Now it chanced that Del Ferice was not at home at the hour when the
carriage containing the detectives drew up at his door. Indeed he was
rarely to be found at that time, for when he was not engaged elsewhere,
he dined with Donna Tullia and her old countess, accompanying them
afterwards to any of the quiet Lenten receptions to which they desired to
go. Temistocle was also out, for it was his hour for supper, a meal which
he generally ate in a small _osteria_ opposite his master's lodging.
There he sat now, finishing his dish of beans and oil, and debating
whether he should indulge himself in another _mezza foglietta_ of his
favourite white wine. He was installed upon the wooden bench against the
wall, behind the narrow table on which was spread a dirty napkin with the
remains of his unctuous meal. The light from the solitary oil-lamp that
hung from the black ceiling was not brilliant, and he could see well
enough through the panes of the glass door that the carriage which had
just stopped on the opposite side of the street was not a cab. Suspecting
that some one had called at that unusual hour in search of his master, he
rose from his seat and went out.
He stood looking at the carriage. It did not please him. It had that
peculiar look which used to mark the equipages of the Vatican, and which
to this day distinguishes them from all others in the eyes of a born
Roman. The vehicle was of rather antiquated shape, the horses were black,
the coachman wore a plain black coat, with a somewhat old-fashioned hat;
withal, the turnout was respectable enough, and well kept. But it did not
please Temistocle. Drawing his hat over his eyes, he passed behind it,
and having ascertained that the occupants, if there had been any, had
already entered the house, he himself went in. The narrow staircase was
dimly lighted by small oil-lamps. Temistocle ascended the steps on
tiptoe, for he could already hear the men ringing the bell, and talking
together in a low voice. The Neapolitan crept nearer. Again and again
the bell was rung, and the men began to grow impatient.
"He has escaped," said one angrily.
"Perhaps--or he has gone out to dinner--much more likely."
"We had better go away and come later," suggested the first.
"He is sure to come home. We had better wait. The orders are to take him
in his lodgings."
"We might go into the _osteria_ opposite and drink a _foglietta_."
"No," said the other, who seemed to be the one in authority. "We must
wait here, if we wait till midnight. Those are the orders."
The second detective grumbled something not clearly audible, and silence
ensued. But Temistocle had heard quite enough. He was a quick-witted
fellow, as has been seen, much more anxious for his own interests than
for his master's, though he had hitherto found it easy to consult both.
Indeed, in a certain way he was faithful to Del Ferice, and admired him
as a soldier admires his general. The resolution he now formed did honour
to his loyalty to Ugo and to his thievish instincts. He determined to
save his master if he could, and to rob him at his leisure afterwards.
If Del Ferice failed to escape, he would probably reward Temistocle for
having done his best to help him; if, on the other hand, he got away,
Temistocle had the key of his lodgings, and would help himself. But there
was one difficulty in the way. Del Ferice was in evening dress at the
house of Donna Tullia. In such a costume he would have no chance of
passing the gates, which in those days were closed and guarded all night.
Del Ferice was a cautious man, and, like many another in those days, kept
in his rooms a couple of disguises which might serve if he was hard
pressed. His ready money he always carried with him, because he
frequently went into the club before coming home, and played a game of
écarté, in which he was usually lucky. The question was how to enter the
lodgings, to get possession of the necessary clothes, and to go out
again, without exciting the suspicions of the detectives.
Temistocle's mind was soon made up. He crept softly down the stairs, so
as not to appear to have been too near, and then, making as much noise as
he could, ascended boldly, drawing the key of the lodgings from his
pocket as he reached the landing where the two men stood under the
little oil-lamp.
"_Buona sera, signori_," he said, politely, thrusting the key into the
lock without hesitation. "Did you wish to see the Conte del Ferice?"
"Yes," answered the elder man, affecting an urbane manner. "Is the Count
at home?"
"I do not think so," returned the Neapolitan. "But I will see. Come in,
gentlemen. He will not be long--_sempre verso quest'ora_--he always comes
home about this time."
