Stradella and Ortensia had fled from Venice on Thursday evening and had
reached Ferrara at midnight on Friday. It was therefore on a Saturday
morning that the musician was imprisoned, and on Sunday night Cucurullo
was caught in the trap and locked up with him. It was late on that same
afternoon that the Bravi took leave of Pignaver in the church of the
Frari, and they did not leave Venice till the next day; for since they
were to be paid for their time they could really not see any reason for
being in a hurry. Moreover, they travelled like gentlemen, and though
the proceeds of the emerald ring had already amply furnished them with
the means of replacing many useful articles which adversity had forced
them to sell or pawn, yet some further preparation seemed necessary, if
they were to make their journey in a manner becoming to their rank.
As for travelling night and day, that was quite out of the question, for
they would have thought it very foolish to trust implicitly to the
information about the runaways which Pignaver had got from the Venetian
police. Where such grave responsibility was laid upon them, it was right
that they should rely only on what they themselves could learn with
certainty. The consequence was that they did not reach Ferrara till
Wednesday afternoon, having spent a night in Padua and another in
Rovigo; and they were of course persuaded that Stradella and Ortensia
were by that time already in Florence, if they had taken that direction.
So far, the Bravi had only spoken of their business when it was
necessary to compare notes about the information they gathered. Having
undertaken to murder both the lovers on the one hand, but also to
deliver both of them safe and unhurt, Ortensia to the Senator and
Stradella to the enamoured lady, the subject presented certain
complications which were too tiresome to discuss until a final decision
became necessary; and for that matter, Trombin and Gambardella fully
intended to obtain the full five hundred ducats from each side.
'You and I were certainly meant to be lawyers or bankers,' Trombin had
observed at Rovigo over a bottle of very old Burgundy; 'for whichever of
two cards turns up, we must win half the stakes.'
'Both must turn up at the end of the deal,' Gambardella had answered
with decision, 'and we must win everything.'
'Under Providence,' Trombin had replied, 'we will.'
Having said this much they had dismissed the subject, and their
conversation during the rest of the evening had been of artistic
matters, politics, literature, women's beauty, and whatsoever else two
tolerably cultivated gentlemen might discuss with propriety in the
presence and hearing of a landlord and his servants. As soon as they had
arrived, they had learned without difficulty that the runaway party had
passed through the place and had safely reached Ferrara, whence the
carriage they had hired in Padua had duly returned.
The Bravi preferred to ride post, sending their luggage on with their
servant, six or seven hours in advance of them. The serving-man they had
hired in Venice had been a highway robber for several years, as they
were well aware, and in an ordinary situation he might have made away
with his masters' valuables, if entrusted with them; but he knew who
Trombin and Gambardella were, and what they had done, and his admiration
for such very superior cut-throats was boundless. Anything of theirs was
safe in his hands, and therefore safe from robbers on the road, for he
had not long retired from the profession, and had the thieves'
pass-words by heart from Milan to Naples, and farther. As a servant, he
had parted his hair in the middle and resumed his modest and unobtrusive
baptismal name of Tommaso; but he had always been known to the gang as
Grattacacio, that is, 'Cheese-grater,' because it was told of him that
he had once done good execution with that simple kitchen instrument on
the nose of a sbirro who had tried to catch him, but was himself caught
instead.
The worthy courier arrived at the inn in Ferrara on Wednesday before
noon and took the best room in the house for his masters, who, he said,
would arrive at their convenience during the afternoon; as in fact they
did, looking very magnificent in fashionable long-skirted riding-coats
buttoned tight across the chest and under the broad linen collar,
high-crowned felt hats with magnificent feathers, boots of the new
fashion, cut off below the knee, and handsome silver chains instead of
shoulder-belts for their rapiers.
Grattacacio had announced them as two Venetian gentlemen travelling for
their pleasure, and when the innkeeper asked their names, the man
answered that they had received titles of nobility from the King of
France, and were called respectively Count Tromblon de la Trombine and
Count Gambardella. When in Venice, he said, they dropped these
appellations and took their seats in the Grand Council as nobles of the
Republic. For the rest, Grattacacio continued, they were gentlemen of
exquisite taste and most fastidious in their eating and drinking.
