Chapter Seventy Three.
Purchasing a Passport
Twenty-four hours must elapse before Kossuth and his companion – or rather Captain Maynard and his servant – could set out on their perilous expedition.
It was of rigorous necessity that a passport should be obtained – either from the consular agent of France, or the British Foreign Office; and for this purpose daylight would be needed – in other words, it could not be had before the next day.
Kossuth chafed at the delay; and so, too, his new master – cursing, not for the first time, the vile system of passports.
Little thought either, that this delay was a fortunate thing for them – a circumstance to which they were perhaps indebted for the saving of their lives!
Maynard preferred taking out the passport from the French consular agency. This, on account of less trouble and greater despatch, the British Foreign Office, in true red tape style, requiring the applicant to be known! Several days are often consumed before John Bull, going abroad, can coax his minister to grant him the scrap of paper necessary to his protection!
He must be first endorsed, by a banker, clergyman, or some other of the noted respectabilities of the land! John’s master don’t encourage vagabondage.
The French passport agent is more accommodating. The meagre emolument of his office makes the cash perquisite a consideration. For this reason the service is readily rendered.
Maynard, however, did not obtain the document without some difficulty. There was the question of his servant, who ought to have been there along with him!
The flunkey must present himself in propria persona! in order that his description should be correctly given upon the passport.
So said the French functionary in a tone of cold formality that seemed to forbid expostulation!
Although Maynard knew, that by this time, the noble Magyar had sacrificed his splendid beard, his fine face was too well-known about London to escape recognition in the streets. Especially would it be in danger of identification in the French consular office, King William Street, either by the passport agent himself or the half-score of lynx-eyed spies always hanging around it.
Kossuth’s countenance could never be passed off for the visage of a valet!
But Maynard thought of a way to get over the difficulty. It was suggested by the seedy coat, and hungry look, of the French official.
“It will be very inconvenient,” he said. “I live in the West End, full five miles off. It’s a long way to go, and merely to drag my servant back with me. I’d give a couple of sovereigns to be spared the trouble.”
“I’m sorry,” rejoined the agent, all at once becoming wonderfully civil to the man who seemed to care so little for a couple of sovereigns. “It’s the regulation, as monsieur must know. But – if monsieur – ”
The man paused, permitting the “but” to have effect.
“You would greatly oblige by saving me the necessity – ”
“Could monsieur give an exact description of his servant?”
“From head to foot.”
“Très bien! Perhaps that will be sufficient.” Without farther parley, a word-painting of the ex-dictator of Hungary was done upon stamped paper.
It was a full-length portrait, giving his height, age, the hue of his hair, the colour of his skin, and the capacity in which he was to serve.
From the written description, not a bad sort of body-servant should be “James Dawkins.”
(This is an actual fact. I still have in my possession the passport. E.R.)
“Exceedingly obliged, monsieur!” said Maynard, receiving the sheet from the agent, at the same time slipping into the hand that gave it a couple of shining sovereigns. Then adding, “Your politeness has saved me a world of trouble,” he hastened out of the office, leaving the Frenchman in a state of satisfied surprise with a grimace upon his countenance that only a true son of Gaul can give.
Early in the afternoon of that same day, master and man were quite ready to start.
The portmanteaus were packed, their travelling gear arranged, and tickets had been secured for the night mail, via Dover and Calais.
They only waited for the hour of its departure from London.
It was a singular conclave – that assembled in one of the rooms of Kossuth’s residence in Saint John’s Wood.
It consisted of eight individuals; every one of whom bore a title either hereditary or honourably acquired.
All were names well-known, most of them highly distinguished. Two were counts of Hungary, of its noblest blood – one a baron of the same kingdom; while three were general officers, each of whom had commanded a corps d’armée.
The seventh, and lowest in rank, was a simple captain – Maynard himself.
And the eighth – who was he?
A man dressed in the costume of a valet, holding in his hand a cockaded hat, as if about to take departure from the place.
It was curious to observe the others as they sate or stood around this semblance of a lacquey; counts, barons, and generals, all like him, hats in hand; not like him intending departure. They were only uncovered out of respect!
