Chapter 21

And to-day the people gathered in gloomy silence while the great bell of the campanile tolled the call to the solemn funeral pageant by which the Republic offered reparation over the exhumed body of the victim. The senators, wrapped in mourning cloaks, surrounded the bust of the man they desired to honor as it was carried in triumph to the church where the tomb was prepared; and the three _avvogadori_, who had the keeping of the Golden Book, bore it on a great cushion behind the marble effigy, the leaf bound open where the name was re-inscribed. Here also walked the domestics of the re-habilitated noble of Venice--the hatchments that had been doomed to oblivion freshly embroidered upon their sleeves above their tokens of crêpe. The Doge and the Signoria all took part in this tragic confession of wrong, doing penance unflinchingly for the sins of their predecessors; for Venice could be munificent in reparation, not shrinking from her own humiliation to appease outraged justice and confirm her power, and there was nothing lacking that might add impressiveness to the pageant.

But the people looked on gloomy and unappeased, filled with a horror which the funeral pomp did little to quiet; they did not follow as the _cortège_ descended the steps of the Piazzetta to embark in the waiting gondolas that had been lavishly provided by the Republic. Santissima Maria! they wanted to get back to their own quarters on the Giudecca and breathe a little sunshine! What did one noble matter, less or more? "But it's a gloomy barcarolle that a dead man sings!"

"And one that hath not died his own death!" a woman answered under her breath, as she crossed herself with a shudder.

The wind inflated the empty folds of the crimson robe that draped the bier, carrying it almost into the water, as the gondolas glided away from the Piazzetta.

"San Marco save us! he wanted none of their pomp," said an onlooker scornfully. "The ten good years of his life and a quiet grave in San Michele--the Signoria would buy them dear, to give them to _him_ to-day!"

Yet if some had died unjustly, there was not less need of ceaseless vigilance against unceasing intrigue, within and without that body which held the power; and one morning the Senate was thrown into a state of great agitation by disclosures from one of the brothers of the Frari, indubitably confirmed by the papers which he delivered into the hands of the Doge.

"It is beyond belief!" Giustinian Giustiniani exclaimed to the Lady Laura, "how Spain findeth method to make traitors in Venice itself! It is a nation treacherous to the core, and it were beyond the diplomacy of any government,--save only ours,--to maintain relations on such a basis of fraud."

"What is there of new to chide them for?" she asked with keen interest.

"Is not the old enough to make one wrathful! Boastful threats of arms against the Republic if she yield not obedience to the Holy Father, with secret promises of armed assistance to his Holiness to keep him firm in his course, at the very moment of her cringing attempts at mediation lest France should carry off the glory!--and because Spain hath neither men to spare for Rome, nor courage to declare against the Republic, nor diplomacy to bring anything to an issue!"

"Nay, now them art returned to Venice forget the disturbing ways of Spain," the Lady Laura answered, with an attempt at conciliation. "I am glad that thy mission in that strange land hath come to an end."

"Ay, but the ways of Spain do make traitors of us all!" Giustinian exclaimed hotly. "When a senator of the Republic hath such amity for the ambassador of his Most Catholic Majesty, forsooth, that at vespers and at matins, in the Frari, they must use the self-same kneeling stool--a tenderness and devotion beautiful to see in men so great; for it is aye one, and aye the other, and never both who tell their beads at once--that, verily, some brother of the Frari doth take cognizance of a thing so rare and saintly and bringeth word thereof to the Serenissimo, _with matter of much interest found within the prie-dieu_."

"Giustinian!"

"Ay, these minutes of the noble Senator, who acteth so well the spy for favor of Spain, would do honor to a ducal secretary, for accuracy of information concerning weighty private matters before the Council! And due acknowledgment of so rare a courtesy doth not fail us in the very hand of the ambassador himself, for this letter also was intercepted! This frate who hath brought the information verily deserveth honor for so great a service!"

"And the others?"

"Is there more than one treatment for a traitor?" Giustinian exclaimed, with increasing temper. "And for the ambassador--it hath already been courteously signified to him that the air of Venice agreeth not well with one of his devotional tendencies."

