Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Ercole only answered by raising his head and throwing out his chin, which means “no” in gesture language. He threw pieces of the bread and the rind of the cheese to his dog. Nino caught each fragment in the air with a snap that would have lamed a horse for a month. The woman glanced nervously at the animal, each time she heard his jagged teeth close.

  Paoluccio appeared in due time, without coat or waistcoat, and with his sleeves rolled up above the elbows, as if he had been washing. If he had, the operation had succeeded very imperfectly. He glanced at Ercole as he passed in.

  “Good-morning,” he said, for he made it a point to be polite to customers, even when they brought their own food.

  “Good-morning,” answered Ercole, looking at him curiously.

  Possibly there was something unusual in the tone of Ercole’s voice, for Nino suddenly sat up beside his master’s knee, forgetting all about the bread, and watched Paoluccio too, as if he expected something. But nothing happened. Paoluccio opened a cupboard in the wall with a key he carried, took out a bottle of the coarse aniseed spirits which the Roman peasants drink, and filled himself a small glass of the stuff, which he tossed off with evident pleasure. Then he filled his pipe, lit it carefully, and went to the door again. By this time, though he had apparently not bestowed the least attention on Ercole, he had made up his mind about him, and was not mistaken. Ercole belonged to the better class of customers.

  “You come from the Roman shore?” he said, with an interrogation.

  “To serve you,” Ercole assented, with evident willingness to enter into conversation. “I am a keeper and watchman on the lands of Signor Corbario.”

  Paoluccio took his pipe from his mouth and nodded twice.

  “That is a very rich gentleman, I have heard,” he observed. “He owns much land.”

  “It all belongs to his stepson, now that the young gentleman is of age,” Ercole answered. “But as it was his mother’s, and she married Signor Corbario, we have the habit of the name.”

  “What is the name of the stepson?” asked Paoluccio.

  “Consalvi,” Ercole replied.

  Paoluccio said nothing to this, but lit his pipe again with a sulphur match.

  “Evil befall the soul of our government!” he grumbled presently, with insufficient logic, but meaning that the government sold bad tobacco.

  “You must have heard of the young gentleman,” Ercole said. “His name is Marcello Consalvi. They say that he lay ill for a long time at an inn on this road—”

  “For the love of heaven, don’t talk to me about Marcello Consalvi!” cried Paoluccio, suddenly in a fury. “Blood of a dog! If you had not the face of an honest man I should think you were another of those newspaper men in disguise, pigs and animals that they are and sons of evil mothers, and ill befall their wicked dead, and their little dead ones, and those that shall be born to them!”

  Paoluccio’s eyes were bloodshot and he spat furiously, half across the road. Nino watched him and hitched the side of his upper lip on one of his lower fangs, which produced the effect of a terrific smile. Ercole was unmoved.

  “I suppose,” he observed, “that they said it happened in your inn.”

  “And why should it happen in my inn, rather than in any other inn?” inquired Paoluccio angrily.

  “Indeed,” said Ercole, “I cannot imagine why they should say that it did! Some one must have put the story about. A servant, perhaps, whom you sent away.”

  “We did not send Regina away,” answered Paoluccio, still furious. “She ran away in the night, about that time. But, as you say, she may have invented the story and sent the newspaper men here to worry our lives with their questions, out of mere spite.”

  “Who was this Regina?” Ercole asked. “What has she to do with it?”

  “Regina? She was the servant girl we had before this one. We took her out of charity.”

  “The daughter of some relation, no doubt,” Ercole suggested.

  “May that never be, if it please the Madonna!” cried Paoluccio. “A relation? Thank God we have always been honest people in my father’s house! No, it was not a relation. She came of a crooked race. Her mother took a lover, and her father killed him, here on the Frascati road, and almost killed her too; but the law gave him the right and he went free.”

  “And then, what did he do?” asked Ercole, slowly putting the remains of his bread into his canvas bag.

  “What did he do? He went away and never came back. What should he do?”

  “Quite right. And the woman, what became of her?”

