Meanwhile old Capuzzi had not been content with the aria which Salvator had requested him to give, but carried away by his musical madness, he went on singing or rather screeching without cease, working his way through the most awful recitatives from one execrable scene to another. He must have been going on for nearly two hours when he sank back in his chair, breathless, and with his face as red as a cherry. And just at this same time also Salvator had so far worked out his sketch that the figures began to wear a look of vitality, and the whole, viewed at a little distance, had the appearance of a finished work.
“I have kept my word with respect to the spinet, my dear Signor Pasquale,” breathed Salvator in the old man’s ear. Pasquale started up as if awakening out of a deep sleep. Immediately his glance fell upon the painted instrument, which stood directly opposite him. Then, opening his eyes wide as if he saw a miracle, and throwing his conical hat on the top of his wig, he took his crutch-stick under his arm, made one bound to the spinet, tore the lid off the hinges, and holding it above his head, ran like a madman out of the house altogether, followed by the hearty laughter of Signora Caterina and both her daughters.
“The old miser,” said Salvator, “knows very well that he has only to take that painted lid to Count Colonna or to my friend Rossi and he will at once get forty ducats for it, or even more.”
Salvator and Antonio then both deliberated how they should carry out the plan of attack which was to be made when night came. We shall soon see what the two adventurers resolved upon, and what success they had in their adventure.
As soon as it was dark, Signor Pasquale, after locking and bolting the door of his house, carried the little monster of an eunuch home as usual. The whole way the little wretch was whining and growling, complaining that not only did he sing Capuzzi’s arias till he got hoarse and burnt his fingers cooking the macaroni, but he had now to lend himself to duties which brought him nothing but sharp boxes of the ear and rough kicks, which Marianna lavishly distributed to him whenever he came near her. Old Capuzzi consoled him as well as he could, promising to provide him an ampler supply of sweets than he had hitherto done; indeed, as the little man would not cease his growling and querulous complaining, Pasquale even laid himself under the obligation to get a natty abbot’s coat made for the little torment out of an old black plush wasitcoat which he (the dwarf) had often set covetous eyes upon. He demanded a wig and a sword as well. Parleying upon these points, they arrived at the Via Bergognona, for that was where Pitichinaccio dwelt, only four doors from Salvator.
The old man set the dwarf down cautiously and opened the street door; and then, the dwarf in front, they both began to climb up the narrow stairs, which were more like a rickety ladder for hens and chickens than steps for respectable people. But they had hardly mounted half way up when a terrible racket began up above, and the coarse voice of some wild drunken fellow was heard cursing and swearing, and demanding to be shown the way out of the damned house. Pitichinaccio squeezed himself close to the wall, and entreated Capuzzi, in the name of all the saints, to go on first. But before Capuzzi had ascended two steps, the fellow who was up above came tumbling headlong downstairs, caught hold of the old man, and whisked him away like a whirlwind out through the open door below into the middle of the street. There they both lay—Capuzzi at bottom and the drunken brute like a heavy sack on top of him. The old gentleman screamed piteously for help; two men came up at once and with considerable difficulty freed him from the heavy weight lying upon him; the other fellow, as soon as he was lifted up, reeled away cursing.
“Good God! what’s happened to you, Signor Pasquale? What are you doing here at this time of night? What quarrel have you been getting mixed up in in that house there?” asked Salvator and Antonio, for these were the two men.
“Oh, I shall die!” groaned Capuzzi; “that son of the devil has crushed all my limbs; I can’t move.”
“Let me look,” said Antonio, feeling all over the old gentleman’s body, and suddenly he pinched Capuzzi’s right leg so sharply that the old man screamed loudly.
“By all the saints!” cried Antonio in consternation, “My dear Signor Pasquale, you’ve broken your right leg in the most dangerous place. If you don’t get speedy help you will be a dead man within a short time, or at any rate be lame all your life long.”
