Gambardella knocked at the door of San Domenico twice in quick
succession, and then again once after a short interval. For reasons
known to himself he had not hesitated to begin his inquiries for
Ortensia at the old Dominican convent then occupied by the nuns of Saint
Ursula, and it was at once apparent that his knock inspired confidence.
Instead of drawing back the small sliding panel in the weather-beaten
door to see who was outside and to ask his errand, the portress opened
the postern on one side almost immediately, without showing herself, and
Gambardella slipped in unchallenged and shut it after him.
He found himself in a high and vaulted vestibule which received light
from the cloistered garden round which the convent was built, and he was
at once confronted by the portress, who seemed much surprised when she
saw that she had admitted a fine gentleman.
Gambardella bowed respectfully before he spoke.
'Reverend sister,' said he, 'I have the honour to be a friend of your
Order, and if I am not mistaken I am known to your Mother Superior, of
whom I come to ask audience, if she will receive me.'
The lay sister hesitated. She was an elderly woman with flaccid yellow
cheeks, watery eyes, and a more than incipient grey beard.
'I think the Mother Superior is resting,' she said, after a moment.
'So late in the afternoon, sister? I trust that her Reverence is not
indisposed?'
'Besides,' continued the portress, without heeding him, 'you only said
that you thought you were known to her. Pray can you tell me her
Reverence's name?'
Gambardella smiled gently. Probably it was not the first time he had
been obliged to argue with a convent door-keeper, that is, with the most
incredulous and obstinate kind of human being in the world.
'Unless I am mistaken,' Gambardella answered, 'her Reverence's name, in
religion, is Mother Agatha, and she was formerly Sub-Prioress of your
house in Ravenna.'
'I see that you are well-informed,' the portress answered, somewhat
reluctantly. 'I will find out whether she is resting.'
She turned from him to go into her dark little lodge, through which she
had communication with the interior of the convent; but Gambardella
called her back.
'One moment, sister! You need make but one errand of it. Pray let her
Reverence know that a Venetian gentleman of the name of Lorenzo Marcello
sends her this token and begs the honour of a few words with her.'
Therewith Gambardella drew from his finger the brass ring he always wore
and placed it in the portress's hand. After repeating the name he had
given, she nodded and went within. While he waited, Gambardella looked
through the iron gate that separated the vestibule from the pleasant
cloistered garden, and his melancholy face was even more sad than usual,
and his singular eyes more shadowy.
'The Mother Superior will receive you in the parlour, sir,' said the
portress, coming back, and her tone showed that she now accorded the
visitor high consideration.
He followed her through the lodge, which only received light from its
doors when they were open. Across one corner a dark brown curtain was
hung, which presumably hid the portress's pallet-bed. She led him
through a whitewashed corridor, lighted from above, into a wide hall
from which a broad staircase led upwards, and which had several doors,
besides two open entrances. The portress opened one of the doors and
shut it as soon as Gambardella had entered.
He walked up and down the long gloomy room while he waited; the two
grated windows were far above reach and opened upon a blank wall
opposite. The bare stone pavement was damp, and the furniture consisted
of a dark walnut table, once polished, a long straight-backed settle
placed at one end, and twelve rush-bottomed chairs arranged round the
sides of the room with great regularity. Above the settle hung a
painfully realistic crucifix; on the wall at the opposite end a large
barocco picture represented Saint Ursula in glory with the Eleven
Thousand Virgins of Cologne. Opposite the windows there was a bad copy
of a portrait of Paul III., the Pope who first established the order.
Judging from the parlour, it could not be said that the Ursulines of
Ferrara were living in reprehensible luxury.
In three or four minutes the door opened again and the Mother Superior
entered. She was taller than most women, and very lean; her black gown
and the black veil that almost reached the ground hung in straight
folds, and her wimple and gorget framed a dark face, thin and
expressive, with noticeably symmetrical features and ardent black eyes.
It was impossible to guess at her age, but she might have been thirty.
She bent her head slightly, in acknowledgment of Gambardella's
respectful bow, and looked at him during several seconds, as if she were
recalling his appearance to her memory. Then she slowly walked away to
the settle, seated herself in the middle of it, and pointed to a chair
at a little distance. He sat down and waited for her to speak.
'Why have you come?' she asked, in a low tone that sounded resentful.
'Is it a crime to see you after ten years?' asked Gambardella with a
good deal of sadness, and watching her face intently.
'Unless you have changed greatly, it is at least a sin,' she answered
deliberately, and she met his eyes with eyes suddenly fierce.
