At sunrise Ortensia wearily climbed the steep ascent that led up to the
Quirinal Palace, leaning on Cucurullo's arm, and wearing his short brown
cloak to cover her dress as much as possible. A few words will be enough
to explain what had happened in the night. After waiting two hours and
more at Santa Prassede with the things he had brought, Cucurullo had
come back to the Palazzo Altieri, suspecting an accident, or at least a
misunderstanding. It was not till he had knocked again and again that
the porter had opened the little postern in the great wooden gate, and
seeing who was there had hastily explained that Stradella was in prison
for having struck Don Alberto on the nose, at the foot of the grand
staircase, and that, after this, he, Gaetano the porter, had not the
courage to admit any one belonging to the musician's household. He was
very sorry, and said so, being much afraid of the Evil Eye if the
hunchback should be angry; but he was even more afraid of Don Alberto.
Cucurullo, who had been prepared for trouble, bowed his head, and said
he would wait outside till morning. Gaetano offered, as a great favour,
to take the things he carried and hide them in his lodge, a kindness
which Cucurullo readily accepted.
As for Ortensia, she did not know where she had been, and it was not
till she had wandered for hours in the desolate regions between Santa
Maria in Cosmedin, San Gregorio, and the Colosseum, that she at last
struck into the Campo Vaccino, which was the open field under which the
Roman Forum then lay buried. By the first faint light she recognised the
tower of the Capitol, and in less than a quarter of an hour after that
she found Cucurullo sitting on one of the stone chain-posts outside the
Palazzo Altieri, his two long legs hanging down almost to the pavement,
and his humped body looking like a large ball covered with a short brown
cloak, and surmounted by a servant's high-crowned black felt hat with a
wide brim. He was not asleep, for he hardly ever slept, and he knew his
mistress's light step before he saw her at his elbow. In a moment he had
explained what had happened, as far as he knew the truth, from the
moment when he had left her getting into the carriage with Gambardella.
Her mind was made up in a flash; she would go directly to the Pope
himself, and if he would not see her, she would insist on seeing
Cardinal Paluzzo Altieri. He would not refuse her an audience, if she
sent up her name with a message to say that she had found something of
great value that belonged to him. As for taking any rest before going to
the Quirinal, she literally had not where to lay her head; but she was
young and strong, and would not realise how tired she was till the
strain of her anxiety was over, and she was borne up by love, which is
quite the most wonderful elixir in the world against all weariness of
mind or body. Nevertheless she leaned on Cucurullo's arm as they
climbed the ascent, for it was very steep, and the last part of it was
the long flight of steps which still leads up from the Tre Cannelle and
comes out close to the little church of San Silvestro, where the great
and good Vittoria Colonna once met Michelangelo.
The doors of the Quirinal Palace were opened at sunrise, and two
sentries of the Swiss Guard paced up and down before the entrance, their
breastplates and halberds gleaming in the morning sun. They did not stop
Ortensia, who saw their sergeant standing just within, very magnificent
in his full-dress uniform; for it was the Feast of Saint John, and
Midsummer Day, and one of the great festivals of the year, though not so
solemn a one as that of Saint Peter which comes five days later, on the
twenty-ninth.
The Swiss sergeant was gravely civil and answered Ortensia as politely
as he could, considering how imperfectly he knew the Italian language.
His Holiness? No. The Pope was far from well and had not left his room
for a week. His Eminence? It might be possible in an hour. The Cardinal
was an early riser, and was to pontificate at high mass in the Lateran.
The sergeant could send a soldier to the major domo's office by and by,
but no one would be stirring upstairs for at least another hour. The
gracious lady seemed tired; would she wait in the sergeant's own room?
It was at her disposal.
Ortensia accepted gratefully, and the big, fair-haired, wooden-faced
Swiss opened the door for her, pointed to a sort of settle on which she
could rest, and told Cucurullo to wait in the guard-room. The sergeant
himself would call her as soon as the major-domo's office was open. He
saluted her with stiff politeness and went away.
Even then she did not realise that she was tired, and instead of
stretching herself on the settee, as she might have done, she sat bolt
upright on the edge of it, staring at the door that had just been shut,
as if she expected the sergeant to come back at once. Yet she was not
conscious of the passage of time, and her intense anxiety centred in her
coming interview with the Cardinal rather than in any present longing
for the sergeant's quick return. In her mind she went over what she was
going to say, and tried to put together the Cardinal's probable replies.
She meant to ask for immediate liberty for her husband, or immediate
imprisonment for herself with him. Nothing could be simpler; if the
great man refused to grant either, leaving her at liberty, she would
risk everything and appeal to the Venetian Ambassador.
She had not changed her position once in three-quarters of an hour when
the door opened again, and the sergeant most respectfully invited her to
go with him. His Eminence had been informed that she was below and
wished to see her at once. She remembered nothing after that, till she
found herself in a small sunny room hung with red damask and furnished
in the same colour. The Cardinal sat in a high-backed chair at a
magnificent polished writing-table, on which stood a crucifix having the
sacred figure carved apparently from a single gigantic amethyst; the
inkstand, pen-tray, and sand-boxes were also gilt, and made a glittering
show in the bright sunshine that poured through the open window.
Cardinal Altieri was a grey-haired man with steely eyes set near
together, the strong lean face of a fighter, and the colourless
complexion of most high ecclesiastics, who are generally what the
physicians of that day called 'saturnians.' He held out a large, hard,
white hand, with a ring in which was set an engraved amethyst, Ortensia
touch the stone with her lips, and he motioned to her to be seated in a
comfortable chair at his left.
'I know everything,' he said quietly. 'I always do.'
The comprehensiveness of this sweeping statement might have made
Ortensia smile at any other time. But she was staggered by it now, and
forgot the speech she had prepared. On the face of it, to tell anything
to a man who knew everything was superfluous. She reflected a moment,
and he took advantage of her silence to speak again in the same calm
tone.