A terrible scream escaped the old man’s breast. “Calm yourself, my dear sir,” continued Antonio, “although I’m now a painter, I haven’t altogether forgotten my surgical practice. We will carry you to Salvator’s house and I will at once bind up—”
“My dear Signor Antonio,” whined Capuzzi, “you nourish hostile feelings towards me, I know.” “But,” broke in Salvator, “this is now no longer the time to talk about enmity; you are in danger, and that is enough for honest Antonio to exert all his skill on your behalf. Lay hold, friend Antonio.”
Gently and cautiously they lifted up the old man between them, and carried him to Salvator’s dwelling. All the way Capuzzi screamed with the unspeakable pain caused by his broken leg.
Signora Caterina said that she had had a foreboding that something was going to happen, and so she had not gone to bed. As soon as she caught sight of old Pasquale and heard what had befallen him, she began to heap reproaches upon him for his bad conduct. “I know,” she said, “ I know very well, Signor Pasquale, whom you’ve been taking home again. Now that you’ve got your beautiful niece Marianna in the house with you, you think you’ve no further call to have womenfolk about you, and you treat that poor Pitichinaccio most shameful and infamous, putting him in petticoats. But look to it. Ogni carne ha il suo osso [Every house has its skeleton]. Why if you have a girl about you, don’t you need womenfolk? Fate il passo secondo la gamba [Cut your clothes according to your cloth], and don’t you require anything either more or less from your Marianna than what is right. Don’t lock her up as if she were a prisoner, nor make your house a dungeon. Asino punto convien che trotti [If you are in the stream, you had better swim with it]; you have a beautiful niece and you must alter your ways to suit her, that is, you must only do what she wants you to do. But you are an ungallant and hard-hearted man, yes, and even in love, and jealous as well, they say, which I hope at your years is not true. Your pardon for telling you it all straight, but chi ha nel petto fiele non puo sputar miele [when there’s bile in the heart there can’t be honey in the mouth]. So now, if you don’t die of your broken leg, which at your age is not at all unlikely, let this be a warning to you; and leave your niece free to do what she likes, and let her marry the fine young gentleman as I know very well.”
And so the stream went on uninterruptedly, while Salvator and Antonio cautiously undressed the old gentleman and put him to bed. Signora Caterina’s words were like knives cutting deeply into his breast; but whenever he attempted to interrupt, Antonio warned him that all speaking was dangerous, and so he had to swallow his bitter gall. At length Salvator sent Signora Caterina away, to fetch some ice-cold water that Antonio wanted.
Salvator and Antonio satisfied themselves that the fellow who had been sent to Pitichinaccio’s house had done his duty well. Notwithstanding the apparently terrible fall, Capuzzi had not received the slightest damage beyond a slight bruise or two. Antonio put the old gentleman’s right foot in splints and bandaged it up so tight that he could not move. Then they wrapped him up in cloths that had been soaked in ice-cold water, as a precaution, they alleged, against inflammation, so that Capuzzi shook as if with the ague.
“My good Signor Antonio,” he groaned feebly, “tell me if it is all over with me. Must I die?”
“Compose yourself,” replied Antonio. “If you will only compose yourself, Signor Pasquale! As you have come through the first dressing with so much nerve and without fainting, I think we may say that the danger is past; but you will require the most attentive nursing. At present we mustn’t let you out of the doctor’s sight.”
“Oh! Antonio,” whined the old gentleman, “you know how I like you, how highly I es
teem your talents. Don’t leave me. Give me your dear hand—so! You won’t leave me, will you, my dear good Antonio?”
“Although I am now no longer a surgeon,” said Antonio, “although I’ve given up that trade which I hated, in your case, Signor Pasquale, I will make an exception, and will undertake to attend you, for which I shall ask nothing except that you give me your friendship, your confidence again. You were a little hard upon me—”
“Say no more,” lisped the old gentleman, “not another word, my dear Antonio—”
“Your niece will be half dead with anxiety,” said Antonio again, “at your not returning home. You are, considering your condition, brisk and strong enough, and so as soon as day dawns we’ll carry you home to your own house. There I will again look at your bandage, and arrange your bed as it ought to be, and give your niece her instructions, so that you may soon get well again.”
