The Making of a Saint

by W. Somerset Maugham

VIII

THE courtiers followed on their master's heels, but the soldiers stood undecided. Ercole Piacentini looked at us, and spoke in an undertone to the Captain of the Guard. I thought they were discussing the possibility of boldly arresting Checco on the spot, which they doubtless knew would be a step very acceptable to Girolamo; but he was surrounded by his friends, and evidently, whatever Ercole and the Captain wished, they dared nothing, for the former quietly left the chamber, and the soldiers, on a whispered order, slid silently from the room like whipped dogs.

Then the excitement of our friends knew no bounds. I, at the end of the speech, had seized his hand and said,—

'Well done.'

Now he was standing in the midst of all these people, happy and smiling, proud of the enthusiasm he had aroused, breathing heavily, so that a casual observer might have thought him drunk with wine.

'My friends,' he said, in answer to their praises, and his voice slightly trembled, so that his sincerity was conspicuous, 'whatever happens, be sure that I will continue to uphold your rights, and that I will willingly give my life for the cause of justice and freedom.'

He was choked by the violence of his emotion, and could say nothing more.

The cries of approbation were renewed, and then, with an impulse to get into the open air, they surged out of the council chamber into the piazza. It was not exactly known what had passed in the Palace, but the people knew that Checco had braved the Count, and that the latter had broken up the meeting in anger. Wonderful rumours were going about: it was said that swords had been drawn, and there had almost been a battle; others said that the Count had tried to arrest Checco, and this story, gaining credence—some even saying that Checco was being kept a prisoner—had worked the citizens to fever height.

When Checco appeared, there was a great shout and a rush towards him. 'Bravo!' 'Well done!' I don't know what they did not find to say in praise of him. Their enthusiasm grew by its own fire; they went mad; they could not contain themselves, and they looked about for something on which to vent their feeling. A word, and they would have attacked the Palace or sacked the custom-house. They surrounded us, and would not let us pass. Bartolomeo Moratini pushed his way to Checco and said,—

'Quiet them quickly, before it is too late.'