CHAPTER XIX
The next afternoon the Cardinal was dictating letters to his chaplain, who also acted as his secretary. A bad cold and the increasing rain were keeping him a prisoner. So he sat in the little crimson-walled study, leaning back in his chair and delivering his sentences in beautiful epistolary Italian, less like every-day colloquial than Horace is like Church Latin. The young priest bent over the table, writing for dear life, torn between his desire to keep up with the silver fluency of the speaker and his ambition to make the large page look like a lithographed example of perfect penmanship.
The entrance of Domenico promised him a breathing space, but it was a vain hope. The Cardinal took no notice of the velvet-footed old man, and continued his dictation. Only when the chaplain rose and brought him the letter for inspection and signature did the master look up at his servant, with a lifting of the eyebrows which said, "What is it? You may speak."
"Eminenza, it concerns the subterraneans," Domenico replied. "The foreman says he will have to quit work, as a good deal of water is coming up through the drain."
"Well then, they must quit," the Cardinal replied, adding, with mild expostulation, "It was not necessary to come and inform me of that while I was seriously occupied, my son."
"I would not have ventured to come in for that alone, Eminenza," said the man, smiling mysteriously, "but there is something else. In digging to find out whether there was a leak in the chief conduit, they struck upon a little mound, bricked in, and when they opened it they found—"
"The rest of the inscription?" exclaimed the Cardinal, his eyes shining with anticipation.
"More than that, Eminenza. A statue; yes, a statue! Una bellezza!" And he looked down into his master's face with the air of one announcing the conquest of the world.
"Is it possible?" cried the prelate, delighted out of his usual calm. "Do you know what you are saying, Domenico? Oh, it will be some Barocco horror thrown there out of the way. What is it, what is it? Speak."
"How can I tell the Eminenza what it is? I am too uninstructed," the servant replied. "But I went down to see, and I beheld in the hole a large figure with no head and one arm gone—but a fine piece of a man."
The Cardinal rose from his chair. "I must go down at once," he said; "the other letters can be written to-morrow." This to the young priest who stood beside him. "I must see for myself, immediately." And he moved toward the door.
Simultaneously the servant and the chaplain rushed after him, the latter laying a hand on his arm and Domenico placing himself before the door. "For Heaven's sake," cried the younger man, "let the Eminenza not think of such a thing. The cold, the damp—it would be a most terrible imprudence."
Domenico took a still stronger stand. He held up his hand almost authoritatively and said, "This is a risk not to be run. Let us send at once for Professor Bianchi. He will descend to these catacombs, will see, will comprehend all. Then, having made full inspection, he will come up and tell us all about it. Is not this a better plan, Eminenza mia bella?" he concluded coaxingly.
The Cardinal laughed, sighed and submitted. "I suppose you are right, you two," he said; "you keep me as the carabinieri keep a malefactor. As if it would have hurt me to go down for five minutes! But have your way. Send at once for the Signor Professore, however, and beg him to come at his earliest convenience. Oh, if it could be a true antique! But I dream—who am I to deserve such good fortune, such honor?"
The Professor sent a flowery note in answer to the summons from Palazzo Cestaldini. He would have the honor of waiting upon the Cardinal in the morning, and he thanked him from his heart for permitting a humble seeker after knowledge to share the joy of discovery with him.
All that night, as the rain beat down with ever-increasing violence, the two learned men slept fitfully, dreaming of Greek perfection, turning, even as they looked at it, into some bit of degenerate Roman work, a coarse, fulsome likeness, with a removable marble wig and beard! Then they would wake to hear the rattle of rain in the streets, the bubbling of unauthorized fountains; and the Professor would shiver with fear lest the reported treasure should be buried, perhaps swept away, in mud; and the Cardinal would fold his beautiful hands over his rosary and pray to be delivered from all undue love of terrestrial things. Giannella, poor child, read over the Princess's letter for the twentieth time, trying to invalidate its solemn, well-worded arguments and failing to quite succeed; and Rinaldo, wide awake too, paced up and down his studio, looked out every few minutes to see if the clouds were not breaking, and called down a monotonous string of curses, all ending with apoplexy, on the heartless elements which were keeping his painted cardinal too moist to pack, and would certainly prevent his seeing Mariuccia in the church next morning to exchange tidings and sympathy.
