The Hound of Florence

  She had been laughing and talking, but as soon as Lucas entered and remained standing at the door, she suddenly became silent, looked gravely across at him, with a quick searching glance, and greeting him kindly, turned away.

  Lucas felt a touch on his arm. It was Filippo Volta. The young man accosted him in the same friendly, slightly curious way he had done in the hall of Bandini’s house on the first day they had met, and with the same readiness to help. “Come with me,” he said, “there’s a place for you over there.” And leading him to the table, he set him down on an upholstered seat. Lucas found himself at the far end of the table from Claudia, but facing her. She was such a long way off, however, that he felt at ease, knowing that neither she nor any of the others would notice him.

  He could hear Alessandro Peretti’s loud laugh, and was surprised to see Count Waltersburg sitting by Claudia. The little Moor with the white turban was standing behind Claudia’s chair. The mulatto, Caligula, was giving orders and calmly superintending the banquet. Fat and lazy, he leaned against the sideboard, his observant, squinting eyes wandering restlessly round the room, as though he were maliciously listening to every word. Peppina and Carletta tripped backward and forward round the table waiting on the guests. Peppina, who was fourteen and had just blossomed into womanhood, looked round as though she had just heard something extremely diverting which she was longing to discuss.

  Two or three other servants glided swiftly hither and thither, while the humble strains of the musicians seated in a recess were almost drowned by the buzz and clamor of the guests. The air was filled with the sound of people talking at the tops of their voices, a babel of shouting and chatter, while above it rose occasional bursts of laughter. The room reeked of burning candles, the fumes of wine and viands, the fragrances of flowers and the scent of clothes.

  “Do you see that old fellow over there?” Filippo Volta asked Lucas, “The wizened little man with the bald head—yes, that one! He is sitting next to the stranger from Austria. That is Giovanni Belloni, the old wool-merchant. Have a good look at him. He is fabulously rich, is old Belloni, and has possessed the most beautiful women.”

  Lucas looked across at the little old man with his pale face and his hollow, toothless jaws. He was sitting quietly there, taking long, slow drafts of wine, and leaning back with his eyes closed as though he were asleep.

  “And you see that man in green over there,” Filippo Volta went on. “That’s Cosimo Rubinardo, whom Claudia ruined,” he explained with a laugh.

  Lucas looked across at a commanding figure of a man, dressed in green velvet trimmed with lace. He had a noble face with a lofty brow, a fine nose and gentle eyes, and seemed to be engrossed in conversation with two young noblemen.

  “Cosimo Rubinardo,” proceeded Filippo Volta, “belongs to one of our leading aristocratic families and was at one time very rich. He had property in Venice, and this house used to belong to him. He squandered everything on Claudia. She lets him live here in an attic now, and he is happy because he is allowed to be under the same roof with her.”

  And Filippo laughed loudly. “Count Peretti is going the same way,” he continued. “He is ruining himself for Claudia, but she only laughs at him and will send him flying to the devil without mercy the moment she has extracted his last ducat. As for that fat fellow there—”

  But Lucas was no longer listening. He had seen Peretti clutch Claudia with his clumsy hands, and Claudia shake him off so that he fell backward into his chair. An expression of wild despair and longing suffused his coarse, flushed face in which suspicion and incipient anger could be read, and a desire to escape from his torture by regarding it all as a joke. His massive chin was thrust violently forward, and he was squinting horribly. Claudia almost emptied a glass of wine and swinging it at Peretti flung the dregs in his face. This immediately restored his good-temper. He burst into loud guffaws of laughter, seized her hand, and covered her wrist with kisses. But Claudia turned to Count Waltersburg, who with a smile of amusement was whispering something in her ear.