  “She took other men, for she had no shame. And at last one of them was jealous, and struck her on the head with a paving stone, not meaning to kill her; but she died.”

  “Oh, she died, did she?”

  “She died. For she was always spiteful. And so that poor man went to the galleys, merely for hitting her on the head, and not meaning to kill her.”

  “And you took the girl for your servant?”

  “Yes. She was old enough to work, and very strong, so we took her for charity. But for my part, I was glad when she ran away, for she grew up handsome, and with that blood there surely would have been a scandal some day.”

  “One sees that you are a very charitable person,” Ercole observed thoughtfully. “The girl must have been very ungrateful if she told untrue stories about your inn, after all you had done for her. You had nourished a viper in your house.”

  “That is what my wife says,” Paoluccio answered, now quite calm. “Those are my wife’s very words. As for believing that the young man was ever in this house, I tell you that the story is a wicked lie. Where should we have put him? In the cellar with the hogsheads, or in the attic with the maid? or in our own room? Tell me where we could have put him! Or perhaps they will say that he slept on the ceiling, like the flies? They will say anything, chattering, chattering, and coming here with their questions and their photographing machines, and their bicycles, and the souls of their dead! If you do not believe me, you can see the place where they say that he lay! I tell you there is not room for a cat in this house. Believe me if you like!”

  “How can I not believe such a respectable person as you seem to be?” inquired Ercole gravely.

  “I thank you. And since it happens that you are in the service of the young gentleman himself, I hope you will tell him that if he fancies he was in my house, he is mistaken.”

  “Surely,” said Ercole.

  “Besides,” exclaimed Paoluccio, “how could he know where he was? Are not all inns on these roads alike? He was in another, that is all. And what had I to do with that?”

  “Nothing,” assented Ercole. “I thank you for your conversation. I will take a glass of the aniseed before I go, if you please.”

  “Are you going already?” asked Paoluccio, as he went to fetch the bottle and the little cast glass from which he himself had drunk.

  “Yes,” Ercole answered. “I go to Rome. I stopped to refresh myself.”

  “It will be hot on the road,” said Paoluccio, setting the full glass down on the table. “Two sous,” he added, as Ercole produced his old sheepskin purse. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” Ercole answered, and tipped the spirits down his throat. “Yes, it will be hot, but what can one do? We are used to it, my dog and I. We are not of wax to melt in the sun.”

  “It is true that this dog does not look as if he were wax,” Paoluccio remarked, for the qualities of Nino had not escaped him.

  “No. He is not of wax. He is of sugar, all sugar! He has a very sweet nature.”

  “One would not say so,” answered Paoluccio doubtfully. “If you go to the city you must muzzle him, or they will make you pay a fine. Otherwise they will kill him for you.”

  “Do you think any one would try to catch him if I let him run loose?” asked Ercole, as if in doubt. “He killed a full-grown wolf before he was two years old, and not long ago he worried a sheepdog of the Campagna as if it had been nothing but a lamb. Do you thin
k any one would try to catch him?”

  “If it fell to me, I should go to confession first,” said Paoluccio.

  So Ercole left the inn and trudged along the road to Rome with Nino at his heels, without once looking behind him; past the Baldinotti houses and into the Via Appia Nuova, and on into the city through the gate of San Giovanni, where the octroi men stopped him and made him show them what he had in his canvas bag. When they saw that there was no cheese left and but little bread, they let him go by without paying anything.

  He went up to the left and sat down on the ground under the trees that are there, and he filled his little clay pipe and smoked a while, without even speaking to his dog. It was quiet, for it was long past the hour when the carts come in, and the small boys were all gone to school, and the great paved slope between the steps of the basilica and the gate was quite deserted, and very white and hot.

  Ercole was not very tired, though he had walked all night and a good part of the morning. He could have gone on walking till sunset if he had chosen, all the way to his little stone house near Ardea, stopping by the way to get a meal; and then he would not have slept much longer than usual. A Roman peasant in his native Campagna, with enough to eat and a little wine, is hard to beat at walking. Ercole had not stopped to rest, but to think.