"Thank you," said the detective. "If you will allow us to wait--"
"_Altro_--what? Should I leave the _padrone's_ friends on the stairs?
Come in, gentlemen--sit down. It is dark. I will light the lamp." And
striking a match, Temistocle lit a couple of candles and placed them upon
the table of the small sitting-room. The two men sat down, holding their
hats upon their knees.
"If you will excuse me," said Temistocle, "I will go and make the
signore's coffee. He dines at the restaurant, and always comes home for
his coffee. Perhaps the signori will also take a cup? It is the same to
make three as one."
But the men thanked Temistocle, and said they wanted none, which was just
as well, since Temistocle had no idea of giving them any. He retired,
however, to the small kitchen which belongs to every Roman lodging, and
made a great clattering with the coffee-pot. Presently he slipped into
Del Ferice's bedroom, and extracted from a dark corner a shabby black
bag, which he took back with him into the kitchen. From the kitchen
window ran the usual iron wire to the well in the small court, bearing an
iron traveller with a rope for drawing water. Temistocle, clattering
loudly, hooked the bag to the traveller and let it run down noisily; then
he tied the rope and went out. He had carefully closed the door of the
sitting-room, but he had been careful to leave the door which opened upon
the stairs unlatched. He crept noiselessly out, and leaving the door
still open, rushed down-stairs, turned into the little court, unhooked
his bag from the rope, and taking it in his hand, passed quietly out into
the street. The coachman was dozing upon the box of the carriage which
still waited before the door, and would not have noticed Temistocle had
he been awake. In a moment more the Neapolitan was beyond pursuit. In
the Piazza di Spagna he hailed a cab and drove rapidly to Donna Tullia's
house, where he paid the man and sent him away. The servants knew him
well enough, for scarcely a day passed without his bringing some note or
message from his master to Madame Mayer. He sent in to say that he must
speak to his master on business. Del Ferice came out hastily in
considerable agitation, which was by no means diminished by the sight of
the well-known shabby black bag.
Temistocle glanced round the hall to see that they were alone.
"The _forza_--the police," he whispered, "are in the house, Eccellenza.
Here is the bag. Save yourself, for the love of heaven!"
Del Ferice turned ghastly pale, and his face twitched nervously.
"But--" he began, and then staggering back leaned against the wall.
"Quick--fly!" urged Temistocle, shaking him roughly by the arm. "It is
the Holy Office--you have time. I told them you would be back, and they
are waiting quietly--they will wait all night. Here is your overcoat," he
added, almost forcing his master into the garment--"and your hat--here!
Come along, there is no time to lose. I will take you to a place where
you can dress."
Del Ferice submitted almost blindly. By especial good fortune the footman
did not come out into the hall. Donna Tullia and her guests had finished
dinner, and the servants had retired to theirs; indeed the footman had
complained to Temistocle of being called away from his meal to open the
door. The Neapolitan pushed his master out upon the stairs, urging him to
use all speed. As the two men hurried along the dark street they
conversed in low tones. Del Ferice was trembling in every joint.
"But Donna Tullia," he almost whined. "I cannot leave her so--she must
know--"
"Save your own skin from the Holy Office, master," answered Temistocle,
dragging him along as fast as he could. "I will go back and tell your
lady, never fear. She will leave Rome to-morrow. Of course you will go
to Naples. She will follow you. She will be there before you."
Del Ferice mumbled an unintelligible answer. His teeth were chattering
with cold and fear; but as he began to realise his extreme peril, terror
lent wings to his heels, and he almost outstripped the nimble Temistocle
in the race for safety. They reached at last the ruined part of the city
near the Porta Maggiore, and in the shadow of the deep archway where the
road branches to the right towards Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Temistocle
halted.
"Here," he said, shortly. Del Ferice said never a word, but began to
undress himself in the dark. It was a gloomy and lowering night, the
roads were muddy, and from time to time a few drops of cold rain fell
silently, portending a coming storm. In a few moments the transformation
was complete, and Del Ferice stood by his servant's side in the shabby
brown cowl and rope-girdle of a Capuchin monk.