  Lucas turned his eyes to Captain Ercole da Moreno, who had just brought his goblet down on the table with a thundering crash. He looked magnificent as he sat there, animated by the wine and his enjoyment of the banquet, and though he was as calm as a statue, he ­sparkled with life. His ruddy cheeks and powerful brow were flushed, and his shock of hair stood up on end like a mass of snow-white flames. The young men pressed toward him on either side, hailing his every word with joy, and reveling in the smile that lurked beneath his white mustache. A mood of infectious cheerfulness radiated from him and seemed to be exhaled from his powerful, gentle head with its shimmering white crown of hair. Claudia made a sign to him.

  “Yes, he’s a fine old boy, is the Captain,” observed Filippo Volta, who had noticed Lucas gazing intently at him. “He’s a fine old boy. But no one seems to know much about him. Often he behaves as though he were merely Bandini’s pupil, a beginner who has taken up art as a whim. And then all of a sudden he produces work which is so masterly that it takes one’s breath away. Claudia is wearing a gold ring which he carved and chased. It is a jewel of which even Cellini would not have been ashamed. Can you understand it? Nobody knows what the fellow is. We don’t even know whether Ercole da Moreno is his real name. And God alone knows how old he is! Why he even knew Queen Christina during her stay in Rome. She was Queen of Sweden, I believe, though I wouldn’t like to swear to it. They say he was once her lover. He has fought in many a war and has been to France, Spain, Germany and every other country under the sun. But he never talks about it. Oh, he’s a gay old spark! No one can beat him at that game; the women are after him even today!”

  For some moments Lucas had not been listening. An urgent longing had been kindled in his breast, how he knew not—an uncontrollable desire, an impelling force, which made him feel like bursting. Suddenly the cup of life, filled to the brim, seemed to have been thrust into his hands for him to drain to the dregs that very hour. He was trembling with pent-up energy.

  At this moment the Captain began to sing, and the din and clamor round the table was immediately silenced. The musicians stopped playing and put away their instruments as though they would no longer be required, and at the sound of that glowing voice, the room seemed to grow brighter.

  “Pray let me live right long, O Lord!

  Pray leave me here below. . . .”

  sang the Captain.

  There he sat, erect and youthful, as though in the saddle, his head slightly raised, his eyes turned to the ceiling, his face aflame with deep and joyous reverence. The song filled his face, it was in his brow, it quivered in the thick tufts of his white eyebrows, even his flaming snow-white mane of hair seemed to be singing. In the warm richness of his voice lay the suggestion of strength which still had reserves it did not need to draw upon to be stronger than the rest. Blithely did the song soar above the heads of the company, gathering their good cheer to itself, carrying it along, leading it on. Every pulse in the room seemed to beat to the solemn rhythm:

  “Pray let me live right long, O Lord!

  Pray leave me here below!”

  Several of the young men had risen from their seats and were listening to the song standing. At its finish they all crowded round the Captain, wild with enthusiasm; but with his head still thrown back, Ercole da Moreno remained quietly seated. Not daring to embrace him, they fell on one another’s necks all round the room. Swearing eternal friendship, they drank to each other’s health; there was a great clinking of glasses and bursts of merry laughter, but no one shouted or cheered merely for the sake of making his own voice heard. For the song was still hovering above them.

  Claudia was trying to keep Peretti at arm’s length. In an access of tenderness he was pressing his attentions upon her.

  “No, not you!” she cried. Her voice could be heard all over the room. “Not you!”

  Peretti sank back in his arm-chair.
“Well then nobody at all!” he growled.

  Claudia laughed loudly. “You fool!” she exclaimed, her voice sparkling with joy and pride. “You poor fool, do you really imagine it must be you or nobody? But I don’t think so!” She laughed again. “There is one man who may kiss me . . . but as I have said already—not you!” And looking round, she laughed again. Her eye wandered to Count Waltersburg, then glided over to Cosimo, passing the whole company in review till it rested on Lucas. “That young man over there—he is the man I want to kiss me. I will allow him to, because he is so young and solitary here.”

  Lucas sat rooted to his chair, utterly dumbfounded. He would have died rather than go up before them all and kiss Claudia. He felt as though his soul had been laid bare and the most secret wish of his heart betrayed.