They talked with him in a tone not obsequious, though still in the way one speaks to a superior; while his answers were received with a deference that spoke of the truest esteem!
If there ever was proof of a man’s greatness, it is when his associates in prosperity honour him alike in the hour of his adversity.
And such was the case with the ex-dictator of Hungary, for it is scarce necessary to say that the disguised valet was Kossuth.
Even in those dark dreary hours of his exile, when his cause seemed hopeless, and the cold world frowned scornfully upon him, he might be seen surrounded, not by a circle of needy sycophants, but the noblest blood of Hungary, all deferent, all with hats in hand, honouring him as in that hour when the destinies of their beloved country, as their own, were swayed by his will!
The writer of this tale has witnessed such a scene, and regards it as the grandest triumph of mind over matter, of truth over charlatanism, that ever came under his eyes.
The men now assembled around him were all in the secret of Kossuth’s design. They had heard of the insurrectionary rising at Milan. It was the subject of their conversation; and most of them, like Kossuth himself, were making ready to take part in the movement.
Most, too, like him, believed it to be an imprudent step on the part of Mazzini – for it was Mazzini who was citing it. Some of them pronounced it madness!
The night was a dark one, and favourable for taking departure. It needed this; for they knew of the spies that were upon them.
But Maynard had taken precautions to elude the vigilance of these cur dogs of despotism.
He had designed a ruse that could not be otherwise than successful. There were two sets of portmanteaus – one empty, to leave Kossuth’s house in the cab that carried the captain and his servant. This was to draw up at the north entrance of the Burlington Arcade, and remain there until its hirers should return from some errand to the shops of that fashionable promenade.
At the Piccadilly entrance another hansom would be found, holding the real luggage of the travellers, which had been transported the night before to the residence of the soldier-author.
They would be sharp detectives whom this scheme would not outwit.
Cunning as it was, it was never carried out. Thank God it was not!
From what became known afterward, both Kossuth and Captain Maynard might well repeat the thanksgiving speech.
Had they succeeded in running the gauntlet of the English spies, it would have been but a baneful triumph. In less than twenty hours after, they would have been both inside a French prison – Kossuth to be transferred to a more dangerous dungeon in Austria; his pretended master, perhaps, to pine long in his cell, before the flag of his country would be again extended for his extradition.
They did not enter upon the attempt; not even so far as getting into the cab that stood waiting at Kossuth’s gate. Before this preliminary step was taken, a man rushing into the house prevented their leaving it.
Chapter Seventy Four.
A Sham Insurrection
It was Count Roseveldt who caused the change of programme, of which an explanation is needed.
Shortly before, the Count, forming one of the circle around Kossuth, had slipped quietly away from it – sent forth by Kossuth himself to reconnoitre the ground.
His knowledge of London life – for he had long lived there – caused him to be thus chosen.
The object was to discover how the spies were placed.
The dark night favoured him; and knowing that the spies themselves loved darkness, he sauntered toward a spot where he supposed they might be found.
He had not been long in it, when voices in conversation admonished him that men were near. He saw two of them.
They were approaching the place where he stood.
A garden gate, flanked by a pair of massive piers, formed a niche, dark as the portals of Pluto.
Into this the Count retreated; drawing himself into the smallest dimensions of which his carcase was capable.
A fog, almost palpable to the feel, assisted in screening him.
The two men came along; and, as good luck would have it, stopped nearly in front of the gate.
They were still talking, and continued to talk, loud enough for Roseveldt to hear them.
He did not know who they were; but their conversation soon told him. They were the spies who occupied the house opposite Kossuth – the very individuals he had sallied forth in search of.
The obscurity of the night hindered him from having a view of their faces. He could only make out two figures, indistinctly traceable through the filmy envelope of the fog.
But it mattered not. He had never seen these spies, and was, therefore, unacquainted with their personal appearance. Enough to hear what they were saying.
And he heard sufficient for his purpose – sufficient to keep him silent till they were gone; and then bring him back with an excited air into the circle from which he had late parted.
