FALSE ZERO.
A bright July evening, a white dusty Italian road, and a fugitive from
justice mounted upon a stout pony, with an outfit consisting of a
well-filled canvas valise and a revolver.
The police were searching for me, and in consequence I had a few weeks
before escaped from England, and set out upon a wandering journey
eastward across Europe. I was in Emilia, lonely, tired, and dispirited,
having left Piacenza at early morning and ridden on throughout the
scorching day. It had, however, grown cooler, for which I was thankful.
The wind had risen, blowing softly from mountain and from sea across the
plains, through the pines of Pavia, and across the oak forests at the
base of the Apennines.
Now and then a puff of blue wood-smoke rose through the branches from
charcoal-burners’ cabins; now and then some great magnolia flower
shivered its rosy needles upon me as I passed beneath the trees; far away
below the _Ave Maria_ was chiming from the church towers in the plain;
above, low rain clouds, fretted and edged with amber, floated near the
sun; over all the day was of that wondrous hue which is like the soft
violet blue of the iris, and is clear yet mystical, as children’s eyes
when they wake from dreams of angels.
As I road slowly up the long mountain road, I was overtaken by a
horseman, who, light-hearted and happy, was singing to himself staves of
contadini choruses. He rode up beside me with a genial, “_Buona sera,
signore_.”
He was a fine-looking man of about thirty, with a dark, pointed beard
and waxed moustaches. We rode on together up the hill, and fell into
conversation. He inquired where I was from, and my destination, to which
I replied that I was travelling for pleasure. He told me that he was a
vine-grower living in Marengo, and that he was returning from a business
visit to Cremona. When we stopped for water at a roadside spring, he
asked me to carry a small pair of saddlebags, as his horse was tired out.
I complied cheerfully, and we pushed on up the steep road. Arrived at the
top, he took a cross-road, remarking that he believed we should reach the
_albergo_ of Padrone Vincenti before the moon rose.
I found him a pleasant, entertaining Italian, and being, no doubt,
conceited, imagined that he found me the same. It was dusk when we rode
up to a ruined villa, high upon the mountain-side—vast, crumbling,
desolate. It was one of those old villas, of which there are hundreds
in Italy, standing on their pale olive slopes. Those who are strange to
them see only the peeling plaster, the discoloured stone, the desolate
courts, the grass-grown flags, the broken statues, the straying, unkempt
vines, the look of utter loneliness and decay. But those who know them
well, love them and learn otherwise; learn the infinite charm of the
silent halls, of the endless echoing corridors, of the wide, frescoed,
wind-swept, and sun-bathed chambers, and of the shadowy logge where the
roseglow of the oleander burns in the dimness of the arches, and the
lizards bask in the sunlight.
It was charmingly situated. The old place had once belonged to a great
family, but was now half-ruined; the few rooms remaining intact having
been transformed into an inn.
As we rode up to the porch, a slender girl of about seventeen, with
big black eyes, and dark hair coiled tightly, fastened with a Genoese
filigree pin, came running round the corner of the house. She looked as
wild as the goats on the mountain-side, and my first thought was, “What a
beauty she will some day be!” I raised my wide-brimmed sun hat, and asked
if we could obtain accommodation for the night.
“I don’t know,” she said shortly. “But I will ask father,” and she darted
into the house.
A moment later an old man made his appearance, rubbing his hands and
smiling benignly. “How are you, signori?” he asked in his _patois_. “Want
to stop? Very well. Here, Ninetta, call Giovanni to take the horses.”
I had just dismounted, and started to remove the saddlebags, when a
glance at my travelling companion checked me. He was gazing down the road
and listening intently. I saw an anxious look overspread his face. The
next moment he stuck spurs into his horse, and, without a word galloped
down the road in the opposite direction in the gathering gloom.
Surprised and alarmed, I sprang into the saddle, and, as the sound of
horses approaching at a rapid rate greeted my ears, I started off down
the road after my late companion. My first thought was that brigands were
upon us.
Glancing back, I saw a number of horsemen riding furiously down upon me.
I heard loud oaths in Italian, and orders to halt. Without heeding them,
I spurred on, and drawing my revolver, determined to sell my life as
dearly as possible. The next moment a volley of shots rang out, and my
horse stumbled and fell.
