but soon recovered myself, and said, “If you have summoned me hither,
say what is your command.” The Red Cloak turned round, and slowly
said, “Follow me.” I felt somewhat uneasy at the thought of following
the stranger alone; so I stood still, saying, “Nay, sir, please first
to tell me whither. Moreover, you might let me have a peep at your
face, that I may see whether you intend any good with me.” But the Red
Cloak did not seem to mind my words, “If you will not follow, Zaleukos,
stop where you are,” he said, and then went on. Now my anger was
roused, and I cried, “Think you a man like me, will submit to be
tantalized by any fool, and to wait for nothing in a cold night like
this?” In three leaps I overtook him, seized him by the cloak, and
cried still louder, while grasping my sword with the other hand. But
the cloak alone remained in my hand, and the stranger vanished round
the next corner. My rage gradually subsided, but still I held the
cloak, and this I expected would give me a clue to this singular
adventure. I wrapped it round me, and walked home. When I was about a
hundred paces from my house, some one passed close by me, and whispered
to me in French, “Be on your guard, Count, there is nothing to be done
to night.” But before I could look round, this somebody had passed,
and I only saw his shadow glide along the houses. That those words
were addressed to the owner of the cloak and not to me was pretty
evident, but this threw no light on the affair. The following morning,
I considered what I should do. At first I intended to have the cloak
cried, as if I had found it: on reflection, however, I thought the
owner might send another person for it, and that I might still have no
clue to the discovery. While thus considering, I looked at the cloak
more narrowly; It was of heavy Genoese reddish purple velvet, edged
with Astracan fur, and richly embroidered with gold. The sight of this
splendid cloak suggested an idea to me, which I resolved to execute. I
carried it to my shop, and exposed it for sale, but set upon it so high
a price, that I felt sure I should not find a purchaser. My object in
this was to look closely at every person who might ask the price; for I
thought I could discover, among a thousand, the figure of the stranger,
which after the loss of the cloak had shown itself to me distinctly,
though but for a moment. Many came desirous of buying the cloak, the
extraordinary beauty of which attracted every eye, but no one had the
remotest resemblance to the stranger, and none would pay for it the
high price of two-hundred zechinos. What struck me most was, that all
whom I asked whether they had ever seen such a cloak in Florence
before, replied in the negative, assuring me they had never seen such
costly and tasteful work.
As evening approached, a young man came who had often been in my shop,
and had also during the day made a handsome offer for it. He threw a
purse of zechinos on the table, saying, “By Heavens, Zuleukos I must
have your cloak, though it will beggar me!” At these words he counted
down the gold. I was greatly embarrassed, having only exposed the
cloak for sale in hopes of attracting the looks of its owner, and now
comes a young madcap to pay the exorbitant price. But what could I do?
I yielded; for the idea was pleasing of being so handsomely recompensed
for my nocturnal adventure. The young man put on the cloak and went
away; but returned at the door, as he took off a paper which was
fastened to it, threw it to me, and said, “Here, Zaleukos is something
which I think does not belong to the cloak.” I took the paper
carelessly, when behold! it contained these words:
“Bring the cloak to night at the usual hour to the Ponte Vecchio, and
four hundred zechinos shall be yours.” I was thunderstruck. Thus then
I had trifled with my good luck, and utterly missed my aim; but I soon
recovered, took the two-hundred zechinos, followed him, and said, “Take
back your money, my friend, and leave me the cloak, I cannot possibly
part with it.” He thought at first I was joking, but when he perceived
I was in earnest, he flew into a rage at my demand, called me a fool,
and we at length came to blows. In the scuffle, I was fortunate enough
to secure the cloak, and was about to run off with it, when the young
man called the police to his assistance, and brought me before the
magistrate. The latter was much surprised at the accusation, and
awarded the cloak to my opponent. I now offered the young man twenty,
fifty, eighty, nay, a hundred zechinos, if he would let me have it. My
gold effected what my entreaties could not. He took my money, I went
off triumphant with the cloak, and was obliged to submit to be called
mad by all Florence. But I cared little for the opinion of the people,
since I knew more than they, viz: that I still gained by my bargain.
