Part 58 (1/2)
The man needed no second bidding; delighted with his thirty francs, he called a gay ”Buona notte, Signor!” and turning his horse's head jogged down the road at a tolerably smart pace. The horse knew as well as the driver, that the way now lay homeward, and lost no time. Varillo, left to himself, paused a moment and looked about him. The Campagna! How he hated it! Should he pa.s.s the night at that albergo, or walk on? He hesitated a little--then made for the inn direct. It was a bright, cosy little place enough, and the padrona, a cheery, dark-eyed woman seated behind the counter, bade him smiling welcome.
Lodging--oh yes! she said, there was a charming room at the Signor's disposal, with a view from the windows which in the early morning was superb! The Signor was an artist?
”No!” said Varillo, almost fiercely--”I am a tourist--travelling for pleasure!”
Ah! Then the view would enchant the Signor, because it would be quite new to him! The room should be prepared at once! Would the Signor take supper?
Yes,--the Signor would take supper. And the Signor went and sat in a remote corner of the common-room, with a newspaper of a week old, pretending to read its contents. And supper was soon served to him,--a tasty meal enough, flavoured with excellent wine,--and while he was drinking his third gla.s.s of it, a man entered, tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a heavy cloak, which he only partially loosened as he leaned against the counter and asked for a cup of coffee. But as he caught sight of the dark face, Varillo shrank back into his corner, and put up his newspaper to s.h.i.+eld himself from view,--for he saw that the new-comer was no other than Monsignor Gherardi. His appearance seemed to create a certain amount of excitement and vague alarm in the little inn; the padrona evidently knew him well, and hastened to serve him herself with the coffee he asked for.
”Will you not sit down, Eccellentissima?” she murmured deferentially.
”No, I am in haste!” replied Gherardi, glancing carelessly about him--”My carriage waits outside. There is strange news in Rome to-night! The famous artist, Angela Sovrani, has been found in her studio, murdered!”
The padrona uttered a little cry.
”Murdered!”
”So it seems! Here are the papers from which they cry the news. I will leave them with you. It is perhaps the judgment of Heaven on the Sovrani's uncle, Cardinal Bonpre!”
The mistress of the inn crossed herself devoutly.
”Guiosto cielo!--Would Heaven punish a Cardinal?”
”Certainly! If a Cardinal is a heretic!”
The stout padrona clasped her hands and shuddered.
”Not possible!”
”Quite possible!” And Gherardi drained his coffee-cup. ”And when so great a personage of the Church is a renegade, he incurs two punishments--the punishment of G.o.d and the punishment of the Church!
The one comes first--the other comes--afterwards! Buena notte!”
And throwing down the money for his refreshment, Gherardi cast another glance around him, m.u.f.fled himself up in his coat and went out into the night. Florian Varillo breathed again. But he was not left in peace for long. The padrona summoned her husband from the kitchen where he performed the offices of cook, to read the halfpenny sheets of news her visitor had left with her.
”Look you!” she said in a low voice, ”The wicked Monsignor who has thee, my poor Paolo, in his clutches for debt, has just pa.s.sed by and left evil tidings!--that beautiful girl who painted the famous pictures in Rome, has been murdered! Do you not remember seeing her once with her father at Frascati?”
Paolo, a round-faced, timid-looking little Piedmontese, nodded emphatically.
”That do I!” he answered--”Fair as an angel--kind-hearted too,--and they told me she was a wonder of the world. Che, che! Murdered! And who could have murdered her? Someone jealous of her fame! Poor thing--she is engaged to be married too, to another artist named Florian Varillo.
Gran Dio! He will die of this misery!” And they bent their heads over the paper together and read the brief announcement headed ”a.s.sa.s.sinamento di Angela Sovrani!”
A sudden crash startled them. Varillo had sprung up from his table in haste and overset his gla.s.s. It fell, s.h.i.+vering to atoms on the floor.
”Pardon!” he exclaimed, laughing forcedly,--”A thousand apologies! My hand slipped--it was an accident--”
”Do not trouble yourself, Signor,” said the landlord, Paolo, cautiously going down on his fat knees to pick up the fragments--”It was an accident as you say. And truly one's nerves get shaken nowadays by all the strange things one is always hearing! Myself, I tremble to think of the murder of the Sovrani--the poor girl was so innocent of evil--and see you!--we might all be murdered in our beds with such villains about . . .”
He broke off, surprised at the angry oath Varillo uttered.
”Per Dio! Can you not talk of something else?” he said hoa.r.s.ely,--”There is a murder nearly every day in Rome!”
Without waiting for a reply he hastily strode out of the inn, banging the door behind him. He had engaged his room there for the night--true!--but--after all this foolish gabble he resolved he would not go back. They would still talk of murder, if he did! Murder was in the air! Murder seemed written in letters of fire against the clear sky now luminous with the moon and stars! He was in a fever and a fury--he walked on and on, little heeding where he went. What the devil had brought Gherardi to that particular inn at that particular time of night? He could not imagine. For though he knew most scandals in Rome, the scandal of the priest's ”villa d'amour” at Frascati, was a secret too closely guarded for anyone save the sharpest of professional detectives to discover, and he was totally ignorant of it. He wondered restlessly whether the crafty Vatican spy had seen him while pretending not to see? If that were so, then he was lost! He could not satisfy himself as to whether he had really escaped observation, and tormented by this reflection he walked on and on, the burning impetus of his thoughts hastening his footsteps. A cold wind began to rise,--a chill, damp breath of the Campagna, bringing malaria with it. He felt heated and giddy, and there was a curious sense of fulness in his veins which oppressed him and made him uncertain of his movements. Presently he stopped, and stood gazing vaguely from left to right. He was surely not on the road to Frascati? There was a tall shadowy building not far from him, surrounded with eucalyptus trees--he tried to locate it, but somehow though, as a native of Rome and an artist, he was familiar with most of the Campagna, he did not recognise this part of it. How bright the stars were! Living points of fire flas.h.i.+ng in dense purple!--one could never paint them! The golden round of the moon spreading wide reflections on the road, seemed to his excited mind like a magic ring environing him, drawing him in, pointing him out as the one criminal for whom all the world was seeking. He had no idea of the time,--his watch had stopped. He began to count up hours. He remembered that when he had gone to see Angela, it was about four o'clock. He had known perfectly well that she was alone, for he had seen the Cardinal drive past him in the streets on the way to the Vatican, and he had heard at his ”Cercolo” or club, that Prince Sovrani had gone out of Rome for a few hours. And, thus informed, he had timed his visit to Angela well.