Kitabı oku: «Stolen Souls», sayfa 5
Day after day we continued our journey, often passing through miles of gloomy pine forests, and then out again upon the great barren steppes. Frequently we met convoys of convicts, pitiful, despairing bands of men and women, dragging their clanking chains with them wearily, and trudging onward towards a life to which death would be preferable. No mercy was shown them by their mounted escorts, for if a prisoner stumbled and fell from sheer exhaustion, he was beaten back to his senses with the terrible knout which each Cossack carried.
On dark nights we halted at post-houses, but when the moon shone, we continued our drive, snatching sleep as best we could. We lived upon our tinned meats and biscuits, the post-houses – which are usually about twenty to thirty miles apart – supplying tea and other necessaries.
Although the journey was terribly monotonous and uncomfortable, with a biting wind, and the intense white of the snow affecting one’s eyes painfully, my fair fellow-traveller uttered no word of complaint. All day she would sit beside me chatting in English, laughing, smoking cigarettes, and now and then carrying on a conversation in Russian with our black-bearded, fierce-looking driver, afterwards interpreting his observations. Indeed, it appeared that the further we travelled from civilisation, the more light-hearted she became.
Arriving at last at Tomsk, we remained there three weeks, during which time I visited the kameras of the “forwarding prison,” the horrors of which I afterwards fully described. An open letter I had from the Minister of the Interior admitted me everywhere, but I was compelled to secrete the notes I made in the money-belt I wore under my clothes, otherwise they would have been discovered and confiscated by the prying ispravniks, or police officers, during the repeated examination of our baggage at almost every small town we passed through.
Since leaving England, time had slipped rapidly away, until, one day, after we had left Tomsk, and were well on our way towards Yeniseisk, I chanced to take out my diary. I discovered that it was the last day of the old year.
The journey had been most cheerless and wearisome. It was now about four o’clock in the afternoon, and the sun, which had struggled out for half an hour, had sunk upon the hazy horizon, leaving a pale yellow streak in the grey lowering sky. An icy wind blew in fierce gusts across the barren steppe; the monotony of the dull thud of the horses’ hoofs in the snow and the incessant jingle of the bells had grown utterly unendurable. The only stoppage we had made that day was about noon, when we changed horses, and Prascovie had then told me she felt very fatigued. Almost hidden under her furs, she was now sleeping soundly. Her head had fallen upon my shoulder; and I – well, although I tried to console myself with a cigar, I confess I was thinking of the folk at home, and had the nostalgia of England upon me. Suddenly she moved uneasily, and awoke with a start. She addressed a question to the driver, which he answered.
“You must be terribly tired,” I said, recollecting that it was two days since we drove out of Tomsk, and that, owing to the lack of accommodation at the post-houses, we had been unable to rest.
“No, I’m not very tired,” she replied. “But I feel so cramped and cold.”
“Never mind,” I said cheerfully, placing my arm tenderly around her waist and drawing her closer to me: “in a couple of hours we shall get something hot to eat.” She did not answer, but in a few moments she again fell asleep with her head upon my shoulder; and I, too, also dozed off.
Our lonely halting-place was, like all Siberian post-houses, built of pine logs, and little better than a large hut, devoid of any vestige of comfort, and horribly dirty. The sitting-room was a bare, uncarpeted place, with a large brick stove in the centre, a picture of the Virgin upon the wall, a wooden table, and three or four rough chairs, while the little dens that served as sleeping apartments contained nothing beyond a chair and a straw mattress.
It was not long after our arrival that the great samovar was placed upon the table, and, together with the two sinister-looking fellows who kept the place, we sat down to a rough, uncivilised meal. The evening we spent in smoking and drinking vodka, Prascovie and I being able to carry on a private conversation by speaking English.
I asked why she was so unusually thoughtful, but she replied that it was only because she was in need of rest.
“I am sorry I am breaking down,” she said apologetically, and laughing at the same time. “But I’m only a woman. It was, indeed, very kind of you to have been bothered with me.”
“Don’t mention it,” I said. “I’m sure I’m indebted to you, for your knowledge of Russian assists me in my work. Do you remember,” I added, “that it is a year to-night since we first met?”
“Was it?” she asked in a strange tone of alarm. “Ah, I remember. I – I was happy then, wasn’t I?”
“Are you not happy now?” I inquired.
