Scandal, meanwhile, was collecting her eager forces for a great campaign against the Orange marriage. It was unanimously decided that the affair could not be hushed up. Sympathy—within wise limits—was on the side of the lovers, but sympathy, nevertheless, expressed a desire to hear fuller particulars. Society journalism was, at that time, just coming into vogue, and the weekly papers contained several references to the strange rumour of an approaching divorce. Hartley Penborough and the members of the Capitol Club were wondering what line they ought to take. They intended to stand by Robert, but they did not wish to advertise their loyalty. The Carlton set were divided into two camps—those who thought Orange unlucky, and those who thought him an alien adventurer. So far as these opinions touched his career, both were damaging. The friends of Lord Wight and Lady Fitz Rewes had always been jealous of the young man. They discussed him now with ferocious pity, announcing his ruin in every circle. Sara de Treverell's associates were mostly of the Diplomatic Corps. These, well informed about Alberian affairs and Parflete's history, feared much mischief. The old Catholics were dismayed at the new convert's entanglement—especially as he had recently been elected to Parliament. The more timorous among them—in a panic—entertained unfounded doubts about his orthodoxy, and the rest deplored the injudicious attention bestowed on mere recruits to the Ancient Faith. Converts then were looked upon, in England, with a certain suspicion. At that period the magnificent services of Dr. Newman and Cardinal Manning were far more appreciated at Rome than they were in the drawing-rooms of English Catholic society. Orange, following his own instincts and the advice of Newman, avoided rather than sought the small group which attempted to make the Eternal Church a Select Committee of the Uncommonly Good. To one who had spent his youth in a great Catholic nation, and came himself from one of the princely families of France, the servitude necessarily involved by the fact of joining any coterie—no matter how agreeable—could possess no sort of attraction. His Catholic friends were chiefly among the Jesuits, an order which, by devotion, genius, and courage, has excited that fear from all men which is the highest homage this world can offer to integrity. His personal sorrow, therefore, was not degraded by any foolish additional worry about the tittle-tattle of this, that, or the other personage. Tongues might wag; for himself, he could but do his duty and keep his account straight with God. He hoped that a public law-suit would be avoided. Baron Zeuill was using his influence, so he declared, to arrive at some settlement with Parflete. Parflete's agent was now in communication with Robert's solicitors; he himself was known to be in London, and he had even been seen dining with foreigners at one of the small private hotels near the Strand. The Alberian Ambassador informed Mr. Disraeli that there was nothing to fear because Parflete was not ambitious. “The corruption of egoism and the insatiable love of pleasure” had done its worst to a character never striking for its energy. He would “desert” his wife again if she would give him a sufficient sum. Mrs. Parflete, Disraeli pointed out, was the last woman on earth to agree to such terms. She was also perfectly well aware, he added, that she was the legitimate daughter of the late Archduke Charles.

“But,” said the Ambassador, “surely she will love the glory of her country and the respect due to her Imperial father's memory far better than her own legal rights?”

“You can't narrow the question to a mere sentimental issue,” said Disraeli. “It is no such thing. She has to defend her character. Orange must clear his reputation.”

Disraeli had formed the opinion that Alberia—as represented by His Excellency—was by no means anxious to see Mrs. Parflete's innocence established; that, in fact, the whole disaster had been planned and executed in the sole design of compromising her status. All that had occurred, all that he had observed led him to this conviction more and more. It was decided that Brigit should be summoned at once from Paris to take up her residence at the Convent, where she had been well protected during the earlier part of the year.

“There is to be no appeal ad misericordiam,” wrote Disraeli to Orange: “what you have done, you have done in good faith and perfect honesty. Parflete, beyond a doubt, will take some action. His conscience provides him, in this difficulty, with the best means of self-advertisement he has yet found. He has consulted several Bishops, the Lord Chief Justice, all the ambassadors, and most of the intelligent Peers. He wanders from one confessional to another: St. Philip, St. Teresa, St. Benedict, and St. Dominic are invoked perpetually for the disarmament of his scruples. Vanity blinds him to the danger of assassination. Alberia is in a red mood. Carissime, the dark, inevitable hour will come. Be prepared for it. Depend entirely now on the might of your religious belief. Men cannot assist you. I have helped many, but no one has ever helped me. Political life must be taken as you find it, and it is neither in my disposition, nor, I am sure, in yours, to indulge in complaints of unkindness. I have reached a point now when I should like to quote Dante. Consider him quoted, and believe me,

“Ever yours,

“D.”

