by George Eliot
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
THE PRISONERS.
The sky was grey, but that made little difference in the Piazza delDuomo, which was covered with its holiday sky of blue drapery, and itsconstellations of yellow lilies and coats of arms. The sheaves ofbanners were unfurled at the angles of the Baptistery, but there was nocarpet yet on the steps of the Duomo, for the marble was being troddenby numerous feet that were not at all exceptional. It was the hour ofthe Advent sermons, and the very same reasons which had flushed thestreets with holiday colour were reasons why the preaching in the Duomocould least of all be dispensed with.
But not all the feet in the Piazza were hastening towards the steps.People of high and low degree were moving to and fro with the brisk paceof men who had errands before them; groups of talkers were thicklyscattered, some willing to be late for the sermon, and others contentnot to hear it at all.
The expression on the faces of these apparent loungers was not that ofmen who are enjoying the pleasant laziness of an opening holiday. Somewere in close and eager discussion; others were listening with keeninterest to a single spokesman, and yet from time to time turned roundwith a scanning glance at any new passer-by. At the corner, lookingtowards the Via de' Cerretani--just where the artificial rainbow lightof the Piazza ceased, and the grey morning fell on the sombre stonehouses--there was a remarkable cluster of the working people, most ofthem bearing on their dress or persons the signs of their daily labour,and almost all of them carrying some weapon, or some tool which mightserve as a weapon upon occasion. Standing in the grey light of thestreet, with bare brawny arms and soiled garments, they made all themore striking the transition from the brightness of the Piazza. Theywere listening to the thin notary, Ser Cioni, who had just paused on hisway to the Duomo. His biting words could get only a contemptuousreception two years and a half before in the Mercato, but now he spokewith the more complacent humour of a man whose party is uppermost, andwho is conscious of some influence with the people.
"Never talk to me," he was saying, in his incisive voice, "never talk tome of bloodthirsty Swiss or fierce French infantry: they might as wellbe in the narrow passes of the mountains as in our streets; and peasantshave destroyed the finest armies of our condottieri in time past, whenthey had once got them between steep precipices. I tell you,Florentines need be afraid of no army in their own streets."
"That's true, Ser Cioni," said a man whose arms and hands werediscoloured by crimson dye, which looked like blood-stains, and who hada small hatchet stuck in his belt; "and those French cavaliers, who camein squaring themselves in their smart doublets the other day, saw asample of the dinner we could serve up for them. I was carrying mycloth in Ognissanti, when I saw my fine Messeri going by, looking roundas if they thought the houses of the Vespucci and the Agli a poor pickof lodgings for them, and eyeing us Florentines, like top-knotted cocksas they are, as if they pitied us because we didn't know how to strut.`Yes, my fine _Galli_,' says I, `stick out your stomachs; I've got ameat-axe in my belt that will go inside you all the easier;' whenpresently the old cow lowed, [Note 1] and I knew something hadhappened--no matter what. So I threw my cloth in at the first doorway,and took hold of my meat-axe and ran after my fine cavaliers towards theVigna Nuova. And, `What is it, Guccio?' said I, when he came up withme. `I think it's the Medici coming back,' said Guccio. _Bembe_! Iexpected so! And up we reared a barricade, and the Frenchmen lookedbehind and saw themselves in a trap; and up comes a good swarm of our_Ciompi_ [Note 2] and one of them with a big scythe he had in his handmowed off one of the fine cavalier's feathers:--it's true! And thelasses peppered a few stones down to frighten them. However, Piero de'Medici wasn't come after all; and it was a pity; for we'd have left himneither legs nor wings to go away with again."
"Well spoken, Oddo," said a young butcher, with his knife at his belt;"and it's my belief Piero will be a good while before he wants to comeback, for he looked as frightened as a hunted chicken, when we hustledand pelted him in the piazza. He's a coward, else he might have made abetter stand when he'd got his horsemen. But we'll swallow no Mediciany more, whatever else the French king wants to make us swallow."
"But I like not those French cannon they talk of," said Goro, none theless fat for two years' additional grievances. "San Giovanni defend us!If Messer Domeneddio means so well by us as your Frate says he does,Ser Cioni, why shouldn't he have sent the French another way to Naples?"
"Ay, Goro," said the dyer; "that's a question worth putting. Thou artnot such a pumpkin-head as I took thee for. Why, they might have goneto Naples by Bologna, eh, Ser Cioni? or if they'd gone to Arezzo--wewouldn't have minded their going to Arezzo."
"Fools! It will be for the good and glory of Florence," Ser Cionibegan. But he was interrupted by the exclamation, "Look there!" whichburst from several voices at once, while the faces were all turned to aparty who were advancing along the Via de' Cerretani.
"It's Lorenzo Tornabuoni, and one of the French noblemen who are in hishouse," said Ser Cioni, in some contempt at this interruption. "Hepretends to look well satisfied--that deep Tornabuoni--but he's aMedicean in his heart: mind that."
