CHAPTER XV. A TUSCAN POLICE COURT
Long before their generous patron had awoke the following morning, thelittle company of Babbo were standing as prisoners in the dread presenceof the Prefetto. Conducted by a detachment of the carabinieri, andsecured with manacles enough to have graced the limbs of galley-slaves,the _vagabonds_ as they were politely called, were led along through thestreets, amid the jokes and mockeries of a very unsympathising public.
Tuscan justice, we are informed by competent authority, has not made,either in its essence or externals, any remarkable progress since thetime we are now speaking of. The same ruinous old edifice stands theTemple of Justice; the same dirt and squalor disgraces its avenues andapproaches; the same filthy mob beset the doors--a ragged mob, in whoserepulsive features a smashed decalogue is marked, amid whom, in hot andeager haste, are seen some others, a shadow better in dress, but moredegraded still in look--the low advocates of these courts, 'Cavallochi,'as they are styled--a class whose lives of ignominy and subornationwould comprise almost every known species of rascality. By these men areothers goaded on and stimulated to prefer claims against the well-to-doand respectable; by them are charges devised, circumstances invented,perjuries provided, at the shortest notice. They have their companyof false witnesses ready for any accusation--no impugnment upon theircredit being the fact that they live by perjury, and have no othersubsistence.
Meet president of such a court was the scowling, ill-dressed, andill-favoured fellow who, with two squalid clerks at his side, sat judgeof the tribunal. A few swaggering carabinieri, with their carbines ontheir arms, moved in and out of the court, buffeting the crowd withrude gestures, and deporting themselves like masters of the ignobleherd around them. By these, as it seemed--for all was mere conjecturehere--were the cases chosen for adjudication, the selection of theparticular charges being their especial province. Elbowing theirway through the filthy corridors, where accusers and accused wereinextricably mingled--the prisoner, and the plaintiff, and the witnessall jammed up together, and not unfrequently discussing the vexedquestion to be tried with all the virulence of partisans--thecarabiniere makes his choice among these, aided, not impossibly, bya stimulant, which in Italy has its agency throughout all ranks andgradations of men.
In this vile assemblage of all that was degrading and wretched our poorstrollers were now standing, their foreign aspect and their titleof vagabonds obtaining for them a degree of notice the reverse offlattering. Sarcastic remarks upon their looks, their means of life,and, stranger still, their poverty, abounded; and these from a mob whosegaunt and famished faces and tattered rags bespoke the last stage ofdestitution.
The Babbo, indeed, was a picture of abject misery; bankrupt was writtenon every line of his poor old face, through which the paint of fortyyears blended with the sickly hues of hunger and fear. He turned uponthe bystanders a glance of mild entreaty, however, that in a lesscruel company could not have failed to meet some success. Not so DonnaGaetana: _her_ stare was an open defiance, and even through her blearedeyes there shot sparks of fiery passion that seemed only in search of afitting object for their attack.
As for Gerald--his head bound up in a bloody rag, his arm in a sling,and his face pale as death--he might have disarmed the malice ofsarcasm, had it not been that he held his arm clasped close roundMarietta's waist, and even thus, in all his misery, seemed to assertthat he was her protector and defender. This was alone sufficientto afford scope for mockery and derision, the fairer portion of theaudience distinguishing themselves by the pungent sharpness of theircriticisms; and Marietta's swarthy skin, her tinsel ragged-ness, and herwild, bold eyes, came in for their share of bitter commentary.
'What a brazen-faced minx it is!' cried one.
'What a young creature to have come to such wickedness!' exclaimedanother.
'Look at the roundness of her shape, and you 'll see she is not so veryyoung neither,' whispered a third.
'That's her gypsy blood,' broke in another. 'There was one here t'otherday, of thirteen, with an infant at her breast; and, more by token, shehad just put a stiletto into its father.'
'The ragazza yonder looks quite equal to the same deed,' observed theformer speaker, 'if _I_ know anything about what an eye means.'
