When Trombin had dropped Don Alberto upon the ladder, to take the
chances of a bad fall, he looked down to see what happened, and being
satisfied that the courtier was not much hurt, he turned at once to
Ortensia; for if young Altieri had broken his neck, it might have been
necessary to hasten what was to take place next. As for anything the
courtier might do on the spur of the moment, Trombin knew that
Gambardella and Tommaso were in the vineyard, ready to stop any
mischief.
Ortensia was lying by the wall where she had fallen, but was regaining
consciousness, for her limbs stirred now and then, and as the Bravo
looked at her she opened her eyes and turned her head.
'Coward!' she said faintly, as what had happened began to dawn upon her
and the recollection of the furious struggle came back. 'Coward!' she
repeated, closing her eyes as Trombin dropped beside her on one knee.
'I have thrown him out of the window,' he said quietly.
She opened her eyes wide now, stared at him and recognised him, though
as in a dream. Then she tried to raise herself on her elbow, and
instantly he helped her; and feeling the strength of his arm, she got
upon her feet, though with more assistance from him than she knew. He
led her to a stiff little sofa at the other end of the room, picked up
Don Alberto's cloak, rolled it into a pillow for her, and made her lie
down. She had almost lost consciousness again with the effort of walking
so far.
He saw the deep scratch on her arm, from which a few drops of blood were
still slowly oozing, and he fetched a basin with cold water and a towel
from the bedroom, and bathed the slight wound, binding it up afterwards
with his lawn handkerchief, for he was skilled in such matters. Ortensia
smiled faintly, without opening her eyes; but he, with the strangest
expression in the world, drew in his lips till his mouth almost
disappeared; and he fixed his round eyes on the shapely arm he was
dressing, and touched it with a sort of wonder. For there was a secret
side of his character which even his friend Gambardella did not know,
any more than Trombin knew his companion's own love-story.
When Trombin said that he was a susceptible creature, full of sentiment,
he was telling the truth, though his friend had never believed it. He
loved all women in general, and seemed able to love a number of them in
particular in close succession. Gambardella saw this, and exercised his
wit upon the weakness; but what he never saw and could not guess was
that his fellow-cut-throat was as shy and timid as a schoolboy in the
presence of his sweetheart for the time being, whether she were of low
degree or of the burgher class, above which Trombin had never aspired
till he had seen Ortensia. The reckless Bravo, the perpetrator of a
score of atrocious crimes, the absolutely intrepid swordsman, would
blush like a girl, and stand speechless and confused when he was alone
for the first time with a pretty girl or a buxom dame whose mere
side-glance made the blood tingle in his neck. Moreover, many women know
that there are plenty of such men in the world; and I dare say that more
than one man may read these lines who has faced the extremest danger
without a quickened pulse, but has collapsed like a scared child before
a girl of eighteen or a cool-handed widow of eight-and-twenty. Oddly
enough, those are not the men whom women love least, explain it how you
will.
So Trombin, who had talked of carrying off Ortensia with even more
assurance than Don Alberto himself, and had just found her senseless on
the floor after he had put her assailant to flight, could no more have
had the boldness to kiss the white arm he was dressing so tenderly and
skilfully than young Altieri had found courage to fight him when he had
suddenly appeared through the window, rapier in hand and glaring like a
panther.
Meanwhile Ortensia came quite to herself, looked at him quietly, and
thanked him.
'Where is he gone?' she asked, for she had not realised what he had said
when he had first answered her.
As he met her eyes Trombin's white forehead blushed, and he stepped
back, taking away the basin and towel he had used in washing her wound.
'Out of the window, gracious lady,' he said, as he disappeared into the
next room.
'Out of the window!' cried Ortensia in astonishment. 'Is he dead?'
'No, alive and well,' answered Trombin from the distance. 'But I hear
something at this very moment,' he added, coming back empty-handed and
trying the front window, as if he did not know that it was fastened with
nails.
He laid his ear to the crack, and held out one hand to keep Ortensia
silent.
'Yes,' he whispered an instant later, loud enough for her to hear.
'Yes--it is the sound of kicking and running--some one is kicking some
one else down the hill--it is gone now!'
He stood upright again and looked round at Ortensia, whose face betrayed
her anxiety, now that she was fully conscious.
