Chapter VII (2)

Sharply and coldly he said this, and in the silence that followed he felt pain at the tone of his own voice. Yet he added not a word, wondering in the stillness that she took it so much more calmly than he had feared. Far rather would he now have soothed some stormy outburst of her sorrow with kinder words. But she went past him coldly, threw open a heavy wooden door not far from the hearth, in silence pointed to the iron bolt, and then returned to the hearth again.

He entered and bolted the door behind him. Yet for a moment he stood standing by the door, to listen to what she might be doing. But there was not a sound of life in the room and not a stir could be heard in the whole house save the restlessness of the dog, the pawing of the horses in their stalls, and the whistling of the wind without which was fast driving away the last streaks of the mist. The moon in all its glory was now shining in the heavens, and it flooded the room as Filippo drew a great bunch of heather out of a hole in the wall which served as a window. He now plainly saw he was in Fenice’s room. There against the wall stood her neat, narrow bed, near it a chest unlocked, a small table, a little wooden bench, the walls hung with pictures of saints and madonnas, a little bowl of holy water under the crucifix by the door.

He now threw himself on the hard bed and felt the storm raging within him. A few minutes, and he raised one foot about to hasten out and tell her that he had hurt her only that he might heal her; then he stamped on the ground, vexed at such effeminate weakness. “It is the one thing that remains,” he said to himself, “if crimes and misfortunes are to increase no more. Seven years, poor child!” A heavy comb, decorated with little pieces of metal, lay on a small table; he took it up mechanically in his hand. This brought to mind again the abundance of her hair, the proud neck on which it rested, the noble forehead round which it curled, and the browned cheeks. Then he threw the tempter into the trunk, where he saw the neat dresses, kerchiefs for the head, and bits of finery of all sorts, folded together carefully and in order. Slowly he let the lid fall again, and then went to the hole in the wall and looked out.

The room lay in the rear of the house, so that none of the other huts of Treppi obstructed his view over the chasm-cleft highlands. Opposite, stretching behind the ravine, was the naked ridge of rocks, bathed in the moon that must now be standing directly over the house. At one side he saw a few sheds, past which a path ran down into the abyss. A forlorn little pine tree, with bare twigs, was trying to take root among the stones; besides this only heather covered the ground, with here and there some pitiable little bush. “Surely,” said he in the stillness, “this is not a place in which to forget what one has loved. I would it were otherwise! Yes, yes, she who has loved me more than finery and flirting and the whispering of cox-combs would be the right wife for me, after all. What eyes would my old Marco make if he saw me suddenly return from my journey with a beautiful wife. Not once would we need to change our abode; and how unhomelike are the innumerable corners of solitude! And it would be good for me, at times--an old grumbler, a laughing child--but folly, folly, Filippo! What would the poor thing do as a widow in Bologna! No, no, none of that! No new sins added to the old mass! I will rise an hour before the others, and steal out and away before a soul in Treppi awakes.”

He was about to turn from the window to stretch his form on the bed, worn out from the long ride, when he saw a womanly figure move out from the shadow of the house into the moonlight. She did not look round, but in his mind there was no doubt that it was Fenice. With quiet steps and long, she turned from the house in the direction of the path that led down into the ravine. A shudder crept over him, for at the same moment the suspicion entered his mind that she intended to harm herself. Without a moment’s thought he sprang to the door and tore violently at the bolt. But the old rusty iron had imbedded itself so stubbornly in the clamps that in vain he used every effort. A cold sweat stood on his brow; he shouted, shook, and pounded against the door with fists and feet, but could not force it. At length he gave over and rushed back to the window hole. The stone was already yielding to his fury when suddenly he saw again the figure of the young girl rise on the path and wind its way toward the hut. She was carrying something in her hand, which by the uncertain light he could not make out, only her face he saw distinctly; it was earnest and thoughtful, but without passion. Not a look did she cast toward his window, and again she disappeared into shadow, while he stood there, breathing heavily from anxiety and exertion. He heard a distinct noise, which seemed to come from the direction of the old dog, but it was neither bark nor whine. The mystery oppressed him uncomfortably. He leaned his head far out of the opening, but nothing was he conscious of save the still night in the mountains. All at once sounded a short, sharp cry, followed by the heart-rending moan of the dog, and then long and anxiously he listened; not another sound the whole night long, save once when the door of the neighboring chamber slammed and Fenice’s step could be heard on the stone floor. In vain he stood for long at the bolted door, listening, questioning, imploring the girl for one short word. All was quiet next to him. He now threw himself on the bed, as in a fever, and lay there watching and thinking, until at last a few hours before midnight the moon sank and weariness became lord of his thousand fluctuating thoughts. As sleep left him, a twilight surrounded Filippo; yet when his mind was fully awake and he had raised himself in bed, he became aware that it was not like the twilight that comes before sunrise. From one side there stole toward him a feeble ray of sunlight, and he soon noticed that the hole in the wall which he had left open before he went to sleep had now become stuffed with brushwood. He pulled it out and the full morning sun blinded him. In highest wrath at the contrabbandieri, his sleep, and most of all at the young girl to whom he attributed this piece of trickery, he went instantly to the door, whose bolt now easily gave way to a moderate push, and entered the neighboring room.

