The two young men looked at each other with an air of stupefaction.
“Well,” said Franz to Albert, “do you know what is the best thing we can do? It is to pass the Carnival at Venice; there we are sure of obtaining gondolas if we cannot have carriages.”
“Ah, the devil, no,” cried Albert; “I came to Rome to see the Carnival, and I will, though I see it on stilts.”
“Bravo! An excellent idea. We will disguise ourselves as monster pulchinellos or shepherds of the Landes, and we shall have complete success.”
“Do your excellencies still wish for a carriage from now to Sunday morning?”
“Parbleu!” said Albert, “do you think we are going to run about on foot in the streets of Rome, like lawyer’s clerks?”
“I hasten to comply with your excellencies’ wishes; only, I tell you beforehand, the carriage will cost you six piastres a day.”
“And, as I am not a millionaire, like the gentleman in the next apartments,” said Franz, “I warn you, that as I have been four times before at Rome, I know the prices of all the carriages; we will give you twelve piastres for today, tomorrow, and the day after, and then you will make a good profit.”
“But, Excellency” — said Pastrini, still striving to gain his point.
“Now go,” returned Franz, “or I shall go myself and bargain with your affettatore, who is mine also; he is an old friend of mine, who has plundered me pretty well already, and, in the hope of making more out of me, he will take a less price than the one I offer you; you will lose the preference, and that will be your fault.”
“Do not give yourselves the trouble, Excellency,” returned Signor Pastrini, with the smile peculiar to the Italian speculator when he confesses defeat; “I will do all I can, and I hope you will be satisfied.”
“And now we understand each other.”
“When do you wish the carriage to be here?”
“In an hour.”
“In an hour it will be at the door.”
An hour after the vehicle was at the door; it was a hack conveyance which was elevated to the rank of a private carriage in honor of the occasion, but, in spite of its humble exterior, the young men would have thought themselves happy to have secured it for the last three days of the Carnival. “Excellency,” cried the cicerone, seeing Franz approach the window, “shall I bring the carriage nearer to the palace?”
Accustomed as Franz was to the Italian phraseology, his first impulse was to look round him, but these words were addressed to him. Franz was the “excellency,” the vehicle was the “carriage,” and the Hotel de Londres was the “palace.” The genius for laudation characteristic of the race was in that phrase.
Franz and Albert descended, the carriage approached the palace; their excellencies stretched their legs along the seats; the cicerone sprang into the seat behind. “Where do your excellencies wish to go?” asked he.
“To Saint Peter’s first, and then to the Colosseum,” returned Albert. But Albert did not know that it takes a day to see Saint Peter’s, and a month to study it. The day was passed at Saint Peter’s alone. Suddenly the daylight began to fade away; Franz took out his watch — it was half-past four. They returned to the hotel; at the door Franz ordered the coachman to be ready at eight. He wished to show Albert the Colosseum by moonlight, as he had shown him Saint Peter’s by daylight. When we show a friend a city one has already visited, we feel the same pride as when we point out a woman whose lover we have been. He was to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, skirt the outer wall, and reenter by the Porta San Giovanni; thus they would behold the Colosseum without finding their impressions dulled by first looking on the Capitol, the Forum, the Arch of Septimus Severus, the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, and the Via Sacra. They sat down to dinner. Signor Pastrini had promised them a banquet; he gave them a tolerable repast. At the end of the dinner he entered in person. Franz thought that he came to hear his dinner praised, and began accordingly, but at the first words he was interrupted. “Excellency,” said Pastrini, “I am delighted to have your approbation, but it was not for that I came.”
“Did you come to tell us you have procured a carriage?” asked Albert, lighting his cigar.
“No; and your excellencies will do well not to think of that any longer; at Rome things can or cannot be done; when you are told anything cannot be done, there is an end of it.”
“It is much more convenient at Paris, — when anything cannot be done, you pay double, and it is done directly.”
“That is what all the French say,” returned Signor Pastrini, somewhat piqued; “for that reason, I do not understand why they travel.”
