A TALISMAN.
Natalie Lind was busy writing at the window of the drawing-room in
Curzon Street when Calabressa entered, unannounced. He had outstripped
the little Anneli; perhaps he was afraid of being refused. He was much
excited.
"Forgive me, signorina, if I startle you," he said, rapidly, in his
native tongue; "forgive me, little daughter. We go away to-night, I and
the man Kirski, whom you saved from madness: we are ordered away; it is
possible I may never see you again. Now listen."
He took a seat beside her; in his hurry and eagerness he had for the
moment abandoned his airy manner.
"When I came here I expected to see you a school-girl--some one in
safe-keeping--with no troubles to think of. You are a woman; you may
have trouble; and it is I, Calabressa, who would then cut off my right
hand to help you. I said I would leave you my address; I cannot. I dare
not tell any one even where I am going. What of that? Look well at this
card."
He placed before her a small bit of pasteboard, with some lines marked
on it.
"Now we will imagine that some day you are in great trouble; you know
not what to do; and you suddenly, bethink yourself, 'Now it is
Calabressa, and the friends of Calabressa, who must help me--'"
"Pardon me, signore," said Natalie, gently. "To whom should I go but to
my father, if I were in trouble? And why should one anticipate trouble?
If it were to come, perhaps one might be able to brave it."
"My little daughter, you vex me. You must listen. If no trouble comes,
well! If it does, are you any the worse for knowing that there are many
on whom you can rely? Very well; look! This is the Via Roma in Naples."
"I know it," said Natalie: why should she not humor the good-natured
old albino, who had been a friend of her mother's?
"You go along it until you come to this little lane; it is the Vico
Carlo; you ascend the lane--here is the first turning--you go round, and
behold! the entrance to a court. The court is dark, but there is a lamp
burning all day; go farther in, there are wine-vaults. You enter the
wine-vaults, and say, 'Bartolotti.' You do not say, 'Is Signor
Bartolotti at home?' or, 'Can I see the illustrious Signor Bartolotti,'
but 'Bartolotti,' clear and short. You understand?"
"You give yourself too much trouble, signore."
"I hope so, little daughter. I hope you will never have to search for
these wine-vaults; but who knows? _Alors_, one comes to you, and says,
'What is your pleasure, signorina?' Then you ask, 'Where is Calabressa?'
The answer to that? It may be, 'We do not know;' or it may be,
'Calabressa is in prison again,' or it may be,'Calabressa is dead.'
Never mind. When Calabressa dies, no one will care less than Calabressa
himself."
"Some one would care, signore; you have a mother."
He took her hand.
"And a daughter, too," he said, lightly; "if the wicked little minx
would only listen. Then you know what you must say to the man whom you
will see at the wine-vaults; you must say this, 'Brother, I come with a
message from Calabressa; it is the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi who
demands your help.' Then do you know what will happen? From the next
morning you will be under the protection of the greatest power in
Europe; a power unknown but invincible; a power that no one dares to
disobey. Ah, little one, you will find out what the friends of
Calabressa can do for you when you appeal to them!"
He smiled proudly.
"_Allons!_ Put this card away in a secret place. Do not show it to any
one; let no one know the name I confided to you. Can you remember it,
little daughter?"
"Bartolotti."
"Good! Now that is one point settled; here is the next. You do not seem
to have any portrait of your mother, my little one?"
"Ah, no!" she exclaimed, quickly; for she was more interested now. "I
suppose my father could not bear to be reminded of his loss: if there is
any portrait, I have not seen it; and how could I ask him?"
He regarded her for a moment, and then he spoke more slowly than
hitherto:
"Little Natalushka, I told you I am going away; and who knows what may
happen to me? I have no money or land to leave to any one; if I had a
wife and children, the only name I could leave them would be the name of
a jailbird. If I were to leave a will behind me, it would read, 'My
heart to my beloved Italia; my curse to Austria; and my--'Ah, yes, after
all I have something to leave to the little Natalushka."
He put his hand, which trembled somewhat, into the breast of his coat,
and brought out a small leather case.
"I am about to give you my greatest treasure, little one; my only
treasure. I think you will value it."
He opened the case and handed it to her; inside there was a miniature,
painted on ivory; it might have been a portrait of Natalie herself. For
some time the girl did not say a word, but her eyes slowly filled with
tears.
"She was very beautiful signore," she murmured.
"Ah little daughter," he said, cheerfully, "I am glad to see the
portrait in safe-keeping at last. Many a risk I have run with it; many a
time I have had to hide it. And you must hide it too; let no one see it
but yourself. But now you will give me one of your own in exchange, my
little one; and so the bargain is complete."
She went to the small table adjoining to hunt among the photographs.
