CHAPTER XII.FALSE ZERO.
A bright July evening, a white dusty Italian road, and a fugitive from justice mounted upon a stout pony, with an outfit consisting of a well-filled canvas valise and a revolver.
The police were searching for me, and in consequence I had a few weeks before escaped from England, and set out upon a wandering journey eastward across Europe. I was in Emilia, lonely, tired, and dispirited, having left Piacenza at early morning and ridden on throughout the scorching day. It had, however, grown cooler, for which I was thankful. The wind had risen, blowing softly from mountain and from sea across the plains, through the pines of Pavia, and across the oak forests at the base of the Apennines.
Now and then a puff of blue wood-smoke rose through the branches from charcoal-burners’ cabins; now and then some great magnolia flower shivered its rosy needles upon me as I passed beneath the trees; far away below theAveMariawas chiming from the church towers in the plain; above, low rain clouds, fretted and edged with amber, floated near the sun; over all the day was of that wondrous hue which is like the soft violet blue of the iris, and is clear yet mystical, as children’s eyes when they wake from dreams of angels.
As I road slowly up the long mountain road, I was overtaken by a horseman, who, light-hearted and happy, was singing to himself staves of contadini choruses. He rode up beside me with a genial, “Buona sera, signore.”
He was a fine-looking man of about thirty, with a dark, pointed beard and waxed moustaches. We rode on together up the hill, and fell into conversation. He inquired where I was from, and my destination, to which I replied that I was travelling for pleasure. He told me that he was a vine-grower living in Marengo, and that he was returning from a business visit to Cremona. When we stopped for water at a roadside spring, he asked me to carry a small pair of saddlebags, as his horse was tired out. I complied cheerfully, and we pushed on up the steep road. Arrived at the top, he took a cross-road, remarking that he believed we should reach thealbergoof Padrone Vincenti before the moon rose.
I found him a pleasant, entertaining Italian, and being, no doubt, conceited, imagined that he found me the same. It was dusk when we rode up to a ruined villa, high upon the mountain-side—vast,crumbling, desolate. It was one of those old villas, of which there are hundreds in Italy, standing on their pale olive slopes. Those who are strange to them see only the peeling plaster, the discoloured stone, the desolate courts, the grass-grown flags, the broken statues, the straying, unkempt vines, the look of utter loneliness and decay. But those who know them well, love them and learn otherwise; learn the infinite charm of the silent halls, of the endless echoing corridors, of the wide, frescoed, wind-swept, and sun-bathed chambers, and of the shadowy logge where the roseglow of the oleander burns in the dimness of the arches, and the lizards bask in the sunlight.
It was charmingly situated. The old place had once belonged to a great family, but was now half-ruined; the few rooms remaining intact having been transformed into an inn.
As we rode up to the porch, a slender girl of about seventeen, with big black eyes, and dark hair coiled tightly, fastened with a Genoese filigree pin, came running round the corner of the house. She looked as wild as the goats on the mountain-side, and my first thought was, “What a beauty she will some day be!” I raised my wide-brimmed sun hat, and asked if we could obtain accommodation for the night.
“I don’t know,” she said shortly. “But I will ask father,” and she darted into the house.
A moment later an old man made his appearance,rubbing his hands and smiling benignly. “How are you, signori?” he asked in hispatois. “Want to stop? Very well. Here, Ninetta, call Giovanni to take the horses.”
I had just dismounted, and started to remove the saddlebags, when a glance at my travelling companion checked me. He was gazing down the road and listening intently. I saw an anxious look overspread his face. The next moment he stuck spurs into his horse, and, without a word galloped down the road in the opposite direction in the gathering gloom.
Surprised and alarmed, I sprang into the saddle, and, as the sound of horses approaching at a rapid rate greeted my ears, I started off down the road after my late companion. My first thought was that brigands were upon us.
Glancing back, I saw a number of horsemen riding furiously down upon me. I heard loud oaths in Italian, and orders to halt. Without heeding them, I spurred on, and drawing my revolver, determined to sell my life as dearly as possible. The next moment a volley of shots rang out, and my horse stumbled and fell.