He burst into the room with a speech that caused astonishment – almost consternation!
“You must not go, Governor?” were the words that proceeded from his lips.
“Why?” asked Kossuth, in surprise, the question echoed by all.
“Mein Gott!” responded the Austrian. “I’ve learnt a strange tale since I left you.”
“What tale?”
“A tale about this rising in Milan. Is there on the earth a man so infamous as to believe it?”
“Explain yourself, Count!”
It was the appeal of all present.
“Have patience, gentlemen! You’ll need it all, after hearing me.”
“Go on!”
“I found there forbans, as we expected. Two of them were in the street, talking. I had concealed myself in the shadow of a gateway; opposite which the scoundrels shortly after came to a stand. They did not see me; but I saw them, and, what’s better, heard them. And what do you suppose I heard? Peste! you won’t one of you believe it!”
“Tell us, and try!”
“That the rising in Milan is a sham – a decoy to entrap the noble Governor here, and others of us into the toils of Austria. It has been got up for no other purpose – so said one of these spies to the other, giving the source whence he had his information.”
“Who?”
“His employer, Lord – .”
Kossuth started. So did his companions; for the information, though strange to them, was not by any means incredible.
“Yes?” continued Roseveldt; “there can be no doubt of what I tell you. The spy who communicated it to his fellow gave facts and dates, which he must have derived from a certain source; and for my own part I was already under the belief that the thing looked like it. I know the strength of those Bohemian regiments. Besides there are the Tyrolese sharpshooters – true body-guards of a tyrant. There could have been no chance for us, whatever Guiseppe Mazzini may think of it. It’s certainly intended for a trap; and we must not fall into it. You will not go, Governor?”
Kossuth looked around the circle, and then more particularly at Maynard.
“Do not consult me,” said the soldier-author. “I am still ready to take you.”
“And you are quite sure you heard this?” asked the ex-Governor, once more turning to Roseveldt.
“Sure, your Excellency. I’ve heard it plain as words could speak. They are yet buzzing in my ears, as if they would burn them?”
“What do you say, gentlemen?” asked Kossuth, scrutinising the countenances of those around him. “Are we to believe in an infamy so atrocious?”
Before reply could be made, a ring at the gate-bell interrupted their deliberations.
The door opened, admitting a man who came directly into the room where the revolutionists were assembled.
All knew him as Colonel Ihasz, the friend and adjutant of Kossuth.
Without saying a word, he placed a slip of paper in the ex-Governor’s hands.
All could see it was the transcript of a telegraphic message.
It was in a cipher; of which Kossuth alone had the key.
In sad tone, and with trembling voice, he translated it to a circle sad as himself:
“The rising has proved only an ‘émeute.’ There has been treachery behind it. The Hungarian regiments were this morning disarmed. Scores of the poor fellows are being shot. Afazzini, myself, and others, are likely to share the same fate, unless some miraculous chance turns up in our favour. We are surrounded on all sides; and am scant escape. For deliverance must trust to the God of liberty.
“Turr.”
Kossuth staggered to a seat. He seemed as though he would have fallen on the floor!
“I too invoke the God of Liberty!” he cried, once more starting to his feet, after having a little recovered himself. “Can He permit such men as these to be sacrificed on the altar of Despotism? – Mazzini, and still more, chivalrous Turr – the bravest, the best, the handsomest of my officers?”
No man, who ever saw General Turr, would care to question the eulogy thus bestowed upon him. And his deeds done since speak its justification.
The report of Roseveldt had but foreshadowed the terrible disaster, confirmed by the telegraphic despatch.
The Count had spoken in good time. But for the delay occasioned by his discovery, Kossuth and Captain Maynard would have been on their way to Dover; too late to be warned – too late to be saved from passing their next night as guests of Louis Napoleon —in one of his prisons!
Chapter Seventy Five.
A Statesman in Private Life
Wrapped in a richly-embroidered dressing-gown, with tasselled cap set jauntily on his head – his feet in striped silk stockings and red morocco slippers – Swinton’s noble patron was seated in his library.
