Everything was quiet, not a leaf stirred, so, taking the body under the
arms, I dragged it out into the light. The silver moonbeam that fell
across the white face of the corpse gave it a ghastly appearance,
revealing the features of a well-dressed man of middle age, totally
unknown to me.
Closer examination disclosed that a murder had been committed. The man
had been shot in the back.
Searching about the spot, I was not long before I discovered the weapon
with which the crime had evidently been committed. It was a
five-chambered plated revolver, one cartridge of which had been
discharged. As I inspected it in the cold, bright light, eager to find
a clue to the murderer, my eyes fell upon two words engraved on the
barrel.
Breathlessly I deciphered them, and then stood dumb with awe and dismay.
_The name engraved upon it was my own_!
In a moment a terrible thought flashed across me. Was not my presence
there, and the discovery of a revolver bearing my name, direct
circumstantial evidence against me? Thus recognising my danger, I put
the weapon in my pocket, cast a final glance at the dead man's face,
and, creeping noiselessly away under the high hedge of rhododendron and
jessamine, I at length gained the road and returned to the noisy city.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the Bourse, in the Galleria Mazzini, in the streets, in the _cafes_,
everywhere, one topic only was discussed next day. A startling tragedy
had been enacted, for, according to the newspapers, Colonel Rossano had
been discovered mysteriously murdered in the gardens of the Villa
Pallanzeno.
No motive for the assassination could be assigned, for the colonel, who
had only arrived on the previous day from Milan, was a most popular and
distinguished officer. The police, it was stated, had received
instructions from the Ministry of the Interior at Rome to spare no
effort to discover the assassin, and the King himself had offered a
reward of ten thousand lire for any information which would lead to the
arrest of the murderer.
During the hour of the siesta, I had stretched myself in an old armchair
in the studio, smoking, when Pietro burst into the room, greeting me
with that buoyancy habitual to him. I asked him if he had heard of the
tragedy, and gave him the papers to read. Having eagerly scanned them,
he expressed surprise that the shot was not heard.
"I suppose the Contessa does not know anything of it," I said. "The
body was not discovered until after midnight, whereas she left by the
mail for Turin at ten o'clock."
"And what was the result of your interview?" he asked, seating himself
on the edge of the table, and carelessly swinging his legs.
"She has gone, but she will return," I replied briefly.
"And she still loves you--eh?"
"Yes; you guess correctly," I laughed.
"So goes the world! How happy you should be--you, the accepted lover of
the girl-widow of a millionaire! One of these days you'll marry, and
then _per Bacco_! you'll throw over your old companion, the humble
fiddler of the Politeama."
His jesting words reminded me of the reappearance of the Count, that
Santina was not free, and that our love was illicit.
"No," I said sorrowfully; "I may love, but I shall never marry her."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Three years passed, long, weary years, during which I had waited
patiently for Santina's return. _Ahi sorte avversa_!
The villa remained in just the same condition, but none of the servants
knew the whereabouts of their mistress, and it had been whispered that
the police, in order to learn something of events on the night of the
murder, had vainly endeavoured to trace her.
With me things went badly. True, the statue of the Countess, that I had
christened "Folly," had gained a medal at the International Exhibition
at Turin, but my later works had proved ignominious failures. I thought
nothing of Art, only of the woman who had entranced me, and my hand had
somehow lost its cunning. The carved Amida had brought me ill-fortune,
it seemed, for I was now at the end of my resources.
Pietro had long ago accepted a lucrative post in the orchestra at La
Scala, at Milan, and I lived alone and friendless in the old palazzo.
One evening, when Genoa was in _festa_, I had starved all day, and in
desperation I at last resolved to change the bank-note Santina had sent
me. Putting on my hat, I descended the stairs into the gaily-decked
street, and pushed my way through the laughing crowd in the Via
Nouvissima, at last turning into the narrow Via degli Orefici in search
of a money-changer's. A group of children were playing under a dark,
ancient archway. How happy they seemed, with their bright chubby faces,
like the carved cupids and cherubs in San Lorenzo!
