The Belle of Rome!" cried the countess, suddenly growing aniated, and turning to Murietta as she spoke.
"The Beauty of Rome!"nanswered Muietta warmly.
"Do you know her?"
"Know the lady! I have known her a thousand years!"
"O, in the time of the Caesars! Why not say in the time of the Caesars? Say, for example, that you met her at the ball given by the wife of citizen Brutus, to celebrate the opening of the Appian Way, and so on."
"Well," said Murietta sharply "since you are so exact about the matter, I am bound to confess the truth, and to tell you that I do not know her at all; or at least, that she does not know me."
"Are you certain that you are not romancing?" One of the pretty little pink fingers in a little pink glove was rolling itself up like a silkworm in the tassels of a crape shawl as she said this, and the lips pouted out saucily, and the lady coloured to the brows.
"I am certain that she does not recogize me, and I can only add in all candour that I am sorry that she does not, and am covered with shame and confusion, for I have followed her as faithfully as night follows day, and -"
He stopped then suddenly, and bit his lips till he tasted blood.
The colour went from the face of the beautiful countess only for an instant. Then turning to Murietta, she laid her little hand on his arm, gently, very gently, scarcely touching it, and looking in his face so earnestly, so sadly, so full of soul, she said —
"I comprehend, I understand you; I unerstand you perfectly; and, Mr. Murietta, listen to me and believe me: I, too, am sorry; very, very sorry.'
"Hist! soft! Her name is sacred, lady. Remember, I said I knew nothing of her whatever. I have never spoken to her one word. The admission that I have made is my own. It is also my own secret. If I have followed her and worshipped her it has not been her fault in anywise whatever. Remember that! Remember that! Her name, somehow, is sacred. Her good name and her fair fame, her purity of heart, her charity, her truth, her nobility of nature that would forbid her to encourage for one moment a passion that she could not enterain, must never be questioned. She never so much as spoke to me, or even smiled in my presence."
"Please don't be mysterious." pleaded the countess.
"But I am only trying to be plain."
"I do not understand you."
"But you said you understood perfectly."
"I do not understand a nature and a sentiment like that." The pretty little pink finger was wound tight as a silkworm in its shroud, and the great brown eyes full of melancholy lifted and looked with earnestess and inquiry into the face of Murietta.
The carriage had turned into the court, and stopped at the foot of the great stairway, while the footman stood holding open the door for them to descend.
"You will dine with us today?"
"No."
"You will at least come in and have a glass of wine?"
The artist gave the lady his arm; little Sunshine ran up the steps holding on to the footman's hand, and the senatorial Roman on the box snapped his silk, and lifting his finger to his hat, trundled over the stones and was gone.
The doors of the old palace were massive and old and rusty as the doors of a prison. A whole army might be held at bay for ever so long by one of these doors, built in the middle ages out of crossed beams of oak, and crossed bars of iron and bolts of copper and plates of brass.
There was a smell of tobacco smoke as they entered the ante-camera, and from beond there came the shouts of many voices, as if men were at wine in a wayside inn.
The countess tried to pass this tumult by with the remark that the count and his friends were having their Carnival in the palace instead of on the Corso, but she looked very much troubled, and her brow gathered with care and anxiety.
They entered the great saloon, gorgeous with mirrors and paintings, and set all around by little forests of flowers, and pleasant to the feet with its voluptuous carpets.
To the delight and relief of Murietta, here they came upon Carlton, the Amerian artist and poet we have before met in Naples. He was hidden away in a corner like a hermit, devouring a book, and as if he was trying to get out of sight and hearing of the terrible din of voices back yonder somewhere in the depths of the palace.
The beautiful countess, with her brows gathered in trouble, left the two gentlemen together, and taking her little boy by the hand, passed on through the great saloon into the little wigwam we have before visited.
Carlton was a shy, nervous man, with some of the look and manner, and, some said, with all the cunning of a Catholic priest of the most zealous order.
"I have come here to dine with the count," began Carlton, timidly and cauiously, as he flipped the leaves of his book backwards and forwards "and I have seen the strangest man."
"Well! the strangest man ought to be very interesting, at all events." laughed the artist.
"But he does not interest me, I assure you; he sets my teeth on edge. I am afraid of him."
"Heavens! you talk like a man who finds himself among the banditti of the Alps."
