William Le Queux
The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias
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Table of contents
Chapter One.
Chapter Two.
Chapter Three.
Chapter Four.
Chapter Five.
Chapter Six.
Chapter Seven.
Chapter Eight.
Chapter Nine.
Chapter Ten.
Chapter Eleven.
Chapter Twelve.
Chapter Thirteen.
Chapter Fourteen.
Chapter Fifteen.
Chapter Sixteen.
Chapter Seventeen.
Chapter Eighteen.
Chapter Nineteen.
Chapter Twenty.
Chapter Twenty One.
Chapter Twenty Two.
Chapter Twenty Three.
Chapter Twenty Four.
Chapter Twenty Five.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Chapter Thirty.
Chapter Thirty One.
Chapter Thirty Two.
Chapter Thirty Three.
Chapter Thirty Four.
Chapter Thirty Five.
Chapter Thirty Six.
Chapter Thirty Seven.
Chapter Thirty Eight.
Chapter Thirty Nine.
Chapter Forty.
Chapter One.
Which
Mainly Concerns a Hunchback.These
strange facts would never have been placed on record, nor would this
exciting chapter of an eventful life have been written, except for
two reasons: first, because the discovery I made has been declared to
be of considerable importance to scientists, bibliophiles, and the
world at large; and, secondly, because it is my dear wife’s wish
that in order to clear her in the eyes of both friends and foes
nothing should be concealed, misrepresented, or withheld.It
was, indeed, a memorable day when I halted before the white, almost
windowless house of the prior of San Sisto and knocked twice at its
plain, green-painted door. The sun-blanched, time-mellowed city of
Florence lay silent, glaring, and deserted in the blazing noon of a
July day. The Florentines had fled to the mountains for air. The
persiennes, or sun-shutters, were everywhere closed, the shops shut,
the people slumbering, and the silence only broken by the heat-song
of the chirping cicale in the scorched trees at the end of the Lung
Arno.Like
many another Tuscan town, it stood with long rows of high, frescoed,
and sculptured palaces facing the brown river, its magnificent Duomo
and campanile, its quaint fourteenth-century streets, and its
medieval Ponte Vecchio all forming a grim, imposing relic of
long-past glory. In many places its aspect was little changed since
the old quattrocento days, when it was the centre of all the arts and
the powerful rival of Venice and Genoa, although its trade has
decayed and its power departed. The Lion and Lily of Florence upon a
flag is no longer feared, as it once was, even by the bloodthirsty
corsairs, and the rich Florentine brocades, velvets, and finely
tempered arms are no longer in requisition in the markets of the
world.Save
for the influx of scrambling tourists, it is one of the dead towns of
Europe. Modern trade passes it by unnoticed; its very name would be
forgotten were it not for those marvellous works of art in its
galleries and in its very streets.I
had always loved the quaint old city, ever since a boy, when my
father, a retired English naval officer, lived in that ancient house
with the brown frescoes in the via di Pinti in the days before the
shrieking steam trams ran to Prato or the splendid Palazzo Riccardi
had been desecrated by the Government. At fourteen I left those
quaint, quiet streets, with their cool loggias and silent, moss-grown
courtyards, for the whirl of Paris, and subsequently lived and worked
in London. Then, after an absence of nearly twenty years, I found
myself living again in my beloved Tuscany by the Mediterranean, at
Leghorn, forty miles distant from the medieval city of my childhood.
