THE FOOL ERRANT - World eBook Library - World Public Library

"Be sure of this," I said sharply, "that I will suffer no word in disparagement of Donna Aurelia to be said in my presence. Your
word 'fancy,' as applied to her, is horrible to me. You will take care not to repeat it. If you choose to whisper to your friends
that I have a 'fancy' for you, or that the marchese has purchased Fra Palamone to indulge a similar 'fancy' on his account, I have
nothing to say. No term of the sort is by this time too hard for me to bear; and the marchese, no doubt, can take care of himself.
But Donna Aurelia, once and for all, is to be left out of your dictionary if you can only couple her name with a degrading
qualification. Enough of that. I am about to return to Padua, and shall take you with me as far as Condoglia." This was indeed
my intention, for I was hurt more than I cared to own by Donna Aurelia's reception of me, and yet knew all the time that I
deserved nothing more.
Virginia listened with head hung down and clenched hands; when I had done she would have rushed headlong into speech—but
she checked herself by biting her lip forcibly. She curtseyed to me, and went quickly out of the room. I spent a great part of the
night in the destruction of papers, collection of objects which I wished to take with me, and in committing to the flame certain
others which I now knew I must do without. Treasured memories of Aurelia went with them. She was still in my heart, and must
ever remain there, patroness of my honest intention. Daylight was creeping over the Piazza and putting my candles to shame
before I discovered how tired I was. I blew them out, opened windows and shutters, and leaned into the sweet air. St. Mary's
church stared hard, an unearthly black and white; the Piazza, perfectly empty, looked of enormous size. In it the dawn-wind
blew up little spirals of dust; and it was so quiet, that when a scrap of paper was whirled into the air, I heard the littering noise it
made before it started on its flight. The sky was of exquisite purity, pale as milk, with a very faint flush of rose behind the
church. In a few minutes the sun would be up from behind Vallombrosa, and all the glory of the Italian day would roll over
Florence in a flood. I felt mortally and suddenly tired, too languid to face the richness of life to come, poor and famished as I
must now be.
As I was turning from the window I saw the figures of two men come out of the sharp angle of St. Mary's and walk towards the
town. Both were tall, both in cloaks; but one wore his hat and the other carried it. By this, as well as his drooping, deferential
shoulders, I knew this latter to be the servant, the former his patron. Midway towards the Via de' Benci they stopped, while he
of the bare head explained at length, pointing this way and that with his hat, then counting on his fingers. I was now expert
enough to be able to read an Italian conversation more quickly than I could gather it in talk. There was no doubt what was
meant. "I shall go to such and such place, come back to such and such place; the carriage will stay here; in eight hours from
now your lordship shall be satisfied." The man of position nodded his agreement, acknowledged with another nod a low bow
from his inferior, and walked into Florence. As he entered the Via de' Benci I saw him plainly. It was the Marchese Semifonte. I
saw his pale, wandering eyes, his moth-white face. So then I knew who was the other, standing out in the Piazza by himself,
looking up towards my room.
CHAPTER XXVII. I SLAY A MAN
A sudden desire, whose origin I could not have defined, unless it sprang directly from alarm on her account, moved me away
from the window towards the door of Virginia's room. I listened at it, but could hear nothing, so presently (fearing some wild
intention of sacrifice on her part) I lifted the latch and looked in. No—she was there and asleep. I could see the dark masses of
her hair, hear her quick breathing, as impatient as a child's, and as innocent. Poor, faithful, ignorant, passionate creature—had I
wronged her? Did not her vehemence spring from loyalty? If she was mistaken, was it her fault? For what could she— that
unkempt companion of pigs and chicken, offspring of parents little higher in degree—what could she know of exalted love?
What, indeed?
I lit a candle and went to look at her. I considered her carefully, lying there prone, her face turned sideways to the pillow, one
bare arm flung over her eyes. She looked beautiful asleep, for her mouth had relaxed its look of proud reserve, and all her lines
were softened. She looked very tired, very pure, very young.
"God of Nature!" thought I. "Assuredly Thou didst not shape this fine, true creature for some villain's idle appetite. Assuredly
also Thou didst put her in my way for her salvation—and, may be, for mine. I accept the sign. Do Thou, therefore, stand my
friend." I shut the door softly and returned to my parlour. Very cautiously I drew near the window and peered out.
It was well that I took care. Fra Palamone was immediately underneath the window, grinning up, showing his long tooth, and
71