_The amethyst-covered boots had been worn by an evil wanton
in medieval Florence--but what malefic power did they carry
over into our own time?_
* * * * *
For fifty years they lay under glass in the Dickerson museum and they
were labeled "The Medici Boots." They were fashioned of creamy
leather, pliable as a young girl's hands. They were threaded with
silver, appliqued with sapphire silks and scarlet, and set on the tip
of each was a pale and lovely amethyst. Such were the Medici boots.
Old Silas Dickerson, globe-trotter and collector, had brought the
boots from a dusty shop in Florence when he was a young man filled
with the lust for travel and adventure. The years passed and Silas
Dickerson was an old man, his hair white, his eyes dim, his veined
hands trembling with the ague that precedes death.
When he was ninety and the years of his wanderings over, Silas
Dickerson died one morning as he sat in a high-backed Venetian chair
in his private museum. The Fourteenth Century gold-leaf paintings, the
Japanese processional banners, the stolen bones of a Normandy
saint--all the beloved trophies of his travels must have watched the
dead man impassively for hours before his housekeeper found him.
The old man sat with his head thrown back against the faded tapestry
of the Venetian chair, his eyes closed, his bony arms extended along
the beautifully carved arms of the chair, and on his lap lay the
Medici boots.
It was high noon when they found him, and the sun was streaming
through the stained-glass window above the chair and picking at the
amethysts, so that the violet stones seemed to eye Marthe, the old
housekeeper, with an impudent glitter. Marthe muttered a prayer and
crossed herself, before she ran like a scared rabbit with the news of
the master's death.
[Illustration: "She imparted to me those terrible secrets of the Black
Arts which were deep in her soul."]
Silas Dickerson's only surviving relatives, the three young
Delameters, did not take too seriously the note which was found among
the papers in the museum's desk. Old Silas had written the note. It
was addressed to John Delameter, for John was his uncle's favorite,
but John's pretty wife, Suzanne, and his twin brother, Doctor Eric,
read it over his shoulder; and they all smiled tolerantly. Old
Dickerson had written of things incomprehensible to the young moderns:
"The contents of my private museum are yours, John, to do with as you
see fit. Merely as a suggestion, I would say that the Antiquarian
Society would snap up many of the things. A very few are of no
particular value, except to me. One thing I want done, however. The
Medici boots of ivory leather must either be destroyed or be put for
ever under glass in a _public_ museum. I prefer that they be
destroyed, for they are a dangerous possession. They have gone to the
adulterous rendezvous celebrated in the scandalous verses of Lorenzo
the Magnificent. They have shod the feet of a murderess. They were
cursed by the Church as trappings of the Devil, inciting the wearer to
foul deeds and intrigue.
"I shall not disturb you with all their hideous history, but I repeat,
they are a dangerous possession. I have taken care to keep them under
lock and key, behind plate glass, for more than fifty years. I have
never taken them out. Destroy the Medici boots, before they destroy
you!"
"But he did take them out!" cried Suzanne. "Uncle was holding the
boots when--when Marthe found him there in the museum."
John reread the note, and looked thoughtfully at his young wife. "Yes.
Perhaps he was preparing to destroy them right then. Of course, I
think the poor old fellow took things a bit too seriously--he was very
old, you know, and Marthe says he practically lived in this museum of
his."
"And why call a pair of old boots dangerous? Of course, we all know
the Medicis were plenty dangerous, but the Medici boots--that's
ridiculous, John. Besides----"
Suzanne paused provocatively, her red lips pouting. She looked down at
her trimly shod feet. "Besides, I'd like to try on those Medici
boots--just once. They're lovely, I think."
John was frowning thoughtfully. He scarcely heard her suggestion. He
spoke to Eric, instead, and his voice seemed a bit troubled.
"I believe that Uncle _was_ getting ready to destroy those boots that
very morning he died; else why should he have taken them from their
case--after fifty years?"
"Yes, I believe you're right, John, because that note is dated fully a
month before Uncle's death. I think he brooded over leaving those
boots to one he cared for. Poor old man!"
"I wouldn't call him so, Eric. He had his dreams of adventure realized
more fully than most men. I--I think I'll do as he says. I'll destroy
the Medici boots."
"If you'd feel better about it," assented his brother. But Suzanne did
not speak. She was looking at her shoe, pursing her lips thoughtfully,
seeing her feet encased in the gay embroideries of the Medici boots.
John seemed relieved by his decision. "Yes, I'd better do it. We'll be
getting back to town in a few days. Old Erskine, you know, Uncle's
lawyer, is coming down this afternoon. Then soon we'll be on the wing,
Susie and I--Vienna, Paris, the Alps--thanks to Uncle."
"Maybe you think I'm not thankful for my chance at a bit more work at
Johns Hopkins," said Eric, and they did not again speak of the Medici
boots.
* * * * *
The deaf old lawyer of the Dickerson estate arrived, and Suzanne, with
the easy capability that was part of her charm, saw that he was made
comfortable.
At seven there was a perfect dinner served on the awninged terrace
outside the softly lit living-room. The stars aided the two little
rosy lamps on the table, and swaying willows beside a stone-encircled
pool swung the incense of the garden about them.