He met Fenice alone, left sitting at the hearth as if she had been long expecting him. From her face had vanished every trace of yesterday’s storm, not one motion of the sorrow, not so much as a line of her violent self-control met his dark eyes.

“You have managed well that I should sleep away the hours,” he said sharply.

“Yes,” she said, indifferently. “You were tired out. You will arrive in Pistoja early enough, if you do not have to meet the murderers until the afternoon.”

“I did not ask you to concern yourself about my weariness. Are you still going to force yourself upon me? It will do you no good, girl. Where are my men?”

“Gone.”

“Gone? Do you intend to make a fool of me? Where are they? Silly woman, as if they would go without being paid!” And he strode hastily toward the door, about to go out.

But Fenice remained sitting motionless, and kept speaking in the same even tone: “I have paid them. I told them that you needed sleep and that I would accompany you down there myself; it happens that the supply of wine has given out and I must buy new, an hour this side of Pistoja.”

For a moment anger prevented him from speaking. “No!” he broke out at last, “not with you, never with you! Treacherous serpent! It is laughable that you still think to ensnare me in your slippery coils. We are now as completely separated as ever. I despise you that you hold me weak and pitiable enough to be won over by these little artifices. I will not go with you! Let me have one of your servants and then--pay yourself for the price of the contrabbandieri.”

He threw a purse to her, and opened the door to search for some one who might conduct him down the mountain. “Put yourself to no trouble,” said she, “you will find none of the servants; they are all away in the mountains. And, besides, there is no one in Treppi who could serve you. Poor, feeble, old women, old men and children, they are still in their huts. If you do not believe me--look!

“And apart from all else,” she continued, as he stood at the threshold irresolute, in fury and vexation, and turned his back on her. “Why, think you, is the way so impossible and dangerous if I guide you? I had a dream last night by which I see that you are not intended for me. It is true, I shall still always like you a little, and it will give me pleasure still to chat with you for a few hours. Must I, for that reason, be laying snares for you? You are free to go from me wherever you will, to death or to life. Only, I would go along with you a little way. I will swear to you, if that will appease you, that it will be for only a short way--by my life, not so far as Pistoja. Only so far until you have struck the right path. For if you go off on your own account you will soon lose your way, so that you can go neither forward nor back. You ought to know that, indeed, from your former tramps over the mountain.”

“Pest!” he murmured, and bit his lip. But he saw that the sun was rising, and after all, perhaps, what serious grounds had he for anxiety? He turned about and looked at her, and believed that he could trust the evidence of the clear-tempered look in her great eyes, that no kind of treachery lurked behind her words. She seemed to him to have become altogether another person since yesterday, and he had to confess that there was a feeling of uneasiness, mingled with his surprise, that yesterday’s attack of violent passion had passed over so soon and without leaving a trace. He looked at her a while longer, but she gave cause for no suspicion whatever.

“If you have grown reasonable, then,” he said, “let it be so. Come!”

Without any special sign of pleasure, she rose and said: “We must eat first; we will not find anything on the way.” She set a plate before him and a jug, and then she herself began to eat, standing by the hearth, but of wine she drank not a drop. He, on the contrary, to make a quick end of the matter, ate a few spoonfuls, gulped down the wine, and lighted his cigar at the coals on the hearth. During all this time not a look had he vouchsafed in her direction, but he saw as he looked at her by chance, for she was standing near him, that there was a bright spot on each of her cheeks and something like triumph in her eyes. She rose impetuously, seized the jug, and at one fling shattered it on the stone floor.

“No one else shall drink out of this,” said she, “since your lips have hung upon it.”

He started up in surprise; for a moment the suspicion crossed his mind: “Has she given me poison?” But immediately he preferred to believe that it was only the dying flame left of the love-worship she had forsworn, and without further ado he followed her out of the house.

“They have taken the horse on with them to Poretta,” she remarked, for by his eyes he seemed to be looking for the animal. “You could not have ridden away, either, without danger. The roads are steeper than yesterday.”

She now went on before him, and soon they left behind them the huts that stood out in the sharp sun, lifeless and without the tiniest cloud of smoke issuing from the chimneys.

