ANDREA LEAVES JÉZERO
“There is a proverb in our tongue, excellency, which says that he who
relies upon another’s table is apt to dine late. The misfortune which
fell upon the house of Jézero in the week of Easter brought this saying
home to me, to my discomfort.
“The Count had returned on the eve of Low Sunday. We had been then
three days in the hills and in the villages seeking for Christine.
_Maria Santissima!_ there was no man in the house who did not shake
with fear when the news went abroad that the little one was missing.
As well might they have told us that our master was dead--aye,
and better--for then there would have been none to hold us to the
accusation.
“Even the priest trembled at the tidings, though I knew that he had
looked for them. ‘Signor Andrea,’ he said--it was the night after she
left us--‘I will not hold it from you that this is no surprise to me.
Yet even I did not think that she would go away like this, without word
or message. Who shall tell him? The Virgin be my help--I would not do
it for a kingdom!’
“‘Father,’ said I, ‘your words are wise. This can be no surprise to
you.’
“He turned quickly, searching me with his bright black eyes.
“‘How?’ exclaimed he; ‘they say that?’
“‘They do not say it,’ I answered, ‘but they may presently, if I do not
hold my tongue. Was it not your word that if the man lived you would
find him? _Securo_, I can remember and I can forget, Father.’
“He was much alarmed at this, and taking my arm he drew me gently to
the window of the room.
“‘It is time that you and I understood each other, my friend,’ he said;
‘and for the matter of that, I have desired it all along. Though I know
nothing--and God is my witness that I speak truth--of the reasons which
have induced the girl to leave us at this time, I have no doubt at
all that they are to be learnt in whatever house her husband has now
chosen for her----’
“‘_Eccoli_, Father; then you know that he lives!’
“‘It was known to me three weeks ago, as it has been known to you from
the first. We are no children, you and I, and we do not play harlequin
for fools to laugh. Why, then, should we not talk to each other as men
that have a common desire? You are well aware that Alvise, the father
of the man Ugo, bribed a corporal to report the lad as dead. I will
not stop to point out to you how grave a crime you contemplated in
permitting Christine to go to the altar with one who could never be a
husband to her. For the sake of the woman’s soul, and for the eternal
good of my master, I have acted as became a priest and a servant of
Jesus Christ. It remains for you to do what you can to repair the
injury which you have brought upon this house. And firstly, it is for
you to hold your tongue and to know nothing, whatever question may
be put to you. An explanation would lead only to your undoing and
to mine--it might lead also to a sin greater than any we have yet
contemplated. As the affair stands, it is easy to say some accident
must have overtaken Christine--even to hint that she is dead. If the
Count should learn what we know, then we shall be the better for
pretending ignorance. We can but act like honest men and the true
friends of one whom it is a privilege to serve.’
“‘_Per Baccho_,’ said I, ‘you speak like a book; yet there are things
I cannot forget, Father, and the first of them is that I am an old
man and a poor one. Not that poverty is any sore to me! _Poca roba
poco pensiero_, is my word. Yet I doubt not that I must return to my
home at Sebenico when your master returns. It is hard that I should go
empty-handed after all my pains. Surely, my tongue would be the stiller
if there were a little weight of silver upon it.’
“‘I have thought of that, Signor Andrea,’ he answered quickly; ‘I am
not one to forget my friends. When you leave the château of Jézero, it
shall not be empty-handed. And you may count upon me always----’
“Our discourse was cut short at this point by the return of another
of the woodlanders, who had ridden out towards Travnik in the hope of
finding Christine. He now came galloping over the grass of the park,
and many ran out to meet him, crying for his news.
“‘Hast thou heard of her? Surely I see that thou hast tidings! Saints
and angels! who shall tell the Lord Count? You have learnt nothing? May
the day be black that she passed the gates!’
“The man rode on, regardless of these cries from the grooms and the
women, and drew rein only at the door of the château.
“‘I have been sixteen hours in the saddle,’ he said to the priest, ‘and
have learnt nothing. There was a strange woman passed through Jajce
this morning, and an Italian with her; but she had rags about her legs.
Mehmed Bey, who rode by here at sunset yesterday, saw my lady standing
by the thicket at the turn of the path. She had a rosary in her hand,
and her eyes were towards the town. She was still there when dark came
down and hid her from his sight. Holy God! that I must tell it to my
master!’
“There was a little crowd round the man before he had done; and when
his message was delivered the women fell to wailing again and the
grooms to cursing. All these, excellency, had learnt love for her
whose presence had breathed so sweet an influence in the house of the
Zaloskis. They mourned for her as one of their own; they trembled when
they asked each other what saying must come to the Count’s ears. No
sooner did one of them ride into the park than another was upon his
horse, galloping swiftly through the bridle-track of the woods, or
spurring again to the house of the Prefect. Nor did they rest, night
or day, until their master stood again in the great courtyard of the
house, and the terrible moment of speaking was at hand.
“He had driven over from the station at Travnik, for there was no
railway then to Jajce, and dark was upon the château when we heard the
bells of his horses. I can remember well that he wore the blue uniform
of his hussar regiment, and that his cloak was open and loose and his
cap somewhat over his face when he stepped from the carriage and stood
for a minute in the courtyard, where we were drawn up, with torches
in our hands, awaiting him. I had hoped that he would have called me
from the company and have spoken with me first--for a groom had already
whispered that he had heard the tidings--but he did not so much as
notice me.
“‘Where is Hans?’ he asked, casting a quick glance over the throng.
“The steward stepped forward and bent low.
“‘My Lord Count,’ he murmured, ‘blame me not----’
“Count Paul stopped him abruptly.
