Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “The porter told me that you were a Roman prince,” returned the surgeon rather bluntly. “But you speak like a southerner.”

  “I was brought up in Naples. As I was saying, secrecy is very important, and I can assure you that you will earn the gratitude of many by assisting me.”

  “Do you wish to take this lady away at once?”

  “Heaven forbid! Her mother and sister shall come for her in half an hour.”

  The surgeon thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood staring for a moment or two at the bodies of the Zouaves.

  “I cannot do it,” he said, suddenly looking up at San. Giacinto. “I am master here, and I am responsible. The secret is professional, of course. If I knew you, even by sight, I should not hesitate. As it is, I must ask your name.”

  San Giacinto did not hesitate long, as the surgeon was evidently master of the situation. He took a card from his case and silently handed it to the doctor. The latter took it and read the name, “Don Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto.” His face betrayed no emotion, but the belief flashed through his mind that there was no such person in existence. He was one of the leading men in his profession, and knew Prince Saracinesca and Sant’ Ilario, but he had never heard of this other Don Giovanni. He knew also that the city was in a state of revolution and that many suspicious persons were likely to gain access to public buildings on false pretences.

  “Very well,” he said quietly. “You are not afraid of dead men, I see. Be good enough to wait a moment here — no one will see you, and you will not be recognised. I will go and see that there is nobody in the way, and you shall have a sight of the young lady.”

  His companion nodded in assent and the surgeon went out through the narrow door. San Giacinto was surprised to hear the heavy key turned in the lock and withdrawn, but immediately accounted for the fact on the theory that the surgeon wished to prevent any one from finding his visitor lest the secret should be divulged. He was not a nervous man, and had no especial horror of being left alone in a mortuary chamber for a few minutes. He looked about him, and saw that the room was high and vaulted. One window alone gave air, and this was ten feet from the floor and heavily ironed. He reflected with a smile that if it pleased the surgeon to leave him there he could not possibly get out. Neither his size nor his phenomenal strength could assist him in the least. There was no furniture in the place. Half a dozen slabs of slate for the bodies were built against the wall, solid and immovable, and the door was of the heaviest oak, thickly studded with huge iron nails. If the dead men had been living prisoners their place of confinement could not have been more strongly contrived.

  San Giacinto waited a quarter of an hour, and at last, as the surgeon did not return, he sat down upon one of the marble slabs and, being very hungry, consoled himself by lighting a cigar, while he meditated upon the surest means of conveying Donna Faustina to her father’s house. At last he began to wonder how long he was to wait.

  “I should not wonder,” he said to himself, “if that long-eared professor had taken me for a revolutionist.”

  He was not far wrong, indeed. The surgeon had despatched a messenger for a couple of gendarmes and had gone about his business in the hospital, knowing very well that it would take some time to find the police while the riot lasted, and congratulating himself upon having caught a prisoner who, if not a revolutionist, was at all events an impostor, since he had a card printed with a false name.

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE IMPROVISED BANQUET at the Palazzo Saracinesca was not a merry one, but the probable dangers to the city and the disappearance of Faustina Montevarchi furnished matter for plenty of conversation. The majority inclined to the belief that the girl had lost her head and had run home, but as neither Sant’ Ilario nor his cousin returned, there was much speculation. The prince said he believed that they had found Faustina at her father’s house and had stayed to dinner, whereupon some malicious person remarked that it needed a revolution in Rome to produce hospitality in such a quarter.

  Dinner was nearly ended when Pasquale, the butler, whispered to the prince that a gendarme wanted to speak with him on very important business.

  “Bring him here,” answered old Saracinesca, aloud. “There is a gendarme outside,” he added, addressing his guests, “he will tell us all the news. Shall we have him here?”

  Every one assented enthusiastically to the proposition, for most of those present were anxious about their houses, not knowing what had taken place during the last two hours. The man was ushered in, and stood at a distance holding his three-cornered hat in his hand, and looking rather sheepish and uncomfortable.