The advancing party was rather a brilliant one, for there was not onlythe distinguished presence of Lorenzo Tornabuoni, and the splendidcostume of the Frenchman with his elaborately displayed white linen andgorgeous embroidery; there were two other Florentines of high birth inhandsome dresses donned for the coming procession, and on the left-handof the Frenchman was a figure that was not to be eclipsed by any amountof intention or brocade--a figure we have often seen before. He worenothing but black, for he was in mourning; but the black was presentlyto be covered by a red mantle, for he too was to walk in procession asLatin Secretary to the Ten. Tito Melema had become conspicuouslyserviceable in the intercourse with the French guests, from hisfamiliarity with Southern Italy, and his readiness in the French tongue,which he had spoken in his early youth; and he had paid more than onevisit to the French camp at Signa. The lustre of good fortune was uponhim; he was smiling, listening, and explaining, with his usual gracefulunpretentious ease, and only a very keen eye bent on studying him couldhave marked a certain amount of change in him which was not to beaccounted for by the lapse of eighteen months. It was that change whichcomes from the final departure of moral youthfulness--from the distinctself-conscious adoption of a part in life. The lines of the face wereas soft as ever, the eyes as pellucid; but something was gone--somethingas indefinable as the changes in the morning twilight.
The Frenchman was gathering instructions concerning ceremonial beforeriding back to Signa, and now he was going to have a final survey of thePiazza del Duomo, where the royal procession was to pause for religiouspurposes. The distinguished party attracted the notice of all eyes asit entered the piazza, but the gaze was not entirely cordial andadmiring; there were remarks not altogether allusive and mysterious tothe Frenchman's hoof-shaped shoes--delicate flattery of royalsuperfluity in toes; and there was no care that certain snarlings at"Mediceans" should be strictly inaudible. But Lorenzo Tornabuonipossessed that power of dissembling annoyance which is demanded in a manwho courts popularity, and Tito, besides his natural disposition toovercome ill-will by good-humour, had the unimpassioned feeling of thealien towards names and details that move the deepest passions of thenative.
Arrived where they could get a good oblique view of the Duomo, the partypaused. The festoons and devices placed over the central doorwayexcited some demur, and Tornabuoni beckoned to Piero di Cosimo, who, aswas usual with him at this hour, was lounging in front of Nello's shop.There was soon an animated discussion, and it became highly amusing fromthe Frenchman's astonishment at Picro's odd pungency of statement, whichTito translated literally. Even snarling onlookers became curious, andtheir faces began to wear the half-smiling, half-humiliated expressionof people who are not within hearing of the joke which is producinginfectious laughter. It was a delightful moment for Tito, for he wasthe only one of the party who could h
ave made so amusing an interpreter,and without any disposition to triumphant self-gratulation he revelledin the sense that he was an object of liking--he basked in approvingglances. The rainbow light fell about the laughing group, and the gravechurch-goers had all disappeared within the walls. It seemed as if thepiazza had been decorated for a real Florentine holiday.
Meanwhile in the grey light of the unadorned streets there wereon-comers who made no show of linen and brocade, and whose humour wasfar from merry. Here, too, the French dress and hoofed shoes wereconspicuous, but they were being pressed upon by a larger and largernumber of non-admiring Florentines. In the van of the crowd were threemen in scanty clothing; each had his hands bound together by a cord, anda rope was fastened round his neck and body, in such a way that he whoheld the extremity of the rope might easily check any rebelliousmovement by the threat of throttling. The men who held the ropes wereFrench soldiers, and by broken Italian phrases and strokes from theknotted end of the rope, they from time to time stimulated theirprisoners to beg. Two of them were obedient, and to every Florentinethey had encountered had held out their bound hands and said in piteoustones--
"For the love of God and the Holy Madonna, give us something towards ourransom! We are Tuscans: we were made prisoners in Lunigiana."
But the third man remained obstinately silent under all the strokes fromthe knotted cord. He was very different in aspect from his twofellow-prisoners. They were young and hardy, and, in the scant clothingwhich the avarice of their captors had left them, looked like vulgar,sturdy mendicants. But he had passed the boundary of old age, and couldhardly be less than four or five and sixty. His beard, which had grownlong in neglect, and the hair which fell thick and straight round hisbaldness, were nearly white. His thickset figure was still firm andupright, though emaciated, and seemed to express energy in spite ofage--an expression that was partly carried out in the dark eyes andstrong dark eyebrows, which had a strangely isolated intensity of colourin the midst of his yellow, bloodless, deep-wrinkled face with its lankgrey hairs. And yet there was something fitful in the eyes whichcontradicted the occasional flash of energy: after looking round withquick fierceness at windows and faces, they fell again with a lost andwandering look. But his lips were motionless, and he held his handsresolutely down. He would not beg.
This sight had been witnessed by the Florentines with growingexasperation. Many standing at their doors or passing quietly along hadat once given money--some in half-automatic response to an appeal in thename of God, others in that unquestioning awe of the French soldierywhich had been created by the reports of their cruel warfare, and onwhich the French themselves counted as a guarantee of immunity in theiracts of insolence. But as the group had proceeded farther into theheart of the city, that compliance had gradually disappeared, and thesoldiers found themselves escorted by a gathering troop of men and boys,who kept up a chorus of exclamations sufficiently intelligible toforeign ears without any interpreter. The soldiers themselves began todislike their position, for, with a strong inclination to use theirweapons, they were checked by the necessity for keeping a secure hold ontheir prisoners, and they were now hurrying along in the hope of findingshelter in a hostelry.