'I have changed greatly, and not for the better,' he said simply, but he
could not face her look. 'It is neither to confess to you nor to ask
your forgiveness again that I am here, for you have no more right to a
confession than I have to your pardon.'
'That may be,' answered the nun, her tone relenting, 'but such as my
forgiveness can be, while I can still remember, you have it.'
Gambardella was visibly moved at this unexpected concession. He was
seated too far from her to touch her hand, but he put out his own humbly
towards the hem of her black skirt, then brought it back to his lips and
kissed it with reverence, as the very poor and wretched sometimes do in
Italy to express deep gratitude. She watched him, and there was the
faintest suggestion of a smile on her tightly closed lips. After a
little pause, during which their eyes met once, he spoke.
'I have come to inquire about a young Venetian lady and her
serving-woman, who took refuge with you last Saturday,' he said, with
perfect assurance, though he had no proof that the two were in the
convent.
The Mother Superior's face darkened.
'What are they to you?' she asked sternly.
This was a question which Gambardella was not prepared to answer
truthfully, and he had not foreseen it. He vaguely wondered what the
woman who had once loved him so well would say and do if she knew that
he had sunk to the condition of a paid Bravo, and had taken money from
one person to cut Ortensia's throat and from another to deliver her up a
prisoner, and was just now wondering how he could satisfy both his
patrons.
Until now he had seen a humorous element in his two abominable bargains;
but in the grim presence of his own past things looked differently. The
terrible eyes of the high-born woman he had loved and betrayed long ago,
when he was still called an honourable gentleman, were upon him now, and
he feared her as he had assuredly never feared any man in all his wild
life. She understood her power, and waited for him to speak.
But his fear only roused his faculties, and if he felt remorse when he
thought of what she had once been and of the life she was leading now,
by his fault, he knew well enough that as soon as she was out of his
sight he would feel nothing but a dim regret that would hardly hurt.
'I take a vicarious interest in the Lady Ortensia,' he said after a
little reflection. 'A friend of mine, who is travelling with me, is also
a friend of the man with whom she has run away, and who has been locked
up by mistake, as I dare say you have heard from her.'
'She has told me something,' the Mother Superior said coldly.
'I will tell you the whole story,' he answered.
He narrated the circumstances of Ortensia's flight substantially as they
were known to the Senator, and in as few words as possible, and she
listened without interrupting him.
'I know this Pignaver,' he said in conclusion, 'and I know positively
that he has engaged two Bravi to follow the pair and murder them. At the
best, he might be satisfied if Stradella were murdered and the girl
brought back to him. Those fellows may be even now in Ferrara, waiting
for a chance to do the deed. Our object is to unite the lovers and
protect them on their journey till they are beyond the reach of danger.
Do you see any great harm in that?'
'They are not married,' objected the nun.
'I am sure they mean to be, as soon as possible,' Gambardella answered.
'You know what the girl's life will be if you send her home, as I
suppose you mean to do. You can guess the sort of existence she will
lead when her uncle has her safely imprisoned in his house. I have heard
it said that he intended to marry her, and if that is true he will
deliberately torment her and perhaps starve her till she dies. He is as
vain as he is cruel, and she has not a relation in the world to
interfere with his doings.'
'Poor girl!' The Mother Superior sighed, and looked down at her folded
hands.
'And even if you insist on keeping her here, where I admit that she is
safe,' Gambardella continued, 'Stradella's life will not be safe when he
is out of prison. For I will answer for it that he will not leave
Ferrara without her, and his murder will be the first consequence of
your refusal to let her join him.'
'But they are not married,' the nun said again. 'I cannot let her go to
him. It would be a great sin! It would be on my conscience!'
'You will have his death on your conscience if you are not careful! But
there is a very simple way out of the difficulty, if you will agree to
it.'
'I will agree to nothing that is not right,' said the Mother Superior,
in a tone that excluded any compromise, 'and I tell you frankly that I
do not trust you. It would be strange if I did.'
'I do not ask you to trust me,' Gambardella answered. 'I shall merely
show you your duty, and leave you to do it or not, as you please!'
'My duty?' The nun was both surprised and offended.
'Yes,' replied the other, unmoved. 'Your objection is that they are not
married. Marry them, then! That is plainly your duty, if anything is!'
The Mother Superior looked at him quickly, as if not believing that he
was in earnest, for she had been convincing herself that it was he who
had carried off Ortensia, pretending to be Stradella.
'It must be a very easy thing for you,' Gambardella continued. 'You have
your own church here, and your own priest, who will probably obey you.
