The Fool Errant Part 18

Virginia, white and shaking, stood in my presence. "It is you they want, Francis, I have heard all. You must go at once--at once."

"What were you doing with the sbirri?" I asked her.

"They made love to me, all three of them; but that dark man meant it, and the others not. It is very fortunate--it will give us time, which we need. Your Count Giraldi is in the country, as I told you he would be.

There is no warrant. Come, we will be off. It will be perfectly safe while this confusion lasts. Dress yourself, put on your cloak, take your sword and pistol and come."

"You, too, must be dressed, child."

"I?" said she. "No, I am better as I am. I can be of more use." But she had a wiser thought, it appears; for by the time I was ready, she looked modestly enough.

The plot, if plot it had been, had failed. I got out of the house unnoticed and unfollowed, Virginia with me in a hood. There were soldiers now in the Piazza, keeping back the crowd. The dead man lay there still, and his a.s.sailant wore shackles. Boys were racing in and out among the people singing the news which everybody knew. "Martirio d'un pio frate! a.s.sa.s.sino per amore! Ohe! Ohe!"

We went down the Via Belle Donne and crossed a small Piazza, taking our way, said Virginia, to the Ghetto, where she thought we might be perfectly safe for the rest of the day. There were so many hunted men there, said she, that in the confusion some must needs get away. The curtains were drawn over the barbers' shops, all doors were shut--it was the hour of repose. A few beggars sat in converse on the steps of San Michele, many were asleep in the shade, there were no pa.s.sengers, no sbirri to be seen until we reached the Via Campidoglio. Here Virginia drew me back into the shadow of a great house. "That way is stopped.

They are watching the market. Come, we will try something else." I admired her resourceful audacity, and followed whither she chose to lead.

We ran up the Via Vecchietta without disturbance or alarm, and reached the church of San Lorenzo. We entered the cloister, which breathed the full summer, late as it was in the year. Bees hummed about the tree; the glossy leaves of the great magnolia seemed to radiate heat and glitter; above us the sky was of almost midsummer whiteness, and I could see the heat-waves flicker above the dome. "You shall hide in the Sagrestia to- night, if you will be ruled by me," Virginia said. "To-morrow morning before first Ma.s.s we will gain the Ghetto. I know a woman there who will keep us. My word, Don Francis, you little guess how near the Bargello you have been!"

I think she was eager for my praises, poor soul, by the shy light in her eyes--a kind of preparation for the blushes with which she always met any warmth in my tone. If I gave her none it was because she had displeased me by cheapening herself to the sbirri. But I was soon ashamed of myself.

I asked her, "When did you find out that the sbirri were waiting for me?"

"The second hour of the day, it was," she replied, "when I went out to buy milk for your chocolate. There were but two of them then. They asked me if you were in the house. I said no. They said that you had killed a frate, and I, that I was sure he had deserved it. One of them laughed and said that had nothing to do with it; he had been sent there to be killed. The other one, that black-browed fellow who stabbed his comrade, said nothing at all, but just looked at me hard. He never took his eyes away once, so I guessed how his barque was steering, and you saw what wind I blew."

"I saw it, Virginia."

"And disapproved! Per esempio, you disapproved!" Tears filled her eyes.

She shrugged her shoulders, pitying herself. "Povera Virginia!" she said.

This made me ashamed enough to say, "Dear Virginia, I know that you acted for my safety."

"Yes, I did! Yes, I did! But I would do worse. Ah, you little know how bad I would make myself. And you reproach me--" She was on the edge of a frenzy, but checked herself. "What does it matter now that you are safe?

We will stop in the Sagrestia all night. They will never look for you there."

"But, my dear," said I, "we have three hours to wait before the Sagrestia is opened. Do you ask me to stay here, in this cloister, for that time?"

She looked embarra.s.sed, for the truth is that she would have asked me if I had not spoken of it. She had forgotten that I was not of her nation.

"No, no," she said hastily, "that is ridiculous. How could I ask you to do such a thing as that? The question!"

"I am glad of it," I returned, "because there I can't oblige you. I must break my fast, so must you. By the time we have done, the Sagrestia may be ready for us. Observe also that in spending the night in that place I am obliging you, for I don't at all see why we should do it."