Now for the first time Filippo noticed the perfect majesty of the wilderness, over which was hanging a clear, transparent sky. Their way, scarcely discernible by the somewhat obscured traces over the hard rocks, lay northward along a wide ridge, and now and then, where the line of the parallel ridge opposite curved downward, a strip of sea gleamed along the horizon on the left. Far and wide was still no vegetation save the dwarfed mountain shrubs and the lichens. But now they left the heights and descended into the ravine which had to be crossed in order to mount to the opposite ridge. Here they soon came upon the pines and oaks that sprung up in the ravine, and heard the rushing of the waters far below. Fenice was now walking ahead, stepping with sure foot over the firmest stones, without looking about or speaking a word. He could not help but let his eyes hang upon her and admire the supple power of her limbs. Her great white headkerchief wholly concealed her face from him, but whenever it became necessary for them to walk together side by side, he was compelled to look about him and away from her, so forcibly did the features of the noble scene attract him. Now, in the full sunlight, he noticed for the first time her peculiar childlike expression, without being able to say in what it particularly lay, as if, perhaps, there still remained something of seven years ago in her face, while everything else had been developing.

At last he began to speak of herself, and she gave him frank, reasonable answers. Only that her voice, which was ordinarily not hard and hollow, as is usually the case with women reared in the mountains, to-day was monotonous and sounded most melancholy over things of least account. These paths over which they were traveling had of late years been very generally frequented by political fugitives, most of whom had, of course, rested at Treppi on the way. Filippo inquired of the girl about them and certain others of his acquaintance whom he described; but few of them could she call to mind, although she was aware that the smugglers had allowed many a stranger to pass the night at her house. Of one of these she had only too vivid a recollection. At the description of him the blood mounted to her face and she stood still.

“He is a bad one!” she said sullenly. “That night I woke the servants and had him locked out of the house.”

During this talk the lawyer did not notice how high the sun was rising and that not a glimpse of the Tuscan plain had yet appeared. He was thinking, too, in a disconnected way, of the approaching end of the day. It was so refreshing to be tramping along this path, overgrown with bushes, fifty feet above the torrent, to feel the fine spray of the waterfall dash up against his face, to see the lizards slipping over the stones, and the graceful butterflies chasing the furtive sunlight, that he was not once conscious of how they were wandering up-stream and not yet turning westward at all. There was a magic in the voice of his guide that made him forget everything that had yesterday, in the company of the smugglers, been so incessantly in his mind. But now, as they ascended out of the ravine, and the boundless, utterly strange mountain wastes, with new heights and cliffs, desolate and parched, lay before them, he awoke all at once from his day-dream, stood still and looked into the sky. He now understood clearly that they had been wandering in the opposite direction, and quite two hours farther away from his goal than when they set out.

“Halt!” said Filippo. “I see in time that you have betrayed me after all. Is that the way to Pistoja, you traitress?”

“No,” said she, fearlessly, but her eyes fell to the ground.

“Now, then, by all the power of hell, the devil can easily take lessons and learn hypocrisy of you. A curse on my blindness!”

“Man is all-powerful, man is mightier than the devil and the angels, if he loves,” she said in a deep, melancholy tone.

“No,” he cried, in a flash of sudden fury, “you have not triumphed yet. Do not exult yet, overconfident girl, not yet! What a crazy girl calls love can not break the will of a man. Turn back with me to the place and show me the shortest way--or I will choke you with these hands--you fool, who can not see I must hate you, you who are willing to make me appear before all the world as a good-for-nothing.” He stepped up close in front of her, with clenched hands; he completely forgot himself.

“Ah! Do choke me!” She spoke with a loud but trembling voice. “Only do it, Filippo! But when you have done it, you will throw yourself over my body and weep blood from your eyes, that you can not bring me to life again. Your place will be here by me, you will struggle with the vultures that try to tear my flesh to pieces; the sun will scorch you by day, the dew of night will wet you, until you rot away as I do--but to leave me you are utterly incapable. Do you think a poor foolish thing that has been brought up among the mountains will throw away seven years as easily as she does a day? I know what those years have cost me, how dear they were, and that I am paying a good round price when I wish to buy you with them. Should I let you go to your death? The idea is one to be laughed at. Once turn away from me and you will soon be aware that I am drawing you back to me forever. For in the wine that you drank to-day there was mixed a love-charm which no man under the sun has ever yet withstood.”

Royal she looked as she cried out these words, her arms stretched toward him as if her hand were holding out a sceptre to one that owed her allegiance. But he laughed at it and said: “Your love-charm has rendered you poor service, for I never hated you more than I do at this moment. But I am a fool to hate a fool. May you be cured as well of your love as of your superstition, when you see me no more. I do not need your guidance. I see over on yonder slope a shepherd’s hut with the herd about it. There’s a fire gleaming. There they will undoubtedly put me in the right way. Farewell, poor serpent, farewell!”

