A sudden desire, whose origin I could not have defined, unless it sprang directly from alarm on her account, moved me away from the window towards the door of Virginia's room. I listened at it, but could hear nothing, so presently (fearing some wild intention of sacrifice on her part) I lifted the latch and looked in. No—she was there and asleep. I could see the dark masses of her hair, hear her quick breathing, as impatient as a child's, and as innocent. Poor, faithful, ignorant, passionate creature—had I wronged her? Did not her vehemence spring from loyalty? If she was mistaken, was it her fault? For what could she— that unkempt companion of pigs and chicken, offspring of parents little higher in degree—what could she know of exalted love? What, indeed?
I lit a candle and went to look at her. I considered her carefully, lying there prone, her face turned sideways to the pillow, one bare arm flung over her eyes. She looked beautiful asleep, for her mouth had relaxed its look of proud reserve, and all her lines were softened. She looked very tired, very pure, very young.
"God of Nature!" thought I. "Assuredly Thou didst not shape this fine, true creature for some villain's idle appetite. Assuredly also Thou didst put her in my way for her salvation—and, may be, for mine. I accept the sign. Do Thou, therefore, stand my friend." I shut the door softly and returned to my parlour. Very cautiously I drew near the window and peered out.
It was well that I took care. Fra Palamone was immediately underneath the window, grinning up, showing his long tooth, and picking at his beard. I do not think I ever saw such a glut of animal enjoyment in a man's face before. There was not the glimmer of a doubt what he intended. Semifonte had been told of his bondslave, and Palamone's hour of triumph was at hand. He would bring a warrant; no doubt he had it by him; he waited only for the police. I was laid by the heels.
A gust of anger, like a puff of hot wind, blew upon me and made my skin prick me. All that I had endured at this rascal's hands swelled within; and now I remembered also that I, a gentleman by birth and training, had been the galled slave of a low ruffian, who now intended to sell into vice and infamy an honest girl whom I was pledged to protect. Well- being, rehabilitation, the respect of my own world had done their work. He had to do with a man now, I told myself, not with a boy. I went to my bureau, took out, primed and cocked my pistols, returned to the window and showed myself full to the frate.
"I wish you good morning, Fra Palamone," I said. His grinning face grinned awry, I promise you; but he recovered himself and made a brave show.
"Buon di, Ser Francesco, buon di. You are betimes, I see. Or is it that you are belated like my injured friend Semifonte? The smarting of his honour has kept him from his bed, let me tell you. But he has gone thither now, I hope, appeased."
"You intend to appease him, I believe, in eight hours from now," said I. "The commissary will be at his chocolate at eight o'clock, at his office by eleven. It is now three."
"You are getting proficient in our tongue," he said, somewhat put out by my exactitude.
"Oh, I am proficient in more ways than one," I told him. "You taught me at Prato how to draw teeth, and I showed you, in the same town, how claws could be cut. What did you think of the carcere? Well, now I will show you another accomplishment I have. Draw teeth, cut claws! I can drill holes also, Palamone."
"What the devil are you talking about, poet?" says he, always quick to be amused.
"Why, this," I said. "I will come down to you in the Piazza. We have it to ourselves." I held up my pistol by the nozzle. He saw the butt. He said, "Oho! that's your work, is it? You are growing in grace, Don Francis; and I am not the little man to disoblige you. Many a score is on my slate to your name, and short scores make the longest friendships. Come down, my son, and play a better game than faro."
By the time I got down he had taken off his cloak and came smiling towards me with both his hands held out. He was going to embrace me—I knew that very well. He would have kissed me on both cheeks, warmly and with sincerity; and then, before his arms were loosed from my neck, by a sudden surging of his lust, he would have throttled me. All that was as clear in his looks as are the marks on this paper; but I could read my gentleman by now and was in no mood for his freakish humours. "Take warning," I said, "that if you move one step nearer to me I shoot you like a rabbit." I crooked my arm and levelled at him as I spoke. I suppose he saw truth in the mouth of the barrel, for he stopped, and looked at me, breathing hard.
"I admire you, Francis," he said. "I admire you more than ever before.If I had kissed you as I intended, you would have known it."
"I do know it, damn you!" I replied. "But you would have strangled me afterwards."
"Why, so I should," he confessed, "even as surely as I mean to shoot you now. But that is neither here nor there. I'm a wild, hungry old devil of a frate, but no man denies that I love a high spirit. I should have kissed you for that, and wrung the breath out of you afterwards for a starved, misbegotten spawn of an English apothecary—as you are, my son. Now hand me one of those pistols of yours, and say your paternoster while you are in the mind."
I handed him the weapon, telling him that I had loaded it myself overnight, but that if he wished to satisfy himself, I had both powder and ball at his service.
He looked somewhat offended. "Do you think, my lad, that I doubt you?" he said. "I tell you that I love you. I would as soon doubt my mother, who is in Heaven, or believe my father, who is not."
"You shall join one or the other of them," said I, "in a few moments. Have no doubt of that, and let me alone. One condition. I will drop my arm and walk into the house, placing my back at your disposal, if you, in the article of death, as you now stand, will pledge your word to save Virginia from Semifonte. What do you say?"
He gazed at me, open-mouthed, eyes aglow, as I stood waiting. I could see that he was torn; I could see the fiend working and gouging within him, and (I believe) a good angel contending against him. Some time this lasted. Then Palamone gave a bitter laugh—like the barking of a leopard in the night.
"Say?" he mocked me. "Why, I say that you are an exquisite, adorable fool—the very pink of fools. For two ticks I would have taken you at your word. For two ticks."
"It was the third that prevented you," says I. "You are not such a villain as you think yourself."
"I believe that I am not, indeed," he says ruefully. "I have lost a chance. Well, I am ready. But here the shadow is bad. Let us go to the obelisks and stand each back to one. There is a passable light there."
"As you will." I went directly out into the middle of the Piazza, and he followed—with my life between his wild hands.
I know not to this hour whether that act of mine was one of sublime courage or of the crassest folly; I remember that I strode blithely forward, and that he followed; that some chance thing or another caused me to turn my head—the sun burning in a casement, a pigeon, a cat, some speck of accident. That motion saved my life, for immediately afterwards I heard the report, and felt the ball flicker through my hair. The fiend had gouged him again, and he had tried to murder me. At that certainty, in all the fury of disgust that came with it, my stomach turned, and I was possessed by blind rage. I rounded full upon him, and he must have seen cold death in my eyes, for round went he too and ran for his life. I pelted after him.
He made for the angle of the church whence he had come. There were railings there about a loggia, much broken down, by which, I suppose, he hoped to get some sort of a screen, but I intended him to fight me in the Piazza, so increased my speed, and cut him off that retreat. He doubled, and scoured past the steps of the church, round by the hospital, making for the Via del Fosso; I cut a segment of his circle and stopped him there. Round he span, slavering at the lips, and went dead over the Piazza, to the obelisks, I so close on his traces that I could not have missed him if I had chosen for murder. It was like coursing a hare, for hare-like in his pains, he began to scream—not very loudly; a wretched, wrung and wiry appeal, like some bad woman's, was all he could muster. Between the obelisks he fell on his knees, and when I reached him was praying, "Sancta Mater! Diva Mater! Ab hostium incidiis libera me!" I saw a head at a window, a head in a night-cap—a man's. Over it peeped another—a woman's. But I knew my Florence: there would be no interference in a duel. I said, "Get up, Palamone, and fight with me."
