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The Finger of Fate: A Romance

Chapter Thirty Two
Captain Count Guardioli

The town of Val di Orno was now in military possession, and there was no longer any fear of a revisit from the bandits.

The soldiers, in all about a hundred, were distributed by billet into the best houses while the officers took possession of the inn.

The captain, however, not contented with such shelter as the humble hostelry afforded contrived to insinuate himself into more comfortable quarters, in the house of the chief magistrate of the town, who, as already known, was the sindico himself.

It was a hospitality somewhat reluctantly offered; and, under other circumstances, the offer might not have been made. But the times were troublous, the brigands were “abroad,” and people could not well act with churlishness towards their professed protectors.

Besides, Francesco Torreani, on his own account, had need to show courtesy, or pretend it, to the soldiers of the Pope. It was suspected that he sympathised with that party of liberal views, fast growing in influence, and who, under the inspiration of Mazzini, was threatening an Italian republic.

Compromised by this suspicion, the sindico of Val di Orno required to act with circumspection in the presence of the Pope’s officer.

The proposal for quarters in his house had come from the latter. It was made deferentially, and under some trifling excuse, but in a way to make refusal a delicate and difficult matter. The sindico was constrained to give consent; and the officer brought his luggage, along with his body servant, from the inn, leaving more room for his subalterns.

The sindico thought it strange, but said nothing. The explanation he gave to himself was not very consolatory. “To act as a spy upon me, I suppose. No doubt he has his orders from Antonelli.”

Though plausible to him who made it, the conjecture was not true. Captain Count Guardioli had received no orders of the kind; though, likely enough, he had given the Vatican some hints of the political proclivities of the sindico of Val di Orno.

His desire to share the hospitality of the magistrate’s mansion was a thought that came, after his entering the house on that first merely official visit. The cause was simple enough. He had caught sight of the sindico’s fair daughter as she was crossing one of the corridors, and Captain Count Guardioli was not the man to close his eyes against such attractions as Lucetta possessed.

Poor girl! To be assailed on every side – on one by a capo of bandits, on the other a captain of Papal soldiers. In truth, was she in danger? Fortunately for her peace of mind, she knew nothing of the designs of Corvino; though she was not long in discovering the inclinations of Captain Count Guardioli.

His countship was one of those men who believe themselves irresistible – a true Italian lady-killer, with a semi-piratical aspect, eyes filled with intellectual fire, teeth of snowy whiteness, and coal-black moustaches, turning spirally along his cheeks. A maiden must have her mind powerfully preoccupied who could withstand his amorous assaults. So was he accustomed to declare in the ears of his military associates – boasting his irresistibility.

No doubt, in the corrupt circles of the Apostolic city, he had had his successes. Count, captain, and cavalier, above all, an ardent pursuer of love adventures, it could scarce be otherwise.

At first sight of Lucetta Torreani the Captain Count experienced a sensation akin to ecstasy. It was like one who has discovered a treasure, hitherto unseen by the eyes of man. What a triumph there would be in revealing it! To obtain it could be no great difficulty. A village damsel, a simple country girl, she would not be likely to resist the fascinations of one who brought along with him the accomplishments of the court, backed by the prestige of title and position.

So reasoned Captain Count Guardioli; and, from that moment, commenced to lay siege to the heart of Lucetta Torreani. But, although from the city of Caesars, he could not say, as the first Caesar had done, “Veni – vidi – vici!” he came, and saw; but, after residing a week under the same roof with the “simple village damsel,” he was so far from having subdued her heart, that he had not made the slightest impression upon it; on the contrary, he had himself become enslaved by her charms. He had grown so enamoured of the beautiful Lucetta, that his passion was apparent to every one in the place, his own soldiers and subalterns included.

Blinded by his ill-starred idolatry, he had abandoned even the dignity of concealing it; and followed his ignis fatuus about – constantly forcing his company upon her in a manner that rendered him ridiculous.

All this the father saw with chagrin, but could not help it. He consoled himself, however, with the reflection that Lucetta was safe, so far as her heart was concerned. And yet every one did not believe this. In the character of the sindico’s daughter there was nothing that could be called coquetry. It was rather an amiability, that hesitated about giving pain; and, influenced by this, she listened to the solicitations and flatteries of the Captain Count almost as if she relished them. It was only her father who thought otherwise. Perhaps he might be mistaken.