"Tell me the name of the traitor," the Lady Laura urged, coming close and laying her hand upon his shoulder.

"Nay," said her husband, shaking off her touch impatiently, "my anger doth unlock my speech to a point I had not dreamed, for the matter may be held before the Inquisition! But it is a name unknown to thee, and new to this dignity, which he weareth like a clown! The freedom is still too great for this entry to the Senate; the serrata hath done its work too lightly if it leave space for one parvenu! To-morrow, when thou takest the air in thy gondola, my Lady Laura, thou shalt look between the columns of the Ducal Palace and know whatever the State will declare to thee of that which concerneth the government alone! The times are perilous."

"They will be better when the interdict is removed----"

"Ay--no--one knows not; it is a matter too grave for women and too little for the Republic to grieve about. His Holiness would have us on our knees, weeping like naughty infants, and abjectly craving his pardon for daring to make our own laws and uphold our prince!"

"Giustinian, there is more to it than that."

"Ay, there _is_ more, if it setteth the women up to preach to us and to expound the laws of the Republic--a knowledge in which I knew not that they held the mastery! Take not the tone of Marina, who hath come near to killing herself and making half a fool of Marcantonio."

"Nay, Marco is true to Venice and swerveth not. And for our daughter--she hath suffered till it breaks my heart to look into her face, poor child! And thou, Giustinian, wert little like thyself, when she lay almost dying! The Signor Nani hath confessed to me that in Rome there was much intriguing for her favor--of which she suspected naught. It was a harm to them that they went to Rome; I would not have had it so."

"Ay, thou would'st not have had it so; thou would'st have had it all thine own way!" retorted Giustinian, who was becoming impossible to please, now that the paths of government were growing more thorny and exacting, and the Lion showed no sign of climbing to his portal. "That father confessor of hers hath much to answer for. Keep the little one well out of the way of their craft--dost thou hear? He is to be trained for Venice, after the ways of the Ca' Giustiniani. And Marcantonio--who knows?"

He had drifted into his favorite reverie, and wandered abstractedly out upon the balcony looking longingly toward the rose-colored palace where his every ambition centred; but he felt the glittering, jeweled eyes of the patron saint of Venice glare upon him mockingly from his vantage point upon the column, while the very twist of the out-thrust tongue insinuated a personal message of malice and defeat.

XXVIII

Venice was flooded with moonlight. The long line of palaces down the Canal Grande shone back from the breast of the water, starred with lights, repeated again and again in the rippling surface.

A ceaseless melody filled the air, braided of sounds familiar only to this magic city--echoes of laughter from balconies high in air, silvery tintinnabulations falling like drippings of water from speeding oars, franker bursts of merriment from the open windows of the palaces, low murmured tones of lovers in content from gliding gondolas, hoarse shouts of quick imperious orders from gondoliers to offending gondoliers, as they passed--apostrophes to liquid names of guardian saints, too melodious for denunciations, hurled back with triple expletives and forgotten the next moment in friendly parsiflage; here and there a strain of ordered music, in serenade, from a group of friendly gondolas swaying only with the tranquil movement of the water; or the mysterious tone of a violin, uttering a soul prayer meant for some single listener, which yet steals tremblingly forth upon the night air--more passionate, more beautiful and true than that other human voice which breaks the quiet of a neighboring calle with some monotonous love song of the people.

And far away, perhaps, in the quainter squares of the more primitive island villages--in Burano or Chioggia--before the Duomo, some reader lies at full length in the brilliant moonlight under the banner of San Marco, his "Boccaccio" open before him, repeating in a half-chant, monotonous and droning, some favorite tale from the well-worn pages to listeners who pause in groups in their evening stroll and linger until another story is begun; this time it is some strophe from the "Gerusalemme," to which a passing gondolier may chant the answering strain--for this is the very poem of the people, echoing familiarly from lip to lip, and tales from the Tasso are not seldom wrought into the ebony carvings of their barks. Meanwhile the younger men and maidens, on a neighboring fondamenta, keep step to the music of some strolling player who lives, content, on the trifling harvest of these moonlight festivities.