Was it, therefore, surprising that the mood often seized me to go and
revisit the old places I had known as a boy? I found them all
unchanged—indeed, nothing changes in “Firenza la Bella” save
the fortunes of her ruined nobility and the increase of garish hotels
for the accommodation of the foreigner.I
was something of an antiquary, and through many years had been
collecting medieval manuscripts on vellum, ancient chapters,
diplomas, notarial deeds, and such-like documents, none being of
later date than the fifteenth century. To decipher the work of the
old scribes is, I admit, a dry-as-dust occupation; nevertheless, it
is a work that grows on one, and the palaeographist is an enthusiast
always. In one’s hobbies one should always join advantage to
amusement, and seek to gather profit with pleasure.My
collection of musty-smelling parchments and rolls of folded vellum
documents, with their formidable seals of wax or lead; of heavy
vellum books bound in oaken boards and brass bosses, or tiny
illuminated books of hours, so minutely written that a microscope was
almost necessary to read them, appeal to very few people. Most of my
friends regarded them as so many old and undecipherable books and
rolls, without interest and without value. They wondered that, being
continually occupied at my desk writing novels, I should take up such
an essentially dry study.Yet
it was this love of collecting that first brought me into contact
with Francesco Graniani, a queer little old hunchback, who was a kind
of itinerant dealer in antiques. Unshaven, very shabby, and not
particularly clean, he dressed always in the same faded drab suit,
and, summer or winter, wore the same battered, sun-browned straw hat
through all the years I knew him.Often
this strange, rather tragic figure would meet me in the sun-baked
streets of Leghorn, raise his battered hat respectfully, and, taking
me aside, produce mysteriously from his pocket a parchment charter
with its seal, some leaves from a medieval psalter, or perhaps an
illuminated codex, or a book of hours with painted miniatures. Where
le obtained such gems I have never to this day discovered. None knew
who the old fellow was, or where he lived; he was a complete mystery.One
morning while crossing the great square I encountered him, and he
informed me in his strange, mysterious manner of the existence of a
very rare and interesting manuscript in the possession of the prior
of the ancient church of San Sisto, at Florence.
“If
the signore goes to Firenze, Father Landini will no doubt allow him
to have sight of the parchment book,” he said. “Tell him that
Francesco Graniani wishes it.”
“But
what is the character of the manuscript?”I
inquired.
“I
know nothing of it,” he replied evasively, “except that I believe
it once belonged to the Monastery of the Certosa. I heard of it only
last night, and thought perhaps it might interest you.”It
certainly did. Any discovery of that kind always attracted me—ever
on the lookout as I was for a single folio of the original Dante.With
the object of inspecting the palaeographic treasure I next day took
train to Florence, and an hour after my arrival knocked in some
trepidation at the prior’s green door.The
long grey church, one of the oldest in that ancient city, stood in
its little piazza off the via San Gallao, and adjoining it the
prior’s house, a long, low, fourteenth-century building, with high,
cross-barred windows, and a wonderful old-world garden in the rear.In
answer to my summons there appeared a thin, yellow-faced,
sharp-tongued house-woman, and on inquiry for the father I was at
once invited into a big stone hall, cool and dim after the sun-glare
outside.
“Body
of a thousand anchovies! Teresa, who has come to worry me now?” I
heard a man demand angrily from a door at the end of a darkened
corridor. “Didn’t I tell you that I was not at home until after
mass tomorrow? Plague you, Teresa?”To
the wizen-faced woman I stammered some apology, but at the same
moment I saw a huge, almost gigantic figure in a long black cassock
and biretta emerge from the room.
“Oh,
signore?” he cried apologetically, the instant he caught sight of
me. “Do pray excuse me. I have so many of my poor people here
begging that I’m compelled to be out to them sometimes. Come in!
Come in?” Then he added reproachfully, turning to his housekeeper,
“Teresa, what manners you have to leave this gentleman standing in
the hall like a mendicant! I’m ashamed of you, Teresa! What must
the signore think—and a foreigner, too!”In
an instant the Very Reverand Bernardo Landini and I were friends. I
saw that he was thoroughly genuine, a strange admixture of
good-fellowship and piety. His proportions were Gargantuan. His
clean-shaven face was perfectly round, fresh, and almost boyish in
complexion, his dark eyes twinkled with merriment, his stomach was
huge and spoke mutely of a healthy appetite, his hand big and hearty
in its shake, and in his speech he aspirated his “e’s,” which
showed him to be a born Florentine.After
I had explained that my name was Allan Kennedy, and that I was
introduced by the
gobbo of Leghorn,
he took out his great horn snuff-box, rapped it loudly, and offered
me a pinch.
“Ah!”
he remarked. “The signore is English, yet how well he speaks our
Tuscan?”I
thanked him for his compliment, and went on to explain that I had
passed the years of my youth in Florence, and was at heart almost a
Florentino.This
pleased him mightily, and from the moment I hinted at my antiquarian
tastes he began to chatter as an enthusiast will.The
apartment wherein I sat, darkened by its closed sun-shutters, was
certainly a strange one, small, and so crammed with antiques of every
kind and description that one could scarcely move in it. Upon the old
Empire writing-table at which he had seated himself stood a small
brass crucifix of exquisite design, while all around hung ancient
pictures of a religious character—saints, pietas, pictures of the
Redeemer, and several great canvases reaching from floor to ceiling,
evidently from church-altars. The very chairs were of the fifteenth
century, heavy, massive, and covered with stamped leather; the tables
were of the Renaissance; and the perfect chaos of valuable objects of
art stored there was to me, a collector absolutely bewildering.And
amid it all, seated at his table, was the ponderous, beaming cleric,
mopping his brow with his big red handkerchief from time to time, and
leaning back in his chair to laugh and talk with me.Yet
when I mentioned that I had been sent by the mysterious old hunchback
of Leghorn his face instantly grew serious, and with a low sigh he
said: “Ah, poor Francesco! poor fellow?”
