"No; on the contrary, I have just made a new contract with those black-beetles of rich relations. But I want to speak to you about something serious, Uncle 'Sidore. First, though, tell me how your legs are? And is it long since you last saw San Costantino on the river-bank?"
The old man frowned; he disliked to hear sacred things alluded to with irreverence. "If that is what you came for," said he, "you can take yourself off at once."
"Oh, well, there is no need to get angry! Here, I'll tell you what I came for; it really is important.But, as for irreverence—if you find me turning into a heathen you must blame the little master, he is always pitching into the saints. He gets terribly frightened, though, whenever he thinks he is going to die. Just listen to this: the other night we saw a shooting star; it fell plumb down from the sky, like a streak of melted gold, and looked as though it had struck the earth. Brontu threw himself down full-length on the ground, yelling: 'If this is the last day, have mercy on us, good Lord!' And there he stayed until, I swear, I wanted to kick him!"
"And you were not frightened?"
"I? No, indeed, little spring bird; I saw the star disappear right away."
"But the very first moment that you saw it, tell the truth now, you were scared then, weren't you?"
"Oh, well, go to the devil! Perhaps I was. But see here, what I came for was to talk to you about him—the master. If he is not crazy, then no one is in the whole world. He wants you to go to Giovanna Era and to suggest to her to get a divorce and marry him!"
Isidoro dropped his work, a mist rose before his calm, honest eyes: he clasped his hands, resting his chin on them, and began shaking his head.
"And how about you?" he asked in a stern voice. "Are you not just as crazy to dare to come to me with such a proposition? Oh, yes! I understand,you are afraid of losing your place! What a poor creature you are!"
"Ho, ho!" cried the other banteringly. "So that's your idea, is it? You and your leeches!"
"Oh! you mean to be funny, do you? Well, it is time this was put a stop to! Tell your master that he has got to bring this business to an end. The whole neighbourhood has heard about it, and people are talking."
"My dear friend, we have only just begun! And here are you talking of ending it! I have had enough of it, I assure you, for morn, noon, and night, that brandy-bottle does nothing but talk to me about it! I had to promise him at last that I would see you, so here I am! But I can tell you not to talk on his side! There is only one person, Uncle Isidoro, who can really put a stop to this scandalous business, and that is Giovanna herself. You must go to her, and tell her to make that beast shut up. I can do nothing more."
Isidoro gazed at him with wide, unseeing eyes; he appeared not to be listening. Presently he resumed his work, murmuring: "Poor Costantino! poor lamb! What have they done to you?"
"Yes, indeed, he is innocent," said Giacobbe. "And any day at all he may come back! This craze of Brontu's has got to be stopped. Then there is Aunt Bachissia as well, hovering over her like a vulture over its prey!"
"Poor Costantino! poor lamb! What have theydone to you?" repeated Isidoro, paying not the smallest heed to anything that Giacobbe said. The latter became annoyed. Raising his voice until it echoed through the surrounding silence and solitude, he shouted: "Whathavethey done to him? What are theygoingto do to him? Why don't you listen to what I am telling you, you old rag-heap? You must go and talk to her, right away! There she is, cheerful and rosy, and ready to fall at the first touch, like a ripe apple! At heart, though, she is not bad, and if you will predispose her against it—make her see what she ought to do—the whole thing may be prevented. Get up! get along! move! do something! Here is your chance to perform miracles, if you really are a saint, as the sinners seem to think!"
"Ah! ah! ah!" sighed the old man, rising to his feet. His tall figure, majestic even in its rags, stood out in the crimson light, against the background of dark hedge and distant, misty horizon, like that of some venerable hermit. "I will go," he said, sighing heavily. And at the words Giacobbe felt as though a great weight had been rolled from his breast.
From then on, the two men worked, steadily together in the interest of the far-away prisoner, finding themselves opposed, however, by three active and united forces, as well as by the passive resistance of Giovanna. The three forces against which they had to contend were: the brute passion of Brontu,the grasping greed of Aunt Bachissia, and Aunt Martina's self-interest, she being now wholly in favour of Brontu's scheme. Giovanna, she argued, was, though poor, both healthy and frugal, and she knew how to work like a beast of burden. A woman in good standing coming into the house as a bride, might entail all manner of extravagance and outlay, and the wedding alone would be sure to mean a heavy expense. Whereas, in the case of Giovanna, the marriage would be conducted almost in secret, and she would steal into the house like a slave! Shrewd Aunt Martina!
Thus the months rolled over the little slate-stone village, the desolate mountains, the yellow stretch of uplands. Autumn came—soft, melancholy days, when the sea lay beneath a veil of mist on the horizon, and dark clouds, like huge crabs, travelled slowly across the pale sky, trailing long lines of vapour behind them. Sometimes, though, it would turn cold, and the atmosphere would be like a spring of limpid water, fresh, clear, and sparkling.
On such an evening as this, when a long, violet-coloured cloud hung in the eastern heavens like an island in a crystal sea, and the scent of burning thyme came from the fields which the peasants were making ready for sowing, Brontu would swallow great gulps of brandy to take off the evening chill, and then, throwing himself down in the back of the hut, would lie dreaming, as warm and happy as a cat, his eyes fixed on the violet-coloured cloudon the distant horizon. All about the cabin, in every direction, as far as the eye could reach, stretched the broadtancasof the Dejases, billowy undulations, losing themselves in the fading daylight. Here and there amid the golden-brown stubble were dark squares of newly-turned earth, swollen by the rain, and patches of fresh grass and purple, autumnal flowers sending out a damp perfume. Clouds of wild birds, and large crows as black and shining as polished metal, poured out of the clumps ofassenzio, which, half-hidden among the wild roses and the clustering arbute with its shining leaves and yellow berries, looked liketumuliof ashes.
In one of thetancastwo peasants, farm hands of the Dejases, were burning brush preparatory to ploughing for the wheat and barley crops. The flames crackled as the wind blew them hither and thither, pale yet, in the evening light, and transparent as yellow glass, the smoke hanging over them in low, light clouds, like fragrant incense, then melting away. Along the tops of the hedges enclosing the sheepfolds, each bare, thorny twig seemed to stand out separately in the crystal atmosphere, like a tracery of amethyst-coloured lace. The animals had all been herded for the night, except a few horses which could be seen here and there, with noses to the ground, cropping the short grass.
From without the hut came the sound of Giacobbe's voice, then the faint tinkle of a cowbell; theprolonged, far-away howl of a dog; the harsh screaming of a crow.
Within, extended like a Bedouin on a pile of skins and warm coverings, Brontu dreamed his one, unvarying dream, while the fiery liquor, coursing through his veins, filled him with a delicious sense of warmth and comfort.
