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.