Chapter Five. Santina.

“From the Contéssa, signore.”

A tall liveried servant handed me a coroneted missive, and, bowing stiffly, withdrew. Taking the letter mechanically, I sat puffing at my cigarette and dreaming.

The sultry day was over, and the full moon was shining down clear and cool. Genoa had drawn breath again; its streets and piazzas had grown alive with the stir of manifold movement; the broad Via Roma, with its fine shops and garish cafés, echoed with increasing confusion of voices and jest and laughter and song; while the flower-sellers were everywhere, and the newsboys in strident tones cried the Secolo and the Gazzetta. My small and rather shabby room was on the top floor of a great old palazzo in the Via Balbi. The jalousies, wide-open, admitted little gusts of fresh air that blew up from the sea, while the ceaseless babel of tongues, the clip-clap of horses’ hoofs, and the indescribable odour of garlic, fried oil, and the cheap cigars characteristic of an Italian street, was borne in upon me.

Two candles in the sconces of a small Venetian mirror shed their light over the pedestal, upon which was a statue almost finished. It was a representation of a lovely woman in carnival dress, that I had chiselled in marble.

The face was absolutely beautiful, not only because of its perfect harmony, not only winsome in the gentleness of its contour, but it was also masterful by virtue of the freedom and force expressed in all its firmness.

Lazily I opened the letter, and prepared to feast upon its contents. But the few brief words penned in a woman’s hand caused me to start to my feet in anger and dismay; and, holding my breath, I crushed the missive and cast it under my foot. She who had written to me was the original of this statue, which was considered my masterpiece.

The note was cold and formal, unlike her usual graceful letters. It stated that she was leaving Italy that evening; and expressed regret she could not sit again to me. She also enclosed a bank-note for two thousand lire, which she apparently believed would repay me for my trouble.

My trouble! Dio mio! Had it not been a labour of love, when I adored—nay, worshipped her; and she, in her turn, had bestowed smiles and kisses upon me?

Yet she had written and sent me money, as if I were a mere tradesman; and from the tone of her note, it seemed as if our friendship existed no longer. Every day she had come to my studio, bringing with her that breath of stephanotis that always pervaded her; and because she was not averse to a mild flirtation, I had believed she loved me! Bah! I had been fooled! The iron of a wasted love, of a useless sacrifice, was in my heart.

This sudden awakening had crushed me; and I stood gazing aimlessly out of the window, unaware of the presence of a visitor, until I felt a hearty slap on the shoulder, and, turning quickly, faced my old friend, Pietro Barolini.

“Chi vide mái tanto!” he cried cheerily. “Why, my dear fellow, you look as if you’ve got a very bad attack of melancholia. What’s the matter?”

“Read that,” I said, pointing to the crumpled letter on the floor. “Tell me, what am I to do?”

Picking up the note, he read it through, drew a heavy breath, and remained silent and thoughtful.

Pietro and I had been companions ever since our childhood days, when, as bare-legged urchins, sons of honest fishermen, we had played on the beach at our quiet home in rural Tuscany. When we set out together to seek our fortunes, Fate directed us to Genoa; and in “La Superba” we still lived, Pietro having become a well-known musician; while I, Gasparo Corazzini, had, by a vagary of chance, attracted the notice of the great maestro Verga, under whose tuition I had developed into a successful sculptor.

“It is unfortunate,” my friend said at last, twisting his pointed black moustache; “yet she is not of our world, and, after all, perhaps it is best that you should part.”

“Ah!” I said. “Your words are well meant, Pietro; but I love her too passionately to cast aside her memory so lightly. I must see her. She must tell me from her own lips that she no longer cares for me!” I cried, starting up impetuously.

“Very well—go. Take her back the money with which she has insulted you, and bid adieu to her forever. You will soon forget.”

“Yes,” I said; “I will.”

Snatching up my hat, and crushing the letter into the pocket of my blouse, I rushed out and down the stairs into the street, without a thought of personal appearance, my only desire being to catch her before she departed.

