Chapter 6

Giorgione laughed harshly. "Fled as a bird," he said gayly, "a bird that was snared." He hummed a few bars of the song and stopped, his gaze fixed on vacancy. A great shudder broke through him, and he buried his face in his hands. There was no movement but the heave of his shoulders, and no sound. The light upon the floor danced in the stillness.

Titian's eyes rested on it, perplexed. He crossed the room swiftly and touched a bell. He gave an order and waited with his hand on his friend's shoulder till the servant returned.

"Drink this," he said firmly, bending over him. He was holding a long, slender glass to his lips.

The man quaffed it--slowly at first, then eagerly. "Yes, that is good!" he said as he drained the glass. "I tremble here." He laid his hand on his heart. "And my hand is strange." He smiled--a wan, wintry smile--and looked at his friend with searching eyes.

"Where have they gone?" he demanded.

Titian shook his head. "How should I know?"

"He said he was going to you."

"Zarato?" Titian started. "For the portrait--He will be there!"

Giorgione broke into a harsh laugh. "No portrait for Zarato!" He said it exultantly.

"What do you mean!"

"He bears a beauty mark." He laughed again.

"You did not----?"

Giorgione glanced cunningly about the studio. His big face worked and his eyes were flushed. He laid his hand on his lips.

"Hush!" he said. "It is a secret--I--she--branded him with this." A piece of heavy iron lay on the sill--the wood near it blackened and charred. He took it up fondly.

"Look!" He pointed to the fire-worn end.

Titian shrank back in horror. "You are mad!" he said.

Giorgione shook his head sadly. "I wish I were mad ... my eyes have seen too much." He rubbed his hand across them vaguely.

"Sleep--" he murmured. "A little sleep." The potion was beginning to take effect.

Titian laid him on the couch near by and hurried from the studio.

"Home!" he said to the white-robed gondolier who looked back for orders. "Home! Row for life!"

A sense of vague horror haunted him. He dared not think what tragedy might be enacting. A man of Zarato's proud spirit--"Faster!" he called to the laboring gondolier, and the boat shot under the awning.

With a sigh of relief he closed the door of his studio behind him.... On the couch across the room, his cap fallen to the floor and his arms hanging at his sides, lay the young man asleep. Titian moved forward, scanning eagerly the dark, handsome face. Deep shadows lay under the closed lids, and a look of scornful suffering touched the lines of the mouth. Slowly his eyes traversed the figure. He gave a start and bent closer, his eyes peering forward.... The left hand trailing on the floor was gloved, but above the low wrist a faint line shot up--a blotch on the firm flesh.

With an exclamation of horror he dropped to his knees and lifted the hand.

It rested limply in his grasp.

Slowly the eyes opened and looked out at him. A faint flush overspread the young man's face. He withdrew the hand and sat up. "I came to tell you the portrait--must wait," he said apologetically, "I fell asleep." He picked up his cap from the floor and smoothed its ruffled surface. "I must go now." He looked awkwardly at his friend and got to his feet.

"Zarato," said Titian sternly. "Where is she?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," slowly.

"You don't know! She has left home----"

"But not with me."

The two men stood staring at each other.

There was a sound of steps in the hall and the door swung open. It was a group of Venetian boatmen, bearing in their midst a wet, sagging form. The red-gold hair trailed heavily. They moved stolidly across the room and laid their burden on the low bench. The oldest of them straightened his back and looked apologetically at the wet marks on the shining floor.

"He said to bring her here, Signor." He motioned clumsily toward the wet figure. "He said so."

"Who said it?" said Titian harshly.

"Signor--The Signor--Giorgione.... We took her there. He would not let us in. He stood at the window. He was laughing. He said to bring her here," ended the old man stolidly. "She is long dead." He bent to pick up the heavy litter. The group shuffled from the room.

Slowly the young man crossed to the bench. He knelt by the motionless figure and, drawing the glove from his hand, laid it on the breast that shone in the wet folds.

"I swear, before God--" he said ... "before God!" He swayed heavily and fell forward.

The artist sprang to his side. As he touched him, his eye fell on the ungloved hand.... Shuddering, he reached over and lifted the glove from the wet breast. He drew it over the hand, covering it from sight.

