Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  ‘And why should it not be?’ Ortensia was very angry. ‘There were honourable witnesses, too! What can any one say against my marriage?’

  ‘One thing is that the witnesses were not as honourable as you thought them, my lady! The two gentlemen who helped you have turned out to be two of the most famous Bravi in Italy — —’

  ‘Bravi?’

  ‘Yes. Their pockets are full of pardons for the atrocious murders they have committed for money, and they are as well known in Rome as Romulus and Remus! As for the woman who signed the register after them, she is a runaway nun, whose mere presence as a witness would discredit any ceremony!’

  ‘A runaway nun? Pina? What folly is this? She has been with me since I was seven years old!’

  ‘And she is forty now! There was time for a great many things to happen to her before you knew her. Has she not one thumb unlike the other? You see, I am well informed, for the Cardinal knows everything; and if he says that your marriage is not valid, you may be sure that he is not speaking carelessly or without full information.’

  Ortensia was now very pale, and her breath came quickly as she leaned against the pedestal of the Juno.

  ‘It is not possible!’ she cried, staring at Altieri in horror.

  ‘It is more than possible that the priest may not have been a priest at all,’ he answered, ‘and that the whole scene was cleverly prepared to trick you. But the rest I know beyond a doubt and can prove. Your two friends are well-known Bravi and are at present lodging at the Orso inn, where you were, and your serving-woman is Filippina Landi, who escaped from a convent in Lombardy with a young Venetian and was abandoned by him. She was arrested in Ferrara some nineteen or twenty years ago and confessed the truth under torture, but was soon afterwards pardoned by the intervention of your uncle, the Senator Pignaver.’

  ‘My uncle?’ Ortensia almost forgot her new anxiety in her surprise.

  ‘Yes, dear lady. Your uncle was, in fact, the young Venetian who had carried her off out of the convent, promising to marry her! It was no doubt in order to be revenged on him that she helped you to run away.’

  Ortensia’s hand strained upon the corner of the pedestal till Altieri could count the small blue veins and purple arteries that showed through the white skin. She was terrified by what he had told her, for it explained Pina’s whole manner and conduct too well not to make what Altieri had said about the marriage seem vaguely possible. But if she had been deceived, so had Stradella; of that she was more sure than of anything else, and if it had been possible she would have gone to him instantly to tell him what she had heard.

  Altieri saw how much disturbed she was and came towards her, for they were now half-a-dozen steps apart. He meant, no doubt, to offer her some consolation in her new trouble, unless he was going to fall on his knees and implore her pardon for having caused her such uneasiness. As a professional love-maker either course was open to him. But Ortensia stopped him with a gesture, keeping down her emotion.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘for I have something to say. You meant to shake my faith in my husband, but you have made a mistake, and instead you have done us both a great service. If, as you pretend, we are not validly married, nothing can be easier than to obtain a proper marriage in Rome, and we shall do so at once; but as for the rest, you are profoundly mistaken about me. I left my uncle’s house because I loved Alessandro Stradella, and for no other reason, and while we both live we shall love each other as dearly as we did from the first, and I pray heaven that our lives may end together, on the same day and in the same hour. Do you understand? As you have seemed a friend to us both, be one in earnest, for you are wasting your time in playing at being in love with me!’

  She smiled at the last, as cleverly as any skilful woman of thirty could have done, offering him the chance of laughing away the barrier his ill-considered declaration had made, and of taking up pleasant relations again, as if nothing had happened to disturb them; for she had regained her self-possession while she was speaking, and had determined to profit by what he had told her rather than to suffer by the facts he had revealed, if they proved to be true.

  He was quick to accept the means of reconciliation, whatever his own intentions really were.

  ‘I will indeed be your friend,’ he said, with amazing earnestness, ‘since you give me no hope of ever being anything more, and are willing to forgive the madness of a moment. Henceforth, command me what you will! In pledge of pardon, may I have your hand?’

  She let him take it; he dropped on one knee as he touched her fingers with his lips, and then rose lightly to his feet again.

  ‘Now let us go back,’ she said, ‘for we have been too long away.’