"And lastly, one more point, Signorina Natalushka," said Calabressa,
with the air of one who had got through some difficult work. "You asked
me once to find out for you who was the lady from whom you received the
little silver locket. Well, you see, that is now out of my power. I am
going away. If you are still curious, you must ask some one else; but is
it not natural to suppose that the locket may have been stolen a great
many years ago, and at last the thief resolves to restore it? No matter;
it is only a locket."
She returned with a few photographs for him to chose from. He picked out
two.
"There is one for me; there is one for my old mother. I will say to her,
'Do you remember the young Hungarian lady who came to see you at Spezia?
Put on your spectacles now, and see whether that is not the same young
lady. Ah, good old mother; can you see no better than that?--that is not
Natalie Berezolyi at all; that is her daughter, who lives in England.
But she has not got the English way; she is not content when she herself
is comfortable; she thinks of others; she has an ear for voices afar
off.' That is what I shall say to the old mother."
He put the photographs in his pocket.
"In the mean time, my little daughter," said he, "now that our pressing
business is over, one may speak at leisure: and what of you, now? My
sight is not very good; but even my eyes can see that you are not
looking cheerful enough. You are troubled, Natalushka, or you would not
have forgotten to thank me for giving you the only treasure I have in
the world."
The girl's pale face flushed, and she said, quickly,
"There are some things that are not to be expressed in words, Signor
Calabressa. I cannot tell you what I think of your kindness to me."
"Silence! do you not understand my joking? _Eh, bien_; let us understand
each other. Your father has spoken to me--a little, not much. He would
rather have an end to the love affair, _n'est ce pas_?"
"There are some other things that are not to be spoken of," the girl
said, in a low voice, but somewhat proudly.
"Natalushka, I will not have you answer me like that. It is not right.
If you knew all my history, perhaps you would understand why I ask you
questions--why I interfere--why you think me impertinent--"
"Oh no, signore; how can I think that?"
She had her mother's portrait in her hand; she was gazing into the face
that was so strangely like her own.
"Then why not answer me?"
She looked up with a quick, almost despairing look.
"Because I try not to think about it," she said, hurriedly. "Because I
try to think only of my work. And now, Signor Calabressa, you have given
me something else to think about; something to be my companion when I am
alone; and from my heart I thank you."
"But you speak as if you were in great grief, my little one. It is not
all over between you and your lover?"
"How can I tell? What can I say?" she exclaimed; and for a moment her
eyes looked up with the appealing look of a child. "He does not write to
me. I may not write to him. I must not see him."
"But then there may be reasons for delay and consideration, little
Natalushka; your father may have reasons. And your father did not speak
to me as if it were altogether impossible. What he said was, in effect,
'We will see--we will see.' However, let us return to the important
point: it is my advice to you--you cannot have forgotten it--that
whatever happens, whatever you may think, do not, little one, seek to go
against your father's wishes. You will promise me that?"
"I have not forgotten, signore; but do you not remember my answer? I am
no longer a child. If I am to obey, I must have reasons for obeying."
"What?" said he smiling. "And you know that one of our chief principles
is that obedience is a virtue in itself?"
"I do not belong to your association, Signor Calabressa."
"The little rebel!"
"No, no, signore; do not drive me into a false position. I cannot
understand my father, who has always been so kind to me; it is better
not to speak of it: some day, when you come back, Signore Calabressa,
you will find it all a forgotten story. Some people forget so readily;
do they not?"
The trace of pathetic bitterness in her speech did not escape him.
"My child," said he, "you are suffering; I perceive it. But it may soon
be over, and your joy will be all the greater. If not, if the future has
trouble for you, remember what I have told you. _Allons donc!_ Keep up a
brave heart; but I need not say that to the child of the Berezolyis."
He rose, and at the same moment a bell was heard below.
"You are not going, Signore Calabressa? That must be my father."
"Your father!" he exclaimed; and he seemed confused. Then he added,
quickly, "Ah, very well. I will see him as I go down. Our business,
little one, is finished; is it not? Now repeat to me the name I
mentioned to you."
"Bartolotti?"
"Excellent, excellent! And you will keep the portrait from every one's
eyes but your own. Now, farewell!"
He took her two hands in his.
"My beautiful child," said he, in rather a trembling voice, "may Heaven
keep you as true and brave as your mother was, and send you more
happiness. I may not see England again--no, it is not likely; but in
after-years you may sometimes think of old Calabressa, and remember that
he loved you almost as he once loved another of your name."
Surely she must have understood. He hurriedly kissed her on the
forehead, and said, "Adieu, little daughter!" and left. And when he had
gone she sunk into the chair again, and clasped both her hands round her
mother's portrait and burst into tears.
