a fief of the empire, and the two parties employed intrigue and importunity at the court of the Emperor Ferdinand II. The object of one was to obtain the investiture of the new duke; of the other, the denial of his claim, and also assistance to oblige him to relinquish it.
“I rather think,” said the Count Attilio, “that the thing will be arranged satisfactorily. I have reasons—”
“Do not believe it, count, do not believe it,” added the podestà; “I have an opportunity of knowing, because the Spanish keeper of the castle, who is my friend, and who is the son of a dependant of the Count Duke, is informed of every thing.”
“I tell you I have discoursed on the subject daily at Milan; and I know from good authority that the pope, exceedingly interested as he is for peace, has made propositions—”
“That may be, the thing is in order; his Holiness does his duty; a pope should always endeavour to make peace between Christian princes; but the Count Duke has his own policy, and—”
“And, and, and, do you know, Signor Podestà, how much thought the emperor now gives to it? Do you believe there is no place but Mantua in the world! There are many things to provide for, signor, mind. Do you know, for instance, how far the emperor can trust this Prince of Valdistano, or di Vallistai, as they call him; and if—”
“His name, in the German language,” interrupted the magistrate, “is Wallenstein, as I have heard it uttered many times by the Spanish keeper of the castle. But be of good courage—”
“Do you dare teach me,” replied the count. Here Don Roderick whispered to him to cease contradiction, as there would be no end to it. He obeyed; and the podestà, like a vessel unimpeded by shoals, continued with full sails the course of his eloquence. “Wallenstein gives me but little anxiety; because the Count Duke has his eye every where; and if Wallenstein carries matters with a high hand, he will soon set him right. He has his eye every where, I say, and unlimited power; and if it is his policy that the Signor Duke of Nevers should not take root in Mantua, he will never flourish there, he assured. It makes me laugh to see the Signor Cardinal de Richelieu contend with an Olivares. The Count Duke, gentlemen,” pursued he, with the wind still in his favour, and much wondering at not meeting with opposition, “the Count Duke is an old fox—speaking with due respect—who would make any one lose his track: when he appears to go to the right, it would be safest to follow him to the left: no one can boast of knowing his designs; they who are to execute them, they who write the despatches, know nothing of them. I speak from authority, for the keeper of the castle deigns to confide in me. The Count Duke knows well enough how the pot boils in all the courts in Europe; and these politicians have hardly laid a plan, but he begins to frustrate it. That poor man, the Cardinal Richelieu, attempts and dissembles, toils and strives; and what does it all produce? When he has dug the mine, he finds a countermine already prepared by the Count Duke—”
None can tell when the magistrate would have cast anchor, if Don Roderick had not interrupted him. “Signor Podestà,” said he, “and you, gentlemen, a bumper to the Count Duke, and you shall then judge if the wine is worthy of the personage.” The podestà bowed low in gratitude for an honour he considered as paid to himself in part for his eloquent harangue.
“May Don Gaspero Guzman, Count de Olivares, Duke of St. Lucar, live a thousand years!” said he, raising his glass.
“May he live a thousand years!” exclaimed all the company.
“Help the father,” said Don Roderick.
“Excuse me,” replied he, “I could not—”
“How!” said Don Roderick; “will you not drink to the Count Duke? Would you have us believe that you hold to the Navarre party?”
This was the contemptuous term applied to the French interest at the time of Henry IV.
There was no reply to be made to this, and the father was obliged to taste the wine. All the guests were loud in its praise, except the doctor, who had kept silence. “Eh! doctor,” asked Don Roderick, “what think you of it?”
“I think,” replied the doctor, withdrawing his ruddy and shining nose from the glass, “that this is the Olivares of wines: there is not a liquor resembling it in all the twenty-two kingdoms of the king our master, whom God protect! I maintain that the dinners of the most illustrious Signor Don Roderick exceed the suppers of Heliogabalus, and that scarcity is banished for ever from this palace, where reigns a perpetual and splendid abundance.”
“Well said! bravo! bravo!” exclaimed with one voice the guests; but the word scarcity, which the doctor had accidentally uttered, suggested a new and painful subject. All spoke at once:—“There is no famine,” said one, “it is the speculators who—”
“And the bakers, who conceal the grain. Hang them!”
“That is right; hang them, without mercy.”
“Upon fair trial,” cried the magistrate.
“What trial?” cried Attilio, more loudly; “summary justice, I say. Take a few of them who are known to be the richest and most avaricious, and hang them.”
“Yes, hang them! hang them! and there will be grain scattered in abundance.”
Thus the party continued absorbing the wine, whose praises, mixed with sentences of economical jurisprudence, formed the burthen of the conversation; so that the loudest and most frequent words were, Nectar, and hang ‘em.
Don Roderick had, from time to time, during this confusion, looked at the father: perceiving him calmly, but firmly, awaiting his leisure for the interview which had been promised him, he relinquished the hope of wearying him by its postponement. To send away a capuchin, without giving him an audience, was not according to his policy; and since it could not be avoided, he resolved to meet it at once: he rose from the table, excused himself to his guests, and saying proudly, “At your service, father,” led the way to another room.
Chapter VI.
“In what can I serve you?” said Don Roderick, as soon as they entered into the room. Such were his words, but his manner said plainly, “Remember before whom thou standest, weigh well thy words, and be expeditious.”
There were no means more certain to impart courage to Father Christopher than arrogance or pride. He had stood for a moment in some embarrassment, passing through his fingers the beads of the rosary that hung suspended from his girdle; but he soon “resumed new courage, and revived,” at the haughty air of Don Roderick. He had, however, sufficient command over himself to reply with caution and humility. “I come to supplicate you to perform an act of justice: some wicked persons have, in the name of your lordship, frightened a poor curate, and have endeavoured to prevent his fulfilling his duty towards an innocent and unoffending couple. You can by a word confound their machinations, and impart consolation to the afflicted. You can—and having it in your power—conscience, honour—”
“Speak to me of conscience, when I ask your advice on the subject; and as to my honour, know that I only am the guardian of it, and that whoever dares to meddle with it is a rash man.”
Friar Christopher, warned by these words that the intention of Don Roderick was to turn the conversation into a dispute, so as to win him from his original purpose, determined to bear whatever insult might be offered him, and meekly replied, “It was certainly not my intention to say any thing to displease you: correct me, reprove me; but deign to listen to me. By the love of Heaven, by that God before whom we must all appear, I charge thee, do not obstinately refuse to do justice to the innocent and oppressed! Think that God watches over them, that their imprecations are heard above, and—”
“Stop,” interrupted Don Roderick, rudely. “The respect I bear to your habit is great; but if any thing could make me forget it, it would be to see it worn by one coming as a spy into my house.”
These words spread an indignant glow over the face of the father; but swallowing them as a bitter medicine, he resumed: “You