Cucurullo came back to the inn in less than an hour after Pina and
Ortensia had left it. In spite of the asseverations of the innkeeper, he
had found that there were horses to be had in plenty in the city, and
that it was merely a question of choice and of paying well for the
accommodation. He was hastening upstairs to tell this to Stradella when
he was stopped by the host himself, who informed him that Stradella was
imprisoned in the castle, and that the lady and her serving-woman had
just gone away on foot.
'You had better melt away yourself,' the innkeeper concluded in a
confidential tone, 'unless you wish to be clapped into prison too.'
Cucurullo had betrayed no surprise at what the host told him, and he did
not seem inclined to pay any immediate attention to the latter's advice,
though it was distinctly friendly. He was used to that, for few Italians
would care to incur the hatred of a hunch-backed man, who is supposed to
bring good luck to those who treat him well, and to dispose of the
mysterious curses of the Evil Eye for wreaking vengeance on those who
injure him. Cucurullo stood still on the stairs, in deep thought, after
the innkeeper had ceased speaking.
'What is the name of the Legate?' he inquired, looking up at last.
'Pelagatti,' answered the other. 'He is from the South, they say;
though, between you and me, he looks more like a rat than a Christian.
Monsignor Luigi Pelagatti, that is his name.'
Again Cucurullo was silent, apparently more absorbed in his thoughts
than ever.
'Come, come!' cried the innkeeper in an encouraging tone. 'You need not
be so down-hearted! I will have a good meal cooked for you, and if you
need a little ready money for your journey, it is at your disposal. A
clever fellow like you will soon find another place.'
By way of laying in a stock of luck for the day, he patted the deformed
man's hump as he spoke, but he awaited the answer with evident concern,
for it was fortunate to have a hunch-backed man eat and drink in one's
house; a hunch-backed woman, on the contrary, always brought evil with
her, and should be driven from the door.
Cucurullo's reply was not only of favourable omen, but announced a piece
of unexpected good-fortune.
'You are very obliging,' he said, 'and I shall be glad of a mouthful at
noon. As for your kind offer to lend me money, I thank you heartily, but
I am well provided, and wish to pay my master's bill here before
accepting your friendly offer of a dinner. My master always trusts me
with a few ducats to pay his small expenses.'
The innkeeper congratulated himself on having patted the man's hump, for
it was clear that the good luck which at once befell him could be traced
to no other source. He now inwardly cursed his haste in turning
Ortensia and Pina out of the house, since Cucurullo was perhaps in a
position to have paid their score for some time. Of this, however, the
host could not be quite sure, for the serving-man did not show his
purse, but only produced some loose silver from the pocket of his wide
brown breeches.
'I shall charge nothing for the lady's use of the room,' said the
innkeeper magnanimously. 'You came with three horses from Rovigo, I
believe; there is their feed, and the supper of the postillion, who left
in an hour. That is all. Three pauls will pay for everything.'
'You are very obliging,' Cucurullo said again, as he paid the money.
'Your charges are very moderate. Since you act in such a friendly
manner, I will tell you something.'
Thereupon Cucurullo laid one of his large hands gently on the
innkeeper's sleeve, and looked up earnestly into the latter's face; and
when he was very much in earnest, his large blue eyes had a peculiar
expression, which lent great weight to what he said.
'A friendly act deserves a friendly return,' he said, 'for, as we say in
the South, "one hand washes the other and both wash the face." My master
has been arrested by mistake. He is really and truly the famous Maestro
Stradella, and is a great favourite with the Roman Court, for he has
sung to His Holiness himself and often to His Eminence Cardinal Altieri.
Therefore, if any harm comes to him in Ferrara through the ignorance of
Monsignor Pelagatti, there will be trouble for you, since the Legate
will be severely reprimanded, and will make those persons who gave him
wrong information pay for his scolding. As you have shown me kindness, I
tell you these things beforehand, because I know them for certain. Do
you understand?'
The innkeeper not only understood, but began to feel uncomfortable at
the thought of being called to account even for his small share in
Stradella's arrest. As for the spy who had made the mistake, his lot
would not be enviable if he was within the Legate's reach when the error
was discovered.
'Pardon the question, my dear friend,' said the host in an extremely
gentle tone, 'but are you quite sure of these things?'
