Stolen Souls Part 13

"I shall not keep you long," she sighed, and a few moments later they both turned and left the room.

The reappearance of the Count di Pallanzeno, whom every one believed had died, was puzzling, and the manner in which husband and wife conversed showed there was but little affection between them.

Suddenly I remembered that I had forgotten to return the bank-note, but I saw it was useless to attempt to do so now, therefore I decided to keep it until we met again. Obeying the Contessa's instructions, I remained in my hiding-place for half an hour, until I heard the carriage drive away down the road, then I stole out upon the verandah and let myself down noiselessly into the garden.

The moon was shining brilliantly on the white blossoms and the pale marbles, and in order to escape the observation of any of the servants who might be about, I crept along under the dark shadow of the ilex-trees in the direction of the road. I had not gone very far when suddenly I caught my foot in an obstruction, and, stumbling, fell over some object that lay in my path. Regaining my feet, I bent to ascertain the cause of my fall, when, to my amazement, I discovered it was a man.

I touched the face, and drew back in horror. _The man was dead_!

Everything was quiet, not a leaf stirred, so, taking the body under the arms, I dragged it out into the light. The silver moonbeam that fell across the white face of the corpse gave it a ghastly appearance, revealing the features of a well-dressed man of middle age, totally unknown to me.

Closer examination disclosed that a murder had been committed. The man had been shot in the back.

Searching about the spot, I was not long before I discovered the weapon with which the crime had evidently been committed. It was a five-chambered plated revolver, one cartridge of which had been discharged. As I inspected it in the cold, bright light, eager to find a clue to the murderer, my eyes fell upon two words engraved on the barrel.

Breathlessly I deciphered them, and then stood dumb with awe and dismay.

_The name engraved upon it was my own_!

In a moment a terrible thought flashed across me. Was not my presence there, and the discovery of a revolver bearing my name, direct circ.u.mstantial evidence against me? Thus recognising my danger, I put the weapon in my pocket, cast a final glance at the dead man's face, and, creeping noiselessly away under the high hedge of rhododendron and jessamine, I at length gained the road and returned to the noisy city.

In the Bourse, in the Galleria Mazzini, in the streets, in the _cafes_, everywhere, one topic only was discussed next day. A startling tragedy had been enacted, for, according to the newspapers, Colonel Rossano had been discovered mysteriously murdered in the gardens of the Villa Pallanzeno.

No motive for the a.s.sa.s.sination could be a.s.signed, for the colonel, who had only arrived on the previous day from Milan, was a most popular and distinguished officer. The police, it was stated, had received instructions from the Ministry of the Interior at Rome to spare no effort to discover the a.s.sa.s.sin, and the King himself had offered a reward of ten thousand lire for any information which would lead to the arrest of the murderer.

During the hour of the siesta, I had stretched myself in an old armchair in the studio, smoking, when Pietro burst into the room, greeting me with that buoyancy habitual to him. I asked him if he had heard of the tragedy, and gave him the papers to read. Having eagerly scanned them, he expressed surprise that the shot was not heard.

"I suppose the Contessa does not know anything of it," I said. "The body was not discovered until after midnight, whereas she left by the mail for Turin at ten o'clock."

"And what was the result of your interview?" he asked, seating himself on the edge of the table, and carelessly swinging his legs.

"She has gone, but she will return," I replied briefly.

"And she still loves you--eh?"

"Yes; you guess correctly," I laughed.

"So goes the world! How happy you should be--you, the accepted lover of the girl-widow of a millionaire! One of these days you'll marry, and then _per Bacco_! you'll throw over your old companion, the humble fiddler of the Politeama."

His jesting words reminded me of the reappearance of the Count, that Santina was not free, and that our love was illicit.

"No," I said sorrowfully; "I may love, but I shall never marry her."

Three years pa.s.sed, long, weary years, during which I had waited patiently for Santina's return. _Ahi sorte avversa_!

The villa remained in just the same condition, but none of the servants knew the whereabouts of their mistress, and it had been whispered that the police, in order to learn something of events on the night of the murder, had vainly endeavoured to trace her.

With me things went badly. True, the statue of the Countess, that I had christened "Folly," had gained a medal at the International Exhibition at Turin, but my later works had proved ignominious failures. I thought nothing of Art, only of the woman who had entranced me, and my hand had somehow lost its cunning. The carved Amida had brought me ill-fortune, it seemed, for I was now at the end of my resources.

Pietro had long ago accepted a lucrative post in the orchestra at La Scala, at Milan, and I lived alone and friendless in the old palazzo.

One evening, when Genoa was in _festa_, I had starved all day, and in desperation I at last resolved to change the bank-note Santina had sent me. Putting on my hat, I descended the stairs into the gaily-decked street, and pushed my way through the laughing crowd in the Via Nouvissima, at last turning into the narrow Via degli Orefici in search of a money-changer's. A group of children were playing under a dark, ancient archway. How happy they seemed, with their bright chubby faces, like the carved cupids and cherubs in San Lorenzo!

All the world was gay, and I alone was desolate. The little office I entered was kept by a hook-nosed Jew, who, when I asked for gold in exchange for the limp piece of paper, took it and examined it carefully through his hornrimmed spectacles. Taking a book from a shelf, he consulted it, started, and then looked sharply up at me.

"This note," he said, "does not belong to you."

"It does," I answered indignantly.

"Can you tell me whence you obtained it?"

"It is no business of yours!" I cried.

"_Corpo di Bacco_, signore! It were best for you to answer such a simple and necessary question with at least a semblance of civility."

"Why should I, when you roundly accuse me of possessing stolen property?

What grounds have you for saying the note does not belong to me?"

"I did but speak the truth. This note is not rightfully yours."

"You waste my time. Give me back the note; I will change it elsewhere."

"Signore, I _dare not_ return you the note."

"And why, pray?" I asked, suppressing my angry indignation.

"_Avvert.i.te_! It was stolen."

"Stolen?" I cried.

"Yes. Stolen from the man who was murdered at the Villa Pallanzeno three years ago. There is a big reward. I must inform the police."

I was dumbfounded. The note Santina had sent me had been filched from a murdered man? Impossible!

The old Jew was hobbling round the counter, intending to give the alarm, so, seeing my danger, I s.n.a.t.c.hed the note from him, and ran away through many intricate byways until I reached my studio. Cramming a number of things I valued into my pockets, I tied up a few other necessaries in a handkerchief, and then sped downstairs again and out into the open country.

In the east, the great arc of the sky, the distant mountains and the plains, were rose-coloured with the flush of dawn, for it was the hour when night and morning met and parted. My soul was mad with baffled hope, and I was mentally and physically ill.

The softening influences of the glorious morning awoke no responsive echoes in my troubled brain, for I had walked the whole night through, and now, worn out, footsore, hungry, and altogether hopeless, I was resting beside a little wayside shrine of Our Lady of Good Counsels, and in the hazy distance could see the gold cross, red roofs, and the gleaming white towers of Florence.

For many months I had been a homeless wanderer, a mere tramp, picking up a living as best as I could, but always moving from place to place over the smiling plains of Lombardy, or among the peaceful Tuscan vineyards, fearing that the police would pounce upon me and charge me with a crime of which I was innocent.

I had tramped to Milan in search of Pietro, but he had left--gone to Naples, they thought.