"French dogs!"
"Bullock-feet!"
"Snatch their pikes from them!"
"Cut the cords and make them run for their prisoners. They'll run asfast as geese--don't you see they're web-footed?" These were the crieswhich the soldiers vaguely understood to be jeers, and probably threats.But every one seemed disposed to give invitations of this spirited kindrather than to act upon them.
"Santiddio! here's a sight!" said the dyer, as soon as he had divinedthe meaning of the advancing tumult, "and the fools do nothing but hoot.Come along!" he added, snatching his axe from his belt, and running tojoin the crowd, followed by the butcher and all the rest of hiscompanions, except Goro, who hastily retreated up a narrow passage.
The sight of the dyer, running forward with blood-red arms and axeuplifted, and with his cluster of rough companions behind him, had astimulating effect on the crowd. Not that he did anything else thanpass beyond the soldiers and thrust himself well among hisfellow-citizens, flourishing his axe; but he served as a stirring symbolof street-fighting, like the waving of a well-known gonfalon. And thefirst sign that fire was ready to burst out was something as rapid as alittle leaping tongue of flame: it was an act of the conjuror's impishlad Lollo, who was dancing and jeering in front of the ingenuous boysthat made the majority of the crowd. Lollo had no great compassion forthe prisoners, but being conscious of an excellent knife which was hisunfailing companion, it had seemed to him from the first that to jumpforward, cut a rope, and leap back again before the soldier who held itcould use his weapon, would be an amusing and dexterous piece ofmischief. And now, when the people began to hoot and jostle morevigorously, Lollo felt that his moment was come--he was close to theeldest prisoner: in an instant he had cut the cord.
"Run, old one!" he piped in the prisoner's ear, as soon as the cord wasin two; and himself set the example of running as if he were helpedalong with wings, like a scared fowl.
The prisoner's sensations were not too slow for him to seize theopportunity: the idea of escape had been continually present with him,and he had gathered fresh hope from the temper of the crowd. He ran atonce; but his speed would hardly have sufficed for him if theFlorentines had not instantaneously rushed between him and his captor.He ran on into the piazza, but he quickly heard the tramp of feet behindhim, for the other two prisoners had been released, and the soldierswere struggling and fighting their way after them, in such tardigradefashion as their hoof-shaped shoes would allow--impeded, but not veryresolutely attacked, by the people. One of the two younger prisonersturned lip the Borgo di San Lorenzo, and thus made a partial diversionof the hubbub; but the main struggle was still towards the piazza, whereall eyes were turned on it with alarmed curiosity. The cause could notbe precisely guessed, for the French dress was screened by the impedingcrowd.
"An escape of prisoners," said Lorenzo Tornabuoni, as he and his partyturned round just against the steps of the Duomo, and saw a prisonerrushing by them. "The people are not content with having emptied theBargello the other day. If there is no other authority in sight theymust fall on the sbirri and secure freedom to thieves. Ah! there is aFrench soldier: that is more serious."
The soldier he saw was struggling along on the north side of the piazza,but the object of his pursuit had taken the other direction. Thatobject was the eldest prisoner, who had wheeled round the Baptistery andwas running towards the Duomo, determined to take refuge in thatsanctuary rather than trust to his speed. But in mounting the steps,his foot received a shock; he was precipitated towards the group ofsignori, whose backs were turned to him, and was only able to recoverhis balance as he clutched one of them by the arm.
It was Tito Melema who felt that clutch. He turned his head, and sawthe face of his adoptive father, Baldassarre Calvo, close to his own.
The two men looked at each other, silent as death: Baldassarre, withdark fierceness and a tightening grip of the soiled worn hands on thevelvet-clad arm; Tito, with cheeks and lips all bloodless, fascinated byterror. It seemed a long while to them--it was but a moment.
The first sound Tito heard was the short laugh of Piero di Cosimo, whostood close by him and was the only person that could see his face.
"Ha, ha! I know what a ghost should be now."
"This is another escaped prisoner," said Lorenzo Tornabuoni. "Who ishe, I wonder?"
"_Some madman, surely_," said Tito.
He hardly knew how the words had come to his lips: there are momentswhen our passions speak and decide for us, and we seem to stand by andwonder. They carry in them an inspiration of crime, that in one instantdoes the work of long premeditation.
The two men had not taken their eyes off each other, and it seemed toTito, when he had spoken, that some magical poison had darted fromBaldassarre's eyes, and that h
e felt it rushing through his veins. Butthe next instant the grasp on his arm had relaxed, and Baldassarre haddisappeared within the church.
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Note 1. "_La vacca muglia_" was the phrase for the sounding of thegreat bell in the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio.
Note 2. The poorer artisans connected with the wool trade--wool-beaters, carders, washers, etcetera.