“Yes – very,” she replied, smiling. “But I’m tired, and must go to my room, or I shall be fit for nothing to-morrow.”
“Very well,” I replied. “I’ll tell you to go in a few minutes.”
Then, after joining the driver and post-house keepers in another glass of vodka, I said to her —
“Ivan, you can go. I shall require you no longer.”
Gathering up her coat, hat and gloves, she bowed, and, wishing the men “Good-night,” went to her room.
After smoking for another hour, I also sought my dirty little den. In the heart of Siberia one must expect to rough it, therefore I took my revolver from my belt, placed it under my pillow, and, after removing some of my clothes, strapped my fur rug around my neck, and, stretching myself upon the hard pallet, soon dropped off to sleep.
Next morning, when I had dressed, I knocked several times at Prascovie’s door, but received no reply. Subsequently I pushed it open and entered, discovering, to my surprise, that the room was empty.
Notwithstanding my limited knowledge of Russian, I managed to make the men understand that my servant was missing, and they searched the premises, but without avail. They examined the road outside, but, as it had been snowing heavily during the night, no footprints were visible.
Prascovie had mysteriously disappeared!
While I remained in charge of the post-house, the three men mounted the horses and rode out in different directions, thinking it possible that she had strayed away upon the steppe and become lost in a snowdrift. Towards evening, however, they returned, after a long and futile search.
Anxious to solve the mystery, and reluctant to leave without her, I remained there several days. As the nearest dwelling was twenty miles distant, and her overcoat and hat still remained in her room, her disappearance was all the more puzzling. I examined her box, but found nothing in it except articles of male wearing apparel; so after a week of anxious waiting, I became convinced that to remain there longer was useless.
With heavy heart, and sorely puzzled over the mystery, I continued my lonely journey towards the mines of Yeniseisk. Having inspected them, I journeyed south, alone and dejected, and investigated the great prisons at Krasnoiarsk and Irkutsk, afterwards returning through Omsk and Tobolsk, and thence to the Urals and civilisation.
I missed her companionship very much, and long before my journey ended, I had grown dull, morose, and melancholy.
After an absence of six months, I again returned to London. When I arrived home, fatigued and hungry, and before I had time to cast off my worn-out travelling suit, the servant girl handed me a small packet which she said had arrived by registered post a week before.
It had a Russian stamp upon it, and bore the postmark of Kiakhta, a small town south of Irkutsk, on the border of Mongolia.
Breaking open the seals, I found a small box, from which I took a thick gold ring, set with a magnificent diamond.
Attached to it was a small piece of paper which bore, in a man’s handwriting, the following words: —
“The husband of Prascovie Souvaroff, who owes to you the safe return of his beloved wife, sends this little gift as a slight recognition of the kindness she received at your hands.”
There was neither, name, address, nor date; nothing to show who was the anonymous husband.
The mystery was solved in a most unexpected manner.
Some months after the results of my investigations had been published, I chanced one night to attend the banquet of the Association of Foreign Consuls held in the Whitehall Rooms of the Hôtel Métropole. As usual, a number of the corps diplomatique were present, and among them Serge Velitchko, one of the attachés of the Russian Embassy, an old friend of mine, whom I had not seen since my return.
“I congratulate you on your lucky escape, old fellow,” he exclaimed, after we had exchanged cordial greetings.
“Escape? What do you mean?” I inquired.
“Ah, it’s all very well,” he replied, laughing, as we strolled together into an ante-room that was unoccupied. “Prascovie was very fascinating, wasn’t she?”
“How did you know?” I asked in amazement, for I imagined no one was aware that she had been my companion.
“Oh, we knew all about it, never fear,” he said, with a smile. “By Jove! it was quite a romance, travelling all that distance with a pretty companion, and then losing her on the Yeniseisk Steppe. It was lucky for you, however, that she left you in time, otherwise you would, in all probability, have been working underground at Kara, or some other place equally delightful, by this time.”
“Explain yourself,” I urged impatiently. “You’re talking in enigmas.”
