The Honour of Savelli: A Romance
"Fetch one at once--run, man!" and I flung him a crown.
After a short delay, which seemed ages to me, messer the padrone
reappeared with the flagon of Burgundy under his arm, and seizing it
from him, I ran back to the Albizzi Palace, and hurried up the stairs
to the room occupied by Corte. Although I had been away barely half an
hour, that was sufficient time to make a change for the worse in the
sick girl, and I became aware that the end had begun. We tried to
force a little of the wine between her lips; but she could not
swallow, and now instead of lying still, kept tossing her head from
side to side. Corte was undone. He could do nothing but stand at the
head of the bed, in mute despair, as he watched the parting soul sob
its way out.
I went towards him: "Shall I send the intendant for a priest?"
If ever words changed the countenance of a man, mine did. His eyes
fairly blazed with anger, and he hissed out, "No, signore--this is a
priest's work--pray if you like, but no priest comes here."
I had, as all other men have, frequently called upon God, sometimes in
idle blasphemy; but never on an occasion so serious as this. Pray if I
liked! I had forgotten what real prayer was. Impelled by a power I
could not resist, I knelt down and tried to form some words to reach
the Most High. But they would not come, I could only feel them, and I
rose again and took my stand by the dying girl.
She began to talk now in a rambling manner, and with that strength
which comes at the point of death from somewhere; her voice was clear,
but with a metallic ring. It is not for me to repeat the last words of
one who is now with her God; but I gathered from them a story of
trusting love, of infamous wrong and dastardly crime. And Corte shook
like a branch in the wind, as the words came thick and fast from the
lips of his dying child. After a while she became still once again. So
still that we thought she had passed away; but she revived on a
sudden, and called out:
"Father--I cannot see--I am blind--stoop down and let me whisper."
"I am here, little one--close--quite close to you."
"Tell him--I--forgive. You must forgive too--promise."
Corte pressed his lips to her damp forehead, but spoke no word.
"It is bright again--they are calling me--mother! Hold me up--I cannot
breathe."
Corte sank on his knees with his head between his hands, and passing
my arm round the poor creature I lifted her up, and the spirit
passed. In the room there was now a silence which was broken by a
heart-rending sob from Corte. He staggered to his feet with despair on
his face.
"She said forgive!" he exclaimed. "Man, you have seen an angel die.
This is the work of a priest, of a pontiff, of him who calls himself
Vicar of Christ! Go now, and leave me with my dead."
I took his hand, and pressing it, turned to the door. As I closed it
behind me, I saw Corte bending over the still face of his child, and
the little dog, throwing up its head, howled piteously.
CHAPTER VIII.
TEMPTATION.
I had looked upon death before; I had seen the plague strike down its
victims in an hour; I had been in the hell of a sacked town, when men,
women, and children, were given to the sword. On the breach at Arx
Sismundea, dead, dying and wounded, were piled breast high, when we
stormed our way, through the fog of battle, into Malatesta's
stronghold. Stricken down at San Miniato, I saw, in the dim night, the
death hunters at their fearful trade, and heard the dull blows of
their daggers, as they murdered some helpless wretch, sometimes for
the prize of a tag of gold lace, sometimes for the sheer pleasure of
slaughter. Lying unable to move, by good luck concealed in a hollow,
amidst grass which stood a yard high, I saw a man killed not ten feet
from me. He rose to his elbow as the fiends approached, and called for
water. But it was not water he got. How he struggled! He cried for
mercy, and I can still see the wretches as they held him down. A
foul-looking hag placed her knees on his chest, she looked towards the
sky for a moment, as if invoking a spirit to a sacrifice, and the
moonlight shone on a face that was hardly human. Then she stooped
down, and with a relentless hand, plunged the knife she held into her
victim's throat. But all this, which should have hardened my heart,
did not affect me as the scene I had just quitted. After all, what I
had passed through was done when the blood was high with excitement.
Here, however, was another thing. I had watched the end of a being
beautiful and pure, who was born to adorn life, and yet what was her
story? Fallen into the hands of an incarnate devil, outraged, and then
cast forth blinded, to die like a reptile! It was too horrible! Surely
God must have slept whilst this was done. Surely the after life ought
to be to her, in an inverse proportion to her sufferings on earth. But
why any such infliction on one so helpless? Mystery of mysteries, and
I cannot solve it. And yet she was able to forgive. At the last she
could condone. What were my wrongs to those she had endured? After all
I had health, strength, and the world was wide. Why waste my time in
running after the morbid shadow of revenge? If I got it, would it
satisfy? Would it heal my wounds! Thinking in this way, I called to
mind a sermon of the Prior of St. Mark's--I heard when last in
Florence. I came in the suite of Paolo Vitelli ag Citta del Castello,
and at the time Savonarola had left the Duomo, and was preaching at
St. Mark's. His subject was forgiveness, and his text, "Vengeance is
mine, saith the Lord," came back to me with a vivid force. I rose from
my seat and paced the room, my whole soul was on the cross; I had all
but resolved to forego my scheme of revenge, when I heard a knock at
the door. At first I did not answer, but it was repeated.
