About ten minutes elapsed before the coach breasted the hill and stopped to pick up its passengers. During that time neither Isabella nor Roger uttered a word. For them the ten minutes seemed barely two as they clung together in the first surge of passion. It was not until she actually kissed him that he realised how great a strain he had put upon himself these past few days in resisting the temptation to kiss her; while again and again her mouth sought his with the avidity of one seeking to slake a thirst after having been lost in a desert.
As the coach halted they started apart and swiftly sat back in their normal positions. The seat was deep and, in spite of the bright sunlight outside, the interior of the vehicle was semi-dark, so when the Señora climbed in she did not notice their flushed faces; and as it moved on she took Isabella’s unaccustomed silence to be caused by the pain of which she had spoken.
The gradients were easier now and as the Señora had already walked some three miles that morning she was feeling tired, so none of them got out again until they reached Brioude.
The next day was a Sunday and normally Isabella’s party would not have travelled on it, but she agreed with Roger that they should do so in order to minimise the delay in the delivery of the Queen’s letter. Nevertheless, instead of starting at eight-thirty, as was their custom, they postponed their departure till eleven, in order that they might first attend Mass. Having got herself ready for church, Isabella suddenly declared that her pain had come on again and excused herself from going; so the Señora Poeblar went off with the rest, apparently quite unconcerned at leaving her with the still incapacitated Roger.
Normally, wherever he was, Roger followed the upper-class English practice of bathing two or three times a week, but on the Continent the custom was still regarded as eccentric and even dangerous. Instead, wealthy people of both sexes sprayed themselves lavishly with scent, bathing only with considerable ceremony three or four times a year, or when a doctor recommended a course of herb baths as a remedy for some illness.
During a journey people removed only their outer clothes at night and Roger had been assisted in this by the footman, Pedro. That morning he had been dressed and shaved himself while the others were getting ready for church, but as he had to keep his foot up he was still lying propped up on his bedroll.
While the Señora and the others were going downstairs Isabella sat looking at Roger, the blood draining from her face until it was as white as a sheet, her black eyebrows and full, crimson mouth standing out by contrast with startling vividness. As she heard them crossing the cobbled yard below the window she jumped to her feet and ran across to him. He opened his arms and with a little sob she fell into them.
After a few breathless kisses she drew back and cried: “Say you love me! Say you love me! Please, Rojé. I implore you to!”
“Indeed I do, my beautiful Isabella,” he replied, kissing her afresh. And he meant it, for after the preceding day’s scene in the coach he had known that further resistance was useless, and the violence of her passion had now communicated itself to him.
“You swear it?” she demanded.
“I swear it! Surely you must have seen that for days I have been fighting against the impulse to make love to you? Your sweetness has utterly overcome me; but I feared that to show my feelings openly could only bring you grief.”
“Oh thank God! thank God!” she exclaimed, ignoring his last few words. “Never have I felt so shamed as after yesterday. What must you have thought of me? Yet I vow that far from being accustomed to behaving so I have always despised women who made advances to men.”
“I know your mind too well ever to have thought otherwise,” he assured her quickly. “How could anyone be constantly in your company for a week without realising that your standards of conduct are as high as your person is beautiful?”
“But Rojé, I have never felt for any man as I do for you,” she hurried on. “The very touch of your hand makes me deliriously happy, yet terrifies me. How I shall bring myself to support Don Diego after this I cannot think.”
“Don Diego?” he repeated.
“Yes. I have said nothing of it because each time I have broached the question of love or marriage you have turned the conversation to some other topic. But I am going to Naples to be married.”
“Do you—do you regard your fiancé with affection?”
“How could I? I do not even know him. He is my father’s choice for me. I am twenty-two and should have been married long ere this, but Madame Marie Antoinette begged my father to let me remain with her until this spring; then he insisted that I must return to take my rightful place in Spanish society.”
“This Don Diego, I suppose, is a gentleman of ancient lineage?” Roger asked a little bitterly.
She nodded. “He is El Gonde Diego Sidonia y Ulloa. He has great estates in Castile and on his uncle’s death he will inherit a dukedom. His father was one of the nobles who assisted Don Carlos to conquer Naples, so he also has estates there and in Sicily. He has lived in Naples most of his life and is one of King Ferdinand’s Chamberlains. Even my father considers that a better match could hardly be found for me.”
“What sort of a man is he?”
“He is just under thirty years of age, and said to be handsome.”
“Mayhap you will fall in love with him, then.” The second Roger had spoken he could have bitten off his tongue. The remark was not made cynically but it might easily be taken so, and in any case it suggested a lightness that was out of keeping with the moment. To his mingled relief and distress she took it literally, and confessed:
“I had hoped to. If I could have done that I might have brought him some happiness, or at least derived some pleasure from being his Condesa. But how can I ever do so now?”
