The Prime Minister

Luis now took the opportunity to inquire from whence and from what unhappy prisoner the groans he had heard for several days past proceeded.

“Ah, senhor, I, am sorry they disturb you,” answered the gaoler. “There is a poor gentleman confined in the very next cell to yours, who is continually groaning with pain, and bemoaning his hard fate, at being shut up for no crime at all; but the walls are so thick, that I should have thought you could not have heard the sounds.”

“Know you his name?” asked Luis.

“I have never heard it, senhor, and never thought of asking him, but I will do so, and tell you. Poor young gentleman, I fear he will not last long.”

“Do you think, my friend, that you could manage to let me see my fellow-prisoner?” asked Luis, who felt that it was his duty to offer every consolation in his power to the sick man, besides a natural curiosity to learn more of one whose voice had sounded in his ear for so many days past; “you may trust to my discretion, and that I will not betray your kindness.”

“I am not afraid of you, senhor; but if it was by any means discovered that I allowed such a thing, I should not only lose my situation, but be imprisoned in one of the darkest cells, as a warning to my brother gaolers, though I wish that I could do as you desire, for I do not see that any harm can come of it.”

Luis was, however, determined not to be defeated in his project; and taking the opportunity to make a present, which he had before intended, to the kind-hearted gaoler, he at length induced him to promise that he would allow him to pay a visit to the neighbouring cell on the first safe opportunity; probably directly after the Governor had gone his rounds, – the time which, in all prisons, gaolers seize to afford similar favours to their captives, as our readers have no doubt observed while perusing every history or romance on the subject.

To a prisoner, the slightest variation in the monotonous routine of his life affords subject of interest; and thus Luis looked forward with anxiety to the time when he was to be allowed to pay a visit to his companion in captivity, though he was aware that but little benefit could be expected to result to either of them from the interview. The Governor at last came his rounds; Luis heard the bolts of his cell door withdrawn, but that worthy personage, merely putting his head in to see that his prisoner was safe, wished him good night, and again retired.

After he had been gone about half an hour, the under-gaoler, faithful to his promise, made his appearance, having carefully opened the door, which, by long practice, he was able to do without any noise, and telling Luis to follow, he gently opened the door of the cell in which the sick man was confined, when, desiring him to enter, he closed and bolted it as before.

The sick man scarcely noticed the entrance of a stranger, as Luis placed himself by the side of the rude couch whereon he lay; but continued his groaning and piteous cries for fresh air and liberty. A lamp, burning on the table, shed its feeble rays around the cell. Luis rose to trim it, and again seated himself, the sick man continuing with his face averted towards the wall. Luis spoke to draw his attention.

“I have come, as a brother in affliction, to offer every assistance in my power to a fellow-prisoner,” he said.

Suddenly the sick man turned round, when the light falling on his thin and emaciated countenance, Luis started with amazement, a thrill of joy shooting through his frame; for in those features, though sadly altered by disease and confinement, he beheld the long-lost brother of his beloved Clara, of whose death he had been accused, – the younger Gonçalo Christovaö. He pronounced his name.

“Who is it that calls on one long-lost to the joyous world?” exclaimed the young Fidalgo, in a feeble voice, raising himself on his arm, and gazing wildly at his visitor.

“One you have seen but seldom, who has been vilely traduced, and accused of your death – Luis d’Almeida.”

“You have been amply avenged, then, senhor, for the evil thoughts I entertained of you,” answered the young Gonçalo. “This is true charity – thus to visit, in a loathsome dungeon, one who has so wronged and injured you. Ah! It is too late now – I have but short time to survive.” And he again sunk down exhausted.

“I have never for a moment had a hostile feeling towards you,” said Luis, offering his hand, which the other took, with a grateful expression on his countenance.

“Thanks, thanks! it is a consolation to know that a friend of those dear to me will receive my dying breath, and convey my last wishes to my father and sweet sister, – or do I see in you the husband of Clara?”

“Alas! no, my friend,” replied Luis, deeply affected. “I am a prisoner like yourself, and, perchance, shall be released but by death.”

“What! have you also fallen a victim to the wiles of that vile miscreant, San Vincente?”

