The Pit Town Coronet Volume I Part 10

He rose to go and shook hands with her in his usual hearty manner. By no outward sign did Mrs. Dodd manifest her indignation, but when the squire had left the room she sank into her chair and burst into tears.

"The serpent!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed as she pressed her handkerchief to her streaming eyes.

Not one word did Mrs. Dodd utter for many days to her husband of her momentous conversation with the squire. In a statuesque att.i.tude, she sat, like Marius on the ruins of Carthage, or Patience on a monument smiling at grief.

And then she thought with horror of the confidence she had made to old Mrs. Wurzel and the brewer's daughter, not an hour before. _On a tire le vin, il faut payer la bouteille._

CHAPTER X.

ROME.--THE BALLO PAPAYANI.

The party had been in Rome three weeks, they had all thoroughly enjoyed themselves, and Georgie Haggard had made no objection whatever to her husband's putting in an appearance at the Ballo Papayani. The great Carnival ball had been for years one of the sights of Rome. Although the red English guide-book merely discreetly remarked that "the scene at Papayani's at Carnival time should on no account be missed," Baedeker and the other foreign mentors devoted whole pages to glowing descriptions of these more than Olympian revels.

An Italian, as a rule, in Carnival time is like an English boy on the fifth of November--he is not happy unless he dresses up. In this country, we are apt to think when any one dresses himself up, that he is disguising a fool. In Italy, on the contrary, all the world is continually occupied in masquerading in some way or other. Costume b.a.l.l.s, in all cla.s.ses of society, are favourite entertainments.

Historical masques, though not got up with the elaborate attention to minute detail which is bestowed upon them by the thoughtful beer-drinking and sausage-devouring German, are yet of very frequent occurrence. Every city, every town, nay every hamlet, in Italy, has its long and glorious history, often written in letters of blood, always deeply engraven on the hearts of the people. The mementoes of a bygone time are cherished by the Italians. Consequently, dressing up in Italy is universal, and even the man who dines upon a penny roll and a quarter of a melon, can afford five centessimi, or one halfpenny, for a paper nose, and it costs him nothing to flour his face and hair.

Let us take an instance. Ivrea is a little place, a small garrison town, celebrated for its coolness and its cheapness; thither the Piedmontese flock in crowds when the heat of the city is no longer bearable. There is nothing remarkable about the place; it has its opera house, at which ambitious young ladies, princ.i.p.ally English and Americans, pupils of the Conservatorio at Milan, make their _debuts_. Happy garrison, happy sojourners in the little Italian town; they are provided with a succession of interesting, though perhaps undeveloped, prima donnas, who make their little successes or their tiny fiascoes at this nursery of Art. But Ivrea, like all the other Italian towns, has its history, its glorious legend, which is never allowed to die, and the Carnival of Ivrea is the time chosen for representing the story and commemorating the tragic history of the local heroine. In the Middle Ages, Ivrea had its feudal lord. The Count Arduino, as may be fancied from his name, was a bold, bad man; he possessed the terrible _Droit de Seigneur_, which he rigorously exacted. The belle of the village was a miller's daughter:

"We never see such maidens now, Such mill-wheels turn not round."

She was married. No sooner was the ceremony over than the wicked count ordered her to present herself at the castle. The command of the feudal lord could not be disobeyed. Bride and bridegroom, accompanied by the weeping crowd, proceeded to the castle gate. Count Arduino advanced to meet her with a smile, unarmed and unattended. He was but claiming his rights. As he stepped forward to salute her, she presented her cheek to him, and suddenly stabbed him dead at her feet. The mob of relatives and friends wrecked and burned the castle, ma.s.sacring the retainers to a man. The brave young bride was safely escorted home, where the wedding feast was triumphantly celebrated, and the miller's daughter lived to be the happy mother of many children, and died at a good old age. From that day the _Droit de Seigneur_ ceased to exist in Ivrea.

