The Benediction was over, and the music had died away; the deep colours
of the ancient windows already blended into luminous purple stains, like
red wine spilt on velvet just before dusk; on the altar of the Sacrament
and all about it hundreds of wax candles were burning steadily, arranged
in dazzling concentric rings and shining curves. A young Dominican monk
had prostrated himself before the shrine, a motionless figure, half
kneeling and half lying on the steps.
The service was ended and the priests were gone. Some five hundred feet
shuffled slowly away from the blaze of light into the gloom and out
through the western door, and the brighter part of the church was
already deserted; but the young monk remained motionless, prostrate upon
the steps.
Two men stood by the choir screen, the broad-brimmed black hats they
held in their hands hanging so low that the draggled feathers swept the
pavement, their eyes directed towards the retiring crowd. They were two
shabby gentlemen of thirty years or under; though their clothes were not
yet actually torn or patched, most of their garments were already in
that premonitory state which warns the wearer of old breeches to sit
down with deliberation and grace, rather than with rash haste, and to
make no uselessly quick movements whereby an old sewing may rip open, or
the silk or cloth itself may split and gape in an unseemly manner,
furnishing a cause for mirth in better-clad men.
These two poor gentlemen were very unlike in appearance, except as to
their well-worn clothes and in respect of their rapiers, which were so
exactly similar that they might have been made for a duelling pair. Each
had a beautifully chiselled and polished bell-guard, with the Italian
cross-bar for the middle finger; each was sheathed in a good brown
leather sheath, with a chiselled steel shoe to drag on the pavement, and
each weapon hung from the wearer's shoulder-belt by two short chains of
well-furbished steel. The weapons looked serviceable, though they made
little pretence to beauty, in an age when most things worn by men and
women were adorned too much rather than too little.
But the men themselves were not alike. The shorter of the two was very
fair, with the complexion of a Saxon child, and unnaturally pink cheeks;
his nose turned up to a sharp point in the most extraordinary manner, so
that the pink openings of the nostrils seemed to stand upright above the
flaxen moustache, reminding one of the muzzles of certain wild cats. His
blue eyes were large, perfectly round, and often aggressively fixed, and
the long yellow lashes that bristled all round them might have passed
for rays. He wore a short pointed beard, and his very thick fair hair
was parted exactly in the middle and hung down below his dingy collar on
each side, perfectly straight and completely hiding his ears. There was
something both comic and disturbing in his aspect.
His companion was much less extraordinary in appearance, though any one
would have noticed him in a crowd as an unusual type. Instead of being
fair, he was as dark as a Moor; instead of turning up, his immensely
long and melancholy nose curved downwards over his thin lips like a
vulture's beak as if trying to peck at his chin. His eyes were shadowy
and uncertain under his prominent forehead and bushy eyebrows. His beard
was a mere black wisp, and the points of his scant moustaches were waxed
and stood up stiffly. He was the taller of the two, but his hat hung
lower in his hand than his friend's, for he had unnaturally long arms,
with a long body and short legs, whereas the fair man with the turned-up
nose was remarkably well-proportioned.
'Who says we have no good music in Venice?' inquired the latter at last,
fixing his round eyes on the other's face angrily, and pressing down the
hilt of his sword so as to make the point stick up behind.
His mouth looked ridiculously small, and his pink cheeks were very large
and round. His companion had long ago come to the conclusion that he was
very like one of those rosy cherubs that roll about the clouds in the
religious pictures painted in those times, blowing their trumpets till
they look as if their red cheeks must burst. Accordingly, he had
nicknamed his friend 'Trombin,' short for 'trombino,' a 'little
trumpeter.'
The dark man had always gone by the name of Gambardella, and seemed
quite satisfied with the appellation. The two had been companions in
their profession for several years, but neither knew much of the other's
antecedents, and both were far too proud, or too tactful, or too
prudent, to ask questions. They wore the dress and weapons of gentlemen,
and were extremely ticklish as to the point of honour; but they did not
now sit in the Grand Council of the Venetian Republic, though each
perceived that the other had once enjoyed that privilege, and had
forfeited it for the good of his native city. They travelled a great
deal, always together, and their friends knew that they met with
frequent and sudden changes of fortune. Their clothes were shabby now,
yet scarcely six months ago they had been seen strolling arm in arm in
Florence, in the Piazza della Signoria, arrayed in silks and satins and
fine linen. Only their weapons were never replaced in prosperity by
handsomer swords with gilded hilts, nor exchanged in adversity for
others of less perfect balance and temper.
'This Stradella sings like an angel,' said Gambardella after a moment.