He took her hands and pressed them. “Oh, Isabella, my poor precious, I would not have brought this willingly upon you for the world.”
“ ’Tis not your fault, Rojé. Neither is it mine. And I would not have had things otherwise if I could.”
“I tremble with delight to hear you say it. Yet I know myself to be terribly unworthy of such love as yours.”
“Why should you think that?” she asked seriously.
“Because I have loved much and—and been far from faithful,” he replied with an effort.
She smiled. “Men are rarely faithful! That at least I know about them, so I count it no crime in you. But in all other ways you are different from any man I have ever met. Perhaps that is partly because you are English. If so the women of England are monstrous fortunate. My own countrymen are deserving of admiration, for they are upright, kind and chivalrous; but they consider it beneath their dignity to talk to any female as an equal. Frenchmen are clever and amusing but they are rarely sincere and where a woman is concerned think only in terms of her seduction. But you combine gallantry with gentleness; you show no trace of condescension in discussing with me matters upon which a woman’s opinion is supposed to be worthless, and treat me with the gay camaraderie that you would use towards another man. ’Tis that in you, more even that your handsome looks, that I have come to love.”
All too late Roger saw where he had erred. If he had displayed only an amused tolerance towards her intellectual leanings, or, better still, attempted to take liberties with her at the first opportunity, he would have repelled her and, most probably, nipped her embryo passion for him in the bud; but in the very method by which he had sought to do so he had defeated his own end.
Yet, now that his scruples had been willy-nilly overcome, he was much too human to allow his earlier misgivings to mar his delight in the love that she was pouring out so freely. Once more he took her in his arms, and for a while they mingled blissful sighs and kisses.
It was not until the time for the return of the church party drew near that he made one final effort to save them both from the slippery path they were treading. Putting her gently from him he said:
“Listen, Isabella, my love. I am but a gentleman of small fortune, and we both know that your father would not even consider a request from me for your hand.”
“Alas,” she sighed. “In that I fear you right beyond all question.”
“Then had we not best use the chirurgeon’s knife upon our passion before it begets a lasting obsession? That we have seen not a sign of de Roubec these past eight days can be taken as a fair indication that he has abandoned his designs upon the Queen’s letter; and I am now sufficiently recovered to travel on my own. If you tell the Señora Poeblar that I am carrying a Government despatch, that will be reason enough to excuse my leaving you here and hastening on to Marseilles. For both our sakes I urge you to let me take post-chaise this afternoon.”
“Nay, Rojé! Nay!” she cried, flinging herself upon him again. “I beg you to do no such thing. We have but another week, or ten days at the most. My dear Señora is no fool and although she has said nothing of it I feel certain that she guesses already what is in the wind. Yet she is too fond of me to prove difficult, provided we are circumspect. Between here and Marseilles we can snatch many stolen moments alone together. For me they will be memories beyond price to treasure in the years to come. I implore you not to rob me of them.”
To that sweet appeal there could be but one answer, and Roger made it with a fervour equal to her own. “So be it then, my love. When the time comes, part we must. But until then we will give no thought to the future.”
At eleven o’clock the party set off as planned, to sleep that night at the little town of Fix. The country continued to be picturesque and hilly, so on half a dozen occasions the Señora, Quetzal and Maria got out to walk; but Isabella used her feigned indisposition as an excuse to remain with Roger. Whenever they were alone they seized the opportunity to nestle in an embrace in the warm semi-darkness of the coach, and even when the others were with them in it they now secretly held hands.
That evening at Fix they learned fuller details of the momentous first meeting of the States General. The preceding Monday had been devoted to a solemn spectacle. The deputies had mustered at the Church of Notre Dame and, headed by the clergy of Versailles, marched to the Church of St. Louis to hear Mass and ask the blessing of God on their deliberations. The Third Estate, clad in humble black, had been placed in the van of the procession, while the King and Queen, surrounded by the Princes of the Blood, in gorgeous robes and ablaze with diamonds, had brought up its rear. The choice of so drab a uniform for the representatives of the people had been governed by ancient precedent, but it had been much resented. Many of them were men of substance who normally dressed with some richness, so they considered it a deliberate slight that they should be forced to appear like supplicants in contrast to the nobles and higher clergy, who followed them decked out in all the splendour of rainbow-hued silks, satins and velvets.
The entire population of Versailles, numbering 60,000, had turned out to see the procession, and the crowd had been swollen to more than twice that number by great contingents from Paris and visitors from every province in France. Although the ceremony took place in the royal city, where practically everyone owed their living to the Court, it was the Third Estate which had received by far the greatest ovation. The nobles and clergy had been allowed to pass almost in silence; the King had been cheered but even his presence had not prevented a few catcalls at the Queen, and it was said that by the time they reached the church she was in tears.