As dinner ended, John took from the pocket of his coat a small,
limp-leather book. He pushed back his dessert plate and laid the book
on the table, tapping it with a finger as he spoke.
"This is the history of the Medici boots. It was in the little
wall-safe in the museum. After all Uncle said of the Medici boots,
shall we read it?" And turning to the old lawyer, he told of Silas
Dickerson's letter concerning the boots.
Erskine shook his head, smiling. "Most collectors get an exaggerated
sense of the supernatural. Read this, by all means--it should prove
interesting."
"Yes, read it, John." Suzanne and Eric spoke almost together.
So, in the circle of rosy light at their little table, John read the
story of the Medici boots. It was not a long story and it was told in
the language of an anonymous translator, but as John read on, his
listeners were drawn together, as by a spell. They scarcely breathed,
and the summer night that was so mildly beautiful seemed to take on a
sense of hovering danger.
"In the palace of Giuliano de' Medici I have lived long. I am
an old woman now, as the years are reckoned in this infamous
place, though I am but fifty and three.
"Separated from my betrothed, duped, sold into the marble
labyrinth of this hateful palace, it was long before my
spirit broke and I went forth, bejeweled and attired in
elegance, among the silk-clad Florentines. I was labeled the
most beautiful mistress of any of the Medici. I was smirked
at, fawned upon for my lord's favors, obscenely jested about
in the orgies that took place in the great banquet hall of
the palace.
"But in my heart always lay the remembrance of my lost love,
and in my soul grew black hatred for the Medici and all their
kind. I, who had dreamed only of a modest home, a kind
husband, black-haired, trusting little children, was made a
tool of the Medici infamy.
"In time, I almost felt myself in league with the Devil.
Secretly, and with a growing sense of elation, I made
frequent rendezvous with a foul hag whose very name was
anathema to the churchly folk of Florence. In her hole of a
room in a certain noisome street, she imparted to me those
terrible secrets of the Black Arts which were deep in her
soul. It was amusing that she was paid in Medici gold.
"The corruption of the Medici bred in them fear; in me a sort
of reckless bravery. It was I who poisoned the wine of many a
foe of the Medici. It was I who put the point of a dagger in
the heart of the old Prince de Vittorio, whose lands and
power and palaces were coveted by my lord, Giuliano.
"After a time, bloodshed became an exhilaration to me; the
death agonies of those who drank the poisoned cup became more
interesting than the flattery of the Medici followers. Even
the ladies of the house of the Medici did me the honor of
their subtly barbed friendliness.
"Through this very friendliness, I conceived my plan of sweet
revenge upon the monsters who had ruined my life. With so
great a hatred boiling in my soul that my mind reeled, my
senses throbbed, my heart rose in my throat like a spurt of
flame, I cursed three things of exquisite beauty with all the
fervor of my newly learned lessons in devilish lore.
"These three beautiful objects I presented to three ladies of
the house of Medici--presented them with honeyed words of
mock humility. A necklace of jeweled links--I pledged myself
to the Devil and willed that the golden necklace would
tighten on the soft throat of a lady of the Medici while she
slept, and strangle her into black death. A bracelet of
filigree and sapphires--to pierce by its hidden silver needle
the blue vein in a white Medici wrist, so that her life's
blood would spurt and she would know the terror that the
house of the Medici gave to others.
"Last, and most ingenious, a pair of creamy boots, pliable,
embroidered in silver and silks, encrusted with amethysts--my
betrothal jewels. In my hatred I cursed the boots, willing
that the wearer, as long as a shred of the boots remained,
should kill as I had killed, poison as I had poisoned, leave
all thoughts of home and husband and live in wantonness and
evil. So I cursed the beautiful boots, forgetting, in my
hate, that perhaps another than a Medici might, in the years
to come, wear them and become the Devil's pawn, even as I am
now.
"In my life, the Medici will have the boots, of that I feel
sure; but after that--I can only hope that this bloody
history of the boots may be found when I am no more, and may
it be a warning.
"I have lived to see my gifts received and worn, and I have
laughed in my soul to see my curses bring death and terror
and evil to three Medici women. I know not what will become
of the golden necklace, the bracelet, or the boots. The boots
may be lost or stolen, or they may lie in a Medici palace for
age on age, but the curse will cling to them till they are
destroyed. So I pray that no woman, save a Medici, will ever
wear them.
"As I live and breathe and do the bidding of the lords of
Florence, the accursed Medici--I have told the truth. When I
am dead, perhaps they will find this book, and, in hell, I
shall know and be glad.
"MARIA MODENA DI CAVOURI.
"Florence, 1476."
* * * * *
"Whew!" said old Erskine.
John laughed. "I don't suppose this charming history would have been
any more thrilling if I had read it from the original book, in
Italian, of course. Wonder where Uncle got it! There was no mention of
it being in the library--but there it was."
"Now, will you destroy those boots?" asked Eric, and he was not
entirely in jest.
But Suzanne said, laughingly, "Not before I find out if the Medici
lady had a smaller foot than I! Are they still in the museum, John?"
