CHAPTER I
THE shades of evening had
commenced to fall; already the slanting sun shining through the open
window glittered on the array of crystal glasses, turning the wine
within them to a blood-red hue. The remains of an ample dessert were
scattered about the bare polished table, rich luscious-looking fruits
and juicy pines filling the air with their fragrance. A pleasant
room, with its panelled walls and quaint curiosities, with here and
there a modern picture framed; and again other works standing upon
easels or placed against the wainscot. From the Corso below came the
sounds of laughter and gaiety; while within, the delicate scent of
the pines was overpowered by the odour of tobacco which rose from the
cigarettes of the three men sitting there. They were all
young—artists evidently, and from the appearance of one of them, he
was of a different nationality from the others. Frederick Maxwell was
an Englishman, with a passion for art, and no doubt had he been
forced to gain a living by his brush, would have made some stir in
the world; but being born with the traditional silver spoon in his
mouth, his flirtation with the arts never threatened to become
serious. He was leaving Rome in a few days, and the dessert upon the
table was the remains of a farewell dinner—that custom dear to
every English heart. A handsome fair-haired man this Englishman, his
clear bright cheek and blue eyes contrasting with the aquiline
features and olive-hued complexions of his companions. The man with
the black moustache and old velvet painting-jacket, a man with
bohemian stamped on him indelibly, was Carlo Visci, also an artist,
and a genius to boot, but cursed with that indomitable idleness which
is the bane of so many men of talent. The other and slighter Italian,
he with the melancholy face and earnest eyes, was Luigi Salvarini,
independent as to means, and possessed, poor fool, with the idea that
he was ordained by Providence for a second Garibaldi
There is an infinite sense
of rest and comfort, the desire to sit silent and dream of pleasant
things, that comes with tobacco after dinner, when the eye can dwell
upon the wax lights glittering on glass and china, and on the
artistic confusion the conclusion of the repast produces. So the
three men sat listlessly, idly there, each drowsily engaged, and none
caring to break the delicious silence, rendered all the more pleasing
from the gay girlish laughter and the trip of little feet coming up
from the Corso below. But no true Briton can remain long silent; and
Maxwell, throwing his cigarette out through the window, rose to his
feet, yawning. 'Heigh-ho! So this pleasant life is come to an end,'
he exclaimed. 'Well, I suppose one cannot be expected to be always
playing.'
Carlo Visci roused himself
to laugh gently. 'Did you ever do anything else, my friend?' he
asked. 'You play here under sunny skies, in a velvet painting-jacket;
then you leave us to pursue the same arduous toil in the tall hat of
Albion's respectability, in the land of fogs and snows. Ah! yes, it
is only a change of venue, my philosopher.'
'Not now,' Salvarini
corrected gravely. 'Remember, he has vowed by all in his power to aid
the welfare of the League. That vow conscientiously followed out is
undertaking enough for one man's lifetime.'
'Luigi, you are the
skeleton at the feast,' Visci remonstrated. 'Cannot you be happy here
for one brief hour without reminding us that we are bound by chains
we cannot sever?'
'I do not like the mocking
tone of your words,' Salvarini replied. 'The subject is too earnest
for jesting upon.—Surely, Maxwell, you have not so soon forgotten
the solemnity of the oath you took last night?'
'I do remember some
gibberish I had to repeat, very much like the conspirators' chorus at
the Opera,' Maxwell returned with a careless shrug. 'It is not bad
fun playing at sedition.—But for goodness' sake, Luigi, do not keep
harping on the same string, like another Paganini, but without that
wizard's versatility.'
'You think it play, do
you?' Salvarini asked almost scornfully. 'You will find it stern
reality some day. Your hour may not come yet, it may not come for
years; but if you are ordered to cut off your right hand, you will
have to obey.'
'Oh, indeed. Thanks, most
earnest youth, for your estimation of my talent for obedience.—Come,
Luigi! do not be so Cassandra-like. If the worst comes to the worst,
I can pitch this thing into the Tiber.' He took a gold coin from his
pocket as he spoke, making a gesture as if to throw it through the
open lattice.