This is the origin of the yearly ceremony at the little Italian town. A pretty boy of seven or eight years of age is chosen by each parish. The boys are dressed in fancy costumes and mounted on horses, escorted by the general of the Carnival, who wears a black uniform, and accompanied by his officers, who are clothed in scarlet. During the Carnival the town is under the rule of the general and his officers. The party are received in state by the mayor, the bishop, and the personages of Ivrea.

A poetical address is given at each notable's house. On the second day, the children, some eight or ten in number (they are called _Abba_), on horseback, and escorted by the general and his officers, head a procession, which pa.s.ses through the town, and which is joined by all the carriages of the place, filled with ladies in gala costume and men in fancy dresses. Everybody dresses up. Then are thrown from windows and balconies, oranges, flowers, and real _confetti_, not the chalk _coriandoli_ of Milan, but good eatable sugar-plums. In the evening the little theatre is illuminated regardless of expense, a fabulous sum being expended on extra lamps. Between the acts the Carnival hymn is sung by the whole strength of the company, the _Abba_ children, the general and his officers, who appear upon the stage; and it is a _sine qua non_ that every one should wear the republican red cap, even the _Abba_ children and the lady artists. The more enthusiastic among the audience, male and female, also sport the red cap of liberty. Secreted in the omnibus box has been seated the prettiest girl in the town. The _Mugnaia_, as she is called, is carefully arrayed in the costume of the bygone time when the tragedy took place, and now she is escorted by the general of the Carnival to the footlights, a drum and fife band preceding her, the Carnival hymn is sung, vociferously encored and joined in by the audience. The _Mugnaia_ now returns to the box in which she sits in royal state, the observed of all observers. Of course, she is got up regardless of expense. She, too, wears the little red cap, and, as has been said, has been chosen for her good looks. The opera is concluded, a masked ball follows.

Next day, at seven a.m., in every parish the bride who was last married proceeds in procession to the Piazza of that parish, and with a mallet she indicates the place for the annual _scarlo_, or bonfire. She is accompanied by her husband. The object of these _scarli_ is to manifest the popular exultation at the annihilation of feudal tyranny. The pair now return home, preceded by a drum and fife band, and escorted by an enthusiastic crowd singing songs of liberty at the full pitch of their voices.

At two o'clock, the general of the Carnival opens the public ball with the _Mugnaia_. This is held in the Piazza Carlo Alberto, which is the largest square in the town. The orchestra is placed in the centre of the square. Then there is a procession headed by the _Mugnaia_, seated on a scarlet velvet throne, and borne in a gilded car; then comes a military band, then the carriages filled with shouting masqueraders and ladies in elaborate toilettes; flowers, sweets, and oranges, are thrown with amazing prodigality as before. In the evening, again the opera, again the masquerade. Next day the procession takes place again, and there is a public ball in the square till ten, then the _Abba_ of each parish solemnly applies the light to his appointed _scarlo_. When the last _scarlo_ is burned out a funeral march is played and all disperse to their homes. It may be mentioned that the _scarlo_ is not literally a bonfire in our sense of the word, but what we should call a Venetian mast, bound with furze and inflammable material, decorated with gaudy ribbons and surmounted by a flag.

It is not likely that the inhabitants of Ivrea, who thus commemorate her heroic deed, will ever forget their _Mugnaia_.