"No, I am not afraid the man will murder me — nothing like that; only he gives me the shivers, and if I could I should so like to get out of the house and away from the presence and hearing of that man, for he is my evil genius."
"Why, my dear fellow, does he persecute you?"asked the artist kindly.
"No, no, I can hardly understand. I certainly cannot explain. I only know that he strikes me with terror when he talks, and almost drives me wild when he laughs; and this terrible man is to dine here. That is him now."
The two men listened to the uproar in the depths of the palace, and the voice of one man rose above the tumult like the trumpet of a sea captain in a storm.
"Why, that is the voice of the admiral." said Murietta.
"I don't care who it is, that man is my evil genius. He absorbs me, he takes my strength. Perhaps I shall have to sit by him at dinner."
"Mercy, man! are you afraid he will eat you? Come, if it comes to that, I shall dine here also, and we will see what idle fancies you poets cherish."
"No, it is not an idle fancy. That man has blood on his hands, and that man will die a violent death."
"Carlton, you have a reputation for prudence and caution; but today you are perfectly reckless in your remarks. The old sailor, a sort of ugly sea dog, is of course vulgar and hard natured, but as for there being blood on his hands, that is a thing that is hard on him to assert and would be hard on yourself to prove."
"You are right, Murietta. But I will tell you what may be proved, and what time will testify to."
"Well?
"That man will die a violent death."
"Are you mad, or are you talking only for your own amusement?"
"Neither, I trust. You see, Murietta," said Carlton, coming close up to his friend and laying his hand on his shoulder, and looking slowly and cautiously around, as scouts are sometimes seen to do, "you see violent men, men of marked and savage inividuality, often have their future written in their faces, and it is given to some men of a very sensitive composition, to read them as prophecies. That man will be hanged!"
He shrank back, and holding up the book in his other hand, began to look through the leaves hurriedly; but his face was red, and flushed as if it would set them on fire.
The admiral had entered from a door behind a screen, and was upon them even as Carlton spoke. He reeled and rolled as if he walked the deck of a ship in a storm. The admiral was drunk.
The count was with him, close up by his side, near him as a sort of shadow.
The admiral came up, slapped Carlton on the shoulder with his hard horny hand, shook hands with both the artists, rolled his big heavy head from one shoulder to the other, and talked and bantered in a loud and boisterous manner.
The count was very quiet and very friendly. This annoyed Murietta. Had he been a stranger to the Latin race and the nature of this distinct people, he had not been either surprised or displeased at this friendliness; on the contrary, he had been delighted, and would have concluded that these men had found out, and admitted to themselves, that they were wrong in the little scene at St. Peter's, and were now willing to admit as much by their actions, without going into the unpleasant task of a formal acknowledgment to Murietta. But he knew that the pride of these people never allows them to confess themselves in the wrong. He knew that they never foret or forgive. He knew that the little scene in St. Peter's was uppermost in their minds, even as they smiled and made him welcome to the palace.
Had the countess appeared he had taken his leave, and been very glad to get away. As it was, he sauntered about the saloon with Carlton after the two men, who had forced a reluctant consent from him to remain to dinner, had returned to their boon companions, and talked of the pictures and the palace.
"What a display of wealth," said Carlton "there is enough hanging on every one of these four walls to make a little fortune."
"And where does it come from?" queried Murietta of his friend. "These Italians as a rule are so very poor."
"Where does it come from?" echoed Carlton, turning sharply to Murietta as they stood before a Titian "From America — from our country."
"No!"
"Every sou of it. That count, like all foreign counts, is a beggar, of course, like the whole crew he has about him."
"But do you really know these men he has about him? You must remember we are to dine with these men."
"Yes, we are to dine with them; and mark me, I tell you if they were only begars I should not care. They are a deal worse than beggars." The poet shrugged his shoulders, pointed out some special point of beauty in the old Titian before them, and passed on to another picture.
Murietta was somehow very glad to know that all this wealth was that of the countess in pink and rose. This at least would keep her from dependence on those around her, and would in all reason insure her some liberty of action and some repose and peace of mind.
He tried to recall any allusion she had made to this matter, but could not. On this subject, as well as that of her alleged malady and misfortune, and the good or ill behaviour of the count, she had been as silent as possible. Her soul, it seemed to him, had always risen above these things. He could now see how she had at times been lashed to fury, as in St Peter's, and wild words and expressions sometimes flowed from her unwilling llps, that were closed and silent again as soon as she escaped and was free.
