Pignaver reflected a moment and drank wine before speaking.
‘I attribute my presence here,’ he said, ‘to the direct intervention of Providence.’
‘We share your view,’ answered Gambardella with gravity.
‘In fact,’ added Trombin, ‘the elements of acquaintance all agree admirably well — the circumstances, the conditions, chance, and Providence itself. For if, as I gather from your own words, sir, you stand in need of a little friendly assistance from us, we, on our side, are weary of wasting our wits in conversation and our strength in luxurious idleness. It is our mission to benefit mankind both here and hereafter, by despatching useless persons to Paradise and thus cheering the lives of the friends they leave on earth. Assured of this, as we are, all inactivity is unbearable to us. At the present moment we are, so to say, unemployed philanthropists; we are but a potential and passive blessing to our fellow-creatures, though we burn to be doing good to all! I appeal to my friend, Count Gambardella, here. Is this not the exact truth?’
‘Absolutely,’ answered the other, toying with a shrimp. ‘What my friend, Count Trombin, says is always strictly true.’
‘How could it be otherwise?’ asked Pignaver. ‘But I must apologise for not having addressed you gentlemen by your proper titles, which are foreign, though I had taken you both for Venetian nobles.’
‘We are, sir,’ Trombin answered, ‘but it pleased his Majesty the King of France to confer titles of French nobility on us, after we had rendered him a trifling service. We should likewise esteem ourselves your debtors, sir, if you would inform us of your own name, since we are fortunate enough to be entertaining you as our guest.’
Again the round eyes opened wide, like those of an angry cat, and the mouth was all puckered in the midst of the cherubic face, while Trombin waited for the answer. The Senator saw that he had no choice.
‘My name is Pignaver,’ he said slowly, and dwelling proudly on each syllable, ‘and I am a Senator. You will understand at once why I wear a mask here. I am well known by sight to many, and I have many friends — —’
‘One too many, I presume,’ suggested Gambardella, interrupting softly.
‘I shall communicate my business at once,’ said Pignaver, ‘for the person in question could never have been my friend any more than he could be my enemy.’
‘We understand your meaning,’ said Gambardella; ‘he is of low birth. Shall we say that he is “superfluous”?’
‘A weed,’ suggested Trombin, ‘a parasite, a wart, an overgrowth, a thing to be eradicated before it does greater harm! Do you take me, my lord? Have I fitted the word to the definition and suited the definition to the man?’
‘Admirably, Count,’ assented Pignaver. ‘Your command of language fills me with envy. “Eradicate” is good, very good!’
‘Does the weed flourish in Venice, my lord?’ asked Gambardella, who was bored and wished to settle the preliminaries of the business at once.
‘If I did not detest false metaphors,’ said Pignaver, ‘I should say that the weed has just flown, or, as I might say, fled, taking with it the finest flower of my garden. But since elegant speech must not be submitted to such outrages, I will speak plainly.’
At this point the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of the steaming pilaf, brought on by a neatly clad youth, whose companion set down beside it a dish of quails roasted in young vine leaves, and emitting a deliciously aromatic odour. Trombin and his friend helped the Senator generously, and filled his glass again. He was so hungry by this time that he ate several mouthfuls before he spoke again.
‘I have always found the emotions to be great appetisers,’ observed Trombin, watching him. ‘Men feast at a wedding, and gorge themselves after a funeral. A fit of anger whets the appetite, for I have seen a man fly into a towering passion with the cook and then immediately devour the very dish he has found fault with, to the last scraping. As for the passion of love, a French proverb says well that happiness makes an empty stomach. I can only hope, my lord, that in a week’s time you may enjoy your supper as much, with satisfaction for a relish instead of annoyance. As for me, the mere thought of doing some good in the world makes me hungry.’
And as he spoke he began to eat another quail which he had already taken on his plate. But Gambardella was more and more bored, and went to the point, as soon as the Senator looked up from his plate.
‘We understand,’ he said, ‘that some low-born fellow has carried off a lady of your lordship’s household. Do you know where they are?’
‘No. I know nothing, except that they have either left Venice already or will escape before morning.’
‘That means a wide search,’ said Gambardella.
‘But an easy one,’ the Senator replied. ‘The man is Alessandro Stradella, the singer, and may the devil get him!’
‘He will be safer in our hands, my lord. The lady’s name, and some description of her, if you please.’
‘Ortensia is her name. She is only seventeen years old, but is very beautiful, for she is fair, and her hair is of a true auburn colour, such as the lamented Titian often painted. Indeed, the young lady much resembles that master’s “Bella,” though younger and thinner. With her is fled also her nurse, a woman called Filippina, of middle age, with grey eyes and greyish hair, once not bad-looking, and whose manners are above her station.’
‘I suppose she is commonly called Pina,’ observed Gambardella. ‘Let us understand each other, my lord. I presume you wish the young lady and the woman to be brought back to you, when the singer is dead.’
‘Precisely. I shall say that she has been spending a week with a relation of her mother’s who is the Abbess of the Ursuline Nuns in Ravenna.’