“But,” said Albert, emitting a volume of smoke and balancing his chair on its hind legs, “only madmen, or blockheads like us, ever do travel. Men in their senses do not quit their hotel in the Rue du Helder, their walk on the Boulevard de Gand, and the Cafe de Paris.” It is of course understood that Albert resided in the aforesaid street, appeared every day on the fashionable walk, and dined frequently at the only restaurant where you can really dine, that is, if you are on good terms with its frequenters. Signor Pastrini remained silent a short time; it was evident that he was musing over this answer, which did not seem very clear. “But,” said Franz, in his turn interrupting his host’s meditations, “you had some motive for coming here, may I beg to know what it was?”
“Ah, yes; you have ordered your carriage at eight o’clock precisely?”
“I have.”
“You intend visiting Il Colosseo.”
“You mean the Colosseum?”
“It is the same thing. You have told your coachman to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, to drive round the walls, and reenter by the Porta San Giovanni?”
“These are my words exactly.”
“Well, this route is impossible.”
“Impossible!”
“Very dangerous, to say the least.”
“Dangerous! — and why?”
“On account of the famous Luigi Vampa.”
“Pray, who may this famous Luigi Vampa be?” inquired Albert; “he may be very famous at Rome, but I can assure you he is quite unknown at Paris.”
“What! Do you not know him?”
“I have not that honor.”
“You have never heard his name?”
“Never.”
“Well, then, he is a bandit, compared to whom the Decesaris and the Gasparones were mere children.”
“Now then, Albert,” cried Franz, “here is a bandit for you at last.”
“I forewarn you, Signor Pastrini, that I shall not believe one word of what you are going to tell us; having told you this, begin.”
“Once upon a time” —
“Well, go on.” Signor Pastrini turned toward Franz, who seemed to him the more reasonable of the two; we must do him justice, — he had had a great many Frenchmen in his house, but had never been able to comprehend them. “Excellency,” said he gravely, addressing Franz, “if you look upon me as a liar, it is useless for me to say anything; it was for your interest!” —
“Albert does not say you are a liar, Signor Pastrini,” said Franz, “but that he will not believe all you say; so proceed.”
“But if your excellency doubt my veracity” —
“Signor Pastrini,” returned Franz, “you are more susceptible than Cassandra, who was a prophetess, and yet no one believed her; while you, at least, are sure of the credence of half your audience. Come, sit down, and tell us all about this Signor Vampa.”
“I had told your Excellency he is the most famous bandit we have had since the days of Mastrilla.”
“Well, what has this bandit to do with the order I have given the coachman to leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, and to reenter by the Porta San Giovanni?”
“This,” replied Signor Pastrini, “that you will go out by one, but I very much doubt your returning by the other.”
“Why?” asked Franz.
“Because, after nightfall, y
ou are not safe fifty yards from the gates.”
“On your honor is that true?” cried Albert.
“Count,” returned Signor Pastrini, hurt at Albert’s repeated doubts of the truth of his assertions, “I do not say this to you, but to your companion, who knows Rome, and knows, too, that these things are not to be laughed at.”
“My dear fellow,” said Albert, turning to Franz, “here is an admirable adventure; we will fill our carriage with pistols, blunderbusses, and double-barreled guns. Luigi Vampa comes to take us, and we take him — we bring him back to Rome, and present him to his holiness the Pope, who asks how he can repay so great a service; then we merely ask for a carriage and a pair of horses, and we see the Carnival in the carriage, and doubtless the Roman people will crown us at the Capitol, and proclaim us, like Curtius and the veiled Horatius, the preservers of their country.” Whilst Albert proposed this scheme, Signor Pastrini’s face assumed an expression impossible to describe.
“And pray,” asked Franz, “where are these pistols, blunderbusses, and other deadly weapons with which you intend filling the carriage?”
“Not out of my armory, for at Terracina I was plundered even of my hunting-knife.”
“I shared the same fate at Aquapendente.”
“Do you know, Signor Pastrini,” said Albert, lighting a second cigar at the first, “that this practice is very convenient for bandits, and that it seems to be due to an arrangement of their own.” Doubtless Signor Pastrini found this pleasantry compromising, for he only answered half the question, and then he spoke to Franz, as the only one likely to listen with attention. “Your excellency knows that it is not customary to defend yourself when attacked by bandits.”
