After supper on the next evening Stradella and Ortensia were sitting for
the last time in the beautiful loggia, in the soft light of the young
moon that would soon set behind the Vatican Hill. The air was
wonderfully dry and warm, as it is in Rome sometimes in June when there
has been no rain for three or four weeks.
On the following morning they were to move to the Palazzo Altieri, where
Don Alberto had caused to be prepared for them the apartment that is
entered by a small door on the left, halfway up the grand staircase.
They had been talking of the change.
'It will seem more natural to you to live in a palace again,' Stradella
said in a laughing tone. 'You must have had enough of inns by this
time!'
'The happiest days of my life have been spent in them,' Ortensia
answered with a little sadness. 'I am wondering whether it will ever be
the same again.'
'As long as we are the same there can be no difference, sweetheart. I am
glad you are to be more worthily lodged. Don Alberto was always a very
good-natured fellow and more or less a friend of mine, and he is taking
the greatest pains to make us comfortable in his father's house.'
'I wish he would not take such infinite trouble to stare at me all the
time!'
'Why should he look at anything else when you are in sight?' laughed the
singer. 'Do I? And just consider what a pleasant change it must be for
him after being obliged to gaze at the Queen by the hour together in
visible rapture! The vision must pall sometimes, I should think! I
really do not blame him for showing that he admires you, and he is not
the only one. There is our friend Trombin, for instance, who stands in
adoration staring at you and puffing out his round cheeks whenever we
meet.'
'Oh, he only makes me laugh,' Ortensia answered; 'he is so funny, with
his little pursed-up mouth and his round eyes! I am sure he must be the
kindest-hearted creature in the world. But Don Alberto is quite
different. I am a little afraid of him. I feel as if some day he might
say something to me----'
'What, for instance?' asked Stradella, amused. 'What do you think he may
say?'
'That he thinks me--what shall I say?--very pretty, perhaps!'
'He would only be saying to your face what every one says behind your
back, love! Should you object very much if he told you that he thought
you beautiful?'
'I do not wish to be beautiful for any one but you,' Ortensia answered
softly. 'I wish that every one else might think me hideous, and never
come near me!'
'And that I might seem to every one but you to sing out of tune!'
laughed Stradella.
'At all events they would leave us alone, if they thought so! But I did
not mean it in that way. I think you do not care whether men make love
to me or not!'
She was not quite pleased, and as she leaned her head back against the
wall he saw her pouting lips in the moonlight.
'I like to be envied,' said Stradella.
As he made this singular answer he bent over a mandoline he had been
holding on his knee and made the point of the quill quiver against the
upper strings with incredible lightness, so that the tinkling note
seemed to come from very far away and could not interrupt the
conversation.
'I do not understand,' Ortensia said, after a moment, and she lifted her
arms and made her clasped hands a pillow between the back of her head
and the wall.
'The beauty of anything is its immortal part,' he said; 'its real value
is as much as people will give for it, neither more nor less. Do you not
understand me yet?'
'Not quite. Why do you talk in riddles? I am not very clever, you know!'
'You are beautiful, dear. I have often told you so, and other men will
if they get a chance. But as one of nature's works of art I doubt
whether you are more beautiful than almond-blossoms in spring, or the
dawn in the south on a summer's morning. Do you see?'
'No. Is it a parable? What will you compare me to next?'
Stradella was making sweet far-off music on the instrument. It came a
little nearer and then died away into the distance, when he was ready to
speak again.
'You may have almond-blossoms by hundreds in March for nothing,' he
said, 'and any one may see the dawn who is awake so early! They have
perfect beauty, but no value. No one can really envy a man who brings an
armful of flowers home with him, or who sees the dawn of a fine day, yet
both are quite as lovely as you are, in their own fashion, though they
are common. But you have their beauty, and besides, you are of immense
value, not to me only but to the whole race of men, because you are not
only beautiful, but also a very rare work of nature, far rarer than
pearls and rubies.'
'Then it was all a pretty compliment you were paying me!' Ortensia
smiled. 'Of course I could not understand what you meant!'
Stradella laughed low, and the mandoline was silent for a while.
'The way to make compliments is to find out what a woman most admires in
herself and then to make her believe it is ten times more wonderful than
she supposed it could be. No one has ever told that secret yet, but it
has opened more doors and balcony windows than any other.'