Ah, how the young proprietor did love brandy! Not so much for its penetrating odour and sharp, biting taste, as for that glowing sensation of happiness that stole over his heart after drinking it. But woe betide any one who meddled with him at such times! Instantly his mood would change, and the sweetness turn to gall. It seemed to him that dogs must feel just as he did then, when some one tramples on their tails as they lie asleep. He would arouse in a state of fury, and lose the thread of his dream.
Yes, he loved brandy; wine was good too, but not so good as brandy. His father before him had liked ardent spirits; so much so, in fact, that one day, after drinking heavily, he fell into the fire and was so badly burned that—Heaven preserve us!—he died of the effects! But there! enough of such melancholy thoughts! Nowadays people are more careful, they don't allow themselves to tumble into the fire! Moreover, to balance the passion for brandy, Brontu had his other passion, for Giovanna. Ah, brandy and Giovanna! The two most beautiful, ardent, intoxicating things in the whole world! Butwhere Giovanna was concerned Brontu was as timid and fearful as he was reckless in the matter of brandy. He trembled merely at the thought of approaching her—of speaking to her. On those days when he knew that she was working for his mother he fairly yearned to go home, to gaze at her, to see her working there in his own house, and yet he dared not stir from thetanca! Now, though, as time went on, he was growing weary of waiting; a devouring anxiety, moreover, had seized upon him. What if, by hesitating so long, he were to meet with another refusal! Tormented by this thought, he longed to tell her of his solicitude for her; how, in order to console her for all that had occurred, he would gladly have married her at once, immediately after Costantino's sentence! His ideas differed from those of most people, but he was made that way and could not change. At bottom, like most drunkards, he had not a bad heart, nor was he immoral: his one passion, apart from drink, had always been for Giovanna, ever since when, as a boy, he had come with his family to live in the house on the hill. She was only fifteen then, and very fresh and beautiful. Every time he looked at her, even in those days, he had flushed even to his hands, and though she had noticed it, she had not seemed to mind. He never said anything, though, and so at last, when one day he screwed up his courage to the point of persuading his mother to go to Aunt Bachissia with an offer of marriage,it was too late, the position had been filled! Giovanna, at that time, had been as spirited and passionate as a young colt, and as utterly indifferent to worldly considerations. She might have married Brontu Dejas at first for his beautiful teeth, but having once fallen in love with Costantino, she would not have thrown him over for the Viceroy himself, had Sardinia still possessed one.
The twilight deepened; the sky grew more and more crystalline, like a vast mirror; the little, violet cloud grew leaden and opaque, then long and scaly, like some monster fish; the sounds from without, rising clearer than ever in the intense stillness of the hour and place, it seemed to Brontu that he must be dreaming when the voice of Aunt Bachissia suddenly broke in upon his revery.
"Santu Juanne Battista meu!" exclaimed the harsh, melancholy voice. "If I am not mistaken, that is Giacobbe Dejas?"
"At your service," replied the herdsman, in a tone of amazement. "But what wind blows you to these parts, little spring bird?"
"Ah, I am here at last! Where is Brontu Dejas?"
Brontu rushed out of the hut, his knees shaking and his brain in such a whirl that he could hardly discern Aunt Bachissia's black-robed figure as she stood holding her shoes in one hand, and balancing a bundle on her head.
"Aunt Bachissia!" he cried, in great agitation."Here I am! Good-evening! Come here, come right in here!"
The woman flew towards him, closely followed by the herdsman. "Ah, Brontu, my dear boy! If I am not dead to-night, it must mean that I never shall be! Three hours I have been walking! I lost my way. I must see you about something, but be patient for a moment."
Patient! With his whole being in such a state of turmoil that he could hardly keep back the tears! Taking her by the hand he led her inside the hut, while Giacobbe, seeing that he was to have no part in the interview, went around to the back and listened with all his ears, raging meanwhile, inwardly, like a wild bull. Not a word, however, reached him. The conference was extremely short, Aunt Bachissia refusing even to sit down. She said that she had lost her way looking for Brontu's sheepfolds, and that Giovanna would be getting very anxious, as she thought she had merely gone into the fields to look for greens. Yes, it was quite true, they had to depend largely upon greens for their food, so bitter was their poverty: and what had brought her now was nothing less than to ask Brontu for some money. Oh, a loan! yes, thank Heaven, only a loan! If they should not be able to repay it, then she and Giovanna would work it off. For months they had not paid any rent—rent—! for their own house—! Now, the lawyer was threatening to evict them. "And where would we go, Brontu Dejas?" concludedAunt Bachissia, clasping her gnarled and yellow hands. "Tell me where we would go, Brontu, my soul!"
His breast heaved; he wanted to seize the old woman in his arms, and shout: "Why, to my house; that is where you would go!" But he did not dare.
As there was no money at the hut Brontu decided to go home for it at once; he wished, anyhow, to return with Aunt Bachissia. Going outside, he called to Giacobbe to saddle the horse immediately. "What has happened?" asked the man. "Is your mother dead? God rest her soul!"
"No," replied Brontu cheerfully. "Nothing has happened that in any way concerns you."
Giacobbe began saddling the horse, but he was consumed with curiosity to know why Aunt Bachissia had come, and why Brontu was going back with her. She has come to borrow some money, he reflected, and he has none; he is going home to get it for her. "Listen, Brontu!" he called, and when the other had come quite close, he said: "If she wants money, and you haven't got any here, I can let you have some."
"Yes, she does; she wants to borrow some money," said Brontu in a low tone, quivering with delight and excitement. "But I am going back with her to get it, whether you have it here or not; that makes no difference; I am going to see Giovanna this very evening, at her own house; I am going to talk to her and do for myself what not oneof all you donkeys has had sense enough to do for me!"
"Man!" cried Giacobbe angrily, "you must be going mad!"
"All right; let me go mad. See here, draw the girth tighter. Ah! swelling out your sides, are you?" he added, addressing the horse. "You don't fancy night excursions? What will you say when the old woman is mounted on the crupper?"
"She too?" exclaimed Giacobbe.
"She too, yes; what business is it of yours? Isn't she my mother-in-law?"
"You go too fast, upon my word! Look out, or you will have a fall and break your neck, little spring bird. Ah! you are really in earnest? You really mean to marry that beggar, that married woman, when you might have a flower for your wife? Well, I can tell you one thing, Costantino Ledda is innocent; some day he will come back, remember that; some day he will come back!"
"Let me alone, Giacobbe Dejas, and attend to your own affairs. There, put a bag on the crupper. Aunt Bachissia!" he called to the old woman.
Giacobbe ran quickly into the hut, and fell over Aunt Bachissia, who was just coming out.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," he said, trembling. "You are worse than any beggar! Oh, I'm going to talk to Giovanna! I am going to talk to her myself!"
"You are a fool," said the woman; then, loweringher voice, she called him by an outrageous name, and passed out.
A few moments later the two set forth.
