"Yes," he replied; "a very dubious popular tradition asserts that
Lucrezia Borgia's little house was here. If those walls could speak,
what horrors they could reveal to us! Nevertheless, my friend, when I
compare those times with our own I am seized with regrets. Under
Alexander VI. there were still Romans. Now there are none. Cæsar Borgia
was a monster; but he was a great man. He tried to turn the barbarians
out of Italy; and perhaps, if his father had lived, he might have
accomplished his great design. Oh! if only Heaven would send us a
tyrant like Borgia to deliver us from these human despots who are
degrading us!"
When Don Ottavio threw himself into the realms of politics, it was
impossible to stop him. We were at the Piazza del Popolo before his
panegyric in favour of enlightened despotism was concluded; but we were
a thousand miles from the subject of my Lucrezia.
One night, when I was very late in paying my respects to the Marquise,
she told me her son was unwell, and begged me to go up to his room. I
found him lying on his bed, still dressed, reading a French journal
which I had sent him that morning concealed between the leaves of a
volume of the Fathers. An edition of the Holy Fathers had for some time
served us for those communications which he had to conceal from the Abbé
and the Marquise. On the day when the _Courier de France_ appeared I
received a folio Father. I returned another, in which I slipped a
newspaper, lent me by the Ambassador's secretary. This gave the Marquise
an exalted notion of my piety; and also his director, who often wanted
to make me discuss theology with him.
When I had talked for some time with Don Ottavio, and had noticed that
he seemed so much upset that not even politics could attract his
attention, I recommended him to undress, and I bid him adieu. It was
cold, and I had no coat with me; Don Ottavio pressed me to take his, and
in accepting it I received a lesson in the difficult art of wearing a
cloak in the proper Roman fashion.
I left the Aldobrandi palace muffled up to the eyes. I had gone but few
steps on the pavement of the Square of Saint-Mark when a peasant, whom I
had noticed seated on a bench by the gate of the palace, came up to me
and held out a crumpled bit of paper.
"Read it, for the love of God!" he said, and quickly disappeared,
running at top speed.
I took the paper, and looked round for a light by which to read it. By
the light of a lamp which was burning before a Madonna I saw it was a
pencilled note, and written apparently in a trembling hand. I had much
difficulty in making out the following words:--
"Do not come to-night, or we are lost! All is known except your name.
Nothing can sever us.--Your LUCREZIA."
"Lucrezia!" I cried, "Lucrezia again! What devilish mystification
underlies all this? 'Do not come.' But, my good lady, what road must I
take to find you out?"
While I was cogitating over the contents of this note I mechanically
took the road to the Yiccolo di Madama Lucrezia, and soon found myself
in front of No. 13.
The street was deserted as usual, and only the sound of my footsteps
disturbed the profound silence which reigned all round. I stopped and
looked up at the well-known window. This time I was not mistaken: the
shutter was pushed back and the window was wide open.
I thought I saw a human shape standing out from the dark background of
the room.
"Lucrezia, is it you?" I said in a low voice.
No one answered, but I heard a clicking-noise, the cause of which I
could not at first understand.
"Lucrezia, are you there?" I repeated rather louder.
At the same instant I received a sharp blow in the chest, followed by
the sound of a report, and down I went on the pavement.
"Take that from the Signora Lucrezia!" cried out a hoarse voice, and the
shutter was noiselessly closed.
I soon staggered to my feet, and the first thing I did was to feel
myself all over, as I expected to find a big hole in my body. The cloak
and my coat were both pierced, but the ball had been blunted by the
folds of the cloth, and I had escaped with nothing worse than a nasty
bruise.
The idea that a second shot might not be long in coming made me drag
myself close up to the side of this inhospitable house, and I squeezed
close to the walls, so that I could not be seen.
I took myself off as quickly as I could, still panting, when a man whom
I had not noticed behind me took my arm and asked me anxiously if I were
hurt.
By the voice I recognised Don Ottavio. It was not the moment to question
him, however surprised I was to see him alone and in the street at that
time of night. I told him briefly that I had just been fired at from a
window, but that I was only grazed.
"It is a mistake!" he cried. "But I hear people coming. Can you walk? If
we are seen together I shall be lost; but I will not abandon you."
He took my arm and led me along at a rapid pace. We walked, or rather
ran, as fast as I could manage; but I was soon obliged to sit down on a
stump to get my breath.
Happily we were by that time not far from a large house where a ball was
being given; there were numbers of carriages in front of the door, and
Don Ottavio went to find one, then he put me inside and conducted me to
my hotel. After a good drink of water I felt quite restored and related
to him minutely all that had happened in front of that fatal house, from
the gift of the rose to that of the bullet.
He listened with his head bent down, half hidden behind one of his
hands. When I showed him the note that I had received, he seized it and
read it eagerly.
"It is a mistake! A wretched mistake!" he exclaimed again.
"You will admit, my dear fellow," I said to him, "that it is extremely
disagreeable for both of us. I might have been killed, and there are
about a dozen holes in your fine cloak. Good gracious! how jealous your
fellow-countrymen are!"