'You sent me word that you had found something of value belonging to me,
madam. I shall be glad to receive it, but, in the first place, I have
the honour of returning to you some of your own property, which you left
last night in a little house in the Via di Santa Sabina.'
As he spoke the last words he put down his right hand on the side away
from her and brought up a long veil, a silver hairpin, and one white
doeskin glove all together.
'That is all, I believe,' he said, with a very faint smile. 'If you
left anything else there, I will order a more careful search to be made.
I may add that there were stains of blood on the floor and one of the
walls, and as you do not appear to be wounded, madam, the inference
is----'
Before he could explain his inference, Ortensia stretched out her arm
from beneath the cloak she wore, and showed him that it was bound up in
a blood-stained handkerchief; for the small cut had been deep. With her
other hand she took the purse from within her dress and held it out to
the Cardinal.
'A thousand crowns in gold ducats,' she said, 'which your Eminence's
nephew paid two Bravi for the privilege of giving me this scratch. But
they cheated him and drove him away and then quarrelled, and fought
about which should have me for his share. I escaped from the house while
they were fighting outside, I stepped on this purse and I picked it up,
being sure that the money belonged to you, and there it is! In return, I
ask for my husband's liberty.'
She saw from his face that he was much surprised, and that what she had
just told him had produced a decided effect in her favour; for it is
almost needless to say that the account of the affair which Don Alberto
had dictated to his secretary and had sent to his uncle late on the
previous evening gave a very different view of the case. According to
the young man, Ortensia had met him of her own accord, deliberately
enticing him into an ambush from which he had barely escaped with his
life, only to be insulted and struck in the face by her husband, who
was, of course, acquainted with the whole plan.
The Cardinal examined the purse minutely, then opened it and looked at
the contents. He guessed that the value of the gold must be about a
thousand crowns, as Ortensia had said it was. During this time she
quietly arranged her veil on her head, fastening it with the long silver
pin, and then put on the glove he had restored to her. At last he looked
up and spoke.
'Where one knows everything,' he observed, 'it is impossible not to be
surprised at the lamentable ignorance in which most people live. For
instance, if I had not this demonstration of the fact, which agrees well
with my own knowledge, I should find it hard to believe that you and
your husband could have been foolish enough to make friends with the
very men whom your uncle the Senator Pignaver had sent to murder you.'
'We were deceived, Eminence,' answered Ortensia. 'I need not tell you
how, since everything is known to you. All I ask is my husband's
liberty.'
'Your husband, madam, appears to have broken my nephew's nose,' replied
the Cardinal, with the utmost gravity. 'Moreover, Alberto is not only my
own nephew by blood, but His Holiness's also, both in fact, as the son
of the Pope's niece, Donna Lucia, and also by formal adoption. I doubt
whether His Holiness will easily overlook such an offence. To break the
nose of a Pope's nephew, madam, is a serious matter. I would have you
understand that.'
'Then send me to prison with my husband!' cried Ortensia desperately.
The Cardinal slowly rubbed his pale chin with his amethyst ring, and
looked at her.
'There may be an alternative to that somewhat extreme course,' he
observed. 'Calm yourself, I beg of you, and I will see His Holiness as
soon as possible. In the meantime, it would be well for you to take some
rest.'
'Rest!' Ortensia exclaimed. 'How can I rest while he is in prison,
unless I can be near him?'
'I cannot see the connection of ideas,' the Cardinal answered coldly.
He looked at her with some curiosity, for he had never been in love with
anything but power since he had first gone to school.
He rang a gilt bell that stood beside the gilt inkstand, and a
grey-haired priest, still unshaven and shabbily dressed, came at the
call. His face was as yellow as common beeswax, and his little eyes were
bloodshot. The Cardinal pushed the purse across the polished mahogany.
'Count that money,' he said briefly, and opening the drawer of the table
he took out a sheet of paper and began to write, while the shabby
secretary counted out the gold in the palm of his hand, as if he were
used to doing it.
The letter was not long, and the Cardinal read it over to himself with
evident care before folding it. He even smiled faintly, as he had done
when he had returned Ortensia's things. He turned in the top and bottom
of the sheet so that the edges just met, and after creasing the bends
with his large pale thumb-nail he doubled the folded paper neatly, and
then turned up the ends and slipped one into the other.
'Seal it with a wafer when you have done counting,' he said, tossing the
letter to the priest, for he detested the taste of sealing-wafers, and,
moreover, thought that the red colouring matter in them was bad for the
stomach. 'How much money is there?' he asked, seeing that the secretary
had finished his task.
'Two hundred and fifty gold ducats, Eminence,' answered the latter, and
his dirty crooked fingers poured the gold back into the leathern purse.
When that was done, and the wet wafer had been slipped into its place
and pressed, the secretary handed the letter to the Cardinal for him to
address it. Instead of doing so at once, however, he turned to Ortensia,
who had been watching the proceedings in silent anxiety.
'Madam,' the great man began, in a suave tone, 'knowing everything, as I
do, you may well imagine that I am anxious to spare you the grief of
seeing your husband condemned to the galleys.'
'The galleys!' cried Ortensia in extreme terror. 'Merciful heavens!'
The Cardinal went on speaking with the utmost coolness and without
heeding her emotion.
'If what my nephew believed last night could be proved true, madam, your
husband's neck would be in great danger, and you yourself would probably
spend several years in a place of solitude and penance.'
Ortensia's horror increased, and she could no longer speak.
