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"'SIR,' SAID THE LADY IN ITALIAN, 'I NEED APOSTILLION.'"--_Page 2_.]
Clementina
By A.E.W. Mason
Author of "The Courtship of Morrice Buckler" "Parson Kelly" etc.
Illustrated by Bernard Partridge
New YorkFrederick A. Stokes CompanyPublishers
1901
THIRD EDITION
UNIVERSITY PRESS JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATEDTOANDREW LANG, ESQ.AS A TOKEN OF MUCHFRIENDSHIP
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. A CHANCE MEETING II. BAD NEWS III. WOGAN MAKES A PROPOSAL IV. SHOWS THAT THERE ARE BETTER HIDING-PLACES THAN A WINDOW-CURTAIN V. SHOWS THAT A DISHONEST LANDLORD SHOULD AVOID WHITE PAINT VI. WOGAN CONTINUES HIS JOURNEY VII. WOGAN IS MISTAKEN FOR A MORE NOTABLE MAN VIII. AT SCHLESTADT IX. GAYDON MINDS HIS OWN BUSINESS X. A MONTH OF WAITING XI. THE PRINCE OF BADEN VISITS CLEMENTINA XII. THE NIGHT OF THE 27TH. IN THE STREETS OF INNSPRUCK XIII. THE NIGHT OF THE 27TH. IN CLEMENTINA'S APARTMENTS XIV. THE ESCAPE XV. THE FLIGHT TO ITALY: WOGAN'S CITY OF DREAMS XVI. THE FLIGHT TO ITALY: THE POTENT EFFECTS OF A WATER-JUG XVII. THE FLIGHT TO ITALY: A GROWING CLOUD XVIII. WOGAN AND CLEMENTINA CONTINUE THEIR JOURNEY ALONE XIX. THE ATTACK AT PERI XX. THE GOD OF THE MACHINE DOES NOT APPEAR XXI. COMPLICATIONS AT BOLOGNA XXII. CLEMENTINA TAKES MR. WOGAN TO VISIT THE CAPRARA PALACE XXIII. WOGAN LEARNS THAT HE HAS MEDDLED XXIV. MARIA VITTORIA REAPPEARS XXV. THE LAST THE EPILOGUE
CLEMENTINA
CHAPTER I
The landlord, the lady, and Mr. Charles Wogan were all three, it seemed,in luck's way that September morning of the year 1719. Wogan was notsurprised, his luck for the moment was altogether in, so that even whenhis horse stumbled and went lame at a desolate part of the road fromFlorence to Bologna, he had no doubt but that somehow fortune wouldserve him. His horse stepped gingerly on for a few yards, stopped, andlooked round at his master. Wogan and his horse were on the best ofterms. "Is it so bad as that?" said he, and dismounting he gently feltthe strained leg. Then he took the bridle in his hand and walkedforward, whistling as he walked.
Yet the place and the hour were most unlikely to give him succour. Itwas early morning, and he walked across an empty basin of the hills. Thesun was not visible, though the upper air was golden and the green peaksof the hills rosy. The basin itself was filled with a broad uncolouredlight, and lay naked to it and extraordinarily still. There were as yetno shadows; the road rose and dipped across low ridges of turf, aribbon of dead and unillumined white; and the grass at any distance fromthe road had the darkness of peat. He led his horse forward for perhapsa mile, and then turning a corner by a knot of trees came unexpectedlyupon a wayside inn. In front of the inn stood a travelling carriage withits team of horses. The backs of the horses smoked, and the candles ofthe lamps were still burning in the broad daylight. Mr. Wogan quickenedhis pace. He would beg a seat on the box to the next posting stage.Fortune had served him. As he came near he heard from the interior ofthe inn a woman's voice, not unmusical so much as shrill withimpatience, which perpetually ordered and protested. As he came nearerhe heard a man's voice obsequiously answering the protests, and as thesound of his footsteps rang in front of the inn both voices immediatelystopped. The door was flung hastily open, and the landlord and the ladyran out onto the road.
