The Hound of Florence (17 page)

Rossellino and Filippo Volta moved the table aside, and Lucas, making room, went and sat close to the Captain.

The rich tone of the little violin was almost like a human voice. Zacco Zaccone played a solemn melody, and in the space previously occupied by the table, the girl began to dance, slowly, with stirring grace, her proud pale face uplifted.

Suddenly Zacco Zaccone stopped and, darting toward the girl and prancing round her, undressed her with a few lightning touches. “She can be painted . . . and she can be modelled in bronze and in silver,” he said as he did so, while the white young body gradually emerged from the clothes. “In silver or in ivory . . . she is in fact ivory herself . . . Eleanora . . . she can be painted as a saint or as an angel of God . . . as a young nymph. . . .” He stopped for a moment, and pointed at the girl's firm little breasts. . . . “She would do equally well for Psyche or for Artemis . . . you can paint her and you can love her,” he continued, squatting on the floor and pulling the child's clothes away from under her feet. She stood calm and naked before the men. “You can love her as she is, and intoxicate yourselves with her, for she is so full of fire that my fingers burn when I touch her. . . .”

And getting up, he seized the violin. “Come, Leonora . . . she will be just what Superba was . . . she will be as great as Vittoria . . . and she will be what Claudia is . . . from this day onward! Today her young life, blessed by all the gods, begins . . . !” The sound of the violin drowned his voice, but he seemed to be muttering to himself as he played.

Leonora danced. The men, sitting in a semi-circle round her, looked on in silence as they drank.

She danced in slow, smooth, rhythmic movements, as though she were playing and yet serious as thought. Her frail body, which looked as though it had but then been created, twisting and turning, bending and swaying, with graceful pride, seemed, like her close shut lips, to know more than her eyes. Her eyes, as they gazed calmly in front of her, seemed to know more than her soul, and the mild radiance of her soul suffused her sweet childish features.

“Magnificent!” muttered Rossellino hoarsely, leaning toward the Captain.

“Yes . . . she must have been very beautiful once,” Lucas heard Ercole da Moreno reply calmly.

He glanced in astonishment at the Captain. “What does he mean?” he whispered, turning to Filippo Volta.

Filippo smiled courteously. “Oh . . . that's Ercole's way. . . . Didn't you know?”

Zacco Zaccone was helping little Leonora to dress. “We shall come back again,” he said, still tripping about. “We shall come back! . . . We shall be sent for . . . you will dream about us . . . you will long for us. . . .”

“In a fortnight's time Bandini's picture will be finished,” interrupted Filippo Volta, “and then we shall have a feast.”

Zacco Zaccone gave a tittering laugh. “In a fortnight's time we shall long have been famous . . . in a fortnight's time we shall be as flooded with light as the earth is two minutes before dawn . . . but we shall come . . . your feast would not be a feast if we were not there. . . .”

So saying, he went off with the girl, who left the room without vouchsafing a glance to anyone.

Rossellino and Volta pushed the table back into its place, and they all drank again.

“I shall make a statuette of her,” said Rossellino to himself. His face was flushed and he held his head thrown back thoughtfully between his shoulders. “A silver statuette.”

Whereupon the Captain began to sing, sitting erect in his chair, with one hand on his goblet, and his white hair flaming high above his fine brow. His voice seemed to flood the room with light.

“Pray let me live right long, O Lord!

Pray leave me here below!

And show me love and grace, O Lord!

For dead men cannot pray, O Lord,

But only they can praise Thee, Lord,

Who stay down here below!”

The others leaned back in their chairs, looking up at the ceiling, as though they were following the song with their eyes, as it hovered above their heads. Right reverently they listened, and their souls were filled with joy by the wondrous rhythm of that song. Lucas took a deep breath. “In three, four days!” he thought.

Presently they got up to go.