* * * * *

She answered nothing as he went away, and sat down quietly in the ravine, in the shadow of a rock, in the gloomy green of the fir trees that grew down by the stream, her great eyes lowered to the ground. He had not gone long from her before he found himself without a path, between cliffs and bushes; then, much as he might like to deny it, the words of this strange girl kept exercising on his heart a disturbing influence that turned his thoughts all inward. Meanwhile he kept ever in view the heath-fire in the meadow opposite, working his way through to reach the valley. By the position of the sun he reckoned that it must now be about the tenth hour. But when he had climbed down the mountain steep he found a sunless path beneath, and soon after a narrow bridge that crossed a new mountain stream and led up along the opposite side, and promised to open out into the meadow. He followed this, and at first the path ran steep up, but afterward, by a great circuit, far away to the foot of the mountain. He saw now that this would not bring him straight to his goal; yet over the more direct way hung inaccessible, precipitous crags, and unless he preferred to return, he must trust himself to this path. Now he walked on briskly, at first like one released from the fetters over yonder, and peering out intently every once in a while for the hut that kept continually receding. By and by, as his blood began to pulse more evenly, there came into his mind again all the details of the scene through which he had just passed. The picture of the beautiful girl he now saw before him vividly, and not as before, through the mist of sudden anger. He could not resist a feeling of profound pity. “She is over there now,” he said to himself. “The poor, deluded child sits building castles with her magic art. It was for that she left the hut yesterday at night, and by the light of the moon to gather who knows what harmless herbs. I remember; did not even my own brave smugglers, too, point out to me some special white blossoms among the rocks, and say they were powerful in exciting love for love? Innocent flowers, how they have slandered you! And it was for that she shattered the jug, for that the wine tasted so bitter on my tongue. The older innocence grows, the stronger and more worthy of honor it becomes. How like the Cumæan Sibyl she stood before me, so truth-compelling, almost like that Roman as she flung her books into the fire. How beautiful and afflicted your delusions have made you!”

The farther he went, the stronger did he feel the pathetic splendor of her love and the power of her beauty which separation was now beginning to make clear to him.

“I ought not to have made her suffer because she wished in perfect good faith to save me, to set me free from my inevitable duties. I should have taken the hand she offered me and said: ‘I love you, Fenice, and if I am still alive, I will come back to you and take you home.’ How blind I was not to have thought of this way out! Shame upon the lawyer! I ought to have taken leave of her with kisses, like a bridegroom, then she would have had no suspicion that I was deceiving her, instead of which I have insisted with the stubborn girl and only made matters worse.”

Now he became absorbed in the dream of such a leave-taking and fancied he felt her breath and the touch of her fresh young lips upon his own. It was as if he almost heard his name called. “Fenice!” he cried back passionately, and stood still with violently beating heart. The stream rushed beneath him, the branches of the firs hung motionless, far and wide a shady wilderness.

Her name was again upon his lips, when just in time the shame of what the world thinks sealed his mouth--shame and a fear as well. He struck himself upon the brow. “Am I still so far gone that I even dream of her while I am awake?” he cried. “Is she to prove right that no man under the sun is able to withstand this magic? Then, indeed, I should be worthy of nothing better than what she thought to make of me, to be called a Squire of Dames all my life long! No, to hell with you, beautiful, deceiving she-devil!”

He had regained for the moment his self-control, but now he saw that he had also been led astray from his path. He could not go back unless he was willing to run into the arms of danger. So now he concluded to reach again, at any price, some height from which he could look about him for the lost shepherd’s hut. The bank of the stream along which he was walking, rushing far below, was much too steep. So he flung his cloak over his shoulder, chose a secure footing, and at one leap was on the other side of the ravine, whose walls came close together here. In better spirits, he now mounted the opposite slope and soon came out into the broad sunshine. The sun beat on his head cruelly and his tongue was parched with thirst, as with a great effort he worked his way up. Now all at once anxiety came upon him that in spite of all his pains he might never reach the goal. Thicker and thicker the blood mounted to his head; he blamed the devil’s wine that he had tossed down in the morning, and again he had to think of the white blossoms they had pointed out to him yesterday on the way. Here they were growing again--his flesh crept. “If it should be true,” he thought; “if there are powers that can master our hearts and minds and bend the will of a man to the caprice of a maid--rather let the worst come than this disgrace! Rather death than slavery. But no, no, no, a lie can conquer only him who believes in it. Be a man, Filippo; forward, the height is there before you; only a short time, and this cursed mountain with its ghosts will lie behind you forever!”

And yet he could not cool the fever in his blood. Every stone, every slippery place, every pine-bough hanging heavily before him was a reminder which he had to conquer by force, with an exertion of will out of all proportion. When at last he arrived at the height, holding on by the last bushes and with a swing gained the top, the blood was dripping from his eyes so, and the sudden glare of the sun so dazed him, that he could not look about. Angrily he chafed his forehead, and lifting his hat brushed his hand through the tangled hair. Then again he heard his name called, this time in very truth, and started terrified toward the spot from which they were calling him. And opposite, a few steps from the rock, as he had left her, sat Fenice, looking at him with calm, happy eyes.

“Have you come at last, Filippo!” she said heartily. “I expected you sooner.”