He was wild with terror—cried, "No, no, no—spare me! I give you my word, my sacred word—"
"You have none to give; you have broken it," I told him. "I will have no word in pieces. Get up, liar, and fight."
I got him to his feet, set him by his obelisk to face me. I loaded his piece for him, put it into his hands, then stepped back, facing him always, till I was fifteen yards away. "Drop your glove when you are ready," I told him, "and fire first."
He took as good aim as he could, I am sure; but I could see his shaking arm quite well. He missed me by a full yard at least. Then he waited for me, having got his courage back. I shot him in the breast, and he fell at once, and lay still. The faces at the window had disappeared; looking round the Piazza, I could see nothing but blank green shutters.
When I went up to Palamone he opened his eyes. He was not bleeding freely, and seemed more weak than in pain. "I am a dead man," he said in a whisper—I had to kneel down to hear him—"a dead man who has got his deserts. Semifonte intended to have your Virginia—but it was not Giraldi—it was not Gir—" Strength failed him; I could not catch any more than the name of Aurelia.
"Where are you hurt? Shall I fetch a surgeon?" He was hardly bleeding at all now—a bad sign. He shook his head and lay quiet. I made a pillow of my coat.
When he opened his eyes again they were very dim. "I'm off," he said, in that same dry whisper. "You have served me right—I love you for it. I have always loved you—but—yes, always loved you. Kiss me, Francis, if you can."
I could not refuse. I did kiss him, and he me. "God receive you, Palamone, and forgive me. I shall go and fetch you a priest." My face being very near him, suddenly he lifted his head and caught my cheek in his teeth. They met there—the dying act of a savage. I wrenched myself free, and heard his head knock with a thud on the pavement. Then I felt the blood stream down my neck. Stopping it as best I could, I went for a surgeon and a priest.
When I came back with them—I may have been half an hour finding the couple—Fra Palamone was gone, and my pistol too, which had my name on the butt. "Gentlemen," I said, "I am very sorry, but I assure you that I left a dying man on this spot. I can only ask you to excuse me for breaking your repose."
The priest said, "He has been found and taken away—no doubt of it."
"He has walked off, most like," said the surgeon. I shook my head. I was sure I had killed him.
"If you are sure of it," said the surgeon, "there is little I could have done for him, and as it is far more to the purpose to dress a living man than a dead one, permit me to attack that ugly flesh wound in your cheek. God of mercy!" he cried, as he looked into it, "your man must have shot you with a currycomb."
When he had done his best for me I went to bed, and immediately fell asleep.
I slept like a log until the hour of noon—perfectly dreamless sleep. It was Virginia who awoke me then by shaking my shoulder, not (as usually) by opening the shutter. I heard the bells of the hour ringing and guessed the time; I remembered that Scipione was away; I remembered everything.
"I have your chocolate, Don Francis," she said. "Drink it and rise as soon as possible. You must be out of this."
I replied, "I see no reason for haste. I will write a letter—SerBartolo shall take it for me—the answer will be satisfactory."
Virginia kept herself calm by main force. "The house is surrounded," she said. "You will be taken in your bed if you don't leave it soon." I sat up.
"Virginia, I ask your pardon." She shivered and turned away.
"Speak no more of that."
"But I must. You were right, and I—" She threw up her head with a little cry, fell upon her knees. She took my hand and covered it with kisses.
"No more. I cannot bear it. Who am I? What am I? Say what you please to me, but never plead with me." I could see her shoulders shaking.
"I must say what I have to say—" I would have continued. She gave another sharp cry—shivered again miserably. In the half light of the room I could see her lift her pale face towards the ceiling. It seemed to me that she prayed. After a while she looked down again and said quietly, "Speak now—and have done with it."
I told her what had occurred in the small hours; I did not spare myself.When I said that I had shot Fra Palamone she shook her head.
"You might as well hope to shoot the devil. All you have done is to give yourself into the hands of them who hire him. You are to be sent to Volterra or the galleys for this. The men outside are sbirri."
I told her that I should write to Count Giraldi. She laughed. "Your Count Giraldi will be out of Florence. Do you think him a child? His one desire is to get rid of you. No, no. You must disguise yourself. This is a trap."
"I refused to take your word last night, my dear," I said, "and should be sorry to do it again. If the sbirri want me they can take me on a warrant."
"They have no warrant. They will get that afterwards. Do you think them so stupid? While they were getting their warrant you might get clear away. Or suppose you appeared? The whole story might come out, and a number of fine people implicated. And what of your English resident? And what of your Donna Aurelia, if you are not careful of yourself? Do you wish to get her name abroad? No, no. In Tuscany we imprison a man first and get the warrant afterwards, if necessary. That is how they will work, quietly, with decency—no conversations. They have been here since eight o'clock this morning, and the Piazza is quite empty. They have seen to that, of course. If you look through the shutter you can see them. They are in no sort of hurry."
I did look, and saw that she was right. There were no people in the Piazza—at midday—but four men, who stood at intervals in attitudes of detachment and irresponsibility far too pronounced to be real. The church was closed, most of the houses were shuttered; all this was too remarkable not to have been arranged. Virginia and I looked at one another; but she watched me like a cat, keeping guard over every movement of mine. One hand pressed her bosom, the other was stretched downwards—a straight, tense line from shoulder to finger-tips.
"Virginia, listen to me," I began; a heedless invocation. Every fibre of her listened and watched. "If this is a trap, as I agree it is, then you are the mouse. Nobody in Florence would care whether I have shot Fra Palamone, or he me. The count—taking him as you take him—knows that I have no intentions but honest ones towards Donna Aurelia; taking him as I take him he will defend me. No, my child, this is the marchese's affair. I can see that he has been after you from the time he saw you playing the handsome lady at Prato. He thinks he has you, but I will show him that he is wrong. Let me once get you away, be assured of your safety, and I shall open the door to the pleasure of these gentlemen. Father Carnesecchi—the count—oh, I have no fear of Palamone's posthumous acts, I can assure you."
I spoke cheerfully, confidently, but Virginia was put into great agitation. She began to flit about the room like a moth, wringing her hands and whimpering to herself.
"O Dio!" she fretted, "O Dio caro! What shall I do? Madonna, Madonna, Madonna, what will become of me?" She was quite inarticulate, could only repeat her names, and wail, and beat herself into a fever. I went to comfort her, and then, as if some tie were cut by the act, she turned upon me in a white tempest of fury, no longer a girl but a devil. "Do you dare?" she raved, "Do you dare? Oh, but I could kill you now with my hands!" She took me by the shoulders and stared into my face, panting her fierce breath upon me—blasts of breath as hot as fire. "Look at me, Francis, look at me, I say. You see the one person in the world who loves you. You fool, you fool, with your Giraldis and Aurelias and Jesuit dogs—with your head in the air, and your heart in your hand—to be thrown like soldi to these routing swine! Misery, ah, misery!" She flung her head sideways that she should not look at me, and with her hands gripped my shoulders till I winced. She tossed her hair from her face and leapt into the battle again, scolding, rating, praying like a mad thing. Her words came so fast that I cannot attempt their semblance here, and her voice rose and fell in a kind of querulous chant to which sometimes she nodded her head, as if she was beating the time. "Yes, I know, yes, I know—I will tell you the truth for once, and you shall kill Virginia with your own hands, and lay her on your bed and go away and be a fool. Your Jesuit wants your money, and your count your mistress, and Palamone will take you stripped of all and sell you to the Grand Duke. So you will kill your Virginia because she loves you, and love your Aurelia because she does not, and all those others will trick you, and play with you, and suck you dry, and throw you away like the rind of an orange. Ah, now you have the truth, and now you will kill me. Kill, kill, Francis!"
