His pure and unrivalled love for Margaret had been his polar star. It was quenched, and he drifted on the gloomy sea of no hope.
Nor was he a prey to despair alone, but to exasperation at all his self-denial, fortitude, perils, virtue, wasted and worse than wasted; for it kept burning and stinging him, that, had he stayed lazily, selfishly at home, he should have saved his Margaret's life.
These two poisons, raging together in his young blood, maddened and demoralized him. He rushed fiercely into pleasure. And in those days, even more than now, pleasure was vice. Wine, women, gambling, whatever could procure him an hour's excitement and a moment's oblivion. He plunged into these things, as men tired of life have rushed among the enemy's bullets.
The large sums he had put by for Margaret gave him ample means for debauchery, and he was soon the leader of those loose companions he had hitherto kept at a distance.
His heart deteriorated along with his morals.
He sulked with his old landlady for thrusting gentle advice and warning on him; and finally removed to another part of the town, to be clear of remonstrance and reminiscences. When he had carried this game on some time, his hand became less steady, and he could no longer write to satisfy himself. Moreover, his patience declined as the habits of pleasure grew on him. So he gave up that art, and took likenesses in colours.
But this he neglected whenever the idle rakes, his companions, came for him.
And so he dived in foul waters, seeking that sorry oyster-shell, Oblivion.
It is not my business to paint at full length the scenes of coarse vice in which this unhappy young man now played a part. But it is my business to impress the broad truth, that he was a rake, a debauchee, and a drunkard, and one of the wildest, loosest, and wickedest young men in Rome.
They are no lovers of truth, nor of mankind, who conceal or slur the wickedness of the good, and so by their want of candour rob despondent sinners of hope.
Enough, the man was not born to do things by halves. And he was not vicious by halves.
His humble female friends often gossiped about him. His old landlady told Teresa he was going to the bad, and prayed her to try and find out where he was.
Teresa told her husband Lodovico his sad story, and bade him look about and see if he could discover the young man's present abode. “Shouldst remember his face, Lodovico mio?”
“Teresa, a man in my way of life never forgets a face, least of all a benefactor's. But thou knowest I seldom go abroad by daylight.”
Teresa sighed. “And how long is it to be so, Lodovico?”
“Till some cavalier passes his sword through me. They will not let a poor fellow like me take to any honest trade.”
Pietro Vanucci was one of those who bear prosperity worse than adversity.
Having been ignominiously ejected for late hours by their old landlady, and meeting Gerard in the street, he greeted him warmly, and soon after took up his quarters in the same house.
He brought with him a lad called Andrea, who ground his colours, and was his pupil, and also his model, being a youth of rare beauty, and as sharp as a needle.
Pietro had not quite forgotten old times, and professed a warm friendship for Gerard.
Gerard, in whom all warmth of sentiment seemed extinct, submitted coldly to the other's friendship.
And a fine acquaintance it was. This Pietro was not only a libertine, but half a misanthrope, and an open infidel.
And so they ran in couples, with mighty little in common. O, rare phenomenon!
One day, when Gerard had undermined his health, and taken the bloom off his beauty, and run through most of his money, Vanucci got up a gay party to mount the Tiber in a boat drawn by buffaloes. Lorenzo de' Medici had imported these creatures into Florence about three years before. But they were new in Rome, and nothing would content this beggar on horseback, Vanucci, but being drawn by the brutes up the Tiber.
Each libertine was to bring a lady and she must be handsome, or he be fined. But the one that should contribute the loveliest was to be crowned with laurel, and voted a public benefactor. Such was their reading of “Vir bonus est quis?” They got a splendid galley, and twelve buffaloes. And all the libertines and their female accomplices assembled by degrees at the place of embarkation. But no Gerard.
They waited for him some time, at first patiently, then impatiently.
Vanucci excused him. “I heard him say he had forgotten to provide himself with a fardingale. Comrades, the good lad is hunting for a beauty fit to take rank among these peerless dames. Consider the difficulty, ladies, and be patient!”
At last Gerard was seen at some distance with a female in his hand.
“She is long enough,” said one of her sex, criticising her from afar.
“Gemini! what steps she takes,” said another. “Oh! it is wise to hurry into good company,” was Pietro's excuse.
But when the pair came up, satire was choked.
