Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Hour after hour they toiled thus together, far down under the palace, in the damp, close air, that was cold and yet stifling to breathe. The hole was now over two feet deep.

  Suddenly, as Masin delivered a heavy blow, the drill ran in an inch instead of recoiling in Malipieri’s tight hold.

  “Bricks,” said Masin, resting on the haft of the long hammer.

  Malipieri removed the drill, took the scoop and drew out the dust and minute chips. Hitherto the stuff had been grey, but now, as he held his hand under the round hole to catch what came, a little bit of dark red brick fell into his palm. He picked it out carefully and held it close to the bright unshaded lamp.

  “Roman brick,” he said, after a moment.

  “We are not in Milan,” observed Masin, by way of telling his master that he did not understand.

  “Ancient Roman brick,” said Malipieri. “It is just what I expected. This is part of the wall of an old Roman building, built of bricks and faced with travertine. If we can get this block out, the worst will be over.”

  “It is easier to drill holes in stone than in water,” said Masin, who had put his ear to the hole. “I can hear it much louder now.”

  “Of course you can,” answered Malipieri. “We are wasting time,” he added, picking up the drill and holding it against the block at a point six inches higher than before.

  Masin took his sledge again and hammered away with dogged regularity. So the work went on all that day, and all the next. And after that they took another tool and widened the holes, and then a third till they were two inches in diameter.

  Masin suggested that they might drive an iron on through the brickwork, and find out how much of it there was beyond the stone, but Malipieri pointed out that if the “lost water” should rise it would pour out through the hole and stop their operations effectually. The entrance must incline upwards, he said.

  They made long round plugs of soft pine to fit the holes exactly, each one scored with a channel a quarter of an inch deep, which was on the upper side when they had driven the plugs into their places, and was intended to lead the water along the wood, so as to wet it more thoroughly. To do this Malipieri poked long cotton wicks into each channel with a wire, as far as possible. He made Masin buy half-a-dozen coarse sponges and tied one upon the upper end of each projecting plug. Finally he wet all the sponges thoroughly and wound coarse cloths loosely round them to keep in as much of the water as possible. By pouring on water from time to time the soft wood was to be ultimately wet through, the wicks leading the moisture constantly inward, and in the end the great block must inevitably be split into halves. It is the prehistoric method, and there never was any other way of cleaving very hard stone until gunpowder first brought in blasting. It is slow, but it is quite sure.

  The place where the two men had been working was many feet below the level of the courtyard, but the porter could now and then hear the sound of blows echoing underground through the vast empty cellars, even when he stood near the great entrance.

  Toto heard the noise too, one day, as he was standing still to light his pipe in the Vicolo dei Soldati. When it struck his ear he let the match burn out till it singed his horny fingers. His expression became even more blank than usual, but he looked up and down the street, to see if he were alone, and upward at the windows of the house opposite. Nobody was in sight, but in order to place his ear close to the wall and listen, he made a pretence of fastening his shoe-string. The sound came to him from very far beneath, regular as the panting of an engine. He knew his trade, and recognized the steady hammering on the end of a stone drill, very unlike the irregular blows of a pickaxe or a crowbar. The “moles” were at work, and knew their business; sooner or later they would break through. But Toto could not guess that the work was being actually done by Malipieri and his servant, without help. One man alone could not do it, and the profound contempt of the artisan for any outsider who attempts his trade, made Toto feel quite sure that one or more masons had been called in to make a breach in the foundation wall. As he stood up and lighted his pipe at last, he grinned all alone, and then slouched on, his heart full of very evil designs. Had he not always been the mason of the Palazzo Conti? And his father before him? And his grandfather, who had lost his life down there, where the moles were working? And now that he was turned out, and others were called in to do a particularly confidential job, should he not be revenged? He bit his pipe and thrust his rough hands deep into the pockets of his fustian trousers, and instead of turning into the wine shop to meet Gigi, he went off for a walk by himself through all the narrow and winding streets that lie between the Palazzo Conti and Monte Giordano.

  He came to no immediate conclusion, and moreover there was no great hurry. He knew well enough that it would take time to pierce the wall, after the drilling was over, and he could easily tell when that point was reached by listening every day in the Vicolo dei Soldati. It would still be soon enough to play tricks with the water, if he chose that form of vengeance, and he grinned again as he thought of the vast expense he could force upon Volterra in order to save the palace. But he might do something else. Instead of flooding the cellars and possibly drowning the masons who had ousted him, he could turn informer and defeat the schemes of Volterra and Malipieri, for he never doubted but that if they found anything of value they meant to keep the whole profit of it to themselves.

  He had the most vague notions of what the treasure might be. When the fatal accident had happened his grandfather had been the only man who had actually penetrated into the innermost hiding-place; the rest had fled when the water rose and had left him to drown. They had seen nothing, and their story had been handed down as a mere record of the catastrophe. Toto knew at least that the vaults had then been entered from above, which was by far the easier way, but a new pavement had long ago covered all traces of the aperture.