Before I could rise I was surrounded by three gendarmes and a rough crowd of men, nearly all of whom were half mad with drink and excitement. Cries of joy were heard on all sides, and a dozen hands seized me in no gentle grasp.
“What do you want?” I cried.
“We want you,” replied one of the gendarmes,stepping forward, “Your name is Anton Prèhznev!”
My heart stood still. The police had tracked me!
“Well, and if it is? What then?” I asked.
“We arrest you for murder and conspiracy!”
His words gave my arms a demoniacal strength. In a moment I had freed myself, and scarcely knowing why I did so, I quickly pointed my revolver at a man who attempted to recapture me, and pulled the trigger.
There was a bright flash, a report, and the man fell back into the arms of one of his companions.
Cries of “Kill him!” “Shoot him!” “Hang him!” were heard on all sides, while I stood, revolver in hand, ready to defend myself.
“Let’s take him back to old Vincenti’s and hear what he’s got to say,” said a tall man, who seemed to be leader.
This proposition met with general disfavour, especially from one officious man, the leader of the band of brigands who had resolved to assist the gendarmes in my capture, who produced a long pair of reins, and leading the way to a spreading oak-tree that stood near, exclaimed, “Here’s a good limb. Come, fetch him along.”
But the tall man demurred and had his way. “If he can’t give a proper account of himself, we’ll make short work of him,” he said.
I attempted to explain, but a pistol was held at my head with a peremptory command to be silent. My arms were then bound, and I was marchedback to the half-ruined villa and placed in one corner of the common room of the inn.
The crowd demanded wine, which was served by Vincenti. The girl Ninetta stood at the door looking at me curiously, and I thought rather pityingly. My trial then began. It was brief and to the point. They had received my description from both the English and Russian police, and by the latter a large reward had been offered for my capture. They had tracked me thus far, and by the random shot I had fired I had mortally wounded one of their companions.
Without admitting that I was the man they were looking for, I made up a fictitious story, declaring my innocence. It was listened to incredulously by most of them, but among a few I thought I saw looks that encouraged me, and I wound up with an impromptu appeal for life which I felt must touch them. I was doomed to bitter disappointment, when the man who had been so officiously anxious to hang me at once, rose, remarking with a harsh laugh: “No, no, you can’t deceive us in that way. Come on. Let’s hang him!”
Several rose, and with loud, deep, voluble oaths supported the suggestion. My blood ran cold as I realised my imminent peril. These rough fellows from Piacenza felt perfectly justified in hanging me to the nearest tree, seeing that I had shot one of their number. What could I do? I gazed from one to the other like a hunted animal.
“Surely you would not hang a man without evidence,” I cried. “I can show you letters to prove who I am.”
The tall man, whom they called Luigi, stepped up and unbound my hands. I drew forth a note I received while in Paris. It contained acarte-de-visiteof my sister Mascha, which fell to the floor as I drew out the letter. Luigi picked it up.
“It is my sister’s picture,” I cried. “Here, read the letter any of you. It will prove that I am an honest man.”
Luigi gazed earnestly at the picture. “Dio mio!she’s a beauty!” he remarked.
The picture was passed round, but opinions were freely expressed that she was not my sister at all. Ninetta crowded in among the men and asked to see the photograph. Luigi handed it to her, jocosely remarking that he would marry her when she grew to be as handsome as that.
She quietly replied: “He speaks the truth!” and gazed intently on the photograph. “I’ll swear that’s his sister,” she added presently.
“I’m inclined to think so, too,” remarked Luigi. “I think we’d better wait and take him back to Piacenza.”
At this there was a dissenting murmur, which grew so strong that my courage failed again. Suddenly Luigi turned to the crowd and cried. “Let us give him a chance. I’ll play him at dominoes. If he loses we’ll end his troubles. What do you say?”
“Capital idea. Let him be tried by his skill with the ivories!” cried one of the men, and the scheme seemed to tickle the fancy of the crowd. They evidently had confidence in Luigi’s ability to play dominoes. Unfortunately it was a game of which I knew nothing, and I told them so.
Ninetta was still standing beside Luigi. “Let me play for him,” she said eagerly. “Luck is always with me.”
