Hagar of the Pawn-Shop

by Fergus Hume

  “The Crucifix of Fiesole,” repeated Hagar—“is that what it is called?”

  “Of a surety, signorina; and it is worth much money.”

  “More than ten pounds, I am sure,” said Hagar, smiling, as she picked up the note silently placed on the counter by Carlino. “Well, I have no right to refuse you the crucifix. You give me the ticket, principal, and interest, so all is legal and shipshape. Take up your cross.”

  “My cross!” echoed Carlino, with a flash from his big eyes. “Gemma is my cross.”

  “Your wife! That is a strange way to speak of one dear to you.”

  “Dear to me, signorina! That may be; but she is dear also to Pietro Neri. May the pains of hell seize him!”

  “Why? What has he done?”

  “Run away with Gemma,” said Bardi, fiercely. “Oh, she went cheerfully enough. To get the money for my dishonor she pawned the crucifix.”

  “Oh. So she did not send you to redeem it?”

  “No,” replied Carlino, with tranquil insolence. “That was a lie I told to get back my property without trouble. But now it is mine”—he clasped the silver Christ convulsively to his breast. “I shall make Gemma and Pietro pay for their evil deed!”

  “You speak English well for a foreigner.”

  “I ought to,” answered the man, indifferently. “I have been ten years in England, and I have almost forgotten my Tuscan tongue. But I remember still what Tuscan husbands do to faithless women and their paramours. We kill them!”—his voice leaped an octave to a shrill scream of wrath—“we kill the man and the woman!”

  Thrilled by the terrible hatred of this passionate Latin nature, Hagar started back. The man was leaning across the counter, and showed no disposition to depart; nor did she want him to leave her, for there had come upon her a desire to learn the history of the Fiesole crucifix. Bending forward, she touched it lightly with the tips of her fingers.

  “How did this come into your possession?” she asked.

  “I stole it from a painter in Florence.”

  “You stole it!” echoed Hagar, confounded by the frankness of this admission.

  “Yes. I was the model of an artist—one Signor Ancillotti, who had a studio in Piazza San Spirito, hard by the Ponte Santa Trinita of the Arno. This crucifix hung in his rooms, and once, when I was posing as his model, he told me the legend which gave it the name of the Crucifix of Fiesole. It was the story which made me steal it.”

  “But why? What is the story?”

  “A common one,” said Bardi, bitterly—“man’s love and a woman’s faithlessness to her husband There was a silversmith in Florence, what time the Magnificent ruled, who was called Guido. He had one fair wife whom he loved very dearly. She did not care for his love, however, and fled with a young Count of good family, one Luigi da Francia. From France, you understand, for from that country the race had come to Florence in the days of the Republic. Luigi was handsome and rich; Guido, ugly and rather poor, although a clever craftsman; so you cannot wonder that the wife—Bianca was her name—fled from the one’s arms to the other’s palace. Guido determined upon revenge, and manufactured this crucifix.”

  “But I don’t understand how ——”

  “No more did any one else,” said Bardi, cutting her short. “When Guido finished the crucifix he disguised himself as a priest, and went up to see Count Luigi in his palace at Fiesole. Afterwards the nobleman and Bianca were found dead with dagger thrusts in their hearts, and Guido was missing. Between the corpses lay this silver crucifix; but no one ever knew how they died.”

  “Why not? Guido killed them with his dagger.”

  “No,” said Bardi, shaking his head. “Guido had no dagger with him at the time. Count Luigi was always afraid of assassination, for he had many enemies; and every visitor was searched by his retainers to see that they carried no concealed weapons. Guido, the supposed priest, was searched also, and had nothing on him but the silver crucifix. So the legend grew that whosoever had a faithless wife, the possession of the Crucifix of Fiesole would give him power to slay her and her lover, as Guido had slain his two deceivers. Therefore,” added Bardi, grimly, “as I had then married Gemma, and thought that some day she might be faithless, I stole the crucifix from Signor Ancillotti. It seems I was right to do so.”

  “A strange story,” said Hagar, meditatively “and stranger still that the means by which Guido slew were not discovered long ago.”

  “Do you know how he killed them?”

  “Certainly. By means of that crucifix.”

