Читать книгу The Emperor and his Double - Ambrose Pratt - Страница 4

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"Seize that man!"

"Seize that man!"

Ségur, the Captain of the Guard, examined in startled amazement this miraculous presentment of two men, so perfectly resembling each other that he was unable to detect the minutest point of difference between them. He occupied a moment in endeavoring to collect himself, to assure himself that this was not an illusion; another in vainly attempting to determine which of the orders he had received it was his duty to obey. His indecision drew upon him a rebuke. The man who stood slightly to his left hand frowned, and pointed to the other.

"Obey your orders, sir!" he commanded, in clear, incisive tones.

Ah, that voice. Ségur would have known it among ten thousand. It had rung in his ears at Rivion; he had heard it addressed to the soldiers of Italy, and its magic charm had sent a thrill into the blood of thousands and carried an army mad with enthusiasm to victory against unnumbered odds. With a salute he sprang forward to obey, to arrest the impudent imposter who had dared to personate his general, when, with a like commanding gesture, the other pointed sternly and opened his lips to speak.

"Obey your orders, sir," he said, in low, contemptuous tones.

Ségur fell back dazed, bewildered, turning foolishly from one to the other, and muttering first "General" to one and then "General" to the other. Even the voices of the two were indistinguishable.

For the first time the chief actors in this drama, as if moved by a simultaneous impulse, turned and looked steadily at each other, one to frown in angry amazement at the extraordinary semblance to himself, the other to smile in contented self-gratulation.

"Who are you?" demanded the man on the left.

"Who are you?" responded the other, like an echo.

"What do you want with me?"

"What do you want with me?"

"Perhaps this is a plot to murder me," cried suddenly the man on the left, putting his hand up to his forehead, as if overcome with a sudden fear. "Ségur observe how he imitates me; watch this man carefully. Come closer, Ségur."

Napoleon's aide-de-camp, as if re-assured by this quick-spoken order, gave a sigh of relief, and approached with determination the other man, giving, at the same time a sign to two attendant Mamelukes to assist him. He had almost placed a hand upon the shoulder of the other man when he was confronted by the same order, hissed this time, rather than spoken, and still seemingly in the First Consul's voice.

"This is a plot to murder me, Ségur. Watch this man carefully."

The soldiers fell back mystified, but Ségur showed himself a man of resource.

"Ali, Roustan," he said quickly, "approach. There is a plot against the General—against his life, perhaps. Do you, Ali, watch this one, and you, Roustan, that one, and whose shall make a threatening gesture, that one immediately arrest."

The two Mamelukes approached to within a yard of the Consul and the other, and stood mutely at attention. The man on the left had listened to this order from the captain of the guard as if pondering on its efficacy, but when a soldier approached he appeared to be overcome by the indignity offered him. He stamped his foot upon the floor in sudden passion.

"Fall back!" he cried indignantly.

Like an echo came a similar order from the other man, "Fall back!"

The two Mamelukes retired to the other side of the room, their stoic Eastern faces showing no sign of bewilderment. But Ségur bit his lip with disappointment at the failure of his plan.

"Retire out of hearing," was the next order from the man on the left.

Ségur saluted, but did not immediately obey. He looked enquiringly towards the man on the right, for he had now two masters.

"Retire," said the man on the right, with a curious smile.

When he could speak without being overheard the man on the left approached his companion, and said in a lone tone, full of warning and command. "Now speak, sir. Who are you? What do you want with me?"

The other shrugged his shoulders and glanced expressively at the Mamelukes, who were watching them intently from across the room.

"I wish to speak with you alone," he muttered.

The First Consul considered, and the shadow of his thoughts fell upon his face, and marked his features with a frown, while for an almost inappreciable instant his lips quivered with anxiety; then, in a breath, all was calm. The frown faded from his forehead; the sensitive lips smoothed themselves into a firm, decisive line; and the deep, impenetrable eyes looked forth, cold, emotionless, and calculating upon the difficulty that confronted him. A hundred thoughts and speculations flitted across his mind in a moment, chief among which was the fear that this duplicate of himself was an emissary sent by his foes to assassinate him, and so mar the destiny of France, a destiny inseparably linked with his. Militating against this fear, however, a fear inspired by no personal cowardice, but rather by the watchfulness of unsleeping ambition, were ranked the sublime self-consciousness of power, the innate foreshadowings of his fate, the grand belief in himself which always marked the character of Napoleon Buonaparte. A subtle instinct taught the other man some of the speculations which induced the First Consul to hesitate; he felt that Napoleon could not submit himself to ridicule, for Napoleon was not only the first man in Europe, by the kindness of Fortune, but an Emperor by disposition—serene, wrapped in a dignity cold and sublime, which surrounded him with an invincible barrier of reserve. Hitherto the man had addressed Napoleon with an impudent assurance, but now, grown servile, he paid him even more than the deference due to his rank, while his voice was insinuating and reverential, almost wheedling.