'I hear that he composes good music himself, and that his new oratorio
will be performed before the Doge in Saint Mark's next Sunday.'
'If we had any money,' observed Trombin regretfully, 'we would hire a
house and ask him to supper.'
'Yes,' answered Gambardella in a melancholy tone. 'Our Venetians do not
understand these things. To them a man of genius like Alessandro
Stradella is just a music-master, and nothing else, a mountebank or a
strolling minstrel, to be hired and paid for his work, and dismissed
with a cool nod, like a servant. Trombin, let us leave Venice.'
'After we have heard the oratorio on Sunday----'
'Of course! Do you think I would miss that? But there is nothing for us
to do here just now, whereas in Genoa, or Florence, or even Rome, we
should not be always idle.'
'Venice is a dull place, compared with what it used to be,' Trombin
admitted, and he raised his right forearm, turning it till he could
examine the threadbare elbow of his coat in the glare of the candles.
'Another week will do it,' he added, after a careful examination. 'I can
already perceive the direction which the split will take.'
'I never sit down, if I can help it,' said Gambardella mournfully.
'It is a strange fact,' answered Trombin thoughtfully, 'that only those
nations that wear breeches sit upon chairs; the others squat on their
heels, though they have no breeches to save. This is a most
contradictory world.'
'I never could see any sense in it myself,' returned the other. 'Shall
we go to supper?'
'It pleases you to be humorous,' Trombin observed, and they moved away
from the great choir screen.
As they passed the blazing chapel of the Sacrament, each bent his knee
and crossed himself devoutly. The young monk was still prostrate before
the altar. Trombin looked at him sharply, and the two went on towards
the open door, through which the fading twilight outside admitted
barely enough light to distinguish the great pillars and tombs.
The two shabby gentlemen left the church and strolled slowly along the
edge of the canal. In the open air it was quite light still, and the
warm afterglow of the sunset had not quite paled yet.
'Supper!' said Trombin presently, dwelling on the one word in a musical
tone, and with the deepest feeling.
'That is the worst of Venice,' answered Gambardella, gloomily pulling
his soft hat over his eyes. 'One cannot even eat here without paying.
Now in Florence or Rome the people are more simple, and when you have
made your necessary debts, and creditors talk of imprisoning you, why,
then, you need only appeal to the Venetian Ambassador for protection,
and you are perfectly safe! But here! On the word of a gentleman, it is
enough to drive a man to highway robbery!'
Trombin laughed softly.
'Supper!' he said again, as musically and feelingly as before.
'You will make me mad with your whining!' cried Gambardella angrily.
'You will drive me to commit a crime!'
'One more will make no difference,' returned Trombin, with great
coolness. 'After the first, which sullied the virgin lustre of your
spotless soul, my dear friend, it is of no use to count the others, till
you come to the last--and may you enjoy many long years of health,
activity, and happiness before that is reached!'
'The same to you!' answered the melancholic man morosely, for he was
hungry, and in no humour for banter.
They stopped where a wooden bridge spanned the narrow canal, for all
bridges in Venice were not yet built of stone in the year 1670.
They had only one thought, and Trombin had already expressed it twice
with longing and regret. So far as mere hunger and thirst went, they
could satisfy themselves with bread, salt fish and cheese, and a draught
of water. They were not such imprudent gentlemen as to risk absolute
starvation in their native city, where they could get no credit, and
though they often lived riotously for months together, they invariably
set aside a sum which would furnish them with the merest necessities for
a considerable time. There was a system in their way of living, and they
stuck to it with a laudable determination which would have done honour
to better men. Enough was not as good as a feast, and since their income
was always uncertain, the only way to get any real enjoyment out of life
was to feast recklessly while they could, though only for a few days,
and then to pay for extravagance with the strictest asceticism, till a
rain of gold once more gladdened the garret to which they had retired to
fast.
They stood by the end of the bridge in silence a long time while it grew
dark, Gambardella gazing sadly at the dark water of the still canal at
his feet, while Trombin, who was of a more hopeful disposition, looked
at the evening star, just visible in the darkening west, between the
long lines of tall houses on each side of the canal. The reason why
they stopped just then with one accord was that to cross the bridge
meant to go home to their wretched lodging, though it was still so
early; and the prospect was not attractive. But they knew their
weakness, and long ago had bound themselves together by promises they
would not break. If they turned away from the bridge and followed the
narrow street, they would come in time to Saint Mark's Square, and they
would breathe the intoxicating air of pleasure that hung over it as the
scent of flowers over a garden at evening, and temptation would assail
them in one of at least twenty delightful shapes; and then and there the
little sum that stood between them and starvation would melt away in a
night, leaving them in a very bad way indeed.
