Ercole sat on the stone seat that ran along the wall of the inn, facing
the dusty road. He was waiting in the cool dawn until it should please
the innkeeper to open the door, and Nino crouched beside him, his head
resting on his forepaws.
A great many years had passed since Ercole had sat there the last time,
but nothing had changed, so far as he could see. He had been young, and
the women had called him handsome; his face had not been shrivelled to
parchment by the fever, and there had been no grey threads in his thick
black hair. Nino had not been born then, and now Nino seemed to be a
part of himself. Nino's grandam had lain in almost the same spot then,
wolfish and hungry as her descendant was now, and only a trifle less
uncannily hideous. It was all very much the same, but between that time
and this there lay all Ercole's life by the Roman shore.
When he had heard, as every one had, how Marcello had been brought to
Rome on the tail of a wine-cart, he had been sure that the boy had been
laid upon it while the cart was standing before Paoluccio's inn in the
night. He knew the road well, and the ways of the carters, and that they
rarely stopped anywhere else between Frascati and Rome. Again and again
he had been on the point of tramping up from the seashore to the place,
to see whether he could not find some clue to Marcello's accident there,
but something had prevented him, some old dislike of returning to the
neighbourhood after such a long absence. He knew why he had not gone,
but he had not confided the reason even to Nino, who was told most
things. He had, moreover, been tolerably sure that nothing short of
thumb-screws would extract any information from Paoluccio or his wife,
for he knew his own people. The only thing that surprised him was that
the boy should ever have left the inn alive after being robbed of
everything he had about him that was worth taking.
Moreover, since Marcello had been found, and was alive and well, it was
of very little use to try and discover exactly what had happened to him
after he had been last seen by the shore. But the aspect of things had
changed since Ercole had heard the sailor's story, and his wish to see
the place where the boy had been hidden so long overcame any repugnance
he felt to visiting a neighbourhood which had unpleasant associations
with his younger years.
He sat and waited at the door, and before the sun rose a young woman
came round the house with the big key and opened the place, just as
Regina had done in old days. She looked at Ercole, and he looked at her,
and neither said anything as she went about her work, sprinkling the
floor with water and then sweeping it, and noisily pulling the heavy
benches about. When this operation was finished, Ercole rose and went
in, and sat down at the end of a table. He took some bread and cheese
from his canvas bag and began to eat, using his clasp-knife.
"If you wish wine," said the woman, "you will have to wait till the
master comes down."
Ercole only answered by raising his head and throwing out his chin,
which means "no" in gesture language. He threw pieces of the bread and
the rind of the cheese to his dog. Nino caught each fragment in the air
with a snap that would have lamed a horse for a month. The woman glanced
nervously at the animal, each time she heard his jagged teeth close.
Paoluccio appeared in due time, without coat or waistcoat, and with his
sleeves rolled up above the elbows, as if he had been washing. If he
had, the operation had succeeded very imperfectly. He glanced at Ercole
as he passed in.
"Good-morning," he said, for he made it a point to be polite to
customers, even when they brought their own food.
"Good-morning," answered Ercole, looking at him curiously.
Possibly there was something unusual in the tone of Ercole's voice, for
Nino suddenly sat up beside his master's knee, forgetting all about the
bread, and watched Paoluccio too, as if he expected something. But
nothing happened. Paoluccio opened a cupboard in the wall with a key he
carried, took out a bottle of the coarse aniseed spirits which the Roman
peasants drink, and filled himself a small glass of the stuff, which he
tossed off with evident pleasure. Then he filled his pipe, lit it
carefully, and went to the door again. By this time, though he had
apparently not bestowed the least attention on Ercole, he had made up
his mind about him, and was not mistaken. Ercole belonged to the better
class of customers.
"You come from the Roman shore?" he said, with an interrogation.
"To serve you," Ercole assented, with evident willingness to enter into
conversation. "I am a keeper and watchman on the lands of Signor
Corbario."
Paoluccio took his pipe from his mouth and nodded twice.
"That is a very rich gentleman, I have heard," he observed. "He owns
much land."
"It all belongs to his stepson, now that the young gentleman is of age,"
Ercole answered. "But as it was his mother's, and she married Signor
Corbario, we have the habit of the name."
"What is the name of the stepson?" asked Paoluccio.
"Consalvi," Ercole replied.
Paoluccio said nothing to this, but lit his pipe again with a sulphur
match.
"Evil befall the soul of our government!" he grumbled presently, with
insufficient logic, but meaning that the government sold bad tobacco.
"You must have heard of the young gentleman," Ercole said. "His name is
Marcello Consalvi. They say that he lay ill for a long time at an inn on
this road--"
"For the love of heaven, don't talk to me about Marcello Consalvi!"
cried Paoluccio, suddenly in a fury. "Blood of a dog! If you had not the
face of an honest man I should think you were another of those newspaper
men in disguise, pigs and animals that they are and sons of evil
mothers, and ill befall their wicked dead, and their little dead ones,
and those that shall be born to them!"