  “Well?” asked the prince. “What is the matter? We all wish to hear the news.”

  “Excellency,” began the soldier, “I must ask many pardons for appearing thus—” Indeed his uniform was more or less disarranged and he looked pale and fatigued.

  “Never mind your appearance. Speak up,” answered old Saracinesca in encouraging tones.

  “Excellency,” said the man, “I must apologise, but there is a gentleman who calls himself Don Giovanni, of your revered name—”

  “I know there is. He is my son. What about him?”

  “He is not the Senior Principe di Sant’ Ilario, Excellency — he calls himself by another name — Marchese di — di — here is his card, Excellency.”

  “My cousin, San Giacinto, then. What about him, I say?”

  “Your Excellency has a cousin—” stammered the gendarme.

  “Well? Is it against the law to have cousins?” cried the prince. “What is the matter with my cousin?”

  “Dio mio!” exclaimed the soldier in great agitation. “What a combination! Your Excellency’s cousin is in the mortuary chamber at Santo Spirito!”

  “Is he dead?” asked Saracinesca in a lower voice, but starting from his chair.

  “No,” cried the man, “questo e il male! That is the trouble! He is alive and very well!”

  “Then what the devil is he doing in the mortuary chamber?” roared the prince.

  “Excellency, I beseech your pardon, I had nothing to do with locking up the Signor Marchese. It was the surgeon, Excellency, who took him for a Garibaldian. He shall be liberated at once—”

  “I should think so!” answered Saracinesca, savagely. “And what business have your asses of surgeons with gentlemen? My hat, Pasquale. And how on earth came my cousin to be in Santo Spirito?”

  “Excellency, I know nothing, but I had to do my duty.”

  “And if you know nothing how the devil do you expect to do your duty! I will have you and the surgeon and the whole of Santo Spirito and all the patients, in the Carceri Nuove, safe in prison before morning! My hat, Pasquale, I say!”

  Some confusion followed, during which the gendarme, who was anxious to escape all responsibility in the matter of San Giacinto’s confinement, left the room and descended the grand staircase three steps at a time. Mounting his horse he galloped back through the now deserted streets to the hospital.

  Within two minutes after his arrival San Giacinto heard the bolt of the heavy lock run back in the socket and the surgeon entered the mortuary chamber. San Giacinto had nearly finished his cigar and was growing impatient, but the doctor made many apologies for his long absence.

  “An unexpected relapse in a dangerous case, Signor Marchese,” he said in explanation. “What would you have? We doctors are at the mercy of nature! Pray forgive my neglect, but I could send no one, as you did not wish to be seen. I locked the door, so that nobody might find you here. Pray come with me, and you shall see the young lady at once.”

  “By all means,” replied San Giacinto. “Dead men are poor company, and I am in a hurry.”

  The surgeon led the way to the accident ward and introduced his companion to a small clean room in which a shaded lamp was burning. A Sister of Mercy stood by the white bed, upon which lay a young girl, stretched out at her full length.

  “You are too late,” said the nun very
quietly. “She is dead, poor child.”

  San Giacinto uttered a deep exclamation of horror and was at the bedside even before the surgeon. He lifted the fair young creature in his arms and stared at the cold face, holding it to the light. Then with a loud cry of astonishment he laid down his burden.

  “It is not she, Signor Professore,” he said. “I must apologise for the trouble I have given you. Pray accept my best thanks. There is a resemblance, but it is not she.”

  The doctor was somewhat relieved to find himself freed from the responsibility which, as San Giacinto had told him, involved the honour of one of the greatest families in Rome. Before speaking, he satisfied himself that the young woman was really dead.

  “Death often makes faces look alike which have no resemblance to each other in life,” he remarked as he turned away. Then they both left the room, followed at a little distance by the sister who was going to summon the bearers to carry away her late charge.

  As the two men descended the steps, the sound of loud voices in altercation reached their ears, and as they emerged into the vestibule, they saw old Prince Saracinesca flourishing his stick in dangerous proximity to the head of the porter. The latter had retreated until he stood with his back against the wall.

