THE PASSING GUN
The particular genius who designed the grounds of the Palace at Corbo
was a nephew of the Estratos--a youth of an artistic but somewhat weak
intellect and bizarre tastes.
This was in the latter part of the seventeenth century, a period when a
wave of decadence had swept over the Court, a time of powder and
patches and red-heeled shoes--of mincing courtiers and doubtful
gallantries.
Large, level lawns, and flower-bordered walks lay immediately beneath
the terrace which ran the length of the building at the back, and
beyond and at the sides, the royal horticulturist, with an eye,
doubtless, to the doings of the times, had devised cunning shrubberies
and fascinating little arbours, the narrow paths twisting here and
winding there, a very maze of foliage, paths which had doubtless
hampered the movements of many an outraged husband.
Here and there a weather-beaten, moss-patched statue or terminal peeped
above the greenery, a nymph with broken features, or a faun, the leer
still lingering on his discoloured face. One could imagine him again
pricking his goat ears to catch an echo of the sounds he had listened
to in those quiet retreats in the days that were gone--the whispered
vows, the crunch of high-heeled shoes on the gravel--the oaths and the
clash of rapiers.
But Edward's party had more important affairs to hold their attention
than the imagining of long-dead romances. They had found without
difficulty the entrance into the grounds, and now were making a
cautious way over the weed-grown paths.
They had not drawn nearer to the Palace, but had threaded their way
through the outer portions of the shrubberies, keeping near to the
boundary wall, and coming, after some ten minutes' walk, upon the
cottage of the friendly gardener.
The duke stopped as the patch of yellow light from its windows came
into view, then quietly led his companions to a stone bench that lay
almost hidden in rhododendrons. Here, after seeing the two ladies made
comfortable, he left them. The moon had risen and the tangled foliage
of the garden was all grey-green and shadow, through which the broken
statuary rose, here and there, like pale ghosts of an evil past,
looking down on the intruders within their domain of memories.
Armand was away some time, and when he returned he had with him a tall,
broad-shouldered man wearing the livery of the keepers of the royal
gardens. He stood awkwardly before them, changing from one foot to the
other and twisting his green cap nervously in his huge fingers. The
duke laid a hand affectionately on the big shoulder.
"These ladies, Pia, and this gentleman, are those of whom we have been
speaking." Then turning to Edward, he went on, "I have told this good
fellow everything, and although he seems dazed at the whole affair, he
is with us heart and soul, as I knew he would be. He has no love for
Dasso--and he knows of others who will help us."
At the mention of Dasso's name, the man had looked up, a mask of
malignant hate, and the duke, noting it, had given a little smile of
satisfaction.
The cottage to which the party was conducted was a roomy building, but
of a single storey. Pia's wife at once took charge of Anna and Galva,
who were both now showing some signs of weariness. The good woman,
noticing this, parted a curtain at the further end of the room, and
taking a lamp from a bracket, led the ladies to her bedchamber. The
men, left alone, were not slow to take the opportunity of discussing
ways and means.
Their plan of action was a simple one. They were to lie hidden where
they were until the king was in extremis. Pia, whose daughter was
employed as a still-room maid at the Palace, would give them
information as to the progress of the royal patient. In the mean time
Pia would see that the little staircase which Anna Paluda had used to
such good purpose fifteen years before, was free of access, and that
the door which gave on to the grounds, and which had fallen into
disuse, was cleared of the tangled creepers which he said now all but
covered it.
At the first alarm that Enrico's death was imminent, they would make
all speed to this door, and hurry up to the room at the top of the
stair, the little chamber behind the corridor wall, where ten or twelve
people could wait in moderate comfort. Here they would be perfectly
secure, and even in the event of the report of the king's condition
proving false, they could but retire. At the sound of the first gun
announcing the death they would proceed to the king's ante-chamber,
there to wait the advent of Dasso. At the least they would be twenty
minutes before him.
The ladies did not re-appear but sent their "good-nights" to the men by
the old dame, and the duke and Edward were conducted by their host to a
barn which lay some ten yards to the rear of the cottage.
Here Pia left them with a stable lantern, telling them that there was
no need for them to keep watch. One or other of his sons would be
about all night on guard, and nothing could happen without them being
made aware of it.
Nothing loath, after their long walk, the two men took off their outer
garments, and rolling themselves in the horse blankets provided by Pia,
threw themselves upon the pile of yellow straw which littered one end
of the barn, and in a few moments they had fallen asleep.