'Yes, madam,' continued the Cardinal inexorably, 'I have no hesitation
in saying so. My nephew believed that you and your husband had purposely
enticed him to a clandestine meeting with you, in order to have him
thrown out of a window, at the imminent risk of his life, and otherwise
maltreated by hired ruffians. It was little short of a miracle that he
reached his home alive, and he had no sooner stepped from his carriage
than your husband put the finishing stroke to the series of atrocities
by breaking his nose. I do not say that this was a blow at the Church,
madam, but it was a violent blow at the authority of the Pope's
government. I take it that a blow which can break a man's nose is a
violent blow. That is the argument for the prosecution.'
Ortensia stared wildly at the colourless face and the steely eyes that
met her own.
'Happily,' the Cardinal went on, after a short but impressive pause, 'my
nephew does not know everything. There are some arguments for the
defence: that purse is a good one, madam, and the wound you have
received is better; my own universal knowledge fills the lacunae that are
left, so far as concerns what happened at the house in Via di Santa
Sabina. Two Bravi, who have undertaken to murder you, thought they could
earn an additional thousand crowns by selling you to my nephew, whose
admiration for you is unhappily a matter of notoriety. Their plan was
then to drive him away, after which one of them was to carry you off,
while the other remained behind to murder your husband. Fortunately for
you they quarrelled, you made your escape, and your excellent good sense
made you come directly to me, which, in the case of a lady of your noble
birth, is a clear proof of innocence. Moreover, I know it to be true
that the two Bravi were found fighting desperately in the street during
the night, but when the watch fell upon them to separate them they
turned their swords against the officers of the law and sent the
cowardly pack flying, though not one of the fellows had anything worse
than a pin-prick to show. Your former friends are very accomplished
swordsmen, madam! That is the argument for your defence, and it
satisfies me.'
'Thank heaven!' exclaimed Ortensia, whose face had relaxed while he had
been speaking. 'Then my husband will be let out, after all!'
'That depends on His Holiness, not on me,' answered the churchman. 'It
may depend on your husband himself. Your friends'--he emphasised the
word with a cool smile--'your friends the Bravi are responsible for
everything except my nephew's broken nose, but that is a serious matter
enough. Bertini'--he turned to the secretary--'you may go. I wished you
to hear what I have just said. Order one of my own chairs to be ready to
take this lady to the palace in five minutes.'
Bertini bowed and left the room. It was not until the door was shut that
the Cardinal spoke again.
'His Holiness expressed to me only last night his august desire to hear
your husband sing, and regretted his inability to go to the Lateran for
that purpose. His Holiness has now spent a good night and it may be
hoped that he will be able to rise this afternoon. Your husband shall
have an opportunity of singing to him before supper. That is all I can
manage for him. He must do the rest.'
'Thank you, thank you!' cried Ortensia gratefully. 'Only----'
'What, madam?'
'How will he be able to sing, after such a night, if he is kept in
prison? He will have a sore throat from the dampness, he will be worn
out with anxiety, and weak for want of food! What chance can he possibly
have of moving the Pope to pity?'
'I have attended to that, madam,' the Cardinal answered, tapping the
letter that lay under his hand. 'The Maestro shall lack nothing which
can restore his strength and his voice.'
He rang his little bell twice in quick succession, and at the same time
he wrote an address on the folded paper. A man in black entered before
he had finished. Then he scattered red sand on the writing, and poured
it back into the sand-box.
'To Tor di Nona,' he said. 'Tell the messenger to gallop.'
The man was gone in an instant.
'You will find a chair downstairs,' the churchman said. 'The men are to
take you to your apartment in my palace.'
'But if the porter----' Ortensia began to object.
'He will hardly venture to turn my liveries from my own door, madam. Go
to your rooms and rest. You will find that your maid has left you. She
fled in terror last night, and left Rome an hour ago in the coach for
Naples. I saw no reason for having her stopped, but if she has robbed
you I will have her taken. Your husband has a queer hunch-backed
man-servant called Cucurullo; he looks like Guidi, I remember, the young
poet who ran away from our royal guest the other day.'
The Cardinal smiled vaguely, and rubbed his chin with his ring.
'He is downstairs,' Ortensia said. 'He is a good creature,' she added
quickly, fearing lest the great man was about to tell her something to
Cucurullo's discredit.
'An excellent fellow,' the Cardinal assented readily. 'I was going to
say that if your husband wished to part with him, I should be glad to
take him into my service. You will not suspect me of entertaining any
foolish superstition about the good fortune which hunchbacks are
supposed to bring with them, I am sure! That is ridiculous. Besides, I
would not for the world displease the poor fellow, if my suggestion were
not agreeable to him, as well as to your husband, madam, believe me!'
Even in her anxiety Ortensia was inclined to smile, for it was clear
that the master of Rome believed in the deformed man's supernatural gift
as profoundly as any beggar in the street who tried to touch the hump
unnoticed.
'I will speak with my husband about it,' Ortensia said. 'Only let me see
him,' she added, in a pleading tone.
'For the present, madam, I have done all I can, except to promise you
that if His Holiness is well enough to hear the Maestro sing, you shall
be present. Meanwhile, you must go home, and remain in your rooms till I
send for you.'
He held out his ring for her to kiss, and she saw that she must go.
'I thank your Eminence with all my heart,' she said, and with a deep
courtesy she turned and left the room.
Her heart was lighter than when she had entered it, for though she did
not like the Cardinal, who was liked by few, she could not help
believing that he was in earnest in all he had said, and really meant to
give Stradella the only chance left to him of escaping some heavy
penalty for his hastiness. But she longed to see him more than ever, and
to repeat all she had just heard exactly as it had been said.
As she retraced her steps from the study to the stairs, accompanied by a
servant who showed her the way, she looked about her in surprise, for
she had not the slightest recollection of anything she now saw, and was
amazed at the distance she had traversed without noticing anything. She
could have sworn that she had gone up by an ordinary staircase, but
instead, it was a winding one, and everything else she saw surprised her
in the same way.
