Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  When there was light at last, Ortensia saw that she was in a commonplace little whitewashed vestibule, from which a single flight of stone stairs led directly to the door of the living rooms above. Gambardella went up first, holding the brass lamp low down for her to see the steps. The room into which he led her had a Venetian pavement, and was sufficiently well furnished. The walls were painted to represent views which were presumably visible from the windows by day.

  ‘Are you quite sure there is no one in the house?’ asked Ortensia, who liked the prospect of solitude less and less as the time for being left alone came nearer.

  ‘There is a bedroom at each end,’ answered Gambardella. ‘You shall see for yourself. Above this there is a sort of attic which can only be reached from outside by steps that also lead to a terrace on the roof.’

  He showed her the two bedrooms, which had evidently been just cleaned and put in order, and looked very neat. Ortensia was reassured.

  ‘And what is there downstairs?’ she asked.

  ‘A kitchen and a dining-room,’ Gambardella answered. ‘But I must be off if I am to fetch the Maestro. We shall be here in half an hour at the utmost.’

  Just then a great bell not very far off tolled three strokes, then four, then five, and then one, and an instant later it rang out in a peal.

  ‘It is Ave Maria,’ Gambardella said. ‘The Benediction is over by this time. You had better come down with me and hook the chain inside the front door.’

  Ortensia followed him down the stairs again, and he carried the lamp. As he went she heard him hurriedly repeating the Angelus.

  ‘“Angelus Domini nuntiavit,”’ he began, quite audibly, but the words that followed were said in a whisper.

  Ortensia repeated the prayer to herself too, partly by force of habit, no doubt, but partly because it was a comfort to say it with the kind-hearted friend who had once more intervened to help her and her husband in time of danger. Even the Bravo, who could say his prayers uncommonly fast, had not finished when they reached the foot of the stairs, and as Ortensia set the lamp on the corner of the yellow marble table she distinctly heard him say the first words of the third responsory.

  ‘“And dwelt with us,”’ she answered quietly and clearly.

  He laid his hand on the lock of the hall door, and when he turned to her his eyes met hers with a look she had never seen. Both repeated the third Ave Maria aloud, while he gazed earnestly at her pure young face, so sweetly framed in the soft folds of the veil. Then without waiting for the final prayer he opened the door, and as he shut it after him she heard him say something aloud, but the words were so strange and unexpected that she repeated them to herself twice while she was hooking the chain before she quite realised what they were, and understood them.

  ‘“And Judas went out and hanged himself.”’

  That was what he had said as he went away.

  CHAPTER XXI

  WHEN STRADELLA CAME down from the organ-loft after the Benediction he was in haste to reach the sacristy before any of the choristers, as he did not mean to keep Ortensia waiting a moment longer than necessary. But to his annoyance a number of his admiring acquaintances had already made their way to that side; and this was the more easy, because the throng of common people who had pressed upon the fashionable company had already retreated down the church to the main entrance in haste to see the beginning of the witches’ feast and the snail-shell illumination.

  At every step the musician had to shake hands and receive civilly the congratulations that were showered upon him; and suddenly Don Alberto was beside him, and was drawing him away.

  ‘The Queen insists on thanking you herself, dear Maestro,’ said the courtier, smiling. ‘I see that you are in a hurry, but royalty is royalty, and you must sacrifice yourself on the altar of your own fame with a good grace!’

  Unsuspecting of harm as he was, Stradella yielded, and tried not to look displeased. While speaking Altieri had dragged him through the crowd towards Christina, who was standing up, evidently waiting for them, and looking particularly mannish in her three-cornered hat and short skirt. The only ornament she had put on was the magnificent cross of diamonds which she wore on her bosom at all times.

  ‘One has to come to church to see you, Maestro,’ she cried in a heavily playful manner. ‘Do you know that you have not darkened my doors for a fortnight, sir? What is the meaning of this? But I forgive you, for your music has ravished my soul, falling like a refreshing shower on my burning anger!’