Giacobbe watched them as they slowly moved away in the fading light, across the solitarytanca: further and further, along the winding path, beyond the thickets, beyond the clumps of bushes, beyond the smoke of the brushwood fires; until, at last, they were lost to sight. Then an access of blind fury seized him; clutching the cap from his head, he flung it from him as far as he could; then picked it up again, and fell to beating the dog. The poor beast set up a prolonged howl that filled the silent waste, and was echoed back again with a sound like the despairing cry of some wandering phantom.
Night fell. Giacobbe, throwing himself down on the paillasse which Brontu had quitted shortly before, smelled an odour of brandy; he got up, found his master's flask, and drank. Then he lay down again, and presently he too felt something bubble up in his breast, bathe his heart, scorch his eyelids, mount gurgling to his brain. His anger melted suddenly away and was replaced by a feeling of melancholy. Through the open door he could see the bright red glow of the brush fires gradually overpowering the fading twilight; as the two merged they formed a single hue of violet, indescribably melancholy in tone. Now and again the dog gave another long howl. Oh! what misery, what misery!Why had he, Giacobbe, beaten that poor dog? What had it done to him? Nothing. He was filled with remorse, the foolish, emotional remorse of the drunkard; yet, so irritating were the sounds that he had a strong impulse to rush out and beat the unfortunate beast again.
All at once his mind recurred to Brontu and Aunt Bachissia, whom he had forgotten for the moment, and he began to tremble violently. What had happened? Had Giovanna given in? Ah! what made that dog bark like that? It was like the shriek of a dead person,—the voice of Basile Ledda, who was murdered! "Pooh, pooh, the dead cannot cry out. That is nothing but the howling of a dog." He laughed softly, drowsily, to himself; his heavy eyelids closed, shutting out the opaque, violet-coloured mist that hung like a curtain before the open door; he felt as though a sack filled with some soft but heavy substance were pressing down upon him, so that he could not move; yet the sensation was agreeable. A thousand confused images chased one another through his brain. Among other things he dreamed that he was dead, and that his soul had entered into the body of a dog, a gaunt, little yellow cur, who was running around and around Aunt Bachissia's kitchen searching for bones. Costantino was sitting by the fire; he was dressed in red, and there was a great chain lying at his feet; all at once he saw the dog, and flung the chain at it. The creature's head was caught fast, encircled inone of the iron rings, and Giacobbe, stricken with terror, forced himself to cry out, in order to make them understand it was he. He awoke, perspiring and shouting: "Little spring bird!"
Night had fallen; the desertedtanca, stretching away beneath a clear sky sparkling with big, yellow stars, glowed with the red light of the brush fires.
Giacobbe could not get to sleep again; he turned and twisted from one side to the other, but the intoxicating effects of the brandy had passed, leaving his mouth dry and feverish. He got up and drank; then he remembered that he had taken nothing to eat that evening. For a long time he stood leaning against the door of the hut, his face lighted up by the glow of the fires. "Shall I get something to eat or not?" he asked himself, hardly conscious that he did so. Then he looked up at the stars. Almost midnight. What had that little beast—his master—accomplished? he wondered, and his anger rose again, but chiefly against Aunt Bachissia. What impudence to come all the way to this distant spot just to further the little proprietor's outrageous plans! For he knew perfectly well that the loan was merely an excuse of that old harpy to draw Brontu on, to bring him to a decision, to make him commit himself. Ah, what a low creature that woman was! Had she no conscience at all? Did she not believe in God? At this point Giacobbe grew thoughtful, and presently he threw himself down again, still debating whether or no he werehungry, and whether it were worth while to get something to eat. No, he decided; he was not hungry, nor thirsty, nor sleepy; nor could he rest; lying down, or sitting up, or standing. He yawned noisily and began talking aloud, mumbling foolish, disconnected things, in a vain effort to distract his thoughts, which, however, continued to dwell persistently uponthat thing. It was horrible, horrible! Marry a woman who had another husband already! And suppose Costantino should come back? Who knows? Everything is possible in this world. And even if he were never to return, there was the boy, how about him? What would he think when he grew up and found that his mother had two husbands? What a law that was! "Ha! the men who make the laws are pretty queer!" And Giacobbe laughed mirthlessly, for, down in the bottom of his heart, his inclination was to do anything else but laugh.
Getting up, he seized the brandy-flask, saying to himself that if Brontu should display any curiosity as to who had drunk his brandy, why so much the worse for him. "I'll tell him it was the spirits! Ha, ha!" He laughed again, took a deep draught, and, throwing himself down, quickly fell into a heavy sleep, and dreamed that he was telling a sister of his all about his other dream of Costantino, and the yellow dog, and the chain.
When he awoke the sun was already above the horizon, pushing through a bank of bluish cloud.The morning was cold, with light, drifting clouds, and the thickets, bushes, stubble, every spear of grass, sparkled with dew in the slanting rays of the sun. Once more the birds bustled in and out among the bushes, burst into song, rushed together in little groups, or poised gracefully in the misty air. Now and then the chorus of chirps and twitters would swell into something so acute and piercing that it was almost like the patter of metal raindrops: sometimes a shrill whistle, or the strident note of a crow, would break into this silvery harmony; then all would die away, swallowed up in the vast silence of the uplands.
Giacobbe came out of the hut yawning and stretching. He yawned so violently that his jaws cracked, and his smooth-shaven face folded into innumerable tiny wrinkles about the round, open mouth; and his little, oblique eyes, yellow in the sunlight, watered like those of a dog. "Well," he thought, pressing both hands to his stomach, "I have cramps here. What did I do last evening?"
He threw open the folds; a ram with curved horns came out, snuffing the ground, closely followed by a yellowish bunch of sheep, all trying to tread in his tracks, and all likewise snuffing the ground; others came, and still others; the folds were empty; still Giacobbe stood close to the enclosure—motionless—buried in thought.
"Yes, last evening I had nothing to eat. I drank the little master's brandy, and then I had dreams.Yes, yes, that was it—Costantino—and the dog—and my sister Anna-Rosa. Well, damn him! Why didn't he come back, the little toad? I got drunk, just like a beast. Yes,"—he moralised, walking towards the hut,—"a drunken man is like a beast; he does not know what he is doing, and brays out everything in his mind. A dangerous thing that, Giacobbe Dejas, you bald-pate! Get that well into your head; it's dangerous. No, no, I'll never get drunk again; may the Lord punish me if I do."
A little later the young master returned. Giacobbe, intent and smiling, watched him closely. "Ah!" said he, stepping forward solicitously, "you look like a man who has had a whipping; what has happened?"
"Nothing. Get away."
But nothing was further from the other's intention. He began to circle around his master, fawning upon him and making little bounds towards him like a dog, teasing persistently to be told what had occurred. At last Brontu, who really longed to unburden himself, yielded.
Well then, yes; Giovanna had, in fact, driven him away like an importunate beggar. She had asked him if he had forgotten that she had a son who would one day spit at her, and demand to know how it was that she had two husbands.
