On the evening of the 20th there was a Council of State: the King announced himself openly and firmly for defence. The Council broke up at midnight. From midnight to one o’clock the Queen stayed in the dark room, and sent for Pasquale di Simone, who received secret instructions from Acton, who was waiting for him there. At half-past one Dick set out for Bénévento, where, two days previously one of the fastest horses in Acton’s stables had been sent by a confidential groom. The 2 ist commenced with one of those tempests which always last for three days at Naples, and which have given rise to this proverb: “Nasce, fasce, mori “ — it is born, has its will, and dies.

  In spite of the alternatives of rain falling in sheets, and of wind blowing in squalls, the people, who, full of emotion, had a vague feeling of a great catastrophe, were blocking up the streets, squares and cross-roads.

  But what pointed to some extraordinary circumstance was that the people were not crowding the old parts of the town; and by the people we mean that multitude of sailors, fishers and lazzaroni who form the population at Naples. On the contrary, one noticed that the most animated groups, while surrounding the royal palace, seemed to be watching Toledo Street and the Strada del Piliero. Finally, three men, already conspicuous in the previous riots, were speaking loudly and agitating heatedly amid these groups. These three men were Pasquale di Simone, the butcher, hideous from his disfigurement, and Fra Pacifico, who, without being in the secret, without knowing what was afoot, giving rein to his violent character, was striking with his laurel stick, now the pavement, now the wall, now poor Jacobino, the scapegoat of the terrible Franciscan’s passions.

  The whole crowd, without knowing what it was waiting for, seemed to expect something or someone; and the King, who knew no more, but whom the concourse made uneasy, hidden behind the Venetian blind of a window on the ground floor, while mechanically petting Jupiter, was watching it as from time to time, like the rumbling of thunder or the roar of a waterfall, it emitted the double cry of “Long live the King!” and “Death to the Jacobins!”

  The Queen, who had ascertained where the King was, kept within the room with Acton, ready to act according to circumstances, whilst Emma in the Queen’s apartment with the Countess San Marco was packing up her royal friend’s most secret papers and most precious jewels.

  Towards eleven o’clock, a young man, exchanging signs with Pasquale -di Simone and the butcher, galloped up on an English horse to the great gate in the palace courtyard, leaped down, threw the bridle to a groom, and as if he had known beforehand where to find the Queen; entered the room where she was waiting with Acton.

  “Well?” they asked together.

  “He is following me,” said he.

  “How soon will he be here?”

  “In half-an-hour.”

  “Are those expecting him warned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, go to my room and tell Lady Hamliton to inform Nelson.”

  The young man went up the servants’ staircase with a rapidity showing how well-known to him were all the ins and outs of the palace, and transmitted the Queen’s wishes to Emma.

  “Have you a safe man to take a note to milord Nelson?”

  “Myself,” replied the young man.

  “Then “She wrote at the Queen’s desk this single line:

  “It will probably be for this evening: hold yourself in readiness.

  “EMMA.”

  The young man went downstairs as promptly as he had come up, crossed the courtyard, took the slope leading to the military port, jumped into a boat, and in spite of wind and rain, had himself taken to the Vanguard, which, with top-gallant masts down, lay at five or six cable’s lengths distant, at anchor, surrounded by other English and Portuguese vessels placed under the command of Admiral Nelson. The young man, no other than Richard, was soon with Nelson in his cabin, and gave him the note.

  “Her Majesty’s orders are about to be carried out,” said Nelson, “and that you may give satisfactory news, you shall be the bearer yourself. Henry,” said he to his flag captain, “have the boat manned ready to take monsieur on board the Alcmène.” Then, putting Emma’s note in his breast, he wrote in his turn:

  “Strictly Private.

  “Three boats and the little cutter from the Alcmène, armed with blank weapons only, to be at the Vittoria at half-past seven precisely.

  “A single boat will signal; the others will remain at a distance with raised oars. The boat to accost will be the Vanguard’s.