  “You over there,” cried Claudia across the table. “You over there. . . . What is your name? . . . Don’t you understand? Come over here to me!”

  Filippo Volta pushed Lucas forward. He stood up and with feet heavy as lead crept along behind the chairs of the other guests. The music had started again, there was a fresh buzz of conversation all round, and only one or two were paying any attention to what Claudia was doing. But as he went along Lucas heard the Captain say, “His name is Lucas Grassi.”

  With the air of one who has been let into a secret, Peppina urged him toward the table, close to Peretti’s chair. He obeyed and stood in front of Claudia. She laughed as she looked up at him. “You may kiss me,” she said. Lucas felt as though he were being whipped.

  He bent slowly toward her, miserable and ill at ease. But suddenly growing grave, while her great blue eyes beamed radiantly on him, she laid an admonitory finger on his lips and whispered low, almost into his ear, “Not yet . . . you are right . . . not yet . . . later on, when they have all gone! Peppina will show you where. . . .” And pushing him gently from her, she turned aside.

  “You haven’t kissed him at all!” roared Peretti.

  “No.”

  “What did you say to him then?”

  “I told him that I should love to kiss him, but that I did not dare to because of you, you savage, in case you killed both him and me. . . .”

  Peretti doubled up with laughter.

  Lucas returned to his place. He could still feel the warm touch of Claudia’s fingers on his lips and the fragrance of her breath on his cheek, while the song still rang in his brain: “Pray let me live right long, O Lord!”

  Someone touched him on the shoulder, and turning round, he saw Peppina tripping away from him and beckoning.

  He rose slowly and followed her with faltering steps, afraid that the others might observe him. But no one took any notice. As he was leaving the room, he had to pass by the mulatto Caligula. Suddenly he found his wicked, fat, yellow face thrust into his, and felt that his small squinting eyes were venomously spying upon him. But Peppina was beckoning to him from outside and he hastened on. He passed along a cool stone corridor illumined only by the silvery light of the moon, and, breathing in the pure air, he came to his senses.

  Peppina led him through a heavy oak door, which opened and shut without making a sound, and they found themselves in the dark. Whereupon taking him by the hand, the girl put an arm round his waist and led him on. Crossing a soft carpet, they reached a second door. Peppina was clinging closely to Lucas, trying to dally, but as he made no response, she pushed open the door. A soft golden light poured down from a hanging lamp on to the large, gaily furnished room which lay revealed to their eyes.

  The floor was spread with richly colored rugs, tapestries lined the walls, priceless cabinets in lacquer and marquetrie, with doors outspread like wings, laid bare the glories of their ornate interiors with their columns, niches and tabernacle work. Statues, bronze busts, carvings in gilded wood and marble stood out in the confused medley beneath the dim light, while the reflections cast in the great mirrors round the room held out a deceptive vista of endless chambers beyond. From the depths of an alcove, like a distant landscape lit up by the rays of the setting sun, gleamed a great white couch.

  Going up to a smooth wall covered with Gobelin tapestry, Peppina pulled a cord. The tapestry slowly parted, revealing lofty glazed doors. The soft moonlight poured in through the windows, while outside the garden lay gleaming like silver amid the deep black shadows of the pines.

  “You must go out there,” said Peppina. “Go and hide out there behind the bushes and wait.”

  Lucas tried to pass her, but she barred the way. “If you like I will come too and stay with you,” she said gazing at him with her knowing sphinx-like smile. As Lucas was silent, she bowed her pretty head. “At any rate, it won’t be very long now. Wait down there. You must wait until Claudia opens this door and comes out on to the terrace; then you can show yourself.” She smiled at him, nodded and ran away.

  Stepping out into the open air, Lucas found himself on a little terrace, paved with black and white stone, brightly illumined by the light of the moon. On the low balustrade stood stone vases ablaze with bright red azalias; a short broad flight of steps led down into the garden.

