Cucurullo’s reply was not only of favourable omen, but announced a piece of unexpected good-fortune.
‘You are very obliging,’ he said, ‘and I shall be glad of a mouthful at noon. As for your kind offer to lend me money, I thank you heartily, but I am well provided, and wish to pay my master’s bill here before accepting your friendly offer of a dinner. My master always trusts me with a few ducats to pay his small expenses.’
The innkeeper congratulated himself on having patted the man’s hump, for it was clear that the good luck which at once befell him could be traced to no other source. He now inwardly cursed his haste in turning Ortensia and Pina out of the house, since Cucurullo was perhaps in a position to have paid their score for some time. Of this, however, the host could not be quite sure, for the serving-man did not show his purse, but only produced some loose silver from the pocket of his wide brown breeches.
‘I shall charge nothing for the lady’s use of the room,’ said the innkeeper magnanimously. ‘You came with three horses from Rovigo, I believe; there is their feed, and the supper of the postillion, who left in an hour. That is all. Three pauls will pay for everything.’
‘You are very obliging,’ Cucurullo said again, as he paid the money. ‘Your charges are very moderate. Since you act in such a friendly manner, I will tell you something.’
Thereupon Cucurullo laid one of his large hands gently on the innkeeper’s sleeve, and looked up earnestly into the latter’s face; and when he was very much in earnest, his large blue eyes had a peculiar expression, which lent great weight to what he said.
‘A friendly act deserves a friendly return,’ he said, ‘for, as we say in the South, “one hand washes the other and both wash the face.” My master has been arrested by mistake. He is really and truly the famous Maestro Stradella, and is a great favourite with the Roman Court, for he has sung to His Holiness himself and often to His Eminence Cardinal Altieri. Therefore, if any harm comes to him in Ferrara through the ignorance of Monsignor Pelagatti, there will be trouble for you, since the Legate will be severely reprimanded, and will make those persons who gave him wrong information pay for his scolding. As you have shown me kindness, I tell you these things beforehand, because I know them for certain. Do you understand?’
The innkeeper not only understood, but began to feel uncomfortable at the thought of being called to account even for his small share in Stradella’s arrest. As for the spy who had made the mistake, his lot would not be enviable if he was within the Legate’s reach when the error was discovered.
‘Pardon the question, my dear friend,’ said the host in an extremely gentle tone, ‘but are you quite sure of these things?’
‘Altogether sure,’ was the answer. ‘I have been in the Maestro’s service since he first began to be famous. He saved my life at the risk of his own, and I have served him five years come the Feast of Saint John. I therefore know that he is not a Sicilian counterfeiter! If you have any means of reaching the Legate, therefore, it would be well to set him right at once in this matter. He will be the more grateful, or, at least, the less angry, if my master is detained in prison for a few hours only.’
The innkeeper saw the wisdom of this, on the supposition that Cucurullo was speaking the truth, but of that he was not quite sure. It was a bad world, he reflected, and the counterfeiter might have a clever hunchback for a servant, with a knack of fixing his eyes as Cucurullo did, and of putting great earnestness into his tone. So far, the innkeeper had only done what the law had required of him, except in the matter of turning out two women who could not pay for their lodging, and in doing this the law would support him. Monsignor Pelagatti was a tremendous personage, who ruled the whole Marquisate of Ferrara in the name of the Pope; he knew his business, or believed he did, and it was absurd to think that a humble innkeeper and posting-master could influence him to act upon the mere word of a serving-man.
On the other hand, it was unsafe to doubt a hunchback openly, and it would be fatal to quarrel with him, because he could cast the spell of the Evil Eye.
‘I shall do my best,’ the innkeeper replied, ‘and far more readily for your sake, my dear friend, than for my own, I assure you.’