Before I could rise I was surrounded by three gendarmes and a rough crowd
of men, nearly all of whom were half mad with drink and excitement. Cries
of joy were heard on all sides, and a dozen hands seized me in no gentle
grasp.
“What do you want?” I cried.
“We want you,” replied one of the gendarmes, stepping forward, “Your
name is Anton Prèhznev!”
My heart stood still. The police had tracked me!
“Well, and if it is? What then?” I asked.
“We arrest you for murder and conspiracy!”
His words gave my arms a demoniacal strength. In a moment I had freed
myself, and scarcely knowing why I did so, I quickly pointed my revolver
at a man who attempted to recapture me, and pulled the trigger.
There was a bright flash, a report, and the man fell back into the arms
of one of his companions.
Cries of “Kill him!” “Shoot him!” “Hang him!” were heard on all sides,
while I stood, revolver in hand, ready to defend myself.
“Let’s take him back to old Vincenti’s and hear what he’s got to say,”
said a tall man, who seemed to be leader.
This proposition met with general disfavour, especially from one
officious man, the leader of the band of brigands who had resolved to
assist the gendarmes in my capture, who produced a long pair of reins,
and leading the way to a spreading oak-tree that stood near, exclaimed,
“Here’s a good limb. Come, fetch him along.”
But the tall man demurred and had his way. “If he can’t give a proper
account of himself, we’ll make short work of him,” he said.
I attempted to explain, but a pistol was held at my head with a
peremptory command to be silent. My arms were then bound, and I was
marched back to the half-ruined villa and placed in one corner of the
common room of the inn.
The crowd demanded wine, which was served by Vincenti. The girl Ninetta
stood at the door looking at me curiously, and I thought rather
pityingly. My trial then began. It was brief and to the point. They had
received my description from both the English and Russian police, and
by the latter a large reward had been offered for my capture. They had
tracked me thus far, and by the random shot I had fired I had mortally
wounded one of their companions.
Without admitting that I was the man they were looking for, I made
up a fictitious story, declaring my innocence. It was listened to
incredulously by most of them, but among a few I thought I saw looks that
encouraged me, and I wound up with an impromptu appeal for life which I
felt must touch them. I was doomed to bitter disappointment, when the man
who had been so officiously anxious to hang me at once, rose, remarking
with a harsh laugh: “No, no, you can’t deceive us in that way. Come on.
Let’s hang him!”
Several rose, and with loud, deep, voluble oaths supported the
suggestion. My blood ran cold as I realised my imminent peril. These
rough fellows from Piacenza felt perfectly justified in hanging me to the
nearest tree, seeing that I had shot one of their number. What could I
do? I gazed from one to the other like a hunted animal.
“Surely you would not hang a man without evidence,” I cried. “I can show
you letters to prove who I am.”
The tall man, whom they called Luigi, stepped up and unbound my
hands. I drew forth a note I received while in Paris. It contained a
_carte-de-visite_ of my sister Mascha, which fell to the floor as I drew
out the letter. Luigi picked it up.
“It is my sister’s picture,” I cried. “Here, read the letter any of you.
It will prove that I am an honest man.”
Luigi gazed earnestly at the picture. “_Dio mio!_ she’s a beauty!” he
remarked.
The picture was passed round, but opinions were freely expressed that she
was not my sister at all. Ninetta crowded in among the men and asked to
see the photograph. Luigi handed it to her, jocosely remarking that he
would marry her when she grew to be as handsome as that.
She quietly replied: “He speaks the truth!” and gazed intently on the
photograph. “I’ll swear that’s his sister,” she added presently.
“I’m inclined to think so, too,” remarked Luigi. “I think we’d better
wait and take him back to Piacenza.”
At this there was a dissenting murmur, which grew so strong that my
courage failed again. Suddenly Luigi turned to the crowd and cried. “Let
us give him a chance. I’ll play him at dominoes. If he loses we’ll end
his troubles. What do you say?”
“Capital idea. Let him be tried by his skill with the ivories!” cried
one of the men, and the scheme seemed to tickle the fancy of the crowd.
They evidently had confidence in Luigi’s ability to play dominoes.
Unfortunately it was a game of which I knew nothing, and I told them so.
Ninetta was still standing beside Luigi. “Let me play for him,” she said
eagerly. “Luck is always with me.”