Paoluccio's eyes were bloodshot and he spat furiously, half across the
road. Nino watched him and hitched the side of his upper lip on one of
his lower fangs, which produced the effect of a terrific smile. Ercole
was unmoved.
"I suppose," he observed, "that they said it happened in your inn."
"And why should it happen in my inn, rather than in any other inn?"
inquired Paoluccio angrily.
"Indeed," said Ercole, "I cannot imagine why they should say that it
did! Some one must have put the story about. A servant, perhaps, whom
you sent away."
"We did not send Regina away," answered Paoluccio, still furious. "She
ran away in the night, about that time. But, as you say, she may have
invented the story and sent the newspaper men here to worry our lives
with their questions, out of mere spite."
"Who was this Regina?" Ercole asked. "What has she to do with it?"
"Regina? She was the servant girl we had before this one. We took her
out of charity."
"The daughter of some relation, no doubt," Ercole suggested.
"May that never be, if it please the Madonna!" cried Paoluccio. "A
relation? Thank God we have always been honest people in my father's
house! No, it was not a relation. She came of a crooked race. Her mother
took a lover, and her father killed him, here on the Frascati road, and
almost killed her too; but the law gave him the right and he went free."
"And then, what did he do?" asked Ercole, slowly putting the remains of
his bread into his canvas bag.
"What did he do? He went away and never came back. What should he do?"
"Quite right. And the woman, what became of her?"
"She took other men, for she had no shame. And at last one of them was
jealous, and struck her on the head with a paving stone, not meaning to
kill her; but she died."
"Oh, she died, did she?"
"She died. For she was always spiteful. And so that poor man went to the
galleys, merely for hitting her on the head, and not meaning to kill
her."
"And you took the girl for your servant?"
"Yes. She was old enough to work, and very strong, so we took her for
charity. But for my part, I was glad when she ran away, for she grew up
handsome, and with that blood there surely would have been a scandal
some day."
"One sees that you are a very charitable person," Ercole observed
thoughtfully. "The girl must have been very ungrateful if she told
untrue stories about your inn, after all you had done for her. You had
nourished a viper in your house."
"That is what my wife says," Paoluccio answered, now quite calm. "Those
are my wife's very words. As for believing that the young man was ever
in this house, I tell you that the story is a wicked lie. Where should
we have put him? In the cellar with the hogsheads, or in the attic with
the maid? or in our own room? Tell me where we could have put him! Or
perhaps they will say that he slept on the ceiling, like the flies? They
will say anything, chattering, chattering, and coming here with their
questions and their photographing machines, and their bicycles, and the
souls of their dead! If you do not believe me, you can see the place
where they say that he lay! I tell you there is not room for a cat in
this house. Believe me if you like!"
"How can I not believe such a respectable person as you seem to be?"
inquired Ercole gravely.
"I thank you. And since it happens that you are in the service of the
young gentleman himself, I hope you will tell him that if he fancies he
was in my house, he is mistaken."
"Surely," said Ercole.
"Besides," exclaimed Paoluccio, "how could he know where he was? Are not
all inns on these roads alike? He was in another, that is all. And what
had I to do with that?"
"Nothing," assented Ercole. "I thank you for your conversation. I will
take a glass of the aniseed before I go, if you please."
"Are you going already?" asked Paoluccio, as he went to fetch the bottle
and the little cast glass from which he himself had drunk.
"Yes," Ercole answered. "I go to Rome. I stopped to refresh myself."
"It will be hot on the road," said Paoluccio, setting the full glass
down on the table. "Two sous," he added, as Ercole produced his old
sheepskin purse. "Thank you."
"Thank you," Ercole answered, and tipped the spirits down his throat.
"Yes, it will be hot, but what can one do? We are used to it, my dog and
I. We are not of wax to melt in the sun."
"It is true that this dog does not look as if he were wax," Paoluccio
remarked, for the qualities of Nino had not escaped him.
"No. He is not of wax. He is of sugar, all sugar! He has a very sweet
nature."
"One would not say so," answered Paoluccio doubtfully. "If you go to the
city you must muzzle him, or they will make you pay a fine. Otherwise
they will kill him for you."
"Do you think any one would try to catch him if I let him run loose?"
asked Ercole, as if in doubt. "He killed a full-grown wolf before he was
two years old, and not long ago he worried a sheepdog of the Campagna as
if it had been nothing but a lamb. Do you think any one would try to
catch him?"
"If it fell to me, I should go to confession first," said Paoluccio.
So Ercole left the inn and trudged along the road to Rome with Nino at
his heels, without once looking behind him; past the Baldinotti houses
and into the Via Appia Nuova, and on into the city through the gate of
San Giovanni, where the octroi men stopped him and made him show them
what he had in his canvas bag. When they saw that there was no cheese
left and but little bread, they let him go by without paying anything.
He went up to the left and sat down on the ground under the trees that
are there, and he filled his little clay pipe and smoked a while,
without even speaking to his dog. It was quiet, for it was long past the
hour when the carts come in, and the small boys were all gone to school,
and the great paved slope between the steps of the basilica and the gate
was quite deserted, and very white and hot.
