“You know the story of her life, then?” I exclaimed.
“Santa Maria! The story of her life! Who should know it if I do not?”
“Then you shall tell it to me to-night, when we have dined, my friend.”
He nodded his head gravely at the words, repeating them after me.
“To-night, when we have dined, the story of Christine. Benissimo! There are few that have my tongue, excellency. God was good to you in sending you to me.”
CHAPTER I
CHRISTINE THE CHILD
We dined upon a little grass bank of the island named Incoronata, in a clearing of the woods, where the soft night wind breathed cool upon our faces, and the rustle of the leaves was like a harmony of sleep. It was not until the boat had been moored for the night, and new logs had been thrown upon the fire, that Barbarossa bethought him of his pledge, and consented to begin his narrative. Squatting upon his haunches, with his cigar held deftly as a bâton, when the need of emphasis was, this strange old man unfolded a history no less strange. So clear was his sense of proportion, so simple were his words, that I would give much to tell the story of Christine as then—and again on other nights—he told it to me. But his narrative remains a memory—a memory often inaccurate, always lacking those pleasing touches of colour with which he graced his picture. Nor, I think, could any pen set down the charm of his rich voice or the wonders of his manner.
“Excellency,” said he, “the story of Christine is a story of one who, five years ago, had learnt to call me father that she in turn might be called daughter by me. To-day she is the mistress of riches and of a great house; I am still the beggar of the city, who has no right to raise my eyes to her. Yet you have seen that she remembers, as I, on my part, still love.
“I remember Christine—aye, God witness, I remember the day she came, the day she went. Her father was an Italian merchant of Zara; her mother was the daughter of a musician of Marseilles. They brought her to my city when she was a babe; she was seven years old when the fever struck them down and left her to the care of her half-brother, Nicolò Boldù. You have heard of Nicolò—nay, how should you have heard? He was one to be forgotten in his shame, a drunkard, and a lover of women. Well was it for Sebenico that a brawl sent him trembling for his life to that very island where the pavilion of Christine stands to-day. Three days the soldiers hunted for him; three days he lay in the cellar of my house, wailing for mercy with the tongue of a woman. Then I took him in my boat to Zlarin, and within a month he had sent to me for Christine.
“She was twelve years old then, a pretty child that strangers marked in our streets and the priests spoke of for example in the schools. I say nothing of that part which I played both in attending to her education and making it my care that she did not want for bread. God knows, she would have fared ill if no other hand than Nicolò’s had ministered to her necessities. Rare was the day when he had food even for himself. What money he got from his wretched inn out beyond the city walls scarce served for his own pleasures. When the child hungered, he beat her with his belt; when she was hurt with the cold, he turned her into the road to sleep. I alone in all the city opened my door to her; I alone saw her weep, for she had the courage of a woman, and there is no courage like to that.