Chapter XXVI: Within the Presbytery

The northernmost of the five gates of Parma discharged direct upon the highway that led to Colorno. At intervals from this _embouchure_ came shooting as it were the _disjecta membra_ of a disrupted State. Bodies of high functionaries, coach-loads of subsidiary officials, staffs civil and military, clerks, grooms, secretaries--mounted, perched in dancing carrioles, or drawn heavily behind teams of ponderous Flanders mares, these and their like appeared issuing intermittingly all day from the open culvert, whence they rolled leisurely on their way towards that crystal oasis in the plains ten miles distant. The duke, in short, was changing house, and this anticipatory exodus, which looked like the decimation of his capital, represented no more after all than the adequate personnel of a great lord retiring upon a favoured sylvan retreat. So do our needs enlarge with our state, until, so far as self-help goes, we reach the condition of the paralytic. To Don Philip a fifth and sixth _valet de chambre_ would have appeared more indispensable than a single knife and boot boy might appear to us.

At Colorno itself, connected with the city by this scattered procession of men and vehicles, the business of preparation was being pushed forward as assiduously as though the duke were visiting his summer residence for the first time. Everyone was in a state of agitation, and either tetchy or nervous, or both. Cook, lackey, chambermaid and the rest--they seemed all overtaken, as those roused ones in the sleeping palace might have been, by a vague sense of guilt, and a feverish desire to make up by haste for something unaccountably lost--was it a minute or a hundred years? A general air of rush and panic pervaded the place, extending itself from garret to basement, and affecting the marquise in her _salon_ no less than the little mop-squeezer whitening the boards in her attic. They felt the change in their blood like the first irritating processes of a tonic drug.

Madame herself was as obstreperous and intolerable as, in their excitement, she found her young charges. She waxed shrilly voluble over the information that Isabella was confined to her rooms with a headache. It was monstrous, unnatural, she cried, thus to shut herself away in the face of this imminent arrival, to dissociate herself from the atmosphere of general rejoicing that prevailed. Her relations with the Infanta had long been strained; she was never so gratified as when she could cite evidence of unnaturalness against this natural soul. It is always for such as she to suspect hypocrisy in what is purely genuine.

“Like mistress like Nan.” Amongst those rendered especially captious by the coming event was to be numbered, it seemed, Mademoiselle Becquet. Fanchette bristled with spines; it was dangerous to touch her--almost to approach. Propitiation only appeared to feed her choler, as oil fire. She screamed at her inferiors; was insolent and defiant towards authority, defending her mistress against the charge of undutifulness with a fury which ended by actually routing that formidable autocrat, the utterer of the slander. She was in that state, it appeared, to which we are all, whether Fanchettes or otherwise, occasionally subject, when our whole nervous system seems transferred, like Hartley Coleridge’s fantastic skeleton, to the outside of us, for every breath, however softly sympathetic, to gall. Now a tempest of voice and whisking petticoats, now a white rush of tears into solitudes which gave no relief, she was eternally on the move, and eternally inviting retort for the sake of retaliating on it tooth and claw. She left her mark, indeed, on one overconfident gallant, who derisively offered to confess and absolve her for the nominal penance of a kiss. Her nails ploughed a furrow in his cheek which it would take a month to obliterate. As he stood cursing and ruefully laughing, the sight of the running blood appeared for the first time to sober her. She stood gazing at it fascinated; then suddenly, putting her hands to her face, turned and ran. Whither she disappeared none cared to know or enquire; it was comfort enough that the wildcat had retreated for the time being to its fastnesses.

She did not issue from them again until late in the afternoon, and then only upon receipt of a private communication from a correspondent, which was put into her hand by an emissary sent to seek her for the purpose. She was in the Infanta’s rooms, but not with her mistress, when the message that someone awaited her without, on particular business, reached her. The shrinking page who delivered it could not but observe how her cheeks blenched at the word. He could not but marvel, moreover, after recent storms, at the apparent tranquillity with which she accepted it. She asked him, with an affectation of carelessness, where the messenger was to be found, and, learning that it was at that door into the corridor where she had once before encountered Tiretta, dismissed him with a smile and a pretty _vifs remerciments_ that made his heart throb. Then, when he was well gone, she rose--a little unsteadily.

A wave of blood seemed to sweep through her brain, making her momentarily giddy. She put out a hand to a chair-back, and stood supporting herself. It had come--but only what she had expected, looked for. She was desperately pledged to the issue, and there was no escape from it at this last. It was even a relief to her to be called from the horrible suspense of inaction. Suddenly the memory of that crimson streak she had torn upon the insolent face returned to her. A red light came to her eyes; the blood-ensign of “women who love brave men,” in Bissy’s creed. She was not going to falter now, or be untrue to her ideal of manliness. Besides, the end justified the means. Taking herself forcibly in hand, she went down the stairs to the door into the corridor.

This was a deserted part of the building, and now even unwontedly quiet by reason of the Infanta’s desire for repose. Thus, and for such purpose, to take advantage of its abandonment might have seemed a double treachery to some people. Such moral niceties were beyond Fanchette’s appreciation. She descended softly and found a man at the door.