'Altogether sure,' was the answer. 'I have been in the Maestro's service
since he first began to be famous. He saved my life at the risk of his
own, and I have served him five years come the Feast of Saint John. I
therefore know that he is not a Sicilian counterfeiter! If you have any
means of reaching the Legate, therefore, it would be well to set him
right at once in this matter. He will be the more grateful, or, at
least, the less angry, if my master is detained in prison for a few
hours only.'
The innkeeper saw the wisdom of this, on the supposition that Cucurullo
was speaking the truth, but of that he was not quite sure. It was a bad
world, he reflected, and the counterfeiter might have a clever hunchback
for a servant, with a knack of fixing his eyes as Cucurullo did, and of
putting great earnestness into his tone. So far, the innkeeper had only
done what the law had required of him, except in the matter of turning
out two women who could not pay for their lodging, and in doing this
the law would support him. Monsignor Pelagatti was a tremendous
personage, who ruled the whole Marquisate of Ferrara in the name of the
Pope; he knew his business, or believed he did, and it was absurd to
think that a humble innkeeper and posting-master could influence him to
act upon the mere word of a serving-man.
On the other hand, it was unsafe to doubt a hunchback openly, and it
would be fatal to quarrel with him, because he could cast the spell of
the Evil Eye.
'I shall do my best,' the innkeeper replied, 'and far more readily for
your sake, my dear friend, than for my own, I assure you.'
Cucurullo smiled quietly, and seemed quite satisfied with this answer.
He now went on to ask questions about Ortensia and Pina, but the host
knew nothing, except that they had left the house together, immediately
after the arrest of Stradella. For obvious reasons he said nothing of
his interview with Pina. He declared that they had simply left the inn,
and that he had not hindered them. He had not seen them go out, and
could not tell whether they had turned to the north or the south. He
suggested that since they had gone away at once and without the least
hesitation, they probably had friends in Ferrara to whom they could turn
for protection and help in their difficulty. He was ready, he said, to
help Cucurullo to find them out; he would be only too happy to be of
use.
What he suggested was not unlikely. During the flight from Venice,
Cucurullo had observed Pina closely, and had come to the conclusion that
she was a woman of resources, who had travelled much at some time or
other, and who could hold her tongue. She would certainly think of some
expedient, and would succeed in placing her mistress under some sort of
protection. His own mind always instinctively ran in the direction of an
ecclesiastical solution of any difficulty in life; if he himself were
starving and friendless in a strange city he would knock at the door of
a Franciscan monastery and beg for shelter and work. He therefore
concluded that Pina would naturally have taken Ortensia directly to a
convent, where they would both be cared for; the serving-woman would
take care to be informed of what happened to Stradella, and as soon as
he was let out she would communicate with him.
Moreover, as compared with the fate of the musician, Cucurullo cared
little what became of Ortensia; for his devotion to his master filled
his whole life, whereas the young girl's only claim to his attachment
was that Stradella was in love with her. On the other hand, the pious
serving-man saw in the present separation of the two a special
intervention of Providence for the purpose of keeping the lovers apart
till they could be duly and properly married. From this point of view to
putting Ortensia out of his thoughts altogether was only a step, and he
devoted every energy to the liberation of his master.
Having come to this conclusion in a much shorter time than it has taken
to explain his reasons, he again thanked his new friend, promising to
come back for dinner at noon, and adding that he would go over to the
castle gate and gather such information as he could. He was hindered
from doing so at once, however, by the preparations for the Nuncio's
departure, which has been already described. He mixed with the crowd
that had gathered to see the sight, and waited till some time had
elapsed after the Legate and the guard had gone in before he approached
the drawbridge.
The single sentinel had now returned to his beat, but half-a-dozen of
the halberdiers were loitering about the door of the guard-room within
the deep archway, at some distance from the gate. The sentry stopped
Cucurullo and asked his business.
'I am the servant of the gentleman who has been arrested by mistake at
the inn,' the hunchback answered humbly. 'My master had sent me out on
an errand, and when I came in I learnt the news. So I have come to wait
for him.'
'I am afraid you may wait long,' answered the sentry, with a friendly
glance at Cucurullo's hump; 'but you are welcome to sit in the
guard-room, if you like.'
'Thank you,' Cucurullo answered, and as he passed he felt the soldier's
light touch on his crooked back.
The other halberdiers received him with equal kindness, and there was
not one of them who did not believe that he would have a stroke of luck
before night, if he could by any means touch the magic hump without
offending its possessor. Cucurullo took off his hat civilly as he
stopped before them.
'Good-morning, gentlemen,' he said. 'The sentinel was kind enough to say
that I might wait here for my master, who has been arrested by mistake
and will soon come out.'