She had a fit of shivering which made her teeth chatter together and her breath draw in with a moaning most piteous to hear. She showed the whites of her eyes, swayed about, was on the point of falling, when all of a sudden she came to herself again, caught me in her arms, pressed her bosom against me, kissed me on the lips—kissed until I felt her teeth—then sprang from me, and before I could stop her was out of the room, and half way downstairs. Half divining her purpose, I flew to get her back, but was too late. I heard the street door open and shut. She was in the Piazza.
My landlord—he was a notary by trade, and by name Ser Torpe—was dismayed to see me in bedgown and slippers. "Never go as you are, sir!" he cried. "Go like an eccellenza, bid them fetch a chair. Light of Light, what a costume for Volterra!" I ran upstairs past him, took down my birding-piece, primed it and went to the window. Virginia was talking to two of the sbrri, putting up her hair as she did so, with complete unconcern of what she displayed. She was in her usual negligent undress— all her class are the same in the mornings—of a loose shift and stuff petticoat. Her bosom was bare, her bare feet were in slippers; for her hair she had but a single pin. It was to be seen that the men viewed her with admiration, as some wanton newly from her bed. They used an easy familiarity not at all pleasant; one of them, who could not take his eyes off her, said nothing, the other put his hand on her waist. I was angry with her, I confess without reason. She disengaged herself. I heard her impatient "No, no! ma senta—"; she continued in rapid undertones.
One of the men looked up at my window, and saw me, gun in hand. He shifted his glance a little higher and affected to be searching the roof of the house. A third man joined his companions; there was much laughing and jesting—no doubt some rough compliments passed. Virginia, however, steered her way to her main purpose through the tangle of confessions, excuses and refusals which they forced upon her; but I suppose she had to give some ground, for presently two of their heads came very close to hers. I saw their eager faces and Virginia's considering look. It was a courtship. She was playing her part, and they believed her to be what she appeared. That applied only to two of the three; the third, he who watched her so closely and said nothing, held apart. He had an ugly look. The others, absorbed in the pursuit, took no notice of him; but I kept my eyes upon him, and was not at all surprised at what followed.
Virginia, after long debate, pretended to yield. Something was proposed to her; she considered it. It was pressed upon her by two ardent voices; she looked awry and laughed. The chase quickened—one of the men took her hand, the other brought a coin from his pocket, spat on it, and pressed it on her. As she hesitated with the money on her palm, the silent watcher of all this whipped out a long knife and drove it into his comrade's back between the shoulders. He groaned deeply, flung his arms out and fell. The fourth man came running over the Piazza from his point, Virginia shrieked and ran back to the house. I saw—as if invisible barriers had been removed—men, women and boys come running in from all side streets. It was like a performance in a theatre.
Virginia, white and shaking, stood in my presence. "It is you they want,Francis, I have heard all. You must go at once—at once."
"What were you doing with the sbirri?" I asked her.
"They made love to me, all three of them; but that dark man meant it, and the others not. It is very fortunate—it will give us time, which we need. Your Count Giraldi is in the country, as I told you he would be. There is no warrant. Come, we will be off. It will be perfectly safe while this confusion lasts. Dress yourself, put on your cloak, take your sword and pistol and come."
"You, too, must be dressed, child."
"I?" said she. "No, I am better as I am. I can be of more use." But she had a wiser thought, it appears; for by the time I was ready, she looked modestly enough.
The plot, if plot it had been, had failed. I got out of the house unnoticed and unfollowed, Virginia with me in a hood. There were soldiers now in the Piazza, keeping back the crowd. The dead man lay there still, and his assailant wore shackles. Boys were racing in and out among the people singing the news which everybody knew. "Martirio d'un pio frate! Assassino per amore! Ohe! Ohe!"
We went down the Via Belle Donne and crossed a small Piazza, taking our way, said Virginia, to the Ghetto, where she thought we might be perfectly safe for the rest of the day. There were so many hunted men there, said she, that in the confusion some must needs get away. The curtains were drawn over the barbers' shops, all doors were shut—it was the hour of repose. A few beggars sat in converse on the steps of San Michele, many were asleep in the shade, there were no passengers, no sbirri to be seen until we reached the Via Campidoglio. Here Virginia drew me back into the shadow of a great house. "That way is stopped. They are watching the market. Come, we will try something else." I admired her resourceful audacity, and followed whither she chose to lead.
We ran up the Via Vecchietta without disturbance or alarm, and reached the church of San Lorenzo. We entered the cloister, which breathed the full summer, late as it was in the year. Bees hummed about the tree; the glossy leaves of the great magnolia seemed to radiate heat and glitter; above us the sky was of almost midsummer whiteness, and I could see the heat-waves flicker above the dome. "You shall hide in the Sagrestia to- night, if you will be ruled by me," Virginia said. "To-morrow morning before first Mass we will gain the Ghetto. I know a woman there who will keep us. My word, Don Francis, you little guess how near the Bargello you have been!"
I think she was eager for my praises, poor soul, by the shy light in her eyes—a kind of preparation for the blushes with which she always met any warmth in my tone. If I gave her none it was because she had displeased me by cheapening herself to the sbirri. But I was soon ashamed of myself.
I asked her, "When did you find out that the sbirri were waiting for me?"
"The second hour of the day, it was," she replied, "when I went out to buy milk for your chocolate. There were but two of them then. They asked me if you were in the house. I said no. They said that you had killed a frate, and I, that I was sure he had deserved it. One of them laughed and said that had nothing to do with it; he had been sent there to be killed. The other one, that black-browed fellow who stabbed his comrade, said nothing at all, but just looked at me hard. He never took his eyes away once, so I guessed how his barque was steering, and you saw what wind I blew."
"I saw it, Virginia."
"And disapproved! Per esempio, you disapproved!" Tears filled her eyes. She shrugged her shoulders, pitying herself. "Povera Virginia!" she said.
This made me ashamed enough to say, "Dear Virginia, I know that you acted for my safety."
"Yes, I did! Yes, I did! But I would do worse. Ah, you little know how bad I would make myself. And you reproach me—" She was on the edge of a frenzy, but checked herself. "What does it matter now that you are safe? We will stop in the Sagrestia all night. They will never look for you there."
"But, my dear," said I, "we have three hours to wait before the Sagrestia is opened. Do you ask me to stay here, in this cloister, for that time?"
She looked embarrassed, for the truth is that she would have asked me ifI had not spoken of it. She had forgotten that I was not of her nation."No, no," she said hastily, "that is ridiculous. How could I ask you todo such a thing as that? The question!"
"I am glad of it," I returned, "because there I can't oblige you. I must break my fast, so must you. By the time we have done, the Sagrestia may be ready for us. Observe also that in spending the night in that place I am obliging you, for I don't at all see why we should do it."
