The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias Part 3

"But why did you sell it if you wish to retain it?" I asked.

"Because at the time you were not my friend," he replied evasively.

"You are now--I know you, and for that reason I give you warning. If you take the book from this house, recollect it is at your risk, and you will a.s.suredly regret having done so."

I shook my head, smiling, unconvinced by his argument and suspicious of his manner. Somehow I had grown to dislike the man. If he were actually my friend, as he a.s.sured me, he would certainly not seek to do me out of a bargain. So I laughed at his misgivings, saying:

"Have no fear, _signor reverendo_. I shall treasure the old codex in a gla.s.s case, as I do the other rare ma.n.u.scripts in my collection. I have a number of biblical ma.n.u.scripts quite as valuable, and I take care of them, I a.s.sure you."

My eye caught the ancient window where I had seen the white, unshaven face of the old hunchback, and recollecting that there must be some mysterious connection between the two men, I tucked my precious parcel under my arm and rose to depart.

The prior knit his dark brows and crossed himself in silence.

"Then the signore refuses to heed me?" he asked in a tone of deep disappointment.

"I do," I answered quite decisively. "I have to catch my train back to Leghorn; therefore I will wish you _addio_."

"As you wish, as you wish," sighed the ponderous priest. Then placing his big hand upon my shoulder in a paternal manner, he added, "I know full well how strange my request must appear to you, my dear signore, but some day perhaps you will learn the reason. Recollect, however, that, whatever may occur, Bernardo Landini is a friend to whom you may come for counsel and advice. _Addio_, and may He protect you, guard you from misfortune, and prosper you. _Addio_."

I thanked him, and took the big, fat hand he offered.

Then, in silence, I looked into his good-humoured face and saw there a strange, indescribable expression of mingled dread and sympathy. But we parted; and, with old Teresa shuffling before me, I pa.s.sed through the house and out into the white sun glare of the open piazza, bearing with me the precious burden that was destined to have such a curious and remarkable influence upon my being and my life.

CHAPTER FOUR.

BY THE TIDELESS SEA.

When a man secures a bargain, be it in his commerce or in his hobbies, he always endeavours to secure a second opinion. As I hurried across to hug the shadow of the Palazzo Pandolfini I glanced at my watch, and found that I had still an hour and a half before the _treno lumaca_, or snail-train, as the Florentines, with sarcastic humour, term it, would start down the Arno valley for Leghorn. Therefore I decided to carry my prize to Signor Leo Olschki, who, as you know, is one of the most renowned dealers in ancient ma.n.u.scripts in the world, and whose shop is situated on the Lung Amo Acciajoli, close to the Ponte Vecchio. Many treasures of our British Museum have pa.s.sed through his hands, and among bibliophiles his name is a household word.

Fortunately I found him in: a short, fair-bearded, and exceedingly courteous man, who himself is a lover of books although a dealer in them. Behind those gla.s.s cases in his shop were some magnificent illuminated ma.n.u.scripts waiting to be bought by some millionaire collector or national museum, and all around from floor to ceiling were shelves full of the rarest books extant, some of the _incunabula_ being the only known copies existing.

I had made many purchases of him; therefore he took me into the room at the rear of the shop, and I displayed my bargain before his expert eyes.

In a moment he p.r.o.nounced it a genuine Arnoldus, a ma.n.u.script of exceeding rarity, and unique on account of several technical reasons with which it is useless to trouble those who read this curious record.

"Well, now, Signor Olschki, what would you consider approximately its worth?"

The great bibliophile stroked his beard slowly, at the same time turning over the evenly-written parchment folios.

"I suppose," he answered, after a little hesitation, "that you don't wish to sell it?"

"No. I tell you frankly that I've brought it here to show you and ask your opinion as to its genuineness."

"Genuine it is no doubt--a magnificent codex. If I had it here to sell I would not part with it under twenty-five thousand francs--a thousand pounds."

"A thousand pounds?" I echoed, for the price was far above what I had believed the ma.n.u.script to be worth.

"Rosenthal had one in his catalogue two years ago priced at sixteen thousand francs. I saw it when I was in Munich, and it was not nearly so good or well preserved as yours. Besides--this writing at the end: have you any idea what it is about?"

"Some family record," I answered. "The usual rambling statements regarding personal possessions, I expect."

"Of course," he answered. "In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries they habitually disfigured their books in this way, as you know. It was a great pity."

Having obtained the information I desired, I repacked my treasured tome while he brought out several precious volumes for my inspection, including a magnificent French _Psalteriolum seu preces pia c.u.m calendario_, with miniatures of the thirteenth century, which he had catalogued at four hundred and fifty pounds; and an Italian _Psalterium ad usum ord. S. Benedicti_, of two hundred leaves, written at Padua in 1428, that he had just sold to the National Museum at Berlin for fifteen thousand marks. In addition to being an expert and dealer, he was a true lover of books and ma.n.u.scripts; and, knowing that my pocket would not allow me to indulge in such treasures, he would often exhibit to me his best volumes and gossip about them as every bibliophile will gossip, handling them tenderly the while.

