Trevanion laughed softly, for the charm and the mystery of it all were working in his blood. Rosamunda went up the steps like a gazelle.
He was hard and sinewy, a man who had led a clean, marching life; but he lost distance to her red shoes and cloud of sunny hair. The whole place was mad, and the madness was infecting him.
Trevanion touched her hand. His chest was heaving, his nostrils dilated.
“You are Atalanta.”
“Atalanta of the Apples! But she was cruel, was she not? I am never cruel.”
“And you speak the truth,” he said, looking into her innocent eyes, and marvelling at her and at himself, for that grey stairway seemed the stairway to Paradise, and that wonderful hair of hers like folded golden wings.
“Come.”
She took his hand like a child, and led him up more steps to the terrace. The Englishman could see that it was a wilderness of a place where the very weeds were flowers, and vines and roses grew as they pleased. The plaster was peeling off the walls of the villa, and the green shutters looked as though they had not been painted for fifty years.
“What is the name of your home?”
“The Villa Lunetta.”
“The House of the Little Moon!” and he added under his breath, “The House of Midsummer Madness.”
The rest of that Italian day had all the strangeness of a dream. The villa was full of old furniture, armour, pictures, antiques. The tapestry on the wall of the salon told the tale of the rape of Lucrece, and there were frescoes in the pillared hall showing Circe and her enchanted beasts. A head of Julius Cæsar looked at Trevanion from beside a cinque-cento cabinet in ebony and mother-of-pearl. The curtains were of Venetian velvet, very faded and old.
Rosamunda sat there in a gilded chair, sipping red wine out of a Venetian beaker, while Cæsare and the Englishman talked. The scholar was less of a madman when he spoke of books, and their words were of Anacreon and Plato, Euripides and the Man of Mantua. They even argued about the makers of Glossaries, and the wise men of the Renaissance; yet Trevanion had drunk of that other madness and the red wine that was in Rosamunda’s heart.
It was four o’clock when the Englishman remembered that the gates of Monte Verde were shut at sundown. He had to break away from a panegyric on Homer, pick up his knapsack, and leave Cæsare to his flute. Rosamunda went with him to the terrace, and the westering sunlight was in her eyes.
“You will come again?” she said, with the simplicity of a child.
And Trevanion’s heart and lips answered her.
“I will come again, O Princess of the Pool.”
II
When Trevanion found himself on the edge of the chestnut woods he turned and looked back at the blue pool and the yellow villa, as though to assure himself that they were still there.
“The House of the Little Moon,” he said to himself; “The House of Midsummer Madness. And an old gentleman who looks for Pan! And the girl!”
Trevanion had not gone a furlong, when he hesitated, looked about him, and stood still. For a moment he could not tell why he had stopped and why he was standing there. It was as though he had lost something and could not remember what. Yes! He had lost the sound of falling water. There was nothing but silence, and more than silence, a sense of things hidden, a feeling of being watched, of being followed by invisible creatures. He listened, and heard nothing; looked about him and saw only the great trunks of the trees and the path that was spattered with little beams of golden light.
“Idiot!”
He walked on again, but the poet and the mystic in him were holding a debate.
“The spirit of the woods—nothing more. Yes, my friend—but can you deny this strangeness and this mystery? If Pan came skipping down the path? Tut! you are as mad as the old gentleman! Perhaps there is reason in the mythologist’s madness? The truth is you have been drinking red wine, and you are very nearly falling in love. Rosamunda, Rosamunda!”
Presently the path struck the rough track that threaded the wooded country between Monte Verde and Castella Nero. A horse and a mule were coming up the hill, and Trevanion heard the thudding of their hoofs before they swung into view round the edge of a thicket of pines. The horse was black, and the mule white. On the black horse sat a man in a red coat faced with silver. A priest in a brown frock rode the mule.
Trevanion edged aside as though to take cover, thought better of it, and walked on. The man on the black horse was Count Otto von Mirenbach, the Man with the Red Mouth.