On the Tuesday the Three Estates had met in the Salle des Menus Plaisirs, which had been chosen because it was an enormous room that was rarely used; but it had been hastily fitted up and no arrangements made to separate the deputies from such members of the public as could press their way in. The deputies had been summoned for eight o’clock but the proceedings did not begin till ten; and, during the long wait, while the clergy and nobles were allowed to wander about the big room the black-clad Third Estate had been herded into a narrow corridor.
Eventually, when everyone had taken their places, the King entered and formally declared the session open. The Keeper of the Seals delivered a lengthy oration outlining numerous reforms that should engage the attention of the Estates. Then Monsieur Necker started on an even longer speech, describing the state of the finances. On his voice giving out he had handed his script to a secretary, who read the rest of it, and between them they kept the deputies silently crowded on uncomfortable benches for four hours. So had ended the first session.
Two things of great moment emerged from it. Firstly that although the assembly was invited to discuss an immense range of subjects no definite proposals of any kind were put before it by the Crown. Secondly that the King and his Ministers had shirked the vital issue as to whether the three Orders should sit and vote jointly or separately. This was all-important, as the deputies totalled 1,214, of which 621 were representatives of the Third Estate. So if the assembly functioned as one house, seeing that many of the poorer clergy and a number of the nobles were in sympathy with the champions of radical reform, the Third Estate would be assured of a clear majority over the other two. But the irresolute King had left the three Orders to argue the matter out for themselves.
On the 11th of May Isabella’s party left Fix for Thuytz and soon after setting out they passed Polignac, where, even in that mountainous and romantic country, the castle from which the Queen’s favourite took her title provided a feature of outstanding grandeur. It was very ancient, almost cubical in form, and itself perched upon a mountain that dominated the town.
As the coach crawled along the road a mile below it Roger asked Isabella her opinion of Madame de Polignac, and if she was as bad an influence on the Queen as people said.
“She is certainly not an evil woman,” Isabella replied, “but just light-minded and rather stupid. They are a very ancient family but were far from wealthy, so cannot be blamed for accepting the riches that Her Majesty has showered upon them. It was Gabrielle de Polignac’s simplicity and straightforwardness on her being presented at Court that first attracted the Queen to her. Her Majesty asked her to become one of her ladies-in-waiting but she said frankly that she and her husband could not possibly afford to remain at Versailles, so the Queen made a generous arrangement for her.”
“Yet ’tis said that the Polignacs have had millions out of the royal coffers.”
“That is an exaggeration; but the Queen has certainly paid lavishly for her enjoyment of their society. She had Gabrielle’s husband, Count Jules, made a Duke and secured for him the lucrative position of Intendant General de Postes. But it is his sister, the Comtesse Diane, who is the rapacious one of the family; she neglects no chance to abuse the Queen’s generosity, and it is largely her extravagance which has given them the ill-name of greedy sycophants.”
“ ’Tis a pity, though, that, having had so many undesirable relatives forced upon her, the Queen does not choose her own friends more carefully.”
“They are as varied as her tastes, and some are well worthy of her friendship. But, unfortunately, she has little ability to see below the surface. Your own first meeting with her was an instance of that. She liked you well enough to start with, then on being informed that you were a murderer and seducer her sense of justice led her to the impetuous decision that you must be made to pay for your crimes; whereas anyone more discerning would have known from your open countenance that you could not possibly be capable of an unworthy action.”
“I thank you for your good opinion of me,” Roger laughed, but he wondered a little grimly what she would have thought of him if she knew that he now carried only a transcript of the Queen’s letter and had sent the original to London.
On approaching Thuytz they entered a country of pine woods, which in the strong sunshine smelt delicious, but the inn there proved one of the worst at which they had yet stayed.
From Fix to Thuytz was one of the longest stages that they had so far accomplished, and next day they planned to do another to Montélimar, but luck was against them. A few miles short of Villeneuve de Berg a more than usually bumpy piece of road caused the back axle of the coach to crack, and although it did not actually break in two Manuel declared that it would be dangerous for them to proceed further.
As they always carried ample provisions against such an emergency, while help was being sent for they were able to picnic in the fringe of the beautiful chestnut woods that here spread for many miles covering all the lower slopes of granite mountains. In due course farm waggons arrived, to which the baggage was transferred and the coach, lightened of its load, was driven on at walking pace to the township. The rest of the day went in fitting a new axle to the coach, so it was not until the afternoon of Wednesday the 13th that they were ferried across the broad Rhone and reached Montélimar.