'That was not your way of opening mine, dear!' laughed Ortensia. 'I am
afraid you needed no secret at all to do that.'
Again he touched the mandoline, but it was not mere tinkling music now,
making believe that it came all the way down the long street from the
dismal Tor di Nona by the bridge. It was that love-song he had made for
her in Venice, and had sung to her when Pina left them together the
first time; a measure of the melody trembled through the upper strings,
and then his own voice took up the words in tones breathed out so easily
that the highest never seemed to be high, nor to cost him more effort
than ordinary speech. Of all instruments the violoncello can yield notes
most like such a voice, when the bow is in a master's hand.
In Rome, at night, he may sing who will, even now: if he goes bawling
out of tune through the silent streets, though it be not from drink but
out of sheer lightness of heart, the first policeman he meets will
silence him, it is true; but if he sings well and soberly he may go on
his way rejoicing, for no watchman will hinder him. It is an ancient
right of the Italian people to sing when and where they please, by day
or night, in the certainty that tuneful singing can never give offence
nor disturb even a dying man.
So the great master of song sat in the high balcony on that June night
and let his voice float out over moon-lit Rome; and presently Ortensia
slipped from her chair and knelt before him, her hands clasped on his
knees and looking up to his face, for his magic was more enthralling now
than when it had first drawn her to him.
When he reached the end he kissed her, the last long-drawn note still
vibrating on his lips, and she felt that they were cold and trembling
when they touched hers.
'Yes,' she whispered, drawing back just enough to see his eyes in the
moonlight, 'that was the key to my window. When I heard that song I knew
you loved me already, and that I must love you too, sooner or later,
and for all my life. It is not my poor beauty that is rarer than pearls
and rubies, love, but your genius and your voice. I know what you mean
now! I like to be envied by other women because you are mine, with all
you are, you, and your fame, and everything!'
'Do you see?' Stradella laughed softly. 'You should not be angry with
people who stare at you, any more than I am with people who listen when
I sing! And I am no more jealous because Don Alberto admires you than
you should be because Queen Christina likes my singing, as she says she
does.'
'Tell me, Alessandro, is that a black wig she wears, or is it her own
hair?' asked Ortensia, pretending to be serious.
'In confidence, my love, it is a wig,' Stradella answered with extreme
gravity.
'So much the better. I am glad she admires your singing; but if it were
not a wig, perhaps I should be less glad. Do you think Don Alberto's
fine black hair is his own, dear; and are his legs quite real?'
'Without doubt.'
'Then I think you ought to be just a little less glad that he stares at
me, than if his legs were padded and he wore a wig as the Queen does,
and were forty, as she is, with bad teeth and a muddy complexion like
hers! You know you should be just a very little less pleased, dear!'
In the moonlight he could see her smiling, for her face was close to
his, and she had laid her hands on his shoulders, while she still knelt
at his knees.
'But that would mean that I was jealous, dear heart,' objected
Stradella. 'Why am I to be jealous because he admires you, unless you
like him too much? Most women say that a man is a brute to be jealous at
all till they have run away with some one else! Your uncle, for
instance, is really justified in being jealous of me.'
'Really?'
Ortensia laughed and kissed again before saying anything more; and just
as their lips touched, the silver light began to fail, and the young
moon dropped behind the Vatican Hill, and when they separated it seemed
quite dark by comparison. Now any one can easily find out how long it
takes the moon to set after she has touched the shoulder of a hill; and
hence the exact number of seconds during which that particular kiss
lasted can easily be ascertained. But time, as Danish people say, was
made for shoemakers; and Ortensia and Stradella took no account of it,
but behaved in the most foolishly dilatory way, just as if they were not
a plain, humdrum, married couple that should have known better than to
spend the evening in a balcony, alternately sentimentalising, kissing,
and singing love-songs.
That was the last evening they spent at the Sign of the Bear, and though
they had talked idly enough in the loggia under the light of the young
moon about such very grave subjects as jealousy and envy, they
afterwards cherished ineffaceable memories of that sweet June night.
