It was past midnight when Jacopo Contarini barred the door of his house
and was alone. He took one of the candles from the inner room, put out
all the others and was already in the hall, when he remembered that he
had left his winnings on the table. Going back he opened the embroidered
wallet he wore at his belt and swept the heap of heavy yellow coins into
it. As the last disappeared into the bag and rang upon the others he
distinctly heard a sound in the room. He started and looked about him.
It was not exactly the sound of a soft footfall, nor of breathing, but
it might have been either. It was short and distinct, such a slight
noise as might be made by drawing the palm of the hand quickly over a
piece of stuff, or by a short breath checked almost instantly, or by a
shoeless foot slipping a few inches on a thick carpet. Contarini stood
still and listened, for though he had heard it distinctly he had no
impression of the direction whence it had come. It was not repeated, and
he began to search the room carefully.
He could find nothing. The single window, high above the floor, was
carefully closed and covered by a heavy curtain which could not
possibly have moved in the stillness. The tapestry was smoothly drawn
and fastened upon the four walls. There was no furniture in the room but
a big table and the benches and chairs. Above the tapestries the bare
walls were painted, up to the carved ceiling. There was nothing to
account for the noise. Contarini looked nervously over his shoulder as
he left the room, and more than once again as he went up the marble
staircase, candle in hand. There is probably nothing more disturbing to
people of ordinary nerves than a sound heard in a lonely place and for
which it is impossible to find a reason.
When he reached the broad landing he smiled at himself and looked back a
last time, shading the candle with his hand, so as to throw the light
down the staircase. Then he entered the apartment and locked himself in.
Having passed through the large square vestibule and through a small
room that led from it, he raised the latch of the next door very
cautiously, shaded the candle again and looked in. A cool breeze almost
put out the light.
"I am not asleep," said a sweet young voice. "I am here by the window."
He smiled happily at the words. The candle-light fell upon a woman's
face, as he went forward--such a face as men may see in dreams, but
rarely in waking life.
Half sitting, half lying, she rested in Eastern fashion among the silken
cushions of a low divan. The open windows of the balcony overlooked the
low houses opposite, and the night breeze played with the little
ringlets of her glorious hair. Her soft eyes looked up to her lover's
face with infinite trustfulness, and their violet depths were like clear
crystal and as tender as the twilight of a perfect day. She looked at
him, her head thrown back, one ivory arm between it and the cushion, the
other hand stretched out to welcome his. Her mouth was like a southern
rose when there is dew on the smooth red leaves. In a maze of creamy
shadows, the fine web of her garment followed the lines of her resting
limbs in delicate folds, and one small white foot was quite uncovered.
Her fan of ostrich feathers lay idle on the Persian carpet.
"Come, my beloved," she said. "I have waited long."
Contarini knelt down, and first he kissed the arching instep, and then
her hand, that felt like a young dove just stirring under his touch, and
his lips caressed the satin of her arm, and at last, with a fierce
little choking cry, they found her own that waited for them, and there
was no more room for words. In the silence of the June night one kiss
answered another, and breath mingled with breath, and sigh with sigh.
At last the young man's head rested against her shoulder among the
cushions. Then the Georgian woman opened her eyes slowly and glanced
down at his face, while her hand stroked and smoothed his hair, and he
could not see the strange smile on her wonderful lips. For she knew that
he could not see it, and she let it come and go as it would, half in
pity and half in scorn.
"I knew you would come," she said, bending her head a little nearer to
his.
"When I do not, you will know that I am dead," he answered almost
faintly, and he sighed.
"And then I shall go to you," she said, but as she spoke, she smiled
again to herself. "I have heard that in old times, when the lords of the
earth died, their most favourite slaves were killed upon the funeral
pile, that their souls might wait upon their master's in the world
beyond."
"Yes. It is true."
"And so I will be your slave there, as I am here, and the night that
lasts for ever shall seem no longer than this summer night, that is too
short for us."
"You must not call yourself a slave, Arisa," answered Jacopo.
"What am I, then? You bought me with your good gold from Aristarchi the
Greek captain, in the slave market. Your steward has the receipt for the
money among his accounts! And there is the Greek's written guarantee,
too, I am sure, promising to take me back and return the money if I was
not all he told you I was. Those are my documents of nobility, my
patents of rank, preserved in your archives with your own!"
She spoke playfully, smiling to herself as she stroked his hair. But he
caught her hand tenderly and brought it to his lips, holding it there.
