A SUDDEN FLIGHT.
Blanka sat in her room, with closed doors, preparing her costume for the
masked ball. Affairs in the world outside had moved rapidly during the
past few days. In the feverish excitement of that revolutionary period,
mob violence was threatening to gain the upper hand. Shouts of
boisterous merriment reached the princess from the street. From the
adjoining wing of the palace, too, other sounds, almost equally
boisterous, fell on her ear at intervals. The fair Cyrene was
entertaining a company of congenial spirits.
Gradually the noise in the street grew louder, until it seemed as if a
cage of wild animals had been let loose before the Cagliari palace.
Suddenly, as Blanka stood before her fire, all her senses alert, she saw
the glowing phoenix rise from its position, and her fair neighbour
stood in the opening.
"Put out your fire, and let me in," bade the marchioness. "I have
emptied my extinguisher. Don't you hear the mob storming my palace
gates? The soldiery who were summoned to restore order have made common
cause with the rioters, and we are in frightful peril. Quick! Out with
your fire, and let me and my guests through. We can make our escape by
your rear door, and so gain the riverside in safety."
Blanka could not refuse this appeal. She opened the way for the
marchioness and her motley company to pass out; then she herself, first
closing the secret passage between the two wings of the palace, followed
the other fugitives and, gaining the street by a wide détour, engaged a
cab to take her to the Vatican.
"His Holiness receives no one this afternoon," was the announcement made
to her at the door.
Almost in despair, and bewildered by the sudden turn of events which had
thus cast her homeless on the streets, the princess returned to her
carriage.
"Do you know where Signor Scalcagnato lives?" she asked the driver.
"Scalcagnato the shoemaker, the champion of the people? To be sure I do:
in the Piazza di Colosseo. But if the lady wishes to buy shoes of him
she should not address him as _Signor_ Scalcagnato."
"Why not?"
"Because he will ask half as much more for them than if he were called
plain _Citizen_ Scalcagnato."
After this gratuitous bit of information the coachman whipped up his
horse and rattled away toward the Colosseum with his passenger.
Arriving at the shoemaker's shop, Blanka was received by a little man of
lively bearing and a quick, intelligent expression.
"Pst! No words needed," was his greeting. "I know all about it. I am
Citizen Scalcagnato, _il calzolajo_. Take my arm, citizeness. Cittadino
Adorjano lives on the top floor, and the stairs are a trifle steep. He
is out at present, but his studio is open to you."
The young lady was reassured. The honest cobbler evidently did not
suspect her of coming to meet his tenant by appointment, but took her
for an artist friend on a professional visit, or perhaps a customer come
to buy a picture. The shoemaker took the artist's place, in the latter's
absence, and sold his paintings for him. Perhaps, too, the artist sold
his landlord's shoes when that worthy was abroad.
Thus it was that Blanka took the offered arm without a misgiving, and
suffered the cobbler to lead her up the steep stairway to the little
attic chamber that served her friend for both sleeping-room and studio.
It was as neat as wax, and as light and airy as any painter could
desire. A large bow-window admitted the free light of heaven and at the
same time afforded a fine view of the Palatine Hill. Leaning for a
moment against the window-sill, in mute admiration of the prospect
before her, the princess thought how happy a woman might be with this
view to greet her eyes every day, while a husband who worshipped her and
was worshipped by her worked at her side--or, rather, not _worked_, but
_created_. It was a picture far more alluring than any that the Cagliari
palace had to offer.
"Pst!" the cobbler interrupted her musing; "come and let me show you the
portrait."
So saying, he conducted her to an easel on which rested a veiled
picture, which he uncovered with an air of pride and satisfaction.
The feeling of rapture that took possession of Blanka at sight of her
own portrait was owing, not to the fact that it was her
likeness,--radiant though that likeness was with youth and beauty and
all the charm of an ideal creation,--but to the thought that _he_ had
painted it.
"The price is thirty-three million, three hundred and thirty-three
thousand, three hundred and thirty-three _scudi_, and not a _soldo_
less!" announced the shoemaker, with a broad smile. Then he laid his
fingers on his lips. "Pst! Not a word! I know all. It will be all
right."
Blanka saw now that he had recognised her the moment she entered his
shop.
"The citizen painter is not at home," continued the other, "but he will
turn up at the proper time where he is wanted. Sun, moon, and stars may
fall from heaven, but he will not fail you. No more words! What I have
said, I have said. You can now return home, signorina, and need give
yourself no further uneasiness. Whatever occurs in the streets, you need
not worry. And finally"--they had by this time reached the ground floor
again--"it will be well for you to take a pair of shoes with you, to
make the coachman think you came on purpose for them. Here's a good
stout pair, serviceable for walking or for mountain-climbing. You can
rely on them. So take them along; you may need them sometime."
"But how do you know they will fit me?" asked Blanka.
"Citizeness, don't you remember the stone footprint of our Lord in the
church of _Domine quo vadis_? And may not the footprint of an angel have
been left in the sand of the Colosseum for a devout artist to copy in
his sketch-book? Such a sketch is enough for the Cittadino Scalcagnato
to make a pair of shoes from, so that they cannot fail to fit."
The princess turned rosy red. "I have no money with me to pay for them,"
she objected. "A footman usually accompanies me and pays for all my
purchases; but to-day I left him at home, and I neglected to take my
purse with me."