For there had been an interlude in the comedy of their troubles,
wherein love had dwelt with them alone and in peace, making his
treasures fully known to them, and guiding their footsteps while they
explored his kingdom and his palace; and they both felt instinctively
that the interlude was over now, and that real life must begin again
with their change of lodgings. Stradella was a musician and a singer,
without settled fortune, and he must return to the business of earning
bread for them both; moreover, he was famous, and therefore could not
possibly get his living obscurely. The Pope's adopted family would vie
with the ex-Queen of Sweden, the Spanish Ambassador and the rich nobles,
to flatter him and attract him to their respective palaces. Alberto
Altieri, who had lost his heart to Ortensia's beauty at first sight,
would organise every sort of fashionable entertainment for the young
bride's benefit, and would do his best to turn her head by magnificent
display. Hereafter, till the summer heat drove the Romans to the
country, no evening gathering in a noble house would deserve mention if
Stradella and his wife were not there, as no concert would be worth
hearing unless some of his music was performed. The young couple would
be continually in the very vortex of fashion's whirlpool, and though
they would not resent the distinction, and might even enjoy the gaiety
for a few weeks, they would have but little time left for each other
between morning and midnight.
It was apparent on the very first night they spent in the Palazzo
Altieri that Don Alberto was not the only young man in Rome who wished
to please Ortensia. Soon after the second hour of night, which we
should call about ten o'clock in June, Stradella and Ortensia heard
music in the narrow street below their new quarters; and as the sounds
did not move farther away, it was almost immediately apparent that the
singers were serenading Ortensia. It was no ordinary music, either;
there were half-a-dozen fine voices and four or five stringed
instruments, played with masterly skill--a violin, a 'viola d'amore,'
and at least two or three lutes.
Stradella put out the light in the room and opened the outer shutters a
little, for they had been closed. The moon was shining even more
brightly than on the previous night, but the rays did not fall as they
fell on the loggia at the inn; the roofs of the low houses opposite were
partly illuminated, and the belfry of San Stefano, and of the little
church of Santa Marta and the Minerva much farther away; but that side
of the irregularly built Altieri palace and the street below were almost
in darkness. Looking down between the shutters, Ortensia and Stradella
could only see deeper shadows within the shade, where the serenaders
were standing, and they were sure that the latter could not see them at
all. They listened with delight, their heads close together, and each
with one arm round the other's waist.
'They are men from the Pope's choir,' Stradella whispered, 'or from
Saint Peter's.'
The first piece was finished, and the musicians exchanged a few words in
low tones, while one or two of them tuned their instruments a little. A
moment later they began to play again, and as Stradella recognised the
opening chords of one of his own serenades, a rich-toned voice began the
song.
Ortensia's arm tightened a little round her husband, and his round her,
and their young cheeks touched as they listened and peered down into the
gloom of the narrow street. Suddenly there was a stir below, and the
sound of other feet coming quickly from the Piazza del Gesu; and though
the serenade was not half finished, another choir and other instruments
struck up a chorus, loud and high, almost completely drowning the first.
Stradella uttered an exclamation of surprise. The newcomers sang and
played quite as well as the first party, if not better, and the music
was Stradella's too--a triumphal march and chorus which he had composed
when last in Rome for the marriage of the Orsini heir. It had been
intended to drown all other sounds while the wedding procession was
leaving the church, and it now fulfilled a similar purpose most
effectually.
For a moment Stradella imagined that it was only meant as a surprise,
and a reinforcement to the first party, and that the whole company of
musicians would play and sing together. That would have been indeed a
royal serenade; but half a minute had not passed before things took a
very different turn, for the party in possession of the street charged
the newcomers after a moment's deliberation; the twanging of strings
turned into a noise of stout sticks hitting each other violently and
smashing an instrument now and then, and steel was clashing too, while
the voices that had lately sung so tunefully now shouted in wild
discord.
Suddenly a flash of bright light darted through the dim confusion as a
dark lantern was opened, and the glare fell full on the face and figure
of Don Alberto Altieri, who stood hatless, sword in hand, facing an
adversary who was quite invisible to the couple at the window. The
instant the light was seen, the others of the two parties ceased
fighting and retired in opposite directions.
'Sir,' said a voice which Stradella and Ortensia instantly recognised as
Trombin's, 'I see that you are at least as young as you are noble, if
not more so, and I shall therefore not press my acquaintance upon you so
far as to take your life. But I shall tell you plainly, sir, that I am a
fencing-master by my profession, and if you do not immediately dissolve
into air, or, to put it better, melt away with all your company, I will
lard you, in the space of thirty seconds, with fifteen flesh wounds in
fifteen different parts of your body, not one of which shall be
dangerous, but which, being taken in what I may call the aggregate,
shall keep you in your bed for a month, sir. And moreover, sir, as you
do not seem inclined to lower your guard and go away, there is one!'