"Now comes the hard part," said Temistocle, producing a razor and a pair
of scissors from the bottom of the bag. Del Ferice had too often
contemplated the possibility of flight to have omitted so important a
detail.
"You cannot see--you will cut my throat," he murmured plaintively.
But the fellow was equal to the emergency. Retiring deeper into the
recess of the arch, he lit a cigar, and holding it between his teeth,
puffed violently at it, producing a feeble light by which he could just
see his master's face. He was in the habit of shaving him, and had no
difficulty in removing the fair moustache from his upper lip. Then,
making him hold his head down, and puffing harder than ever, he cropped
his thin hair, and managed to make a tolerably respectable tonsure. But
the whole operation had consumed half an hour at the least, and Del
Ferice was trembling still. Temistocle thrust the clothes into his bag.
"My watch!" objected the unfortunate man, "and my pearl studs--give them
to me--what? You villain! you thief! you--"
"No _chiacchiere_, no talk, _padrone_," interrupted Temistocle, snapping
the lock of the bag. "If you chance to be searched, it would ill become a
mendicant friar to be carrying gold watches and pearl studs. I will give
them to Donna Tullia this very evening. You have money--you can say that
you are taking that to your convent."
"Swear to give the watch to Donna Tullia," said Del Ferice. Whereupon
Temistocle swore a terrible oath, which he did not fail to break, of
course. But his master had to be satisfied, and when all was completed
the two parted company.
"I will ask Donna Tullia to take me to Naples on her passport," said the
Neapolitan.
"Take care of my things, Temistocle. Burn all the papers if you
can--though I suppose the _sbirri_ have got them by this time. Bring my
clothes--if you steal anything, remember there are knives in Rome, and I
know where to write to have them used." Whereat Temistocle broke into a
torrent of protestations. How could his master think that, after saving
him at such risk, his faithful servant would plunder him?
"Well," said Del Ferice, thoughtfully, "you are a great scoundrel, you
know. But you have saved me, as you say. There is a scudo for you."
Temistocle never refused anything. He took the coin, kissed his master's
hand as a final exhibition of servility, and turned back towards the city
without another word. Del Ferice shuddered, and drew his heavy cowl over
his head as he began to walk quickly towards the Porta Maggiore. Then he
took the inside road, skirting the walls through the mud to the Porta San
Lorenzo. He was perfectly safe in his disguise. He had dined abundantly,
he had money in his pocket, and he had escaped the clutches of the Holy
Office. A barefooted friar might walk for days unchallenged through the
Roman Campagna and the neighbouring hills, and it was not far to the
south-eastern frontier. He did not know the way beyond Tivoli, but he
could inquire without exciting the least suspicion. There are few
disguises more complete than the garb of a Capuchin monk, and Del Ferice
had long contemplated playing the part, for it was one which eminently
suited him. His face, much thinner now than formerly, was yet naturally
round, and without his moustache would certainly pass for a harmless
clerical visage. He had received an excellent education, and knew vastly
more Latin than the majority of mendicant monks. As a good Roman he was
well acquainted with every convent in the city, and knew the names of all
the chief dignitaries of the Capuchin order. When a lad he had frequently
served at Mass, and was acquainted with most of the ordinary details of
monastic life. The worst that could happen to him might be to be called
upon in the course of his travels to hear the dying confession of some
poor wretch who had been stabbed after a game of _mora_. His case was
altogether not so bad as might seem, considering the far greater evils he
had escaped.
