Two minutes later he had entered the Leads. He was taken down a spiral staircase and along a gloomy passage made from rough hewn stone blocks; a stout wooden door was opened, and he was thrust inside a cell. He glimpsed a wooden bench, some rusty chains fixed to staples in the wall, then the door was swung to and locked, leaving him in total darkness.
Groping his way to the bench, he sat down upon it and sank his head in his hands. He felt now that he might have done better to take his chance with Malderini. Death, even a painful one, would have been better than the appalling empty, hopeless future which he felt now faced him.
Suddenly he began to shiver. His clothes had still been wringing wet when he had been brought to the Doge's Palace. The midday heat of August which penetrated its courts and rooms had been sufficient to prevent his feeling any discomfort during the hour he had been in them. But down in the dungeons there reigned the cold of a perpetual winter. It dawned on him that if he let his damp clothes dry on him he would catch a chill which would probably result in his death from pneumonia within a week. Urged to it by the instinct of self-preservation he stripped to the skin, laid out his clothes on the dusty floor, then flailed his arms and beat his body all over with the flat of his palms to restore his circulation.
He kept at it until he was exhausted, and the violent activity took his mind temporarily off his frightful situation. But as he sank down on the bench again, the highlights of the trap in which he had helped to catch himself impinged upon him with renewed force.
He had no friends in Venice to whom he could appeal for help, even if he could get a message out, except John Watson; and to have disclosed his association with the British Consul would have been fatal. The Municipality had no reason to accord him a quick release. On the contrary, as he was believed to be a Frenchman, spite would influence them to leave him there indefinitely. There remained Malderini. It seemed just possible that when he had recovered his sight, he might press for some more definite penalty. That would lead to the prisoner being brought before the court again, and at least give him another chance to appeal to the French authorities for protection. But why should Malderini take such a step? What better revenge could he hope for than to have his enemy left to rot in one of the lower dungeons of the Leads? Surely he would use such influence as he had to prevent the case ever being raised again, so that after a few months the prisoner would become only a number in a cell and all else about him be forgotten.
Some hours later, the door of the dungeon opened, a bearded jailer set down inside it a jug of water, a hunk of bread and a crock containing a few spoonfuls of luke-warm vegetable stew. By then, although from time to time Roger had endeavoured to warm himself up, he was blue with cold; so he eagerly snatched at the blanket that the jailer, with a surprised look at his nakedness, threw to him. The door slammed and once more the darkness of perpetual night shut out his grim surroundings.
After rubbing himself fiercely with the blanket, as though it were a towel, he wrapped it round him, and cautiously felt about until he could find and eat his meagre supper. His clothes, he found, were nearly but not quite dry; so, still wrapped in the blanket, he lay down on the bench and pulled them on top of him for extra warmth.
The night seemed endless. At times he dozed, but he never fell properly asleep and for hour after hour remained semiconscious of his physical discomfort and hopeless situation. It was not until the jailer brought another skimpy meal that he realised morning had at last come. After eating it he dressed again in his now dry clothes, then sat huddled on the bench staring into the darkness.
Hours later, as it seemed to him. but actually about nine o'clock, he received a visit from the head turnkey. This functionary knew nothing of the crime for which he was imprisoned or of how long he was likely to remain; his sole interest being in whether Roger had money, or friends who would find it on his behalf, to pay for various privileges such as better food, a light, writing materials and books to read.
When Roger had been searched his money-belt had not been taken from him and in it were twenty-six sequins, so he felt a natural impulse to jump at the chance of securing these amenities: but the caution inherited from his Scots mother saved him from being too badly swindled. By hard bargaining he reduced the turnkey's extortionate demands to the still extravagant figure of a sequin-which was about nine shillings-a day for better food, rush lights that would last eight hours, two extra blankets, and a book to be changed twice a week.
The book brought to him was Dante's Divina Comedia, which was long enough to hold his interest for many hours, and his improved ration was to include a litre a day of cheap wine; so at the thought of this new dispensation his spirits revived a little. But only temporarily, as these small comforts could do nothing to improve his future prospects, and those filled him with abysmal depression. There seemed no reason why the Municipality should release him and every reason why Malderini should use all the influence he had to keep him there. In less than a month, unless he were to forgo the better food and books so that he could prolong his purchase of rush lights, the awful darkness would close about him for good.
He had already several times considered his chances of making an escape and been compelled to dismiss them as negligible. It was well known that only one prisoner had ever succeeded in escaping from the Leads, and that had been the notorious adventurer Casanova, some forty years earlier. How he had succeeded was common knowledge, because for years afterwards he had entertained people in half the capitals in Europe by telling them the tale. He had been confined in a cell up on the top storey immediately under the great lead roof that gave the prison its name; had managed to squeeze himself through a small window and, risking death from a single slip, had, with extraordinary courage, walked fifty yards along a nine-inch ledge to freedom. But Roger was in a windowless dungeon in the depths of the prison and, even if by a bribe he could have got himself transferred to the top floor, he knew that his head for heights was not good enough to have emulated Casanova's remarkable feat.