In the great Piazza of San Marco, with its hundreds of lights and its hurrying throng, life is gayer than in the day. Crowds come and go under the arcades, loiter at the tables closely set before the brilliant cafes, or stroll with laughter and snatches of song and free Venetian banter where there is less restraint, up and down the broad space of the Piazza, between the colonnade and the burnished Eastern magnificence of San Marco, beyond the reach of the yellow lamp flames--their laughing faces grotesque and weird in the white glare of the moon. But under the shadow of the Broglio and those great columns of the Ducal Palace there are only slow-moving figures here and there, wrapped in cloaks, and dark under the low, unlighted arches, talking in undertones which even the watchful Lion--so near, so cunning--does not always overhear.

But in the calles, half in moonlight and half in shadow, night wears a more poetic air of mystery and quiet; and if a fear but come in passing some dread spot of tragic memory, a gentle Virgin at every turning, with a dingy, flickering flame beneath her image, is waiting to grant her grace--for is not Venice the Virgin City? And on the splendid palaces in the broad canals the watching Madonna stands glorified in exquisite sculpture and cunningest blendings of color,--ofttimes a crown of light above her, or rays of stars, symbolic, beneath her feet,--casting her benediction far out on the water, which, ever in motion, repeats it in shimmering, widening circles--all-embracing--in which the stars of heaven shine, tangled and confused with these stars of a paradise in which earth has so large a part.

Yet in the glory and charm of this Venetian night how should there be space for sorrow or thought of care, or cause for the tears which brimmed the eyes of the Lady Marina, as she sat in her sculptured balcony at the bend of the Canal Grande, watching for the coming of Marcantonio, who lingered late at the Senate when every moment was precious to her!

Ever since her husband had left her she had sat with her little one gathered convulsively in her arms, showering upon him a tenderness so passionate and so unlike herself in its uncontrolled expression, that the child, wondering and afraid, was but half-beguiled by the rare treat of the music and the lights of the Canal Grande, and clamored for his nurse.

And now he was gone, with a kiss upon his sweet, round baby-mouth that was like a benediction and a dirge in which a whole heart of wild mother love sobbed itself out in renunciation--but to him it was only strange. And she herself had hushed the grieving quiver of his lip, and quickly filled his dimpled hands with flowers to win the farewell caress of that dancing smile which irradiated his face like an April sunbeam, parting the pink lips over a vision of pearly infant teeth.

Below, in the chapel, her maidens were decking it as for a festa with vines and blossoms which she and Marco had brought that day--that heavenly day--from the beautiful island of Sant' Elenà, wandering alone, like rustic lovers, over the luxuriant flower-starred meadows and through the cloistered gardens of its ancient convent, lingering awhile in the chapel of the Giustiniani, while he rehearsed the deeds of those of his own name who slept there so tranquilly under their marble effigies--primate, ambassadors, statesmen, and generals; ay, and more than these--lovers, mothers, and little ones!

And now, while she sat alone in this holy moonlight, the voices of her maidens came in sounds of merriment through the fretted stonework of the great window, and a sweet odor of altar candles and incense mingled with the breath of the blossoms that was wafted up to her; for to-morrow, for the first time since her illness, there would be matins in the chapel of the palazzo, and Marcantonio had assured her that the new father confessor was much like Fra Francesco--coming, also, from the convent of the Servi, that he might seem nearer to her who had so loved the gentle confessor.

Ay, she had loved him, with a holy reverence, for his goodness and gentleness and faith; for his inflexible grasp of duty, according to his views of right; for his teachings, which she could understand and which she believed the Holy Mother had taught him--for his self-denial and suffering.