She searched my face with those grey eyes of hers, hunting my raillery out. The thing above all which she dreaded was to be laughed at. She never laughed herself, except bitterly, in anger, and hated the indulgence. Suspecting still what she failed to find, she fell in with my desire to eat, though she must have thought it preposterous, and me a madman to have it. She could never understand my attachment to custom, and never think of more than one thing at a time. Just now she was engaged in hiding me from justice—to succeed in which task she would have sat still for an eternity and gone without a thousand meals. What an outcry she must have had ready for me—and how she must have loved her hard taskmaster! She did violence to all her feelings, fell in with my desire at once.
"Naturally, Don Francis, you must eat. Naturally, I must eat. Naturally, by the time we have finished, the Sagrestia will be open. Very good, Don Francis. But as to spending the night in the Sagrestia, shall I be impertinent if I tell you that by this time there is not a locanda in Florence that has not got a full and exact description of you and me, and not a landlord among them that would not hand you over for two baiocchi?"
"How do you know that, my dear?" I asked.
She stretched out her arms. "How do I know? Hear him! How do I know that my mother is a woman and my father a man? Dio buono! Have I lived in my sty with my eyes shut? And herded with thieves, and taken them for marchesi? But you shall be fed, Don Francis. Leave that to me. Do you stay here quietly, I will get you some food."
I said that I must come with her, whereupon she began to cry bitterly, to call me heartless and cruel, to pity herself in the most deplorable terms. She nursed and fondled herself by name. "Povera Virginia! Poor little Virginia, that works so hard for her tyrant and gives herself no rest. But he is cruel—more cruel than if he beat her—stabs her heart with cold words, rends it with sharp fingers. Poor little Virginia, poor little outcast from the Madonna!"
I have not a heart of stone: I confess that her distress made me dreadfully ashamed. This good soul, whose only happiness lay in mine, who had trusted her all in all to me without flinching, whose life was now at my disposal as her honour had been for so long. Unworthy of the name of man had I been if I could wound her so lightly. I put my arm round her waist and drew her towards me with tenderness. I took her hands from her face and implored her forgiveness. I promised to offend her no more, to stay in the cloister until she came, to sleep in the Sagrestia, to do all her behests. In answer, the sun came out in her face. She listened to me with soft rapture, beautiful to see, and before I had done, the dear, generous creature snatched at my hand, and, kneeling, kissed it with a frenzy of devotion which brought the tears to my eyes. Immediately afterwards she was gone on her errand of mercy, leaving me in a glow of truly honest gratitude, which was to have its speedy fruit in an act which, though it fell short of my intention, was to prove for my ultimate content.
Past fatigues and present danger did not disturb my happy meditations. I paced the cloister of San Lorenzo without regard for them, absorbed in considering my future conduct, and the relationship in which I stood to my little world of circumstance. It was necessary that I should make plans for myself and for Virginia, and I made and rejected many without modifying them one and all, as well I might have done, by allowing for the part which the gallows, the gaol or the hulks might play in them. As my habit has always been, I endeavoured to judge the case upon its merits, and to adjust myself to it, not so much according to my desires as to my duties towards it. Here—to remind the reader—are the three factors of my problem.
1. I had, of my own act, withdrawn myself from Aurelia's society, having done her all the reparation I could, and obtained her forgiveness.
2. I had constituted myself Virginia's champion against the Marchese Semifonte.
3. I had killed Fra Palamone.
Now, to take these in order, it was plainly my duty to quit the side of the fair Aurelia. Even though she were and were to remain for me the shining orb of my firmament, in whose beam I must for ever walk—I must not see her again. I had obtained from her all that I could hope for, and given her quite as much as, if not more than, she desired. To stay by her now would be to compromise her; I could not be blind to the conviction of all my acquaintance, which saw in me that horrible spectacle, the lover of a married woman, accepted as such by her lawful master. Robbery! of which I could never be capable. No more of Aurelia, then, no more. She must depart like a dream before the stern face of the morrow—or I must depart. Happy, perhaps, for her, whatever it may have been for me, that she herself had taken the first step when she turned her back upon me in pique.
I disregarded Palamone's bloody end. I had executed a criminal, a procurer for hire, a vile thing unworthy to live; but what was I to do with Virginia? There was a young woman of capacity, merit and beauty, whose honour I had taken in charge. So far I had maintained it, and there were two ways in which I could continue so to do. In return, she had given me devotion of the most singular kind—for it is extreme devotion that a girl should bear obloquy and humiliation for the sake of a man who has defended her. There was no doubt also but that I was master of her heart; no doubt at all but that she would give herself to me without thought if I lifted a finger. The conviction of such a truth is a dangerous possession for a man, and I don't pretend that I was insensible to it, any more than I was to her definite and personal charm. He is divine, not human, who remains cold and unbiased with the knowledge that here, at his disposal, is a lovely and ardent female, longing to be in his arms. Now, I had withdrawn her from her home, defied a claimant to her, and killed a man who sought her ruin, and what was I going to do? I saw that there were two courses open; but that unless it were possible to do as the rest of her acquaintance had tried to do, there was but one. Was I to kill Palamone in order that I might ruin her myself? Good Heavens! my name was Strelley of Upcote. There was one course, and I must take that.
I did not love Virginia; I admit it. I knew that she was beautiful, and knew that she was mine for the asking, but a truce to casuistry! In her safety was involved my own honour, to her defence must go my own life. I admired, I respected, I was grateful, I wished her well. I determined to marry her, and the sooner the better. Having come to this conclusion, I knew myself well enough to believe that no power in the world could shake me from it.
When, therefore, the good girl returned to me, white and out of breath, with sausages, bread, and a flask of wine under her apron, I welcomed her as befitted one in the position in which I now designed her to stand. I took off my hat to her and relieved her of her burden. She noticed the courtesy; the colour flew back to her cheeks, but I observed that her breath was not thereby restored.
She became very voluble—to hide her confusion; for by ordinary she was sparing of speech (or did she guess the lover in the master? Who can tell?). The wine, she told me, was easy got, and the bread. "The sausage," she went on—"ah, it would have been as easy to give you one of my legs for sausages. I went first to Il Torto's in the Borgo; it was shut for mezzodi. I begin tapping—the wife opens. 'Chi e?' says she; and I see a sbirro in the shop, eating polenta. 'Niente, niente,' I say, and run. That told me that the babbo was away, and that his wife had a lover in the constabulary. Remember it, Don Francis, we may have need of her—who knows? Shall I confess to you that I stole your sausage?"
"Confess what you please, my dear," said I, "I shall shrive you." Her eyes were dewy, but she lowered them too soon.
"It was a sin," she said, "but I do not intend to eat any sausage, so I shall be forgiven. But you see that the spies are all abroad. Now, I have just thought of something, Don Francis. We cannot remain in this cloister—at least, I cannot. If a canon awoke before his time—and it needs but a fly to settle on a nose to cause it—and if he poke his head out of his door, the first thing he will do will be to look at me—"
"Naturally, Virginia," I said. "It is what I am doing."
"I am well aware of it," said Virginia, and showed that she spoke the truth; "but the second thing he will do will be to look at you. I don't think we can afford ourselves this honour, so let us go. There is a way from here into the library, thence into the church, and from there to the Sagrestia Nuova, if we could only find it, whither nobody goes but a grand duke—and he only when he is dead. Let us go by that—will you not come? It is true that I am rather frightened by now."