"No matter; I understand. I'll charge the amount. Here, take this purse
and pay your cab-fare out of it when you reach the square. Don't go home
in a carriage, but on foot. You needn't fear to do so, with a pair of
shoes in your hand. If your gold-laced lackey were with you, you might
meet with insult and abuse; but walking alone with the shoes in your
hand, you will not be molested, and you will find all quiet at home by
this time. Now enough said. I know all. You can pay me back later."
With that the little shoemaker escorted his guest to her carriage and
took leave of her with a polite request--intended for the cabman's
ear--for her further patronage.
Following the mysterious little man's directions, Blanka reached home
unharmed, and found everything there as she had left it. Whatever
violence the rioters may have allowed themselves in storming the
marchioness's quarters, her own wing of the palace, for some reason that
she could only vaguely conjecture, had been spared. After assuring
herself of this, the princess tried on her new shoes, and found that
Citizen Scalcagnato was no less skilful as a shoemaker than eminent as a
politician and a party-leader.
The house was now still and deserted, although the sounds of riotous
excess were faintly audible in the distance. The servants had evidently
fled at the same time that Blanka and the marchioness left the palace.
Looking out of her rear window, the princess noticed that her garden
gate was open; it must have been left swinging by her domestics in their
flight. She was hastening down-stairs to close it, when a man's form
appeared before her in the gathering gloom, and she cried out in sudden
terror.
"Do not be alarmed, Princess." The words came in a firm, manly voice
that thrilled the hearer; she recognised the tones. Manasseh Adorjan
stood before her. "I could not gain admittance by the front door," he
explained, "so I went around to the garden gate."
"And how is it," asked Blanka, "that you have come to me at the very
moment that I was seeking you?"
"I wished, first, to bid you farewell. I am going home, to Transylvania,
for my people are in trouble and I must go and help them. As long as
they are happy I avoid them, but when misfortune comes I cannot stay
away. War threatens to invade our peaceful valley, and I hasten
thither."
"Has the hour come, then, when you feel it right to kill your
fellow-men?"
"No, Princess; my part is to restore peace, not to foment strife."
Blanka's hands were clasped in her lap. She raised them to her bosom and
begged her fellow-countryman to take her with him.
The colour mounted to his face, his breast heaved, he passed his hand
across his brow, whereon the perspiration had started, and stammered, in
agitated accents:
"No, no, Princess, I cannot take you with me."
"Why not?" asked Blanka, tremulously.
"Because I am a man and but human. I could shield you against all the
world, but not against myself. I love you! And if you came with me, how
could you expect me to help you keep your vows? I am neither saint nor
angel, but a mortal, and a sinful one."
The poor girl sank speechless into a chair and hid her face in her
hands.
"Hear me further, Princess," continued the other, with forced calmness.
"I have told you but one reason why I sought you here to-day. The other
was to show you a means of escape from this place, where you cannot
remain in safety another day. You must leave Rome this very night, and
that will be no easy thing to accomplish now that all the gates are
guarded. But I have a plan. Above all things, you must find a lady to
take you under her protection, and that, I think, can be effected.
Citizen Scalcagnato issues all the passports for those that leave the
city by the Colosseum gate. From him I have learned that the Countess
X---- is to leave for the south to-night. I have obtained a pass for
you, and you have only to make yourself ready and go with me to
the Colosseum gate, where we will wait for her carriage. She is
a good friend of yours and cannot refuse to take you as her
travelling-companion. Do you approve my plan?"
"Yes, and I thank you."
"Then a few hours hence will see you on your journey southward. I shall
set out for the north, and soon the length of Italy will separate us. Is
it not best so?"
Blanka gave him her hand in mute assent.
* * * * *
An hour later Manasseh and Blanka stood in the shelter of the gateway by
which the countess was expected to leave Rome. They had not long to
wait: the sound of an approaching carriage was soon heard, and when it
halted under the gas-lamp Blanka recognised her friend's equipage. The
gate-keeper advanced to examine the traveller's passport, and as the
carriage door was thrown open Blanka hastened forward and made herself
known.
"What do you wish?" demanded the liveried footman.
The princess turned and looked at him. Surely she had seen that face and
form before in a different setting, but she could not recall when or
where. So much was evident, however, that the speaker was more wont to
give than to receive orders. Blanka turned again to the open carriage
door and plucked at the cloak of the person sitting within.
"You are fleeing from Rome, too, Countess," said she. "I beg you to take
me with you."
But the carriage door was closed in her face.
"Countess, hear me!" she cried, in distress. "Have pity on me! Don't
leave me to perish in the streets!"
Her petition was unheeded. The footman drew her away and, as he turned
to remount the vehicle, whispered three words in her ear:
"_È il papa!_"
It was the Pope, and he was fleeing! The spiritual ruler of the world,
the king of kings, Heaven's viceroy upon earth, was flying for his life.
The judge fled and left the prisoner to her fate. Blanka felt herself
absolved from all her vows. She plucked from her bosom the consecrated
palm-leaf, tore it to pieces, and threw the fragments scornfully after
the retreating carriage. Then she turned once more to Manasseh.
"Now take me with you whithersoever you will!" she cried, and she sank
on his bosom and suffered him to clasp her in a warm embrace.