Burgundy was their favourite wine, and they could not drink French
claret if it was more than twelve or less than eight years old. They
abhorred the sweet Malmsey which the Tuscans were so fond of, but if
there was any old Oporto in the cellar they were connoisseurs and could
appreciate it.
The landlord received them with all the respect due to such a noble pair
of epicures, and long before they arrived preparations were making in
the kitchen to cook them a dinner worthy of their refined taste and
portentous appetites.
So far as their other pretensions went, they had really seen some
service in the French Army, but their highest title to distinction was
that they had narrowly escaped being hanged for selling information to
the Dutch, and as soon as they had fled it was discovered that they had
taken with them all the loose gold in the regimental chest, and the two
fleetest horses in the Field-Marshal's stable.
The landlord, who did not know this, bowed to the ground as they
dismounted under the archway, and at once led them to the best rooms,
with which they expressed themselves well satisfied. For whatever their
real names might be, they had been originally brought up as gentlemen,
and they did not abuse everything that was offered them in order to make
innkeepers believe that they lived magnificently at home. When they saw
that they were given the best there was to be had, no matter how poor
that might be, they accepted it quietly and said 'Thank you' without
more ado; but if they perceived that the best was being withheld for
some one else, they were a particularly troublesome pair of gentlemen to
deal with; for nothing abashed them, and nothing seemed to frighten
them, and they were always as ready to beat an innkeeper as to skewer a
marquis according to the most rigidly honourable rules of duelling. As
for the law, it might as well not have existed, so far as they were
concerned. They never needed it, and when it wanted them they were never
to be found--unless they were under the powerful protection of a prince
or an ambassador, of whom the law itself was very much afraid, and who
promptly demanded for them a written pardon for their last offence. For
those were the only conditions under which Bravi could have exercised
their profession as they did throughout Italy in the seventeenth
century.
Trombin detained the innkeeper a moment when he was about to leave the
two to their toilet, after the day's ride.
'Some acquaintances of ours must have spent a night here last week,'
Trombin began. 'Do you remember them? They were the celebrated Maestro
Alessandro Stradella and his young Venetian wife. They have with them a
middle-aged serving-woman. Can you recollect when they left here?'
The landlord scratched his head and pretended to be racking his memory;
for it would have been quite easy to say that the party had left on
Saturday, on their way to Bologna. That was the answer the gentleman
expected, and the innkeeper generally found that it served best to tell
people what they expected to hear. But, on the other hand, there was the
question of truth, if not of truthfulness. Who could tell but that such
fine gentlemen might have with them an introduction to the Legate, who
might tell them the story. If this happened, the two travellers would be
angry at having been deceived, since, if the imprisoned man was really
Stradella, they would naturally wish to help him to regain his liberty.
This reflection carried the day; the innkeeper therefore decided in
favour of truth, and he told the tale of Stradella's arrest, and of the
mysterious disappearance of the other three members of the party. The
two Bravi listened in silent surprise, glancing at each other from time
to time, as if to note some point of importance.
'Something must be done at once!' cried Trombin, when the landlord had
told all. 'This is an egregious miscarriage of the law! Something must
be done at once!'
'Something must be done at once!' echoed Gambardella very emphatically,
though in a much lower tone. 'Are you quite sure that you do not know
where the lady went, Master Landlord? Or have you only forgotten?'
He had fixed his evil black eyes on the innkeeper's face, and there was
something in his look and tone that suddenly scared the stout Romagnole,
who was no great hero after all; he backed against the door as if he
expected Gambardella to spring at him.
'Indeed, Signor Count,' he cried in a rather shaky voice, 'if it were my
last word, I know nothing more of the lady and her woman! They left the
house immediately, but I do not know whether they turned to the right or
the left from my door, for I did not see them go out.'
'Have you made any inquiries in the town?' asked Gambardella in the same
tone as before. 'No? Then you had better set about it at once. Do you
understand? That young lady is the niece of a friend of ours, who is a
Venetian Senator, and if any harm comes to her through your having
allowed her to leave your house unprotected, you may be held
responsible. I fancy that the Legate here must be anxious to oblige the
Republic in such matters!'