Yet now they lingered just a few moments by the wooden bridge, dreaming
of riotous nights and glorious suppers, before going home to bread and
cheese and cold water. And just then fate sent to them the young
Dominican monk they had left prostrate before the altar in the church
when they came out; at all events it seemed natural to suppose that it
was he, though they had hardly caught sight of his youthful face before
and now could not see it all, for he had pulled his white hood well down
over his eyes.
He was evidently about to cross the bridge, when he unexpectedly found
Trombin in front of him, stopping the way. The street and the canal were
deserted, and not a sound broke the stillness. The monk stood still. He
was short and slight, and could have slipped through a very narrow
space, but Trombin seemed to swell himself out till he filled the bridge
from side to side, and kept his hand on the hilt of his rapier.
Gambardella looked on indifferently, supposing that his companion meant
to indulge in some witticism or practical joke at the expense of the
young monk.
'Your reverence must pay toll at this bridge,' said Trombin.
'Toll?' cried a youthful voice from under the cowl.
'The decree has just been passed by the Ten,' answered Trombin. 'My
friend and I are stationed here by the Signors of the Night to exact
payment.'
Gambardella did not clearly understand, but he moved up behind the monk,
so that the latter could not get back.
'I understand,' said the Dominican in his sweet voice, after a moment's
hesitation. 'But I have no money. I am only a poor monk----'
'The Fathers of the Order of Preachers do not take vows of poverty, your
reverence,' said Gambardella in deep tones, behind the youth.
'That is true, but I have no money with me,' protested the latter.
'That emerald ring you wear on your left hand will do quite as well,'
answered Trombin. 'We shall not ask you for anything else this evening.'
Now the monk's hands were thrust deep into the two slits in the front of
his frock, as in a muff; but Trombin's eyes were good, and they had
caught sight of the jewel unwarily exposed while the young man was
performing his devotions in the church. He seemed disturbed, hesitated,
and hung his head.
Standing behind him, Gambardella laid a heavy hand on the slight
shoulder, while Trombin, in front, grasped his left wrist roughly, to
draw it out of his frock.
At this the young monk suddenly burst into a flood of tears under his
cowl, and began to sob bitterly.
'What fish have we caught here?' asked Gambardella, laughing for the
first time that day, and he seized the point of the hood at the back to
pull it off the head and face.
But instantly the monk's right hand went up and held it down in front
desperately.
'No, no! Please--you shall have the ring--anything--only let me go!'
There was no mistaking the feminine voice now, broken as it was with
sobbing, and Trombin made one step backward on the bridge and bowed to
the ground.
'Madam,' he said, with a grand air, 'we are not ruffians, but Venetian
gentlemen. We will respect your disguise, and shall be delighted and
honoured to see you safely to your own door. For this little service we
shall be more than rewarded if you will leave us your ring in
recollection of our auspicious meeting!'
'As a further return for your kindness,' added Gambardella, speaking
over the disguised lady's shoulder, 'we are at your service, to rid you
of any obnoxious friends or relations.'
'I see that you are Bravi,' the lady said, keeping her face closely
concealed under the hood. 'I am the less unwilling to part with my ring
since I may have need of you. But where can I find you in that case?'
'When we are unoccupied, you will find us at our devotions in the Church
of the Frari during the Benediction, any day,' answered Trombin,
receiving the ring from the delicate white fingers that held it out to
him.
He bowed as he took it, and flattened himself against the rail of the
wooden bridge, hat in hand, to let the disguised lady go by.
'Shall we follow you, Madam, for your greater safety?' asked
Gambardella.
'No, I pray you! I will go alone. I live near here.'
'We wish your ladyship a very happy night,' Trombin answered.
'The same to you,' said the young voice.
She was out of sight in a few seconds in spite of her white monk's
frock, which might have been seen at a considerable distance even in the
gloom of the narrow lane beyond the bridge. Trombin, who tried to follow
her with his sharp eyes, was sure that she had turned into a cross alley
that led to the large court in which the Palazzo Pignaver then stood.
But that was a matter of speculation, whereas the emerald ring was a
matter of fact, and could be converted into a number of things which the
two adventurous gentlemen very much wanted just then. Their vow of
economy now no longer bade them cross the bridge and return to their
wretched lodging and frugal supper. The ring would pay for many suppers,
and for good clothes too. They did not even exchange a word as they
turned in the direction of the Rialto with a light step, and they felt
that delightful sensation which fills the being of a man who loves
eating at the moment when brutal hunger, that has expected only prison
fare, turns into keen appetite at the sudden vision of boundless good
things to eat in half an hour.
