CHAPTER XIV. CARPENA'S OFFER.
Ten minutes later, after a smoke at his door, Andrea rejoined his guests in the room, while Maria continued her work about the house.
“Count,” said the fisherman, “the wind is off the land, and I do not think the sea will be rough to-night The simplest way, and consequently the best way to avoid observation, is for you to come with me. If you think so, it would be better to get away to-night about ten o’clock. You can then get down between the rocks to the water’s edge. No one will see you. My boat will take you off to the balancello, and we can at once put to sea without attracting attention, for they know I am going out to-night. If the breeze freshens too much I will run down the coast so as to set you ashore beyond the Austrian frontier at the mouths of the Cattaro.”
“And if it does not freshen, what are you going to do?” asked Sandorf.
“We will go out to sea,” answered the fisherman, “and I will land you on the coast of Rimini or at the mouth of the Po.”
“Is your boat big enough for a voyage like that?” asked Bathory.
“Yes; it is a good boat, half-decked, and my son and I have been out in her in very bad weather. Besides we must run some risk.”
“We must run some risk,” said Count Sandorf; “our lives are at stake, and nothing is more natural. But for you, my friend, to risk your life—”
“That is my business, count,” answered Andrea, “and I am only doing my duty in wishing to save you.”
“Your duty?”
“Yes.”
And Andrea Ferrato related that episode in his life on account of winch he had left Santa Manza, and told how the good he was about to do would be a just compensation for the evil he had done.
“You are a splendid fellow!” exclaimed Sandorf, much affected by the recital.
Then continuing:
“But if we go to the mouths of the Cattaro, or the Italian coast, that will necessitate a long absence, which, on your part, will astonish the people of Rovigno. After have put us in safety, there is no need for you to return and be arrested—”
“Never fear,” answered Andrea. “Sometimes I am five or six days at sea. Besides, I tell you that is my business. It is what must be done, and it is what shall be done.”
So that the only thing to do was to discuss the scheme, which was evidently a good one, and easy of execution, for the balancello was quite equal to the voyage. Care would have to be taken in getting on board; but the night was sure to be dark and moonless, and probably with the evening one of those thick mists would come up along the coast which do not extend far out to sea. The beach would then be deserted. The other fishermen, Ferrato’s neighbors, would be busy, as they had said, among their madragues on the rocks, two or three miles below Rovigno. When they sighted the balancello, if they did sight her, she would be far out at sea, with the fugitives under her deck.
“And what is the distance in a direct line between Rovigno and the nearest point of the Italian coast?” asked Bathory.
“About fifty miles.”
“And how long will it take you to do that?”
“With a favorable wind we ought to cross in twelve hours. But you have no money. You will want some. Take this belt, it has three hundred florins in it, and buckle it around you.”
“My friend—” said Sandorf.
“You can return it later on,” replied the fisherman, “when you are in safety. And now wait here till I come back.”
Matters being thus arranged Ferrato went to resume his usual occupation, sometimes on the beach and sometimes about his house. Luigi, without being noticed, took on board in a spare sail provisions for several days. There seemed no possibility of suspicion that might alter Ferrato’s plans. He was even so careful in his precautions as not to see his guests again during he day. Sandord and Bathory remained in hiding at the back of the room in which the window remained open. The fisherman was to call them when it was time for them to go.
Many of the neighbors came in to have a chat during the afternoon about the appearance of the tunnies and the fishing. Andrea received them in the front room and offered them something to drink as usual.
The greater part of the day was thus passed in going backward and forward and in talk. Many times the subject of the prisoners cropped up. There was a rumor that they had been caught near the Quarnero Canal on the opposite side of Istria—a rumor winch was soon afterward contradicted.
All seemed working for the best. That the coast was more closely watched than usual by the custom-house men, the police, and the gendarmes, was certain; but there would probably be no difficulty in evading the guard when night came on.
The embargo, as we know, had only been put on the long-voyage ships and the Mediterranean coasters, and not on the local fishing-boats. The balancello would thus be able to get under sail without suspicion.
But Andrea Ferrato had not reckoned on a visit he received in the evening. This visit was a surprise at first and made him anxious, although he did not understand the meaning of the threat until after his visitor’s departure.
Eight o’clock was on the point of striking, and Maria was preparing the supper, and had already laid the table in the large room when there came two knocks at the door. Andrea did not hesitate to go and open it. Much surprised, he found himself in the presence of the Spaniard, Carpena.