"My soul, I knew it!" cried Giacobbe, leaping in the air for joy.
"What did you know?"
"Why, that she had a son."
"Well, I knew that myself. She chased me out of the house; that's the whole of it. I could hear the two—the mother and daughter—from the road, quarrelling furiously together." And then Brontu went to look for his brandy-flask.
Giacobbe was so overjoyed that he could have laughed aloud for glee.
"Look here!" he called. "The spirits came last night and drank your brandy. Ha! ha! ha! but there must be some left; I am sure there is still some left."
Brontu drank eagerly without making any reply. Then he flung the flask angrily at the herdsman, who caught it in the air; and Brontu, having drunk for sorrow, Giacobbe proceeded to drink for joy.
One morning, about three years after his conviction, Costantino awoke in a bad humour. The heat was oppressive, and the air of the cell was heavy and sickening. One of the prisoners was snoring and puffing like a kettle letting off steam.
Costantino had slept with Giovanna's last letter beneath his head, and a sad little letter it was; short, and depressing in the extreme. She told of her and her mother's dire poverty, and of the boy's serious illness. It never occurred to Costantino to reflect how cruel it was to write to him in this strain; he wanted to know the truth about them, however bad it might be, and he felt that to share all Giovanna's sorrows and to agonise over his inability to help her was a part of his duty. A barren duty,—alas!—merely an increase of his misery.
He had become quite deft at his trade of shoemaking, and worked rapidly, but he could make very little money; all that was left, however, after theKing of Spadeshad been paid for his supposed good offices he sent to Giovanna.
"Upon my word," said the ex-marshal, "you are a goose. Spend it on yourself. They ought to be sending you money."
"But they are so poor."
"Poor! Not they; haven't they got the sun? What more do they want?" said the other. "If you would only eat and drink more it would be a real charity. You are nothing but a stick, my dear fellow. Look at me! I'm getting fat. My bacon may be all rind, but, all the same, I'm getting fat."
He was, in fact, as round as a ball, but his flesh hung down in yellow, flabby rolls. Costantino, on the other hand, had fallen away, his eyes were big and cavernous, and his hands transparent.
The sun! he thought to himself bitterly. Yes, they have indeed got that; but what good is the sun even, when one has nothing to eat, and is suffering every kind of privation? He was, no doubt, a great simpleton, but as he thought of these things, he sometimes cried like a child. Yet all the time he never gave up hope. The years passed by; day followed day slowly, regularly, uneventfully, like drops of water in a grotto, dripping from stone to stone. Almost every convict in the prison, especially those whose terms were not very long, hoped for a remission, and kept close count of the days already elapsed and of those yet to come. Their accuracy was amazing; they never made a mistake of so much as a single day. Some even carried their calculations so far as to count the hours. Costantino thought it all very foolish; one might die in the mean time, or regain his liberty! It was all in the hands of God. Yet, all the same, he too counted on beingfreed before the appointed hour; only in his case the appointed hour was so desperately, so hopelessly far away!
This realisation was heavy upon him on that morning when he awoke and fingered the warm paper of Giovanna's last letter.
Getting up, he sighed heavily, and began to dress himself. The man on his right stopped snoring, opened one sleepy eye, regarded Costantino dully, then closed it again. "Feeling badly?" he asked, as Costantino sighed again. "Oh, yes! Your child is ill. Why don't you tell the Director?"
"Why should I tell the Director? He would clap me into a cell for receiving the letter, and that would be the whole of it."
"Exceptpane e pollastra" (bread and water), said an ironical voice.
There was a general laugh, and Costantino, realising bitterly the utter indifference of all those men among whom he was destined to pass his days, felt as though he were wandering alone in a burning desert, gasping for air and water.
He went to his work longing impatiently for the exercise hour, when he would be able to talk over his troubles with theKing of Spades. The great, fat, yellow man whom he despised so in his heart, was, nevertheless, indispensable to him; his sole comfort, in fact. He alone in that place understood him, was sorry for him, and listened to him. He was paid for it all, to be sure, but what did thatsignify? He was necessary in the same way to a great many of the convicts, but to none, probably, as much as to Costantino, who already, with a somewhat selfish regret, was dreading the time when, his term expired, theKing of Spadeswould finally depart.
On this particular day a new inmate made his appearance in the workroom. He was a Northerner; long and sinuous, with a grey, wrinkled face, and small, pale eyes. It was not easy to tell his age, but the men laughed when he announced himself as twenty-two. He began at once to complain of the heat and of the sickening smell of fish that filled the room. Ah, he was no cobbler; no, indeed! He was the only son of a wealthy wholesale shoe-dealer,—a gentleman, in fact. And thereupon he recounted his unfortunate history. He had, it appeared, been so unlucky as to kill a rival in love; there had been provocation and he had ripped him open in the back,—simply that! The woman who was the real cause of the crime had consumption, and now she was dying from grief,—dying, simply that! Moreover, there was a child in the question, a son of the prisoner's by the sick woman. If she died, the boy would be left orphaned and abandoned. Costantino trembled at this; not, indeed, that the man's story affected him particularly, but because the picture of the woman and the child reminded him of Giovanna and the sick Malthineddu.
The newcomer, who was cutting a pair of soleswith considerable skill, now became silent, and bent over, intent upon his work, his under lip trembling like that of a child about to cry. Costantino, watching him, reflected that though he knew that this man must be suffering intensely he felt as indifferent as did any of the others: he too, then, had lost the power of sympathising with the sorrows of others! The thought filled him with dismay and made him more insanely anxious to get out than ever.
That day, as soon as he saw theKing of Spades, he drew him over to a corner where the sun-baked wall cast a little spot of shade; but when he had got him there he could not bring himself to begin on his own troubles. Instead he repeated the story told by the new arrival. The other shrugged his shoulders and spat against the wall.
"If he wants to, even he can write," he said. "But I should advise prudence, some one is nosing about."
"How are we ever going to manage after you have gone?" said Costantino thoughtfully.
"You would like to keep me here forever, you rascal?" demanded the other in a rallying tone.
"Heaven forbid! No, indeed; I only wish you might get out to-morrow!"
TheKing of Spadessighed. His enemies, he declared, were forever devising new and diabolical schemes for keeping him out of the way; he had abandoned all hope now of a pardon. In any case, however, his term would expire before long;then he would go at once to the King, and lay a plain statement of the facts before him. The King would order an instant reversal of the verdict, and he himself, his innocence finally established, would be restored to his post. Who could tell, there might even be another medal conferred, to keep the rest company! But his first care would be to obtain pardons for all his friends, especially for Costantino. "That would be a noble work," he observed, self-approvingly. Indeed, by virtue of making such assurances frequently, he had come actually to believe in them himself.
"To-morrow? Yes, indeed; a pardon might very possibly come to-morrow, and a good thing that would be for every one."
