THE FOOL ERRANT - World eBook Library - World Public Library

and linen!" I laughed aloud, and footed the long hill bravely. It may seem trifling to establish one's uplifting by the kiss of a poor
wench—but who can explain the ways of the soul? The wind bloweth where it listeth! And if that of hers were the kiss of
peace? At any rate, it was kindly meant, and so I kindly received it. Unknown, lowly benefactress, I salute thee again from afar,
after many years.
Breasting the last green steep of the hill, picking my way amid black rocks and dripping fern, I soon came upon the high road
whose entry had been barred to me by the soldiers. I ate my bread, finished my jug of wine, and pushed on so vigorously that
by noon I was in the heart of the mountains. To cut the narrative short, after one cold night in the open and one more day's
march, having surmounted the watershed of Lombardy and Tuscany, I found myself within view of the frontier, saw the guardhouse
with the red and white posts of the Grand Duchy, and two sentries with muskets walking up and down—a sharp
reminder of difficulties ahead. Beyond the frontier the road curved about a great bluff of rock and skirted the edge of an abyss.
I could see dimly a far-stretching blue plain with rivers and white villages showing faintly upon it; my heart leaped at the thought
that there below me, within a day's travel, was the land that held Aurelia and Redemption; but even in that same moment there
surged up that bitter something which chilled the generous feelings and staled the fluttering hopes. Cruel and vexatious thought!
There was not a rill of water on these mossy stones which did not race unimpeded, or, if impeded, gathering force and direction
from the very obstacle, towards Aurelia; yet here was I, sentient, adoring, longing, who had travelled so far and endured so
much, unable to move one step beyond a painted post. Such thoughts make rebels of us. Is man, then, the slave of all creation?
Is his the one existence framed by the Almighty that cannot follow his nature? Better then to be a beast of chase, darting mouse
or blundering mole, than a man, if the more erect posture is to be the badge of a greater degradation. If the sole merit of two
legs be that they take less hobbling, better far to go upon four. Needless to say that these were the mutinous reflections of the
young Francis who suffered—not of him who now writes them down, who pays taxes, wears a good coat and bows to the
police with the best citizens in the country. But that Francis of nascent rebellion—miserably irresolute, truly indignant, not daring
to go forward, not able to retire—asked himself such burning questions in vain as he paced the brown length of a beechen
glade, within sight but out of hope of his promise.
I must have wandered further than I reckoned; for so it was that I presently became aware of a companion in my solitudes. This
was a Capuchin of great girth and capacity, who sat under a chestnut tree, secluded from observation, and was at that time
engaged in dyeing his beard.
CHAPTER X. I FALL IN AGAIN WITH FRA PALAMONE
The Capuchin's employment was precisely what I have stated, though all probability is against it. I was curious enough to watch
him and could make no mistake. He had a copious beard descending to his stomach, the half snowy white, the half a lustrous
black. Upon a depending twig he had fixed a tin-edged mirror, in his hand was a small tooth-comb. With this he raked his
beard over and over again, occasionally dipping it in a tin cup at his side. He looked in the glass, picked up a strand of beard,
examined it minutely underneath, dipped his comb and raked, dipped and raked again. My gradual advance, due, as I have
said, to curiosity, not presumption, did not disconcert him at all; he began to speak without so much as looking at me, whereby
I was able to hope that I was not recognised. On my side it had not taken long to ascertain that I knew the Capuchin very well
—if not by his white half-beard, then by that jutting tusk of his—at once so loose and so menacing. It was that very same who
at the hospital of Rovigo had looked at me so hard, had burnt my cheek with his hot breath and urged the value of his friendship
so clamantly against that of the Jew's; Fra Palamone, as I remembered his name. Nor could I forget why I had decided against
him, nor in what terms. It had been because, when I had brought my handful of money flooding out of my pocket, two ducats
had been covered by this man's foot and had been buried deep in his toes.
"Buon di," said he in cheerful Tuscan speech. "Are you come upon a like errand of accommodation, by chance? You are
welcome to a corner of my dressing-room. We'll strike a bargain. If you dip my beard, I'll dip yours."
I said that would be bad commerce on my part, since I had no beard. "You, sir," I added, "have a remarkable one, which I
confess I regret to see coloured."
"A fig for your regrets, little man," said the other. "Politics is the cry. If your passport described you as a middling-sized man
with a black beard and a running at the nose, you'd be doing as I am. But you'll never have such a passport as that."
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