Don Ottavio shook hands with me, looking the picture of woe, and re-read
the note without answering.
"Do try," I said, "to offer me some explanation of this affair. Devil
take it if I can make anything of it!"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"At least tell me what I ought to do," I said; "to whom I should address
my grievances in this pious town of yours, in order to see justice done
to this gentleman who peppers passers-by without even asking them their
names. I confess I should love to see him hanged."
"Be very careful," he cried. "You do not know this country. Do not say a
word to anyone of what has happened, or you will expose yourself too
much."
"What shall I expose myself to? Damn it! I mean to have my revenge. If I
had offended the scoundrel there might be some excuse; but, because I
picked up a rose.... In all conscience, surely I did not deserve to be
shot."
"Let me act in the matter," said Don Ottavio; "perhaps I shall succeed
in clearing up the mystery. But I ask you as a special favour, as a
signal proof of your friendship for me, not to mention this to a single
soul. Will you promise me?"
He looked so sad as he entreated that I had not the heart to resist him,
and I promised him all he asked. He thanked me effusively, and, when he
had himself applied a compress of eau de Cologne to my chest, he shook
hands and bid me adieu.
"By the way," I asked him, as I opened the door to let him go out, "tell
me how it happened that you were there just in the nick of time to help
me."
"I heard the gunshot," he replied in an embarrassed tone, "and I came
out at once, fearing some mischance had happened to you."
He left me hastily, after he had again sworn me to secrecy.
In the morning a surgeon came to see me, sent no doubt by Don Ottavio.
He prescribed a poultice, but asked no questions about the cause that
had added violet marks to my white skin. People are very discreet in
Rome, and I desired to conform to the customs of the country.
Several days passed by without my being able to talk freely with Don
Ottavio. He was preoccupied and even more gloomy than usual; besides, he
seemed to try to avoid my questionings. During the rare moments that I
was alone with him he did not say a word about the strange inhabitants
of the Viccolo di Madama Lucrezia. The day fixed for the ceremony of his
ordination drew near, and I attributed his melancholy to his repugnance
to the profession he was being forced to adopt.
I prepared to leave Rome for Florence. When I announced my departure to
the Marquise Aldobrandi, Don Ottavio made some excuse to take me up to
his room. When we reached it he took both my hands in his--
"My dear friend," he said, "if you will not grant me the favour I am
going to ask you I shall certainly blow out my brains, for I see no
other way out of my difficulties. I have quite made up my mind never to
wear the wretched dress they want me to adopt. I want to escape out of
this country. I ask you to take me with you, and to let me pass as your
servant; it will only need one word added to your passport to facilitate
my flight."
At first I tried to turn him from his design by speaking of the grief it
would cause his mother; but, finding his resolution was firmly fixed, I
ended by promising to take him with me, and to have my passport altered
accordingly.
"That is not all," he said. "My departure still depends on the success
of an enterprise on which I am engaged. You must set out the day after
to-morrow; by then I may have succeeded, and then I shall be completely
at your service."
"Are you so foolish," I asked uneasily, "as to get yourself entangled in
some conspiracy?"
"No," he replied; "the matter is not quite of such grave importance as
the fate of my country, but grave enough for my life and happiness to
depend on the success of my undertaking. I cannot tell you any more now.
In a couple of days you shall know everything."
I had begun to get used to mysteries, so I resigned myself to yet
another. It was arranged that we should start at three o'clock in the
morning, and that we should not break our journey until we reached
Tuscan territory.
As I knew it would be useless to go to bed with such an early start in
prospect, I employed the last evening of my stay in Rome in paying calls
at all the houses where I had received hospitality. I went to take leave
of the Marquise, and for form's sake I shook hands ceremoniously with
her son. I felt his hand tremble in mine.
"At this moment my life is a game of pitch and toss," he whispered. "You
will find a letter at your hotel from me. If I am not with you
punctually at three o'clock, do not wait for me."
I was struck by the alteration in his features, but I attributed it to a
very natural emotion on his part at leaving his family possibly for
ever.
It was nearly one o'clock when I regained my lodgings. I felt a desire
to walk along the Viccolo di Madama Lucrezia once more. Something white
hung from the window which had been the scene of two such different
visions. I approached it cautiously, and saw that it was a knotted rope.
Was it an invitation to bid farewell to the Signora? It looked like it,
and the temptation was strong. I did not yield to it, however, but
recollected my promise to Don Ottavio; and also, it must be confessed,
the disagreeable reception I had brought on myself some days ago by an
act that was nothing like as bold.
I continued on my way slowly, for I was sorry to lose the last
opportunity of penetrating the mysteries of No. 13. I turned my head at
each step that I took, expecting every time to see some human being
climb up or descend the cord. Nothing appeared, and at length I got to
the far end of the lane, which led into the Corso.
"Farewell, Madam Lucrezia," I said, and I took off my hat to the house
which I could still see. "Find out someone else, I beg you, to help you
to avenge yourself on the jealous lover who keeps you imprisoned there."