I awaited the night with impatience. About the same time as before I
went to the Ponte Vecchio, with the cloak under my arm. The figure
approached me with the last stroke of the clock, and I could not be
mistaken as to its identity. “Have you the cloak?” was the question.
“I have, sir,” I answered, “but it cost me a hundred zechinos.” “I
know it,” he replied; “here are four hundred for it.” With these words
he stepped to the broad balustrade and counted down the gold, four
hundred pieces, which sparkled beautifully in the moonlight; their
glitter delighted my heart, which, alas! little imagined that this was
its last joy. I put the money in my pocket, and was going to take a
close survey of the kind unknown, but he had on a mask, through which
his dark eyes flashed at me frightfully. “I thank you, sir, for your
kindness,” said I. “What else do you desire of me? for I must tell you
beforehand that it must be nothing underhanded.” “Unnecessary fear,”
he replied, as he wrapped the cloak round him. “I want your assistance
as a physician, not, however, for one living, but for one who is dead.”
“How can that be?” I exclaimed, astonished. He beckoned me to follow
him, and related as follows: “I came here from foreign lands with my
sister, and have lived with her at the house of a friend, where she
died suddenly yesterday. Her relatives wish her to be buried
to-morrow; and by an ancient custom in our family every member is to be
buried in the vault of our ancestors, where many who died in foreign
countries now repose embalmed. I wish to leave her body to our
relations here, but must take to my father her head, at least, that he
may see his daughter’s face once more.”
This custom of cutting off the head of beloved relatives seemed to me
somewhat repulsive, but I did not venture to raise any objections,
fearing to give offence to the stranger. I therefore told him that I
well understood embalming the dead and begged him to take me to the
deceased. At the same time I could not refrain from asking him why all
this must be done so mysteriously, and in the night. To this he
answered, that his relations, considering his intention as somewhat
cruel, would prevent him if he attempted it during the daytime; but
that if the head was once severed they would say little about it; that
he, indeed, would have brought me the head himself had not a natural
feeling deterred him from performing the operation.
In the meanwhile we arrived at a large, splendid mansion, which my
companion pointed out as the end of our nocturnal walk. Passing the
principal gate we entered the house by a small door, which he carefully
fastened after him, and ascended, in the dark, a narrow winding
staircase. This led to a faintly lighted corridor through which we
came to an apartment, which was lighted by a lamp suspended from the
ceiling.
In this apartment was a bed in which the corpse lay. The stranger
averted his face and seemed anxious to hide his tears. Pointing to the
bed, he ordered me to do my business well and expeditiously, and left
the apartment.
I took my knives out of the case, which, as a doctor, I always carried,
and approached the bed. Only the head of the corpse was visible; it
was so beautiful that, involuntarily, I felt compassion in my inmost
heart; the dark hair hung in long tresses over the pale face, and the
eyes were closed. I commenced, according to the custom of surgeons
when they amputate a limb, by making an incision in the skin. Then
taking my sharpest knife I cut the throat with one stroke. Oh! horror!
the dead opened her eyes, but closed them again immediately, and with
one deep sigh now breathed forth her life. At the same time a stream
of hot blood gushed over me from the wound. I was convinced that I
only had killed the poor lady. That she was dead now I could no longer
doubt, since such a wound was sure to be fatal. I stood for some
minutes in fearful anxiety as to what I had done. Had the Red Cloak
imposed on me, or had his sister only been apparently dead? The latter
seemed to me the more probable, but I dare not tell the brother of the
dead that a less speedy cut would perhaps have aroused her without
killing her. I was going, therefore, to sever the head entirely, when
the dying lady once more groaned, stretched herself in painful
convulsions, and then expired. Overcome by terror, I rushed shuddering
from the apartment. It was dark in the corridor without, the lamp was
extinguished, no trace of my companion was to be discovered, and I was
obliged to grope my way along the wall at hazard in order to reach the
winding staircase. I found it at length, and hurried down
precipitately. There was no one visible below, the door was ajar, and
when I reached the street I breathed more freely, having felt oppressed
with horror in the house. Spurred on by terror, I hastened towards my
lodging and buried myself in the pillows of my couch, to forget the
atrocious deed I had perpetrated. But sleep fled from me, and the
morning first summoned me to composure. It seemed to me probable that
the man who had seduced me to the fearful act, as it now appeared to
me, would not inform against me. I determined to go into my shop to
business and assume, if possible, a cheerful air. But alas! a new
circumstance which I observed only now, increased my anxiety; I missed
my cap and belt, as well as the knives, and was uncertain whether I had
left them in the apartment of the murdered lady, or had lost them in my
flight. The former, unfortunately, seemed more probable, and the
knives would therefore betray me as the murderer.