If you are afraid of committing an irregularity, you need only send a
request to the Archbishop, explaining that a runaway couple, for whom
you can vouch, wish to have their union blessed. No good bishop would
refuse such a slight favour as a dispensation from publishing banns. My
friend and I will bring Stradella here early in the morning, and you
will send the bride into the church from the convent. They will go away
man and wife, and before noon we shall all be many miles on the road to
Bologna and Rome. Could anything be simpler than that? or more perfectly
right? or more honourable for you under the circumstances?'
The nun had listened attentively, and when he had finished she nodded
her approval.
'I believe you are right,' she said, though her tone betrayed some
surprise that she could approve anything which he suggested. 'I will
take it upon myself to promise that our chaplain shall be waiting
to-morrow morning after matins, and that the bride shall be ready in
the sacristy. Poor child, she is poorly provided for her wedding! But I
will find a veil for her.'
'She will be grateful, and Stradella too. I have no doubt but that my
friend has already obtained his liberation.'
'What is your friend's name?' asked the Mother Superior, showing some
curiosity for the first time since the interview had begun.
Gambardella hesitated a moment, for the simple reason that he did not
know the answer to the question, and that 'Trombin' alone was evidently
not a name, but a nickname. The mere fact that the friends had both once
had a right to sit in the Grand Council by no means implied that they
had known each other, even by sight. To gain time Gambardella smiled and
asked a counter-question.
'Why do you wish to learn his name?' he asked. 'You can never have known
him.'
'That is true. It was idle curiosity. I do not care to know.'
'It is no secret,' Gambardella answered, having in the meantime thought
of a name that would do. 'My friend is Gaspero Mastropiero, a Venetian
gentleman of fortune and a great patron of musicians. And now,' he said,
rising as he spoke, 'nothing remains for me but to thank you for seeing
me, and to take my leave. Will you give me back my ring, Reverend
Mother?'
He stood before her, holding out his hand with the palm upward to
receive the token, and he laid a little stress on the title as he
pronounced it. But there was no irony in his tone, for, young as she
still was, it had been conferred upon her quite as much for her holy
life as for her high descent, in an age when noble blood had great
weight in such matters. He was certainly not speaking ironically;
perhaps, amidst the tatters of his honour, some rag still covered a spot
that could feel shame, and the monstrous deed, in doing which he had
entrapped the nun to help him unawares, seemed foul beside the purity of
her intention and the saintliness of her own life.
The emphasis he gave to the two words was, therefore, at once respectful
and sad, and did not offend her. She had put on the old brass ring
herself when the portress had sent it up to her with his message; she
took it off now and gave it back to him, careful that not even the tips
of her fingers should touch his palm. Then she led the way, and he
followed her.
'May you never put it to a worse use than to-day,' she said, stopping
and letting her eyes meet his for a moment. 'Good-bye.'
'Pray for me,' he said instinctively when he opened the door for her.
She said nothing, but she bent her head a little as she passed out,
perhaps meaning that she would do what he asked. He watched her tall
retreating figure as she went up the middle of the staircase, till she
turned past the dividing wall at the first landing and disappeared
without having once looked back. Then he himself went away through the
high corridor and the dark lodge, and the portress let him out in
silence.
He did not go back to the inn at once, for the distance was very short,
and he judged that Trombin could hardly have procured Stradella's
liberation in so short a time. He wished to be alone a little while,
for, in spite of what he had come to be, his interview with the Mother
Superior had disturbed him strangely. He had thought himself far beyond
that bitterness of remorse and that sickness of shame which she had made
him feel, and he wished to forget both before he met his companion to
discuss the execution of the deed they had promised to do together, and
could not now put off doing much longer. The nun's burning eyes still
haunted and reproached him, and her shadowy figure rose before him with
the thin white face in which he could still trace the beauty that had
once enthralled him. It was the bare woof of beauty that remained, for
grief and penance had worn away the warp, leaving only the lines on
which the exquisite fabric had been woven; but what was left of the
woman was still there, breathing and living, while her soul had grown
great in strength and spiritual honour till it towered above his who had
once loved her, and made him afraid to meet her look.
It could not last long, he knew, but while it did he must be alone. He
walked far out on a road that led through the rich damp plain, and it
was not till the sun was sinking low that he began to retrace his steps.
When he reached the inn he found Trombin and Stradella together, and his
friend introduced him with some ceremony as Count Gambardella. The
musician, who was fully informed of the latter's errand, pressed his
hand warmly, and looked at him, evidently expecting news of Ortensia.
'The lady and her serving-woman are well, sir,' Gambardella said at
once, 'and I trust that to-morrow may end your difficulties happily.'