Blindly I hurried across the Piazza del Principe, then out of the town into the open country, never slackening my pace for a moment until I entered the grounds of a great white villa that stood on the hillside at Comigliano, overlooking the moonlit sea. Then, with a firm determination to be calm, I advanced towards the house cautiously, and, swinging myself upon the low verandah, peered in at a glass door that stood open.

Noiselessly I entered. The room was dazzling in its magnificence, notwithstanding that the lamps were shaded by soft lace and tinted silk. The gilt furniture, the great mirrors, the statuary—genuine works by Leopardi and Sansovino—the Persian rugs and rich silken hangings, all betokened wealth, taste, and refinement.

Reclining on a couch with languid grace, clad in a loose wrapper of dove-grey silk, with her hair en déshabille, was the woman I loved.

“Santina!” I whispered, bending over her, uttering a pet name I had bestowed upon her.

She started, and jumped up quickly, half-frightened, exclaiming—

“Cièlo! You, Gasparo—you here?”

“Yes,” I replied, catching her white bejewelled hand and kissing it. “Yes. Why not?”

She snatched away her hand quickly, and passed it wearily across her brow. Her beauty shone with marvellous radiance, for she was only twenty-four—fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slim, graceful figure that gave her an almost girlish appearance. I own myself entranced by her loveliness.

“I thought,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation—“I thought my note explained everything. The statue is practically finished, and—”

“No—no!” I cried. “It is still incomplete. You cannot—you shall not leave me, Santina!”

“Pray, why?” she asked indignantly, raising her eyebrows.

“Because—because I love you,” I stammered.

“Love!” she exclaimed, with a light laugh. “Bah! How foolish! Love! It is only plebeians and fools who love. There is no such word in our vocabulary.”

“Yes, yes,” I said quickly. “I know the insurmountable barrier that lies between us, Santina. But do you intend to leave Italy—to leave me alone—now?”

“Of course. It is not my intention to return for several years; perhaps never. We have spent many pleasant hours together; but you have become infatuated, therefore we must part.”

“No!” I cried; “I cannot—I will not let you go! Only a week ago you confessed that you loved me. What have I done that you should treat me so?”

She made no immediate answer; and as she stood with bowed head and somewhat pale, thoughtful face, I wondered what mystery veiled and troubled her clear, resolute nature.

Placing my arm around her waist, I bent and kissed her lips; but she struggled to free herself.

“Dio!” she cried hoarsely. “Why have you come here, Gasparo? Think of my reputation—my honour! If any one found you here alone with me, and I in déshabillé.”

“Tell me, Santina, do you still love me?” I asked earnestly, looking into her eyes.

“I—I hardly know,” she replied, with a strange, preoccupied air.

“Why are you leaving so suddenly?”

“Because it is imperative,” she replied. “But hush! listen! a voice! Dio! it is my husband!”

“Your husband!” I gasped. “What do you mean? I thought the Count died in Buenos Ayres two years ago, and that you were free?”

“So did I. But that was his voice. Cièlo! I know it, alas! too well,” she said, turning deathly pale.

Rushing suddenly across the room, she snatched something from a small niche in the wall and brought it over to me. It was a curious little ivory idol, about six inches long, representing Amida, the eternal Buddha. Kissing it, she handed it to me, saying—

“Quick! take this as a souvenir. It has been my talisman; may it be yours. When I am absent, look upon it sometimes, Gasparo, and think of me.”

“You do love me, then, Santina?” I cried joyously; for answer she placed her lips to mine.

“Hide! hide at once!” she implored. “Kneel behind that screen, or we are lost. Remain there until we have left the house, and tell no one that you have seen the Count. A rivederci!”

I slipped into the place she indicated, and not a moment too soon, for as I did so, a short, stout man of about sixty years of age entered. His face wore a strange, fixed expression, and as he strode in, he betrayed no astonishment at meeting his wife, although she, terrified and trembling, shrank from him.

“I thought you were ready,” he exclaimed roughly. “Be quick and put on your travelling dress. The carriage is on its way round, and we haven’t a moment to spare if we mean to leave to-night.”

“I shall not keep you long,” she sighed, and a few moments later they both turned and left the room.

The reappearance of the Count di Pallanzeno, whom every one believed had died, was puzzling, and the manner in which husband and wife conversed showed there was but little affection between them.