Cucurullo was standing beside the large sedan chair with the four
porters who wore the Cardinal's livery of scarlet and gold. Two of them
were to carry her, while one walked before and the fourth followed
behind, both the latter being ready to take their turns as bearers at
regular intervals.
When they reached the palace a quarter of an hour later, they did not
even pause at the lodge, and it was with considerable astonishment that
Gaetano saw Ortensia enter in such state, followed by Cucurullo, who
smiled pleasantly as he passed.
Ortensia stepped from the chair at her own door and thanked the men, for
she had nothing to give them; but the hunchback always had money, and
when he had unlocked the door he handed them a silver florin with an air
as grand as if he had been at least the seneschal of the palace.
Ortensia went on to the sitting-room, still almost unconscious of being
tired; but she had hardly entered, followed closely by Cucurullo, when
her knees suddenly gave way under her, her head swam, and she had barely
time to stagger to the long sofa before she fainted away, utterly worn
out with fatigue and emotion.
She came to herself before long, and Cucurullo was leaning over her and
cooling her forehead and temples with a handkerchief soaked with Felsina
water. But she only sighed as she recognised him, and then he saw that
she fell peacefully asleep, just as she lay. He drew the blinds closer
together to darken the room, and went off to shave himself and restore
his usually neat and clean appearance, which had suffered somewhat
during a whole night spent out of doors.
But Ortensia was outwardly in a far worse plight as she lay sleeping on
the hard sofa, for her pretty silk skirt was soiled and torn at the
edges, her little kid shoes were splashed with mud, covered with dust,
and half worn out by her walking in rough places; the blood-stained
handkerchief on her arm told its own tale, too, and her glorious hair
was all disordered and tangled. Yet, somehow, she was not a whit less
beautiful than when she had left the house with her husband on the
previous afternoon fresh from Pina's skilful hands.
She was dreaming of Stradella now, after she had been asleep more than
four hours, and the sun outside was high and hot. It was not a vision of
terror, either, or of tormenting anxiety; she thought he had come back
to her, and that it had all been a mistake, or a bad dream within the
present sweet one; for he was just the same as when she had seen him
last, his gaze was clear and loving, his touch was tender, and when his
lips met hers----
She awoke with a startled cry of joy, and it was all true; for he was
kneeling beside her, and she felt his kiss before her eyes opened to see
themselves in his. It had all been a bad dream that had turned to a
sweet one and ended in the delicious truth. He had not left her since
she had rested there, on that same sofa after dinner, and they had not
yet been to the Lateran--it was still yesterday.
Then she remembered, and put down her feet to the pavement as she sat up
in his arms, and framed his face in her hands, pushing it a little away
from her to see it better.
No; he was himself, his straight dark hair was neatly combed, his cheek
was smooth and fresh and cool, his collar was spotless and lay over his
dark coat just as it always did. She was either still asleep and
dreaming, or she had dreamed every terror she remembered. To be sure
that she was awake, she opened and shut her eyes several times very
quickly, and then gazed at him in sweet surprise.
[Illustration: 'She sat up in his arms and framed
his face in her hands']
'Beloved, am I awake? I do not understand----'
Instead of answering her in words, he kissed her again, and the long
thrill that made her quiver from head to foot told her that she was
indeed awake.
Presently they began to talk, and each told what the other could not
know, till there was nothing more to tell; moreover, Ortensia's tale was
by far the longer, and Stradella's eyes darkened more than once at what
he heard, but whenever she saw that look in his face, she kissed it
away, and told him that they were safe now, if only he could sing to the
Pope to-day as he had sung yesterday for her in the Lateran.
'But what can I sing?' he asked.
'"Lord have mercy on us!"' answered Ortensia, almost laughing. 'That
must be the meaning of the song, at all events.'
'A _miserere_?' Stradella was surprised at the suggestion, for old men
do not usually like dirges.
'No, sweetheart, I did not mean that! It must not be in Latin, but in
Italian, an appeal from you, as a man who has committed a fault, to the
Pope, as a sovereign, who has power to forgive it if he will.'
'Do you mean that I am to compose the words and the music between now
and sunset?' asked the musician, somewhat startled.
'Why not? Did you not compose the greatest love song you ever wrote in a
few hours, and for me? What is the use of being a man of genius, my
beloved? Just for that, and nothing else!'
'But I am not a man of genius! And I have spent the night in prison!'
'You look as fresh as a May morning!' laughed Ortensia. 'Whereas I am
all bedraggled, and scratched, and dishevelled, and everything I should
not be.'
'I dressed while you were sleeping,' answered Stradella. 'There was
plenty of time!'
'Do you mean to say that you had the inhuman cruelty not to wake me the
instant you came home? And you pretend to love me! I shall never believe
you again. But that only proves that you are a man of genius, as I
said--you have not half a heart amongst you, you great artists! But I
will have my revenge, for I shall go to my own room, and shut myself up
and make myself fit to be seen, while you compose your song!'
'And who will dress your beautiful hair now that Pina has run away?'
laughed Stradella.
'I will. And if I cannot, a certain man of genius, called Alessandro
Stradella, may try his hand at it!'
She ran away laughing, but he caught her before she reached her own
door, and though she struggled, he kissed her on her neck, just where
the red-gold ringlets grew, low down behind her little ear. They behaved
like a pair of runaway lovers, as they were.
But when he was alone his face grew grave and thoughtful, for he knew
there was great danger still. He had been sent home under a guard, a
prisoner still, and there were sentinels outside both doors of the
apartment, who would be relieved at intervals all day, till the time
came for him to be taken to the Quirinal. He might have been somewhat
reassured if he had known that Don Alberto himself was also under arrest
in his bedroom, by the Cardinal's orders; and he might have felt some
satisfaction if he could have seen his enemy's injured nose, swollen to
an unnatural size and covered with sticking-plaster, and if he could
have also realised that it still hurt quite dreadfully; but, on the
other hand, these latter palliative circumstances were likely to make
the real trouble even worse, since that same nose was not to be classed
with common noses, but as a _nasus nepotis Pontificis_, that is,
nepotic, belonging to a Pope's nephew, and therefore quasi-pontifical,
and not to be pulled, struck, or otherwise maltreated with impunity.