Outside the square lay bathed in the light of the full moon. They were walking close together round the Captain, when suddenly, from the dark shadow of a wall, three men dashed out. They seemed to be a band of drunken revellers, too intoxicated to move out of the way of the group of artists. But everything that followed happened so quickly that no one could tell what really took place, and it was only when they found themselves being violently hustled that Lucas and his companions discovered that the men were masked. Their hands immediately flew to their swords and daggers. But the next moment the Captain, with a stifled groan, dropped heavily to the ground, and the three men vanished like lightning into the blackness of a little alley. In the twinkling of an eye they had completely disappeared and not even the echo of their footsteps could be heard.

Ercole da Moreno was lying with his face on the white, moonlit cobblestones.

Lucas, like his companions, stood speechless staring down at him. He saw his arms move in a strange uncontrolled way, and his legs twitch, and with feelings of horror he was suddenly reminded of the last spasmodic movements of a slaughtered animal. They turned the poor man over, and found that he was already lying in a pool of blood that had collected under his chest, and that his face was covered with the blood that was pouring from his mouth.

The others shouted and raised a clamor. Cosimo Rubinardo burst into loud sobs. “This is Peretti's doing!” bellowed Rossellino, mad with rage.

Lucas stared down at the dead man. With his ghastly white, blood-stained face and dim eyes staring up at the moon, he certainly bore a remote resemblance to the beloved friend of a moment ago, and yet he had suddenly become so strange that Lucas felt as though be were looking on him for the first time.

• • •

The dog was creeping restlessly about the courtyard of the Palace. There were signs of activity everywhere—in the stables and on the stairs. It was early morning but servants were running hither and thither, shouting to one another. The grooms were polishing the harness and the trappings, and the dog, who had searched all the rooms, had not succeeded in finding his master anywhere.

Count Waltersburg had laughed when the dog entered his room, and had driven him out again. Master Pointner, who came across him in the vestibule, kicked him as he bounded up to him with a look of enquiry in his eyes.

Cambyses then proceeded to skulk about the courtyard, not knowing what to do. He ran into the garden, whining to himself and bounded along the passage and up the steps, sniffing as he went. At last he went back to the stables.

Here Caspar, the young groom, caught sight of him and looked at him for a moment laughing. “Well, Cambyses,” he said at last, “looking for your master, eh?”

The dog went up to him wagging his tail.

“You must wait a bit,” said Caspar, bending over him and patting him. “Yes, my friend . . . today your master is doing exactly what you are always doing. . . . He's away! Yes, yes, the master has gone away to enjoy himself, just as Cambyses does . . . he has a sweetheart and has been spending the night with her. Yes, just look at me, Cambyses. Do you imagine that only dogs do that sort of thing? Oh no, my friend, we men have hearts as well as you.” And Caspar laughed.

Suddenly the dog pricked up his ears and capered and bounded round the courtyard. Along the passage, from the direction of the street, heavy footsteps could be heard marching in step. A closely curtained sedan chair was being carried in, but the dog knew at once that his master was in it.

The sedan chair was set down at the foot of the steps and the Archduke alighted. The dog followed him and lay at his feet on the floor while breakfast was served. The Archduke breakfasted alone, eating quickly as though he were very hungry. Presently Master Pointner came in. He cleared his throat and remained standing at the door.

“Well, what is it, Pointner?”

“His Imperial Highness might perhaps like to come up to the room just overhead. . . .”

“Why? I'm tired. I would like to have a couple of hours' sleep.”

“Well, I mean just look in as you pass—just for fun.”

The Archduke rose from the table. Pointner showed the way.

“There's a cat up there in the marble hall,” he explained. “I have had all the chairs taken out and the doors closed. But one door has a grill, so we can see everything.”

“See what?”

“Why, Cambyses chasing the cat. She can't possibly get away. He'll chase her and break her neck.”

“Cats! Fetch 'em! Where are they?” exclaimed the Archduke, turning to Cambyses.

They had reached the door with the grill and Pointner pushed the dog in. “Fetch 'em!” he shouted.

In the empty, gleaming white, marble hall, a tabby cat was creeping along the wall. When the dog sprang in, she stood still, arching her back and hissing and spitting.