'Vincenzio Bombici--where is Vincenzio Bombici?' cried a surly-lookingbrigadier, whose large cooked-hat, set squarely on, increased theapparent breadth of an immensely wide face.
'_Ecco mi, Eccelenza!_' whimpered out a wretched-looking object, who,with his face bound up, and himself all swathed like Lazarus from thetomb, came, helped forward by two assistants.
'Pass in, Vincenzio, and narrate your case,' said the brigadier, as heopened a door into the dread chamber of justice.
While public sympathy followed the Signor Bombici into the hallof justice, fresh expressions of anger were vented on the unhappystrollers. Any one conversant with Italy is aware that so divided isthe peninsula by national jealousies--feuds that date from centuriesback--the most opprobrious epithet that hate or passion can employagainst any one is to stigmatise him as the native of some other townor city. And now the mob broke into such gibes as, 'Accursed Calabrians!Ah, vile assassins from Capri'--from Corsica, from the Abruzzi; fromanywhere, in short, save the favoured land they stood in. Donna Gaetanawas not one who suffered herself to be arraigned without reply, nor wasshe remarkable for moderation in the style and manner of herrejoinders. With a voluble ribaldry for which her nation enjoys a proudpre-eminence, she assailed her opponents, one and all. She ridiculedtheir pretensions, mocked their poverty, jeered at their cowardice,and--last insult of all--derided their personal appearance.
Passion fed her eloquence, and the old dame vented upon them insultafter insult with a volubility that was astounding. There is no need torecord the vindictive and indecorous epithets she scattered broadcastaround her; and even as her enemies skulked craven from the field, herwrathful indignation tracked them as they went, sending words of outrageto bear them company. The mere numerical odds was strong against her,and the clamour that arose was deafening, drawing crowds to the doorsand the street in front, and at last gaining such a height as to invadethe sacred precincts of justice, overbearing the trembling accentsof Bombici as lie narrated his tale of woe. Out rushed the valiantcarabinieri with the air of men hurrying to a storm, cleaving their waythrough the crowd--striking, buffeting, trampling all before them. Atsight of the governmental power the crowd quailed at once, all save one,the Donna. Standing to her guns to the last, she now turned her sarcasmsupon the gendarmes, overwhelming them with a perfect torrent of abuse,and with such success that the mob, so lately the mark of her virulence,actually shook with laughter at the new victims to her passion. For amoment discipline seemed like to yield to anger. The warriors appearedto waver in their impassive valour; but suddenly, with a gleam of wisercounsel, they formed a semi-circle behind the accused, and marched thembodily into the presence of the judge.
Justice was apparently accustomed to similar interruptions; at least,it neither seemed shocked nor disconcerted, but continued to listen withunbroken interest to Vincenzio Bombici's sorrows--not, indeed, that hehad arrived at the incident of the night before. Far from it. He wasmerely preluding in that fashion which the exactitude of the Tuscan lawrequires, and replying to the interesting interrogatories regardinghis former life, so essential to a due understanding of his presentcomplaint.
'You are, then, the son of Matteo Friuli Bombici, by his wifeFiammetta?' read out the prefect solemnly, from the notes he was taking.
'No, Eccelenza. She was my father's second wife. My mother's name wasPacifica.'
'Pacifica,' wrote the prefect. 'Daughter of whom?'
'Of Felice Corsari, tin-worker in the Borgo St. Apostoli.'
'Not so fast, not so fast,' interposed the judge, as he took down thewords, and then muttered to himself, 'in the Borgo St. Apostoli.'
'My mother was one of eight--three sons and five daughters. The eldestboy, Onofrio----'
'Irrelevant,
irrelevant; or, if necessary, to be recorded hereafter,'said the prefect. 'You were bred and brought up in the Catholic faith!'
