# A Jay of Italy/Chapter 20

pp. 244–254.

### CHAPTER XX

More and more drearily the burden of his long days pressed upon Tassino. He was not built for heroic endurance; and to have to suffer Damocles' fate without the feast was a very death-in-life to him. Here, in this dingy cabin, was no solace of wine to string his nerves; no charm of lights to scare away bogies; no outlook but upon beastliness and squalor. He seemed stranded on a mud-bank amidst the ebbing life of the city, and he despaired that the tide would ever turn and release him.
Listening at his grille, he would often curse to hear the name of his hated rival—'Bembo! Bembe, Bambino!' sing out upon the swarming air. It was the rallying-cry of the new socialism, the popular catchword of the moment; and he hugged himself in the thought of what it would spell to Galeazzo on his return, and by what racking and rending and stretching of necks he would mark his appreciation of its utterers' enthusiasm. If the Duke would only come back! Here was the last of three who desired, it appeared, each for a very different reason, the re-installation of an ogre in his kingdom.
But, in the meanwhile, he cowered in an endless apprehension as to his own safety, which Ludovico's last visit had certainly done nothing to reassure. On the contrary, it had but served to intensify the gloom of mystery in which he dwelt. He had since made sundry feeble-artful attempts to discover from Narcisso what secret attached to the ring, which, it appeared, that amiable peculator was accused of having filched, and why Messer Ludovico was so set on possessing it. Needless to say, his efforts met with no success whatever; and the corrosion of a new suspicion was all that they added to his already palsied nerves. The sick flabbiness and demoralisation of him grew positively pitiful, as he stood day after day at his grille, watching and moping and snivelling, and sometimes wishing he were dead.
Well, the thicker the mud, the more productive the tide when it comes; but he was fairly sunk to his neck before it floated him out.
One day, gazing down, his attention was attracted to a figure which had halted near below his coign of espial. As things went, there was nothing so remarkable in this figure, in its alien speech or apparel, as to make it arresting otherwise than by reason of its contiguity to himself. It was simply that of a crinkled hag, swart, snake-locked, cowled, her dress jingling with sequins, her right hand clawed upon a crutch. She appeared, in fact, just an old Levantine hoodie-crow, of the breed which was familiar enough to Milan in these cataclysmic days, when all sorts of queer, tragic fowl were being driven northwards from overseas before a tidal wave of Islamism. For half Christendom was writhing at this time under the embroidered slipper of the Turk, while other half was fighting and scratching and backing within its own ranks, in a sauve qui peut from Sultan Mahomet's ever nearer-resounding tread.
From Bosnia and Servia and Hungary; from Negropont and the islands of the Greek Archipelago; from new Rome itself, whose desolated houses and markets weeping Amastris had been emptied to repeople; from Trebizond and the Crimea, it came endlessly floating, this waste drift of palaces and temples and antique civilisations, which had been wrecked and scattered by that ruthless hate. Ruined merchants and traders; unfrocked satraps; priests of outlandish garb; girl derelicts blooded and defiled by janissaries; childless mothers and motherless children—scared immigrants all, they wailed and wandered in the towns, denouncing in their despair the creed whose jealousies and corruptions had delivered them to this pass.
In the first of their coming, a certain indignant sympathy had helped to the practical amelioration of their bitter lot. Men scowled and muttered over the histories of their wrongs; took warning for a possible overthrow of the entire Christian Church; talked big of sinking all differences in a kingdom-wide crusade; and, finally, fell to fisticuffs upon the question of a common commander for this problematic host. After which the immigrants, always flocking in thicker, and making civil difficulties, fell gradually subject to an indifference, not to say intolerance, which was at least half as great as that from which they had fled. Fashion, moreover, began to find in the Ser Mahomet a figure more and more attractive, in proportion as he approached it, issuing from the mists of the Orient. It was ravished with, if it did not want to be ravished by, those adorable Spahis, with their tinkling jackets and sashes and melancholy, wicked faces. It adapted prettily to itself the caftan, and the curdee, and the turban; re-read Messer Boccaccio's most Eastern fables; acted them, too, in drawers of rose-coloured damask, and little talpoes, which were tiny jewelled caps of velvet, cocked, and falling over one ear in a tassel. But by that time the cult of immigrancy was discredited du haut en das.
Many of the unhappy wretches were drawn by natural process into such sinks as 'The Vineyard.' The poor are good to the poor, and pitiful—which is strange—towards any fall from prosperity. In the instance of this old woman, it was notable how she was humoured of the drifting populace. The very ladroni, who, outside their own rookery, might have tormented and soused her in the kennel, were content here to rally and banter her a little, showing their white teeth to one another in jokes whose bent she was none the worse for misapprehending. For she had not much Italian, it appeared; though what was hers she was turning to the best possible advantage in the matter of fortune-telling.