As usual, the soldiers did but little service – none at all that was of any avail towards clearing the country of the bandits. They made occasional excursions to the neighbouring valleys, where the outlaws had been heard of, but where they could never be found. In these expeditions they were never accompanied by their commandante. He could not tear himself away from the side of Lucetta Torreani, and the field duty was left to his lieutenants. By night the soldiers strayed about the town, got drunk in the liquor-shops, insulted the townsmen, took liberties with their women, and made themselves so generally disagreeable, that before a week had elapsed, the citizens of Val di Orno would have gladly exchanged their military guests for Corvino and his cut-throats.

About ten days after their entry into the place, there came a report, which by the townspeople was received with secret satisfaction, not the less from their having heard a whisper as to the cause. The soldiers were to be recalled to Rome, to protect the Holy See from the approaches of the Republic.

Even to that secluded spot had rumours reached, that a change was coming, and there were men in Val di Orno – where it might be supposed such an idea could scarce have penetrated – men ready to vociferate, “Eviva la Republica!” Its sindico would have been among the foremost to have raised this regenerating cry.

Chapter Thirty Three
Improved Prison Fare

A week elapsed from the day the brigands had got back to their mountain den. The plunder had all been appropriated by three or four, to whom fortune had been most favourable. These were already the richest individuals in the band; for amid the mountains of Italy, as in the towns of Homburg and Baden, the banker in the end is sure to sweep in the stakes of the outsiders. Dame Fortune may give luck for a run; but he who can afford to lose longest will outrun her in the end.

Among the winners was the brigand chief, and Cara Popetta put fresh rings upon her fingers, new brooches upon her breast, and additional chains around her neck.

Another expedition began to be talked about, to provide fresh stakes for the game of capo or croce. It was not to be either a grand or distant one – only a little spurt into one of the neighbouring valleys – the capture, if chance allowed it, of some petty proprietor, who might have ventured from the great city to have a look at his estates, or the seizure of such chattels as might be found in a country village. It was chiefly intended to fill up the time, until the return of that secret messenger who had been despatched to England, and from whose mission much was expected.

Their English confrère had given the brigands a hint of the great wealth of their captive’s father, and all were hopeful of receiving the grand ransom that had been demanded by the capo. With five thousand pounds (nearly thirty thousand pezzos), they might play for a month, and go to sleep for another, without troubling themselves about the soldiers in pursuit.

The little expedition, that was to form the interlude while this was being waited for, was soon organised – only about three-fourths of the band being permitted to take part in it. On this occasion the women were also left behind, Cara Popetta among the rest.

The captive, inside his cell, only knew of its having started by the greater tranquillity that reigned around the place. There were still quarrels occurring at short intervals; but these appeared to be between the women, whose voices, less sonorous, were not less energetic in their accents of anger, or more refined in their mode of expressing it. Like their short-cropped hair, their vocabulary appeared to have been shorn of all its elegance – both, perhaps, having been parted with at the same time. Had Henry Harding been in a mind for amusement, he might have found it in witnessing their disputes, that oft occurred right under his window. But he was not. On the contrary, it but disgusted him to think of the degradation to which the angel woman may reach, when once she has strayed from the path of virtue.

And many of these women were beautiful, or had been before they became vicious. No doubt more than one had been the fond hope of some doting parent, perhaps the stay of an aged mother, and the solace of her declining days, and who, having one day strayed beyond the confines of her native village, like the daughter of Pietro, returned “home sad and slow,” or never returned at all!

The heart of the young Englishman was lacerated as he reflected upon their fate. It was torture, when he thought of them in connection with Lucetta Torreani. To think of that pure, innocent girl – the glance he had had of her convinced him that she was this – becoming as one of those feminine fiends who daily jarred and warred outside his window! Surely it could never be. And yet what was there to hinder it? This was the inquiry that now occupied his attention, and filled him with dread forebodings.

Since the departure of the expedition a ray of hope had shone into his cell. It was bright as the sunbeam that there entered. For the mind of the captive, quickened by captivity, like a drowning man, will catch even at straws; and one seemed to offer itself to the imprisoned artist.