"Come in," I cried, and Ceci entered. In the state in which I was in,
I had half a mind to bid him begone there and then, and only
controlled myself with an effort. I could see however that, in his
way, he had formed a friendly feeling towards me, and remembering my
plans, forced myself to greet him with civility, and offering him a
seat began the conversation.
"That was a strange finish to the Gonfaloniere's speech," I said, in
allusion to the death of the man at the hands of the mob.
"He was a fool, and deserved to die."
"Do you know his name?"
Ceci hesitated for a moment, and I saw he was lying when he said "No."
"I gather," I added, "that you are of the Bigi, the party that favours
the return of the Medici."
"Signore, I spoke words in my excitement that may well be buried. An
old tongue like mine should have known to be still; but it is not that
I have come to speak of. Do you know we have a death in the house?"
"That would be no new thing to you."
"True," he said, stroking his white beard, "they die here like rats in
their holes."
"I suppose so; but as a matter of fact I did know there was a death,
and a very sad one. I know Mathew Corte, but how have you found out so
soon?"
"It is simple. I came back but a few minutes ago, and although it was
late, thought I might call for the rent of the room Corte occupies, as
he has not paid anything as yet. When I came in, Corte simply pointed
to the body of his daughter, that was all the reply I got. She was
very ill when she came; I wonder indeed she lived so long. Of course I
did not press him, and if it is a loss, Messer Nobili is rich enough
to bear this. But it is dreadful the way these people owe."
I winced a little, thinking of my own diminished purse, and Ceci
continued: "I thought I would come and see you as I went down. It is
on my way. The body must be removed to-morrow."
"You will find some difficulty in persuading him to give it a
Christian burial."
"How! Is he a heretic, or a pagan--if so!"
"I did not say that. I believe the man to be mad."
"I will see him to-morrow," said Ceci. "I think he will yield to
reason. Poor child! She might have been saved."
"Saved!"
"Yes, when they first came, I begged Corte to let me call the Doctor
Maffeo. He would not however listen to the idea. Then I told him what
to do, being a family man, who has had children to look after. All
gone into the world now, and never even a message for Bernabo Ceci."
"I thought the case hopeless when I saw it."
"When you saw it, perhaps; but, signore, not at first. See! the sun is
not in the Lion, and medicines should have been freely given. I would
have placed the diaphragm of a sheep on her chest, had her bled, and
administered theriaca of Venice; if that failed, there is bezoar."
"Messer Ceci, you are as learned as a doctor yourself."
"I have had experience, signore," he answered, as he rose to go. "Yes,
do I not know? The life of my poor wife was saved twice by this
treatment, and on the third occasion, if it were not for the poison
which originated internally within her, as Messer Maffeo stated in a
learned discourse he read to the Academy, she would have been saved
again. A good night, Signor Donati, and peace to dreams--remember, it
should have been as I said--either theriaca or bezoar--or both
combined--a good night!"
He went out, and down the stairs, with the step of a young man, and I
marvelled at the contradictory nature, which could show the kindness
it had towards affliction, and at the same time coldly plan to remove
a fellow-creature from the world, as one removes a bud from a tree,
with a touch of the knife. But Ceci's words had also reminded me again
of Corte's need. I stood at the door listening until his footsteps
died away, and knew he was gone for the night. Then I pulled out my
purse, and looked at its contents; there were two gold crowns left,
and a few pauls. I hesitated for a little; but the need of the man
upstairs was greater than mine. Drawing off my boots so that there may
be no sound, I stole up softly, like a thief, and gained the landing
of Corte's room. The door was partly open, and I stood before it for a
short while, half afraid to enter. Plucking up heart, I crept in
gently. The dead girl lay with her hands crossed on her bosom, still
as if cut out of marble, and on her face was fixed a sad little smile.
Corte sat on a stool near the table; his head was buried between his
hands, and he had given way to silent despair. The dog lay asleep in a
corner. I meant to have proffered the gold I had with me, as a loan to
Corte; but I did not dare to address him in his grief. So placing the
coins quietly on the table in such a manner that when he raised his
head he must see them, I withdrew as noiselessly as I came, and
reached my room without attracting any attention. It was not until the
small hours of the morning that I sought my couch, for my mind kept
working on the thoughts which agitated me after witnessing the death
of Corte's daughter. At the same time, I was able to see that this
consideration of the suffering of others was of the greatest benefit
to me. It took me out of myself. It showed me that my own were not the
only sorrows in the world, and that there might yet be others who had
reached a deep of misery as far below that of Corte, as his was below
mine. This led me on to consider my own position, and I began to think
there was some mysterious power that was preventing me carrying out my
plan of reprisal against D'Entrangues. I had come to Florence red-hot
on his track. At our very first meeting he had won the hazard, and the
long illness that followed gave him chance to put a distance between
us; then my resources diminished whilst yet nothing was done; then
came the doubts as to whether I was justified in my action; and
finally, and not least, there was in me a haunting desire to see