Salvarini stood up, terror
written in every line of his face, as he arrested the outstretched
arm. 'For heaven's sake, Maxwell, what are you thinking of? Are you
mad, or drunk, that you can dream of such a thing?'
Maxwell laughed as he
restored the coin to his pocket. 'All right, old fellow. I suppose I
must honour your scruples; though, mind you, I do not consider myself
bound to do anything foolish even for the League.'
'You may not think so;
indeed, I hope not; but time will tell.'
Maxwell laughed again, and
whistled carelessly, thinking no more of the little episode. The
League, the coin, everything was forgotten; but the time did come
when he in his hour of need remembered Luigi's words, and vividly
realised the meaning of the look on his stern earnest face.
Visci looked on at the
incident, totally unmoved, save by a desire to lead the conversation
into more pleasant channels. 'When do you leave, Maxwell?' he asked.
'I suppose you are not going for a few days?'
'In about a week probably,
not sooner. I did not know I had so many friends in Rome, till I was
going to leave them.'
'You will not forget your
visit to my little place? Genevieve will never forgive me if I let
you go without saying good-bye.'
'Forget little Genevieve!'
Maxwell cried. 'No, indeed. Whatever my engagements may be, I shall
find time to see her; though, I daresay, the day will come when she
will forget me easily enough.'
'I am not so sure of that;
she is a warm-hearted child. I tell you what we will do; and perhaps
Sir Geoffrey and his daughter will join us. We will go down the day
alter to-morrow, and make a day of it—Of course you will be one,
Luigi?'
It was growing dark now,
too dark to see the rich flush that mounted to the young Italian's
cheek. He hesitated a moment before he spoke. 'With pleasure, Carlo.
A day at your little paradise is not to be lightly refused. I will
come gladly.'
'You make a slight
mistake, Visci, when you speak of Genevieve as a child,' Maxwell
observed reflectively. 'She is seventeen—a woman, according to your
Italian reckoning. At any rate, she is old enough to know the little
blind god, or I am much mistaken.'
'I hope not,' Visci
returned gravely. 'She is quick and passionate, and somewhat old for
her years, by reason of the seclusion she keeps. But let the man
beware who lightly wins her heart; it would go hard with him if I
crossed his path again!'
'There are serpents in
every paradise,' Maxwell replied sententiously; 'and let us hope
little Gen is free from the curiosity of her original ancestress. But
child or not, she has a woman's heart worth the winning, in which
assertion our silent friend here will bear me out.'
Luigi Salvarini started
from his reverie. 'You are right, Maxwell,' he said. 'Many a man
would be proud to wear her gage upon his arm. Even I—But why ask
me? If I was even so disposed to rest under my own fig-tree, there
are ties which preclude such a blissful thought'
Maxwell whistled softly,
and muttered something about a man drawing a bow at a venture—the
words audible to Salvarini alone.
'I am tied, as I told
you,' he continued coldly. 'I do not know why you have drawn me into
the discussion at all. I have sterner work before me than dallying by
a woman's side looking into her eyes—'
'And not anything like so
pleasant, I dare swear,' Maxwell interrupted cheerfully. 'Come,
Luigi; do not be so moody. If I have said anything in my foolish way
to offend you, I am heartily sorry.'
'I am to blame, Maxwell,
not you. You wonder why I am so taken up with this League; if you
will listen, I will tell you. The story is old now; but I will tell
you as best I can remember.'
'Then, perhaps you will
wait till I have found a seat and lighted my cigarette,' exclaimed a
voice from the background at this moment. 'If Salvarini is going to
oblige, I cut in as a listener.'
At these words, uttered in
a thin, slightly sneering voice, the trio turned round suddenly. Had
it been lighter, they would have seen a trim, well-built figure, with
head well set on square shoulders, and a perfectly cut, deadly pale
face, lighted with piercing black eyes, and adorned by a well-waxed,
pointed moustache. From his accents, there must have been something
like a sneer upon his lips. But whatever he might have been, he
seemed to be welcome enough now as he drew a chair to the open
window.