He was a strong truculent-looking fellow, unknown to her--swagger in his attitude, an inhuman animalism in his small sunken eyes and bushy-bearded face, on which a thick smear of lip stood prominent. She had had no personal intercourse with his kind; but the hall-mark of the _assassino-prezzolato_ was stamped on his every feature. He was well enough dressed to pass for a _fanfaron_; but she knew, without seeing them, what there was under his cloak to point the moral of his trade. Face to face with the loathly thing she had helped to call into being, a revulsion against her own bestial weapons seized her. This brute to hold a fine destiny in his hands! Her narrow lips went up, as in the presence of something physically offensive. She had no fear for herself--not an atom.

The man swept off his hat with a leer, that in its suggestion of hidden confidences was fulsome. He produced and handed to her a little folded tuck of paper.

“Un’ lettera amorosa, signora,” he said, in rather guttural Italian, his nose wrinkling. “The sender awaits a reply.”

She plucked the thing apart, and, barely glancing at its message, crumpled it in her hand, and answered:

“Tell him I will come.”

He grinned, saluted her again, and swaggered off. She could have called upon heaven then and there to strike him dead. That her nature must be thus subdued to what it worked in, not like the “dyer’s” but like the butcher’s hand--be claimed to an affinity with this abomination! It was horrible. Yet so her own compliance had decreed it. Henceforth and for all time he was her loathed confederate, and by reason of that understanding her master. Her hands might be purely white and her little feet as playful as a lamb’s: for all that lay hidden between she was the foul bondslave of blood.

Now, a conscious corruption, the vindictive termagant to her own debasement, she did not hesitate, but, having hurriedly veiled herself, went off to the assignation demanded. She repudiated all responsibility for what was to follow. She had done all that was humanly possible to warn a madman away from the certain consequences of his rashness, and, as he would not be warned, she had no choice but to fulfil her own destiny as a contributor to those consequences. She let herself go as the devil listed.

Her way lay to the presbytery, as seemed fitting to the unities of this tragedy, which had first claimed her there to be its victim and tool. The streets were full of the bustle and animation of returning life, but the precincts of the church were deserted. She mounted the steps to the silent house, and knocked on the door, which was opened almost immediately by Gaspare.

The old rascal peered at her curiously a moment; then, putting out a lean hand, drew her swiftly within.

“His reverence?” she muttered, half choking.

He sniggered. “He is out visiting the sick. But--non importa: you will discover all you need in the parlour.”

He motioned her thither, opened the door, pushed her in, and, closing the latch, retreated. He was too deaf to make eavesdropping profitable.

The room was sombre and almost empty of furniture and other appointments. Its most noticeable feature was a crucifix of ebony and ivory standing in the middle of the one bare table. A melancholy shaft of light, falling through the dusty window, touched the white figure on the cross with a startling radiance. Fanchette shrunk back.

“Why did you bring me here?” she whispered.

La Coque, stealing from the shadows, stood before her.

“I did not wish my coming to be known. What is to be done must be done with promptitude and in secrecy. We are playing a part, do you understand, and the actors in it must not appear on the stage until the eventful moment? Else, suspecting the plot, those antagonistic to it may cause its miscarriage.”

Hearing a little gasp come from her, he bent as if to look searchingly in her face, and put a hand towards her shoulder; but she repulsed him.

“Why should I be dragged into it?” she said.

“Dragged!” He drew himself up, as if realising timely what he had to encounter. “Were you not the first to volunteer?”

“I told you he had returned, that was all.”

“Was that all?”

“That he was in hiding in the neighbourhood.”

“Yes: go on.”

“There is no more.”

“Not that they met in the gardens of Aquaviva: not that last night you let him in and out of the wicket in the eastern wall: not that he will come again this night--with what purpose--but it will never be fulfilled?”

“My God! How do you know?”

“Simple deduction, my Fanchette. You know the proverb, ‘A nod for a wise man and a rod for a fool.’ I have had my instruments at work since the first hint. There are horses ordered for to-night. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“I do not doubt you. Let her thank providence, that’s all, that she has sharper wits plotting to save her.”

“Save her, then, but spare him.”

“Do you say it? Why do you want him spared?”

“For her sake only. What harm has she ever done me?”

“There are some growths--infatuation, for example--that can only be treated with the surgeon’s knife.”

“O, my God!”

“You cannot reduce them so long as the root cause remains. Do you realise where we stand in this? At the fork of two roads--disgrace or an empire. A life, one mean poor life, must count for nothing in the decision.”

“You always hated him.”

“If I did, it was because of you.”

“Yet you do not consider me in your vengeance. If it must be, why do you not act alone?”

“Because, only with your help can we save the face of things.”

“Go on. I am listening.”

“Very well. You will let him in at the wicket, and I shall come upon you together.”

“I see. A quarrel between you two about your mistress.”

“You are sharp enough when you will.”

“So you gamble with my good name, which is after all nothing to you.”

“On the contrary. His blood shall prove its particular value.”

