“Thanks, thanks. And what is this handsome young lieutenant who allows himself to resemble my son?”

  “One of the seven guards you have given to their Royal Highnesses,” said the Queen; “M. di Cesare is of good Corsican family, sire, and, besides, the epaulette ennobles.”

  “When he who wears it does not disgrace it

  Serve my cousins well, M. di Cesare.” The King made a sign, and everyone sat down, although no one ate anything.”

  “And now,” said Ferdinand to the Queen, “d’Ascoli will relate how it is he come to have changed clothes.”

  “It is not for me, sire, to boast of the honour Your Majesty has done me.”

  “He calls that an honour! Poor d’Ascoli!

  Well, I will tell you about it myself. Imagine that it came to my ears that those wretched Jacobins had vowed to hang me if I fell into their hands.”

  “They would have been quite capable of it.”

  “Ah! Well, as we left just as we were, without time to disguise ourselves, at Albano I said to d’Ascoli: ‘Give me your coat and take mine, then if these wolves of Jacobins catch us they will think you are the King and will let me escape; and when I am safe, you can explain.’ But poor d’Ascoli didn’t reflect on one thing,” added the King, bursting out laughing, “and that is that they wouldn’t have given him time to explain, but would have hanged him first and have left the explanation till afterwards.”

  “Sire, I did think of it,” replied the Duke, “and that is why I did it.”

  Again the King felt touched by devotion so noble and so simple. “D’Ascoli,” said he, “keep this coat, those ribbons and orders in remembrance of the day when you offered to save your King’s life, and I will keep yours as a remembrance also. If you ever have a favour to ask or a reproach to make, put on that coat and come to me.”

  “Bravo, sire,” cried di Cesare, “that is something like a reward!”

  “Young man,” said Madame Adelaide, “do you forget that you have the honour to speak to a King?”

  “Pardon, Your Highness, it was never more present to my mind, for I have never seen a King greater.”

  “Ah! Ah!” said Ferdinand. - “There’s some good in that young man. Come here! What is your name?”

  “Di Cesare, sire.”

  - “Di Cesare, I make you a captain. Monsieur Acton, see he gets his brevet to-morrow; and add a present of a thousand ducats.”

  “Sire,” said Nelson, “permit me to felicitate you; you have been twice a king this evening.”

  “For the days when I forget to be one, milord,” replied Ferdinand; then, turning to the Duke, “Well, d’Ascoli, is it a bargain?”

  “Yes, sire, and the gratitude is all on my side. But might I ask Your Majesty to return me a little snuff box from my pocket in exchange for this letter from His Majesty the Emperor of Austria, of which Your Majesty has read only the first line?”

  The King took the letter, and opening it mechanically, began to read, but at the second or third line his expression suddenly changed, and visibly darkened.

  The Queen and Acton exchanged a look, and eyed the letter with avidity, the King continuing to read with increasing agitation.

  “I hope there is no bad news,” said the Queen.

  “Oh, no; something I was not expecting, that’s all.”

  At that moment a footman approached the King and said something in a low tone, to which the King replied: “Good, and tell Ferrari not to budge. I shall want him in a quarter of an hour.” Then, turning to the Queen,” Madame,” said he, “you will excuse my leaving you, but, as you may imagine, I need repose,” and addressing the aged Princesses, “Ladies, I had hoped to offer you a safer and more durable hospitality, but I shall have

  no uneasiness on your Royal Highnesses’ account so long as you have for bodyguard Captain di Cesare and his companions.” He then took leave of Nelson, saying that he counted on him, and on d’Ascoli, and finally turning to the English ambassador: “Sir William Hamilton,” he went on, “you will remember that, like Pilate, I washed my hands of anything that might happen?”

  “Perfectly, sire.”

  “Well, it concerns me no longer; it concerns those who have acted without consulting me, and who, when they did consult me, did not desire to listen to my advice.” And having enveloped with the same reproachful look the Queen and Acton, he went out.