“Phantom of Hell!” he cried, beside himself with fear, as all the passion of longing struggled within him, “do you still mock me because I am led astray by pain and the sun is melting everything in my brain? Do you triumph because I am forced to see you once more, in order that I may amuse you once more? If I have found you again, by God Almighty, it is not because I have looked for you, and you shall lose me in spite of it!”

She shook her head, laughing strangely. “It draws you without your knowing it,” she said. “You would find me if all the mountains in the world were between us, for in your wine I mixed seven drops of the dog’s heart’s blood. Poor Fuoco! He loved me and he hated you. So the Filippo that you once were you shall hate as you hated me and shall have no peace again until you love me. Filippo, do you not see now that I have conquered you? Come now, I will show you the way again to Genoa, my beloved, my husband, my hero!”

With that she stood up, and was about to encircle him with her two arms, when suddenly she shrank back from his face. He had become deathly pale, except for the red in the whites of his eyes, his lips moved without giving a sound, his hat had fallen from his head, with his hands he hastily waved off every approach.

“A dog! a dog!” were his first painfully spoken words. “No! no! no! You shall not conquer, demon! Better a dead man than a living dog!” At that rang out a frightful laugh from his lips, and heavily, as if he were struggling by force for every step, his eyes fixed staringly at the girl, he turned, staggering, and fell headlong backward down into the ravine which he had just left.

Before her eyes it was night; with both hands she tore at her heart and sent out a cry that rang through the ravine like the cry of a falcon, as she saw the tall figure disappear over the edge of the precipice. She tottered a few steps, then stood firm and upright, her hands always crushed against her heart. “Madonna!” she cried, without giving a thought to anything. Always looking down ahead of her, impetuously she now approached the ravine and began to climb down the stone wall between the firs. Her lips, breathing heavily, murmured words without meaning; with one hand she gripped fast her heart, with the other she let herself down by the stones and branches. Thus, until she came to the base of the fir trees--there he was lying. He had his eyes closed, his forehead and hair covered with blood, his back leaning against the trunk of a tree. His coat was torn and his right leg, moreover, seemed to be wounded. Whether he lived she could not make out. She took him up in both arms, then she felt that he still moved. His cloak, which he had worn closely about his shoulders, seemed to have broken the force of his fall. “Christ be praised!” she said, breathing once more. It was as if the strength of a giant had come to her, as she climbed up the steep again with the helpless man against her breast. It was long work. Four times she laid him down among the moss and rocks, still the life slept in him. When at last she arrived at the top with her unfortunate burden, her own knees gave way, and she lay for a moment in a faint and in complete unconsciousness. Then she stood up and turned away in the direction in which lay the shepherd’s hut. When she had come near enough she set up a shrill call throughout the width of the valley. The echo answered first, then a human voice. She called a second time, and then turned back without waiting for the answer. When she again came to the helpless man, she moaned sorrowfully and dragged him into the shadow of the rock where she had been sitting before and waiting for him. There he found himself when consciousness feebly returned and he first opened his eyes again. He saw two shepherds by him, one an old man, the other a young lad of seventeen years. They were sprinkling water in his face and rubbing his temples. His head was resting softly; he did not know that he was lying in the lap of the young girl.

He seemed altogether to have forgotten her. He heaved a deep sigh that shook him from head to foot, and then closed his eyes again. At last he begged with faltering voice: “One of you good people, will you go down--quickly--to Pistoja. They are waiting for me. May God’s mercy reward him who tells the landlord of the Fortuna--how it is with me. I mean--” his voice and consciousness failed again.

“I will go,” said the girl. “You two, in the meanwhile, carry the master to Treppi, and lay him on the bed which Nina will show you. She must call the surgeon, the old woman, and have the master healed and bandaged by her. Lift him up, you, Tommaso, by the shoulders; you, Beppo, by the feet. So, lift him! Softly! Softly! But stop--dip this in water and lay it on his brow and wet it again at every spring. Do you understand?”

She tore from her head a great piece of the linen kerchief, soaked it and bound it about the bloody head of Filippo. Then he was lifted up, the men bore him on to Treppi, and the girl, gazing after him with the life entirely gone from her eyes, picked up her skirts quickly and went along the rough path down the mountain.

* * * * *

It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when she reached Pistoja. The Fortuna inn lay some hundred feet beyond the city, and at this, the hour of siesta, there was but little sign of life within. In the shadow of the broad overhanging eaves wagons were standing, unhitched, while the drivers were asleep on the cushions; in the great smithy opposite, all work was at rest, and through the thickly dusted trees along the highway not a breeze was stirring. Fenice went over to the spring in front of the house, whose stream, the only busy thing about, was pouring down into the great stone trough, and refreshed her hands and face. Then she drank, slow and deep, to still both thirst and hunger, and went into the tavern.

The landlord lifted himself sleepily from the bench in the wine-room, but lay down again when he saw that it was a girl from Treppi that disturbed his rest.