Nevertheless, Stradella forgot all about the injured feature and its
possessor in a few minutes, when he had tuned his lute and was sitting
by the table with a sheet of music and a pen at his elbow, for he
thought aloud in soft sounds that often ceased at first and then began
again, but little by little linked themselves together in a melody that
has not perished to this day; and with the music the words came,
touchingly simple, but heart-felt as an angel's tears.
Ortensia heard his voice through the door, and listened, half dressed,
with a happy smile; for she knew the moods of his genius better than he
knew them himself, and she understood that the song he was weaving with
voice and lute would be worthy of him, as it is; for in the growth of
music, the fine art, his masterpiece of oratorio are left behind and
forgotten, being too thin and primitive for an age that began with
Beethoven and ended in Richard Wagner; but his songs have not lost their
hold on those simpler natures that are still responsive to a melody and
vibrate to a perfect human voice.
It was late in the afternoon when Stradella had finished his work, and
the last note and rest of 'Pieta Signore' were written down. The two had
dined on the supper which Pina and Cucurullo had prepared for them on
the previous evening, and in the warm hours Ortensia had fallen asleep
again for a little while, still listening to the song and hearing it in
her dreams. But when Stradella was sure that nothing more was to be
changed, she opened her eyes wide and got up; and she came and knelt at
his knees as she had done on that last night in the balcony of the old
inn; and then he sang what he had composed, from first to last, in a
voice that just filled her ears when it was loudest, and still echoed in
her heart when it sank to a mere breath. When he was silent at last
there were tears in her eyes, and she kissed his hand as it lay passive
on the silent strings of the lute, while he bent down over her and his
lips touched her hair.
They had not much time left after that, as it seemed to them, when they
remembered it all and looked back on one of the happiest days in their
young lives. The last time they kissed was when they were ready to go
downstairs to the carriage that was waiting to take them to the
Quirinal. Strange to say, Stradella felt a little faint then, and his
heart was beating almost painfully, whereas Ortensia was quite calm and
confident, and smiled at the two sbirri in black who were ready on the
landing to escort the prisoners to the Cardinal's presence.
They were there at last, in a spacious room where everything was either
white, or gilded, or of gold, the walls, the furniture, the big
fireplace, the heavy carpet spread on the marble floor, where the Pope
sat in his gilded chair, himself all in white, with a small white silk
skullcap set far back on his silvery hair. His face was almost white,
too, and the short beard on his chin was like snow, for he was over
eighty years of age, thin, and in ill-health; but the face was kindly,
with soft dark eyes that still had life in them; and the shadow of a
smile flickered round the faded lips as Stradella and Ortensia knelt
together at his feet.
On his left side stood Cardinal Altieri, erect and motionless in his
purple cassock with red buttons, and his scarlet silk cloak. His face
was grave and inscrutable.
'Holy Father,' he had said, as the pair knelt down, 'these are the
prisoners who implore your pardon.'
That was all he said, and for some moments the Pope did not speak,
though he nodded his snowy head twice, in answer to the Cardinal's
words, and his gentle eyes looked from the one young face to the other
as if reading the meaning of each.
'You sang to me a year ago, my son,' he said at length to Stradella. 'Go
now and stand a little way off and make music, for though I am old I
hear well; and do your best, for I will be your judge. If I find you
have even greater mastery than last year, your skill shall atone for
your rude handling of my nephew; but if you sing less well, you must
have an opportunity of practising and perfecting your art in solitude
for a few months.'
If Stradella had dared to glance at the kindly face just then, he would
certainly have noticed how the dark eyes brightened, and almost
twinkled. But Ortensia, being a woman, and still full of girlhood's
innocent daring, was boldly looking up at the Pope while he spoke; and
he smiled at her, and one shadowy hand went out and rested on the black
veil she had pinned upon her hair.
'Go and stand near your husband while he sings to me,' he said. 'You
will give him courage, I am sure!'
The two rose together, and Stradella took up the lute he had laid beside
him on the floor when he had knelt down at the Pope's feet. He and
Ortensia stepped back half-a-dozen paces, and the musician stood still,
but Ortensia moved a little farther away and to one side. The windows
were wide open to the west, and the rich evening light flooded the white
and gold room, and illumined the figure of the aged Pope, the strong
features of the tall grey-haired Cardinal beside him, and the two young
faces of the singer and his wife.
Stradella's heart beat fast and faintly, and his fingers trembled when
they touched the strings and made the first minor chord. As long as he
lived he remembered how at that very moment two swallows shot by the
open window, uttering their eager little note; the room swam with him,
and he thought he was going to reel and fall. For a moment he saw
nothing and knew nothing, except that he had reached the end of the
short prelude on the lute, and that he must find voice to sing for his
liberty and Ortensia's, if not for his life.
'Pieta, Signore----'
The first words broke from his chilled lips in a low cry of despair, so
strange and moving, and yet so musical, that the Cardinal started
visibly, and the Pope raised his white head and looked slowly down the
room, as if some suffering creature must be there at the very point of
death, and crying low for pity and forgiveness. Even Ortensia, who had
heard all, could not believe her ears, though she knew her husband's
genius well.
'Signor pieta----' he sang again.
Fear was gone now, but art poured out the appeal for pardon with supreme
power to move, roused to outdo itself, perhaps, by that first piteous
cry that had broken from the master-singer's lips. The plaintive notes
floated on the golden air as if a culprit spirit were pleading for
forgiveness at the gates of paradise, a wonder to hear.