  The Queen approached Acton quickly. “Did you hear?” said she. “He spoke Ferrari’s name after having read the Emperor’s letter.”

  “I heard, madame; but Ferrari knows nothing; he was in a swoon the whole time.”

  “No matter! it will be prudent to rid ourselves of that man.”

  “Well,” said Acton; “he will be got rid of.”

  The King had sent for Cardinal Ruffo, who was awaiting him in his apartment, as Ferdinand hurriedly entered crying, “First of all, pardon, my dear Cardinal, for having waked you up at two in the morning, but never have I had more need of my friend’s devotion.”

  “Your Majesty honours me. I presume that General Mack is defeated, and I am not surprised.”

  “But why did you advise war then?”

  “Your Majesty will recall that it was on the one condition that the Emperor of Austria would march on the Mincio at the same time that Your Majesty marched on Rome; but it seems that he did not do so.”

  “No, and thereby hangs a mystery. You perfectly remember the Emperor’s letter I showed you, saying that he would take the field as soon as I was in Rome; well, now study this other letter that I received there just as I was putting my foot in the stirrup, and which I have only just read through, and see if you can make anything of it, sorcerer that you are,” and he handed the letter to the Cardinal, who began, “My dear brother and cousin, uncle and father-in-law, ally and confederate...

  “Go on,” interrupted the King, as he stopped.

  The Cardinal continued: “In the first place, permit me to felicitate you on your triumphant entry into Rome. The God of battles has protected you, and I return him thanks for the protection he has accorded you; that is all the more fortunate as there seems to be a great misunderstanding between us.”

  The Cardinal looked at the King and continued: “You tell me in the letter that you do me the honour to write me to announce your victories that I have only on my part to keep my promise as you have kept yours; and you tell me clearly that this promise I made you was to begin a campaign directly you should be in Rome...”

  “You remember perfectly, don’t you, Your Eminence, that my nephew, the Emperor, made that engagement? besides,” continued the King, who while the Cardinal was reading had opened his portfolio and had taken out the first missive, “we are about to judge of that: here is my dear nephew’s letter; we will compare the two. Go on, go on.”

  The Cardinal continued: “Not only I did not promise that, but, on the contrary, I wrote to you positively that I should not begin a campaign till the arrival of General Souvorov and his forty thousand Russians, that is to say towards the approaching month of April. I am the more sure of what I say, my dear uncle and father-in-law, that, in accordance with the advice given me by Your Majesty, I wrote the letter that I had the honour to address to you entirely in my own hand, and that I might depart in nothing from what I had the honour to say to Your Majesty, I had a copy made by my secretary. I send you this copy so that you can compare it with the original and assure yourself with your own eyes that there could not have been in my phrases, any ambiguity to lead you into such an error. And as I had the honour to tell Your Majesty,I am doubly happy that Providence has blessed your arms; for if, instead of being victorious, you had been defeated, it would have been impossible for me, without failing in my engagements with my Prussian confederates, to go to your help, and I should have been obliged, to my great regret, to abandon you to your bad fortune; this would have been a great disappointment, which, happily, Providence has spared me in granting victory. And now receive, my dear brother and cousin.”

  “Et cetera, et cetera! “. interrupted the King. “Ah!... And now, my dear Cardinal, let us look at the copy of the pretended letter, of which, luckily, I have preserved the original.”

  The copy was, in fact, enclosed in the letter. Ruffo had it in his hand, and he read it. It was in truth a copy of the despatch which had been unsealed by the Queen and Acton, and which, as it did not appear to second their desire, had been replaced by the forged letter which the King had in his hand ready to compare with the copy sent him by Francis II. Our readers will remember the contents of the original despatch, and can therefore judge of the King’s amazement as the Cardinal read aloud to him first the copy of the original despatch and then the forged letter which he had taken from his portfolio, and the contents of which were so diametrically different. The reading finished, the Cardinal became pensive.

  “Well, Your Eminence; what do you think of it?” said the King.

  “That the Emperor is right, but that Your Majesty is not wrong.”

  “Which means?”