  “All the boats will be collected alongside the Alcmène before seven o’clock, under command of Commander Hope.

  “Grappling irons in the boats.

  “All the other boats of the Vanguard and of the Alcmène, armed with knives, and the pinnaces with their grappling irons, will be assembled alongside of the Vanguard, under the command of Captain Hardy, who will depart at eight o’clock precisely to take to the sea half-way from Molosiglio.

  “Each boat should carry from four to six soldiers.

  “In case assistance should be necessary, signals to be made with lights.

  “HORATIO NELSON.”

  “The Alcmène to be ready to pay out in the night, if necessary.”

  While these orders were being received with respect equalling the punctuality with which they were to be executed, a second courier arrived in his turn at the bridge of the Madeleine, and taking the route of the first, reached the Strada del Piliero.

  There! he began to find the crowd denser, and in spite of his dress, in which it was easy to recognise a special courier of the King’s, he found a difficulty in continuing his way at the same pace. Besides, as if they had done it purposely, people got in the way of his horse, and, displeased at their hurts, began to abuse him. Ferrari, for he it was, accustomed to see his livery respected, at first responded with some strokes of his whip sturdily dealt to left and right. The lazzàroni scattered and kept quiet from habit. But, as he reached the corner of the Saint Charles theatre, a man wanted to get in front of the horse, and passed so clumsily that he was knocked down.

  “Friends,” cried he as he fell, “this is not a King’s courier as you might think from his dress. This is a Jacobin in disguise who is escaping! Death to the Jacobin! Death!”

  Cries of “The Jacobin! The Jacobin! Death to the Jacobin!” were then heard in the crowd.

  Pasquale di Simone flung his knife at the horse; it entered to the hilt. The butcher rushed to the beast’s head, and, accustomed to bleed lambs and sheep, opened the artery in the neck. The horse reared, neighed with pain, beat the air with its fore feet, whilst a jet of blood spurted on the bystanders.

  The sight of blood has a magical effect on southern peoples. No sooner did the lazzaroni feel themselves watered by the red and warm fluid, no sooner did they scent its acrid odour, than they rushed upon the man and the horse with ferocious cries.

  Ferrari felt that if his horse fell he was lost. He kept him up as well as he could with the bridle and with his legs, but the unfortunate animal was mortally wounded. He stumbled to left and right, then crossed his fore legs, rose through a desperate effort on his master’s part, and made a bound forward. Ferrari felt the beast giving under him. He was at fifty paces only from the palace guard; he called for help; but the sound of his voice was lost in cries repeated a hundred-fold, “Death to the Jacobin!” He seized a pistol from his holsters, hoping that the report would be better heard than his cries. At that moment his horse fell. The shock made the pistol go off at random, and the bullet hit a boy of from eight to ten years old.

  “He assassinates children!” a voice cried.

  At that cry, Fra Pacifico, who up till then had been fairly quiet, rushed among the crowd, which he drove apart with elbows pointed and hard as oaken wedges. He reached the centre of the disturbance just as, fallen with his horse, the unhappy Ferrari was trying to get on his feet. Before he could succeed, the monk’s club came down on his head; he fell like an ox struck with a mallet!

  But this was not what was wanted; it was under the King’s own eyes that Ferrari had to die. The five or six police in the secret of the drama surrounded the body and defended it, whilst the butcher, dragging it by the feet, cried: “Room for the Jacobin! “They left the horse’s corpse where it was, after having stripped it, and followed the butcher. Twenty steps further on they were in front of the King’s window. Anxious to know the cause of this frightful uproar, the King opened the blind. At the sight of him the cries changed. Hearing these yells, the King really thought that justice was being meted out to some Jacobin. He did not dislike this method of ridding him of his enemies. He saluted the people, a smile on his lips; the people, feeling encouraged, desired to show their King that they were worthy of him. They raised the unhappy Ferrari, bleeding, torn, mutilated, but still alive, in their arms; the corpse had just recovered consciousness: he opened his eyes, recognised the King, and stretched out his arms towards him.

