CHAPTER XII.
By the side of a small bed, in a small room next to the larger one of which I have already spoken in noticing the usual arrangements of a contadino's house, sat our friend Antonio, nearly an hour after his meeting with Giovanozzo. The same man who, some time before, had lain upon the table in the adjoining chamber now occupied the bed; but he was apparently sound asleep. The contadino's Xantippe had informed her husband, or rather Antonio, for whom she entertained much higher veneration, that the "poor soul," as she called Buondoni's retainer, had awoke and spoken quite cheerfully, but that he had now fallen into a more refreshing kind of slumber; and anxious to busy herself about her household affairs, she had willingly left her patient to Antonio's care, upon being assured that they were old companions.
Antonio, as the reader may have remarked, had that curious habit, common to both sages and simpletons, of occasionally giving vent to his thoughts in words, even when there was no one to listen to them--not in low tones, indeed, but in low-muttered murmurs--not in regular and unbroken soliloquy, but in fragments of sentences, with lapses of silent meditation between.
"It is Mardocchi," he said; "it is Mardocchi beyond all doubt. Mightily changed, indeed, he is--but that scar cutting through the eyebrow. I remember giving him the wound that made it with the palla."
He fell into silence again for a few minutes, and then he murmured, "We used to say he would be hanged. So he has fulfilled his destiny, and got off better than most men in similar circumstances." Here came another break, during which the stream of thought ran on still; and then he said, "Now let any one tell me whether it was better for this man to be brought to life again or not. His troubles in this life were all over, he had taken the last hard gasp; the agony, and the expectation, and the fear were all done and over, and now they have all to come over again, probably in the very same way too, for he is certain to get into more mischief, and deserve more hanging, and take a better hold of Purgatory, even if he do not go farther still. He never had but one good quality; he would keep his word with you for good or ill against the devil himself. He had a mighty stubborn will, and once he had said a thing he would do it."
Here came another lapse, which lasted about five minutes, and then Antonio murmured quite indistinctly, "I wonder if he be really asleep! He could feign anything beautifully, and his eyes seemed to give a sort of wink just now. We will soon see." Some minutes of silence then succeeded, and at length Antonio spoke aloud: "No," he said, as if coming to some fixed and firm conclusion, "no; it would be better for him himself to die. The good woman did him a bad service. These Frenchmen will hang him again whenever they catch him, and if there be any inquiry into the death of Buondoni, they will put him on the rack; besides, we may all get ourselves into trouble by conniving at his escape from justice. Better finish it at once while he is asleep, and before he half knows he has been brought to life again."
He then unsheathed his dagger, which was both long and broad, tried the point upon his finger, and gazed at his companion. Still there was no sign of consciousness. The next moment, however, Antonio rose, deliberately pushed back his sleeve from his wrist, as if to prevent it from being soiled with blood, and then raised the dagger high over the slumbering man.
The instant he did so, Mardocchi started up, and clasped his wrist, exclaiming, "Antonio Biondi, what would you do? kill your unhappy friend?"
Antonio burst into a loud laugh, saying, "Only a new way of waking a sleeping man, Mardocchi. The truth is, I have no time to wait till your shamming is over in the regular course. We have matters of life and death to talk of; and you must cast away all trick and deceit, and act straightforwardly with me, that we may act quickly; your own life and safety depend upon it. Now tell me, what did the Lord of Vitry hang you for?"
"His morning's sport, I fancy," answered the man; "but softly, good friend; you forget I hardly know as yet whether I am of this world or another. My senses are still all confused, and you, Antonio--my old playmate--should have some compassion on me."