'And welcome!' cried the sergeant on duty, who had lost money at play on
the previous evening.
'At your service! Pray sit down! Bring out a chair!'
The men all spoke together, and gathered closely round Cucurullo to
touch his hump, so that he almost disappeared amongst them. Then they
got a chair from the guard-room and made him sit down at his ease, and
some remained standing beside him while others sat on the end of the
stone seat that ran along the wall. He thanked them warmly, and at once
entered into conversation, asking for news of Stradella, and explaining
the strange mistake that had led to his arrest. In a few minutes he had
learned that his master was in all likelihood at that very moment before
the Legate.
'And what sort of person is his worship, the Governor?' asked Cucurullo,
anxious for information, and lowering his voice.
The sergeant was a jolly, red-faced, merry-eyed man from the March of
Ancona, and he laughed before he answered.
'We used to call him Pontius Pilate, because he does not know what truth
is,' he said, 'but we gave that up because he never washes his hands!'
Cucurullo smiled at the rough jest, but he looked curiously at the
speaker.
'I see that you are familiar with the Scriptures, sir,' observed the
hunchback.
'I come by the knowledge honestly,' answered the soldier. 'I did not
steal it! My father, bless his soul, was killed in battle, and so my
mother tried to make a priest of me. Eh? You see me as I am! This is the
kind of priest my mother made! Neither more nor less than a poor
sergeant of halberdiers. But a little of the Latin stuck to me, for
indeed it is sticky stuff enough, and the priests laid it on with a
stick!'
The men roared with delight at their superior's elegant wit, and
Cucurullo laughed a little too, more out of politeness than because he
was amused.
'You may yet die a saint, sir,' he said with a grave smile when the
general mirth had subsided. 'Many of the saints were soldiers, you know.
There was the blessed Saint Eustace, and there was Saint Martin, and
Saint Sebastian, and Saint George----'
'But there never was a Saint Hector, and that is my name, at your
service.'
At this retort the men again showed their delight, laughing in chorus.
'Do you think you have no chance of being the first Saint Hector in the
calendar?' asked Cucurullo pleasantly. 'Why not? You have a good heart,
sir. I see it in your face, if you will pardon me for saying so.
Gentlemen'--he smilingly appealed to the other men--'has not Sergeant
Hector a good heart?'
'A heart of gold!' cried one of the soldiers.
'A heart as big as a pumpkin!' another chimed in.
'A lion's heart!'
'There is not another like him in all the Pope's army!'
'And God bless him!'
The sergeant stood back, pretending to put on a terrible frown, and
cutting the air in carte and tierce with his handsome tasselled stick.
'You ruffians!' he roared. 'You know well enough that I would beat you
all black and blue if you did not praise me seventeen times a day, four
times for each watch and once more for good luck! Eh?' He glared
ferociously about him, and his stick flew round in his hand like
lightning, through a whole series of cuts, feints, and round parries.
'Have I trained my men well or not?' he asked, desisting at last, and
turning to Cucurullo.
'You have trained them to tell the truth about you, sir, I have no
doubt,' answered the hunchback.
'And we will make a bad day of it for any man who says a word against
him,' said the biggest of the halberdiers with a grin.
The rest confirmed his statement with a variety of asseverations,
according to their several tastes, calling to witness indifferently both
heathen deities and Christian saints.
'Very well,' said Cucurullo. 'It is proved that you have a very good
heart, sir, and that is the chief thing needed to make a saint. For to
say that a man is kind-hearted is only another way of saying that he is
charitable, and Charity is the greatest of the three Theological
Virtues, as you must have learned at the seminary.'
'Good friend,' answered the sergeant, 'if you are going to open the
"Process" concerning my Beatification this morning, the Devil's Advocate
must be appointed to argue against you and try to prove me the worst of
sinners, for that is the rule in Rome.'
'Very well, sir,' laughed the hunchback. 'Appoint him yourself, sir!'
'He is upstairs just now,' retorted the other, 'sitting in judgment on
your master! But I will promise that if you argue with him about me, he
will prove that my soul is rotting in original and acquired sin, and
that nothing can save me but cutting my pay!'
Again the gloomy archway rang with the soldiers' hoarse laughter, which
was by no means the expression of obsequious flattery. The sergeant was
more than popular with the whole company of halberdiers that garrisoned
the castle; he was beloved for his inexhaustible good-nature and
respected for his undoubted courage. Cucurullo had guessed this in a few
moments, and in view of possible complications he was resolved to make
an ally of the sergeant and friends of the men.
