This idyllic state of things might have lasted no one knows how long,
with Ippolita-Silvestro finding joy in unreasonable service, and Pilade
both ease and reason. Where either partner was so admirably suited it
might have been interesting to see what would have happened: whether
Ippolita would have betrayed herself or Pilade found her out. She was
over head and ears in love, but he was vastly well served; and there is
nothing like content for drugging the wits.
Things, however, fell out otherwise. The Jew, to begin with, fell out of
the grave to which he had been hastily recommended, and most insecurely
at that. He made himself felt in a variety of ways, was discovered by
the gardener in the Via di Vanzo, and stuck into a gutter in the Via Man
di Ferro. He was discovered again by some one who had either less to do
among Christians or more among Jews than the generality in Padua; and
this time he was carried to the Guard House. Being reported (reporting
himself, indeed) to the watch, he was reported on to the Capitano, by
him to the Prefect. The Prefect put the Sub-Prefect, who had met him
before, upon the look-out.
"The Most Serene Republic," said that authority, "cannot have unburied
Jews adrift in the city without finding out why the cemetery does not
hold them and why the gutter does. Inquire, Alessandro mio, inquire!
There was a wound in the man's ribs big enough for a nest of rats."
Alessandro bowed, but raised his fine eyebrows. He was at that hour most
happily unhappy over the late disappearance of his Glorious Lady. The
peerless beauty of Padua, the incomparable Ippolita, was gone. His
business was to devise dirges, monodies, laments, _descortz_ in the
Provençal manner; to cry "Heigho!" and "Well-a-day!" not "Ban!" or "Out,
haro!" To have these high frenzies, these straining states of the soul,
disturbed by the unclaimed remains of a resolving Jew, was a cruel test.
Yet, he reflected within himself, if his piercing love survived this
inquiry, it was founded on rock. And, indeed, Alessandro believed that
his heart was slowly turning to stone. He felt a curious chill there
when he got up in the morning, a dead weight, a mass to lift with every
choked beat. Perhaps the Jew would end what Ippolita had begun. If so,
well. But, ah, Ippolita, Ippolita bella, Ippolita crudel! Ah, ohimè!
Habit set him to work. He instructed his officers, he visited the gates,
questioned, took notes, inspected the gutter in the Via Man di Ferro,
even inspected the Jew. He went to the Via della Gatta, to the fatal
staircase; he bullied two or three landlords of two or three low
taverns; went to the stews, to the Ghetto; talked very loud, flourished
his sword, drove his men this way and that--in fine, did everything
that becomes a young official of spirit. The result of his labours was
that the Jew got posthumous fame out of all proportion to his merits.
The city fairly hummed with him; nobody talked of anything but the dead
Jew.
The goatherds, coming in by the Porta San Zuan a day later, were
shrewdly scrutinised by the Guard. They were numbered off, their names
taken; they were pulled about and flustered, asked questions,
contradicted before they had time to answer, and then called
prevaricators because they said nothing; they were, in fact, brought to
that state of breathless hurry in which a boy will say anything you
choose. This, as everybody knows, is the only way of getting at the
truth.
"There were more of you fellows the other night," said the Corporal of
the Guard. "Where are the rest of you? Come now, out with it; no lies
here!"
Petruccio, who had some sense, shammed to have none; but Andrea, less
happy, was a real fool. At this invitation he looked wise.
"Castracane is not here--true, but it wasn't Castracane," he muttered,
and found his neck in a vice.
"Who was it then, son of a pig? Who was it?"
"Mercy, mercy, my lord! I will tell the truth!" he whined as he twisted.
"Gesù morto! Tell anything else and I cut thy liver out, hound!" swore
the man who held him.
"Ah, Dio! I will! I will! It was Silvestro who killed the Jew!"
"You shall come with me to the Signor Sotto-Prefetto," said his holder.
"There's a ducat for me in this affair." The poor little company were
driven into the gatehouse and there pent; but Andrea went off between
two archers to be examined at greater length by Messer Alessandro, and
to give blubbering confirmation of the fact. All the unfortunate
particulars wrung out of Silvestro on his first night of Monte
Ortone--the stab under the ribs, the Jew's beard, his black blood, etc.,
etc.--were now screwed out of Andrea and went to prove his story.
"By the twenty-four ears of the Twelve Apostles," swore the Corporal,
"we've got him at last, Messere."
The Sub-Prefect felt that he must act upon this news. So much insistence
had been laid upon the affair by his chief, he dared not send his
lieutenant: he must go himself. This is what comes of neglecting
new-killed Jews! he might have thought. He little knew what was to come
of it.
Two mounted men, Andrea with a rope round his neck, himself very
splendidly booted and cuirassed, made up a sufficient cavalcade to fetch
home one snivelling goatherd. It was four by the time they were off,
seven before they were at Abano, eight when they reached the foot of
Monte Ortone and faced the deep chestnut woods in which that precipice
dips his flanks. But though it was getting dusk there were eyes sharp
enough on the top of the mountain to watch for what sharp ears had
heard--a most unaccustomed sound in those leafy solitudes--trotting
horses and jingling steel. Castracane from the summit saw it all; and
what is more, guessed at once what Andrea in a halter meant.