This was no doubt arrant nonsense, but nothing seemed laughable when
Gambardella assumed that tone.
'Something must be done at once!' cried Trombin, and turning suddenly to
the landlord he opened his round blue eyes as wide as possible, and drew
his breath sharply in through his pursed lips with a soft sound of
whistling.
He looked like a colossal angry cat, and was at least as terrifying as
Gambardella. The landlord faltered as he replied to both the Bravi at
once.
'Certainly, my lords, certainly--I will have inquiries made--I will do
my best--it was really not my fault----'
'It may not have been your intention, but it was, in a measure, your
fault,' answered Trombin, allowing his expression to relax, 'though it
may have been only a fault of omission, and therefore venial, which is
to say, pardonable, Master Landlord, in proportion to the gravity of the
consequences that may attend it. And now we will make ourselves ready
for the succulent dinner which, I have no doubt, your wise care is about
to set before us, for your house has an excellent name, but we would
have you know that our appetites are at least as good, and our
understanding of the noble art of cookery much better. It is not
becoming to speak of any actions we may have to our past credit in war,
but we can at least boast without reproach that we have eaten some of
the best dinners cooked since Lucullus supped with himself!'
This tirade, delivered with the utmost rapidity and punctuated with
several smiles that showed the speaker's sharp and gleaming teeth,
partially reassured the innkeeper, who took himself off at once; and as
he had been frightened he proceeded at once to restore his self-respect
by frightening the cook, cuffing the scullions, and threatening the
drawer with an awful end if he should shake the bottles and disturb the
ancient sediment when he brought the Burgundy to the gentlemen's table.
When he was gone, the Bravi did not at once talk over the unexpected
news, for Grattacacio was with them, coming and going, bringing hot
water, shaving them as well as any barber, unpacking their linen and
clothes, and waiting on them with such a constant prescience of their
needs as only a highly trained body-servant can possess. For the truth
was that he had begun life as a bishop's footman, and had risen to be
valet to a cardinal, before he had taken to the road after robbing his
master of some valuable jewels; but his hair was now growing grey at the
temples, and his nerve was not so good as it had been, and as he had
escaped hanging till now, he gave up risking it any longer. Accordingly
he had parted his hair and called himself Tommaso once more, and he was
now looking out for a good place with a not too decrepit prelate; for he
had been used to boast that no valet in all the Roman Curia could put on
a bishop's sandals at High Mass with such combined skill and unction as
he, nor carry a cardinal's scarlet train at a consistory with such
mingled devoutness and grace. As for serving Mass, it had been a second
nature to him, and even now he could rattle off the responses without a
mistake, from the first 'sicut erat in principio' to the last 'Deo
gratias' after the Second Gospel.
Trombin and Gambardella did not discuss the situation until this highly
accomplished servant of theirs had accompanied them to the dining-room,
to push their chairs under them as they sat down, and to assure himself
that the table-cloth was spotless and the glasses not only clean but
polished. Then he left them to their dinner, which, as he well knew,
would last at least two hours.
The dining-room was spacious and airy, having two large grated windows
that overlooked the square, and there were several small tables besides
the long one at which the 'ordinary' was served every day at noon. The
Bravi were now the only guests, and were installed near one of the
windows, for the day was warm. From the middle of the vaulted ceiling a
huge bunch of fresh green ferns was hung, not as a substitute for
flowers, but to attract and stupefy the stray flies that found their way
in from the kitchen, even at that early season of the year.
Trombin was the first to speak, after the preliminary appetisers had
been placed on the table and the glasses had been filled.
'The situation strikes me as amusing,' he said. 'I have always felt that
destiny possesses a sense of humour which makes the wittiest French
comedy lugubrious by comparison.'
'You are easily amused, my friend,' answered Gambardella gloomily, and
picking out a very thin slice of Bologna sausage for his next mouthful.
'We were looking forward to a pleasant journey to Florence or Rome, our
expenses being liberally paid; instead, we find that all the people we
wish to meet are here, barely two days from Venice, and as if that were
not enough, they must needs melt away like snow in the street and
disappear underground, so that we must turn sbirri to find them. I see
no sense of humour in the destiny that brings about such silly
circumstances.'