He was alone: soothing his solitude with a cigar – one of the best brand, from the vuelta-de-abajo.
A cloud upon his brow told that his spirit was troubled.
But it was only a slight ruffle, such as might spring from some unpleasantness. It was regret for the escape of Louis Kossuth, from the toils that had been set for him, and set according to his lordship’s own suggestions.
His lordship, along with other crown-commissioned conspirators, had expected much from the émeute at Milan. With all their cunning had they contrived that sham insurrection, in the hopes of getting within their jailors’ grasp the great leaders of the “nationalities.”
Their design was defeated by their own fears. It was a child whose teeth were too well grown to endure long nursing; and, before it could be brought to maturity, they were compelled to proclaim it a bastard.
This was shown by their sudden disarming of the Hungarian regiments, and the arrest of such of the compromised as had too rashly made appearance upon the spot.
There were shootings and hangings – a hecatomb. But the victims were among the less prominent men of revolutionary record; while the great chiefs succeeded in making good their escape.
Mazzini, the “untakeable,” got clear in a manner almost miraculous; and so too the gallant Turr.
Thanks to the electric wires, whose silent speech even kings cannot control, Kossuth was spared the humiliation of imprisonment.
It was the thought of this that shadowed the spirit of Swinton’s patron, as he sate reflecting upon the failure of the diabolical scheme.
His antipathy to the Magyar chief was twofold. He hated him diplomatically, as one whose doctrines were dangerous to the “divine right” of kings. But he had also a private spite against him; arising from a matter of a more personal kind. For words uttered by him of an offensive nature, as for acts done in connection with his employment of the spies, Kossuth had called him to account, demanding retraction. The demand was made in a private note, borne by a personage too powerful to be slighted. And it elicited a reluctant but still truckling apology.
There were not many who knew of this episode in the life of the ex-dictator of Hungary, so humiliating to the nobleman in question. But it is remembered by this writer; and was by his lordship, with bitterness, till the day of his death.
That morning he remembered it more bitterly than ever; for he had failed in his scheme of revenge, and Kossuth was still unharmed.
There was the usual inspiration given to the newspapers, and the customary outpouring of abuse upon the head of the illustrious exile.
He was vilified as a disturber, who dared not show himself on the scene of disturbance; but promoted it from his safe asylum in England. He was called a “revolutionary assassin!”
For a time there was a cloud upon his name, but not for long. To defend him once more appeared Maynard with his trenchant pen. He knew, and could tell the truth.
He did tell it, hurling back his taunt upon the anonymous slanderer, by styling him the “assassin of the desk.”
In fine, Kossuth’s character came out, not only unscathed, but, in the eyes of all true men, stood clearer than ever.
It was this that chafed the vindictive spirit of his lordship, as he sate smoking an “emperor.”
The influence of the nicotian weed seemed gradually to tranquillise him, and the shadow disappeared from his brow.
And he had solace from another source – from reflection on a triumph achieved; not in the fields of diplomacy or war, but the court of Cupid. He was thinking of the many facile conquests he had made – consoling himself with the thought, that old age has its compensation, in fame, money, and power.
More particularly was his mind dwelling on his newest and latest amourette, with the wife of his protégé, Swinton. He had reason to think it a success; and attributing this to his own powers of fascination – in which he still fancifully believed – he continued to puff away at his cigar in a state of dreamy contentment.
It was a rude disturber to his Sardanapalian train of thought, as a footman gliding into the room, placed a card in his hand that carried the name of “Swinton.”
“Where is he?” was the question curtly put to the servant. “Drawin’-room, your ludship.”
“You should not have shown him there, till you’d learnt whether it was convenient for me to receive him.”
“Pardon, your ludship. He walked right in ’ithout bein’ asked – sayin’ he wished very partickler to speak with your ludship.”
“Show him in here, then?” The flunkey made obeisance, and withdrew. “What can Swinton want now? I have no business with him to-day; nor any more, for that matter, if I could conveniently get rid of him. Walked straight in without being asked! And wishes particularly to speak with me! Rather cool that!”
