Tales from Blackwood Volume Viii Part 11

An obvious effect was perceptible upon the countenances of the soldiers in the hall when this command was uttered. The outlaw himself was bound--this time his bonds did not give way--and when he heard the words, they seemed to paralyse--to engender a doubt that he miscomprehended--rather than to alarm him. He turned his eye rapidly from his kneeling wife to the judges. Its expression was not of humility, and scarcely that even of entreaty. His appeal was not that of a culprit to the mercy of a judge, but the demand which man makes upon man--upon the common feeling of his fellows--"In the name of G.o.d!" was all that he exclaimed, "you cannot mean it?"

Nevertheless, however, the men in black surrounded Aurelia, who stood motionless, attempting neither effort nor remonstrance; and having raised her from the ground, were proceeding to cut the laces which held her bodice; for a part of the horrible system was, that all who suffered, male or female, were stripped naked before the application of the question. The soldiers, though, from their cold silence and averted looks, they evidently disliked their duty, showed no disposition to flinch from it; and a pa.s.sionate flood of tears burst from the eyes of the unhappy Aurelia, as the first infamous preparations for adding degradation to the tortures which she was to endure, were completed.

The cold sweat poured in streams down Arionelli's forehead.--"In the name of Heaven," he cried, "hold but one moment! If you are men, you will not do this deed! Gonfaloniere! my Lord di Vasari! Count of Arestino! will you--as your souls may answer it--will you degrade this helpless and innocent female--and in the presence of her husband?

Villains! cowards! slaves!" pursued the outlaw, violently, seeing that his words produced no cessation of the proceedings,--"have you not this frame, more n.o.ble than your own, but on which you may trample, still unbent and unbroken? Cannot you burst these sinews with a nod? Rend and destroy, with but a word, these limbs, whose force, naked as they are, and even in bonds, your pale hearts quail at? Am I not bound before you? Will not these miscreant agents delight to crush a frame to ruin, which shames, and shows their own too mean and insignificant? and yet will you--dare you--touch such a piece of Heaven's handiwork as that woman! My Lord Gonfaloniere--you have daughters--Man--if you are one--look at her! Is she more fit than they are for a deed of blood?--Di Vasari!--Gonsalvo!--Villain!--Usurer!--you are a man--young--pa.s.sionate--can you look upon such a form as hers--and if she had sought your very life a thousand times--would you see it mangled, disgraced, and ruined?--Gonfaloniere!--Count Arestino!--Mercy!

This wretch I waste my words on. If he can do the deed--no matter with what cause--my words must be too useless to dissuade him from it!"

"Luigino Arionelli!" said the Gonfaloniere, more mildly, "why, if this female's safety be so precious to you, do you not secure it, and answer the questions which we propose?"

"It is because----" The outlaw hesitated.--"Now, Gonfaloniere--you are a human creature--make that toad-like wretch take his base hands from her!

Now she has fainted--let her not be bound! Villain! rogue! bare but one spot of her fair flesh, and you shall yet expire in tortures!--Marquis!

Now thanks and blessings! Let the villains stand from her. Captain!

Gentleman of honour! You wear a sword--I have seen you use it in the fight--support her--and may your own wife or sister never ask the same a.s.sistance, or lie in the same need!--All who know me--robber as I am--know that I never inflicted injury or insult on a woman. I sent back the Podesta of Trieste's daughter to her father safe, and without ransom, when the villain churl refused to pay it. Why, thanks! Aurelia!

Wife! look up! Oh treat me--robber as I am--but as a man! Let me be free--only to sustain her; and command or question what you will."

"Luigino!" said the Marquis Arestino, who seemed something affected by the outlaw's pa.s.sion, though reasons perhaps prevented his doing anything which might be construed into the showing him favour--"the court in mercy has granted this momentary delay; why is it that you do not use it to confess?"

"It is because--because," continued Arionelli, pa.s.sionately, but not violently, "my hope is over--I have nothing to confess. It is because--as I stand in this danger--as I have a soul--I have nothing that can a.s.sist you in what you desire to know. When I was stopped and brought back to prison from my way to execution, I was ignorant even of how it arose that I was suspected of this crime. I saw your anxiety for the information which you thought I possessed; and would, if I could, have gained a promise of life for myself and my comrades before I declared the truth. You will not blame me for this effort? It was not quite base or selfish; for, win or lose, it included those who had put themselves in danger to aid in my escape. But it is over now. I give it up. The cloak which your people recognise, may or may not, for aught I know, have been taken from the Signor Lorenzo di Vasari. But it was the property--this is all I know--of a robber of my band, who died ten days before my apprehension."

The countenances of the judges darkened. "Where is this man?" asked the secretary Benetti; "how did he obtain this spoil, and is he one of those already in our power?"

