Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Cardinal Altieri was a grey-haired man with steely eyes set near together, the strong lean face of a fighter, and the colourless complexion of most high ecclesiastics, who are generally what the physicians of that day called ‘saturnians.’ He held out a large, hard, white hand, with a ring in which was set an engraved amethyst, Ortensia touch the stone with her lips, and he motioned to her to be seated in a comfortable chair at his left.

  ‘I know everything,’ he said quietly. ‘I always do.’

  The comprehensiveness of this sweeping statement might have made Ortensia smile at any other time. But she was staggered by it now, and forgot the speech she had prepared. On the face of it, to tell anything to a man who knew everything was superfluous. She reflected a moment, and he took advantage of her silence to speak again in the same calm tone.

  ‘You sent me word that you had found something of value belonging to me, madam. I shall be glad to receive it, but, in the first place, I have the honour of returning to you some of your own property, which you left last night in a little house in the Via di Santa Sabina.’

  As he spoke the last words he put down his right hand on the side away from her and brought up a long veil, a silver hairpin, and one white doeskin glove all together.

  ‘That is all, I believe,’ he said, with a very faint smile. ‘If you left anything else there, I will order a more careful search to be made. I may add that there were stains of blood on the floor and one of the walls, and as you do not appear to be wounded, madam, the inference is — —’

  Before he could explain his inference, Ortensia stretched out her arm from beneath the cloak she wore, and showed him that it was bound up in a blood-stained handkerchief; for the small cut had been deep. With her other hand she took the purse from within her dress and held it out to the Cardinal.

  ‘A thousand crowns in gold ducats,’ she said, ‘which your Eminence’s nephew paid two Bravi for the privilege of giving me this scratch. But they cheated him and drove him away and then quarrelled, and fought about which should have me for his share. I escaped from the house while they were fighting outside, I stepped on this purse and I picked it up, being sure that the money belonged to you, and there it is! In return, I ask for my husband’s liberty.’

  She saw from his face that he was much surprised, and that what she had just told him had produced a decided effect in her favour; for it is almost needless to say that the account of the affair which Don Alberto had dictated to his secretary and had sent to his uncle late on the previous evening gave a very different view of the case. According to the young man, Ortensia had met him of her own accord, deliberately enticing him into an ambush from which he had barely escaped with his life, only to be insulted and struck in the face by her husband, who was, of course, acquainted with the whole plan.

  The Cardinal examined the purse minutely, then opened it and looked at the contents. He guessed that the value of the gold must be about a thousand crowns, as Ortensia had said it was. During this time she quietly arranged her veil on her head, fastening it with the long silver pin, and then put on the glove he had restored to her. At last he looked up and spoke.

  ‘Where one knows everything,’ he observed, ‘it is impossible not to be surprised at the lamentable ignorance in which most people live. For instance, if I had not this demonstration of the fact, which agrees well with my own knowledge, I should find it hard to believe that you and your husband could have been foolish enough to make friends with the very men whom your uncle the Senator Pignaver had sent to murder you.’

  ‘We were deceived, Eminence,’ answered Ortensia. ‘I need not tell you how, since everything is known to you. All I ask is my husband’s liberty.’

  ‘Your husband, madam, appears to have broken my nephew’s nose,’ replied the Cardinal, with the utmost gravity. ‘Moreover, Alberto is not only my own nephew by blood, but His Holiness’s also, both in fact, as the son of the Pope’s niece, Donna Lucia, and also by formal adoption. I doubt whether His Holiness will easily overlook such an offence. To break the nose of a Pope’s nephew, madam, is a serious matter. I would have you understand that.’

  ‘Then send me to prison with my husband!’ cried Ortensia desperately.

  The Cardinal slowly rubbed his pale chin with his amethyst ring, and looked at her.

  ‘There may be an alternative to that somewhat extreme course,’ he observed. ‘Calm yourself, I beg of you, and I will see His Holiness as soon as possible. In the meantime, it would be well for you to take some rest.’