When he looked down in the gray of the morning, the little court and street beyond were sheeted in water. Three months' heat and drought were being atoned for in the torrential downpour. All over the lower part of the city the sewers were throwing up volumes of muddy liquid choked back from its customary outlets by the rise in the river. On the front porch of San Severino no picket of mendicants was stationed to-day. When Fra Tommaso came down to open the doors not even the privileged cripple was there to lift the curtain for him. The old sacristan stood under the portico and surveyed the street with a troubled face. "Libera nos, Domine!" he murmured as he turned back into the church. "Fiat Voluntus Tua, yes, Lord, but oh, please, of Your Condescension, do not send any dying calls to-day. That time, five years ago, when the big flood came, and the priest and the boy and I—and the Santissimo—Domine Dio, shall I ever forget it?—were almost tipped out of the boat at that corner by the bridge. Oh, not to-day, please, dear Lord. The poor souls could not get to You through the rain—and think of the angels' wings all wet. If any are to die, please let them wait a day or two, and come to judgment dry at least."
In the Professor's household consternation reigned, for the padrone announced that he would get to Palazzo Cestaldini—if he had to swim there. And Mariuccia, racked with anxieties, did not display her usual energy in opposing him. Giannella, shocked out of her absorption in her own affairs, took it upon herself to beg him to consider his precious health and safety, and to remain at home. This evidence of interest greatly pleased her elderly wooer and emboldened him to pat her on the cheek and tell her that after next week, when they were married, he would always listen to her advice, but now he really must go out. Would she bring him his thickest boots?
Giannella, scarlet and resentful, rushed back to the kitchen, and Mariuccia brought him the boots, soles uppermost, while she pointed in grim silence at a large hole in one of them. But the Professor pretended not to see it, and five minutes later he was out in the piazza, his umbrella turned inside out, his big cloak ballooning into black wings around him, his eyeglasses rendered useless by streams of water, but his will sternly set on reaching Palazzo Cestaldini as soon as possible. After a few laments over his obstinacy the two women upstairs relapsed into silence, and all was very quiet on the fourth floor, as the morning dragged its wet length on.
It went yet more slowly for Rinaldo. Twenty-four hours had passed since his interview with De Sanctis, and although the lawyer had told him nothing, yet he had comforted him greatly, and Rinaldo longed to impart some of that comfort to Giannella. He was the more anxious to do this at once because the flood was evidently assuming serious proportions and he might at any moment be called upon to take his place in the ranks of helpers to save property and distribute provisions. It was now ten o'clock, but the storm was laying a pall of darkness over the city, and the dampness crept up even to the studio on the roof with a chill sufficient to terrify the fever-fearing Roman. Rinaldo, ruefully contemplating yesterday's boots, soaking and shapeless, and the second best suit still limp and damp on its peg, rapidly calculated the chances of gaining admittance should he go boldly to Bianchi's door and ask for Mariuccia. His last experiences in that way had been memorably disagreeable, and in the diminution of martial spirit caused by the gray, wet morning, Rinaldo rather shrank from repeating them. Yet he was consumed with anxiety lest Giannella, her powers of resistance also lessened by illness and by the general depression, should select this day, of all days, to immolate herself on the altar of phantom duty, obey the Principessa, and consent to espouse Bianchi. That once done, who could tell how things would turn out? She was a northerner by blood, and Rinaldo had heard that northerners were dreadfully in earnest about trifles like promises; she might consider her given word as too binding to be recalled. Yes, he must see Giannella at once; that risk was not to be run. Grumbling at Themistocles, who sat, sulky and draggled, on the mustard-colored head of the lay figure, he pulled on his wet boots and descended the staircase, where walls and steps were oozing with moisture. At the lower entrance he paused and looked up and down the street. Across the way old Sora Rosa had removed her perishable wares and stood on her doorstep, so far carried out of her usual saturnine impassiveness as to be wringing her hands and cursing volubly. When she saw Rinaldo about to brave the elements she called out to him to go back, out of danger. The Tiber was out; the municipal guards had been round to warn all who lived on ground floors to move as quickly as possible—no one could say how high the water would rise.
But Rinaldo flourished his umbrella valiantly, plunged out, slipped and found himself ankle deep in the muddy stream. Regaining the sidewalk he struggled along towards the Piazza Santafede. It was hard work to get there, but never mind, all the more reason for pressing on. The Bianchi apartment was so high up that its denizens were far beyond the reach of danger, but the women might be frightened—there were terrible stories of what the river could do when its temper was roused; or, they might be in need of provisions; that blessed old Professor would not be much of a help to them.