  He led her out of the hall by another door and she found herself quite in the farthest recess of the portico and behind all the assembled company, just as the dark-haired Muse was finishing her last improvisation in an attitude of inspired wonder before the hideous bust of the Queen. At the last line of her sonnet she took the laurels from her head, and with a graceful movement that showed her nervous but well-shaped white arms to great advantage she placed the wreath upon the damp clay effigy of the great Christina’s portentous wig; then, cleverly kicking the train of her long purple silk robe out of the way behind her, she backed towards the side exit, stretching out her hands and bending her body while still keeping her upturned eyes on the bust with an air of rapt adoration, like a Suppliant on an Etruscan vase.

  Every one applauded enthusiastically, knowing that applause was expected in payment for having been invited to such a feast of the soul; but the wise Muse paid no attention to the sounds. To the last her gaze was on the bust, even when she lifted the dark velvet curtain with one hand and backed out with a sweeping courtesy that looked very well.

  A good-looking young man of the people, dressed in his best Sunday clothes, was waiting for her at the head of the wooden steps. As she met his glance, she jerked her thumb backwards over her shoulder towards the stage and the Queen.

  ‘May an apoplexy seize her,’ whispered the Muse, with a strong Trastevere accent, ‘her, and her friends, and all the family! You shall take me to supper on Monte Mario to-night! There we shall breathe! Bring the guitar, too. Old Nena is waiting to help me dress. No — no, I say — not here!’

  For the handsome young fellow had caught her just as she was beginning to descend the steps, and he planted a very substantial kiss on the nape of her neck before he let her go; which was no great harm after all, since they were to be married in a fortnight or so, before the Feast of Saint John.

  It was Stradella’s turn after the Muse had disappeared, and while the improvisatrice was going down from the stage on one side, four liveried footmen were bringing up chairs on the other, with music-desks for the little orchestra, which immediately made its appearance. There were not more than a dozen musicians in all, and they ranged themselves in an orderly manner on each side of the laurel-crowned bust, in the order of the pitch of their instruments, the violins and flutes being in the middle, while the bass viol was at the extreme left, and the bass cornopean on the right. Next came a small chorus of eight singers, who took their places, standing behind the seated musicians; and last of all, amidst much clapping of hands, Stradella himself appeared in front, and bowed low to the Queen, standing a little on one side so as not to hide the bust from the audience.

  He looked very handsome as he stood there, dressed in black velvet and black silk, with a low collar of soft linen that showed his strong white throat, and having his lawn wristbands turned back over the cuffs of his coat.

  As he bowed Queen Christina smiled graciously, and waved her hand to him in greeting, whereupon the applause became still louder.

  Don Alberto had found a seat for Ortensia, and stood beside her, as the other cavaliers stood each beside the lady of his choice. Altieri thought it good policy to pose himself as Ortensia’s official adorer from the first, at such a very select gathering of Roman society; for few would care to try their ch
ances against him after that. Ortensia herself was dimly conscious that if she could keep him in his place, as she had done to-day, his admiration would protect her against other would-be worshippers.

  While the music lasted she never took her eyes from Stradella, whether he was turned from the audience towards his musicians to direct them, beating time in the air with a thin roll of ruled music-paper, or when he faced the audience and sung himself, to the accompaniment of only four stringed instruments.

  ‘Admirable!’ whispered Alberto, bending low to Ortensia’s ear. ‘It is supreme genius, nothing less!’ he whispered again, as she took no notice.

  But Ortensia did not even hear him, and sat quite still in her chair, gazing with fixed eyes at the man she loved, and listening to his music as in the entrancement of a spell. Don Alberto looked down thoughtfully at her beautiful motionless head, though his ears were open too, for he loved music; but just then he was even more in love with the beautiful Venetian, and though he had been worsted in his first attempt, he was by no means ready to give up the siege. He was wondering what treasure could be found in all Rome that could induce Ortensia to take her eyes from her husband while he was singing or conducting his own music.

  But when it was finished and the applause had died away, and he had bowed and left the little stage, she could not wait a moment.

  ‘Take me to him,’ she said to Don Alberto, rising from her seat.