Here the post road from Lyons joined that upon which they had come from Paris, thereby doubling the traffic southward bound for the great port of Marseilles; so, for once, in the Hôtel de Monsieur at which they put up, they enjoyed the comfort and good food of a first-class hostelry.
They enquired for news of the States General but no startling developments had occurred. After the first session the clergy and nobles had retired to deliberate in separate chambers, leaving the Third Estate in possession of the Salle des Menus Plaisirs; which later proved to have been a tactical error, since that had been officially designated as the meeting-place of the whole assembly, and was the only one to which the public were allowed admittance.
The next step was the verification of credentials, at which each deputy had to produce to his colleagues the papers proving him to have been properly elected and the actual person nominated to represent his constituency. This was obviously a matter which would occupy several days, but the manner of observing the formality had provided the first bone of contention. The question at issue was, should these verifications be carried out in a combined assembly or by each Order separately?
As the decision would so obviously create a precedent it was not surprising that both the clergy and nobles had decided on separate verification, the former by 133 votes to 114 and the latter by 188 to 47. The Third Estate had therefore been left high and dry, as they had no powers to act on their own, and they had begun to protest more vigorously against the other two Orders’ refusal to join them.
At Montélimar, in addition to the welcome change that the well-run inn provided, the travellers enjoyed the delicious newly made nougat for which the town is famous; although little Quetzal ate himself sick on it.
It was Quetzal, too, who provoked an episode the following day that showed Isabella to Roger in quite a new light. After leaving Montélimar they had passed through still hilly but sterile, uninteresting country to the old Roman town of Orange, reaching it early in the afternoon. Had Roger been able to walk he would have set off to view the ruins of the great stone circus and the fine triumphal arch, but he had to be content with a distant view of them before being carried upstairs to the principal bedroom of the inn.
As the day was very hot he was made comfortable near the open window, and the inn being a comparatively new one on the outskirts of the town he could see some way down the road where it wound into the country. After a little while Isabella and the Señora joined him there and he embarked on his daily Spanish lesson. They had been thus employed for about three-quarters of an hour when a little party of excited people emerged from round the corner of a nearby hovel, and came hurrying along the road towards the inn. The group was led by Quetzal, who was being half pushed along by a tall, gaunt peasant; at their heels there tagged two slatternly women and several ragged children.
With a cry of angry excitement at seeing her Indian handled in such a fashion Isabella jumped to her feet and ran downstairs. Roger, seeing that Quetzal had suffered no actual harm, did not unduly disturb himself, but watched out of the window with mild interest to learn the cause of the trouble.
He liked Quetzal. The boy was a droll little fellow and could be very amusing at times; but generally he was inclined to be sedate, had charming manners and never obtruded himself, being apparently quite happy to play for hours with his toys or go off for walks on his own. His fearlessness was one of the things that Roger admired most about him. With his red-brown face, brilliantly embroidered clothes and feathered head-dress he presented an object calculated to arouse the amazement and possible hostility of the superstitious peasantry in any village—as they might easily have taken him for a Satanic imp sprung from the underworld. But, although groups of villagers often followed him about, he had the superb self-confidence of a true aristocrat. Evidently he considered that an Aztec Prince who was in the service of one of the first ladies of Spain could afford to ignore such lesser beings, since he never paid the slightest attention to the unkempt children who sometimes shouted and pointed at him.
Running to the boy Isabella tore him from the peasant’s grasp, at the same time calling loudly to her servants. Hernando and Manuel came hurrying from the stable yard, upon which she screamed orders at them in Spanish. Instantly they seized the peasant and forced him to his knees in front of her. Then, snatching from Manuel a whip that he had been carrying, she raised it high in the air and brought it cracking down on the kneeling man’s shoulders.
“Hi!” cried Roger from his dress-circle seat at the window. “One moment, Señorita, I pray! Before you belabour the fellow at least find out what is at the root of the matter.”
Turning, she scowled up at him, her black brows drawn together, her brown eyes blazing. “Why should I? This scum laid hands on Quetzal! How dare he lay his filthy paws upon my little Indian!”
As she turned back to strike a second time, Roger shouted at her louder than before; begging her to desist until she had heard what the man had to say. It was only at his urgent plea that she lowered her arm, and by that time people were hurrying up from all directions. A number of scowling peasants had edged towards their kneeling fellow countryman but Pedro and the two hired guards arrived to reinforce Isabella, and it was clear that the locals were too cowed to venture on attacking her armed retainers. Then the landlord of the inn appeared and with a scraping bow to Isabella enquired what offence her victim had committed.