The long rapier flashed in the light of the lantern, and instantly Don
Alberto's sword fell from his hand. Trombin had run him neatly through
the right forearm, completely disabling him at the first thrust.
The Bravo at once stooped, picked up the weapon and politely offered him
the hilt, but he could not take it with his right hand, and grasping the
blade itself with his left, he just managed to get it into the sheath.
'At least,' he cried, furious with humiliation and pain, 'that gentleman
with the lantern there, who employs you, will answer to me for this in
broad daylight, when my wound is healed.'
'With pleasure, sir,' answered the voice of Gambardella. 'But as one
gentleman to another, I warn you that I am also a fencing-master.'
The instant Don Alberto was wounded his musicians had taken to flight,
and he had now no choice but to follow them, which he did with as much
dignity as he could command, considering that he was hatless, wounded,
and altogether very badly worsted, for he had understood that he had
fallen in with Bravi, probably employed by a rival. As soon as it was
evident that he was going away, the lantern was shut and the street was
dark again, Trombin's musicians tuned their instruments, and in two or
three minutes the triumphal march rang out again, louder and higher than
ever.
In the dimness above Stradella and Ortensia looked at each other, though
they could hardly see one another's faces.
'Your two admirers mean business!' said the musician with some
amusement. 'Trombin will seem less ridiculous the next time you see him
staring at you!'
'How can you laugh!' asked Ortensia gravely, for she had never before
seen men face each other with drawn swords.
She had always been taught that duelling was as wicked as it was
dangerous, and her uncle Pignaver had shared that orthodox opinion;
nevertheless, though she would not willingly have acknowledged it to
her confessor, she was glad that Trombin had driven the lady-killer from
the field, and she only wished that Stradella might have done it
himself. As for the Bravi's serenade, she did not resent it at all, nor
did her husband; it was a friendly entertainment, and nothing more, on
the part of the two wealthy Venetian gentlemen to whom the young couple
already owed an immense debt of gratitude. When the chorus was ended,
Stradella clapped his hands.
'Bravo!' cried Ortensia, and the word sounded clearly in the momentary
silence.
'At your ladyship's service!' answered Trombin in a laughing tone, for
the jest she unconsciously made in using the single word seemed to him
full of humour.
Gambardella's dark lantern sent its searching ray up to the window at
that moment, and showed the heads of the two young people close
together, for the shutters were now wide open; an instant later the
light went out and the music began again. It was a madrigal this time,
airy and changing, and sung by four men, one of whom had a beautiful
male contralto, which is a rarity even in Italy. Stradella recognised it
instantly, for he had often sung at the Lateran and knew the man.
'They are of the choir of Saint John's,' he whispered to Ortensia.
There was rivalry between the Lateran and the Vatican in the matter of
music then, as there has been in our own day, and it was no wonder that
the musicians themselves had joined in the fray when Don Alberto drew on
Trombin and Gambardella.
The serenade continued, and the two Bravi enjoyed it quite as much as
Ortensia herself; but it was not likely that Don Alberto would be
satisfied to go quietly to bed after being wounded under the very walls
of his father's palace by a professional cut-throat who had been
doubtless hired to protect a rival serenader. There was a guardhouse of
the watch not far away, at the foot of the Capitol Hill, and thither he
hastened, after twisting his silk scarf round his forearm as tightly as
he could to staunch the blood.
In less than a quarter of an hour he came back with a corporal's guard
of the night-watchmen, armed with clumsy broadswords, but each carrying
a serviceable iron-shod cudgel of cornel-wood which, according to old
Roman rhyme, breaks bones so easily that the blows do not even hurt:
'Corniale, rompe le ossa e non fa male.' The corporal himself carried an
elaborately wrought lantern of iron and glass, ornamented with the papal
tiara and crossed keys.
Now the Bravi did not know Alberto Altieri by sight, and they had
treated him as if he were of no more account than several hundred other
young noblemen, sure that he would have his scratch dressed and go
quietly to bed like a sensible fellow who has had the worst of it.