And now, for a few moments, she forgot herself--forgot to watch for Marco, her thoughts busied with the sad tale of Fra Francesco, which Piero, always _in viaggio_ for business of the Senate, had told her but a few days before--news that had reached him from the frontier. The gentle confessor had indeed completed his pilgrimage, barefooted, to Rome, but had gained no favor with the Holy Father; having at first been welcomed as a deserter from the enemy's camp, flattered, and plied with questions, to which Fra Francesco gave no answers--wishing no harm to Venice nor to any who sat in the councils of the Republic. Whereupon his lodgings had been changed and all communications with the brothers of the Servite chapel in Rome had been forbidden. And again, and more than once, he had been brought forth to be questioned; and again there had been nothing told of that which they sought, for they asked him of his friends, and his heart was true. But it was told that he had used strange words. "Each man is answerable to his own soul and to God for that which he believeth. He answereth not for the faith of another man--nor shall he bring danger upon his friend--who hath also his conscience and God for judge of his faith and actions."

"But what of Fra Paolo?" he had been asked; "How doth he defend himself for leading thus the cause of Venice against Rome?"

"Am I my brother's keeper?" the gentle Fra Francesco had answered; and had said no more.

"Thou shalt at least show us how one may obtain speech with him, for the furtherance of his soul's salvation--apart from the vigilance of the Senate, and without suspicion in the convent that the message cometh from Rome, else were it not received in that unholy city."

And in this also Fra Francesco was obdurate. And then, for disobedience to authority, acknowledged lawful by his own submission, came prison--wherein he languished, always obdurate,--and death,--perhaps from discontent or homesickness, one knows not; or from failure of his plans; or--there was a question of torture, but one knows not if it were true.

"No, no, it was not true!" Marina had exclaimed, quivering, when Piero had told her the story. "It is wicked to say these things--and they are not true!"

But now, alone--apart from all the brightness about her, from every hope of happiness except those few brief hours with Marco--she did not know if it might not be true; her heart was too sad to deny any pain that had been or that might be; but Fra Francesco's sad and gentle eyes seemed to smile upon her through whatever distance might be between them--of this, or of any other world--without reproach for those who had bidden him suffer, and charging her to keep her faith.

"If it be true," she said, "the end of pain is reached, and he hath won his happiness.--Why cometh not my Marco?"

A gondola of the Nicolotti detached itself from a group of serenaders just above the palace, was caught for a few moments among the _pali_ before the Ca' Giustiniani, and then floated leisurely down toward the Piazzetta. She noted it idly while she sat waiting for Marco, for in the gondola there was a graceful figure, closely wrapped, clasping her mantle yet more closely with a hand that was white and slender enough for one of the nobility; yet the gondolier wore the black sash of the Nicolotti with the great hat of a bravo shading his face. "It is some intrigue," she said, almost unconsciously, in the midst of her sad dreaming.

"Oh, Marco, thou art come! It hath been long without thee."

"The Senate is but just dismissed," he answered, smiling fondly at the eagerness which gave to her pale face a passing flush of health. "But why is the Lady Beata not with thee?" he questioned abruptly.

"She is in the chapel, making it fair with flowers."

"Thou knowest it, Marina?"

"She came to me with a question but a little while ago, when Marconino was with me--and I wished to be alone. Marco, he was so beautiful! And the day has been a dream; I wished for no one but for thee alone."

He held her hand in a mute caress, but with preoccupation, while his eyes wandered back to the Piazzetta searchingly.

"It is strange," he muttered to himself, still watching from the end of the balcony. "It was an echo of the Lady Beata's voice that startled me, crossing the Piazzetta saying two words only--'In Padua.'"

Then rousing himself, he turned brightly to his wife. "Carina, I have news for thee, for the time hath been momentous for us in Venice. Di Gioiosa hath gone forward, these many days, with terms from Venice; and soon, it is thought, there will be peace."

_Terms_ from Venice to Rome!--but the words did not move her from her resolve to let no shadow of their difference mar the beauty of this night.

She looked at him wearily. "It is ever the same," she said, "through this long, dreary year--ever the same! Let us forget it all for this one night. Let us talk together of our Marconino!"

And as if there had been no questions--no interdict--no pain--while the night sounds died into silence and the moon withdrew her glamor and left them alone to the solemn mystery of the starlight, they sat and talked together of love and their little one and their hopes for him, and of things that lie too deep for utterance--save by one to one--far into that beautiful Venetian night, with the odor of flowers and incense blown up to them on the breath of the sea.