  When he had thought some time, he looked about to see if any one were looking at him, and he saw that the only people in sight were a long way off. He took his big clasp-knife out of his pocket and opened it. As the clasp clicked at the back of the blade Nino woke and sat up, for the noise generally meant food.

  The blade was straight and clean, and tolerably sharp. Ercole looked at it critically, drew the edge over his coarse thumb-nail to find if there were any nick in the steel, and then scratched the same thumb-nail with it, as one erases ink with a knife, to see how sharp it was. The point was like a needle, but he considered that the edge was dull, and he drew it up and down one of the brown barrels of his gun, as carefully as he would have sharpened a razor on a whetstone. After that he stropped it on the tough leathern strap by which he slung the gun over his shoulder when he walked; when he was quite satisfied, he shut the knife again and put it back into his pocket, and fell to thinking once more.

  Nino watched the whole operation with bloodshot eyes, his tongue hanging out and quivering rhythmically as he panted in the heat to cool himself. When the knife disappeared, and the chance of a crust with it, the dog got up, deliberately turned his back to his master, and sat down again to look at the view.

  “You see,” said Ercole to himself and Nino, “this is an affair which needs thought. One must be just. It is one thing to kill a person’s body, but it is quite another thing to kill a person’s soul. That would be a great sin, and besides, it is not necessary. Do I wish harm to any one? No. It is justice. Perhaps I shall go to the galleys. Well, I shall always have the satisfaction, and it will be greater if I can say that this person is in Paradise. For I do not wish harm to any one.”

  Having said this in a tone which Nino could hear, Ercole sat thinking for some time longer, and then he rose and slung his gun over his shoulder, and went out from under the trees into the glaring heat, as if he were going into the city. But instead of turning to the left, up the hill, he went on by the broad road that follows the walls, till he came to the ancient church of Santa Croce. He went up the low steps to the deep porch and on to the entrance at the left. Nino followed him very quietly.

  Ercole dipped his finger into the holy water and crossed himself, and then went up the nave, making as little noise as he could with his hob-nailed boots. An old monk in white was kneeling at a broad praying-stool before an altar on the left. Ercole stood still near him, waiting for him to rise, and slowly turning his soft hat in his hands, as if it were a rosary. He kept his eyes on the monk’s face, studying the aged features. Presently the old man had finished his prayer and got upon his feet slowly, and looked at Ercole and then at Nino. Ercole moved forward a step, and stood still in an attitude of respect.

  “What do you desire, my son?” asked the monk, very quietly. “Do you wish to confess?”

  “No, father, not to-day,” answered Ercole. “I come to pray you to say three masses for the soul of a person who died suddenly. I have also brought the money. Only tell me how much it will be, and I will pay.”

  “You shall give what you will, my son,” the monk said, “and I will say the masses myself.”

  Ercole got out his sheepskin purse, untied the strings, and looked into it, weighing it in his hand. Then he seemed to hesitate. The monk looked on quietly.

  “It is of your own free will,” he said. “What you choose to give is for the community, and for this church, and for the chapel of Saint Helen. It is better that you know.”

  Ercole drew the mouth of the purse together again and returned it to the inside of his waistcoat, from which he produced a large old leathern pocket-book.

  “I will give five francs,” he said, “for I know that if you say the masses yourself, they will be all good ones.”

  A very faint and gentle smile flitted over the aged face. Ercole held out the small note, and the monk took it.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Shall I say the masses for a man or a woman?”

  “As it pleases you, father,” Ercole answered.

  “Eh?” The old monk looked surprised.

  “It does not matter,” Ercole explained. “Is not a mass for a man good for a woman also?”

  “We say ‘his’ soul or ‘her’ soul, as the case may be, my son.”

  “Is that written in the book of the mass?” inquired Ercole distrustfully.

  “Yes. Also, most people tell us the baptismal name of the dead person.”

  “Must I do that too?” Ercole asked, by no means pleased.

  “Not unless you like,” the monk answered, looking at him with some curiosity.