“Listen, and I’ll let you into the secret,” said my friend, casting himself lazily into a chair. “The man you knew as Souvaroff was, until about six years ago, wealthy and popular at our Court at Petersburg; but he was suspected of political intrigue, and sentenced to lifelong exile and hard labour in Siberia. After his banishment, Prascovie, who was then living at Moscow, was detected by the police distributing some revolutionary pamphlets, for which she also was sent to Siberia. At the prison at Irkutsk father and daughter met. While there, Prince Pàvlovitch Kostomâroff, the governor of the Yeniseisk province, who had previously known and admired la belle Souvaroff in Petersburg society, discovered her, and offered her marriage. This she accepted, and they were married privately, because, had it become known that the Prince had wedded a political exile, he would have fallen into disfavour with the Tzar. The Prince not being governor of the province in which his wife was imprisoned, a difficulty presented itself how he should obtain her release. Even Ivan Kobita, controller of the prison, was ignorant of the secret union, but it so happened that he also became enamoured of his fair captive. At length, in return for her promise to marry him, he allowed her and her father comparative freedom. As might be expected, they were not long in taking advantage of this, for within a fortnight, aided by the Prince, and provided with a passport obtained by him, they managed to escape and come to England.”
“And what of Kobita?”
“He quickly discovered the ruse, and ascertained that the Prince had connived at their escape. Our Secret Police tracked the fugitives to their hiding-place in London. Still unaware that she was the Prince’s wife, Kobita obtained leave of absence and came to England. Before his arrival, however, he wrote, urging her to marry him, declaring that if she refused, he would expose the Prince as aiding and abetting dangerous Nihilists. Prascovie, who clearly saw that if the truth reached the Tzar, her husband would be disgraced and deprived of liberty, was at her wits’ ends. She was in desperation when, two years ago, Kobita arrived in London – ”
“Was that on the night I called upon them?”
“Yes. It was on receipt of the letter from Kobita that Souvaroff sent for you and requested you to put the obituary notice in the papers, in order that when the Siberian official came to claim his daughter’s hand, he could convince him of her death. But this plan was not carried out quickly enough. Kobita arrived on the night of your visit, and was received by Prascovie’s father, who stated that she had gone to call upon a friend in the vicinity, and offered to send his servant to direct him to the house in question. To this Prascovie’s admirer had no objection, and, shaking Souvaroff warmly by the hand, wished him au revoir, and started off, accompanied by the servant, in search of the imaginary neighbour. The hand-shaking proved fatal, for he had not walked far before he fell dead. The whole thing had been carefully planned, and the trusty servant, who had been instructed how to act, extracted everything from the dead man’s pockets that would lead to identification. Hence his burial in a nameless grave.”
“Do you assert that he was murdered?”
“Yes. We were in possession of all these facts, but refrained from causing Souvaroff’s arrest, because it was not a wise policy to expose to the London public that Russia had established a bureau of secret police in their midst. Prascovie and her father hid for some months, and we lost sight of them until she called upon you, and accompanied you in disguise to Siberia. Once or twice you very narrowly escaped being apprehended; indeed, on one occasion orders were telegraphed to Tomsk for the arrest of your companion and yourself, because the declaration on your passport regarding ‘Ivan Ivanovitch’ was known to be false. By the intervention of a high official, however, the order was countermanded, and you were allowed to pass.”
“What has become of Prascovie’s father?” I asked in astonishment. “Surely he was not Kobita’s murderer, for the man died of heart disease.”
“You are mistaken. He died of Obeah poison. Souvaroff, who was once a consul in Hayti, knew of the secret poison which the natives extract from the gecko lizard, and which cannot be detected. So deadly is it, that one drop is sufficient to produce a fatal result, and the manner in which he administered it was somewhat novel. He prepared to receive his enemy by allowing the nail of the forefinger of his right hand to grow long, afterwards thinning it to a point as fine as a needle. Upon this point he placed the poison, and kept a glove on until Kobita’s arrival. Then, in wishing him adieu, he pricked the skin of his victim while shaking hands with him, producing an effect similar to syncope.”
“Where is Souvaroff now?”
“Dead. He returned to Petersburg as soon as his daughter had left with you, but was arrested and placed in solitary confinement in the Fortress. While there, he wrote a confession of the murder, and afterwards committed suicide.”
“And will they arrest Prascovie?”
“No. She lives in another province to that in which she was imprisoned. No one there knows that she is an escaped convict, and as the Prince was once attached to this Embassy, we are not likely to divulge.”
He chaffed me a little, laughed heartily in his good-natured way, and soon afterwards we rejoined the guests.
I have heard nothing since of my unconventional travelling companion. A short time ago, however, I received an anonymous present of furs, and I shrewdly suspect whence it came. The Prince’s ring, which is the admiration and envy of many of my friends, still glitters on my finger, and I regard it as a souvenir of the most happy and romantic journey of my life.