“Yes, let her play,” cried the men, evidently amused at the novelty of the thing, and also sure that the old Italian’s superior skill would win. “Yes, let Ninetta play for him. Give her your money,” they said, addressing me.
I looked at the girl curiously. Her big dark eyes were glittering with excitement, but she was cool and self-possessed. Taking out my purse which contained my wealth, about £70 in fifty lire notes, I handed it to her.
The dominoes were produced, and in a few moments she and Luigi were seated opposite each other, and the game began.
It was a weird scene, and I had the odd feeling that I was simply a spectator and in no way concerned. I remember wishing for paints that I might transfer it to canvas. What a picture it would make! The quaint, old-fashioned, frescoed room; the smoky lamps shedding a sickly light upon the eager group around the table. I could see the face of Ninetta, and knew that in all probability my life hung upon her skill.
She played in silence, except when she shuffled the clicking dominoes underneath her small sun-tanned hands. It was an even game for a while, until the old Italian began to win, and her pile of notes steadily diminished. She played coolly on, despite the comments of the crowd. She was down to her last note when the luck turned in her favour. She won steadily, gathering back the notes, until Luigi had scarcely any left. He began to turn up his dominoes cautiously, having evidently no desire to be beaten by a girl.
I watched Ninetta’s face closely for some sign of excitement, but none was visible. She was thoroughly self-possessed, and the fact that she held my life in her hands had no outward effect upon her. Fortune favoured Luigi again, and they were soon about even. The men who crowded around the table grew impatient. “Siete un figurino, Luigi! Sta a voi giuocare.Bah! you’re afraid of her! you don’t bet,” and like expressions were heard, while the others encouraged my little champion. Her father came to where she sat, and patting her upon the shoulder, remarked, “Ninetta was always a lucky girl.”
They commenced to play, and it was the man’s shuffle. The betting was high. Ninetta glanced at her dominoes in an uncertain way, and then at the few limp notes at her elbow. She had thirty lire less than he. The excitement was intense. For a moment only heavy breathing could beheard; then the bright-eyed girl laughed nervously and pushed the whole of the notes into the pool.
Her opponent threw in the rest of his money, breaking into a discordant laugh.
“It’s the last game,” he said, glancing over at me. “Sorry for you, but you can prepare for death. Well, what have you got, Ninetta?”
She quietly turned up the double-six, and one by one exhibited dominoes of high denomination. He struck the table a blow that made the ivories jingle. “Dio! Domino!Luck is always on your side; I’d have staked my last couple ofsoldithat I held a winning hand, but the double-six was too much for me! Come, comrades, let’s have some wine and drink to my bad luck!”
He led the way to the small bar at the end of the room, followed by the crowd and the gendarmes, now appearing in the best of humours. Ninetta calmly swept up the notes, crushed them into my purse and handed it to me, remarking laconically, “You’d better take this and get over the Apennines to Vernazza, where you can get a passage on board a steamer.”
“I don’t want it all,” I exclaimed. “Only what is mine.”
“Keep it all. It’s yours. They’ve killed your horse,” and before I could say anything further, my fair protector had left the room.
My first impulse was to put as much distance as possible between myself and the uncouth crowd, but on reflection I remembered that therewas no other house for miles, that I knew nothing of the country, and if I started out on foot I was liable to be attacked by the thieves who infested the district. I therefore put on a bold front and asked old Vincenti to give me a lodging for the night. He picked up a guttering candle, called Ninetta, and told her to show me upstairs. We entered a large chamber that had evidently once been the ball-room of the villa. There were several beds in it, and on a table beside one she placed the candle, and was about to leave when I detained her.
“Ninetta, I have not thanked you for what you have done for me to-night. My life is not worth much, but I should have hated to give it up in such a manner. Is there nothing I can do to show my gratitude?”
She laughed in an embarrassed manner. “Why, it wasn’t anything. I like to play; I’d have done it for anybody.”
“I’m sure of that; but is there nothing I can do for you?”
She hesitated a moment. “No,” she replied, “there is nothing you can do now. Some day, perhaps, I shall be glad of your assistance.”
“You will always find me your willing servant,” I replied fervently.
I grasped her hand warmly, and she wished me a merry “Buona notte.”