It was striking two o'clock when I entered my hotel. A carriage loaded
with luggage stood waiting in the yard. One of the hotel waiters gave me
a letter; it was from Don Ottavio, and, as it looked a long one, I
thought I had better take it up to my room to read, so I asked the
waiter to light me upstairs.
"Monsieur," he said, "your servant, whom you told us was going to travel
with you...."
"Well? Has he come?"
"No, Monsieur...."
"He is at the inn, and will come with the horses."
"Monsieur, a lady came a little while ago and asked to speak to your
servant. She absolutely insisted on going up to your room, Monsieur, and
told me to tell your servant as soon as he came that Madam Lucrezia was
in your room."
"In my room!" I cried, clutching hold of the bannister rail.
"Yes, Monsieur; and it looks as though she were going too, for she gave
me a small box to put in the boot."
My heart beat loudly, and superstitious terror and curiosity possessed
me in turn. I went up the stairs step by step. When I reached the first
landing (my rooms were on the second floor), the waiter, who was in
front of me, tripped, and the candle which he held in his hand was
extinguished. He begged pardon profoundly, and went downstairs to
relight it. I still climbed on.
I had my hand on the key of my room, but I hesitated. What fresh vision
should I see? More than once, in the darkness, the story of the bleeding
nun had returned to me. Was I possessed by a demon, even as was Don
Alonso? The waiter seemed a terribly long time in coming.
I opened the door. Heaven have mercy on us! there was a light in my
bedroom. I rapidly crossed the little sitting-room which came first, and
a single glance sufficed to show me no one was in my bedroom; but
immediately I heard light steps behind me, and the rustle of skirts. I
believe my hair stood on end as I turned round suddenly.
A woman, dressed in white, her head covered with a black mantilla,
rushed to me with outstretched arms.
"Here you are at last, my beloved!" she cried, as she seized my hands.
Hers were as cold as ice, and her features were as pale as death. I
started back against the wall.
"Holy Mother! It is not he!... Oh, Monsieur, are you Don Ottavio's
friend?"
At that name all was made clear. In spite of her pallor the young lady
did not look like a ghost; she lowered her eyes, a thing ghosts never
do, and held her hands clasped in a modest attitude before her girdle,
which made me think that my friend Don Ottavio was not so much of a
politician as I had imagined. In short, it was high time to take
Lucrezia away; and, unfortunately, the role of confidant was the only
one deputed to me in this adventure.
A moment after Don Ottavio arrived, disguised. The horses came too; and
we set off. Lucrezia had no passport; but a woman, especially a pretty
one, raises no suspicions. One gendarme, however, raised difficulties. I
told him he was a hero, and had assuredly served under the great
Napoleon. He acknowledged the fact, and I offered him a portrait of that
great man on a golden coin, telling him that it was my habit to travel
with a lady friend to keep me company; and that, as I very frequently
changed them, I did not think it any use to put their names on my
passport.
"This one," I added, "leaves me at the next town. I am told that I
shall find many others there who could take her place."
"You would do wrong to change her," said the gendarme, as he
respectfully shut the carriage door.
To tell you the truth, Madam, this rascal of a Don Ottavio had entered
upon terms of friendship with a lovely young lady. She was the sister of
a certain wealthy planter named Vanozzi, who earned a bad name for
himself for being very stingy, and carrying on illicit trade. Don
Ottavio knew very well that, even if his family had not intended him for
the Church, they would never have consented to let him marry a girl so
much lower in social position than himself.
Love is ingenious. The Abbé Negroni's pupil succeeded in holding a
secret correspondence with his beloved. Every night he escaped from the
Aldobrandi palace, and, as he had not dared to scale the walls of
Vanozzi's house, the two lovers arranged to meet in Madam Lucrezia's
house, which was protected by its ill-repute. A little door hidden by a
fig tree communicated between the two gardens. They were young and in
love, and Lucrezia and Ottavio did not complain of the paucity of
furnishing, which consisted, as I think I have already pointed out, of
an old leather-covered armchair.
One night, when waiting for Don Ottavio, Lucrezia mistook me for him,
and made me the present which I received in his place. There was
certainly some resemblance between Don Ottavio's figure and appearance
and my own, and some scandal-mongers, who knew my father in Rome,
maintained that there were reasons for this likeness. In course of time
the accursed brother discovered their meetings; but his threats did not
make Lucrezia reveal her seducer's name. We know how he took vengeance
and how I was to pay their debt. It is needless to tell you how the two
lovers took steps respectfully to set themselves free.
To conclude. We all three arrived at Florence. Don Ottavio married
Lucrezia, and they left immediately for Paris. My father gave him as
warm a welcome as I had received at the hands of the Marquise. He took
upon him to bring about a reconciliation, and after a good deal of
trouble he succeeded. The Marquis Aldobrandi was opportunely taken with
Roman fever and died; so Ottavio inherited his title and fortune, and I
became god-father to his firstborn.
_27th April_, 1846.