“What you are proposing is a serious matter, General.”

  “Therefore I said it is for the Queen alone to take such a responsibility.”

  The Queen reflected for a moment, with wrinkled forehead, with frowning eyebrows, a hardened look and a clenched hand.

  “Good,” said she. “I take it.”

  Acton gazed at her.

  “I have told you that I take it. To work!”

  Acton approached the wounded man’s bed, felt his pulse, and returning to the Queen said, “He will not regain consciousness for a couple of hours, and now I should like a chafing-dish, fire and a flat-iron.”

  “Ring then, and ask for what you require, as you are known to be here.”

  “But your Majesty is not known to be.”

  “True,” said the Queen, and she concealed herself behind the window curtain.

  Acton’s secretary came in answer to the ring.

  “Ah! it is you, Dick?” said Acton.

  “Yes, milord; I thought that possibly your Excellency might require things in which a servant would be of no use.”

  “You are right. First get me and as soon as possible a stove, lighted charcoal and a flat-iron; and do not go out of call; I shall probably need you later.”

  When the young man had left the room, and Acton had closed the door after him, “Are you sure of this young man?” asked the Queen.

  “As of myself, madame.”

  “What do you call him?”

  “Richard Menden; Dick for short.”

  Five minutes afterwards steps were heard.

  “Since it is Richard,” said Acton, “your Majesty need not hide; besides, we shall need him immediately to re-write the letter; for the King would recognise our hands at once.”

  “True,” and the Queen seated herself with her back to the door. The young man came in with the objects asked for, and put them down near the fireplace; then he went out without seeming to have noticed that someone was in the room whom he had not previously seen.

  Acton lit a fire in the little stove; and opening the medicine cupboard, brought out a little bottle of oxalic acid, cut the feather of a pen to serve as a brush for the liquid, folded the letter in such a way as to safeguard the three last lines and the imperial signature from all contact with the letter, poured the acid upon the paper and spread it with the feather of the pen.

  The Queen followed these proceedings with curiosity mingled with uneasiness, afraid that it would ill-succeed or not succeed at all; but to her great satisfaction, she saw the ink first turn yellow, then white, then disappear under the biting acid.

  Acton took out his handkerchief, and using it as a pad, sponged the letter. That done, the paper became perfectly blank; he took the iron, spread the letter on some sheets of paper, and ironed it as one irons linen.

  “There now,” said he, “while the paper dries let us compose his Majesty the Emperor of Austria’s reply.”

  The Queen dictated it. Here is the text word for word: —

  “Schœnbrunn, 28 September, 1798. “My most excellent brother, cousin, uncle, ally and confederate, “Nothing could please me better than your letter in which you promise me to submit yourself on every point to my advice. News which reaches me from Rome informs me that the French army is in the most complete prostration; quite as much as the army of Upper Italy.

  “Undertake the one, my most excellent brother, cousin and uncle, ally and confederate; I will undertake the other. The moment I learn that you are at Rome, I, for my part, open a campaign with 140,000 men; you have 60,000, I am expecting 40,000 Russians; these are more than required, in order that the coming treaty of peace, instead of being called the treaty of Campo-Formico, may be called the treaty of Paris.”

  “Will that do?” asked the Queen.

  “Excellent!” said Acton.

  “Then it only remains to copy.”

  Acton made sure that the paper was perfectly dry, ironed out the protecting fold in it, went to the door and called Dick.

  The young man came at once.

  “Place yourself at this table,” said Acton, “and copy this rough draft on to this letter in a slightly disguised hand.”

  The secretary sat down without remark, and, apparently without surprise, took up the pen as if the matter were perfectly simple, did as bidden, and rose, awaiting further orders.

  Acton examined the letter by the light of the candles: there was nothing to indicate the treason which had just been committed; he re-inserted the letter in its cover, held the wax over the flame again, let fall on this first stratum another in order to efface all trace of the opening of the letter, and impressed upon it the seal which he had had made in facsimile of the Emperor’s.

