Volume I Part 5 (1/2)

'Ay, and better read, better educated. I can feel and understand a thousand things, books, ideas, emotions, which are so many dead letters to him. And what does it all amount to? What good is it? At four-and-twenty I'm dependant on old Drea's good-nature for a chance of earning my living by doing a common sailor's work, while _he_---- Why, if he were to change places with me here to-night, by to-morrow he would be the most popular man in Leghorn. Fortune is as much at his beck and call as any of the rest of us. And now there's Italia----'

He thought how she too would recognise the prestige of the young soldier's successes, and in what a different spirit! How often in their long talks together had they arrived at the same conclusions, but by what divergent ways? What was careless ease in her, in Dino was pure recklessness: on the one side was the freedom of unconcern, and opposed to it the freedom of desperation. And how could it well be otherwise? He was sensitive, imaginative, unlucky. And he took life hard. He could never make her understand his view of it; it was not in her temperament to understand it. 'While the sun is s.h.i.+ning it _can't_ be dark; and she lives in the suns.h.i.+ne--my darling!' he thought, with a sudden revulsion, a rush of tender feeling. And she had bid the child 'take care of Dino.' He smiled to himself as he crossed over, out of the moonlight, into the great shadow of the cathedral wall.

The _cafe_ to which he was going, and where his club met, stood at the corner of two of the narrowest streets, a small, low room, lighted from the ceiling by a row of gas jets in the form of a cross. On three sides, against the wall, were large mirrors in tarnished frames; a narrow divan covered with faded red velvet ran all around the room, and in front of this was ranged a series of small marble-topped tables; three or four men were seated there, drinking coffee and playing a game of dominoes.

There was nothing at first sight to distinguish the place from any other establishment of the same rank and kind. It was a shabby second-rate cafe, of the stereotyped pattern; and even the police did not take much interest in it, although it was true that the landlord professed republican--or at least liberal--political sentiments. But in a seaport town that was to be expected; and if Jack ash.o.r.e preferred drinking his gla.s.s of vermouth with the conviction that all men are free and equal--so long as they can pay for what they are consuming--why, it was not to be wondered at if the owner of a small public-house could be found to agree with him. The 'Cross of Savoy'

was shrewdly suspected to be the headquarters of one of the branch Societies belonging to the great net-work of the Circoli Barsanti. But then, again, these said Circoli, founded early in the '70's, to commemorate the name of a certain Sergeant Barsanti, accused, whether falsely or not, of having caused the death of his commanding officer during a trifling mutiny in the barracks at Padua, and himself accordingly tried and sentenced and shot; these very Circoli, were they not existing under Government permission, if not patronage? And if Government chose to ignore the fact that some freak of popular opinion had made of the murdered sergeant a popular hero and martyr, with a name that was useful to conjure by--in a word, if the authorities saw fit to connive at the existence of these breathing-holes, these safety-valves, so to speak, of the public discontent, how in the name of common-sense were the Leghorn police to be justified in interfering?

And what, in direct consequence, could be more a.s.sured than the peace of mind and general prosperity and safety of Signor Prospero Neri--respectable householder and landlord--actually seated at one of his own tables, drinking some of his own coffee with an air of confidence in, and enjoyment of, the beverage which was more than equivalent to a testimonial?

Master Prospero's peace of mind was naturally a matter of some importance in his own estimation; and yet--such a difference can be obtained in the final result by so small a change of the point of sight--within a few yards of his complacent head, in an inner room divided from the cafe proper by a swinging door, painted over with cupids and arabesques, a discussion was going on at that very moment which would have filled that worthy host with horror and dismay.

Three men were seated in that inner sanctum about a small round table; above their heads a gas jet, turned up too high, flared unnoticed in the draught; there were gla.s.ses on the table before them, and a dingy carafe of water, and a pack of cards. But they had not been playing.

Their att.i.tude seemed chiefly one of expectation.

After a longer silence than had hitherto fallen upon them--a silence during which the wind was distinctly audible, rattling at the window-shutters, and they could hear an occasional laugh and the click of gla.s.ses in the outer room,--'Who was it made the appointment with him? Was it you, Pietro Valdez?' asked the oldest man present. He spoke slowly, and with a strong German accent.

The man addressed looked up from his occupation of rubbing his moistened finger around the brim of his gla.s.s and thereby producing a series of minor musical notes. 'Ay,' he said; 'I told him.'

And then, after a pause, 'I'll answer for the lad,' he added slowly.