  ‘Rest!’ Ortensia exclaimed. ‘How can I rest while he is in prison, unless I can be near him?’

  ‘I cannot see the connection of ideas,’ the Cardinal answered coldly.

  He looked at her with some curiosity, for he had never been in love with anything but power since he had first gone to school.

  He rang a gilt bell that stood beside the gilt inkstand, and a grey-haired priest, still unshaven and shabbily dressed, came at the call. His face was as yellow as common beeswax, and his little eyes were bloodshot. The Cardinal pushed the purse across the polished mahogany.

  ‘Count that money,’ he said briefly, and opening the drawer of the table he took out a sheet of paper and began to write, while the shabby secretary counted out the gold in the palm of his hand, as if he were used to doing it.

  The letter was not long, and the Cardinal read it over to himself with evident care before folding it. He even smiled faintly, as he had done when he had returned Ortensia’s things. He turned in the top and bottom of the sheet so that the edges just met, and after creasing the bends with his large pale thumb-nail he doubled the folded paper neatly, and then turned up the ends and slipped one into the other.

  ‘Seal it with a wafer when you have done counting,’ he said, tossing the letter to the priest, for he detested the taste of sealing-wafers, and, moreover, thought that the red colouring matter in them was bad for the stomach. ‘How much money is there?’ he asked, seeing that the secretary had finished his task.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty gold ducats, Eminence,’ answered the latter, and his dirty crooked fingers poured the gold back into the leathern purse.

  When that was done, and the wet wafer had been slipped into its place and pressed, the secretary handed the letter to the Cardinal for him to address it. Instead of doing so at once, however, he turned to Ortensia, who had been watching the proceedings in silent anxiety.

  ‘Madam,’ the great man began, in a suave tone, ‘knowing everything, as I do, you may well imagine that I am anxious to spare you the grief of seeing your husband condemned to the galleys.’

  ‘The galleys!’ cried Ortensia in extreme terror. ‘Merciful heavens!’

  The Cardinal went on speaking with the utmost coolness and without heeding her emotion.

  ‘If what my nephew believed last night could be proved true, madam, your husband’s neck would be in great danger, and you yourself would probably spend several years in a place of solitude and penance.’

  Ortensia’s horror increased, and she could no longer speak.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ continued the Cardinal inexorably, ‘I have no hesitation in saying so. My nephew believed that you and your husband had purposely enticed him to a clandestine meeting with you, in order to have him thrown out of a window, at the imminent risk of his life, and otherwise maltreated by hired ruffians. It was little short of a miracle that he reached his home alive, and he had no sooner stepped from his carriage than your husband put the finishing stroke to the series of atrocities by breaking his nose. I do not say that this was a blow at the Church, madam, but it was a violent blow at the authority of the Pope’s government. I take it that a blow which can break a man’s nose is a violent blow. That is the argument for the prosecution.’

  Ortensia stared wildly at the colourless face and the steely eyes that met her own.

  ‘Happily,’ the Cardinal went on, after a short but impressive pause, ‘my nephew does not know everything. There are some arguments for the def
ence: that purse is a good one, madam, and the wound you have received is better; my own universal knowledge fills the lacunæ that are left, so far as concerns what happened at the house in Via di Santa Sabina. Two Bravi, who have undertaken to murder you, thought they could earn an additional thousand crowns by selling you to my nephew, whose admiration for you is unhappily a matter of notoriety. Their plan was then to drive him away, after which one of them was to carry you off, while the other remained behind to murder your husband. Fortunately for you they quarrelled, you made your escape, and your excellent good sense made you come directly to me, which, in the case of a lady of your noble birth, is a clear proof of innocence. Moreover, I know it to be true that the two Bravi were found fighting desperately in the street during the night, but when the watch fell upon them to separate them they turned their swords against the officers of the law and sent the cowardly pack flying, though not one of the fellows had anything worse than a pin-prick to show. Your former friends are very accomplished swordsmen, madam! That is the argument for your defence, and it satisfies me.’

