"Would you wish to see a doctor or an avvocato?"
I could only moan in answer.
"Charles Grammont murdered! Oh, my poor Cecilia! My angel and my love!"
For the face of the man in the lane was the face of Arthur Clyde, and the moonlight had shown to me, oh! too, too clearly, the blood that smeared his brow.
CHAPTER V.--_LA TEMPESTA VA CRESCENDO_.
I am remanded for trial.
There is a depth below all possibilities of pain and grief, even before one reaches the grave. I am in that depth already, and I do not believe that there is anything in the world which could touch me with sympathy or with sorrow. I am not even annoyed at myself and my own mental condition, as I surely have a right to be. My bodily health is tolerable. I sleep well at night, and during the day I eat with fair appet.i.te. Some of my belongings have been brought from Posilipo here; amongst them a small mirror. I am so much a stranger to myself in this new-found calm and indifference, that I am almost surprised to find myself unaltered outwardly. I am a little paler than common--that is all. My mind finds natural employment in the most trivial speculations and fancies, and it is chiefly to save myself from this vanity of thought that I write now of myself and my own concernings.
I have written at this little story of my own in poverty and in success, in happiness and in sorrow, and it has come at last to seem that the plain white paper before me is my only fitting confidant. Will there ever come a day when I shall be able to read all its record gladly? Past joys are a grief--griefs gone by are a joy to us. Who knows what may come?
And so, poor Hope, you would spread your peac.o.c.k wings even here? Ah, go your way! You forget. Our companionship is dissolved. We are not on speaking terms any longer.
I have not been plagued with any official severities, for Ratuzzi is mindful of old favours. He has told me only this morning that my father extended some such kindness to his father as that for which he bears such grateful memory to me. It was a small affair; a mere matter of money. Against my wish he brought to me a doctor and an advocate. I submitted myself to the first, but to the advocate I declined to listen.
He is a pale young man of five-and-twenty or thereabouts, this advocate.
He has a cleanshaven face of rare mobility, a mouth of remarkable decision and sweetness, and eyes of black fire. The most noticeable thing about him is his voice, which is not easily to be characterised.
You know the sub-acid flavour in a generous Burgundy--so nicely proportioned that it does but give the wine a grip on the tongue and palate. That is the nearest thing I can think of to the singular quality of this man"s voice. The voice is rich and full; but there is a tart flavour in it which emphasises all it says just as the acid emphasises the riper flavours of wine. It takes the kind of grip upon the ear that a file takes upon steel. Or, better than all, it takes just that hold upon the ear which the violin bow takes upon the strings. Ecco. There is my meaning at last. It is not possible that you should escape from listening to this young man when he speaks. He is, further, a young man whom nothing can abash. It is not singular, then, since I am indifferent to all things now that although I declined to listen to him, he stayed and talked, and after much trouble brought me to talk with him.
He was right, after all.
"You are innocent, signor, and you decline to do anything to help yourself? Permit me. No man ever did G.o.d"s work in the world by refusing to help himself. You have some reason for your refusal? What possible reasons exist? Guilt? We will dismiss that at once.
Despair of establishing innocence? No. When the salt mines of Sardinia are on one side a man and liberty is on the other, he does not yield to despair. Ha! The impossibility, signor, of defending oneself unless one criminates another? And that other a friend--a lover? I am right, signor. No gestures of denial can throw down a conclusion so obviously firm. And now, suppose that it should not be necessary to criminate another. Would you then consent to be defended? No? Well, signor, I am not the accusatore pubblico, and it is no business of mine to hunt down criminals. But, whether you will or not, I will get to the bottom of this matter."
"Are you so eager for a case, signor?" I asked him. "I will pay you more to leave me alone than you can ask if you defend me."
I had meant to sting him into leaving me. But his pale face did not even flush at the insult.
"I am engaged by my friend Ratuzzi, signor. Ratuzzi tells me it is beyond dreaming that you should be guilty of murder and theft. He came to me and besought me to make him grateful for all eternity by taking up this case and clearing you from the suspicions which rest upon you.
