The humble folk living in the street in which the prisoner made his escape declared they had seen a corpse. But when broad daylight came, and the inhabitants ventured to emerge from their houses, the only trace of the struggle they could discover was the quantity of blood which stained the paving stones. More than twenty thousand sightseers visited the street during the day. The dwellers in Italian towns are accustomed to see strange sights, but the how and why is always clearly known to them. What annoyed the Parmese about this incident, was that even a whole month after, when the torch-light procession had ceased to be the only subject of general conversation, no one, thanks to Count Mosca’s prudence, had been able to discover the name of the rival who would fain have carried the Fausta off from Count M⸺. This jealous and vindictive lover had taken to flight as soon as the procession had set forth on its way. By the count’s orders, the Fausta was shut up in the citadel. The duchess was vastly entertained by a little piece of injustice in which the count was forced to indulge, to check the curiosity of the prince, who might otherwise have tried to discover Fabrizio’s name.
A learned man had just arrived at Parma from the north, with the intention of writing a history of the middle ages. He was searching for manuscripts in various libraries, and the count had given him all possible facilities. But this learned man, who was still very young, was of an irascible temper. He fancied, for instance, that every soul in Parma desired to turn him into ridicule. It is true that the street boys did occasionally run after him, attracted by the waving locks of pale red hair which he proudly displayed. This learned gentleman believed that his innkeeper charged him abnormal prices for everything, and he would never pay for the most trifling article without looking up its price in Mrs. Starke’s Travels, a book which has reached its twentieth edition, because it gives the prudent Englishman the price of a turkey, an apple, a glass of milk, and so forth.
On the very evening of the day on which Fabrizio had taken his involuntary part in the torch-light procession, the red-haired savant fell into a rage at his inn, and pulled a pair of pocket pistols out of his pocket to take vengeance on a camérier who had asked him two sous for an inferior peach. He was immediately arrested, for it is a great crime, in Parma, to carry pocket pistols.
As this irascible gentleman was tall and thin, it occurred to the count, next morning, to pass him off on the prince as the foolhardy being who had endeavoured to carry off the Fausta, and on whom a trick had been played by her lover. In Parma the punishment for carrying pocket pistols is three years at the galleys, but the penalty is never exacted. After a fortnight in prison, during which he saw nobody but a lawyer, who filled him with the deepest terror of the abominable laws directed by the cowardice of the people in power against the bearers of concealed weapons, he was visited by a second lawyer, who told him the story of the mock procession in which Count M⸺ had forced a rival, whose identity had not been discovered, to bear a part. “The police do not want to confess to the prince that they can not find out who this rival is. Say that you desired to find favour in the Fausta’s eyes, that fifty rascals laid hands on you while you were singing beneath her windows, and that you were carried about in a sedan-chair for an hour by people who only spoke to you in a most respectful manner. There is nothing humiliating about this avowal, and one word is all that is asked of you. The instant you say it, and get the police out of this difficulty, you will be put into a post-chaise, taken to the frontier, and allowed to depart in peace.”
For a whole month the learned man held out. Two or three times over, the prince was on the point of having him brought before the Minister of the Interior, and himself presiding at the examination. But he had forgotten all about it before the historian, wearied out, made up his mind to confess everything, and was conducted to the frontier. The prince remained convinced that Count M⸺’s rival possessed a mass of red hair.
Three days after the procession, while Fabrizio, with his faithful Ludovico, in his hiding-place at Bologna, was plotting means of discovering Count M⸺, he learned that the count was in hiding, too, in a mountain village on the road to Florence, and that only three of his buli were with him. Next day, as he was returning from a ride, the count was seized by eight masked men, who informed him they were police agents from Parma. He was conducted, after his eyes had been bandaged, to an inn some two leagues farther up in the mountains, where he was received with every attention, and found a liberal supper ready. The best Italian and Spanish wines were served.
“Pray, am I a state prisoner?” inquired the count.
“Not the least in the world,” was the polite response of Ludovico, who wore a mask. “You have insulted a private individual by venturing to have him carried about in a sedan-chair. To-morrow morning he means to fight a duel with you. If you kill him, you will be provided with money and good horses, and there will be relays ready for you all the way to Genoa.”
“What may this ruffian’s name be?” quoth the count in a rage.
“His name is Bombace. You will have the choice of weapons, and good seconds, thoroughly loyal men; but one or the other of you must die.”