  ‘Thank heaven!’ exclaimed Ortensia, whose face had relaxed while he had been speaking. ‘Then my husband will be let out, after all!’

  ‘That depends on His Holiness, not on me,’ answered the churchman. ‘It may depend on your husband himself. Your friends’ — he emphasised the word with a cool smile— ‘your friends the Bravi are responsible for everything except my nephew’s broken nose, but that is a serious matter enough. Bertini’ — he turned to the secretary— ‘you may go. I wished you to hear what I have just said. Order one of my own chairs to be ready to take this lady to the palace in five minutes.’

  Bertini bowed and left the room. It was not until the door was shut that the Cardinal spoke again.

  ‘His Holiness expressed to me only last night his august desire to hear your husband sing, and regretted his inability to go to the Lateran for that purpose. His Holiness has now spent a good night and it may be hoped that he will be able to rise this afternoon. Your husband shall have an opportunity of singing to him before supper. That is all I can manage for him. He must do the rest.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you!’ cried Ortensia gratefully. ‘Only — —’

  ‘What, madam?’

  ‘How will he be able to sing, after such a night, if he is kept in prison? He will have a sore throat from the dampness, he will be worn out with anxiety, and weak for want of food! What chance can he possibly have of moving the Pope to pity?’

  ‘I have attended to that, madam,’ the Cardinal answered, tapping the letter that lay under his hand. ‘The Maestro shall lack nothing which can restore his strength and his voice.’

  He rang his little bell twice in quick succession, and at the same time he wrote an address on the folded paper. A man in black entered before he had finished. Then he scattered red sand on the writing, and poured it back into the sand-box.

  ‘To Tor di Nona,’ he said. ‘Tell the messenger to gallop.’

  The man was gone in an instant.

  ‘You will find a chair downstairs,’ the churchman said. ‘The men are to take you to your apartment in my palace.’

  ‘But if the porter — —’ Ortensia began to object.

  ‘He will hardly venture to turn my liveries from my own door, madam. Go to your rooms and rest. You will find that your maid has left you. She fled in terror last night, and left Rome an hour ago in the coach for Naples. I saw no reason for having her stopped, but if she has robbed you I will have her taken. Your husband has a queer hunch-backed man-servant called Cucurullo; he looks like Guidi, I remember, the young poet who ran away from our royal guest the other day.’

  The Cardinal smiled vaguely, and rubbed his chin with his ring.

  ‘He is downstairs,’ Ortensia said. ‘He is a good creature,’ she added quickly, fearing lest the great man was about to tell her something to Cucurullo’s discredit.

  ‘An excellent fellow,’ the Cardinal assented readily. ‘I was going to say that if your husband wished to part with him, I should be glad to take him into my service. You will not suspect me of entertaining any foolish superstition about the good fortune which hunchbacks are supposed to bring with them, I am sure! That is ridiculous. Besides, I would not for the world displease the poor fellow, if my suggestion were not agreeable to him, as well as to your husband, madam, believe me!’

  Even in her anxiety Ortensia was inclined to smile, for it was clear that the master of Rome believed in the deformed man’s supernatural gift as profoundly as any beggar in the street who tried to touch the hump unnoticed.

  ‘I will speak with my husband about it,’ Ortensia said. ‘Only let me see him,’ she added, in a pleading tone.

  ‘For the present, madam, I have done all I can, except to promise you that if His Holiness is well enough to hear the Maestro sing, you shall be present. Meanwhile, you must go home, and remain in your rooms till I send for you.’

  He held out his ring for her to kiss, and she saw that she must go.

  ‘I thank your Eminence with all my heart,’ she said, and with a deep courtesy she turned and left the room.

  Her heart was lighter than when she had entered it, for though she did not like the Cardinal, who was liked by few, she could not help believing that he was in earnest in all he had said, and really meant to give Stradella the only chance left to him of escaping some heavy penalty for his hastiness. But she longed to see him more than ever, and to repeat all she had just heard exactly as it had been said.