'You were always a melancholic soul,' Trombin observed. 'As for me, I
cannot but laugh when I think that we shall have to rescue our man from
the danger of being hanged as a counterfeiter, in order that we may
conveniently cut his throat.'
Having expressed his view of the case Trombin swallowed half a glass of
wine at a draught, while his companion sipped a few drops from his.
'I do not call it melancholy to like good things and to wish that they
may last as long as possible,' Gambardella said, rather sourly. 'What
could have been more delightful than to ride all the way to Rome or
Naples in this way, travelling only on fine days, and stopping where one
can get a bottle of old Burgundy and a slice of a decently cooked capon?
Talk of sending people to a better world, my friend--it would give me
infinite satisfaction to skewer this fool of a Legate for having
interfered with our plans! A pretty job it is going to be, to get a man
out of a dungeon under the Lion Tower.'
'Which one is that?' asked Trombin, looking through the grated window at
the gloomy castle on the other side of the square.
'It is at the northeast corner at the head of the street they call
Giovecca. You cannot see it from here. When we have dined we will
stroll over and look at it, if you like, but you might as well try to
rescue a prisoner from the Bastille!'
Gambardella sniffed his wine discontentedly and then sipped it. He was a
grave man and business-like; he could drive as hard a bargain for a life
as any Bravo in Italy, and do his work as neatly and expeditiously, when
it was plainly laid out before him; but he had no imagination, and his
idea of rescuing Stradella was evidently to get him out of the castle by
some simple trick such as poor Cucurullo had tried in order to see his
master.
'This seems to be a good inn,' observed Trombin thoughtfully, after a
pause. 'I had as soon spend a ducat a day here as in a worse house. Now
this Burgundy is of the vintage of the year fifty-one.'
'Undoubtedly,' assented Gambardella, sipping again as he did about once
a minute. 'It has the "rose" bouquet like that of forty-six, but is a
little younger. To think that if we could only get that fellow out of
prison we could have him to dinner, and he would sing for us this
evening! It is maddening to think that he may lose his voice in a damp
hole through the idiocy of that thrice-confounded Legate!'
'It is indeed,' agreed Trombin. 'I wonder what has become of the lady.'
'I thought you were thinking of the girl,' said the other
discontentedly. 'It would complete the situation if you should find her
and fall in love with her yourself!'
'That is possible. It has pleased Providence to make me susceptible,
whereas you are designed by nature for a monastic life. Our friend's
description of his niece calls up an enchanting picture! The "Bella" of
the late Titian, but younger and slimmer! Heaven send such a sweet
creature to cheer my declining years! I do not wonder that the Maestro
lost his heart and carried her off. And at this very moment she must be
hiding somewhere in Ferrara, perhaps not a quarter of a mile from here!
In a convent, no doubt, in some gloomy old house full of yellow-faced
Carmelite or Franciscan nuns, with her glorious hair and her matchless
complexion! I can see her in my imagination, a gilded rose amongst
cabbages, a luscious peach in a heap of turnips.'
'For goodness' sake stop raving!' interrupted Gambardella. 'Why should
she be in a convent, I should like to know?'
'Where else could two respectable women without money go? They could not
possibly travel, and no one in the town would take them in without
baggage or cash. I tell you they went from here to a convent and asked
for shelter and protection. It is the most natural thing in the world.
It is what the girl's middle-aged serving-woman would certainly think of
first.'
'You may be right,' answered the other, his tone changing. 'Drink more
wine, for it always stimulates your imagination, and you may imagine a
way of getting Stradella out of the Lion Tower. I think you are right
about the girl. We will make inquiries at the convents after dinner.'
Trombin filled his glass, which was quite empty, drank half the contents
and set it down.
'In the first place,' he said, 'we had better try simple persuasion with
the Legate. If you agree, I will go and see him late in the afternoon.
He may make some little difficulty about receiving me, but that will
only be in order to impress me with his greatness. Besides, you will
give me a letter of introduction which I shall ask to present in
person.'
'I?' Gambardella looked at his friend across his glass with an
expression of inquiry.
'Certainly,' answered Trombin. 'I could not ask such a favour of any one
who knows me better, could I? If any one can vouch for me, you can.'