The old gentleman heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes, remaining some minutes without speaking. Then, stretching out his hand towards Antonio, he drew him down close beside him, and whispered, “It was only a joke that you had with Marianna, was it not, my dear sir?”
“Think no more about that, Signor Pasquale,” replied Antonio. “Your niece did, it is true, strike my fancy; but I have now quite different things in my head, and—to confess it honestly—I am very pleased that you did return a sharp answer to my foolish suit. I thought I was in love with your Marianna, but what I really saw in her was only a fine model for my ‘Magdalene.’ And this probably explains how it is that, now that my picture is finished, I feel quite indifferent toward her.”
“Antonio,” cried the old man, in a strong voice, “Antonio, you glorious fellow! What comfort you give me—what help—what consolation! Now that you don’t love Marianna I feel as if all my pain had gone.”
“Why, I declare, Signor Pasquale,” said Salvator, “if we didn’t know you to be a grave and sensible man, with a true perception of what is becoming to your years, we might easily believe that you were yourself by some infatuation in love with your sixteen-year-old niece.”
Again the old gentleman closed his eyes, and groaned and moaned at the horrible pain, which now returned with redoubled violence.
The first red streaks of morning came shining in through the window. Antonio announced to the old man that it was now time to take him to his own house in the Via Ripetta. Signor Pasquale’s reply was a deep and pitiful sigh. Salvator and Antonio lifted him out of bed and wrapped him in a wide mantle which had belonged to Signora Caterina’s husband, and which she lent them for this purpose. The old man implored them by all the saints to take off the villainous cold bandages in which his bald head was swathed, and to give him his wig and plumed hat. And also, if it were possible, Antonio was to put his mustache a little in order, that Marianna might not be too much frightened at sight of him.
Two porters with a litter were standing ready before the door. Signora Caterina, still storming at the old man, and mixing a great many proverbs in her abuse, carried down the bed, in which they then carefully packed him; and so, accompanied by Salvator and Antonio, he was taken home to his own house.
No sooner did Marianna see her uncle in this wretched plight than she began to scream, while a torrent of tears gushed from her eyes; without noticing her lover, who had come along with him, she grasped the old man’s hands and pressed them to her lips, bewailing the terrible accident that had befallen him—so much pity had the good child for the old man who plagued and tormented her with his amorous folly. Yet at this same moment the inherent nature of woman asserted itself in her; for it only required a few significant glances from Salvator to put her in full possession of all the facts of the case. Now, for the first time, she stole a glance at the happy Antonio, blushing hotly as she did so; and a pretty sight it was to see how a roguish smile gradually routed and broke through her tears. Salvator, despite the “Magdalene,” had not expected to find the little maiden half so charming, or so sweetly pretty as he now really discovered her to be; and while, almost feeling inclined to envy Antonio his good fortune, he felt that it was all the more necessary to get poor Marianna away from her hateful uncle, let the cost be what it might.
Signor Pasquale forgot his trouble in being received so affectionately by his lovely niece, which was indeed more than he deserved. He simpered and pursed up his lips so that his mustache was all of a totter, and groaned and whined, not with pain, but simply and solely with amorous longing.
Antonio arranged his bed professionally, and, after Capuzzi had been laid on it, tightened the bandage still more, at the same time so muffling up his left leg as well that he had to lay there motionless like a log of wood. Salvator withdrew and left the lovers alone with their happiness.
The old gentleman lay buried in cushions; moreover, as an extra precaution, Antonio had bound a thick piece of cloth well steeped in water round his head, so that he might not hear the lovers whispering together. This was the first time they unburdened all their hearts to each other, swearing eternal fidelity in the midst of tears and rapturous kisses. The old gentleman could have no idea of what was going on, for Marianna from time to time asked him how he felt, and even permitted him to press her little white hand to his lips.
When the morning began to be well advanced, Antonio hastened away to procure, as he said, all the things that the old gentleman required, but in reality to invent some means for putting him, for some hours at least, in a still more helpless condition, as well as to consult with Salvator what further steps were then to be taken.
IV
Next morning Antonio came to Salvator, melancholy and dejected.
