There is something of mediaeval look and air about the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, which gives it a peculiar interest to the traveller. The quaint little low shops on either side, all glittering with gold and gems; the gorgeous tiaras of diamonds; the richly enamelled cups and vases aside of the grotesque ornaments of peasant costume; the cumbrous ear-rings of stamped gold; the old-fashioned clasps and buckles of massive make; the chains fashioned after long-forgotten models; the strings of Oriental pearls, costly and rare enough for queens to wear, are all thrown about in a rich profusion, curiously in contrast to the humble sheds for they are little more that hold them.
The incessant roll of equipages,—the crowd and movement of a great city; the lingering peasant, gazing with rapturous eyes at the glittering wares; the dark Israelitish face that peers from within; the ever-flowing tide of population of every rank and age and country, giving a bustle and animation to the scene, so beautifully relieved by the view that opens on the centre of the bridge, and where, in a vacant space, the Arno is seen wending peacefully along, and scattering its circling eddies beneath the graceful arches of the “Santa Trinita,” that little glimpse of hill and vineyard and river, the cypress-clad heights of San Miniato, and the distant mountain of Vallombrosa, more beautiful far than all the gold Pactolus ever rolled, or all the gems that ever glittered on crown or coronet.
There was one stall at the end of the bridge so humble-looking and so scantily provided that no stranger was seen to linger beside it. A few coral ornaments for peasant wear, some stamped medals for pious use, and some of those little silver tokens hung up by some devout hands as votive offerings at a holy shrine, were all that appeared; while, as if to confirm the impression of the scanty traffic that went on, the massive door was barred and bolted like the portal of a prison. An almost erased inscription, unrenewed for nigh half a century, told that this was the shop of “Racca Morlache.”
There may have been much of exaggeration in the stories that went of the Jew's enormous wealth; doubtless many of the accounts were purely fabulous; but one fact is certain, that from that lowly roof went forth sums sufficient to maintain the credit of many a tottering state, or support the cost of warlike struggles to replace a dynasty. To him came the heads of despotic governments, the leaders of rebellious democracy, the Russian and the Circassian, the Carlist and the Cristino. To the proud champion of divine right, or the fearless promulgator of equality, to all he was accessible. Solvency and his profit were requirements he could not dispense with; but, for the rest, in what channel of future good and evil his wealth was to flow, whether to maintain a throne or sap its foundation, to uphold a faith or to desecrate its altars, to liberate a people or to bind their fetters more closely, were cares that sat lightly on his heart.
He might, with his vast means, have supported a style like royalty itself. There was no splendor nor magnificence he need have denied himself; nor, as the world goes, any society from which he should be debarred, gold is the picklock to the doors of palaces as of prisons; but he preferred this small and miserable habitation, which for above two centuries had never borne any other name than the “Casa Morlache.”
Various reasons were given out for a choice so singular; among others, it was said that the Grand-Duke was accustomed to visit the Jew by means of a secret passage from the “Pitti;” while some alleged that the secret frequenters of Morlache's abode all came by water, and that in the dark night many a boat skimmed the Arno, and directed its course to the last arch of the Ponte Vecchio. With these rumors we have no concern, nor with Morlache himself have we more than a passing business.
When Kate Dalton had driven up to the door, she had all but determined to abandon her intention. The arguments which in the morning had taken her by surprise seemed now weak and futile, and she was shocked with herself for even the momentary yielding to Jekyl's counsels. Her only doubt was whether to drive on without further halt, or leave some short message, to the effect that she had called but could not delay there. This seemed the better and more courteous proceeding; and while she was yet speaking to the dark-eyed, hook-nosed boy who appeared at the door, Jekyl came up.
“Be quick, Miss Dalton! Don't lose an instant,” said he. “Morlache is going to the palace, and we shall miss him.”
“But I have changed my mind. I have resolved not to accept this assistance. It is better far better that I should not.”
“It is too late to think of that now,” said he, interrupting, and speaking with some slight degree of irritation.