  The metaphors were badly mixed, but Stradella bent one knee and made a pretence of kissing the unshapely hand she held out to him, and he muttered a formula expressive of gratitude.

  ‘I am overcome by your Majesty’s kindness,’ he said, or something to that effect.

  ‘To-morrow,’ said the ex-Queen, ‘I shall send you the medal and diploma of my Academy as a slight acknowledgment of the pleasure I have had this afternoon. At present Don Alberto is going to introduce me to the quaint Roman custom of eating snails in the open air. Will you join us, Maestro? But I see that you are still in your robes, and I have no doubt you look forward to a more substantial supper than a dish of molluscs fried in oil! Good-night, my dear Maestro. Vale, as those delightful ancients used to say!’

  She waved her hand affectedly as she turned to go. It seemed an age to Stradella before he reached the sacristy, and when he got there he was surprised to find Trombin waiting by the door of the choristers’ robing-room. The Bravo went in with him, and began to help him out of his cotta and cassock.

  ‘I came to tell you that your lady is already gone home,’ Trombin said in a low voice. ‘She felt a sudden dizziness and weakness, as if she were going to faint. Luckily I was not far off, and when I saw Cucurullo supporting her I went to his assistance, and we took her out to her carriage, which was waiting.’

  Stradella looked at him anxiously, but the Bravo only smiled.

  ‘Nothing serious, I am sure,’ the latter said, in a reassuring tone. ‘But she will be glad to see you as soon as possible, and if the Canons’ carriage has not come back, my friend and I will take you home at once in ours; we have just bought one for our convenience.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Stradella answered, letting Trombin help him to pull his arms out of the tight sleeves of the purple silk cassock. ‘You are very kind.’

  He was evidently too anxious about Ortensia to say more, and in a few seconds he had got into his coat, and Trombin was arranging the broad linen collar for him as cleverly as any valet could have done.

  Trombin was well aware that Tommaso was not coming back to the Lateran with the coach, since the bells were already ringing for Ave Maria, and the man was to meet Don Alberto behind the Baptistery in an hour— ‘the first hour of the night’; but he pretended angry surprise at not finding the carriage waiting. The one provided by the Canons was there, however, and Stradella recognised it, which Trombin could not have done, amongst the crowd of equipages that were waiting for the numerous ecclesiastics who had taken part in the service. It was now all but quite dark, but the coachman had received orders to be near the door and ready, lest the famous singer should catch cold.

  Stradella was in far too great a hurry to question him, and jumped in at once, glad that Trombin should go with him. The carriage drove away at a smart pace, long before the owners of the other coaches were ready to go home.

  Before the gateway of the Palazzo Altieri, Stradella got out, and tossed a florin up to the coachman, who caught it with a grin, and drove away at once.

  ‘A thousand thanks!’ the musician said, shaking Trombin’s hand.

  ‘I have done nothing,’ the Bravo answered. ‘I hope to hear to-morrow that your lady — —’

  But Stradella was already gone, and was running up the broad staircase at the top of his speed. A moment more and he knocked at his own door, of which the heavy key had been in Cucurullo’s keeping when they had all left the house together to go to the Lateran.

  Pina opened the door
in her usual quiet way, and was a little surprised to see Stradella alone.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked, as soon as he saw her face by the light of the hanging lamp in the hall.

  ‘Who, sir?’ inquired the woman, not understanding.

  ‘My wife — —’ He sprang past her to go in.

  ‘The Lady Ortensia has not come home,’ he heard Pina say behind him, in a tone of such astonishment that he stopped before he had reached the door of the sitting-room.

  ‘Not come home?’ he cried in amazement. ‘You are out of your senses!’

  Pina had shut the front door, and she followed him as he rushed into the sitting-room after speaking. She had lit the lamp, and it was burning quietly on the table. The door of the bedroom was opened wide to let the air circulate, but there was no light there. Nevertheless Stradella ran on to the bed.