  Bardi looked at the cross eagerly, and a lurid light came into his eyes as he gazed. “How?” he questioned, loudly. “Tell me, signorina.”

  But Hagar refused to impart that knowledge.

  The story of the man deserted by his wife was so similar to that of the faithless Bianca and the forsaken Guido that Hagar dreaded lest Bardi should learn the secret of the concealed dagger and repeat the Cinque de Cento tragedy of Fiesole. With this idea in her mind she wished the Italian to depart, ignorant of the devilish ingenuity of the cross. But Fate willed that in her despite Bardi should gain the evil knowledge. He learnt it forthwith from the lips of Bolker.

  “Hullo!” cried that imp, as he entered the shop, to see Carlino holding the crucifix. “You have got that dagger?”

  “Dagger!” said Bardi, with a start.

  “Bolker, you wretched child, hold your tongue!” said Hagar, vehemently.

  “Why should I? My tongue’s my own, and if that cove wants to know how this crucifix can be changed into a dagger, it’s only fair. See here!” and before Hagar could interfere Bolker had the cross in his hands, and a finger on the spring. “You touch this, and the lower part of ——”

  “Ah!” cried Bardi, snatching back the cross, and examining the deadly mechanism. “I see now how Guido killed his enemies. Gemma does not know of this; Pietro is ignorant; but they shall learn—both. I— I, the betrayed husband, shall teach it to them.”

  “Bardi!” said Hagar, catching him by the arm, “do not take ——”

  “It is mine—mine!” he interrupted, furiously. “I go to search for the evil ones! I go to put the Crucifix of Fiesole to the use for which it was created by Guido! Look in the papers, signorina, and sooner or later you will see again the tale of Luigi, of Bianca, of the deceived Guido!”

  He tore his sleeve from her grip, and rushed furiously from the shop, racing out of the crescent into the crowded streets, wherein he was soon lost. Hagar ran to the door, but could not stop his mad career; so all she could do was to rage at Bolker, the mischief-maker, who, comprehending nothing of the Italian’s excitement, was standing open-mouthed in the shop.

  “You imp! You goblin!” raged Hagar, boxing his large ears. “You have put murder into that man’s head!”

  “Murder!” repeated Bolker, dodging her slaps, “what do you mean?”

  “The man’s wife has deceived him. He’ll kill her with that dagger!”

  “Jiminy!” said the imp, a light breaking in on his brain. “Kill her with a crucifix! What a rum murder it will be! I’ll keep my eye on the papers, you bet!”

  After which speech he ran out of the shop to escape further punishment, while Hagar was left to bewail the perverse fate which had sent the talkative lad to Bardi at so critical a moment. However, it was not her fault that he had gained the fatal knowledge; nor could it be laid to her charge if he did use the crucifix-dagger to kill Gemma and Pietro. Salving her conscience thus, Hagar waited for the consummation of the tragedy, and daily, as advised by the Italian, she read the papers to see if it occurred. But for many weeks nothing came of her reading, and Hagar concluded that either the man had not found his wife, or, having found her, had condoned her offense against his honor. Which conclusion showed how little Hagar knew of the fierce and passionate Tuscan nature.

  In the meanwhile Bardi, his heart filled with vengeful hatred, was tracking his runaway wife and her lover with dogged persistence. The cost of his travels was litt
le, as his profession was that of an organ-grinder, and with his box of music he could earn his livelihood on the road. Whither they had gone he did not learn for a long time; but at length he ascertained definitely that the pair were in the southern counties of England. Pietro was an organ-man also; and with Gemma was now no doubt tramping from village to village, earning a pittance. The ten pounds obtained for the crucifix would not last forever, and then the pair would be reduced to gain a livelihood by the organ. Bardi cursed both, as he thought of them living together; and felt that the silver cross was safe in his breast when he started on their trail. With that infernal weapon of Guido’s he intended to kill those who had deceived him, and repeat in the nineteenth century the wild tragedy of Fiesole.