“I know not even of what crime I am accused,” answered Luis; and he explained, in a few words, the supposed conspiracy, and its fatal consequences. “But tell me by what extraordinary circumstances I see you here?” he continued.

“By the machinations of a villain!” returned the young Fidalgo. “But I am faint, and can scarce tell my tale. A few drops from yonder flask of wine, supplied me by the charity of my kind gaoler, will give me strength to proceed, if you will hand it to me.”

Luis brought the flask, when Gonçalo, somewhat revived by a draught of the light refreshing wine of Lisbon, commenced an account of his adventures since the fatal night when Luis had so unintentionally wounded him. His sentences were short and broken, he frequently being obliged to stop, in order to recover strength to proceed.

“I was half mad with intoxication and the excitement of revelry, when, urged on by my evil counsellor, San Vincente, I made that wanton assault upon you, for which I have been so severely punished; but I must confess, that when your sword entered my side, I felt that I deserved my fate. When I returned to consciousness, – for in my fall I must have struck my head, which, aided by the effects of wine, had rendered me insensible – I found myself borne rapidly along the streets by several men. I inquired where they were carrying me; but, though I repeated the question several times, I received no answer; and at length, from the copious effusion of blood, I again fainted. When I once more recovered my senses, I found myself in a low vaulted chamber, on a mean pallet, with the rest of the scanty furniture of the commonest description, and a wrinkled old hag, of the most sinister expression of countenance, sitting in one corner, occupied in spinning. I anxiously inquired where I was; but, putting her finger to her mouth, she pretended to be dumb, to prevent my asking further questions; nor had I the slightest means of conjecturing to what part of the city I had been conveyed. When I endeavoured to rise, I found myself too weak to stand, and was obliged to give up the attempt in despair. It now occurred to me that I had been brought to this place for some sinister motive, and, though I acquitted you of having any share in my detention, I began strongly to suspect that San Vincente was the author of the outrage. I had for some days previously entertained uneasy doubts as to his character, which, in my more serious moments, made me regret that I had favoured his suit to my sister. I recollected, also, that I had lately won from him, at the gambling-table, some large sums of money; and now, incensed against him, I deemed him capable of the darkest acts. It struck me that he supposed, if he married my sister, I should release him from his debt, or, if he could get me out of the way, he should be equally free. Subsequent events proved the correctness of my supposition. Why he did not murder me at once, when I was so entirely in his power, I have never been able, to this day, to determine. Either he is not so bad as I suspected, and felt some compunction at killing an old friend, and the brother of his intended wife, or the fear of discovery and punishment deterred him. I remained thus for two days, without seeing anybody but the old woman, who still retained her taciturnity, and even when she brought me a scanty allowance of food, did so with a morose and unwilling air.

“Never could I forget, if life were prolonged, the awful sensations I experienced when the first shock of the earthquake was felt. I was alone, unable to move, – the terrific sound rang in my ears, – the groans of the dying, the shrieks of despair, reached even that remote spot, – the walls and roof trembled and cracked, – pieces fell around and on me, – I was almost stifled by the dust; yet, utterly helpless, I resigned myself to my fate. Shock after shock occurred, yet still, to my surprise, the walls stood uninjured. I was reserved for more severe suffering.”

He ceased speaking, from exhaustion.

“Ah!” thought Luis, as this account brought back the recollection of that dire event, “at that time was I rescuing your sweet sister from destruction. Both our fates have been cruel; yet yours, poor youth, even worse than mine.”

Gonçalo, now recovering, continued. “For the whole of that day of horrors, and the following one, I continued without food, becoming each moment more weak, till I thought death must put an end to my suffering, when a tall masked figure entered the vault, a few streams of light, entering from a barred window near the roof, enabling me to distinguish him. At a glance, notwithstanding his disguise, I recognised the Count San Vincente. He looked eagerly towards the spot where I lay, and Heaven forgive me, if I wrong him in believing that he felt disappointed on discovering I was still in existence. Without uttering a word, he directly quitted the vault, and soon afterwards returned with a basket of provisions, which he placed within my reach. He remained not a moment longer than was necessary, nor did I venture to trust myself in speaking to him. I heard him lock and bolt the door after him, as he retired. The old woman never returned; and for the two following days I was left entirely alone.

