Scarce had he finished those last words, ere the clock struck: it was the hour in which the prince was to arrive. The thought restored Calderon to the sense of the present time—the approaching peril. All the cold calculations he had formed for the stranger-novice vanished now. He kissed the letter passionately, placed it in his breast, and hurried into the chamber where he had left his child. Our tale returns to Fonseca.
CHAPTER IX. THE COUNTERPLOT
Calderon had not long left the young soldier before the governor of the prison entered to pay his respects to a captive of such high birth and military reputation.
Fonseca, always blunt and impatient of mood, was not in a humour to receive and return compliments; but the governor had scarcely seated himself ere he struck a chord in the conversation which immediately arrested the attention and engaged the interest of the prisoner.
“Do not fear, sir,” said he, “that you will be long detained; the power of your enemy is great, but it will not be of duration. The storm is already gathering round him; he must be more than man if he escapes the thunderbolt.”
“Do you speak to me thus of my kinsman, the Cardinal-Duke de Lerma?”
“No, Don Martin, pardon me. I spoke of the Marquis de Siete Iglesias. Are you so great a stranger to Madrid and to the court as to suppose that the Cardinal de Lerma ever signs a paper but at the instance of Don Roderigo? Nay, that he ever looks over the paper to which he sets his hand? Depend upon it, you are here to gratify the avarice or revenge of the Scourge of Spain.”
“Impossible!” cried Fonseca. “Don Roderigo is my friend—my intercessor. He overwhelms me with his kindness.”
“Then you are indeed lost,” said the governor, in accents of compassion; “the tiger always caresses his prey before he devours it. What have you done to provoke his kindness?”
“Senor,” said Fonseca, suspiciously, “you speak with a strange want of caution to a stranger, and against a man whose power you confess.”
“Because I am safe from his revenge; because the Inquisition have already fixed their fatal eyes upon him; because by that Inquisition I am not unknown nor unprotected; because I see with joy and triumph the hour approaching that must render up to justice the pander of the prince, the betrayer of the king, the robber of the people; because I have an interest in thee, Don Martin, of which thou wilt be aware when thou hast learned my name. I am Juan de la Nuza, the father of the young officer whose life you saved in the assault of the Moriscos, in Valentia, and I owe you an everlasting gratitude.”
There was something in the frank and hearty tone of the governor which at once won Fonseca’s confidence. He became agitated and distracted with suspicions of his former tutor and present patron.
“What, I ask, hast thou done to attract his notice? Calderon is not capricious in cruelty. Art thou rich, and does he hope that thou wilt purchase freedom with five thousand pistoles? No! Hast thou crossed the path of his ambition? Hast thou been seen with Uzeda? or art thou in favour with the prince? No, again! Then hast thou some wife, some sister, some mistress, of rare accomplishments and beauty, with whom Calderon would gorge the fancy and retain the esteem of the profligate Infant? Ah, thou changest colour.”
“By Heaven! you madden me with these devilish surmises. Speak plainly.”
“I see thou knowest not Calderon,” said the governor, with a bitter smile. “I do—for my niece was beautiful, and the prince wooed her—. But enough of that: at his scaffold, or at the rack, I shall be avenged on Roderigo Calderon. You said the Cardinal was your kinsman; you are, then, equally related to his son, the Duke d’Uzeda. Apply not to Lerma; he is the tool of Calderon. Apply yourself to Uzeda; he is Calderon’s mortal foe. While Calderon gains ground with the prince, Uzeda advances with the king. Uzeda by a word can procure thy release. The duke knows and trusts me. Shall I be commissioned to acquaint him with thy arrest, and entreat his intercession with Philip?”
“You give me new life! But not an hour is to be lost; this night—this day-oh, Mother of Mercy! what image have you conjured up! fly to Uzeda, if you would save my very reason. I myself have scarcely seen him since my boyhood—Lerma forbade me seek his friendship. But I am of his race—his blood.”
“Be cheered, I shall see the duke to-day. I have business with him where you wot not. We are bringing strange events to a crisis. Hope the best.” With this the governor took his leave.
At the dusk of the evening, Don Juan de la Nuza, wrapped in a dark mantle, stood before a small door deep-set in a massive and gloomy wall, that stretched along one side of a shunned and deserted street. Without sign of living hand, the door opened at his knock, and the governor entered a long and narrow passage that conducted to chambers more associated with images of awe than any in his own prison. Here he suddenly encountered the Jesuit, Fray Louis de Aliaga, confessor to the king.
“How fares the Grand Inquisitor?” asked De la Nuza. “He has just breathed his last,” answered the Jesuit. “His illness—so sudden—defied all aid. Sandoval y Roxas is with the saints.”
