Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Before you go,” said Beroviero coldly, “pray look at this.”

  Giovanni saw the box on the table, but did not understand, as he had never seen it before. His father again took the key from his neck and opened the casket.

  “This is Paolo Godi’s manuscript,” he said, without changing his tone. “You see, here is the book. The seal is unbroken. It is exactly as I left it when Zorzi and I buried it together. You suspected him of having opened it, and I confess that you made me suspect him, too. For the sake of justice, convince yourself.”

  Giovanni’s face was drawn with lines of vexation and anxiety.

  “It was hidden in the jar of broken glass,” Beroviero explained. “You did not think of looking there.”

  “No — nor you, sir.”

  “I mean that you did not look there when you searched for it alone, immediately after Zorzi was arrested.”

  Giovanni was pale now, but he raised both hands and turned up his eyes as if calling upon heaven to witness his innocence.

  “I swear to you,” he began, “on the body of the blessed Saint Donatus—”

  Beroviero interrupted him.

  “I did not ask you to swear by anything,” he said. “I know the truth. The less you say of what has happened, the better it will be for you in the end.”

  “I suppose my sister has been poisoning your mind against me as usual. Can she explain how her mantle came here?”

  “It does not concern you to know how it came here,” answered Beroviero. “By your wholly unjustifiable haste, to say nothing worse, you have caused an innocent man to be arrested, and his rescue and disappearance have made matters much worse. I do not care to ask what your object has been. Keep it to yourself, pray, and do not remind me of this affair when we meet, for after all, you are my son. You came to take your leave, I think. Go home, then, by all means.”

  Without a word, Giovanni went out, biting his thin lip and reflecting mournfully upon the change in his position since he had talked with his father in the morning. While they had been speaking Marietta had gone to a little distance, affecting to unfold the mantle and fold it again according to feminine rules. As she heard the door shut again she glanced at her father’s face, and saw that he was looking at her.

  “I told you that I was learning patience to-day,” he said. “I longed to lay my hands on him.”

  “You frightened him much more by what you said,” answered Marietta.

  “Perhaps. Never mind! He is gone. The question is how to find Zorzi. That is the first thing, and then we must undo the mischief Giovanni has done.”

  “I think Pasquale must have some clue by which we may find Zorzi,” suggested Marietta.

  Pasquale was called at once. He stood with his legs bowed, holding his old cap in both hands, his small bloodshot eyes fixed on his master’s face with a look of inquiry. He was more than ever like a savage old watch-dog.

  “Yes, sir,” he said in answer to Beroviero’s question, “I can tell you something. Two men were looking on last night when the Signor Giovanni made me open the door to the Governor’s soldiers. They wore hoods over their eyes, but I am certain that one of them was that Greek captain who came here one morning before you went away. When Zorzi came out, the Greek walked off, up the footway and past the bridge. The other waited till they were all gone and till Signor Giovanni had come in. He whispered quickly in my ear, ‘Zorzi is safe.’ Then he went after the others. I could see that he had a short staff hidden under his cloak, and that he was a man with bones like an ox. But he was not so big a man as the captain. Then I knew that two such men, who were seamen accustomed to using their hands, quick on their feet and seeing well in the dark, as we all do, could pitch the officer over the tower of San Piero, if they chose, with all his sleazy crew of lubberly, dressed-up boobies, armed with overgrown boat-hooks. This I thought, and so it happened. That is what I know.”

  “But why should Captain Aristarchi care whether Zorzi were arrested or not?” asked Beroviero.

  “This the saints may know in paradise,” answered Pasquale, “but not I.”

  “Has the captain been here again?” asked Beroviero, completely puzzled.

  “No, sir. But I should have told you that one morning there came a patrician of Venice, Messer Zuan Venier, who wished to see you, being a friend of Messer Jacopo Contarini, and when he heard that you were away he desired to see Zorzi, and stayed some time.”

  “I know him by name,” said Beroviero, nodding. “But there can be no connection between him and this Greek.”

