Then the excitement of our friends knew no bounds. I, at the end of the speech, had seized his hand and said,—
'Well done.'
Now he was standing in the midst of all these people, happy and smiling, proud of the enthusiasm he had aroused, breathing heavily, so that a casual observer might have thought him drunk with wine.
'My friends,' he said, in answer to their praises, and his voice slightly trembled, so that his sincerity was conspicuous, 'whatever happens, be sure that I will continue to uphold your rights, and that I will willingly give my life for the cause of justice and freedom.'
He was choked by the violence of his emotion, and could say nothing more.
The cries of approbation were renewed, and then, with an impulse to get into the open air, they surged out of the council chamber into the piazza. It was not exactly known what had passed in the Palace, but the people knew that Checco had braved the Count, and that the latter had broken up the meeting in anger. Wonderful rumours were going about: it was said that swords had been drawn, and there had almost been a battle; others said that the Count had tried to arrest Checco, and this story, gaining credence—some even saying that Checco was being kept a prisoner—had worked the citizens to fever height.
When Checco appeared, there was a great shout and a rush towards him. 'Bravo!' 'Well done!' I don't know what they did not find to say in praise of him. Their enthusiasm grew by its own fire; they went mad; they could not contain themselves, and they looked about for something on which to vent their feeling. A word, and they would have attacked the Palace or sacked the custom-house. They surrounded us, and would not let us pass. Bartolomeo Moratini pushed his way to Checco and said,—
'Quiet them quickly, before it is too late.'
Checco understood at once. 'Friends,' he said, 'let me pass quietly, for the love of God, and do you return to your work in peace. Let me pass!'
Moving forward, the crowd opened to him, and still shouting, yelling and gesticulating, allowed him to go through. When we arrived at the gate of his palace, he turned to me and said,—
'By God! Filippo, this is life. I shall never forget this day!'
The crowd had followed to the door, and would not go away. Checco had to appear on the balcony and bow his thanks. As he stood there, I could see that his head was whirling. He was pale, almost senseless with his great joy.
At last the people were persuaded to depart, and we entered the house.
We were in Checco's private room. Besides the cousins and myself were present Bartolomeo Moratini and his two sons, Fabio Oliva and Cesare Gnocchi, both related on the mother's side to the Orsi. We were all restless and excited, discussing the events that had occurred; only Bartolomeo was quiet and grave. Matteo, in the highest of spirits, turned to him.
'Why so silent, Messer Bartolomeo?' he said. 'You are like the skeleton at the banquet.'
'It is a matter for gravity,' he answered.
'Why?'
'Why! Good God, man, do you suppose nothing has happened!'
We stopped talking and stood round him, as if suddenly awakened.
'Our ships are burnt behind us,' he proceeded, and we must advance—must!'
'What do you mean?' said Checco.
'Do you suppose Girolamo is going to allow things to go on as before? You must be mad, Checco!
'I believe I am,' was the answer. 'All this has turned my head. Go on.'
'Girolamo has only one step open to him now. You have braved him publicly; you have crossed the streets in triumph, amid the acclamation of the people, and they have accompanied you to your house with shouts of joy. Girolamo sees in you a rival—and from a rival there is only one safeguard.'
'And that—?' asked Checco.
'Is death!'
We were all silent for a moment; then Bartolomeo spoke again.
'He cannot allow you to live. He has threatened you before, but now he must carry his threats into effect. Take care!'
'I know,' said Checco, 'the sword is hanging over my head. But he dare not arrest me.'
'Perhaps he will try assassination. You must go out well guarded.'
'I do,' said Checco, 'and I wear a coat of mail. The fear of assassination has been haunting me for weeks. Oh God, it is terrible! I could bear an open foe. I have courage as much as anyone; but this perpetual suspense! I swear to you it is making me a coward. I cannot turn the corner of a street without thinking that my death may be on the other side; I cannot go through a dark corridor at night without thinking that over there in the darkness my murderer may be waiting for me. I start at the slightest sound, the banging of a door, a sudden step. And I awake in the night with a cry, sweating. I cannot stand it I shall go mad if it continues. What can I do?'
Matteo and I looked at one another; we had the same thought. Bartolomeo spoke.
'Anticipate him!'
We both started, for they were my very words. Checco gave a cry.
'You too! That thought has been with me night and day! Anticipate him! Kill him! But I dare not think of it. I cannot kill him.'
'You must,' said Bartolomeo.
'Take care we are not heard,' said Oliva.
'The doors are well fastened.'
'You must,' repeated Bartolomeo. 'It is the only course left you. And what is more, you must make haste—for he will not delay. The lives of all of us are at stake. He will not be satisfied with you; after you are gone, he will easily enough find means to get rid of us.'
'Hold your peace, Bartolomeo, for God's sake! It is treachery.'
'Of what are you frightened? It would not be difficult.'
'No, we must have no assassination! It always turns out badly. The Pazzi in Florence were killed, Salviati was hanged from the Palace windows, and Lorenzo is all-powerful, while the bones of the conspirators rot in unconsecrated ground. And at Milan, when they killed the Duke, not one of them escaped.'
'They were fools. We do not mistake as in Florence; we have the people with us, and we shall not bungle it as they did.'
'No, no, it cannot be.'
'I tell you it must. It is our only safety!'
Checco looked round anxiously.
'We are all safe,' said Oliva. 'Have no fear.'
'What do you think of it?' asked Checco. 'I know what you think, Filippo, and Matteo.'
'I think with my father!' said Scipione.
'I too!' said his brother.
'And I!'
'And I!'
'Every one of you,' said Checco; 'you would have me murder him.'
'It is just and lawful.'
'Remember that he was my friend. I helped him to this power. Once we were almost brothers.'
'But now he is your deadly enemy. He is sharpening a knife for your heart—and if you do not kill him, he will kill you.'
'It is treachery. I cannot!'
'When a man has killed another, the law kills him. It is a just revenge. When a man attempts another's life, the law permits him to kill that man in self-defence. Girolamo has killed you in thought—and at this moment he may be arranging the details of your murder. It is just and lawful that you take his life to defend your own and ours.'
'Bartolomeo