GIOVANNI
It is in early morning that one should discover the Piazza San Marco.
Few travelers, always excepting the Teutonic pilgrims, are up and about;
and there is room for one's elbows in the great quadrangle. The doves
are hungry then; and they alight on your hands, your arms, your
shoulders, and even your hat. They are greedy and wise besides. Hidden
among the statues above the arcades and in the cornices of the
cathedral, they watch you approach the vender of corn. In a moment they
are fluttering about you like an autumn storm of leaves, subsiding
quickly; blue-grey doves with white under-wings and coral feet. During
the season the Venetian photographers are kept busy printing from
amateur films. For who is so indifferent as not to wish to be snapped a
few times with the doves forming a heavenly halo above one's head, one's
body in a sentimental pose, and one's eyes looking straight into the
camera? Well, well; this is as near saintliness as most of us will ever
get.
How the warm sunshine brightens the worn marbles, or flashes from the
many windows, or sparkles from the oriental domes! And the colored
marbles of the ducal palace fairly palpitate. In the bronze fountain at
the left of the cathedral will be more doves taking their morning
ablutions.
It was such a picture Merrihew and Hillard, his guide, came upon the
morning following their arrival. They had not visited it during the
night. They had, with the usual impatience of men, gone directly to the
Campo Santa Maria Formosa for the great reward. They had watched and
waited till near midnight, but in vain. For once Hillard's usual
keenness had been at fault. He had forgotten that the Campo was to be
entered from two ways, by gondola and by foot. He and Merrihew had
simply guarded the bridge.
"I wonder why Giovanni ran away last night," said Merrihew, balancing a
dove on his hand.
"I wonder, too," replied Hillard. "It is possible that he did not
recognize me. I find that each day means a new wonder of some sort.
Giovanni knows that I would do anything in my power to help him. But he
runs away at the sight of me. In fact, they _all_ run away from me. I
must have the evil eye." He was shaking the cornucopia free of the last
kernel of corn when he saw something which caused him to stifle an
exclamation. "Dan," he said, "keep on feeding the doves. If I'm not back
inside of ten minutes, return to the hotel and wait for me. No
questions; I'll tell you everything later."
Merrihew's eyes widened. What now? His tongue longed to wag, but by this
time he was readily obeying Hillard in all things.
A neat little woman was buying corn. Hillard stepped over to her and
touched her arm. As she faced him, he raised his hat, smiling.
"Oh!" The corn spilled in a golden shower, and the doves, fickle as all
flighty things are, deserted Merrihew for the moment.
"And where may I find your distinguished mistress?" Hillard asked
pleasantly.
"She is not in the Campo Formosa, signore." Bettina, recovering her
scattered wits, laughed.
"But you were--last night."
"Yes. I watched you and your friend for some time." Bettina's eyes were
merry. She would play with him. Everything was so tedious now.
"Your mistress is in Venice."
"Perhaps. At least her maid is."
"I should not dare suggest a bribe," he said slyly.
"You might make the attempt, just to see what I should do."
Merrihew stood watching them, having lost interest in the doves.
"Supposing I should drop a hundred-lire note, accidentally, and walk
away?" Hillard twisted the ends of his mustache.
"But first I should have to tell you, accidentally, where my mistress
is?"
"That, of course."
"A hundred-lire note!" To Bettina this was an enormous sum in these
unfortunate days. Her resolution wavered. "A hundred-lire note!" She
felt that she could make no strong defense against such an assault.
Hillard drew the note from his pocket and crinkled it. "A new dress and
bits of lace."
Bettina saw duty one way and avarice the other. Her mistress would never
know. Still, if she should find out that she, Bettina, had betrayed her!
Was a hundred-lire note worth the risk of losing her mistress? She began
to think deeply. At length she shook her head sorrowfully.
"No, signore. I dare not."
"But a hundred lire!"
"Ah, no, no!" Bettina put her hands over her ears.
"Then I shall follow you step by step, all the day long."