"You are more free than I," he said. "Which of us two is the slave? You
who hold me, or I who am held? This little hand will never let me go."
"I think you would come back to me," she answered. "But if I ran away,
would you follow me?"
"You will not run away." He spoke quietly and confidently, still holding
her hand, as if he were talking to it, while he felt the breath of her
winds upon his forehead.
"No," she said, and there was a little silence.
"I have but one fear," he began, at last. "If I were ruined, what would
become of you?"
"Have you lost at play again to-night?" she asked, and in her tone there
was a note of anxiety.
Contarini laughed low, and felt for the wallet at his aide. He held it
up to show how heavy it was with the gold, and made her take it. She
only kept it a moment, but while it was in her hand her eyelids were
half closed as if she were guessing at the weight, for he could not see
her face.
"I won all that," he said. "To-morrow you shall have the pearls."
"How good you are to me! But should you not keep the money? You may need
it. Why do you talk of ruin?"
She knew that he would give her all he had, she almost guessed that he
would commit a crime rather than lack gold to give her.
"You do not know my father!" he answered. "When he is displeased he
threatens to let me starve. He will cut me off some day, and I shall
have to turn soldier for a living. Would that not be ruin? You know his
last scheme--he wishes me to marry the daughter of a rich glass-maker."
"I know." Arisa laughed contemptuously, "Great joy may your bride have
of you! Is she really rich?"
"Yes. But you know that I will not marry her."
"Why not?" asked Arisa quite simply.
Contarini started and looked up at her face in the dim light. She was
bending down to him with a very loving look.
"Why should you not marry?" she asked again. "Why do you start and look
at me so strangely? Do you think I should care? Or that I am afraid of
another woman for you?"
"Yes. I should have thought that you would be jealous." He still gazed
at her in astonishment.
"Jealous!" she cried, and as she laughed she shook her beautiful head,
and the gold of her hair glittered in the flickering candle-light.
"Jealous? I? Look at me! Is she younger than I? I was eighteen years old
the other day. If she is younger than I, she is a child--shall I be
jealous of children? Is she taller, straighter, handsomer than I am?
Show her to me, and I will laugh in her face! Can she sing to you, as I
sing, in the summer nights, the songs you like and those I learned by
the Kura in the shadow of Kasbek? Is her hair brighter than mine, is her
hand softer, is her step lighter? Jealous? Not I! Will your rich wife be
your slave? Will she wake for you, sing for you, dance for you, rise up
and lie down at your bidding, work for you, live for you, die for you,
as I will? Will she love you as I can love, caress you to sleep, or wake
you with kisses at your dear will?"
"No--ah no! There is no woman in the world but you."
"Then I am not jealous of the rest, least of all, of your young bride. I
will wager with myself against all her gold for your life, and I shall
win--I have won already! Am I not trying to persuade you that you should
marry?"
"I have not even seen her. Her father sent me a message to-night,
bidding me go to church on Sunday and stand beside a certain pillar."
"To see and be seen," laughed Arisa. "It is not a fair exchange! She
will look at the handsomest man in the world--hush! That is the truth.
And you will see a little, pale, red-haired girl with silly blue eyes,
staring at you, her wide mouth open and her clumsy hands hanging down.
She will look like the wooden dolls they dress in the latest Venetian
fashion to send to Paris every year, that the French courtiers may know
what to wear! And her father will hurry her along, for fear that you
should look too long at her and refuse to marry such a thing, even for
Marco Polo's millions!"
Contarini laughed carelessly at the description.
"Give me some wine," he said. "We will drink her health."
Arisa rose with the grace of a young goddess, her hair tumbling over her
bare shoulders in a splendid golden confusion. Contarini watched her
with possessive eyes, as she went and came back, bringing him the drink.
She brought him yellow wine of Chios in a glass calix of Murano, blown
air-thin upon a slender stem and just touched here and there with drops
of tender blue.
"A health to the bride of Jacopo Contarini!" she said, with a ringing
little laugh.
Then she set the wine to her lips, so that they were wet with it, and
gave him the glass; and as she stooped to give it, her hair fell forward
and almost hid her from him.
"A health to the shower of gold!" he said, and he drank.
She sat down beside him, crossing her feet like an Eastern woman, and he
set the empty glass carelessly upon the marble floor, as though it had
been a thing of no price.
"That glass was made at her father's furnace," he said.
"A pity he could not have made his daughter of glass too," answered
Arisa.
"Graceful and silent?"