“You
know him well,
signor priore,” I
said. “Tell me about him. I’m very anxious to know who and what
he really is. To me he has always been a mystery.”But
the stout prior shook his head, replying in a rather hard voice: “No,
signore. I regret that my lips are closed.”His
response was a strange one, and led me at once to suspect that my new
friend was a party to some grave secret. Therefore, seeing that his
manner was firm, I dropped the subject, although more than ever
interested in the queer, deformed old fellow who had so long
mystified me.My
friend the priest took me around his wonderful collection, and showed
me a veritable confusion of valuable antiques: a Madonna by Andrea
del Sarto, a Holy Family by Tintoretto, a tiny but exquisite specimen
of that lost art of della Robbia, and a quantity of old tapestries,
medieval ironwork, and old, carved furniture.In
a room beyond was stored a splendid collection of Florentine armour:
helmets, breastplates, gauntlets, and lances, with a heap of ancient
swords, rapiers, and poniards. I took up several to examine them, and
found that they were without exception splendid specimens of the
Spanish armourer’s work, mostly bearing upon the finely tempered
blades the well-known marks of Blanco, Martinez, Ruiz, Tomas, and
Pedro de Lezama.Some
of the work was wonderfully inlaid with brass and copper; and the
collection appeared to be a representative one, ranging from the
rusty crosshilts of the Etruscas down to the thin Spanish rapiers of
the seventeenth century.A
third room, still beyond, was the priest’s bedchamber, and even
this was so packed with curios and bric-à-brac that there was
scarcely room to enter.Above
the narrow little bed was an antique bronze crucifix, mounted upon a
carved wooden background covered with old purple brocade, while the
whitewashed walls were almost hidden by the profusion of religious
pictures. The red-brick floor was carpetless, as were all the other
apartments; but the furniture was all old, and upon the chairs were
heaped quantities of silks and velvets from the Genoese looms of the
seventeenth century—truly an amazing profusion of relics of Italy’s
past glory.The
prior smiled at my exclamations of surprise as I enthusiastically
examined object after object with keen and critical eye. Then, when I
remarked upon the value of the objects of art with which his
unpretentious house was filled, he answered:
“I
am delighted that you, signore, should feel so much interest in my
few things. Like yourself, I am an enthusiast, and perhaps by my
calling I am afforded unusual facilities for collecting. Here, in my
poverty-stricken parish, are quantities of antiques stored in the
cottages as well as in the palaces, and the
contadini from all
the countryside, even beyond Pistoja, prefer to bring me their
treasures in secret rather than to offer them openly to the
pawnbroker.”
“But
Graniani told me that you have discovered a manuscript of remarkable
character. I possess a small collection; therefore may I be permitted
to examine it?” I asked, carefully approaching the subject.
“Most
certainly,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation, it seemed.
“It is in the safe in my study. Let us return there.” And I
followed his ponderous form back to the small apartment wherein stood
his writing-table with the crucifix and heavily bound Bible and
missal upon it.But
as I walked behind him, unable to see his face, I was surprised at
the tone of the remark he made as though speaking to himself:
“So
Francesco told you of the book, did he? Ah!”He
spoke as though in suppressed anger that the queer old hunchback had
betrayed his confidence.
Chapter Two.
The
Priest and the Book.The
prior mopped his round face again with his red handkerchief, and
taking a key from his pocket fumbled at the lock of the small and
old-fashioned safe, after some moments producing the precious
manuscript for my inspection.It
proved to be a thick folio, bound in its original oaken boards
covered with purple leather that had faded and in parts disappeared.