The course of the intrigue may be followed most conveniently at this point in the document known as Mudara's Confession.

Mudara, it will be remembered, was in the Alberian Secret Service.[See The School for Saints, p. 395.] He it was who confirmed the false news of Parflete's suicide, and did so much to hasten Orange's marriage. He says in his narrative:—

The death of the Archduke Charles—which occurred some weeks before it was anticipated—put the Alberian Government to very grave embarrassment.

1. It was impossible to deny the legitimacy of the Archduchess Marie-Brigitte-Henriette (known as Mrs. Parflete). The rumour was officially denied, and every proper measure was taken for the suppression of a fact dangerous at all times and especially so during a national crisis. Had the Archduchess been so ill-advised as to stand upon her legal rights, the case would have been very awkward for the Government. They intended, in any event, to plead ignorance, and had prepared every proof of their good faith in withstanding the claim.

2. It was clear, beyond a doubt, on the highest ecclesiastical authority, that, if application were made, the marriage between the Archduchess and Parflete would be annulled at Rome. Parflete was regarded with great suspicion. He was capable of any treachery. He could not hold his tongue, and we know what that means at Court. The one person he feared was the Archduke Charles, and now that death had removed His Imperial Highness, we understood what to expect from the disgraced Equerry.

3. The Government's Agents had formed a very high opinion of M. de HausÉe (known as Robert Orange). It was considered by the Government's advisers that this gentleman would use all his influence to crush any foolish ambition on the part of the Archduchess Marie-Brigitte. M. de HausÉe was himself of too noble a family to care in the least for high-sounding titles or empty rights. M. de HausÉe (whose mother was Scotch) had become a British subject, and had been elected to the English Parliament. He was under the protection of Mr. Disraeli, had every prospect of a brilliant political career as a Commoner, and he had too much good sense—in view of the very large fortune settled upon the Archduchess—to diminish it by any imprudent insistence on a claim which, extremely valuable as a ground for some advantageous compromise, could only prove ruinous if pressed to any exact recognition. The Government's advisers, therefore, approved most highly of the marriage between M. de HausÉe and the Archduchess Marie-Brigitte-Henriette, and were disposed to hasten it on by every means. On the news, properly authenticated, of Parflete's suicide on Lord Soham's yacht, I visited England and had interviews with the Archduchess herself, with M. de HausÉe at Catesby, and with Baron Zeuill at Claridge's Hotel. The proofs of Parflete's death were in perfect order, and the marriage between M. de HausÉe and H.I.H. took place in the Chapel of the Alberian Embassy.

As I had made all the arrangements, I engaged the servants for the reception of the bride and groom at the Villa Miraflores. I was able to retain a small room at the back of the house for my own use. On the day of their arrival, I concealed myself, without difficulty, in the apartment where Mr. Orange and the Archduchess had their dÉjeuner. It was an unfortunate circumstance that I did not destroy the telegram which I saw on the mantel-piece. But I supposed it contained some ordinary congratulations. A more vulgar prudence than mine would have read and burnt it in any case. My fault is, unquestionably, a most inopportune delicacy of feeling. I witnessed the whole scene between Mr. Orange and Her Imperial Highness. It brought tears to my eyes, but as evidence it was valueless for my purpose. She wept, stormed, and showed much feeling. I was reminded in many ways of her mother, Madame Duboc. M. de HausÉe, of purer blood, is like those players who, in spite of an air of indifference at great losses, feel them none the less. I consider it my duty as a gentleman to say that his bearing through the ordeal did credit to his noble family and his personal character. The Archduchess, who is foolhardy and insolent, does not deserve such a lover, and it is grievous to think that such a termagant should have so much power over such a man. I regard her as I would some poisonous reptile. Piety—which improves most women—only seems to render her the more defiant, and love—which softens most wills—makes hers the more hard. After parting with M. de HausÉe she swooned, and I thought what a merciful thing it would be for all of us if she never regained consciousness. This idea—which may have been an inspiration—was before me, when I heard a slight rustling behind the curtains. I pulled out my revolver (although I had no intention of firing), aimed it, and said, “Who is there?”