'I hope so indeed,' Stradella answered.
He looked pale and careworn, but no one would have guessed from his
appearance that he had just spent four nights and the better part of
five days in the most noisome dungeon in Ferrara. He wore the same black
velvet coat with purple silk facings which he was wearing when Ortensia
saw him for the first time. It fitted him well and showed his athletic
young figure to advantage, for the fashion was not yet for the 'French'
coat which Louis Fourteenth afterwards made universal.
Gambardella measured him with his eye, as Trombin must have done
already. He wore only the short rapier of a civilian gentleman, but he
might be a good fencer and able to give trouble to a single adversary,
and he looked strong. Neither of the Bravi knew what physical fear
meant, but it was of no use to risk a useless wound, and men of
Stradella's type could be more conveniently despatched by stabbing them
in the back than by going through the form of a duel.
'I have not been able to see the lady herself,' Gambardella continued,
'but the Mother Superior of the Ursulines was so good as to receive me,
and after some demur she agreed to let the Lady Ortensia and her woman
leave the convent early to-morrow morning.'
'Not till to-morrow?' Stradella could not hide his disappointment.
'To-morrow, and then only on one condition, which I took it upon me to
promise that you shall fulfil.'
The musician looked sharply at the speaker.
'I trust that you have not promised for me more than I may honourably
do,' he said.
At this Trombin instantly pressed down the hilt of his rapier and made
the point stick up behind; he pursed his mouth and opened his eyes till
they glared like an angry cat's.
'I would have you know, Signor Maestro, that it is not the custom of
Venetian gentlemen to promise anything not honourable, either in their
own names or for others!'
Pignaver would have apologised at once if either of the Bravi had taken
that tone, but the Sicilian singer was made of better stuff than the
Venetian Senator.
'Sir,' he answered quietly, 'I am not a quarrelsome man, and, moreover,
I am deeply indebted to you for my freedom. But there is a lady in this
case. Let me first know what Count Gambardella has promised in my name;
for if, as I hope, it pledges me to nothing unworthy of the Lady
Ortensia or of myself, I shall be doubly in your debt; but if not, which
heaven avert, I shall be at your service for a quarrel, without further
words.'
While he was speaking he met Trombin's ferocious stare steadily, and
when he had finished he turned to Gambardella. The Bravo liked his tone
and manner as much as he had despised Pignaver for his repeated
apologies. It would be shameful to stab such a man in the back, Trombin
thought; as shameful and unsportsman-like as an Englishman thinks it to
shoot a fox or to angle with worms for fish that will take a fly.
'The Mother Superior,' said Gambardella, paying no attention to what had
just passed, 'is a saintly woman. She requires that before taking away
the Lady Ortensia, you shall be duly married in the church of San
Domenico, early to-morrow morning. This, sir, I ventured to promise in
your name, and no more, as one man of honour speaking for another.'
'You could not have done me a greater service!' Stradella cried,
surprised and delighted. 'I am sorry that I ever questioned your good
judgment, sir!'
Trombin's fierce expression relaxed into one better suited to his round
pink cheeks, and peace was immediately restored. But the Bravi exchanged
glances which meant that they were perplexed by the undeniable fact that
they were beginning to like the musician, quite apart from their
admiration for his genius.
Before supper they consulted together in the privacy of Trombin's room
over a thimbleful of Greek mastic, which they drank as an appetiser.
They were agreed not to lose sight of the young couple again, and not to
hurry matters to a termination. What could be more delightful than to
make the journey to Rome together with the greatest singer in the world
and his bride, acting at once as an armed escort and as friends ready to
save the happy pair all trouble about small details from day to day?
Stradella had declared that he meant to reach Rome without delay, while
he was sure of a warm welcome and of the protection of Cardinal
Altieri, in case Pignaver sent any one in pursuit.
'Rome,' said Trombin thoughtfully, 'is a convenient place for doing
business. The streets are narrow, and there are many wells in the
courtyards of the old houses.'
'It is true that we have never had any trouble in Rome,' Gambardella
answered. 'Commend me to narrow streets for business. I hate your great
squares, your promenades, your gardens, and your belvederes! Shall you
ever forget that summer's evening on the Chiatamone in Naples?'
'I feel that I am still running away,' Trombin said. 'But Rome is quite
different. It is true that we have not yet decided which of the two it
is to be. But I have just thought of a way of getting both the fees.'
'For a man of imagination, you have taken a long time to think of it!'