It was bright day when they awoke to find that Pia had entered the
barn, bringing with him a jug of steaming coffee and some toasted
rolls, to which comforting fare the men devoted themselves whilst they
were making their toilet. This completed as well as the lack of razors
and other necessaries permitted, they followed their host across the
cobbled yard to the great kitchen and living-room of the cottage.
This was a cheerful apartment, whose lime-washed walls, pierced here
and there by little red-curtained windows, reflected the glow of the
blazing pine logs in the open fire-place. The ceiling was high and
pointed, being the entire height of the house, and from the black
rafters hung bulky hams and bunches of sweet-smelling herbs. At one
end a flight of rough oak steps led up to a little railed gallery that
projected out over the fire-place, making a cosy settle, which on
winter evenings would accommodate the whole family. In this little
gallery were two or three rush-seated chairs, and in a niche in the
wall a rather crudely coloured figure of the Virgin.
The morning sunlight shone through the tiny leaded panes of the
windows, and glinted on the glass and earthenware laid out on the bare
table, spotless as any tablecloth, and made play among the pewter and
brass on the great dresser. The cleanliness and order of Dame Pia's
room made one imagine oneself in the kitchen of some strict housewife
on the Zuyder Zee.
Anna and Galva, refreshed by their night's rest, were in the highest of
spirits, which Edward's suggestion that they should not go outside the
house hardly lessened. It was so cosy in this sweet-smelling kitchen,
and for the moment memories of Cornwall came back to them. They
occupied their time well, insisting on giving a helping hand at the
housework, much to the embarrassment of the good mistress of the house;
and Galva could hardly repress a smile at the expression and the low
bow of reverence with which the old woman handed each utensil she had
washed to her to wipe.
But the work of one cottage in the hands of three capable women is soon
done, and time began to hang heavily on Galva's hands, until, noticing
Dame Pia preparing a stew, nothing would satisfy her but that she
should try her hand, with what materials were available, at a Cornish
pasty. With sleeves rolled up above her dimpled elbows the princess
set about her task, the housewife standing dutifully by, her apron
twisted between nervous fingers. It was a good pasty, and no doubt the
disinclination of the Pia family to eat heartily of it is explained by
a little glass case on the dresser which to this day is shown to all
visitors, and which shelters the remains of the queen's culinary effort.
Pia went about his work as usual, and Edward mooned rather unhappily
about the big room. To the duke this enforced imprisonment was no
hardship, and he would sit in the little window-seat watching Galva as
she flitted gracefully here and there in the performance of her tasks.
No news came to them from the Palace, and as it grew dusk and the
lights of Corbo shone in the sky, Edward could stand the inactivity no
longer, but disguising his appearance as well as might be, made his way
through the Sebastin Park down to the town, choosing the streets that
lay near the cathedral in his search for information.
There was, however, nothing to be learnt from the loungers who were
taking their coffee and cognac at the little tables of the cafes, and
Edward was soon anxious to get back to the cosy comfort of the
gardener's cottage. As the chimes in the belfry above him told the
hour of nine he rose from the corner of the obscure brasserie where he
had been taking his refreshment, and went out into the Cathedral Square.
The air was chilly, and buttoning his coat closely round him he strode
out briskly in the direction of the park. He had left the town and
entered the Sebastin Gates when he was aware of something unusual in
the air. From the direction of the boulevards came the subdued murmur
of voices, that intense mumble that speaks of popular excitement.
Above the confused sound Edward could make out the shouts of boys
crying their papers, and he remembered that it was at nine o'clock that
the _Imparcial_ made its appearance.
For a moment he stood in indecision. To return to the town meant the
loss of half an hour--and surely that rustle of excitement denoted that
King Enrico was dead or dying. What a fool he had been to leave the
cottage. He might have thought that the absence of news during the day
was but the lull before the end, and now here he was out of the game,
the success of which he had been playing so hard for.
Pressing his hat firmly on his head, he set off running across the
park. After all, he might have been mistaken in imagining that the
death had occurred. Surely he would have heard the gun. He knew that
the custom was to--
_Boom--m--m----_
The sound echoed and reverberated over the woods and the open spaces
round him. Edward slackened his pace, and swore softly to himself. He
had come through the secret entrance to the grounds, and now paused a
moment and took his bearings.
Then, mending his pace, he ran on, avoiding the cottage, and making
direct for the door at the foot of the staircase.