The only other possibilities were either to bribe the jailer to leave the dungeon door unlocked, or spring upon and overcome him. But many other prisoners in the past must have got so far with their attempts only to be caught at one of the check-posts before they could escape from the building; otherwise, Casanova's claim that he was the only prisoner ever to have got away would have been disputed.
Eventually Roger came to the conclusion that his one and only hope lay in writing to the French Charge d'Affaires. He was most reluctant to do so because that meant he would have to substantiate his claim to French citizenship. That, he felt, should not be difficult, for during the Revolution he had been an original member of the Commune of Paris, had undertaken missions for the Committee of Public Safety as Citizen Representant Breuc and after the fall of Robespierre had become a Colonel on Barras's staff. He had, therefore, been quite a prominent figure and could claim the friendship of Carnot, Buonaparte and numerous other highly placed Frenchmen. But doing so was certain to result in his having to provide an account of his activities for the past seventeen months, and to cover such a lengthy period with a chronicle composed of plausible lies was going to be anything but easy.
Nevertheless, the risk of being caught out was one that he must now take as the only alternative to remaining where he was; so, when the jailer brought his afternoon meal, he asked to see the head turnkey again, as he had decided after all that he would like to buy some writing materials from him.
An hour later the turnkey arrived with them and, having parted with another of his sequins, Roger asked him how much he wanted to deliver a letter. For this service the man demanded ten sequins, and this time Roger tried in vain to beat him down. If he paid that price it would at one stroke deprive him of half his capital, and there was the awful risk that the avaricious ruffian might tear the letter up instead of delivering it. Tortured by this thought, he managed to strike a bargain to the effect that, should the letter not result in h
is being again brought before the court, he would receive books and light free for a month. That having been agreed to, the man promised to come back for the letter in an hour and to deliver it that evening.
When he had gone, Roger thought out his letter with great care, sentence by sentence, until he was satisfied that he had composed one on lines that were most likely to be effective. It was not an appeal but a most vigorous protest. Having given particulars of himself as Citizen Breuc, he displayed intense indignation that the French authorities in Venice should allow any Frenchman to be treated in the way he had been. He claimed that his conduct in the Malderini Palace had at worst been no more than a minor offence, then hinted that his real reason for entering it had been in connection with a mission he had undertaken for a person of importance in Paris. Finally, he said that if steps were not taken to secure his release at once, he would bring the matter to the attention of General Buonaparte.
Soon after the turnkey had collected the letter, his rush light burnt out and he spent another fourteen hours of misery and anxiety in pitch-black darkness. All the following day he waited, hoping to be sent for and trying to distract his mind with Dante's masterpiece; but he did both in vain. Another night crawled by, during which he was tortured by the fear that the turnkey had, after all, cheated him and taken his ten precious sequins for nothing. Then, on his third day in the Leads, at about ten o'clock in the morning, to his unutterable relief two officials of the court came to fetch him.
Now full of confidence that he was about to be released, he accompanied them with buoyant steps back across the Bridge of Sighs, down the long staircase and across the great open courtyard to the court room. There were many more people in it than there had been three days before and, as Roger was put into the dock, he caught sight of Malderini, the Princess Sirisha and Pietro, sitting together on one of the benches. Their presence caused him a sudden uneasiness.
He had thought it unlikely that Malderini would be informed of his demand to be brought before the court again, or that the original case would again be gone into, and anticipated that he would have only to convince the French authorities that in Paris he was regarded as a person of some importance; but the presence of the Malderini party suggested that they were to be called on to give evidence and, if so, it was certain that his enemy would do everything in his power to prevent his release.
The same elderly man with the pursed-up mouth was acting as President, but his younger colleague had been replaced by a neatly dressed little man with a bulbous nose on the end of which was balanced a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. The Provost-Marshal was also changed: an elderly Colonel with a bristling red moustache. It was he who conducted the enquiry from the beginning, and the two Italians remained silent throughout. Picking up a paper that Roger recognised as his letter, the Colonel gave a loud cough, and said:
'You state in this that you are the Citizen Breuc, who by various acts in the glorious Revolution deserves well of your country.'
'I am.' replied Roger firmly. 'And were we in Park, I would have no difficulty in producing a hundred people to prove it.'
'Perhaps; but we are not in Paris.' The Provost-Marshal again held up the letter. 'In this you imply that you were sent here on a secret mission. How long is it since you left Paris?'
Roger was quick to see the need for caution, so he answered, 'A considerable time. Other work for the Republic has since necessitated my going on a long journey.'
'First witness,' snapped the Colonel and Roger saw Gulio Battista emerge from the crowd. The stout sea captain gave him a friendly look and was obviously reluctant to give evidence that might prove to his detriment; but when questioned he admitted that he had carried Roger as a passenger from Crete.
As he stood down, the Provost-Marshal asked. 'Where did you come from before you arrived in Crete?'