'Yes, Eccelenza. The Prete of San Gaetano has confessed me since Iwas eleven years old. I have taken out more than two hundred pauls inprivate masses, and paid for three novenas and a plenary, as the Pretewill vouch.'
'I will note your character in this respect, Vincenzio,' said the judgeapprovingly.
'They will probably bring up before your worship the story against myfather, that he stole the cloak of the Cancelliere Martelli, when he wasperforming the part of Pontius Pilate in the holy mysteries at Sienna;but we have the documents at home----'
'Are they registered?'
'I believe not, Eccelenza.'
'Are they stamped?'
'I 'm afraid not, Eccelenza. The Cavallochio that defended my fathercouldn't write himself, and it was one Leonardo Capprini----'
'The sausage-maker,' broke in the judge, with a smack of his lips.
'The same, Eccelenza; you knew him, perhaps?'
'Knew him well, and liked his hog's puddings much.' Justice seemed halfashamed at this confession of a weakness, and in a more stern tone, toldhim to 'Go on.'
It was not very easy for honest Vincenzio to know at what part of hishistory he was to take up the thread; so he shuffled from foot to foot,and sighed despondingly.
'I said "go on,"' said the judge, more peremptorily than before.
'I was talking of my father, Eccelenza,' said he modestly.
'No, of your good mother Fiammetta,' said the judge, rather proud of theaccuracy with which he retained the family history.
'She was my step-mother,' interposed Vincenzio humbly.
'Blockheads all!' broke in old Gaetana, with a hearty laugh.
'Silence!' cried the gendarmes, as, with their muskets dropped to theground, they made the chamber ring again, while the judge, turning aglance of darkening anger on the speaker, said: 'Who is this old woman?'
'Let _me_ tell him. Let myself speak,' cried Gaetana, pressing forward,while the gendarmes, with their instinct as to coming peril, prudentlyheld her back.
'So then,' said the judge, in reply to a whisper of one of hisassistants, 'she is the principal delinquent'; and referring to thewritten charge before him, read out: 'An infuriated woman, who presidedover the drum.'
'They smashed it, the thieves!' cried Gaetana; 'they smashed my drum;but, _per Dio_, I beat a roll on their own skulls that astonished them!They 'll not deny that I gave them an ear for music' And the old haglaughed loud at her savage jest.
Again was silence commanded, and after some trouble obtained; andthe judge, whose perceptions were evidently disturbed by theseinterruptions, betook himself to the pages of the indictment, to refreshhis mind on the case. Muttering to himself the lines, he came to thewords, 'and with a formidable weapon, of solid wood, with the use ofwhich long habit had rendered her familiar, and in this wise dangerous,she, the aforesaid Gaetana, struck, beat, battered, and belaboured----'
'Didn't I!' broke in the hag.
What consequences might have ensued from this last interruption must beleft to mere guess, for the door of the chamber was now opened to itswidest to admit a gentleman, who came forward with the air of one in acertain authority. He was no other than the Count of the night before,who had so generously thrown his protection over the strollers.Advancing to where the Prefetto sat, he leaned one arm on the table,while he spoke to him in a low voice.
The judge listened with deference and attention, his manner beingsuddenly converted into the very lowest sycophancy. When it came to histurn to speak, 'Certainly, Signor Conte; unquestionable,' mutteredhe. 'It is enough that your Excellency deigns to express a wish on thesubject,' and, with many a bow, he accompanied him to the door. A briefnod to the youth Gerald was the only sign of recognition he gave, andthe Count withdrew.
'This case is prorogued,' said the Prefetto solemnly. 'The Court willinform itself upon its merits, and convoke the parties on some futureday.' And now the gendarmes proceeded to clear the hall, huddling outtogether plaintiffs and prisoners and witnesses, all loudly inveighing,protesting, denouncing, and explaining what nobody listened to or caredfor.
'_Eh viva!_' exclaimed old Gaetana, as she reached the open air,'there's more justice here than I looked for.'