Читать книгу The Carnival of Florence - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 12

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Cristofano looked at Aprilis with infinite surprise, then with a smile of comprehension that was half amusement, half regret.

"Of all the ladies in Florence I least thought to see you, Madonna, here," he said, looking at her keenly.

Aprilis resolved that she would not betray either her captivity or her ignorance of where she was.

"I am here in an honourable capacity," she answered. "I beg you will say nothing of this meeting in Florence—either to my father or to—Messere Gherardesca."

"I am not like," returned Cristofano, with a deepening of his smile, "to very soon return to Florence."

It occurred to Aprilis that he was a captive like herself; the thought chilled her; the house seemed suddenly ill omened.

"Why are you here?" she asked; "what are you waiting for?"

"Probably you know," he replied, with a certain shrewd carelessness. "Probably the secrets of this house are no secrets to you, Madonna. I am here out of folly, on a vain errand—in the house of my enemy."

Aprilis shuddered.

"What will they do to you?" she murmured.

He flushed at the sight of the pity in her face.

"I am armed," he said.

She shook her head.

"What avail will that be—if they mean to kill you?" she said sadly; then, advancing towards him, she added curiously:

"What have you done to—him—that he should want to kill you? Does he?—are you sure?"

"I am very sure," replied Cristofano, and now she noticed that his face was colourless, the mouth strained, the eyes wild.

"Look!" He showed her a long, ragged tear on his red robe, near the armpit, where the fine mesh of the mail gleamed beneath. "I slept this morning, and a hand came from behind that tapestry of hawks and doves "—he pointed to a panel of arras near the door—"and struck me here. It would have been a clean stroke, straight to the heart, but for my corslet."

"You should not have slept," shuddered Aprilis.

"I have been enclosed here for many hours, without food or drink, and I was weary beyond endurance," he replied. "And what use would it be for me to try and evade him now? I have walked into the trap"—he lifted his shoulders—"and it has closed on me."

Aprilis stood silent, fingering the silver key.

"When does the Signore return?" he asked abruptly.

"I do not know," she murmured; she supposed he knew who the owner of the house was, but she would not ask; he believed she was on her own ground, let him continue to think so.

"They told me to-night—at dusk," added Cristofano.

"Who told you?"

"Two men, servants I think, who came this morning to see the doors and windows were secure." He glanced sharply at Aprilis. "They could not have known of your key, Madonna."

She could not understand the key herself; it could not possibly have been intended to give her the means of communicating with the prisoner; probably it was a mistake; the wrong key had been given.

"You had better leave me," said Cristofano courteously. "If you are discovered here—"

She interrupted, colouring faintly.

"Oh, I—I am safe enough."

"Naturally, Madonna." He smiled.

She raised her eyes steadily.

"But you? When the dark comes—"

She broke off; it was strange and horrible to think of this house, which had breathed love and luxury for her, holding death for him; and why should there be this vendetta against Cristofano degli Albizzi? She had always considered him as a peaceful scholar. There was some mystery in it all she did not want to unravel.

"Come, tell me, what have you done to him?" she demanded. "Will you swear before San Piero that you have never done him a great wrong such as merits death?"

"I have never done any man a great wrong," replied Cristofano. "I am hated because I am an Albizzi."

There were both sweetness and sincerity in his tones. Aprilis believed him; recalling the handsome face of the wolf mask she could believe that he could be fierce and brutal in his hates.

"Take my key," she said. "Perhaps it unlocks your door."

He tried eagerly, but without success.

"Of what door is this the key, Madonna?"

"Of this behind me."

"A secret door!" he exclaimed; "perhaps, then, it fits this other."

He lifted the tapestry from behind which he had been struck and revealed a keyhole skilfully concealed in the centre of a gilded rose, one of a wreath that twined between the ribbings of the panels.

Here the key turned at once—the door slipped back, showing a fair-sized passage and a flight of stairs going down into darkness.

"Dare you go that way?" whispered Aprilis.

Cristofano turned his flushed face towards her; hope and gratitude had given a new animation to his weariness.

"Have I your permission to go?" he asked.

"Mine—ah yes!—but can you escape this way—can you leave the house—where does the passage lead to?"

"There is no one here but the servants," he answered, "and they, I think, are in another part of the building—at least, I will risk it. My sword was stolen while I slept, but I still have my dagger." He put his hand to his hip, where that weapon hung, and smiled gaily. "But for my gratitude," he added, "how shall that be expressed? It is my life you give me, Madonna Aprilis."

"Pay me this way," she said quickly; "as I have already asked—speak of this meeting to no one."

"Why should I? I am no friend of Astorre della Gherardesca, save only in that we both hate the Medici."

"The Gherardesca is no longer master of mine," said Aprilis. "I have my life in my own hands now, Messere."

Brave words that her beating heart belied. Cristofano looked at her with curiosity; she had seemed such a child, such a doll, only a few days ago. He thought of Andrea, and could not forbear a laugh.