Cucurullo smiled quietly, and seemed quite satisfied with this answer. He now went on to ask questions about Ortensia and Pina, but the host knew nothing, except that they had left the house together, immediately after the arrest of Stradella. For obvious reasons he said nothing of his interview with Pina. He declared that they had simply left the inn, and that he had not hindered them. He had not seen them go out, and could not tell whether they had turned to the north or the south. He suggested that since they had gone away at once and without the least hesitation, they probably had friends in Ferrara to whom they could turn for protection and help in their difficulty. He was ready, he said, to help Cucurullo to find them out; he would be only too happy to be of use.
What he suggested was not unlikely. During the flight from Venice, Cucurullo had observed Pina closely, and had come to the conclusion that she was a woman of resources, who had travelled much at some time or other, and who could hold her tongue. She would certainly think of some expedient, and would succeed in placing her mistress under some sort of protection. His own mind always instinctively ran in the direction of an ecclesiastical solution of any difficulty in life; if he himself were starving and friendless in a strange city he would knock at the door of a Franciscan monastery and beg for shelter and work. He therefore concluded that Pina would naturally have taken Ortensia directly to a convent, where they would both be cared for; the serving-woman would take care to be informed of what happened to Stradella, and as soon as he was let out she would communicate with him.
Moreover, as compared with the fate of the musician, Cucurullo cared little what became of Ortensia; for his devotion to his master filled his whole life, whereas the young girl’s only claim to his attachment was that Stradella was in love with her. On the other hand, the pious serving-man saw in the present separation of the two a special intervention of Providence for the purpose of keeping the lovers apart till they could be duly and properly married. From this point of view to putting Ortensia out of his thoughts altogether was only a step, and he devoted every energy to the liberation of his master.
Having come to this conclusion in a much shorter time than it has taken to explain his reasons, he again thanked his new friend, promising to come back for dinner at noon, and adding that he would go over to the castle gate and gather such information as he could. He was hindered from doing so at once, however, by the preparations for the Nuncio’s departure, which has been already described. He mixed with the crowd that had gathered to see the sight, and waited till some time had elapsed after the Legate and the guard had gone in before he approached the drawbridge.
The single sentinel had now returned to his beat, but half-a-dozen of the halberdiers were loitering about the door of the guard-room within the deep archway, at some distance from the gate. The sentry stopped Cucurullo and asked his business.
‘I am the servant of the gentleman who has been arrested by mistake at the inn,’ the hunchback answered humbly. ‘My master had sent me out on an errand, and when I came in I learnt the news. So I have come to wait for him.’
‘I am afraid you may wait long,’ answered the sentry, with a friendly glance at Cucurullo’s hump; ‘but you are welcome to sit in the guard-room, if you like.’
‘Thank you,’ Cucurullo answered, and as he passed he felt the soldier’s light touch on his crooked back.
The other halberdiers received him with equal kindness, and there was not one of them who did not believe that he would have a stroke of luck before night, if he could by any means touch the magic hump without offending its possessor. Cucurullo took off his hat civilly as he stopped before them.
‘Good-morning, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘The sentinel was kind enough to say that I might wait here for my master, who has been arrested by mistake and will soon come out.’
/> ‘And welcome!’ cried the sergeant on duty, who had lost money at play on the previous evening.
‘At your service! Pray sit down! Bring out a chair!’
The men all spoke together, and gathered closely round Cucurullo to touch his hump, so that he almost disappeared amongst them. Then they got a chair from the guard-room and made him sit down at his ease, and some remained standing beside him while others sat on the end of the stone seat that ran along the wall. He thanked them warmly, and at once entered into conversation, asking for news of Stradella, and explaining the strange mistake that had led to his arrest. In a few minutes he had learned that his master was in all likelihood at that very moment before the Legate.
‘And what sort of person is his worship, the Governor?’ asked Cucurullo, anxious for information, and lowering his voice.
The sergeant was a jolly, red-faced, merry-eyed man from the March of Ancona, and he laughed before he answered.
‘We used to call him Pontius Pilate, because he does not know what truth is,’ he said, ‘but we gave that up because he never washes his hands!’
Cucurullo smiled at the rough jest, but he looked curiously at the speaker.
‘I see that you are familiar with the Scriptures, sir,’ observed the hunchback.