“What!” cried Albert, whose courage revolted at the idea of being plundered tamely, “not make any resistance?”
“No, for it would be useless. What could you do against a dozen bandits who spring out of some pit, ruin, or aqueduct, and level their pieces at you?”
“Eh, parbleu! — they should kill me.”
The innkeeper turned to Franz with an air that seemed to say, “Your friend is decidedly mad.”
“My dear Albert,” returned Franz, “your answer is sublime, and worthy the ‘Let him die,’ of Corneille, only, when Horace made that answer, the safety of Rome was concerned; but, as for us, it is only to gratify a whim, and it would be ridiculous to risk our lives for so foolish a motive.” Albert poured himself out a glass of lacryma Christi, which he sipped at intervals, muttering some unintelligible words.
“Well, Signor Pastrini,” said Franz, “now that my companion is quieted, and you have seen how peaceful my intentions are, tell me who is this Luigi Vampa. Is he a shepherd or a nobleman? — young or old? — tall or short? Describe him, in order that, if we meet him by chance, like Bugaboo John or Lara, we may recognize him.”
“You could not apply to any one better able to inform you on all these points, for I knew him when he was a child, and one day that I fell into his hands, going from Ferentino to Alatri, he, fortunately for me, recollected me, and set me free, not only without ransom, but made me a present of a very splendid watch, and related his history to me.”
“Let us see the watch,” said Albert.
Signor Pastrini drew from his fob a magnificent Breguet, bearing the name of its maker, of Parisian manufacture, and a count’s coronet.
“Here it is,” said he.
“Peste,” returned Albert, “I compliment you on it; I have its fellow” — he took his watch from his waistcoat pocket — “and it cost me 3,000 francs.”
“Let us hear the history,” said Franz, motioning Signor Pastrini to seat himself.
“Your excellencies permit it?” asked the host.
“Pardieu!” cried Albert, “you are not a preacher, to remain standing!”
The host sat down, after having made each of them a respectful bow, which meant that he was ready to tell them all they wished to know concerning Luigi Vampa. “You tell me,” said Franz, at the moment Signor Pastrini was about to open his mouth, “that you knew Luigi Vampa when he was a child — he is still a young man, then?”
“A young man? He is only two and twenty; — he will gain himself a reputation.”
“What do you think of that, Albert? — at two and twenty to be thus famous?”
“Yes, and at his age, Alexander, Caesar, and Napoleon, who have all made some noise in the world, were quite behind him.”
“So,” continued Franz, “the hero of this history is only two and twenty?”
“Scarcely so much.”
“Is he tall or short?”
“Of the middle height — about the same stature as his excellency,” returned the host, pointing to Albert.
“Thanks for the comparison,” said Albert, with a bow.
“Go on, Signor Pastrini,” continued Franz, smiling at his friend’s susceptibility. “To what class of society does he belong?”
“He was a shepherd-boy attached to the farm of the Count of San-Felice, situated between Palestrina and the lake of Gabri; he was born at Pampinara, and entered the count’s service when he was five years old; his father was also a shepherd, who owned a small flock, and lived by the wool and the milk, which he sold at Rome. When quite a child, the little Vampa displayed a most extraordinary precocity. One day, when he was seven years old, he came to the curate of Palestrina, and asked to be taught to read; it was somewhat difficult, for he could not quit his flock; but the good curate went every day to say mass at a little hamlet too poor to pay a priest and which, having no other name, was called Borgo; he told Luigi that he might meet him on his return, and that then he would give him a lesson, warning him that it would be short, and that he must profit as much as possible by it. The child accepted joyfully. Every day Luigi led his flock to graze on the road that leads from Palestrina to Borgo; every day, at nine o’clock in the morning, the priest and the boy sat down on a bank by the wayside, and the little shepherd took his lesson out of the priest’s breviary. At the end of three months he had learned to read. This was not enough — he must now learn to write. The priest had a writing teacher at Rome make three alphabets — one large, one middling, and one small; and pointed out to him that by the help of a sharp instrument he could trace the letters on a slate, and thus learn to write. The same evening, when the flock was safe at the farm, the little Luigi hastened to the smith at Palestrina, took a large nail, heated and sharpened it, and formed a sort of stylus. The next morning he gathered an armful of pieces of slate and began. At the end of three months he had learned to write. The curate, astonished at his quickness and intelligence, made him a present of pens, paper, and a penknife. This demanded new effort, but nothing compared to the first; at the end of a week he wrote as well with this pen as with the stylus. The curate related the incident to the Count of San-Felice, who sent for the little shepherd, made him read and write before him, ordered his attendant to let him eat with the domestics, and to give him two piastres a month. With this, Luigi purchased books and pencils. He applied his imitative powers to everything, and, like Giotto, when young, he drew on his slate sheep, houses, and trees. Then, with his knife, he began to carve all sorts of objects in wood; it was thus that Pinelli, the famous sculptor, had commenced.