  “That beneath it all there is, as Your Majesty has said, some terrible mystery perhaps; more than a mystery, some treason.”

  “Treason; and in whose interest was it to betray me?”

  “Let us try to discover. I ask no better than to be Your Majesty’s sleuthhound. Jupiter found Ferrari.... and, by-the-bye, it would not be a bad thing to question Ferrari a little.”

  “It was my first idea; I have had him sent for,” and the King rang, and told his footman to fetch the courier.

  “Your Majesty told me you were sure of this man?” said the Cardinal.

  “I said I thought I was sure.”

  “Well, I will go further,” returned Ruffo. “I am quite sure.”

  Ferrari appeared on the threshold, booted, spurred and ready to set out.

  “Come here, my good man,” said the King. “At Your Majesty’s orders. Despatches, sire?”

  “It is not a question of despatches this evening, my friend, but merely of answering our questions.”

  “Question him, Cardinal.”

  “My friend,” said Ruffo to the courier, “the King has the greatest confidence in you.”

  “I believe I have merited it by fifteen years of good and loyal service.”

  “That is why the King begs you to exert your memory, and desires through me to warn you that it concerns a very important matter. No doubt you recollect the smallest details of your journey to Vienna? Was it indeed the Emperor who himself gave you the letter you brought to the King?”

  “It was the Emperor himself, as I have already had the honour of telling His Majesty.”

  “Where did you put the Emperor’s letter?”

  “In this pocket,” said Ferrari, opening his jacket.

  “Where did you stop?”

  “Nowhere, except to change horses.”

  “Where did you sleep?”

  “I did not sleep?”

  “Hum!” said the Cardinal; “but you told us of an accident.”

  “In the courtyard of the castle, monseigneur, where I fainted.”

  “Where did you come to yourself?”

  “In the dispensary.”

  “How long were you unconscious?”

  “My horse fell under me at about one o’clock in the morning. When I came to it was daybreak, about half-past five.”

  “Who was with you then?”

  “M. Richard, the Captain-General’s secretary, and the surgeon from Santa Maria.”

  “You did not suspect anyone of having touched your letter?”

  “The first thing I did was to feel for it. I examined the seal and envelope; they seemed to me to be intact.”

  “Then you had some suspicion?”

  “No, monseigneur, I acted instinctively.”

  “And then?”

  “Then, as the surgeon had dressed my wound while I was unconscious, I was given some broth; I came away, and I handed my letter to His Majesty, as you know.”

  “Yes, my dear Ferrari, and I believe I may assure the King that you acted as a good and loyal servant throughout. This is all we had to ask of you, is it not, sire?”

  “Yes,” replied Ferdinand.

  “His Majesty permits you to withdraw then, and to take the rest of which you must be in need.”

  “Dare I ask His Majesty if I have abused his kindness in any way?”

  “On the contrary, my dear Ferrari,” said the King, “you are more than ever the man I trust.”

  Ferrari withdrew happy.

  “Well,” asked Ferdinand, “as he told you, Your Eminence, the seal and the envelope were intact.”

  “It is easy to take the imprint of a seal.”

  “But then one would have had to forge the Emperor’s signature?”

  “Not necessarily, sir. Suppose one had had a seal with the head of Marcus Aurelius; one could have melted the wax of the seal by holding it above a taper, have opened the letter, have folded it thus....” And Ruffo folded it, actually, as Acton had done.

  “Why fold it like that?” enquired the King.

  “To preserve the heading and the signature; then, with some acid, to remove the writing, and instead of what was there, put what there is at present.”

  “Do you think that possible, Your Eminence?”

  “Nothing easier; and I would even say that it is a perfect explanation.”

  “Cardinal! Cardinal!” said the King, after having attentively examined the letter, “you are a very clever man. And now, what is to be done, in your opinion?”

  “Allow me the remainder of the night for reflection,” replied Ruffo, “and to-morrow we will speak of this again.”

  “My dear Ruffo,” said the King, “do not forget that if I do not make you Prime Minister it is because I am not the master.”