‘I come by the knowledge honestly,’ answered the soldier. ‘I did not steal it! My father, bless his soul, was killed in battle, and so my mother tried to make a priest of me. Eh? You see me as I am! This is the kind of priest my mother made! Neither more nor less than a poor sergeant of halberdiers. But a little of the Latin stuck to me, for indeed it is sticky stuff enough, and the priests laid it on with a stick!’
The men roared with delight at their superior’s elegant wit, and Cucurullo laughed a little too, more out of politeness than because he was amused.
‘You may yet die a saint, sir,’ he said with a grave smile when the general mirth had subsided. ‘Many of the saints were soldiers, you know. There was the blessed Saint Eustace, and there was Saint Martin, and Saint Sebastian, and Saint George — —’
‘But there never was a Saint Hector, and that is my name, at your service.’
At this retort the men again showed their delight, laughing in chorus.
‘Do you think you have no chance of being the first Saint Hector in the calendar?’ asked Cucurullo pleasantly. ‘Why not? You have a good heart, sir. I see it in your face, if you will pardon me for saying so. Gentlemen’ — he smilingly appealed to the other men— ‘has not Sergeant Hector a good heart?’
‘A heart of gold!’ cried one of the soldiers.
‘A heart as big as a pumpkin!’ another chimed in.
‘A lion’s heart!’
‘There is not another like him in all the Pope’s army!’
‘And God bless him!’
The sergeant stood back, pretending to put on a terrible frown, and cutting the air in carte and tierce with his handsome tasselled stick.
‘You ruffians!’ he roared. ‘You know well enough that I would beat you all black and blue if you did not praise me seventeen times a day, four times for each watch and once more for good luck! Eh?’ He glared ferociously about him, and his stick flew round in his hand like lightning, through a whole series of cuts, feints, and round parries. ‘Have I trained my men well or not?’ he asked, desisting at last, and turning to Cucurullo.
‘You have trained them to tell the truth about you, sir, I have no doubt,’ answered the hunchback.
‘And we will make a bad day of it for any man who says a word against him,’ said the biggest of the halberdiers with a grin.
The rest confirmed his statement with a variety of asseverations, according to their several tastes, calling to witness indifferently both heathen deities and Christian saints.
‘Very well,’ said Cucurullo. ‘It is proved that you have a very good heart, sir, and that is the chief thing needed to make a saint. For to say that a man is kind-hearted is only another way of saying that he is charitable, and Charity is the greatest of the three Theological Virtues, as you must have learned at the seminary.’
‘Good friend,’ answered the sergeant, ‘if you are going to open the “Process” concerning my Beatification this morning, the Devil’s Advocate must be appointed to argue against you and try to prove me the worst of sinners, for that is the rule in Rome.’
‘Very well, sir,’ laughed the hunchback. ‘Appoint him yourself, sir!’
‘He is upstairs just now,’ retorted the other, ‘sitting in judgment on your master! But I will promise that if you argue with him about me, he will prove that my soul is rotting in original and acquired sin, and that nothing can save me but cutting my pay!’
Again the gloomy archway rang with the soldiers’ hoarse laughter, which was by no means the expression of obsequious flattery. The sergeant was more than popular with the whole company of halberdiers that garrisoned the castle; he was beloved for his inexhaustible good-nature and respected for his undoubted courage. Cucurullo had guessed this in a few moments, and in view of possible complications he was resolved to make an ally of the sergeant and friends of the men.
He felt amongst the loose silver in his pocket and jingled it in a manner agreeable for poor soldiers to hear.
‘It is still early,’ he said, ‘but talking always makes me thirsty. If you would allow some one to fetch some drink, sir, I should be grateful.’
The sergeant assented to the proposal with alacrity, and at his nod a young soldier stepped briskly forward to take the piece of silver Cucurullo was holding up.
‘How much shall I fetch?’ asked the man, grinning.
Cucurullo counted the company quickly before he answered.
‘We are nine,’ he said. ‘I think you had better get nine pints in a stoup.’ A little murmur of approval and anticipatory satisfaction ran round. ‘I do not know whether that is right,’ he added, in a tone of hesitating interrogation.