"Sir," said the lady in Italian, "I need a postillion."
To Wogan's thinking she needed much more than a postillion. She neededcertainly a retinue of servants. He was not quite sure that she did notneed a nurse, for she was a creature of an exquisite fragility, with thepouting face of a child, and the childishness was exaggerated by a greatmuslin bow she wore at her throat. Her pale hair, where it showedbeneath her hood, was fine as silk and as glossy; her eyes had thecolour of an Italian sky at noon, and her cheeks the delicate tinge ofa carnation. The many laces and ribbons, knotted about her dress in amanner most mysterious to Wogan, added to her gossamer appearance; and,in a word, she seemed to him something too flowerlike for the world'srough usage.
"I must have a postillion," she continued.
"Presently, madam," said the landlord, smiling with all a Tuscanpeasant's desire to please. "In a minute. In less than a minute."
He looked complacently about him as though at any moment now a crop ofpostillions might be expected to flower by the roadside. The lady turnedfrom him with a stamp of the foot and saw that Wogan was curiouslyregarding her carriage. A boy stood at the horses' heads, but his dressand sleepy face showed that he had not been half an hour out of bed, andthere was no one else. Wogan was wondering how in the world she hadtravelled as far as this inn. The lady explained.
"The postillion who drove me from Florence was drunk--oh, but drunk! Herolled off his horse just here, opposite the door. See, I beat him," andshe raised the beribboned handle of a toy-like cane. "But it was no use.I broke my cane over his back, but he would not get up. He crawled intothe passage where he lies."
Wogan had some ado not to smile. Neither the cane nor the hand whichwielded it would be likely to interfere even with a sober man'sslumbers.
"And I must reach Bologna to-day," she cried in an extreme agitation."It is of the last importance."
"Fortune is kind to us both, madam," said Wogan, with a bow. "My horseis lamed, as you see. I will be your charioteer, for I too am in adesperate hurry to reach Bologna."
Immediately the lady drew back.
"Oh!" she said with a start, looking at Wogan.
Wogan looked at her.
"Ah!" said he, thoughtfully.
They eyed each other for a moment, each silently speculating what theother was doing alone at this hour and in such a haste to reach Bologna.
"You are English?" she said with a great deal of unconcern, and sheasked in English. That _she_ was English, Wogan already knew from heraccent. His Italian, however, was more than passable, and he was a waryman by nature as well as by some ten years' training in a service wherewariness was the first need, though it was seldom acquired. He couldhave answered "No" quite truthfully, being Irish. He preferred to answerher in Italian as though he had not understood.
"I beg your pardon. Yes, I will drive you to Bologna if the landlordwill swear to look after my horse." And he was very precise in hisdirections.
The landlord swore very readily. His anxiety to be rid of his vociferousguest and to get back to bed was extreme. Wogan climbed into thepostillion's saddle, describing the while such remedies as he desiredto be applied to the sprained leg.
"The horse is a favourite?" asked the lady.
"Madam," said Wogan, with a laugh, "I would not lose that horse for allthe world, for the woman I shall marry will ride on it into my city ofdreams."
The lady stared, as she well might. She hesitated with her foot upon thestep.
"Is he sober?" she asked of the landlord.
"Madam," said the landlord, unabashed, "in this district he is nicknamedthe water drinker."
"You know him, then? He is Italian?"
"He is more. He is of Tuscany."
The landlord had never seen Wogan in his life before, but the ladyseemed to wish some assurance on the point, so he gave it. He shut thecarriage door, and Wogan cracked his whip.
The postillion's desires were of a piece with the lady's. They racedacross the valley, and as they climbed the slope beyond, the sun cameover the crests. One moment the dew upon the grass was like raindrops,the next it shone like polished jewels. The postillion shouted a welcometo the sun, and the lady proceeded to breakfast in her carriage. Woganhad to snatch a meal as best he could while the horses were changed atthe posting stage. The lady would
not wait, and Wogan for his part wasused to a light fare. He drove into Bologna that afternoon.
