XXXV
When it was night and the piazza deserted, Andrea and I and the oldsteward went out and made our way to the place where the horrible corpsewas lying. We wrapped it in a long black cloth and took it up silently,bearing it to the church where for generations the Orsi had been buried.A dark-robed monk met us in the nave and led the way to a door, which heopened; then, as if frightened, left us. We found ourselves in thecloisters. We laid the body down under an arch and advanced into thecentre, where was a plot of green scattered over with little crosses. Wetook spades and began to dig; a thin rain drizzled down and the groundwas stiff and clayey. It was hard work and I sweated; I took off my coatand allowed the rain to fall on me unprotected; I was soon wet to theskin. Silently Andrea and I turned up the soil, while Pietro, beneaththe cloisters, watched by the body and prayed. We were knee deep now,and still we threw up heavy spadefuls of clay. At last I said,--
'It is enough.'
We climbed out and went to the body. We took it up and bore it to thegrave, and reverently we laid it in. Pietro placed a crucifix on the oldmaster's breast, and then we began to pile in the earth.
And so without priests, without mourning, in the dead of night, and bythe drizzling rain, was buried Orso Orsi, the great head of the family.In his time he had been excellent in war and in all the arts of peace.He had been noted for his skill in commerce; in politics he had been thefirst of his city, and, besides, he had been a great and generous patronof the arts. But he lived too long, and died thus miserably.
Next day I set about thinking what I should do. I could be of no moreuse to anyone in Forli; indeed, I had never been of use, for I had onlystood by and watched while those I loved and honoured were being put tocruel deaths. And now I must see that my presence did not harm my kindhosts. Caterina had thrown into prison some fifty of those who had takenpart in the rebellion, notwithstanding her solemn promise of amnesty,and I knew well enough that if I were discovered Pietro and Andrea wouldsuffer as severe a punishment as myself. They gave no sign that mypresence was a menace to them, but in the woman's eyes, Andrea's mother,I saw an anxious look, and at any unexpected sound she would start andlook fearfully at me. I made up my mind to go immediately. When I toldAndrea, he insisted on coming with me, and although I painted the dangerin lively colours he would not be dissuaded. The next day wasmarket-day, and we resolved to slip out in a cart as soon as the gateswere opened. We would be taken for tradesmen, and no one would payattention to us.
I was anxious to see what was happening in the town and what people weretalking of; but I thought it prudent not to venture out, for my disguisemight be seen through, and if I were discovered I knew well what toexpect. So I sat at home twiddling my thumbs and chattering with Andrea.At last, getting tired of doing nothing, and seeing the good woman aboutto scrub out her courtyard, I volunteered to do it for her. I got abroom and a pail of water and began sweeping away vigorously, whileAndrea stood in the doorway scoffing. For a little while I forgot theterrible scene in the piazza.
There was a knock at the door. We stopped and listened; the knock wasrepeated, and as no answer was given, the latch was raised and the dooropened. A servant-maid walked in and carefully closed it behind her. Irecognised her at once; it was Giulia's maid. I shrank back, and Andreastood in front of me. His mother went forward.
'And pray, madam, what can I do for you?'
The maid did not answer, but stepped past her.
'There is a serving-man here for whom I have a message.'
She came straight towards me, and handed me a piece of paper; then,without another word, slid back to the door and slipped out.
The note contained four words, 'Come to me to-night,' and thehandwriting was Giulia's. A strange feeling came over me as I looked atit, and my hand trembled a little.... Then I began pondering. Why didshe want me? I could not think, and it occurred to me that perhaps shewished to give me up to the Countess. I knew she hated me, but I couldnot think her as vile as that; after all, she was her father's daughter,and Bartolomeo was a gentleman. Andrea looked at me questioningly.
'It is an invitation from my greatest enemy to put myself in her hands.'
'But you will not?'
'Yes,' I said, 'I will.'
'Why?'
'Because it is a woman.'
'But do you think she would betray you?'
'She might.'
'And you are going to take the risk?'
'I think I should be glad to prove her so utterly worthless.'
Andrea looked at me open-mouthed; he could not understand. An ideastruck him.
'Are you in love with her?'
'No; I was.'
'And now?'
'Now, I do not even hate her.'
The Making of a Saint Page 36