Gambardella's melancholy face relaxed in the dark, and the lines that
had before turned down now all turned upwards, except those of his long
hooked nose; and the formidable beak seemed to stand sentinel over his
thin lips, so that no good thing should enter between them on the way to
his stomach without sending up its toll of rich savour to his nostrils.
Trombin's small pursed-up mouth also widened to a set smile, and he
softly hummed snatches from the beautiful air Alessandro Stradella had
sung during the Benediction service. It was a mere thread of a squeak of
a falsetto voice, but it had at least the merit of being perfectly in
tune, and his musical memory was faultless.
'You are a great man,' said Gambardella thoughtfully, when they had
walked some distance and were nearing their destination.
'You flatter me!' laughed Trombin. 'What is easier than to guess that a
Dominican monk with a small white hand and an emerald ring may be a lady
in disguise? Besides, my dear friend, with your exquisite sense of all
that is feminine, you must surely have noticed her walk as she came up
to the bridge. I am not a judge of women myself, but as soon as I saw
the monk walking, I was sure of the truth.'
'I did not see her coming, but she has a delicious voice,' answered
Gambardella thoughtfully. 'I wish I had seen her face.'
'Perhaps you may, some day. Here we are.'
They stopped before a low arched door not fifty yards from the Rialto. A
large dry bush, sticking out of a narrow grated window beside the
forbidding entrance, showed that wine was sold within. The faint yellow
light from the lamp of a shrine, built in the wall on the opposite side
of the street, just overcame the darkness. Trombin tried the door and
found it ajar; both men entered, and Gambardella pushed it back to its
original position.
It was quite dark within, and the place smelt like a wine-cellar, but
the two evidently knew their way and they walked quickly forward, half a
dozen paces or so, till a wide space suddenly opened on the right, and a
wretched little earthenware oil-lamp appeared, high up, dimly lighting
the first landing of a damp stone staircase. The friends began to mount
at once.
As they went up the air became drier, the smell of the cellar turned
into a complex odour of grilled meats, savoury sauces, rich wine, and
spring fruits, which the companions snuffed and breathed in with greedy
delight; sounds of laughing voices were heard, the stairs were better
lighted, and now and then the idle tinkling of a lute or of a
deep-voiced, double-stringed guitar made an improvised accompaniment to
the cheerful echoes.
Gambardella and Trombin entered a brightly lighted vestibule at the head
of the stair and were greeted by the host in person, a broad-shouldered,
black-haired Samian with brilliant red cheeks; he was showily dressed in
blue cloth trimmed with gold braid, wore a tall fez and spotless linen,
and had a perfect arsenal of weapons stuck in his belt, all richly
ornamented with silver work, in which were set pieces of coral,
carbuncles, and turquoises. He had a look of tremendous vitality and
health, and the tawny light danced and played in his eyes when he
laughed. He spoke the Venetian dialect fluently, but with a strong Greek
accent, and an evident difficulty in pronouncing the letter B.
'Welcome, young gentlemen!' he cried in a formidably cheerful voice, as
he rose from the little table at which he had been busy with his
accounts. 'Here is old Markos, your faithful friend! What can Markos do
for your lordships to-day? Do you desire money of Markos? It is yours,
all his poor store! Or do you come for supper, to taste a real pilaf and
a brace of quails roasted in fig leaves, with a jar of old wine of Samos
and a sweetmeat, and some liquor brewed by the monks of Mount Athos?
Markos is here to serve you!'
He looked as broad as he was long as he stood there bawling out his
noisy greetings, his thumbs stuck into his broad red leather belt, his
legs apart, and his white teeth gleaming like a young boar's tusks in
the midst of his shiny black beard.
Trombin nodded gravely at each phrase, keeping his hat on his head, and
making his rapier stick up behind him. From the rooms beyond the
vestibule the rich steam of good things floated through the half-closed
door, and the ring of merry voices, clinking glasses, and tinkling
strings was delightful to the ears of men who had supped in a garret on
bread and salt fish for three weeks.
'Markos,' said Trombin, 'apply your excellent sight and your
money-lender's intelligence to this marvellous ring, with which
unfortunate circumstances now oblige me to part. It belonged to my
sainted aunt, the Abbess of Acquaviva, who left it to me with her
blessing when I was young and innocent. It was once blessed by His
Holiness Saint Pius the Fifth, who thereby endowed it with efficacious
power to protect the virtue of those who should wear it. My sainted aunt
wore it for forty years, and she was indeed virtuous to the end of her
life. I remember that she was cross-eyed and had bad teeth and a sallow
complexion. For my own part, I must confess that I have not always----'
'How much do you want on it?' interrupted Markos, who had been examining
the stone as well as he could by the light of the oil-lamp, while
Trombin was talking in his grand style.