I did not see her about the house next morning. The fierce party of the night before had left.I inquired for Ninetta, but was informed that she had gone off early to attend to her goats on the mountain-side. The old Tuscan woman who acted as cook provided me with a hearty breakfast, and presently a peasant’s cart halted on its way to Vernazza. Arranging with the driver to give me a lift, I mounted beside him with a feeling of inexpressible relief. Half an hour later, as we rounded a curve in the mountain road, we came face to face with Ninetta. She was mounted on a mule, and galloped rapidly past, her hair streaming in the wind. I had only time to raise my hat in response to a smile of recognition, when she passed, as I then thought, out of my life for ever.
Two days afterwards I arrived at Leghorn, and, taking a passage on board a steamer bound for New York, bade farewell to the sunny garden of Europe, which, I felt convinced, was a decidedly dangerous place wherein to sojourn, having regard to the curious circumstances of my capture and release.
After two years of aimless wandering and hiding from the police I again trod Italian soil. Even in far-off Manitoba intelligence had reached me of punishments imposed upon the gendarmes who had acted so leniently towards me. Two years, however, is a long time, and having a mission to execute for our Cause in Italy—my personal appearance being so altered as to be unrecognisable—I returned.
The long, bright day had drawn to a close. The west was a blaze of gold against which the ilex and the acacia were black as funeral plumes, while in the quaint, crooked streets of ancient Nervi people were moving, enjoying thebel frescoafter the burden of the scorching day.
The sun glowed and sank beyond the calm, sparkling Mediterranean, and in the tender violet hues of the east the moon rose. Crimson clouds drifted against the azure, and were reflected as in a mirror on the broad Gulf of Genoa. San Giovanni’s tower stood out clear against the yellow sky, and its bells chimed solemnly.
As the hour wore on, evening fell. Boats glided over the glassy sea; on the hills the cypresses were black against the faint gold that lingered in the west, and there was an odour of carnations and acacias everywhere. Noiseless footsteps came and went. People passed softly in shadow. The moonlight was sweet and clear upon the ancient tower and time-worn stones; in the stillness the little torrents made sad rushing sounds as they plashed towards the sea. Across the moss-grown piazza an old monk walked slowly and thoughtfully.
Leaving theosteriawhere I had taken up a temporary abode, I strolled through the quaint little half-deserted town, and out upon the road which ran by the sea-shore towards old Savona. Engrossed in my own thoughts, I had been standing watching the shadows chase the sun-rayson the dusky purple sides of the Apennines, and the fireflies dancing away their brief lives among the boughs of the magnolias and over the fields of maize.
A cigarette between my lips, I was heedless of where I walked. As I passed a row of small cottages, and emerged upon the broad Corniche Road, the strains of mandolines played by happy, light-hearted fishermen greeted my ears, accompanied by snatches of peasant songs.
I am not a fatalist, neither have I any spiritualistic tendencies, but there are times when I am half inclined to believe in a distinct power—magnetic, if you will.
I think I must have slept, as I have only the most vague recollection of my promenade.
When I became fully aware of things around me, I found myself sitting in an armchair, with my chin resting upon my hands. There was a dim, indistinct consciousness of realising that a storm had occurred—that I had seen a light and knocked timidly at a cottage door.
A young woman in peasant costume, and very beautiful, was sitting beside me. I glanced slowly round the humble interior. We were alone. Little by little I remembered. It was she who had opened the door and bade me welcome.
Though sad, her face pleased me. Were it not for her light breathing I should think she was of wax.
I cannot tell what air of recognition I found in her voice and manner. Instantly, however, I remembered a half-forgotten period, like a queer dream; a name was upon my lips, but I could not utter it. I stammered a question.
“Well, well,” she said, amused; “they tell me I have altered; yet—why, don’t you remember Ninetta?”
“Ninetta! Do you remember when last we met?” I asked earnestly.
“Yes,” she murmured; “but do not speak of it. Such memories are painful.”
“If to you, none the less to me, Ninetta,” I replied, looking into her sad, wan face.
Her lips quivered, and tears stole down her cheeks.
During a whole hour it was nothing but expressions of surprise and vague regret. To the depth of our beings we felt the voice of these recollections. We were speaking of them, when suddenly she withdrew her hand, and a red flush mounted to her forehead.
