CHAPTER V

Beppo had effected a firm capture of his man some way down the slope. But

it was a case of check that entirely precluded his own free movements.

They hung together intertwisted in the characters of specious pacificator

and appealing citizen, both breathless.

"There! you want to hand me up neatly; I know your vanity, my Beppo; and

you don't even know my name," said the prisoner.

"I know your ferret of a face well enough," said Beppo. "You dog the

signorina. Come up, and don't give trouble."

"Am I not a sheep? You worry me. Let me go."

"You're a wriggling eel."

"Catch me fast by the tail then, and don't hold me by the middle."

"You want frightening, my pretty fellow!"

"If that's true, my Beppo, somebody made a mistake in sending you to do

it. Stop a moment. You're blown. I think you gulp down your minestra too

hot; you drink beer."

"You dog the signorina! I swore to scotch you at last."

"I left Milan for the purpose--don't you see? Act fairly, my Beppo, and

let us go up to the signorina together decently."

"Ay, ay, my little reptile! You'll find no Austrians here. Cry out to

them to come to you from Baveno. If the Motterone grew just one tree!

Saints! one would serve."

"Why don't you--fool that you are, my Beppo!--pray to the saints earlier?

Trees don't grow from heaven."

"You'll be going there soon, and you'll know better about it."

"Thanks to the Virgin, then, we shall part at some time or other!"

The struggles between them continued sharply during this exchange of

intellectual shots; but hearing Ugo Corte's voice, the prisoner's

confident audacity forsook him, and he drew a long tight face like the

mask of an admonitory exclamation addressed to himself from within.

"Stand up straight!" the soldier's command was uttered.

Even Beppo was amazed to see that the man had lost the power to obey or

to speak.

Corte grasped him under the arm-pit. With the force of his huge fist he

swung him round and stretched him out at arm's length, all collar and

shanks. The man hung like a mole from the twig. Yet, while Beppo poured

out the tale of his iniquities, his eyes gave the turn of a twinkle,

showing that he could have answered one whom he did not fear. The charge

brought against him was, that for the last six months he had been

untiringly spying on the signorina.

Corte stamped his loose feet to earth, shook him and told him to walk

aloft. The flexible voluble fellow had evidently become miserably

disconcerted. He walked in trepidation, speechless, and when interrogated

on the height his eyes flew across the angry visages with dismal

uncertainty. Agostino perceived that he had undoubtedly not expected to

come among them, and forthwith began to excite Giulio and Marco to the

worst suspicions, in order to indulge his royal poetic soul with a study

of a timorous wretch pushed to anticipations of extremity.

"The execution of a spy," he preluded, "is the signal for the ringing of

joy-bells on this earth; not only because he is one of a pestiferous

excess, in point of numbers, but that he is no true son of earth. He

escaped out of hell's doors on a windy day, and all that we do is to puff

out a bad light, and send him back. Look at this fellow in whom

conscience is operating so that he appears like a corked volcano! You can

see that he takes Austrian money; his skin has got to be the exact colour

of Munz. He has the greenish-yellow eyes of those elective,

thrice-abhorred vampyres who feed on patriot-blood. He is condemned

without trial by his villainous countenance, like an ungrammatical preface

to a book. His tongue refuses to confess, but nature is

stronger:--observe his knees. Now this is guilt. It is execrable guilt.

He is a nasty object. Nature has in her wisdom shortened his stature to

indicate that it is left to us to shorten the growth of his offending

years. Now, you dangling soul! answer me:--what name hailed you when on

earth?"

The fan, with no clearly serviceable tongue, articulated, "Luigi."

"Luigi! the name Christian and distinctive. The name historic:-Luigi

Porco?"

"Luigi Saracco, signore."

"Saracco: Saracco: very possibly a strip of the posterity of cut-throat

Moors. To judge by your face, a Moor undoubtedly: glib, slippery! with a

body that slides and a soul that jumps. Taken altogether, more serpent

than eagle. I misdoubt that little quick cornering eye of yours. Do you

ever remember to have blushed?"

"No, signore," said Luigi.

"You spy upon the signorina, do you?"

"You have Beppo's word for that," interposed Marco Sana, growling.

