By the side of a small bed, in a small room next to the larger one of
which I have already spoken in noticing the usual arrangements of a
contadino's house, sat our friend Antonio, nearly an hour after his
meeting with Giovanozzo. The same man who, some time before, had lain
upon the table in the adjoining chamber now occupied the bed; but he
was apparently sound asleep. The contadino's Xantippe had informed her
husband, or rather Antonio, for whom she entertained much higher
veneration, that the "poor soul," as she called Buondoni's retainer,
had awoke and spoken quite cheerfully, but that he had now fallen into
a more refreshing kind of slumber; and anxious to busy herself about
her household affairs, she had willingly left her patient to Antonio's
care, upon being assured that they were old companions.
Antonio, as the reader may have remarked, had that curious habit,
common to both sages and simpletons, of occasionally giving vent to
his thoughts in words, even when there was no one to listen to
them--not in low tones, indeed, but in low-muttered murmurs--not in
regular and unbroken soliloquy, but in fragments of sentences, with
lapses of silent meditation between.
"It is Mardocchi," he said; "it is Mardocchi beyond all doubt.
Mightily changed, indeed, he is--but that scar cutting through the
eyebrow. I remember giving him the wound that made it with the palla."
He fell into silence again for a few minutes, and then he murmured,
"We used to say he would be hanged. So he has fulfilled his destiny,
and got off better than most men in similar circumstances." Here came
another break, during which the stream of thought ran on still; and
then he said, "Now let any one tell me whether it was better for this
man to be brought to life again or not. His troubles in this life were
all over, he had taken the last hard gasp; the agony, and the
expectation, and the fear were all done and over, and now they have
all to come over again, probably in the very same way too, for he is
certain to get into more mischief, and deserve more hanging, and take
a better hold of Purgatory, even if he do not go farther still. He
never had but one good quality; he would keep his word with you for
good or ill against the devil himself. He had a mighty stubborn will,
and once he had said a thing he would do it."
Here came another lapse, which lasted about five minutes, and then
Antonio murmured quite indistinctly, "I wonder if he be really asleep!
He could feign anything beautifully, and his eyes seemed to give a
sort of wink just now. We will soon see." Some minutes of silence then
succeeded, and at length Antonio spoke aloud: "No," he said, as if
coming to some fixed and firm conclusion, "no; it would be better for
him himself to die. The good woman did him a bad service. These
Frenchmen will hang him again whenever they catch him, and if there be
any inquiry into the death of Buondoni, they will put him on the rack;
besides, we may all get ourselves into trouble by conniving at his
escape from justice. Better finish it at once while he is asleep, and
before he half knows he has been brought to life again."
He then unsheathed his dagger, which was both long and broad, tried
the point upon his finger, and gazed at his companion. Still there was
no sign of consciousness. The next moment, however, Antonio rose,
deliberately pushed back his sleeve from his wrist, as if to prevent
it from being soiled with blood, and then raised the dagger high over
the slumbering man.
The instant he did so, Mardocchi started up, and clasped his wrist,
exclaiming, "Antonio Biondi, what would you do? kill your unhappy
friend?"
Antonio burst into a loud laugh, saying, "Only a new way of waking a
sleeping man, Mardocchi. The truth is, I have no time to wait till
your shamming is over in the regular course. We have matters of life
and death to talk of; and you must cast away all trick and deceit, and
act straightforwardly with me, that we may act quickly; your own life
and safety depend upon it. Now tell me, what did the Lord of Vitry
hang you for?"
"His morning's sport, I fancy," answered the man; "but softly, good
friend; you forget I hardly know as yet whether I am of this world or
another. My senses are still all confused, and you, Antonio--my old
playmate--should have some compassion on me."
"So I have, Mardocchi," answered Antonio; "and, as these good people
have brought you back to life, I wish to save you from being sent out
of it again more quickly than you fancy."
"Where is the danger?" asked Mardocchi, hesitating.
"That is just what I want to discover," said the other; "not vaguely,
not generally, but particularly, in every point. General dangers I can
see plenty, but I must know all the particular ones, in order to place
you in safety. Do you know that your lord, Buondoni, is dead?"
"Ay, so the good woman told me," replied the other; "killed by that
young cub of the Viscontis. Curses on him!"