Calabressa made his way down-stairs, and, at the foot, ran against
Ferdinand Lind.
"Ah, amico mio," said he, in his gay manner. "See now, we have been
bidding our adieux to the little Natalushka--the rogue, to pretend to me
she had no sweetheart! Shall we have a glass of wine, _mon capitaine_,
before we imbark?"
"Yes, yes," said Lind, though without any great cordiality. "Come into
my little room."
He led him into the small study, and presently there was wine upon the
table. Calabressa was exceedingly vivacious, and a little difficult to
follow, especially in his French. But Lind allowed him to rattle on,
until by accident he referred to some meeting that was shortly to take
place at Posilipo.
"Well, now, Calabressa," said Lind, with apparent carelessness, as he
broke off a bit of biscuit and poured out a glass of wine for himself,
"I suppose you know more about the opinions of the Council now than any
one not absolutely within itself."
"I am a humble servant only, friend Lind," he remarked, as he thrust his
fingers into the breast of his military-looking coat--"a humble servant
of my most noble masters. But sometimes one hears--one guesses--_mais a
quel propos cette question, monsieur mon camarade_?"
Lind regarded him; and said, slowly,
"You know, Calabressa, that some seventeen years ago I was on the point
of being elected a member of the Council."
"I know it," said the other, with a little embarrassment.
"You know why--though you do not know the right or the wrong of it--all
that became impossible."
Calabressa nodded. It was delicate ground, and he was afraid to speak.
"Well," said Lind, "I ask you boldly--do you not think I have done
enough in these sixteen or seventeen years to reinstate myself? Who else
has done a tithe of the work I have done?"
"Friend Lind, I think that is well understood at head-quarters."
"Very well, then, Calabressa, what do you think? Consider what I have
done; consider what I have now to do--what I may yet do. There is this
Zaccatelli business. I do not approve of it myself. I think it is a
mistake, as far as England is concerned. The English will not hear of
assassination, even though it is such a criminal as the _cardinale
affamatore_ who is to be punished. But though I do not approve, I obey.
Some one from the English section will fulfil that duty: it is something
to be considered. Then money; think of the money I have contributed.
Without English money what would have been done? when there is any new
levy wanted, it is to England--to me--they apply first; and at the
present moment their cry for money is more urgent than ever. Very well,
then, my Calabressa; what do you think of all this?"
Calabressa seemed somewhat embarrassed.
"Friend Lind, I am not so far into their secrets as that. Being in
prison so long, one loses terms of familiarity with many of one's old
associates, you perceive. But your claims are undoubted, my friend; yes,
yes, undoubted."
"But what do you think, Calabressa?" he said; and that affectation of
carelessness had now gone: there was an eager look in the deep-set eyes
under the bushy eyebrows. "What do you yourself think of my chance? It
ought to be no chance; it ought to be a certainty. It is my due. I claim
it as the reward of my sixteen years' work, to say nothing of what went
before."
"_Ah, naturellement, sans doute, tu as raison, mon camarade,_" said the
politic Calabressa, endeavoring to get out of the difficulty with a
shrug of his shoulders. "But--but--the more one knows of the Council the
more one fears prying into its secrets. No, no; I do what I am told; for
the rest my ears are closed."
"If I were on the Council, Calabressa," said Lind, slowly, "you would be
treated with more consideration. You have earned as much."
"A thousand thanks, friend Lind," said the other; "but I have no more
ambitions now. The time for that is past. Let them make what they can
out of old Calabressa--a stick to beat a dog with; as long as I have my
liberty and a cigarette, I am content."
"Ah, well," said Lind, resuming his careless air, "you must not imagine
I am seriously troubled because the Council have not as yet seen fit to
think of what I have done for them. I am their obedient servant, like
yourself. Some day, perhaps, I may be summoned."
"_A la bonne heure!_" said Calabressa, rising. "No, no more wine. Your
port-wine here is glorious--it is a wine for the gods; but a very little
is enough for a man. So, farewell, my good friend Lind. Be kind to the
beautiful Natalushka, if that other thing that I spoke of is
impossible. If the bounty of Heaven had only given me such a daughter!"
"Kirski will meet you at the station," said Lind. "Charing Cross, you
remember; eight sharp. The train is 8.25."
"I will be there."
They shook hands and parted; the door was shut. Then, in the street
outside, Calabressa glanced up at the drawing-room windows just for a
second.
"Ah, little daughter," he said to himself as he turned away, "you do not
know the power of the talisman I have given you. But you will not use
it. You will be happy; you will marry the Englishman; you will have
little children round your knee; and you will lead so busy and glad a
life, year after year, that you will never have a minute to sit down and
think of old Calabressa, or of the stupid little map of Naples he left
with you."