She searched my face with those grey eyes of hers, hunting my raillery out. The thing above all which she dreaded was to be laughed at. She never laughed herself, except bitterly, in anger, and hated the indulgence. Suspecting still what she failed to find, she fell in with my desire to eat, though she must have thought it preposterous, and me a madman to have it. She could never understand my attachment to custom, and never think of more than one thing at a time. Just now she was engaged in hiding me from justice--to succeed in which task she would have sat still for an eternity and gone without a thousand meals. What an outcry she must have had ready for me--and how she must have loved her hard taskmaster! She did violence to all her feelings, fell in with my desire at once.

"Naturally, Don Francis, you must eat. Naturally, I must eat. Naturally, by the time we have finished, the Sagrestia will be open. Very good, Don Francis. But as to spending the night in the Sagrestia, shall I be impertinent if I tell you that by this time there is not a locanda in Florence that has not got a full and exact description of you and me, and not a landlord among them that would not hand you over for two baiocchi?"

"How do you know that, my dear?" I asked.

She stretched out her arms. "How do I know? Hear him! How do I know that my mother is a woman and my father a man? Dio buono! Have I lived in my sty with my eyes shut? And herded with thieves, and taken them for marchesi? But you shall be fed, Don Francis. Leave that to me. Do you stay here quietly, I will get you some food."

I said that I must come with her, whereupon she began to cry bitterly, to call me heartless and cruel, to pity herself in the most deplorable terms. She nursed and fondled herself by name. "Povera Virginia! Poor little Virginia, that works so hard for her tyrant and gives herself no rest. But he is cruel--more cruel than if he beat her--stabs her heart with cold words, rends it with sharp fingers. Poor little Virginia, poor little outcast from the Madonna!"

I have not a heart of stone: I confess that her distress made me dreadfully ashamed. This good soul, whose only happiness lay in mine, who had trusted her all in all to me without flinching, whose life was now at my disposal as her honour had been for so long. Unworthy of the name of man had I been if I could wound her so lightly. I put my arm round her waist and drew her towards me with tenderness. I took her hands from her face and implored her forgiveness. I promised to offend her no more, to stay in the cloister until she came, to sleep in the Sagrestia, to do all her behests. In answer, the sun came out in her face. She listened to me with soft rapture, beautiful to see, and before I had done, the dear, generous creature s.n.a.t.c.hed at my hand, and, kneeling, kissed it with a frenzy of devotion which brought the tears to my eyes. Immediately afterwards she was gone on her errand of mercy, leaving me in a glow of truly honest grat.i.tude, which was to have its speedy fruit in an act which, though it fell short of my intention, was to prove for my ultimate content.

CHAPTER XXIX

I TAKE SANCTUARY

Past fatigues and present danger did not disturb my happy meditations. I paced the cloister of San Lorenzo without regard for them, absorbed in considering my future conduct, and the relationship in which I stood to my little world of circ.u.mstance. It was necessary that I should make plans for myself and for Virginia, and I made and rejected many without modifying them one and all, as well I might have done, by allowing for the part which the gallows, the gaol or the hulks might play in them. As my habit has always been, I endeavoured to judge the case upon its merits, and to adjust myself to it, not so much according to my desires as to my duties towards it. Here--to remind the reader--are the three factors of my problem.

1. I had, of my own act, withdrawn myself from Aurelia's society, having done her all the reparation I could, and obtained her forgiveness.

2. I had const.i.tuted myself Virginia's champion against the Marchese Semifonte.

3. I had killed Fra Palamone.

Now, to take these in order, it was plainly my duty to quit the side of the fair Aurelia. Even though she were and were to remain for me the shining orb of my firmament, in whose beam I must for ever walk--I must not see her again. I had obtained from her all that I could hope for, and given her quite as much as, if not more than, she desired. To stay by her now would be to compromise her; I could not be blind to the conviction of all my acquaintance, which saw in me that horrible spectacle, the lover of a married woman, accepted as such by her lawful master. Robbery! of which I could never be capable. No more of Aurelia, then, no more. She must depart like a dream before the stern face of the morrow--or I must depart. Happy, perhaps, for her, whatever it may have been for me, that she herself had taken the first step when she turned her back upon me in pique.