Suddenly I remembered that I had forgotten to return the bank-note, but I saw it was useless to attempt to do so now, therefore I decided to keep it until we met again. Obeying the Contéssa’s instructions, I remained in my hiding-place for half an hour, until I heard the carriage drive away down the road, then I stole out upon the verandah and let myself down noiselessly into the garden.

The moon was shining brilliantly on the white blossoms and the pale marbles, and in order to escape the observation of any of the servants who might be about, I crept along under the dark shadow of the ilex-trees in the direction of the road. I had not gone very far when suddenly I caught my foot in an obstruction, and, stumbling, fell over some object that lay in my path. Regaining my feet, I bent to ascertain the cause of my fall, when, to my amazement, I discovered it was a man.

I touched the face, and drew back in horror. The man was dead!

Everything was quiet, not a leaf stirred, so, taking the body under the arms, I dragged it out into the light. The silver moonbeam that fell across the white face of the corpse gave it a ghastly appearance, revealing the features of a well-dressed man of middle age, totally unknown to me.

Closer examination disclosed that a murder had been committed. The man had been shot in the back.

Searching about the spot, I was not long before I discovered the weapon with which the crime had evidently been committed. It was a five-chambered plated revolver, one cartridge of which had been discharged. As I inspected it in the cold, bright light, eager to find a clue to the murderer, my eyes fell upon two words engraved on the barrel.

Breathlessly I deciphered them, and then stood dumb with awe and dismay. The name engraved upon it was my own!

In a moment a terrible thought flashed across me. Was not my presence there, and the discovery of a revolver bearing my name, direct circumstantial evidence against me? Thus recognising my danger, I put the weapon in my pocket, cast a final glance at the dead man’s face, and, creeping noiselessly away under the high hedge of rhododendron and jessamine, I at length gained the road and returned to the noisy city.

In the Bourse, in the Galleria Mazzini, in the streets, in the cafés, everywhere, one topic only was discussed next day. A startling tragedy had been enacted, for, according to the newspapers, Colonel Rossano had been discovered mysteriously murdered in the gardens of the Villa Pallanzeno.

No motive for the assassination could be assigned, for the colonel, who had only arrived on the previous day from Milan, was a most popular and distinguished officer. The police, it was stated, had received instructions from the Ministry of the Interior at Rome to spare no effort to discover the assassin, and the King himself had offered a reward of ten thousand lire for any information which would lead to the arrest of the murderer.

During the hour of the siesta, I had stretched myself in an old armchair in the studio, smoking, when Pietro burst into the room, greeting me with that buoyancy habitual to him. I asked him if he had heard of the tragedy, and gave him the papers to read. Having eagerly scanned them, he expressed surprise that the shot was not heard.

“I suppose the Contéssa does not know anything of it,” I said. “The body was not discovered until after midnight, whereas she left by the mail for Turin at ten o’clock.”

“And what was the result of your interview?” he asked, seating himself on the edge of the table, and carelessly swinging his legs.

“She has gone, but she will return,” I replied briefly.

“And she still loves you—eh?”

“Yes; you guess correctly,” I laughed.

“So goes the world! How happy you should be—you, the accepted lover of the girl-widow of a millionaire! One of these days you’ll marry, and then per Bacco! you’ll throw over your old companion, the humble fiddler of the Politeama.”

His jesting words reminded me of the reappearance of the Count, that Santina was not free, and that our love was illicit.

“No,” I said sorrowfully; “I may love, but I shall never marry her.”

Three years passed, long, weary years, during which I had waited patiently for Santina’s return. Ahi sòrte avvèrsa!

The villa remained in just the same condition, but none of the servants knew the whereabouts of their mistress, and it had been whispered that the police, in order to learn something of events on the night of the murder, had vainly endeavoured to trace her.

With me things went badly. True, the statue of the Countess, that I had christened “Folly,” had gained a medal at the International Exhibition at Turin, but my later works had proved ignominious failures. I thought nothing of Art, only of the woman who had entranced me, and my hand had somehow lost its cunning. The carved Amida had brought me ill-fortune, it seemed, for I was now at the end of my resources.