I got up at once. "Come, then, child, let us hunt out our way." We went upstairs.
The long library was quite empty. We went to the further end on tiptoe. There were three doors at the bottom in three bays, surmounted by busts. We chose for the right hand and turned the handle. It gave into a narrow passage, lined with bookcases and dimly lighted. "I think this will be the way," Virginia said, and took the key out of the door and locked it on the inside. We followed the passage to a flight of stone steps, descended these in their curving course round a pillar, and came upon a little arched doorway. Virginia opened it. It led directly into the church of San Lorenzo. We saw the hanging lamps before the altars, and a boy in a short surplice asleep in a confessional.
"Wait here, wait here," says Virginia. "I will make him lead us into theSagrestia."
I saw her go, lightly as a hare in the grass, towards the boy, and wondered. She stooped over him where he was huddled anyhow, as children are when they are asleep, and whispered in his ear. "Carino, carino, do you sleep? I am talking to you, carino, do you hear me? Say yes."
"Si, si," the boy murmured, and sighed and struggled.
"I am speaking to you, carino. I am tired; I want to sleep also. Tell me how to reach the Sagrestia, where the monsters lie sleeping and waking; whisper it, whisper it, and I will kiss you for it." I heard her soothing "Hush! Hush!" as he stirred. She went on whispering in his ear. It seemed to me that she was insinuating herself into his dreams. He stirred more than once, turned his head about; every moment I expected to see him open his eyes; but no. As Virginia continued to whisper, he began to murmur in his sleep, she directing him. He answered, laughed softly, turned about, slept always. I saw Virginia kiss his forehead. Then she came winging back to me; she seemed hardly to touch the pavement. "Come, come. I know the way. The door is open." She flitted away towards the high altar, I following. We gained the ambulatory behind. A door from this stood ajar; Virginia pushed in, I after her. We followed a flagged corridor for some distance and found ourselves in the Sagrestia Nuova with Michael Angelo's monsters sprawling and brooding in the half light. Virginia clasped me in her arms. "Francesco mio, I have saved thee. Sanctuary with thee! Oh, love thy poor Virginia!"
She pressed closely to me, and began to touch and stroke my cheeks; she put her hand at the back of my head, as it were to force my face down to look at her. Touched, excited, amorous in my turn, I encircled her with my arms and kissed her fondly.
"Dearest, best, kindest Virginia," I said, "you have proved my friend indeed. I have much to thank you for, much to say to you. Let us choose a place in which to eat our breakfast; I am as hungry as the devil."
Cruel, abominable speech of mine! I wounded her dreadfully; scalding tears testified to a bruised heart; but to her relief came pride.
"Stop," said she, "you shall not eat yet. I am hungrier than you, whom bread will satisfy. I am famished." I would have made amends, but she drew away from me, and folded her arms. "Let me understand. You kissed me just now. Were you false to Aurelia? Did you intend to insult that girl whom you taught to fear insult?"
I said, No, that had never been my intention, but it had been quite otherwise. "Donna Aurelia," I said, "has been restored to her proper place. She will find salvation where her happiness is, and I have been considering mine, whether I can find it in my happiness also."
"One thing at a time," said she, breathing very fast. "Has Donna Aurelia's husband returned?" I told her that he had not, but that there were good hopes of him shortly.
"And you have said farewell? You are free—free as the air?"
"It is my duty," I told her, "never to see Donna Aurelia again, and I will not if I can help it."
She frowned, then threw up her hands. "I don't understand anything about you! Is this love or madness? You love a lady, who loves you—you find her here—alone—you meet—you speak—you look at each other—you take her by the hand and lead her back to her husband—and tell her that she will never see you again. And she allows it!"
"Not only so," said I, "but it was she who turned her back upon me. And she did rightly."
"Why did she so?" she asked me. I had to tell her that it was on her account.
It made her peer with her eyes, in which, however, a keen light burned. She took a step towards me; I thought she would be in my arms; but instead she stopped short, breathing fast through her nostrils.
'"Tell me this, tell me this," she said, "was she the fool, or were you?"
I laughed. "My girl," I told her, "if I am a fool it is not for you to say so. But I believe, for all that, that you are paying me a compliment." She did not comprehend me, so took refuge in a quip— tossing her head at me.
She said, "I wish your worship joy of my compliment."
I took her. "I intend that you shall do more than wish me joy, child. I intend that you shall give it me, and be my joy."
This altered her tune. She quickly released herself and pointed to the victuals she had risked herself to get. "Let us eat," she said, "and talk afterwards. Forgive me if I troubled you just now. I have suffered and am a little over-wrought. Forgive me."
I kissed her again, she not forbidding me; we put our cloaks below that enormous figure of the Thinker, and sat down to our breakfast; we ate our sausages and drank our wine. Colour came back into Virginia's grave face, light danced in her eyes; she became more herself, but with an excitement latent within her which betrayed itself in little hasty acts of affection, quick movements, half caressing, half petulant—as if she would soothe me, and, half way, change her mood and be minded to scratch. I became interested, I wondered how long she would leave our affairs in doubt; rather unkindly, I held my tongue, just for the pleasure of seeing her make the next advance. And then—in spite of my curiosity—fatigue began to creep over me. I had been thirty-six hours awake, had bid an everlasting farewell to a mistress, restored, or done my best to restore, a banished wife to her husband's arms, shot a man, saved a virgin's honour, made matrimonial advances, run for my life. Here was a good day and a half's work. After a profusion of yawns, which, try as I would, I could not stifle, I said, "Forgive me, my dear, if I go to sleep. I find myself mortally tired—and you must be in the same case. Let us lie down here and rest ourselves."
"Sleep, my lord, sleep," said she, with beautiful, tender seriousness, and spread my cloak on a bench for me. She took off my sword and knelt, as her custom of old had been, to kiss my hand. I felt then that I must needs love this loving child. I lifted her up, and, "Kneel no more to me, my girl," I said. "You and I are ruined together. I cannot obey my father, who will disinherit me. You are no better off. Hunted animals don't kneel to each other, but league themselves to face their persecutors. Virginia, be mine!"
She said nothing, and would not meet my eyes. I drew her to me, embraced her with my arm, kissed her cold lips.
"Do you know what I am doing, Virginia?" I said. "Do you know what I need of you, my only friend?"
"Yes, Don Francis," she said. "You are making love to me, and it is your right. I have never refused you, and never shall. But you must not ask me to marry you."
If I were nettled, it was because a man, having made up his mind, is not willingly thwarted—for no other reason. But I do not know that I can accuse myself even of so much. I did not let her go, nor did I cease to kiss her. I told her, I believe, with as much calmness as is possible under the circumstances, that I was perfectly determined; I said that she need have no fear of the future, even though in taking me she would take no such fortune as I ought to offer to my wife. She flamed up at this and cried out that she wanted no fortune and had never led me to believe it. "Well and good, child," I replied, "in that case you need have no fears at all, for I, on my side, can ask you to admit that I have given you no reason to suppose me a villain. If I take you and all that you have, believe me I shall give you in return my mind and affection as well as the respect and gratitude which you have already. Believe me, Virginia—"
She moaned and rocked herself about. "Oh, I love you so! Oh, do not tempt me—oh, my lord, my lord, what shall I do? Oh, Madonna purissima, help me now!" I caught her to my heart.