‘Did you say the Ursulines in Ravenna, my lord?’ asked Gambardella slowly.
‘Yes,’ answered Pignaver, at first a little surprised by the question, for he had spoken clearly, although the whole conversation was carried on in low tones. The Bravo saw his expression, and hastened to explain.
‘My left ear is a little deaf,’ he said, turning his head so as to present the other. ‘Nothing remains but to agree on the price of the service,’ he continued in a business-like tone. ‘When we are told exactly where we shall find our man, it is simple enough. But in this case we may have to travel far. We shall require two gold ducats daily for our expenses till we find the opportunity we need for such a difficult business, and five hundred gold ducats when we hand over to you the young lady and her nurse. One hundred gold ducats must be advanced before we start, on account of expenses.’
Pignaver’s sour face twitched at the mention of such sums.
‘You set a high price on your services, gentlemen,’ he said.
‘“Service” is not precisely the word, my lord,’ said Trombin, desisting from picking the leg of a quail, and staring intently at the masked Senator. ‘It is, as I may say, a false metaphor, which is an outrage upon elegant speech — forgive me for borrowing your own expressions!’
And suddenly Trombin’s eyes glared in such a way that the Senator was cowed.
‘I assure you, I had no intention of giving you offence, Count,’ he said. ‘If you will, choose the word you prefer; I will use it with pleasure.’
‘“Benefit,” my lord, or, if you prefer the longer form, “benefaction.” Either will do very well.’
Trombin thereupon resumed operations on the leg of the quail, and when his absurd little mouth showed his teeth the Senator observed they were as white and sharp as a cat’s. It was clear that he was the talker in the partnership, and left all business arrangements to his companion.
‘I have named the sum we require, my lord,’ the latter said calmly, ‘and we are not accustomed to argue such matters. You would give ten times as much for your own life any day, and Alessandro Stradella would certainly find a thousand or two to save his, if the matter were laid before him.’
Pignaver saw that he must agree to the demand, for if he refused and sought help els
ewhere the Bravi would warn the musician and offer the latter their protection. The Senator was uncomfortable in their company, as many of his friends would have been; for if a born coward ever comes into contact with such men, he regards them much as a timid woman looks on a loaded gun. Though the two cut-throats behaved with the outward courtesy of gentlemen, there was something terrifying in their looks which it would have been hard to define, and the highly refined Venetian noble, who admired the elegant works of Politian and composed scores of polished inanities, shuddered from time to time as he glanced at Gambardella’s sinewy brown hand or Trombin’s strong pink fingers and thought of the stains that must often have been on both.
A silence followed the Bravo’s last speech, during which Trombin consumed more pilaf, and his companion thoughtfully salted a small bit of bread-crust, ate it slowly, and then sipped the old Samian wine from the blue and white glass beaker which he kept constantly quite full. And immediately, though he had only drunk a few drops, he re-filled the glass exactly to the brim. Trombin drank at much longer intervals, but always emptied his tumbler before replenishing it. Nor were these opposite habits of the two men mere matters of preference or taste; for the nose of the one turned up in such a convenient manner that he could drain the smallest glass or cup with ease, but the other’s portentous beak turned down and then hooked itself in towards his lips, so that wherever his mouth went, there it was also, always in the way; and if he ever tried to drink like ordinary people, its tip was wetted before he had tasted the wine.
The Senator was reflecting before giving an answer which must be final. Was Ortensia worth the six or seven hundred ducats which the whole affair would cost him? That was really the question, for he looked upon the murder of Stradella merely as a necessary and just consequence of his niece’s capture, and though the thought of vengeance was agreeable to his nature, he would not have been willing to pay such a price for it. Ortensia herself was certainly not worth so much, in his estimation, for the sake of her beauty, seeing that he could buy a Georgian girl almost or quite as pretty, in the Fondaco dei Turchi, for much less. Besides, though Stradella would be dead and buried, it would always be humiliating to feel that she had belonged to him first, though the truth need never be known in Venice.
But there was another consideration, which turned the scale in her favour. Pignaver had heard her sing his own compositions, after having been taught by Stradella, and he had dreamed of electrifying Venetian society at last by her rendering of his immortal works. Hitherto, even his most industrious flatterers had not given him the very first place among living poets and musicians; but he was sure that when they heard Ortensia they would exalt him above all his predecessors and all his contemporaries; at last he would enjoy that absolute supremacy which is the prime birthright of genius in all ages, and to which he firmly believed himself entitled. Ortensia alone could assure to him that final victory, and beside it all objections, all scruples, all petty questions of technical honour sank away to nothing. He must marry her himself, of course, so that he might order her to perform his works whenever he pleased, and she must be a married woman before propriety would allow her to sing to his assembled friends; but marriage was a detail and of no consequence compared with the triumph he expected to gain by it; the girl’s flight with the musician was a childish escapade of little importance, since it could be kept quite secret, and she might be supposed to have been spending a few days in a convent in Ravenna to complete her education. As for any resistance on her part, it was absurd to think of such a thing; no doubt she would cry her eyes out for a few weeks, after Stradella was despatched to a better world, but she would soon see the error of her ways and be only too glad to accept the magnificent position the Senator offered her, instead of being murdered herself, or forced to spend her life in a convent.