The door of the round and magnificent wigwam, which we have seen before, opened, and the maid stepped up to Murietta, after glancing about the saloon to see that no one was watching her, and said:
"Here! one minute, the countess."
He looked at Carlton, and then hastily passed in after the maid.
The beautiful woman lay there pale and prostrate on the sofa. Her gorgeous robes were tumbled about her, and her clothes were open at the breast.
A great tall man with a black beard stood beside her with a letter in his hand.
Murietta started back. How did this man get into the presence of the countess, and who could he be?
The countess put out her hand. It was so delicate, so soft and beautiful. It had all the tint and hue of a pale pink shell of the sea, and was soft and sweet as a fulllown rose to touch.
"I am ill." she began in a voice as low and tender as if she spoke to an infant. "I am too ill to join you at dinner, but you will stay, and you will come again and as soon as possible, for it is so lonesome here, and Heaven knows when I shall get out of the palace again. There — go, go, and do not let them see you, or let them know that you have been in here."
She beckoned him back; frowned as he lingered, and threw out her hand as if to urge him through the door.
Murietta, all breathless and embarrassed, stepped back and through the door as he had been directed, and as he did so heard a strong bolt close behind him, and the beautiful woman lying there on the sofa, like a pink rose full blown and gathered in the hand and half withered in the sun, was locked and bolted in the saloon with a tall, strong stranger.
Murietta did not like mystery. To him there was enough that was incomprehenible in the very problem of life and death and the future worlds, and it irked him to see enigmas and to find secrecy where it seemed to him there should have been candour and simplicity.
Carlton had taken his seat on the sofa in a retreat behind a little forest of blossomng rhododendrons, and was again turning the leaves of the book.
"Well, and have you been into the secret cave in search of the lamp?"
"The countess is ill,"said Murietta gravely "and will not be able to join us at dinner."
Here the admiral again entered. He was singing a loud sailor's song, and he seemed to be .walking a stormier deck than ever before.
There was the sound of another bolt being shot behind the door that led from the grand saloon to the wigwam where the countess was lying.
The count was at the side of the admiral, smiling in a sort of drunken imbecility. The two men heard the bolt. They went up to the door and the count called through the keyhole. Then he tapped on the door with his knuckles and put down his head to wait for an answer. Then he knocked again louder than before. No answer. Then the admiral called in a voice that might wake the dead. Still no answer. At this the admiral raised his two hands and pounded against the door of the room where lay the beautiful lady ill, as if they had been battering rams. No answer. He waited a moment longer and then drew back and kicked the door with all his might.
Here the count forcibly remonstrated.
"Teach her a lesson,"thundered the admiral, as the two men turned away from the door and came towards where the artist and the poet sat together indignant witesses of this scene.
"I will not taste his bread," said Muritta, between his teeth.
"As to that,"answered Carlton" the bread is not his, and we can't well get away now."
The count came forward with great politeness and announced that dinner was waiting. In a walk of half a minute across the great saloon he had laid off the rough and brutal behaviour just exhibited to his wife, and now with these strangers was only civility and sweetness. As for the admiral, he went straight on into the dining hall and sat at the table and talked and behaved in all respects like a savage old Saxon of the middle ages, and as if not only all this palace but all of Rome was his special property.
There were at least a dozen men present, and all strangers, save the little threadbare Secretary of the Legation whom he had met on his first arrival at Rome. As for the others of the party they were mostly after the type and manners of the admiral, and all seemed to look up to him as a sort of leader.
"Are these men really beggars," said Murietta to himself, as he took a seat beween the secretary and Carlton, "or are they a band of brigands "
Carlton glanced about the hall, and as he spread his napkm on his lap said to Murietta in a low voice and a strange tongue "There is a closet in every corner of this hall, and there is a skeleton in every closet."
The count with a singular air of gentleness, deplored the absence of the countess, announced to the company that she was ill, and then the servants removed the silver covers.
The dinner was a splendid affair as far as the matter of food was concerned, and the men did it every compliment.
And there was a peculiar wine. It looked like gold and sunshine. It tasted like nectar. It was certainly a drink for the gods.
This wine was brought on the table in little flagons woven and bound in wicker work of reeds. The flask is then unorked, a piece of cotton inserted to absorb the oil, which must be poured in upon the wine to preserve it, and then it is poured into the glass and drank amid the praises of every one present.
This wine was new to Murietta, and the count told this story concerning it.