  After which he returned the despatch to the leather pocket, buttoned up again the courier’s jacket, and, taking a taper, examined the wound for the first time.

  There was a bad contusion on the head, the skin was cut for about two inches, but there was no injury to the skull.

  “Dick,” said he; “you are to send for a doctor at Santa-Maria; while he is being found, which will take about an hour, you are to administer to this man, spoonful by spoonful, about a glassful of boiling green coffee. The doctor will think that he has been inhaling salts, or that his temples were rubbed with ether to make him come to; let him think so; he will bandage the wounded man, who will continue his way on foot or in a carriage, as he is able. The wounded man,” continued Acton, laying stress on each word, “was picked up after his fall by the house servants, carried by them at. your bidding into the dispensary, tended by you and the doctor; he has seen neither me nor the Queen, neither have the Queen or I seen him. You hear?”

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  “And now,” said Acton, returning to the Queen, “you can let things go of themselves, and go back to the drawing-room without anxiety. All will happen as ordered.”

  The Queen looked once more at the secretary; then when the door had shut: “You have a valuable man in him, General,” she said.

  “He is not mine; he is yours, madame, as is everything I possess,” and he bowed as he made way for her to pass.

  When the Queen returned to the drawing-room, Emma Hamilton, wrapped in purple cashmere with gold fringes, amid the frenzied applause of the spectators, was falling back on a sofa with all the abandon of a professional dancer who has just obtained her greatest success; and truly, never did a ballet dancer of San Carlo throw her public into such intoxication, so that the moment had come when, by an imperceptible attraction, the circle round her had contracted till she had scarcely room to breathe; but at sight of the Queen the crowd opened out to let her reach Emma; and the applause redoubled. It was well known that to praise her favourite’s grace, talent and magic was the surest way to pay court to Caroline.

  “From what I see and hear,” said the latter, “it appears to me that Emma has kept her word to you. She must now rest; besides it is one o’clock in the morning, and Caserta from Naples — my thanks that you have forgotten it — is distant several miles.”

  All understood this as a dismissal in due form; the Queen gave her hand to kiss to three or four of the more favoured, detained Nelson and his two friends, and calling to her the Marchioness of San Clemente: “My dear Elena; you will be on duty with me the day after to-morrow.”

  “Your Majesty would say to-morrow; for, as you have observed, it is one o’clock in the morning; I prize this honour too much to allow it to be postponed for a single day.”

  “I am going to vex you a good deal then, my dear Elena,” said the Queen with a smiling expression difficult to define; “but Countess San Marco asks my permission — with yours granted naturally — to take your place, and begs you to take hers; she has something of importance doing next week. You don’t see anything inconvenient in this exchange?”

  “Nothing, madame, but the postponement for a day of the happiness of paying my court.”

  “Well, then, it is settled; you are entirely free tomorrow, my dear Marchioness.”

  “I shall probably take advantage of it by going into the country with the Marquis San Clemente.”

  “That’s right,” said the Queen; “here is an example.” And she saluted the Marchioness, who, detained by her, was the last to make her curtsey and leave.

  The Queen was then alone with Acton, Emma, the two officers and Nelson.

  “My dear lord,” said she to the latter, “I have reason to think that to-morrow or the following day the King will receive from Vienna news relative to the war confirming your opinion; for you continue to hold, do you not, that the sooner one begins a campaign the better it will be.”

  “Not only do I think so, madame, but if this advice is taken, I am ready to lend you the support of the English fleet.”

  “We shall profit by it, milord; but it is not that which I have to ask of you for the instant.”

  “Whatever the Queen commands, I am ready to obey.”

  “I know, milord, how greatly the King confides in you; to-morrow, even though the reply from Vienna be favourable to war, he will still hesitate; a letter from your lordship, in the same sense as that of the Emperor’s, would remove all his irresolution.”

