Trombin was the first to speak, after the preliminary appetisers had been placed on the table and the glasses had been filled.
‘The situation strikes me as amusing,’ he said. ‘I have always felt that destiny possesses a sense of humour which makes the wittiest French comedy lugubrious by comparison.’
‘You are easily amused, my friend,’ answered Gambardella gloomily, and picking out a very thin slice of Bologna sausage for his next mouthful. ‘We were looking forward to a pleasant journey to Florence or Rome, our expenses being liberally paid; instead, we find that all the people we wish to meet are here, barely two days from Venice, and as if that were not enough, they must needs melt away like snow in the street and disappear underground, so that we must turn sbirri to find them. I see no sense of humour in the destiny that brings about such silly circumstances.’
‘You were always a melancholic soul,’ Trombin observed. ‘As for me, I cannot but laugh when I think that we shall have to rescue our man from the danger of being hanged as a counterfeiter, in order that we may conveniently cut his throat.’
Having expressed his view of the case Trombin swallowed half a glass of wine at a draught, while his companion sipped a few drops from his.
‘I do not call it melancholy to like good things and to wish that they may last as long as possible,’ Gambardella said, rather sourly. ‘What could have been more delightful than to ride all the way to Rome or Naples in this way, travelling only on fine days, and stopping where one can get a bottle of old Burgundy and a slice of a decently cooked capon? Talk of sending people to a better world, my friend — it would give me infinite satisfaction to skewer this fool of a Legate for having interfered with our plans! A pretty job it is going to be, to get a man out of a dungeon under the Lion Tower.’
‘Which one is that?’ asked Trombin, looking through the grated window at the gloomy castle on the other side of the square.
‘It is at the northeast corner at the head of the street they call Giovecca. You cannot see it from here. When we have dined we will stroll over and look at it, if you like, but you might as well try to rescue a prisoner from the Bastille!’
Gambardella sniffed his wine discontentedly and then sipped it. He was a grave man and business-like; he could drive as hard a bargain for a life as any Bravo in Italy, and do his work as neatly and expeditiously, when it was plainly laid out before him; but he had no imagination, and his idea of rescuing Stradella was evidently to get him out of the castle by some simple trick such as poor Cucurullo had tried in order to see his master.
‘This seems to be a good inn,’ observed Trombin thoughtfully, after a pause. ‘I had as soon spend a ducat a day here as in a worse house. Now this Burgundy is of the vintage of the year fifty-one.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ assented Gambardella, sipping again as he did about once a minute. ‘It has the “rose” bouquet like that of forty-six, but is a little younger. To think that if we could only get that fellow out of prison we could have him to dinner, and he would sing for us this evening! It is maddening to think that he may lose his voice in a damp hole through the idiocy of that thrice-confounded Legate!’
‘It is indeed,’ agreed Trombin. ‘I wonder what has become of the lady.’
‘I thought you were thinking of the girl,’ said the other discontentedly. ‘It would complete the situation if you should find her and fall in love with her yourself!’
‘That is possible. It has pleased Providence to make me susceptible, whereas you are designed by nature for a monastic life. Our friend’s description of his niece calls up an enchanting picture! The “Bella” of the late Titian, but younger and slimmer! Heaven send such a sweet creature to cheer my declining years! I do not wonder that the Maestro lost his heart and carried her off. And at this very moment she must be hiding somewhere in Ferrara, perhaps not a quarter of a mile from here! In a convent, no doubt, in some gloomy old house full of yellow-faced Carmelite or Franciscan nuns, with her glorious hair and her matchless complexion! I can see her in my imagination, a gilded rose amongst cabbages, a luscious peach in a heap of turnips.’
‘For goodness’ sake stop raving!’ interrupted Gambardella. ‘Why should she be in a convent, I should like to know?’
‘Where else could two respectable women without money go? They could not possibly travel, and no one in the town would take them in without baggage or cash. I tell you they went from here to a convent and asked for shelter and protection. It is the most natural thing in the world. It is what the girl’s middle-aged serving-woman would certainly think of first.’
‘You may be right,’ answered the other, his tone changing. ‘Drink more wine, for it always stimulates your imagination, and you may imagine a way of getting Stradella out of the Lion Tower. I think you are right about the girl. We will make inquiries at the convents after dinner.’
Trombin filled his glass, which was quite empty, drank half the contents and set it down.
‘In the first place,’ he said, ‘we had better try simple persuasion with the Legate. If you agree, I will go and see him late in the afternoon. He may make some little difficulty about receiving me, but that will only be in order to impress me with his greatness. Besides, you will give me a letter of introduction which I shall ask to present in person.’
‘I?’ Gambardella looked at his friend across his glass with an expression of inquiry.
‘Certainly,’ answered Trombin. ‘I could not ask such a favour of any one who knows me better, could I? If any one can vouch for me, you can.’
Gambardella condescended to smile faintly, and suggested an outline of the letter.
‘“I have the honour to introduce to your lordship’s good graces the very noble Count Tromblon de la Trombine, who is here at great personal inconvenience for the express purpose of cutting Alessandro Stradella’s throat, and will be much obliged if your worship will at once order the Maestro to be let out for that purpose.” Would that do? I could sign Pignaver’s name to it!’
