"MOST EXCELLENT DON FRANCIS,--

"That cavalcade of his lordship's, of four horses and two servants, entering this city of Arezzo at three o'clock in the afternoon of to- day, was witnessed by a concourse of people, always eager to see a great gentleman, and to secure some part of his bounty. Had his lordship lifted his eyes to the windows of the shops and houses of the poor as he pa.s.sed by, he would have seen Virginia Strozzi at her needlework--that poor creature whose virtue his lordship was so benevolent as to protect; for which truly gracious act his same poor Virginia must always be grateful. It would have been a great kindness in his lordship to have allowed one, who ever tried to be faithful and obedient, to kiss his n.o.ble hand; and his Virginia cannot doubt but that she might have done so. His lordship's n.o.bility of mind and generosity of heart are so well known, that for the very reason of them she has not dared to present herself. I know what my duty is; I cannot come to you. I beg him not to seek me; I am going away so soon as I have delivered this letter. Do not ask me to come, Francis, I cannot, I cannot, I cannot.

"Your VIRGINIA, who tries to be good."

This letter stunned me. I sank under it, as under a violent blow. With me also fell, dashed to the ground, all my honourable resolutions, all my hopes of gaining self-respect. I will not deny also that I was savagely stung by mortification; for a man is so made that he does not relish a refusal any the more for being aware that he has not too anxiously sought acceptance; but, on the contrary, his self-reproach for that tardiness of his is made more bitter by the rebuff. He feels that he has deserved it, and is the more deeply wounded.

And had I not deserved it? Why had I not crept back into Lucca--in any disguise, by any subterfuge--when I was driven out? Why had I not braved a second disgrace--nay, imprisonment, stripes, even death, on Virginia's account? Alas, it was because Virginia's account was not heavy enough in my books. Pa.s.s that, and have at me again. Why, when I knew her whereabouts, did I not strike off across the hills to find her? Was it that she would not have welcomed me naked, have cherished me dying, have died herself to save me? Alas, no! It was because I had been drawn on to Siena by that lovely, haunting, beckoning, beguiling vision of Aurelia, my torture and stem of shame. Why, finally, were my eyes not lifted up to her wistful eyes, as she sat--poor sempstress--in that upper room? It was because of my accursed prosperity. It was because my eyes were cased and swollen in pride; because my fine horse held them; because I thought I had but to nod and be obeyed by--my wife! Thy wife, sayest thou, Francis? Nay, wretched fool, but thy SLAVE! Out upon thee--out!

White and suffering, not knowing what to do, I sat by my untasted board and gave the letter into Belviso's hand to read. He read it carefully, and Fra Palamone peeped over his shoulder. He was the first to speak.

He clacked his tongue to his palate--that gross and forcible rogue; he looked all about him with his arms spread abroad, as if he were scouring the air to find Virginia. "She's off," he said, "she's off, that's plain. Bolted like a coney to the hills. Now, who's our man?"

I struck my breast. "It is I, Fra Palamone. I am her man."

He inspected me for half a moment, as if to judge of the possibility; but took no further notice of me. He walked to the window and looked out--up and down the street. "Clean heels," says he, "and she was within reach of my hand."

"What!" I cried. "It was she who----" I did not finish but rushed at the door. Belviso, divining my insane purpose, caught me by the coat.

"Stay, Don Francis--let any one go but you." Seeing that I paused irresolute, he went on to urge me by all that I held dear to do nothing so foolish. "Do you suppose," he said, "that YOU will find her--knowing nothing of Arezzo--and she knowing all? Do you think her so light, that, having borne the first sight of you already without faltering, she will fall to you at the second? You have taught me wiselier about her out of your own mouth. Let us question the friar." He turned to Palamone, who had his mouth open and was scratching in his beard.

The frate said that Virginia herself had delivered the letter into his hands as he stood taking the air at the inn door. He scoffed at the notion that he could be mistaken; had he not nearly lost his life for her already? He described her in terms too luscious to be palatable--a fine and full wench, he called her, bare-headed, bare-necked, with the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of Hebe. "And," says he, "Don Francis, you may call her your wife or by what other pleasant phrase you please, but though I'd allow you, to do you pleasure, that that were what she ought to be--wife, at least, to somebody--saving your respect, she's no wife at all. There's not a wedded woman in all Italy would go abroad with a bare bosom--you may take the word of an expert for that. She's tricked you, sir,--or you have tricked her. She has had what she has had without responsibility-- and now she's away; and if I may be allowed the remark, I should say you were well rid of her. An excellent dinner awaits you here--more than enough for one, a bare pittance for two; a courteous banker awaits you in Florence. Old Palamone will scratch his eyes out to save you. After dinner, sir, half of Arezzo--"

I said, "Palamone, I lay this command upon you, since you profess yourself my friend. Find me Virginia, wheresoever she may be. I will give you a thousand guineas. Without her you have not one farthing of mine."