Ortensia held her breath, her eyes fixed on the aged Pontiff's rapt
face; for he was gazing at the singer while he listened to a strain such
as he had never heard in all his eighty years of life; and his kind old
eyes were dewy with compassion.
The last note lingered on the air and died away, and there was silence
in the great room while one might have counted ten. Then the shadowy
white hand was slowly stretched out in a beckoning gesture, and the Pope
spoke.
'Come,' he said, 'you are forgiven.'
They came and knelt at his feet again, and he, leaning forward in his
great chair, bent his head towards them.
'You were pardoned in my heart already, my son,' he said to Stradella,
'for I have been told the truth, and the provocation you suffered was
great. Go free, and fear nothing, for while you dwell under our care in
Rome you shall be as safe as I who speak to you. Go free, and use the
great gift you have received from heaven to raise men's hearts
heavenwards, as you have raised mine to-day.'
He gave his hand to Stradella and then to Ortensia, and they kissed the
great ring with devout gratitude, deeply touched by his words. Then he
spoke again, and still more kindly.
'Will you ask anything of me before you go?'
'Your blessing on us, as man and wife, Holy Father,' Stradella answered.
'Most willingly, my children.'
With fatherly tenderness he joined their right hands under his left, and
then, lifting his right above their bowed heads, and looking up, he
blessed them very solemnly.
* * * * *
I shall tell no more, but leave the singer and his young wife to their
happiness. If any one would know the end that followed years afterwards,
he will find it in chronicles that are in almost every great library. I
shall only say that while those two lived they loved, as few have, and
that Stradella's fame was greater when he breathed his last than it had
ever been before; and in Italy he is not forgotten yet.
But whether Trombin and Gambardella will ever stroll into the
story-teller's dreamland again, and act other parts, he himself cannot
surely tell, nor does he know whether they will be welcome if they come.
Their names are not in the chronicles, as Stradella's and Ortensia's
are, as well as Pignaver's. The Venetian nobleman 'sent certain
assassins,' and that is all we know; and as for the names and faces and
figures I have given to the Bravi, I found them beyond the borders of
truth in the delicious Gardens of Irresponsibility, where many strange
people dwell together, who might be real, and may be alive some day, but
who have not yet made up their minds to exchange the flowery paths of
fiction for the stony roads and dusty lanes of this working-day world.
Mr. F. MARION CRAWFORD'S NOVELS
THE SARACINESCA SERIES
_In the binding of the Uniform Edition, each, $1.50_
Saracinesca
"The work has two distinct merits, either of which would serve to
make it great,--that of telling a perfect story in a perfect way,
and of giving a graphic picture of Roman society in the last days
of the Pope's temporal power.... The story is exquisitely
told."--_Boston Traveler._
Sant' Ilario. A Sequel to "Saracinesca"
"A singularly powerful and beautiful story.... It fulfils every
requirement of artistic fiction. It brings out what is most
impressive in human action, without owing any of its effectiveness
to sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent in evolution,
accordant with experience, graphic in description, penetrating in
analysis, and absorbing in interest."--_New York Tribune._
Don Orsino. A Sequel to "Sant' Ilario"
"Perhaps the cleverest novel of the year.... There is not a dull
paragraph in the book, and the reader may be assured that once
begun, the story of Don Orsino will fascinate him until its
close."--_The Critic._
Taquisara
"To Mr. Crawford's Roman novels belongs the supreme quality of
uniting subtly drawn characters to a plot of uncommon
interest."--_Chicago Tribune._
Corleone
"Mr. Crawford is the novelist born ... a natural story-teller, with
wit, imagination, and insight added to a varied and profound
knowledge of social life."--_The Inter-Ocean_, Chicago.
Casa Braccio. _In two volumes, $2.00._ Illustrated by A. Castaigne.
"Mr. Crawford's books have life, pathos, and insight; he tells a
dramatic story with many exquisite touches."--_New York Sun._
The White Sister
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
Mr. F. MARION CRAWFORD'S NOVELS
NOVELS OF ROMAN SOCIAL LIFE
_In decorated cloth covers, each, $1.50_
A Roman Singer
"One of the earliest and best works of this famous novelist....
None but a genuine artist could have made so true a picture of
human life, crossed by human passions and interwoven with human
weakness. It is a perfect specimen of literary art."--_The Newark
Advertiser._
Marzio's Crucifix
"We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford possesses
in an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. It is
as if it could not have been written otherwise, so naturally does
the story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent is the
sequence of incident after incident. As a story, _Marzio's
Crucifix_ is perfectly constructed."--_New York Commercial
Advertiser._
Heart of Rome. A Tale of the Lost Water
"Mr. Crawford has written a story of absorbing interest, a story
with a genuine thrill in it; he has drawn his characters with a
sure and brilliant touch, and he has said many things surpassingly
well."--_New York Times Saturday Review._
Cecilia. A Story of Modern Rome
"That F. Marion Crawford is a master of mystery needs no new
telling.... His latest novel, _Cecilia_, is as weird as anything he
has done since the memorable _Mr. Isaacs_.... A strong,
interesting, dramatic story, with the picturesque Roman setting
beautifully handled as only a master's touch could do
it."--_Philadelphia Evening Telegraph._
Whosoever Shall Offend
"It is a story sustained from beginning to end by an ever
increasing dramatic quality."--_New York Evening Post._
Pietro Ghisleri
"The imaginative richness, the marvellous ingenuity of plot, the
power and subtlety of the portrayal of character, the charm of the
romantic environment,--the entire atmosphere, indeed,--rank this
novel at once among the great creations."--_The Boston Budget._
To Leeward
"The four characters with whose fortunes this novel dealt are,
perhaps, the most brilliantly executed portraits in the whole of
Mr. Crawford's long picture gallery, while for subtle insight into
the springs of human passion and for swift dramatic action none of
the novels surpasses this one."--_The News and Courier._
A Lady of Rome
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
Mr. F. MARION CRAWFORD'S NOVELS
Mr. Crawford has no equal as a writer of brilliant cosmopolitan
fiction, in which the characters really belong to the chosen scene
and the story interest is strong. His novels possess atmosphere in
a high degree.