In the first place, he perceived that there was a chance of corrupting his gaoler. This was no longer the morose, taciturn fellow, who had hitherto attended upon him, but one who, if not cheerful, was at least talkative. On hearing his voice the prisoner could at once recognise it as that of one of the brigands who had held conversation under his window. It was the one whose sentiments showed him the less hardened of the two, and whom the other had called Tommaso. The captive fancied something might be done with this man. From what he had heard him say, Tommaso did not appear altogether dead to the dictates of humanity. True, he had made confession to having spent some time in a Papal prison. But many a martyr had done that – political and otherwise. The worst against him was his being where he now was; but this might have come from a like cause.

So reflected Henry Harding; and the more did he think of it, after his new gaoler had held converse with him. But he had found something else to reflect upon, also of a hopeful character. The breakfast brought by Tommaso – which was his first meal after the departure of the band – was altogether different from those of former days. Instead of the macaroni pasta, often unseasoned and insipid, there were broiled mutton, sausages, confetti, and a bottle of rosolio!

“Who sent these delicacies?” was the interrogatory of him who received them. He did not put it until after eating his dinner, which in a like way differed from the dinners of previous days. Then he asked the question of his new attendant.

“La signora,” was the answer of Tommaso, speaking in such a courteous tone, that but for the small chamber and the absence of furniture the captive might have fancied himself in an hotel, and especially cared for by one of its waiters.

Throughout the day did this solicitude show itself; and at night the signora herself brought him his supper, without either the intervention or attendance of Tommaso. Shortly after the sun had gone down the young Englishman started at seeing a woman make her way inside his cell; for it was an apparition strange as unexpected.

The small chamber in which he was imprisoned was but the adjunct of a larger apartment – a sort of storeroom, where the brigands kept the bulkier articles of their plunder, as also provisions. In this last was a large window, through which the moon was shining; and it was only on the door of his cell being thrown open that he perceived his feminine visitor. Though she was but dimly seen in the borrowed light of the outer chamber, he could tell that it was a woman.

Who was she?

Only for a second was he in doubt; her large form, as she stood outlined in the doorway, as also the drapery of her dress, told him it was the wife of the chief. He had observed that only she, of all the women belonging to the band, affected female habiliments.

Yes, his visitor was Cara Popetta. He wondered what she could want with him; all the more as she came stealing in apparently in fear of being watched, or followed by some one outside. She had noiselessly opened the outer door, as noiselessly closed it behind her, and in the same way opened and closed that communicating with his cell.

End of Volume One

Chapter Thirty Four
Popetta

The prisoner had started up, and was standing in the centre of his cell.

“Don’t be alarmed, Signor Inglese,” said his strange visitor, in a half whisper.

While speaking she had groped her way through the gloom, and was now so near that he felt her breath upon his cheek, while her hand was laid gently upon his shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked, starting at her touch, and slightly recoiling, though not through fear.

“Do not be alarmed,” she said soothingly: “I am not a man come to do you an injury. Only a woman. It is I, Popetta, – you remember me?”

“I do, signora; you are the wife of the chief Corvino.”

“Wife! Ah! if you’d said slave, it would be nearer the truth. No matter about that. It can signify nothing to you.”

A sigh, distinctly audible in the still darkness, accompanied the speech.

The captive remained silent, wondering what was to come next. She had taken her hand from off his shoulder, or rather it had slipped from it as he drew back.

“You’ll be surprised at my coming here,” she continued, speaking in the tongue and tone of a lady. “From what you have seen you will think there can be no compassion in a heart like mine. You may well think so.”

“No, no,” asseverated the captive, now really feeling surprise; “no doubt, you have been unfortunate.”

“That’s true,” she hurriedly rejoined, as if not caring to dwell upon some recollection called up by his speech. “Signore, I am here, not to talk of the past – my past – but of your future.”

“Mine!”

“Yes, yours. Oh, it is fearful!”

“In what way fearful?” asked the young Englishman. “Surely, I shall soon be set free? Why need I care for a few days, or even weeks, of imprisonment?”

“Caro signore, you deceive yourself! It is not imprisonment, though you may find that hard enough; and harder still when he comes back again – brute that he is!”

Strange language for a wife to use towards her husband, thought Henry Harding.

“Yes, harder,” continued she, “if the letter you have written receive no response – I mean if it bring no ransom. Tell me, signore, what did you say in that letter? Tell me all.”

“I thought you were acquainted with its contents. It was dictated in your hearing, and penned in your presence.”

“I know, I know; but was that all? I saw that you were unwilling to sign it. You had a reason?”