"I crave a private audience, sire. Do not compel me to again make your Majesty a mock before your servants."

Napoleon smiled—a slow scornful smile. "Such a mock would demand a terrible penalty, sir," he answered, calmly.

"Who shall decide between us?" whispered the other. "Your servants have failed to discover in me an imposter. Who should be more successful, sire—your enemies?"

Napoleon hesitated, sending a searching look into eyes that constantly evaded him.

"Who is your master?" he answered, coldly.

"Yourself, sire."

"Who sent you hither?"

"Myself, sire."

"To assassinate me?"

"To serve you, sire?"

"Speak, then."

"When we are alone. Is the Conqueror of Italy afraid?"

The First Consul walked backwards a few steps, until the space of several feet intervened between them.

"Ségur, approach," he called out in commanding tones.

The First Consul's double looked keenly into Napoleon's face, but read nothing reassuring there, and he immediately prepared to resume his desperate role.

Ségur saluted and hesitatingly approached, but stopped upon observing that he had as yet received no command from his second master, Napoleon's double.

"Ségur, approach," rang out the First Consul's voice, proceeding this time from the lips of his double.

The soldier saluted again and sprang briskly forward, stopping six feet from his masters, and saluting again, each one gravely in turn.

"Retire with your men into my chamber," said Napoleon, curtly.

"Retire," repeated also the First Consul's double.

The aide-de-camp saluted, and, beckoning to his men, filed past the two and disappeared behind some curtains to the left.

The First Consul turned sharply upon the imposter. "Now, sir, speak," he commanded, sternly.

"Are we alone, sir?" questioned the other.

"Speak," repeated Napoleon.

"Can we be seen or overheard, sire?" persisted the other, suspiciously.

"We are alone, sir," said the First Consul, impatiently. "Speak!"

"Those curtains move; they move," cried the imposter in an excited whisper. Napoleon glanced over his shoulder, but as he did so he became aware that the other had moved a few noiseless, catlike steps nearer, and, turning, he beheld his double within a yard of him, glaring with wild eyes into his face, a hand plunged into the lapel of his coat, as if to secure a concealed weapon; his whole body in the attitude of one prepared to spring.

Napoleon met his eyes with the gaze of one used to subduing multitudes by the power of a glance alone, while a sneer wreathed his lips. "Assassin!" he hissed rather than spoke.

The imposter glared at him like an animal at bay, but cowed by the marvellous regard of those fathomless eyes, bent so fearlessly upon him, his own glance first wavered, then fell, and presently he stepped back, abashed and subdued.

"You mistake me, sire," he muttered.

"Ségur," cried Napoleon, aloud.

Instantly the door opened, and, the curtains being pushed aside, the soldier entered the room.

"The little farce is now at an end," said Napoleon. "You will kindly take charge of this fellow."

Ségur saluted, and approached the Consul's double, who now he was surprised to discover, appeared to have entirely abandoned the assurance which had enabled him for a while to sustain so well the role of First Consul of France.

"Permit me, citizen," said Ségur, grimly placing a Mameluke on each side of the imposter.

"Your orders, General?" he asked, turning to Napoleon.

"Wrap a cloak around him, and take him in a closed carriage to Bicêtre," said Napoleon.

The mention of the dungeon had an extraordinary effect upon the prisoner. He burst from the soldiers, and threw himself upon his knees before the First Consul. "The dungeon? Not the dungeon," he cried, imploringly.

"To Bicêtre," repeated Napoleon, sternly; and, turning his back, moved towards the door of his chamber.

"Have mercy on me, brother," cried the prisoner in a loud, resonant voice, laying marked emphasis upon the word "brother."

Napoleon, startled by the word, turned immediately—a strange look on his face. "What is that?" he cried.

The prisoner replied in an outlandish tongue, of which neither Ségur nor, of course, the Mamelukes could make anything, although they perceived that Napoleon, while answering little, understood it perfectly. This tongue was Corsican, and the prisoner had said, "Napoleon, I am thy brother, the son of thy father."

The First Consul stared at the prisoner as if seeking to penetrate his soul, but was met by eyes that gazed unwaveringly into his with every assurance of truth that eyes may give. "Indeed, it is as I say," said the prisoner, "I am thy brother."

"Ah, bah! I know my family," cried Napoleon at last, in Corsican; but even as he spoke the memory of an old scandal, in which his father's name had been involved, gave him a doubt.

The prisoner looked up at him calmly, almost indifferently. "I have proofs," he said.

"Proofs," echoed Napoleon. "Show me your proofs."