  ‘He will come here himself in a few minutes,’ objected Altieri.

  ‘Take me to him,’ she repeated more imperiously. ‘If you will not, I shall go alone.’

  There was nothing for it but to obey, and Don Alberto led her quickly out of the portico to the carriage entrance at the back, then through a vaulted passage, and up a flight of half-a-dozen steps to the room to which the performers retired, and which had another exit towards the garden and the back of the stage.

  When Don Alberto opened the door Stradella was just within, evidently about to come away, and he started in surprise when he saw his wife enter. The other musicians were standing in groups of three and four, with their instruments in their hands, for the place was completely bare of furniture; there was not so much as a table on which to lay a fiddle or a flute, but across one corner a piece of tattered canvas had been hung to cut off a dressing-room for the improvisatrice, who had already got into her own clothes and was gone away with old Nena and the handsome young man.

  Stradella met his wife with a happy smile and nodded a greeting to Don Alberto, who remained in the door-way.

  ‘Can you take me home at once?’ Ortensia asked. ‘Or must you go in?’

  Stradella saw her look of distress as he took her outstretched hand in both of his.

  ‘I am not wanted, am I?’ he asked, looking at young Altieri. ‘My wife wishes to go home, you see — —’

  ‘I will make your excuses to the Queen,’ Don Alberto answered readily. ‘My carriage is waiting and shall take you to the palace and come back for me.’

  ‘How kind of you!’

  Ortensia thought he was already beginning to fulfil his promise of friendship to her. He had, in fact, brought the couple to the Palazzo Riario in his own carriage, for there were no hackney coaches in Rome in that century, and people who owned no equipage were obliged to have themselves carried in sedan-chairs, from one end of the city to the other if necessary, unless they preferred to ride on mules or donkeys, which was not convenient in full dress.

  In five minutes Stradella and his wife were driving rapidly over the cobble-stones towards Ponte Sisto, and Ortensia was telling the astonished musician what had taken place between her and Don Alberto, with all he had told her about Pina, Trombin, and Gambardella.

  CHAPTER XVII

  TWO DAYS AFTER the affair at the Palazzo Riario, Don Alberto sauntered out of his palace gate before the sun was high, and as he was merely going for a stroll to breathe the morning air he was alone. As a matter of fact, the air smelt of cabbage, broccoli, and other green things, for a hawker of vegetables had set down his three baskets at the corner of the Via del Gesù, and was bawling his cry to the whole neighbourhood at the top of his lusty voice. There had been a light shower before dawn, and the wet cobble-stones sent up a peculiar odour of their own, which mingled with that of the green stuff. Don Alberto did not like it and turned to his left, towards the Palazzo di Venezia, which was then the Venetian Embassy.

  Where the street narrows between the Altieri palace and the church, a serving-man in grey overtook him and spoke to him.

  ‘Excellency,’ the man said in an obsequious tone, his hat in his hand, ‘I pray the favour of a word.’

  Don Alberto stopped in some surprise, for he had not noticed any one but the vegetable hawker in the deserted square when he had left his own door a moment earlier.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked suspiciously, and stopping to face the man.

  It was Tommaso, the ex-highwayman who served the Bravi, and the expression of his eyes was not reassuring.

  ‘Your Excellency does not remember me,’ he said. ‘How should the Most Illustrious remember a poor valet? I served the Bishop of Porto for seven years, and often accompanied him to the palace here when he visited His Eminence Cardinal Altieri, who is now our Most Holy Father, Pope Clement. Your Excellency was only a boy then, and once did me the honour to speak to me.’

  ‘What did I say to you?’ asked Don Alberto incredulously.

  ‘I should not dare to repeat such a word,’ answered Tommaso in a humble tone, ‘but your Excellency kicked me at the same time, and with great strength for one so very young, for I tumbled downstairs.’

  Don Alberto’s lips twitched with amusement.

  ‘I believe I remember you by that, you scoundrel,’ he said with a smile. ‘And what do you want of me now? Shall I give you another kick?’

  ‘May that never be, Excellency! I can feel the first one still!’