Chapter Five.
Santina
“From the Contéssa, signore.”
A tall liveried servant handed me a coroneted missive, and, bowing stiffly, withdrew. Taking the letter mechanically, I sat puffing at my cigarette and dreaming.
The sultry day was over, and the full moon was shining down clear and cool. Genoa had drawn breath again; its streets and piazzas had grown alive with the stir of manifold movement; the broad Via Roma, with its fine shops and garish cafés, echoed with increasing confusion of voices and jest and laughter and song; while the flower-sellers were everywhere, and the newsboys in strident tones cried the Secolo and the Gazzetta. My small and rather shabby room was on the top floor of a great old palazzo in the Via Balbi. The jalousies, wide-open, admitted little gusts of fresh air that blew up from the sea, while the ceaseless babel of tongues, the clip-clap of horses’ hoofs, and the indescribable odour of garlic, fried oil, and the cheap cigars characteristic of an Italian street, was borne in upon me.
Two candles in the sconces of a small Venetian mirror shed their light over the pedestal, upon which was a statue almost finished. It was a representation of a lovely woman in carnival dress, that I had chiselled in marble.
The face was absolutely beautiful, not only because of its perfect harmony, not only winsome in the gentleness of its contour, but it was also masterful by virtue of the freedom and force expressed in all its firmness.
Lazily I opened the letter, and prepared to feast upon its contents. But the few brief words penned in a woman’s hand caused me to start to my feet in anger and dismay; and, holding my breath, I crushed the missive and cast it under my foot. She who had written to me was the original of this statue, which was considered my masterpiece.
The note was cold and formal, unlike her usual graceful letters. It stated that she was leaving Italy that evening; and expressed regret she could not sit again to me. She also enclosed a bank-note for two thousand lire, which she apparently believed would repay me for my trouble.
My trouble! Dio mio! Had it not been a labour of love, when I adored – nay, worshipped her; and she, in her turn, had bestowed smiles and kisses upon me?
Yet she had written and sent me money, as if I were a mere tradesman; and from the tone of her note, it seemed as if our friendship existed no longer. Every day she had come to my studio, bringing with her that breath of stephanotis that always pervaded her; and because she was not averse to a mild flirtation, I had believed she loved me! Bah! I had been fooled! The iron of a wasted love, of a useless sacrifice, was in my heart.
This sudden awakening had crushed me; and I stood gazing aimlessly out of the window, unaware of the presence of a visitor, until I felt a hearty slap on the shoulder, and, turning quickly, faced my old friend, Pietro Barolini.
“Chi vide mái tanto!” he cried cheerily. “Why, my dear fellow, you look as if you’ve got a very bad attack of melancholia. What’s the matter?”
“Read that,” I said, pointing to the crumpled letter on the floor. “Tell me, what am I to do?”
Picking up the note, he read it through, drew a heavy breath, and remained silent and thoughtful.
Pietro and I had been companions ever since our childhood days, when, as bare-legged urchins, sons of honest fishermen, we had played on the beach at our quiet home in rural Tuscany. When we set out together to seek our fortunes, Fate directed us to Genoa; and in “La Superba” we still lived, Pietro having become a well-known musician; while I, Gasparo Corazzini, had, by a vagary of chance, attracted the notice of the great maestro Verga, under whose tuition I had developed into a successful sculptor.
“It is unfortunate,” my friend said at last, twisting his pointed black moustache; “yet she is not of our world, and, after all, perhaps it is best that you should part.”
“Ah!” I said. “Your words are well meant, Pietro; but I love her too passionately to cast aside her memory so lightly. I must see her. She must tell me from her own lips that she no longer cares for me!” I cried, starting up impetuously.
“Very well – go. Take her back the money with which she has insulted you, and bid adieu to her forever. You will soon forget.”
“Yes,” I said; “I will.”
Snatching up my hat, and crushing the letter into the pocket of my blouse, I rushed out and down the stairs into the street, without a thought of personal appearance, my only desire being to catch her before she departed.
Blindly I hurried across the Piazza del Principe, then out of the town into the open country, never slackening my pace for a moment until I entered the grounds of a great white villa that stood on the hillside at Comigliano, overlooking the moonlit sea. Then, with a firm determination to be calm, I advanced towards the house cautiously, and, swinging myself upon the low verandah, peered in at a glass door that stood open.