But we have wandered away from Papayani's, where the door was surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd of the poorer among the gay pleasure-seekers of the Carnival. It was a rather trying thing for the arrivals as they stepped from their carriages and pa.s.sed into the building through a double line of sarcastic or appreciative critics six deep. A quiet brougham draws up at the entrance, the door is flung open by a ragged masker, with an enormous paper nose, in a tattered _pierrot_ costume. As he opens the door he bows to the ground with an exaggerated humility; and Haggard, in his faultless evening dress, steps out, with a frown upon his face, his big form towering above the puny Italian crowd as though he were a king of men in a horde of pigmies. He hands a lady out; her pale blue silk domino hides her effectually from the inquisitive gaze of the crowd. Her tiny gloved hand clutches Haggard's arm as he hurries her into the building, which is one blaze of light, and from which issue sounds of gay music and of the rhythmic tramp of thousands of dancing feet. The lady is discreetly masked, but though her personal ident.i.ty is thoroughly disguised, she does not escape a fire of compliment from the appreciative ragam.u.f.fins on the pavement. "_Ah! che ragazza bellisima._" "_Che figlia incomparabile._" And as an ant.i.thesis to this flowery Italian praise, said one British 'Arry to another British 'Arry in the crowd, "Did you see her ankles, George? Do you know who that lady is?" Certainly the white satin dress of the Watteau costume that the lady whom Haggard was escorting wore, disclosed an undeniable instep, and 'Arry's favourable criticism was not undeserved.

"I know one thing," said his friend, "there was no humbug in the single stone brilliants she wore as ear-rings." The pair disappeared among the glittering and gaily-dressed crowd that thronged the portico.

M. Barbiche, formerly of the French Emba.s.sy to the Court of St. James's, his eyegla.s.s tightly screwed into one of his wicked little eyes, was lolling against one of the pillars of the _foyer_. He was criticizing the arrivals to Lord Spunyarn, who yawned by his side, evidently thinking the whole affair a bore.

"Our Haggard, my friend, is what you call an old fox, I fear. Who was the charming girl in the blue domino he was dancing with? I failed to recognize her. She is no _habitue_ here. He intrigues me, this Haggard of ours."

"Pooh!" replied the philosophic lord, as he drove an unusually large volume of cigarette smoke through both nostrils; "some milliner's apprentice probably, got up regardless of expense."

"No, my friend, the shepherdess was too well _chausee_ for that; besides, her mask hides her face too well. Your milliner would not be so _farouche_ as to hide her face, unless, _ma foi_, she had perchance a bad complexion; but our Haggard is too great a connoisseur for that.

However, he shall introduce me to this mystery, and we shall see."

"I wouldn't try if I were you, Barbiche."

"And why not, my friend? Why not, if you please? Is this Haggard, this English Adonis of yours, with the manners of a prize-fighter, is he to _croquer_ all to himself all the pretty girls of Rome? Is it not enough that he shall have the prettiest wife in Rome? No, I wrong that angel, the most beautiful and the most virtuous of her s.e.x. Is it not enough that this man shall every morning sit down to breakfast with the lovely Mees Lucy? Ah! when I think of Mees Lucy, I remember myself once more, and I think of those happy days in the Quartier Latin, before my uncle does me the honour to die, and I embark myself in the diplomatic career.

I study your language in your d.i.c.kens, in your Thackeray; at last I attain proficiency. You see it for yourself, no Englishman ever shall suspect me, when we shall converse, of being other than a Briton. It is the same thing with the charming Mees Lucy. I, a Frenchman, feel my heart beat in sympathy with hers; she is to me a _compatriote_. We speak to each other as I used to speak to Cascadette in those old happy times.

_Vlan ca y est._ This Haggard of yours he shall have his most beautiful wife, her most lovely cousin, but what shall he want with this little shepherdess in the blue domino. Bah," said the indignant man as he stamps his foot and settles himself down into his enormous collar, "I say he _shall_ introduce me. Think you, my friend, that I fear this 'la-out?' No, I am of the first force, my Shirtings, at the _savate_."

"What's that?" said Lord Spunyarn stolidly.

"My friend, _nous autres_, we do not box like you, but we use the _savate_. Behold, then, what is the _savate_." And here M. Barbiche suddenly threw himself into the att.i.tude of an enraged and aggressive monkey. "A ruffian, he strike me, P-r-r-r-r-r," and here M. Barbiche sprang suddenly high in air, and with one adroit and well-directed kick knocked off the hat of the astonished Spunyarn.