“What do you want?” he addressed her sharply. “If you want something to eat or some wine, go into the kitchen.”

“Are you the landlord?” she asked quietly.

“Who else but me? You know me, I should think--Baldassare Tizzi of the Fortuna. What have you got for me, my pretty daughter?”

“A message from Signor Filippo Mannini, the lawyer.”

“Eh, eh, that’s it, is it? That’s something different, to be sure,” and he got up quickly. “Didn’t he come himself, child? There are some gentlemen over there waiting for him.”

“Then bring me to them.”

“Ei, ei, the sphinx! Can’t a man know what he has to say to the gentlemen?”

“No.”

“There, there, very good, child, very good. Every one has his own secret, this pretty stubborn-head as well as the tough skull of old Baldassare. Eh, eh, so he is not coming; that will be very displeasing to the gentlemen; they appear to have important business with him.” He became silent and looked at the girl sidewise. But as she gave no sign of taking him into her confidence, but opened the door, he put on his straw hat and went out with her, shaking his head.

A little wine-garden lay at the back of the court through which she passed as the old man continued breaking out into questions and exclamations to which she returned not a word. At the end of the middle arbor-walk lay an unpretentious summer house; the shutters were closed, and on the inside over the glass door hung down a heavy curtain. A few steps from the pavilion, the landlord told Fenice to wait--and he went alone to the door, which opened at his knock. Fenice then saw the curtain thrust aside and a pair of eyes look out at her. Then the old man came back to her and said that the gentlemen would speak with her.

As Fenice entered the pavilion a man who had been sitting at the table with his back to the door rose and shot a quick, piercing glance at her. Two others remained seated on their chairs. On the table she saw flasks of wine and glasses.

“The signor, the lawyer, is not coming, as he promised?” said the men before whom she stood.

“Who are you, and what have you brought as evidence of your mission?”

“I am a girl from Treppi, Fenice Cattaneo, sir. Evidence? I have none, other than that I am telling the truth.”

“Why does the signor, the lawyer, not come? We thought he was a man of honor.”

“He is none the less honorable because he has suffered a violent fall from the cliffs and has been wounded in the head and in the leg, so that he has lost consciousness.”

The questioner exchanged glances with the other men, and then continued:

“You tell the truth, to be sure, Fenice Cattaneo, because you know how to lie so badly. If he has lost consciousness, how could he send you here to announce it to us?”

“Speech came back to him for a moment. Then he said that he was expected at the Fortuna; that it should be made known there what had happened to him.”

A dry laugh was audible from one of the other men.

“You see,” said the speaker, “these gentlemen here put no great faith in your tale. Truly, it is easier to play the poet than the man of honor.”

“If you mean, signor, that out of cowardice Signor Filippo does not come, it is an abominable lie, which may Heaven put down to your account,” she said firmly, and looked at each of the men in turn.

“You are warm, little one,” mocked the man. “Are you, perhaps, the very good friend of the gentleman, the lawyer, heh?”

“No, the Madonna is witness!” said she, in her richest voice. The men whispered together, and she heard one of them say: “The Aerie,[2] too, is in Tuscany. You do not really believe in this trick, do you?” The third interrupted him: “He lies no more in Treppi than--”

“Come and see for yourself,” Fenice broke into their whispering. “But you shall not carry weapons, if I am to guide you.”

“Little fool,” said the first speaker. “Think you that we will risk our lives for such a trim little creature as you are?”

“No, but for him; that I know.”

“Have you any other special conditions to impose, Fenice Cattaneo?”

“Yes, that a surgeon accompanies us. Is there one among you, Signori?”

She received no answer. Instead of which the three men put their heads together. “As we came by, I saw him by chance in front of his house; it is to be hoped that he has not yet returned to the city,” said one of them, and then left the pavilion. He returned after a short time with a fourth, whom the company did not seem to know.

“Will you do us the kindness of going up with us to Treppi?” The spokesman addressed him. “You will be informed on the way what is the business in hand.”

The other bowed silently, and they all left the pavilion. As they passed the kitchen, Fenice provided herself with some bread and took a few bites of it. Then she went on ahead of the company again and struck into the path leading to the mountain. She paid no attention to her companions, who were talking excitedly among themselves, but hurried on as fast as she could, so that they had to call her several times for fear they should lose her from their sight. Then she stopped and waited, and in hopeless brooding gazed out into empty space, her hand pressed close to her heart. So the evening wore on before they arrived at the height.

The village of Treppi looked no livelier than usual. Only the faces of a few children stirred in curiosity at the windows, and a few old women appeared under their doorways as Fenice passed by with her companions. She spoke with no one, but went straight to her home, returning the neighbors’ greetings with a curt wave of the hand. Here before the door stood a group of men deep in conversation, servants were busy with packed horses, and contrabbandieri were going to and fro. When they saw the strangers coming, there was a panic among the people. They drew aside and let the company pass. Fenice exchanged a few words with Nina in the great hall and then opened the door of her room. In there, in the dimness, could be seen the wounded man, stretched out on the bed, and kneeling on the ground beside him a very old woman of Treppi.