"I owe you my life," he repeated; "if you should ever need a service from me, Madonna, it shall not be refused you. I do not speak lightly; a message to San Marco will reach me."

Aprilis smiled.

"San Marco? Ah yes, I have heard that you support the mad Dominican, Fra Girolamo."

Cristofano regarded her with narrowed eyes.

"You should hear him preach one day, Madonna—it would amuse you."

Aprilis stepped nearer and gave him her hand; he kissed the long, white, scented fingers.

"Nay; I meant the key," she said; he returned it to her.

"I will pray for you," added Aprilis.

His shoulders shook with sudden laughter as he disappeared into the blackness of the passage.

"Farewell, Madonna Aprilis!" his voice floated back to her, and then even the sound of his footsteps was lost.

With a sensation of loneliness Aprilis closed the secret door, locked it and returned to the library, locking that door behind her also.

At least she held her freedom now; whenever she cared to risk it, the way whereby Cristofano had escaped was clear before her; evidently in the silver key she held the passkey to the secret passages of the villa. She might escape now when everything was silent—as she might have told her story to Cristofano and accepted his escort to Florence.

But the stranger, in sending her the key and the dagger, had trusted her to wait for him—so at least Aprilis read his action, and she meant to wait for him and her fate. There was nothing in Florence to tempt her back, nothing to be weighed in the balance against what the man who had kissed her last night had offered her, what she could see for herself was in his power to offer. She was lonely, a little frightened, something terrified at her own boldness; her head ached, and her spirits were dull with the monotony of her captivity, but she was resolute not to shirk or evade the adventure. The key she fastened securely in the bosom of her dress, but only against an emergency.

He was coming to-night, they had told the Albizzi—

"How many more hours?" she thought wearily. Her idle steps took her to the bedroom, her idle fingers began playing with the fastenings of one of the great presses at the foot of the bed. Was it locked, as she had first thought, or did she not understand the fastening? The question amused her, she pulled and twisted the handle this way and that.

Suddenly the door flew open, and Aprilis was looking into a deep recess full of clothes. She took out the first garment eagerly; her fingers sank pleasantly into folds of heavy silk, but her heart was hot thinking of the other woman to whom these dresses belonged. With an impatient movement she snatched the garment from the darkness of the press to the light of the window. Folds of crimson-pink silk trailed about; half with horror, half with awe, she saw that she held the red robe of a cardinal.

An instant return to the press showed her that it was full of priestly vestments—copes, chasubles, robes, shoes, hats, caps, and boxes of rosaries and chains. Aprilis stood amazed at the revelation that these apartments were the apartments of a priest—a cardinal. And who was this priest?—the wolf mask? With a shudder she dismissed that thought; crossing herself, she declared it was not possible. She knew very well that it was possible, but to deny even the probability reassured her. It must be, she told herself, some Roman cardinal on his travels, lodging here—but why had she been given his rooms, and where was he now? Hastily returning the garments to their place, she closed the press.

It was now beginning to grow dusk, the sun had almost touched the hills, the landscape lay dark, the hills purple beneath the pale golden sky. Aprilis was more and more frightened and lonely and tired; she clung eagerly to the thought of the coming of her mysterious lover.

Now it was so nearly dark surely he must come soon. She lay down on the bed; she had no means of getting a light, and the dark rooms terrified her; she felt safer on the bed, hidden behind the violet draperies. She had no intention of sleeping; she meant to remain awake, alive to the least sound; one hand she placed on her bosom, over the key, the other lay under the pillow, grasping the dagger; little more than a toy as it was it gave her a sense of protection. But she had not been five minutes enclosed in the luxurious softness of the bed before she was in a deep slumber.

The eagerly awaited sound of voices aroused her, penetrating even her dreams. She half sat up, her senses quite clear, and listened. Her room was now in complete darkness, but from the door leading into the library, which she had left open, came a flood of soft light.

A man's voice was reciting or reading a verse of a love poem.

When your eyes are bent on mine

I straightway do forsake the earth,

Pass from the mortal, become Divine,

And all my being knows new birth."

With a shiver Aprilis recognized the deep voice, the caressing tones of last night's masquer; for whom were these verses meant?—for her?—had he come for her at last? In a more sentimental tone he began again—

"Not Jove himself—"

A woman's laughter broke the verse and the dreams of Aprilis—a woman's voice, coquettish, light, warm, rose, striking like a whip on the heart of the waiting, listening girl concealed in the Cardinal's bed.

"Enough of verses, Messere, and put these books back—your brother's library is dull."

"It shall be changed, my sweet. What will you have here?—not books at all perhaps—a fountain, or an aviary—a chamber for your dwarfs or monkeys?"

The capricious feminine tones replied languidly:

"I do not think the rooms please me at all; I was better lodged in Florence."