  Pasquale snarled and showed his teeth at the mere idea, for his instinct told him that Aristarchi was a pirate, or had been one, and he was by no means sure that the Greek had carried off Zorzi for any good purpose.

  “Pasquale,” said Beroviero, “it is long since you have had a holiday. Take the skiff to-morrow morning, and go over to Venice. You are a seaman and you can easily find out from the sailors about the Giudecca who this Aristarchi really is, and where he lives. Then try to see him and tell him that Zorzi is innocent of all the charges against him, and that if he will come back I will protect him. Can you do that?”

  Pasquale gave signs of great satisfaction, by growling and grinning at the same time, and his lids drew themselves into a hundred wrinkles till his eyes seemed no bigger than two red Murano beads.

  Then Beroviero and Marietta went back to the house, and the young girl carried the folded mantle under her cloak. Before going to her own room she opened it out, as if it had been worn, and dropped it behind a bench-box in the large room, as if it had fallen from her shoulders while she had been sitting there; and in due time it was found by one of the men-servants, who brought it back to Nella.

  “You are so careless, my pretty lady!” cried the serving-woman, holding up her hands.

  “Yes,” answered Marietta, “I know it.”

  “So careless!” repeated Nella. “Nothing has any value for you! Some day you will forget your face in the mirror and go away without it, and then they will say it is Nella’s fault!”

  Marietta laughed lightly, for she was happy. It was clear that everything was to end well, though it might be long before her father would consent to let her marry Zorzi. She felt quite sure that he was safe, though he might lie far away by this time.

  Beroviero returned at once to the Governor’s house, and did his best to undo the mischief. But to his unspeakable disappointment he found that the Governor’s report had already gone to the Council of Ten, so that the matter had passed altogether out of his hands. The Council would certainly find Zorzi, if he were in Venice, and within two or three days, at the utmost, if not within a few hours; for the Signors of the Night were very vigilant and their men knew every hiding-place in Venice. Zorzi, said the Governor, would certainly be taken into custody unless he had escaped to the mainland. Beroviero could have wrung his hands for sheer despair, and when he told Marietta the result of his second visit to the Governor, her heart sank, for Zorzi’s danger was greater than ever before, and it was not likely that a man who had been so mysteriously rescued, to the manifest injury and disgrace of those who were taking him to prison, could escape torture. He would certainly be suspected of connivance with secret enemies of the Republic.

  Beroviero bethought him of the friends he had in Venice, to whom he might apply for help in his difficulty. In the first place there was Messer Luigi Foscarini, a Procurator of Saint Mark; but he had not been long in office, and he would probably not wish to be concerned in any matter which tended to oppose authority. And there was old Contarini, who was himself one of the Ten; Beroviero knew his character well and judged that he would not be lenient towards any one who had been forcibly rescued, no matter how innocent he might be. Moreover the law against foreigners who attempted to work in glass was in force, and very stringent. Contarini, like many over-wise men who have no control whatever over their own children, was always for excessive severity in all processes of the law. Beroviero thought of some others, but a
gainst each one he found some real objection.

  Sitting in his chair after supper, he talked earnestly of the matter with Marietta, who sat opposite him with her work, by the large brass lamp. For the present he had almost forgotten the question of her marriage, for all his former affection for Zorzi had returned, with the conviction of his innocence, and the case was very urgent. That very night Zorzi might be found, and on the next morning he might be brought before the Ten to be examined. Marietta thought with terror of the awful tales Nella had told her about the little torture chamber behind the hall of the Council.

  “Who is that Messer Zuan Venier, who came to see Zorzi?” asked Marietta suddenly.

  “A young man who fought very bravely in the East, I believe,” answered Beroviero. “His father was the Admiral of the Republic for some time.”

  “He has talked with Zorzi,” said Marietta. “Pasquale said so. He must have liked him, of course; and none of the other patricians you have mentioned have ever seen him. Messer Zuan is not in office, and has nothing to lose. Perhaps he will be willing to use his influence with his father. If only the Ten could know the whole truth before Zorzi is brought before them, it would be very different.”