“A girl of six or seven — that is, a little younger than Vampa — tended sheep on a farm near Palestrina; she was an orphan, born at Valmontone and was named Teresa. The two children met, sat down near each other, let their flocks mingle together, played, laughed, and conversed together; in the evening they separated the Count of San-Felice’s flock from those of Baron Cervetri, and the children returned to their respective farms, promising to meet the next morning. The next day they kept their word, and thus they grew up together. Vampa was twelve, and Teresa eleven. And yet their natural disposition revealed itself. Beside his taste for the fine arts, which Luigi had carried as far as he could in his solitude, he was given to alternating fits of sadness and enthusiasm, was often angry and capr
icious, and always sarcastic. None of the lads of Pampinara, Palestrina, or Valmontone had been able to gain any influence over him or even to become his companion. His disposition (always inclined to exact concessions rather than to make them) kept him aloof from all friendships. Teresa alone ruled by a look, a word, a gesture, this impetuous character, which yielded beneath the hand of a woman, and which beneath the hand of a man might have broken, but could never have been bended. Teresa was lively and gay, but coquettish to excess. The two piastres that Luigi received every month from the Count of San-Felice’s steward, and the price of all the little carvings in wood he sold at Rome, were expended in earrings, necklaces, and gold hairpins. So that, thanks to her friend’s generosity, Teresa was the most beautiful and the best-attired peasant near Rome. The two children grew up together, passing all their time with each other, and giving themselves up to the wild ideas of their different characters. Thus, in all their dreams, their wishes, and their conversations, Vampa saw himself the captain of a vessel, general of an army, or governor of a province. Teresa saw herself rich, superbly attired, and attended by a train of liveried domestics. Then, when they had thus passed the day in building castles in the air, they separated their flocks, and descended from the elevation of their dreams to the reality of their humble position.
“One day the young shepherd told the count’s steward that he had seen a wolf come out of the Sabine mountains, and prowl around his flock. The steward gave him a gun; this was what Vampa longed for. This gun had an excellent barrel, made at Breschia, and carrying a ball with the precision of an English rifle; but one day the count broke the stock, and had then cast the gun aside. This, however, was nothing to a sculptor like Vampa; he examined the broken stock, calculated what change it would require to adapt the gun to his shoulder, and made a fresh stock, so beautifully carved that it would have fetched fifteen or twenty piastres, had he chosen to sell it. But nothing could be farther from his thoughts. For a long time a gun had been the young man’s greatest ambition. In every country where independence has taken the place of liberty, the first desire of a manly heart is to possess a weapon, which at once renders him capable of defense or attack, and, by rendering its owner terrible, often makes him feared. From this moment Vampa devoted all his leisure time to perfecting himself in the use of his precious weapon; he purchased powder and ball, and everything served him for a mark — the trunk of some old and moss-grown olive tree, that grew on the Sabine mountains; the fox, as he quitted his earth on some marauding excursion; the eagle that soared above their heads: and thus he soon became so expert, that Teresa overcame the terror she at first felt at the report, and amused herself by watching him direct the ball wherever he pleased, with as much accuracy as if he placed it by hand.
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