"Virginia! as beautiful as you are true, you are worthy of a better love than mine," I cried. "But a more tender love you will never have. Friend, saviour, dear and faithful, beloved companion, I need you— come!"
She struggled faintly to put me away. She withheld her lips by averting her head; but I caught at her wrists and held her arms to her sides. By- and-by she let me have my will, and gave me kiss for kiss. I had won her; she was mine utterly from that hour.
"My lord and my love," she said, "you have conquered me. I will be yours in the manner you desire. You may be humbling yourself, but you are exalting me. Have no fear—I will make you happy. Ah, but how I will work for you! You have never seen me work yet! I am your servant still— your faithful servant."
"We shall serve each other, I hope, my child," I said. "There will be work for me to do also. But what is immediately before us is to escape from Florence."
Virginia got up. "Sleep you here, my soul, I will go out and see how the land lies. Before morning I will see you again." She clasped me to her bosom and kissed me fondly, then went quickly out, as swift and salient in her joy as a keen wind of spring that carries health in its forceful pride. I slept profoundly until daylight, little knowing what her immediate errand was.
Virginia was pleased to be very mysterious on the subject of our marriage, keeping me in the Sagrestia for three or four days, visiting me only to give me food and such news as she cared to impart. She told me, for instance, that Professor Lanfranchi had undoubtedly arrived in Florence, and that he was staying with Aurelia at the Villa San Giorgio. As to our own affair, she said that everything was in good train. She had found a church and a priest in the Ghetto; she would need a little money—not very much—and promised, directly the coast was clear, to get me over to that safe quarter. To be done with this part of my history, so she did, and was made mine in the church of Sant' Andrea on October 24, 1724, three years, almost to a day, since my arrival in Padua in 1721. I took her back to a mean lodging in that meanest part of Florence, and spent three days with her there alone. I then wrote to my father, as I felt bound in duty to do—fully, unreservedly, with candour and, I hope, modesty. I wrote to Father Carnesecchi, to Professor Lanfranchi. Such money as I could consider mine by right I converted into cash; the rest, which I thought to be my father's—being that share of my monthly allowance which I had received after I had decided to disobey him—I returned by bills of exchange to his London bankers. I believe that, on the day of my departure from Florence, I stood up possessed of some fifty guineas—no great capital upon which a man and his young wife could begin the world. Nor had I any great idea how I should increase or husband my little store. But I was young, zealous, proud. I believed in myself, I loved Virginia. In a word, as always happened to me, I looked studiously forward, and was happy. As for her, she hardly touched the ground with her feet when she walked. You never saw so radiant a creature.
We left the Ghetto at a good hour of the morning, intending for Lucca; but at the gate of San Frediano a difficulty about post-horses bade fair to detain us for a day in very unfortunate publicity. The man of whom we had bespoken them met us there with despair upon his face. He was vexed, he was harrowed, his nicest feelings of honour were wounded—at least he said that they were. The horses had been fed and watered; he was about to put them to, when an order which he dared not disobey had supervened. No less was this than a precept from the Pratica Segreta that the horses were to be put at the disposition of the Cavaliere Aquamorta, of whom the State was most anxious to be rid. Had it been anything under a Government order, said he, he would have laughed in the bearer's face. Not even the Grand Duke could make an honest man break his word, &c. &c.; but I could see he was helpless. I saw nothing so clearly as that I was. I expostulated, offered more money than I could afford. Virginia stormed. All to no purpose. I was for walking, and was about to command Virginia to accompany me, when who should appear but my gentleman himself, the Cavaliere Aquamorta, inquiring the cause of the uproar. He presented a truly magnificent appearance in that squalid place.
No sooner was he informed that he was the cause of our distress than he addressed himself to me with elaborate politeness—all the more singular as that my appearance and equipage contrasted most unfavourably with his. My clothes had not been improved by the adventures I had undergone; my linen was soiled; I had no baggage. Virginia was respectably dressed and looked beautiful, but had no pretensions to a rank which she did not possess of herself and which I did not propose to give her. For I had thought it only honourable in me, as I was dispensing with my father's injunctions, to dispense also with his money. I had renounced the world in which I had gained nothing but misery and crime. In this fine gentleman's eyes, therefore, I must have seemed a simple young artisan, and Virginia a pretty country girl. However, he begged to be of service to us. He was himself going to Lucca, he said. If he took our horses it was only fair we should take seats in his chariot. In fine, we should hurt him deeply if we did not. All this was put before me with so much frankness and good humour that I could not well refuse it. I saw, moreover, that in addition to my horses he had two of his own. I accepted his offer, therefore, with many thanks. He handed Virginia in with a bow; he begged me to precede him, which I did, but to the back seat. He took the place next my wife, and we left Florence.
"If," said this remarkable man, "I lay it down as an indispensable preliminary to our acquaintance, which I hope may be long and warm, that you accept me for a gentleman, it is because, as I do not happen to be one, I have devoted all my energies to demonstrating the exact contrary. No man can help the accident of his birth. My mother was an actress of Venice: God knows who was my father, but I tell myself that he was peculiarly mine. I was educated in the slips of the theatre of San Moise; at ten I ran away from home, and from the age of twelve made my fortune my own care. It was then that I found out the advantages of being what I was not, for I observed that while nobody scrupled to cheat a gentleman if he could safely do it, nobody (on the other hand) resented the fact that a gentleman cheated him. At the age of fifteen, when I served in Zante in the company of the noble Mocenigo, and received a decoration for gallantry and a commission of lieutenant, I killed my captain for permitting himself to doubt my gentility. I should be sorry to have to reckon how many more have gone his way, or for how many years I have been obliged to shed blood in every new State I have chosen to inhabit. Those days are past and over; my reputation is made; this order which I wear was presented to me by the Holy Father, and is at once my patent and my passport. If I need another, it is here." He pointed to his sword, which reposed upon a narrow ledge of the chariot, behind my back.
I then told him a difficulty of my own, which was that, although I was a gentleman by birth who had waived his rank for reasons unnecessary to be named, I had no passport into the Republic of Lucca. "I think it right to inform you, cavaliere," I added, "that I also found it necessary to shed blood in Florence, and that consequently I have left that city somewhat abruptly and without a passport. I should be sorry to put you to any inconvenience on my account, and assure you that you have only to express a doubt—a hint will be enough—to be relieved of me and my wife at our first baiting-place."
He clasped my hand, saying, "I like your frankness—it pleases me vastly. And I see that I can help you. I have a very commodious passport which will pass your charming lady, yourself and half a dozen children— if you had been so precocious as to have them. Let us talk of more pleasant things than my magnanimity, if you please; the subject is naturally familiar to me."