For further protection there were added great bosses of tarnished
brass, usual in fifteenth-century bindings, but the wood itself was
fast decaying; the binding presented a sadly tattered and worn
appearance, and the heavy volume seemed held together mainly by its
great brass clasp.He
placed it before me on the table, and with eager fingers I undid the
clasp and opened it. As soon as my eyes fell upon the leaves of
parchment I recognised it to be a very rare and remarkable
fourteenth-century manuscript, and a desire at once seized me to
possess it.Written
by the monk Arnoldus of Siena, it was beautifully executed in even
Gothic characters, with red and blue initials, and ornamented with a
number of curious designs in gold and colours representing the seven
deadly sins. Upon the first page was a long, square initial in gold;
and although written with the contractions common at the time, I
managed to make out the first few lines in Latin as follows:
“Arnoldus
Cenni de Senis, professus in monasterio Viridis vallis canon regul.
S. Augustini in Zonie silva Camerac. dioec. Liber Gnotosolitos de
septem peccatis mortalibus, de decem praeceptis, de duodecim
consiliis evangelicis, de quinque sensibus, de simbolo fidei, de
septem sacramentis, de octo beatitudinibus, de septem donis spiritus
sancti, de quatuor peccatis ad Deum clamantibus,” etc.Across
the top of the first page, written in a cursive hand in brown ink of
a somewhat later date, was the inscription:
“Liber
canonicor. regul. monasterii S. Maynulfi in Bodeke prope Paderborn.
Qui rapit hunc librum rapiant sua viscera corvi.”The
introduction showed that the splendid manuscript had been written by
the old Sienese monk himself in the Abbey of Saint Paul at
Groenendale. The date was fixed by the “Explicit”: “Iste liber
est mei Fris Arnoldi Cenni de Senis Frum ordis B’te Marie carmelo.
Ouem ppria manu scripsi i anno dni MoCCCoXXXIX. die. XXVIII. Maij.
Finito libro Reseram’ gra Xo.”I
really don’t know why I became so intensely interested in the
volume, for the ornamentations were evidently by a Flemish
illuminator, and I had come across many of a far more meritorious
character in the work of the Norman scribes.Perhaps
it was owing to the quaintness of the design; perhaps because of the
rareness of the work; but more probably because at the end of the
book had been left fifty or so blank leaves, as was often the case in
manuscripts of that period, and upon them, in a strange and difficult
cursive hand, was inscribed a long record which aroused my curiosity.As
every collector of manuscripts knows, one sometimes finds curious
entries upon the blank pages of vellum books. In the days before the
art of printing was discovered, when the use of paper was not
general, and when vellum and parchment were costly, every inch of the
latter was utilise and a record meant to be permanent was usually
written in the front or back of some precious volume. Therefore, the
sight of this hundred pages or so of strange-looking writing in faded
brown ink, penned with its many downward flourishes, uneven and
difficult as compared with the remarkable regularity of the old
monk’s treatise upon the Seven Sins, awakened within me an
eagerness to decipher it.Horaes,
psalters, offices of the Virgin, and codexes of Saints Augustine,
Bernard, Ambrose, and the others are to be found in every private
collection; therefore it was always my object to acquire manuscript
works that were original. The volume itself was certainly a treasure,
and its interest was increased tenfold by those pages of close,
half-faded handwriting, written probably a century later, and
evidently in indifferent ink to that used by the old monk.
“Well,
signore,” inquired the prior after I had been bending over the
ancient volume for some minutes in silence, “what is your opinion?
You are of course an expert. I am not. I know nothing about
manuscripts.”His
frankness was pleasing. He did not seek to expound its merits or to
criticise without being able to substantiate his statements.
“A
most interesting codex,” I declared, just as openly. “I don’t
remember ever having met with Arnoldus before; and, as far as I can
recollect, Quain does not mention him. How did it come into your
possession?”Landini
was silent. His huge, round face, so different from the pinched, grey
countenances of most priests, assumed a mysterious look, and his lips
pursed themselves up in an instant. I noticed his hesitation, and,
recollecting that he had told me how many people in the neighbourhood
came to him in secret and sold him their most treasured possessions,
saw that my question was not an exactly fair one. Instead of
replying, he merely remarked that if I desired to acquire the volume
he was open to an offer. Then he added:
“I
think, my dear signore, that when we become better acquainted we
shall like each other. Therefore I may as well tell you at once that,
in addition to the holy office which I hold, I deal in antiques.
Probably you will condemn me, just as half Florence has already done.