Not daring to lie in case he was caught out, Roger replied, 'Alexandria.'
'And you expect us to believe that you were sent on a mission to Venice via Alexandria and Crete?' The Colonel brushed up his fiery moustache. 'Well, we shall see. There are good reasons for believing you to be an impostor. Second witness!'
Roger moistened his lips. The enquiry had opened far from well, and as the Princess Sirisha was brought forward he had no reason at all to hope that she would improve matters. Although at first she appeared slightly confused, that was no more than any Eastern woman might have been in such unfamiliar surroundings, and was certainly not sufficient evidence on which to allege that she was acting under her husband's hypnotic influence, despite Roger's certainty that she was.
After a hesitant beginning she told her story clearly. Believing Roger to be an Arab perfume-seller she had taken him up to her boudoir. He had then disclosed his true identity and she recognised him as an Englishman whom she had met in England when there with her husband, the previous summer. He had told her that he had been sent from England by Mr. Pitt to stir up trouble in Venice for the French, but had been robbed of his funds so wanted her to help him with money. She knew her husband to be a loyal supporter of the new Government so naturally she had refused. Thereupon Roger had snatched a valuable ring from her finger; but before he could get away, her husband and the servants had arrived on the scene.
The diabolical cunning with which Malderini had elaborated the original charge filled Roger with considerable alarm.
In an attempt to spike his guns once and for all, he cried loudly to the Princess:
'Tell the truth, Madame! In God's name make an effort, Tell the court the truth about your husband. Show him up for what he is. Free yourself from this evil…'
He got no further. The President hammered furiously on his desk with his gavel, the Colonel, the other magistrate and two ushers all shouted at him to be silent, drowning his words. Meanwhile, the Princess had given him one terrified look, then half collapsed against Malderini who had come swiftly up behind her.
Pietro was the next witness called. He substantiated his mistress's story, then described the week-end party at Stillwater where he had first seen Roger in his true colours as an English aristocrat.
Malderini followed. He was wearing a dark shade over his eyes, so evidently the pepper had inflamed them seriously; but that was little consolation to Roger at the moment with all this sworn testimony piling up against him. His enemy skilfully embroidered the statements of the other two, then produced a trump card in support of his verbal assertions. It was a printed paper which, he asserted, must have fallen from one of Roger's pockets during his struggle to escape, as, he said, it had been found on the floor of the Princess's room immediately afterwards.
After the Provost-Marshal had examined it and it had been explained to him, it was handed to Roger. On the one side of the paper was a printed plan of Vauxhall Gardens; on the other a programme of music and price list of wines. There were also two addresses scribbled on it in different shades of ink. One, in an educated hand, read Lucy Cresswell, at Mrs Goosens three doors from the Cock Tavern. Drury Lane the other, in printed letters, was that of the British Consul in Venice.
The writing of the first was vaguely familiar to Roger and, after a moment, he recognised it as that of Richard Sheridan; then he guessed at once how the programme had come into Malderini's possession. Evidently the playwright had taken, him to Vauxhall one evening and scribbled on it the address of some lady of the town that he had picked up there; then later, by which time Sheridan had probably become fairly drunk, Malderini had pocketed the programme as a souvenir. The Consul's address he would have added that morning
But to the court, the implication was clear. Roger had kept the paper for the young woman's address, and jotted down that of the Consul's upon it. As the latter was in capitals, he could not prove that he had not written it, and his having had it on him was the strongest possible support for the contention that he was a British spy.
The case against him was now extremely black, but he knew that any sign of weakness would be fatal; s
o he launched a violent attack on his enemy. With some skill he argued that the three last witnesses must all be taken as one, and that one was inspired by jealous hatred. The servant, Pietro, naturally said what his master told him to say; the unfortunate wife was completely under her husband's domination and had, no doubt, been persuaded to perjure herself from fear of him; while he had hatched this iniquitous plot in an attempt to revenge himself on a man he believed he had found on the point of seducing his wife.
In swift trenchant French, Roger went on to call the shades of Lafayette, Mirabeau and Danton to witness that he was no British spy, but Citizen Breuc, patriot of the Revolution. He had just got to the point of demanding to be sent before General Buonaparte, who would vouch for him, when there was a stir at the back of the court, and a youngish, thin faced man, with a very long sharp nose, thrust his way through the crowd.
Silencing Roger, the Colonel addressed the newcomer. 'Citizen Villetard, your arrival is most opportune. You can settle this question for us.'
Roger shot a swift glance at the thin-faced man. Villetard was, he knew, the clever and indefatigable French Charge d'Affaires who had stirred up the Venice mob in May and engineered the downfall of the Serenissima.
With a bow to the magistrates, Villetard said, 'Citizens, I must apologise for being late, but the many preparations for today's festivities delayed me.'
The Provost-Marshal returned his bow and said. 'Citizen Minister, am I right in believing that all agents sent from Paris on missions to Venice are under obligation to report to you on their arrival?'
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