Noiselessly I entered. The room was dazzling in its magnificence, notwithstanding that the lamps were shaded by soft lace and tinted silk. The gilt furniture, the great mirrors, the statuary – genuine works by Leopardi and Sansovino – the Persian rugs and rich silken hangings, all betokened wealth, taste, and refinement.
Reclining on a couch with languid grace, clad in a loose wrapper of dove-grey silk, with her hair en déshabille, was the woman I loved.
“Santina!” I whispered, bending over her, uttering a pet name I had bestowed upon her.
She started, and jumped up quickly, half-frightened, exclaiming —
“Cièlo! You, Gasparo – you here?”
“Yes,” I replied, catching her white bejewelled hand and kissing it. “Yes. Why not?”
She snatched away her hand quickly, and passed it wearily across her brow. Her beauty shone with marvellous radiance, for she was only twenty-four – fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slim, graceful figure that gave her an almost girlish appearance. I own myself entranced by her loveliness.
“I thought,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation – “I thought my note explained everything. The statue is practically finished, and – ”
“No – no!” I cried. “It is still incomplete. You cannot – you shall not leave me, Santina!”
“Pray, why?” she asked indignantly, raising her eyebrows.
“Because – because I love you,” I stammered.
“Love!” she exclaimed, with a light laugh. “Bah! How foolish! Love! It is only plebeians and fools who love. There is no such word in our vocabulary.”
“Yes, yes,” I said quickly. “I know the insurmountable barrier that lies between us, Santina. But do you intend to leave Italy – to leave me alone – now?”
“Of course. It is not my intention to return for several years; perhaps never. We have spent many pleasant hours together; but you have become infatuated, therefore we must part.”
“No!” I cried; “I cannot – I will not let you go! Only a week ago you confessed that you loved me. What have I done that you should treat me so?”
She made no immediate answer; and as she stood with bowed head and somewhat pale, thoughtful face, I wondered what mystery veiled and troubled her clear, resolute nature.
Placing my arm around her waist, I bent and kissed her lips; but she struggled to free herself.
“Dio!” she cried hoarsely. “Why have you come here, Gasparo? Think of my reputation – my honour! If any one found you here alone with me, and I in déshabillé.”
“Tell me, Santina, do you still love me?” I asked earnestly, looking into her eyes.
“I – I hardly know,” she replied, with a strange, preoccupied air.
“Why are you leaving so suddenly?”
“Because it is imperative,” she replied. “But hush! listen! a voice! Dio! it is my husband!”
“Your husband!” I gasped. “What do you mean? I thought the Count died in Buenos Ayres two years ago, and that you were free?”
“So did I. But that was his voice. Cièlo! I know it, alas! too well,” she said, turning deathly pale.
Rushing suddenly across the room, she snatched something from a small niche in the wall and brought it over to me. It was a curious little ivory idol, about six inches long, representing Amida, the eternal Buddha. Kissing it, she handed it to me, saying —
“Quick! take this as a souvenir. It has been my talisman; may it be yours. When I am absent, look upon it sometimes, Gasparo, and think of me.”
“You do love me, then, Santina?” I cried joyously; for answer she placed her lips to mine.
“Hide! hide at once!” she implored. “Kneel behind that screen, or we are lost. Remain there until we have left the house, and tell no one that you have seen the Count. A rivederci!”
I slipped into the place she indicated, and not a moment too soon, for as I did so, a short, stout man of about sixty years of age entered. His face wore a strange, fixed expression, and as he strode in, he betrayed no astonishment at meeting his wife, although she, terrified and trembling, shrank from him.
“I thought you were ready,” he exclaimed roughly. “Be quick and put on your travelling dress. The carriage is on its way round, and we haven’t a moment to spare if we mean to leave to-night.”
“I shall not keep you long,” she sighed, and a few moments later they both turned and left the room.
The reappearance of the Count di Pallanzeno, whom every one believed had died, was puzzling, and the manner in which husband and wife conversed showed there was but little affection between them.
Suddenly I remembered that I had forgotten to return the bank-note, but I saw it was useless to attempt to do so now, therefore I decided to keep it until we met again. Obeying the Contéssa’s instructions, I remained in my hiding-place for half an hour, until I heard the carriage drive away down the road, then I stole out upon the verandah and let myself down noiselessly into the garden.
