CHAPTER VI
Gigia's Opinion
The aged monk of St. Apollinare, after watching Paolina as she departedfrom the Basilica, and took the path towards the forest, returned intothe church to his devotions at the altar of the saint, as has been said.But he found himself unable to concentrate his attention as usual, noton the meaning of the words of the litanies he uttered,--that, it may beimagined, few such worshippers do, or even attempt to do,--but on suchdevotional thoughts as, on other occasions, constituted his mentalattitude during the hours he spent before the altar.
He could not prevent his mind from straying to thoughts of the girl whohad just left him; of certain long-sleeping recollections of his ownpast, which her name had recalled to him; of her very manifest emotionat the sight of the couple in the bagarino, and the too easyinterpretation of the meaning of that emotion; and specially of herimplied intention of taking the same route that they had taken.
He thought of these things, and a certain sense of uneasiness andmisgiving came over him. The young artist had spoken kindly and sweetlyto him. She had seemed to him wonderfully pretty,--and that is notwithout its influence even on eyes over which the cowl had been drawnfor more than three-score years; she was a fellow-Venetian too,--andthat with Italians, who find themselves in a stranger city, is astronger tie of fellowship than the people of less divided nations canreadily appreciate; and, above all, there were motives connected withthose awakened remembrances of the old man which made her an object ofinterest to him. And the result of all this was, that he was uneasy atseeing her depart on the errand on which he suspected that she had gone.
After awhile he arose from his knees, and, returning to the great opendoor of the church, stood awhile irresolutely gazing out towards theforest to the southward. He could not see the farmhouse, which has beenso frequently mentioned, from where he stood, because it is to theeastward of the church. After awhile he strolled out and along the road,till he came in sight of the house on the border of the forest. Butthere was no human being to be seen. Then, apparently having taken aresolution, he went into the dilapidated remains of the old convent, andascended a stair to the room where his sole companion, the lay brother,was ill in bed. He gave the sick man a potion, placed a cup with drinkby his side, smoothed his pillow, and replaced a crucifix at thebed-foot before the patient's eyes; and then, with a word ofconsolation, descended again to the road, and after a long look towardsthe forest, slowly moved off the nearest border of it.
It was between eight and nine when Father Fabiano, moving slowly andirresolutely, thus sauntered off in the direction of the forest; but itwas nearly time for him to sound the "Angelus" at midday before hereturned.
Perhaps it was the fear that he might be late for this duty,--a taskwhich devolved on him, the lay brother being ill,--that made his steps,as he returned, very different from those with which he had set forth.He came back hurrying, with a haggard, wild terror in his eyes, shakingin every limb, and with great drops of perspiration standing on hisbrow. One would have said that all this evident perturbation could notbe caused only by the fear of being late to ring the "Angelus." Hisfirst care, however, was to pay another visit to his patient.
"Ah! Padre, you are going to have your turn again. It is early thisyear. All this wet weather. Why, your hand is shaking worse than mine!"said the sick man, as the old monk handed him his draught. And it wastrue enough that not only Father Fabiano's hands were shaking, but hewas, indeed, trembling all over; and any one but a sick man, lying asthe fevered lay-brother was lying, could not have failed to see that itwas from mental agitation, rather than from the shivering of incipientague, that he was suffering.
"You think of getting well yourself, brother Simone. I have not got thefever yet," said the monk, making an effort to control himself and speakin his ordinary manner.
"May the saints grant that your reverence do not fall ill before I amable to get up, or I don't know what we should do."
"It is years, brother Simone, that make my hand shake, more than aguethis time, years, and many a former touch of the fever. I am not illthis time yet. And now I must go and ring the 'Angelus.'"
And the old monk did go, and the "Angelus" was duly rung. But BrotherSimone, as he lay upon his fevered bed, was very well able to tell thatthe rope was pulled by a very uncertain and unsteady hand. "Poor oldfellow! he's going fast! I wonder whether there's any chance of theirmoving me when he's gone?" thought Brother Simone to himself.
But Father Fabiano, for his own part, judged that prayer and penancewere more needed for the healing of his present disorder, than eitherbark or quinine. And when he had rung the bell, he betook himself againto the altar of St. Apollinare, and with cowl drawn over his head, andfrequent prostrations till his forehead touched the marble flags of thealtar-step, spent before it most of the remaining hours of that day.Nevertheless, it was true that, be the cause what it might, the agedfriar was ill, not in mind only, but also in the body. And before thehour of evensong came,--his coadjutor, Fra Simone, the lay-brother,being by that time so much better as to be able to crawl out,--FatherFabiano was fain to stretch himself on the pallet in his cell. And FraSimone took it quite as a matter of course in the ordinary order ofthings, that the father was laid up in his turn with an attack of feverand ague.