Pietro had long ago accepted a lucrative post in the orchestra at La Scala, at Milan, and I lived alone and friendless in the old palazzo.

One evening, when Genoa was in festa, I had starved all day, and in desperation I at last resolved to change the bank-note Santina had sent me. Putting on my hat, I descended the stairs into the gaily-decked street, and pushed my way through the laughing crowd in the Via Nouvissima, at last turning into the narrow Via degli Orefici in search of a money-changer’s. A group of children were playing under a dark, ancient archway. How happy they seemed, with their bright chubby faces, like the carved cupids and cherubs in San Lorenzo!

All the world was gay, and I alone was desolate. The little office I entered was kept by a hook-nosed Jew, who, when I asked for gold in exchange for the limp piece of paper, took it and examined it carefully through his hornrimmed spectacles. Taking a book from a shelf, he consulted it, started, and then looked sharply up at me.

“This note,” he said, “does not belong to you.”

“It does,” I answered indignantly.

“Can you tell me whence you obtained it?”

“It is no business of yours!” I cried.

“Corpo di Bacco, signore! It were best for you to answer such a simple and necessary question with at least a semblance of civility.”

“Why should I, when you roundly accuse me of possessing stolen property? What grounds have you for saying the note does not belong to me?”

“I did but speak the truth. This note is not rightfully yours.”

“You waste my time. Give me back the note; I will change it elsewhere.”

“Signore, I dare not return you the note.”

“And why, pray?” I asked, suppressing my angry indignation.

“Avvertite! It was stolen.”

“Stolen?” I cried.

“Yes. Stolen from the man who was murdered at the Villa Pallanzeno three years ago. There is a big reward. I must inform the police.”

I was dumbfounded. The note Santina had sent me had been filched from a murdered man? Impossible!

The old Jew was hobbling round the counter, intending to give the alarm, so, seeing my danger, I snatched the note from him, and ran away through many intricate byways until I reached my studio. Cramming a number of things I valued into my pockets, I tied up a few other necessaries in a handkerchief, and then sped downstairs again and out into the open country.

In the east, the great arc of the sky, the distant mountains and the plains, were rose-coloured with the flush of dawn, for it was the hour when night and morning met and parted. My soul was mad with baffled hope, and I was mentally and physically ill.

The softening influences of the glorious morning awoke no responsive echoes in my troubled brain, for I had walked the whole night through, and now, worn out, footsore, hungry, and altogether hopeless, I was resting beside a little wayside shrine of Our Lady of Good Counsels, and in the hazy distance could see the gold cross, red roofs, and the gleaming white towers of Florence.

For many months I had been a homeless wanderer, a mere tramp, picking up a living as best as I could, but always moving from place to place over the smiling plains of Lombardy, or among the peaceful Tuscan vineyards, fearing that the police would pounce upon me and charge me with a crime of which I was innocent.

I had tramped to Milan in search of Pietro, but he had left—gone to Naples, they thought.

I think you, in English, have something like our old Tuscan saying, “Le sciagúre e le alle-grézze non vèngono mai sóle.”

Ah me! There is bitter truth in it. Misfortunes always come in overwhelming numbers, and those who are not favourites of the jade might as well be in their graves.

The more I reflected upon the strange tragedy, the more puzzling was the mystery.

Where was Santina? If she were innocent, why should she hide herself?

For two hours I tramped on over the dusty road to the city of Dante and Michael Angelo, at last entering the Porte Romano; and then wandering down the long street and around the Palazzo Pitti, I crossed the Vecchio Bridge, and passed on towards the great Duomo, with Brunelleschi’s wondrous dome.

I had taken a drink of water at the old Renaissance fountain in the Piazza del Mercato, and was strolling quietly on, gazing in wonderment at the grand old Gothic cathedral, when suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a stern voice said—

“Gasparo Corazzini, I arrest you.”

Almost before I was aware of it, two gendarmes, who had accompanied a little, shabbily-dressed police agent, seized me.

“For what crime do you lay your hands upon me?” I cried indignantly.

“You are accused of the murder of Colonel Rossano in Genoa,” the detective replied.

My heart sank within me. I was spellbound by the appalling charge.