“Yes, let her play,” cried the men, evidently amused at the novelty of
the thing, and also sure that the old Italian’s superior skill would
win. “Yes, let Ninetta play for him. Give her your money,” they said,
addressing me.
I looked at the girl curiously. Her big dark eyes were glittering with
excitement, but she was cool and self-possessed. Taking out my purse
which contained my wealth, about £70 in fifty lire notes, I handed it to
her.
The dominoes were produced, and in a few moments she and Luigi were
seated opposite each other, and the game began.
It was a weird scene, and I had the odd feeling that I was simply a
spectator and in no way concerned. I remember wishing for paints that I
might transfer it to canvas. What a picture it would make! The quaint,
old-fashioned, frescoed room; the smoky lamps shedding a sickly light
upon the eager group around the table. I could see the face of Ninetta,
and knew that in all probability my life hung upon her skill.
She played in silence, except when she shuffled the clicking dominoes
underneath her small sun-tanned hands. It was an even game for a while,
until the old Italian began to win, and her pile of notes steadily
diminished. She played coolly on, despite the comments of the crowd. She
was down to her last note when the luck turned in her favour. She won
steadily, gathering back the notes, until Luigi had scarcely any left. He
began to turn up his dominoes cautiously, having evidently no desire to
be beaten by a girl.
I watched Ninetta’s face closely for some sign of excitement, but none
was visible. She was thoroughly self-possessed, and the fact that she
held my life in her hands had no outward effect upon her. Fortune
favoured Luigi again, and they were soon about even. The men who crowded
around the table grew impatient. “_Siete un figurino, Luigi! Sta a
voi giuocare._ Bah! you’re afraid of her! you don’t bet,” and like
expressions were heard, while the others encouraged my little champion.
Her father came to where she sat, and patting her upon the shoulder,
remarked, “Ninetta was always a lucky girl.”
They commenced to play, and it was the man’s shuffle. The betting was
high. Ninetta glanced at her dominoes in an uncertain way, and then at
the few limp notes at her elbow. She had thirty lire less than he. The
excitement was intense. For a moment only heavy breathing could be
heard; then the bright-eyed girl laughed nervously and pushed the whole
of the notes into the pool.
Her opponent threw in the rest of his money, breaking into a discordant
laugh.
“It’s the last game,” he said, glancing over at me. “Sorry for you, but
you can prepare for death. Well, what have you got, Ninetta?”
She quietly turned up the double-six, and one by one exhibited dominoes
of high denomination. He struck the table a blow that made the ivories
jingle. “_Dio! Domino!_ Luck is always on your side; I’d have staked my
last couple of _soldi_ that I held a winning hand, but the double-six was
too much for me! Come, comrades, let’s have some wine and drink to my bad
luck!”
He led the way to the small bar at the end of the room, followed by the
crowd and the gendarmes, now appearing in the best of humours. Ninetta
calmly swept up the notes, crushed them into my purse and handed it to
me, remarking laconically, “You’d better take this and get over the
Apennines to Vernazza, where you can get a passage on board a steamer.”
“I don’t want it all,” I exclaimed. “Only what is mine.”
“Keep it all. It’s yours. They’ve killed your horse,” and before I could
say anything further, my fair protector had left the room.
My first impulse was to put as much distance as possible between myself
and the uncouth crowd, but on reflection I remembered that there was
no other house for miles, that I knew nothing of the country, and if
I started out on foot I was liable to be attacked by the thieves who
infested the district. I therefore put on a bold front and asked old
Vincenti to give me a lodging for the night. He picked up a guttering
candle, called Ninetta, and told her to show me upstairs. We entered a
large chamber that had evidently once been the ball-room of the villa.
There were several beds in it, and on a table beside one she placed the
candle, and was about to leave when I detained her.
“Ninetta, I have not thanked you for what you have done for me to-night.
My life is not worth much, but I should have hated to give it up in such
a manner. Is there nothing I can do to show my gratitude?”
She laughed in an embarrassed manner. “Why, it wasn’t anything. I like to
play; I’d have done it for anybody.”
“I’m sure of that; but is there nothing I can do for you?”
She hesitated a moment. “No,” she replied, “there is nothing you can do
now. Some day, perhaps, I shall be glad of your assistance.”
“You will always find me your willing servant,” I replied fervently.
I grasped her hand warmly, and she wished me a merry “_Buona notte_.”