“How is he getting on, chiaruccia?” (chirurgeon) asked Fenice.

“Not badly, praise the Madonna!” answered the old woman, and with sharp glances inspected the gentlemen who were entering behind the young girl.

Filippo started up from a half sleep and his pale face suddenly glowed: “It is you!” said he.

“Yes, I am bringing the gentlemen with whom you intended to fight, that they may see for themselves that you could not come. There’s a surgeon here, also.”

The feeble glance of the man lying there stole slowly over the four strange faces. “He is not among them,” he said. “I do not know any of these gentlemen.”

As he spoke, and was about to close his eyes again, the spokesman stepped out from among the three and said: “It is enough that we know _you_, Signor Filippo Mannini. We have orders to wait and to arrest you. Letters of yours have been seized, from which it appears that you have set foot in Tuscany again not only in order to settle the duel, but also to establish a certain society for the purpose of lending aid to your party at Bologna. You see before you the Commissary of Police and here are my orders.”

He drew a paper from his pocket and held it before Filippo’s face. But the latter only stared at it, as if he understood nothing of the matter, and fell back again into his sleep-like stupor.

“Examine the wound, Doctor”--the Commissary now turned to the surgeon. “If his condition will allow it at all, we must carry the gentleman down without delay. I saw some horses outside there. We can accomplish two acts of the law at once if we take possession of them, for they are laden with smuggled goods. It is a lucky thing one knows what sort of people visit Treppi when one wants to know it.”

As he said this, and the surgeon approached Filippo, Fenice disappeared from the room. The old chirurgeon remained quietly sitting and mumbling to herself. Voices were heard without and an unusual disturbance of going to and fro, and at the hole in the wall faces looked in and quickly disappeared again.

“It is possible,” the surgeon now said, “for us to take him down if we bind him tight with a twofold bandage. Frankly, he would recover more rapidly if he were left here in this peaceful spot and in the care of this old witch, whose medicinal herbs put the most learned physician to shame. The fever may endanger his life on the way, and I will in no case take the responsibility, Mr. Commissary.”

“Unnecessary, unnecessary,” replied the other. “_How_ to get rid of him does not enter into the question. So bind your rags about him, as tight as you can, so that none of them may slip, and then forward. We have the moonlight and are taking a young fellow along with us as guide. Meanwhile, go out, Molza, and secure the horses.”

The police officer whom the order concerned opened the door of the room quickly and was about to go out when an unexpected sight turned him to stone. The room adjoining was occupied by a crowd of village folk, at whose head stood two contrabbandieri. Fenice was still addressing them as the door opened. Now she stepped to the threshold of the room, and said, with sharp emphasis:

“You will leave this room instantly, gentlemen, and without the wounded man, or you will never see Pistoja again. No blood has ever yet flowed in this house as long as Fenice Cattaneo has been mistress of it, and may the Madonna prevent any such crime for all time to come. Do not try to return, either, with more men. You still bear in mind, perhaps, the spot where one has to climb up, one by one, the rock staircase. A single child can defend this pass, if he rolls down the steep the stones that lie scattered up on top as if sown there. We will place a watch there until this gentleman is in safety. Now, go and boast abroad of your heroism, how you have played a young girl false and wished to murder a wounded man.”

The faces of the officers turned paler and paler, and after the last words there followed a pause. Then, as if at a word of command, they all three drew from their pockets the pistols that had up to now been concealed, and deliberately the Commissary said: “We come in the name of the law. If you do not respect it yourself, will you still hinder others from executing it? It may cost six of you your lives if you compel us to procure the law by force.”

A murmur passed through the crowd of the others. “Be still, friends,” cried the resolute girl. “They dare not do it. They know that every man they shoot will bring a sixfold death upon the murderer. You speak like a fool,” she said, turning again to the Commissary. “The fear that sits on your brows speaks, at least, more reasonably. Do as fear advises you. The way is open, gentlemen!”

She stepped back and pointed with her left hand toward the front door of the house. Those in the room whispered a few words together, then with conciliatory bearing they walked through the excited crowd, which with ever-increasing curses made way for them. The surgeon was undecided which he should follow; but at an imperious nod from the young girl, he hastily joined his companions.

This whole scene had been witnessed by the big eyes of the sick man in the chamber, who had half risen. Now the old woman went back to him and smoothed his pillow for him.

“Lie still, my son!” said she, “there is no danger. Sleep, sleep, poor son, the old chiaruccia watches, and that you may be still more secure, that is our Fenice’s care, the blessed child! Sleep, sleep!” She crooned him to sleep with monotonous songs, like a child. But he took the name of Fenice with him into his dreams.