The lanky peasant and his women could speak no French but the landlord interpreted their patois, and it then emerged that Quetzal had had an argument with the man’s nanny-goat. Whether Quetzal had teased the goat, or his unusual appearance had excited her to unprovoked anger, could not be satisfactorily determined. The fact was that she had charged him and, instead of taking to his heels as most grownups would have done, the courageous little fellow had dealt with the situation in precisely the same way as he had seen a matador deliver the quité in Spanish bull-fights. Drawing his tomahawk he had stood his ground till the last moment, then side-stepped and neatly driven the pointed end of his weapon through the skull of the goat, killing it instantly.
Isabella and her Spanish servants were enraptured with Quetzal’s feat, the Señora and Maria clapped loudly from the window, and Roger felt that whether the boy had first incited the goat or not he was deserving high commendation for his bravery; but, even so, his English sense of justice still urged him to ensure that the peasant had a fair deal.
The miserable man pleaded that the dead nanny-goat had been his most treasured possession, as the milk and cheese she gave had formed the main items of food for his whole family; and, knowing the abject poverty of the lowest strata of the French peasantry, Roger believed that he was telling the truth. In consequence he urged Isabella to give the poor wretch a half a louis to buy himself another goat, but she would not until Roger offered to pay, and even then she was swift to devise a judgment that tempered charity with harshness.
Hernando, in his capacity of their courier, always carried a supply of ready cash, so handing him Manuel’s whip she told him to give the peasant eight lashes with it and a crown for each. As she had expected, Hernando gave the man eight lashes and threw him only four crowns, but his cries of pain were instantly silenced at the sight of money. The sum was sufficient to buy him several goats, so the bystanders applauded the foreign lady’s generosity and he and his family shuffled off grinning from ear to ear.
That evening while they supped Roger argued the ethics of the episode with Isabella, but he could not get her to see that her treatment of the peasant had been either unjust or brutal. She maintained that such creatures were for all practical purposes animals, and that if one failed to treat them as such they would in no time get out of hand and become a menace to all civilised society; that whatever Quetzal might have done the fellow had no right whatever to lay a finger on him, and had merited punishment just as much as if he had been a dog that had bitten the boy. She added by way of clinching the argument that had he been one of her father’s serfs in Spain she could have had his hand cut off for such an act, and that he was extremely lucky to have had anyone so eccentric as Roger present to get him compensation for his beating.
Knowing her to be normally the gentlest of women Roger found it strange to hear her setting forth such views; but he felt certain they were tenets that she had automatically absorbed in her upbringing, and no part of her personal nature. Cynically it crossed his mind that Louis XVI might not now be involved in such desperate trouble with his people if, earlier in his reign, he had had the firmness to give short shift to agitators and the dirty little scribblers who lived by producing scurrilous libels about his wife. But the thing that intrigued Roger most about the affair was the violence of the temper that Isabella had unleashed. He had been right in supposing that her heavy eyebrows indicated that she could at times be carried away by intense anger, and that in addition to her father’s intelligence she had inherited his well-known intolerance of all opposition to his will.
On the Saturday they temporarily left France to enter the Papal territory of Avignon, and soon afterwards arrived at the ancient walled city. It was here that early in the fourteenth century Pope Clement V had taken refuge on being driven from Rome. It had then become for the better part of a century the seat of Popes and Anti-Popes who were acknowledged by France, Spain and Naples in opposition to rival Pontiffs in Rome who were supported by northern Italy, central Europe, England and Portugal. The Great Schism of the Western Church had ended in the triumph of the Eternal City, but the domain of Avignon had been retained and was still ruled by a Papal legate.
As soon as they were settled in the Hôtel Crillon Roger declared that even though his plaster-encased foot would not allow him to leave a carriage, they must not miss the opportunity of driving round a town with so many monuments of historic interests. The Señora Poeblar replied that she felt far from well, but had no objection to Isabella accompanying him provided they took Maria with them; so with Quetzal in the fourth seat of a fiacre they drove off in the strong afternoon sunshine to see the sights.
Even the hotel in which they were staying was of some interest, as it had once been the private mansion of King Henry III’s famous Captain of the Guards, known for his indomitable courage as le brave Crillon; but infinitely more so was the Church of the Cordeliers, as it contained the tomb of the fair Laura, whose beauty had been made immortal in the poems of her lover Petrarch.
From the church they drove down to the mighty Rhone to see the remnant of that outstanding feat of mediaeval engineering, the Pont d’Avignon. The river here was so wide and swift that even the Romans had failed to bridge it, yet St. Bénézet had succeeded in doing so in the twelfth century, and his bridge had withstood the torrent for 500 years. In 1680 the greater part of it had been washed away, but four arches still remained on the city side as a monument to his memory.
They then drove up the hill to the great fortress palace of the Popes, began by John XXII, which dominates the countryside for miles around; and it was here, while admiring the vast pile of stone, that Roger and Isabella first touched upon the thorny subject of their respective religions.