I opened my shop at the usual time, and my neighbour came in, as he
usually did in the morning, being fond of a chat. “Well, neighbour,”
said he, “what do you think of this horrible occurrence which took
place last night?” I pretended not to know any thing about it. “What!
do you pretend not to know what is known all over the town? Not to
know that the fairest flower in Florence, Bianca, the daughter of the
governor, was murdered last night?” Ah me! I saw her even yesterday go
in her carriage with her bridegroom, for it was only yesterday she was
married. Every word spoken by my neighbour was a dagger in my heart.
How often were these my tortures renewed, for each of my customers
repeated the story, one painting it more frightfully than the other,
though none could speak all the horrors I had myself witnessed. About
noon an officer from the magistrate entered my shop, and requesting me
to dismiss the customers, and, producing the things I missed, he said,
“Senore Zaleukos, do you own these things?” I hesitated a moment
whether I had not better disown them altogether, but seeing through the
half-open door my landlord and several acquaintances, who might perhaps
witness against me, I determined not to aggravate the affair by telling
a falsehood, and so owned the things produced. The officer desired me
to follow him, and led me to a large building, which I soon recognised
as a prison. He showed me into an apartment to await further orders.
My situation was terrible as I reflected on it in my solitude; the
thought of having committed murder, though unintentionally, constantly
returned. Neither could I deny to myself that the glitter of gold had
captivated my senses, or I could not so easily have been caught in the
snare. Two hours after my arrest, I was led from my room up several
staircases into a large hall. Twelve persons, mostly old men, were
sitting at a round table, covered with black cloth. Along the walls
stood benches occupied by the nobility of Florence. In the galleries
above stood the spectators, densely crowded together. When I stepped
to the table, a man, with a gloomy and melancholy expression of
countenance, rose: it was the president of the tribunal. Addressing
the assembly, he said, that as the father of the murdered, he could not
pass judgment in this matter, and therefore, ceded his place to the
senior of the senators. The latter was an aged man of at least ninety
years. He was bent with age, and his temples were scantily covered
with a few white hairs, but his eyes still burned with lustre, and his
voice was strong and firm. He began by asking me whether I confessed
the murder? I demanded to be heard, and fearlessly, and in a very
audible voice, related what I had done, and what I knew. I observed
that the president, during my statement, was alternately flushed and
pale, and that when I concluded, he started up furiously, crying to me,
“What, wretch! Do you wish to charge the crime you committed from
avarice upon another?” The senator called him to order for his
interruption, as he had voluntarily resigned his right of judgment,
remarking, moreover, that it was by no means proved that I committed
the crime from avarice, as, by his own deposition, nothing had been
stolen from the murdered. Indeed, he went still further, declaring
that the president must give an account of the life of his daughter,
for that only could enable them to determine whether I had spoken the
truth or not. He now dismissed the court for that day to consult, as
he said, the papers of the deceased, which the president would deliver
to him.
I was again led back to my prison where I spent a sorrowful day, still
ardently hoping that some connexion between the dead lady and the Red
Cloak might be discovered. Full of this hope I entered the judgment
hall the following day. Several letters lay on the table, and the aged
senator asked me whether they were written by me. I looked at them,
and found they must be by the same hand as the two slips of paper I had
received. This I stated to the senate, but they did not seem to regard
it, and answered that I could, and must, have written both, the initial
on both letters being evidently a Z, the initial letter of my name.
The letters contained menaces to the deceased, and warnings against the
marriage which she was about to contract.
The president appeared to have given singular information respecting my
person, for they treated me on this day more suspiciously and severely.
In justification of myself I appealed to my papers which must be found
in my lodgings, but they told me that they had searched and found
nothing. Thus, at the closing of the court, all my hopes vanished, and
when, on the third day, I was again led into the hall, the sentence was
read to me that I was convicted of premeditated murder and was to die.
