When the stranger, who had proved so opportune an ally to Lothair at the Fenian meeting, separated from his companion, he proceeded in the direction of Pentonville, and, after pursuing his way through a number of obscure streets, but quiet, decent, and monotonous, he stopped at a small house in a row of many residences, yet all of them, in, form, size, color, and general character, so identical, that the number on the door could alone assure the visitor that he was not in error when he sounded the knocker.
“Ah! is it you, Captain Bruges?” said the smiling and blushing maiden who answered to his summons. “We have not seen you for a long time.”
“Well, you look as kind and as pretty as ever, Jenny,” said the captain, “and how is my friend?”
“Well,” said the damsel, and she shrugged her shoulders, “he mopes. I’m very glad you have come back, captain, for he sees very few now, and is always writing. I cannot bear that writing; if he would only go and take a good walk, I am sure he would be better.”
“There is something in that,” said Captain Bruges. “And is he at home, and will he see me?”
“Oh! he is always at home to you, captain; but I will just run up and tell him you are here. You know it is long since we have seen you, captain—coming on half a year, I think.”
“Time flies, Jenny. Go, my good girl, and I will wait below.”
“In the parlor, if you please, Captain Bruges. It is to let now. It is more than a mouth since the doctor left us. That was a loss, for, as long as the doctor was here, he always had some one to speak with.”
So Captain Bruges entered the little dining-room with its mahogany table, and half a dozen chairs, and cellaret, and over the fireplace a portrait of Garibaldi, which had been left as a legacy to the landlady by her late lodger, Dr. Tresorio.
The captain threw a quick glance at the print, and then, falling into reverie, with his hands crossed behind him, paced the little chamber, and was soon lost in thoughts which made him unconscious how long had elapsed when the maiden summoned him.
Following her, and ascending the stair-case, he was ushered into the front room of the first floor, and there came forward to meet him a man rather below the middle height, but of a symmetrical and imposing mien. His face was grave, not to say sad; thought, not time, had partially silvered the clustering of his raven hair; but intellectual power reigned in his wide brow, while determination was the character of the rest of his countenance, under great control, yet apparently, from the dark flashing of his eye, not incompatible with fanaticism.
“General,” he exclaimed, “your presence always reanimates me. I shall at least have some news on which I rely. Your visit is sudden—sudden things are often happy ones. Is there any thing stirring in the promised land? Speak, speak! You have a thousand things to say, and I have a thousand ears.”
“My dear Mirandola,” replied the visitor, “I will take leave to call into council a friend whose presence is always profitable.”
So saying, he took out a cigar-case, and offered it to his companion.
“We have smoked together in palaces,” said Mirandola, accepting the proffer with a delicate white hand.
“But not these cigars,” replied the general. “They are superb, my only reward for all my transatlantic work, and sometimes I think a sufficient one.”
“And Jenny shall give us a capital cup of coffee,” said Mirandola; “it is the only hospitality that I can offer my friends. Give me a light, my general; and now, how are things?”
“Well, at the first glance, very bad; the French have left Rome, and we are not in it.”
“Well, that is an infamy not of today or yesterday,” replied Mirandola, “though not less an infamy. We talked over this six months ago, when you were over here about something else, and from that moment unto the present I have with unceasing effort labored to erase this stigma from the human consciousness, but with no success. Men are changed; public spirit is extinct; the deeds of ‘48 are to the present generations as incomprehensible as the Punic wars, or the feats of Marius against the Cimbri. What we want are the most natural things in the world, and easy of attainment because they are natural. We want our metropolis, our native frontiers, and true liberty. Instead of these, we have compromises, conventions, provincial jealousies, and French prefects. It is disgusting, heart-rending; sometimes I fear my own energies are waning. My health is wretched; writing and speaking are decidedly bad for me, and I pass my life in writing and speaking. Toward evening I feel utterly exhausted, and am sometimes, which I thought I never could be, the victim of despondency. The loss of the doctor was a severe blow, but they hurried him out of the place. The man of Paris would never rest till he was gone. I was myself thinking of once more trying Switzerland, but the obstacles are great; and, in truth, I was at the darkest moment when Jenny brought me the light of your name.”
The general, who had bivouacked on a group of small chairs, his leg on one, his elbow on another, took his cigar from his mouth and delivered himself of a volume of smoke, and then said dryly: “Things may not be so bad as they seem, comrade. Your efforts have not been without fruit. I have traced them in many quarters, and, indeed, it is about their possible consequences that I have come over to consult with you.”
“Idle words, I know, never escape those lips,” said Mirandola; “speak on.”
“Well,” said the general, “you see that people are a little exhausted by the efforts of last year; and it must be confessed that no slight results were a............