The Fourth Plague Read Free Page A

It made a star of Charles Laughton.

PROLOGUE
    SOUTH OF FLORENCE BY some sixty miles, and west of Rome by almost thrice the distance, upon three hills, is Siena, the most equable of the cities of Tuscany.
    On the Terzo di Città in I know not what contrada , is the Palazzo Festini.
    It stands aloof in its gloomy and dilapidated magnificence, and since it dates from the adjacent Baptistery of S. Giovanni, it leaves the impression of being a crumbling and disgruntled fragment of the sacred edifice that has wandered away in sullen rage to decay at its leisure.
    Here, in penurious grandeur, dwelt the Festinis, who claimed descent from none other than Guido Novello, of whom Compagni, the arch-apologist, wrote: “ Il conte Guido non aspettò il fine, ma senza dare colpo di spada si parti. ” *
    The Festini was a family to the name of which the Italian nobility listened with immobile faces. And if you chose to praise them they would politely agree; or if you condemned them they would listen in silence; but if you questioned them as to their standing in the hierarchy, you might be sure that, from Rome to Milan, your inquiry would be met by an immediate, but even, change of subject.
    The Festinis, whatever might be their relationship with Guido the Coward, effectively carried on the methods of the Polomei, the Salvani, the Ponzi, the Piccolomini, and the Forteguerri.
    The vendettas of the middle ages were revived and sustained by these products of nineteenth century civilization, and old Salvani Festini had, as was notoriously evident, gone outside the circumscribed range of his own family grievances, and had allied himself, either actively or sympathetically, with every secret society that menaced the good government of Italy.
    It was a hot June afternoon, in the year ’99, when a man and two youths sat at their midday meal in the gloomy dining-room of the Palazzo.
    The man who sat at the head of the table was, despite his age, a broad-shouldered man of apparent vitality; a leonine head surmounted by a mane of grey hair would have distinguished him without the full beard which fell over his black velvet waistcoat.
    Yet, for all his patriarchal appearance, there was something in the seamed white face, in the cold eyes which stared from under his busy brows, which was sinister and menacing.
    He ate in silence, scarcely troubling to answer the questions which were put to him.
    The boy on his right was a beautiful lad of seventeen; he had the ivory complexion, the perfect, clean-cut, patrician features which characterized the Italian nobility. His lustrous brown eyes, his delicate mouth, his almost effeminate chin, testified for the race from which he sprang.
    The young man sitting opposite was four years older. He was at the stage when youth was merging into manhood, with disastrous consequences to facial contours. He seemed thin, almost hollow-jawed, and only the steady quality of his grave eyes saved him from positive ugliness.
    â€œBut, father,” asked the younger lad, “what makes you think that the Government suspects that you know about the ‘Red Hand’?”
    The older youth said nothing, but his inquiring eyes were fixed upon his father.
    Salvani Festini brought his mind back to the present with a start.
    â€œEh?” he asked.
    His voice was gruff, but not unkindly, as he addressed the boy; and the light of unconscious pride which shone in his eyes as he looked at the youth, softened the forbidding expression of his face.
    â€œI am very well informed, my son,” he said with a gentle growl. “You know we have excellent information. The carbineers are pursuing their investigations, and that infernal friend of yours”—he turned to the elder son—“is at the head of the inquisitors.”
    The youth addressed smiled.
    â€œWho is this?” he asked innocently.
    The old man shot a glance of suspicion at his son.
    â€œTillizini,” he said shortly. “The old