  “Should it be addressed to the King, madame?”

  “No. My august consort has an invincible repugnance to follow advice given directly; I should therefore prefer it to come in a confidential letter written to Lady Hamilton. Write collectively to her and Sir William; to her as my best friend, to Sir William as the King’s; coming by double rebound, the advice will influence him more.”

  “As Your Majesty is aware,” said Nelson, “I am neither diplomat nor politician; my letter will be that of a sailor who says frankly, roughly even, what he thinks, and not anything else.”

  “It is all I ask of you, milord. Besides, you are going away with the Captain-General, you will talk on the way; as no doubt something important will be decided in the morning, come and dine at the palace; Baron Mack dines there, you will combine your movements.”

  Nelson bowed.

  “We shall be by ourselves,” continued the Queen. “Emma and Sir William will be with us. We must urge and press the King; I should return to Naples myself this evening if my poor Emma were not so fatigued. You know, however,” added the Queen, lowering her voice, “that it is for you and for you only, my dear admiral, that she has said and done all the exquisite things you have seen and heard.” Then still lower: “She obstinately declined, but I told her I was sure she would enrapture you; all her obstinacy gave way in that hope.”

  “Oh, madame, I entreat you!” said Emma.

  “There, don’t blush, and give your beautiful hand to our hero; I would give him mine willingly, but I am sure he will prefer yours; mine will be therefore for these gentlemen.” And, in fact, she held out her hands to the officers, who each kissed one, while Nelson, grasping Emma’s with more passion perhaps than royal etiquette permitted, carried it to his lips.

  “Is it true,” he asked in a low voice, “that it was for me you consented to recite, sing and go through that dance which has made me madly jealous?”

  Emma gazed at him as she was accustomed when she wished to deprive her admirers of the little reason left to them; then with a tone still more intoxicating than her look: “Ungrateful being,” said she; “he asks!”

  “His Excellency the Captain-General’s carriage,” announced a footman.

  “Gentlemen,” said Acton, “when you are ready.”

  Nelson and the two officers made their bows.

  “Has Your Majesty any private commands for me?” said Acton to the Queen just as they were going.

  “Yes,” said she; “at nine this evening the three State inquisitors in the dark room.”

  Acton bowed and went out; the two officers were already in the anti-chamber.

  “At last!” said the Queen, throwing an arm round Emma’s neck, and embracing her with the warmth which she put into all her actions; “I thought that we should never be alone!....”

  CHAPTER XII.

  IN WHICH THE KING WASHES HIS HANDS, AND THE QUEEN INSTRUCTS HER INQUISITORS.

  ONE of the great diversions at Naples, on the approach of Christmas, used to be and still is the making of crèches. In 1798 there were few of the great houses without one of some kind, and King Ferdinand was specially renowned for his, for which he had had constructed a theatre on the ground-floor of the palace. Private cribs, according to the wealth of their owners, cost from about five to fifteen thousand francs; and the objects of which they were composed served the same purpose year after year. Ferdinand, however, used to spend on his about two or three hundred thousand francs, and after it had been on view for a couple of months it was dismantled and the precious objects bestowed upon his favourites as special marks of approbation.

  The crèche for 1798 was to be more splendid than ever; it was not yet complete, and already very large sums had been spent, which, as money was needed for the war, was the reason why he had pressed for payment of the house of Baker’s share in the twenty-five million loan the previous evening.

  The eight millions, weighed and counted, had been, according to Andrew Baker’s promise, transported during the night from the bank cellars to those of the palace. And, Ferdinand, radiant, no longer afraid of a lack of money, had sent for Cardinal Ruffo, firstly to show him the crib and ask his opinion on it, and secondly to await with him the return of Ferrari, who should have reached

  Naples during the night, or at the very latest, in the morning.