These thoughts helped to tide him over the rough crossing where both the piazza and the Via Tresette were sending their torrents down the Via Santafede to the still lower level of Ripetta. Rinaldo reached the farther side, drenched and half blinded by the rain, which seemed to come from every direction at once, and grasped at the iron chains which swung between truncated pillars all round the old palace. He took one look at the well-known window. Sure enough, there was Mariuccia peering out, deepest anxiety written on her countenance, scanning the Via Santafede from end to end. Rinaldo waved a hand to attract her attention. She saw and recognized him immediately. He could see that she was speaking though no words came to him through the rattle of the rain, but her face lighted up and she beckoned to him beseechingly. How fortunate that he had been so courageous as to come.
Still clinging to the helpful chains, he reached the palace entrance and paused to survey a strange scene. Wetness and confusion reigned everywhere, horses were neighing and kicking in the flooded stables, and resisting the harassed grooms who were trying to lead them out. The young Prince, with some other gentlemen, was actually attempting to coax one beautiful animal up the grand staircase, a promotion for which it evidently had no desire; and, a few steps further up, stood an irate woman, the Princess's housekeeper, frantically forbidding the indecent sacrilege. Every time she waved her arms and shouted her protests the nervous, high-spirited hunter danced and shied, and finally began to rear and paw the air in menacing fashion. The Prince, scarlet with anger, quieted him down, called a red-headed groom to hold his head, and then, dashing up the steps, seized the woman in his arms, dragged her down the steps and flung her into the porter's lodge opposite, where he turned the key on her! She stood behind the glass door, battering it with her fists and weeping copiously. The way being now clear, the horse was induced to try it, and finding that the red velvet carpet afforded comfortable foothold, mounted, with his excited bodyguard, and the whole group, chattering and laughing, disappeared round the first turn of the stairs.
Much amused at this comedy, Rinaldo climbed to the Professor's apartment and found Mariuccia waiting for him on the landing.
"Figlio mio bello," she cried, "thank Heaven you have come. But, for you—what craziness to venture through this deluge! You are half drowned, poverino. Come in and dry your clothes, and then tell me what to do, for we are in despair about the padrone. He went off this morning soon after eight o'clock, and I know he will never get back again. That man cannot be trusted to take care of himself. I am sure he will come to some harm."
Rinaldo stared at her, forgetting his own discomfort, his anxieties about Giannella, everything, in his amazement at her speech. "What?" he cried, "you are trembling—I do believe, crying—over what may happen to that selfish old cataplasm of a Professor? Madonna mia, you women are inexplicable. It would be a good thing if he never came back at all."
Mariuccia glared at him for one instant, then dealt him a sounding box on the ear. "Infamous one," she screamed, "you dare to wish death to my padrone? Oh, may you and your best dead—"
But the curse never descended, for Giannella, pale and terrified, suddenly parted the combatants, dragging Mariuccia away and waving Rinaldo back with an imploring gesture; to tell the truth, he was furiously angry, and his flashing eyes and clenched fists seemed to indicate that he might so far forget himself as to return the blow. At sight of the girl he loved, looking so pitiful in her fear and distress, all his anger left him, and he held out his hands, saying contritely, "It is nothing, Giannella mia, I spoke like a fool, an animal. Sora Mariuccia must forgive me. I wish no harm to her padrone—quite the contrary, for I wish he were more worthy of her faithfulness. Happy he, to have such a valiant defender!"
"Come in, come in," Giannella replied. "Holy Charity, you are wet through. What a terrible day. Mariuccia mia, I am sure Signor Goffi did not mean what he said just now, and he has been so brave to come to us through this dreadful storm—won't you bring him in near the fire and give him some coffee? And then, perhaps, he will find out where the padrone is and bring him back to us. Oh, but we have been so unhappy about him," she continued, turning her serious eyes to Rinaldo, "you do not know. If anything were to happen to him we should never get over it."
"You too," Rinaldo murmured as he followed her and Mariuccia (silent and mollified now) into the passage. "Well," he reflected, "it is said that he who understands women understands all things. I renounce the attempt." He was slightly nettled at the calmness with which Giannella had taken command of the situation, vouchsafing him no single glance which showed her consciousness of their own enchanting secret. He did not notice that her cheeks were no longer pale, but of a deep pink, and that her voice was uncertain, as if with the effort to repress some strong emotion. Her actions at any rate were prompt and business-like. Having led the way to the kitchen, where the charcoal fire made a pleasant glow in the unnatural gloom, she pushed Mariuccia down into one of the old straw-bottomed chairs, set the other near the range for Rinaldo, got his wet coat away from him with a turn of the hand, and made him slip on an old jacket of Bianchi's; then she poured out a cup of steaming coffee, produced a ciambella to accompany it, and disappeared. She returned in a moment with a pair of slippers and some much-darned green socks, which last she warmed at the fire while Rinaldo drank his coffee and wondered what she meant to do with them—and him.