'It is this. We will deliver up both in Venice, Stradella to the lady,
and the girl to her uncle. The lady will believe that the girl is dead,
for she will never see or hear of her again, and she will pay us in
full. The Senator will pay half down when he gets his niece back, and
after the lady has enjoyed the Maestro's company for a few days he can
be done away with, and Pignaver will pay the balance. What do you think
of that as a solution, my friend?'
'There is much to be said for it,' Gambardella admitted.
He nodded and sipped his mastic, which was not an easy operation, since
he could not go on filling the small glass as he would a tumbler of
wine; but he ingeniously set it to one corner of his mouth, well out of
the way of his nose, and by turning his head on one side he succeeded in
sipping it to the end without spilling a drop.
'It is a monstrous thing to interrupt such a career as Stradella's,' he
continued, for his companion had said nothing. 'But five hundred ducats
are a great deal of money, and beggars cannot be choosers! Nevertheless,
if you can think of some plan which will accomplish the same result by
saving the Maestro and putting the girl out of the way instead, I should
prefer it. A woman more or less makes no difference, but there is only
one Stradella!'
'I will do my best,' Trombin answered, 'but you cannot have everything.'
The Bravi and Stradella supped in a room apart for greater privacy,
because a large party of noisy Bolognese merchants had arrived on their
way to Venice, and were eating in the dining-room. Cucurullo and
Grattacacio waited on their masters, the dishes being brought to the
door by a scullion.
There were wax candles on the table in handsome candlesticks, for a mere
brass oil-lamp was not good enough for such fine gentlemen as Trombin
and Gambardella when their pockets were full of money; and in the middle
of the board a magnificent majolica basket was filled with cherries and
green almonds.
The two servants eyed each other with a certain mutual distrust, for
Grattacacio had at once discovered that his colleague was one of those
poor creatures that have not even the spirit to cheat their masters, and
Cucurullo's quietly penetrating intelligence detected under Tommaso's
accomplished exterior the signs of a still more accomplished scoundrel.
For the present, however, the two treated each other with much civility,
and their three masters were admirably served at supper.
They drank to one another in the old Burgundy, and Trombin proposed the
health of the bride, repeating in her honour one of Petrarch's sonnets
in praise of Laura. He said that as he had never seen her he could only
compare her beauty to that of the angels, and her virtues to those of
the blessed saints, whom he had not seen either, and had no expectation
of seeing hereafter; similarly he likened the Maestro's voice to that of
a seraph, on the ground that its like would never be heard on earth.
Stradella laughed a little, for the first time in five days, and emptied
his glass to Ortensia. He was no match for his companions at eating and
drinking, as he soon found out, and he was satisfied long before they
were; but the good old wine had brought back the warmth to his face and
hands, though he had drunk but little, and presently he went for his
lute. He tuned it and then played softly while Trombin ate candied fruit
and Gambardella cut himself shavings of fresh Parmesan cheese, which he
nibbled with salt, and both drank wine, listening to his music with
delight.
It was worth hearing, indeed, for under his masterly touch the
instrument sang, laughed and wept, and whispered love-words at his
will; now, one high string pleaded its passionate melody to a low and
sighing accompaniment that never swelled to reach it; and now, the
nineteen strings sounded together as a full orchestra, bursting in
triumphant harmonies, and almost deafening to hear; again, the deepest
string began a fugue that was taken up by the next above and the next,
and traversed all, gathering sonorous strength as the parts increased
from two to three, from three to four, all moving at once to the grand
climax, and then sinking again and falling away one by one, softer and
softer to the solemn close.
Stradella was profoundly happy, and he had but one way of expressing his
happiness to himself, which was the most beautiful way there is, for he
made the art he loved his means of telling the world his joy.
Later, when the window was open, and the young moon was shedding a
gentle light upon the broad square, he began to sing softly, wondering
that he should have any voice left after what he had suffered; but great
singers are not like other men, at least as to their throats, and after
a few trials the rich notes floated out deliciously, as effortless and
as true, as soft and as strong as ever, in those marvellous love-songs
of his own that thrilled all Italy while he lived, and long afterwards.
The Bravi had turned their chairs to listen, for he had gone to the
window. They had finished their Burgundy, and most of his share to boot,
and peace had descended on their restless souls; and if, from all the
delights the world held, they could have chosen one for that May
evening, they would have asked for none but this, to sit and listen to
the greatest of living singers and musicians, deeply in love, and
singing more for himself than that any one might hear him.
'It is absolutely impossible,' said Trombin gravely to his companion,
when Stradella paused at last.
'Absolutely,' assented Gambardella.
'What is impossible?' the singer asked carelessly.
'To sing better than you,' answered Gambardella with a short laugh.