WITHIN THE PRESBYTERY
The northernmost of the five gates of Parma discharged direct upon
the highway that led to Colorno. At intervals from this _embouchure_
came shooting as it were the _disjecta membra_ of a disrupted State.
Bodies of high functionaries, coach-loads of subsidiary officials,
staffs civil and military, clerks, grooms, secretaries--mounted,
perched in dancing carrioles, or drawn heavily behind teams of
ponderous Flanders mares, these and their like appeared issuing
intermittingly all day from the open culvert, whence they rolled
leisurely on their way towards that crystal oasis in the plains ten
miles distant. The duke, in short, was changing house, and this
anticipatory exodus, which looked like the decimation of his capital,
represented no more after all than the adequate personnel of a great
lord retiring upon a favoured sylvan retreat. So do our needs enlarge
with our state, until, so far as self-help goes, we reach the
condition of the paralytic. To Don Philip a fifth and sixth _valet de
chambre_ would have appeared more indispensable than a single knife
and boot boy might appear to us.
At Colorno itself, connected with the city by this scattered
procession of men and vehicles, the business of preparation was being
pushed forward as assiduously as though the duke were visiting his
summer residence for the first time. Everyone was in a state of
agitation, and either tetchy or nervous, or both. Cook, lackey,
chambermaid and the rest--they seemed all overtaken, as those roused
ones in the sleeping palace might have been, by a vague sense of
guilt, and a feverish desire to make up by haste for something
unaccountably lost--was it a minute or a hundred years? A general air
of rush and panic pervaded the place, extending itself from garret to
basement, and affecting the marquise in her _salon_ no less than the
little mop-squeezer whitening the boards in her attic. They felt the
change in their blood like the first irritating processes of a tonic
drug.
Madame herself was as obstreperous and intolerable as, in their
excitement, she found her young charges. She waxed shrilly voluble
over the information that Isabella was confined to her rooms with a
headache. It was monstrous, unnatural, she cried, thus to shut herself
away in the face of this imminent arrival, to dissociate herself from
the atmosphere of general rejoicing that prevailed. Her relations with
the Infanta had long been strained; she was never so gratified as when
she could cite evidence of unnaturalness against this natural soul. It
is always for such as she to suspect hypocrisy in what is purely
genuine.
“Like mistress like Nan.” Amongst those rendered especially captious
by the coming event was to be numbered, it seemed, Mademoiselle
Becquet. Fanchette bristled with spines; it was dangerous to touch
her--almost to approach. Propitiation only appeared to feed her
choler, as oil fire. She screamed at her inferiors; was insolent and
defiant towards authority, defending her mistress against the charge
of undutifulness with a fury which ended by actually routing that
formidable autocrat, the utterer of the slander. She was in that
state, it appeared, to which we are all, whether Fanchettes or
otherwise, occasionally subject, when our whole nervous system seems
transferred, like Hartley Coleridge’s fantastic skeleton, to the
outside of us, for every breath, however softly sympathetic, to gall.
Now a tempest of voice and whisking petticoats, now a white rush of
tears into solitudes which gave no relief, she was eternally on the
move, and eternally inviting retort for the sake of retaliating on it
tooth and claw. She left her mark, indeed, on one overconfident
gallant, who derisively offered to confess and absolve her for the
nominal penance of a kiss. Her nails ploughed a furrow in his cheek
which it would take a month to obliterate. As he stood cursing and
ruefully laughing, the sight of the running blood appeared for the
first time to sober her. She stood gazing at it fascinated; then
suddenly, putting her hands to her face, turned and ran. Whither she
disappeared none cared to know or enquire; it was comfort enough that
the wildcat had retreated for the time being to its fastnesses.