Gerard's companion was a peerless beauty; she extinguished the boat-load, as stars the rising sun. Tall, but not too tall; and straight as a dart, yet supple as a young panther. Her face a perfect oval, her forehead white, her cheeks a rich olive with the eloquent blood mantling below and her glorious eyes fringed with long thick silken eyelashes, that seemed made to sweep up sensitive hearts by the half dozen. Saucy red lips, and teeth of the whitest ivory.
The women were visibly depressed by this wretched sight; the men in ecstasies; they received her with loud shouts and waving of caps, and one enthusiast even went down on his knees upon the boat's gunwale, and hailed her of origin divine. But his chere amie pulling his hair for it—and the goddess giving him a little kick—cotemporaneously, he lay supine; and the peerless creature frisked over his body without deigning him a look, and took her seat at the prow. Pietro Vanucci sat in a sort of collapse, glaring at her, and gaping with his mouth open like a dying cod-fish.
The drover spoke to the buffaloes, the ropes tightened, and they moved up stream.
“What think ye of this new beef, mesdames?”
“We ne'er saw monsters so viley ill-favoured; with their nasty horns that make one afeard, and, their foul nostrils cast up into the air. Holes be they; not nostrils.”
“Signorina, the beeves are a present from Florence the beautiful Would ye look a gift beef i' the nose?”
“They are so dull,” objected a lively lady. “I went up Tiber twice as fast last time with but five mules and an ass.”
“Nay, that is soon mended,” cried a gallant, and jumping ashore he drew his sword, and despite the remonstrances of the drivers, went down the dozen buffaloes goading them.
They snorted and whisked their tails, and went no faster, at which the boat-load laughed loud and long: finally he goaded a patriarch bull, who turned instantly on the sword, sent his long horns clean through the spark, and with a furious jerk of his prodigious neck sent him flying over his head into the air. He described a bold parabola and fell sitting, and unconsciously waving his glittering blade, into the yellow Tiber. The laughing ladies screamed and wrung their hands, all but Gerard's fair. She uttered something very like an oath, and seizing the helm steered the boat out, and the gallant came up sputtering, griped the gunwale, and was drawn in dripping.
He glared round him confusedly. “I understand not that,” said he, a little peevishly; puzzled, and therefore, it would seem, discontented. At which, finding he was by some strange accident not slain, his doublet being perforated, instead of his body, they began to laugh again louder than ever.
“What are ye cackling at?” remonstrated the spark, “I desire to know how 'tis that one moment a gentleman is out yonder a pricking of African beef, and the next moment—”
Gerard's lady. “Disporting in his native stream.”
“Tell him not, a soul of ye,” cried Vanucci. “Let him find out 's own riddle.”
Confound ye all. I might puzzle my brains till doomsday, I should ne'er find it out. Also, where is my sword?
Gerard's lady. “Ask Tiber! Your best way, signor, will be to do it over again; and, in a word, keep pricking of Afric's beef, till your mind receives light. So shall you comprehend the matter by degrees, as lawyers mount heaven, and buffaloes Tiber.”
Here a chevalier remarked that the last speaker transcended the sons of Adam as much in wit as she did the daughters of Eve in beauty.
At which, and indeed at all their compliments, the conduct of Pietro Vanucci was peculiar. That signor had left off staring, and gaping bewildered; and now sat coiled up snake-like, on each, his mouth muffled, and two bright eyes fixed on the' lady, and twinkling and scintillating most comically.
He did not appear to interest or amuse her in return. Her glorious eyes and eyelashes swept him calmly at times, but scarce distinguished him from the benches and things.
Presently the unanimity of the party suffered a momentary check.
Mortified by the attention the cavaliers paid to Gerard's companion, the ladies began to pick her to pieces sotto voce, and audibly.
The lovely girl then showed that, if rich in beauty, she was poor in feminine tact. Instead of revenging herself like a true woman through the men, she permitted herself to overhear, and openly retaliate on her detractors.
“There is not one of you that wears Nature's colours,” said she. “Look here,” and she pointed rudely in one's face. “This is the beauty that is to be bought in every shop. Here is cerussa, here is stibium, and here purpurissum. Oh, I know the articles bless you, I use them every day—but not on my face, no thank you.”
Here Vanucci's eyes twinkled themselves nearly out of sight.