Mr. Isaacs (India)
Its scenes are laid in Simla, chiefly. This is the work which first
placed its author among the most brilliant novelists of his day.
Greifenstein (The Black Forest)
"... Another notable contribution to the literature of the day. It
possesses originality in its conception and is a work of unusual
ability. Its interest is sustained to the close, and it is an
advance even on the previous work of this talented author. Like all
Mr. Crawford's work, this novel is crisp, clear, and vigorous, and
will be read with a great deal of interest."--_New York Evening
Telegram._
Zoroaster (Persia)
"It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and
dignity of its language; but its men and women are not men and
women of a play. By the naturalness of their conversation and
behavior they seem to live and lay hold of our human sympathy more
than the same characters on a stage could possibly do."--_The New
York Times._
The Witch of Prague (Bohemia)
_"A fantastic tale," illustrated by W. J. Hennessy._
"The artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is
constructed and carried out is admirable and delightful.... Mr.
Crawford has scored a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale
is sustained throughout.... A very remarkable, powerful, and
interesting story."--_New York Tribune._
Paul Patoff (Constantinople)
"Mr. Crawford has a marked talent for assimilating local color, not
to make mention of a broader historical sense. Even though he may
adopt, as it is the romancer's right to do, the extreme romantic
view of history, it is always a living and moving picture that he
evolves for us, varied and stirring."--_New York Evening Post._
Marietta (Venice)
"No living writer can surpass Mr. Crawford in the construction of a
complicated plot and the skilful unravelling of the tangled
skein."--_Chicago Record-Herald._
"He has gone back to the field of his earlier triumphs, and has,
perhaps, scored the greatest triumph of them all."--_New York
Herald._
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
Mr. F. MARION CRAWFORD'S NOVELS
_In the binding of the new Uniform Edition, each, $1.50_
Via Crucis. A Romance of the Second Crusade. Illustrated by Louis Loeb
"_Via Crucis_ ... A tale of former days, possessing an air of
reality and an absorbing interest such as few writers since Scott
have been able to accomplish when dealing with historical
characters."--_Boston Transcript._
In the Palace of the King (Spain)
"_In the Palace of the King_ is a masterpiece; there is a
picturesqueness, a sincerity which will catch all readers in an
agreeable storm of emotion, and even leave a hardened reviewer
impressed and delighted."--_Literature_, London.
With the Immortals
"The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only to
a writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current of modern
thought and progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in
proper literary clothing, could be successfully attempted only by
one whose active literary ability should be fully equalled by his
power of assimilative knowledge both literary and scientific, and
no less by his courage and capacity for hard work. The book will be
found to have a fascination entirely new for the habitual reader of
novels. Indeed, Mr. Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers
quite above the ordinary plane of novel interest."--_Boston
Advertiser._
Children of the King (Calabria)
"One of the most artistic and exquisitely finished pieces of work
that Crawford has produced. The picturesque setting, Calabria and
its surroundings, the beautiful Sorrento and the Gulf of Salerno,
with the bewitching accessories that climate, sea, and sky afford,
give Mr. Crawford rich opportunities to show his rare descriptive
powers. As a whole the book is strong and beautiful through its
simplicity, and ranks among the choicest of the author's many fine
productions."--_Public Opinion._
A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled, a Tale of Arabia (Munich)
"Two gems of subtle analysis of human passion and
motive."--_Times._
"The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Crawford done
more brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism is only
the case and cover for those intense feelings which, placed under
no matter what humble conditions, produce the most dramatic and the
most tragic situations.... This is a secret of genius, to take the
most coarse and common material, the meanest surroundings, the most
sordid material prospects, and out of the vehement passions which
sometimes dominate all human beings to build up with these poor
elements, scenes and passages the dramatic and emotional power of
which at once enforce attention and awaken the profoundest
interest."--_New York Tribune._
Arethusa (Constantinople)
Dr. Cooper, in _The Bookman_, once gave to Mr. Crawford the title
which best marks his place in modern fiction: "the prince of
storytellers."
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
Mr. F. MARION CRAWFORD'S NOVELS
WITH SCENES LAID IN ENGLAND AND AMERICA
_In the binding of the Uniform Edition_
A Tale of a Lonely Parish
"It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this
brief and vivid story.... It is doubly a success, being full of
human sympathy, as well as thoroughly artistic in its nice
balancing of the unusual with the commonplace, the clever
juxtaposition of innocence and guilt, comedy and tragedy,
simplicity and intrigue."--_Critic._
Dr. Claudius. A True Story
The scene changes from Heidelberg to New York, and much of the
story develops during the ocean voyage.
"There is a satisfying quality in Mr. Crawford's strong, vital,
forceful stories."--_Boston Herald._
An American Politician. The scenes are laid in Boston
"It need scarcely be said that the story is skilfully and
picturesquely written, portraying sharply individual characters in
well-defined surroundings."--_New York Commercial Advertiser._
The Three Fates
"Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his best qualities as a
student of human nature and his finest resources as a master of an
original and picturesque style to bear upon this story. Taken for
all in all, it is one of the most pleasing of all his productions
in fiction, and it affords a view of certain phases of American, or
perhaps we should say of New York, life that have not hitherto been
treated with anything like the same adequacy and
felicity."--_Boston Beacon._
Marion Darche
"Full enough of incident to have furnished material for three or
four stories.... A most interesting and engrossing book. Every page
unfolds new possibilities, and the incidents multiply
rapidly."--_Detroit Free Press._
"We are disposed to rank _Marion Darche_ as the best of Mr.