  For some weeks he saw nothing of the couple, but from sundry sources he discovered their whereabouts. Yet as soon as he arrived in some town or village where he had been advised of their presence he would learn that they had departed in some unknown direction. Whether they knew, or did not know, that he was tracking them, Bardi could not say; but certainly at many times when just within his reach they would elude him in the most exasperating fashion. Any one less bent upon revenge would have given up the task; but, sustained by undying hatred, Carlino followed the weary trail with the persistence of a bloodhound. As soon might the twain expect to escape death as to elude the betrayed husband, the deceived friend.

  It was at Daleminster that he found them, and revenged himself on the infidelity of the one, the treason of the other. Daleminster is a quiet, desolate cathedral town, very quaint, very beautiful, set in the very heart of Midland cornfields, and made up of ancient red-roofed houses which cluster round the great minster of Saint Wulf’s. There it rises, a poem in stone, with its great central tower soaring into the misty blue of English skies; and its magnificent facade carved with saints, and angels, and grotesque faces of peering devils—a strange medley of Heaven and hell. Before it, extends a little square, in the center of which rises an ancient cross sculptured with religious imagery. It was near this relic of medieval piety that Carlino saw his wife.

  The day was dull and rainy—April weather, of storm, with occasional bursts of sunshine. In that desolate and forsaken square, w here the grass sprang greenly betwixt worn stones, Gemma, in the gay colors of her Neapolitan garb, stood grinding Italian melodies out of the organ. Pietro was not with her, and Carlino wondered for a moment if he had deserted her, now that the moneys obtained for the silver crucifix were expended. The woman appeared sad and lamentable enough as she looked to right and left in the hope of gaining stray coppers. The melancholy music of “Ah, che la morte” was sighing forth in the damp air, when her wandering gaze alighted suddenly on the man she had betrayed. With folded arms Bardi looked at her as the music faltered and stopped; but for the time being he said nothing. Nor did the woman; she was as petrified as any of the grim and saintly statues which looked down upon them both.

  “Where is he?” demanded Bardi, in the Italian tongue.

  Gemma put her hand to the necklace of blue beads dangling from her brown throat, and strove to speak. Her face was set and white, her lips were dry with fear, and she could only stare at Carlino with terrified eyes. The man came a step nearer and laid a persuasive hand on her white linen sleeve. She shuddered and drew away.

  “Where is your lover?” demanded Bardi, in silky tones. “Has he left you?”

  “No,” she replied, hoarsely, finding her voice at last. “He is ill.”

  “Here—in this town?”

  “Yes. He caught cold; it settled on his lungs; he is very ill.”

  Gemma uttered these staccato sentences in a mechanical manner, as though compelled to do so against her will, under the mesmeric gaze of the man. The unexpected appearance of Bardi stunned and appalled her; she could not think what to do; her brain refused to act. At length a request made by Carlino released her from the mesmeric spell which enchanted and froze her.

  “Lead me to him,” said he, in a quiet way. “I wish to see him.”

  Gemma felt the blood rush from her heart to her face, and sprang back with a loud cry, which echoed through the lonely square and down the desolate streets.

  “No, no, no!” she cried, vehemently. “You will kill him!”

  “Why? I have not killed you, and you are the guiltier of the two. Pietro was my very good friend until you tempted him with your beauty Kill Pietro!”—the man laughed in a jeering manner—“woman, I have let you live.”

  “Oh, I hate you! I hate you!” said Gemma, drawing her black brows together, and sending a flash at him from her somber eyes. “I love Pietro!”

  “I know you do. So much that you left me for him, and pawned the silver Christ of Fiesole to pay for the journey.”

  “I left the pawn-ticket behind,” she muttered, sullenly.

  “I know it. Here is the crucifix!” and with that Bardi drew it from his bosom to hold it before her eyes. She shrank back before the symbol of faith, and uttered a low cry, at which her husband jeered.

  “Dio!” said he, scoffingly. “You have religion still, I see; yet I thought you would have finished with such things when you were base enough to leave me. Why did you sell the crucifix and fly, Gemma? Did I beat you, or starve you?”

  “You would not let me have money!” cried Gemma, dashing the tears from her eyes; “whenever I wanted a ribbon or a silver brooch you refused to give me a single soldo.”

