Swiftly, he was disabused of that idea. In the centre of the line of figures one whom Roger took to be the Grand Inquisitor, because he was seated on a larger and slightly higher chair than the others, had already signed to the two men-at-arms to withdraw. As a heavy, nail-studded door closed behind them, he addressed Roger in good but stilted French.
“Monsieur. I regret the steps which have been necessary to bring you before us; but you have suffered no harm; and will suffer none, provided you obey me. It is known to us that you carry a letter from the Queen of France to her brother the Grand Duke. Be good enough to hand it to me, and a guide will be provided to escort you back to your lodging.”
Roger used his lashes to veil his eyes as he stumbled unsteadily to his feet. He could not even guess how the object of his visit to Florence had become known, or what possible reason the Holy Office could have for wanting to get possession of the Queen’s letter; but he instantly made up his mind to admit nothing until it transpired how fully informed they really were about his activities.
For a moment he remained silent, so that when he spoke his voice should be as firm as possible. Then, in an attempt to bluff his way out of their clutches, he said:
“Signor. I protest most strongly at your abduction of me. The only excuse there can be for it is that your bravos mistook me for some other person. I demand that you release me at once, or His Highness the Grand Duke shall hear of it; and I am told that he is swift to punish such of his subjects as molest foreign visitors in his capital.”
“You use bold words, young man,” said the central figure quietly, “but they will gain you nothing. Your threat is an empty one; and it seems that I must give you a word of caution. It would not be the first time that this tribunal has decreed death for those who oppose its will. There is an oubliette less than a hundred feet from where you stand and in the past few centuries many bodies have gone down it to be swept away by the undercurrents of the Arno. These old Florentine cellars keep their secrets well, and unless you wish to add to their number you will say no more of making complaint to His Highness. Now; give me the letter that you carry.”
Roger paled slightly under his tan. The cellar was lit only by two three-branched candlesticks, each placed near one end of the long table; the corners of the room were full of shadows and the row of black, hooded figures in front of him had no resemblance to normal human beings. They sat unmoving, with their black-gloved hands folded before them on the table. Only the eyes, seen through the slits in their hoods, showed that they lived and were regarding him with cold, impassive curiosity.
In such surroundings it was difficult to make himself believe that their spokesman was trying only to frighten him; yet he strove to do so, by calling to mind that however horrible the fate to which the Inquisition had condemned its victims in the old days, it had never, as far as he knew, practised secret murder. All the same, he found that his lips had suddenly gone dry, and he had to moisten them with the tip of his tongue before saying a trifle hoarsely:
“I repeat, Signor, you have made an error concerning me. I carry no letter from the Queen of France, and know nothing of one.”
“Yet you are the Chevalier de Breuc, are you not?”
Feeling that as they were aware of his identity it would prejudice his chances to deny it, Roger replied: “I am; and I am recently arrived from France. But my sole reason for coming here is to see the beauties and art treasures of your city.”
“Monsieur, it will go ill with you if you continue to trifle with us. At the time of your arrest tonight you were on your way to an audience with Monsignor Scipione Ricci, and your object in seeking an audience was to hand him this letter. You cannot deny that.”
“I do!” Roger answered with a modicum of truth; for he had had no intention of surrendering the letter to anyone other than the Grand Duke, and had meant only to approach the Minister as the most suitable person to secure him a private audience with the Sovereign.
“What, then, were you doing in the streets of Florence at an hour approaching midnight?” asked the spokesman of the nine.
Roger shrugged, and tried to look a little sheepish. “I am young and have the natural inclination of my years towards gallantry. As I have not the acquaintance of any ladies in your city I thought I would go out, on the chance that on so fine a summer night I might come upon some fair one seated at her window or on a balcony, who would feel inclined to take compassion on me.”
It was a good, plausible lie; but the nine pairs of eyes continued to regard him with cold, calculating suspicion, and the spokesman said: “Upon the information we have received I cannot believe you. I should be reluctant to put you to the indignity of a forced search; but we intend to have that letter. For the last time, I bid you give it me.”
“Search me if you will, Signor.” Roger spread out his hands in a little foreign gesture that he had picked up in France during his youth. “But you will not find this letter you seek, for I have not got it.”
The principal Inquisitor spoke in Italian to the hooded figures at each extremity of the table. Obediently they stood up, came over to Roger, and spent some minutes searching him with considerable thoroughness. Raising his arms he submitted quietly, knowing that their labours would be in vain.
As they returned to the table empty-handed he felt a new confidence in his prospects. Now that their information had been proved to be incorrect he had a fair hope that they would accept his statement that he was not the man they were looking for, and release him.
But his hopes were doomed to disappointment. The spokesman picked up a small silver hand-bell that stood in front of him and rang it. The door opened and one of the men in leather jerkins appeared. An order was given and the door closed again. For a few minutes Roger remained facing the line of sinister, black-clad figures while complete silence reigned. He wondered anxiously what this last move foreboded. Did they mean to let him go; or would they consider it necessary to protect themselves from his reporting the manner in which he had been attacked to the authorities, and take measures to ensure that he should never have the chance to do so? Involuntarily a shiver ran down his spine.