Crawford's American stories."--_The Literary World._
Katharine Lauderdale
The Ralstons. A Sequel to "Katharine Lauderdale"
"Mr. Crawford at his best is a great novelist, and in Katharine
Lauderdale we have him at his best."--_Boston Daily Advertiser._
"A most admirable novel, excellent in style, flashing with humor,
and full of the ripest and wisest reflections upon men and
women."--_The Westminster Gazette._
"It is the first time, we think, in American fiction that any such
breadth of view has shown itself in the study of our social
framework."--_Life._
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
Mr. F. MARION CRAWFORD'S
LATER NOVELS--THE SINGER TRILOGY
_Three novels, each an independent, interesting episode from the life of
Margaret Donne, the fascinating English girl who later became the most
famous lyric soprano of her day._
_Each, illustrated, $1.50_
Fair Margaret
tells of its heroine's student days, of the conflicting claims of
lovers and a career; of a retired opera singer in Paris whose
portrait alone makes the book one to be treasured by those who
know; and, in brief, of a girl's first glimpse of the great unknown
world beyond the footlights.
The Primadonna
"Mr. Crawford is at his best in this romance. He tells an absorbing
story, and he places at the centre of it a woman whose character is
full of interest.... It is a dramatic beginning, and Mr. Crawford
goes on as he begins ... the whole tangled business becomes more
and more exciting and we follow the Primadonna through the
proceedings with breathless interest."--_New York Tribune._
The Diva's Ruby
"F. Marion Crawford is one of the few writers who have mastered the
art of writing sequels that are as vital and as absorbing as the
original novels ... sequels wherein the finding of a character
mentioned in an earlier story gives us the full delight of meeting
an old friend.... This delicate paradoxical evolution ... is art,
clean, deft, easy, dexterous art. There are not half a dozen men in
literature to-day who could do these things consistently."--_New
York Times Review._
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
Mr. JAMES LANE ALLEN'S NOVELS
_Each, cloth, 12mo, $1.50_
The Choir Invisible
_This can also be had in a special edition illustrated by Orson Lowell,
$2.50_
"One reads the story for the story's sake, and then re-reads the
book out of pure delight in its beauty. The story is American to
the very core.... Mr. Allen stands to-day in the front rank of
American novelists. _The Choir Invisible_ will solidify a
reputation already established and bring into clear light his rare
gifts as an artist. For this latest story is as genuine a work of
art as has come from an American hand."--HAMILTON MABIE in
_The Outlook_.
The Reign of Law. A Tale of the Kentucky Hempfields
"Mr. Allen has a style as original and almost as perfectly finished
as Hawthorne's, and he has also Hawthorne's fondness for spiritual
suggestion that makes all his stories rich in the qualities that
are lacking in so many novels of the period.... If read in the
right way, it cannot fail to add to one's spiritual
possessions."--_San Francisco Chronicle._
The Mettle of the Pasture
"It may be that _The Mettle of the Pasture_ will live and become a
part of our literature; it certainly will live far beyond the
allotted term of present-day fiction. Our principal concern is that
it is a notable novel, that it ranks high in the range of American
and English fiction, and that it is worth the reading, the
re-reading, and the continuous appreciation of those who care for
modern literature at its best."--By E. F. E. in the _Boston
Transcript_.
Summer in Arcady. A Tale of Nature _Cloth, $1.25_
"This story by James Lane Allen is one of the gems of the season.
It is artistic in its setting, realistic and true to nature and
life in its descriptions, dramatic, pathetic, tragic, in its
incidents; indeed, a veritable masterpiece that must become
classic. It is difficult to give an outline of the story; it is one
of the stories which do not outline; it must be read."--_Boston
Daily Advertiser._
_Shorter Stories_
The Blue Grass Region of Kentucky _$1.50_
Flute and Violin, and Other Kentucky Tales _$1.50_
The Bride of the Mistletoe _$1.25_
A Kentucky Cardinal. _Illustrated_ _$1.00_
Aftermath. A Sequel to "A Kentucky Cardinal" _$1.00_
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
Mr. ROBERT HERRICK'S NOVELS
_Cloth, extra, gilt tops, each $1.50_
Mr. W. D. Howells says in _The North American Review_: "What I should
finally say of his work is that it is more broadly based than that of
any other American novelist of his generation.... Mr. Herrick's fiction
is a force for the higher civilization which to be widely felt needs
only to be widely known."
The Gospel of Freedom
"A novel that may truly be called the greatest study of social
life, in a broad and very much up-to-date sense, that has ever been
contributed to American fiction."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._
The Web of Life
"It is strong in that it faithfully depicts many phases of American
life, and uses them to strengthen a web of fiction, which is most
artistically wrought out."--_Buffalo Express._
Jock o' Dreams, or the Real World
"The title of the book has a subtle intention. It indicates, and is
true to the verities in doing so, the strange dreamlike quality of
life to the man who has not yet fought his own battles, or come
into conscious possession of his will--only such battles bite into
the consciousness."--_Chicago Tribune._
The Common Lot
"It grips the reader tremendously.... It is the drama of a human
soul the reader watches ... the finest study of human motive that
has appeared for many a day."--_The World To-day._
The Memoirs of an American Citizen. Illustrated with about fifty
drawings by F. B. Masters.
"Mr. Herrick's book is a book among many, and he comes nearer to
reflecting a certain kind of recognizable, contemporaneous American
spirit than anybody else has yet done."--_New York Times._
Together
"An able book, remarkably so, and one which should find a place in
the library of any woman who is not a fool."--Editorial in _The New
York American_.
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, 64-66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
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| Transcriber's Note: |
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| Typographical errors corrected in text: |
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| Page 60: changed businesslike to business-like |
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| Page 153: changed guardroom to guard-room |
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| Page 299: changed made to make |
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| Page 337: changed shodowy to shadowy |
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