The Fool Errant Part 16

"Dearest lady!" I cried out, "what under Heaven am I to take? I adore Aurelia; I ask nothing better than leave to serve her, to kneel at her feet. If she is cruel to me, that is my pride. If she is kind, that is my humiliation. If she were to kill me, that would be my topmost reward."

"Very true indeed," she said. "And what if she were to do, as I should certainly do, ignore you altogether?"

"I should not cease to love her. I should have nothing to complain of,"

I said.

She tossed her hands up in despair. "If this is what conies of reading your Dante, I advise the 'Song of Solomon,'" she said. "I have never opened the 'Divine Comedy'--still less the 'Vita Nova'; but I consider the author a donkey, and am sure that was the opinion of his Donna Beatrice."

Count Giraldi, for some reason which I could not then comprehend, did not care to talk of my affair. He said nothing of Aurelia to me--and, so far as I could see, avoided the lady herself as much as the discussion of her position. He told me that he had been able to offer a judgeship of the Court of Ca.s.sation to Dr. Lanfranchi, and that he was in great hopes that he would take it. In that case he would, of course, reside in Florence; and "The rest," said he, "I shall leave to you."

I told him that, if Donna Aurelia was reconciled to her husband through his means, I should be eternally in his debt--and not less so though I should be in Padua and with the mountains between us.

He frowned, he was puzzled. "You leave us?" he said; "you abandon Donna Aurelia?" I told him that I could never cease to love her, but that love for a lady seemed to me an extremely bad reason for bringing about her ruin. I had gone so near to that already that nothing in the world would induce me to risk it again.

He affected to misunderstand me, in his scoffing way. "Admirable!

Admirable!" he cried. "I see that you have recovered your spirits."

"I hope my spirit has never failed me yet when I have had need of it," I said. "I shall thank G.o.d on my knees this night that my lady has been saved alive. No lover in the world has ever begged for his mistress's surrender so heartily as I shall pray for the return of mine to her husband's arms."

He clapped me on the back. "You are a master of paradox indeed," he said.

I a.s.sured him that I was serious. "Then," said he, "I admire while I do not follow you. I ask you once more, do you wish me to understand that you abandon Donna Aurelia? I have my reasons, mind you, and have no wish to take you unawares."

"I cannot abandon what I do not pursue," I replied. "I can only repeat that it would be a very curious proof of my love for a lady to urge her to perdition on my account."

He looked at me oddly, fixedly, for a long time. Then he said, "It is true that you are an Englishman. I had forgotten it." Suddenly he threw up his hands. "What a nation! What a lover!" His hand came down and rested upon my shoulders. "My friend," he said, "I am not so young as I was, but I do believe that I can teach you something." With that he left me.

Upon returning to my house, sadly out of countenance by the coldness of Aurelia, I was met by Virginia, who reminded me that Scipione had obtained leave of absence for the night in order to visit his wife. She seemed excited and unlike herself, very careful to lock and bolt the front door, and was continually at the window, looking over the Piazza.

Occupied as I was with my own troubles, I took no notice of her, and she, with the intelligence peculiar to her, saw how the land lay. She was not accustomed to pick her words with me--no Tuscan servants are-- and after a time of silence on my part and pretended business about the room on hers, she asked leave to speak to me, and without getting it, said, "Excuse me, Don Francis, for the liberty I take, but I see you very miserable, and guess the reason. You have had words with your mistress--and no wonder. Let me tell you that you have not the rudiments of love in you."

"Enough of that, Virginia," I said; but she would not oblige me.

"Let me tell your honour," said she, "that your s.e.x has had the monopoly of mine since this world was first put in order. If you want your Aurelia, as I told you before, you must take her. Your proposals towards her are very Christian, but I have noticed that it is not the Christians who have the prettiest women at their disposition, but the Turks, of whom there are more in the world than you think for. Your doctor, for example, was a Turk of the Turks; and what did your Aurelia do but grovel for his rod until you came along, and she said, 'Hey, here is one who is Turchissimo, the grandest of grand Turks, with a longer and sharper rod'? You had a great chance then, Don Francis--what under Heaven possessed you to break the rod in her presence, or rather to put it into her hands, saying, 'Behold, madam, the rod. It is yours, not mine; use it. I kneel to receive it'? Why, Lord of Mercies, is this madness? Let me remind you of what I told you at Prato not so long ago, that to pray at a lady's feet when you ought to have her in your arms is to prepare misery for the pair of you. The whole trouble about that precious fault of yours was--not that you committed it, Dio mio, but that you did not commit it again. There, sir, that is my opinion--make what you will of it."