These two—the Austrian and the priest—stared hard at Trevanion, and then glanced questioningly at each other.
“The English fool from Monte Verde!”
“What does he do here?”
“Make poetry and tramp everywhere on olives and black bread. These English are quite harmless.”
Otto von Mirenbach was a big man, very handsome in a black and arrogant way, save for that mouth of his that looked like a red gash in his broad face. He was the Austrian tyrant in these parts, and had his home at Castella Nero.
His companion, the priest on the white mule, was a certain Fra Bartolomeo, who had a chapel to serve on the road to Castella Nero. He was a bouncing, black-eyed, juicy rogue, a pimp as to his religion, and fond of a succulent tale.
The Englishman met these two worldlings in a narrow part of the track. He stared hard at von Mirenbach, and made as if to pass on, but the Austrian reined in and put his horse across the path. He was accustomed to men who grovelled before him, and he did not love the English.
“One moment, my friend; not in such a hurry.”
Trevanion stood looking up at him and saying nothing. He did not even pull off his hat.
“You will observe, Fra Tolomeo, what pleasant manners the man has. I believe you are an Englishman, Mr. Black Coat, and that your name is Trevanion. They tell me you speak Italian like a Florentine.”
Trevanion still looked at him steadily.
“My name is what you say it is, and I am an Englishman. How does it concern you?”
Von Mirenbach showed that smile of his.
“Everything concerns me, dear sir. I am the little god in these parts, and if I choose to ask people questions, they answer me. It is my business to know everything that goes on. And if I do not approve of certain people, I have them arrested and deposited on the other side of the frontier.”
Now Trevanion was no fool, and he had the sense to keep his temper.
Von Mirenbach was not boasting, and the Englishman knew it.
“You have the advantage of me,” he said, parrying the Austrian’s insolence by pretending to be ignorant, “but I do not know to whom I am speaking.”
“I happen to be Otto von Mirenbach, the Governor of Castella Nero.”
Trevanion bowed to him with great gravity.
“My ignorance is chastened, sir. In England I may boast myself something of a gentleman. In Italy I am just a traveller and a scholar; I go where I please, with my knapsack on my back.”
Von Mirenbach nodded.
“One has to be so careful in these days, Mr. Trevanion, and my sbirri have a habit of being hasty and rather rough. I have no wish to see harmless people in trouble. You have papers, credentials?”
Trevanion slipped his hand under his coat.
“If you choose to see them, sir, I have letters to the Embassies at Rome, Florence, Naples; also my banker’s letter of credit.”
The Austrian made a deprecating gesture.
“No, no; it is quite unnecessary. I must apologize for stopping you, but it is a habit of mine. I have my responsibilities, Mr. Trevanion. And may I remind you that I have a very passable library at Castella Nero. The books are at your service.”
Trevanion bowed again as von Mirenbach prepared to ride on.
“Your courtesy is appreciated, sir.”
“The English are always welcome, Mr. Trevanion.”
And they parted, disliking each other wholeheartedly, neither of them deceived by the other’s dissembling
.
It did not occur to the Englishman that these two worthies were bent upon adventure, and that their faces were set towards the Pool of the Satyr. Fra Tolomeo had drawn his white mule close to the Austrian’s black horse.
“A nymph, sir, a veritable Aphrodite! Pomegranates and milk and peaches! And innocent as a bit of snow from the mountains!”
“And the father is mad, eh?”
“Mad as Nebuchadnezzar. A great scholar in his day, sir; but now he runs about looking for Pan and Bacchus.”
“The old dog!”
“You mistake me, sir. He is a most eminent, erudite, and childish madman. He is so simple, dear count.”
The priest dropped his voice, and the two heads drew close together. It was Fra Tolomeo who talked, von Mirenbach who guffawed and exclaimed. That red mouth of his seemed to grow bigger, but his brown eyes looked hard as glass.
“You rogue! You mean to tell me you have seen—this performance?”
“Sir, it was thrust upon me. A man cannot help having eyes.”