Tassino saw many brawny palms thrust out for her shrewd conning; echoed from his eyrie many of the Eccomi perdútos and O mè beátos which greeted her broken sallies. She got a mite here and there, and buzzed and mumbled over it, clutching it to her lean bosom. Presently some distraction, of rape or murder, carried her audience elsewhere, and she was left temporarily alone. Then Tassino, moved by a sudden impulse, reached down his arm through the grate and tapped her reverend crown. She started, and ducked, and peered up. He whispered out to her:—
'Zitto, old mother! Come up here, and tell me my fortune for money.'
She seemed to hesitate; he signified the way; and lo! on a thought she came. He met her at the door, and dragged her in.
'Tell me my fortune,' he said, and thrust out a dirty palm.
She pored over it, chuckling and pattering her little incomprehensible shibboleth. Presently she seemed to pounce triumphantly on a knot. She leered up, her hand still clutching his, her hair falling over her eyes.
'Ah-yah!' she muttered. 'Ringa, ringa!' and shook her head.
He shrugged peevishly:—
'What do you mean, old hag?'
'Ringa!' she repeated: 'no ringa, no fortuna.'
He snatched his hand away.
'What ring, thou cursed harridan?'
She shook her head again.
'No know. Ringa—I see it—green cat-stone—hold off Fortuna. Get, and she change.'
He gnawed his lip, frowning and wondering. There was a ring in question, certainly. Could it be possible its possession was connected somehow with his personal fortunes? If that were so, here was a veritable Pythoness.
Her eyes stared dæmonic: she thrust out a finger, pointing:—
'I see, there: green cat-stone: get, and Fortuna change.'
Superstition mastered him. He trembled before her, quavering:—
'How can I? O mother! how can I?'
A voice in the street startled him. He leapt to the window and back again.
'Narcisso!' he gasped, and ran to bundle out his visitor.
'To-morrow—come again to-morrow—after dark,' he whispered hurriedly. 'I shall be alone—I will pay you—' and he drove her forth. Narcisso met her, issuing from the court below. He growled out a malediction, and came growling into the room.
'You keep nice company, Messer.'
'That is not my fault, beast,' answered Tassino pertly. 'When I choose my own, it is to amuse myself.'
'Well, I hope she amused you?'
'Not so much as I expected. I saw her telling fortunes down below, and called her up to read me mine. Acquaint me of the mystery of a certain ring I asked her; but, oimè! she could enlighten me nothing.'
Narcisso leered at him cunningly, and spat.
'It was as well, perhaps. I see th' art set upon that impertinence; and I'll only say again, "beware!"'
'You may say what you like, old yard-dog,' answered the youth. 'It's your business, chained up here, to snarl.'
But his fat brain was busy all night with the weird Hecate and her necromancy. What did this same ring portend to him, and how was his fate involved in its possession? There was a ring in question, doubtless; but whose? Then, all in an amazed moment inspiration flashed upon him. A green cat-stone! Had he not often seen such a ring on Bona's finger? It might indeed be the Duchess's own troth-ring!
He shrunk and cowered at first in the thought of the issues involved in such a possibility. Was it credible that it had been stolen from her? How could he tell, who had been imprisoned here so long? Only, if it were true that it had been, and he, Tassino, could secure it from whatever ravisher, what a weapon indeed it might be made to prove in his hand!
He exulted in that dream of retribution; had almost convinced himself by morning that its realisation lay within his near grasp. She, that old soothsayer, could surely show him the way to possess himself of what her art had so easily revealed to him for his fortune's talisman. This Eastern magic was a strange and terrible thing. He would pay her all he had for the secret!—make crawling love to her, if necessary.
All day he was in a simmer of agitated expectancy; and when dusk at last gathered and swelled he welcomed it as he had never done before. Fortunately Narcisso went out early, and need not be expected back betimes. He was engaged, the morrow being the feast of the Conception, to confess and prepare to communicate himself fasting from midnight; and it was a matter of religion with him on such occasions to take in an especial cargo against the ordeal. Before the streets were dark, Tassino was sitting alone; and so he sat, shuddering and listening, for another hour.
A step at last on the shallow stair! He held his breath. No, he was deceived. Sweating, on tiptoe, he stole to the door and peered out. All was silent, and dark as pitch. Then suddenly, while he looked, there came a muffled tramp and shuffle in the street, and on the instant a figure rose from the well of blackness below, mounting swiftly towards his door. He had barely time to retreat into the unlighted room before he felt his visitor upon him.
'My God!' he quavered; 'who is it? Keep away!' and he backed in ghastly fear to the wall.