  “But it is in the book of the mass that you must say ‘his’ or ‘her’ soul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then the masses will not be good unless you say the right word.” Ercole paused a moment in deep thought, and looked down at his hat. “It will be better to say the masses for a female,” he said at length, without meeting the monk’s eyes.

  “Very well,” the latter answered. “I will say the first mass to-morrow.”

  “Thank you,” said Ercole. “My respects!”

  He made a sort of bow and hurried away, followed by Nino. The old monk watched him thoughtfully, and shook his head once or twice, for he guessed something of the truth, though by no means all.

  CHAPTER XVI

  “ONE MIGHT ALMOST think that you wished to marry Aurora yourself,” said Corbario, with a sneer.

  He was standing with his back to the fire in the great library of the villa, for it was late autumn again; it was raining hard and the air was raw and chilly.

  “You may think what you please,” Marcello answered, leaning back in his deep leathern chair and taking up a book. “I am not going to argue with you.”

  “Insufferable puppy,” growled Folco, almost under his teeth; but Marcello heard.

  He rose instantly and faced the elder man without the slightest fear or hesitation.

  “If this were not my house, and you my guest, I would have you put out of doors by the servants,” he said, in a tone Corbario had never heard before. “As it is, I only advise you to go before I lose my temper altogether.”

  Corbario backed till his heels were against the fender, and tried to smile.

  “My dear Marcello!” he protested. “What nonsense is this? You know I am not in earnest!”

  “I am,” said Marcello quietly enough, but not moving.

  The half-invalid boy was not a boy any longer, nor an invalid either, and he had found his hold on things, since the days when Folco had been used to lead him as easily as if he had no will of his own. No one would have judged him to be a weak man now, physically or mentally. His frame was spare and graceful still, but there wa
s energy and directness in his movements, his shoulders were square and he held his head high; yet it was his face that had changed most, though in a way very hard to define. A strong manhood sometimes follows a weak boyhood, very much to the surprise of those who have long been used to find feebleness where strength has suddenly developed. Marcello Consalvi had never been cowardly, or even timid; he had only been weak in will as in body, an easy prey to the man who had tried to ruin him, body and soul, in the hope of sending him to his grave.

  “I really cannot understand you, my dear boy,” Corbario said very sweetly. “You used to be so gentle! But now you fly into a passion for the merest thing.”

  “I told you that I would not argue with you,” Marcello said, keeping his temper. “This is my house, and I choose that you should leave it at once. Go your way, and leave me to go mine. You are amply provided for, as long as you live, and you do not need my hospitality any longer, since you are no longer my guardian. Live where you please. You shall not stay here.”

  “I certainly don’t care to stay here if you don’t want me,” Folco answered. “But this is really too absurd! You must be going mad, to take such a tone with me!”

  “It is the only one which any honourable man who knows you would be inclined to take.”

  “Take care! You are going too far.”

  “Because you are under my roof? Yes, perhaps. As my guest, if I have been hasty, I apologise for expressing my opinion of you. I am going out now. I hope you will find it convenient to have left before I come in.”

  Thereupon Marcello turned his back on Corbario, crossed the great library deliberately, and went out without looking round.

  Folco was left alone, and his still face did not even express surprise or annoyance. He had indeed foreseen the coming break, ever since he had returned to the villa three weeks earlier, when Marcello had received him with evident coldness, not even explaining where he had been since they had last parted. But Folco had not expected that the rupture would come so suddenly, still less that he was literally to be turned out of the house which he still regarded as his own, and in which he had spent so many prosperous years. There had, indeed, been some coldly angry words between the two men. Marcello had told Folco quite plainly that he meant to be the master, and that he was of age, and should regulate his own life as he pleased, and he had expressed considerable disgust at the existence Folco had been leading in Paris and elsewhere; and Folco had always tried to laugh it off, calling Marcello prudish and hypersensitive in matters of morality, which he certainly was not. Once he had attempted an appeal to Marcello’s former affection, recalling his mother’s love for them both, but a look had come into the young man’s eyes just then which even Corbario did not care to face again, and the relations between the two had become more strained from that time on.