"Saved!"
"Yes, when they first came, I begged Corte to let me call the Doctor Maffeo. He would not however listen to the idea. Then I told him what to do, being a family man, who has had children to look after. All gone into the world now, and never even a message for Bernabo Ceci."
"I thought the case hopeless when I saw it."
"When you saw it, perhaps; but, signore, not at first. See! the sun is not in the Lion, and medicines should have been freely given. I would have placed the diaphragm of a sheep on her chest, had her bled, and administered theriaca of Venice; if that failed, there is bezoar."
"Messer Ceci, you are as learned as a doctor yourself."
"I have had experience, signore," he answered, as he rose to go. "Yes, do I not know? The life of my poor wife was saved twice by this treatment, and on the third occasion, if it were not for the poison which originated internally within her, as Messer Maffeo stated in a learned discourse he read to the Academy, she would have been saved again. A good night, Signor Donati, and peace to dreams--remember, it should have been as I said--either theriaca or bezoar--or both combined--a good night!"
He went out, and down the stairs, with the step of a young man, and I marvelled at the contradictory nature, which could show the kindness it had towards affliction, and at the same time coldly plan to remove a fellow-creature from the world, as one removes a bud from a tree, with a touch of the knife. But Ceci's words had also reminded me again of Corte's need. I stood at the door listening until his footsteps died away, and knew he was gone for the night. Then I pulled out my purse, and looked at its contents; there were two gold crowns left, and a few pauls. I hesitated for a little; but the need of the man upstairs was greater than mine. Drawing off my boots so that there may be no sound, I stole up softly, like a thief, and gained the landing of Corte's room. The door was partly open, and I stood before it for a short while, half afraid to enter. Plucking up heart, I crept in gently. The dead girl lay with her hands crossed on her bosom, still as if cut out of marble, and on her face was fixed a sad little smile. Corte sat on a stool near the table; his head was buried between his hands, and he had given way to silent despair. The dog lay asleep in a corner. I meant to have proffered the gold I had with me, as a loan to Corte; but I did not dare to address him in his grief. So placing the coins quietly on the table in such a manner that when he raised his head he must see them, I withdrew as noiselessly as I came, and reached my room without attracting any attention. It was not until the small hours of the morning that I sought my couch, for my mind kept working on the thoughts which agitated me after witnessing the death of Corte's daughter. At the same time, I was able to see that this consideration of the suffering of others was of the greatest benefit to me. It took me out of myself. It showed me that my own were not the only sorrows in the world, and that there might yet be others who had reached a deep of misery as far below that of Corte, as his was below mine. This led me on to consider my own position, and I began to think there was some mysterious power that was preventing me carrying out my plan of reprisal against D'Entrangues. I had come to Florence red-hot on his track. At our very first meeting he had won the hazard, and the long illness that followed gave him chance to put a distance between us; then my resources diminished whilst yet nothing was done; then came the doubts as to whether I was justified in my action; and finally, and not least, there was in me a haunting desire to see Angiola, as I called her to myself, once again. I was pulled by different strings. There was that I called conscience, urging me to give up my schemes of revenge; there was the wild animal in me, telling me to go on; there was a feeling towards a woman, which I had honestly never experienced before, which, despite my struggles against its apparently hopeless folly, was entirely overmastering me, until I did not know which way to turn, and to escape from it all decided to leave Florence at once; and then altered my mind again, when I thought of the plot I wished to thwart, and determined to make a last effort to do this, and, if possible, to see Angiola once more before I left. At last I went to sleep, waking very late in the morning. So sound was my slumber, that when I awoke I thought at first that the events of the night were nothing more than a dream; but they soon forced themselves on me in their reality, and the fact was emphasised, by the sight of the odd pauls, which were now my all, lying on the table. I gathered these up, and proceeded in search of Ceci to ask if he had made any arrangements for the burial; but he was nowhere to be found; and, as I could not bring myself to see Corte then, I resolved to breakfast on fresh air, a diet which however wholesome, was, I found, certainly not satisfying. I went to the Oricellari Gardens, which were at that time the property of the Rucellai. Here, within the city walls, one found a forest, and under the shade of the huge trees, a more miserable being than myself could have spent pleasant hours, and perhaps gained contentment of mind by observing the beauties of nature. It was here that, after the death of Il Magnifico, the Platonic Academy moved its sittings. But the gentlemen who composed it discussed their philosophy with a good dinner, and even the unfortunate who wishes to gain peace of mind in sylvan shades, should have a full belt. This fact obtruded itself more and more strongly on me, and I could obtain little relief by the expedient of tightening my sword-belt by a hole or so. Therefore, in despair, I left the beauties of nature to be so good as to look after themselves, and disbursed a half-paul in something to eat; after which I felt able to face the prospect of future starvation with a more serene mind. On return to my lodging I found Ceci was not yet come back, and still thinking it would be an intrusion to make inquiry after Corte, disposed of my time by repairing my attire as best I might, and watching the pigeons on the eaves of the roof opposite my window, with a little envy in my heart at their simple happiness, and a doubt if, after all, man was so fortunate in possessing a soul, and being cast after the image of his Maker. If our faith is to be believed there is nothing for man but heaven or hell, and perhaps the worst form of hell-torment would be to be born again in the lowest form of a dumb brute, with the faculty of fully appreciating all that the highest of mankind can. Picture to oneself a Raphael, who has slipped into the abyss, and is sent back to earth again, an obscene animal, with all the grasp of the beautiful he had in life. I do not know any punishment that would be more cruel. On the other hand, there has never appeared to me any definite realisation of the joys of heaven. It is no doubt their vagueness that is their charm. Be these things as they may, all speculation into the future is useless, and I have found my comfort in a simple faith in our religion, which has served me through this life, and will, I trust, do the same office in the next.
Thus reflecting, I passed the day quietly, and in the afternoon Ceci came to tell me all was ready for the burial. He gave me to understand that Corte had listened to reason in the matter of a priest, although I never knew what arguments he had used to effect this. The funeral was much as other pauper burials, and when it was over we walked back together. On our return a man accosted Ceci, who, he said, was his nephew, and they went off together on some business. Had I only known what I was to be indebted to this gentleman for, shortly, I should have observed him with greater attention. As it happened I gave him but a passing glance, catching a glimpse of a pale face, with strong, clear-cut features, and keen, bright eyes. Corte and I were now alone, and, respecting his grief, I said no word, nor did he speak, as we threaded our way back. Near St. Mark's, Corte suddenly seized my hand, raised it to his lips, and then turning, fled down a side street and was lost to view. I attempted to follow, fearing that sorrow had totally unhinged his mind, already a little off its balance, and that he would come to injury. My attempt however was without avail, and I returned home to disprove the proverb which falsely says that he who sleeps, dines.
The next day I was again favoured with a visit from Ceci, and after some allusion to the funeral, he once more broached the subject on which he had sounded me before, and asked for a definite reply. I gave it to him without hesitation.
"Messer Ceci," I said, "whatever my condition may be, you are in error if you think I am a bravo. In short your proposal is an insult, and you owe it to my consideration for your years that I do not fling you out of the room. I have promised you secrecy, and therefore cannot do as I would, and that is, lay the matter before the Signory; but I tell you plainly that if I can I will upset your plan, and now you had better leave me."