This Cavaliere Aquamorta—he had the Order of the Golden Spur from his Holiness—was a tall spare man of a striking, if truculent, presence, with a high forehead, prominent eyebrows, densely black, cheekbones like razors, a complexion of walnut, and burning dark eyes. He carried his head high, and punctuated his vivacious utterances with snorts and free expectoration. He was, as I had seen at once, very much overdressed; his jabot was too full, he had three watches, ring-laden fingers, not unduly clean, and no less than five snuff-boxes, which he used in turn. He had certain delicate perceptions, however, which I must do him the justice to record; for if he was overdressed, I (God knows) was not, and yet not one glance of his penetrating eyes was turned in my direction which was not of deference and amiability. He treated me in every respect as if I had been his equal in appearance, address and fortune. His gallantry to Virginia would have been, I thought, excessive if displayed to any woman in the world. Before we had gone a league he had hold of her hand, to illustrate a story he was telling us of an intrigue he had had with the Princess of Schaffhausen. "I took her Highness' hand—thus," says he, and took my wife's. "'Madame,' I said, 'upon the honour of Aquamorta, the affair, having gone so far, must go all lengths. Logic and love alike demand it.'" The story was long; by the end of it, it was to be seen that he still held Virginia's hand. Indeed, he held it more or less until we stopped at Empoli to dine; and when we returned to the carriage, if I may be believed, this knight of the Spur resumed possession, and (as if it had been a plaything) nursed, flourished, flirted, made raps with my wife's hand until we were near the end of the day and within a few miles of the frontier of Lucca. Then at last he released it, kissing it first—popped his head out of the window, looked about and started, gave a prodigious Ha! cleared his throat, spat twice, and sat down again.
He looked at me pleasantly but with penetration. "We have arrived at the dreadful field of Altopascio, where Castruccio Castracane cut up the Florentine legions," says he, "and now, friend, your trials begin. My dear Signor Francis, believe me that I shall never forget the honour you and your charming lady have done to the equipage and solitary splendour of Aquamorta, nor the many marks of confidence and esteem you have both shown me throughout our delightful journey. Unhappily, so far as you are concerned, dear sir, it is over for a while. It will be necessary for you to leave us. My passport"—he produced it—"is made out for the Cavaliere Aquamorta, his lady, and servants. Your plan, therefore, will be to mount the box. I would take your place and give you mine, but that I am too well known to be supposed my own lacquey; nor could my sensitive honour brook it if I were. I would offer you my cloak, again, but that I fear it would betray you. It is perhaps a little out of key with the rest of your apparel. Better, after all, take one of those rascals'. For the next few hours you are Fritz, remember—Fritz from Buda Pesth; and I," he cried with a sprightly air, "am the happy, the indulged possessor of the most lovely of women." Again he kissed Virginia's hand. Deeply annoyed as I was, there was nothing for it but to obey; and it was under these by no means dignified circumstances that I entered the Republic of Lucca for the first time.
Worse was to follow—much worse. The man was without conscience in exacting from me the uttermost farthing of the bargain. Arrived at the inn, where, it seemed, he had already bespoken the whole of the first floor, he led Virginia upstairs with the greatest deference, hat in hand, past the bowing landlord and all his array of scullions, maidservants, lacqueys, porters and cooks; and took no more notice of me than he had done of the horde of beggars at the door. Full of indignation, I started to follow him, but his body-servant, an assured rogue if ever there was one, stopped me with a firm grip of my elbow. "Softly, comrade, softly," says he. "They won't need you yet awhile. When hot metal is on the anvil my master is accustomed to strike."
"What do you mean, you rascal?" I cried; and he, still holding my arm, "Why, my fine man," says he, "since you won't take a hint, I must deal plainly with you." As we were then at the foot of the stairs, he suddenly wheeled me to the right about, and plunged me into the crowd of inn-servants. "Landlord," cried he, "take this fellow in and give him his hire on my master's account. 'Tis a runaway gaolbird by the look of him for whom we have no sort of use here. A few pauls will be handsome."
He carried out his part with such bounce that he was completely successful; between him and the landlord and his crew I was hustled into the kitchens where I found the preparations for the cavaliere's supper in full blast.
I hope I may say that, in the painful position in which I found myself, I did what was becoming to a man of honour more jealous of his wife's than of his own. I reasoned with myself that a scandal, an uproar, an exhibition of my resentment would not only be no protection to Virginia, but would be, on the other hand, the clearest evidence that I doubted her. It could only end in my being turned out of the inn and in her being held by every man and woman of the place for what she was not. I remembered here with admiration the conduct of Father Carnesecchi, who, having on one occasion conducted two ladies and their cavaliers about the church of San Giovannino, and pointed out what beauties it possessed—and many which it did not—was mistaken by them for the sacristan and offered a small gratuity at the door. He thanked them and humbly accepted it, and (as I think), did well; for, as he said afterwards, it would have hurt their esteem much more to have been refused than it could possibly hurt his to have been offered the gift. It was in the spirit of this that I acted in the present state of my affairs. Virginia was undoubtedly my wife, and therefore of my own rank. To doubt a gentleman in any situation, however delicate, were to be offensive; it could not therefore be less offensive, but must needs be more, to doubt a gentlewoman. Not only did I not doubt her in truth, but I would not let it be supposed by any one that I did. There then, in that steaming kitchen, among sweating cooks and greasy cook-aids did I stand, with what countenance I had.
They were too busy just then for any notice to be thrown my way. I sat in a corner out of sight and watched their preparations for a superb banquet. It might have seemed that the cavaliere was going to entertain all the Ancients of the Republic, to judge by the capons and turkeys, the strings of ortolans, the quails, the partridges, roasting, basting or getting trussed. There was a cygnet, I remember; there were large fish stuffed with savoury herbs, crawfish, lampreys, eels in wine; there were pastry, shapes of cream, jellies, custards: you never saw such a feast—and I am sure there were a score of persons of both sexes busy about it. The maids flew from saucepan to stewpan, the boys staggered under piles of plates; the dressers and servers were always in and out, carrying dishes to the lacqueys of the table or coming back for more. The head-cook, a mountain of brawn and lard, seemed fresh from the bath— so he dripped and shone. The hubbub, bustle, heat and worry are not to be described by me.
When the dinner was at last completed and sent to table, the master-cook straightened himself and gave a short order, which was immediately obeyed. I saw him go into the scullery near by and souse his head and neck in a bucket of cold water. In a trice the tables of his late business were cleared, and the scullions laid out the materials for supper. These were, as may be supposed, distinguished by abundance rather than refinement: a dish of tripe, a chine of beef, spaghetti in wash-hand basins, onion salad with garlic, sausages, blood-puddings, pigs' feet in vinegar. High wicker flasks of wine stood in iron cages, to be swung down by the finger; there was one bottle of water: all was ready. But nobody sat down until the master-cook appeared. The men stood on one side of the table, the maids on the other, like soldiers on parade. He entered, the huge fellow, red from his cold douche, his hair all rumpled from the rude embraces of the jack-towel, and walked over to the men's side, wiping the wet from his ears as he went. He stood—this captain of the kitchen—in front of his company, and with a sweeping and appraising eye surveyed the ordered nymphs. He selected the partner of his choice, a modest-mannered creature who answered to the name of Gentucca; she came forward and stood by his side. With no more waiting he took his seat at the head of the board, and, plunging his fingers into a steaming bowl of spaghetti, began to gobble at it in the unedifying way which his nation have—and which, indeed, the dish demands. Gentucca sat at his right hand, but took nothing until she had helped him to drink. Meantime the others had made their arrangements— from the second in command down to the merest pot-boy selections had been made from among the maids. I heard, "Lisabetta, come here," or, "No, no, Liperata, I have chosen you"—or it was Caterina, or Giocosa, or Bettina, as the case may have been. To be brief, down sat everybody in the kitchen, Jack by his Gill, save my unhappy self.