‘You speak the wisdom of all ages,’ answered the sergeant. ‘Solomon never said anything better. “Take a little wine for the good of the stomach,” says Saint Paul.’
So the time passed pleasantly for the soldiers down there under the great gate, while Monsignor Pelagatti was conducting his singular judicial proceedings upstairs. A couple of horn cups were produced from the guard-room, and the men drank to Cucurullo’s health in turn, while he himself swallowed a little; for he was tired, and he was terribly anxious, in spite of his cheerful manner and jesting tone.
They were all laughing and talking together when the old goldsmith appeared from within, on his way home. The sergeant hailed him and asked what news of the counterfeiter there was from the Legate’s court.
‘Three hundred and ninety-one good gold ducats confiscated to the Treasury,’ answered the grey-haired crafts-man, ‘and the prisoner to be lodged under the Lion Tower till he is sent to Rome for trial.’
The sergeant looked at Cucurullo, and saw that he grew paler, and dead white all round the lips; but the hunchback showed no other sign of emotion, and the goldsmith nodded gravely and went out.
‘This is bad news, gentlemen,’ said Cucurullo. ‘Is there any way by which I could send a message to my master?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘Either of the turnkeys would sell his soul for a dodkin, and blow up the castle for a ducat, Legate and all,’ answered the sergeant in the same tone.
‘I would willingly give a ducat if I might see my master.’
‘I will bargain with him for half that, but it will have to be after dark. We go off duty at Ave Maria this evening, but to-morrow we have the night watch. Come about the first hour of the night, and you will find the little postern ajar in the left half of the gate. Push it open and come in.’
With this friendly promise Cucurullo had to be satisfied; and, indeed, he had good reason to congratulate himself, for if he had chanced upon one of the other sergeants he might have had a very different reception, though the whole garrison hated the Legate heartily. The guard for the
month at the main gate was divided into three watches that took turns, being on duty there for twelve hours and off for twenty-four; this did not mean, however, that they were at liberty during all that time, for there was other sentry duty to be done about the castle.
Having taken leave of his new friends, the hunchback went back to the inn, debating with himself whether he should remain there until the following night, or seek a lodging in a more remote and quiet part of the town. But, on the whole, he resolved to trust the innkeeper — or it would be nearer the truth to say that he trusted to the power his deformity exercised over a man in whom he would not otherwise have placed much confidence. If he took a room elsewhere, he would be forced to make acquaintance with the owners of the house, and he was convinced that such a Governor as Monsignor Pelagatti must have his spies everywhere; it was safer to stay where he was already known, and was looked upon as a bringer of luck, than to go where he might find less superstitious people.
He therefore took the cheapest room in the inn, announced his intention of waiting till his master was set free, and by way of inspiring confidence he paid for three days’ lodging in advance. His object in seeing Stradella was to get definite instructions in the first place, and, secondly, to take him a dish of meat and a supply of such food as would keep some time without spoiling. Stradella would probably bid him ride post to Rome and bring back an order from Cardinal Altieri which would set everything right; but it would scarcely be possible to cover the distance and return in less than ten days, at the very least, during which time it was only too probable that the musician would fall ill from lack of food and from the possible dampness and closeness of his prison.
The hours passed slowly enough in the solitude of the little upper room in which Cucurullo spent most of that day and the next, and the intervening night; for he thought it wiser not to be seen much in the town, being what he was, a mark for men’s eyes wherever he went. He would have read if he could have found a book, for he was a good reader and writer, and often copied music for his master, for he could engross handsomely; but there were no books in the inn, not even the works of that ‘poor Signor Torquato Tasso,’ who had been so long shut up as a lunatic in Ferrara in the days of the Marquis Alfonso Second. The only book Cucurullo had been able to find was a small volume with a very strange name, for its title was Eikon Basilike; but Cucurullo did not understand a word of it, and the innkeeper said he thought the book must have been forgotten by two rich English gentlemen who had lately spent some days in his house.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1297