  ‘Ortensia!’ he cried, feeling for her head on the pillows, for he could not see.

  Then he uttered a low exclamation of surprise and looked round. Pina was already bringing in the lamp, and he realised at once that she had spoken the truth. Ortensia had not come home; but even now no doubt of the Bravi crossed his mind, and he was anxious only because Trombin had said that she was feeling ill. The carriage must have broken down or some other accident had happened which would explain why Trombin had not found the conveyance waiting as he had expected. The thought of a possible accident was distressing enough, but it was a comfort to think that Gambardella and Cucurullo were with her, and would bring her home in due time.

  In a few words Stradella repeated to Pina what Trombin had told him, and in his own anxiety he did not see that she was now very pale, and that her hand shook so violently that she had to set down the lamp she held for fear of dropping it.

  ‘She will be at home in a few minutes,’ Stradella said in conclusion, trying to reassure himself. ‘I will go downstairs again and wait for her. Give me my cloak, Pina, for I am very hot, and it will be cool under the archway.’

  Trembling in every limb, Pina got his wide black cloak and laid it upon his shoulders. He drew up one corner of it and threw it round his neck, so as to muffle his throat against the outer air.

  ‘Pina,’ he said, ‘your mistress was feeling ill. She was dizzy, my friend said. We must have something ready for her to take. What will be best?’

  ‘Perhaps a little infusion of camomile,’ Pina answered, her teeth chattering with fear.

  He could not help noticing from her voice that there was something wrong, and he now looked at her for the first time and saw that she was livid.

  ‘I have a chill,’ she managed to say. ‘I have caught the fever, sir. It does not matter! I have some camomile leaves, and I will make the infusion while you wait downstairs.’

  ‘You ought to be in bed yourself,’ Stradella said kindly, but at the same instant it occurred to him that Ortensia had perhaps taken a fever too. ‘To-morrow I will try to procure from the Pope’s physician some of that wonderful Peruvian bark that cures the fever,’ he added. ‘They call it quina, I think, and few apothecaries have it.’

  This was true, though nearly forty years had then already passed since the Spanish Countess of Cinchon had first brought the precious bark to Europe, and had named it after herself, Cinchona.

  Stradella was not yet by any means desperately anxious about his wife when he went downstairs again, as may be understood from his last words to the serving-woman. He was, in fact, wondering whether Ortensia herself had not a touch of the ague, which was so common then that no one thought it a serious illness. He went downstairs with the conviction that she would appear within a quarter of an hour escorted by Gambardella and Cucurullo, and he began to walk under the great archway, from the entrance to the courtyard and back again.

  As soon as he was gone Pina went to her own little room, taking the lamp with her. First she dressed herself in her best frock, which was of good brown Florentine cloth; and then she took a large blue cotton kerchief and made a bundle consisting of some linen and a few necessaries. On that very morning Stradella had paid her wages, expecting to leave Rome the next day, and she took the money and tied it up securely in a little scrap of black silk and hid it in her dress. Lastly, she put on the same brown cloak and hood she had worn on the journey from Venice, took her bundle under it, replaced the lamp on the sitting-room table, and left the apartment by the small door which gave access to the servants’ staircase; a few moments later she slipped out of the palace, unobserved except by the old door-keeper who kept the back entrance and let her out.

  ‘I am going to the apothecary’s for some camomile,’ she said quietly, and the old man merely nodded as he opened the street door for her.

  The Bravi had cared very little whether Pina was at home or not when Cucurullo came to get the objects for which Stradella had sent him at Gambardella’s suggestion. One of two things must happen, they thought, for it was clear that Cucurullo would explain everything to her, if he saw her. Either she would come with him to Santa Prassede, and there she might wait with him all night, for all they cared; or else she would run away as soon as he left the house, for they guessed that she would be afraid. But things had turned out differently. When Cucurullo had reached the apartment Pina was not there, for she had just gone down the backstairs to get the evening supply of milk which the milkman left with the keeper of the back door. Cucurullo, not finding her, had picked up the lute, the case of manuscripts, and a small hand valise which was already packed for the journey with necessaries belonging both to Stradella and his wife, and he had gone off again before Pina had returned.