XXIX

The yellow lamp flames were burning late in the cabinet of Girolamo Magagnati, who took less note of the difference between evening hours and those of early dawn since there was no longer in his household a beloved one to guard from weariness. Nay, the night was rather the time in which he might forget himself and plunge more whole-heartedly into his schemes of work--financial or creative. For the world was surely on the eve of discoveries important to his art, and it would be well if he might secure them, before his working days should pass, for the Stabilimento Magagnati.

Piero Salin stood in the doorway as he glanced up from the drawings that littered his table--the dark oak table which had seemed a centre of cheer to Girolamo, when, in this very chamber, his child had made a radiance for him in which the lines of his life shone large and satisfying.

Girolamo never seemed to remember that this son-in-law was a great man among the people; to him he was only Piero Salin, barcariol; the single token of the old man's favor was that in his thought he no longer added the despicable word _toso_; and it was a proof that he was mellowing with the years, for Girolamo never forgot this unwelcome and dishonorable past, and Piero was always ill at ease in his presence.

"Messer Magagnati," he began awkwardly, twirling his black cap in his hand rather after the fashion of a gondolier than of the Chief of the Nicolotti, "I must crave, by dawn of the morrow, the blessing of San Nicolò--of holy memory."

"Enter," said Girolamo, with a reluctance not wholly concealed by his attempt at courtesy, for he felt the moments to be the more precious that the dawn was near; but the invocation of the sailor's patron saint portended a journey. "Verily, Piero, thy comings and goings have been, of late, so frequent that one learns the wisdom of not mourning over-much when thou dost crave an ave at the shrine of San Nicolò. May he grant thee favoring breezes! Thou art in favor with the Ten, they tell me."

Piero shrugged his shoulders. "Favor or disfavor," he said, "it is but the turning of the head--and both may lead to that place of unsought distinction between San Marco and San Teodoro, if the orders of their Excellencies bring not the end they sought. But it matters little--a candle flame is better blown out than dying spent."

"And whither art thou bent on the morrow?"

"Nay, Messer Girolamo, that is not mine own secret. But this word would I leave with thee; if, perchance, I return not before many days, seek me on the border-land--at the point nearest Roman dominions." He had come close to the old merchant, and uttered the last words in a tone very low and full of meaning.

Girolamo started. "On the border-land of Rome!" he echoed. "This mission of thine is then weighty; and thou fearest----"

"Nay, I fear naught," said Piero haughtily. "But the times are perilous; and later, if thou would'st seek me, thou hast the clew. But of the mission, to which I am sworn in secrecy, let it not be known that I have so much as named it--it would argue ill for me and thee. And the clew is for thy using only. Meanwhile, forget that I have spoken. The Ave Maria will soon waken the fishers of Murano. _Addio_!"

But he still waited as if he had not uttered all his mind. Girolamo studied his face closely.

"There is more," he said. "Speak!"

"By the Holy Madonna of San Donato!" said Piero, casting off his restraint with a sudden impulse, "if I come not back, I would have thee know that if ever there came a chance to me to serve Marina--the Lady Marina of the Giustiniani--I, Piero, barcariol or gastaldo, would serve her as a soldier may serve a saint. For she hath been good to the Zuanino. Ay, though it cost me my life, I would serve her like a saint in heaven!" he repeated. Then, flushed with the shame of such unwonted speech and confession, he hastened to the door, and his steps were already resounding on the stone floor of the passage when Girolamo recovered from his astonishment sufficiently to follow him into the shadow and command him to stop.

"Thou hast seen my daughter--thou hast news of her?"

"Ay, yestere'en, at the Ave Maria, I spoke with her, in Santa Maria dell' Orto, coming upon her kneeling before the great picture of Jacopo Robusti--she, saint enough already to wear a gloria and looking as if the heart of her were worn away from grief! She hath need of thee daily, for her love for thee is great, and death not far."