Therefore when the watch came in sight suddenly, from behind the corner
of the palace that juts out sharply towards San Stefano, the serenaders
did not connect the appearance of the patrol with their late adversary,
who had disappeared in the opposite direction; on the contrary, they
went on singing and playing, well aware that night-watchmen never
interfered with such innocent diversions, but would generally stop on
their round to enjoy the music. Even now, when they came straight towards
the musicians, the latter only made way quietly, supposing that they
wished to pass. It was not till Gambardella recognised Don Alberto's face
by the light of the corporal's lantern that he understood, and drew his
rapier just in time to save himself from being arrested.
[Illustration: 'The two Bravi faced the watch side by side']
'Run, while we hold the street!' he yelled to the musicians, who did not
wait for a second invitation, but fled like sheep down the Via del Gesu.
Trombin's blade was out almost as soon as his companion's, and the two
Bravi faced the watch side by side. Their hats were drawn well over
their eyes, and they had clapped on the little black masks most people
carried then, so that they were in no fear of being recognised. The
corporal, who seemed to be a determined fellow, swung his stick like a
sabre, to bring it down on Gambardella's head, but it found only the
empty air in its path, and at the same time the officer's left hand was
so sharply pricked that he dropped the big lantern, which rolled on its
side and went out. Meanwhile Trombin had parried the blow his nearest
adversary had struck at him, and in return had instantly disabled him by
running him through the right forearm, precisely as he had done by Don
Alberto.
A moment later Gambardella opened his dark lantern, and held it in his
left, so that he and Trombin became almost invisible to their
adversaries and had them at a great disadvantage. Furious, the corporal
struck another wild blow with his staff, but Gambardella dodged it even
more easily than before, being behind the lantern that dazzled the
other; and as the iron-shod stick hit the ground after missing its aim,
the officer felt the Bravo's blade run through the muscles of his upper
arm, like a stream of icy water, followed instantly by burning heat.
With a hearty curse he backed out of the way of another thrust and bade
his men draw their broadswords and finish the matter.
But this was more easily said than done. The half-dozen men obeyed,
indeed, so far as drawing and brandishing their clumsy weapons was
concerned, but the street was narrow, the lantern dazzled them, and the
two long rapiers with their needle points and solid blades pointed out
at them in the circle of light, ready to run in under the awkward
broadsword guard with deadly effect.
The corporal swore till Cucurullo, who was looking out of another upper
window, expected to see him struck by lightning, and all the people who
were now at the windows of the low houses opposite the palace crossed
themselves devoutly; but it was of no use, as long as those two gleaming
points kept making little circles slowly in the light. There was not a
man in the corporal's guard who would have gone within an arm's length
of them.
Seeing that they already had the best of it, the Bravi began to advance
by regular short steps, moving the right foot forward first and then the
left, as if they were on the fencing ground, their rapiers steadily in
guard; and the watchmen fell back, fearing to face them. But that was
not enough; for though the two might drive the little band in that way
from street to street, if they but lowered their points a moment their
adversaries would spring in upon them, even at some risk.
'We are mild-tempered men,' said Trombin at last, 'but we are both
fencing-masters, and it will not be prudent to irritate us, or, as I may
say, to drive us to extremities. You had better go your way quietly and
let us go ours.'
'If you do not,' said Gambardella, who was excessively bored, 'we will
skewer every mother's son of you in five minutes, by the holy
marrow-bones of Beelzebub!'
This singular invocation arrested the attention and disturbed the
equanimity of the watchmen; they could stand being sworn at by every
saint in the calendar, by every article of the Nicene Creed, and,
generally, by everything sacred of which their corporal had ever heard,
but they did not like men who invoked relics of such horrible import as
those which Gambardella had named. Nor were their fears misplaced, for
as they hesitated for two or three seconds before turning to run, the
Bravo made a spring like a wild cat, struck the corporal violently on
the nose with the iron guard of his rapier, jumped back one step, and
then, lunging an almost incredible distance as the corporal staggered
against the wall, ran the man behind him through the fleshy part of the
shoulder. On his side, Trombin advanced too, pretended to lunge and
then suddenly struck the man before him such a stinging blow with the
flat of his rapier that the fellow howled and fled, whereupon Trombin
encouraged his speed by prodding him sharply in the rear. In a moment
the confusion was complete, and the watchmen were tumbling over each
other in their hurry to escape. Then the lantern was suddenly shut, and
the two Bravi faced about and ran like deer in the opposite direction.