His lordship was not quite cool himself, while making the reflection. On the contrary, a sudden pallor had shown itself on his cheeks, with a whiteness around the lips, as when a man is under the influence of some secret apprehension.
“I wonder if the fellow has any suspicion – ”
His lordship’s reflection was stayed by the entrance of the “fellow” himself.
Chapter Seventy Six.
A Modest Demand
The aspect of his protégé, as he stepped inside the room, was anything but reassuring to the sexagenarian deceiver.
On the contrary, his pale cheeks became paler, his white lips whiter. There was something in the ex-guardsman’s eye and air that bespoke a man having a grievance!
More than that, a man determined on its being righted. Nor could his lordship mistake that it was against himself. The bold, almost bullying, attitude of his visitor, so different from that hitherto held by him, showed that, whatever might be his suit, it was not to be pressed with humility.
“What is it, my dear Swinton?” asked his scared patron, in a tone of pretended conciliation. “Is there anything I can do for you to-day? Have you any business?”
“I have; and a very disagreeable business at that.” In the reply, “his lordship” did not fail to remark the discourteous omission of his title.
“Indeed?” he exclaimed, without pretending to notice it. “Disagreeable business? With whom?”
“With yourself, my lord.”
“Ah! you surprise – I do not understand you, Mr Swinton.”
“Your lordship will, when I mention a little circumstance that occurred last Friday afternoon. It was in a street south side of Leicester Square.” It was as much as his lordship could do to retain his seat. He might as well have risen; since the start he gave, on hearing the name, told that he knew all about the “little circumstance.”
“Sir – Mr Swinton! I do not comprehend you!”
“You do – perfectly?” was Swinton’s reply, once more disrespectfully omitting the title. “You should know,” he continued, “since you were in that same street, at the same time.”
“I deny it.”
“No use denying it. I chanced to be there myself, and saw you. And, although your lordship did keep your lordship’s face well turned away, there can be no difficulty in swearing to it – neither on my part nor that of the gentleman who chanced to be along with me; and who knows your lordship quite as well as I.”
There was title enough in this speech, but coupled with too much sarcasm.
“And what if I was in – Street at the time you say?” demanded the accused in a tone of mock defiance.
“Not much in that. – Street’s as free to your lordship as to any other man. A little more free, I suspect. But then, your lordship was seen to come out of a certain house in that respectable locality, followed by a lady whom I have also good reason to know, and can certainly swear to. So can the friend who was with me.”
“I cannot help ladies following me out of houses. The thing; I presume, was purely accidental.”
“But not accidental her going in along with you – especially as your lordship had shown her the courtesy to hand her out of a cab, after riding some way through the streets with her! Come, my lord, it’s of no use your endeavouring to deny it. Subterfuge will not serve you. I’ve been witness to my own dishonour, as have several others besides. I seek reparation.”
If all the thrones in Europe had been at that moment tumbling about his ears, the arch-conspirator of crowned heads would not have been more stunned by the délabrement. Like his celebrated prototype, he cared not that after him came the deluge; but a deluge was now threatening himself – a deep, damning inundation, that might engulf not only a large portion of his fortune, but a large measure of his fame!
He was all the more frightened, because both had already suffered from a shock somewhat similar.
He knew himself guilty, and that it could be proved!
He saw how idle would be the attempt to justify himself. He had no alternative but to submit to Swinton’s terms; and he only hoped that these, however onerous, might be obtained without exposure.
The pause that had occurred in the conversation was positively agonising to him. It was like taking the vulture from his liver, when Swinton spoke again, in a tone that promised compromise.
“My lord,” he said, “I feel that I am a dishonoured man. But I’m a poor man, and cannot afford to go to law with your lordship.”
“Why should you, Mr Swinton?” asked the nobleman, hastily catching at the straw thus thrown out to him. “I assure you it is all a mistake. You have been deceived by appearances. I had my reasons for holding a private conversation with the lady you suspect; and I could not just at the moment think of anywhere else to go.”