For a moment the bold intruder on the household of the Dictator of France faltered. The magnets of those steely eyes which confronted his seemed to be about to draw the truth out of his soul. He felt that if he opened his lips to speak, a rush of naked words would come clamoring forth to betray the murder he had contemplated. The thought of the confessional came to his superstitious mind, and of the terrible threats of the Church against those, who, before the Father Confessor, should dare to utter lies. In the presence of Napoleon he felt as though he were kneeling on a priedieu in the gloomy crypt of a Corsican church. Perhaps those terrible eyes, which had sealed his dagger to his sheath a moment since, had the power also to unseal the secrets of his soul, and to force from him the tale of his murderous daring. If he spoke, would he tell of the hate which had been instilled into his heart day by day, month by month by his mother? Of the mad plan he had conceived of murdering the Man of Destiny, and taking his place before the world?

"Speak, I pray you," Napoleon spoke more softly. He was touched by the face of this stranger, with its weird resemblance to his own.

Gulping down a breath, which seemed as if it would choke him, the prisoner at last commenced, and with the sound of his words grew braver. There is no better staff for the liar's courage than the sound of his own voice.

"My name," he said, "is Paolo Gracci. Your father—our father—before he married with your mother, Letitia Rammolino, won to his love Luccia Gracci. Had you heard?"

Napoleon started. "It is not meet, man," he said coldly, "to recall this old gossip. The Gracci was a wanton. My father is dead. To your own story, sir!"

"It is my story, if I may crave your patience. The gossip of Ajaccio, which you have heard, was not true. Luccia Gracci was no flighty wanderer from one love to another. To Charles Buonaparte she gave as well as her love her life. You have heard her name—alas, so have thousands in Ajaccio, in Corte, in Atala, and on the Isles Sanguinaires—as the name of a woman whose lightly-given love amused for a month, the youth Carlo Buonaparte, to be transferred with the first chance to the lucrative embraces of Marboeuf's officer. But you heard lies. Luccia did not leave Corsica with Colonel Perard. Who said so lied, be it even our father. But I do not believe it was he. His people, though, it may have been—the wretched upstarts—little aristocrats of Tuscany, who wanted blood and money as wedding portions of the bride of their son, and refused to permit his marriage with a Gracci. Blood? We true Corsicans could have given them enough of that, and might ere this have given it, were I true to the vendetta I have——"

"Sir, you do not proceed."

"Pardon, anger carried me away. Luccia Gracci was my mother. She did not leave Charles Buonaparte for another, but for the grave. Betrayed by him, she crept back to her nurse, my foster mother, Adelina Ferrara, whose little vineyard rested on a slope of the Gracci Isle, chief of the Isles of Blood, which glow red in the setting sun seen from Ajaccio. Blood! Money! Charles Buonaparte obeyed his parents to betray a noble name—and defied them to marry neither blood nor money in his fat match with the Rammolino wench——"

"My mother!"

The note of warning in the words made Paolo shiver, as one who had come recklessly to the sheer edge of a precipice. Muttering an apology, he went on with his story. "Luccia Gracci was of noble blood, the last of a great line. There were Graccis in Corsica, tradition tells, when Nero was in Rome. The Isles Sanguinaires were peopled then with the Gracci's slaves. The successive waves of conquest of Saracen, Italian, and Frenchmen did not kill out that Corsican brood."

"Luccia was the last of the line. That she was accounted noble the devotion of the Ferraras showed. The orphan of peasants would not have been reared and sheltered, even after she had been stained by the love of Buonaparte. The last of the Graccis alone could command that devotion on the island which bore the name of her great ancestors. Luccia did not go to Marseilles with Perard; she crept to hide her misery, and perhaps to plan her revenge (for she was a Corsican) back to the little island where she had been nurtured; whose grey olives had looked bright and silvern to her a month before; whose now mournful purple grapes had shone glad and lustrous to her bridal eyes; whose thickets had seen the birth of her love, and now offered her the hope of death. When a woman has loved, sire, and lost, what better than to creep back home. It is perhaps not a merry greeting that she receives, but, as a good Christian like you knows, this should be a vale of tears. Luccia, my mother, sire, shed many of them. She watered the ground around the little cottage of the Ferraras, and dared not enter; but turned back towards the sea, hoping to lose her salt sorrow in its bosom; and then climbed the little hill which crowned the island so as to be nearer the stars, that they might listen to her tale, and nearer to the Blessed Virgin, to whom she might confess her crime. But she could not tell the stars, which looked so pure, nor confess to the Virgin her sin. She went back again towards the sea, and—well, good old Adelina found her next morning in the midst of a maquis, one of our thickets, sire, if you forget your Corsican. The boatman who had rowed my mother from Ajaccio had raised the alarm, and the search was successful. The Isles of Blood are very small, and even one poor woman could not hide her shame in their thickets. Luccia lived, sire, through three months of fever to give me to the world, and—died. The name of Carlo was the last on her lips, and it was linked with love. The Corsican then had died in her, and only the woman lived. Adelina Ferrara reared me, as she had reared my mother, and when I was a man told me my mother's story and gave me our father's letters—few enough, in sooth, as my legacy. She taught me the duty of hate. Since then, my august brother, I have lived and thought. Adelina is dead. The vendetta is dying. Why should I help it to longer life? You are great, powerful, and love your blood. I am of your blood and tired of being buffeted by the Fates. I came to throw myself under the grateful shadow of your name. Open out for me a career such as a brother of the First Consul of France and the Dictator of Europe should follow."