‘You have no imagination. I will make a rough draft, which you will then write out much better than I could. You shall see. While I am at the castle, you may make inquiries at the different convents.’
As their servant Tommaso had foreseen, they sat at table two hours, and on the whole, though they were highly experienced epicures, they were not dissatisfied with the dinner. Gambardella even admitted that one more day in Ferrara would not be intolerable, but that was as much as his second bottle of Burgundy could bring him to say. At dessert, Trombin called for writing materials and quickly drafted the letter of introduction he wished his friend to write out for him. The latter watched him, and from time to time picked out a fat red cherry from a quantity that floated in a large bowl of water, and ate it thoughtfully.
An hour and a half later the Legate returned from his daily airing, which he generally took on a handsome brown mule, accompanied by his private secretary or by the captain of the halberdiers of the garrison. He came home early, though the weather was warm, for he was beginning to be a little rheumatic, and he established himself in the sunny room which he used as his study. He had not been seated ten minutes in his high-backed chair, with a red cotton quilt spread over his knees and tucked in round his legs, dictating letters to his secretary, when word was brought him that a Venetian gentleman desired to be received, in order to present a letter of introduction from a high personage.
Monsignor Pelagatti had an almost exaggerated respect for high personages, though he was now considered to be one of them himself. Even kings may be snobs, when they are not very big kings, and much more, therefore, the lay governor of a papal province who had climbed to distinction from a steward’s office in a Roman patrician’s household. The Legate sent his secretary downstairs to bring up the visitor with all the ceremony due to the bearer of an important letter.
In a few minutes Trombin entered the sunny room, and the Governor, who had dropped his red cotton quilt and kicked it out of sight under the table, rose to receiv
e him. Trombin’s round cheeks were rounder and pinker than ever, his long yellow hair was as smooth as butter, his bow was precisely suited to the dignity of the Legate, and his manner inspired confidence by its quiet self-possession. His right hand held out the letter he brought, which Monsignor Pelagatti received with a gracious smile after returning his visitor’s bow, at the same time inviting the latter to be seated on his right, where the secretary had already placed a comfortable chair.
‘With your permission,’ said the Governor politely, before proceeding to read the letter.
Trombin bowed his acquiescence from his chair and smiled again. The succulent dinner and rich Burgundy seemed to have made him sleeker and pinker than ever, and he watched the Legate’s face with a pleasantly benevolent expression.
But Monsignor Pelagatti’s jaw dropped as he read the missive, and his shrivelled lids seemed to shrink back from all round his little red eyes till they looked as if they were starting from his head, while Trombin watched him with quiet satisfaction.
The letter purported to be from the acting Chief of the Council of Ten in Venice, and was really a miracle of official style in its way.
The writer took the liberty of introducing a gentleman to whom he entrusted a delicate business, the noble Signor Trombin del Todescan. His high regard for the Legate, and his desire to avert all unpleasant consequences from so friendly and distinguished an official, had led him to treat directly and privately of a matter which would otherwise have to go through the hands of the Venetian Ambassador in Rome. The Legate had accidentally imprisoned a distinguished musician who had lately been the guest of the Republic, a matter which, in itself, might not be thought to have great importance. But the Maestro Stradella was on his wedding journey, and his young bride was no less a person than the noble lady Ortensia Grimani, the writer’s niece. As for Bartolo, the counterfeiter, he had just been caught at Treviso, and, at the time of writing, was safely lodged in the Pozzi, either to be tried in Venice or sent to Rome, as might hereafter be agreed between the respective governments. Under the circumstances the Legate would see the propriety of setting the Maestro at liberty without delay, and of extending every courtesy to him and his young wife, who must be in despair at his arrest. The letter concluded by saying that if the Legate ‘did not feel justified’ in complying with these requests, the noble Signor Trombin del Todescan had instructions to proceed to Rome with the utmost haste and to place the matter in the hands of the Venetian Ambassador there, on behalf of the noble lady Ortensia Grimani, unjustly deprived of her husband, a Spanish subject, within the States of the Church.
The letter left nothing to be desired in the way of clearness, and the Legate’s consternation was considerable. He had actually made a mistake which could not be glossed over by the simple process of condemning an innocent person to fine or imprisonment without appeal. He had never done such a thing in his life, and it was not pleasant to feel the coming humiliation of being forced to revoke an order given in court and to restore property he had summarily confiscated to the Treasury.
He felt himself shrinking in his chair, while the noble Signor Trombin del Todescan, the secret envoy of the Venetian Republic, seemed to grow bigger and more imposing every moment.
‘I need not say that I am delighted to be set right, after making such a grave mistake,’ said Monsignor Pelagatti humbly. ‘The circumstances were very suspicious, as I hope your lordship will explain to the most illustrious Chief. Our information seemed very exact, and as I was in correspondence with the police of Venice in regard to the capture of Bartolo, I could not doubt but that the Republic would be pleased with the news that I had taken him, as I believed I had.’