"And you are found spying on the mountain this particular day! Luigi

Saracco, you are a fellow of a tremendous composition. A goose walking

into a den of foxes is alone to be compared to you,--if ever such goose

was! How many of us did you count, now, when you were, say, a quarter of

a mile below?"

Marco interposed again: "He has already seen enough up here to make a

rope of florins."

"The fellow's eye takes likenesses," said Giulio.

Agostino's question was repeated by Corte, and so sternly that Luigi,

beholding kindness upon no other face save Vittoria's, watched her, and

muttering "Six," blinked his keen black eyes piteously to get her sign of

assent to his hesitated naming of that number. Her mouth and the turn of

her head were expressive to him, and he cried "Seven."

"So; first six, and next seven," said Corte.

"Six, I meant, without the signorina," Luigi explained.

"You saw six of us without the signorina! You see we are six here,

including the signorina. Where is the seventh?"

Luigi tried to penetrate Vittoria's eyes for a proper response; but she

understood the grave necessity for getting the full extent of his

observations out of him, and she looked as remorseless as the men. He

feigned stupidity and sullenness, rage and cunning, in quick succession.

"Who was the seventh?" said Carlo.

"Was it the king?" Luigi asked.

This was by just a little too clever; and its cleverness, being seen,

magnified the intended evasion so as to make it appear to them that Luigi

knew well the name of the seventh.

Marco thumped a hand on his shoulder, shouting--"Here; speak out! You saw

seven of us. Where has the seventh one gone?"

Luigi's wits made a dash at honesty. "Down Orta, signore."

"And down Orta, I think, you will go; deeper down than you may like."

Corte now requested Vittoria to stand aside. He motioned to her with his

hand to stand farther, and still farther off; and finally told Carlo to

escort her to Baveno. She now began to think that the man Luigi was in

some perceptible danger, nor did Ammiani disperse the idea.

"If he is a spy, and if he has seen the Chief, we shall have to detain

him for at least four-and-twenty hours," he said, "or do worse."

"But, Signor Carlo,"--Vittoria made appeal to his humanity,--"do they

mean, if they decide that he is guilty, to hurt him?"

"Tell me, signorina, what punishment do you imagine a spy deserves?"

"To be called one!"

Carlo smiled at her lofty method of dealing with the animal.

"Then you presume him to have a conscience?"

"I am sure, Signor Carlo, that I could make him loathe to be called a

spy."

They were slowly pacing from the group, and were on the edge of the

descent, when the signorina's name was shrieked by Luigi. The man came

running to her for protection, Beppo and the rest at his heels. She

allowed him to grasp her hand.

"After all, he is my spy; he does belong to me," she said, still speaking

on to Carlo. "I must beg your permission, Colonel Corte and Signor Marco,

to try an experiment. The Signor Carlo will not believe that a spy can be

ashamed of his name.--Luigi!"

"Signorina!"--he shook his body over her hand with a most plaintive

utterance.

"You are my countryman, Luigi?"

"Yes, signorina."

"You are an Italian?"

"Certainly, signorina!"

"A spy!"

Vittoria had not always to lift her voice in music for it to sway the

hearts of men. She spoke the word very simply in a mellow soft tone.

Luigi's blood shot purple. He thrust his fists against his ears.

"See, Signor Carlo," she said; "I was right. Luigi, you will be a spy no

more?"

Carlo Ammiani happened to be rolling a cigarette-paper. She put out her

fingers for it, and then reached it to Luigi, who accepted it with

singular contortions of his frame, declaring that he would confess

everything to her. "Yes, signorina, it is true; I am a spy on you. I know

the houses you visit. I know you eat too much chocolate for your voice. I

know you are the friend of the Signora Laura, the widow of Giacomo

Piaveni, shot--shot on Annunciation Day. The Virgin bless him! I know the

turning of every street from your house near the Duomo to the signora's.

You go nowhere else, except to the maestro's. And it's something to spy

upon you. But think of your Beppo who spies upon me! And your little

mother, the lady most excellent, is down in Baveno, and she is always

near you when you make an expedition. Signorina, I know you would not pay

your Beppo for spying upon me. Why does he do it? I do not sing 'Italia,

Italia shall be free!' I have heard you when I was under the maestro's

windows; and once you sang it to the Signor Agostino Balderini.

