While Angioletto and his Bellaroba dwelt in a paradise, none the less
glorious for being as sooty as the darkness which veiled it, the estate
of Captain Mosca, that hungry swordsman, was most unhappy. Divorced from
bed and board, cast off by his mistress, and not yet adopted by his
master, the poor man felt dimly about for supports, conscious that his
treadings had well-nigh slipped. At such a time the gentle eyes of
Bellaroba--nobody's enemy--courted him, like a beam of firelight on a
rain-scoured street, with a smiling invitation to share the peace within
doors. He hung uneasily about the gateways in these days, cold-elbowed
by the lackeys, ignored by the higher sort, unseen by the quality; he
burnished the lintels with his shoulder-blades, chewed many straws,
counted the flagstones, knew the hours by the signals of his stomach.
Then, if by hazard Bellaroba should come dancing by with a "Good
morning, Signor Capitano," a "_Come sta?_" or, prettier still, a bright
"_Sta bene?_" what wonder if the man of rage humbled himself before the
little Maid of Honour? What wonder, again, if she, out of the
overflowings of her happiness, should give him an alms?
No wonder at all, but pity there should be; for the Captain played an
unworthy part. I suppose his standard was not very high. I know he was
hungry; I know that nothing degrades a man so low as degradation--since
what he believes himself, that he is; but I find it hard to excuse him
for draining Bellaroba of her little secrets. Judas that he was, he took
her sop, and then sold her for thirty pieces of silver.
The draining of a well so limpid was the easiest thing in the world. She
was too absurdly happy, too triumphant altogether in the successful
craft of her brilliant little lord, to be continent. She dealt in
semi-transparent mystery with her manipulator from the moment he had won
her compassion. Her secret was none from the first, or it was like the
secret which a child will tell you, all the louder for being said in
your ear.
"My dear little friend," said the smirking Captain, when he had it,
"what you tell me there is as wine in my blood. I declare it sets me
singing tunes."
"Ah, but he is wonderful, my Angioletto," said she, and her eyes grew
larger for the thought of him.
"For a stripling of his inches he beats any cock that ever fought a
main," Mosca declared; "blood of Blood, but he does! What and if he did
square up to me--do I bear a grudge? Never, upon my body."
"You will not--you would not--ah, tell Olimpia of this, Signor
Capitano?" she hazarded. The Captain stroked one eye with the back of
his finger. He looked pityingly upon her with the other.
"Ah, my dear soul," he said, sighing, "could you think it of old
Mosca?"
Bellaroba hastened to disclaim. "No, no, no, I did not think it, Signor
Capitano. But for a minute I had a little fear. Olimpia never loved
Angioletto at all, and I don't think she loves me very much--now."
"To be plain with you, my lamb," said the Mosca, "she has no such vasty
love for me. I have not set foot within her door since a certain day you
may remember."
The girl shivered. "If I remember it! Ah, Madonna delle Grazie, she had
a devil that day!"
"She had seven, I'm sure of it," cried the Captain. "So I leave you to
judge how much of your story she may worm out of me."
He so beamed upon her, kissed her hands with such a lofty stoop, that
she felt ashamed of herself, and begged his pardon.
This brought the Captain to his knees. "By the God who made the Jews,"
he swore, "I leave not this raw flagstone till you have unsaid those
words!"
In the end, after a prodigious fuss, he drifted away down the corridor
and left her to go about her business.
But he drifted not very far. He felt himself full of affairs which were
as meat and drink to his spirit starved by neglect. It was so great a
thing to have a pretext for approaching Count Guarini. That young lord
had a way like a keen-edged knife. You might weave a whole vestment
about your errand, fold upon fold of ingenious surmise, argument _pro_,
argument _con_; Guarino Guarini would dart eyes upon you--slash! he had
rent your fabric and discovered you naked underneath, a liar ready for
the whip. Nor, to do him justice, did he ever fail to apply it. Truth
was, indeed, the only key to Guarino's chamber.
Truth, and timely truth, was what the Captain felt he had at last. With
it he braved the supercilious doorkeeper; with it he forced the fellow
to lift his intolerable eyelids.
"By the powers of darkness, my friend," he said, "it will be a bad day's
work for you if you deny me this time." So he won his admission and
faced his master.
"Now, Mosca, your lie," said the Count, with his cold-steel delivery.
Mosca did not stumble.
"Master," he said, "I can do you service."
"Do it then," whipped in the Count.
"I can tell your Excellence why he succeeds no better with La
Bellaroba."
"Ah!" The Count was suspicious, but interested.
"The little lady has a lover."
"Body of a dog!"
"Body of Angioletto, Excellence."
"Angioletto? That spaniel? How many more laps will he cradle in? Cut his
tongue out, my good fellow, and then come to me again."
"Excellence, may I speak?"
"I suppose so. Speak."
The Captain waited no further invitation, but told the whole story from
the beginning. Guarino thought upon it for a moment.
"He will come to-night?" he asked.
"Certain, Excellence."
"Then we have him. You have done well, Mosca--it was time, my friend,
for you are an expensive hack to keep at grass. Now listen. Take
Bellaroba away--command of the Contessa, of course. Take her to the
little house in the Borgo. Make all fast, and return here in time for
the steeple-jack. When you have him in the trap, run him through the
body, raise the devil's uproar, and denounce him to the patrol. Do you
understand me?"
"Perfectly, Excellence."
"Take my purse from the table and off with you then."
Captain Mosca bowed to the ground and backed out.