  She did not miss the things till Stradella came, and she carried the lamp into the bedroom; but then she understood that some one had been in the house during her short absence, and it flashed upon her that Ortensia had already been carried off, though she could not have told why she connected such a possibility with what she took for a theft committed in the apartment. Insane terror took possession of her then, with the vision of being left behind at the mercy of Don Alberto, and she fled without hesitation, taking with her nothing that was not her own, and only what she could easily carry for a journey. As for Cucurullo, he had no time to waste, and thought that in any case she would be safe enough from Don Alberto’s men, whose only business would be to seize her mistress. Being fearless himself, it never occurred to him that she would run away out of sheer fright.

  Stradella paced the flagstones under the archway, waiting for the carriage, and as the time passed his anxiety grew steadily till it became almost unbearable. The tall bearded porter stood motionless by the entrance, resting both his hands on the huge silver pommel of his polished staff. He could stand in that position for hours without moving. At last Stradella spoke to him.

  ‘Has Don Alberto come home yet, Gaetano?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir.’ The porter touched his large three-cornered hat respectfully, for the musician had that morning given him a handsome tip preparatory to leaving. ‘His Excellency may not come home till very late,’ he vouchsafed to add, with a faint smile.

  Stradella saw that he was inclined to talk, and though he himself had no fancy for entering into conversation with servants, he made a remark in the nature of a question.

  ‘I dare say his Excellency sometimes does not come home before morning.’

  ‘Sometimes, sir,’ answered Gaetano, grinning in his big black beard. ‘But then he generally gives me notice, so that I need not sit up all night. He is a very good-hearted young gentleman, sir, as I dare say you know, for you are a friend of his. And since you have asked me if he has come home, and you are perhaps waiting for him, I can tell you that he will not be back to-night, nor perhaps to-morrow, for that was the message he sent me by his valet this afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Stradella. ‘But I am not waiting for him. I am expecting my wife and my man.’

  He nodded and went back to his beat under the archway, and before he had walked twice the distance between the gate and the courtyard,
all the bells of Rome rang out the first hour of the night. An hour had passed since Ortensia had let Gambardella out of the little house in the Via di Santa Sabina.

  The peal was still ringing from the belfry of the Lateran when Don Alberto and Tommaso met on the green behind the church, not far from the closed door of the sacristy. They came from opposite directions, and Tommaso was leading two saddled mules. The young courtier had succeeded in making his escape from Queen Christina and her party, promising to join them at supper at the Palazzo Riario within an hour.

  In the lonely little house in Via di Santa Sabina, Ortensia was sitting upstairs by the table, pale and upright in her chair, and listening for the slightest sound that might break the profound silence.

  But she heard nothing. The three wicks of the brass lamp on the table burned with a steady flame, and without any of those very faint crepitations which olive-oil lamps make heard when the weather is about to change. There was not the least sound in the small house: if there were mice anywhere they were asleep; if worms were boring in the old furniture they were working silently; if any house swallows had made their nests under the eaves they were roosting. The stillness was like that of a solid and inert mass, as if all the world had been suddenly petrified and made motionless.

  It seemed to Ortensia that she had never been quite alone for so long a time in her life; it was certainly true that she had never before been locked up in a lonely house at night without a human being within call. First, her feet grew strangely cold; then she felt a sort of creeping fear stealing up to her out of the floor, as if she had drunk hemlock and death were travelling slowly towards her heart, paralysing every limb and joint on its relentless way.

  It was not senseless physical fright, like Pina’s; it would not drive her to leave the house and run away into the darkness outside; if there were anything to face Ortensia would face it, or try to, but what terrified her now was that there was nothing, not a sound of life, not the breath of a night breeze amongst leaves outside, not the stirring of a mouse indoors. It was like the silence of the tomb.