To this condition had I come! Forsaken by all that was dear on earth,
far distant from my native country, I was, though innocent, to die by
the axe in the flower of youth. As I was sitting in my lonely dungeon
on the evening of this terrible day that had decided my fate, all my
hopes having fled, and all my thoughts being seriously fixed on death,
the door opened and a man entered, who looked silently at me for a long
time.
“Do I thus find you again, Zaleukos?” said he.
The faint glimmer of my lamp prevented me from recognising him, but the
sound of his voice awakened in me recollections of former days. It was
Valetti, one of the few friends I had known in Paris while there
pursuing my studies. He told me that he happened to come to Florence
where his father lived much respected, that he had heard my history,
and had come to see me once more, and to learn from me how I could have
committed such a heavy crime. I told him the whole story. He seemed
much astonished, and conjured me to tell him, my only friend, every
thing, that I might not depart this life with a lie on my conscience.
I swore to him with a most solemn oath that I had spoken the truth, and
that no other guilt oppressed me, but that, being dazzled by the gold,
I had not at once recognised the improbability of the stranger’s story.
“You did not then know Bianca?” he asked.
I assured him I had never seen her. Valetti now related to me that a
deep secret was connected with the deed, that the president had very
much hastened my sentence, and that a report was circulated that I had
long known Bianca, and now had murdered her out of revenge for her
marrying another. I observed to him, that all this applied well to the
Red Cloak, but that I could not prove his participation in the deed.
Valetti embraced me, weeping, and promised to do all in his power to
save my life at least. I had little hope, though I knew him to be a
wise man and well conversant in the law, and that he would not fail to
do his utmost to save me. For two long days I remained in suspense; at
length he came and exclaimed, “I bring a consolation though a sad one.
You will live to be free, but must lose one hand.” Deeply affected, I
thanked my friend for having saved my life. He told me the president
had been inexorable as to granting a new investigation into the affair,
but, that he might not appear unjust, he at length agreed that if they
could find a similar case in the annals of Florence, my punishment
should be according to that awarded in such a case. He, therefore,
with his father had now read day and night in the archives, and had, at
length, found a case similar to mine, the punishment for which was that
the perpetrator should have his left hand cut off, his property
confiscated, and that he himself should be banished for life. This was
now my sentence, and I was to prepare for the painful moment which
awaited me. I will spare you this terrible moment: in the open
market-place I placed my hand on the block, and my own blood gushed
over me.
When all was over, Valetti took me to his house until my recovery was
completed, and then nobly provided me with money for my journey, for
all I had earned with so much labour had been taken from me. From
Florence I went to Sicily, and thence by the first ship to
Constantinople. Here I hoped to find the sum of money I had left with
my friend, and begged him to receive me into his house, but what was my
astonishment when he inquired why I did not take possession of my own?
He informed me that a stranger had purchased a house in my name in the
quarter of the Greeks, and had told the neighbours that I was soon
coming. I immediately repaired thither with my friend, and was
joyfully welcomed by all my old acquaintance. An aged merchant gave me
a letter that had been left by the purchaser of the house for me. Its
contents were as follows:
“Zaleukos! _Two_ hands shall be constantly ready to work for you that
you may not feel the loss of the _one_. The house you now own with all
in it is yours, and you will receive every year sufficient to make you
rank among the wealthy of your countrymen. May you forgive him who is
more wretched than yourself!”
I could guess who was the writer of these lines, and the merchant told
me, on inquiry, that he took the stranger, who wore a red cloak, for a
Frank. I now knew sufficient to convince me that the stranger was not
devoid of generous feelings. I found all in my new house arranged
admirably, and also a shop with goods more beautiful than I ever
possessed. Ten years have now elapsed, and I have continued my
commercial travels more from former habit than necessity, yet I have
never again seen the country where I met such a misfortune. Ever since
I have annually received a thousand gold pieces, but though I rejoice
to know that that unfortunate man is generous, he cannot with his money
relieve my soul from its grief, for the awful picture of the murdered
Bianca will for ever be present with me.
C. A. F.
THE END.
C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND.