Part 12 (1/2)

Michele di Lippo rose suddenly with a s.h.i.+ver and an oath: ”_Maledetto!_ I must sleep. It touches the morning, and I have been dreaming too long.”

CHAPTER II.

AT ”THE DEVIL ON TWO STICKS.”

It was mid-day, and the Captain Guido Moratti was at home in his lodging in ”The Devil on Two Sticks.” Not an attractive address; but then this particular hostel was not frequented by persons who were squeamish about names, or--any other thing. The house itself lay in the Santo Spirito ward of Florence, filling up the end of a _chia.s.solino_ or blind alley in a back street behind the church of Santa Felicita, and was well known to all who had ”business” to transact. It had also drawn towards it the attention of the _Magnifici Signori_, and the long arm of the law would have reached it ere this but for the remark made by the Secretary Machiavelli, ”One does not purify a city by stopping the sewers,” he said; and added with a grim sarcasm, ”and any one of us might have an urgent affair to-morrow, and need an agents--let the devil rest on his two sticks.” And it was so.

Occasionally, the talons of Messer the Gonfaloniere would close on some unfortunate gentleman who had at the time no ”friends,” and then he was never seen again. But arrests were never made in the house, and it was consequently looked upon as a secure place by its customers.

The room occupied by Moratti was on the second floor, and was lighted by a small window which faced a high dead wall, affording no view beyond that of the blackened stonework. The captain, being a single man, could afford to live at his ease, and though it was mid-day, and past the dinner hour, had only just risen, and was fortifying himself with a measure of Chianti. He was seated in a solid-looking chair, his goblet in his hand, and his long legs clothed in black and white trunks, the Siena colours, resting on the table. The upper part of his dress consisted of a closely fitting pied surcoat, of the same hues as his trunks; and round his waist he wore a webbed chain belt, to which was attached a plain, but useful-looking poniard. The black hair on his head was allowed to grow long, and fell in natural curls to his broad shoulders. He had no beard; but under the severe arch of his nose was a pair of long dark moustaches that completely hid the mouth, and these he wore in a twist that almost reached his ears. On the table where his feet rested was his cap, from which a frayed feather stuck out stiffly; likewise his cloak, and a very long sword in a velvet and wood scabbard. The other articles on the table were a half-empty flask of wine, a few dice, a pack of cards, a mask, a wisp of lace, and a broken fan. The walls were bare of all ornament, except over the entrance door, whence a crucified Christ looked down in His agony over the musty room. A spare chair or two, a couple of valises and a saddle, together with a bed, hidden behind some old and shabby curtains, completed the furniture of the chamber; but such as it was, it was better accommodation than the captain had enjoyed for many a day. For be it known that ”The Devil on Two Sticks” was meant for the aristocrats of the ”profession.” The charges were accordingly high, and there was no credit allowed. No! No! The _padrone_ knew better than to trust his longest-sworded clients for even so small a matter as a brown _paolo_. But at present Moratti was in funds, for thirty broad crowns in one's pocket, and a horse worth full thirty more, went a long way in those days, and besides, he had not a little luck at the cards last night. He thrust a sinewy hand into his pocket, and jingled the coins there, with a comfortable sense of proprietors.h.i.+p, and for the moment his face was actually pleasant to look upon. The face was an eminently handsome one. It was difficult to conceive that those clear, bold features were those of a thief. They were rather those of a soldier, brave, resolute, and hasty perhaps, though hardened, and marked by excess. There was that in them which seemed to point to a past very different from the present. And it had been so. But that story is a secret, and we must take the captain as we find him, nothing more or less than a bravo. Let it be remembered, however, that this hideous profession, although looked upon with fear by all, was not in those days deemed so dishonourable as to utterly cast a man out of the pale of his fellows. Troches, the bravo of Alexander VI., was very nearly made a cardinal; Don Michele, the strangler of Cesare Borgia, became commander-in-chief of the Florentine army, and had the honour of a conspiracy being formed against him--he was killed whilst leaving the house of Chaumont. Finally, there was that romantic scoundrel ”Il Medighino,” who advanced from valet to bravo, from bravo to be a pirate chief and the brother of a pontiff, ending his days as Marquis of Marignano and Viceroy of Bohemia. So that, roundly speaking, if the profession of the dagger did lead to the galleys or the scaffold, it as often led to wealth, and sometimes, as in the case of Giangiacomo Medici, to a coronet. Perhaps some such thoughts as these flitted in the captain's mind as he jingled his crowns and slowly sipped his wine. His fellow-men had made him a wolf, and a wolf he was now to the end of his spurs, as pitiless to his victims as they had been to him. He was no longer young; but a man between two ages, with all the strength and vitality of youth and the experience of five-and-thirty, so that with a stroke of luck he might any day do what the son of Bernardino had done. He had failed in everything up to now, although he had had his chances. His long sword had helped to stir the times when the Duke of Bari upset all Italy, and the people used to sing:

Cristo in cielo e il Moro in terra, Solo sa il fine di questa guerra.

He had fought at Fornovo and at Mertara; and in the breach at Santa Croce had even crossed swords with the Count di Savelli, the most redoubted knight, with the exception of Bayard, of the age. He had been run through the ribs for his temerity; but it was an honour he never forgot. Then other things had happened, and he had sunk, sunk to be what he was, as many a better man had done before him. A knock at the door disturbed his meditations. He set down his empty gla.s.s and called out, ”Enter!”

The door opened, and the Cavaliere Michele di Lippo entered the room.

Moratti showed no surprise, although the visit was a little unexpected; but beyond pointing to a chair, gave di Lippo no other greeting, saying simply: ”Take a seat, signore--and shut the door behind you. I did not expect you until to-morrow.”

”True, captain; But you see I was impatient. I got your letter yesterday, and, the matter being pressing, came here at once.”

”Well--what is the business?”

The cavaliere's steel-grey eyes contracted like those of a cat when a sudden light is cast upon them, and he glanced cautiously around him.

”This place is safe--no eavesdroppers?” he asked.

”None,” answered Moratti; and slowly putting his feet down from the table, pushed the wine towards di Lippo. ”Help yourself, signore--No!

Well, as you wish. And now, your business?”

There was a silence in the room, and each man watched the other narrowly. Moratti looked at the cavaliere's long hatchet face, at the cruel close-set eyes, at the thin red hair showing under his velvet cap, and at the straight line of the mouth, partly hidden by a moustache, and short peaked beard of a slightly darker red than the hair on di Lippo's head. Michele di Lippo, in his turn, keenly scanned the seamed and haughty features of the bravo, and each man recognised in the other the qualities he respected, if such a word may be used.

At last the cavaliere spoke: ”As I mentioned, captain, my business is one of the highest importance, and----”

”You are prepared to pay in proportion--eh?” and Moratti twirled his moustache between his fingers.

”Exactly. I have made you my offer.”

”But have not told me what you want done.”

”I am coming to that. Permit me; I think I will change my mind;” and as Moratti nodded a.s.sent, di Lippo poured himself out a gla.s.s of wine and drained it slowly. When he had done this, he set the gla.s.s down with extreme care, and continued: ”I am, as you see, captain, no longer a young man, and it is inconvenient to have to wait for an inheritance”--and he grinned horribly.

”I see, cavalierei--you want me to antic.i.p.ate matters a little--Well, I am willing to help you if I can.”

”It is a hundred crowns, captain, and the case lies thus. There is but one life between me and the County of Pieve in the Val di Magra, and you know how uncertain life is.”

He paused; but as Guido Moratti said nothing, continued with his even voice: ”Should the old Count of Pieve die--and he is on the edge of the grave--the estate will pa.s.s to his daughter. In the event of her death----”

”_Whew!_” Moratti emitted a low whistle, and sat bolt upright. ”So it is the lady,” he cried. ”That is not my line, cavaliere. It is more a matter of the poison-cup, and I don't deal in such things. Carry your offer elsewhere.”

”It will be a new experience, captain--and a hundred crowns.”