I was too profoundly dejected to be angry as I ought to have been; I believe I made no reply. Emboldened, or piqued, by that, she came nearer and spoke with great pa.s.sion. "I'll tell you another thing," she said.

"I am in your way, and am quite aware of it. Donna Aurelia and all your fine friends believe that I am with you--as--as I am not. Well, now, Don Francis, you may be rid of me whenever you please. Fra Palamone is here, and the Marchese Semifonte also. I have seen them both--in this very Piazza--this afternoon. Once they were together, and once Palamone was here alone. That means something. Now, if you choose to hand me over to those two you will do a fine stroke of business. Your Count Giraldi has a fancy for Donna Aurelia, I can see that plainly. It suits him very well that I should be here. Get rid of me, and where is the count? Do you not see?"

I turned upon her then and reproved her. "You hurt yourself more than me, Virginia," I said, "by talking in this strain. Your word 'fancy' is a word of the market. Grooms FANCY a horse at the fair, housewives fancy a leg of lamb, leering ploughboys in a tavern FANCY the wench who cleans the pots. Gentlemen do not so use to beautiful and wise ladies. You use horrible words, my poor child, but non omnia possumus omnes."

She listened at first with lowering brows, and eyes which watched me guardedly. But as I went on, more scornfully than perhaps I thought, a change came over her. She let fall her arms, she drooped, became distressed. I saw a tear fall, but I believed that I did well to be angry.

"Be sure of this," I said sharply, "that I will suffer no word in disparagement of Donna Aurelia to be said in my presence. Your word 'fancy,' as applied to her, is horrible to me. You will take care not to repeat it. If you choose to whisper to your friends that I have a 'fancy' for you, or that the marchese has purchased Fra Palamone to indulge a similar 'fancy' on his account, I have nothing to say. No term of the sort is by this time too hard for me to bear; and the marchese, no doubt, can take care of himself. But Donna Aurelia, once and for all, is to be left out of your dictionary if you can only couple her name with a degrading qualification. Enough of that. I am about to return to Padua, and shall take you with me as far as Condoglia." This was indeed my intention, for I was hurt more than I cared to own by Donna Aurelia's reception of me, and yet knew all the time that I deserved nothing more.

Virginia listened with head hung down and clenched hands; when I had done she would have rushed headlong into speech--but she checked herself by biting her lip forcibly. She curtseyed to me, and went quickly out of the room. I spent a great part of the night in the destruction of papers, collection of objects which I wished to take with me, and in committing to the flame certain others which I now knew I must do without. Treasured memories of Aurelia went with them. She was still in my heart, and must ever remain there, patroness of my honest intention.

Daylight was creeping over the Piazza and putting my candles to shame before I discovered how tired I was. I blew them out, opened windows and shutters, and leaned into the sweet air. St. Mary's church stared hard, an unearthly black and white; the Piazza, perfectly empty, looked of enormous size. In it the dawn-wind blew up little spirals of dust; and it was so quiet, that when a sc.r.a.p of paper was whirled into the air, I heard the littering noise it made before it started on its flight. The sky was of exquisite purity, pale as milk, with a very faint flush of rose behind the church. In a few minutes the sun would be up from behind Vallombrosa, and all the glory of the Italian day would roll over Florence in a flood. I felt mortally and suddenly tired, too languid to face the richness of life to come, poor and famished as I must now be.

As I was turning from the window I saw the figures of two men come out of the sharp angle of St. Mary's and walk towards the town. Both were tall, both in cloaks; but one wore his hat and the other carried it. By this, as well as his drooping, deferential shoulders, I knew this latter to be the servant, the former his patron. Midway towards the Via de'

Benci they stopped, while he of the bare head explained at length, pointing this way and that with his hat, then counting on his fingers. I was now expert enough to be able to read an Italian conversation more quickly than I could gather it in talk. There was no doubt what was meant. "I shall go to such and such place, come back to such and such place; the carriage will stay here; in eight hours from now your lordship shall be satisfied." The man of position nodded his agreement, acknowledged with another nod a low bow from his inferior, and walked into Florence. As he entered the Via de' Benci I saw him plainly. It was the Marchese Semifonte. I saw his pale, wandering eyes, his moth-white face. So then I knew who was the other, standing out in the Piazza by himself, looking up towards my room.

CHAPTER XXVII

I SLAY A MAN

A sudden desire, whose origin I could not have defined, unless it sprang directly from alarm on her account, moved me away from the window towards the door of Virginia's room. I listened at it, but could hear nothing, so presently (fearing some wild intention of sacrifice on her part) I lifted the latch and looked in. No--she was there and asleep. I could see the dark ma.s.ses of her hair, hear her quick breathing, as impatient as a child's, and as innocent. Poor, faithful, ignorant, pa.s.sionate creature--had I wronged her? Did not her vehemence spring from loyalty? If she was mistaken, was it her fault? For what could she-- that unkempt companion of pigs and chicken, offspring of parents little higher in degree--what could she know of exalted love? What, indeed?