"Good, or bad," said Costantino despondently.
"After all," continued the other, "when I am gone it may be that you will no longer have any use for my services."
The moment the words were out of his mouth he regretted having spoken, but seeing that Costantino merely shook his head, evidently supposing that he alluded to a possible pardon, he regarded him compassionately.
"Are you really and truly innocent?" he asked. "By this time I should think you would be willing to talk to me quite openly. Do you remember that first time when I asked you? You said: 'May I never see my child again, if I am guilty.'"
"Yes, so I did; and now, you mean to say, Iam perhaps not going to see him again? Well, God's will be done; but I am innocent, all the same."
TheKing of Spadesturned, and again spat upon the wall. "Patience, old fellow, patience, patience," he said; and there was a note of real warmth and feeling in his tone. He felt, in fact, quite proud of himself for recognising and esteeming honesty when he saw it in others, and it was this taste that drew him to Costantino. He saw with wonder that his fellow-countryman was so good, that his soul was so pure, and his whole nature formed of so fine a material, that even the boundless corruption of prison life could not sully him.
Now it happened that the ex-marshal allowed himself—as one of the privileges of his position of go-between—to read the letters that passed through his hands. Not long before, an anonymous letter had come for Costantino, written in a villainous hand, with great sprawling characters that looked like insects crawling over the page. Venomous creatures they proved, indeed, to be, and capable of inflicting wounds as deadly as those of any living reptile. In short, the letter announced that Giovanna, wife of the prisoner, was permitting Brontu Dejas to pay court to her, and that Aunt Bachissia was about to go to Nuoro to consult a lawyer about applying for a divorce for her daughter.
On reading this precious communication the ex-marshal became furious; his friend, theDelegate, immersed as he was in his great scientific researches,heard him snorting, and puffing out his fat, yellow cheeks. "Idiots! Fools! Sardinian asses!" he sputtered. "Why on earth tell him about it at all! What can he do, except batter out his brains against the wall?"
He did not deliver the letter, and every time he saw his friend he regarded him compassionately, feeling at the same time pleased at his own goodness of heart for caring so much.
Three days later the boy died. Costantino was notified immediately of the event. He wept silently and by stealth, trying hard to bear up with fortitude before his companions. When Arnolfo Bellini, the man whose mistress was dying, heard of the Sardinian's misfortune, he fell into a fit of nervous weeping, emitting curious noises like an angry hen, his grey, old-young face doubling up in such grotesque contortions that one of the quarrelsome brothers from the Abruzzi burst out laughing; one of the others leaned across and punched him in the leg with an awl, whereupon the Abruzzese started, ceased laughing, and continued his work without protest.
Costantino, after staring a moment at Bellini in amazement, shook his head and turned to his bench. Silence reigned, and presently the man calmed down.
The low room was filled with the hot, reflected glare from the courtyard, and the overpowering heat drew a sickening odour from the leather and the perspiring hands and feet of the convicts. Therewere thirteen of them under the surveillance of a tall, red-moustached guard, who never opened his lips. The uniformity of dress, the close-cropped heads and shaven faces, and the general vacuity of expression lent them all a certain mutual resemblance; they might have been brothers, or at least nearly related to one another, and yet, never more than on that particular day, had Costantino felt himself so utterly apart, so wholly out of sympathy with his companions in misery.
He stitched and stitched, bending over the shoe, which rested between his knees in the hollow of his leather apron. From time to time he would pause, examine his work attentively, then go on again drawing the thread through with both hands with a jerk that seemed almost angry. Yes, one must work, now that the boy was dead. Had he loved him very dearly? Well, he could hardly say; perhaps not so very much. He had only seen him once during that time at Nuoro, through the iron grating of the reception-room, held fast in the arms of his weeping mother. The baby, he remembered, had a little pink face, somewhat rough and scarred, like certain kinds of apricots when they are ripe. His round, violet-coloured eyes shone like a pair of grape seeds from beneath their long fringe of lashes. He had cried the whole time, terrified at the sight of the stern-faced, rigid guards; and grasping the iron bars convulsively with his little red hands.
This was the only memory Costantino had preserved of his son. Years had gone by since then; yet he always imagined him flushed, tearful, with little violet eyes shining out from beneath the dark lashes. But he often pictured the future, when Malthineddu, grown to be big and strong, would drive the wagon, and ride the horse, and sow, and reap, and be the comfort and support of his mother. The prisoner constantly hoped that some day or other he would be cleared, and able to return to his home, but when at times this hope seemed to be more than usually vain, then his thoughts would instantly revert to the boy, and how he would be able to take his place in a way; thus his feeling for him was more a part of his love for Giovanna than that more selfish affection which is the result, often, of habit and propinquity.
Now the boy was dead, and the dream shattered; the will of God be done. And Costantino, dwelling upon Giovanna's grief, suffered himself, acutely.
When theKing of Spades, accordingly, met his friend that day in the shadow of the sun-baked wall, he at once perceived that the other's grief was far more for his wife than for the loss of the child; nevertheless, his method of imparting comfort was to say banteringly: "Why, my dear fellow, if, as you say, the Lord has taken the innocent little soul back to himself, why do you take it so much to heart? It must be for his own good!"
"Why must it?" said Costantino, his head drooping, and both arms hanging down with limp, openpalms. "Why must he be better off? Simply because he was poor!"
TheKing of Spadeshappened to be in a philosophising mood. He explained, therefore, that poverty was not always a misfortune; nothing of the sort; it might at times be looked upon as a blessing, even an unqualified one!
"There are many worse things than poverty," said he. "Reflect for a moment; your wife will become reconciled."
"Oh! of course; she has the sun," said Costantino, clenching his hands. "This burning sun, and just how is it going to help her?"
"Pff! pff! pff!" puffed the other, inflating his big, yellow cheeks. Then he grew thoughtful, and fell to examining the little finger of his right hand with minute attention.
"Suppose," he said suddenly, "your wife were to marry again?"
Costantino did not quite take in what he meant, but his arms stiffened instinctively.
"I hardly should have thought," said he in a hurt tone, "that you would say such a thing as that."
"Pff! pff! pff!" The ex-marshal swelled and puffed meditatively. Then, after a short pause, he began again:
"But listen, my dear fellow, you don't understand. I don't for a moment mean to say that your wife is not a perfectly honest woman; what I domean is—suppose she were actually to marry some one else? And still you don't understand? Upon my word, this Christian is extraordinarily slow at taking an idea! One would suppose you were free, you are so innocent. Perhaps, though," he added, "you don't know that people can get divorces nowadays. Any woman whose husband has been sentenced for more than ten years, can be divorced and marry some one else."
Costantino threw his head up for a moment, and his sunken eyes opened round and wide; then the lids dropped again.
"Giovanna would never do it," he said simply.
There was another brief interval of silence.