She did not issue from them again until late in the afternoon, and
then only upon receipt of a private communication from a
correspondent, which was put into her hand by an emissary sent to seek
her for the purpose. She was in the Infanta’s rooms, but not with her
mistress, when the message that someone awaited her without, on
particular business, reached her. The shrinking page who delivered it
could not but observe how her cheeks blenched at the word. He could
not but marvel, moreover, after recent storms, at the apparent
tranquillity with which she accepted it. She asked him, with an
affectation of carelessness, where the messenger was to be found, and,
learning that it was at that door into the corridor where she had once
before encountered Tiretta, dismissed him with a smile and a pretty
_vifs remerciments_ that made his heart throb. Then, when he was well
gone, she rose--a little unsteadily.
A wave of blood seemed to sweep through her brain, making her
momentarily giddy. She put out a hand to a chair-back, and stood
supporting herself. It had come--but only what she had expected,
looked for. She was desperately pledged to the issue, and there was no
escape from it at this last. It was even a relief to her to be called
from the horrible suspense of inaction. Suddenly the memory of that
crimson streak she had torn upon the insolent face returned to her. A
red light came to her eyes; the blood-ensign of “women who love brave
men,” in Bissy’s creed. She was not going to falter now, or be untrue
to her ideal of manliness. Besides, the end justified the means.
Taking herself forcibly in hand, she went down the stairs to the door
into the corridor.
This was a deserted part of the building, and now even unwontedly
quiet by reason of the Infanta’s desire for repose. Thus, and for such
purpose, to take advantage of its abandonment might have seemed a
double treachery to some people. Such moral niceties were beyond
Fanchette’s appreciation. She descended softly and found a man at the
door.
He was a strong truculent-looking fellow, unknown to her--swagger in
his attitude, an inhuman animalism in his small sunken eyes and
bushy-bearded face, on which a thick smear of lip stood prominent. She
had had no personal intercourse with his kind; but the hall-mark of
the _assassino-prezzolato_ was stamped on his every feature. He was
well enough dressed to pass for a _fanfaron_; but she knew, without
seeing them, what there was under his cloak to point the moral of his
trade. Face to face with the loathly thing she had helped to call into
being, a revulsion against her own bestial weapons seized her. This
brute to hold a fine destiny in his hands! Her narrow lips went up, as
in the presence of something physically offensive. She had no fear for
herself--not an atom.
The man swept off his hat with a leer, that in its suggestion of
hidden confidences was fulsome. He produced and handed to her a little
folded tuck of paper.
“Un’ lettera amorosa, signora,” he said, in rather guttural Italian,
his nose wrinkling. “The sender awaits a reply.”
She plucked the thing apart, and, barely glancing at its message,
crumpled it in her hand, and answered:
“Tell him I will come.”
He grinned, saluted her again, and swaggered off. She could have
called upon heaven then and there to strike him dead. That her nature
must be thus subdued to what it worked in, not like the “dyer’s” but
like the butcher’s hand--be claimed to an affinity with this
abomination! It was horrible. Yet so her own compliance had decreed
it. Henceforth and for all time he was her loathed confederate, and by
reason of that understanding her master. Her hands might be purely
white and her little feet as playful as a lamb’s: for all that lay
hidden between she was the foul bondslave of blood.
Now, a conscious corruption, the vindictive termagant to her own
debasement, she did not hesitate, but, having hurriedly veiled
herself, went off to the assignation demanded. She repudiated all
responsibility for what was to follow. She had done all that was
humanly possible to warn a madman away from the certain consequences
of his rashness, and, as he would not be warned, she had no choice but
to fulfil her own destiny as a contributor to those consequences. She
let herself go as the devil listed.
Her way lay to the presbytery, as seemed fitting to the unities of
this tragedy, which had first claimed her there to be its victim and
tool. The streets were full of the bustle and animation of returning
life, but the precincts of the church were deserted. She mounted the
steps to the silent house, and knocked on the door, which was opened
almost immediately by Gaspare.
The old rascal peered at her curiously a moment; then, putting out a
lean hand, drew her swiftly within.
“His reverence?” she muttered, half choking.
He sniggered. “He is out visiting the sick. But--non importa: you will
discover all you need in the parlour.”