  “And why?” was the swift answer. “Because I was saving all, that we could go back to Italy and buy a little vineyard near my own village-near Lastra-a-Signa. There is one I know of at Mosciano, which my father wrote and told me was for sale at a small price. I have the money now, and I intended to tell you of it; but I came back to find that you had fled with that infamous Pietro.”

  Gemma sobbed. Like most women, she had a practical side to her character, and the vineyard would have been a little heaven to her, setting aside the joy of returning to Signa. She would not have fled had she known of these plans, as she had not loved Pietro overmuch. Besides, he beat her, now that the money was gone; and they earned very little by the organ. It was horrible to think that she had lost all, for a few months of illicit love.

  “O Carlino, forgive me!” she moaned, stretching out her arms.

  “Lead me to Pietro and I shall see,” he replied, and took her organ — or rather Pietro’s—on his strong shoulders.

  Without a word, Gemma led the way out of the square, down tortuous streets into a poor part of the town. She was afraid of Carlino, and could not quite understand what he intended to do to Pietro. Probably he would kill him; and then he would be arrested and hanged. But then the money would come to her, and she would have all the vineyard to herself. Again, Carlino might forgive Pietro, and take her back. Gemma was a clever woman, and trusted to extricate herself out of all difficulties by her wiles. Still, she knew Carlino’s violent temper, and she dreaded the worst. At the door of the poor house where she lived with her lover she stopped, and faced Bardi with a resolute air.

  “Pietro is within,” she said, hurriedly, “ill in bed; but I shan’t take you to him unless you swear that you intend him no harm.”

  “I swear by this crucifix!” said Bardi, thinking of it as a dagger and not as a cross.

  “Have you a knife on you?” demanded Gemma, still doubtful.

  “No,” smiled Bardi, thinking how the old Fiesole tragedy was repeating itself. “I have nothing with me but this crucifix.” Then, as she still seemed dubious, he added: “You can see for yourself if you like.”

  Not knowing what to make of this smiling complacency, so different to his usual stern demeanor, Gemma passed her hands through his clothes to feel if he had any weapon concealed therein. Her fears were groundless. Bardi wore little clothing, and she assured herself beyond all doubt that he was unarmed; he had nothing wherewith to kill Pietro. Certainly he might strangle him with his bare hands; but that was not the Tuscan fashion of disposing of a rival. Perhaps, after all, he m
eant to forgive Pietro.

  “You see,” said Carlino, when her arms dropped, “I am unarmed; I have nothing with me save this silver crucifix. As Pietro is so ill he may like to look at it.”

  His look as he said this was hardly pleasant, and a glimpse of it might have put the woman on her guard; but it was lost on her, as already she had turned her back, and was climbing the crazy stairs. Bardi followed her, carrying the organ on his broad back, and holding in his two hands the silver crucifix, like some priest bearing the Host to the dying. Gemma conducted him into a bare garret on the topmost story. Here Carlino put down the organ and looked around.

  In a corner near the window Pietro, wild-looking, with his unshaven beard of a week’s growth, lay on a pile of straw roughly covered with some pieces of coarse sacking. He was emaciated and haggard about the face, and his skin was flushed red with the burning of the fever which consumed him. At times a dry hacking cough would echo through the bleak room, and the man would fall back on the poor bed in a paroxysm of pain. Clearly he was very ill, as Gemma had said, and not long for this world; knowledge that he was dying did not move Carlino’s determination. He had come hither to slay Pietro with the crucifix, and he was bent upon executing his purpose.

  “Carlino!” cried the sick man, raising himself on one elbow with a look of mingled terror and surprise. “You here?”

  “Yes,” said Gemma, moving towards her lover; “he has come to forgive you and to take me back.”

  “That is so,” answered Bardi, raising the crucifix aloft. “I swear by this cross. Dear Pietro,” he added, moving towards the bed, “I know you were tempted and ——”

  “Keep off! Keep off!” screamed Neri, shrinking back. “Liar! you have come to kill me. I see it in your eyes!”

  “No, no,” said Gemma, soothingly; “he has no weapon.”

  “None, my wife!” echoed Bardi, touching the spring of the cross— “only this dagger!” and Gemma saw the silver Christ fall on the floor, while the cross which had borne Him remained, a poniard, in the right hand of her deceived husband. With a cry of horror, she flung herself on the sick man.