'Hush!' (Ludovico's voice.) 'Are you alone?'
The frightened wretch stole forward a step.
'Messer! I thought you——'
'Never mind,' interrupted the other impatiently. 'Answer me.'
'Quite alone.'
'Humph! I thought you loved the dark less.'
'I—I was about to light the tapers; I swear I was. Wait only one moment, Messer.'
'Stop. No need. The night's the better confidant. Come here.'
Trembling all through, Tassino obeyed. A smooth hand groped, and fastening on his wrist, pressed a hard, round object into his palm. He had much ado not to shriek out.
'What's this?' he gasped.
'Be silent. Have you got it? Put it where it's secure. Well?'
''Tis in the scabbard of my knife, Messer—' (the blade clicked home).
'A good place; keep it there. Now, listen. There's no other here?'
'On my oath, no.'
'Nor on the stair?'
'How can there be between us and Messer's gentlemen?'
'Hark well, then. Thy life depends on it. They 've wind of thee, Tassino.'
'O, O! God pity me!'
'He helps those—you know the saw. 'Tis touch and go—come to this at last; either they destroy you, or you—them.'
'How? O, I shall die!'
'Wilt thou, then? Well, then, if thou wilt. Yet not so much as thy ear-lobe's spark of nerve were needed to forestall and turn the tables on them. They are very fond together, Tassino.'
'Curse them! If I could stab him in the back!'
'Well, why not? Thy scabbard holds the means.'
'My dagger?'
'Better.'
'What?'
'The Duchess's troth-ring.'
'Messer! My God!'
He leapt as if a trigger had clicked at him. Here was to have the gipsy's prophecy, his own fulsome hope, realised at a flash; but with what fearful significances for himself. So this had actually been the ring of contention, and secured at last—he might have known it would be—by Ludovico.
He gave an absurd little shaky laugh, desperately playful.
'How am I to stab with a ring, Messer?'
'Fool! answer for thyself.'
He was crushed immediately.
'By carrying it to the Duke?' he whispered fearfully.
'It is thy suggestion,' said Ludovico—'not for me to traverse. Well?'
'Ah! help me, Messer, for the Lord's sake. I turn in a maze.'
The Prince's thin mouth creased in the dark.
'Nay, 'tis no affair of mine,' he said. 'I am but friendship's deputy.'
Tassino almost whimpered, writhing about in helpless protest.
'He will thunder at me, "Whence reaches me this?"'
'Likely.'
'What shall I reply then?'
'Do you put the case hypothetically? I should answer broadly, on its merits, somehow as follows: "By the right round of intrigue, O Duke, completing love's cycle."'
'O Messer! How am I to understand you?'
'Why, easily—(I speak as one disinterested). Call it the cycle of the ring, and thus it runs: From the husband to the wife; from the wife to her paramour; from the paramour to his doxy; from the doxy back to the husband.'
'His doxy? O beast! Hath he a second?'
'Or had. I go by report, which says—but then I 'm no scandalmonger—that a certain lady, Caprona's widow, finds herself scorned of late.'
'And it comes from her—to me? For what? To destroy them both?'
'A shrewd suggestion. In that case your moods run together.'
'Monna Beatrice! She sends it?'
'Does she? Quote me not for it. It were ill so to requite my over-fond friendship. Thou hast the ring. I wish thee well with it. Dost mark?'
'I mark, Messer.'
'Why, so. Thou shouldst suffer after-remorse, having dragged in my name; and there is hellbane, so they tell me, in remorse.'
'I will die before I mention thee in it.'
'Well, I can trust the grave. That's to know a friend. So might I add something to thy credentials.'
'If it please you, Messer.'
'Why, look you, child, love may very well have its procurer—say a State Secretary, where love is of high standing. And thence may follow the subversion of a State. There's a pretender in Milan, they tell me, something an idol of the people—I know not. Only this I ponder: What if there be, and he that same idol which the Duchess is reported to have raised? Would Simonetta, in such case, join in the hymn of praise? One might foresee, if he did, a trinity very strong in the public worship. His Grace, I can't help thinking, would find himself de trop here at present. You might put it to him—your own way. When will you set out?'
'When?'
'This moment, I 'd advise. To-morrow might mean never. The Duke's at Vigevano—less than six leagues away. A good horse might carry thee there by morning. I've such a one in my stables. He'll honour thee for this service, trust me.'
Tassino's little soul spirted into flame.
'Viva il duca!' he piped, and ran to the door.
He drove it before him—it opened outwards—and, descending the dark stairs with his patron, passed into the night.
An hour later he was spurring for Vigevano, while the Prince was engaged in preparing against his own journey to Genoa on the morrow.