This Carpena was a native of Almayati, a little town in the province of Malaga. As Ferrato had left Corsica, so had he left Spain, to settle in Istria. There he found employment in the salt-works and in carrying the products of the western coast into the interior—a thankless occupation that barely brought him enough to live upon.
He was a strong fellow, still young, being not more than five-and-twenty, short of stature, but broad of shoulder, with a large head covered with curly, coarse black hair, and one of those bull-dog faces that look as forbidding on a man as on a dog. Carpena was unsociable, spiteful, vindictive, and a good deal of a scoundrel, and was anything but popular. It was not known why he had left his country. Several quarrels with his fellow-workmen, a good deal of threatening with one and the other, followed by fights and scuffles, had not added to his reputation. People liked Carpena best at a distance.
He, however, had a sufficiently good opinion of himself and his person—as we shall see—and was ambitious of becoming Ferrato’s son-in-law. The fisherman, it must be confessed, did not give his overtures a cordial reception. And that will be understood better when the man’s pretensions have been disclosed in the conversation that followed.
Carpena had hardly set foot in the room when Andrea stopped him short with—
“What have you come here for?”
“I was passing, and as I saw a light in your window I came in.”
“And why?”
“To visit you, neighbor.”
“But your visits are not wanted, you know!”
“Not usually,” answered the Spaniard; “but to-night it will be different.”
Ferrato did not understand and could not guess what such enigmatic words meant in Carpena’s mouth. But he could not repress a sudden start, which did not escape his visitor, who shut the door behind him.
“I want to speak to you!” said he.
“No. You have nothing to say to me.”
“Yes—I must speak to you—in private,” added the Spaniard, lowering his voice.
“Come, then,” answered the fisherman, who during this day had his reasons for not refusing any one admittance. Carpena, at a sign from Ferrato, crossed the room and entered his bedroom, which was separated only by a thin partition from that occupied by Sandorf and his companion. One room opened on to the front, the other on to the back of the house. As soon as they were alone—
“What do you want with me?” asked the fisherman.
“Neighbor,” answered Carpena, “I again come to appeal to your kindness.”
“What for?”
“About your daughter.”
“Not another word.”
“Listen then! You know that I love Maria, and that my dearest wish is to make her my wife.”
And in fact Carpena had for several months been pursuing the girl with his attentions. As may be imagined, these were due more to interest than to love. Ferrato was well off for a fisherman and, compared to the Spaniard, who possessed nothing, he was rich. Nothing could be more natural than that Carpena should wish to become his son-in-law, and on the other hand nothing could be more natural than that the fisherman invariably showed him the door.
“Carpena,” answered Ferrato, “you have already spoken to my daughter and she has told you no. You have already asked me and I have told you no. You again come here to-day and I tell you no for the last time.”
The Spaniard’s face grew livid. His lips opened and showed his teeth. His eyes darted a ferocious look at the fisherman. But the badly lighted room prevented Ferrato from seeing that threatening physiognomy.
“That is your last word?” asked Carpena.
“That is my last word, if it is the last time you ask me. But if you renew the request you shall have the same reply.”
“I shall renew it! Yes! I shall renew it,” repeated Carpena—“if Maria tells me to do so.”
“She do so!” exclaimed Andrea. “She! You know she has neither friendship nor esteem for you!”
“Her sentiments may change when I have had an interview with her,” answered Carpena.
“An interview?”
“Yes, Ferrato. I wish to speak to her.”
“When?”
“Now! You understand—I must speak to her—I must—this very night!”
“On her behalf I refuse.”
“Take care what you are doing,” said Carpena, raising his voice. “Take care!”
“Take care?”
“I will be revenged.”
“Oh! Take your revenge, if you like, or if you dare!” answered Ferrato, who was getting angry in turn. “All your threats won’t frighten me! And now get out, or I’ll throw you out!”
The blood mounted to the Spaniard’s eyes. Perhaps he thought of attacking the fisherman! But he restrained himself and, making a snatch at the door, he dashed out of the room and out of the house without saying another word.
He had scarcely gone before the door of the other room opened and Count Sandorf, who had lost none of the foregoing conversation, appeared on the threshold. Stepping up to Andrea, he said to him in a low voice:
“That is the man that gave the information to the sergeant of gendarmerie. He knows us. He saw us when we landed on the bank of the Leme Canal. He followed us to Rovigno. He evidently knows that you have sheltered us in your house. So let us be off at once or we shall be lost—and you too!”