All the world was gay, and I alone was desolate. The little office I
entered was kept by a hook-nosed Jew, who, when I asked for gold in
exchange for the limp piece of paper, took it and examined it carefully
through his hornrimmed spectacles. Taking a book from a shelf, he
consulted it, started, and then looked sharply up at me.
"This note," he said, "does not belong to you."
"It does," I answered indignantly.
"Can you tell me whence you obtained it?"
"It is no business of yours!" I cried.
"_Corpo di Bacco_, signore! It were best for you to answer such a
simple and necessary question with at least a semblance of civility."
"Why should I, when you roundly accuse me of possessing stolen property?
What grounds have you for saying the note does not belong to me?"
"I did but speak the truth. This note is not rightfully yours."
"You waste my time. Give me back the note; I will change it elsewhere."
"Signore, I _dare not_ return you the note."
"And why, pray?" I asked, suppressing my angry indignation.
"_Avvertite_! It was stolen."
"Stolen?" I cried.
"Yes. Stolen from the man who was murdered at the Villa Pallanzeno
three years ago. There is a big reward. I must inform the police."
I was dumbfounded. The note Santina had sent me had been filched from a
murdered man? Impossible!
The old Jew was hobbling round the counter, intending to give the alarm,
so, seeing my danger, I snatched the note from him, and ran away through
many intricate byways until I reached my studio. Cramming a number of
things I valued into my pockets, I tied up a few other necessaries in a
handkerchief, and then sped downstairs again and out into the open
country.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
In the east, the great arc of the sky, the distant mountains and the
plains, were rose-coloured with the flush of dawn, for it was the hour
when night and morning met and parted. My soul was mad with baffled
hope, and I was mentally and physically ill.
The softening influences of the glorious morning awoke no responsive
echoes in my troubled brain, for I had walked the whole night through,
and now, worn out, footsore, hungry, and altogether hopeless, I was
resting beside a little wayside shrine of Our Lady of Good Counsels, and
in the hazy distance could see the gold cross, red roofs, and the
gleaming white towers of Florence.
For many months I had been a homeless wanderer, a mere tramp, picking up
a living as best as I could, but always moving from place to place over
the smiling plains of Lombardy, or among the peaceful Tuscan vineyards,
fearing that the police would pounce upon me and charge me with a crime
of which I was innocent.
I had tramped to Milan in search of Pietro, but he had left--gone to
Naples, they thought.
I think you, in English, have something like our old Tuscan saying, "_Le
sciagure e le alle-grezze non vengono mai sole_."
Ah me! There is bitter truth in it. Misfortunes always come in
overwhelming numbers, and those who are not favourites of the jade might
as well be in their graves.
The more I reflected upon the strange tragedy, the more puzzling was the
mystery.
Where was Santina? If she were innocent, why should she hide herself?
For two hours I tramped on over the dusty road to the city of Dante and
Michael Angelo, at last entering the Porte Romano; and then wandering
down the long street and around the Palazzo Pitti, I crossed the Vecchio
Bridge, and passed on towards the great Duomo, with Brunelleschi's
wondrous dome.
I had taken a drink of water at the old Renaissance fountain in the
Piazza del Mercato, and was strolling quietly on, gazing in wonderment
at the grand old Gothic cathedral, when suddenly a heavy hand was laid
upon my shoulder, and a stern voice said--
"Gasparo Corazzini, I arrest you."
Almost before I was aware of it, two gendarmes, who had accompanied a
little, shabbily-dressed police agent, seized me.
"For what crime do you lay your hands upon me?" I cried indignantly.
"You are accused of the murder of Colonel Rossano in Genoa," the
detective replied.
My heart sank within me. I was spellbound by the appalling charge.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The gloomy old Assize Court at Genoa was crowded; the afternoon heat was
intense; the ray of sunlight slanting through the high window lit up the
time-dimmed picture of Gesu, and fell upon the great gold crucifix that
hung over the head of the grave-looking President. My trial had excited
the greatest interest, for the police had, with extraordinary ingenuity,
pieced together a truly wonderful chain of circumstantial evidence
against me; and it was remarkable how ready people were to swear my life
away. I stood like one in a dream, for I had at last become convinced
of Santina's treachery, and, having relinquished hope, had grown callous
to everything.