"Never you mind, my dear. They're not for the likes of you."
"Oh, don't be silly, John. This is 1935, not the Fifteenth Century."
And they laughed at Suzanne's earnestness.
The book that held the story of the Medici boots lay on the white
cloth, looking like a book of lovely verse.
Suzanne, a small white blur against the summer dark, sat quietly while
the men talked of Silas Dickerson, his life, his mania for collecting,
his death that had so fittingly come to him in his museum. It was
nearly twelve when Suzanne left the men on the terrace and with a
quiet "good-night" entered the living-room and crossed to the long,
shining stairs.
The men went on with their talk. Once, John, looking toward the
jutting wing that was the museum, exclaimed, "Look at that, will you?
Why--I'd swear I saw a light in the museum."
"You locked it, didn't you?" asked Eric.
"Of course; the key's in my desk upstairs. H-m. I'm probably mistaken,
but it did seem as though a light shone there just a moment ago."
"Reflection from the living-room window, I think. Country life is
making you jittery, John." And Eric laughed at his brother.
The men sat on, reluctant to leave the beauty of the night, and it was
almost two o'clock when they finally went inside.
John said, "I think I'll not disturb Suzanne." And he went to sleep in
a wide four-postered bed in a room next to his wife. Eric and the old
lawyer were in rooms across the hall.
* * * * *
The still summer night closed about the house of Silas Dickerson, and
when the moon lay dying against the bank of cloud, puffed across a sky
by the little wind that came before dawn, young Doctor Eric Delameter
awoke, suddenly and completely, to a feeling of clammy apprehension.
He had not locked his door, and now, across the grayness of the room,
he saw it slowly opening.
A hand was closed around the edge of the door--a woman's hand, small
and white and jeweled. Eric sat straight and tense on the edge of his
bed, peering across the room. A woman, young and slender, in a long,
trailing gown, came toward him smiling. It was Suzanne.
With a gasp, Eric watched her approach till she stood directly before
him.
"Suzanne! You are asleep? Suzanne, shall I call John?"
He thought that perhaps he should not waken her; there were things one
must remember about sleep-walkers, but physicians scarcely believed
them.
Eric was puzzled, too, by her costume. It was not a night-robe she
wore, but an elaborate, trailing dress upon which embroideries in
silver shone faintly. Her short black curls were bound about three
times with strands of pearly beads, her slim white arms were loaded
with bracelets. The pointed toes of little shoes peeped beneath her
gown, little shoes of creamy leather. An amethyst gleamed on each
shoe.
The sight of these amethystine tips affected Eric strangely, much as
though he had looked at something hideously repulsive. He stood up and
put out a hand to touch Suzanne's arm.
"Suzanne," he said, gently. "Let me take you to John. Shall I?"
Suzanne looked up at him, and her brown eyes, usually so merry, were
deeply slumberous, not with sleep, but with a look of utter abandon.
She shook her pearl-bound head slowly, smilingly.
"No, not John. I want you, Eric."
"Mad! Suzanne must be mad!" was Eric's quick thought, but her caress
was swifter than his thought. Both jewel-laden arms about his neck,
Suzanne kissed him, her red lips pouting warmly upon his.
"Suzanne! You don't know what you're doing." He grasped both her hands
in his and with a haste that would have seemed ludicrous to him had he
viewed the scene in a picture-play, he hurried her out of his room and
across the hall.
Eric opened her door softly and with no gentle hand shoved Suzanne
inside her room. She seemed like a little animal in his grasp. She
hissed at him; clawed and scratched at his hand. But when he had shut
the door, she did not open it again, and after a moment he went back
to his own room.
* * * * *
His mouth set in a firm line, his heart beating fast, Eric locked his
door with a noiseless turn of the key. It was almost dawn, and the
garden lay like a rare pastel outside his window; but Eric saw none of
it. He scarcely thought, though his lips moved, as if chaotic words
were struggling for utterance.
He looked down at his hand, where two long red scratches oozed a
trickle of blood. After he had washed his hand, he lay down on his bed
and covered his eyes with his arm, against the picture of Suzanne.
Above all else there stood out the gleaming tips of her little shoes,
as he had glimpsed them through the dim light of his room when she
came toward him.
"She wore the Medici boots! The Medici boots! Suzanne must have taken
them from the museum!" Over and over he said it--"The Medici boots!
The Medici boots!"
Eric rather dreaded breakfast, but when he came down at eight, to the
terrace where a rustic table was set invitingly, he found John and the
lawyer awaiting him. John greeted his brother affectionately.
"Morning, old boy! Hope you slept well. Why so solemn? Feeling seedy?"
"No, no. I am perfectly all right," Eric replied hastily, relieved
that Suzanne was not present. He added with a scarcely noticeable
hesitation, "Suzanne not coming down?"
"No," replied John, easily. "She seemed to want to sleep awhile. Sent
her regrets. She'll see us at lunch."
John went on. "I certainly had a nightmare last night. Thought a woman
in a long, shining dress came into my room and tried to stab me. This
morning I found that a glass on my bed-table was overturned and
broken, and, by George, I'd cut my wrist on it."