The governor, who was, as the reader may suppose, one of the sacred body, crossed himself, and answered.—“With whom will rest the appointment of the successor? Who will be first to gain the ear of the king?”
“I know not,” replied the Jesuit; “but I am at this instant summoned to Uzeda. Pardon my haste.”
So saying, Aliaga glided away.
“With Sandoval y Roxas,” muttered Don Juan, “dies the last protector of Calderon and Lerma: unless, indeed, the wily marquis can persuade the king to make Aliaga, his friend, the late cardinal’s successor. But Aliaga seeks Uzeda—Uzeda his foe and rival. What can this portend?”
Thus soliloquising, the governor silently continued his way till he came to a door by which stood two men, masked, who saluted him with a mute inclination of the head. The door opened and again closed, as the governor entered. Meanwhile, the confessor had gained the palace of the Duke d’ Uzeda. Uzeda was not alone: with him was a man whose sallow complexion, ill-favoured features, and simple dress strangely contrasted the showy person and sumptuous habiliments of the duke. But the instant this personage opened his lips, the comparison was no longer to his prejudice. Something in the sparkle of his deep-set eye-in the singular enchantment of his smile—and above all, in the tone of a very musical and earnest voice, chained attention at once to his words. And, whatever those words, there was about the man, and his mode of thought and expression, the stamp of a mind at once crafty and commanding. This personage was Gaspar de Guzman, then but a gentleman of the Prince’s chamber (which post he owed to Calderon, whose creature he was supposed to be), afterwards so celebrated in the history of Philip IV., as Count of Olivares and prime minister of Spain.
The conversation between Guzman and Uzeda, just before the Jesuit entered, was drawing to a close.
“You see,” said Uzeda, “that if we desire to crush Calderon, it is on the Inquisition that we must depend. Now is the time to elect, in the successor of Sandoval y Roxas, one pledged to the favourite’s ruin. The reason I choose Aliaga is this,—Calderon will never suspect his friendship, and will not, therefore, thwart us with the king. The Jesuit, who would sell all Christendom for the sake of advancement to his order or himself will gladly sell Calderon to obtain the chair of the Inquisition.”
“I believe it,” replied Guzman. “I approve your choice; and you may rely on me to destroy Calderon with the prince. I have found out the way to rule Philip; it is by never giving him a right to despise his favourites—it is to flatter his vanity, but not to share his vices. Trust me, you alone—if you follow my suggestions—can be minister to the Fourth Philip.”
Here a page entered to announce Don Fray Louis de Aliaga. Uzeda advanced to the door, and received the holy man with profound respect.
“Be seated, father, and let me at once to business; for time presses, and all must be despatched to-night. Before interest is made by others with the king, we must be prompt in gaining the appointment of Sandoval’s successor.”
“Report says that the cardinal-duke, your father, himself desires the vacant chair of the Inquisition.”
“My poor father, he is old—his sun has set. No, Aliaga; I have thought of one fitter for that high and stern office in a word, that appointment rests with yourself. I can make you Grand Inquisitor of Spain—!”
“Me!” said the Jesuit, and he turned aside his face. “You jest with me, noble son.”
“I am serious—hear me. We have been foes and rivals; why should not our path be the same? Calderon has deprived you of friends more powerful than himself. His hour is come. The Duke de Lerma’s downfall cannot be avoided; if it could, I, his son, would not as, you may suppose, withhold my hand. But business fatigues him—he is old—the affairs of Spain are in a deplorable condition—they need younger and abler hands. My father will not repine at a retirement suited to his years, and which shall be made honourable to his gray hairs. But some victim must glut the rage of the people; that victim must be the upstart Calderon; the means of his punishment, the Inquisition. Now, you understand me. On one condition, you shall be the successor to Sandoval. Know that I do not promise without the power to fulfill. The instant I learned that the late cardinal’s death was certain, I repaired to the king. I have the promise of the appointment; and this night your name shall, if you accept the condition, and Calderon does not, in the interim, see the king and prevent the nomination, receive the royal sanction.”
“Our excellent Aliaga cannot hesitate,” said Don Gaspar de Guzman. “The order of Loyola rests upon shoulders that can well support the load.”
Before that trio separated, the compact was completed. Aliaga practised against his friend the lesson he had preached to him—that the end sanctifies all means. Scarce had Aliaga departed ere Juan de la Nuza entered; for Uzeda, who sought to make the Inquisition his chief instrument of power, courted the friendship of all its officers. He readily promised to obtain the release of Fonseca; and, in effect, it was but little after midnight when an order arrived at the prison for the release of Don Martin de Fonseca, accompanied by a note from the duke to the prisoner, full of affectionate professions, and requesting to see him the next morning.