I had no defence, for I had admitted being at the Villa on the night in
question, and in the revolver found upon me remained some of the
cartridges, the bullets of which exactly corresponded with that which
caused the colonel's death.
The Prosecutor had concluded, and without heeding the words the
President was addressing to me, I stood with bent head and eyes fixed
upon the floor. They might do their worst; they could not heap upon me
greater agony than I had already suffered.
Suddenly there was a stir in court, as a servant in the Pallanzeno
livery pushed his way forward and handed a large envelope to the judge.
There were two legal-looking papers inside, and the President, having
read them through twice, handed them to his two colleagues with an
expression of profound surprise. A witness was called, and gabbled a
statement in English which I could not understand. Then the judges
retired to an ante-room, and remained absent for nearly half an hour.
Presently they returned and reseated themselves. A moment later, with
startling suddenness, the words fell upon my ears--
"The prisoner, Gasparo Corazzini, is free. The murderer has confessed."
Confessed? Was it Santina or her husband who had admitted their guilt?
From my guards I endeavoured to ascertain the name of the assassin. But
I was told that the President had decided for the present to keep it
secret, and as the Contessa's servant had disappeared, I turned and left
the court.
Walking through the white sunlit streets to the Via Balbi, I mounted the
stairs to my studio. The dust of months was over everything, but some
one had been there during my absence.
The image of the Contessa still stood where I had left it, but its
hideous appearance startled me. An arm had been broken off, and the
face had been disfigured, battered beyond recognition with a heavy iron
mallet that lay upon the floor.
An enemy had maliciously wrecked my masterpiece.
Sinking into a chair, I covered my face with my hands in blank despair.
My reputation as a sculptor had gone, my skill with the chisel had
departed. My kind master, the great Verga, had died, and I, lonely,
forsaken, and forgotten, had no means of livelihood left to me.
How long I sat plunged in grim, melancholy thoughts I know not. When I
returned to consciousness, the bright moon was shining full into the
room, and the broken statue looked pale and ghostly in the deep shadow.
I had risen, and was standing before the window with my head sunk on my
breast, when suddenly I felt a warm arm slowly entwine itself about my
neck. Starting with a cry of surprise, I turned, and found to my
amazement that Santina stood beside me.
"Gasparo!" she whispered softly, drawing my head down and kissing my
lips.
"Santina!" I exclaimed joyfully. "You have at last returned?"
"Yes," she replied. "I--I told you we should meet again, and I have
kept my promise."
She was very handsomely dressed in an evening gown of pale blue, her
velvet cape was edged with sable, and, unloosened, displayed around her
throat a diamond necklet that shone in the bright moonbeams a narrow
line of white brilliancy.
For a few moments we stood in silence, clasped in each other's arms.
Then I commenced to question her, and she told me how she had been
living far away in London, adding--
"But I have come back to you, Gasparo. You still love me, do you not?"
"Love you?" I cried. "I would give half the years of my life if you
were mine."
"I am yours," she said, gazing earnestly into my eyes.
"But--but your husband?" I exclaimed.
She shrugged her shoulders carelessly and laughed. Her eyes travelled
round the studio, until they fell upon the mutilated statue.
"Ah!" she cried hoarsely; "your enemy's handiwork. Then that was part
of the revenge!"
"What revenge? Tell me about it!"
"A--a shadow came between us, Gasparo," she sighed. "You had a rival,
although you were unaware of it, and I was afraid to tell you, because I
feared you would act desperately and create a scene. The man pestered
me with his attentions, but I loved you, and turned a deaf ear to him.
On the evening of the tragedy he came to me surreptitiously, and, with
passionate declarations, begged me to accept him, but I refused, and
left the room, vowing to leave Italy, never to return. I knew not what
to do, for I was afraid to confess I loved you, as I saw that a _fracas_
and scandal would ensue, but at length I came to the conclusion that it
would be best for both of us if we parted at least for a time, therefore
I wrote you that cruel letter, in order to make you think my flirtation
was at an end."