The moon was shining brilliantly on the white blossoms and the pale marbles, and in order to escape the observation of any of the servants who might be about, I crept along under the dark shadow of the ilex-trees in the direction of the road. I had not gone very far when suddenly I caught my foot in an obstruction, and, stumbling, fell over some object that lay in my path. Regaining my feet, I bent to ascertain the cause of my fall, when, to my amazement, I discovered it was a man.
I touched the face, and drew back in horror. The man was dead!
Everything was quiet, not a leaf stirred, so, taking the body under the arms, I dragged it out into the light. The silver moonbeam that fell across the white face of the corpse gave it a ghastly appearance, revealing the features of a well-dressed man of middle age, totally unknown to me.
Closer examination disclosed that a murder had been committed. The man had been shot in the back.
Searching about the spot, I was not long before I discovered the weapon with which the crime had evidently been committed. It was a five-chambered plated revolver, one cartridge of which had been discharged. As I inspected it in the cold, bright light, eager to find a clue to the murderer, my eyes fell upon two words engraved on the barrel.
Breathlessly I deciphered them, and then stood dumb with awe and dismay. The name engraved upon it was my own!
In a moment a terrible thought flashed across me. Was not my presence there, and the discovery of a revolver bearing my name, direct circumstantial evidence against me? Thus recognising my danger, I put the weapon in my pocket, cast a final glance at the dead man’s face, and, creeping noiselessly away under the high hedge of rhododendron and jessamine, I at length gained the road and returned to the noisy city.
In the Bourse, in the Galleria Mazzini, in the streets, in the cafés, everywhere, one topic only was discussed next day. A startling tragedy had been enacted, for, according to the newspapers, Colonel Rossano had been discovered mysteriously murdered in the gardens of the Villa Pallanzeno.
No motive for the assassination could be assigned, for the colonel, who had only arrived on the previous day from Milan, was a most popular and distinguished officer. The police, it was stated, had received instructions from the Ministry of the Interior at Rome to spare no effort to discover the assassin, and the King himself had offered a reward of ten thousand lire for any information which would lead to the arrest of the murderer.
During the hour of the siesta, I had stretched myself in an old armchair in the studio, smoking, when Pietro burst into the room, greeting me with that buoyancy habitual to him. I asked him if he had heard of the tragedy, and gave him the papers to read. Having eagerly scanned them, he expressed surprise that the shot was not heard.
“I suppose the Contéssa does not know anything of it,” I said. “The body was not discovered until after midnight, whereas she left by the mail for Turin at ten o’clock.”
“And what was the result of your interview?” he asked, seating himself on the edge of the table, and carelessly swinging his legs.
“She has gone, but she will return,” I replied briefly.
“And she still loves you – eh?”
“Yes; you guess correctly,” I laughed.
“So goes the world! How happy you should be – you, the accepted lover of the girl-widow of a millionaire! One of these days you’ll marry, and then per Bacco! you’ll throw over your old companion, the humble fiddler of the Politeama.”
His jesting words reminded me of the reappearance of the Count, that Santina was not free, and that our love was illicit.
“No,” I said sorrowfully; “I may love, but I shall never marry her.”
Three years passed, long, weary years, during which I had waited patiently for Santina’s return. Ahi sòrte avvèrsa!
The villa remained in just the same condition, but none of the servants knew the whereabouts of their mistress, and it had been whispered that the police, in order to learn something of events on the night of the murder, had vainly endeavoured to trace her.
With me things went badly. True, the statue of the Countess, that I had christened “Folly,” had gained a medal at the International Exhibition at Turin, but my later works had proved ignominious failures. I thought nothing of Art, only of the woman who had entranced me, and my hand had somehow lost its cunning. The carved Amida had brought me ill-fortune, it seemed, for I was now at the end of my resources.
Pietro had long ago accepted a lucrative post in the orchestra at La Scala, at Milan, and I lived alone and friendless in the old palazzo.
One evening, when Genoa was in festa, I had starved all day, and in desperation I at last resolved to change the bank-note Santina had sent me. Putting on my hat, I descended the stairs into the gaily-decked street, and pushed my way through the laughing crowd in the Via Nouvissima, at last turning into the narrow Via degli Orefici in search of a money-changer’s. A group of children were playing under a dark, ancient archway. How happy they seemed, with their bright chubby faces, like the carved cupids and cherubs in San Lorenzo!