'Do you mean for his coming to-night,--or altogether?' the German asked abruptly, fixing a pair of piercing light blue eyes upon his interlocutor.

Valdez picked up his empty gla.s.s; looked into it; then put it down with a sudden movement upon the table.

'I mean--altogether,' he said gravely.

The other two men exchanged glances.

'_Per Bacco_! _I_ wouldn't do it! no, not for my own flesh and blood brother,--not I!' cried the third man present, bringing the open palm of his hand lightly down upon the table before him. It was noticeable that they all three moved and spoke with a certain caution and in the quietest tones possible. '_I_ would not do it. I wouldn't answer for----'

The German checked his rising voice with a look. 'I have taken note of what you are prepared to do, friend Valdez. You _are_ prepared?' he added sharply, with another searching glance.

Pietro Valdez lifted his melancholy eyes from the table before him and stared the speaker straight in the face. Then his head dropped again, and he shrugged his shoulders wearily: 'I am prepared--yes. But I look like joking, don't I? It is so probable that I should select this occasion for a jest!'

'I ask your pardon, signor Valdez. I will make a note of what you have said.'

'Ay, notes, notes. But _I_ see nothing done,' broke in little Pierantoni irrepressibly. 'It is all very well to say the people can wait. _Santa Pazienza!_ the people _have_ waited. They are getting tired of waiting now. Once, the lower down you ground them the better they submitted. We know all that--at Naples. But it's a mistake to grind a man, or a people, down too far;--'tis so easy to grind all the humanity out of them and leave only the beast. And some beasts have teeth, and object to being baited.'

He got up and sat down again, holding his hands straight out before him and shaking his ten hooked fingers with a gesture as if he were sowing corn. 'If you shoot at the Czar of all the Russias--well, 'tis a kind of logic. You pit one autocrat against the other: Death against the Imperial Will: and the best man wins. And there's no more unanswerable argument than a rifle ball. It was our lords and masters taught us that long ago--at the Paris barricades. I say, if you shoot the Czar you prove nothing new. But to fire at a popular Prince---- To take a man at the apex of his power, in the midst of his people, to teach him that there's no popularity, no moderation, no amount of good nature, or good intentions, or good luck even, that can alter the eternal justice of things---- That's not stabbing at a King: it's putting your knife into the Inst.i.tution; cutting the throat of royalty itself--and not merely royalty as a political inst.i.tution, but royalty as a symbol of social inequality. Is it vengeance? I protest that it is no more an act of vengeance than the sentence of a judge. Have we not tried them, these Kings? _Cristo Santo!_ have we not tried 'em and found 'em wanting? Is it a murder? do you call it murder when a man shoots down a bandit--an outlaw--with a price upon his head? And they _are_ outlaws,' he added with a short laugh. 'Ay, and they wear their crowns for a purpose. 'Tis a s.h.i.+ning target at the least----'

'_Bene_.' The German contemplated him for a moment with an air of faint amus.e.m.e.nt; then rose slowly from his place at table and moved with a cat-like step towards the door. He stooped his s.h.a.ggy head and looked long and deliberately through the keyhole at the various occupants of the adjoining room. '_Bene_. 'Tis all safe. But eloquence like our Pierantoni's is apt to attract--crowds,' he said, looking up again with a sudden peculiarly simple and artless smile.

The little Neapolitan leaned half-way across the table, his black eyes flas.h.i.+ng. '_Per Cristo!_--you suspect some one? some--traitor?'

'Traitors? 'tis a word you are fond of using, you Italians. I look at things differently. Why should we expect a new experience in life from that of other men? A man lives with his enemies; if he is lucky, he may meet with his friends.' He looked at Valdez as he spoke: he was always looking at Valdez, who bore his scrutiny with the most unaffected unconcern. 'As for suspecting, I suspect,--every one,' he said. 'It is my business to suspect. And for convenience sake I begin with the suspicion of our worthy landlord.' And, with a quick side-glance, he added lightly, 'Valdez, you see, our friend Valdez does not answer for _him_.'

'Nay,' said Valdez slowly, 'I say nothing for or against him. He is one of those men in whom necessity is the mother of virtue. He'll walk straight enough if you watch him carefully. He won't run off the line so long as there are no corners.'

At this the German made some inarticulate sound of a.s.sent, and for a time again relapsed into silence. Finally, as some neighbouring clock struck the hour of eleven, he looked up with another grunt. 'This place closes in half an hour. The young man is not coming,' he said.