But surely it is no disgrace to the habit I wear? From the
sacriligious Government I receive the magnificent stipend of one
thousand lire (forty pounds) annually;” and he laughed a trifle
bitterly. “Can a man live on that? I have both father and mother
still living, dear old souls! Babbo is eighty-one, and my mother
seventy-eight; they live out at the five ways in the Val d’Ema, in
the old farmhouse where I was born. With the profits I make on
dealing in antiques I manage by great economy to keep them and
myself, and have just a trifle to give to the deserving poor in my
parish. Do you
blame me, signore?”How
could I? His charming openness, so like the Tuscan priest, and yet so
unlike the Tuscan tradesman, gave me an insight into his true
character. The extreme simplicity of his carpetless, comfortless
house, the frayed shabbiness of his cassock, and the cracked
condition of his huge buckled shoes all spoke mutely for a struggle
for life. Yet, on the other hand, his face was that of a supremely
contented man. His collection was such that if sold at Christie’s
it would fetch many thousands of pounds; yet, an antiquary himself,
he clung, it seemed, to a greater portion of it, and would not part
with many of his treasures.I
told him that I had admiration rather than reproach at his turning
dealer, when he frankly explained that his method of selling was not
to regard the marketable value of an object, but to obtain a small
profit upon the sum he gave for it.
“I
find that this method works best,” he said, “for by it I am able
to render a service to those in straitened circumstances, and at the
same time gain sufficient for the wants of my family. Of the real
value of many things I am utterly ignorant. This manuscript, for
instance, I purchased for a hundred francs. If you give me a hundred
and twenty-five, and you think it is worth it, I shall be quite
contented. Does the price suit you?”Suit
me! My heart leaped to my mouth. If he had suggested fifty pounds
instead of five I should have been prepared to consider it. Either
Quaritch in London, Rosenthal in Munich, or Olschki in Florence
would, I felt certain, be eager to give at the least a hundred pounds
for it. Such manuscripts were not offered for sale every day.
“The
price is not at all high,” I answered. “Indeed, it is lower than
I expected you would ask; therefore the book is mine.” And taking
my wallet from my pocket, I counted out and handed to him a dozen or
so of those small, well-thumbed notes that constitute the paper
currency of Italy, for which he scribbled a receipt upon a scrap of
waste-paper which he picked up from the floor—a fact which showed
him to be as unconventional as he was frank and honest in his
dealing.Dealers
in any branch of antiques, whether in pictures, china, furniture, or
manuscripts, are—except well-known firms—for the most part sharks
of the worst genus;
hence it was pleasant to make a purchase with such charming openness
of purpose.When
he handed me the receipt, however, I thought I detected a strange,
mysterious look upon his big, beaming countenance as he said, “I
thank you, my dear Signor Kennedy, for your patronage, and I hope
that you will never regret your purchase—never.”He
seemed to emphasise the words in a tone unusual to him. It flashed
across my mind that the manuscript might, after all, be a clever
German forgery, as a good many are, and that its genuineness had
already been doubted. Yet if it were, I felt certain that such a man
would never disgrace his office by knowingly deceiving me.Still,
the mystery of his manner puzzled me, and I am fain to confess that
my confidence in him became somewhat shaken.His
refusal to tell me anything of the ugly old hunchback whose orders he
had obeyed in showing me the book, and his disinclination to tell me
whence he had procured it, were both curious circumstances which
occupied my mind. It also occurred to me as most probable that
Graniani was merely an agent of the clerical antique-dealer, which
accounted for his pockets being ever filled with precious
manuscripts, bits of valuable china, miniatures, an such-like odds
and ends.Nevertheless,
if the “Book of Arnoldus” were actually genuine I had secured a
gem at a ridiculously low price. I did not for one moment doubt its
authenticity; hence a feeling of intense satisfaction overcame
everything.He
showed me several other manuscripts, including a fifteenth-century
Petrarca De Vita
Solitaria, an
illuminated Horae of about the same date, and an
Evangelia quatuor
of a century earlier; but none of them attracted me so much as the
heavy volume I had purchased.Then,
at my request, he took me along the dark corridor and through a
side-door into the fine old church, where the light was dim and in
keeping with the ancient, time-mellowed Raphaels and the dull gilding
of ceiling and altar. The air was heavy with incense, and the only
sound beyond the echo of our footsteps was the impudent chirp of a
stray bird which had come in for shelter from the scorching sun. It
was an ancient place, erected in 1089 by the Florentines to