  There was probably gold down there, gold of the ancients, in earthen jars. That was Toto’s belief, and he also believed that when it was found it would belong to the government, because the government took everything, but that somehow, in real justice, it should belong to the Pope. For Toto was not only a genuine Roman of the people, but had always regarded himself as a sort of hereditary retainer of an ancient house.

  His mind worked slowly. A day passed, and he heard the steady hammering still, and after a second night he reached a final conclusion. The Pope must have the treasure, whatever it might be.

  That, he decided, was the only truly moral view, and the only one which satisfied his conscience. It would doubtless be very amusing to be revenged on the masons by drowning them in a cellar, with the absolute certainty of never being suspected of the deed. The plan had great attractions. The masons themselves should have known better than to accept a job which belonged by right to him, and they undoubtedly deserved to be drowned. Yet Toto somehow felt that as there was no woman in the case he might some day, in his far old age, be sorry for having killed several men in cold blood. It was really not strictly moral, after all, especially as his grandfather’s death had been properly avenged by the death of the murderer.

  As for allowing the government to have a share in the profits of the discovery, that was not to be thought of. He was a Roman, and the Italian government was his natural enemy. If he could have turned all the “lost water” in the city upon the whole government collectively, in the cellars of the Palazzo Conti, he would have felt that it was strictly moral to do so. The government had stolen more than two years of his life by making him serve in the army, and he was not going to return good for evil. With beautiful simplicity of reasoning he cursed the souls of the government’s dead daily, as if it had been a family of his acquaintance.

  But the Pope was quite another personage. There had always been popes, and there always would be till the last judgment, and everything connected with the Vatican would last as long as the world itself. Toto was a conservative. His work had always kept him among lasting things of brick and stone, and he was proud
of never having taken a day’s wages for helping to put up the modern new-fangled buildings he despised. The most lasting of all buildings in the world was the Vatican, and the most permanent institution conceivable was the Pope. Gigi, who made wretched, perishable objects of wood and nails and glue, such as doors and windows, sometimes launched into modern ideas. Toto would have liked to know how many times the doors and windows of the Palazzo Conti had been renewed since the walls had been built! He pitied Gigi always, and sometimes he despised him, though they were good friends enough in the ordinary sense.

  The Pope should have the treasure. That was settled, and the only question remaining concerned the means of transferring it to him when it was discovered.

  CHAPTER IX

  ONE EVENING IT chanced that the Volterra couple were dining out, and that Sabina, having gone up to her room to spend the evening, had forgotten the book she was reading and came downstairs half-an-hour later to get it. She opened the drawing-room door and went straight to the table on which she had left the volume. As she turned to go back she started and uttered a little cry, almost of terror.

  Malipieri was standing before the mantelpiece, looking at her.

  “I am afraid I frightened you,” he said quietly. “Pray forgive me.”

  “Not at all,” Sabina answered, resting the book she held in her hand upon the edge of the table. “I did not know any one was here.”

  “I said I would wait till the Senator came home,” Malipieri said.

  “Yes.” Sabina hesitated a moment and then sat down.

  She smiled, perhaps at herself. In her mother’s house it would have been thought extremely improper for her to be left alone with a young man during ten minutes, but she knew that the Baroness held much more modern views, and would probably be delighted that she and Malipieri should spend an hour together. He had been asked to luncheon again, but had declined on the ground of being too busy, much to the Baroness’s annoyance.

  Malipieri seated himself on a small chair at a discreet distance.

  “I happened to know that they were going out,” he said, “so I came.”

  Sabina looked at him in surprise. It was an odd way to begin a conversation.

  “I wanted to see you alone,” he explained. “I thought perhaps you would come down.”

  “It was an accident,” Sabina answered. “I had left my book here. No one told me that you had come.”

  “Of course not. I took the chance that a lucky accident might happen. It has, but I hope you are not displeased. If you are, you can turn me out.”

  “I could go back to my room.” Sabina laughed. “Why should I be displeased?”

  “I have not the least idea whether you like me or not,” answered Malipieri.

  Sabina wondered whether all men talked like this, or whether it were not more usual to begin with a few generalities. She was really quite sure that she liked Malipieri, but it was a little embarrassing to be called upon to tell him so at once.

  “If I wanted you to go away, I should not sit down,” she said, still smiling.

  “I hate conventions,” answered Malipieri, “and I fancy that you do, too. We were both brought up in them, and I suppose we think alike about them.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Sabina turned over the book she still held, and looked at the back of it.