“Why, your lips are coloured, and the very veins in your forehead: not a charm but would come off with a wet towel. And look at your great coarse black hair like a horse's tail, drugged and stained to look like tow. And then your bodies are as false as your heads and your cheeks, and your hearts I trow. Look at your padded bosoms, and your wooden heeled chopines to raise your little stunted limbs up and deceive the world. Skinny dwarfs ye are, cushioned and stultified into great fat giants. Aha, mesdames, well is it said of you, grande—di legni: grosse—di straci: rosse—di bettito: bianche—di calcina.”
This drew out a rejoinder. “Avaunt, vulgar toad, telling the men everything. Your coarse, ruddy cheeks are your own, and your little handful of African hair. But who is padded more? Why, you are shaped like a fire-shovel.”
“Ye lie, malapert.”
“Oh, the well-educated young person! Where didst pick her up, Ser Gerard?”
“Hold thy peace, Marcia,” said Gerard, awakened by the raised trebles from a gloomy reverie. “Be not so insolent! The grave shall close over thy beauty as it hath over fairer than thee.”
“They began,” said Marcia petulantly.
“Then be thou the first to leave off.”
“At thy request, my friend.” She then whispered Gerard, “It was only to make you laugh; you are distraught, you are sad. Judge whether I care for the quips of these little fools, or the admiration of these big fools. Dear Signor Gerard, would I were what they take me for? You should not be so sad.”
Gerard sighed deeply; and shook his head. But touched by the earnest young tones, caressed the jet black locks, much as one strokes the head of an affectionate dog.
At this moment a galley drifting slowly down stream got entangled for an instant in their ropes: for, the river turning suddenly, they had shot out into the stream; and this galley came between them and the bank. In it a lady of great beauty was seated under a canopy with gallants and dependents standing behind her.
Gerard looked up at the interruption. It was the Princess Claelia.
He coloured and withdrew his hand from Marcia's head.
Marcia was all admiration. “Aha! ladies,” said she, “here is a rival an ye will. Those cheeks were coloured by Nature-like mine.”
“Peace, child! peace!” said Gerard. “Make not too free with the great.”
“Why, she heard me not. Oh, Ser Gerard, what a lovely creature!”
Two of the females had been for some time past putting their heads together and casting glances at Marcia.
One of them now addressed her.
“Signorina, do you love almonds?”
The speaker had a lapful of them.
“Yes, I love them; when I can get them,” said Marcia pettishly, and eyeing the fruit with ill-concealed desire; “but yours is not the hand to give me any, I trow.”
“You are much mistook,” said the other. “Here, catch!” And suddenly threw a double handful into Marcia's lap.
Marcia brought her knees together by an irresistible instinct.
“Aha! you are caught, my lad,” cried she of the nuts. “'Tis a man; or a boy. A woman still parteth her knees to catch the nuts the surer in her apron; but a man closeth his for fear they should all between his hose. Confess, now, didst never wear fardingale ere to-day?”
“Give me another handful, sweetheart, and I'll tell thee.”
“There! I said he was too handsome for a woman.”
“Ser Gerard, they have found me out,” observed the Epicaene, calmly cracking an almond.
The libertines vowed it was impossible, and all glared at the goddess like a battery. But Vanucci struck in, and reminded the gaping gazers of a recent controversy, in which they had, with a unanimity not often found among dunces, laughed Gerard and him to scorn, for saying that men were as beautiful as women in a true artist's eye.
“Where are ye now? This is my boy Andrea. And you have all been down on your knees to him. Ha! ha! But oh, my little ladies, when he lectured you and flung your stibium, your cerussa, and your purpurissum back in your faces, 'tis then I was like to burst; a grinds my colours. Ha! ha! he! he! he! ho!”
“The little impostor! Duck him!”
“What for, signors?” cried Andrea, in dismay, and lost his rich carnation.
But the females collected round him, and vowed nobody should harm a hair of his head.
“The dear child! How well his pretty little saucy ways become him.”
“Oh, what eyes and teeth!”
“And what eyebrows and hair!”
“And what lashes!”
“And what a nose!”
“The sweetest little ear in the world!”
“And what health! Touch but his cheek with a pin the blood should squirt.”
“Who would be so cruel?”
“He is a rosebud washed in dew.”