  “Rescue! help! Sire, it is I! I, your Ferrari!”

  At this unexpected, terrible, inexplicable sight the King sprang backwards, and going to the back of the room, fell half fainting into a chair — whilst, on the contrary, Jupiter, who, being neither man nor King, had no reason for ingratitude, uttered a howl of distress, and, with bloodshot eyes and foam at the mouth, leaping from the window, sprang to his friend’s help.

  At that moment the door opened: the Queen came in, seized the King’s hand, forced him to rise, dragged him to the window, and showing him this cannibal people dividing up the remains of Ferrari:

  “Sire,” said she, “you see the men on whom you are relying for the defence of Naples and for ours; today they cut your servants’ throats; to-morrow they will cut the throats of your children; the day after to-morrow they will cut our throats. Do you still persist in your wish to remain?”

  “Have everything got ready!” cried the King; “this evening I set out....”

  And, thinking he still saw the slaughter of the unhappy Ferrari, still heard his dying voice appealing for help, he buried his head in his hands, closing his eyes, shutting his ears, and took refuge in the room in his apartments furthest from the street.

  When he emerged, two hours later, the first sight he saw was Jupiter lying down all bleeding on a scrap of cloth, which seemed from the remains of fur and bits of braid to have belonged to the unfortunate courier.

  The King knelt down by Jupiter, made sure that his favourite had no serious wound, and, wanting to ascertain on what the faithful and courageous animal was lying, he drew from under him, in spite of his howls, a part of Ferrari’s jacket which the dog had wrested from his murderers.

  By a providential chance, this piece was that in which was the leather pocket made for the despatches; the King unbuttoned it and found intact the imperial contents which the courier was bringing in answer to his letter.

  The King restored to Jupiter the scrap of clothing, on which he lay down again, uttering a lugubrious howl; then he went back to his room, shut himself in, unsealed the imperial letter, and read: —

  “To my dear brother and beloved cousin, uncle, father-in-law, ally and confederate.

  “I never wrote the letter you send me by your courier Ferrari, it is forged from one end to the other.

  “The letter’ which I had the honour of writing was entirely in my own hand, and, instead of urging you to open a campaign, invited you to attempt nothing before the month of April next, the time when I myself count on the arrival of our good and faithful allies the Russians.

  “If the guilty are those whom Your Majesty’s justice can reach, I do not conceal that I should like to see them punished as they deserve.

  “I have the honour to be, with respect, Your Majesty’s very dear brother, beloved cousin, nephew, son-in-law, ally and confederate.

  “FRANCOIS.”

  The Queen and Acton had just committed a useless crime. We are mistaken: this crime had its use, since it determined Ferdinand to leave Naples and take refuge in Sicily!

  CHAPTER XXI.

  THE FLIGHT.

  AT half-past two the Chevalier had returned home as usual, but with agitation foreign to all his habits had twice called: “Luisa! Luisa!”

  Luisa darted into the corridor, for, by her husband’s voice, she understood that something extraordinary had occurred.

  From the library windows, indeed, he had seen what had passed in San Carlo Street, namely, the mutilation of the unhappy Ferrari. As, beneath his gentle exterior, the Chevalier was extremely courageous, with that special courage which endows great hearts with a profound feeling of humanity, his first movement had been to descend and run to the aid of the courier, whom he had recognised as the King’s; but, at the library door, he had been stopped by the Prince Royal, who with his coaxing and cold voice had asked: “Where are you going, San Felice?”

  “Where am I going?.... Where am I going? “San Felice had replied. “Your Highness is ignorant of what is happening then?”

  “Yes; a man is being killed But is it such a rare thing for a man to have his throat cut in Naples that you should concern yourself with such a matter?”

  “But this man is one of the King’s servants.”

  “I know.”

  “The Courier Ferrari.”

  “I recognised him.”

  “But how is it, why do they kill a poor fellow with

  cries of ‘Death to the Jacobins!’ when, on the contrary, the unfortunate man is one of the King’s most devoted servants?”

