Читать книгу The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias - William Le Queux - Страница 8

The prior entered his study behind me with a hurried word of excuse, expressing regret that he had been compelled to leave me alone, and promising to join me in a few moments.

Therefore I turned, and, retracing my steps along the stone corridor wherein antique carved furniture was piled, went back again into the garden, glancing up at the window whereat I had detected the hunchback’s face.

Landini had closed his study door after I had gone, thus showing that his consultation with his visitor was of a confidential nature. I regretted that I had not passed through into the church and faced Graniani, for I could not now go back and pass the closed door, especially as the keen eyes of the reverend’s house-woman were upon me. So, impatiently I waited for the stout priest to rejoin me, which he did a few moments later, carrying my precious acquisition in his hand.

Perhaps you are a collector of coins or curios, monastic seals or manuscripts, birds’ eggs, or butterflies? If you are, you know quite well the supreme satisfaction it gives you to secure a unique specimen at a moderate and advantageous price. Therefore, you may well understand the tenderness with which I took my treasured Arnoldus from him, and how carefully I wrapped it in a piece of brown paper which Teresa brought to her master. The priest’s house-woman, shrewd, inquisitive, and a gossip, is an interesting character the world over; and old Teresa, with the wizened face and brown, wrinkled neck, was no exception. She possessed a wonderful genius for making a minestra, or vegetable soup, Father Bernardo had already told me, and he had promised that I should taste her culinary triumph some day.

Nevertheless, although the prior was politeness itself, pleasant yet pious, laconic yet light-hearted, I entertained a distrust of him.

I referred to my intrusion in his study while he had a visitor, but he only laughed, saying:

“It was nothing, my dear signore—nothing, I assure you. Pray don’t apologise. My business with the lady, although serious, was brief. It is I who should apologise.”

“No,” I said; “I’ve been enjoying your garden. Enclosed here by the church and by your house, right in the very centre of Florence, it is so quiet and old-world, so full of antiquity, that I have much enjoyed lingering here.”

“Yes,” he answered reflectively; “back in the turbulent days of the Medici that remarkable figure in Italian history, Fra Savonarola, owned this garden and sat beneath this very loggia, on this very bench, thinking out those wonderful discourses and prophecies which electrified all Florence. Nothing changes here. The place is just the same today, those white walls on the four sides, only the statuary perhaps is in worse condition than it was in 1498 when he concluded his remarkable career by defying the commands of the Pope as well as the injunctions of the signoria, and was hanged and burned amid riot and bloodshed. Ah, this garden of mine has seen many vicissitudes, signore, and yonder in my church the divine Dante himself invoked the blessing of the Almighty upon his efforts to effect peace with the Pisans.”

“Your house is a truly fitting receptacle for your splendid collection,” I said, impressed by his words and yet wondering at his manner.

“Do you know,” he exclaimed a moment later, as though a thought had suddenly occurred to him, “I cannot help fearing that you may have acted imprudently in purchasing this manuscript. If you wish, I am quite ready to return you your money. Really, I think it would be better if you did so, signore.”

“But I assure you I have no wish to return it to you,” I declared, astonished at his words. If he believed he had made a bad bargain, I at least had his receipt for the amount and the book in my hand.

“But it would be better,” he urged. “Better for you—and for me, for the matter of that. Here are the notes you gave me;” and taking them from his pocket he held them towards me.

I failed utterly to comprehend his intention or his motive. I had made a good bargain, and why should I relinquish it? Place yourself in my position for a moment, and think what you would have done.

“Well, signor reverendo,” I exclaimed, “I paid the price you asked, and I really cannot see why you should attempt to cry off the deal.” Truth to tell, I was a trifle annoyed.

“You have paid the price,” he repeated in a strange voice, looking at me seriously. “Yes; that is true. You have paid the price in the currency of my country; but there is yet a price to pay.”

“What do you mean?” I asked quickly, looking him squarely in the face.

“I mean that it would be best for us both if you gave me back my receipt and took back your money.”

“Why?”

“I cannot be more explicit,” he replied. “I am a man of honour,” he added, “and you may trust me.”

“But I am desirous of adding the codex to my collection,” I argued, mystified by his sudden desire to withdraw from his word. “I asked you your price, and have paid it.”

“I admit that. The affair has been but a matter of business between two gentlemen,” he replied, with just a touch of hauteur. “Nevertheless, I am anxious that you should not be possessor of that manuscript.”