'Who can it be?' she asked.
'Most gentle lady,' answered Trombin, 'I do not know, but I suspect,
pray, hope, and inwardly believe that the patient, if I may so call him,
was Don Alberto, and the kicker was very likely my friend Gambardella.'
'But you were to have brought my husband here! Your friend told me so!'
Ortensia's memory came back completely at Gambardella's name, and she
slipped her feet from the sofa to the floor and sat up suddenly. Trombin
was, of course, prepared for the question with a plausible story, but he
could never count on his presence of mind when he was in love and alone
for the first time with the object of his affections.
'Madam,' he answered, 'the truth is--or, as I may say, the facts in the
case are----' he stammered and stopped, for the lovely Venetian had
risen and was beside him already, her frightened eyes very near his, and
her hand on his sleeve. His heart beat like a scared bird's and his head
was whirling.
'Where is my husband?' cried Ortensia in wild anxiety. 'Something has
happened to him, and you are afraid to tell me! For heaven's sake----'
It had never been in Trombin's nature to be rough with a woman. In the
two or three cases in which he had been concerned in 'removing' a lady,
obnoxious to her husband or relations, he had been accused by his
companion of being soft-hearted; but while Ortensia was speaking he was
in such a state of rapt adoration that he quite forgot to listen to what
she said; and instead of answering when she waited for his reply, he
took the hand that lay on his sleeve in his, with such a gentle and
sympathetic touch that she did not resist, even when he raised it to his
ridiculous little mouth and kissed it delicately, with an air of
respectful devotion that would not have offended a saint.
Nor was Ortensia offended; but she was frightened out of her mind by his
manner, for it was as if he were already condoling with her, and
offering his faithful service, before telling her the awful truth.
'He is dead!' she cried, breaking from him and pressing both hands to
her temples in mad grief.
She would have fallen against the table, if Trombin had not caught her
and held her up. He understood instantly how she had mistaken his
action, and what the question had been which he had not heard.
'No, no!' he cried energetically. 'He is alive and well! He insisted on
going back to the palace to wait for Don Alberto when he came home from
the Lateran to catch you in your rooms! Instead, the villain tracked you
here and got in. It was Tommaso's fault for leaving the back door open
to the vineyard, and Altieri fastened it inside, so I broke in through
the window to save you! We had nailed all the windows fast for your
safety!'
Ortensia leaned back against the table and looked straight at him. He
could tell the most amazing untruths with perfect coolness, but just now
he was so very near the truth that his worst enemy would have believed
him. Untruthful people often have a shifty glance, but the truly
accomplished liar is he whose clear and limpid eye meets yours
trustfully and sadly, while he tells you falsehoods that would make the
Father of Lies himself look grave. The immediate result of Trombin's
words was that Ortensia could almost have thrown her arms round his neck
in her joy.
'Take me to him!' she cried, forgetting everything else. 'Take me to
him! Come!' She tried to drag him towards the door in her haste, but he
quietly resisted her.
'We must wait for Gambardella,' he said. 'Besides, you will have to
trust your husband to settle matters with Don Alberto without you. He is
far more likely to be prudent if they meet alone than if you are beside
him----'
Ortensia's face fell, for she saw that Trombin did not mean to let her
leave the house at once.
'But Don Alberto can do anything,' she pleaded, with clear foresight of
Stradella's temper and consequent danger. 'My husband will accuse him,
and will be furiously angry! He will not hesitate to strike him, or to
fight him in his own house! And then Don Alberto will have him
imprisoned!'
It was, in fact, what was about to happen, and what Trombin himself
expected. On the other hand, Don Alberto knew very well where the house
was to which he had been taken by Tommaso, for he was a Roman, and every
yard of the road was familiar to him. Within less than an hour it was
more than likely that he would send a force of sbirri to besiege the
house, men who would not hesitate to break down the doors if they were
not admitted, and by no means so easy to frighten away as the clumsily
armed watchmen whom the Bravi had put to flight. The only possible
safety for the Bravi lay in leaving the place with Ortensia before such
a thing happened. The post-carriage in which Trombin meant to carry her
off that very night was waiting not far away in charge of a well-paid
stable hand, and Tommaso and Gambardella had only to bring it to the
door. The stableman was then to take back the two mules, and the coach
would leave the city at once, by Porta San Lorenzo, while Ortensia would
suppose that she was being taken to the Palazzo Altieri or to some new
place of safety. The plan was well laid, for it would be easy for
Gambardella to make Stradella believe that his wife had been spirited
away by Don Alberto's agents, and that Trombin had followed on horseback
in hot pursuit. Stradella would lose no time, and would certainly accept
Gambardella's assistance in the chase; and in due time husband and wife
would reach Venice separately and fall into the respective traps the
Bravi had ready for them.
