The Finger of Fate: A Romance

A volley was succeeded by an interval of deep silence inside the room. When the smoke cleared away, two dead bodies were seen lying upon the floor; which, under the light of the lamp, could be distinguished as those of Corvino and his murderess.

Lucetta Torreani was saved!

Chapter Fifty Five

The Roman Republic

“Long live the Roman Republic!”

Such was the cry resounding through the streets of Rome in the year 1849; and among the voices vociferating it were those of Luigi Torreani and Henry Harding.

But while the young Englishman was helping the cause of freedom abroad, older Englishmen at home were plotting its destruction. At that time a Secret Convention was sitting en permanence, composed of representatives from most of the crowned heads in Europe; its purpose being to arrange ways and means by which the spark of Liberty should be trodden out, wherever it should show itself.

In Hungary it had flared up into a brilliant flame: short-lived; for by the aid of Russian bayonets it was soon stifled. The same result had followed in France – the ends and means being slightly different. Diplomacy again exerted its influence; and backed by British gold – secretly but profusely spent – succeeded in placing upon the Presidential chair a man foresworn to change that chair into a throne. And with this same corrupting metal, and the sinister influence derived from a great historic name, he was but too sure of success. Then a President in name – an Emperor in embryo – encouraged by the secret assistance of the other crowned heads, he was soon to have France at his feet.

It only required a trick to disfranchise the two millions of Houses, and then the French Assembly would be sufficiently conservative to transform the Republic into an Empire! There was still danger to be apprehended from the blouses.

How was this grand disfranchisement to be effected?

An astute diplomacy easily supplied the answer: “Let England snub the French ambassador. Let France recall him. Let there be a pretended attitude of mutual hostility, and while that is maintained the Assembly can take its measures.”

The counsel was followed. The minister was snubbed and recalled. Then while the British bull-dog was barking at Dover, and the Gallic cock crowing at Calais, the betrayed blouses, with angry faces turned towards England, instead of having their eyes upon their own National Assembly, were by this packed parliament speedily stripped of the privilege of voting.

In Hungary the game had been more open; though there, as in France, Liberty fell by the basest of all betrayals.

And again, in Baden the same foul play, though there the Secret Convention decided to settle it by the sword. The perjured King of Prussia was the man called upon to wield it, and his hireling soldiers proved too strong for the patriots of the Schwarzwald.

Once more, at the eleventh hour, another spark of that eternal flame of freedom appeared in an unexpected quarter – the very hotbed of despotism, political and religious – in the ancient city of Rome. And again sat the Secret Convention: an eminent English diplomate the most active of its members – he of all others the most successful cajoler of peoples – he whose long career had been a succession of betrayals. He has gone hence without witnessing their exposure. For all that, history will one day expose them.

Once more then sat the Secret Conclave; and once more went forth the edict for this fresh spark of Liberty, that had sprung up in agonised Italy, to be stifled like the rest. There was no need to use artifice. Slight strategy would suffice for an enemy so insignificant.

It was merely a graceful concession to Catholic Christendom, to make it a pretence of restoring the Pope. The Republic would have been crushed all the same if the Pope had gone to purgatory. The sword was again invoked, and it became a question of who was to wield it. English soldiers could not be sent, for England was a Protestant country, and the thing would have looked queer. But English gold was easily convertible into French soldiers, whose sovereign had no such scruples; and these hirelings were selected to restore the Pope. By them it was ostensibly done; but the act was equally due to the other crowned heads; and its direction specially to the British, diplomate of whom we have spoken. History holds the indisputable proof.

Poor Mazzini, and Saffi, and Aurelli! If there had not been a voice in all Rome against you – in all Italy – you could not have triumphed!

The decree had gone forth for your destruction. Your doom had been pre-ordained, and was pronounced in the very hour of your victory; even while the streets of Rome, cleared of the rotten rubbish of despotism, were ringing with that regenerating shout, “Long live the Republic!” For three months did it resound through the stradi of the classic city – the city of the Caesars and Colonnas. It was heard upon bastion and battlement, from behind battery and barricade, amidst scenes of heroic strife that recalled the days of Horatius. It was heard in the eloquent speeches of Mazzini – in the exciting war-cry of Garibaldi!

All in vain! Three short months – and it was heard no more. The Republic was overthrown, less by bayonets than by betrayal; but the rule of the bayonet succeeded, and Chasseur and Zouave, Spahi and Turco– all ruffians of the truest type – from that day to this have stood guard over the fettered limbs of Roman liberty.

In these troublous times, of three months’ duration, Luigi Torreani took part with the Republic. So did his friend, the young Englishman. So, too, did Luigi’s father; for the sindico, shortly after the affair with the brigands, had transferred his household gods to the city, which then promised a safe retreat from the insecurity he had long experienced.

But with the Republic at an end, and despotism once more triumphant, Rome itself was only safe for the foes of freedom. As Francesco Torreani was not one of these, another move became necessary. In what direction was it to be made? There was no part of Italy that offered an asylum. The Austrians still held Venice. Carlo Alberto had been beaten in the north, and the brigand’s king ruled the Neapolitans with a rod of iron. Turn which way he would, there was no home on Italian soil for a suspected patriot.