Antonio marked both the imprecation and the expression of countenance
with which it was uttered; but he did not follow the scent at once.
"Do you know at whose prayer you were cut down?" he asked.
"They tell me at the instance of the Signorina de Rovera," replied
Mardocchi; "a young thing I think she is. I saw her once, I believe,
with the Princess of Ferrara. If I live, I will find some way to repay
her."
"Well, that is just the question," replied Antonio, "if you are to
live or die? Hark you, Mardocchi! you must tell me all, if you would
have me save you."
"But can you, will you save me?" inquired the man; "and yet why should
I fear? The Frenchmen cut me down themselves, I am told."
"Ay, but they are very likely to hang you up again, if they find you
out of sight of the pretty lady who interceded for you. Nay, more,
Mardocchi: all men believe that you were deep in the secrets of
Buondoni and of the Count Regent through him. Now, as you know, the
King of France is very likely to put you to the rack if he finds you,
to make you tell those secrets; and your good friend Ludovic the Moor,
is very likely to strangle you, to make sure that you keep them."
Mardocchi made no reply, for he knew there was much truth in Antonio's
words; but, after a moment's pause, the other proceeded, "You must get
out of Lombardy as fast as possible, my good friend."
"But where can I go? what can I do?" asked the unhappy man. "I have
lost my only friend and patron. I am known all through this part of
the country. I almost wish the women had let me alone."
"It might have been better," said Antonio in a meditative tone. "'Once
for all' is a good proverb, Mardocchi. However, I think I could help
you if I liked; I think I could get you out of Lombardy, and into the
Romagna, and find you a good master, who wants just such a fellow as
yourself."
"Then do it! do it!" cried Mardocchi, eagerly; "do it for old
companionship; do it, because, for that old companionship, I have
forgiven more to you than I ever forgave to any other man. Why should
you not do it?"
"There is but one reason," answered Antonio, gravely, "and that lies
in your own words. When you spoke of Lorenzo Visconti just now, you
called down curses upon him. Now he is my lord and my friend. I was
placed near him by Lorenzo the Magnificent, and promised I would
always help and protect him. Do you think I should be doing either if
I aided to save a man who would murder him the first opportunity? I
always keep my word, Mardocchi."
"And so do I," answered Mardocchi, gloomily. "Sacchi and the rest told
all they knew to the Frenchman, out of fear for their pitiful lives,
and they saved themselves. I refused to tell anything, because I had
promised not, and they strung me up to the branch of a tree. But I
will promise you, Antonio, I will never raise my hand against the
young man. I shall hate him ever, but--"
"Let me think," said Antonio; and, after meditating for a moment, he
added, "there are ways of destroying him without raising your hand
against him: there is the cord. Listen to my resolution, Mardocchi,
and you know I will keep it: if you will promise me not to take his
life in any way--for I know you right well--I will help you, for old
companionship, to escape, and to join a noble lord in the Romagna;
but, if you do not promise, I will make sure of you by other means.
I have but to speak a word, and you are on the branch of the
mulberry-tree again--"
"Stop, stop!" said Mardocchi; "do not threaten me. I am
weak--sick--hardly yet alive, but I do not like threats. The crushed
adder bites. Let me think: I hate him," he continued, slowly,
recovering gradually from the excitement under which he had first
spoken. "I shall always hate him, but that is no reason I should kill
him. I have never promised to kill him--never even threatened to kill
him. If I had, I would do it or die; but I do not like death. I have
tasted it, and no man likes to eat of that dish twice. It is very
bitter; and I promise you in your own words, Antonio. But you likewise
must remember your promise to me."
"Did you ever know me fail?" said the other. "The first thing is to
get you well, the next to shave off that long beard and those wild
locks, and then, with a friar's gown and the cord of St. Francis, I
will warrant I get you in the train of one of these French lords. Can
you enact a friar, think you, Mardocchi?"
"Oh, yes," said Mardocchi, with a bitter grin, "I can drink and
carouse all night, tell a coarse tale with a twinkling eye, laugh loud
at a small jest, and do foul services for a small reward, if it be to
save my life; but then I cannot speak these people's language,
Antonio."
"All the better--all the better," answered Antonio; "many of them know
a little Italian, and hard questions put in a foreign tongue, are
easily parried. It would be a good thing for one half of the world if
it did not understand what the other half said."