  “I am so convinced of it, sire, that I am just as grateful to you as if you had.” And, bowing to the King with his customary respect, the Cardinal went out, leaving His Majesty lost in admiration of him.

  Scarcely had the King left the dining-hall to confer with Cardinal Ruffo, as just related, than as if he had been the sole link uniting the guests agitated with their various emotions, each hastened to seek his own chamber.

  The Queen informed Sir William that after the news now brought by her husband, she had too much need of a friend to let her dear Emma go. Sir William sought his apartment to draw up a report for his Government, and Nelson, with head bent and heart pre-occupied with gloomy forebodings, returned to his room. He, also, like Sir William, had a letter to write, but it was a private one. He was not commander-in-chief in the Mediterranean, but under the orders of Admiral Lord St. Vincent; not a galling inferiority; the admiral treating him rather as a friend than an inferior.

  This intimacy between Nelson and his commander-in-chief comes out clearly in their correspondence which is preserved, which reveals in all its details the irresistible progress of Nelson’s mad passion for Lady Hamilton, and which would be Nelson’s excuse in the eyes of posterity, if posterity, which for two thousand years has condemned the lover of Cleopatra, could reverse its judgment.

  Fresh from the impression made by the King’s news, no sooner did Nelson enter his apartment than he went straight to his desk, and troubled at thought of the changes, public and private, foreshadowed, began the following letter: —

  “To Admiral Lord St. Vincent. “My Dear Lord, “The face of events has greatly changed since my last letter dated from Leghorn, and I much fear that His Majesty the King of the Two Sicilies may be on the point of losing one of his kingdoms, and perhaps both.

  “General Mack, as I suspected, and as I think I even told you, was only a braggart who had gained his reputation as a great general, I don’t know where, but certainly not on battlefields; to be sure he had under his command a sad army; but who would suppose that sixty thousand men would let themselves be beaten by ten thousand!

  “The Neapolitan officers had not much honour to lose, but they lost all they had.”

  Nelson had got thus far with his letter when he heard behind him a noise as of butterfly’s wings. He turned and beheld Lady Hamilton. He turned with a joyful exclamation, but Emma, with a charming smile, put a finger to her lips, and, laughing and gracious as a figure of happy silence, signed to him to be quiet. Then, coming to his armchair, she leaned over the back and said in a low voice: “Follow me, Horatio; our dear Queen is waiting for you and wishes to speak to you before seeing her husband again.”

  Nelson sighed, thinking that a few words from London, by changing his destination, might part him from this sorceress, whose every gesture, word and caress was a fresh link in the chain by which he was already bound; he rose unsteadily from his seat, attacked by that dizziness he always had, when, after a short absence he saw once more that dazzling beauty.

  “Lead me,” said he; “you know that I am blind to everything as soon as I see you.”

  Emma detached the gauze scarf wound round her head which she used both as hood and veil, as one may see in Isabey’s miniatures, and throwing him an end which he seized and carried feverishly to his lips:

  “Come, my dear Theseus,” said she,’ “here is the thread of the labyrinth if you must abandon me like another Ariadne. Only, I warn you that should such a misfortune happen, I should not let myself be consoled by anyone, even by a god!”

  Nelson followed her; had she led him to hell he would have gone down into it with her.

  The Queen was sitting on a sofa in the boudoir which separated Emma’s room from hers. There was an angry light in her eyes.

  “Come, Nelson, my defender,” said she, indicating a place at her side, “I have need indeed that the sight of and contact with a hero may console me for our disgrace Did you see that crowned buffoon, the messenger of his own shame? Did you hear him mocking at his own cowardice? Ah! Nelson, Nelson, it is mournful when one is a proud and courageous woman to have for a spouse a King who knows how to wield neither sceptre nor sword.”

  Emma, seated on cushions at the Queen’s feet, bent upon him whom it was her mission to fascinate her most magnetic looks, and fingered his cross and ribbons; while Nelson responded, “The fact is, madame, that the King is a great philosopher.”