commemorate their victories on August sixth, the day of San Sisto.For
more than twenty years I had not entered there. I recollect going
there in my youth, because I was enamoured of a dark-eyed little
milliner from the via Dante who attended mass regularly. The past
arose before me, and I smiled at that forgotten love of my ardent
youth. The prior pointed out to me objects of interest not mentioned
in the red guide-books, they being known to him alone. He showed me
the splendid sculptured tombs of the noble houses of Cioni and of
Gherardesca, whereon lay the armoured knights in stone; the Madonna
of Fra Bartolommeo; the curious frescoes in the sacristy, and other
objects which to both of us were interesting; then, taking me back
through his house, we passed out into the tangled, old-world garden—a
weedy, neglected place, with orange and fig trees, broken moss-grown
statuary, and a long, cool loggia covered with laden vines.Together
we sat upon a bench in the welcome shadow, and at our feet the
lizards darted across those white flagstones hollowed by the tread of
generations. Father Bernardo took the long Tuscan cigar which I
offered him; and, on his calling old Teresa to bring a candle, we
both lit up, for the ignition of a “Virginia” in Italy is, as you
know, an art in itself. He confided to me that he loved to smoke—the
only indulgence he allowed himself—and then, as we lolled back,
overcome by the heat and burden of the day, we discussed antiques,
and he told me some strange stories of the treasures that had on
various occasions passed through his hands to the national galleries
or the wealthy American visitors.A
dozen times I tried to obtain from him the history of the fine old
parchment codex I had just bought, but without avail. He made it a
rule, he told me frankly, never to divulge from whom he obtained the
objects he had to sell, and had he
not been a cleric I
should really have suspected him of being a receiver of stolen
property.Old
Teresa, in blue apron and shuffling over the stones, returned to her
master presently, informing him that someone was waiting for
confession; therefore my friend, excusing himself, flung away his
cigar, crossed himself, and hurried back to his sacred duty. He was a
strange man, it was true; charming, yet at moments austere, reserved,
and mysterious.Alone,
still smoking, I sat where he had left me. Opposite, the overgrown
garden with its wealth of fruit and flowers was bounded by the
ancient stucco wall of the church, around which, in a line above the
windows, ran a row of beautiful della Robbia medallions hidden from
the world.When
I had remarked upon their beauty to Landini he had sighed, saying:
“Ah,
signore, if I only might sell them and pay for the restoration of my
church! Each one is worth at least a thousand pounds sterling, for
they are even finer specimens than those upon the Foundling Hospital.
The Louvre Museum in Paris offered me a year ago twenty thousand
francs for the one to the right over there in the corner.” Yes; the
old place breathed an air of a bygone age—the age of the
Renaissance in Italy—and I sat there musing as I smoked, trying to
fathom the character of the ponderous, heavy-breathing man who had
that moment entered the confessional, and wondering what could be his
connection with Francesco Graniani.Across,
straight before me, was a small, square, latticed window of old green
glass, near which, I knew, stood the confessional-box; and suddenly—I
know not why—my eye caught it, and what I noticed there riveted my
attention.Something
showed white for a single instant behind the glass, then disappeared.
But not, however, before I recognised that some person was keeping
secret watch upon my movements, and, further, that it was none other
than the forbidding-looking little hunchback of Leghorn.In
Italy one’s suspicion is easily aroused, and certainly mine was by
that inexplicable incident. I determined then and there to trust
neither Graniani nor his clerical friend. Therefore, with a feeling
of anger at such impudent espionage, I rose, re-entered the prior’s
house, and walked up the dark passage to the study, intending to
obtain the precious volume for which I had paid, and to wish my host
a hurried adieu.On
entering the darkened study, however, I discovered, somewhat to my
surprise, a neat-waisted, well-dressed lady in black standing there,
evidently waiting, and idling the time by glancing over the vellum
pages of my newly acquired treasure.I
drew back, begging her pardon for unceremonious intrusion, but she
merely bowed in acknowledgment. Her manner seemed agitated and
nervous, and she wore a veil, so that in the half-light I could not
well distinguish her features.She
was entirely in black, even to her gloves, and was evidently the
person to whom Father Bernardo had been called, and after confession
had passed through the little side-door of the church in order to
consult him upon some matter of extreme importance, the nature of
which I could not possibly divine. In all this I scented mystery.
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!