The first thing I had done on returning to the Palazzo Orsi was to strip
myself of my purple and fine linen, shave my beard and moustache, cut my
hair short, put on the clothes of a serving-man, and look at myself in a
mirror. If I had met in the street the image I saw I should have passed
on without recognising it. Still I was not dissatisfied with myself, and
I smiled as I thought that it would not be too extraordinary if a lady's
wench lost her heart to such a serving-man.
I went to the old Orso's apartments, and found everything quiet; I lay
down on a couch outside the doors and tried to sleep; but my thoughts
troubled me. My mind was with the sad horsemen galloping through the
night, and I wondered what the morrow had in store for them and me. I
knew a price would be set upon my head, and I had to remain here in the
midst of my enemies as the only protection of an old man of eighty-five.
In a little while I heard the bells which told the town that the
conspirators had fled, and at last I fell into a restless sleep. At six
I was awakened by a hurry and bustle in the house.... The servants told
one another that Checco had gone, and the Countess would come out of the
fortress in a little while; and then God only knew what would happen.
They cowered about, whispering, taking no notice of the new serving-man
who had appeared in the night. They said that the Palace would be given
over to the vengeance of the people, that the servants would suffer
instead of the master; and soon one of them gave the signal; he said he
would not stay, and since his wages had not been paid he would take them
with him. He filled his pockets with such valuables as he could find,
and going down a back staircase slid out of a little side door and was
lost in the labyrinth of streets. The others were quick to follow his
example, and the Palace was subjected to a looting in miniature; the old
steward stood by, wringing his hands, but they paid no attention to him,
thinking only of their safety and their pockets. Before the sun had had
time to clear away the early mists, they had all fled; and besides the
old man, the house contained only the white-haired steward, a boy of
twenty, his nephew, and myself; and Checco had been such a sweet and
gentle master!
We went in to the old Orso. He was seated in a large arm-chair by the
fireside, huddled up in a heavy dressing-gown. He had sunk his head down
in his collar to keep warm, so that one could only see the dead eyes,
the nose, and the sunken, wrinkled cheeks; a velvet cap covered his hair
and forehead. He was holding his long, shrivelled hands to the fire, and
the flames almost shone through them; they trembled incessantly. He
looked up at the sound of our entrance.
'Ah, Pietro!' he said to the steward. Then, after a pause, 'Where is
Fabrizio?'
Fabrizio was the servant in whose particular charge the Orso had been
put, and the old man had become so fond of him that he would take food
only from his hand, and insisted on having him near at every moment of
the day. He had been among the first to fill his pockets and decamp.
'Why does not Fabrizio come?' he asked querulously. 'Tell him I want
him. I will not be neglected in this way.'
Pietro did not know what to answer. He looked about him in
embarrassment.
'Why does not Fabrizio come? Now that Checco is master here, they
neglect me. It is scandalous. I shall talk to Checco about it. Where is
Fabrizio? Tell him to come immediately on pain of my displeasure.'
His voice was so thin and weak and trembling it was like that of a
little child ill with some fever. I saw that Pietro had nothing to say,
and Orso was beginning to moan feebly.
'Fabrizio has been sent away,' I said, 'and I have been put in his
place.'
Pietro and his nephew looked at me. They noticed for the first time that
my face was new, and they glanced at one another with upraised brows.
'Fabrizio sent away! Who sent him away? I won't have him sent away.'
'Checco sent him away.'
'Checco had no right to send him away. I am master here. They treat me
as if I were a child. It is shameful! Where is Fabrizio? I will not have
it, I tell you. It is shameful! I shall speak to Checco about it. Where
is Checco?'
None of us answered.
'Why don't you answer when I speak to you? Where is Checco?'
He raised himself in his chair and bent forward to look at us, then he
fell back.
'Ah, I remember now,' he murmured. 'Checco has gone. He wanted me to go
too. But I am too old, too old, too old. I told Checco what it would be.
I know the Forlivesi; I have known them for eighty years. They are more
fickle and cowardly than any other people in this cesspool which they
call God's earth. I have been an exile fourteen times. Fourteen times I
have fled from the city, and fourteen times I have returned. Ah yes, I
have lived the life in my time, but I am tired now. I don't want to go
out again; and besides, I am so old. I might die before I returned, and
I want to die in my own house.'
He looked at the fire, murmuring his confidences to the smouldering
ashes. Then he seemed to repeat his talk with Checco.
'No, Checco, I will not come. Go alone. They will not touch me. I am
Orso Orsi. They will not touch me; they dare not. Go alone, and give my
love to Clarice.'
Clarice was Checco's wife. He kept silence for a while, then he broke
out again,--
'I want Fabrizio.'
'Will I not do instead?' I asked.
'Who are you?'