“But you have a sleeve, you scoundrel. I would have you remember that I am a very sensitive gentleman. No smiles, mind you, but gravity, seriousness.”
Fra Tolomeo grimaced.
“I will be more solemn than a bishop, sir, a dignified and fatherly creature.”
“You rogue!”
So these two worthies rode down through the chestnut woods to the Satyr’s Pool, and found nothing but sunlight and silence there and calm blue water. They dismounted, and tethered the black horse and the white mule to a couple of old arbutus trees, and climbed the steps to the villa.
“The old fellow keeps good wine, sir.”
“You have tasted it have you?”
“Once or twice, dear Count. I see no one about. Their woman, Maria, knows me.”
It was Maria, a swarthy peasant of five-and-thirty, with a Roman shawl over her bosom, who met them in the loggia. She stared at Fra Tolomeo with her dull black eyes, and waited.
“Maria, the Count has come to visit your master. Is the signor at home?”
“Signor Cæsare is in his library, Father. Will you come in?” And she made von Mirenbach a curtsy. “The signorina shall be told of your presence.”
Fra Tolomeo winked at his patron.
“A good girl,” he said softly, “and very religious.”
Rosamunda, caught sleeping on a couch in the salon with her head on a cushion covered with old Venetian velvet, sat up and stared at these portentous visitors. Maria had crowded them in with a cry of “Count Otto von Mirenbach, signorina.”
Now this child had met very few men in her lifetime, and she had never set eyes on anything as stately as the Austrian.
Fra Tolomeo attempted to heal the silence.
“Pardon this intrusion, signorina, but Count Otto has heard so much of your father’s scholarship, that, being no mean scholar himself, he must needs ride over and make his acquaintance.”
Tolomeo was very impressive and paternal, but the girl threw a mere casual glance at his perspiring face.
“My father will be here.”
Von Mirenbach was bowing to her, and making ready to kiss her hand.
“Signorina, this intrusion is our sin, and yet our reward. You will forgive me for waking you from so charming a siesta.”
He advanced two steps, stooping slightly, his cocked hat under his left arm, his whole pose a courtly caress. And all the while her blue eyes were looking him straight in the face, the eyes of a child that read him without fear or favour.
“Permit me.”
He advanced another step, but she was up and away like a bird, and standing by one of the open windows, her eyes still holding his.
“I do not like you,” she said quite simply. “I do not like you at all.”
Next moment she was gone, and the window showed nothing but the tops of green trees and the blue sky. Those red shoes of hers were flitting along the terrace.
Otto von Mirenbach was left standing there, like a man who has been fooled by a shadow, rather foolish and very angry.
“Damn the minx!”
His red mouth was ugly. He heard Fra Tolomeo chuckle.
“You see how simple and wild she is, sir. A thing of the woods and waters.”
The Austrian was moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“Something to be caught and tamed,” he said reflectively. “Something fit for Pan to handle. There is reason in all this mythology, my friend. Now, let us see this mad father of hers, and talk antique moon rubbish.”
A door opened jerkily, and Cæsare was with them, sage, big-eyed, and eccentric. He was the grandee, the scholar, the gentleman, less moonstruck in these moments, and just as quick with his courtliness as was this big animal of an Austrian.
“Welcome, gentlemen. It is hot in the sun to-day, and the wine will come cool from the cellar.”
Otto von Mirenbach bowed to him with great deference.
“I have the honour to salute that most eminent, classic and scholar, Maestro Cæsare. Though I come from the north, sir, I make my reverence to the man of the Augustan age.”
Cæsare bowed to him in turn.
“If my villa, sir, holds a few books and some noble learning, it is at the service of all noble scholars and poets.”
“A sweet spot, Maestro, a most sweet spot, a veritable Arcady.”
For five minutes they stood and made solemn and ambassadorial speeches to each other, while Fra Tolomeo grinned in the background, mopped his head, and wondered when the wine was coming. Von Mirenbach was a very great courtier, and a supreme harlequin when he pleased. His scholarliness was not mere tinsel. He could air a fine Latinity, and quote you obscure poets and philosophers with an aptness that filled old Cæsare with delight.