"And easily destroyed! But if I say that, you will think me jealous, and
I am not. She will bring you wealth. I wish her a long life, long enough
to understand that she has been sold to you for your good name, like a
slave, as I was sold, but that you gave gold for me because you wanted
me for myself, whereas you want nothing of her but her gold."
"But for that--" Contarini seemed to be hesitating. "I never meant to
marry her," he added.
"And but for that, you would not! But for that! But for the only thing
which I have not to give you! I wish the world were mine, with all the
rich secret things in it, the myriads of millions of diamonds in the
earth, the thousand rivers of gold that lie deep in the mountain rocks,
and all mankind, and all that mankind has, from end to end of it! Then
you should have it all for your own, and you would not need to marry the
little red-haired girl with the fish's mouth!"
Contarini laughed again.
"Have you seen her, that you can describe her so well? She may have
black hair. Who knows?"
"Yes. Perhaps it is black, thin and coarse like the hair on a mule's
tail; and she has black eyes, like ripe olives set in the white of a
hard-boiled egg; and she has a dark skin like Spanish leather which
shines when she is hot and is grey when she is cold; and a black down on
her upper lip; and teeth like a young horse. I hate those dark women!"
"But you have never seen her! She may be very pretty."
"Pretty, then! She shall be as you choose. She shall have a round face,
round eyes, a round nose and a round mouth! Her face shall be pink and
white, her eyes shall be of blue glass and her hair shall be as smooth
and yellow as fresh butter. She shall have little fat white hands like a
healthy baby, a double chin and a short waist. Then she will be what
people call pretty."
"Yes," assented Jacopo. "That is very amusing. But just suppose, for the
sake of discussion--it is impossible, of course, but suppose it--that
instead of there being only one perfectly beautiful woman in the world,
whose name is Arisa, there should be two, and that the name of the other
chanced to be Marietta Beroviero."
Arisa raised her eyes and gazed steadily at Jacopo.
"You have seen her," she said in a tone of conviction. "She is
beautiful."
"No. I give you my word that I have not seen her. I only wanted to know
what you would do then."
"I do not believe that any woman is as beautiful as I am," answered the
Georgian, with the quiet simplicity of a savage.
"But if there were one, and you saw her?" insisted the man, to see what
she would say.
"We could not both live. One of us would kill the other."
"I believe you would," said Jacopo, watching her face.
She had forgotten his presence while she spoke; a fierce hardness had
come into her eyes, and her upper lip was a little raised, in a cruel
expression, just showing her teeth. He was surprised.
"I never saw you like that," he said.
"You should not make me think of killing," she answered, suddenly
leaving her seat and kneeling beside him on the divan. "It is not good
to think too much of killing--it makes one wish to do it."
"Then try and kill me with kisses," he said, looking into her eyes, that
were growing tender again.
"You would not know you were dying," she whispered, her lips quite close
to his.
As she kissed him, she loosened the collar from his white throat, and
smoothed his thick hair back from his forehead upon the pillow, and she
saw how pale he was, under her touch.
But by and by he fell asleep, and then she very softly drew her arm from
beneath his tired head, and slipped from his side, and stood up, with a
little sigh of relief. The candle had burned to the socket; she blew it
out.
It was still an hour before dawn when she left the room, lifting the
heavy curtain that hung before the door of her inner chamber. There, a
faint light was burning before a shrine in a silver cup filled with oil.
As she fastened the door noiselessly behind her, a man caught her in his
arms, lifting her off her feet like a child.
Shaggy black hair grew low upon his bossy forehead, his dark eyes were
fierce and bloodshot, a rough beard only half concealed the huge jaw and
iron lips. He was half clad, in shirt and hose, and the muscles of his
neck and arms stood out like brown ropes as he pressed the beautiful
creature to his broad chest.
"I thought he would never sleep to-night," she whispered.
Her eyelids drooped, and her cheeks grew deadly white, and the strong
man felt the furious beating of her heart against his own breast. He was
Aristarchi, the Greek captain who had sold her for a slave, and she
loved him.