She searched for the jest in his eyes, but there was none. Yes, he would
do it. How was she to escape him? Her glance traveled here and there. By
the glass-shop on the corner she espied two _carabinieri_. There lay the
way.
"Do you see them?" she asked.
"The _carabinieri_? Yes." But he swore under his breath, as he
understood the drift of her inquiry.
"I shall ask them to hold you."
"But I have done nothing."
"Not yet, but you will attempt to follow me."
"Begin," he said, with a banter.
"What's the row, Jack?" Merrihew called out impatiently. Why didn't they
talk in a language a fellow could understand?
"Stay where you are, Dan." To Bettina, Hillard repeated: "Begin."
She dusted her hands of the corn and walked resolutely toward the
_carabinieri_. Hillard, equally resolute, followed, but with a roving
eye which took in all things ostensibly save Bettina. He had a plan by
which he proposed to circumvent any interference by the guardians. And
Bettina aided him, for she never turned her head till she stood at the
side of the _carabinieri_.
"Signori, this man is following me," she said. Hillard came on and would
have passed, but they stopped him.
"You are following the signorina," said one.
"I? What put such a preposterous idea into the lady's head?" Hillard
demanded indignantly.
For a moment the _carabinieri_ entertained some doubt.
"He is following me, I tell you," Bettina reiterated. "I do not wish him
ill. Simply detain him till I am out of sight."
This was not unreasonable. "It shall be as the little signorina wishes;"
and the _carabinieri_ laughed. It was some jest, and they would take
their part in it willingly.
Hillard resigned, and Bettina took to her heels. Her victory was a
permanent one, for the _carabinieri_ released Hillard only when they
knew it would be impossible for him to take up the pursuit. So, taking
his defeat philosophically, Hillard returned to Merrihew.
"Well, what was it?" asked Merrihew, scattering the doves.
"Did I ever tell you about Bettina?"
"Bettina? No."
"Well, she is the maid. The women we are looking for are here in Venice.
Now, what's on the program for the rest of the morning?"
Merrihew jammed his hands into his pockets. "Oh, let's go and take a
look at the saints. I'm in the mood for it."
So the two set out at the heels of the German tourists. They went
through the cathedral and the ducal palace, and when the bronze clock
beat out the noon hour Merrihew was bursting with information such as
would have filled any ordinary guide-book. He never dreamed that the
world held so many different kinds of stone or half so many saints. As
they started off for the hotel he declared that he would be willing to
give ten dollars for a good twenty-round fight, as a counter-irritant.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" cried Hillard.
"I know it. It's like caviar; the taste has to grow. I'm capable of only
a limited artistic education, Jack; so feed me slowly."
"You're in love."
"That's better than growing maudlin over a raft of saints who never did
me any good. Your Titians and your Veroneses are splendid; there's color
and life there. But these cross-eyed mosaics!" Merrihew threw up his
hands in protest.
Hillard let go his laughter. Merrihew was amusing, and his frankness in
regard to his lack of artistic temperament in nowise detracted from his
considerable accomplishments.
As they passed out of the quadrangle a man accosted them. It was
Giovanni, with a week's growth of beard on his face, his clothes ragged
and his shoes out at the toes. Swiftly he enjoined silence.
"Follow me," he said softly.
He led them through tortuous streets, over canal after canal, toward the
Campo San Angelo. He came to a stop before a dilapidated tenement and
signified that the journey was at an end. The three mounted the dusty
worn stairs of stone to the third landing; and from all sides they were
assailed by the odor of fish and garlic. Giovanni opened a door and bade
them enter.
"Why did you run away from me last night, Giovanni?"
"I was afraid. When I returned for you, you were gone. But last night I
was a fugitive, in hiding. To-day I am free," with an exultant note.
"Free?" said Hillard, astonished.
"I shall explain. I have been to Paris. Come."
Seated by the window which overlooked the little canal was a young
woman. Her hands lay passively in her lap, and her head was lowered. The
pose was resignation. She did not stir as they entered.