He seized my hands. "A thousand devils would not send me faster-- consider her in your arms." He went gaily out of my presence with a song on his lips. I heard him singing it l.u.s.tily down the street of the town, and saw no more of him for some days.

Belviso was of great comfort to me during my time of anxiety; without the faithful creature I should have run my feet off my legs and my wit out of my head in futile search. He was much too tactful to remind me of his warnings, but did not cease to show me all sorts of reasonable grounds for Virginia's conduct, which had the effect of keeping his first prognostication always before me. "The girl," he said--I repeat the sum of his many discourses--"is evidently a good girl, and of strong character. She is perfectly reasonable. She married you--I take that for granted--when you were broken, beyond all prospect of repair. She now finds you restored to your proper station in the world, and will be no party to pulling you off your throne. She sees very well how that must end--unhappily. How can she hope to be a companion of your companions, a friend of your friends, a sharer in your amus.e.m.e.nts? Mistress she might be, your toy; wife she can never be. That parade of her neck and bosom-- a desperate measure I a.s.sure you--shows to my mind that you will never possess her again, but as you would not care to do. You a.s.sure me that you married her, you name the church, describe the rites. All seems to be in order; but the more I understand your Virginia in these late proceedings, the less I understand that wedding in the Ghetto.

Everything I learn of her from her own acts convinces me of her good sense; but of her acts as reported by you, Don Francis, I reserve my judgment."

My heart and whole mind being now set upon finding her, my chagrin may be imagined when Fra Palamone returned without her. He demanded money to prosecute his researches beyond the confines of Arezzo. "She's a deep one," he said, "she's as deep as the sea. Who can tell where she is by now? May be in Venice, may be in Rome, may be in the attics of this inn." I gave him twenty guineas, and he disappeared again for ten days.

At the end of that time he returned once more, horribly dishevelled, dirty and extended. He looked to be just out and about again after a ruinous debauch. He talked in hollow whispers, he trembled in the limbs, he started and turned pale at a shadow, or the sound of a mouse in the wainscot. He said he had been to Ancona, Gubbio, Rimini, Ravenna, Chioggia, Venice, Udine, Trieste. He demanded money--fifty guineas; but this time I gave him nothing. I was preparing to go to Florence, and had other agents than him in view. I dismissed him from my service, and told him to go to the devil. He left me for the moment, vowing as he did it that he should never, never quit my service, and I found that it was no easier to get rid of him now than it had ever been. I saw him on the morrow; I saw him every day. The more I saw of him the more I abhorred him; and the more I made this plain the more devoted he professed himself. Wherever I went he shadowed me. He lurked in the dark corners of churches where I made my devotions, or studied the monuments until I rose from my knees. If I rode in the country I knew that he was not far away, if I frequented public a.s.semblies I saw his keen eyes upon me, and his wide mouth fixed at a patient grin. He was oppressively, sickeningly affectionate, his role being that of the old friend of my family, who had rocked my cradle and held me by my leading-strings. At meals he came skipping about me with little offerings: "A rose-bud for my bosom's king!" he would say; "Fresh-pulled radishes for my heart's blood!"; and once, while I was at dinner, he danced up to the table with a large and bleeding rabbit, saying, "A coney for my dear, of old Palamone's wiring!" This was too much for my patience; I swung the beast about his ears, drove him from the room and flung his catch after him. He brought me no more presents, but did not cease to be my shadow.

CHAPTER XL

I GET RID OF MY ENEMY AND PART FROM MY FRIEND

When the day drew near upon which I had appointed to depart from Florence, I saw that I must come to terms with the fellow. I sent Belviso out to look for him--and to find him at no greater distance than the other side of the door, with his eye at the keyhole. He came in, blinking like an owl, still weak with his recent excesses, and very nervous. I felt my gorge rise at the sight of him, but did my best to be cool.

"Palamone," I began, "it appears that you have recently done me a service----"

He leered at me. "My Francis! When--and at what hour of day or night have I not been ready to serve you?"

"Why, that's as may be," said I. "I think I could remind you of a night attack at Pistoja----"

"Oh, cruel," he said, "oh, cruel!"

"Of a ravishment--of the strappado applied to a man bound hand and foot--"

He pretended to weep. "Cruel, cruel Francis!"

"Of detestable treachery in Florence when you set to work to entrap a good girl who had done you no harm in the world--and, Fra Palamone, I think I may remind you of the payment of those services of yours IN KIND, in the Piazza of Santa Maria."

With clasped hands, streaming eyes, he beamed upon me. "Generous hand!

Oh, healing, life-giving blood!"

"I am glad," I said, "that you consider yourself healed by bleeding. But now, it appears, you have appointed yourself messenger from my friends, and have succeeded in benefiting me without extraordinary robbery. I cannot suppose that you did this for love."

"Believe it," says he, "believe it, Francis."

"You must forgive me if I cannot," said I. "On the contrary, I believe that you have acted for what profit you can make out of it. I never asked you to interfere in my affairs, and owe you less than nothing, but to make an end of you, since you do, perhaps, believe that you have served me with this late news of what you, no doubt, would call my 'good fortune,' I will give you more than you deserve." I counted out ten guineas, or their equivalent, and held them out to him.