“I had.”

“Some difference with your family? You are not friends with your father – am I right?”

“Something of that,” answered the young Englishman, knowing no reason why he should conceal a quarrel – so far away from those whom it might concern.

“I thought so,” said the woman. “And this,” she continued, changing her tone to one of greater earnestness, “this quarrel may prevent your father from sending the riscatta.”

“Possibly it may.”

“Possibly it may! You treat the matter lightly; you have done so all along. I have noticed it. One cannot help admiring your courage; I cannot. Perhaps that is why I am here.”

Again there was something like a sigh, which added to the surprise of the captive, something of embarrassment.

“You know not,” continued Popetta, “the fate that is before you if the riscatta should not come.”

“What fate, signora?”

“As I have said, a fearful one.”

“Tell me what it is. By your words it seems to be already determined upon.”

“It is determined – always determined. It is the decree of Corvino.”

“Explain yourself, signora.”

“First, your ears will be cut off; they will be enclosed in a letter, and sent to your father. The letter will be a renewed demand for money. And then – ”

“Then?” demanded the captive, with some impatience – for the first time giving credence to the threat that had already been twice spoken by Corvino himself.

“If the money be not sent, you will be still further mutilated.”

“How?”

“Signore, I cannot tell you. There are many ways. I may not mention them. Better for you if your father’s answer leave no hope of a ransom. You would then escape torture, by being immediately shot!”

“Surely, signora, you are jesting with me?”

“Jesting! Ah! it is no jest. I have witnessed it once – twice – often. It is the invariable custom among these wretches with whom I have the misfortune to be associated. It is one of their laws; and will be carried out to a certainty!”

“You come to me as a friend?” inquired the captive, as if to test the sincerity of his visitor.

“I do! You may believe me.”

“You have some advice to give me, signora? What is it?”

“It is that you should write again – write to your friends. You must have some friends – you the son of a great galantuomo, as your countryman, Ricardo, tells us you are. Write to these friends – tell them to see your father, and urge upon him the necessity of sending the ransom demanded. It is your only chance of escaping from the fate I have told you of – that is, from being fearfully mutilated, first tortured and then shot.”

“Surely, there is another?” said the captive, for the first time speaking in – a tone of appeal to his strange counsellor.

“Another! If you think so, tell me what it is.”

“Your favour, signora!”

“How?”

“You can find me the means of escaping from this prison.”

“Ah! that is just possible, but not so easy. If I succeeded, it could only be by giving my life for yours! Would you wish me to do that, signore?”

“No – no!”

“Such a sacrifice would be certain. You know not how I am watched. ’Tis only by stealth, and a bribe to Tommaso, I’ve been able to enter here. Corvino’s jealousy – ah, Signor Inglese, I have been deemed handsome! —you may not think so.”

Her hand once more rested on the young Englishman’s shoulder – once more to be repelled, but this time with greater gentleness. He feared to wound her self-esteem, and stir the tigress that slumbered in that darkened Italian heart. He made reply as he best could, without committing himself.

“Even were he to know of this interview,” she continued, still speaking of Corvino, “by the law of our band my life would be forfeited. You see that I am ready to serve you!”

“You would have me write, then? How is it to be done? Can a letter be sent?”

“Leave that to me. Here are some sheets of paper, ink, and a pen. I have brought them with me. You can have no light now; I dare not give it you. Corvino’s captives must not be made too comfortable – else they would be less urgent for their friends to set them free. When the morning sun shines in through your window, then write. Tommaso will bring you your breakfast, and take your letter in exchange. It will be my care to see that it be sent.”

“Oh, thanks, signora!” exclaimed the grateful captive, seizing hold of the offered gift with an eagerness he had not hitherto shown. A new idea had come suddenly into his mind. “A thousand thanks!” he repeated; “I shall do as you say.”

“Buono notte!” said the brigandess, putting the writing materials into his hand, at the same time pressing it with a fervour that betrayed something more than pity. “Buono notte, galantuomo!” she added. “Sleep without fear. If it should come to that, you may command even the life of her you have heard called Cara Popetta.”

Henry Harding was but too happy when she permitted him to disengage himself from her clasp; which, though scarce understood, filled him with a feeling somewhat akin to repulsion. He was happier still, when she stole silently out of his cell, and he heard the door, closing behind her.