“Catch her! Fetch her!” cried the two voices from the door.

The dog ran forward; the cat swept along in front of him, retreating in orderly fashion, quickly glancing round for some means of escape or a ledge upon which to take refuge. But the smooth marble walls offered no hope. At last with one spring she succeeded in getting on to a window-ledge. When the dog, rushing forward, came to a standstill in front of her, she hissed at him, and taking advantage of a moment's hesitation on his part, she jumped across him into the middle of the hall. Whereupon the dog chased her round and round, bowled her over, making her roll up like a ball, circled round her and gave her time to assume the defensive once more, when he again advanced toward her wagging his tail, as though he were trying to persuade her to give him another run.

“He's not doing anything to her! See, he's only playing with her,” cried the Archduke.

“Wretched brute!” exclaimed Pointner indignantly. “Catch her, catch her!”

And he continued shouting and roaring until, excited by the noise, the dog charged again, and drove the cat round and round. No matter how near he got to her, however, he never snapped at her, but held his head up high, as though pity or disgust prevented him from touching her.

“Will you catch her—catch her, you rascal! Wait a minute, I'll show you!” roared Pointner.

Suddenly the cat turned round, and standing up to the astonished dog, arched her back and scratched him so fiercely across the face that he retreated howling and ran away with his nose to the floor.

“Enough!” he heard the Archduke say. At the same time he caught the sound of the door-handle being turned and the door was slightly opened. Making a dash for the narrow aperture, he pressed himself into it so as to open it wider, and darted out between Master Pointner's legs, making him stagger to one side.

The Archduke pointed to the drops of blood on the floor, which left a red trail behind the dog as he dashed through the vestibule of the hall and down the stairs. “He's bleeding!”

“Let him bleed!” muttered Pointner.

• • •

The studio was empty when Lucas entered it. Only Bandini was standing before his easel and though as a rule he never looked up from his work, he now started back in surprise.

“Do you know what has happened?” he asked Lucas.

But Lucas had been snatched away from human society on the previous day, and had only been himself since midnight. He knew nothing.

Flinging down his palette, Bandini began to pace restlessly up and down the room between the easels and the furniture, constantly putting his hand to his brow as though his head were aching.

“So they left their mark on you too?” he observed slowly, coming up to Lucas. Lucas looked up in astonishment as Bandini pointed to the angry scratch running across his brow to his eyebrow. Lucas turned pale.

“No. . . .” he stammered, putting his hand quickly to the freshly cicatrized wound, “. . . that didn't happen . . . on that occasion.”

Without taking any further notice of him, Bandini turned away and began pacing up and down again, stopping short and then moving on once more.

“They are looking for him . . .” he said. “They are looking for him everywhere . . . they won't give up until they catch him . . . they won't let him rest until . . . until they find him. . . .”

Lucas was ashamed to ask whom he meant.

Suddenly Bandini stopped still and glanced all round the studio. “God knows where he can be,” he exclaimed angrily. “The scoundrel has taken good care to hide himself.”

Little by little Lucas put two and two together and discovered what Bandini was talking about. Peretti had vanished. His Palace was locked up, his servants had fled with their master, and no one except the porter had been left behind. The suspicion that everybody had formed was now confirmed. Ercole had been murdered by a band of ruffians hired by Peretti, for whom a continuous search had been made since the previous day. Filippo Volta was looking for him high and low, as were also Pietro Rossellino, Cosimo Rubinardo and many others.

The studios of all the painters, sculptors and goldsmiths in Florence had been deserted ever since the previous morning, their inmates being engaged in hunting for Peretti. They hoped to seize him and if possible kill him then and there, or else stalk him down and keep a sharp eye on him, not letting him out of sight until help arrived and he and his companions could be over­powered. They were scouring the country in all directions on horseback, hunting for him through woods and valleys, questioning the peasants, peeping through keyholes and spying in monasteries, while a certain number of them remained in Florence keeping watch on the Palaces which were known to belong to his friends.