  He stood in the pale moonlight with the faint rustling melody of the trees above his head, breathing in the fragrance of the flowers in the night air, utterly dazed by the events of the evening.

  Suddenly the cathedral chimes rang out close by. Other bells joined the chorus, and as Lucas listened and counted, the joy that had filled his heart died away.

  It was a quarter to twelve.

  He waited. He did not want to stir from the place. Almost he felt himself strong enough to fight and overcome both time and destiny. For others the night was free; it lay rich and unfettered before them, merging happily into the life of another day. He pursed his sensitive lips, but no sound of lamentation escaped them, and, all resistance at an end, he resigned himself to his fate.

  Slowly he descended the beautiful steps into the garden, followed the path between the shadow of the bushes, and stepped out of the moonlight into the blackness to meet his humiliation. He had just enough time to climb over the wall. Once more the cathedral chimes rang out; he felt the familiar shock and a second later a moonstruck dog with lowered head was running through the deserted streets. On and on he went, hither and thither, through the city of Florence, never resting.

  • • •

  Archduke Ludwig and his suite rode out through the city gates at a brisk trot. Count Waltersburg was beside him, while close behind came Niccolo Torricella, the Chamberlain, and Ugolino Corsini, who often performed the duties of page. Master Pointner brought up the rear with various grooms.

  As soon as they reached the fields which, surrounded by sparse woodland, stretched out to the bank of the Arno, the Archduke started his black horse off at a canter, and was immediately followed by the others, the troop presenting a gay spectacle as they careered over the sward. The dog, with his slender body and limbs, swept round the cavalcade like the wind, and, darting ahead and describing wide circles, would return to his place at the side of the black horse.

  “If Your Imperial Highness is agreeable,” suggested Niccolo Torricella, raising his hat, “we might dismount here.” He was a fine-looking man of about fifty years of age. The skin of his lined clean-shaven chin had a dark bluish tinge. His expression was unspeakably haughty and his eyes, which were always half-closed, seemed to gaze upon the world as if it were not worth the exertion of raising his lids. He spoke in a semi-­audible, monotonous tone which gave the impression of complete indifference, entirely in keeping with the rest of his personality.

  The Archduke reined in his horse and sprang from the saddle. Count Waltersburg came up smiling inanely as usual, and looking as though he were congratulating himself on a phenomenal success. Master Pointner, summoning a groom to help him down from the saddle, dropped heavily to the ground.

  “Where?” inquired Torricella in bored tones, turning indolently to Ugolino
Corsini.

  Young Corsini, a boy of eighteen, fat-cheeked and ruddy, with an expression of constant stupefaction on his face, stretched out a hand. “Along the bank,” he replied.

  The Archduke went in the direction indicated. The gentlemen followed at a respectful distance on either side.

  “I don’t know whether she will be alone,” Count Waltersburg began anxiously. “That fellow Peretti may be with her.”

  “He can be kicked out,” replied Torricella coolly.

  The Archduke was silent.

  The dog, who had run on ahead, suddenly stopped, raised his head, pricked up his ears.

  “There she comes!” cried Ugolino Corsini, looking about him with a bewildered air.

  A group of people could be seen emerging from the woods. They dispersed as they reached the field and came toward the Archduke’s party.

  “That fellow Peretti is with her,” observed Count Waltersburg, turning to the Archduke. “I thought as much!”

  The Archduke raised his gaunt face, thrust forward his underlip disdainfully and looked to one side. Then he stopped and waited.

  Claudia came toward him. Her tight-fitting silk dress was dazzling white in the sunlight.

  “Look, Your Highness, what Cambyses is doing!” cried Waltersburg with a laugh. “Strange what a fuss the brute is making over Claudia. . . .”

  “What a beautiful dog!” cried Claudia, as she came up, “and so friendly.” She tried to catch him as he gamboled round in an attitude of devoted homage, giving little barks of delight.

  “He is behaving as though he knew you,” remarked the Archduke suspiciously.

  “He is indeed!” rejoined Claudia with a laugh.