“Blood!” She seemed to gulp; then whispered on hoarsely: “will there be much blood?”

“You need not wait to see.”

For some moments she stood silent, staring at him as if fascinated.

“Charlot,” she said, “if I do what you want, will you marry me?”

“We will see.”

“I think there is good cause.”

“Very well, we will see.”

“I shall be ruined with my mistress.”

“The duke will find you compensation.”

“The duke! Does he know?”

“He knows, and approves.”

“Approves?”

“Thunder of God! How do you suppose he regards this outrage to his pride, this abuse of his love? A common adventurer, a mere tavern-thrummer, without voice or standing--and to practise his damned arts on the very soil of a newly-turned grave! Whatever tolerance was shown him once is over and done with. He stands sentenced like a poaching dog. O, be sure the duke is in it!”

“What if it be too late?”

“Too late?” He made a step, and gripped her arm. “They are not gone already?”

“Not that. But for an hour they were alone together last night.”

He gave a deep sigh, and dropped his hold.

“It is never too late there. But I trust the vestal in her--and his own discretion. An hour is nothing. You must besiege these shy fortresses a week before they surrender.”

“Then I will not be a party to his murder.”

“You will not?”

“What harm has he done that cannot be mended?”

“Alive, he’ll do it yet.”

“I’ll not help to hurt him.”

“You’ll do better to think again.”

“Why, better?”

“Lest you be made to take his place.”

“What! You’ll kill me!”

“Not I, unless I kill my love with kindness. But I cannot save you now your knowledge of another’s secret. Be sure, if your scruples refuse a part in it, means will be taken to keep it fast in you.”

“The duke will have me poisoned?”

“Who said the duke?”

“O, how I hate you all!”

From the first he had foreseen what must come, and had been prepared for it. He saw imminent at last the hysterical collapse long threatened, and the look of the dog came to his face. His teeth showed; tight puckers gathered over his eyebrows; he held her with a glare as he moved on her. With a little sob, half terror, half defiance, she struck out at him--and on the instant he had her in his grip. His sinews, for all his slight build, were like thongs of steel; her mad struggles availed nothing against their vicious devilry. She made no tumult, uttered no scream; but in silence fought and writhed, biting at his hands, at his clothes, at anything, until, falling upon her knees, he had her, torn and dishevelled, at his mercy. He showed her none. Seizing her by the ears, by her tumbled hair, he forced her head back, and, snarling, put his knee against her throat. Presently her struggles weakened, grew spasmodic, and a desperate imploring look came to her eyes. Then--for he knew his lady--relaxing the pressure, and releasing his right hand, he felt on the table behind him for a riding switch he had laid there, and, holding her down with his left, applied it furiously to her shoulders. One of them had been wrenched bare in the tussle; he did not spare the naked flesh for that, but rather lusted to see it quiver and crimson under his blows. And all the time she made no outcry--that was the strange thing--but only writhed and shrunk away, with now and then a panting sob or a quicker gasp when a crueller cut went home. And at the end, when, his fury spent, he ceased, looking, with hard breathing, down upon her--lo and behold, she flung convulsive arms about his knees, and, with the released tears running down her cheeks, put her head against him, like a poor conscience-guilty dog begging pardon. Surely the immortal thing in woman’s love is its illogicalness.

La Coque knew his lady, I say; he took the satisfaction of a tyrant in making her know him. He did not spurn her now, but he stood unmoved and unmoving.

“Get to your feet,” he said: “do you hear?”

She obeyed and stood before him, a woeful girl, streaked and torn by his brutality, waiting breathless on his word.

“Have you come to your senses?” he demanded.

“Yes--Charlot.” Her voice still caught in sobs, though she tried to command it.

“Will you do what I tell you?”

“Yes.”

“That is well at last. Now mark your instructions. Come here--bend your head to me. There will be two of us; we shall be waiting in the sunk garden, in the shadows of the trees below the terrace, but not in sight of it. Lead him that way from the wicket; it is very private. Before you pass, I shall step out and challenge you both. There will be an altercation between us, as much to take him off his guard as for the benefit of the witness lurking in the background. It is he, you understand, who is brought to testify to the real cause of quarrel--such as he thinks it already--a dispute about you. He will do what he is hired to do while we wrangle; but by then, if you wish it, you may have escaped. Is it all clear?”

“Yes, quite.”

“And you will not fail me?”

“No.”

He searched her quivering face, with its heavy eyelids, all wet and swollen, intently for a little; then softly touched one of the poor ears he had so cruelly ill-used.

“Ma pauvre petite!” he said pitifully: “ma pauvre petite!”

The sobs came faster and thicker; he drew her gently towards him, and whispered:

“Why would you rouse the devil in me? Did it hurt so much?”

She clung about his neck.

“Come,” he said: “let’s sit yonder. There’s no one in the house but Gaspare.” With lips like salve he touched the wounded flesh. “Chère amie--Fanchette--no, I’ll not loose you!”

Over his shoulder the white figure on the cross blazed in her opened eyes.

“Not here,” she whispered, hurried and febrile--“not here. Take me where he cannot see us.”