Indeed, signorina, I am a sort of guardian of your voice. It is not gold

of the Tedeschi I get from the Signor Antonio Pericles."

At the mention of this name, Agostino and Vittoria laughed out.

"You are in the pay of the Signor Antonio-Pericles," said Agostino.

"Without being in our pay, you have done us the service to come up here

among us! Bravo! In return for your disinterestedness, we kick you down,

either upon Baveno or upon Stresa, or across the lake, if you prefer

it.--The man is harmless. He is hired by a particular worshipper of the

signorina's voice, who affects to have first discovered it when she was

in England, and is a connoisseur, a millionaire, a Greek, a rich

scoundrel, with one indubitable passion, for which I praise him. We will

let his paid eavesdropper depart, I think. He is harmless."

Neither Ugo nor Marco was disposed to allow any description of spy to

escape unscotched. Vittoria saw that Luigi's looks were against him, and

whispered: "Why do you show such cunning eyes, Luigi?"

He replied: "Signorina, take me out of their hearing, and I will tell you

everything."

She walked aside. He seemed immediately to be inspired with confidence,

and stretched his fingers in the form of a grasshopper, at which sight

they cried: "He knows Barto Rizzo--this rascal!" They plied him with

signs and countersigns, and speedily let him go. There ensued a sharp

snapping of altercation between Luigi and Beppo. Vittoria had to order

Beppo to stand back.

"It is a poor dog, not of a good breed, signorina," Luigi said, casting a

tolerant glance over his shoulder. "Faithful, but a poor nose. Ah! you

gave me this cigarette. Not the Virgin could have touched my marrow as

you did. That's to be remembered by-and-by. Now, you are going to sing on

the night of the fifteenth of September. Change that night. The Signor

Antonio-Pericles watches you, and he is a friend of the Government, and

the Government is snoring for you to think it asleep. The Signor

Antonio-Pericles pacifies the Tedeschi, but he will know all that you are

doing, and how easy it will be, and how simple, for you to let me know

what you think he ought to know, and just enough to keep him comfortable!

So we work like a machine, signorina. Only, not through that Beppo, for

he is vain of his legs, and his looks, and his service, and because he

has carried a gun and heard it go off. Yes; I am a spy. But I am honest.

I, too, have visited England. One can be honest and a spy. Signorina, I

have two arms, but only one heart. If you will be gracious and consider!

Say, here are two hands. One hand does this thing, one hand does that

thing, and that thing wipes out this thing. It amounts to clear

reasoning! Here are two eyes. Were they meant to see nothing but one

side! Here is a tongue with a line down the middle almost to the tip of

it--which is for service. That Beppo couldn't deal double, if he would;

for he is imperfectly designed--a mere dog's pattern! But, only one

heart, signorina--mind that. I will never forget the cigarette. I shall

smoke it before I leave the mountain, and think--oh!"

Having illustrated the philosophy of his system, Luigi continued: "I am

going to tell you everything. Pray, do not look on Beppo! This is

important. The Signor Antonio-Pericles sent me to spy on you, because he

expects some people to come up the mountain, and you know them; and one

is an Austrian officer, and he is an Englishman by birth, and he is

coming to meet some English friends who enter Italy from Switzerland over

the Moro, and easily up here on mules or donkeys from Pella. The Signor

Antonio-Pericles has gold ears for everything that concerns the

signorina. 'A patriot is she!' he says; and he is jealous of your English

friends. He thinks they will distract you from your studies; and

perhaps"--Luigi nodded sagaciously before he permitted himself to

say--"perhaps he is jealous in another way. I have heard him speak like a

sonnet of the signorina's beauty. The Signor Antonio-Pericles thinks that

you have come here to-day to meet them. When he heard that you were going

to leave Milan for Baveno, he was mad, and with two fists up, against all

English persons. The Englishman who is an Austrian officer is quartered

at Verona, and the Signor Antonio Pericles said that the Englishman should

not meet you yet, if he could help it."

Victoria stood brooding. "Who can it be,--who is an Englishman, and an

Austrian officer, and knows me?"