“During the third night, I was aroused from slumber by a noise near me, and, looking up, by the light of a lantern I beheld several men standing round my bed; a cloth was then thrown over my head, my arms were bound, and I felt myself lifted up, and placed upon a sort of litter, as I concluded, for immediately I perceived that I was being borne along at a rapid rate, and in the open air. I was too feeble to raise my voice; but once, when I attempted to cry out, a person whispered in my ear a warning to be silent, or that death would be my fate. The motion continued for some time, till at last it stopped, and I found myself again placed upon a bed. My arms were then released, but, before I could remove the cloth from my head, my bearers had disappeared, and I found myself in total darkness and silence. Here was new matter for speculation, but I was still utterly at a loss to comprehend the reasons for my removal, or whither I had been conveyed; indeed, I have never learnt to a certainty, though I suspect it was to some house belonging to my persecutor, San Vincente. When the morning dawned, I found that I was in an apartment rather better furnished than my last place of imprisonment, but with only one small window, high up in the wall, and that closely barred with iron. A surly-looking ruffian made his appearance twice a day to bring me food and make my bed, but, like the old woman, he never uttered a word. He, however, brought me a collection of books, which solaced my captivity, and I verily believe prevented me from losing my senses altogether. Several months thus passed away, and I was at length able to rise and walk about my room. The first use I made of my renewed strength was to try the door, but I found it secured by bolts, and plated with iron. I then climbed up to the window, but the walls were thick, and a board sloping upwards from the lower part prevented me seeing aught but a broad expanse of sky. This was a grievous disappointment; indeed, my spirits sank under it, though my strength continued to improve. When my surly attendant perceived that I was strong enough to attempt to, escape, I observed that he invariably came into my room armed with a pistol and dagger, keeping a wary eye, during the time he remained, on every movement I made. This dreadful life of solitude I could no longer endure; my health gave way under it, and I again took to my bed. I entreated the ruffian to send a physician to me, or a priest, to give me the consolations of religion, but he looked at me with a grim smile, without answering, and no one appeared. Gradually I became worse and worse, till I fully believed myself to be dying, so thought also my attendant. One night I awoke from my sleep to find my eyes blinded, and my hands bound as before, when I was brought thither. I was then gagged, while a voice whispered in my ear, ‘If one sound escapes you, this dagger shall silence you for ever!’ and, at the same time, I felt its sharp point at my breast. I was now lifted up, and found myself suddenly placed in a carriage, which immediately drove on for a considerable time; when it stopped, I was once more lifted from it, and borne along till I heard the sound of bolts and bars withdrawn, when I was placed on the bed where I now lie, and from which I never more expect to rise. Here I have for months been confined, and it seems a miracle to myself that I have existed so long. Except the compassionate gaoler’s, yours is the first friendly face I have seen since you last beheld me with my sword raised against your life. Pardon me, my friend, for that deed, for I have bitterly expiated it.”

Luis assured the unfortunate youth not only of his forgiveness, but of his sincere commiseration for his sufferings.

“Soon after my arrival here, I gained a clue to ascertain the reason of my last removal,” continued Gonçalo. “The Governor of the prison came one evening into my cell, and no sooner did my eye fall upon him, than I recognised a person on whom I had once inflicted chastisement for an insult he had offered me, and whom I well knew to have been at one time an intimate acquaintance of San Vincente’s, though he had latterly pretended to have discarded him. I knew why he came – it was to gloat over my sufferings – to reap his revenge. He is a wretch capable of any atrocity – base, mercenary, and avaricious. He told me that I was a prisoner for life, accused of treason; that my name was Diogo Lopez, and that I was spared under the plea of insanity. He then quitted me with a grin of gratified malice on his countenance. I feel confident that the plot was concerted between the two. San Vincente has easily bribed him to engage in it, and gratify his own revenge at the same time; he probably feared that I should die in his custody, when he might have some difficulty in disposing of my body; or, perhaps, he was anxious to destroy me sooner, which he knew sending me here would do. Once incarcerated under a false name, as a condemned criminal, I should here remain without a hope of release, all responsibility being removed from him; and dying, as he knew I soon must, I shall be buried with the other wretches who end their lives here. This is my allotted fate, and, had you not discovered me, it would never have been known. You will, I know, inform my father, and aid him to bring the miscreant San Vincente to the punishment he deserves.”