He motioned her thither, opened the door, pushed her in, and, closing
the latch, retreated. He was too deaf to make eavesdropping
profitable.
The room was sombre and almost empty of furniture and other
appointments. Its most noticeable feature was a crucifix of ebony and
ivory standing in the middle of the one bare table. A melancholy shaft
of light, falling through the dusty window, touched the white figure
on the cross with a startling radiance. Fanchette shrunk back.
“Why did you bring me here?” she whispered.
La Coque, stealing from the shadows, stood before her.
“I did not wish my coming to be known. What is to be done must be done
with promptitude and in secrecy. We are playing a part, do you
understand, and the actors in it must not appear on the stage until
the eventful moment? Else, suspecting the plot, those antagonistic to
it may cause its miscarriage.”
Hearing a little gasp come from her, he bent as if to look searchingly
in her face, and put a hand towards her shoulder; but she repulsed
him.
“Why should I be dragged into it?” she said.
“Dragged!” He drew himself up, as if realising timely what he had to
encounter. “Were you not the first to volunteer?”
“I told you he had returned, that was all.”
“Was that all?”
“That he was in hiding in the neighbourhood.”
“Yes: go on.”
“There is no more.”
“Not that they met in the gardens of Aquaviva: not that last night you
let him in and out of the wicket in the eastern wall: not that he will
come again this night--with what purpose--but it will never be
fulfilled?”
“My God! How do you know?”
“Simple deduction, my Fanchette. You know the proverb, ‘A nod for a
wise man and a rod for a fool.’ I have had my instruments at work
since the first hint. There are horses ordered for to-night. Did you
know that?”
“No.”
“I do not doubt you. Let her thank providence, that’s all, that she
has sharper wits plotting to save her.”
“Save her, then, but spare him.”
“Do you say it? Why do you want him spared?”
“For her sake only. What harm has she ever done me?”
“There are some growths--infatuation, for example--that can only be
treated with the surgeon’s knife.”
“O, my God!”
“You cannot reduce them so long as the root cause remains. Do you
realise where we stand in this? At the fork of two roads--disgrace or
an empire. A life, one mean poor life, must count for nothing in the
decision.”
“You always hated him.”
“If I did, it was because of you.”
“Yet you do not consider me in your vengeance. If it must be, why do
you not act alone?”
“Because, only with your help can we save the face of things.”
“Go on. I am listening.”
“Very well. You will let him in at the wicket, and I shall come upon
you together.”
“I see. A quarrel between you two about your mistress.”
“You are sharp enough when you will.”
“So you gamble with my good name, which is after all nothing to you.”
“On the contrary. His blood shall prove its particular value.”
“Blood!” She seemed to gulp; then whispered on hoarsely: “will there
be much blood?”
“You need not wait to see.”
For some moments she stood silent, staring at him as if fascinated.
“Charlot,” she said, “if I do what you want, will you marry me?”
“We will see.”
“I think there is good cause.”
“Very well, we will see.”
“I shall be ruined with my mistress.”
“The duke will find you compensation.”
“The duke! Does he know?”
“He knows, and approves.”
“Approves?”
“Thunder of God! How do you suppose he regards this outrage to his
pride, this abuse of his love? A common adventurer, a mere
tavern-thrummer, without voice or standing--and to practise his damned
arts on the very soil of a newly-turned grave! Whatever tolerance was
shown him once is over and done with. He stands sentenced like a
poaching dog. O, be sure the duke is in it!”
“What if it be too late?”
“Too late?” He made a step, and gripped her arm. “They are not gone
already?”
“Not that. But for an hour they were alone together last night.”
He gave a deep sigh, and dropped his hold.
“It is never too late there. But I trust the vestal in her--and his
own discretion. An hour is nothing. You must besiege these shy
fortresses a week before they surrender.”
“Then I will not be a party to his murder.”
“You will not?”
“What harm has he done that cannot be mended?”
“Alive, he’ll do it yet.”