"He is dead, as I have declared already," said Arionelli--"dead of the plague. I have proof of this. Send for the visitors of the Ospedale St Sulpice, and ask whether two of them did not find, fourteen days since, in the upper floor of a deserted house in the Rua Pulita, a man dead of the plague; and, in the same apartment, a garment of bull's hide, curiously fitted with a mask and horns? This last garment was mine--I named it before--and it was left there by accident. By the farther token that the directors of St Sulpice commanded the finders to burn it privately, lest its profane exhibition should scandalise the church."

"That is true, my lord," whispered the chief secretary to the Gonfaloniere; "the fact was known to us when it happened."

"The man who was found in that apartment," continued Arionelli, "was called Dominico Torelli: and he died with the cloak which you now challenge in his possession. How he obtained it I know not, for I saw little of his pursuits. We were on ill terms because at other times he had concealed his booty, instead of bringing it fairly to division.

Those who follow our profession think but little about forms of burial; when he was dead, his arms and money were shared by such of his a.s.sociates as were at hand. This rich mantle and the doublet that I wear fell to another's lot; but they struck my fancy, and I purchased them."

Gonsalvo di Vasari listened patiently till the outlaw had concluded, but it was with the air of a man who was not unmoved by anything that was saying.

"We are approaching the truth," said he, coldly; "but we must have it fully. Mark me, Arionelli! Your object is seen, and you deceive yourself to hope it can prevail. This dead robber, whom you would palm upon us, if ever he had existence, was your comrade, your follower. The crime for which you would make him answerable no single hand ever committed; and the spoil obtained was too large to have been so lightly disposed of, as you would persuade us, or concealed. Now listen to me. There are some in Florence know I am not used to trifle. The clue which lies in my hands now to my kinsman's fate--whether of life or death--words will not induce me to give up. Therefore be wise, and speak at once; for, by the great Heaven, there is no hope that fraud or obstinacy will avail you!

If you should find resolution enough to die silent under this torture, I will try whether your wife here has strength to be equally contumacious."

The rage of the hunted wolf was in the robber's countenance. He saw his danger--saw that he was caught in his own toils. The very error of his judges (more than their mercilessness) led inevitably to his destruction.

"Gonfaloniere!" he cried, furiously--"Gonsalvo di Vasari! Hold once more! Reflect--there is a line beyond which human suffering does not pa.s.s! The meanest wretch in Florence, who cares not for his own life, holds the fate of the highest among ye at his mercy. You feel that you dare not, for fifty times your t.i.tles and possessions, commit this villany you meditate, and let me live. There are others--companions--friends--reflect on it!--who will be left behind, and whom an act like this will rouse to certain vengeance. You have no fault to charge on this helpless woman. You can gain nothing of that you seek from her. You sacrifice her to gain that which cannot be gained--for, so help me Heaven in my last hour, I have it not!--from me. Beware! for no deed like that of tyranny and baseness ever pa.s.sed unpunished. Do not drive a trodden-down wretch to desperation! Do not rush uselessly upon an act which will stand alone in the annals of infamy and crime!--Or, tell me at least," continued Arionelli, pa.s.sionately, "if there is indeed no hope--no chance--of mercy! Before you ruin your own objects, and mine, past helping--Signor di Vasari--I know whom it is I have to deal with--Definitively--what is it that you demand?"

"For the last time," said Gonsalvo di Vasari, "that this Court will deign to question--full confession as to the fate of my cousin, the Chevalier Lorenzo."

"If he be dead?"

"A token of his death, and the story of its manner."

"And though he _be_ dead, shall Aurelia then be free?"

The Gonfaloniere replied--"Of that you have our pledge."

The outlaw paused for a moment, anxiously, and in thought.--"My Lord di Vasari," he said, "I have already sworn that I had no share in your cousin's fate. I believe that he has fallen. But means of inquiry I have none, except by message to those who are beyond your warrant, and who knew more of Dominico Torelli's latter course than I know. Who but myself can do an errand such as this? Who else can search out those who hold life only while they are not found? And me you will not part with?

There is but one resource. Aurelia knows the haunts of my band; she can seek those whose aid I need, and will be trusted by them as myself. Let me then be carried back to prison; and let her depart whither I direct; and if in twenty-four hours she return not with some intelligence, my life shall answer the event."

"Would it not be safer to reverse that arrangement?" said Gonsalvo, significantly,--"to retain Aurelia here in prison; and suffer you, Arionelli, in whom I trust more than you credit, to depart?"

A long silence followed, which was broken at last by the robber; but the tone in which he spoke, and his manner, was, for the first time, strangely contrasted with the expression of his features. "My Lord!" he said, interrupting the Gonfaloniere, "let us close this conference."

(And his voice was steady, even to seeming unconcern; though his countenance was deadly pale, and his eye was livid and gla.s.sy, and his lips seemed to perform their office with an effort--as if some swelling in the throat choked up the utterance.) "The proof which Signor Gonsalvo demands may be furnished more easily than I had recollected. Two men of my band are now in your jails of Florence. One of them is named Vincentio Rastelli: he is the lesser offender--set him free. Let Aurelia and myself then be carried back to prison--only one demand _must_ be conceded--that our dungeon shall be the same. Let Rastelli have free access to me at will, and free pa.s.sage to go and come, unfollowed and unwatched, wherever I shall send him. Promise that, my bond being kept--before I die--I shall see Aurelia at liberty. And before midnight to-morrow, Signor Gonsalvo shall have that put into his hands, which shall for ever set his mind at rest as to the fate--whatever it has been--of Lorenzo di Vasari."