'A hundred ducats down, and no wine,' answered Gambardella, without
hesitation, in his deep voice.
'We would accept half a dozen jars of Samos, to be drunk here,'
suggested Trombin, 'if we sealed them ourselves.'
Markos grinned from ear to ear.
'Twenty ducats,' he said quietly, 'and a hogshead of "rezinato," worth
ten ducats more! That is all I can give.'
'Rezinato at ten ducats!' sneered Gambardella.
'It costs me that,' retorted the money-lender, 'so it must be worth it.
Possibly I might make the cash twenty-five ducats, but that would only
be out of old friendship. I shall lose by it if you do not redeem the
ring.'
'I wish you might lose something for once!' cried Trombin devoutly.
They bargained long. In those days, and long before and afterwards, the
money-lenders of Venice were Greek and Eastern eating-house keepers and
sellers of wine, and it was impossible to pawn any object with them
without accepting at least one-third of the advance in the shape of wine
more or less sour, or watered, or both.
But the two shabbily-dressed gentlemen who had taken the emerald ring
from the disguised lady were not ordinary customers. Trombin inspired
present terror, and Gambardella apprehension for the future, and though
Markos was as broad as he was long and had a dozen pistols and knives in
his belt, his courage was not equal to his ferocious appearance. From a
business point of view, the Venetian Bravi were children in his hands;
but when they came quite near to him, one on each side, and spoke slowly
and clearly in their determined way, the tremendous Markos felt his
bravery shrink within him till it seemed to rattle like a dry pea shaken
in a steel cuirass, and the amount of money he actually advanced on the
ring was considerable; he even consented to let Gambardella seal the six
jars of Samos wine, which formed part of the loan, with the heavy brass
seal ring the Bravo wore, on which was engraved the Bear of the Ursuline
Order of Nuns, with a few words in Gothic characters. One of many things
which Trombin did not know about his companion was the story of that
ring and how Gambardella had become possessed of it.
So the transaction was duly terminated, and when Markos had at last
parted with his money and his fine old wine, his jolly face cleared once
more; for, after all, he had not lost by the bargain, though he had not
made much, and the good-will of the two most famous and dangerous
cut-throats in all the Venetian territory was worth something to a man
who always lived more or less on the outer edge of the law.
Half-an-hour later bliss descended upon the companions as they sat at
table in their favourite place, a sort of alcove or niche in the general
hall of the eating-house, whence they could see and hear all that went
on, without being too much disturbed in their enjoyment of the good
things set before them. The place was brightly lighted by several scores
of lamps fed with mingled oil, tallow, and camphor, and fastened on
large wooden rings that hung from the high ceiling. The smoke floated up
to the blackened beams, and found its way out through a small
clere-story window at one end, and the light below was clear and soft.
Thirty or forty guests were seated at tables of different sizes, and
amongst them was a fair scattering of handsome women, mostly dressed in
silks and satins of bright colours, and wearing jewels that sparkled
when they moved. The men were of all sorts: there were a few
good-looking young Venetian nobles, who had laid aside their cloaks and
outer coats, and sat in their doublets and lace collars; there were two
rich English travellers, in dark velvet, their long fair locks carefully
combed and curled in the manner of the cavaliers, their hands
conspicuously white, and their fingers adorned with magnificent rings;
with them sat two auburn-haired Venetian beauties, radiant and laughing,
and sipping Eastern wines from tall goblets of Murano glass. At one long
table near the wall a serenading party was installed, their pretty
instruments hanging on pegs behind them, together with their hats and
cloaks. Beyond, in a corner, a pale young Florentine, with a spiritual
profile, was supping with a lady who turned her back to the hall, and
whose head and shoulders were almost hidden in a cloud of priceless
lace. These two spoke little and ate delicately, and now and then their
dark eyes met and flashed upon each other.
The air was hot, and heavy with the fumes of Greek wines and savoury
dishes. At the farther end of the hall a large door opened now and then,
and showed the bright kitchen where the host's wife presided, and whence
neatly dressed youths brought dishes to the guests. Considering what the
place was, an eating-house kept by a foreign money-lender, there was an
air of luxury about it, and an appearance of orderly and temperate
behaviour among the guests, that would have surprised a stranger who
knew nothing of Venice, if he had been suddenly introduced by the gloomy
entrance from the street through which Trombin and Gambardella had made
their way.