The gloomy old Assize Court at Genoa was crowded; the afternoon heat was intense; the ray of sunlight slanting through the high window lit up the time-dimmed picture of Gesu, and fell upon the great gold crucifix that hung over the head of the grave-looking President. My trial had excited the greatest interest, for the police had, with extraordinary ingenuity, pieced together a truly wonderful chain of circumstantial evidence against me; and it was remarkable how ready people were to swear my life away. I stood like one in a dream, for I had at last become convinced of Santina’s treachery, and, having relinquished hope, had grown callous to everything.

I had no defence, for I had admitted being at the Villa on the night in question, and in the revolver found upon me remained some of the cartridges, the bullets of which exactly corresponded with that which caused the colonel’s death.

The Prosecutor had concluded, and without heeding the words the President was addressing to me, I stood with bent head and eyes fixed upon the floor. They might do their worst; they could not heap upon me greater agony than I had already suffered.

Suddenly there was a stir in court, as a servant in the Pallanzeno livery pushed his way forward and handed a large envelope to the judge. There were two legal-looking papers inside, and the President, having read them through twice, handed them to his two colleagues with an expression of profound surprise. A witness was called, and gabbled a statement in English which I could not understand. Then the judges retired to an ante-room, and remained absent for nearly half an hour.

Presently they returned and reseated themselves. A moment later, with startling suddenness, the words fell upon my ears—

“The prisoner, Gasparo Corazzini, is free. The murderer has confessed.”

Confessed? Was it Santina or her husband who had admitted their guilt? From my guards I endeavoured to ascertain the name of the assassin. But I was told that the President had decided for the present to keep it secret, and as the Contéssa’s servant had disappeared, I turned and left the court.

Walking through the white sunlit streets to the Via Balbi, I mounted the stairs to my studio. The dust of months was over everything, but some one had been there during my absence.

The image of the Contéssa still stood where I had left it, but its hideous appearance startled me. An arm had been broken off, and the face had been disfigured, battered beyond recognition with a heavy iron mallet that lay upon the floor.

An enemy had maliciously wrecked my masterpiece.

Sinking into a chair, I covered my face with my hands in blank despair. My reputation as a sculptor had gone, my skill with the chisel had departed. My kind master, the great Verga, had died, and I, lonely, forsaken, and forgotten, had no means of livelihood left to me.

How long I sat plunged in grim, melancholy thoughts I know not. When I returned to consciousness, the bright moon was shining full into the room, and the broken statue looked pale and ghostly in the deep shadow.

I had risen, and was standing before the window with my head sunk on my breast, when suddenly I felt a warm arm slowly entwine itself about my neck. Starting with a cry of surprise, I turned, and found to my amazement that Santina stood beside me.

“Gasparo!” she whispered softly, drawing my head down and kissing my lips.

“Santina!” I exclaimed joyfully. “You have at last returned?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I—I told you we should meet again, and I have kept my promise.”

She was very handsomely dressed in an evening gown of pale blue, her velvet cape was edged with sable, and, unloosened, displayed around her throat a diamond necklet that shone in the bright moonbeams a narrow line of white brilliancy.

For a few moments we stood in silence, clasped in each other’s arms.

Then I commenced to question her, and she told me how she had been living far away in London, adding—

“But I have come back to you, Gasparo. You still love me, do you not?”

“Love you?” I cried. “I would give half the years of my life if you were mine.”

“I am yours,” she said, gazing earnestly into my eyes.

“But—but your husband?” I exclaimed.

She shrugged her shoulders carelessly and laughed. Her eyes travelled round the studio, until they fell upon the mutilated statue.

“Ah!” she cried hoarsely; “your enemy’s handiwork. Then that was part of the revenge!”

“What revenge? Tell me about it!”

“A—a shadow came between us, Gasparo,” she sighed. “You had a rival, although you were unaware of it, and I was afraid to tell you, because I feared you would act desperately and create a scene. The man pestered me with his attentions, but I loved you, and turned a deaf ear to him. On the evening of the tragedy he came to me surreptitiously, and, with passionate declarations, begged me to accept him, but I refused, and left the room, vowing to leave Italy, never to return. I knew not what to do, for I was afraid to confess I loved you, as I saw that a fracas and scandal would ensue, but at length I came to the conclusion that it would be best for both of us if we parted at least for a time, therefore I wrote you that cruel letter, in order to make you think my flirtation was at an end.”