  Don Alberto laughed at the comically significant gesture that accompanied this speech, and felt in his pocket for his purse.

  ‘I suppose you want a paul to drink my health,’ he said.

  ‘That is too much for anything so common as a kick, Excellency, and too little if you will accept my service.’

  ‘I have servants enough,’ answered Altieri, slipping his purse into his pocket again. ‘But since you think a paul is too much for one kick, I shall give you a florin’s worth for nothing at all if you pester me with any more nonsense. So now be off, and waste no time about it!’

  Tommaso suddenly drew himself up and squared his broad shoulders, which made him look rather formidable, for he was an uncommonly strong and active fellow.

  ‘If you say the word,’ he answered, dropping his obsequious manner, ‘I will give Maestro Stradella’s wife into your hands within a fortnight.’

  Don Alberto started visibly. His high-born instinct was not quite dead yet, and he slightly moved his right hand as if he would lift the ebony stick he carried; but Tommaso had one of cornel-wood and iron-shod, and he also made a very slight movement, and he was square and strong and had a jaw like a bull-dog. Don Alberto’s instinctive desire to knock him down disappeared suddenly.

  ‘And how do you propose to accomplish such an impossible feat?’ asked the young noble with some contempt.

  ‘That is my affair,’ answered Tommaso quietly. ‘What will you give me when I have shut the lady up safely and shall bring you the key of her prison? That is the only question, but please remember that I must risk my neck, while you will only risk your money.’

  ‘If you think I will give you any money in hand for such a silly offer, you take me for a fool,’ retorted Don Alberto.

  ‘I ask nothing in advance. How much will you give me in cash for the lady when I hand her over to you? I am in earnest. Name your price.’

  ‘What is yours?’

  ‘A thousand gold florins and the Pope’s pardon,’ said Tommaso boldly. ‘You could not buy her like in Venice, if you had your pick of the latest car
go from Georgia!’

  ‘You shall have the pardon and a thousand in gold,’ Don Alberto answered, for he was much too fine a gentleman to bargain with a cut-throat, especially as the money would come out of his uncle’s strong-box. ‘I do not believe that you can do what you offer; but if you succeed, how shall I hear from you?’

  ‘On the Eve of Saint John you will find me waiting for you with two saddled mules behind the Baptistery of the Lateran, when the bells ring the first hour of the night. Bring your money and I will take you to the house and to the lady and leave you the key.’

  ‘I would rather you should come here,’ said Don Alberto, suspecting a trap.

  ‘Bring a guard with you if you think I mean to rob you,’ answered Tommaso. ‘Bring a squadron of cavalry, if you like! Besides, you know that there will be thousands of people about the Lateran all night on Saint John’s Eve, eating and drinking on the grass to keep the witches out of their bodies for the rest of the year!’

  ‘That is true,’ Don Alberto answered. ‘I will be there.’

  ‘But if your Excellency should accidentally see me in the meantime,’ continued Tommaso, ‘your Excellency had better not notice me, nor be seen to recognise me.’

  He had resumed his obsequious tone, and was already bowing to take his leave.

  ‘I have one thing to tell you,’ said Altieri. ‘If you fail, I will have you locked up in Tor di Nona for prying into my affairs and making an infamous proposal to me, and it may be a long time before you get out.’

  ‘At the pleasure of your Most Illustrious Excellency! I shall not make the least resistance if I fail.’

  ‘You had better not,’ returned Altieri, haughtily enough, as he turned away and left Tommaso bowing to the ground.

  ‘Your Most Illustrious Excellency’s most humble and dutiful servant!’ said the man.

  Then he went off in the opposite direction, passed the Altieri palace, turned to his right, and in due time reached the Sign of the Bear, where his masters lodged. He found them in Trombin’s room, sitting near the open window with their coats off, and eating fruit from a huge blue and yellow majolica basket that stood between them on the end of the table. There were oranges, ripe plums, and very dark red cherries in handsome profusion, and the serving-girl, who cherished a secret but hopeless admiration for Gambardella, had brought a pretty bunch of violets in a coarse Roman tumbler.