And they revenged themselves for their beaux' admiration of her by lavishing all their tenderness on him.
But one there was who was still among these butterflies, but no longer of them. The sight of the Princess Claelia had torn open his wound.
Scarce three months ago he had declined the love of that peerless creature; a love illicit and insane; but at least refined.
How much lower had he fallen now.
How happy he must have been, when the blandishments of Claelia, that might have melted an anchorite, could not tempt him from the path of loyalty!
Now what was he? He had blushed at her seeing him in such company. Yet it was his daily company.
He hung over the boat in moody silence.
And from that hour another phase of his misery began; and grew upon him.
Some wretched fools try to drown care in drink.
The fumes of intoxication vanish; the inevitable care remains, and must be faced at last—with an aching head, disordered stomach, and spirits artificially depressed.
Gerard's conduct had been of a piece with these maniacs'. To survive his terrible blow he needed all his forces; his virtue, his health, his habits of labour, and the calm sleep that is labour's satellite; above all, his piety.
Yet all these balms to wounded hearts he flung away and trusted to moral intoxication.
Its brief fumes fled; the bereaved heart lay still heavy as lead within his bosom; but now the dark vulture Remorse sat upon it rending it.
Broken health; means wasted; innocence fled; Margaret parted from him by another gulf wider than the grave! The hot fit of despair passed away.
The cold fit of despair came on.
Then this miserable young man spurned his gay companions, and all the world.
He wandered alone. He drank wine alone to stupefy himself; and paralyze a moment the dark foes to man that preyed upon his soul. He wandered alone amidst the temples of old Rome, and lay stony eyed, woebegone, among their ruins, worse wrecked than they.
Last of all came the climax, to which solitude, that gloomy yet fascinating foe of minds diseased, pushes the hopeless.
He wandered alone at night by dark streams, and eyed them, and eyed them, with decreasing repugnance. There glided peace; perhaps annihilation.
What else was left him?
These dark spells have been broken by kind words, by loving and cheerful voices.
The humblest friend the afflicted one possesses may speak, or look, or smile, a sunbeam between him and that worst madness Gerard now brooded.
Where was Teresa? Where his hearty, kind old landlady?
They would see with their homely but swift intelligence; they would see and save.
No; they knew not where he was, or whither he was gliding.
And is there no mortal eye upon the poor wretch, and the dark road he is going?
Yes; one eye there is upon him; watching his every movement; following him abroad; tracking him home.
And that eye is the eye of an enemy.
An enemy to the death.
In an apartment richly furnished, the floor covered with striped and spotted skins of animals, a lady sat with her arms extended before her, and her hands half clenched. The agitation of her face corresponded with this attitude; she was pale and red by turns; and her foot restless.
Presently the curtain was drawn by a domestic.
The lady's brow flushed.
The maid said, in an awe-struck whisper: “Altezza, the man is here.”
The lady bade her admit him, and snatched up a little black mask and put it on; and in a moment her colour was gone, and the contrast between her black mask and her marble cheeks was strange and fearful.
A man entered bowing and scraping. It was such a figure as crowds seem made of; short hair, roundish head, plain, but decent clothes; features neither comely not forbidding. Nothing to remark in him but a singularly restless eye.
After a profusion of bows he stood opposite the lady, and awaited her pleasure.
“They have told you for what you are wanted?”
“Yes, Signora.”
“Did those who spoke to you agree as to what you are to receive?”
“Yes, Signora. 'Tis the full price; and purchases the greater vendetta: unless of your benevolence you choose to content yourself with the lesser.”
“I understand you not,” said the lady.
“Ah; this is the Signora's first. The lesser vendetta, lady, is the death of the body only. We watch our man come out of a church; or take him in an innocent hour; and so deal with him. In the greater vendetta we watch him, and catch him hot from some unrepented sin, and so slay his soul as well as his body. But this vendetta is not so run upon now as it was a few years ago.”
“Man, silence me his tongue, and let his treasonable heart beat no more. But his soul I have no feud with.”
“So be it, signora. He who spoke to me knew not the man, nor his name, nor his abode. From whom shall I learn these?”
“From myself.”
At this the man, with the first symptoms of anxiety he had shown, entreated her to be cautious, and particular, in this part of the business.