In the wild days of sea-fighting among the Greek islands he had taken a
small trading galley that had been driven out of her course. He left not
a man of her crew alive to tell whether she had been Turkish or
Christian, and he took all that was worth taking of her poor cargo. The
only prize of any price was the captive Georgian girl who was being
brought westward to be sold, like thousands of others in those days,
with little concealment and no mystery, in one of the slave markets of
northern Italy. Aristarchi claimed her for himself, as his share of the
booty, but his men knew her value. Standing shoulder to shoulder between
him and her, they drew their knives and threatened to cut her to pieces,
if he would not promise to sell her as she was, when they should come to
land, and share the price with them. They judged that she must be worth
a thousand or fifteen hundred pieces of gold, for she was more beautiful
than any woman they had ever seen, and they had already heard her
singing most sweetly to herself, as if she were quite sure that she was
in no danger, because she knew her own value. So Aristarchi was forced
to consent, cursing them; and night and day they guarded her door
against him, till they had brought her safe to Venice, and delivered her
to the slave-dealers.
Then Aristarchi sold all that he had, except his ship, and it all
brought far too little to buy such a slave. She would have gone with
him, for she had seen that he was stronger than other men and feared
neither God nor man, but she was well guarded, and he was only allowed
to talk with her through a grated window, like those at convent gates.
She was not long in the dealers' house, for word was brought to all the
young patricians of Venice, and many of them bid against each other for
her, in the dealers' inner room, till Contarini outbid them all, saying
that he could not live without her, though the price should ruin him,
and because he had not enough gold he gave the dealers, besides money, a
marvellous sword with a jewelled hilt, which one of his forefathers had
taken at the siege of Constantinople, and which some said had belonged
to the Emperor Justinian himself, nine hundred years ago.
Then Aristarchi and his men paid the dealers their commission and took
the money and the sword. But before he went from the house, the Greek
captain begged leave to see Arisa once more at the grating, and he told
her that come what might he should steal her away. She bade him not to
be in too great haste, and she promised that if he would wait, he should
have with her more gold than her new master had given for her, for she
would take all he had from him, little by little; and when they had
enough they would leave Venice secretly, and live in a grand manner in
Florence, or in Rome, or in Sicily. For she never doubted but that he
would find some way of coming to her, though she were guarded more
closely than in the slave-dealers' house, where the windows were grated
and armed men slept before the door, and one of the dealers watched all
night.
More than a year had passed since then; the strong Greek knew every
corner of the house of the Agnus Dei, and every foothold under Arisa's
windows, from the water to the stone sill, by which he could help
himself a little as he went up hand over hand by the knotted silk rope
that would have cut to the bone any hands but his. She kept it hidden in
a cushioned footstool in her inner room. Many a risk he had run, and
more than once in winter he had slipped down the rope with haste to let
himself gently into the icy water, and he had swum far down the dark
canal to a landing-place. For he was a man of iron.
So it came about that Jacopo Contarini lived in a fool's paradise, in
which he was not only the chief fool himself, but was moreover in bodily
danger more often than he knew. For though Aristarchi had hitherto
managed to escape being seen, he would have killed Jacopo with his naked
hands if the latter had ever caught him, as easily as a boy wrings a
bird's neck, and with as little scruple of conscience.
The Georgian loved him for his hirsute strength, for his fearlessness,
even his violence and dangerous temper. He dominated her as naturally as
she controlled her master, whose vacillating nature and love of idle
ease filled her with contempt. It was for the sake of gold that she
acted her part daily and nightly, with a wisdom and unwavering skill
that were almost superhuman; and the Greek ruffian agreed to the
bargain, and had been in no haste to carry her off, as he might have
done at any time. She hoarded the money she got from Jacopo, to give it
by stealth to Aristarchi, who hid their growing wealth in a safe place
where it was always ready; but she kept her jewels always together, in
case of an unexpected flight, since she dared not sell them nor give
them to the Greek, lest they should be missed.
Of late it had seemed to them both that the time for their final action
was at hand, for it had been clear to Arisa that Jacopo was near the end
of his resources, and that his father was resolved to force him to
change his life. There were days when he was reduced to borrowing money
for his actual needs, and though an occasional stroke of good fortune at
play temporarily relieved him, Arisa was sure that he was constantly
sinking deeper into debt. But within the week, the aspect of his affairs
had changed. The marriage with Marietta had been proposed, and Arisa had
made a discovery. She told Aristarchi everything, as naturally as she
would have concealed everything from Contarini.
"We shall be rich," she said, twining her white arms round his swarthy
neck and looking up into his murderous eyes with something like genuine
adoration. "We shall get the wife's dowry for ourselves, by degrees,
every farthing of it, and it shall be the dower of Aristarchi's bride
instead. I shall not be portionless. You shall not be ashamed of me when
you meet your old friends."
"Ashamed!" His arm pressed her to him till she longed to cry out for
pain, yet she would not have had him less rough.