“But why? I am a collector. When you come to Leghorn I hope you will call and look through my treasures.”

“Treasures?” he echoed. “That is no treasure—it is a curse, rather.”

“A curse! How can a splendid old book be a curse in the hands of a palaeographical enthusiast like myself?”

“I am a man of my word,” he said in a low, distinct tone. “I tell you, my dear signore, that your enthusiasm has led you away. You should not have purchased your so-called treasure. It was ill-advised; therefore I urge you to take back the sum you have paid.”

“And on my part I object to do so,” I said a little warmly.

He shrugged his broad shoulders, and a pained look crossed his big features.

“Will you not listen to me—for your own good?” he urged earnestly.

“I do not think that sentiment need enter into it,” I replied. “I have purchased the book, and intend to retain it in my possession.”

“Very well,” he sighed. “I have warned you. One day, perhaps, you will know that at least Bernardo Landini acted as your friend.”

“But I cannot understand why you wish me to give you back the book,” I argued. “You must have some motive?”

“Certainly I have,” was his frank response. “I do not wish you to be its possessor.”

“You admit that the volume is precious, therefore of value. Yet you wish to withdraw from a bad bargain!”

His lips pursed themselves for a moment, and a look of mingled regret and annoyance crossed his huge face.

“I admit the first, but deny the second. The bargain is a good one for me, but a bad one for you.”

“Very well,” I replied with self-satisfaction. “I will abide by it.”

“You refuse to hear reason?”

“I refuse, with all due deference to you, signor reverendo, to return you the book I have bought.”

“Then I can only regret,” he said in a voice of profound commiseration. “You misconstrue my motive, but how can I blame you? I probably should, if I were in ignorance, as you are.”

“Then you should enlighten me.”

“Ah?” he sighed again. “I only wish it were admissible. But I cannot. If you refuse to forego your bargain, I can do nothing. When you entered here I treated you as a stranger; and now, although you do not see it, I am treating you as a friend.”

I smiled. Used as I was to the subtleness of the trading Tuscan, I was suspicious that he regretted having sold the book to me at such a low price, and was trying to obtain more without asking for it point-blank.

“Well, signor priore,” I said bluntly a moment later, “suppose I gave you an extra hundred francs for it, would that make any difference to your desire to retain possession of it?”

“None whatever,” he responded. “If you gave me ten thousand more I would not willingly allow you to have it in your possession.”

His reply was certainly a strange one, and caused me a few moments’ reflection.

“But why did you sell it if you wish to retain it?” I asked.

“Because at the time you were not my friend,” he replied evasively. “You are now—I know you, and for that reason I give you warning. If you take the book from this house, recollect it is at your risk, and you will assuredly regret having done so.”

I shook my head, smiling, unconvinced by his argument and suspicious of his manner. Somehow I had grown to dislike the man. If he were actually my friend, as he assured me, he would certainly not seek to do me out of a bargain. So I laughed at his misgivings, saying:

“Have no fear, signor reverendo. I shall treasure the old codex in a glass case, as I do the other rare manuscripts in my collection. I have a number of biblical manuscripts quite as valuable, and I take care of them, I assure you.”

My eye caught the ancient window where I had seen the white, unshaven face of the old hunchback, and recollecting that there must be some mysterious connection between the two men, I tucked my precious parcel under my arm and rose to depart.

The prior knit his dark brows and crossed himself in silence.

“Then the signore refuses to heed me?” he asked in a tone of deep disappointment.

“I do,” I answered quite decisively. “I have to catch my train back to Leghorn; therefore I will wish you addio.”

“As you wish, as you wish,” sighed the ponderous priest. Then placing his big hand upon my shoulder in a paternal manner, he added, “I know full well how strange my request must appear to you, my dear signore, but some day perhaps you will learn the reason. Recollect, however, that, whatever may occur, Bernardo Landini is a friend to whom you may come for counsel and advice. Addio, and may He protect you, guard you from misfortune, and prosper you. Addio.”

I thanked him, and took the big, fat hand he offered.

Then, in silence, I looked into his good-humoured face and saw there a strange, indescribable expression of mingled dread and sympathy. But we parted; and, with old Teresa shuffling before me, I passed through the house and out into the white sun glare of the open piazza, bearing with me the precious burden that was destined to have such a curious and remarkable influence upon my being and my life.