I did not see her about the house next morning. The fierce party of the
night before had left. I inquired for Ninetta, but was informed that
she had gone off early to attend to her goats on the mountain-side. The
old Tuscan woman who acted as cook provided me with a hearty breakfast,
and presently a peasant’s cart halted on its way to Vernazza. Arranging
with the driver to give me a lift, I mounted beside him with a feeling of
inexpressible relief. Half an hour later, as we rounded a curve in the
mountain road, we came face to face with Ninetta. She was mounted on a
mule, and galloped rapidly past, her hair streaming in the wind. I had
only time to raise my hat in response to a smile of recognition, when she
passed, as I then thought, out of my life for ever.
Two days afterwards I arrived at Leghorn, and, taking a passage on board
a steamer bound for New York, bade farewell to the sunny garden of
Europe, which, I felt convinced, was a decidedly dangerous place wherein
to sojourn, having regard to the curious circumstances of my capture and
release.
After two years of aimless wandering and hiding from the police I again
trod Italian soil. Even in far-off Manitoba intelligence had reached me
of punishments imposed upon the gendarmes who had acted so leniently
towards me. Two years, however, is a long time, and having a mission to
execute for our Cause in Italy—my personal appearance being so altered as
to be unrecognisable—I returned.
The long, bright day had drawn to a close. The west was a blaze of gold
against which the ilex and the acacia were black as funeral plumes, while
in the quaint, crooked streets of ancient Nervi people were moving,
enjoying the _bel fresco_ after the burden of the scorching day.
The sun glowed and sank beyond the calm, sparkling Mediterranean, and in
the tender violet hues of the east the moon rose. Crimson clouds drifted
against the azure, and were reflected as in a mirror on the broad Gulf of
Genoa. San Giovanni’s tower stood out clear against the yellow sky, and
its bells chimed solemnly.
As the hour wore on, evening fell. Boats glided over the glassy sea; on
the hills the cypresses were black against the faint gold that lingered
in the west, and there was an odour of carnations and acacias everywhere.
Noiseless footsteps came and went. People passed softly in shadow. The
moonlight was sweet and clear upon the ancient tower and time-worn
stones; in the stillness the little torrents made sad rushing sounds as
they plashed towards the sea. Across the moss-grown piazza an old monk
walked slowly and thoughtfully.
Leaving the _osteria_ where I had taken up a temporary abode, I strolled
through the quaint little half-deserted town, and out upon the road which
ran by the sea-shore towards old Savona. Engrossed in my own thoughts, I
had been standing watching the shadows chase the sun-rays on the dusky
purple sides of the Apennines, and the fireflies dancing away their brief
lives among the boughs of the magnolias and over the fields of maize.
A cigarette between my lips, I was heedless of where I walked. As I
passed a row of small cottages, and emerged upon the broad Corniche
Road, the strains of mandolines played by happy, light-hearted fishermen
greeted my ears, accompanied by snatches of peasant songs.
I am not a fatalist, neither have I any spiritualistic tendencies,
but there are times when I am half inclined to believe in a distinct
power—magnetic, if you will.
I think I must have slept, as I have only the most vague recollection of
my promenade.
When I became fully aware of things around me, I found myself sitting
in an armchair, with my chin resting upon my hands. There was a dim,
indistinct consciousness of realising that a storm had occurred—that I
had seen a light and knocked timidly at a cottage door.
A young woman in peasant costume, and very beautiful, was sitting beside
me. I glanced slowly round the humble interior. We were alone. Little
by little I remembered. It was she who had opened the door and bade me
welcome.
Though sad, her face pleased me. Were it not for her light breathing I
should think she was of wax.
I cannot tell what air of recognition I found in her voice and manner.
Instantly, however, I remembered a half-forgotten period, like a queer
dream; a name was upon my lips, but I could not utter it. I stammered a
question.
“Well, well,” she said, amused; “they tell me I have altered; yet—why,
don’t you remember Ninetta?”
“Ninetta! Do you remember when last we met?” I asked earnestly.
“Yes,” she murmured; “but do not speak of it. Such memories are painful.”
“If to you, none the less to me, Ninetta,” I replied, looking into her
sad, wan face.
Her lips quivered, and tears stole down her cheeks.
During a whole hour it was nothing but expressions of surprise and
vague regret. To the depth of our beings we felt the voice of these
recollections. We were speaking of them, when suddenly she withdrew her
hand, and a red flush mounted to her forehead.