She turned round, the socks rolled up between her hands, and offered them to him with the slippers, all in the most collected way, as if she had ministered to his wants for the last twenty years. He started back, flushing furiously, for feet, as a subject, are almost as improper in Rome as in China; and besides, all this was painfully unlike the tenderly romantic meeting he had dreamed of. Was she never going to look into his eyes and let him see that she remembered who he was?
She came close to him and still he sat silent, gazing up hungrily into her face. Ah, there it came, the mantling color, the quivering of the lips, the lowering of the eyelids as if to veil some too bright flame.
"Take them, signorino," she said, speaking huskily and holding the things out to him, "excuse that they are old. You can go into the other room and put them on. You will catch cold—like this—I am afraid—"
But she did not finish the sentence. Rinaldo suddenly caught her two hands in his and hid his face in them, kissing her fingers, the socks, and her soft little palms with an indiscriminate adoration, with an abandonment of joyful passion which touched the girl's whole being to fire. It seemed in that moment that her life and his were fused into one triumphant essence, steeped in glory.
"Mamma mia," wailed a forgotten voice from very far away, from the window, in fact, where Mariuccia had several minutes earlier resumed her watch for her lost lamb, "it gets worse and worse. It would take Sant' Antonio and his mantle to get across the street now. Oh, where is my poor little padrone?"
She turned back into the room with a tragic sweep of the arm, as if asking the question of two young people, who stood several feet apart, with some strange-looking objects on the floor between them.
It was now twelve o'clock and Mariuccia insisted on getting Rinaldo some dinner; and then, his coat being a little drier, she suggested that he should at once start on his search for the missing Professor, who had said that he was only going to Palazzo Cestaldini and would come home for his dinner.
"Palazzo Cestaldini?" Rinaldo replied; "that is only a short way from here, but there will be difficulty in traversing the distance now without a boat. The Cardinal has surely kept the Signor Professore with him."
"I cannot be certain," Mariuccia persisted; "the padrone is—well, obstinate, and when he wants to come home he will come or try to—and then he will get into trouble. Do go out and look for him, signorino."
"But, Mariuccia, how can you?" Giannella protested indignantly. "The signorino can do nothing—and he may be drowned. Oh, pray do not go out," she exclaimed, clasping her hands and looking at Rinaldo imploringly. Something had evidently removed the padrone from the foreground of her thoughts.
Her anxiety for himself so filled her lover with delight that he felt inspired for any exploit. "Of course I will go," he cried; "nothing can drown me! I can swim like a fish; and it is only a pleasure to serve you, Sora Mariuccia. If a boat is needed I dare say I can find some of my friends to help me. Ah, what is that?"
A sound of laughter and of oars beating the water came up through the open window. Three heads were out in a moment, and then Rinaldo hailed Peppino and some other youths who, with many bumps and splashes, had just steered two shallow punts into the Via Santafede from the Ripetta. "Hi, boys!" he shouted, "wait for me, I must come with you. Round to the portone in the piazza, Peppino."
"Make haste then," was the reply; "we are out on duty. One of the bridges is gone, Ripetta is a sea, and the water is two feet deep in Piazza Navona. Hurry!"
Rinaldo dashed off and flew down the long flights of stairs. One boat went round to meet him, while the other continued on its way to Piazza Navona, the chief market-place of the city. Five minutes later a boat shot down again towards Ripetta, and Rinaldo nearly dropped a paddle in the effort to kiss his hand to the two heads still leaning out of the fourth-floor window, one grizzled and dark as fate, the other golden and lovely as hope's young dream.
When he was out of sight the women were silent for a little, then Giannella's face sank down on her old friend's shoulders, and Mariuccia put her arms round her and comforted her quite tenderly, for the poor child was shivering with fear for her lover. "Why did you send him?" she wailed; "he will surely be drowned." She had never seen a flood before except from the safe heights of the convent villa, and it seemed terrible that her Rinaldo, so dear and beautiful and young, should have to face its dangers.
"Hush, cocca mia," crooned the old woman, "nothing will happen to him. Those boys are as safe in the water as on land. I wish I had asked him to bring us some bread—there is not a scrap left—and that was the last of the wine."
"Take some of the padrone's then," said Giannella vindictively; "he has cost enough to-day, dragging that poor, brave boy out into such perils to look for him. He shall pay in bread and wine at least."