"But who is this good lord to whom you are going to send me?" asked
the man. "Is he a courtier or a soldier."
"A little of both," answered Antonio, "but more a man of counsel than
either. His name is Ramiro d'Orco."
"Ah! I have heard of him," said Mardocchi. "He puzzles the people
about the court. All men think that at heart he has vast ambition, and
yet none can tell you why he thinks so. All agree in that, though some
think he is a philosopher, some a simpleton."
"Well, well," answered Antonio, "the first thing is for you to recover
health and strength, the next to get you safely away, the third to
make you known to the Signor Ramiro. He is the sort of man to suit
your views. I know him well. He is rich, and, as you say, ambitious.
He is wise, too, in a certain way; and though he has not yet found a
path to the objects he aims at, he will find one in time, or make one,
even were he to hew it through his own flesh and blood. He wants
serviceable men about him, and that is the reason I send you to him.
If he rises, he will pull you up; if he falls, there is no need he
should pull you down with him. But we will converse more to-morrow;
to-day you have talked enough, perhaps too much."
"But, Antonio, Antonio," said the other, eagerly catching his sleeve,
"you will tell no one that I am here?"
"No one on earth," answered Antonio; and, bidding him farewell, he
left him.
The journey of Antonio back to the villa was somewhat longer than it
needed to have been. He took devious and circuitous paths, and even
turned back for a part of the way more than once. It was not, however,
that he fancied himself watched, or that he feared that any one might
discover where he had been; but his brain was very busy, and he did
not wish his thoughts interrupted till they had reached certain
conclusions from which they were distant when he set out. He asked
himself if he could really trust to Mardocchi's word, knowing but too
well how predominant the desire of revenge is in every Italian heart.
He half accused himself of folly in having promised him so much; and
though he was, in truth, a good and sincere man, yet the common habits
and feelings of his country every now and then suggested that it would
be easy to put an end to all doubt and suspicion, if he saw cause, by
the use of the Italian panacea, the stiletto. "But yet," he said to
himself, "it may be better to take my chance of his good faith, and
let him live. I never knew him break his word, and by his means,
perhaps, I may penetrate some of Signor Ramiro's purposes in regard to
young Lorenzo. I will tie him down to some promise on that point too.
He will need my help yet in many ways; and though I will not set a man
to betray his master, yet I may well require him to warn his friends."
It was an age and a country in which men dealt peculiarly in
subtleties, so much so, indeed, that right and truth were often
refined away to nothing, especially in the higher and better educated
classes of society. The bravo, indeed, was often a more
straightforward and truthful man than the nobleman who employed him.
He would own frankly that he was committing a great sin; but then he
had faith in the Virgin, and she would obtain remission for him. His
employer would find a thousand reasons to justify the deed, and would
so pile up motives and necessities in self-defence that it would seem
almost doubtful which was most to be pitied, himself or his victim.
Antonio was by no means without this spirit of casuistry; and though
no man could cut through a long chain of pretences with more trenchant
wit than he could, in the case of another, yet he might not
unfrequently employ them in his own. He resolved, therefore, not to
engage Mardocchi to betray his master's secrets, but only to reveal
them when it was necessary that he, Antonio, should know them. The
difference, indeed, was very slight, but it was sufficient to satisfy
him.
Antonio's mind then naturally reverted to Ramiro d'Orco, and he asked
himself again and again what could be the motive which led a man so
famous for stoical hardness to show such tenderness and consideration
for Lorenzo Visconti. "It may be," he thought, "that this grim old
tyrant thinks it a splendid match for his daughter. But then they say
she has a magnificent fortune of her own--her dower that of a
princess. There must be some other end in view. She is a glorious
creature too, midway between Juno and Sappho. Well, we must wait and
watch. Heaven knows how it will all turn out. Perhaps, after all,
Ramiro has some scheme against one of the princes of Romagna, in which
he hopes to engage the King of France through young Lorenzo's
influence.--It is so, I think--it is so, surely. He wants serviceable
men, too, and asked me if I knew of any. Well, I think I have fitted
him with one at least, and he will owe me something for the good turn.
But I must hie homeward, and keep these things to myself. No more
interfering between Lorenzo and his young love. He bore my warnings
badly this morning: I must let things take their course, and try to
guide without opposing."