It was a poor pretence; and Swinton received it with a sneer. His lordship did not expect otherwise. He was but speaking to give his abused protégé a chance of swallowing the dishonour.
“You’re the last man in the world,” he continued, “with whom I should wish to have a misunderstanding. I’d do anything to avoid it; and if there be any service I may render you, name it. Can you think of anything I may do?”
“I can, my lord.”
“What is it you would wish?”
“A title. Your lordship can bestow it?” This time the nobleman started right out of his chair, and stood with eyes staring, and lips aghast. “You are mad, Mr Swinton!”
“I am not mad, my lord! I mean what I say.”
“Why, sir, to procure you a title would create a scandal that might cost me my reputation. The thing’s not to be thought of. Such honours are only bestowed upon – ”
“Upon those who do just such services as I. All stuff, my lord, to talk of distinguished services to the State. I suppose that’s what you were going to say. It may do very well for the ears of the unwashed; but it has no meaning in mine. If merit were the means of arriving at such distinction, we’d never have heard of such patents of nobility as Lord B – , and the Earl of C – , and Sir H. N – , and some threescore others I could quote. Why, my lord, it’s the very absence of merit that gave these gentlemen the right to be written about by Burke. And look at Burke himself, made ‘Sir Bernard’ for being but the chronicler of your heraldry. Pretty, pretty service to the State, that is! I’m sure I’ve as good right as he.”
“I don’t deny that, Mr Swinton. But you know it’s not a question of right, but expediency.”
“So be it, my lord. Mine is just such a case.”
“I tell you I dare not do it.”
“And I tell you, you dare! Your lordship may do almost anything. The British public believe you have both the power and the right, even to make the laws of the land. You’ve taught them to think so; and they know no better. Besides, you are at this moment so popular. They think you perfection!”
“Notwithstanding that,” rejoined his lordship, without noticing the sneer, “I dare not do what you wish. What! get you a tide! I might as well talk about dethroning the queen, and proclaiming you king in her stead.”
“Ha! ha! I don’t expect any honour quite so high as that I don’t want it, your lordship. Crowns, they say, make heads uneasy. I’m a man of moderate aspirations. I should be contented with a coronet.”
“Madness, Mr Swinton!”
“Well; if you can’t make me a lord like yourself, it’s within bounds for me to expect a baronetcy. I’ll even be content with simple knighthood. Surely your lordship can get me that?”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the patron, in an agony of vexation. “Is there nothing else you can think of? A post – an office?”
“I’m not fit for either. I don’t want them. Nothing less than the title, my lord.”
“It’s only a title you want?” asked the nobleman, after a pause, and as if suddenly impressed with some idea that promised to serve him. “You say you’re not particular? Would that of a Count satisfy you?”
“How could your lordship procure that? There are no Counts in England?”
“But there are in France.”
“I know it – a good many of them; more than have means to support the titles.”
“Never mind the means. The title will secure them to a man of your talents. You may be one of the number. A French Count is still a Count. Surely that title would suit you?”
Swinton seemed to reflect.
“Perhaps it would. You think your lordship could obtain it for me?”
“I am sure of it. He who has the power to bestow such distinctions is my intimate personal friend. I need not tell you it is France’s ruler.”
“I know it, my lord.”
“Well, Mr Swinton; say that a French countship will satisfy you, and you shall have it within a week. In less time, if you choose to go to Paris yourself.”
“My lord, I shall be too glad to make the journey.”
“Enough, then. Call upon me to-morrow. I shall have a letter prepared that will introduce you, not only to the Emperor of France, but into the ranks of France’s nobility. Come at ten o’clock.”
It is scarce necessary to say that Swinton was punctual to the appointment; and on that same day, with a heart full of rejoicing, made the journey from Park Lane to Paris.
Equally delighted was his patron at having secured condonation at such a cheap rate, for what might otherwise have proved not only a costly case but a ruinous scandal.
In less than a week from this time, Swinton crossed the threshold of the South Bank Villa, with a patent of countship in his pocket.