I caught my train and returned to the white villa facing the sea, outside Leghorn, which was my bachelor home, entirely satisfied with my visit to the Tuscan capital.

Three miles beyond the noisy seaport, close down where the clear waters of the Mediterranean lazily lapped the shingly beach at the little watering-place of Antignano, stood the square, sun-blanched house, with its wide balcony, and its green sun-shutters now open to the soft breeze that came across the water with the brilliant sundown. The faithful Nello, my old Tuscan man-servant, who was cook, housekeeper, and valet all in one, had been watching for my arrival; and as I rang at the big iron gate before my garden the old fellow came hurrying to admit me, with his pleasant bow and words of welcome on his lips:

"_Ben tornato, signore; ben tornato_."

I thanked him, carried my precious parcel to the study upstairs, and then, descending again, ate hurriedly the dinner he placed before me, anxious to examine my purchase.

My old servitor moved noiselessly in and out as I ate, fidgeting as though he wished to speak with me. But I was looking through my letters, and took but little notice of him. Italian servants are always a nuisance, being too loquacious and too ready to offer opinions or advice. I had suffered for years from a succession of unsatisfactory men, until my friend Fra Antonio of the Capuchin monastery brought old Nello to me. He had little in exterior appearance to recommend him, for his countenance was that of a Mephistopheles, and his attire neglected and shabby. He was an old soldier who had served Italy well in the days of Garibaldi, and had for years been engaged as steward on board one of the Prince line of steamers between Naples and New York.

Fra Antonio knew him well; therefore I took him on trial, and very quickly discovered that even though he had a wife and family living high up in one of the odorous back streets of Leghorn, to whom some of my provisions secretly found their way, he was a treasure of a servant.

Although old in years, he was not decrepit. His physical strength often amazed me, and after three years of service his devotion to me was often remarked by my friends. His only vice was smoking; and as he consumed the very rankest of tobacco, which clung about the house for days afterwards, I had set apart an arbour in the garden beneath the vines where he might poison the air whenever he wished.

Having dined, I ascended the wide marble staircase to my study, a big, high room, with frescoed ceiling, that looked out across the open sea.

Houses are large and cheap in Italy--mine was far too large for a lonely man like myself. There were half a dozen rooms into which I never entered, and I opened my drawing-room only when I had visitors, for I have a man's dislike for silk-covered furniture, mirrors, and standard lamps.

The long windows of my study were open, and the place was at that moment filled with the crimson afterglow. I stood upon the balcony and breathed the pure air from the sea, delightfully refreshing after the stifling heat of the day. Across, in the far distance, the islands of Corsica, Capraja, and Gorgona loomed purple against the blood-red sunset, while up from the beach the evening stillness was broken by a young fisherman playing his mandolin and singing in a fine musical voice the old love-song with that chorus which every one in Italy knows so well:

"Amarti soltanto Non basta al mio cor: Io voglio parlarti, Parlarti d'amor!"

Love! Ah! those words he sang brought back to me, an exile, all the bitterness of the past--all the bitterness of my own love. A lump arose in my throat when I recollected the might-have-been; but I crushed it down just as I had done a hundred times before, and re-entered the room, closing the windows to shut out the words of the song, and, sighing, seated myself at my writing-table to occupy myself with the book I had bought from the fat prior of San Sisto.

Old Nello--whose correct name was Lionello, although, as usual in Tuscany, everyone had called him Nello ever since his birth, sixty years ago--brought in my coffee and liqueur, setting it down at my elbow, and afterwards crossed to reopen the window.

"I closed it, Nello," I snapped. "Don't open it. There's too much confounded music outside."

"_Bene, signore_," he answered. "I forgot to say that the _signor console_ called at four o'clock."

"And what did the consul want?" I inquired.

"He wishes to see you tomorrow to luncheon," was the old fellow's response. "And, oh! I forgot--another man called to see the signore only a quarter of an hour before his return--the _gobbo_; Graniani."

"Graniani!" I echoed. "And what did he want, pray?"

"To sell you some more old rubbish, I suppose," was Nello's blunt reply, for he always looked upon my purchase of antiques as a terrible waste of good money. "He said he would return later."

I was very surprised at this. He had probably returned to Leghorn by an earlier train from Florence; but why he wished to see me after secretly spying upon my movements I was at a loss to know. One must, however, be clever to comprehend the ingenuity of the Italian, with all his diplomatic smiles and ingenious subtleties.

"If he comes I will see him," I responded; adding, "Do you know, Nello, I don't like that man."

"Ah, signore!" answered the old fellow, "you should never trust a hunchback."

"But when I asked you about him you knew nothing to his detriment. I look to you to make inquiries about such people."