"Giovanna would not do it," he repeated; yet, even as he pronounced the words, he had a strange sensation, as though a frozen steel were slashing his heart in twain; one part was convulsed with agony, while the other shrieked again and again: "She would never do it! she would never do it!" And neither part gave a single thought to the little, dead child.
"She would not do it, she would not do it," reiterated one half of his heart with loud insistence, until, at last, the other was convinced, and they came together again, but only to find that both were now devoured by that torturing pain.
"See here," said theKing of Spades, "I don't believe she would either. But tell me one thing; now that the child is dead, and now that the motherhas nothing more to hope for, from either him or you, would it not, after all, be the very best thing she could do, supposing she had the opportunity? For my own part, I think that if a chance came along for her to marry again, she would be very foolish not to take it."
"Brontu Dejas!" said Costantino to himself. But he only repeated: "No, she would not do it."
"But you are a Christian, my friend; if she were to do it, would she not be in the right?"
"But I am going back some day."
"How is she to know that?"
"Why, I have told her so all along, and I shall never cease telling her so."
TheKing of Spadeshad a strong inclination to laugh, but he restrained himself, feeling quite ashamed of the impulse. Presently he murmured, as though in answer to some inward question: "It is all utter foolishness."
"Yes, of course," said Costantino. But all the time, he was thinking of Brontu Dejas, of his house with the portico, of histancasand his flocks; and then of Giovanna's poverty. Alas! the knife was cutting deep into his heart now.
That very night he wrote a long letter to Giovanna, comforting her, and assuring her of his unshaken faith in the divine mercy. "It may be," he wrote, in the simple goodness of his heart, "that God wishes to prove us still further, and so has taken from us the offspring that we conceived insin; may his will be done! But now, a presentiment tells me that the hour of my restoration to liberty is at hand." He considered long whether or no to tell her of thedreadful thinghinted at by the ex-marshal, and thought himself quite shrewd and cunning when he decided it would be better to let her think that he did not so much as know of the existence of that infernal law.
His letter despatched, he felt more tranquil. But a little worm had begun to gnaw and gnaw in his brain. The ex-marshal, moreover, from that day on, with a pity that was heartless in its operations, never ceased to instil the subtle poison into his veins. He must become accustomed to the idea, thought this diplomatist to himself, else the poor, simple soul will die of heartbreak. There were times, however, when he thought that it might be better, after all, to let him die, and have done with it. Then, remembering all his promises about obtaining a pardon, he would pretend to himself that he was really going to do this, and continue the torture so that his victim might survive the shock when news of the divorce actually came. He had no doubt that his friend's wife was seriously contemplating the step, and it made him angry to hear Costantino speak affectionately of her.
"My dear fellow," said he one October day, puffing as usual, "you don't know women. Empty jugs, that's what they are; nothing but empty jugs! I was once engaged to be married myself. Youcan hardly believe it? Well, I can hardly believe it either. What then? Nothing, except that she betrayed me before I had even married her, and—that you irritate me beyond measure. Here is your wife in an altogether different situation; she is young and poor, and has blood in her veins—she has blood in her veins, I suppose, hasn't she? Well, if this Dejas fellow wants her to marry him, I say she would be a great goose not to do it."
"Dejas! Why—what—who told you?" stammered Costantino in amazement.
"Oh! didn't you tell me yourself?"
Costantino thought he most certainly had not, but then his mind had been in such a confused state for some time back—but merciful God! Dear San Costantino! How had he ever come to do such a thing? What had made him utter that man's name?
"Well, then," he burst out; "yes, I am afraid of him! He courted her before we were married; he wanted her himself. Ugh! he's a drunkard, and as weak as mud. No, no; she could never do anything so horrible! For pity's sake, let's talk of something else."
So they did talk of something else, still in the Sardinian dialect, so as not to be understood by the other prisoners. They talked of the consumptive student, who was drawing visibly nearer to the door of the other world; of Arnolfo Bellini, who began to sob whenever his eye fell on the dying man; oftheDelegate, whom they could see pacing back and forth by the fountain; of the magpie, who was growing feeble, and losing all his feathers, from old age.
Gossip, envy, hatred, identical interests, cowardice, raillery, fear—such were the bonds which united or kept apart the different members of the little community—prisoners, guards, and officials alike. To Costantino they were all equally objects of indifference; he, theDelegate, and the student seeming to live apart in a little world of their own, with the ex-marshal—the pivot about which every detail in the prisoners' lives seemed to revolve; he, meanwhile, appearing to be as superior as he was necessary to them all.
Many envied the friendly intercourse existing between Costantino and him, and frequently the former would be implored to use his influence with theKing of Spadesto procure some favour. He merely shrugged his shoulders on such occasions, though, when they offered him money, as sometimes happened, he was sorely tempted to take it, so intense was his longing to be able to support Giovanna; he had no other idea. TheKing of Spades, with his eternal insinuations that cut like knives, was becoming more and more hateful to him. One day they actually quarrelled, and for some time did not speak to one another. But Costantino could not stand it; he felt as though he should suffocate, as though he had been shut up in a cell, and cut offfrom all communication with the outer world. He soon apologised and begged for a reconciliation.
The autumn drew on; the air grew cool, and the sky became a delicate, velvety blue, distant, unreal, dreamlike. Sometimes the breeze would waft a perfume of ripening fruit into the prison enclosure.
Costantino was less acutely miserable, but he had sunk into a state of settled melancholy; he grew thinner and thinner, and deprived himself continually of things which he stood in need of in order to have more money to send to Giovanna. The other prisoners all received presents of some sort from their friends and relatives; he alone denied himself even the little pittance he was able to earn.
"I don't understand it," said the ex-marshal to him one day. "Your complexion is pink and you look younger than you did when you came, and yet you are almost transparent."
Sometimes Costantino would flush violently, and the blood would rush to his head; then he would be utterly prostrated, and in his weakness he would suffer more from homesickness than he had done even in the first year of his imprisonment. He would see before him the boundless sweep of the uplands, sleeping in the autumnal haze, glowing and yellow beneath the crystal sky; he would get the breath of the vineyards, the scent of such late-maturing fruits as flourish in that land of flocks and beehives; images would rise before him of the foxes and hares, the wild birds and cattle, the hedges thickwith blackberries, all the hundred and one natural objects which had constituted the sole element of enjoyment in his otherwise miserable and barren childhood. Then his thoughts would turn to his uncle, the cruel old Vulture who, having tormented him in his lifetime, seemed able to torment him still. An impulse of bitter hatred would rise up in his heart, only to be repressed, on remembering that he was dead, and succeeded by a prayer for the murdered man's soul.