VI

"You must go!" said Titian sternly.

The young man looked at him dully, almost appealingly. He shook his head. "I have work to do."

Titian lifted an impatient hand. "The people will not permit it--I tell you!" He spoke harshly. "Giorgione is their idol. It has been hard to keep them--this one week! Only my promise that you go at once holds them."

The young man smiled, a little cynically. "Do you think I fear death--I crave it!" His arms fell at his sides.

His companion looked at him intently. "What is your plan?" he asked shortly.

"Giorgione--" The voice was tense. "He shall pay--to the uttermost!"

"For that?" Titian made a motion toward the gloved hand.

The young man raised it with a scornful gesture.

"For that"--he spoke sternly--"I would not touch the dog. It is for her!" His voice dropped.

Titian waited a moment. "What would you do?" he asked in a low voice.

The young man stirred. "I care not. He must suffer--as she suffered," he added with slow significance.

"Would that content you? Would you go away--and not return?"

"I would go--yes."

Titian waited, his eyes on the gloved hand. "You can go," he said at last, "the Lord has avenged her."

The young man leaned forward. His breath came sharply. "What do you mean?"

"That she is avenged," said Titian slowly. "Giorgione cannot live the year. Go away. Leave him to die in peace."

"I did not ask for peace," said the young man grimly.

Titian turned on him fiercely. "His heart breaks. He dies drop by drop!"

The young man smiled.

Titian watched him closely. "You need not fear his not suffering," he said significantly. "Go watch through his window, or by a crack in the door."--He waited a breath. "The man is mad!"

The young man started sharply.

"Mad!" repeated Titian.

Zarato turned on him a look of horror and exultation. "Mad!" he repeated softly. The gloved hand trembled.

A look of relief stole into Titian's face. "Does that satisfy you?" he asked quietly. "Will you go?"

"Yes, I will go." The young man rose. He moved toward the door. "Mad!" he whispered softly.

"Wait," said Titian. He sprang before him. "Not by daylight--you would be murdered in the open street! You must wait till night.... I shall row you, myself, out from the city. It is arranged. A boat waits for you."

The young man looked at him gratefully. "You take this risk for me?" he said humbly.

"For you and Giorgione and for--her."

They sat silent.

"He will never paint again," said the young man, looking up quickly with the thought.

Titian shook his head. "Never again," he said slowly.

The young man looked at him. "There are a dozen pictures begun," he said, "a dozen and more."

"Yes."

"Who will finish them?"

"Who can tell?" The painter's face had clouded.

"Shall you?"

Titian returned the suspicious gaze frankly. "It is not likely," he said. "He will not speak to me or see me. He says I am false to him--I harbor you."

The young man's gaze fell. "I will go," he said humbly. He shivered a little.

"And not return till I send for you."

"I will not return--till you send for me!"

VII

Venice laughed in the sunshine. Gay-colored boats flitted here and there on the Grand Canal, and overhead the birds of Venus sailed in the warm air.

A richly equipped gondola, coming down the canal, made its way among the moving boats. Its occupant, a dark, handsome man, sitting alone among the crimson cushions, looked out on the hurrying scene with watchful eyes. Other eyes from passing gondolas returned the glance with curious, smiling gaze and drifted past. No one challenged him and none remembered. Two years is overlong for laughing Venice to hold a grudge or to remember a man--when the waters close over him.... Slowly the boat drifted on, and the dark eyes of the man feasted on the flow and change of color.... "Bride of the Sea," he murmured as the boat swept on. "Bride of the Sea--There is none like thee in beauty or power!" His eyes, rapt with the vision, grew misty. He raised an impatient hand to them, and let it fall again to his knee. It rested there, strong and supple. The seal of a massive ring broke its whiteness. The other hand, incased in a rich glove, rested on the edge of the gondola. The man's eyes sought it for a moment and turned away to the gay scene.

With a skilful turn the boat had come to rest at the foot of a flight of stairs leading to a richly carved doorway. The young man leaped out and ran up the steps. The great silent door swung open to his touch, and he disappeared within.

Titian, standing by his easel, looked up quickly. "You are come!" He sprang forward, holding out his hands.