I lit a candle and went to look at her. I considered her carefully, lying there p.r.o.ne, her face turned sideways to the pillow, one bare arm flung over her eyes. She looked beautiful asleep, for her mouth had relaxed its look of proud reserve, and all her lines were softened. She looked very tired, very pure, very young.

"G.o.d of Nature!" thought I. "a.s.suredly Thou didst not shape this fine, true creature for some villain's idle appet.i.te. a.s.suredly also Thou didst put her in my way for her salvation--and, may be, for mine. I accept the sign. Do Thou, therefore, stand my friend." I shut the door softly and returned to my parlour. Very cautiously I drew near the window and peered out.

It was well that I took care. Fra Palamone was immediately underneath the window, grinning up, showing his long tooth, and picking at his beard. I do not think I ever saw such a glut of animal enjoyment in a man's face before. There was not the glimmer of a doubt what he intended. Semifonte had been told of his bondslave, and Palamone's hour of triumph was at hand. He would bring a warrant; no doubt he had it by him; he waited only for the police. I was laid by the heels.

A gust of anger, like a puff of hot wind, blew upon me and made my skin p.r.i.c.k me. All that I had endured at this rascal's hands swelled within; and now I remembered also that I, a gentleman by birth and training, had been the galled slave of a low ruffian, who now intended to sell into vice and infamy an honest girl whom I was pledged to protect. Well- being, rehabilitation, the respect of my own world had done their work.

He had to do with a man now, I told myself, not with a boy. I went to my bureau, took out, primed and c.o.c.ked my pistols, returned to the window and showed myself full to the frate.

"I wish you good morning, Fra Palamone," I said. His grinning face grinned awry, I promise you; but he recovered himself and made a brave show.

"Buon di, Ser Francesco, buon di. You are betimes, I see. Or is it that you are belated like my injured friend Semifonte? The smarting of his honour has kept him from his bed, let me tell you. But he has gone thither now, I hope, appeased."

"You intend to appease him, I believe, in eight hours from now," said I.

"The commissary will be at his chocolate at eight o'clock, at his office by eleven. It is now three."

"You are getting proficient in our tongue," he said, somewhat put out by my exact.i.tude.

"Oh, I am proficient in more ways than one," I told him. "You taught me at Prato how to draw teeth, and I showed you, in the same town, how claws could be cut. What did you think of the carcere? Well, now I will show you another accomplishment I have. Draw teeth, cut claws! I can drill holes also, Palamone."

"What the devil are you talking about, poet?" says he, always quick to be amused.

"Why, this," I said. "I will come down to you in the Piazza. We have it to ourselves." I held up my pistol by the nozzle. He saw the b.u.t.t. He said, "Oho! that's your work, is it? You are growing in grace, Don Francis; and I am not the little man to disoblige you. Many a score is on my slate to your name, and short scores make the longest friendships.

Come down, my son, and play a better game than faro."

By the time I got down he had taken off his cloak and came smiling towards me with both his hands held out. He was going to embrace me--I knew that very well. He would have kissed me on both cheeks, warmly and with sincerity; and then, before his arms were loosed from my neck, by a sudden surging of his l.u.s.t, he would have throttled me. All that was as clear in his looks as are the marks on this paper; but I could read my gentleman by now and was in no mood for his freakish humours. "Take warning," I said, "that if you move one step nearer to me I shoot you like a rabbit." I crooked my arm and levelled at him as I spoke. I suppose he saw truth in the mouth of the barrel, for he stopped, and looked at me, breathing hard.

"I admire you, Francis," he said. "I admire you more than ever before.

If I had kissed you as I intended, you would have known it."

"I do know it, d.a.m.n you!" I replied. "But you would have strangled me afterwards."

"Why, so I should," he confessed, "even as surely as I mean to shoot you now. But that is neither here nor there. I'm a wild, hungry old devil of a frate, but no man denies that I love a high spirit. I should have kissed you for that, and wrung the breath out of you afterwards for a starved, misbegotten sp.a.w.n of an English apothecary--as you are, my son.

Now hand me one of those pistols of yours, and say your paternoster while you are in the mind."

I handed him the weapon, telling him that I had loaded it myself overnight, but that if he wished to satisfy himself, I had both powder and ball at his service.

He looked somewhat offended. "Do you think, my lad, that I doubt you?"

he said. "I tell you that I love you. I would as soon doubt my mother, who is in Heaven, or believe my father, who is not."