“But you soon forgot me when you went away,” she said reproachfully. “And I have never ceased to think of you. It was strange, playing a game of dominoes for your life, wasn’t it?”
I rose and gazed at her. She was seated, her eyes riveted on the dying embers of the fire, her cheek resting upon her hand, appearing to have forgotten my presence. There was nothingawkward in the long silence that followed. We both felt too deeply for idle words. As we contemplated our past, the wind whistled without, the thunder pealed, and the rain fell furiously.
“Ah!” she exclaimed at last, looking up at me seriously, “I am foolish to speak so, now that I am married.”
“Married!” I gasped in astonishment, at the same time noticing the ring upon her finger. “I thought this cottage was your father’s—that you kept house for him.”
There was a brief silence. Then she spoke. Her voice made me tremble, careless ingrate that I was. She uttered the words without moving, as though giving utterance to the thought that possessed her. For an hour I remained talking to her, then went forth again into the darkness.
The morning was chill and dull as I again walked along the beach-road until I came to the door of the cottage. I had spent a restless night; her misery tortured me, and despite her entreaty, I was now on my way to proffer assistance. With trepidation I approached the door of the humble abode, and knocked.
No one stirred. Everything seemed strangely silent.
A moment later I noticed the door was unlatched. Pushing it open, I entered, at the same time uttering her name.
As I stepped into the neat, well-kept room I at first saw nothing, but on glancing round theopposite side of the table my eyes encountered a sight that thrilled me with horror.
Stretched on the floor lay Ninetta, partially dressed, the pale morning light falling across her calm, upturned features. Falling on my knees, I touched her face with my hand. It was cold as marble. She was dead!
In her breast a knife was buried up to the hilt, and from the cruel wound the blood had oozed, forming a dark pool beside her.
My recollection of the events immediately following this ghastly discovery is but faint. I have a hazy belief that my mind became unhinged; that I left the place without informing any one of the tragedy, then walking many miles through woods and vineyards, I reached Ovada, whence I took train for Turin.
The one thing most vivid in my mind was the terrible look of blank despair in the glazed eyes.
I have never forgotten it.
One dusty autumn day I was wandering in quaint, old-world Genoa, that city which the bright-eyed, laughing Ligurians love to call “La Superba.” It was in festá, and all the ladder-like streets were ablaze with flags, and the many-coloured façades of the old sea-palaces glowed in the fervid noon-heat reflected by the sapphire water. It was the hour of the siesta. The blazing sun beat down mercilessly upon the white streets; the shops were closed, and behind green jalousies the Genoese were taking their noon-day rest.
Pétroff was with me. Together we walked on the shady side of the deserted Via Roma, and having crossed the Piazza ’Nunziata, were passing the Palazzo di Giustizia, when a knot of persons talking excitedly attracted our attention.
A conversation we overheard between two soldiers aroused our curiosity as to a case in progress in the Criminal Court, and glad to seek shelter from the heat, we entered. As the soldier opened the swing-door of the cool, dimly lit court, I slipped inside with my companion. The judge had risen, and was standing solemn and statuesque. Above him hung a great gilt crucifix. He was uttering words in Italian, that caused a sensation it was impossible to mistake.
“Prisoner Lorenzo Bertini,” he said, addressing the wild-eyed looking man who stood in fetters before him, “in this Court of Justice of His Majesty the King you have been found guilty of wilfully murdering your wife Ninetta, at Nervi. I therefore condemn you to death, and in the name of the Almighty I call upon you to repent!”
I held my breath, and fixed my gaze upon the unhappy man.
In a few seconds I had sufficiently recovered to inquire of a young priest who stood beside me the nature of the tragedy. The condemned man, he told me, had confessed that the motive of his crime was jealousy. He was intoxicated, and having discovered his wife kissing a stranger who had visited her in his absence, he hadentered the house and deliberately stabbed her to the heart.
A sickening sensation crept over me. I pleaded that the intense heat had brought on faintness, and we retraced our steps to our hotel. That evening we left Genoa, and a fortnight later I read in theSecolothat Lorenzo Bertini had paid the penalty of his crime.