  Meanwhile, he was discussing the merits of Saint Éphrem with Fra Pacifico, who was to have the honour of a place in the crib, in consequence of which he and his ass Jacobino were being posed by a sculptor, who was modelling them in clay preparatory to carving them in wood. As it was impossible for Fra Pacifico to pursue his usual avocations during the sittings, the King’s head cook had been charged with filling his baskets, to the great satisfaction of man and beast, who never in their wildest and most ambitious dreams had hoped for the honour of being face to face with the King.

  Ferdinand was in the midst of making Fra Pacifio relate the legend — swollen to formidable proportions — of how the butcher had been attacked by a whole army of Jacobins, when the arrival of Cardinal Ruffo interrupted the recital, for the Cardinal recognised the monk and knew the abominable crime of which he had been the cause, and turned aside to examine the crib. The King did not send Fra Pacifico away empty-handed however; besides the loads of fish, vegetables, wine and meat from the royal kitchens, Ferdinand made an order to pay him a hundred ducats for each sitting, as alms, and demanded his blessing in dismissing him, and whilst the monk, a blesser worthy of the blest, with a heart bounding with pride was going away on his ass, he went to rejoin Ruffo.

  “Well, Eminence,” he was saying, “there is no news of Ferrari, generally so punctual, and so I have sent for you to help me pass the time while waiting for him.”

  “And you have done well, sire,” replied Ruffo, “for on crossing the courtyard I saw a horse covered with sweat taken to the stable, and in the distance a man being supported under the armpits. This man was going up to your apartment with difficulty; I thought I recognised the poor devil you expect by his jack boots, leather breeches, and laced jacket; perhaps he has had an accident.”

  At this moment a footman appeared. “Sire,” said he, “the courier, Antonio Ferrari, has arrived, and is waiting in your study that your Majesty may be pleased to receive the despatches he brings.”

  “Here is our reply, Eminence,” said the King, and without even asking if Ferrari were hurt, Ferdinand went quickly to his room by a secret staircase, and was there with Ruffo before the courier, who delayed by his wound, could go but slowly, and was obliged to pause at each ten steps. Some moments later, the door opened and Ferrari, still supported by the two men, appeared on the threshold, pale, with his head wrapped in a bloodstained bandage.

  On seeing the King, Ferrari, as if his master’s presence gave him strength, took three steps forward, and whilst the men who held him up withdrew, shutting the door behind them, he pulled the despatch from his pocket and presented it to the King.

  “Good,” said Ferdinand for all thanks; “there’s my imbecile who let himself fall; and where did it happen?”

  “In the castle courtyard; the master of the post at Capua told me the King was at Caserta.”

  “You hear, Cardinal?” said the King. “And how did it happen?” he asked Ferrari; and when he had been informed, “Hum!” he responded, and turning over the letter as if he hesitated to open it, “Let us see what my nephew writes, Cardinal.”

  “If your Majesty permits,” replied Ruffo, pushing forward an armchair, “the messenger had best be seated, and I will give him a glass of water, and some salts,” and indeed Ferrari fell into the chair almost fainting. “Perhaps his friend Jupiter may help to revive him,” added Ruffo, as whining and scratching were heard at the door, and he went to open it. The King frowned and became absorbed in the letter, while Jupiter, keeping as far from him as possible, edged towards the courier.

  “Did the Emperor write this letter himself?” asked Ferdinand of Ferrari, handing it to the Cardinal.

  “I do not know, sire; but it was he who gave it to me.”

  “And since then no one has seen it? It has not left you?”

  “It was in my pocket when I fainted; and when I recovered consciousness.”

  “And what was done with you in the interval?”

  “M. Acton’s secretary carried me into the dispensary.”

  “Who bandaged you?”

  “The doctor from Santa-Maria. I saw only him and the secretary.”

  “What do you think of the letter, Cardinal?” asked Ferdinand.

  “It is in precise terms. The news originates from Rome the same as ours.”

  “The body of the letter is not in his own hand, though,” returned Ferdinand suspiciously.