"Signorina, I don't know names. Behold, that Beppo is approaching like

the snow! What I entreat is, that the signorina will wait a little for

the English party, if they come, so that I may have something to tell my

patron. To invent upon nothing is most unpleasant, and the Signor Antonio

can soon perceive whether one swims with corks. Signorina, I can dance on

one rope--I am a man. I am not a midge--I cannot dance upon nothing."

The days of Vittoria's youth had been passed in England. It was not

unknown to her that old English friends were on the way to Italy; the

recollection of a quiet and a buried time put a veil across her features.

She was perplexed by the mention of the Austrian officer by Luigi, as one

may be who divines the truth too surely, but will not accept it for its

loathsomeness. There were Englishmen in the army of Austria. Could one of

them be this one whom she had cared for when she was a girl? It seemed

hatefully cruel to him to believe it. She spoke to Agostino, begging him

to remain with her on the height awhile to see whether the Signor

Antonio-Pericles was right; to see whether Luigi was a truth-teller; to

see whether these English persons were really coming. "Because," she

said, "if they do come, it will at once dissolve any suspicions you may

have of this Luigi. And I always long so much to know if the Signor

Antonio is correct. I have never yet known him to be wrong."

"And you want to see these English," said Agostino. He frowned.

"Only to hear them. They shall not recognize me. I have now another name;

and I am changed. My hat is enough to hide me. Let me hear them talk a

little. You and the Signor Carlo will stay with me, and when they come,

if they do come, I will remain no longer than just sufficient to make

sure. I would refuse to know any of them before the night of the

fifteenth; I want my strength too much. I shall have to hear a misery

from them; I know it, I feel it; it turns my blood. But let me hear their

voices! England is half my country, though I am so willing to forget her

and give all my life to Italy. Stay with me, dear friend, my best father!

humour me, for you know that I am always charming when I am humoured."

Agostino pressed his finger on a dimple in her cheeks. "You can afford to

make such a confession as that to a greybeard. The day is your own. Bear

in mind that you are so situated that it will be prudent for you to have

no fresh relations, either with foreigners or others, until your work is

done,--in which, my dear child, may God bless you!"

"I pray to him with all my might," Vittoria said in reply.

After a consultation with Agostino, Ugo Corte and Marco and Giulio bade

their adieux to her. The task of keeping Luigi from their clutches was

difficult; but Agostino helped her in that also. To assure them, after

his fashion, of the harmlessness of Luigi, he seconded him in a contest

of wit against Beppo, and the little fellow, now that he had shaken off

his fears, displayed a quickness of retort and a liveliness "unknown to

professional spies and impossible to the race," said Agostino; "so

absolutely is the mind of man blunted by Austrian gold. We know that for

a fact. Beppo is no match for him. Beppo is sententious; ponderously

illustrative; he can't turn; he is long-winded; he, I am afraid, my

Carlo, studies the journals. He has got your journalistic style, wherein

words of six syllables form the relief to words of eight, and hardly one

dares to stand by itself. They are like huge boulders across a brook. The

meaning, do you, see, would run of itself, but you give us these

impedimenting big stones to help us over it, while we profess to

understand you by implication. For my part, I own, that to me, your

parliamentary, illegitimate academic, modern crocodile phraseology, which

is formidable in the jaws, impenetrable on the back, can't circumvent a

corner, and is enabled to enter a common understanding solely by having a

special highway prepared for it,--in short, the writing in your journals

is too much for me. Beppo here is an example that the style is useless

for controversy. This Luigi baffles him at every step."

"Some," rejoined Carlo, "say that Beppo has had the virtue to make you

his study."

Agostino threw himself on his back and closed his eyes. "That, then, is

more than you have done, signor Tuquoque. Look on the Bernina yonder, and

fancy you behold a rout of phantom Goths; a sleepy rout, new risen, with

the blood of old battles on their shroud-shirts, and a North-east wind

blowing them upon our fat land. Or take a turn at the other side toward

Orta, and look out for another invasion, by no means so picturesque, but

preferable. Tourists! Do you hear them?"

Carlo Ammiani had descried the advanced troop of a procession of

gravely-heated climbers ladies upon donkeys, and pedestrian guards

stalking beside them, with courier, and lacqueys, and baskets of

provisions, all bearing the stamp of pilgrims from the great Western

Island.