"They will imprison him," said Vinal, nervously, "but that will be the whole,--his life will be in no danger."
"His life!" returned Speyer, glancing sidelong at his visitor; "don"t be troubled on that score. They won"t kill him."
"Then write the letter," said Vinal, laying a rouleau of gold on the table, "and write it in such a way that it shall spring the trap on him, and keep him caged till doomsday."
The letter was written. Vinal read it, re-read it, sealed it, and with a quivering hand thrust it into the post office.
CHAPTER x.x.xV.
Thy hope is young, thy heart is strong, but yet a day may be, When thou shalt weep in dungeon deep, and none thy weeping see.
_The Count of Saldana_.
Morton had left Vienna, and was journeying in the diligence on the confines of Styria. The c.u.mbrous machine had been lumbering on all night. Awaking at daybreak from his comfortless sleep, and looking through the breath-bedimmed panes before him, he saw the postilion"s shoulders wearily jolting up and down with the motion of the lazy horses. He had one fellow-traveller in the compartment which he occupied, a man of thirty-five or thereabouts, who had taken the diligence late the evening before, and who now, his shoulders supported by the leather straps which hung for the purpose from the roof, and his head tumbling forward on his chest, was dozing with a ludicrously grim expression of countenance. At length a sudden jolt awakened him; he started, shook himself, looked about him, inclined his head by way of salutation to his fellow-traveller, and opened a conversation with a remark on the chillness of the morning. After conversing for a time in French, the stranger said in excellent English, "I see there is no need of our speaking French, for by your accent I judge that you are English. I myself have a little of the English about me; that is to say, I was four years at Oxford, though I am German by birth."
"I am not English, though my ancestors were."
"You are American, then?" said the stranger, looking at him with some curiosity; and from this beginning, their acquaintance ripened fast.
The German, regarding his companion as a young man of more intelligence than experience, conversed with an ease and frankness which fast gained upon Morton"s confidence. He proved, indeed, a storehouse of information, discoursing of the people, the country, and even the government, with little reserve, and an admirable copiousness and minuteness of knowledge. At length he asked Morton if he had any acquaintance in Austria.
"None, excepting one or two persons at Vienna, to whom I had letters."
"Then you have probably made agreeable acquaintances. The society of Vienna is a very pleasant one."
"My letters were, or purported to be, to _savans_ and literary men."
"There, too, you should have found persons well worth the meeting."
"I have no doubt of it."
"You do not speak," said the investigating stranger, with a smile, "like one who has been much pleased with his experience."
"I have had no opportunity to judge fairly of the Viennese _savans_."
"Your letters gave you no opportunity?"
"They were given me at Paris, in a rather singular way; and, to say the truth, the persons to whom they introduced me were so little to my taste, that after delivering one or two of them, I determined not to use the rest."
"You appear to have been very unfortunate. Will you allow me to ask to whom your letters were addressed?"
"They were written by a person whom I never saw, and were given to me by a friend,--an acquaintance,--of mine, as a means of gaining information about the country; such information as that for which I am indebted to you. I have been a good deal perplexed as to the character of the persons to whom they were written."
"Very probably I could aid you."
Morton mentioned the names of the men he had seen.
The German at first looked puzzled, then amazed, then distrustful.
"Your letters were got for you by a friend of yours?"
"Yes."
"And were written by----"
"A professor from Berlin, named Speyer,--Henry Speyer."
"Henry Speyer!" repeated the German, in astonishment.
"You were saying that you had lived for some years at Berlin. Perhaps you can tell me who and what he is."
"I know of no Professor Henry Speyer at Berlin."
"This man, I am told, is well known as a philologist."
"There is a Henry Speyer who is a philologist, so far as speaking every language in Europe can make him one; but he was never a professor in Berlin or any where else."
Morton looked perplexed. The German studied his face for a moment, and then said,--
"You say that a friend of yours gave you letters from Henry Speyer to the men you just named?"
"Yes."
"I beg your pardon! Have you ever quarrelled with your friend? Are you on terms with your friend"s mistress? or do you stand between your friend and a fortune?"
A cold thrill pa.s.sed through Morton"s frame. There was an approach to truth in both the two last suppositions.
"Either you are very much deeper than I know how to comprehend you, or else you are the victim of a plot."
"What kind of plot?" demanded the startled Morton; "who is Speyer, and who are the other men?"
"I will tell you. Speyer is an intriguer, a revolutionist, a man in every way infamous. As for his being a professor, he is no more a professor than he is a prime minister, and you may ascribe what motives you please to your friend for giving him the name. He dares not set foot in Austria. If he did, it would go very hard with him.
The other men are of the same kidney--his aiders, abetters, fellow conspirators; known or suspected to be plotting for the overthrow of the government."
"Then why are they at liberty?"
"Do you call it liberty to be day and night under the eye of the police--to be dogged and watched every hour of their lives? They serve as a sort of decoy. All who hold communication with them are noted down as dangerous; and my only wonder is, that you have not before this heard from the police."
"And what would you advise me to do?"
"Get out of Austria as soon and as quietly as you can. When you have pa.s.sed the frontier you will be safe, and not before."
CHAPTER x.x.xVI.