  “I will have none of this lying,” shouted the irate nobleman. “The Marchese is here — the gendarme told me he was in the mortuary chamber — if he is not produced at once I will break your rascally neck—” The man was protesting as fast and as loud as his assailant threatened him.

  “Eh! My good cousin!” cried San Giacinto, whose unmistakable voice at once made the prince desist from his attack and turn round. “Do not kill the fellow! I am alive and well, as you see.”

  A short explanation ensued, during which the surgeon was obliged to admit that as San Giacinto had no means of proving any identity he, the doctor in charge, had thought it best to send for the police, in view of the unquiet state of the city.

  “But what brought you here?” asked old Saracinesca, who was puzzled to account for his cousin’s presence in the hospital.

  San Giacinto had satisfied his curiosity and did not care a pin for the annoyance to which he had been subjected. He was anxious, too, to get away, and having half guessed the surgeon’s suspicions was not at all surprised by the revelation concerning the gendarme.

  “Allow me to thank you again,” he said politely, turning to the doctor. “I have no doubt you acted quite rightly. Let us go,” he added, addressing the prince.

  The porter received a coin as consolation money for the abuse he had sustained, and the two cousins found themselves in the street. Saracinesca again asked for an explanation.

  “Very simple,” replied San Giacinto. “Donna Faustina was not at her father’s house, so your son and I separated to continue our search. Chancing to find myself here — for I do not know my way about the city — I learnt the news of the explosion, and was told that two Zouaves had been found dead and had been taken into the hospital. Fearing lest one of them might have been Gouache, I succeeded in getting in, when I was locked up with the dead bodies, as you have heard. Gouache, by the bye, was not one of them.”

  “It is outrageous—” began Saracinesca, but his companion did not allow him to proceed.

  “It is no matter,” he said, quickly. “The important thing is to find

  Donna Faustina. I suppose you have no news of her.”

  “None. Giovanni had not come home when the gendarme appeared.”

  “Then we must continue the search as best we can,” said San Giacinto.

  Thereupon they both got into the prince’s cab and drove away.

  It was nearly midnight when a small detachment of Zouaves crossed the bridge of Sant’ Angelo. There had been some sharp fighting at the Porta San Paolo, at the other extremity of Rome, and the men were weary. But rest was not to be expected that night, and the tired soldiers were led back to do sentry duty in the neighbourhood of their quarters. The officer halted the little body in the broad space beyond.

  “Monsieur Gouache,” said the lieutenant, “you will take a corporal’s guard and maintain order in the neighbourhood of the barracks — if there is anything left of them,” he added with a mournful laugh.

  Gouache stepped forward and half a dozen men formed themselves behind him. The officer was a good friend of his.

  “I suppose you have not dined any more than I, Monsieur Gouache?”

  “Not I, mon lieutenant. It is no matter.”

  “Pick up something to eat if you can, at such an hour. I will see that you are relieved before morning. Shoulder arms! March!”

  So Anastase Gouache trudged away down the Borgo Nuovo with his men at his heels. Among the number there was the son of a French duke, an English gentleman whose forefathers had marched with the Conqueror as their descendant now marched behind the Parisian artist, a young Swiss doctor of law, a couple of red-headed Irish peasants, and two or three others. When they reached the scene of the late catastrophe the place was deserted. The men who had been set to work at clearing away the rubbish had soon found what a hopeless task they had undertaken; and the news having soon spread that only the regimental musicians were in the barracks at the time, and that these few had been in all probability in the lower story of the building, where the band-room was situated, all attempts at finding the bodies were abandoned until the next day.