It was the highly favoured Gentucca who pointed me out to the Grand Master of the Cooks. As I still wore the cape and long coat of Aquamorta's servant I was naturally accepted as such. The master-cook, who saw directly that I was a foreigner, courteously invited me to the right hand of Gentucca, ordering a bouncing girl of the name of Maria- Maddelena to make room for me. She very pleasantly did so; my plate was heaped, my cup was filled; all the company stood up and drank my health. Nothing could have been kinder than this humble society. My eyes clouded more than once to recognise it.
My host exerted himself to entertain me, though he tried (and I cannot blame him) to entertain the company at the same time. Perhaps his curiosity got the better of his good nature; certainly he pumped me as dry as I could be induced to go, and it was not until he had learned everything I cared to tell him that he remembered that he could impart as well as receive. He discussed my master (as he supposed him to be), the cavaliere, and by what he told me gave me some entertainment not unmixed with anxiety. That obliging and imperturbable person was, I found out, a gentleman of fortune—a term which implies that he was not a gentleman at all and had no kind of fortune but what he could secure of his neighbours. He travelled like a prince, and spent his money freely, but all was, as my host said, a case of casting nets. "Not but what my gentleman loves his belly as much as you or I," said the master- cook; "and small blame to him if he do. A man's head has no more stout ally than his paunch, while it is well lined, and no more arrant deserter if he cut short the supplies. But if you suppose, sir, that the banquet which I have sent upstairs is all for Aquamorta and his lady to consume en tete-a-tete, you know very little about him. Why, I'll wager that demirep of a valet of his has collected half our young blades to the board. Good food, good wine, good talk there will be, never fear. And afterwards—what follows? So soon as the tables are cleared out come the cards and the fishes. His Excellency, to oblige the company, will make a faro-bank; the company—well fed and well drunken—to oblige his Excellency, will punt. The signora will do the same for the ladies, the ladies for the signora. Now do you see the drift of his net? Should any little dispute arise—as will be on occasion—the cavaliere's sword is at the disposition of the gentleman offended. He is something of a marksman, too, as you cannot fail to have heard if you are a traveller. He has killed a man and undone a couple of ladies in every Court of Europe. He has been under the leads at Venice, and out again, deuce knows how. He has been expelled from half the cities of Italy, and has turned the story into capital in the other half. A most exorbitant, irresistible droll of a master you have there, sir; but who his decoy- duck of the moment may be, I dare say you can tell better than I. A fine young woman, and a cool hand, I could see for myself. I thought she looked waspish and gave herself more graces than were hers by nature. He has a taste for a bitter with his food, it appears; something tart and sharp to give an edge to his palate, perhaps. Do you happen to know her name?"
I said she was known to me as Donna Virginia, whereat he laughed gaily, and taking Gentucca round the waist, kissed her heartily, saying that she was the virgin for him.
Shortly after this, with a few words of polite excuse, he broke up the table and retired with his partner. The rest of the company gave itself up to pleasures which were as zestful as they were free. It may be imagined that I had little taste for such simple sports as these worthy persons could devise. I sat, an unhappy spectator of their gambols—but a diversion of a vigorous kind was at hand. In the midst of the scuffling and babel of voices in the kitchen I heard the strident tones of the cavaliere, evidently in a great rage.
"Where is that dastardly dog? Where is that villain of a cook?" I heard him roar on the stairs. "Bring me that scoundrel that I may slit his ears!" At this moment he burst through the doors, a terrific spectacle of fury, his eyes burning like fires, his face inflamed, his drawn sword in his hand. The company scattered to the walls or dived beneath the tables, chairs were overturned, the maids began to scream.
He glared about him at the desert he had made. "Produce me the cook, you knaves," cried he, "or I mow you down like thistles." The master-cook's face peeped through the gently opened door, and the cavaliere, across the room in two strides, seized his victim by the ear and pulled him headlong into the kitchen. "Hound!" he roared, "and son of a hound! Take the punishment you have earned."
"Sir, sir!" says the unhappy cook, "what have I done?"
"Done!" cries the cavaliere, screwing him unmercifully by the ear, "you have compassed my death by your infernal arts. I am poisoned—a dying man, but my last ounce of strength shall be enough to avenge me." So said, he began to belabour the wretch with the flat of his sword, and at each stroke the cook gave a howl of terror. His poor little mistress ran out of her concealment and clung to his helpless person, seeking to receive upon hers the blows as they fell. It was then that I interposed.
"Cavaliere," I said, "you are acting, with I know not what justice, against a man who has just proved more hospitable to me than yourself has thought fit to do. I must now tell you that any further indignity offered to him must be considered as done to me."
He paused in his furious attack, and "Ha!" says he, "here's the husband." He began to laugh; he laughed with such gusto and abandoned himself to such uproarious mirth that very soon all the company except myself was laughing with him. All of a sudden he stopped, with a mighty serious face. "Harkee, my friend," says he to me, "upon reflection I do believe that I have been hasty. The spasm passes. It may well be that it was the excellence of this honest man's catering which betrayed me, and not any infernal design. A passing cholic, after all!" He smiled benevolently upon his recent prisoner. "Rise, my worthy friend," said he, "and receive a pardon from the right hand of fellowship, sugared, as I hope, to your liking." His hand was full of gold pieces. "Nobody shall say," he added proudly, "that Aquamorta cannot requite good service, because he knows so well how to reprimand bad service." The cook humbly thanking his Excellency, the storm was over.
But I had another brewing, or thought that I should have. As the cavaliere was about to retire, I stopped him and said that I wished to accompany him. He scratched his head.
"Why, my dear sir," says he, "that will be plaguily inconvenient at this moment. My rooms are full of guests, d'ye see? Your charming lady is entertaining all the Senators' mistresses, and I am in the midst of a carouse with their Serenities. I am not one for hard-and-fast categories, as you know. Your dirty shirt and ragged elbows are nothing to me—but zounds! I can't answer for the most Serene Ancients."
I said then that I would retire to my room and wait for my wife—but to that he objected that, in strict truth, and to keep up the fiction upon which my safety depended, I had no room, at all. My wife was considered to be his wife, while I was supposed to be what I had professed myself, his servant. Would I, he asked me, for the sake of a night's gratification, imperil the many happy years which, he hoped and would take care, should be in store for me?
I was somewhat slow in meeting this preposterous question as it deserved, and when I opened my lips to speak he stopped me with, "Say no more. I don't ask your thanks. Your safety is as dear to me as my own." He beckoned to one of the scullions, and "Hi, you," says he, "show this fellow of mine where he can sleep, and see to it that his company be honest." With that he ruffled upstairs with the airs of a grand duke, and left me once more stranded with the cooks. To come to an end of this humiliating page, rejecting all offers of company, I was accommodated with a wretched cupboard below the stairs, which smelt vilely of sour wine and mildewed cheese, and ruefully prepared to spend what sort of night I could, with my thoughts for bedfellows.
I know not what hour of the night it was when I was roused out of a dream-tortured sleep by the creaking of my cupboard door. Looking up, the light of a candle which she held showed me Virginia.
"Behold Virginia," she said. "Did you doubt whether I should come?"
"I never doubted but you would come if you could," I replied, "but I did not see how it was possible." She blew out the candle and crept to my side. "The cavaliere, by diverting his friends with your plight," she said, "revealed to me where he had left you. I excused myself to the company and retired. I think he will be disagreeably surprised before morning."
I was much touched by her devotion and wifely duty, and assured her of it by every means in my power.