Gambardella condescended to smile faintly, and suggested an outline of
the letter.
'"I have the honour to introduce to your lordship's good graces the very
noble Count Tromblon de la Trombine, who is here at great personal
inconvenience for the express purpose of cutting Alessandro Stradella's
throat, and will be much obliged if your worship will at once order the
Maestro to be let out for that purpose." Would that do? I could sign
Pignaver's name to it!'
'You have no imagination. I will make a rough draft, which you will then
write out much better than I could. You shall see. While I am at the
castle, you may make inquiries at the different convents.'
As their servant Tommaso had foreseen, they sat at table two hours, and
on the whole, though they were highly experienced epicures, they were
not dissatisfied with the dinner. Gambardella even admitted that one
more day in Ferrara would not be intolerable, but that was as much as
his second bottle of Burgundy could bring him to say. At dessert,
Trombin called for writing materials and quickly drafted the letter of
introduction he wished his friend to write out for him. The latter
watched him, and from time to time picked out a fat red cherry from a
quantity that floated in a large bowl of water, and ate it thoughtfully.
An hour and a half later the Legate returned from his daily airing,
which he generally took on a handsome brown mule, accompanied by his
private secretary or by the captain of the halberdiers of the garrison.
He came home early, though the weather was warm, for he was beginning to
be a little rheumatic, and he established himself in the sunny room
which he used as his study. He had not been seated ten minutes in his
high-backed chair, with a red cotton quilt spread over his knees and
tucked in round his legs, dictating letters to his secretary, when word
was brought him that a Venetian gentleman desired to be received, in
order to present a letter of introduction from a high personage.
Monsignor Pelagatti had an almost exaggerated respect for high
personages, though he was now considered to be one of them himself. Even
kings may be snobs, when they are not very big kings, and much more,
therefore, the lay governor of a papal province who had climbed to
distinction from a steward's office in a Roman patrician's household.
The Legate sent his secretary downstairs to bring up the visitor with
all the ceremony due to the bearer of an important letter.
In a few minutes Trombin entered the sunny room, and the Governor, who
had dropped his red cotton quilt and kicked it out of sight under the
table, rose to receive him. Trombin's round cheeks were rounder and
pinker than ever, his long yellow hair was as smooth as butter, his bow
was precisely suited to the dignity of the Legate, and his manner
inspired confidence by its quiet self-possession. His right hand held
out the letter he brought, which Monsignor Pelagatti received with a
gracious smile after returning his visitor's bow, at the same time
inviting the latter to be seated on his right, where the secretary had
already placed a comfortable chair.
'With your permission,' said the Governor politely, before proceeding to
read the letter.
Trombin bowed his acquiescence from his chair and smiled again. The
succulent dinner and rich Burgundy seemed to have made him sleeker and
pinker than ever, and he watched the Legate's face with a pleasantly
benevolent expression.
But Monsignor Pelagatti's jaw dropped as he read the missive, and his
shrivelled lids seemed to shrink back from all round his little red eyes
till they looked as if they were starting from his head, while Trombin
watched him with quiet satisfaction.
The letter purported to be from the acting Chief of the Council of Ten
in Venice, and was really a miracle of official style in its way.
The writer took the liberty of introducing a gentleman to whom he
entrusted a delicate business, the noble Signor Trombin del Todescan.
His high regard for the Legate, and his desire to avert all unpleasant
consequences from so friendly and distinguished an official, had led him
to treat directly and privately of a matter which would otherwise have
to go through the hands of the Venetian Ambassador in Rome. The Legate
had accidentally imprisoned a distinguished musician who had lately been
the guest of the Republic, a matter which, in itself, might not be
thought to have great importance. But the Maestro Stradella was on his
wedding journey, and his young bride was no less a person than the noble
lady Ortensia Grimani, the writer's niece. As for Bartolo, the
counterfeiter, he had just been caught at Treviso, and, at the time of
writing, was safely lodged in the Pozzi, either to be tried in Venice or
sent to Rome, as might hereafter be agreed between the respective
governments. Under the circumstances the Legate would see the propriety
of setting the Maestro at liberty without delay, and of extending every
courtesy to him and his young wife, who must be in despair at his
arrest. The letter concluded by saying that if the Legate 'did not feel
justified' in complying with these requests, the noble Signor Trombin
del Todescan had instructions to proceed to Rome with the utmost haste
and to place the matter in the hands of the Venetian Ambassador there,
on behalf of the noble lady Ortensia Grimani, unjustly deprived of her
husband, a Spanish subject, within the States of the Church.