The young man took them, looking into the welcoming eyes. "I am come," he said slowly.

"Why did you send for me?" he asked after a pause. His eyes sought the glowing walls of color, with curious, eager glance.

"Nothing there!" The painter shook his head with a wistful smile. "I have not done a stroke since that last night--the night I rowed you out to the lagoon."

"Why not?" They were seated by a window; the tide of life drifted below.

Titian shook his head again. "I was broken at first--too strained and weak. My fingers would not follow my thoughts." He glanced down at them ruefully. "And then--" His voice changed. "Then they came for me to finish his pictures.... There has been no time."

"Did he want you to do it?" asked the other in a low voice.

Titian's gaze returned the question. "I shall never know--He would not see me--to the last. He never spoke.... When he was gone they came for me. I did the work and asked no questions--for friendship's sake." He sighed gently and his glance fell on the moving, changing crowd below.

"His name is water," he said slowly. "Ask for the fame of Giorgione--They will name you--Titian!" He laughed bitterly.

The young man's smile had little mirth in it. "We are all like that...." He turned to him sharply: "Why did you want me?"

The painter roused himself. "To sit for me"--with a swift look. "I am hunted! I cannot wipe away your face--as it looked that night. I paint nothing.... Perhaps when you are done in oil I shall rest easy." He laughed shortly and rose to his feet.

The young man rose also with a courteous gesture of the supple hand. "I am at your service, Signor Cevelli, now and always."

Titian's eyes swept the graceful figure. "I must begin at once." He turned away to an easel.

"There was a picture begun, was there not?" asked the young man. He had not moved from his place.

Titian looked up swiftly. "Yes," he said. "Yes."

"Why not finish that?"

The painter waited an awkward moment. He crossed the room and fumbled among the canvases. Then he brought it and placed it on the easel, looking at it.... Slowly the look changed to one of pride, and his hand reached out for a brush.

The young man moved to his side. They looked at it in silence.

"You will not do better." The young man spoke with decision. "Best finish it as it stands--I am ready." He moved to his place by the console, dropping his hand upon it and standing at ease.

Titian looked at him doubtfully. "We shall change the length and perhaps the pose," he said thoughtfully.

"Why?" The question came sharply.

The painter colored under it. "I had planned--to make much of the--hands." He hesitated between the words. "The change will be simple," he added hastily.

"Would you mind painting me as I am?" There was a note of insistence behind the words.

Titian's eyes leaped at the question. They scanned the figure before him with quick, gleaming lights.

The young man read their depths. "Go on," he said coolly. "When my feelings are hurt I will tell you."

The painter took up his brushes, working with swift haste. Fingers and brush and thumb flew across the canvas. Splotches of color were daubed on and rubbed carelessly in and removed with infinite pains. Over the picture crept a glow of living color and of light.

At last the brush dropped. "I can do no more--to-day," he said slowly. His eyes dwelt on the picture lovingly.

The young man came across and joined him, looking down at the glowing canvas. His lips curved in a sweet smile.

"You thought I was ashamed of it?" The gloved hand lifted itself slightly. "I would not part with it--not for all the gold of Venice!"

The painter's eyes were on it, doubtingly. "But you wear it gloved," he stammered.

"It is not for the world to see," murmured the young man quietly. "It is our secret--hers and mine. It was her last touch on my hand."

Titian's eyes stared at him.

"You did not know?" The lips smiled at him. "It was her hand that did it." He touched the glove lightly. "Giorgione stood over her--and guided it...." His voice ceased with a catch.

Titian's eyes were full of tears. "Poor Violante!" he murmured. "Poor child!"

The other nodded slightly. "It has pledged us forever--forever." He repeated the words in low, musical exultation. The locket suspended from its slender chain amid the folds of his cloak, swung forward as he moved. A hand stayed it--the gloved hand.

There was silence between them. Voices from the canal floated up, laughter-laden. The June sunshine flooded in.

Titian roused himself with a sigh. "It shall be called 'The Portrait of a Gentleman,'" he said. He laid his hand with swift affection on the arm beside him.

The young man smiled back. His hand closed firmly over the one on his arm. "Call it 'The Man With the Glove,'" he said quietly. "It is the open secret that remains unguessed."