Like men similarly situated, his thoughts turned towards the New World; and, not long after, a bark sailed down the Tyrrhenian Sea, and on through the Straits of Gades, bearing him and his to the shores of a far western land.

Chapter Fifty Six

Number Nine, Strada Volturno

General Harding was not slow in transacting the business that carried him to London. It was too important to admit of delay. Even the old lawyer acknowledged this, after reading the quaint letter of the brigand, and scrutinising its still more quaint enclosure.

Mr Lawson’s Italian tour had given him experience to comprehend the case – peculiar as it was – as also enabling him to recommend the steps necessary to be taken.

Five thousand pounds could not well be entrusted to the post; nor yet the management of such a delicate affair – in reality, not a matter of mere fingers and hands, but of life and death. Even a confidential clerk seemed scarce fit for the occasion; and after a short conference between the lawyer and his client, it was determined that the son of the former – Lawson fits – should go to Rome and place himself en rapport with “Signor Jacopi.” Who Signor Jacopi was could only be guessed at: in all likelihood, that strange specimen of humanity who had presented himself at Beechwood Park, with a reckless indifference either to kicking or incarceration.

The first train for Dover carried young Lawson en route for Rome, with a portmanteau containing five thousand pounds in gold coin, stamped with the graceful head of England’s young Queen.

He thus went fully armed for an interview with Signor Jacopi.

Rome was reached, in due course, by rail and steam; and, within the ten days stipulated for in the letter of the brigand, the Lincoln’s Inn lawyer might have been seen with a heavy bag in hand perambulating the streets of the Eternal City, and inquiring for the Strada Volturno.

He found the place in some disorder. Instead of the cowled monks and sleek silken-robed cardinals usually seen there – instead of grand galantuomos and gaily-dressed ladies – with here and there a sprinkling of impertinent sbirri and gendarmerie– he met men brave, of bold aspect – honest withal – bearded, belted, in costumes half civic, half military, armed to the teeth, and evidently masters of the situation.

He was not astonished to hear from these men the occasional cry, “Long live the Roman Republic!” He had been prepared for this before leaving England; and it was only by a well-attested passport that he had been enabled to pass their lines and set foot upon the pavement of the seven-hilled city, at that moment threatened with siege.

Once in its streets, however, he no longer met any obstruction; and, without loss of time, he commenced searching for Signor Jacopi.

He had very little difficulty in finding the Strada Volturno, and still less the domicile numbered 9. The men with long beards, and pistols stuck in their belts, were not morose, nor yet ill-disposed to the answering of his questions. They seemed rather to take a pleasure in directing him, with that hearty readiness that marks the intercourse of those who have been engaged in a successful revolution. He did not ask for the residence of Signor Jacopi; only for the street and the number. Once at the door, it would be time enough to pronounce the name of the mysterious individual to whom he was about to deliver a load of golden coins. He had been constantly changing them from arm to arm, and they had almost dragged his elbows out of joint. Without further difficulty than this, he at length reached the Strada Volturno– a paltry street as it proved – and discovered at Number 9 the residence of Signor Jacopi.

He needed not to inquire. There could be no mistake as to the owner of the domicile. His name was lettered upon the door, “Signor Jacopi.” The door was close shut and bolted, as if Signor Jacopi could only be seen with some difficulty. The London solicitor knocked, and waited for its opening.

He was, not without some curiosity to make the acquaintance of a member of the fraternity whose practice was of such a peculiar kind; who could demand payment of five thousand pounds, and get it without any appeal to a court – either to judge or jury. So unlike the practice of Lincoln’s Inn!

The door was at length opened – not until the knock was repeated; a hag, who appeared at least seventy years old, being the tardy janitrix. But this need not dismay a solicitor of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She was no doubt the housekeeper of the premises.

“Does Signor Jacopi live here?” asked the young English lawyer; who, having accompanied his father on the Italian tour, was able to make his inquiries comprehensible.

“No,” was the laconic response.

“No! His name is on the door.”

“Ah, true!” responded the old woman, with something like a sigh. “They haven’t taken it off yet. It’s no business of mine. I’m only here to take care of the house.”

“Do you mean that the Signor Jacopi doesn’t live here any longer?”

“E cosi! What a question to ask! You are jesting, signor.”

“Jesting! No; I am in earnest – never more so in my life. I have important business with him.”

“Business with Signor Jacopi! Madonna Virgine!” added the old woman, in a tone of consternation, and making the sign of the Cross.

“Certainly I have. And what is there strange in it?”

“Business with a dead man! That’s strange, is it not?”

“Dead! Do you mean to say that Signor Jacopi is dead?”

“Si, signor; surely you know that? Don’t everybody know that he was killed in the outbreak – the very first day; knocked down, and then taken up again, and then hanged upon a lamp, because they said he was one of the – Oh, signor, I can’t tell you what they said about him. I only know they killed him; and he’s dead; and I’ve been put here to keep the house. That’s all I know about it.”