Napoleon pondered, his face as inscrutable and as majestic as that of a sphinx, his eyes glowing with a steady, almost baleful flame. The letters presented by the man before him he had looked at carelessly, seemingly contemptuously, but had nevertheless taken from them the confirmation of Paolo's story. For a moment fate balanced a man's life. The First Consul foresaw the terrible dangers to which the existence of this simulacrum of himself in France would give rise; he recognised also a sinister purpose in the ingeniously-planned intrusion to his palace. "The Mamalukes must strangle him," was the decision of prudence. Then a wave of warm eager longing enveloped the Man of Destiny and made him human. He was ever yearning for the love and comradeship denied to his lofty glacial grandeur. His blood cried out to him to embrace this man, so truly his brother, to purge from Paolo anything that was unworthy and make him a fit friend for an Emperor, the worthiest and most trusted of the marshals and kings who were to support him through the glories of the future. As these ideas surged up into his brain the face of Napoleon changed; the pallor of old weathered marble was sanguined with a warm flush. It was as though the head of a sculptured Caesar on its garden pedestal had caught the rose tints of the rising sun. And the eyes were yet more wonderfully transformed. The cold sharp glare, as of a rapier drawn in anger, was drowned in two profound wells of luminous violet. But in a few seconds reason regained its sway.

"Why this play-acting, this dress to imitate mine, the buffoonery before my soldiers?"

"Pardon, sire. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote, though I could not write as I now speak, and my letters were probably thrown aside as those from a beggar. I waited in your ante-room day after day and never saw you. Finally sire, I remembered that I was your brother, and was bold. A little art, a very little art, made me your twin. I insinuated myself to-day with the company which waits on your greatness, concealing myself as best I could, until I mingled with the courtiers. Then I came boldly in. Thus the brother of Napoleon sought the protection of his mighty kinsman."

A subtle smile visited for an instant the features of Napoleon, to vanish presently in the expressionless calm, the sphinx-like mask, wherewith he usually concealed his thoughts.

"You are ambitious?" he said slowly.

"I am a brother of Napoleon," replied Paolo, who flattered himself that he was courtier and was secretly delighted with this speech.

The First Consul reflected gravely for a moment; then his glance encountered the uniform of his Mamelukes, who stood like statues a few paces distant, and an idea occurred to him.

"You have had a military training. You are in the army, perhaps?" he asked.

Paolo shrugged his shoulders. "I care nothing for soldiering. My august brother has been endowed by Fate with all his family's genius. My poor talents lie in the direction of diplomacy. If I might aspire to some position of government, I would strive to fill it worthily."

Napoleon's lips writhed in a sneer at the other's speech. "A diplomat rather than a soldier?" he said, cuttingly.

Paolo flushed at the reflection cast upon his courage, but nevertheless stood stolidly to his guns. "I care nothing for soldiering," he repeated.

"Perhaps you will name the position of which you are most envious?" suggested Napoleon.

"There are so many. I have given the matter little thought," replied Paolo, upon whose countenance was displayed a sudden light of hope, called up by Napoleon's words.

"You do yourself injustice, sir; you have given this matter more attention than you would have me believe," said the First Consul sternly.

"Believe me, sire——"

"Sire, sire, sire. I am not a king, but a plain citizen."

"I swear to you, brother. I have given this matter no thought. I hardly dared hope——"

"To succeed. You have not succeeded," interrupted Napoleon grimly. "Ségur, take this man to Bicêtre and lodge him with the governor," he cried abruptly, in French.

The captain of the guard signed to Roustan, who advanced to lead Paolo towards the door. "Brother, brother," cried the prisoner imploringly.

"Some day, perhaps—nay, one day—I shall send for you, I promise it to you," answered Napoleon.

Paolo glanced despairingly at the Mamelukes, who, holding him in their iron grasp, forced him outwards. Then, as he reached the door he sent a look of passionate hatred towards the First Consul.

"To the devil with your promise——" he shouted, but a hand of steel closed at once over his mouth.

"Allons," said the captain of the guard. "A Bicêtre."