At the Porta San Lorenzo the gates were closed as usual, but the dozing
watchman let Del Ferice out of the small door without remark. Any one
might leave the city, though it required a pass to gain admittance during
the night. The heavily-ironed oak clanged behind the fugitive, and he
breathed more freely as he stepped upon the road to Tivoli. In an hour he
had crossed the Ponte Mammolo, shuddering as he looked down through the
deep gloom at the white foam of the Teverone, swollen with the winter
rains. But the fear of the Holy Office was behind him, and he hurried on
his lonely way, walking painfully in the sandals he had been obliged to
put on to complete his disguise, sinking occasionally ankle-deep in mud,
and then trudging over a long stretch of broken stones where the road had
been mended; but not noticing nor caring for pain and fatigue, while he
felt that every minute took him nearer to the frontier hills where he
would be safe from pursuit. And so he toiled on, till he smelled the
fetid air of the sulphur springs full fourteen miles from Rome; and at
last, as the road began to rise towards Hadrian's Villa, he sat down upon
a stone by the wayside to rest a little. He had walked five hours through
the darkness, seeing but a few yards of the broad road before him as he
went. He was weary and footsore, and the night was growing wilder with
gathering wind and rain as the storm swept down the mountains and through
the deep gorge of Tivoli on its way to the desolate black Campagna. He
felt that if he did not die of exposure he was safe, and to a man in his
condition bad weather is the least of evils.
His reflections were not sweet. Five hours earlier he had been dressed as
a fine gentleman should be, seated at a luxurious table in the company of
a handsome and amusing woman who was to be his wife. He could still
almost taste the delicate _chaud froid_, the tender woodcock, the dry
champagne; he could still almost hear Donna Tullia's last noisy sally
ringing in his ears--and behold, he was now sitting by the roadside in
the rain, in the wretched garb of a begging monk, five hours' journey
from Rome. He had left his affianced bride without a word of warning, had
abandoned all his possessions to Temistocle--that scoundrelly thief
Temistocle!--and he was utterly alone.
But as he rested himself, drawing his monk's hood closely over his head
and trying to warm his freezing feet with the skirts of his rough brown
frock, he reflected that if he ever got safely across the frontier he
would be treated as a patriot, as a man who had suffered for the cause,
and certainly as a man who deserved to be rewarded. He reflected that
Donna Tullia was a woman who had a theatrical taste for romance, and that
his present position was in theory highly romantic, however uncomfortable
it might be in the practice. When he was safe his story would be told in
the newspapers, and he would himself take care that it was made
interesting. Donna Tullia would read it, would be fascinated by the tale
of his sufferings, and would follow him. His marriage with her would then
add immense importance to his own position. He would play his cards well,
and with her wealth at his disposal he might aspire to any distinction he
coveted. He only wished the situation could have been prolonged for three
weeks, till he was actually married. Meanwhile he must take courage and
push on, beyond the reach of pursuit. If once he could gain Subiaco, he
could be over the frontier in twelve hours. From Tivoli there were
_vetture_ up the valley, cheap conveyances for the country people, in
which a barefooted friar could travel unnoticed. He knew that he must
cross the boundary by Trevi and the Serra di Sant' Antonio. He would
inquire the way from Subiaco.
While Del Ferice was thus making his way across the Campagna, Temistocle
was taking measures for his own advantage and safety. He had the bag with
his master's clothes, the valuable watch and chain, and the pearl studs.
He had also the key to Del Ferice's lodgings, of which he promised
himself to make some use, as soon as he should be sure that the
detectives had left the house. In the first place he made up his mind to
leave Donna Tullia in ignorance of his master's sudden departure.
There was nothing to be gained by telling her the news, for she would
probably in her rash way go to Del Ferice's house herself, as she had
done once before, and on finding he was actually gone she would take
charge of his effects, whereby Temistocle would be the loser. As he
walked briskly away from the ruinous district near the Porta Maggiore,
and began to see the lights of the city gleaming before him, his courage
rose in his breast. He remembered how easily he had eluded the detectives
an hour and a half before, and he determined to cheat them again.
But he had reckoned unwisely. Before he had been gone ten minutes the two
men suspected, from the prolonged silence, that something was wrong, and
after searching the lodging perceived that the polite servant who had
offered them coffee had left the house without taking leave. One of the
two immediately drove to the house of his chief and asked for
instructions. The order to arrest the servant if he appeared again came
back at once. The consequence was that when Temistocle boldly opened
the door with a ready framed excuse for his absence, he was suddenly
pinioned by four strong arms, dragged into the sitting-room, and told to
hold his tongue in the name of the law. And that is the last that was
heard of Temistocle for some time. But when the day dawned the men
knew that Del Ferice had escaped them.