Luis promised to obey his wishes, if he himself ever escaped from prison.

“I have one more request to make,” said Gonçalo: “I long, ere I die, to perform the last duties of religion, but I have, in vain, asked for a confessor. The Governor knows I have nothing to reveal. You may in this assist me, by desiring to see one yourself, and you may then, in the same way that you have come, conduct him hither.”

“I will use my utmost endeavours to do so,” answered Luis, “though I fear much I shall be unsuccessful.”

Gonçalo now made many inquiries about his family, to which Luis answered to the best of his knowledge; and when he told him that Clara was about to take the veil, his self-reproach knew no bounds.

“Alas, alas!” he exclaimed, “this has happened through my own mad obstinacy: had I not praised San Vincente to my father, she might even now have been your bride, and both might have been happy.”

“Heaven willed it otherwise,” said Luis, checking his rising emotion, when he endeavoured to console his unhappy friend; and so far succeeded, that he already appeared to have recovered strength – his spirits, more than his body, had suffered. The gaoler, now softly opening the door, beckoned away Luis, who, pressing Gonçalo’s hand, returned to his own cell, reflecting, that if he himself had suffered much, others had yet more to endure.

The following day the Governor thought fit to honour the Count d’Almeida with a visit. He entered, bowing and flourishing his little three-cornered hat, as usual, smirking as he seated himself on the bed. “I fear that you find your life in prison a very dull one, my young friend,” he began; “most people do, yet such is the fate of those who will disobey the laws. In the course of a year or two you will become more habituated to it, and then you will learn to like it, if – for I am sorry to say there is an alternative – you are not proved guilty of a crime of the first magnitude; – but, in the latter case, you must prepare for death! Ah, you start; – it is very sad to die, but, I wished to spare your feelings, and therefore concealed your fate from you till now; however, feeling a sincere friendship for you, I would point out the only means you have of escaping. Make a complete confession of all you know, and then, probably, a short imprisonment will be your only punishment.”

Luis watched the Governor’s eye while he spoke, and although he did not believe his assertions, he felt that they might too probably be founded on truth. Not disconcerted, however, by unmanly fears, he, recollecting his promise to Gonçalo, pretended to credit them; and, on the plea that, perhaps, his death was near, he petitioned to have the consolation of religion afforded him.

“I rejoice, my young friend, to hear you speak in so proper a frame of mind,” said the Governor, sententiously. “Even to the prisoner’s cell the Church extends her benign influence, and Heaven will be pleased if you confess your sins to the holy man I will send you. He shall visit you this very day, and, putting full confidence in him, let me advise you, as a sincere friend, to follow implicitly his counsels.” The Governor, flattering himself that he had gained the very point at which he was aiming, bidding his prisoner be of good cheer, withdrew.

The Governor was in this case true to his word; late in the evening the friendly gaoler entering Luis’s cell to inform him that a Friar waited without to see him.

“Beg him to enter,” said Luis.

The gaoler retired, and directly after returned, ushering in a cowled and bare-footed Friar.

“Pax vobiscum,” said the holy man, as he entered. “I come, my son, to bring food and comfort to your soul. Leave us,” he added, turning to the gaoler, “I would be alone with the prisoner.”

No sooner had the gaoler withdrawn, than the Friar, throwing back his hood, exhibited to the astonished gaze of his intended penitent, the rotund and ruddy countenance of the holy Frè Diogo Lopez.

“Hush!” said that worthy person, putting his finger to his lips. “I am sorry to find you a prisoner here, though I am glad that it is I who have been sent to you. Come, give me an embrace, to convince me that you retain a kindly recollection of me.”

Luis, scarcely able to speak with surprise, performed the ceremony; indeed, the face of one who, though he considered him a rogue, had always shown a friendly disposition towards himself, could not but afford him pleasure.