The letter left nothing to be desired in the way of clearness, and the
Legate's consternation was considerable. He had actually made a mistake
which could not be glossed over by the simple process of condemning an
innocent person to fine or imprisonment without appeal. He had never
done such a thing in his life, and it was not pleasant to feel the
coming humiliation of being forced to revoke an order given in court and
to restore property he had summarily confiscated to the Treasury.
He felt himself shrinking in his chair, while the noble Signor Trombin
del Todescan, the secret envoy of the Venetian Republic, seemed to grow
bigger and more imposing every moment.
'I need not say that I am delighted to be set right, after making such a
grave mistake,' said Monsignor Pelagatti humbly. 'The circumstances were
very suspicious, as I hope your lordship will explain to the most
illustrious Chief. Our information seemed very exact, and as I was in
correspondence with the police of Venice in regard to the capture of
Bartolo, I could not doubt but that the Republic would be pleased with
the news that I had taken him, as I believed I had.'
'The Chief is persuaded of your worship's good intentions,' Trombin
answered blandly. 'I can promise your worship, in his name, that the
matter shall not be mentioned again. Will you be so good as to order
Signor Stradella to be set at liberty? I will conduct him to the inn
myself and see to his requirements. I am informed, however, that the
Lady Ortensia and her serving-woman left the house immediately after the
arrest on Saturday morning, and have not been seen since. Your worship
doubtless knows where I can find them.'
'Certainly,' answered the Legate, proud to show that nothing escaped his
vigilance. 'They went directly to the Ursuline nuns and asked to be
taken in. The Mother Superior very properly sent to ask my permission
before agreeing to let them stay, and I granted it. The most illustrious
Chief will be glad to know that her ladyship, his niece, has enjoyed the
protection of a religious order throughout this lamentable
misunderstanding.'
Monsignor Pelagatti dictated and signed the order for Stradella's
liberation, and then bade his secretary accompany the noble Signor and
see that there was no delay, and that his property was duly returned.
Trombin expressed the thanks of the most illustrious Chief of the Ten in
appropriately flowery language, bowed, as before, with precisely the
right show of mixed regard and condescension, and left the Legate to
meditate on his ill-luck in having chanced to make a mistake in such a
foolish manner that he could be forced to set it right.
He had no intention of changing his method of dispensing justice,
however, for it was a simple one and had hitherto done him credit. It
consisted in never admitting that he could be wrong, and in punishing
the prisoner whom he had picked out as guilty from the first, regardless
of anything that might turn up afterwards. One swallow, he now observed
with truth, did not make a spring, nor could one mistake prove a system
wrong. The exception proved the rule, he argued to himself, and as he
considered that all his mistakes were exceptions, his rule must be
practically infallible.
Meanwhile Trombin waited under the great archway while the gaoler
fetched Stradella and his man, and two porters soon brought their
valises and other belongings. The secretary disappeared for a short time
and returned with the leathern purse containing the confiscated money,
which, as he informed Trombin, must be counted out to the full
satisfaction of the Maestro. The Bravo continued to smile blandly, and
while waiting he walked up and down the covered way to the admiration of
the halberdiers of the watch. They recognised in him the fighting man,
the compact and well-proportioned frame, the easy stride, the assured
bearing, and the quick eye; and, moreover, they had already understood
what was happening, though they were not Sergeant Hector's men, who
would only relieve them at nightfall. But all the soldiers hated the
Legate alike, and rejoiced that for once he should be driven to
acknowledge a mistake and give up a prisoner.
Stradella and Cucurullo came up from the dungeon in a miserable state,
unwashed, unshaven, their clothes stained with the slimy ooze of their
prison; their hair was damp and matted, their eyes blinked painfully in
the light, and their grimy cheeks were of a ghastly colour. But they
were not otherwise much the worse for having spent several days and
nights underground, for the supply of provisions brought by the
hunchback had sufficed to keep up their strength, and Stradella's
constitution, in spite of his pale and intellectual face, overflowed
with vitality, like that of all really great singers. As for Cucurullo,
he had been inured to hardship and misery in his childhood.