He felt amongst the loose silver in his pocket and jingled it in a
manner agreeable for poor soldiers to hear.
'It is still early,' he said, 'but talking always makes me thirsty. If
you would allow some one to fetch some drink, sir, I should be
grateful.'
The sergeant assented to the proposal with alacrity, and at his nod a
young soldier stepped briskly forward to take the piece of silver
Cucurullo was holding up.
'How much shall I fetch?' asked the man, grinning.
Cucurullo counted the company quickly before he answered.
'We are nine,' he said. 'I think you had better get nine pints in a
stoup.' A little murmur of approval and anticipatory satisfaction ran
round. 'I do not know whether that is right,' he added, in a tone of
hesitating interrogation.
'You speak the wisdom of all ages,' answered the sergeant. 'Solomon
never said anything better. "Take a little wine for the good of the
stomach," says Saint Paul.'
So the time passed pleasantly for the soldiers down there under the
great gate, while Monsignor Pelagatti was conducting his singular
judicial proceedings upstairs. A couple of horn cups were produced from
the guard-room, and the men drank to Cucurullo's health in turn, while
he himself swallowed a little; for he was tired, and he was terribly
anxious, in spite of his cheerful manner and jesting tone.
They were all laughing and talking together when the old goldsmith
appeared from within, on his way home. The sergeant hailed him and asked
what news of the counterfeiter there was from the Legate's court.
'Three hundred and ninety-one good gold ducats confiscated to the
Treasury,' answered the grey-haired crafts-man, 'and the prisoner to be
lodged under the Lion Tower till he is sent to Rome for trial.'
The sergeant looked at Cucurullo, and saw that he grew paler, and dead
white all round the lips; but the hunchback showed no other sign of
emotion, and the goldsmith nodded gravely and went out.
'This is bad news, gentlemen,' said Cucurullo. 'Is there any way by
which I could send a message to my master?' he asked in a low voice.
'Either of the turnkeys would sell his soul for a dodkin, and blow up
the castle for a ducat, Legate and all,' answered the sergeant in the
same tone.
'I would willingly give a ducat if I might see my master.'
'I will bargain with him for half that, but it will have to be after
dark. We go off duty at Ave Maria this evening, but to-morrow we have
the night watch. Come about the first hour of the night, and you will
find the little postern ajar in the left half of the gate. Push it open
and come in.'
With this friendly promise Cucurullo had to be satisfied; and, indeed,
he had good reason to congratulate himself, for if he had chanced upon
one of the other sergeants he might have had a very different reception,
though the whole garrison hated the Legate heartily. The guard for the
month at the main gate was divided into three watches that took turns,
being on duty there for twelve hours and off for twenty-four; this did
not mean, however, that they were at liberty during all that time, for
there was other sentry duty to be done about the castle.
Having taken leave of his new friends, the hunchback went back to the
inn, debating with himself whether he should remain there until the
following night, or seek a lodging in a more remote and quiet part of
the town. But, on the whole, he resolved to trust the innkeeper--or it
would be nearer the truth to say that he trusted to the power his
deformity exercised over a man in whom he would not otherwise have
placed much confidence. If he took a room elsewhere, he would be forced
to make acquaintance with the owners of the house, and he was convinced
that such a Governor as Monsignor Pelagatti must have his spies
everywhere; it was safer to stay where he was already known, and was
looked upon as a bringer of luck, than to go where he might find less
superstitious people.
He therefore took the cheapest room in the inn, announced his intention
of waiting till his master was set free, and by way of inspiring
confidence he paid for three days' lodging in advance. His object in
seeing Stradella was to get definite instructions in the first place,
and, secondly, to take him a dish of meat and a supply of such food as
would keep some time without spoiling. Stradella would probably bid him
ride post to Rome and bring back an order from Cardinal Altieri which
would set everything right; but it would scarcely be possible to cover
the distance and return in less than ten days, at the very least, during
which time it was only too probable that the musician would fall ill
from lack of food and from the possible dampness and closeness of his
prison.