"Yes; yes," I said, eagerly drinking in every word.
"The conspiracy against us both was one of extraordinary cunning and
daring. Your rival was, I have since ascertained, a French spy. On the
evening in question, Colonel Rossano, who was an old friend of my
father's, arrived from Milan, having been entrusted with some plans of
fortifications and other important and secret documents to take to the
Ministry of War at Rome. The colonel intended to remain the night with
us, but your rival, by some means, knew that the documents were in his
possession, and resolved to secure them. Therefore he secreted himself,
and when the officer entered the garden, he shot him, afterwards taking
from his pockets the plans, together with a large sum in bank-notes. It
was after committing this terrible deed that he sought me; and then,
when I refused him, he plotted a desperate vengeance that he intended
should fall upon us both. With villainous cunning he had already caused
your name to be engraved on the revolver with which he took the
colonel's life, and placed the weapon beside the body. Afterwards he
proceeded to carry out the other portion of the foul plot that was so
nearly successful."
"What was that?" I asked, amazed at her story.
"He followed my servant Guiseppe, bribed him to give him the letter I
addressed to you, and, having read its contents, enclosed one of the
bank-notes he had stolen from the murdered man. He intended that when
the charge of assassination was made against you owing to the revolver,
corroborative evidence would be furnished by the stolen note in your
possession. Towards me he acted differently. You still have that
little souvenir I gave you, I suppose? Strike a light, and I will show
you something."
I obeyed, and lit one of the candles, afterwards taking from my pocket
the quaint little carved Amida, which I had kept carefully wrapped in a
piece of chamois leather.
"See! Look at this!" she said, as she screwed off the head of the idol.
And then, holding out my hand, she emptied into my palm a piece of thin
paper screwed up into the size of a nut. I spread it out, and found it
was a plan of the submarine mines in Genoa harbour!
"I had only a few days previously showed him this little image, and had
quite innocently told him that it was hollow, and the head could be
removed," she continued. "Therefore, during my absence from the room,
he must have secreted the paper there for two reasons: firstly, to get
rid of it for a time; and secondly, so that he could, if so desired,
throw a terrible suspicion upon me as your friend and alleged
accomplice."
"But how do you know all this?" I inquired.
"For some time after I left Italy I neither saw nor heard of him. When,
however, I was told of the tragedy, I admit that I felt convinced that
the colonel had fallen by your hand, for I knew you were desperate that
night, and knew also that you frequently carried a revolver. It was the
horrible suspicion of your guilt that prevented me from returning or
communicating with you. Nevertheless, a year ago, while I was living in
London, this man, who had followed me, recommenced his hateful
attentions. His actions throughout were _belle parole e cattivi fatti_.
Apparently he refrained from denouncing you because he believed he
would eventually prevail upon me to marry him. For six months he
shadowed me, and I humoured him until at last I again lost sight of him.
One night, while still in London, I received a telegram stating that he
had met with an accident, that he was dying, and that he must see me. I
went, and found him in a wretched, squalid garret in a gloomy quarter
they call Saffron Hill. It was there, before he died, that he made, in
the presence of a notary I called in, the confession which I sent to the
President of the Assize Court to-day. In an English newspaper I read
the grave charge made against you, and hastened here without losing a
moment."
"You have not explained," I said quickly. "You have not told me the
name of my unknown rival."
"He was your friend. _His name was Pietro Barolini_!"
"Pietro!" I gasped. "Why, I considered him my warmest friend. But
what of your husband? Where is he?"
"Ah, I deceived you, Gasparo!" she said, laying her hand upon my arm.
"I knew you would allow me to go in peace if you believed my husband
still lived, therefore I practised a ruse upon you. The man from whom
you hid was my father, to whose exertions the elucidation of the mystery
is in a great measure due. He has returned with me to the Villa, and I
will introduce you to him this evening."
"Then the Count is not living?"
"No, Gasparo," Santina whispered softly. "He died in Buenos Ayres, as
you are aware, six months after our marriage. There is no barrier now
between us; the grim shadow that darkened my life has passed away, and
we are free--free to love each other, and to marry."