I have promised him that I will do all in my power, and I will. You will observe, therefore, signor, that whatsoever is done in this matter is independent of your will, if you choose to have it so. I shall know who committed this murder in a fortnight from now, and I shall only retire from your defence if I prove you guilty in my own mind."
"Signor," I said in answer, "I apologise for the insult I offered you just now. But in this matter I am resolute. If it be the will of G.o.d that I suffer innocently, I suffer. I am not anxious on that score. It is not at all a matter for my consideration. I do not care whether I am acquitted or found guilty."
"Is it your wish that I should consult the other prisoner"s interest at all?"
I looked at him blankly, whilst my heart stood still.
"The other prisoner?" I asked.
"The other prisoner," he answered calmly. "Is it he whom you desire to shield?"
"Who is he?"
The advocate drew forth a bundle of memoranda, and turned them over carefully and at his leisure. I did not dare to question him further, and waited in an agony of suspense.
"That is the name," he said--"an English name."
He placed his thumb and leisurely turned round the paper to me on the table which stood before us. I tried to read, but all my pulses seemed throbbing round my eyes, and I was dazzled and blind. He took the paper up again, but I reached out my hand for it.
"I did not read the name," I said. "Permit me once more."
He pa.s.sed the paper again towards me, and I read--
"John Baker. Claims to be an Englishman, and speaks in English only. Is believed to be by birth an Italian, but a naturalised British subject. A person of notoriously evil character."
This at least was not Arthur. I breathed again, and for a moment a wild hope sprang up in my heart. It died again directly. Ah, if I could have believed that he was innocent! But the evidence of which I was the sole repository was beyond all doubt, beyond all hope.
"No," I said. "I know nothing of this man. What is the evidence against him?"
"The evidence against him is the knowledge that he was poor until the night of the murder, and has since suddenly become rich. Further, that a pocket-book found in his possession was smeared with blood. The book contains a large sum of money in English notes, and is believed to have belonged to the murdered man."
I had never supposed that Arthur had robbed the body of his dead enemy.
"If this be proved, Signor l"Avvocato," I said, after some time of silence, "what punishment will fall upon this man?"
"The salt mines will not be enough for him," the advocate answered. "He will probably be shot. You see, signor, he has denied his nationality, and that of itself will embitter the national feeling against him."
"Then," I answered, "these suspicions must not be bolstered by false proofs. This man has, perhaps, robbed a dead body, but he has not committed murder."
"Signor Calvotti," said the advocate, the black fire burning slowly in his eyes, and a slow flush creeping to his pale forehead whilst he spoke, "what mystery surrounds your share of this matter I can only faintly guess. But I know that it is not a mystery to you. I have found out this, at least, since I have been here--that you know the murderer, and that you determine to shield him, even at your own expense. Now, I warn you that if you deny me your confidence, I will convict the real man, whosoever he may be."
He fixed those slow-burning eyes upon me as he said this, and waited for an answer. I responded to his words and to the fixity of his gaze by silence.
"Give me your confidence, and I will serve your turn," he said again.
"Are you the guilty man?"
"I? No."
"Signor Calvotti," he began again, after another pause, during which his eyes were shadowed by his drooping brows, "you shall trust me yet.
Any secret suspicion given to me is buried in the grave. Any secret certainty of knowledge is buried equally. A confession of your own guilt, the declaration of a friend"s, shall be entombed here"--he laid his hand upon his breast--"and know no resurrection."
I answered nothing, and he rose to go.
"That which you hide," he said as a last word," I will discover for myself. Given freely, it would be used for your own cause. Wrested from mystery, it shall be used for mine."
"Come here again," I answered, "three hours later, and I will answer you in one way or the other."
"Good," he responded, and signalled for the door to be opened. Ratuzzi himself answered the loud knock he gave, and my friendly gaoler asked me how I fared, and if I stood in need of anything.
"Nothing just now but time to think a little."