The lady put her head from the window and called out the name of astreet. Her postillion, however, paid no heed: he seemed suddenly tohave grown deaf; he whipped up his horses, shouted encouragements tothem and warnings to the pedestrians on the roads. The carriage rockedround corners and bounced over the uneven stones. Wogan had cleanforgotten the fragility of the traveller within. He saw men going busilyabout, talking in groups and standing alone, and all with consternationupon their faces. The quiet streets were alive with them. Something hadhappened that day in Bologna,--some catastrophe. Or news had come thatday,--bad news. Wogan did not stop to inquire. He drove at a gallopstraight to a long white house which fronted the street. The greenlatticed shutters were closed against the sun, but there were servantsabout the doorway, and in their aspect, too, there was something ofdisorder. Wogan called to one of them, jumped down from his saddle, andran through the open doorway into a great hall with frescoed walls allruined by neglect. At the back of the hall a marble staircase, guardedby a pair of marble lions, ran up to a landing and divided. Wogan setfoot on the staircase and heard an exclamation of surprise. He lookedup. A burly, good-humoured man in the gay embroideries of a courtier wasdescending towards him.
"You?" cried the courtier. "Already?" and then laughed. He was the onlyman whom Wogan had seen laugh since he drove into Bologna, and he drew agreat breath of hope.
"Then nothing has happened, Whittington? There is no bad news?"
"There is news so bad, my friend, that you might have jogged here on amule and still have lost no time. Your hurry is clean wasted," answeredWhittington.
Wogan ran past him up the stairs, and so left the hall and the opendoorway clear. Whittington looked now straight through the doorway, andsaw the carriage and the lady on the point of stepping down onto thekerb. His face assumed a look of extreme surprise. Then he glanced upthe staircase after Wogan and laughed as though the conjunction of thelady and Mr. Wogan was a rare piece of amusement. Mr. Wogan did not hearthe laugh, but the lady did. She raised her head, and at the same momentthe courtier came across the hall to meet her. As soon as he had comeclose, "Harry," said she, and gave him her hand.
He bent over it and kissed it, and there was more than courtesy in thewarmth of the kiss.
"But I'm glad you've come. I did not look for you for another week," hesaid in a low voice. He did not, however, offer to help her to alight.
"This is your lodging?" she asked.
"No," said he, "the King's;" and the woman shrank suddenly back amongsther cushions. In a moment, however, her face was again at the door.
"Then who was he,--my postillion?"
"Your postillion?" asked Whittington, glancing at the servant who heldthe horses.
"Yes, the tall man who looked as if he should have been a scholar andhad twisted himself all awry into a soldier. You must have passed him inthe hall."
Whittington stared at her. Then he burst again into a laugh.
"Your postillion, was he? That's the oddest thing," and he lowered hisvoice. "Your postillion was Mr. Charles Wogan, who comes from Romepost-haste with the Pope's procuration for the marriage. You have helpedhim on his way, it seems. Here's a good beginning, to be sure."
The lady uttered a little cry of anger, and her face hardened out of allits softness. She clenched her fists viciously, and her blue eyes grewcold and dangerous as steel. At this moment she hardly looked thedelicate flower she had appeared to Wogan's fancy.
"But you need not blame yourself," said Whittington, and he lowered hishead to a level with hers. "All the procurations in Christendom will notmarry James Stuart to Clementina Sobieski."
"She has not come, then?"
"No, nor will she come. There is news to-day. Lean back from the window,and I will tell you. She has been arrested at Innspruck."
The lady could not repress a crow of delight.
"Hush," said Whittington. Then he withdrew his head and resumed in hisordinary voice, "I have hired a house for your Ladyship, which I trustwill be found convenient. My servant will drive you thither."
He summoned his servant from the group of footmen about the entrance,gave him his orders, bowed to the ground, and twisting his canesauntered idly down the street.