* * * * *

Filippo was ten days up there in the mountains and in the care of the old woman, slept much by night, and by day, sitting before the door, enjoyed the clear air and the peacefulness of it all. As soon as he was able to write again, he sent a messenger with a letter to Bologna, and the next day received an answer. Whether welcome or unwelcome was not to be read in his pale face. Except to his nurse and the children of Treppi he spoke to no one, and he saw Fenice daily during the evening, when she was kept busy about the house. At sunrise she left the house and remained all day in the mountains. Formerly it had been otherwise, as he gathered from her chance utterances. But even when she was at home there was never an opportunity to speak to her. She went about in general as if perfectly unconscious of his presence, and appeared to be ordering her life as formerly, yet her face had become like stone and her eyes as dead.

When Filippo, one day, enticed by the beautiful weather, had wandered farther than usual from the house, and with the feeling of new strength was climbing an easy height, he was startled as he turned the corner of a rock and unexpectedly saw Fenice sitting on the moss near a spring. She had distaff and spindle in her hands, and during the spinning appeared to be much absorbed. At Filippo’s step she looked up, but spoke not a word, yet the expression of her face changed, and she quickly gathered up all her tools. Then she went away, without heeding his call, and was soon out of sight.

The morning after this incident, he had just risen and his first thoughts were again turned to her, when the door of his room opened and the young girl calmly appeared before him. She remained standing at the threshold, and signed to him imperiously with her hand, as he was about to approach her hastily from the window.

“You are cured once more,” she said coldly. “I have spoken with the old woman. She thinks you have strength to travel again by short day stages and on horseback. You will leave Treppi early in the morning, and never return. This promise I demand of you!”

“I promise it, Fenice, on one condition.”

She was silent.

“That you go with me, Fenice!” He spoke with great, uncontrolled emotion.

A dark frown of anger overclouded her brow. But she restrained herself, and said, holding on to the door-knob: “In what way have I deserved to be made sport of? Make the promise without condition. I expect it on your _honor_, Signor!”

“Will you so thrust me aside, after you have instilled your love charm into me to the very core and made me your own forever, Fenice?”

She calmly shook her head. “There is no longer any charm between us,” she said in a hollow voice. “You lost blood before the drink worked; the spell is broken. And it is well that it is so, for I have done wrong. Do not let us speak of it any more and only say that you will go. A horse will be ready and a guide for wherever you will.”

“If it is no longer magic that binds me to you, there is surely something else, for which you have no remedy. May God be gracious to me--”

“Be still!” she interrupted him, and closed her lips tightly. “I am deaf to such words as you are going to speak. If you think there is something due to me and are trying to pity me--then go and the account is therewith balanced. You shall not think that this poor head of mine can learn nothing. I know now that one can not buy a human being--as little by the pitiable services that go as a matter of course, as by seven years of waiting--which is also a matter of course, before God. You shall not think that you have made me unhappy. You have cured me! Go, and take my thanks with you!”

“Answer me, before God!” he cried, beside himself, and went nearer to her, “have I cured you also of your _love_?”

“No,” she said firmly. “What is that to you? That is my affair; you have neither right nor power over it. Go.”

With that she stepped back and over the threshold. The next moment he had fallen on the stones at her feet and was clasping her knees.

“If it is true, what you say,” he cried in greatest sorrow, “then save me, receive me, take me up to you, or this brain, which only a miracle has kept together, will burst in pieces, along with the heart that you wish to thrust aside. My world is empty, my love the prey of hate, my old and my new home banished me; what have I to live for, if I must also lose you!”

Then he looked up at her and saw the bright tears breaking from her closed eyes. Her face was still motionless; then she took a deep breath, her eyes opened, her lips moved, still without words. At one touch life was again blossoming in her. She bent down over him, her strong arms lifted him up--“You are mine!” she whispered trembling. “So will I be yours.”

* * * * *

The sun as it rose the next day saw the pair on their way to Genoa where Filippo decided to retire before the plots of his enemies. The tall, pale man rode upon a safe horse, which his wife was leading by the bridle. On both sides extended in the clearness of the autumn the heights and depths of the beautiful Apennines; eagles circled above the ravines, and far away in the distance glistened the sea. And calm and shining like the ocean there the future lay before the wanderers.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Meaning Treppi among the rock-hills.

THE STONEBREAKERS
BY FERDINAND VON SAAR

_“The Stonebreakers,” written in 1869, marks an epoch in German
literature--it is the first of the “Arbeiternovellen”--short
stories of real laboring life._

_The author, an Austrian nobleman, was born in Vienna in 1833.
After the Italian campaign of 1859, he devoted himself to
literature. Popularity, though late, came to him at last. In
1904 Vienna voted him an annual honorary stipend, and gave
him a recognition that no Austrian author had received since
the time of Grillparzer--he was elected to the Austrian Upper
House._