'Better late than never,'
Maxwell cried. 'Help yourself to wine, Le Gautier; and make all due
apologies for not turning up to dinner.'
'I will do so,' the
newcomer said languidly. 'I was detained out of town.—No; you need
not ask if a pair of bright eyes were the lodestars to my ardent
soul, for I shall not tell you; and in the second place, I have been
obtaining your permit as a Brother of the League. I offered up myself
on the shrine of friendship; I lost my dinner, voilà tout;'
and saying these words, he put a narrow slip of parchment in
Maxwell's hands.
'I suppose I had better
take care of this?' the Englishman answered carelessly. 'I got so
exasperated with Salvarini, that I came near ditching the sacred
moidore out of the window. I presume it would not be wise?'
'Not if you have any
respect for a sound body,' Le Gautier returned dryly. 'I gather that
Luigi has been talking largely about the sacredness of the mission.
Well, he is young yet, and the gilt of his enthusiasm does not yet
show the nickel beneath, which reminds me. Did my ears deceive me, or
were we going to hear a story?'
'It is no story,' the
Italian replied, 'merely a little family record, to show you how even
patriots are not exempt from tyranny.—You remember my brother,
Visci? and his wife. He settled down, after fighting years for his
country, not many miles from here. Living with him was his wife's
father, an aged man, universally beloved—a being who had not a
single enemy in the world. Well, time went on, till one day, without
the slightest warning, the old fellow was arrested for compliance in
some so-called plot. My brother's wife clung round her father's neck;
and there, in my brother's sight, he saw his wife stricken brutally
down by the ruffianly soldiers—dead; dead, mind—her only crime
that little act of affection—killed by order of the officer in
charge. But revenge followed. Paulo shot three of the scoundrels
dead, and left the officer, as he thought, dying. Since then, I have
never heard of Paulo.—And now, do you wonder why I am a Socialist,
with my hand against all authority and order, when it is backed up by
such cowardly, unprovoked oppression as this?'
For a time the listeners
remained silent, watching the twinkling stars as they peeped out one
by one, nothing to be seen now of each but the glowing tip of his
cigarette as the blue smoke drifted from the casement.
'You do not think that
your brother and Paulo Lucci, the celebrated brigand we hear so much
of, are the same men?' Visci asked at length. 'People have said so,
you understand.'
'I have heard such a
tale,' Salvarini replied sardonically. 'The affair created quite a
stir in the province at the time; but the peasants do me too much
homage in connecting my name with so famous a character. Our Italian
imagination does not rest at trifles.'
'Pleasant for the officer
who ordered them to strike down your brother's wife,' Le Gautier
drawled, as he emitted a delicate curl of smoke from his nostrils.
'Did you ever hear the name of the fellow?'
'Curiously enough, his
name is the same as yours, though I cannot be sure, as it is five
years ago now. He was a Frenchman, likewise.'
'Moral—let all Le
Gautiers keep out of Paulo Lucci's way,' Maxwell exclaimed, rising to
his feet 'We do not pay you the compliment of believing you are the
same man; but these brigands are apt to strike first and inquire
after. Of course, this is always presuming Salvarini's brother and
Paulo Lucci are one.—I am going as far as the Villa Salvarini. Who
says ay to that proposal?—The ayes have it'
They rose to their feet
with one accord, and after changing their coats for something more
respectable, trooped down the stairs.
'You will not forget about
Friday?' Visci reminded. 'I shall ask Sir Geoffrey and his daughter
to come. We are going down to my little place on that day.—Will you
make one, Le Gautier?'
'A thousand thanks, my
dear Visci,' the Frenchman exclaimed; 'but much as I should like it,
the thing is impossible. I am literally overwhelmed in the most
important work.'
A general laugh followed
this solemn assertion.
'I am sorry,' Visci
returned politely. 'You have never been there. I do not think you
have ever seen my sister?'
'Never,' Le Gautier
replied with an inexplicable smile. It is a pleasure to come.'