She opened the matter by remarking that she thought that Avignon, being in the centre of southern France, should form part of the French King’s dominions instead of belonging to the Popes.
He replied: “I entirely agree. But since the Roman Church needs revenues to support its dignitaries it would naturally be loath to give up territories such as this from which it derives them.”
She shook her head. “Through the centuries the Cardinals and other great Prelates have acquired the habit of living in pomp and luxury, but I think it contrary to the true interests of their calling. Priests, whatever their rank, should be humble, clean-living men, and if they were so their simple wants could be amply provided for by donations of the faithful, without their possessing any territories at all.”
Roger looked at her in some surprise. “Again I agree; but I must confess that I find it somewhat strange to hear such sentiments expressed by a Catholic.”
“That perhaps is because, not being one yourself, you are ill-informed regarding modern thought in the highest lay circles of the most Catholic countries. Did you not know that it was my father who expelled the Jesuits from Spain?”
“Indeed I did not.”
“It was so, and for excellent reasons. The Order of St. Ignatius had become the most glaring example of all that true servants of Christ should not be. In all but lip-service they had long abandoned their religious duties and, instead, devoted themselves to politics and intrigue. Worse still, in our South American Empire they had acquired vast territories which they ruled according to their own will and often in defiance of the King’s commands. Their greed was such that they ground down the natives and treated them with the utmost barbarity to extract the last centimo from them. The tyranny they exercised would have shamed any King, and their arrogance was such that they even kept their own armies; so that my father was compelled to dispossess them of their lands by force of arms.”
“You amaze me,” murmured Roger. “I knew nothing of all this.”
Isabella shrugged. “That is not surprising, as it occurred twenty years ago and in a distant land. But there are other Orders that are near as irreligious as the Jesuits, and many of the convents in Spain and Italy are sinks of immorality; so I hope the time will come when they too will be suppressed.“
“Such views might almost lead one to suppose that you incline to the Reformed Religion,” Roger remarked after a slight hesitation.
“Then I fear I have misled you; for it stands to reason that all the Protestant Churches are founded on error. They owe their creation to men who have rebelled against Rome, either from pride or, like your Henry the Eighth, for the purpose of giving their own sinful ends a semblance of legality. Our Lord charged St. Peter with the founding of His Church and there has been no divine revelation since to justify any departure from the Apostolic Succession.”
“Yet certain of the Popes have been far worse men than bluff King Hal of England.”
“I do not deny it. Have I not just been deploring the type of life which has been led by many high dignitaries of the Church of Rome from mediaeval times onwards?”
“And how do you support your theory of the Apostolic Succession when we know that at one period the legally elected Pope lived here in Avignon while another in Rome wore the Triple Tiara? Half a century later, too, there were three of them each claiming to be God’s Vicar on Earth, and all three were deposed in order to heal the schism by the elevation of a fourth who owed nothing to any of the others. In that upheaval of the Church the direct line from St. Peter was clearly broken.”
“Such unfortunate disruptions and the personalities of the Popes themselves have no bearing on the matter. It is the unbroken teaching of the Church which counts. That enshrines the tradition of near two thousand years, and all the interpretations of the sayings of our Lord by the truly pious early Fathers remain unaltered within it.”
“As a Protestant, I would maintain that the interpretation arrived at by the great Divines, who led the Reformation, have as much right to be considered valid as those made by monks and missionaries living in the third and fourth centuries of our era.”
Isabella turned to smile at him. “Then ’tis fruitless for us to argue the matter. But this much I will admit. From what I have heard I believe the majority of your pastors do lead holier lives than those of our priests. And I cannot think that the way to Heaven lies only in the slavish observance of ritual; for Christ could not be so unmerciful as to reject any who follow His teaching according to their honest convictions.”
As they drove back to their hotel Roger wondered what other surprises Isabella might have in store for him. Of the many French Catholics he had met the great majority had either taken their religion lightly and so much as a matter of course as scarcely to think about it, or had been secretly Freethinkers. Isabella’s obvious faith coupled with broadmindedness was an entirely new brand of Catholicism to him, but the basis of it was clearly derived from her strong-minded father’s contempt for a decadent priesthood.
On reaching the Crillon they found other matters to concern them. In their absence the Señora had become markedly worse. She was now feverish and complained of severe pains in her stomach. A doctor was sent for, who prescribed the almost universal remedy of the times and proceeded to bleed her. He was an elderly man and seemed sensible and competent, so when he was about to depart Roger waylaid him and raised the question of his foot.
The chirurgeon in Nevers had said that it should be kept in plaster for from two to three weeks, and now that a fortnight had elapsed Roger was anxious to get free of the heavy encumbrance that prevented him from walking. Moreover, he knew that even after the plaster had been removed it would take him a few days to regain the full use of his leg, and they were now only that distance by coach from Marseilles, where he would have to part from Isabella and look after himself on his voyage to Leghorn.