“Fear me not,” said she. “Listen. It is a young man, tall of stature, and auburn hair, and dark blue eyes, and an honest face, would deceive a saint. He lives in the Via Claudia, at the corner house; the glover's. In that house there lodge but three males: he; and a painter short of stature and dark visaged, and a young, slim boy. He that hath betrayed me is a stranger, fair, and taller than thou art.”
The bravo listened with all his ears. “It is enough,” said he.
“Stay, Signora; haunteth he any secret place where I may deal with him?”
“My spy doth report me he hath of late frequented the banks of Tiber after dusk; doubtless to meet his light o' love, who calls me her rival; even there slay him! and let my rival come and find him; the smooth, heartless, insolent traitor.”
“Be calm, signora. He will betray no more ladies.”
“I know not that. He weareth a sword, and can use it. He is young and resolute.”
“Neither will avail him.”
“Are ye so sure of your hand? What are your weapons?”
The bravo showed her a steel gauntlet. “We strike with such force we need must guard our hand. This is our mallet.” He then undid his doublet, and gave her a glimpse of a coat of mail beneath, and finally laid his glittering stiletto on the table with a flourish.
The lady shuddered at first, but presently took it up in her white hand and tried its point against her finger.
“Beware, madam,” said the bravo.
“What, is it poisoned?”
“Saints forbid! We steal no lives. We take them with steel point, not drugs. But 'tis newly ground, and I feared for the Signora's white skin.”
“His skin is as white as mine,” said she, with a sudden gleam of pity. It lasted but a moment. “But his heart is black as soot. Say, do I not well to remove a traitor that slanders me?”
“The signora will settle that with her confessor. I am but a tool in noble hands; like my stiletto.”
The princess appeared not to hear the speaker. “Oh, how I could have loved him; to the death; as now I hate him. Fool! he will learn to trifle with princes; to spurn them and fawn on them, and prefer the scum of the town to them, and make them a by-word.” She looked up. “Why loiter'st thou here? haste thee, revenge me.”
“It is customary to pay half the price beforehand, Signora.”
“Ah I forgot; thy revenge is bought. Here is more than half,” and she pushed a bag across the table to him. “When the blow is struck, come for the rest.”
“You will soon see me again, signora.”
And he retired bowing and scraping.
The princess, burning with jealousy, mortified pride, and dread of exposure (for till she knew Gerard no public stain had fallen on her), sat where he left her, masked, with her arms straight out before her, and the nails of her clenched hand nipping the table.
So sat the fabled sphynx: so sits a tigress.
Yet there crept a chill upon her now that the assassin was gone. And moody misgivings heaved within her, precursors of vain remorse. Gerard and Margaret were before their age. This was your true mediaeval. Proud, amorous, vindictive, generous, foolish, cunning, impulsive, unprincipled: and ignorant as dirt.
Power is the curse of such a creature.
Forced to do her own crimes, the weakness of her nerves would have balanced the violence of her passions, and her bark been worse than her bite. But power gives a feeble, furious woman, male instruments. And the effect is as terrible as the combination is unnatural.
In this instance it whetted an assassin's dagger for a poor forlorn wretch just meditating suicide.
It happened, two days after the scene I have endeavoured to describe, that Gerard, wandering through one of the meanest streets in Rome, was overtaken by a thunderstorm, and entered a low hostelry. He called for wine, and the rain continuing, soon drank himself into a half stupid condition, and dozed with his head on his hands and his hands upon the table.
In course of time the room began to fill and the noise of the rude guests to wake him.
Then it was he became conscious of two figures near him conversing in a low voice.
One was a pardoner. The other by his dress, clean but modest, might have passed for a decent tradesman; but the way he had slouched his hat over his brows, so as to hide all his face except his beard, showed he was one of those who shun the eye of honest men, and of the law. The pair were driving a bargain in the sin market. And by an arrangement not uncommon at that date, the crime to be forgiven was yet to be committed—under the celestial contract.
He of the slouched hat was complaining of the price pardons had reached. “If they go up any higher we poor fellows shall be shut out of heaven altogether.”
The pardoner denied the charge flatly. “Indulgences were never cheaper to good husbandmen.”
The other inquired, “Who were they?”
“Why, such as sin by the market, like reasonable creatures. But if you will be so perverse as go and pick out a crime the Pope hath set his face against, blame yourself, not me!”