"You are so strong!" she gasped in a broken whisper. "Yes--a little
looser--so! I can speak now. You must go to Murano to-morrow and find
out all about this Angelo Beroviero and his daughter. Try to see her,
and tell me whether she is pretty, but most of all learn whether she is
really rich."
"That is easy enough. I will go to the furnace and offer to buy a cargo
of glass for Sicily."
"But you will not take it?" asked Arisa in sudden anxiety lest he should
leave her to make the voyage.
"No, no! I will make inquiries. I will ask for a sort of glass that does
not exist."
"Yes," she said, reassured. "Do that. I must know if the girl is rich
before I marry him to her."
"But can you make him marry her at all?" asked Aristarchi.
"I can make him do anything I please. We drank to the health of the
bride to-night, in a goblet made by her father! The wine was strong, and
I put a little syrup of poppies into it. He will not wake for hours.
What is the matter?"
She felt the rough man shaking beside her, as if he were in an ague.
"I was laughing," he said, when he could speak. "It is a good jest. But
is there no danger in all this? Is it quite impossible that he should
take a liking for his wife?"
"And leave me?" Arisa's whisper was hot with indignation at the mere
thought. "Then I suppose you would leave me for the first pretty girl
with a fortune who wanted to marry you!"
"This Contarini is such a fool!" answered Aristarchi contemptuously, by
way of explanation and apology.
Arisa was instantly pacified.
"If he should be foolish enough for that, I have means that will keep
him," she answered.
"I do not see how you can force him to do anything except by his passion
for you."
"I can. I was not going to tell you yet--you always make me tell you
everything, like a child."
"What is it?" asked the Greek. "Have you found out anything new about
him? Of course you must tell me."
"We hold his life in our hands," she said quietly, and Aristarchi knew
that she was not exaggerating the truth.
She began to tell him how this was the third time that a number of
masked men had come to the house an hour after dark, and had stayed till
midnight or later, and how Contarini had told her that they came to play
at dice where they were safe from interruption, and that on these nights
the servants were sent to their quarters at sunset on pain of dismissal
if Jacopo found them about the house, but that they also received
generous presents of money to keep them silent.
"The man is a fool!" said Aristarchi again. "He puts himself in their
power."
"He is much more completely in ours," answered Arisa. "The servants
believe that his friends come to play dice. And so they do. But they
come for something more serious."
Aristarchi moved his massive head suddenly to an attitude of profound
attention.
"They are plotting against the Republic," whispered Arisa. "I can hear
all they say."
"Are you sure?"
"I tell you I can hear every word. I can almost see them. Look here.
Come with me."
She rose and he followed her to the corner of the room where the small
silver lamp burned steadily before an image of Saint Mark, and above a
heavy kneeling-stool.
"The foot moves," she said, and she was already on her knees on the
floor, pushing the step.
It slid back with the soft sound Contarini had heard before he came
upstairs. The upper part of the woodwork was built into the wall.
"They meet in the place below this," Arisa said. "When they are there, I
can see a glimmer of light. I cannot get my head in. It is too narrow,
but I hear as if I were with them."
"How did you find this out?" asked Aristarchi on the floor beside her,
and reaching down into the dark space to explore it with his hand. "It
is deep," he continued, without waiting for an answer. "There may be
some passage by which one can get down."
"Only a child could pass. You see how narrow it is. But one can hear
every sound. They said enough to-night to send them all to the
scaffold."
"Better they than we if we ever have to make the choice," said the Greek
ominously.
He had withdrawn his arm and was planted upon his hands and knees, his
shaggy head hanging over the dark aperture. He was like some rough wild
beast that has tracked its quarry to earth and crouches before the hole,
waiting for a victim.
"How did you find this out?" he asked again, looking up.
She was standing by the corner of the stool, now, all her marvellous
beauty showing in the light of the little lamp and against the wall
behind her.
"I was saying my prayers here, the first night they met," she said, as
if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I heard voices, as it
seemed, under my feet. I tried to push away the stool, and the foot
moved. That is all."
Aristarchi's jaw dropped a little as he looked up at her.
"Do you say prayers every night?" he asked in wonder.
"Of course I do. Do you never say a prayer?"
"No." He was still staring at her.
"That is very wrong," she said, in the earnest tone a mother might use
to her little child. "Some harm will befall us, if you do not say your
prayers."
A slow smile crossed the ruffian's face as he realised that this evil
woman who was ready to commit the most atrocious deeds out of love for
him, was still half a child.