I disregarded Palamone's b.l.o.o.d.y end. I had executed a criminal, a procurer for hire, a vile thing unworthy to live; but what was I to do with Virginia? There was a young woman of capacity, merit and beauty, whose honour I had taken in charge. So far I had maintained it, and there were two ways in which I could continue so to do. In return, she had given me devotion of the most singular kind--for it is extreme devotion that a girl should bear obloquy and humiliation for the sake of a man who has defended her. There was no doubt also but that I was master of her heart; no doubt at all but that she would give herself to me without thought if I lifted a finger. The conviction of such a truth is a dangerous possession for a man, and I don't pretend that I was insensible to it, any more than I was to her definite and personal charm. He is divine, not human, who remains cold and unbiased with the knowledge that here, at his disposal, is a lovely and ardent female, longing to be in his arms. Now, I had withdrawn her from her home, defied a claimant to her, and killed a man who sought her ruin, and what was I going to do? I saw that there were two courses open; but that unless it were possible to do as the rest of her acquaintance had tried to do, there was but one. Was I to kill Palamone in order that I might ruin her myself? Good Heavens! my name was Strelley of Upcote. There was one course, and I must take that.

I did not love Virginia; I admit it. I knew that she was beautiful, and knew that she was mine for the asking, but a truce to casuistry! In her safety was involved my own honour, to her defence must go my own life. I admired, I respected, I was grateful, I wished her well. I determined to marry her, and the sooner the better. Having come to this conclusion, I knew myself well enough to believe that no power in the world could shake me from it.

When, therefore, the good girl returned to me, white and out of breath, with sausages, bread, and a flask of wine under her ap.r.o.n, I welcomed her as befitted one in the position in which I now designed her to stand. I took off my hat to her and relieved her of her burden. She noticed the courtesy; the colour flew back to her cheeks, but I observed that her breath was not thereby restored.

She became very voluble--to hide her confusion; for by ordinary she was sparing of speech (or did she guess the lover in the master? Who can tell?). The wine, she told me, was easy got, and the bread. "The sausage," she went on--"ah, it would have been as easy to give you one of my legs for sausages. I went first to Il Torto's in the Borgo; it was shut for mezzodi. I begin tapping--the wife opens. 'Chi e?' says she; and I see a sbirro in the shop, eating polenta. 'Niente, niente,' I say, and run. That told me that the babbo was away, and that his wife had a lover in the constabulary. Remember it, Don Francis, we may have need of her--who knows? Shall I confess to you that I stole your sausage?"

"Confess what you please, my dear," said I, "I shall shrive you." Her eyes were dewy, but she lowered them too soon.

"It was a sin," she said, "but I do not intend to eat any sausage, so I shall be forgiven. But you see that the spies are all abroad. Now, I have just thought of something, Don Francis. We cannot remain in this cloister--at least, I cannot. If a canon awoke before his time--and it needs but a fly to settle on a nose to cause it--and if he poke his head out of his door, the first thing he will do will be to look at me--"

"Naturally, Virginia," I said. "It is what I am doing."

"I am well aware of it," said Virginia, and showed that she spoke the truth; "but the second thing he will do will be to look at you. I don't think we can afford ourselves this honour, so let us go. There is a way from here into the library, thence into the church, and from there to the Sagrestia Nuova, if we could only find it, whither n.o.body goes but a grand duke--and he only when he is dead. Let us go by that--will you not come? It is true that I am rather frightened by now."

I got up at once. "Come, then, child, let us hunt out our way." We went upstairs.

The long library was quite empty. We went to the further end on tiptoe.

There were three doors at the bottom in three bays, surmounted by busts.

We chose for the right hand and turned the handle. It gave into a narrow pa.s.sage, lined with bookcases and dimly lighted. "I think this will be the way," Virginia said, and took the key out of the door and locked it on the inside. We followed the pa.s.sage to a flight of stone steps, descended these in their curving course round a pillar, and came upon a little arched doorway. Virginia opened it. It led directly into the church of San Lorenzo. We saw the hanging lamps before the altars, and a boy in a short surplice asleep in a confessional.

"Wait here, wait here," says Virginia. "I will make him lead us into the Sagrestia."

I saw her go, lightly as a hare in the gra.s.s, towards the boy, and wondered. She stooped over him where he was huddled anyhow, as children are when they are asleep, and whispered in his ear. "Carino, carino, do you sleep? I am talking to you, carino, do you hear me? Say yes."

"Si, si," the boy murmured, and sighed and struggled.