“Will you be seated, Count? The presence of so cultured and erudite a gentleman is an honour to my house. Touching the writings of Plato, I may say——”
They kept it up for an hour or more, and if Otto von Mirenbach had failed with the daughter, he had nothing to complain of in his conquest of the old man.
“My books at Castella Nero, Maestro, wait for your fingers. I need a scholar to handle them. It may be that you will grant me the honour.”
Cæsare waved his hands.
“Your excellency is too kind. Some day it shall be my privilege and pleasure. At present I am very busy, sir, very occupied against the coming of the full moon. The great mysteries are ripe, Count Otto.”
He began to babble about Pan and his woodland crew, and all that wonderful old life that was invisible because of blindness and artificiality of the age. And von Mirenbach listened, solemn as a doge of Venice, and vastly interested, because of other motives and other passions. The old madman was painting a wild, sensuous picture.
“The books can wait, dear Maestro,” he said as he rose to go. “I would not meddle with these learned mysteries.”
“You will be welcome always, and at all hours, sir.”
“You will find no scoffer in me. Perhaps you will make me a disciple.”
He went down the steps to the pool, smiling, licking his lips, with Fra Tolomeo at his heels.
At Monte Verde, Trevanion the Englishman lodged at the house of Luigi the bookseller. He was a little hunchback, with a wild mane of grey-black hair, fierce eyes, and the face of a broken god. He had little to say, but his words, when they did fall, were like bits of glowing wood dropping out of a fire. He lived alone, hated all women, and would not let anything in petticoats enter in his shop.
His enemies said: “He has the evil eye.”
People who knew and who honoured him would tell you: “His wife ran away with a German.”
Trevanion had bought books from this old man, talked to him, and then gone to lodge at his house—for Luigi was more than a bookseller. He was a philosopher and a scholar.
They were sitting out under the vines that night when Trevanion asked him a question.
“Have you ever ridden to Castella
Nero?”
“Twice since last autumn.”
“Is there a library there?”
Luigi scowled.
“Yes, the library of Otto von Mirenbach. Why do you ask?”
“Because I met the Austrian to-day.”
“Looking like his books, eh, all bound in red, and gorgeous as sin. I know the beast.”
“He offered me the use of his library, Luigi.”
The Italian’s venom was not assumed.
“Beware of von Mirenbach,” he said, “he is clever and cruel; a man who loves mischief. And yet, I say it, I had the honour of fooling him. I spoilt two ‘Aldines’ for him because he bullied me, and he never knew it.”
When Trevanion went to his little room under the tiles he stood for a long while at the window, looking at the stars. The great enchantment was upon him, though for the moment it was no more to him than a perfume, and the colour of a sunset and haunting music.
But his path in the web had been marked for him, and it led him back to those chestnut woods through the early heat of a June day. The road from the hill-town was dry and dusty, and Trevanion was glad of the deep shade.
He was tired and the day was hot, and lying on his back, there he fell asleep.
The sound of someone playing on a flute awakened him, about an hour later. The notes were rather disjointed and jerky, as though produced by a man who was none too sure of his instrument.
Trevanion turned on his side and raised himself on one elbow so as to bring his head above the lip of the hollow in which he was lying, expecting to glimpse old Cæsare evolving some freakish new canzonetta. What he saw was something quite different, and his surprise was so sudden that he lay there stiff and rigid, like a dog, motionless and at gaze.
Not twenty yards away a man was sitting at the foot of a tree, his back against the trunk. He was dressed in a green hunting suit; a fowling-piece lay on the ground beside him. Trevanion knew him at once by his mouth and his swarthiness and the arrogant bulge of his chin. It was Count Otto von Mirenbach of Castella Nero.
He saw von Mirenbach pull out a big silver watch, glance at it, unscrew his flute and slip it away in his pocket. The sun stood at noon. The hour had some particular significance.
The Short Stories of Warwick Deeping Page 5