  Beroviero saw that there was some wisdom in applying to a younger man, like Zuan Venier, who had nothing at stake, and since Venier had come to visit him, there could be nothing strange in his returning the courtesy as soon as he conveniently could.

  On the following morning therefore the master betook himself to Venice in his gondola. Pasquale was already gone in the skiff, on the errand entrusted to him. He had judged it best not to put on his Sunday clothes, nor his clean shirt, nor to waste time in improving his appearance at the barber’s, for he had been shaved on Saturday night as usual and the week was not yet half over. Hidden in the bow of the little boat there lay his provision for the day, half a loaf of bread, a thick slice of cheese and two onions, with an earthen bottle of water. With these supplies the old sailor knew that he could roam the canals of Venice for twenty-four hours if he chose, and he also had some money in case it should seem wise to ply an acquaintance with a little strong wine in order to promote conversation.

  The morning was sultry and a light haze hung over the islands at sunrise, which is by no means usual. Pasquale sniffed the air as he rowed himself through the narrow canals. There was a mingled smell of stagnant salt water, cabbage stalks, water-melons and wood smoke long unfamiliar to him, and reminding him pleasantly of his childhood. Wherever a bit of stone pier ran along by an open space, scores of olive-skinned boys were bathing, and as he passed they yelled at him and splashed him. Many a time he had done the same, long ago, and had sometimes got a sharp knock from the blade of an oar for his pains.

  The high walls made brown shadows, that struck across the greenish water, shivering away to long streaks of broken light and shade, and trying to dance and rock themselves together for a moment before a passing boat disturbed them again. In the shade boats were moored, laden with fresh vegetables, and with jars of milk brought in from the islands and the mainland before dawn. From open windows, here and there, red-haired women with dark eyes looked down idly, and breathed the morning air for a few minutes before beginning their household work. The bells of Saint John and Saint Paul were ringing to low mass, and a few old women with black shawls over their heads, and wooden clogs on their feet, made a faint clattering as they straggled to the door.

  It was long since Pasquale had been in Venice. He could not remember exactly how many years had passed, but the city had changed little, and still after many centuries there is but little and slow change. The ways and turnings were as familiar to him as ever, and would have been unforgotten if he had never taken the trouble to cross the lagoon again, to his dying day. The soft sounds, the violent colours, the splendid gloom of deep-arched halls that went straight from the great open door at the water’s edge to the shadowy heart of the palace within; the boatmen polishing the metal work of their gondolas with brick dust and olive oil; the servants, still in rough working clothes, sweeping the steps, and trimming off the charred hemp-wicks of torches that had been used in the night; the single woman’s voice far overhead that broke the silence of some narrow way, singing its song for sheer gladness of an idle heart; it was all as it used to be, and Pasquale had a dim consciousness that he loved it better than his dreary little den in Murano, and better than his Sunday walk as far as San Donato, when all the handsome women and pretty girls of the smaller people were laughing away the cool hours and showing off their little fineries. It was but a vague suggestion of a sentiment with him, and no more. He knew that he should starve if he came back to Venice, and what was the pleasant smell of the cabbage stalks and water-melons that it should compare with the security of daily bread and lodging, with some money to spare, and two suits of clothes every year, which his master gave him in return for keeping a single door shut?

  He pushed out upon the Grand Canal, where as yet there were few boats and no gondolas at all, and soon he turned the corner of the Salute and rowed out slowly upon the Giudecca, where the merchant vessels lay at anchor, large and small, galliots and feluccas and many a broad ‘trabacolo’ from the Istrian coast, with huge spreading bows, and hawse ports painted scarlet like great red eyes. The old sailor’s heart was gladdened by the sight of them, and as he rested on his single oar, he gently cursed the land, and all landlocked places, and rivers and fresh water, and all lakes and inland canals, and wished himself once more on the high seas with a stout vessel, a lazy captain, a dozen hard-fisted shipmates and a quarter of a century less to his account of years.