His eyes gleamed, as if a fire had suddenly been kindled in them by the sight of money. He pounced at my hand and emptied it, as a dog sc.r.a.pes in the ground. Holding his coins close to his breast, he snarled at me of his astuteness, and took obscene pride in his guile. "Is Palamone an old fool then? Eh, mercy and truth, was there ever such a wise old fox born into this world? Did I not, when I saw you at Rovigo, lay this finger to this nose, and say, 'La, la, Palamone, fratello, here is a pigeon for your plucking hand'? Did I not know you for an Englishman, for a n.o.bleman born? For what do you take me? I knew that you had run away out of a sc.r.a.pe, I knew that the money-bags would be emptied to find you. Wise old Palamone! Deep-browed old night-bird! Darkly thinking, quickly acting old Fox-Palamone! And now, take heed to this, I have never lost you, but have been hard on your heels though Jesuits and Ministers and woman after woman have beset you on all sides. And what have I gained by all this? A wound in the breast, my conscience! A slug through the lung, on the word of a Christian--and my Francis, the child of my sorrow, fed upon my tears, talks to me of profit--O Dio! O Dio!"

He wrung his hands and howled; then, grinning like a wolf, he came creeping to me, his fingers gripping the air like claws. "Give me more money, Francis, you who have so much--give me the guineas of England, fifty, a hundred, a thousand--what are they to you? To me they are meat and drink, Paradise and the Mercy Seat." He was now hovering close to me, terribly possessed by greed. "If you do not give me money, Francis, I shall kill you with these hands." So he threatened me, raving.

My anger got the better of my judgment. "You black-souled thief," I said, "you shall have just what you deserve."

He still grinned and glared. I think he still hoped for more money. I had my malacca cane in my hand, caught him with the other by the neck- gear and beat him till the stick was in splinters. It was like thrashing a sack of flour, for he lay like that under his punishment, and the dust that flew out of him filled the room. When I had done I threw him from me, went to the door and opened it. Belviso was outside, pale and trembling. I sent him for a corporal's guard, at the sound of which order, before the lad could obey it, the frate rose, howling like a lost dog, ran swiftly to the window and leapt out into the street. He was not hurt, apparently, for I heard his howls far down the Via di Citta; and he must have run like the wind, for when they searched the country half an hour later there was no sign of him to be seen.

Belviso, who had witnessed this startling end, came trembling out of the corner of the room with his hands stretched out. He knelt down before me, his face hidden between his arms.

"Terrible man!" he said, shuddering; "but oh, signore, he has awoken the G.o.d in you. Have no fear, he will trouble you no more."

"I believe not," said I. "On the other hand, he will not find me Virginia. Get up, Belviso, let us take counsel together. What is your opinion?"

Belviso, thus adjured, rose to his feet and stood humbly before me. He was agitated--if by fear, then curiously; but it did not seem to be fear which put the slurred accents into his voice.

"Senta, Don Francesco," he began, "what Virginia has done was all for love. She has acted according to her nature--as many would act--as all would act towards you, who knew your worth. O Dio!" cried the lad suddenly, gripping his chest with both hands, "O Dio! I would prove my love in the same sort if I were--if I were not--if you were--if you were not----" He began to weep piteously.

I stared. "What is the matter with you, Belviso?" I asked him. "What would you do if you were, or were not, something which you are, or are not? Riddles, riddles, my dear." I was sorry he had seen me in such a rage, and laid a kindly arm upon his drooped shoulders. But Belviso sprang away.

"Don't touch me--do not touch me," he said, panting. "You little know-- you cannot guess--and you never shall! What! shall I prove such an ingrate? You have befriended me, lifted me out of the mud. I have a soul now, it is worth saving. Virginia, that savage, fine girl, is not the only servant in the world. No, Mother Diana, we have hearts too in the Veneto----" He swept the storm from his eyes and calmed himself by the gesture. "Don Francis," he said, "let me leave you at this moment. I will find your Virginia--that fine girl. Trust me, leave all to me. I know Tuscany and the Tuscans. I will give her to you, never fear. In six weeks from now I will have her snug in Lucca. There you shall find her if you still want her, and if you do not----"

"If I do not," I said, "you may blot the name of Francis Strelley from the Book of Life and Judgment. G.o.d bless you, Belviso, dear friend. Your words convince me. Go in peace. Take money, take what you choose--my love, my grat.i.tude---"

"I choose nothing but your confidence, and a kiss of your n.o.ble hand,"

said Belviso.

"You shall grasp, not kiss, my hand," I told him. "You are a man, or will be one, as I am. Let us love, trust, meet, part, as men."

I held out my hand, he took it, pressed it, seemed unable to let it go.

Suddenly he dropped down and kissed my knee--but with ardour, with reverence, indescribable devotion; then sprang to his feet, and was gone.

I made all preparations for my journey to Florence.