Late as the hour was, and in spite of the expostulations of the governor, who wished him to remain the night within the prison, in the hope to extract from him his secret, Fonseca no sooner received the order than he claimed and obtained his liberation.
CHAPTER X. WE REAP WHAT WE SOW
With emotions of joy and triumph, such as had never yet agitated his reckless and abandoned youth, the Infant of Spain bent his way towards the lonely house on the road to Fuencarral. He descended from his carriage when about a hundred yards from the abode, and proceeded on foot to the appointed place.
The Jew opened the door to the prince with a hideous grin on his hollow cheek; and Philip hastened up the stairs, and entering the chamber we have before described, beheld, to his inconceivable consternation and dismay, the form of Beatriz clasped in the arms of Calderon, her head leaning on his bosom; while his voice half choked with passionate sobs called upon her in the most endearing terms.
For a moment the prince stood, spell-bound and speechless, at the threshold; then, striking the hilt of his sword fiercely, he exclaimed, “Traitor! is it thus that thou hast kept thy promise? Dost thou not tremble at my vengeance?”
“Peace! peace!” said Calderon, in an imperious, but sepulchral tone, and waving one hand with a gesture of impatience and rebuke, while with the other he removed the long clustering hair that fell over the pale face of the still insensible novice. “Peace, prince of Spain; thy voice scares back the struggling life—peace! Look up, image and relic of the lost—the murdered—the martyr! Hush! do you hear her breathe, or is she with her mother in that heaven which is closed on me? Live! live! my daughter—my child—live! For thy life in the World Hereafter will not be mine!”
“What means this?” said the prince, falteringly. “What delusion do thy wiles practise upon me?”
Calderon made no answer; and at that instant Beatriz sighed heavily, and her eyes opened.
“My child! my child!—thou art my child! Speak—let me hear thy voice—again let it call me ‘father!’”
And Calderon dropped on his knees, and, clasping his hands fervently, looked up imploringly in her face. The novice, now slowly returning to life and consciousness, strove to speak: her voice failed her, but her lips smiled arms fell feebly but endearingly upon Calderon, and her round his neck.
“Bless thee! bless thee!” exclaimed Calderon. “Bless thee in thy sweet mother’s name!”
While he spoke, the eyes of Beatriz caught the form of Philip, who stood by, leaning on his sword; his face working with various passions, and his lip curling with stern and intense disdain. Accustomed to know human life but in its worst shapes, and Calderon only by his vices and his arts, the voice of nature uttered no language intelligible to the prince. He regarded the whole as some well got-up device—some trick of the stage; and waited, with impatience and scorn, the denouement of the imposture.
At the sight of that mocking face, Beatriz shuddered, and fell back; but her very alarm revived her, and, starting to her feet, she exclaimed, “Save me from that bad man—save me! My father, I am safe with thee!”
“Safe!” echoed Calderon;—“ay, safe against the world. But not,” he added, looking round, and in a low and muttered tone, “not in this foul abode; its very air pollutes thee. Let us hence: come—come—my daughter!” and winding his arm round her waist, he hurried her towards the door.
“Back, traitor!” cried Philip, placing himself full in the path of the distracted and half delirious father, “Back! thinkest thou that I, thy master and thy prince, am to be thus duped and thus insulted? Not for thine own pleasures hast thou snatched her whom I have honoured with my love from the sanctuary of the Church. Go, if thou wilt; but Beatriz remains. This roof is sacred to my will. Back! or thy next step is on the point of my sword.”
“Menace not, speak not, Philip—I am desperate. I am beside myself—I cannot parley with thee. Away! by thy hopes of Heaven away! I am no longer thy minion—thy tool. I am a father, and the protector of my child.”
“Brave device—notable tale!” cried Philip, scornfully, and placing his back against the door. “The little actress plays her part well, it must be owned,—it is her trade; but thou art a bungler, my gentle Calderon.”
For a moment the courtier stood, not irresolute, but overcome with the passions that shook to their centre a nature, the stormy and stern elements of which the habit of years had rather mastered than quelled. At last, with a fierce cry, he suddenly grasped the prince by the collar of his vest; and, ere Philip could avail himself of his weapon, swung him aside with such violence that he lost his balance and (his foot slipping on the polished floor) fell to the ground. Calderon then opened the door, lifted Beatriz in both his arms, and fled precipitately down the stairs. He could no longer trust to chance and delay against the dangers of that abode.