To my amazement, Parflete himself came out.

“For God's sake, don't shoot,” said he, “it is I.”

He cried bitterly at the sight of the Archduchess—for she was looking extraordinarily beautiful. He cursed himself loudly, put me to terrible anxiety, and I repented of my recklessness in not getting rid of such a fool long ago. With great presence of mind I rang the bell, and we withdrew to my hiding-place while the servant came in, raised a hue and cry, and finally carried the insensible Archduchess to a bedroom. When the coast was clear we emerged. I asked Parflete what he meant to do, why he was there, and how he had got into the house.

“To sound the soul of another,” said he, still maudlin. “You must first have searched deeply your own. Remorse has brought me here. My better nature reasserts itself.” And more to that effect. “There is nothing new under the sun!” he wound up.

“Why should there be?” said I, exasperated. “Come to the point.”

“My wife is the purest, noblest of beings!” said he.

“You will defend any jade on earth, provided she be handsome,” said I, but seeing an ugly light in his eye, I added, “but H.I.H. is certainly respectable. To this we have both been witnesses.”

“What is to be done?” he cried, beating his head. “Can I forget her interests? Who, better than I, should take the place of her adviser, her Prime Minister? Affairs in Alberia cannot long remain in this violent state. There must be a dÉnouement.”

I answered him sharply.

“You know quite well that the Archduchess can never hope for official recognition from any Alberian Ministry—let alone the sovereigns of Europe. An aggressive attitude on her part could at most and at the worst, but lead to these things—a change of dynasty, and the annexation of Alberia by one of the Powers, or its partition among some of them. We wish Alberia to become another Switzerland—a little Paradise of law-abiding, industrious, rich, independent people!”

“All the same,” said he, “my wife may not sell her birth-right. Such a proceeding is directly opposite to the Will of God.”

“She will be a good claimant—after all this scandal with the Carlists and de HausÉe,” said I. “I can imagine the welcome extended to her by Bismarck! We have seen enough of this kind of thing in France and Spain.”

We talked for an hour. He was as obstinate as a mule and as incoherent as running water. I could grasp him nowhere. It was like groping in a well for a lighted torch. No doubt he had formed in his own mind some obscure, incalculable intrigue, but no reason can guess the plans which are made by an unreasoning person.

“The Archduchess is rich, young, and handsome,” said I; “it would be folly to change her noble independence for a political slavery fatal to her peace—perhaps her life.”

“But duty is above such weak considerations,” said he, rolling his eyes. “My wife must remember the nation.”

“Do you believe,” I rejoined, “that you would get the nation's sanction to the general upset which you propose? You must be mad.”

“Nations go mad,” said he, smiling; “why not to my advantage, then, as well as yours?”

He refused to tell me how he got into the house, but it must have been by bribery. His sneers and insults were insinuated with such skill that retaliation on the spot was impossible. He made his escape by suddenly extinguishing the lamp, which left the room in pitch darkness. I felt it would be undignified to stumble about in vain pursuit of a man so active and so canaille in all his methods. He must have been on good terms with the servants, for a considerable time elapsed before they replied to my summons, and when I asked them, each in turn, whether he had been seen, one and all assumed the greatest astonishment and innocence, but none appeared in any way alarmed, which they must have done had they not been well aware of his presence in the house. I said no more, for, by treating the matter lightly, I made them look—to themselves—dupes and very ridiculous. I remained at the Villa until the Archduchess and Lady Fitz Rewes departed for Paris. I had a short interview with M. de HausÉe in my character of the late Archduke's Agent. Our conversation was purely in connection with H.I.H.'s money matters, although he said with great firmness at the close, “The Archduchess will never embarrass Alberian affairs. Her taste is not for Courts or politics.” I know this is his true conviction, but he is in love, and he measures her by his own unselfishness. He won my heart strangely. In all my experience, he is the one honest man who is not a little idiotic into the bargain. I deplore the influence of women on such a character, and I would have saved him from that Judith.

Here, for the present, we must leave Mudara's narrative.