It was the hour of midnight on the morrow; and Gonsalvo di Vasari sat in his library alone; and he rejoiced in the fortune of his arrangements.

The robber Rastelli had been set at liberty. He had visited Arionelli in his prison. He had gone upon one mission, and had returned as unsuccessful; but at once again he had sped forth upon another. Was it possible that the outlaw might yet fail? Scarcely so! for Aurelia's sake, his strength would be put forth to the utmost. Would the agent make sure of his own safety and escape? This was not likely, for already he had once returned; and the fidelity of such people, generally, to their friends and leaders, was as well known as their enterprise and ferocity.

It was not likely either that Arionelli would have taken his course, without feeling a strong reliance upon its success. A few hours then--nay, a few moments now--were to put him in possession of that evidence which would end all doubt as to his cousin's rich inheritance.

For Aurelia--her safety was promised; but her liberty--this evidence obtained--might be a matter for consideration. The outlaw himself would die upon the scaffold. It was pity that so much beauty as Aurelia's should be cast away.--Meantime Gonsalvo di Vasari sat alone in his palace; and the hour of midnight was pa.s.sed, and yet there was no messenger. He arose and opened the lattice--the moon shone brightly--but the streets of Florence were at rest. Was it possible that he should be trifled with! A servant was summoned. But--no!--no person had appeared.

At that instant, a man, wrapt in a dark cloak, was seen stealing across the Piazza of St Mark. His form was robust, and his step firm; it was the figure of the robber--of Rastelli. He paused a moment under the shadow of the church of St Bened.i.c.k, as if to watch if any one observed him; then crossed the square--the portico concealed him;--but it was the hour--the very moment--it must be the messenger!

There was a hasty tap at the door of the cabinet----

"My lord--he has come."

"Admit him."

"He did not stay."

"Where is his message?"

"My lord, it is here."

The servant placed a small iron casket in the hands of his master; a folded packet accompanied it; and retired.

Gonsalvo broke the seal of the packet. There was not a word--the paper was blank. But it contained a small key, apparently that of the casket, of a singular form and workmanship.

The letter was a blank! The chest then, which was in his hands, contained the secret? Gonsalvo hesitated. Was it fit that the deposit should be at once opened? Was it not more fit that the disclosure (whatever it was) should be public--in the presence of the Gonfaloniere, and in the apartment of the Senate?

And yet it might be that the casket contained matter hostile to his desires, rather than tending to a.s.sist them. It might be that the proof even of Lorenzo's death failed wholly; and such truth, once openly declared, could never be got rid of.

He poised the chest in his hands. It weighed heavily. What could be its contents? Perhaps the written confession of Arionelli, or some of his companions. At all events, the course of a private search was safe: a public one might be made formally, in the morning, if convenient.

He took the key, secured the door, approached the taper, and cautiously examined the lock of the casket.

The key entered freely. It turned in the lock. The bolt shot. The hand that lay upon the lid tightened its grasp to lift it open.

At that moment the magazine within exploded. The chest, with a report that shook the apartment, burst into a thousand atoms. The household of Di Vasari was alarmed. His domestics rushed in a body to their master's chamber. They tried to enter, but the door was fast. They knocked, but no answer was returned. While they stood irresolute in horror and alarm, an officer of justice, attended, came thundering at the gate. The prison of the Seralio had been alarmed in the night. The robber Arionelli and his wife were dead by poison, and the Gonfaloniere in council desired the presence and a.s.sistance of Signor di Vasari. The affrighted domestics burst the door open. The message from the State was answered by the spectacle within. On the floor lay Gonsalvo di Vasari--dead; his garments scorched; his face and hands discoloured; his body mangled with a shower of b.a.l.l.s; and the sh.e.l.l of the fatal casket at his feet.

CHAPTER IV.

"Then lay us together for ever to rest, For the grave ends all strife, and all sorrow: As the sun, which, at eve, sinks in blood to the west, Rises calm and serene on the morrow!"

Forty years had pa.s.sed over from the date of these events; and the horrors of the plague of Florence were forgotten. The tale lived in the recollection of a few old people who had escaped the wreck; but their accounts wavered between fiction and reality, and were held as exaggerations among the juniors. Times had changed, and things had changed with them. The ploughshare pa.s.sed over that ground which had been the site of palaces in the time of the pestilence; and churches stood, and streets, where cemeteries had been glutted with the remains of thousands. Those who listened to the stories of mortality--of five hundred dead in one week, and three hundred in another--counted the numbers as men hear of thousands dead upon a field of battle: they believed the fact, because it was avouched, but scarcely could understand the possibility.