  Gouache and many others had escaped death almost miraculously, for five minutes had not elapsed after they had started at the double-quick for the Porta San Paolo, when the building was blown up. The news had of course been brought to them while they were repulsing the attack upon the gate, but it was not until many hours afterwards that a small detachment could safely be spared to return to their devastated quarters. Gouache himself had been just in time to join his comrades, and with them had seen most of the fighting. He now placed his men at proper distances along the street, and found leisure to reflect upon what had occurred. He was hungry and thirsty, and grimy with gunpowder, but there was evidently no prospect of getting any refreshment. The night, too, was growing cold, and he found it necessary to walk briskly about to keep himself warm. At first he tramped backwards and forwards, some fifty paces each way, but growing weary of the monotonous exercise, he began to scramble about among the heaps of ruins. His quick imagination called up the scene as it must have looked at the moment of the explosion, and then reverted with a sharp pang to the thought of his poor comrades-in-arms who lay crushed to death many feet below the stones on which he trod.

  Suddenly, as he leaned against a huge block, absorbed in his thoughts, the low wailing of a woman’s voice reached his ears. The sound proceeded apparently from no great distance, but the tone was very soft and low. Gradually, as he listened, he thought he distinguished words, but such words as he had not expected to hear, though they expressed his own feeling well enough.

  “Requiem eternam dona eis!”

  It was quite distinct, and the accents sounded strangely familiar. He held his breath and strained every faculty to catch the sounds.

  “Requiem sempiternam — sempiternam — sempiternam!” The despairing tones trembled at the third repetition, and then the voice broke into passionate sobbing.

  Anastase did not wait for more. At first he had half believed that what he heard was due to his imagination, but the sudden weeping left no doubt that it was real. Cautiously he made his way amongst the ruins, until he stopped short in amazement not unmingled with horror.

  In an angle where a part of the walls was still standing, a woman was on her knees, her hands stretched wildly out before her, her darkly-clad figure faintly revealed by the beams of the waning moon. The covering had fallen back from her head upon her shoulders, and the struggling rays fell upon her beautiful features, marking their angelic outline with delicate light. Still Anastase remained motionless, scarcely believing his eyes, and yet knowing that lovely face too well not to believe. It was Donna Faustina Montevarchi who knelt there at midnight
, alone, repeating the solemn words from the mass for the dead; it was for him that she wept, and he knew it.

  Standing there upon the common grave of his comrades, a wild joy filled the young man’s heart, a joy such as must be felt to be known, for it passes the power of earthly words to tell it. In that dim and ghastly place the sun seemed suddenly to shine as at noonday in a fair country; the crumbling masonry and blocks of broken stone grew more lovely than the loveliest flowers, and from the dark figure of that lonely heart-broken woman the man who loved her saw a radiance proceeding which overflowed and made bright at once his eyes and his heart. In the intensity of his emotion, the hand which lay upon the fallen stone contracted suddenly and broke off a fragment of the loosened mortar.

  At the slight noise, Faustina turned her head. Her eyes were wide and wild, and as she started to her feet she uttered a short, sharp cry, and staggered backward against the wall. In a moment Anastase was at her side, supporting her and looking into her face.

  “Faustina!”

  During a few seconds she gazed horrorstruck and silent upon him, stiffening herself and holding her face away from his. It was as though his ghost had risen out of the earth and embraced her. Then the wild look shivered like a mask and vanished, her features softened and the colour rose to her cheeks for an instant. Very slowly she drew him towards her, her eyes fixed on his; their lips met in a long, sweet kiss — then her strength forsook her and she swooned away in his arms.

  Gouache supported her tenderly until she sat leaning against the wall, and then knelt down by her side. He did not know what to do, and had he known, it would have availed him little. His instinct told him that she would presently recover consciousness and his emotions had so wholly overcome him that he could only look at her lovely face as her head rested upon his arm. But while he waited a great fear began to steal into his heart. He asked himself how Faustina had come to such a place, and how her coming was to be accounted for. It was long past midnight, now, and he guessed what trouble and anxiety there would be in her father’s house until she was found. He represented to himself in quick succession the scenes which would follow his appearance at the Palazzo Montevarchi with the youngest daughter of the family in his arms — or in a cab, and he confessed to himself that never lover had been in such straits.