They came forward together, and before Trombin could meet them the
turnkey had disappeared again. Trombin took off his hat and bowed to
Stradella, and the secretary thought it wise to make an obsequious
obeisance.
'Signor Maestro,' the latter said, 'his worship the Legate charges me to
offer you his best apologies for the painful mistake which has occurred,
and to restore to you your property, confiscated through an error which
his worship deplores and trusts that you will condone.'
In spite of his wretched plight there was much dignity in Stradella's
bearing as he answered this speech.
'Present my compliments to Monsignor Pelagatti, sir,' he said, 'and pray
assure him that I accept the excuses which you make with so much
politeness.'
'I thank you, illustrious Maestro,' said the secretary, bowing again.
'Allow me to add only that the mistake has been rectified by this
gentleman of Venice, the illustrious and noble Signor Trombin del
Todescan.'
Trombin and Stradella once more bowed to each other with great ceremony.
'It has been my privilege to render the slightest of services to the
greatest of musicians,' Trombin said. 'If you will allow me, Maestro, I
shall have the further honour of conducting you to the inn, where your
property and money can be restored to you with more privacy than in this
place.'
'Three hundred and ninety-one gold ducats, Signor Maestro,' said the
secretary. 'I have them here, and the porters are already gone on with
your luggage.'
The halberdiers stood up, and the sentinel on duty saluted as the
little party passed through the gate. The porters were halfway across
the square, Stradella walked between Trombin and the secretary, who had
placed himself deferentially on the left, and Cucurullo brought up the
rear, sorrowfully surveying the stains and mud on the back of his
master's clothes, only too clearly visible in the bright afternoon
light. No more words were exchanged till they all reached the door of
the inn, where the host was awaiting them, for he had seen from a side
window the porters bringing back Stradella's luggage, which he instantly
recognised, and the rest was plain enough. The Count Tromblon de la
Trombine was evidently a great personage, and it had been enough that he
should demand the instant release of the musician to produce the present
result. The innkeeper was proportionately impressed.
He accordingly bowed to the ground, presented his condolences to
Stradella on the unhappy accident, and led the way to a spacious and
well-furnished room on the first floor, to which he had already sent the
luggage.
It was not till he was gone and Cucurullo was unpacking his master's
things that Trombin, who desired an opportunity of exchanging a few
words alone with Stradella, led him to his own room. He carefully closed
the door before speaking.
'A word of explanation, Maestro,' he said, 'for all this must seem a
little incomprehensible to you. First, let me tell you that the Lady
Ortensia has spent the time of your imprisonment in the convent of the
Ursuline nuns with her serving-woman. That is the first piece of news
you wish to hear, I am sure.'
The young musician drew a deep breath of relief, for his gnawing anxiety
on Ortensia's account had been far harder to bear during his confinement
than any bodily hardship, and he had not at first thought it safe to ask
any questions of his liberator. The mere fact that the latter had been
introduced by the secretary as a Venetian gentleman had filled him with
apprehension, and even now he believed that Trombin had probably been
sent by Pignaver.
As if understanding what passed in Stradella's mind, the Bravo
volunteered an explanation.
'A friend of mine and I are travelling southwards on important
business,' he said. 'Before we left Venice the town was ringing with
your exploit, as it has echoed with your praises these three months
past. My friend Count Gambardella and I are amongst your most ardent
admirers, Signor Maestro, and I may say in confidence that we have a
private grudge against the Senator Pignaver. You may imagine our delight
on hearing that you had carried off his niece! Quite naturally we have
asked after you at each posting station on the road. You understand the
rest. My friend and I venture to hope that you and your bride will
honour us with your company at supper.'
'I cannot find words for my thanks, sir,' answered Stradella, wondering
whether he were not in a dream, still sleeping on the stone seat in his
cell. 'I can only hope to show you some day how grateful I am. You have
saved my life!'
Trombin smiled pleasantly, but said nothing.