“‘Follow me,’ he said, ‘and let these others go to their work.’
“‘The horses are ready bridled in the stables, Herr Count.’
“‘There is no need of them--let the bridles be taken off.’
“I looked at Father Mark when this was said, and he returned my glance.
The others went slowly out of the courtyard, glad to put distance
between themselves and their master. The Count led the steward to his
study, and lighted the lamps there. We could see him from our place
in the quadrangle pacing the length of the apartment, with his sword
clattering at his heels; we could watch the gestures of Hans, whose
lips moved quickly, and whose emphasis was abundant. It was evident
that Count Paul scarce spoke a word. Yet who could measure the sorrow
of his silence?
“‘Look,’ whispered the priest, gripping my arm, ‘he is listening to the
man’s tale, but he answers nothing. You heard him give the order to
unbridle the horses. That means much, my friend.’
“‘_Securo_, Father,’ replied I, ‘what we know, he knows--that is plain.
You spoke well when you said that we should put curbs upon our tongues.’
“‘I spoke as my faith taught me,’ he exclaimed; ‘yet God knows what it
cost me to do so. He is not a man to forget; _Madonna mia_, he will
remember always. And she had become very dear to him. I would give half
my life if she could be a wife to him.’
“‘Aye, truly,’ said I, ‘that would have been a great day. And it may
come yet--who knows? If there be a hunt still for the man she has gone
with, is it not easy to lay hands upon him? A company of dragoons would
catch him in three days!’
“The suggestion was new to him. He considered it for a moment, and then
he said:
“‘As you say, yet who will give the command? Not the Count, certainly,
for what service would it be to him if the husband of Christine were
sent to a prison, and to his regiment afterwards? The tale that he
fired upon his commanding officer is one to be told in a guest-house,
and not to a court of soldiers. You know that it is untrue. And more
than that, my friend, we are dealing with one to whom honour is a
faith. You, of course, might go to the Prefect with the story in your
mouth. He would answer you that the man Klun was shot in the hills.
You would lose then both the opportunity of serving the woman and the
reward which I have promised you. Is that wisdom?’
“‘Nay,’ said I, for he had convinced me, ‘it would be folly beyond
words, and for the matter of that----’
“‘Hush!’ he whispered, ‘the steward is coming out.’
“It was as he said. The Count had now flung himself into a great chair
before his fire, and sat there motionless, the red light playing upon
his drawn and anxious face. But the steward came out to us, and raising
his finger warningly, he led us to the cloister. There, in hurried
whispered words, he told us what had passed.
“‘He heard all in Travnik,’ said he, ‘for they had telegraphed there.
He asked me if there was any letter left or message, or if the
man--whom they say she has gone with--has been seen about the place. I
said no, and then he charged me that my lady’s name should never pass
our lips again. His anger I could have borne with--but his kindness--my
God, that is hard to bear now. And there was no complaint. Had I been a
woman, he could not have spoken gentler words. Black be the day that I
have seen him so.’
“Excellency, I make no excuse for him, but there were tears in the eyes
of Hans when he had done speaking.
“‘Come, Master Hans,’ I exclaimed, ‘neither winter nor summer rests
always in the sky, as the proverb goes. _Diamine_, he will forget in a
week, and all will be well again! It must be our business to help him.
He made mention of me, did you say?’
“‘Surely he did.’
“‘The Lord bless his charity, then.’
“‘Not so fast, my friend. It is his wish that you return to your home
with to-morrow’s sun. “Let the old man be seen here no more,” he said.
A hard word, Signor Andrea, but this is not the time to alter it.’
“‘God so do to him as he has done to one that came far to serve him,’
cried I, and would have added more, but the priest put his hand upon my
arm.
“‘How,’ said he, ‘is this the time to be brawling like a beggar at a
church door? I am ashamed of you! Is there not misfortune enough upon
the house that you should add your complaints to it? Truly the Count is
right, and it is time you went to your home again.’
“‘Father,’ I replied, ‘no man tells me twice that my company is a
burden to him. To-morrow at dawn I will set out.’
“‘You do well,’ said he, ‘nor will your services be forgotten.’
“He spoke with meaning, excellency; and when I rode out of the gates at
sunrise next day, a bag of guldens was jingling at my girdle. Nor could
I, grieve as I might for the exceeding misfortunes which had come upon
the house of the Zaloskis, deem the gift to be unearned.
“‘God will lighten the burden,’ I thought, ‘and my Lord Count will
forget. A man has not lived his life at forty. He will love again, and
find an object more worthy. It may be even that I shall meet someone
who will think it worth his while to deal with Ugo Klun. And if the lad
were sent to the frontier, who can tell what would happen? Priests are
priests, and have not men’s eyes. We of the world judge more justly. It
is unlikely,’ I said, ‘that those at Jézero will think any more of old
Andrea now that he has left them. He must be just to himself and watch
patiently. Perchance he may yet serve little Christine--and has he not
a bag of guldens at his girdle?’
“The latter assurance was my abiding consolation. I cracked my fingers
for joy, and my heart beat light at the glory of the morning. The sweet
scent of the blossoms, the odours of the pines, the invigorating air
of the mountains, the spreading sunshine, sent me singing on my way. I
turned round in my saddle and saw the château set as a toy-castle--for
so it seemed to be in the distance--in the hollow of the pass below me.
“‘_Addio, addio_,’ cried I; ‘who knows that the day is not to come
when little Christine shall return to rule that house, and old Andrea
shall find a haven for his years?’
“And, so thinking, I rode on towards my own city.”