There was no one else whom he was even tempted to hate, no one at all; not even the real murderer, or Brontu Dejas—who, in fact, had as yet given him no cause for complaint—or theKing of Spades, though he subjected him to this continual martyrdom. Indeed, it hardly seemed as though he had sufficient strength effectually to hate any one. A feeling of gentle melancholy pervaded him, a sort of numbness like that of a person about to fall asleep; his only sensation was one of tender, pitiful, passionless love; as tranquil, as mild and all-embracing as an autumnal sky, and having for its one object—Giovanna. She was a part of the love itself, and waking or sleeping, he thought only of her, only of her, only of her.
As time went on this love became more and more engrossing; she came to represent the far-off home, family, liberty—life itself. All, all, was comprehended in her: hope, faith, endurance, peace, the very love of life! She became his soul.
When the inexorableKing of Spadesthreatened him withthat horrible thing, he did not know it, but it was the death of his soul that he was holding over him. For the certainty of not losing Giovanna, Costantino would gladly have agreed to pass forty years in prison; and, at the same time, he panted for his freedom precisely in order that he might not lose her.
During the winter that followed, he suffered intensely from cold; his face and nails were livid, and during the exercise hour, even when he stood in the sun, his teeth chattered like those of an old man. He asked often to confess, and confided all his troubles to the young chaplain.
"Who puts such ideas as these into your head, my son?" asked the confessor, his dark eyes flashing.
"A fellow-countryman of mine, the ex-marshal—Burrai. TheKing of Spadesthey call him."
"May God bless and protect you!" said the other, becoming thoughtful; he knew theKing of Spadeswell. Then he administered what comfort he could, and asked what Giovanna had written herself, and when.
Alas! she wrote but seldom now and never more than a few lines at a time. It seemed almost as if, after the child's death, she had nothing to write about. In her last letter she had told him that the weather was bitterly cold; there had been two snow-storms, in one of which a man, while attemptingto cross the mountains, had been frozen to death. And then she had added that they were having a famine.
These accounts, of course, preyed upon Costantino's mind. He would dream constantly that he had been taken to Nuoro and given his liberty; from thence he would set forth on foot for home; it was cold, bitterly cold; he could go no further—he was dying, dying—then he would wake up shivering, and with a heavy weight on his heart.
"You are so weak, my brother," said the confessor. "It is bodily weakness that makes you imagine all these things. Your wife is a good Christian; she would never wrong you in the world. Come, put all such ideas out of your head. You should try to get back your strength; you must eat more, and drink something now and then. Are you earning anything?"
"A little; but I send it all to my wife, she is so terribly poor. Oh! I eat plenty, and I don't like to take anything to drink; it gives me nausea."
"Well, take heart. I will talk to Burrai; he shall not bother you any more."
He did, in fact, have an interview with theKing of Spades, and took him severely to task for putting such wicked ideas into Ledda's head. "The poor fellow is far from strong as it is," said he. "If you don't let him alone, he will be ill."
Burrai regarded the priest calmly out of hisshrewd little pig-eyes, then he gave a puff and shook his head.
"I only do it for his own good," he said confidently.
"But what good, what possible good? You——"
"I tell you, my dear fellow—I beg your pardon—but here it is, for the present—as long as the cold weather lasts—there is very little to be feared, so far as the young woman is concerned; that is, I fancy that now it is only the old one, Costantino's mother-in-law, who is at work, advising and tormenting her daughter not to let her chance slip by. But when the spring comes—then you'll see; that's all."
The chaplain's face fell; he was disturbed and puzzled. The other, watching him out of his sharp, little eyes, concluded that the present would be a good time to explain himself more fully, and accordingly began to enlarge upon the mother-in-law's grasping disposition, the youth of her daughter, the dangers of the spring season, and so forth. The chaplain now became really angry.
"This is too much!" he exclaimed, as he strode up and down, striking the palms of his hands together, and his eyes flashing. "How dare you imagine all this string of things that may possibly happen, and then repeat them to that poor creature as though they were actual occurrences? Because the young woman once had another suitor, you mean to say——"
"My dear friend, there is no need to get so angry," said the other. "Here, look at this," and he showed him the anonymous letter.
The chaplain saw at once that the matter was more serious than he had supposed; he read the letter, and then asked if Ledda paid him money.
"Of course, a trifle now and then. Perhaps you think it wrong? Well, don't I take the risk of being put in a cell in order to serve him?"
"And you consider that you are doing right when you act in this manner?"
"What is doing right? If it is helping your neighbour, then I most certainly think that I am."
The chaplain re-read the letter attentively.
"Yes," pursued the other. "I certainly am. And what is more, if, when I get out of here, they don't reinstate me in my position, I intend to arrange a system of correspondence for all the prisons in Italy. It will be a sort of agency——"
"I see, my friend, that it will not be long before we have you back again."
"Eh! eh! I shall know how to manage the thing; a secret agency, and——"
"Pardons too!" said the priest, folding the letter and returning it. "How can you have the heart to fool those poor creatures so?"
"Yes, pardons too," replied Burrai calmly. "Well, and suppose they are fooled; if it gives them any comfort to hope, is not that an act of kindness in itself? What is there for any of us, but hope?"
"Well," said the other more mildly, "at least do me the favour to leave that poor fellow alone. Allowhimto enjoy the pleasures of hope, otherwise he will certainly fall ill."
The ex-marshal promised, though with bad grace. It seemed to him a poor method.
"He will die of heartstroke, I verily believe," he said to himself. "Wait till the spring; then we will see whether a man of the world knows what he is about or no." And he laid one hand on his breast.
When they next met, Costantino asked with a smile if he had seenSu Preideru, as they called the chaplain between themselves, and what he had said to him.
The ex-marshal was leaning against the damp and dingy wall, softly cursing some individual unknown, in the Sardinian dialect.
"Balla chi trapasset sa busacca, brasciai!" (I wish a ball would hit him in the pouch, the he-wolf!) he murmured, as Costantino approached. "What is it? Who?"
"Oh! nothing."
"You want to know if I have seen the priest? Yes, and he scolded me like a child. What a child it is! A little pig, really and truly, a little pig! But the lard is yellow and rancid. Do you know, I read somewhere that in Russia they think very highly of rancid lard?"
"But tell me what he said."
"What he said? Let me see, what did he say?I don't remember; oh! yes, he told me that I had imagined all that—what we have been talking about. Yes, that was it, my dear fellow; I have, it seems, a vivid imagination, and your wife will never wrong you in the world! Never, as surely as we are standing here!"
Costantino looked at him eagerly. No, the man was not chaffing; he was perfectly serious, and evidently meant what he said.
"Ah, ha! he scolded you, did he? Good enough!" he cried.
"This wall," said theKing of Spades, straightening himself, and regarding his hands, which were red and scarred from contact with the rough stones, "this wall looks as though it were made of chocolate; it is warm and damp. Ah! if it only were, there would be two advantages: we could eat it, and then escape! Have you ever eaten any chocolate?"
"Why, of course, and Giovanna too; she is very fond of it, but it is fearfully dear. Well, and what then?"
