a spot where two young men, evidently strangers to the scene, were standing, calmly surveying the bright panorama before them.

"The Lord Selby," said the Russian, taking off his hat and saluting one of them.

"That's his Lordship," replied the one he addressed, pointing to his friend.

"I am the Prince Volkoffsky, aide-de-camp to the Emperor," said the Russian; "and hearing from my friend the Duke de Brignolles that you have just given him this newspaper, that he might obtain the translation of a pa.s.sage in it which concerns Lady Glencore, and have the explanation read out at her own carriage, publicly, before all the world, I desire to tell you that your Lordship is unworthy of your rank; that you are an _infame!_ and if you do not resent this, a _polisson!_"

"This man is mad, Selby," said the short man, with the coolest air imaginable.

"Quite sane enough to give your friend a lesson in good manners; and you too, sir, if you have any fancy for it," said the Russian.

"I'd give him in charge to the police, by Jove! if there were police here," said the same one who spoke before; "he can't be a gentleman."

"There 's my card, sir," said the Russian; "and for you too, sir," said he, presenting another to him who spoke.

"Where are you to be heard of?" said the short man.

"At the Russian legation," said the Prince, haughtily, and turned away.