The hours passed slowly enough in the solitude of the little upper room
in which Cucurullo spent most of that day and the next, and the
intervening night; for he thought it wiser not to be seen much in the
town, being what he was, a mark for men's eyes wherever he went. He
would have read if he could have found a book, for he was a good reader
and writer, and often copied music for his master, for he could engross
handsomely; but there were no books in the inn, not even the works of
that 'poor Signor Torquato Tasso,' who had been so long shut up as a
lunatic in Ferrara in the days of the Marquis Alfonso Second. The only
book Cucurullo had been able to find was a small volume with a very
strange name, for its title was _Eikon Basilike_; but Cucurullo did not
understand a word of it, and the innkeeper said he thought the book must
have been forgotten by two rich English gentlemen who had lately spent
some days in his house.
At the appointed hour Cucurullo crossed the drawbridge of the castle,
pushed the small postern, and went in. A hanging iron lamp, fed with
mingled olive-oil and tallow, dimly lighted the great archway, where the
sentry was pacing up and down. Sergeant Hector came forward as soon as
the hunchback appeared, and closed and bolted the postern after him
before speaking. The other men of the watch were presumably dozing in
the guard-room, from the open door of which no light appeared.
'This way, my dear friend,' whispered the sergeant. 'The man is
waiting.'
He hurried Cucurullo along the dark way towards the inner court, laying
a hand on his crooked back by way of guiding him; but the truth was that
since he had met Cucurullo his luck at play had been surprisingly good,
and he would not miss the chance of refreshing it again at the magic
source of fortune.
They passed the foot of the main staircase, went on a few steps farther,
and then turned into a narrow passage. The glare of a lantern flashed in
Cucurullo's eyes.
'Here is the gentleman,' the sergeant said in a low voice. 'This is our
head gaoler,' he added, turning to Cucurullo. 'I have agreed that you
should pay three silver florins in advance for the visit.'
'Cash,' said a voice that was unnaturally hoarse, possibly from the
dampness of the underground labyrinth to which the man's business often
took him.
Cucurullo was wrapped in his wide cloak, under which he had slung on
himself the bottles and provisions he was bringing. He had prepared some
loose money in his breeches pocket, and immediately produced the three
coins. The turnkey was holding the lantern in such a position that it
was impossible to see his face, but a grimy hand shot out into the
yellow glare to take the money.
'Come,' said the hoarse voice; and as the speaker turned to lead the
way, Cucurullo heard the jingling of his keys.
The sergeant was already gone, and the hunchback followed his guide
along the passage, which descended by a distinctly perceptible grade. It
was clear from this that the prisons must be below the level of the
water in the moat, and already the moving light showed that the walls
were dripping with moisture. Presently the passage emerged into a sort
of crypt, in which huge masses of masonry supported low arches that in
turn carried the cross vaulting. The floor, if it was anything but
beaten earth, was slippery with a thin film of greasy mud.
At last the turnkey stopped before one of half-a-dozen doors, all
studded alike with rusty iron nails, and each having a lock, a bolt, and
a square aperture at the height of a man's head, strongly barred.
Cucurullo now saw the gaoler's ugly features for the first time.
The door opened, creaking loudly on its hinges; and as the turnkey held
up his lantern to see into the cell, Cucurullo, peering past him, caught
sight of his master's face. It was ghastly pale, his sunken eyes had
dark half-circles under them, and his unshaven chin and cheeks looked
grimy in the yellow light.
'Is it morning?' he asked, in a dull voice.
Cucurullo slipped past the gaoler and spoke to him, and instantly the
light flashed in his eyes and he smiled, for the first time since he had
been arrested in Ortensia's room. Cucurullo took his hand and kissed it
with devotion, as Italian servants often do in great moments.
Neither had yet spoken when the heavy door creaked and was slammed, and
they were suddenly in the dark. The key turned noisily in the lock,
twice in quick succession, and the additional bolt rattled as it was
pushed into its socket.
'Good-night, gentlemen,' said the preternaturally hoarse voice of the
turnkey through the square hole in the door. 'I will bring you your
dinner at noon!'
Cucurullo sprang to the grated aperture, only to see the ruffian
stalking off into the gloom with his lantern.
'Hi! Listen!' he cried. 'Come back, Sir Gaoler! You shall have a
ducat----'
The man stood still, and turned his face towards the door of the cell
with a sardonic grin.
'Now that I have you and your ducats under lock and key I shall take
them at my leisure, Sir Fool!' he answered. 'I only agreed to let you
in; I did not promise to let you out.'
Thereupon he turned again and stalked away, much to Cucurullo's
consternation; and in this manner the fourth and last of the runaway
party that had arrived at the inn from Rovigo disappeared in Ferrara,
somewhat to the surprise of the innkeeper, but not to his loss, since
Cucurullo had paid for his lodging in advance.