Part 56 (1/2)
Meanwhile Prince Pietro, moved by conflicting sentiments and forebodings which he was unable to explain to himself, and only strongly conscious of the desire to be avenged on his daughter's cowardly a.s.sailant, whoever it might be, m.u.f.fled himself in a well-worn ”Almaviva” cloak, his favourite out-door garment, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and so, looking like a fierce old brigand of the mountains, went out, not quite knowing why he went, but partly impelled by a sense of curiosity. He wanted to hear something,--to find something,--and yet he could not agree with himself as to the nature of the circ.u.mstance he sought to discover. There was a lurking suspicion in his mind to which he would not give a name,--a dark thought that made him tremble with mingled rage and horror,--but he put it away from him as a hint offered by the Evil One--an insidious suggestion as hideous as it was unnatural. The afternoon had now closed into night, and many stars were glistening bravely in the purple depths of the clear sky,--the air was mild and balmy,--and as he crossed the road to turn down the little side street leading to the Tiber, where Florian Varillo had stood but a few hours previously, a flower-girl met him with a large basket of white hyacinths and held them up to his eyes.
”Ecco la primavera, Signor!” she said, with a smile.
He shook his head, and turned abruptly away,--as he did so, his foot struck against some slight obstacle. Stooping to examine it, he saw it was the empty leathern sheath of a dagger. He picked it up, and studied it intently. It was elaborately adorned with old rococco work, and was evidently the ornamental covering of one of those small but deadly weapons which Italians, both men and women, so often wear concealed about their persons, for the purpose of taking vengeance, when deemed necessary, on an unsuspecting enemy. Slipping the thing into his pocket, the Prince looked about him, and soon recognised his bearings,--he was standing about six yards away from the private back-entrance to his daughter's studio. He walked up to the door and tried it,--it was fast locked.
”Yes--I remember!--the servants told me--both doors were locked,--and from this they said the key was gone,--” he muttered, then paused.
Presently, actuated by a sudden impulse, he turned and walked swiftly with long impatient strides through the more populated quarters of Rome towards the Corso, and he had not proceeded very far in this direction before he heard a frenzied and discordant shouting which, though he knew it did not yet bear the truth in its harsh refrain, yet staggered him and made his heart almost stand still with an agony of premonitory fear.
”Morte di Angela Sovrani!”
”a.s.sa.s.sinamento di Angela Sovrani!”
”Morte subito di Angela Sovrani!”
”a.s.sa.s.sinamento crudele della bella Sovrani!”
Prince Pietro held his breath in sharp pain, listening. How horrible was the persistent cry of the newsvendors!--hoa.r.s.e and shrill--now near--now far!--
”Morte di Angela Sovrani!”
How horrible!--how horrible! He put his hands to his ears to try and shut out the din. He had not expected any public outcry--not so soon--but ill news travels fast, and no doubt the very servants of his own household were responsible for having, in the extremity of their terror, given away the report of Angela's death. The terrible shouts were like so many cruel blows on his brain,--yet--half-reeling with the shock of them, he still went on his way,--straight on to the house and studio of Florian Varillo. There, he rang the bell loudly and impatiently. A servant opened the door in haste, and stared aghast at the tall old man with the white hair and blazing eyes, who was wrapped in a dark cloak, the very folds of which seemed to tremble with the suppressed rage of the form it enveloped.
”Il Principe Souvrani!” he stammered feebly, falling back a little from the threshold.
”Where is your master?” demanded Sovrani.
”Eccellenza, he has gone to Naples!”
”When did he leave?”
”But two hours ago, Eccellenza!”
Prince Pietro held up the dagger-sheath he had just found.
”This--belongs--to--him--does it not?” he asked slowly, detaching his words with careful directness.
The man answered readily and at once.
”Yes, Eccellenza!”
Sovrani uttered a terrible oath.
”Let me pa.s.s!”
The servant made a gesture of protest.
”But--Eccellenza--my master is not here! . . .”
Prince Pietro paying no heed to him, strode into the house, and brusquely threw open the door of a room which he knew to be Varillo's own specially private retreat. A woman with a ma.s.s of bright orange-gold hair, half-dressed in a tawdry blue peignoir trimmed with cheap lace, was sprawling lazily on a sofa smoking a cigarette. She sprang up surprised and indignant,--but shrank back visibly as she recognised the intruder, and met the steady tigerish glare of the old man's eyes.
”Where is your lover?” he asked.