THE LOST MONOGRAM

I

The woman seated in the light of the low, arched window was absorbed in the piece of linen stretched on a frame before her. As her fingers hovered over the brilliant surface, her eyes glowed with a look of satisfaction and lighted the face, making it almost handsome. It was a round, smooth face, untouched by wrinkles, with light-blue eyes--very near the surface--and thin, curved lips.

She leaned back in her chair to survey her work, and her lips took on a deeper curve. Then they parted slightly. Her face, with a look of listening, turned toward the door.

The young man who entered nodded carelessly as he threw back the blue-gray cloak that hung about his shoulders and advanced into the room.

She regarded the action coldly. "I have been waiting, Albrecht." She spoke the words slowly. "Where have you been?"

"I see." He untied the silken strings of the cloak and tossed it from him. "I met Pirkheimer--we got to talking."

The thin lips closed significantly. She made no comment.

The young man crossed the room and knelt before a stack of canvases by the wall, turning them one by one to the light. His full lips puckered in a half whistle, and his eyes had a dreamy look.

The woman had returned to her work, drawing in the threads with swift touch.

As the man rose to his feet her eyes flashed a look at the canvas in his hand. They fell again on her work, and her face ignored him.

He placed the canvas on an easel and stood back to survey it. His lips whistled softly. He rummaged again for brushes and palette, and mixed one or two colors on the edge of the palette. A look of deep happiness filled his absorbed face.

She lifted a pair of scissors and snipped a thread with decisive click. "Are you going on with the portrait?" she asked. The tone was clear and even, and held no trace of resentment.

He looked up absently. "Not to-day," he said. "Not to-day." His gaze returned to the easel.

The thin lips drew to a line. They did not speak. She took off her thimble and laid it in its velvet sheath. She gathered up the scattered skeins of linen and silk, straightening each with a little pull, and laid them in the case. She stabbed a needle into the tiny cushion and dropped the scissors into their pocket. Then she rose deliberately, her chair scraping the polished boards as she pushed it back from the frame.

He looked up, a half frown between the unseeing eyes.

She lifted the embroidery-frame from its rest and turned toward the door. "I have other work to do if I am not to pose for you," she said quietly.

He made no reply.

Half-way to the door she paused, looking back. "Herr Mündler was here while you were out. We owe him twenty-five guldens. It was due the fifth." She spoke the words crisply. Her face gave no sign of emotion.

He nodded indifferently. "I know. I shall see him." The soft whistle was resumed.

"There is a note from the Rath, refusing you the pension again." She drew a paper from the work-box in her hand and held it toward him.

He turned half about in his chair. "Don't worry, Agnes," he said. The tone was pleading. He did not look at the paper or offer to take it. His eyes returned to the easel. A gentle light filled them.

She dropped the paper into the box, a smile on her lips, and moved toward the easel. She stood for a moment, looking from the pictured face of the Christ to the glowing face above it. Then she turned again to the door. "It's very convenient to be your own model," she said with a laugh. The door clicked behind her.

He sat motionless, the grave, earnest eyes looking into the eyes of the picture. Now and then he stirred vaguely. But he did not lift his hand or touch the brushes beside it. Gazing at each other, in the fading light of the low window, the two faces were curiously alike. There was the same delicate modelling of lines, the same breadth between the eyes, the long, flowing locks, the full, sensitive lips, and in the eyes the same look of deep melancholy--touched with a subtle, changing, human smile that drew the beholder. It disarmed criticism and provoked it. Except for the halo of mocking and piercing thorns, the living face might have been the pictured one below it. The look of suffering in one was shadowed in the other.

There was a light tap at the door and it flew open.

The painter looked up quickly. The tense, earnest gaze broke into a sunny smile. "Pirkheimer!" He sprang to his feet. "What now?"

The other man came leisurely across the room, his eyes on the easel. He nodded toward it approvingly.

"Wanted to see it," he said. His eyes studied the picture. "I got to thinking it over after you left me--I was afraid you might touch it up and spoil it--I want it just as it is." His eyes sought his companion's face.

The painter shook his head. "I don't know--not yet--you must leave it with me. It's yours. You shall have it--when it's done."