It was much about the same time that Father Fabiano had set out on thatwalk to the forest, from which he had returned in such a state ofagitation, that old Quinto Lalli, the prima donna's travellingcompanion, was made acquainted with the escapade of his adopteddaughter. Though she bore his name, the fact was that the old man was inno way related to the famous singer. But they had lived together in therelationship first of teacher and pupil, and then of father anddaughter, by mutual adoption ever since the first beginning of thesinger's public career; and they mutually represented to each other theonly family ties which either of them knew or recognized in the world.The old man had been several hours in bed, when Bianca had returned fromthe ball, at about five in the morning of that Ash Wednesday. And it wasnot till he came from his room, between eight and nine, that he heardfrom Gigia, Bianca's maid, that her mistress had not gone to bed, buthad only changed her dress, and taken a cup of coffee before going outwith the Marchese Ludovico more than an hour ago in a bagarino.
There was nothing sufficiently strange to the former habits of hisadopted daughter in such an escapade, or so unlike to many anotherfrolic of the brilliant Diva in former days, as to cause any very greatsurprise to the old singing-master--for such had been the originalvocation of Signor Lalli. Yet he seemed on this occasion to be not alittle annoyed at what she had done.
"And a very great fool she is for her pains," cried the old man, with anoath; "it is just the last thing she ought to have done--the very last.I really thought she had more sense!"
"I am sure, Signor Quinto, she has not had one bit of pleasure all thisCarnival. A nun couldn't have lived a quieter life, nor more shut upthan she has. With the exception of the old gentleman and the MarcheseLudovico, she has never seen a soul!"
The old gentleman thus alluded to, it may be necessary to explain, wasthe Marchese Lamberto. "And where's the use of never seeing a singlesoul, if she throws all that she has gained by it away in this manner?"
"Why, Santa Virgine, Signor Quinto! Where's the harm? Isn't the SignorLudovico the old one's own nephew?" expostulated Gigia shrilly.
"The old one, as you call him, is not a bit the more likely to like itfor that. It is just the very last thing she should have done. I dowonder she should not have more sense," grumbled Quinto.
"Misericordia! why what a piece of work about nothing! The old gentlemanwill never know anything about it, you may be very sure. He is safeenough in bed and asleep after his late hours, you may swear. Besides,it's both best and honestest to begin as you mean to go on, and accustomhim to what he's got to expect," said Gigia, fighting loyally for herside.
"All very well in good time. But it would be as well for Bianca to makesure first what she has got
to expect."
"Why, you don't suppose, Signor Quinto, nor yet that old Marchese don'tsuppose, I should think, that he's going to marry a woman like mymistress, to keep her caged up like a bird that's never to sing, exceptfor him?"
"I tell you, Gigia, and you would do well to tell her, and make herunderstand, that she is not Marchesa di Castelmare yet, and is notlikely to be, if this morning's work were to come to the ears of theMarchese. It is just the very worst thing she could have done; and Ishould have thought she must know that. I had rather that she shouldhave gone with any other man in the town."
"I am sure," said Gigia, with a virtuous toss of the head, "she wouldnot wish to go with any one of them."
"And she would wish to go with the Marchese Ludovico! There's all themischief. Just what I am afraid of. I tell you, Gigia, that if theMarchese Lamberto hears of her going off in this manner with his nephew,the game is all up. He would never forgive it."
"You will excuse me, Signor Quinto," said Gigia, with a demure air ofspeaking modestly on a subject which she perfectly well understood--"Youwill excuse me, if I tell you that I know a great deal better than that.There's men, Signor Quinto, who are in love because they like it; andthere's others who are in love whether they like it or no, because theycan't help themselves!"
"And you fancy the Marchese Lamberto is one of those who can't helphimself, eh?" grumbled Quinto discontentedly.
"If I ever saw a man who was so limed that he couldn't help himself,it's that poor creature of a Marchese! He's caught safe enough, you maytake my word for that, Signor Quinto. He's caught, and can't budge, Itell you--hand nor foot, body nor soul! Lord bless you, I know 'em. Why,do you think he'd ever have come near my mistress a second time if hecould have helped himself? He's not like your young 'uns, who come toamuse themselves. Likely enough, he'd give half of all he's worth thisday never to have set eyes on her; but, as for giving her up, he couldas soon give himself up!"
