LOST.
While I was wondering which was the best way to approach this somewhat
delicate matter, the door was flung open to its fullest extent and
Petronella stalked majestically into the room. There was a wrathful
look on her strongly marked features, and Bianca trembled in
expectation of a storm. Both she and the Maestro were terribly afraid
of Petronella, who ruled the household and looked after them as she
would a couple of children, so now that she frowned they acted like
children; and were cowed by her eagle eye. Petronella surveyed the
three of us grimly, and, being satisfied that her entrance had
produced an effect, spoke with a dramatic gesture that Rachel herself
might have envied,--
"I am enraged to-day. Let no one speak to me." Neither the Maestro nor
Bianca seemed inclined to accept this tread-on-the-tail-of-my-coat
challenge, so Petronella looked from one to the other to see on whom
she should pour out the vials of her wrath. Ultimately she chose
Bianca.
"Ah, it is you, Signorina! it is you who enrage me. And for why? you
ask. Holy Saints! you ask why. Because you sit there like a statue in
the Duoma. Will that bring him back? say I. No, Signora, let the bad
young man go. Ecco!"
"Guiseppe is not a bad young man," cried Bianca, rising angrily to her
feet.
"Are you older than I am, piccola? No! Have you been married like I
was? No! Then let me speak, child that you are. All men are bad--ask
the Signor there! All men are bad!"
Petronella made a comprehensive sweep of her arms so as to indicate
the whole masculine portion of the human race, and I, seeing an
opportunity of finding out what was the matter, did not attempt
to defend masculine depravity in any way, but artfully asked a
question,--
"I can hardly say. I don't know what you are talking about!"
"Eh! has the Signore no ears? I speak of Guiseppe Pallanza!"
"What, the tenor at the Teatro Ezzelino?"
"Yes, Signore, he is the engaged one of the Signorina here, and----"
"Enough, enough, Petronella!" cried Bianca, her face flushing. "Do not
trouble the Signor with these chatterings."
"Oh, it's no trouble," I replied quickly. "Perhaps I can help you,
Signorina, if you require help!"
"Eh, eh!" assented Petronella approvingly, "the English have long
heads, piccola. Tell him all and he will find out what others cannot
find out. And you, Maestro, the colezione is ready."
She tenderly led the old man into the next room, and I was thus left
alone with Bianca, who had retreated to the window, where she stood
twisting her handkerchief with nervous confusion.
"Do not tell me, Signorina, if you would rather not," I said gently.
"Ah, Signore, if I thought you would be my friend!"
"Certainly I will be your friend."
"The Maestro is so old. Petronella is so foolish. We know none in
Verona, and I can do nothing for my poor Guiseppe!"
"Your lover, Signorina?"
"Yes. I promised you should see him at Verona, but--now--ah now!--but
perhaps you have heard him singing at the Ezzelino?"
"No; I have not been to the opera since my arrival here. What is the
matter with him? Is he ill?"
"I know not! I know not! He is lost!"
"Lost?"
"Yes, Signore. My Guiseppe has disappeared and no one knows where he
is!"
Could there be any connection between the disappearance of Guiseppe
and the death of that young man I had seen in the fatal chamber? The
thought flashed across me as she spoke, but I dismissed it as idle.
"And you want some one to look for Signor Pallanza?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Well, I will undertake the task."
"You, Signore!" she cried joyfully; "will you search for him?"
"Certainly, Signorina; I promised to be your friend. Now sit down, and
tell me all about your lover and his disappearance. I may be able to
do more for you than you think."
The fact is, that by some subtle instinct I connected the
disappearance of this young man with the curious events of two nights
before, and, leading Bianca to a seat, I prepared to listen
attentively to her recital.
"Signore," she began in her flute-like voice, "I have been engaged to
marry Guiseppe Pallanza for some months. He was a pupil of the
Maestro, and we loved each other when we first met; but ah! Signore,
he was poor then, and we could not marry, but now he is rich and
famous."
"Yes, I have heard of the tenor Pallanza, but have never seen him on
the stage."
"He has the voice of a god, Signore, and at La Scala, two seasons
ago--oh, Signore, it was the talk of the whole city. The papers called
him the New Mario, and he is so handsome--like an angel. After La
Scala he went to Florence, to Naples, and then to Rome, where he sang
in 'Faust' and 'Polyeuct' at the Apollo, then he came on here a week
ago for the season at the Ezzelino; but now he is lost. Dio! how
unhappy I am."
She covered her face with her hands, and wept quietly for a few
minutes, and, impatient as I was to hear the particulars of the
affair, I did not dare to disturb her grief. After a time she dried
her tears, and went on again,--
"He came to Verona on Saturday, Signore, and we were so happy together
talking about our marriage; and on Monday he sang in 'Faust' at the
Ezzelino. I went to the theatre with Petronella, and that was the last
time I saw him."
"Oh, then he disappeared on Monday night!" I asked quickly, feeling my
heart begin to beat rapidly with excitement, for it was on Monday
night that my extraordinary adventure had taken place.
"Yes, Signore. He was to come here after the opera, to tell the
Maestro how he had sung--you know how anxious the Maestro is over his
pupils, but he never came, nor the next day either; so this morning I
went to ask at the Ezzelino, and they told me he had disappeared."
"It's curious I never heard of it. The disappearance of a popular
tenor is not a common thing!"
"Signore, he sang on Monday and was to sing again to-night, so nothing
was thought about him not coming to the theatre yesterday; but this
morning they sent to his lodgings, to find that he had not been there
since he left the Ezzelino after the opera on Monday."