The doctor agreed to do the job there and then, so a small hammer was sent for and the plaster broken away. It was then found that Roger’s healthy flesh had healed perfectly; but when he put his foot to the ground he could not stand on it, so he had to be assisted as usual to the table for supper.
As the next day was again a Sunday they had already planned to allow time for church, then to set off at eleven o’clock for Orgon; but before they retired that night Roger gave it as his opinion that the Señora would not be well enough to travel again till the Monday.
However, on the Sunday morning she seemed much better. She declared that the weakness she still felt was due only to the doctor having bled her the previous evening, and, although they urged her not to, she insisted on getting up to attend Mass.
Every day during the past week Roger and Isabella had succeeded in snatching a few brief, blissful interludes alone together, but they had been looking forward to a full, uninterrupted hour on this Sunday morning with a longing by no means untinged with disturbing thoughts. Neither had again referred to the all too short duration that an arbitrary Fate seemed to have set upon their love-making, but both were very conscious that the hour of their parting was now imminent, and that the Señora’s attendance at church might provide their last opportunity of any length to give free vent to their feelings for one another.
Yet, in the circumstances, Isabella felt she could hardly again pretend an indisposition, as she had planned to do; since her duenna was still so obviously not fully recovered it would have been callous in the extreme not to accompany her. Therefore, reluctant as she was to do so, she got ready for church with the others, and after giving Roger a glance conveying her disappointment went off with them, leaving him to practise hobbling about on his game leg.
It was as well she did so, as half-way through the service the Señora was first overcome by a fainting fit, then, on their getting her outside, was taken with a violent vomiting. As soon as they got her back to the hotel she was put to bed and the doctor sent for again. He said he thought that she was suffering from some form of food poisoning and gave her an emetic, after which he bled her again, both of which processes weakened her still further.
That afternoon she became delirous and when the doctor called in the evening he could only shake his head. He told them that the emetic and bleeding should have purged the ill-humours from her system, so everything now depended on the strength of her constitution. In view of the soundness of her vital organs he thought her condition far from desperate but could give no further opinion until it was seen how she got through the night.
Isabella was terribly distressed and declared her intention of sitting up all night with her old gouvanante. Both Roger and Maria pressed her to let them take turns at watching by the sick woman, but she would not hear of it and insisted on their going to bed.
For a long time the delirious mutterings from the far end of the big room kept Roger awake, and even after they had ceased he found himself unable to do more than doze; so when Isabella tiptoed over to him at about two o’clock in the morning he was instantly wide awake. Stooping over him, she whispered:
“My love; she has just woken and is fully conscious. Her fever seems to have abated and I think she is much better. But she has expressed a wish to speak to you, and alone. I pray you go to her while I wait out on the landing. Restrain her from talking as far as you can, dear one, for ’tis of the utmost importance that she should conserve her strength.”
With a whispered word of endearment Roger got up, pulled on his robe de chambre, and as Isabella left the room, limped over to the Señora’s bed.
At the sight of him the old lady’s eyes brightened perceptibly, and she began to speak slowly in Spanish. Knowing how little he as yet understood of that language she used simple phrases, choosing her words with great care, and where she found difficulty in expressing herself simply she here and there substituted a word or two of Church Latin.
“Señor Rojé” she began. “I am nearly seventy. I am very ill. Perhaps my time has come. Perhaps the Holy Virgin is calling me. Tomorrow I may not be able to speak to you.”
With a feeble gesture she waved aside his protest and went on: “You love the Señorita Isabella. I know it. She loves you. It is a fire that burns in both. Without me she will be defenceless. She is very headstrong. If you lift your finger she will give all. Then she will wish to remain with you. But soon she will have bitter regret. Her whole life ruined. I beg you not to tempt her. To reject her even. Then her pride will make her leave you and go on to Naples. I beg you save her from herself, and let her go.”
Roger had failed to grasp a word here and there, but he understood her meaning perfectly. It had not previously even occurred to him that if the Señora died, Isabella, finding herself free from restraint, might refuse to go through with her projected marriage. Staring down at the big, once-handsome face on the rumpled pillows, that now, in the candle-light, appeared a frightening mask, he nodded assent.
The old duenna gathered her remaining strength and whispered: “You must be strong for both. You will not bring shame and regret upon her. I know you will not. If you are cold towards her the fire she feels for you will in time die down. Promise me… Promise me that you will not make the Señorita Isabella your mistress.”
Feeling that he could not possibly reject such a plea, Roger said firmly: “I promise.” The Señora smiled at him, took one of his hands in hers for a moment and pressed it gently, then closed her eyes.