The door opened once more. A new figure entered. It was that of a man in a long-skirted coat of bright-blue satin. He wore no mask and, having bowed in the doorway, advanced carrying his three-cornered hat under his arm. Even before the newcomer had emerged far enough from the shadows for his features to be seen distinctly Roger recognised him. It was de Roubec.
Instantly now, Roger realised what had led to his being in his present plight. On finding Isabella’s reinforced escort too much for him the lantern-jawed Chevalier had not given up the game and returned to Paris, as they had supposed. Instead, he must have decided to take the direct overland route via Chambery, Turin and Milan to Florence, in order to await their arrival there; and only then, when they were off their guard, make another attempt to secure the Queen’s letter before it could be delivered to her brother. The only thing that Roger could not understand was how the rapscallion adventurer had managed to inveigle the Holy Inquisition into pulling his chestnuts out of the fire for him.
De Roubec took a few more paces forward, bowed again to the sinister tribunal; then, with a mocking smile, to Roger.
Controlling his fury with an effort, Roger not only refrained from returning the bow, but met the Chevalier’s glance with cold indifference, as though he had never set eyes on him before.
The spokesman of the hooded men addressed de Roubec. “The prisoner admits that he is Monsieur le Chevalier de Breuc, but denies all knowledge of the letter. Are you quite certain that you have made no mistake, and that this is the man that you required us to arrest?”
“It is indeed, Monsiegneur. I know him too well to be mistaken.”
“He has been searched and the letter is not on him.”
De Roubec gave Roger a suspicious glance. “Perhaps, Monseigneur, he did not after all intend to deliver it tonight.”
“Our informati
on that he had been bidden to wait upon Monsignor Ricci at a half hour after eleven came from an impeccable source.”
“Even so, Monseigneur,” de Roubec submitted deferentially, “he may have been prepared to deliver such a letter only into the hands of His Highness personally. If it was not found on him, he must have left it at his lodgings, in the care of the Señorita d’Aranda.”
“The Señorita d’Aranda!” exclaimed one of the hooded men halfway down the line on the spokesman’s left. Then he asked in bad French: “Did I hear aright? If so, how comes she into this?”
Roger felt his heart jump, and looked at de Roubec in fresh alarm, as the Chevalier replied to his new interlocutor.
“It is my belief, Signor, that Her Majesty originally handed her despatch to the Señorita d’Aranda, when that lady left the Court of France to travel to Italy. In an attempt to secure it I organised a hold-up of her coach near Nevers, but Monsieur de Breuc’s inopportune arrival on the scene caused the affair to miscarry. They continued on their way south in company, and hired additional coach-guards, which would have rendered any further attempt of this kind too costly. I decided to ride on direct to Florence and enlist your help against their arrival. But as far as I know they have been together ever since. At all events, they have both been lying these last two nights at del Sarte Inglesi in the via dei Fossi, and unobserved by them I have seen them several times visiting the galleries together.”
“But what you tell me is extraordinary!” cried the hooded man who had challenged de Roubec about Isabella. “If the Señorita d’Aranda is in Florence, why has she not sought the hospitality of her aunt, the Contessa Frescobaldi?”
Roger’s hands were trembling. He now felt that at all costs he must intervene.
“Signor!” he said quickly. “I can explain this matter. As you may know, the Señorita is proceeding to Naples in order to be married there. At Marseilles, no ship was due to sail for Naples under three weeks, but one was leaving for Leghorn almost immediately. Therefore, in order to get to Naples the quicker she decided to travel by this slightly longer route. Had she informed her aunt that she was passing through Florence, she thought that the Contessa would have insisted on her breaking her journey here for not less than a week. She felt that she could not deny herself two days in which to visit the galleries, but was most opposed to delaying longer; so she decided to risk her aunt’s later displeasure by maintaining an incognito while in your city. She is resuming her journey to Naples tomorrow.”
The original spokesman rapped the table impatiently and said something in Italian to his colleagues. Roger just caught its sense, which was:
“Gentlemen! The time of the tribunal is being wasted. The fact that some young woman elected to stay in a lodging, rather than with her aunt, is no concern of ours.” He then looked again at Roger and resumed in his careful French:
“You admit, then, that although the document we require was not originally entrusted to you, this lady with whom you travelled has it; and that you acted as her escort in order to prevent it being taken from her?”
“By no means,” Roger replied quickly. “I am certain that she knows no more of it than myself. As I have told you, it was not her intention to pass through Florence, and she would never have come here at all had it not been that there was no ship sailing from Marseilles under three weeks by which she could travel direct to Naples.” Then he shot out an accusing finger at de Roubec, and went on:
“But this rogue here has already confessed to you how he and his bullies attacked the Señorita’s coach. We thought it was her jewels on which they wished to lay their dirty fingers. It was to assist in frustrating any further such attempts that I offered her my escort.”