"What then?" exclaimed the other impatiently. "My dear fellow, you drive me crazy. Oh! she will wait for you twenty-three years—never fear!"
"No, not that long; I shall be out of here long before that," replied Costantino confidently. "Then too," he added with a gleam of humour, "there is the pardon; you were to see the King, you know, about a pardon for me."
"Precisely," said the other. "I was to see the King. You don't believe me? I shall, however, go to him at once; he receives every official, and what am I if not an official? He is fond of the army; he is young; I hear he is getting fat. Ah! not as fat as I, though"—and he laughed.
From then on, whenever Costantino tried to bring the conversation around to the old subject, the other contrived to head him off; but at all events he was no longer tormented.
One day about this time, Costantino was informed that five francs had been paid in to his account. "He did it!" he exclaimed. "I am sure it was the priest. What a kind man he is! But I don't need it; no, indeed, I don't need the money at all."
"You stupid," said theKing of Spades. "Take it; if you don't he will be offended. 'I don't want it!' A pretty way that to acknowledge a present!"
"But I should be ashamed to take it. And what could I do with it, anyhow?"
"Why, eat, drink—you have need to, I can assure you. You would like to send it home, I suppose? The devil take you! If you do such an idiotic thing as that I will spit in your face! Why, see here, she doesn't even write to you any more; she——"
"What is there for her to write about?" said Costantino, trying vainly to think of some excuse. "Besides," he added, "she will be working now, the winter is nearly over."
"Yes, it is nearly over, and then the spring willcome," said the other in a tone that had almost a menace in it. "It will come."
"Why, of course, it will come!"
"When does the warm weather begin with you? We have it in March."
"Oh, with us, not till June. But then it is so beautiful. The grass grows—oh! as tall as that, and they clip the sheep, and the bees are making honey!"
"An idyl, truly! You don't know what an idyl is? Well, I'll tell you. It is—sometimes it is—infidelity. Wait till June. How long is it since you've been to confession?"
"Oh, I've not been for a fortnight."
"A long time, I declare! What a good Christian you are, my friend. For my own part, I've never been at all. My conscience is as clear and unsullied as a mirror. Now there," said he, pointing to the pasty-faced student, whose hair was so white that it looked as though it had been powdered, "there is one who had better confess without delay; he is knocking now at the door of eternity."
Sure enough, only a few days later the student was removed to the infirmary, and at the end of March he died.
Bellini, the man whose mistress was dying of the same disease, asked after him anxiously every day, and when he died cried for hours in a weak, childish fashion. It was not from any grief he felt at parting from the sick man, but at the thought ofwhat might happen to his mistress. His grief subsided at length, and then, as he no longer had the reminder of the student before his eyes, he gradually came to think less and less about his own sorrow.
The death of the student had a totally different effect upon theKing of Spades; he became quite melancholy, took to philosophising about life and death, and would engage in lengthy discussions with theDelegate, who rolled his eyes about and expounded his views in a deep bass voice.
When talking with Costantino, the ex-marshal was apt to drop into rather homesick reminiscences about the distant land of their birth.
"Yes," said he one day, "I was once quite close to your home, or its neighbourhood. I can't tell you precisely, but I know there was a wood, all arbute, and cork-trees, and rock-roses; it looked as though there had been a rain of blood all over them. And there was a smell—oh! the queerest kind of smell, it was something like tobacco. Then there was a cross on a stone, and you could see the water far away in the distance."
"Why, of course!" cried Costantino. "That was the forest ofCherbomine(Stagman). I should say I did know it. Once a hunter saw a stag there with golden horns. He fired, and shot it dead, but as the stag fell it gave a cry like a human being, and said: 'The penance is completed!' They say it was some human soul that had been forced to expiate a terrible sin of some sort. The cross was erected afterwards."
"And how about the horns?"
"They say that as the hunter drew near the horns turned black."
"Pff! pff! how superstitious you all are, you peasants! Ah! here is the spring coming at last," he continued, staring up at the sky. "For my own part, the spring gets on my nerves. If I could but go hunting once. There was one time when I was hunting in the marshes near Cagliari: ah! those marshes, they look just like ever so many pieces of looking-glass thrown down from somewhere above; and all around there were quantities of purple lilies. A long line of flamingoes were flying in single file; they stood out against the sky which was so bright you could hardly raise your eyes to it. Pum! pum! one of the flamingoes fell, the others flew on without making a sound. I rushed right into the middle of the marsh to get the one I had shot. I was as quick and agile as a fish in those days; I was only eighteen years old."
"What are flamingoes good for?"
"Nothing; they stuff them; they have great, long legs like velvet. Have you ever been in that part of the country? Oh! yes, I remember, when you worked in the mines, you passed through Cagliari. I shall go back there some day, to die in blessed peace!"
"You are melancholy nowadays."
"What would you have, my friend? It is the spring; it is so depressing to have to pass Easter in prison. I shall take the Easter Instruction this year."
"I have taken it already."
"Ah! you have taken it already?" And the two prisoners fell into a thoughtful silence.
Thus April passed by, and May, and June. The dreary prison walls turned into ovens; unpleasant insects came to life, and once more preyed upon the unfortunate inmates; again the air was filled with sickening odours, and in the workroom, presided over by the same red-faced, taciturn guard, perspiration, fish, and leather fought for pre-eminence in the fetid atmosphere.
Costantino, weaker than ever, suffered tortures from the insects. In former years he had slept so profoundly that nothing could disturb him, but now it was different, and a sudden sting would arouse him with a bound, and leave him trembling all over. Then insomnia set in, and periods of semi-consciousness that were worse than actual sleeplessness, haunted, as they sometimes were, with nightmare. Sharp twinges, not always from insects, shot through his entire body, and he would toss from side to side, gasping and sighing.
Sometimes the torture became almost unendurable, and often the orange glow of sunrise would shine through the window before he had been able to close an eye; then, overpowered by exhaustion,he would fall into a heavy slumber just as it was time to get up!
Giovanna had now entirely ceased writing. Once only, towards the end of May, a letter had come, begging him not to send her any more money, as she now earned enough to live on, with care. After that there was nothing more.
And yet he maintained his tranquil faith in her loyalty. Even this last letter he took as a fresh proof of her affection for him.
Every day theKing of Spades, waiting for his friend in the exercise hour, would betray a certain anxiety.
"Well," he would say uneasily, his sharp little demon-eyes snapping from out of the big, clean-shaven, yellow face. "Well, what news?" And when Costantino would seem to be surprised at the question, he too would look surprised, though he never would say at what.
"It is warm weather," he would observe.
"Yes, very warm."
"The spring is over."
"I should say that it was!"
"Have they finished harvesting where you come from?"
"Of course they have. My wife says there is no need to send her anything more now."
"Ah! I knew that already, my dear fellow."
The ex-marshal hardly knew what to think; hewas almost annoyed to find that his forebodings were not being verified.