The affair had not been well managed. The Cardinal was a good detective,
but a bad policeman. In his haste he had made the mistake of ordering Del
Ferice to be arrested instantly and in his lodgings. Had the statesman
simply told the chief of police to secure Ugo as soon as possible without
any scandal, he could not have escaped. But the officer interpreted the
Cardinal's note to mean that Del Ferice was actually at his lodgings when
the order was given. The Cardinal was supposed to be omniscient by
his subordinates, and no one ever thought of giving any interpretation
not perfectly literal to his commands. Of course the Cardinal was at once
informed, and telegrams and mounted detectives were dispatched in all
directions. But Del Ferice's disguise was good, and when just after
sunrise a gendarme galloped into Tivoli, he did not suspect that the
travel-stained and pale-faced friar, who stood telling his beads before
the shrine just outside the Roman gate, was the political delinquent whom
he was sent to overtake.
Donna Tullia spent an anxious night. She sent down to Del Ferice's
lodgings, as Temistocle had anticipated, and the servant brought back
word that he had not seen the Neapolitan, and that the house was held in
possession by strangers, who refused him admittance. Madame Mayer
understood well enough what had happened, and began to tremble for
herself. Indeed she began to think of packing together her own valuables,
in case she should be ordered to leave Rome, for she did not doubt that
the Holy Office was in pursuit of Del Ferice, in consequence of some
discovery relating to her little club of malcontents. She trembled for
Ugo with an anxiety more genuine than any feeling of hers had been for
many a day, not knowing whether he had escaped or not. But on the
following evening she was partially reassured by hearing from Valdarno
that the police had offered a large reward for Del Ferice's apprehension.
Valdarno declared his intention of leaving Rome at once. His life,
he said, was not safe for a moment. That villain Gouache, who had turned
Zouave, had betrayed them all, and they might be lodged in the Sant'
Uffizio any day. As a matter of fact, after he discovered how egregiously
he had been deceived by Del Ferice, the Cardinal grew more suspicious,
and his emissaries were more busy than they had been before. But Valdarno
had never manifested enough wisdom, nor enough folly, to make him a cause
of anxiety to the Prime Minister. Nevertheless he actually left Rome and
spent a long time in Paris before he was induced to believe that he might
safely return to his home.
Roman society was shaken to its foundations by the news of the attempted
arrest, and Donna Tullia found some slight compensation in becoming for a
time the centre of interest. She felt, indeed, great anxiety for the man
she was engaged to marry; but for the first time in her life she felt
also that she was living in an element of real romance, of which she had
long dreamed, but of which she had never found the smallest realisation.
Society saw, and speculated, and gossiped, after its fashion; but its
gossip was more subdued than of yore, for men began to ask who was safe,
since the harmless Del Ferice had been proscribed. Old Saracinesca said
little. He would have gone to see the Cardinal and to offer him his
congratulations, since it would not be decent to offer his thanks; but
the Cardinal was not in a position to be congratulated. If he had caught
Del Ferice he would have thanked the Prince instead of waiting for any
expressions of gratitude; but he did not catch Del Ferice, for certain
very good reasons which will appear in the last scene of this comedy.
Three days after Ugo's disappearance, the old Prince got into his
carriage and drove out to Saracinesca. More than a month had elapsed
since the marriage, and he felt that he must see his son, even at the
risk of interrupting the honeymoon. On the whole, he felt that his
revenge had been inadequate. Del Fence had escaped the Holy Office, no
one knew how; and Donna Tullia, instead of being profoundly humiliated,
as she would have been had Del Ferice been tried as a common spy, was
become a centre of attraction and interest, because her affianced husband
had for some unknown cause incurred the displeasure of the great
Cardinal, almost on the eve of her marriage--a state of things
significant as regards the tone of Roman society. Indeed the whole
circumstance, which, was soon bruited about among all classes with the
most lively adornment and exaggeration, tended greatly to increase the
fear and hatred which high and low alike felt for Cardinal Antonelli--the
man who was always accused and never heard in his own defence.