De Roubec gave Roger an ugly look, and muttered: “Put a guard upon your tongue, Chevalier, or I will make you pay dearly for such insults.”
Roger swung angrily upon him. “ ’Tis you who are due to pay by the loss of your ears for the treacherous theft you long ago committed upon me. And as a bonus, for this present business, I will slice off your nose into the bargain.”
“Silence!’ cried the spokesman, again rapping the table; then he once more addressed Roger: “I am convinced that this young woman with whom you are travelling has the Queen’s letter. Either you will obtain it from her and hand it over to a representative whom I shall send back with you to your lodging for that purpose, or I shall take steps to have her lured forth and brought here. In the latter case we shall soon find means to loosen her tongue, and when she has disclosed its hiding-place I will send someone to collect it. Now; which course do you prefer that I should adopt?”
Roger stared down at the silver buckles of his shoes while swiftly considering the dilemma with which he was now faced. He still had one good card up his sleeve, but did not wish to play it if that could possibly be avoided.
Seeing his hesitation the Chief of the tribunal said: “If you force me to it I shall not hesitate to use torture. But I would much prefer that the matter should be cleared up without harm to either the Señorita or yourself. Therefore, I will not press you for an immediate answer. In any case it would be preferable to avoid arousing comment by knocking up the people at your lodging in the middle of the night, and the tribunal has other business which will occupy it for some hours to come. You may utilise those hours to make your decision, and I will send for you to learn it a little before dawn.”
He rang his silver bell and the two men-at-arms appeared again. Between them Roger was marched away down a gloomy corridor, a door near its end was opened, and, there being no alternative, he entered a narrow cell. One of the men set down a single candle on the stone floor, then the door was slammed to and the key grated in its lock.
The cell was quite bare, and windowless, its only inlet for air being a row of round holes in the upper part of the heavy door. Apart from a wide stone bench long enough to sleep on, which protruded from one wall, it contained nothing whatever. Roger sat down on the slab and began to think matters out.
One thing was clear: de Roubec had himself confirmed that it was his machinations which had led to the present situation, and that it was for him that the Holy Office were endeavouring to get hold of the Queen’s letter. It also seemed evident that Signor Zucchino must be one of the Inquisitor’s spies, and had reported Roger’s visit; as in what other way could they have learnt that the major-domo had made an appointment for him to wait on Monsignor Ricci that night?
Roger was much comforted by the thought that he had it in his power to prevent Isabella being drawn into the affair. All he had to do was to agree to return to his lodgings in the morning and hand over the letter. But he wondered if there was not some way in which he might secure his freedom without doing that. The Inquisitor’s reluctance to arouse the inmates of Pisani’s house showed that they were anxious to avoid drawing attention to their activities; so it seemed probable that they would now wait until the following evening, then send a messenger to inform Isabella that he had met with an accident, and bring her to a place where she could be overcome under cover of darkness with a minimum risk of disturbance.
If that proved to be their intention she would have the whole of the coming day in which to endeavour to find him, She must already be worried by his non-return. First thing in the morning she would go to the Pitti and insist on seeing Monsignor Ricci. The probability was that Zucchino had never made the appointment at all. In any case it would come out that his intending visitor had never arrived there. If the Minister showed indifference to the matter, however reluctant Isabella might be to let her aunt know of her presence in Florence, the odds were that her acute anxiety would drive her to do so. There would be no necessity for her to disclose the fact that he was her fiancé; she could enlist her aunt’s aid immediately by telling a part of the truth—that he was the bearer of a despatch from Queen Marie Antoinette to the Grand Duke, had saved her from attack upon the road, and given her his escort as far as Florence. The Contessa would at once go to the Grand Duc
hess, who, on account of the letter, if for no other reason, would report his disappearance without delay to the Grand Duke. Then the whole of His Highness’s secret police would be put on to the job of finding him.
Whether they would succeed in doing so before nightfall remained problematical. But even then, if Isabella had secured the protection of either Monsignor Ricci or the Contessa, she would inform them of any message she received, and they would have her followed; so instead of her falling into a trap, she would lead the forces of law and order to his prison.
The more Roger thought the matter over the more inclined he became to stand firm and put his trust in Isabella’s succeeding in rescuing him. But one thing remained a puzzle and defeated all his efforts to solve it. How had de Roubec managed to secure the assistance of the Holy Office?
De Roubec was the agent of the Duc d’Orléans, and His Highness was the supreme head of all the Freemasons in France. The Masons were freethinkers and revolutionaries, so regarded by the Church as its bitterest enemies. Yet the Chief Inquisitor had actually used the words when speaking of his prisoner to de Roubec: “Are you quite certain that you have made no mistake, and that this is the man that you required us to arrest?” To “require” signified to “order”, and inexplicable as it seemed that de Roubec should have persuaded the Holy Office to help him, the idea that he was in a position to give it orders appeared positively fantastic.
The Rising Storm Page 22