In the tohu bohu at Papayani's this singular action of M. Barbiche excited not the slightest surprise; he simply received a vociferous round of applause from the bystanders in his immediate neighbourhood.

Excited by the success of his achievement, Barbiche for the moment forgot the Emba.s.sy, the Duc de la Houspignolle, and the proprieties; he had been wound up by Papayani's music, and by more than one gla.s.s of Papayani's champagne. The Frenchman became for the moment once more Le pet.i.t Furibon, the darling of the Closerie de Lilas, the champion of the Quartier Latin, the Elisha upon whose worthy shoulders had descended the mantle of the prophet, the vanished Caouchouc.

At this moment the strains of Arditi's immortal waltz, "Il Bacio,"

resounded through the place. The head of M. Barbiche kept time to the music, and he regarded the dancers with a scrutinizing gaze; his eye evidently sought Haggard and the mysterious shepherdess. As the ring of maskers which surrounded the s.p.a.ce set apart for the dancers thinned, as numerous couples joined in the waltz, the watchful Frenchman was rewarded. "_La voila, mon ami_," he said, for Barbiche, when excited, forgot the English of which he was so proud.

Directly opposite Lord Spunyarn and his French friend stood Haggard and his shepherdess. She nestled at his side, clinging to his arm and gazing up into his eyes. The hood of the pale blue silk domino was now thrown back, disclosing a magnificent head of powdered hair; the complexion of the lady's neck and shoulders was dazzling, and evidently natural; her rounded arms had more of the Venus than the Juno about them; her figure, as she gazed up into Haggard's face, was seen to be perfection.

The little foot beat time to the music of the waltz. But a black silk mask with a heavy fall of lace hid every feature, save a rounded chin and a pair of magnificent eyes, which seemed to be pleading to Haggard, and the sh.e.l.l-like ears in which blazed the diamond solitaires which had attracted the attention of the British "'Arry" in the street.

Haggard's face was suddenly lit up with pleasure, his arm slipped round the little waist, the left hand of the shepherdess was confidingly placed on the shoulder of her champion; they started and joined the numerous pairs whirling round to the music of "Il Bacio." Soon the couple excited attention, of which both seemed to be wholly unaware.

Haggard, though he was a married man, was still a good dancer, and even here in a foreign ball-room, where, as a rule, the dancing Englishman is an object of ridicule, he distinguished himself. For Haggard, unlike most of the dancers present (at all events those of the male s.e.x), was perfectly sober; not that the proverbially moderate Italians had exceeded in the use of their light but notoriously nasty wines, but an Italian easily becomes intoxicated, exalted, exhilarated, beside himself under the combined influences of a Carnival ball, the lights, the perfumes, the music, the dancing, and above all the eyes of his _inamorata_. Can we blame Petrarch for being cheerful when Laura smiles?

But no Italian present was in so exalted a state as M. Barbiche of the French Emba.s.sy, once so well known as Le pet.i.t Furibon, of the Latin Quarter.

As the pairs gradually dropped out, Haggard and his partner became the cynosure of every eye. In vain did Pasquino whirl his Contadina with the ruddled cheeks, varying his saltatory gymnastics with an occasional scream; in vain did young Mr. Simon E. Brown, that very rough diamond from New York city, who had come to Europe for polish, and was undergoing the process (in the costume of one of the Wise Men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl) at the hands of the Signorina Esperanza, of the Scala, or any of the motley crew, attempt to attract the public gaze: every eye was riveted with admiration on the shepherdess, that is to say, every male eye; the female organs of vision turned from her in disgust, to admire or criticize her partner, and in the end to feel dissatisfied with their own peculiar victims. For if the masked shepherdess turned the heads of most of those present, Haggard was undeniably the best-looking man in the vast arena. But even the strength of a muscular English dancing man must give way at length to the power of an Italian waltz played fast at past midnight. As for his partner, I believe she could have gone on for ever, but she had perceived that they were attracting attention; she discreetly drew the hood of her pale blue silk domino over her head and hid herself in the recesses of that mysterious garment. As ill luck would have it, the pair pulled up close to the excited Furibon.