“I’ll not help to hurt him.”
“You’ll do better to think again.”
“Why, better?”
“Lest you be made to take his place.”
“What! You’ll kill me!”
“Not I, unless I kill my love with kindness. But I cannot save you now
your knowledge of another’s secret. Be sure, if your scruples refuse a
part in it, means will be taken to keep it fast in you.”
“The duke will have me poisoned?”
“Who said the duke?”
“O, how I hate you all!”
From the first he had foreseen what must come, and had been prepared
for it. He saw imminent at last the hysterical collapse long
threatened, and the look of the dog came to his face. His teeth
showed; tight puckers gathered over his eyebrows; he held her with a
glare as he moved on her. With a little sob, half terror, half
defiance, she struck out at him--and on the instant he had her in his
grip. His sinews, for all his slight build, were like thongs of steel;
her mad struggles availed nothing against their vicious devilry. She
made no tumult, uttered no scream; but in silence fought and writhed,
biting at his hands, at his clothes, at anything, until, falling upon
her knees, he had her, torn and dishevelled, at his mercy. He showed
her none. Seizing her by the ears, by her tumbled hair, he forced her
head back, and, snarling, put his knee against her throat. Presently
her struggles weakened, grew spasmodic, and a desperate imploring look
came to her eyes. Then--for he knew his lady--relaxing the pressure,
and releasing his right hand, he felt on the table behind him for a
riding switch he had laid there, and, holding her down with his left,
applied it furiously to her shoulders. One of them had been wrenched
bare in the tussle; he did not spare the naked flesh for that, but
rather lusted to see it quiver and crimson under his blows. And all
the time she made no outcry--that was the strange thing--but only
writhed and shrunk away, with now and then a panting sob or a quicker
gasp when a crueller cut went home. And at the end, when, his fury
spent, he ceased, looking, with hard breathing, down upon her--lo and
behold, she flung convulsive arms about his knees, and, with the
released tears running down her cheeks, put her head against him, like
a poor conscience-guilty dog begging pardon. Surely the immortal thing
in woman’s love is its illogicalness.
La Coque knew his lady, I say; he took the satisfaction of a tyrant in
making her know him. He did not spurn her now, but he stood unmoved
and unmoving.
“Get to your feet,” he said: “do you hear?”
She obeyed and stood before him, a woeful girl, streaked and torn by
his brutality, waiting breathless on his word.
“Have you come to your senses?” he demanded.
“Yes--Charlot.” Her voice still caught in sobs, though she tried to
command it.
“Will you do what I tell you?”
“Yes.”
“That is well at last. Now mark your instructions. Come here--bend
your head to me. There will be two of us; we shall be waiting in the
sunk garden, in the shadows of the trees below the terrace, but not in
sight of it. Lead him that way from the wicket; it is very private.
Before you pass, I shall step out and challenge you both. There will
be an altercation between us, as much to take him off his guard as for
the benefit of the witness lurking in the background. It is he, you
understand, who is brought to testify to the real cause of
quarrel--such as he thinks it already--a dispute about you. He will do
what he is hired to do while we wrangle; but by then, if you wish it,
you may have escaped. Is it all clear?”
“Yes, quite.”
“And you will not fail me?”
“No.”
He searched her quivering face, with its heavy eyelids, all wet and
swollen, intently for a little; then softly touched one of the poor
ears he had so cruelly ill-used.
“Ma pauvre petite!” he said pitifully: “ma pauvre petite!”
The sobs came faster and thicker; he drew her gently towards him, and
whispered:
“Why would you rouse the devil in me? Did it hurt so much?”
She clung about his neck.
“Come,” he said: “let’s sit yonder. There’s no one in the house but
Gaspare.” With lips like salve he touched the wounded flesh. “Chère
amie--Fanchette--no, I’ll not loose you!”
Over his shoulder the white figure on the cross blazed in her opened
eyes.
“Not here,” she whispered, hurried and febrile--“not here. Take me
where he cannot see us.”