  “Exactly,” continued Malipieri. “But I do not mean that what we are doing now is so dreadfully unconventional after all. Thank heaven, manners have changed since I was a boy, and even in Italy we may be allowed to talk together a few minutes without being suspected of planning a runaway marriage. I wanted to see you alone because I wish you to do something very much more ‘improper,’ as society calls it.”

  Sabina looked up with innocent and inquiring eyes, but said nothing in answer.

  “I have found something,” he said. “I should like you to see it.”

  “There is nothing so very terrible in that,” replied Sabina, looking at him steadily.

  “The world would think differently. But if you will trust me the world need never know anything about it. You will have to come alone. That is the difficulty.”

  “Alone?” Sabina repeated the word, and instinctively drew herself up a little.

  “Yes.”

  A short silence followed, and Malipieri waited for her to speak, but she hesitated. In years, she was but lately out of childhood, but the evil of the world had long been near her in her mother’s house, and she knew well enough that if she did what he asked, and if it were known, her reputation would be gone. She was a little indignant at first, and was on the point of showing it, but as she met his eyes once more she felt certain that he meant no offence to her.

  “You must have a very good reason for asking me to do such a dangerous thing,” she said at last.

  “The reasons are complicated,” answered Malipieri.

  “Perhaps I could understand, if you explained them.”

  “Yes, I am sure you can. I will try. In the first place, you know of the story about a treasure being concealed in the palace. I spoke of it the other day, and you laughed at it. When I began, I was not inclined to believe it myself, for it seems never to have been anything more than a tradition. One or two old chronicles speak of it. A Venetian ambassador wrote about it in the sixteenth century in one of his reports to his government, suggesting that the Republic should buy the palace if it were ever sold. I daresay you have heard that.”

  “No. It does not matter. You say you have found something — that is the important point.”

  “Yes; and the next thing is to keep the secret for the present, because so many people would like to know it. The third point of importance is that you should see the treasure before it is moved, before I can move it myself, or even see all of it.”

  “What is this treasure?” asked Sabina, with a little impatience, for she was really interested.

  “All I have seen of it is the hand of what must be a colossal statue, of gilt bronze. On one of the fingers there is a ring with a stone which I believe to be a ruby. If it is, it is worth a great deal, perhaps as much as the statue itself.”

  Sabina’s eyes had opened very wide in her surprise, for she had never really believed the tale, and even when he had told her that he had found something she had not thought it could be anything very valuable.

  “Are you quite sure you have seen it?” she asked with childlike wonder.

  “Yes. I lowered a light into the place, but I did not go down. There may be other things. They belong to you.”

  “To me? Why?” asked Sabina in surprise.

  “For a good many reasons which may or may not be good in law but which are good enough for me. You were robbed of your dowry — forgive the expression. I cannot think of another word. The Senator got possession of the palace for much less than its market value, let alone what I have found. He sent for me because I have been fortunate in finding things, and he believed it just possible that there might be something hidden in the foundations. Your family spent long ago what he lent them on the mortgage, and Sassi assures me that you never had a penny of it. I mean you to have your share now. That is all.”

  Sabina listened quietly enough to the end.

  “Thank you, very much,” she said gravely, when he had finished.

  Then there was another pause. To her imagination the possibilities of wealth seemed fabulous, and even Malipieri thought them large; but Sabina was not thinking of a fortune for its own sake. Of late none of her family had cared for money except to spend it without counting. What struck her first was that she would be free to leave the Volterras’ house, that she would be independent, and that there would be an end of the almost unbearable situation in which she had lived since the crash.

  “If the Senator can keep it all for himself, he will,” Malipieri observed, “and his wife will help him.”

  “Do you think this had anything to do with their anxiety to have me stay with them?” asked Sabina, and as the thought occurre
d to her the expression of her eyes changed.

  “The Baroness knows nothing at all about the matter,” answered Malipieri. “I fancy she only wanted the social glory of taking charge of you when your people came to grief. But her husband will take advantage of the obligation you are under. I suspect that he will ask you to sign a paper of some sort, very vaguely drawn up, but legally binding, by which you will make over to him all claim whatever on your father’s estate.”

  “But I have none, have I?”

  “If the facts were known to-morrow, your brother might at once begin an action to recover, on the equitable ground that by an extraordinary chain of circumstances the property has turned out to be worth much more than any one could have expected. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “Very well. The Senator knows that in all probability the court would decide against your brother, who has the reputation of a spendthrift, unless your claim is pushed; but that any honest judge, if it were legally possible, would do his best to award you something. If you had made over your claim to Volterra, that would be impossible, and would only strengthen his case.”

  “I see,” said Sabina. “It is very complicated.”

  “Of course it is. And there are many other sides to it. The Senator, on his part, is as anxious to keep the whole matter a secret as I am, for your sake. He has no idea that there is a colossal statue in the vaults. He probably hopes to find gold and jewels which could be taken away quietly and disposed of without the knowledge of the government.”