‘The Chief is persuaded of your worship’s good intentions,’ Trombin answered blandly. ‘I can promise your worship, in his name, that the matter shall not be mentioned again. Will you be so good as to order Signor Stradella to be set at liberty? I will conduct him to the inn myself and see to his requirements. I am informed, however, that the Lady Ortensia and her serving-woman left the house immediately after the arrest on Saturday morning, and have not been seen since. Your worship doubtless knows where I can find them.’
‘Certainly,’ answered the Legate, proud to show that nothing escaped his vigilance. ‘They went directly to the Ursuline nuns and asked to be taken in. The Mother Superior very properly sent to ask my permission before agreeing to let them stay, and I granted it. The most illustrious Chief will be glad to know that her ladyship, his niece, has enjoyed the protection of a religious order throughout this lamentable misunderstanding.’
Monsignor Pelagatti dictated and signed the order for Stradella’s liberation, and then bade his secretary accompany the noble Signor and see that there was no delay, and that his property was duly returned. Trombin expressed the thanks of the most illustrious Chief of the Ten in appropriately flowery language, bowed, as before, with precisely the right show of mixed regard and condescension, and left the Legate to meditate on his ill-luck in having chanced to make a mistake in such a foolish manner that he could be forced to set it right.
He had no intention of changing his method of dispensing justice, however, for it was a simple one and had hitherto done him credit. It consisted in never admitting that he could be wrong, and in punishing the prisoner whom he had picked out as guilty from the first, regardless of anything that might turn up afterwards. One swallow, he now observed with truth, did not make a spring, nor could one mistake prove a system wrong. The exception proved the rule, he argued to himself, and as he considered that all his mistakes were exceptions, his rule must be practically infallible.
Meanwhile Trombin waited under the great archway while the gaoler fetched Stradella and his man, and two porters soon brought their valises and other belongings. The secretary disappeared for a short time and returned with the leathern purse containing the confiscated money, which, as he informed Trombin, must be counted out to the full satisfaction of the Maestro. The Bravo continued to smile blandly, and while waiting he walked up and down the covered way to the admiration of the halberdiers of the watch. They recognised in him the fighting man, the compact and well-proportioned frame, the easy stride, the assured bearing, and the quick eye; and, moreover, they had already understood what was happening, though they were not Sergeant Hector’s men, who would only relieve them at nightfall. But all the soldiers hated the Legate alike, and rejoiced that for once he should be driven to acknowledge a mistake and give up a prisoner.
Stradella and Cucurullo came up from the dungeon in a miserable state, unwashed, unshaven, their clothes stained with the slimy ooze of their prison; their hair was damp and matted, their eyes blinked painfully in the light, and their grimy cheeks were of a ghastly colour. But they were not otherwise much the worse for having spent several days and nights underground, for the supply of provisions brought by the hunchback had sufficed to keep up their strength, and Stradella’s constitution, in spite of his pale and intellectual face, overflowed with vitality, like that of all really great singers. As for Cucurullo, he had been inured to hardship and misery in his childhood.
They came forward together, and before Trombin could meet them the turnkey had disappeared again. Trombin took off his hat and bowed to Stradella, and the secretary thought it wise to make an obsequious obeisance.
‘Signor Maestro,’ the latter said, ‘his worship the Legate charges me to offer you his best apologies for the painful mistake which has occurred, and to restore to you your property, confiscated through an error which his worship deplores and trusts that you will condone.’
In spite of his wretched plight there was much dignity in Stradella’s bearing as he answered this speech.
‘Present my compliments to Monsignor Pelagatti, sir,’ he said, ‘and pray assure him that I accept the excuses which you make with so much politeness.’
‘I thank you, illustrious Maestro,’ said the secretary, bowing again. ‘Allow me to add only that the mistake has been rectified by this gentlema
n of Venice, the illustrious and noble Signor Trombin del Todescan.’
Trombin and Stradella once more bowed to each other with great ceremony.
‘It has been my privilege to render the slightest of services to the greatest of musicians,’ Trombin said. ‘If you will allow me, Maestro, I shall have the further honour of conducting you to the inn, where your property and money can be restored to you with more privacy than in this place.’
‘Three hundred and ninety-one gold ducats, Signor Maestro,’ said the secretary. ‘I have them here, and the porters are already gone on with your luggage.’
The halberdiers stood up, and the sentinel on duty saluted as the little party passed through the gate. The porters were halfway across the square, Stradella walked between Trombin and the secretary, who had placed himself deferentially on the left, and Cucurullo brought up the rear, sorrowfully surveying the stains and mud on the back of his master’s clothes, only too clearly visible in the bright afternoon light. No more words were exchanged till they all reached the door of the inn, where the host was awaiting them, for he had seen from a side window the porters bringing back Stradella’s luggage, which he instantly recognised, and the rest was plain enough. The Count Tromblon de la Trombine was evidently a great personage, and it had been enough that he should demand the instant release of the musician to produce the present result. The innkeeper was proportionately impressed.
He accordingly bowed to the ground, presented his condolences to Stradella on the unhappy accident, and led the way to a spacious and well-furnished room on the first floor, to which he had already sent the luggage.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1299