Limping over to the door he beckoned Isabella inside; and on her asking in a low voice what her duenna had wanted with him, he replied: “She is anxious that you should get some rest, so asked me to sit by her for the rest of the night.”
At seven o’clock the doctor came. He thought the patient slightly better and hoped that the crisis would be passed by midday. But by ten o’clock the Señora had become delirious again, and Isabella, now in tears, decided to send for a priest.
Half an hour later the tinkling of the mournful little bell, that announces the passing of the Host through the street, was wafted to them on the hot air coming through a window that Roger, in defiance of French medical practice, had insisted on opening.
For a while the priest sat with them. Then, as the sick woman seemed to be getting weaker and showed no sign of returning consciousness, he administered extreme unction. At a quarter past twelve the Señora Poeblar was dead.
Isabella was utterly distraught, so Roger took charge of all arrangements. The muscles of his foot were getting back their life, so with the aid of a stick he was now able to hobble about fairly rapidly. He had Maria put her mistress to bed in another room and move all their things there; and had his own moved by Pedro to a separate apartment. Quetzal he sent out to go fishing in the river with Hernando. Then he saw an undertaker, had the Señora laid out surrounded by tall candles, gave the priest money to send people to pray by her body, and settled the hour at which the funeral should take place on the following day.
He did not see Isabella again until the funeral. At it she wore a mantilla of black lace so heavy that it was impossible to see the expression on her face, but it seemed that her calm was restored as she did not break down during the ordeal. As Roger gave her his arm to lead her to the coach she pressed it slightly, but she addressed no word to him, except to thank him formally in a low tone for the trouble he had been to on her behalf. On their return he escorted her up to her room, but as she did not invite him inside he left her at the door. He thought that she would probably send for him that evening, but she did not, so he supped on his own again and wondered with some anxiety what developments the next day would bring.
On the Tuesday at ten o’clock she sent Quetzal to him with a note, which simply said that she would like him to take her for a drive, so would he order a fiacre and fetch her in half an hour’s time.
When he went to her room he found her ready dressed to go out, but much to his surprise her costume displayed no trace of mourning. Catching his thought she said with a smile:
“I have decided that from today I will start a new life, so with the old one I have put off my mourning.”
Her declaration filled him with instant perturbation, but he tried to hide it by replying, somewhat inadequately: “I too have always felt that the dead would prefer us to think of them as happy, rather than have us wear the trappings of gloom to symbolise their memory.” Then he offered her his arm to take her downstairs.
As she left the room she remarked: “I am taking neither Maria nor Quetzal with me, since ’tis as well that they should recognise from the beginning my new freedom to be alone with you when I wish.”
Such an indication of the form she meant her new life to take redoubled his uneasiness, and with his promise to the Señora Poeblar only too present in his mind, he said seriously: “All the same, my dear one, I am very anxious not to compromise you.”
“I know you too well to believe otherwise,” she smiled. “But a carriage drive at midday will hardly do that; and soon there will be no need for us to worry ourselves about such matters.”
At her words he felt at once both reassured and miserable. Evidently the Señora had overestimated Isabella’s passion for him, or her sense of duty was so strong that she had no intention of allowing herself to be led into betraying Don Diego before their marriage. He had feared that to keep his promise he would be called on to exert his utmost strength of will, but it seemed clear now that while she meant to make the most of her last few days with him she had no thought of using her freedom to allow him to become her lover. Yet his relief at escaping the ordeal of having to refuse such a delectable temptation was now more than offset by his unhappiness at the thought that in a few days she would be on a ship bound for Naples, and lost to him for ever.
They drove out of the city by the Port Crillon and, turning left, along under the great castellated wall, until they reached the river. Some way along its bank they came to a low eminence from which there was a fine view of the broad, eddying torrent, and here Isabella called on the driver to stop.
It was again a gloriously sunny day, and neither of them spoke for a few moments while they admired the view across the rippling water to the further shore.
Then Roger stole a glance at Isabella. The thought that he was so soon to lose her now caused him an actual physical pain in the region of his solar plexus. Here in the strong sunshine of the south her skin no longer had even a suggestion of sallowness but appeared a lovely golden brown. Her dark eyebrows seemed to blend naturally into it, her black ringlets shimmered with light where they caught the sun, her lips were a full, rich red and her profile delicate. And he knew her to be the most gentle, honest and lovable of companions.
Turning, she caught his glance and said: “Well, you have not yet asked me what my new mode of life is to be.”
“Tell me,” he smiled. “My only wish is that it will bring you happiness.”
“Then your wish is granted,” she smiled back. “For it lies solely with you to ensure it. I have made up my mind not to go to Naples. Instead I intend to make you a most devoted wife.”