“Yes; yes,” I said, eagerly drinking in every word.

“The conspiracy against us both was one of extraordinary cunning and daring. Your rival was, I have since ascertained, a French spy. On the evening in question, Colonel Rossano, who was an old friend of my father’s, arrived from Milan, having been entrusted with some plans of fortifications and other important and secret documents to take to the Ministry of War at Rome. The colonel intended to remain the night with us, but your rival, by some means, knew that the documents were in his possession, and resolved to secure them. Therefore he secreted himself, and when the officer entered the garden, he shot him, afterwards taking from his pockets the plans, together with a large sum in bank-notes. It was after committing this terrible deed that he sought me; and then, when I refused him, he plotted a desperate vengeance that he intended should fall upon us both. With villainous cunning he had already caused your name to be engraved on the revolver with which he took the colonel’s life, and placed the weapon beside the body. Afterwards he proceeded to carry out the other portion of the foul plot that was so nearly successful.”

“What was that?” I asked, amazed at her story.

“He followed my servant Guiseppe, bribed him to give him the letter I addressed to you, and, having read its contents, enclosed one of the bank-notes he had stolen from the murdered man. He intended that when the charge of assassination was made against you owing to the revolver, corroborative evidence would be furnished by the stolen note in your possession. Towards me he acted differently. You still have that little souvenir I gave you, I suppose? Strike a light, and I will show you something.”

I obeyed, and lit one of the candles, afterwards taking from my pocket the quaint little carved Amida, which I had kept carefully wrapped in a piece of chamois leather.

“See! Look at this!” she said, as she screwed off the head of the idol.

And then, holding out my hand, she emptied into my palm a piece of thin paper screwed up into the size of a nut. I spread it out, and found it was a plan of the submarine mines in Genoa harbour!

“I had only a few days previously showed him this little image, and had quite innocently told him that it was hollow, and the head could be removed,” she continued. “Therefore, during my absence from the room, he must have secreted the paper there for two reasons: firstly, to get rid of it for a time; and secondly, so that he could, if so desired, throw a terrible suspicion upon me as your friend and alleged accomplice.”

“But how do you know all this?” I inquired.

“For some time after I left Italy I neither saw nor heard of him. When, however, I was told of the tragedy, I admit that I felt convinced that the colonel had fallen by your hand, for I knew you were desperate that night, and knew also that you frequently carried a revolver. It was the horrible suspicion of your guilt that prevented me from returning or communicating with you. Nevertheless, a year ago, while I was living in London, this man, who had followed me, recommenced his hateful attentions. His actions throughout were bèlle paròle e cattivi fatti. Apparently he refrained from denouncing you because he believed he would eventually prevail upon me to marry him. For six months he shadowed me, and I humoured him until at last I again lost sight of him. One night, while still in London, I received a telegram stating that he had met with an accident, that he was dying, and that he must see me. I went, and found him in a wretched, squalid garret in a gloomy quarter they call Saffron Hill. It was there, before he died, that he made, in the presence of a notary I called in, the confession which I sent to the President of the Assize Court to-day. In an English newspaper I read the grave charge made against you, and hastened here without losing a moment.”

“You have not explained,” I said quickly. “You have not told me the name of my unknown rival.”

“He was your friend. His name was Pietro Barolini!”

“Pietro!” I gasped. “Why, I considered him my warmest friend. But what of your husband? Where is he?”

“Ah, I deceived you, Gasparo!” she said, laying her hand upon my arm. “I knew you would allow me to go in peace if you believed my husband still lived, therefore I practised a ruse upon you. The man from whom you hid was my father, to whose exertions the elucidation of the mystery is in a great measure due. He has returned with me to the Villa, and I will introduce you to him this evening.”

“Then the Count is not living?”

“No, Gasparo,” Santina whispered softly. “He died in Buenos Ayres, as you are aware, six months after our marriage. There is no barrier now between us; the grim shadow that darkened my life has passed away, and we are free—free to love each other, and to marry.”