The two Bravi did not hurry their new acquaintance to a decision, though Gambardella had flatly declined to discuss the terms of the bargain; they only made it clear that their offer must be accepted or declined as it was, and they seemed quite indifferent as to Pignaver’s decision. Trombin continued to eat pilaf in a leisurely way, as if he could go on for ever, and Gambardella sipped his wine, filled his glass again, and ate several little morsels of salted crust, while the Senator turned the matter over in his mind and plied his knife and fork in silence.
‘The truth is,’ he said at last, ‘I should not wish you to start till the city has been thoroughly searched by the police. As you wisely observed, I think, a man of Stradella’s reputation cannot remain long concealed, and will be more easily found next week than to-morrow.’
‘I believe,’ answered Gambardella politely, ‘that the remark was yours, and it is a wise one. Are we then to understand that if the Signors of the Night do not find the pair, you desire our help on the terms I have stated?’
‘Exactly so,’ said Pignaver. ‘That will give you time to make your preparations for the journey at your leisure. Where shall I find you three days hence, gentlemen?’
‘At Benediction in the Church of the Frari, my lord, for the day will be a Sunday. If you desire it, we will call for paper and pen and set down the terms of our agreement at once.’
‘That will not be necessary, sir,’ replied the Senator, who did not care to put his name to such a document. ‘I have confidence in you.’
Trombin at once raised his head and fastened his eyes on Pignaver.
‘As between gentlemen, my lord,’ he observed, ‘it would be more fitting to say that we have confidence in each other. With your permission I shall complete your statement by saying that we are willing to trust you without any written promise. We will leave such sordid dealings to the lawyers and notaries. You give your word, we give ours, and the matter is safer for accomplishment than if a contract were engrossed on a dozen sheepskins and sealed with the Fisherman’s Ring!’
‘Certainly, certainly,’ assented the Senator, who did not like the Bravo’s eyes. ‘You have my word, I have yours, and that is enough.’
‘My lord,’ said Trombin, his manner suddenly becoming extremely affable, ‘I have the honour to drink your health!’
‘Your health, Count,’ responded Pignaver, raising his glass.
‘Your health,’ said Gambardella, bowing politely, and then sipping his wine with all the caution required to keep his long nose out of it.
Having settled matters in this way and, moreover, satisfied his appetite with a good supper, Pignaver took leave of the Bravi with considerable ceremony, for he perceived that they were as exigent and punctilious as to all points of courtesy as any noble in Italy, France, or Spain; and it would not be good to fall out with such touchy gentlemen on a point of manners. Indeed, as he retraced his steps to the office of the Signors of the Night, where his gondola was waiting, he really congratulated himself on having escaped without a quarrel, and hoped that the next interview would pass off as well.
The three days went by, and at noon on Sunday he received a note from the Signor of the Night informing him that the runaway pair and the serving-woman had been in Padua early on the morning after they left Venice, and had immediately taken an extra post to Rovigo and Ferrara. They had excited no suspicion, and the spy who had brought the news had not obtained the information without considerable difficulty, for many travellers were going and coming, and in a time of peace like the present more attention was bestowed by the authorities on foreign travellers than on Italians. But Stradella had brought some of his belongings with him, which his man had carefully concealed in the gondola, and amongst other things there was his favourite long lute; the instrument had been noticed by the ostlers at the postern-house in Padua on account of its unusual size, and they remembered the four travellers after hearing the spy’s description of three of them, for he knew nothing of Stradella’s servant.
There was therefore no doubt but that the fugitives were now far beyond the Venetian border in the States of the Church, and Pignaver resolved to keep the appointment at the Frari, taking with
him the hundred gold ducats which were to be paid in advance.
The Bravi were already there indeed, but he did not see them at once, and as Vespers were over and the Benediction was about to begin, he selected a spot a little apart from the common herd and knelt down to his devotions, for it was of no use to waste time that could be so profitably employed.
But while he was thus engaged, it being already sunset and the light in the church failing, the men he sought were earnestly conversing in low tones with a young Dominican monk in a distant corner; and the monk, it is needless to say, was the lady whose ring they had taken, and who had knocked so long in vain at Stradella’s door three days earlier.
‘Madam,’ Gambardella was saying, ‘the search may be a long one, but we will do our best. We shall require two gold ducats daily for our expenses in travelling, and the payment of five hundred gold ducats in cash when we deliver to you Master Alessandro Stradella, bound hand and foot, at your villa on the Brenta.’
‘But the woman must die!’ protested the lady earnestly.
‘That goes without saying, madam,’ answered Gambardella. ‘You may regard her as already dead and buried, for you have our word for it. Nothing remains but that you should place in our hands a hundred gold ducats on account, which we shall require in order to start.’
The lady was evidently prepared for such a demand, and produced a small leathern bag from within her monk’s frock. But she was evidently a woman of business.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1293