"The papers will be full of it to-night!"
"Ah! that will not bring him back," said poor little Bianca in a
melancholy tone, shaking her small head, which drooped like a faded
flower.
I was now certain that my adventure on Monday night had something to
do with the disappearance of Guiseppe Pallanza, and doubtless the
young man I had seen in the deserted palace was the missing tenor; but
the antique dress, the amorous rendezvous--these needed some
explanation.
"Was he in love with any one, Signorina?"
It was a cruel but necessary question which angered Bianca, who threw
back her little head with great haughtiness.
"Signore, he loved me and no one else."
"Had he any reason for disappearing?"
"Signore!"
"Forgive me if I appear rude," I said in a deprecating tone; "but
indeed, Signorina, to find out all I must know all."
"Well, Signore, I am telling you all," she replied petulantly. "It was
most strange his going away from the theatre."
"How so?"
"He left the Ezzelino in his stage-dress!"
"Ah!"
I jumped to my feet in a state of uncontrollable excitement, for I saw
at once that I was on the right track. The antique dress was explained
now! it was the dress he wore in the last act of "Faust."
"But surely, Signorina, that was very extraordinary," I said, pausing
in my walk; "no one would walk the streets of Verona in a dress like
that."
"I can explain that, Signore. When Guiseppe came from Rome, a friend
came with him who was very ill--a baritone singer, who was in the same
company at the Apollo. I was told at the Ezzelino that just before the
last act of the opera, Guiseppe received a note saying that his friend
was dying, so as soon as the curtain fell, he threw on a cloak which
hid his dress, and went away as quickly as possible, so as to see his
friend before he died."
"Oh! and is the friend dead yet?"
"I do not know, Signore."
The story of the dying friend might be true, yet to me it seemed
highly improbable, and I guessed that the people at the theatre had
told this fiction to pacify the fears of Signorina Angello, to whom
they knew that Pallanza was engaged. The real truth of the matter was
doubtless that the letter came from the woman I had followed, asking
him to meet her at the deserted Palazzo Morone, and he had gone there
innocently enough to be poisoned as I had seen. This explained a great
deal, but it did not explain why the meeting should have taken place
at such an extraordinary spot, and why the woman should have come from
a burial-ground to keep the appointment. Taking all the circumstances
into consideration, I was certain that it was Pallanza I had seen
murdered on Monday night, but in order to be quite sure of his
identity, I asked Bianca if she had any photograph of her betrothed.
"Of a surety, Signore," she replied, and going to an album on the
table, brought me a cabinet portrait. "This is Guiseppe as Faust, the
dress in which he left the theatre."
It was as I surmised. The portrait was coloured, and I saw an exact
representation of the young man I had beheld at the Palazzo Morone.
The typical Italian face with the black curly hair, dark eyes, small
moustache and sallow skin; the slender figure arrayed in a doublet of
blue velvet, slashed with white satin; the azure silk cloak, the
poniard and the high riding-boots--nothing was wanting; the successful
tenor of the portrait was the man who had taken poison from the hand
of the lady of the sepulchre. Still it was no use telling Bianca of my
suspicions until I had discovered the whole secret; and besides, as
Guiseppe was dead, I naturally shrank from being the bearer of such
bad news. I suppose my face betrayed my thoughts, for I saw the
Signorina watching me anxiously; so to lull any fancies she might
have, I made the first remark that came into my head,--
"I never saw Faust in riding-boots before!"
"Ah, Signore!" replied the girl with a fond look, "Guiseppe was an
artist as well as a singer, and designed his own dresses. He said that
as Faust in the last act was going to fly with Marguerite, and
Mephistopheles speaks of the horses waiting, it is natural that he
should wear a riding-dress."
This explanation was quite satisfactory, and having thus learned the
identity of the young man whom I had seen murdered, I prepared to go,
when another idea entered my head, and, going over to the piano, I
began to play by ear the strange air I had heard at the Palazzo
Morone. Bianca gave a cry of surprise as she heard the melody, and
came over to the piano with a puzzled look on her face.
"Ah, you know it, Signorina?" I said, turning round quickly.
"Yes! in fact I gave it to Guiseppe. It is an old air by Palestrina,
which I found among the music of the Maestro, to which Guiseppe set
words. He is very fond of it and sings it a great deal. Ah, Signore,
you must have heard him sing it, for no one else has a copy."
I turned off the matter with a careless remark, not caring to tell
Bianca where I had heard it; and now being quite certain that I would
be able to unravel the whole mystery, I wanted to get away as quickly
as possible in order to arrange my plans.
"Addio, Signorina," I said, giving her my hand. "When I see you again
I may be able to give you news."
"Good news?"
"Yes, I hope so, Signorina," I replied hurriedly as Petronella
appeared at the door. "Do not anticipate evil, I beg of you. I have no
doubt Guiseppe is quite well."
"Oh, I hope so! I trust so! Addio! Signor Hugo, you will come back
soon?"
"To-morrow, Signorina."
"Ah! I see you have brought back the smiles," said Petronella's gruff
voice as she ushered me out. "What do you think of this evil one going
away, Signore? I was going to have four masses if he is dead, but
those priests are such thieves. Ecco!"
"Why should you think he is dead, Petronella?"
"Eh, Signore, he loves the piccola so much that nothing but death
would keep him away."
"Except----"
"I know what you would say, Signore, except a woman. Well, maybe men
are all bad. I've been married, Signore--I know, I know."
"Well, I don't think I'm particularly bad, Petronella."
"Eh! then you're not a true man, Signore," retorted Petronella,
closing the argument and the door at the same time.