  “How? Why? Have you read Machiavelli’s correspondence? Return to your ladder, my dear Chevalier and reflect upon it,” said the Duke of Calabria with a wan smile.

  The Chevalier did so, and at the third step comprehended that the hand of someone interested in Ferrari’s death had directed the blows which had just struck him down.

  A quarter of an hour afterwards, the Prince received a summons from his father, and returning in less than an hour said: “San Felice, you remember your promise to accompany me to Sicily? Are you still ready to fulfil it?”

  “Certainly, only.”

  “What?”

  “When I informed Madame San Felice of the honour done me by Your Highness, she asked to go with me.”

  “Thank you for this good news,” said the Prince, joyously; “the Princess will be rejoiced to have such a lady of honour. Tell her, my dear Chevalier, how welcome she will be. But I have not told you all. We go to-night.”

  The Chevalier opened his eyes very wide. “I thought,” said he, “that the King had decided not to go till the last extremity.”

  “Yes; but Ferrari’s murder has upset everything. At half-past ten His Majesty embarks with the Queen, the Princesses, my two brothers, the ambassadors and ministers on board Lord Nelson’s ship. The Queen has thus decided, and no doubt as compensation to Caracciolo, it is I who embark on his vessel, and consequently you also. I will tell you the time when I know it. Hold yourself in readiness: it will probably be between ten o’clock and midnight.”

  The Prince then took San Felice’s hand. “You know,” said he, earnestly, “lam counting on you.”

  “Your Highness has my word,” replied the Chevalier, bowing; “it is too great an honour for me to have a moment’s hesitation.” Then, taking his hat, he went out.

  No sooner had he told Luisa the reason of his return than she became pale, but all she said was: “At what o’clock do we go?”

  “Between ten o’clock and midnight,” replied San Felice.

  “I shall be ready,” said she; “do not be uneasy on my account, my friend.” And she withdrew on the pretext of making preparations for the departure, ordering dinner for three o’clock as usual.

  But it was to Salvato’s room that Luisa went.

  Duty had conquered love; but having sacrificed her love, she owed it her tears. So, since the day when she told her husband, “I shall go with you,” she had wept much.

  She called Giovannina, told her of the projected departure, and instructed her as to the packing, offering to take her with her, or to leave her in charge of the house as she preferred. The girl’s extreme joy in declaring for the latter might have opened her eyes if she had any suspicions, but, on the contrary, thinking that it would be less cruel if Salvato were to find someone to talk to of herself than to discover an empty house, she said to the maid: “Perhaps our absence will not last long, but while we are away, say to those who come to see me — remember my words, Nina — say that it was my husband’s duty to follow the Prince, and mine to follow my husband; say (for better than anyone you, who do not want to leave Naples, will appreciate what I suffer in leaving it), say that it is bathed in tears that I make my first farewells, and at the hour of departure my last farewells, to each room in this house and to each object in these rooms. And, when you mention tears, you know that these are not empty words, for you have seen them flow.” Luisa finished speaking with sobs.

  “And....” Giovannina hesitated a moment, while a fleeting expression of joy lit up her face. “And if M. Salvato should come, what shall I tell him?”

  “That I love him always,” replied Luisa, with supreme calm, uncovering her face, “and that this love will last my life long. Go and tell Michael not to go away. I must speak to him before I go, and I am relying on him to take me to the boat.”

  Nina went out. Left to herself, Luisa sank her face in the pillow on the bed, left a kiss in the print she had made there, and went away in her turn.

  Three o’clock had just struck, and with his habitual punctuality that nothing could disturb, the Chevalier entered the dining-room by one door as Luisa came in by another. Michael was on the steps outside.

  “Where is Michael?” enquired San Felice. “I hope he has not gone.”

  “No,” said Luisa, and she called him in.

  The Chevalier enjoined upon him the strictest secrecy. Michael made the sign of the cross on his mouth. “Speak,” said he, “it is as if the butcher had cut out my tongue.”