Then, to prove that crime of one sort or another was within the means of all but the very scum of society, he read out the scale from a written parchment.
It was a curious list; but not one that could be printed in this book. And to mutilate it would be to misrepresent it. It is to be found in any great library. Suffice it to say that murder of a layman was much cheaper than many crimes my lay readers would deem light by comparison.
This told; and by a little trifling concession on each side, the bargain was closed, the money handed over, and the aspirant to heaven's favour forgiven beforehand for removing one layman. The price for disposing of a clerk bore no proportion.
The word assassination was never once uttered by either merchant.
All this buzzed in Gerard's ear. But he never lifted his head from the table; only listened stupidly.
However, when the parties rose and separated, he half raised his head, and eyed with a scowl the retiring figure of the purchaser.
“If Margaret was alive,” muttered he, “I'd take thee by the throat and throttle thee, thou cowardly stabber. But she is dead; dead; dead. Die all the world; 'tis nought to me: so that I die among the first.”
When he got home there was a man in a slouched hat walking briskly to and fro on the opposite side of the way.
“Why, there is that cur again,” thought Gerard.
But in this state of mind, the circumstance made no impression whatever on him.
Two nights after this Pietro Vanucci and Andrea sat waiting supper for Gerard.
The former grew peevish. It was past nine o'clock. At last he sent Andrea to Gerard's room on the desperate chance of his having come in unobserved. Andrea shrugged his shoulders and went.
He returned without Gerard, but with a slip of paper. Andrea could not read, as scholars in his day and charity boys in ours understand the art; but he had a quick eye, and had learned how the words Pietro Vanucci looked on paper.
“That is for you, I trow,” said he, proud of his intelligence.
Pietro snatched it, and read it to Andrea, with his satirical comments.
“'Dear Pietro, dear Andrea, life is too great a burden.'
“So 'tis, my lad,' but that is no reason for being abroad at supper-time. Supper is not a burden.”
“'Wear my habits!'
“Said the poplar to the juniper bush.”
“'And thou, Andrea, mine amethyst ring; and me in both your hearts a month or two.'
“Why, Andrea?”
“'For my body, ere this ye read, it will lie in Tiber. Trouble not to look for it. 'Tis not worth the pains. Oh unhappy day that it was born oh happy night that rids me of it.
“'Adieu! adieu!
“'The broken-hearted Gerard.'
“Here is a sorry jest of the peevish rogue,” said Pietro. But his pale cheek and chattering teeth belied his words. Andrea filled the house with his cries.
“O, miserable day! O, calamity of calamities! Gerard, my friend, my sweet patron! Help! help! He is killing himself! Oh, good people, help me save him!” And after alarming all the house he ran into the street, bareheaded, imploring all good Christians to help him save his friend.
A number of persons soon collected.
But poor Andrea could not animate their sluggishness. Go down to the river? No. It was not their business. What part of the river? It was a wild goose chase.
It was not lucky to go down to the river after sunset. Too many ghosts walked those banks all night.
A lackey, however, who had been standing some time opposite the house, said he would go with Andrea; and this turned three or four of the younger ones.
The little band took the way to the river.
The lackey questioned Andrea.
Andrea, sobbing, told him about the letter, and Gerard's moody ways of late.
That lackey was a spy of the Princess Claelia.
Their Italian tongues went fast till they neared the Tiber.
But the moment they felt the air from the river, and the smell of the stream in the calm spring night, they were dead silent.
The moon shone calm and clear in a cloudless sky. Their feet sounded loud and ominous. Their tongues were hushed.
Presently hurrying round a corner they met a man. He stopped irresolute at sight of them.
The man was bareheaded, and his dripping hair glistened in the moonlight; and at the next step they saw his clothes were drenched with water.
“Here he is,” cried one of the young men, unacquainted with Gerard's face and figure.
The stranger turned instantly and fled.
They ran after him might and main, Andrea leading, and the princess's lackey next.
Andrea gained on him; but in a moment he twisted up a narrow alley. Andrea shot by, unable to check himself; and the pursuers soon found themselves in a labyrinth in which it was vain to pursue a quickfooted fugitive who knew every inch of it, and could now only be followed by the ear.
