Prince Padema sat desolately on his lofty balcony at Florence, and
cursed things generally. Fate had indeed dealt hardly with the young
man.
The Prince had been misled by the apparent reasonableness of the adage,
that if you want a thing well done you should do it yourself. In
committing a murder it is always advisable to have some one else to do
it for you, but the Prince's plans had been several times interfered
with by the cowardice or inefficiency of his emissaries, so on one
unfortunate occasion he had determined to remove an objectionable man
with his own hand, and realised then how easily mistakes may occur.
He had met the man face to face under a corner lamp in Venice. The
recognition was mutual, and the man, fearing his noble enemy, had fled.
The Prince pursued, and the man apparently tried to double upon him,
and, with his cloak over his face, endeavoured to sneak past along the
dark wall. When the Prince deftly ran the dagger into his vitals, he
was surprised that the man made no resistance or outcry, made no effort
to ward off the blow, but sunk lifeless at the Prince's feet with a
groan.
Alarmed at this, the Prince bade his servant drag the body to a spot
where a votive lamp set in the wall threw dim yellow rays to the
pavement. Then his Highness was appalled to see that he had
assassinated a scion of one of the noblest families of Venice, which
was a very different thing from murdering a man of low degree whose
life the law took little note of.
So the Prince had to flee from Venice, and he took up his residence in
a narrow street in an obscure part of Florence.
Seldom had fate played a man so scurvy a trick, and the Prince was
fully justified in his cursing, for the unfortunate episode had
interrupted a most absorbing amour which, at that moment, was rapidly
approaching an interesting climax.
Prince Padema had been several weeks in Florence, and those weeks had
been deadly dull. "The women of Florence," he said to himself bitterly,
"are not to be compared with those of Venice." But even if they had
been, the necessity of keeping quiet, for a time at least, would have
prevented the Prince from taking advantage of his enforced sojourn in
the fair city.
On this particular evening, the Prince's sombre meditations were
interrupted by a song. The song apparently came from the same building
in which his suite of rooms were situated, and from an open window some
distance below him. What caught his attention was the fact that the
song was Venetian, and the voice that sang it was the rich mellow voice
of Venice.
There were other exiles, then, beside himself. He peered over the edge
of the balcony perched like an eagle's nest high above the narrow stone
street, and endeavoured to locate the open window from which the song
came, or, better still, to catch a glimpse of the singer.
For a time he was unsuccessful, but at last his patience was rewarded.
On a balcony to the right, and some distance below his own, there
appeared the most beautiful girl even he had ever seen. The dark, oval
face was so distinctly Venetian that he almost persuaded himself he had
met her in his native town.
She stood with her hands on the top rail of the balcony, her dark hair
tumbled in rich confusion over her shapely shoulders. The golden light
in the evening sky touched her face with glory, as she looked towards
it, of that part of it that could be seen at the end of the narrow
street.
The Prince's heart beat high as he gazed upon the face that was
unconscious of his scrutiny. Instantly the thought flashed over him
that exile in Florence might, after all, have its compensations.
"Pietro," he whispered softly through his own open windows to the
servant who was moving silently about the room, "come here for a
moment, quietly."
The servant came stealthily to the edge of the window.
"You see that girl on the lower balcony," said the Prince in a whisper.
Pietro nodded.
"Find out for me who she is--why she is here--whether she has any
friends. Do it silently, so as to arouse no suspicion."
Again his faithful servant nodded, and disappeared into the gloom of
the room.
Next day Pietro brought to his eager master what information he had
been able to glean. He had succeeded in forming the acquaintance of the
Signorina's maid.
For some reason, which the maid either did not know or would not
disclose, the Signorina was exiled for a time from Venice. She belonged
to a good family there, but the name of the family the maid also
refused to divulge. She dared not tell it, she said. They had been in
Florence for several weeks, but had only taken the rooms below within
the last two days. The Signorina received absolutely no one, and the
maid had been cautioned to say nothing whatever about her to any
person; but she had apparently succumbed in a measure to the
blandishments of gallant Pietro.
The rooms had been taken because of their quiet and obscure position.
That evening the Prince was again upon his balcony, but his thoughts
were not so bitter as they had been the day before. He had a bouquet of
beautiful flowers beside him. He listened for the Venetian song, but
was disappointed at not hearing it; and he hoped that Pietro had not
been so injudicious as to arouse the suspicions of the maid, who might
communicate them to her mistress. He held his breath eagerly as he
heard the windows below open. The maid came out on the balcony and
placed an easy-chair in the corner of it. She deftly arranged the
cushions and the drapery of it, and presently the Signorina herself
appeared, and with languid grace seated herself.
The Prince had now a full view of her lovely face, as the girl rested
her elbow on the railing of the balcony, and her cheek upon her hand.
"You may go now, Pepita," said the girl.
The maid threw a lace shawl over the shoulders of her mistress, and
departed.