  As she retraced her steps from the study to the stairs, accompanied by a servant who showed her the way, she looked about her in surprise, for she had not the slightest recollection of anything she now saw, and was amazed at the distance she had traversed without noticing anything. She could have sworn that she had gone up by an ordinary staircase, but instead, it was a winding one, and everything else she saw surprised her in the same way.

  Cucurullo was standing beside the large sedan chair with the four porters who wore the Cardinal’s livery of scarlet and gold. Two of them were to carry her, while one walked before and the fourth followed behind, both the latter being ready to take their turns as bearers at regular intervals.

  When they reached the palace a quarter of an hour later, they did not even pause at the lodge, and it was with considerable astonishment that Gaetano saw Ortensia enter in such state, followed by Cucurullo, who smiled pleasantly as he passed.

  Ortensia stepped from the chair at her own door and thanked the men, for she had nothing to give them; but the hunchback always had money, and when he had unlocked the door he handed them a silver florin with an air as grand as if he had been at least the seneschal of the palace.

  Ortensia went on to the sitting-room, still almost unconscious of being tired; but she had hardly entered, followed closely by Cucurullo, when her knees suddenly gave way under her, her head swam, and she had barely time to stagger to the long sofa before she fainted away, utterly worn out with fatigue and emotion.

  She came to herself before long, and Cucurullo was leaning over her and cooling her forehead and temples with a handkerchief soaked with Felsina water. But she only sighed as she recognised him, and then he saw that she fell peacefully asleep, just as she lay. He drew the blinds closer together to darken the room, and went off to shave himself and restore his usually neat and clean appearance, which had suffered somewhat during a whole night spent out of doors.

  But Ortensia was outwardly in a far worse plight as she lay sleeping on the hard sofa, for her pretty silk skirt was soiled and torn at the edges, her little kid shoes were splashed with mud, covered with dust, and half worn out by her walking in rough places; the blood-stained handkerchief on her arm told its own tale, too, and her glorious hair was all disordered and tangled. Yet, somehow, she was not a whit less beautiful than when she had left the house with her husband on the previous afternoon fresh from Pina’s skilful hands.

  She was dreaming of Stradella now, after she had been asleep
more than four hours, and the sun outside was high and hot. It was not a vision of terror, either, or of tormenting anxiety; she thought he had come back to her, and that it had all been a mistake, or a bad dream within the present sweet one; for he was just the same as when she had seen him last, his gaze was clear and loving, his touch was tender, and when his lips met hers ——

  She awoke with a startled cry of joy, and it was all true; for he was kneeling beside her, and she felt his kiss before her eyes opened to see themselves in his. It had all been a bad dream that had turned to a sweet one and ended in the delicious truth. He had not left her since she had rested there, on that same sofa after dinner, and they had not yet been to the Lateran — it was still yesterday.

  Then she remembered, and put down her feet to the pavement as she sat up in his arms, and framed his face in her hands, pushing it a little away from her to see it better.

  No; he was himself, his straight dark hair was neatly combed, his cheek was smooth and fresh and cool, his collar was spotless and lay over his dark coat just as it always did. She was either still asleep and dreaming, or she had dreamed every terror she remembered. To be sure that she was awake, she opened and shut her eyes several times very quickly, and then gazed at him in sweet surprise.

  ‘She sat up in his arms and framed his face in her hands’ToList

  ‘Beloved, am I awake? I do not understand — —’

  Instead of answering her in words, he kissed her again, and the long thrill that made her quiver from head to foot told her that she was indeed awake.

  Presently they began to talk, and each told what the other could not know, till there was nothing more to tell; moreover, Ortensia’s tale was by far the longer, and Stradella’s eyes darkened more than once at what he heard, but whenever she saw that look in his face, she kissed it away, and told him that they were safe now, if only he could sing to the Pope to-day as he had sung yesterday for her in the Lateran.