"Humph!" grunted the old singer, with a shrug, and a sound that was halfa sneer and half a chuckle. "I suppose he don't above half like theprice he has to pay for his plaything! But that don't make it wise inBianca to drive him to the wall more than need be. Limed and caught ashe is, he's one that may give her some trouble yet. For my part, I wishshe had not gone on this fool's errand this morning. Now, I will go andget my breakfast. I shall be back in half-an-hour. I expect SignorErcole Stadione here this morning."
Signor Ercole Stadione was the impresario of the Ravenna theatre.
"And if he comes before you are back, Signor Quinto?" asked Gigia.
"If he should come before I am back, let the boy call me from the cafe.And, Gigia, whenever he comes, you can let him understand, you know,that your mistress is in her own room,--resting after the ball, youknow. He's hand and glove with the Marchese."
"I wasn't born yesterday, Signor Quinto, though you seem to think so,"returned Gigia, as the old man began to descend the stairs.
Signor Quinto went to the cafe, and consumed his little cup of blackcoffee, with its abominable potion of so-called "rhum" in it, and themorsel of dry bread, which constituted his accustomed breakfast; andthen, as he was returning to his lodging, encountered the "impresario"in the street.
"Well met, Signor Lalli!" cried little Signor Ercole, cheerily. "I wason my way to your house to settle our little matters. I have not seenyou, I think, since Sunday night. The bustle of these last days of theCarnival! How divinely she sang that night! If Bellini could have heardher, it would have been the happiest day of his life."
"I am glad that you were contented, Signor Ercole."
"Contented! The whole city was enraptured. There never was such asuccess. You have got that little memorandum of articles--?"
"No. I've got the paper signed at Milan; but not--"
"Stay, let me see. True, true. I remember now. It remained with theMarchese. We shall want it, you know, just to put all in order. We cancall at the Palazzo Castelmare on our way, and ask the Marchese for it?"
"Will he be up at this hour, after last night's ball?" asked Quinto.
"He? The Marchese? One sees you are a stranger in Ravenna, my dear sir.I don't suppose the Marchese has ever been in bed after eight o'clockthe last quarter of a century. He is an early man, the Marchese,--anexample to us all in that, as in all else."
"Very well; then we can call for the paper on our way to my lodging; itis not much out of the way."
So they walked together to the Palazzo Castelmare, talking of thebrilliant success of the past theatrical season, and of the eminentqualities and virtues of the Marchese Lamberto; and when they reachedthe door the impresario desired the servant who answered the bell totell the Marchese that he, Signor Ercole, wished to speak with him, butwould not detain him a moment.
The Marchese, the man said, was not up yet. He, the servant, had been tohis door at the usual hour, but had received no answer to his knock; sothat it was evident that his master was still sleeping. He had been verylate the night before,--far later than was usual with him,--and no doubthe would ring his bell as soon as he waked.
"The fact is," said Signor Ercole, as he and Quinto Lalli turned awayfrom the door, "that the Marchese has not been well of late. He veryoften does me the honour of conversing with me,--I may say indeed ofconsulting me on subjects of art;--and I grieve to say that I have oflate observed a change in him. He is not like the same man."
"Getting old, I suppose, like the rest of us," said Quinto.
"Like some of us," corrected Signor Ercole; "but, Lord bless you! theMarchese is a young man--a young man, so to speak,--he's not abovefifty, and a very young man of his years; at least he was so a month ortwo ago. But changed he is. Everybody has seen it. Let us hope that itis merely some temporary indisposition. Ravenna can't afford to lose theMarchese."
"I suppose we had better put off settling our little bit of businesstill another time?" said Quinto. "Shall we say to-morrow, at the samehour? And I will get that paper from the Marchese in the meantime,"returned Signor Ercole.
"That will suit me perfectly well; to-morrow, then, at my lodgings atten, shall we say?"
"At ten; I will not fail to wait upon you, Signor Lalli, at that hour.In the meantime I beg you to present my most distinguished homage to thedivina Cantatrice," said the little impresario, taking off his hat andholding it at arm's length above his head, as he made a very magnificentbow.
"Servitore suo, stimatissimo Signor Ercole! A dimane!" replied oldQuinto, as he returned the impresario's salutation, with a slighter andless provincial bow.
"A dimane alle dieci!" rejoined the impresario; and so the two menparted.
"Not a bad bit of luck," thought the old singing master to himself, ashe sauntered towards his lodging, "that the Marchese should be in bedthis morning. It gives a chance that he may never hear of this madscappata with the Signor Ludovico. Lose the Marchese Lamberto! No, perBacco! there are other people, beside the good folks of the city ofRavenna, who can't afford to lose the Marchese Lamberto just yet!"
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