“But you soon forgot me when you went away,” she said reproachfully. “And
I have never ceased to think of you. It was strange, playing a game of
dominoes for your life, wasn’t it?”
I rose and gazed at her. She was seated, her eyes riveted on the dying
embers of the fire, her cheek resting upon her hand, appearing to have
forgotten my presence. There was nothing awkward in the long silence
that followed. We both felt too deeply for idle words. As we contemplated
our past, the wind whistled without, the thunder pealed, and the rain
fell furiously.
“Ah!” she exclaimed at last, looking up at me seriously, “I am foolish to
speak so, now that I am married.”
“Married!” I gasped in astonishment, at the same time noticing the ring
upon her finger. “I thought this cottage was your father’s—that you kept
house for him.”
There was a brief silence. Then she spoke. Her voice made me tremble,
careless ingrate that I was. She uttered the words without moving, as
though giving utterance to the thought that possessed her. For an hour I
remained talking to her, then went forth again into the darkness.
The morning was chill and dull as I again walked along the beach-road
until I came to the door of the cottage. I had spent a restless night;
her misery tortured me, and despite her entreaty, I was now on my way to
proffer assistance. With trepidation I approached the door of the humble
abode, and knocked.
No one stirred. Everything seemed strangely silent.
A moment later I noticed the door was unlatched. Pushing it open, I
entered, at the same time uttering her name.
As I stepped into the neat, well-kept room I at first saw nothing, but
on glancing round the opposite side of the table my eyes encountered a
sight that thrilled me with horror.
Stretched on the floor lay Ninetta, partially dressed, the pale morning
light falling across her calm, upturned features. Falling on my knees, I
touched her face with my hand. It was cold as marble. She was dead!
In her breast a knife was buried up to the hilt, and from the cruel wound
the blood had oozed, forming a dark pool beside her.
My recollection of the events immediately following this ghastly
discovery is but faint. I have a hazy belief that my mind became
unhinged; that I left the place without informing any one of the tragedy,
then walking many miles through woods and vineyards, I reached Ovada,
whence I took train for Turin.
The one thing most vivid in my mind was the terrible look of blank
despair in the glazed eyes.
I have never forgotten it.
One dusty autumn day I was wandering in quaint, old-world Genoa, that
city which the bright-eyed, laughing Ligurians love to call “La Superba.”
It was in festá, and all the ladder-like streets were ablaze with flags,
and the many-coloured façades of the old sea-palaces glowed in the fervid
noon-heat reflected by the sapphire water. It was the hour of the siesta.
The blazing sun beat down mercilessly upon the white streets; the shops
were closed, and behind green jalousies the Genoese were taking their
noon-day rest.
Pétroff was with me. Together we walked on the shady side of the deserted
Via Roma, and having crossed the Piazza ’Nunziata, were passing the
Palazzo di Giustizia, when a knot of persons talking excitedly attracted
our attention.
A conversation we overheard between two soldiers aroused our curiosity
as to a case in progress in the Criminal Court, and glad to seek shelter
from the heat, we entered. As the soldier opened the swing-door of the
cool, dimly lit court, I slipped inside with my companion. The judge had
risen, and was standing solemn and statuesque. Above him hung a great
gilt crucifix. He was uttering words in Italian, that caused a sensation
it was impossible to mistake.
“Prisoner Lorenzo Bertini,” he said, addressing the wild-eyed looking man
who stood in fetters before him, “in this Court of Justice of His Majesty
the King you have been found guilty of wilfully murdering your wife
Ninetta, at Nervi. I therefore condemn you to death, and in the name of
the Almighty I call upon you to repent!”
I held my breath, and fixed my gaze upon the unhappy man.
In a few seconds I had sufficiently recovered to inquire of a young
priest who stood beside me the nature of the tragedy. The condemned man,
he told me, had confessed that the motive of his crime was jealousy.
He was intoxicated, and having discovered his wife kissing a stranger
who had visited her in his absence, he had entered the house and
deliberately stabbed her to the heart.
A sickening sensation crept over me. I pleaded that the intense heat
had brought on faintness, and we retraced our steps to our hotel. That
evening we left Genoa, and a fortnight later I read in the _Secolo_ that
Lorenzo Bertini had paid the penalty of his crime.