All this might succeed easily enough by the liberal use of money, and
under the protection of the pardons and passports the two cut-throats
had in their possession; but it was clear that no time was to be lost,
and while Trombin's gaze lingered on Ortensia's lovely face, he was
anxiously listening for his friend's knock below, and he did not even
attempt to answer her last speech with reassuring words.
'We cannot move without Gambardella,' he said, speaking in a low tone
now, lest any sound from without should escape his hearing.
It came a moment later, and Trombin hastened to the door at the head of
the stairs; it was locked, however, and the key was in Don Alberto's
pocket, as Ortensia quickly explained. But such a trifle as an ordinary
door that was fastened was not likely to stop a man who had lately
smashed in a strong window-frame with his fists and his shoulder. He
drew back one step, raised his heel to the level of the lock, and
smashed it as if it had been made of egg-shells. The door flew open and
he ran down the steps to undo the chain. Seeing that her shadow kept the
light from the stairs and the vestibule, Ortensia drew back on one side
of the entrance, expecting that Trombin would come up at once with
Gambardella. Instead, the two stood talking in low tones on the
threshold of the front door.
In a few moments it was clear to Ortensia that some disagreement had
arisen between the friends. Their voices grew a little louder, so that
Ortensia could hear about half of what they said. It was clear that
Gambardella was refusing to do something which Trombin insisted with
rising temper, while the other grew colder and more obstinate every
moment.
'Altieri's thousand crowns,' she heard Gambardella say distinctly; and
then, in broken words, '... more than enough ... morning ... the
Neapolitan frontier ... leave her here ...'
'Judas!' cried Trombin very audibly, and clearly in a rage.
'At your service,' answered Gambardella, 'and instead of thirty pieces
of silver, I fling a thousand in your face! You shall not have her!'
Ortensia heard a sort of chinking thud, as if a heavy purse had fallen
on the stones. This was instantly followed by a scuffle, and she knew
that the two men had closed and were wrestling. The whole truth had
flashed upon her through the few words they had exchanged, or enough of
it to prove that young Altieri had not calumniated the men she had
thought her friends when he had called them Bravi.
Her heart stood still for an instant, while she looked round for some
means of escape. No sound of voices now came up from below, but only
the shuffling of feet and the hard-drawn breath of men wrestling in the
dark. She ran to the window and looked out, thinking that the ladder was
still there, and then, seeing that it was gone, she peered into the
gloom. Perhaps she could let herself down by her hands and then drop to
the ground. At any moment one of the Bravi might come up again and seize
her.
She listened for a moment before trying it. The sound of the struggle
had ceased, and all was still again; very cautiously she crept to the
door and listened again, but there was not a breath. She ventured to
look down the stairs, keeping her body on one side, and she saw that the
vestibule was empty, and now her quick hearing caught the sound of
shuffling footsteps in the road outside; the noise was decreasing
already, as if the two men were moving down the hill in their furious
fight. The house was empty for a moment, Trombin had spoken of a back
door opening to the vineyard, and she saw her chance.
She ran downstairs, almost falling in her haste, and as she reached the
floor she stepped upon something that yielded with a chinking sound. It
was the purse containing the thousand crowns in ducats, and she thrust
it into her bosom without hesitation. A cool draught of air from under
the stairs guided her to the back entrance, which was not closed, as
Trombin had said it was, but wide open. She was out of doors in an
instant, and in the starlight she could just see a broad path that led
straight through the vineyard from the little house. She gathered up
her silk skirts with both hands, and ran for her life.
Almost at the same moment Gambardella, who was the lighter man, threw
Trombin heavily on his back in the dust, and at once proceeded to kneel
on his chest.