  He had been dreaming a little, and now he bent to the oar again and sent the skiff quietly along by the pier, looking out for any idle seamen who might be led into conversation. Before long he spied a couple, sitting on the edge of the stones near some steps and fishing with long canes. He passed them, of course, without looking at them, lest they should suspect that he had come their way purposely, and he made the skiff fast by the stair, after which he sat down on a thwart and stared vacantly at things in general, being careful not to bestow a glance on the two men. Presently one of them caught a small fish, and Pasquale judged that the moment for scraping an acquaintance had begun. He turned his head and watched how the man unhooked the fish and dropped it flapping into a basket made of half-dried rushes.

  “There are no whales in the canal,” he observed. “There are not even tunny fish. But what there is, it seems that you know how to catch.”

  “I do what I can, according to my little skill,” answered the man. “It passes the time, and then it is always something to eat with the bread.”

  “Yes,” Pasquale answered. “A roasted fish on bread with a little oil is very savoury. As for passing the time, I suppose that you are looking for a ship.”

  “Of course,” the man replied. “If we had a ship we should not be here fishing! It is a bad time of the year, you must know, for most of the Venetian vessels are at sea, and we do not care to ship with any Neapolitan captain who chances to have starved some of his crew to death!”

  “I have heard of a rich Greek merchant captain who has been in Venice some time,” observed Pasquale carelessly. “He will be looking out for a crew before long.”

  “Is Captain Aristarchi going to sea at last?” asked the man who had not spoken yet. “Or do you mean some other captain?”

  “That is the name, I believe,” said Pasquale. “It was an outlandish name like that. Do you ever see him about the docks? I saw him once, a piece of man, I tell you, with bones like a bull and a face like a bear.”

  “He is not often seen,” answered the man who had spoken last. “That is his ship; over there, between the ‘trabacolo’ and the dismasted hulk.”

  “I see her,” returned Pasquale at once. “A thorough Greek she is, too, by her looks, but well kept enough if she is only, waiting for a cargo, with two or three hands on board.”

  The men laughed a little at Pasquale’s ignoran
ce concerning the vessel.

  “She has a full crew,” said one. “She is always ready for sea at any moment, with provisions and water. No one can understand what the captain means, nor why he is here, nor why he is willing to pay twenty men for doing nothing.”

  “Does the captain live on board of her?” inquired Pasquale indifferently.

  “Not he! He is amusing himself in Venice. He has hired a house by the month, not far from the Baker’s Bridge, and there he has been living for a long time.”

  “He must be very rich,” observed Pasquale, who had found out what he wished to know, but was too wise to let the conversation drop too abruptly. “From what you say, however, he needs no more hands on his vessel,” he added.

  “It is not for us,” answered the man. “We will ship with a captain we know, and with shipmates from our own country, who are Christians and understand the compass.”

  This he said because all sea-going vessels did not carry a compass in those days.

  “And until we can pick up a ship we like,” added the other man, “we will live on bread and water, and if we can catch a fish now and then in the canal, so much the better.”

  Pasquale cast off the bit of line that moored his skiff, shipped his single oar, and with a parting word to the men, he pushed off.

  “You are quite right!” he said. “Eh! A roast fish is a savoury thing.”

  They nodded to him and again became intent on their pastime. Pasquale rowed faster than before, and he passed close under the stern of the Greek vessel. The mate was leaning over the taffrail under the poop awning. He was dressed in baggy garments of spotless white, his big blue cap was stuck far back on his head, and his strong brown arms were bare to the elbow. He looked as broad as he was long.

  “Is the captain on board, sir?” asked Pasquale, at a venture, but looking at the mate with interest.

  He expected that he would answer the question in the negative, by sticking out his jaw and throwing his head a little backward. To his surprise the mate returned his gaze a moment, and then stood upright.