"_Ah, mon vieux_," cried the Frenchman, advancing with extended hands, "you have rejoiced our eyes. _Ah, gredin_," whispered Furibon, as he indiscreetly poked his friend in the ribs.

"Ta ta, old man, I must be off," replied Haggard with a frown, as the shepherdess clung in evident trepidation to his arm. "For G.o.d's sake, Shirtings, take him away, or there'll be a row," muttered Haggard to his friend below his breath, his white teeth showing beneath his black moustache in a menacing manner.

The crowd of revellers was thick around them. Barbiche was, as we know, a gentleman, but our ideas of courtesy are not a Frenchman's, and, as has been said before, he had ceased to be Mr. Barbiche the _viveur_, for the moment he was Furibon, the daring Furibon of former days.

"_Saperlotte_," he hissed, and his out-stretched hand touched the pale blue domino on the shoulder.

The domino shrank as to avoid him.

Crash!

With one cruel but well-aimed blow Haggard smote the Frenchman in the mouth, and down he went among the feet of the crowd of indignant maskers.

"Look to him, Spunyarn," cried Haggard, as he hustled his way through the crowd, and in an instant disappeared, bearing in his arms the fainting form of the shepherdess.

_Vae victis_, alas for poor Furibon, where was his boasted skill as a kicker? Why had he not sprung high in air and delivered his unexpected a.s.sault? We must say of the _savate_ respectfully, as our Gallic neighbours said of the Balaclava charge, _c'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre_. Seated on the floor, the unfortunate Frenchman presented a piteous appearance, as he shed mingled tears of pain and rage, tore his hair, and wiped his cut lip. "_Insolente birbone!_"

"_Bestia!_" "_Cane!_" Such were the cries of the dancers on seeing the blow struck, but they were levelled not so much at the a.s.sailant as at his victim. In the eyes of the bystanders, Haggard was evidently looked upon as the protector of beauty in distress. But as Valour bore off fainting Beauty, and made his suddenly triumphant exit, everybody's attention was directed to the unhappy Furibon. A gentleman tearing his hair, in the eyes of Italians, is a common, interesting, and dignified object. The cause of this performance is usually romantic, time and place generally appropriate, but Italians do not tear their hair at masked b.a.l.l.s. As everywhere else, a foreigner in distress in Rome is looked upon as a grotesque object, and poor Barbiche was no exception to the rule. At first he sat and wept, now he sat and swore, but all the time he tore hard at his hair. Haggard had disappeared with the celerity of a harlequin who jumps through a trap.

Lord Spunyarn was somewhat bewildered; he, as a boxer, as an amateur though unsuccessful athlete, knew what a good knock-down blow was; he had seen them delivered, with varying degrees of energy, force, and viciousness, but never in all his lordship's experience till now had he seen a master-stroke which combined all the above qualities in the superlative degree. At last he got poor Furibon upon his legs. The Frenchman carefully felt his front teeth, doubtful if they were still there, then he ceased to swear and to mutter in his own tongue; he ceased to be Furibon, he became once more the correct M. Barbiche of the French Emba.s.sy.

"Milor, you have seen the insult. Monsieur Haggard takes advantage of his physique, of his brutal boxing skill, to maim me, perhaps, _Mon Dieu_, for life, and to render me an object of contempt and ridicule to these grimacing apes," here he glowered at the laughing crowd.

"But, my dear boy, it was your own fault, you know; what did you want to lay hands on the domino for?"

"In that there is nothing, Lord Spunyarn. Black dominoes, pink dominoes, blue dominoes. Bah! they are but public property, milor, but I shall teach this Don Quixote a lesson, this chivalrous protector of dominoes.