“Well, what’s the matter?” cried Salvator when he saw him coming, “What are you hanging your head about? What’s happened to you now, you happy dog? Can you not see your mistress every day, and kiss her and press her to your heart?”
“Oh! Salvator, it’s all over with my happiness, it’s gone for ever,” cried Antonio. “The devil is making sport of me. Our stratagem has failed, and we now are open enemies with that cursed Capuzzi.”
“So much the better,” said Salvator; “so much the better. But come, Antonio, tell me what’s happened.”
“Just imagine, Salvator,” began Antonio, “yesterday when I went back to the Via Ripetta after an absence of at the most two hours, with all sorts of medicines, whom should I see but old Pasquale standing in his own doorway, fully dressed. The Pyramid Doctor and that damned bravo were standing behind him, while a confused something was bobbing around their legs. I believe it was that little monster Pitichinaccio. As soon as the old man saw me, he shook his fist at me, and began to heap curses on me, swearing that if I approached his door, he would have all my bones broken. ‘Be off to the devil, you dirty barber-fellow,’ he shrieked; ‘you think you can outwit me with your lying and tricks! Like the devil himself you lie in wait for my poor innocent Marianna, and think you are going to get her into your toils—but stop a moment! I will spend my last ducat to have the life stamped out of you, before you know it. And your fine patron, Signor Salvator, the murderer—bandit—who’s escaped the halter—he shall be sent to join his captain Masaniello in hell—I’ll have him run out of Rome; that won’t cost me much trouble.’
“The old fellow raged on, and since that damned bravo, set on by the Pyramid Doctor, looked as if he was getting ready to attack me, and a crowd of curious onlookers began to assemble, what could I do but leave as fast as I could? I didn’t like to come to you in my trouble, for I know you would only laugh at me and my complaints. Why, you can hardly keep back your laughter now.”
As Antonio ceased speaking, Salvator did indeed burst out laughing heartily.
“Now,” he cried, “now the situation is beginning to be interesting. And now, my worthy Antonio, I will tell you in detail what took place at Capuzzi’s after you left. You hardly left the house when Signor Splendiano Accoramboni, who learned—God knows in what way—that his bosom friend Capuzzi had broken his right leg du
ring the night, drew near in all solemnity with a surgeon. Your bandages and the whole way of treatment you adopted with Signor Pasquale was bound to excite suspicion. The surgeon removed the splints and bandages, and they discovered, what we both knew very well, that there was nothing wrong, not even an ossicle dislocated, let alone broken. It didn’t require any uncommon intelligence to figure out the rest.”
“But,” said Antonio, utterly astonished, “my dear, good sir, tell me how you learned all that? Tell me how you get into Capuzzi’s house and know everything that takes place there?”
“I have already told you,” replied Salvator, “that an acquaintance of Signora Caterina lives in the same house, and on the same floor as Capuzzi. This acquaintance, the widow of a wine-dealer, has a daughter whom my little Margaret often goes to see. Girls have a special instinct for finding other girls of the same sort and so it came about that Rose—that’s the name of the wine-dealer’s daughter—and Margaret soon discovered a small vent in the living room, leading into a dark closet that adjoins Marianna’s apartment. Marianna had heard the whispering and murmuring of the two girls, and she noticed the vent-hole, and so the way to a mutual exchange of communications was soon open and used. Whenever old Capuzzi takes his afternoon nap, the girls gossip away to their heart’s content. You may have noticed that little Margaret, Signora Caterina’s and my favourite, is not so serious and reserved as her elder sister, Anna, but is pert and mischievous. Without expressly mentioning your love affair I have told her to get Marianna to tell her everything that takes place in Capuzzi’s house. She is a very apt pupil in the matter; and if I laughed at your pain and despondency just now it was because I knew what would comfort you, knew I could prove to you that the affair has now taken a most favourable turn. I have plenty of excellent news for you.”
“Salvator!” cried Antonio, his eyes sparkling with joy, “how you cause my hopes to rise! Thank God for the vent-hole! I will write to Marianna; Margaret can take the letter with her—”
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