“Now, we will make ourselves as happy as circumstances will permit,” continued the Friar, at the same time producing from beneath his gown a good sized flask, and a couple of glasses, which he placed on the table, a smile curling his lips, and his eyes glistening the while. “Stand there, my friends, till you are wanted,” he added, as he seated himself on the bed. “Now, Don Luis, I wish to convince you that, although you once thought me a rogue, I can, at all events, be honest towards you. I am sent here to pump you, to discover all your secrets, and to betray them to the Governor. Now, take my advice; do not tell them to me, or any other confessor; and as there are no proofs against you, as far as I can learn, you have a chance of escaping the punishment many others are about to suffer. This plan will prevent either of us incurring any risk, and I shall feel a wonderful satisfaction in deceiving that cunning devil of a Governor. Ha, ha! the very thought amuses me. I little thought that you were among the unfortunate prisoners shut up in this horrid place, till the Governor sent for me to-day, and informed me that one of his pets desired to see a priest, in order to make confession, desiring me to learn all I could, and let him know without delay. I have done so often before, without feeling any compunction on the subject; for there are so many knaves in the world, that I considered it as merely telling one rogue’s secrets to another rogue, besides being well paid into the bargain. I do not wish to know yours, in case I might be tempted to betray them. With me the old weakness is as strong as ever. I cannot resist temptation, though I bitterly repent it afterwards. I, by chance, inquired the name of my penitent, when, to my surprise and sorrow, I learnt it was you. However, I soon made up my mind how to act, and, providing myself with that flask of good wine, I determined to make a jovial evening of it with a clear conscience, instead of hypocritically drawing the secrets from some poor wretch, to betray him afterwards. So now, my dear Don Luis, or rather I ought to say Count, let us to business. I can give you a short shrift afterwards, if you require it, when we have finished the bottle.”

So saying, the Friar drew the table between himself and Luis, and filling both glasses with wine, he nodded familiarly to his penitent, draining his off, and smacking his lips, to set him an example. He then indulged in a low quiet chuckle at the young Count’s astonishment.

Luis first felt inclined to be disgusted with the Friar’s open acknowledgment of his contempt for the sacred office he performed; but the imperturbable coolness and thorough good nature of the latter, at last conquered that feeling, and, forgetting that he had come to perform a religious rite, he could no longer refrain from pledging him in return.

“Well, my dear Count, I am glad to find that you have at length conquered your scruples,” said Frè Diogo, laughing. “I have always said it is impossible to know what a man really is till you learn his works. Now, if I had put on a sanctimonious face, played shriver, and betrayed you, you would have considered me a very pious man; and now, because I tell you the truth, and kick hypocrisy to the devil who invented it, you, in your heart of hearts, believe me a knave. Well, it cannot be helped, such is the way of the world. Come, Count, don’t be cast down, you have many years to enjoy life yet before you, if I mistake not. Fill your glass, and drive away care. I wish I could venture to sing a stave, it would wonderfully rouse your spirits, but it would not do to be heard – even I could not pass it off as a hymn.” And the Friar hummed a few lines of a song in a low tone. “Bah! the effect is spoilt; you ought to hear it trolled forth by a jovial set of us, the roof of the old hall of our convent rings again. Oh, that would do your heart good!”

Luis, in spite of himself, could not help joining in the Friar’s merriment, which seemed to give the latter much satisfaction. “That is as it should be, my friend; I wish the gaolers were deaf, and that the rascally Governor was not likely to be prowling this way, for we might drink and sing away to our heart’s content. Come, help me to finish the bottle, or I shall not be quite in a clerical state to make a clear report to the Governor of your confession.”

There was such a laughing devil in the Friar’s eye all the time, that it struck Luis he might even then be playing off some trick upon him.

“How comes it, Frè Diogo, that I see you here in Lisbon as a professed Friar, when, the last time we met, you acknowledged you had never taken the vows?” he asked.

“Don’t you remember, that I told you, at the same time, I intended to repent of my sins, to return to the convent in which I once served, and to take the vows? I did so, and have ever since been a most exemplary Friar; so much so, that I soon rose to a responsible situation in my convent, and was sent up to Lisbon on a mission, when I was selected for my peculiar qualifications and knowledge of mankind, as confessor to the inmates of this and some other prisons in the metropolis. I was obliged to accept the office, though I cannot say I like it; for I miss my jovial brothers, and hate the hypocrisy and treachery I am obliged to be guilty of, though, to say the truth, I have saved many a poor wretch from committing himself, which is some consolation to my conscience.”