Once the pope desired to find the very best wines in Italy for his own use, and with that object sent a cardinal to taste all the wine through the vine growing counries and send to him such as he deemed best.
This cardinal sent before him some good old priests whose experience had been great, and whose tastes were unquestionable, to dwell in the villages and taste of the wines, and have some sort of selection made by the time he should arrive, so that he would not himself have to taste of every villainous drink that the good and ever zealous wine merchants might see fit to force upon him.
The cardinal directed them to write on that brand which they found good, the one Latin word Est, so that the peasants and wine merchants might not understand. He directed them if they found by any good fortune wine that was particularly excellent they should write Est, est on the brand.
Then he further directed them that if by the mercy of God they should come upon a wine that was wonderful and above all other wines, and such as the gods are supposed to drink, they should write Est, est, est. Then giving the good monks his blessing the cardinal sent them forward, and soon after followed on his mission as the holy father had directed.
For years and years the good monks led on through the vine lands of the Adriatic coast, the Apennine foothills, and even in the Alps, and found much that was excelent and that delighted the palate of the cardinal who followed and the pope who remained in Rome; but they having done their work, as they had been directed, were on their way back to the Eternal City, and were even almost within sight of the dome of St. Peter's.
Here the monks dismounted from their asses and taking their staffs in hand, after selecting one of their number to remain and keep off with the curses of the Church any brigands who might seek to carry off their asses, began to climb up a little round mountain to a little village that sat perched on the top, and ask for hospitality.
The good peasants were only too glad to receive the merry fathers whose homes were in Rome, and the asses were soon dragged up the mountain, and the monks seated altogether around a course of choice meats, brown bread, and a wine of the most beautiful and peculiar colour.
This they looked at with distrust for some time. At last a very fat old monk who was very thirsty could wait no longer. He drew the cork, and inserting a corner of his gray and greasy gown to absorb the oil, he filled the horns which the priests had been quietly loosening from the hempen cords around their waists.
The fat monk set down the flagon, unfastened his own horn, took up the flagon again, and now the horns were all filled.
And the monks lifted the black horns, and looking at each other with half closed eyes over the brims, turned the wine to their lips.
Then they set down their horns and tasted and tasted, and smacked their lips and looked at each other with their eyes wide open and bright with delight.
Then they tasted again. Then agam and again and agam.
Then the leader called for a vote. This vote was always given by each monk tmmng up his emptied horn, and, unknown to the others, and without having asked any question or expressing any opinion, writing his verdict on the bottom.
Each monk wrote in silence. Then they reached to the father their horns and he read on the bottom of every one this verdict, Est, est, est.
They asked the name of the place, and the peasants said it was called Montefiscaone. In time they went down to the base of the little round mountain and waited for the cardinal, who led his ass to the village, on the top where they had found this wonderful wine.
The cardinal tasted it and was dumb with delight. He sent the wine to Rome, surrendered his high place in the Church, built him a house on Montefiscaone, made his will, and there he lived and died, and there he is buried now with the main facts of this story written on his tomb and a flagon of Est, est, est at his feet.
Murietta liked the wine. He liked the story. He liked the man's manner in telling it, for in spite of his surmisings, and in spite of some very strange behaviour towards the countess, this man had a voice and a manner that, contrasted with that of the admiral, was strangely gentle and winning.
But the wine could not revive the heart of Murietta, or clear his mind from one unpleaant picture of that evening. He all the time saw the beautiful countess stretched upon the sofa like a bouquet of soft and sweet smelling pinks that were withering away and losing their fragrance and their beauty. He saw the tall, dark man beside her, and almost shuddered at the thought of him. Then he saw the count half drunk at such a time peering in through the keyhole, and then heard the admiral thundering at the door of the sick woman, and hurling his insults unrestrained.
The company was getting boisterous, and the two strangers were anxious to get away. Murietta leaned over to the count, who was now the most sober as he was always the most civil of all those he had around him, and begged to be allowed to withdraw unobserved.
"Certainly." He arose and himself saw them to the great door, which a servant laid hold of with both hands and swung on its iron hinges with great effort.
When the two men stood once more in the streets of Rome they drew a long breath of relief together.
"What it is I don't know," said Carlon, as they shook hands and parted; "but there is a bad atmosphere in that palace and I for one shall never enter it again."
Start reading Chapter 26 ofThe One Fair Lady