Italian Yesterdays, vol. 1

by Mrs. Hugh Fraser

From Paris they travelled to Lyons and thence to Beauvoisin. From the latter place they went over into Savoy, which they crossed in the direction of Genoa, Marie-Elizabeth being compelled to traverse the Alps, as the archives tell us, “on a vicious mule with an old pack-saddle.” But from the moment of their departure from Paris a change had come over the spirit of the doomed woman; ever since then, when Defrêne had forbidden her to bid farewell to her beloved mother and her relatives, Marie-Elizabeth had been weighed down with forebodings of evil. And on reaching the seaport of Genoa these forebodings seemed to acquire the most sinister confirmation in a hint of danger conveyed to her by a good and compassionate man, Pierre Pilette, a wagoner who had acted as their guide over the passes into Italy.

This man told Marie-Elizabeth that, having gone with the Marquis (to interpret for him, presumably) to visit certain merchants of Genoa, Defrêne had made anxious inquiries for some vessel that should take him to Constantinople; further, that Defrêne had tried to obtain from them letters of credit on some merchant in that city, but that it had not been possible for them to accommodate him, although they had cashed all such letters upon themselves as he had brought with him from France.

This information, imparted to her by Pilette, was the first Marie-Elizabeth had heard of any intention of her husband’s to go to Constantinople; and, at the news, her suspicions of his conduct turned to terror that was all the more agonising by reason of the need for dissembling it in Defrêne’s presence. From Genoa he now set out, with his unhappy wife and the half-dozen or so of his retainers whom he brought with him—Pilette still accompanying them to look after the horses—for Savona, where, as he had been led to expect, he might find a vessel sailing for Constantinople. Be it noted, by the way, that never since leaving Paris had any reference to the “baths,” of which he had declared his health to be in need, passed Defrêne’s lips; and never—save on the occasion of her interview with Pilette—had any one not a member of the Marquis’ household been allowed to exchange a single word in private with his wife.

On the journey, however, to Savona, Marie-Elizabeth contrived to whisper her fears to Pilette (who, I take it, was leading her mule by the bridle along the then dangerous coast-road), imploring him to save her from her husband and to bring her into a place of safety, whence she might communicate with her relatives; and Pilette, moved by her tears and entreaties, promised that he would do his best at all costs to deliver her from her enemies. He had friends, he told her, at Savona, an inn-keeper and his wife, to whose hostel he would bring her, who would take care of her. And from their hands Pilette promised, moreover, that he would take her, afterwards, to Turin, there to place her under the protection of the Duchess of Savoy.

Arrived at Savona, Defrêne lodged himself and his party in this inn, to which Pilette had led them; here he found a ship preparing to sail for Constantinople and so made his arrangements with her owner for the transport of himself and his wife to the Turkish capital. The day before that appointed for sailing, however, he had to go down to the wharf in order to pay over their passage money, leaving Marie-Elizabeth locked up in her bedroom. This was Pilette’s opportunity; no sooner had the Marquis left the premises than he went up to Marie-Elizabeth’s room, armed with a key furnished him by his friend the host, unlocked the door, and released the prisoner for whose flight he had everything in readiness.

Going down to the street with her deliverer, Marie-Elizabeth found a closed sedan-chair waiting for her, into which she stepped, and was then quickly borne away out of town into the hills, followed by the faithful Pilette. For nearly thirty miles they pursued their way northwards until, on striking the village of Cortemiglia, Pilette left his charge in the inn of the place, whilst he himself went to seek out Count Scarampo, the lord of that district, and to entrust Marie-Elizabeth to that gentleman’s safekeeping.

But, just as he was leaving the inn for that purpose, what was Pilette’s consternation on beholding a party of men come tearing up the road, headed by none other than Defrêne in person, to an accompaniment of shouts and the waving of swords and firearms! Taking to his heels, the defenceless Pilette fled incontinently down the village street pursued by the Marquis and his gang with musket-shots and imprecations. Fortunately, he continued to elude them and to make his way to the castle of Count Scarampo, to whom he gave warning of what was going forward in the village. The Count, nothing loath, at once called out his own men and rushed down to the village to do battle for the lady with her husband and his retainers; in this he was joined by the local magistrate, and so the two with their supporters reached the little inn, whence a piteous din of shrieks and blows came out into the roadway.

Having abandoned the pursuit of Pilette, Defrêne had returned hot-foot to the inn, which he had invaded in search of his wife; in spite of the host’s protests, he had forced his way to where Marie-Elizabeth was cowering in a back room and had set upon her with a cudgel as well as with his fists and feet; had it not been for the timely arrival of Scarampo and the judge, moreover, there can be small doubt but that the tiger-hearted Marquis would have made an end, then and there, of the miserable woman. Providentially, though, their coming prevented this, when, seeing that resistance was useless, Defrêne submitted to their arrest of him.

For the time being, Marie-Elizabeth was safe from her husband’s cruelty. Taken by Count Scarampo to his castle, she was there received by the Countess, as the chronicle relates, “with much compassion and with a distinguished politeness.” Here she was rejoined by Pilette, under whose escort she set out before dawn of the next day on the road to Turin.

Such was her condition, however, as the result of the ill-treatment she had suffered, that, by evening, she had gone no further than Alba, a town on the Tanaro, where she sought out the governor and threw herself upon his protection against any further attempts on the part of her detestable husband. The official kindly took her into his own house; but scarcely had he done so than her pursuer, having escaped from his gaolers at Cortemiglia, turned up, on foot and alone, at Alba, in his latest character—that of a penitent and broken-hearted suppliant for his wife’s forgiveness. In this new rôle he presented himself before the governor, begging for an interview with Marie-Elizabeth, that he might soften her heart with the sight and the sighs of him.