"You have found her?" whispered Hillard, a great pity swelling his
heart. What, after all, were his own petty troubles in the face of this
tragedy?
"_Carissime?_" called the father, his voice thrilling with boundless
love.
At the sound she turned her head. Her face, thin and waxen, was still
beautiful, ethereally beautiful, but without life. She was, perhaps,
three and twenty.
"I have brought an old friend to see you," said Giovanni. "Do you
remember the Signore Hillard?"
"Oh, yes! I am glad." She stood up.
Hillard offered his hand awkwardly, and hers touched it with the chill
dampness of snow.
"We are going back to the Sabine Hills, Enrichetta and I." The old man
rubbed his hands joyously. "Eh, _carissime_?"
"Yes, father," with a smile which had neither gladness nor interest in
it.
"But dare you?" asked Hillard in an undertone.
"Yes. A great noble has interceded for me. The news of his success came
this early morning. I am free; I may walk with men again."
Merrihew leaned against the wall, uneasy and wishing himself anywhere
but here. Tender and generous, he hated the sight of pain. They were
talking in Italian, but intuitively he translated. What a devil of a
world it was!
Giovanni made his daughter sit down again, patted her cheeks, then
pushed his friends into another room, closing the door.
"I found her," he said in English, the chords in his throat standing
out. "And Mother of Christ, how I have suffered! She was dancing. She
had to sit at tables and drink with the men. That, or the Seine. When
she saw me she gave a great cry and fell. She has not been like herself,
but that will pass away in time. Now she sits in silence and broods. I
went to the Italian ambassador. He heard my story in full. He wrote
personally to the king. To-day I am free. I have had to walk from Milan,
almost. I had little money. That letter of credit--so you call it?--is
with my cousin in Sorrento."
"How much will you need to get to Rome?"
"Hold on, Jack," interposed Merrihew. "I'll take care of the financial
end. I won money at Monte Carlo, Giovanni; so it will hurt nobody if you
take five hundred francs."
Giovanni scorned to hide his tears. Ah, these Americans! Who could match
them for impulsive generosity? "I will pay it back," he said.
"No, I give it to you, Giovanni. It will ease my conscience of the sin
of gambling."
"Both of you will live to a good old age," said Giovanni prophetically.
"Good men are needed in the world, and God doesn't take all of them
young."
"And the man?" Hillard could not refrain from putting this question.
Giovanni looked down. "The signore told me never to speak of that
again."
"So I did," replied Hillard. "But all is changed now."
"Do you think so?" Giovanni did not smile.
"Go back to your hills with your daughter and leave vengeance in the
hands of God. Forget this man who has wronged you. You are free now; and
with care and love you may bring happiness back to her. Forget."
"If he does not cross my path; and if she lives. I have suffered too
greatly to forgive and forget. I promise not to seek him."
This was a great victory, and Hillard thrust out his hand. Giovanni did
not take it.
"No, signore, I have only promised not to seek him."
Merrihew, to divert the trend of conversation, counted out five hundred
francs. "Here's your money, Giovanni."
"Thank you!" Giovanni put the bills away. In the best of times he was
not voluble. "I shall now leave Venice at once. I have friends in
Fiesole, near Florence."
"Good-by, then, Giovanni. Take good care of yourself," said Hillard.
"And you will visit me when you come to Rome?" asked Giovanni earnestly.
"Surely."
The old man went down to the street with them. They were so kind. He
hated the thought of losing them. But let them come to the Sabines;
there would be wine in plenty, and tobacco, and cherries. He remained
standing in the door till they took the turn for the bridge. They waved
their hands cheerily and vanished from sight. They never saw Giovanni
again; yet his hand was to work out the great epoch in Hillard's
destiny.
"Poor devil!" said Merrihew. "You remember, Jack, that I once went in
for medicine?"
"Yes."
"Well, I have some part of the gift yet. That little girl will not live
three months; heart. There is such a thing as a broken heart, and the
girl has it."
"Then Heaven help Giovanni and the man who caused this!"