They returned to their companions, and found them standing on the spot where the man had stood, and utterly confounded. For Pietro had assured them that the fugitive had neither the features nor the stature of Gerard.
“Are ye verily sure?” said they. “He had been in the river. Why, in the saints' names, fled he at our approach?”
Then said Vanucci, “Friends, methinks this has nought to do with him we seek. What shall we do, Andrea?”
Here the lackey put in his word. “Let us track him to the water's side, to make sure. See, he hath come dripping all the way.”
This advice was approved, and with very little difficulty they tracked the man's course.
But soon they encountered a new enigma.
They had gone scarcely fifty yards ere the drops turned away from the river, and took them to the gate of a large gloomy building. It was a monastery.
They stood irresolute before it, and gazed at the dark pile.
It seemed to them to hide some horrible mystery.
But presently Andrea gave a shout. “Here be the drops again,” cried he. “And this road leadeth to the river.”
They resumed the chase; and soon it became clear the drops were now leading them home. The track became wetter and wetter, and took them to the Tiber's edge. And there on the bank a bucketful appeared to have been discharged from the stream.
At first they shouted, and thought they had made a discovery: but reflection showed them it amounted to nothing. Certainly a man had been in the water, and had got out of it in safety; but that man was not Gerard. One said he knew a fisherman hard by that had nets and drags. They found the fisherman and paid him liberally to sink nets in the river below the place, and to drag it above and below; and promised him gold should he find the body. Then they ran vainly up and down the river which flowed so calm and voiceless, holding this and a thousand more strange secrets. Suddenly Andrea, with a cry of hope, ran back to the house.
He returned in less than half an hour.
“No,” he groaned, and wrung his hands.
“What is the hour?” asked the lackey.
“Four hours past midnight.”
“My pretty lad,” said the lackey solemnly, “say a mass for thy friend's soul: for he is not among living men.”
The morning broke. Worn out with fatigue, Andrea and Pietro went home, heart sick.
The days rolled on, mute as the Tiber as to Gerard's fate.
It would indeed have been strange if with such barren data as they possessed, those men could have read the handwriting on the river's bank.
For there on that spot an event had just occurred, which, take it altogether, was perhaps without a parallel in the history of mankind, and may remain so to the end of time.
But it shall be told in a very few words, partly by me, partly by an actor in the scene.
Gerard, then, after writing his brief adieu to Pietro and Andrea, had stolen down to the river at nightfall.
He had taken his measures with a dogged resolution not uncommon in those who are bent on self-destruction. He filled his pockets with all the silver and copper he possessed, that he might sink the surer; and so provided, hurried to a part of the stream that he had seen was little frequented.
There are some, especially women, who look about to make sure there is somebody at hand.
But this resolute wretch looked about him to make sure there was nobody.
And to his annoyance, he observed a single figure leaning against the corner of an alley. So he affected to stroll carelessly away; but returned to the spot.
Lo! the same figure emerged from a side street and loitered about.
“Can he be watching me? Can he know what I am here for?” thought Gerard. “Impossible.”
He went briskly off, walked along a street or two, made a detour and came back.
The man had vanished. But lo! on Gerard looking all round, to make sure, there he was a few yards behind, apparently fastening his shoe.
Gerard saw he was watched, and at this moment observed in the moonlight a steel gauntlet in his sentinel's hand.
Then he knew it was an assassin.
Strange to say, it never occurred to him that his was the life aimed at. To be sure he was not aware he had an enemy in the world.
He turned and walked up to the bravo. “My good friend,” said he eagerly, “sell me thine arm! a single stroke! See, here is all I have;” and he forced his money into the bravo's hands.
“Oh, prithee! prithee! do one good deed, and rid me of my hateful life!” and even while speaking he undid his doublet and bared his bosom.
The man stared in his face.
“Why do ye hesitate?” shrieked Gerard. “Have ye no bowels? Is it so much pains to lift your arm and fall it? Is it because I am poor, and can't give ye gold? Useless wretch, canst only strike a man behind; not look one in the face. There, then, do but turn thy head and hold thy tongue!”
And with a snarl of contempt he ran from him, and flung himself into the water.
“Margaret!”
At the heavy plunge of his body in the stream the bravo seemed to recover from a stupor. He ran to the bank, and with a strange cry the assassin plunged in after the self-destroyer.
What followed will be related by the assassin.