Part 1 (1/2)
The Medici Boots.
by Pearl Norton Swet.
_The amethyst-covered boots had been worn by an evil wanton in medieval Florence--but what malefic power did they carry over into our own time?_
For fifty years they lay under gla.s.s in the d.i.c.kerson museum and they were labeled ”The Medici Boots.” They were fas.h.i.+oned of creamy leather, pliable as a young girl's hands. They were threaded with silver, appliqued with sapphire silks and scarlet, and set on the tip of each was a pale and lovely amethyst. Such were the Medici boots.
Old Silas d.i.c.kerson, globe-trotter and collector, had brought the boots from a dusty shop in Florence when he was a young man filled with the l.u.s.t for travel and adventure. The years pa.s.sed and Silas d.i.c.kerson was an old man, his hair white, his eyes dim, his veined hands trembling with the ague that precedes death.
When he was ninety and the years of his wanderings over, Silas d.i.c.kerson died one morning as he sat in a high-backed Venetian chair in his private museum. The Fourteenth Century gold-leaf paintings, the j.a.panese processional banners, the stolen bones of a Normandy saint--all the beloved trophies of his travels must have watched the dead man impa.s.sively for hours before his housekeeper found him.
The old man sat with his head thrown back against the faded tapestry of the Venetian chair, his eyes closed, his bony arms extended along the beautifully carved arms of the chair, and on his lap lay the Medici boots.
It was high noon when they found him, and the sun was streaming through the stained-gla.s.s window above the chair and picking at the amethysts, so that the violet stones seemed to eye Marthe, the old housekeeper, with an impudent glitter. Marthe muttered a prayer and crossed herself, before she ran like a scared rabbit with the news of the master's death.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”She imparted to me those terrible secrets of the Black Arts which were deep in her soul.”]
Silas d.i.c.kerson's only surviving relatives, the three young Delameters, did not take too seriously the note which was found among the papers in the museum's desk. Old Silas had written the note. It was addressed to John Delameter, for John was his uncle's favorite, but John's pretty wife, Suzanne, and his twin brother, Doctor Eric, read it over his shoulder; and they all smiled tolerantly. Old d.i.c.kerson had written of things incomprehensible to the young moderns:
”The contents of my private museum are yours, John, to do with as you see fit. Merely as a suggestion, I would say that the Antiquarian Society would snap up many of the things. A very few are of no particular value, except to me. One thing I want done, however. The Medici boots of ivory leather must either be destroyed or be put for ever under gla.s.s in a _public_ museum. I prefer that they be destroyed, for they are a dangerous possession. They have gone to the adulterous rendezvous celebrated in the scandalous verses of Lorenzo the Magnificent. They have shod the feet of a murderess. They were cursed by the Church as trappings of the Devil, inciting the wearer to foul deeds and intrigue.
”I shall not disturb you with all their hideous history, but I repeat, they are a dangerous possession. I have taken care to keep them under lock and key, behind plate gla.s.s, for more than fifty years. I have never taken them out. Destroy the Medici boots, before they destroy you!”
”But he did take them out!” cried Suzanne. ”Uncle was holding the boots when--when Marthe found him there in the museum.”
John reread the note, and looked thoughtfully at his young wife. ”Yes.
Perhaps he was preparing to destroy them right then. Of course, I think the poor old fellow took things a bit too seriously--he was very old, you know, and Marthe says he practically lived in this museum of his.”
”And why call a pair of old boots dangerous? Of course, we all know the Medicis were plenty dangerous, but the Medici boots--that's ridiculous, John. Besides----”
Suzanne paused provocatively, her red lips pouting. She looked down at her trimly shod feet. ”Besides, I'd like to try on those Medici boots--just once. They're lovely, I think.”
John was frowning thoughtfully. He scarcely heard her suggestion. He spoke to Eric, instead, and his voice seemed a bit troubled.
”I believe that Uncle _was_ getting ready to destroy those boots that very morning he died; else why should he have taken them from their case--after fifty years?”
”Yes, I believe you're right, John, because that note is dated fully a month before Uncle's death. I think he brooded over leaving those boots to one he cared for. Poor old man!”
”I wouldn't call him so, Eric. He had his dreams of adventure realized more fully than most men. I--I think I'll do as he says. I'll destroy the Medici boots.”
”If you'd feel better about it,” a.s.sented his brother. But Suzanne did not speak. She was looking at her shoe, pursing her lips thoughtfully, seeing her feet encased in the gay embroideries of the Medici boots.
John seemed relieved by his decision. ”Yes, I'd better do it. We'll be getting back to town in a few days. Old Erskine, you know, Uncle's lawyer, is coming down this afternoon. Then soon we'll be on the wing, Susie and I--Vienna, Paris, the Alps--thanks to Uncle.”
”Maybe you think I'm not thankful for my chance at a bit more work at Johns Hopkins,” said Eric, and they did not again speak of the Medici boots.