"It's done now," said the other brusquely. "Here--sign." He picked up a brush, and, dipping it into a soft color on the palette, handed it to the painter.

He took it doubtfully between his fingers, his eyes on the face. Slowly his hand moved toward the canvas. It traced rapidly, below the flowing locks, a huge, uncouth A; then, more slowly, within the sprawling legs of the A, a shadowy D; and finally, at the top, above them both, in tiny figures, a date--1503. The brush dropped from his fingers, and he stepped back with a little sigh.

His companion reached out his hand. "That's all right," he said. "I'll take it."

The artist interposed a hand. "Not yet," he said.

"It's mine," replied the other. "You said it."

"Yes, I said it--not yet."

The other yielded with a satisfied smile. His hand strayed to the purse hanging at his side. "What's to pay? Tell me."

The artist shook his head. "I would not sell it--not even to you," he said. His eyes were on the canvas.

"But it's mine!"

"It's yours--for friendship's sake."

The young man nodded contentedly. Then a thought struck across his face. "You'll tell Agnes that?" he said quickly.

"Ay, I'll tell Agnes--that it's yours. But not what you paid for it," added the painter thoughtfully.

"No, no, don't tell her that." The young man spoke quickly. His tone was half jesting, half earnest. He stood looking at the two faces, glancing from one to the other with a look of baffled resentment. "A living shame!" he muttered under his breath.

The artist looked up quickly. "What?"

"Nothing." The young man moved vaguely about the room. "I wish to God, Dürer, you had a free hand!" he broke out.

The artist glanced inquiry. He held up his hand, moving the supple fingers with a little gesture of pride. "Isn't it?" he demanded, smiling.

The young man shook his head. His round face retained its look of dissent. "Marriage--for a man like you! Two hundred florins--for dowry!" He laughed scornfully.

His companion's face flushed. A swift look came into the eyes.

The other held out a deprecating hand. "I didn't mean it," he said. "Don't be angry."

The flush faded. The artist turned to the easel, taking up a brush, as if to seek in work a vent for his disturbed thought.

"You'll spoil it!" said Pirkheimer quickly.

"I shall finish it," replied Dürer, without looking up.

The other moved restlessly about. "Well ... I must go. Good-by, Dürer." He came and stood by the easel, holding out his hand.

The artist rose, the warm smile on his lips bathing his face. "Good-by, my friend." He held out his hand frankly.

Pirkheimer caught it in his. "We're friends?" he said.

"Always."

"And you will never want--if I can help you."

"Never!" The tone was hearty and proud.

Pirkheimer turned away with a look of contentment. "I shall hold you to it," he said. "It is a promise."

"I shall hold you to it," laughed Dürer.

When the door had closed, he stood looking down at the picture. He moved once or twice across the room. Then he stopped before a little brazier, looking at it hesitatingly. He bent over and lighted the coals in the basin. He blew them with a tiny bellows till they glowed. Then he placed a pan above them and threw into it lumps of brownish stuff. When the mixture was melted, he carried it across to the easel and dipped a large brush into it thoughtfully. He drew it across the canvas. The track behind it glowed and deepened in the dim light. Slowly the picture mellowed under it. A look of sweet satisfaction hovered about the artist's lips as he worked. The liquid in the pan lessened and his brush moved more slowly. The mixture had deepened in tint and thickened. Wherever the brush rested a deep, luminous color sprang to meet it. It moved swiftly across the monogram--and paused. The artist peered forward uncertainly. The letters lay erased in the dim light. With another stroke of the brush--and another--they were gone forever.

The smile of satisfaction deepened on his lips. It was not conceit, nor humility, nor pride. One could not have named the sweetness that hovered in it--hauntingly.

He laid down the brush with a quick breath and sat gazing at the picture. It returned the gentle, inevitable look. He raised a finger to the portrait, speaking softly. "It is Albrecht Dürer--his work," he said under his breath. "None but a fool can mistake it. It shall speak for him forever."

II

For a quarter of a century the picture had rested, face to the wall, on the floor of the small, dark studio. Pirkheimer had demanded his treasure--sometimes with jests, and sometimes with threats. But the picture had remained unmoved against the wall.