Ercole was not very tired, though he had walked all night and a good
part of the morning. He could have gone on walking till sunset if he had
chosen, all the way to his little stone house near Ardea, stopping by
the way to get a meal; and then he would not have slept much longer than
usual. A Roman peasant in his native Campagna, with enough to eat and a
little wine, is hard to beat at walking. Ercole had not stopped to rest,
but to think.
When he had thought some time, he looked about to see if any one were
looking at him, and he saw that the only people in sight were a long way
off. He took his big clasp-knife out of his pocket and opened it. As the
clasp clicked at the back of the blade Nino woke and sat up, for the
noise generally meant food.
The blade was straight and clean, and tolerably sharp. Ercole looked at
it critically, drew the edge over his coarse thumb-nail to find if there
were any nick in the steel, and then scratched the same thumb-nail with
it, as one erases ink with a knife, to see how sharp it was. The point
was like a needle, but he considered that the edge was dull, and he drew
it up and down one of the brown barrels of his gun, as carefully as he
would have sharpened a razor on a whetstone. After that he stropped it
on the tough leathern strap by which he slung the gun over his shoulder
when he walked; when he was quite satisfied, he shut the knife again and
put it back into his pocket, and fell to thinking once more.
Nino watched the whole operation with bloodshot eyes, his tongue hanging
out and quivering rhythmically as he panted in the heat to cool himself.
When the knife disappeared, and the chance of a crust with it, the dog
got up, deliberately turned his back to his master, and sat down again
to look at the view.
"You see," said Ercole to himself and Nino, "this is an affair which
needs thought. One must be just. It is one thing to kill a person's
body, but it is quite another thing to kill a person's soul. That would
be a great sin, and besides, it is not necessary. Do I wish harm to any
one? No. It is justice. Perhaps I shall go to the galleys. Well, I shall
always have the satisfaction, and it will be greater if I can say that
this person is in Paradise. For I do not wish harm to any one."
Having said this in a tone which Nino could hear, Ercole sat thinking
for some time longer, and then he rose and slung his gun over his
shoulder, and went out from under the trees into the glaring heat, as if
he were going into the city. But instead of turning to the left, up the
hill, he went on by the broad road that follows the walls, till he came
to the ancient church of Santa Croce. He went up the low steps to the
deep porch and on to the entrance at the left. Nino followed him very
quietly.
Ercole dipped his finger into the holy water and crossed himself, and
then went up the nave, making as little noise as he could with his
hob-nailed boots. An old monk in white was kneeling at a broad
praying-stool before an altar on the left. Ercole stood still near him,
waiting for him to rise, and slowly turning his soft hat in his hands,
as if it were a rosary. He kept his eyes on the monk's face, studying
the aged features. Presently the old man had finished his prayer and got
upon his feet slowly, and looked at Ercole and then at Nino. Ercole
moved forward a step, and stood still in an attitude of respect.
"What do you desire, my son?" asked the monk, very quietly. "Do you wish
to confess?"
"No, father, not to-day," answered Ercole. "I come to pray you to say
three masses for the soul of a person who died suddenly. I have also
brought the money. Only tell me how much it will be, and I will pay."
"You shall give what you will, my son," the monk said, "and I will say
the masses myself."
Ercole got out his sheepskin purse, untied the strings, and looked into
it, weighing it in his hand. Then he seemed to hesitate. The monk looked
on quietly.
"It is of your own free will," he said. "What you choose to give is for
the community, and for this church, and for the chapel of Saint Helen.
It is better that you know."
Ercole drew the mouth of the purse together again and returned it to the
inside of his waistcoat, from which he produced a large old leathern
pocket-book.
"I will give five francs," he said, "for I know that if you say the
masses yourself, they will be all good ones."
A very faint and gentle smile flitted over the aged face. Ercole held
out the small note, and the monk took it.
"Thank you," he said. "Shall I say the masses for a man or a woman?"
"As it pleases you, father," Ercole answered.
"Eh?" The old monk looked surprised.
"It does not matter," Ercole explained. "Is not a mass for a man good
for a woman also?"
"We say 'his' soul or 'her' soul, as the case may be, my son."
"Is that written in the book of the mass?" inquired Ercole
distrustfully.
"Yes. Also, most people tell us the baptismal name of the dead person."
"Must I do that too?" Ercole asked, by no means pleased.
"Not unless you like," the monk answered, looking at him with some
curiosity.
"But it is in the book of the mass that you must say 'his' or 'her'
soul?"
"Yes."
"Then the masses will not be good unless you say the right word." Ercole
paused a moment in deep thought, and looked down at his hat. "It will be
better to say the masses for a female," he said at length, without
meeting the monk's eyes.
"Very well," the latter answered. "I will say the first mass to-morrow."
"Thank you," said Ercole. "My respects!"
He made a sort of bow and hurried away, followed by Nino. The old monk
watched him thoughtfully, and shook his head once or twice, for he
guessed something of the truth, though by no means all.