The man answered eagerly:

"This is but for a moment, my delight; I will build you a villa—the finest villa in Tuscany."

She laughed, mocking him.

"Where are the ducats?"

"In the pockets of the Florentines," and he laughed too.

"Ay," and now shrewdness mingled with the languor of her tones, "but you are not so apt as your father in emptying those same pockets."

"Patience, my beautiful, patience; when I have got rid of that same ugly monk—"

The conversation was interrupted by a third voice.

"Signore—it was in this chamber the prisoner was, and he certainly has escaped."

Heavy exclamations of wrath broke out in the voice of the wolf mask, his tone of pleading caress changed to one of brutal fury.

"The Madonna is my witness that I am never obeyed! Who bid ye put him in that chamber? Were not my directions clear? May San Piero break the necks of all of you and fling you quick into hell!"

The servant murmured some trembling excuse, putting the blame on to others, the woman's voice, full of a lazy indifference, as if she were well used to such displays of wrath, struck in across the flow of violent words.

"Who was this prisoner, Messere?"

"Keep your pretty head clear of politics, Madonna," was the fierce answer. "This was a pestilent conspirator, one of that black brood of San Marco; he should have been meat for dogs by now."

"A conspirator!" The woman laughed lightly. "And you had trapped him here to silence him?"

"It was the secret door he escaped by!" cried the man.

"Who has the pass-key, fool?" he shrieked at the servant.

"Bonaventura, Signore."

"And where is she?"

"Signore, she went into Florence this morning with Giacomo—"

The woman's voice interrupted coldly:

"Bonaventura is a jade; when she returns shut her out. Why should she have had the pass-key?"

"Madonna, she always has it—and last night there was the girl—"

"The girl?" The female voice was hard, and Aprilis crouched down on the bed listening, every nerve taut.

"Madonna Santissima!" exclaimed the man. "I had forgotten the girl! Where did Bonaventura put her, fool?"

"Signore, I know not. I speak very little with Bonaventura. One of the men who brought the girl said she was to have a key given her—"

"What damnable confusion is here!" shouted the master. "She was to have had the key of her room here, that she might return to Florence—what reason had I to keep the wench? But God gave you such hard heads!"

"You try my patience very far," said the woman passionately. "Who is this girl, and why is she here? Must you bring her to the same house where you bring me?"

"I am in no mood for your jealousy," was the rough answer. "I brought the girl here to break the pride of Astorre della Gherardesca—a Carnival jest that he will take ill—where is she?"

"Belike in one of the lower rooms—"

A sound of silk skirts, of heavy footfalls and the speakers moved too far away for Aprilis to hear what they said further. She dropped back on to the cushion, hiding her hot shamed face in the cool darkness. So she had been properly fooled, so she had been the victim of a bitter turn played on Astorre by an enemy. And like a lark before a mirror she had allowed herself to be dazzled into captivity and ruined. For she was ruined now; she would return to Florence a creature despised—in the eyes of a father a thing no longer marketable, in the eyes of Astorre suddenly valueless.

She saw that very clearly, and against the cruelty of her situation her soul rose armed with a certain hard courage hitherto unknown to her; the nature of Aprilis was changing with every second that passed. She lifted herself from the bed, found her pink mantle and wrapped it round her shoulders. Her great object now was to escape from the villa; she touched with eager fingers the key lying warm on her bosom. Hatred lent her a force beyond her strength; she loathed them all, the masquer of last night, the unknown priest whose room she occupied, and most of all the woman, wife or lover, whose soft voice had stung her dreams to death.

She crept to the door of the library, uncertain as to her next action, half resolved to gain the secret door if she could, and to leave the villa, even in the dark, and to return to Florence, even on foot. The voices from the outer room, raised, passionate, angry, came to her indistinctly. She stepped into the library; several books were lying on the desk and fresh-cut sheets of paper—he had been writing verses to the other woman, the foolish sentimental verses that had awakened Aprilis.

She shuddered and shielded her eyes from the lamplight as her hand travelled along the wall to find the secret keyhole, then shrank back as she heard some one suddenly approaching. She was too late to regain the bedroom; as her feet touched the threshold a young priest entered the cabinet.

"Oh, Santa Lucia!" he exclaimed. "Oh, holy angels!"

Aprilis turned to face him; he wore the vestments of a cardinal, and on his breast was a golden cross; in his handsome, gay and animal face, round which the luxuriant chestnut hair clustered, almost concealing the tonsure, was strong likeness to the masquer of last night, only this face was a little younger, a little softer, less powerful and brutal; but it was also the countenance of a faun and might easily have become that of a satyr.

Aprilis stood silent, holding the pink mantle over the lower part of her face.

"Oh, Piero!" cried the young Cardinal. "Piero! who is this in my chamber! What Venus in hiding have we here!"

And he burst into a great fit of laughter, which shook him so that he had to lean against the wall.