Now it happened that at Condillac there was a fellow countryman of "Battista's," a mercenary from Northern Italy, a rascal named Arsenio, whom Fortunio had enlisted when first he began to increase the garrison a month ago. Upon this fellow's honesty Garnache had formed designs. He had closely observed him, and in Arsenio's countenance he thought he detected a sufficiency of villainy to augur well for the prosperity of any scheme of treachery that might be suggested to him provided the reward were adequate.
Garnache went about sounding the man with a wiliness peculiarly his own. Arsenio being his only compatriot at Condillac it was not wonderful that in his few daily hours of relief from his gaoler's duty "Battista" should seek out the fellow and sit in talk with him. The pair became intimate, and intercourse between them grew more free and unrestrained. Garnache waited, wishing to risk nothing by precipitancy, and watched for his opportunity. It came on the morrow of All Saints. On that Day of the Dead, Arsenio, whose rearing had been that of a true son of Mother Church, was stirred by the memory of his earthly mother, who had died some three years before. He was silent and moody, and showed little responsiveness to Garnache's jesting humour. Garnache, wondering what might be toward in the fellow's mind, watched him closely.
Suddenly the little man—he was a short, bowlegged, sinewy fellow—heaved a great sigh as he plucked idly at a weed that grew between two stones of the inner courtyard, where they were seated on the chapel steps.
"You are a dull comrade to-day, compatriot," said Garnache, clapping him on the shoulder.
"It is the Day of the Dead," the fellow answered him, as though that were an ample explanation. Garnache laughed.
"To those that are dead it no doubt is; so was yesterday, so will to-morrow be. But to us who sit here it is the day of the living."
"You are a scoffer," the other reproached him, and his rascally face was oddly grave. "You don't understand."
"Enlighten me, then. Convert me."
"It is the day when our thoughts turn naturally to the dead, and mine are with my mother, who has lain in her grave these three years. I am thinking of what she reared me and of what I am."
Garnache made a grimace which the other did not observe. He stared at the little cut-throat, and there was some dismay in his glance. What ailed the rogue? Was he about to repent him of his sins, and to have done with villainy and treachery; was he minded to slit no more gullets in the future, be faithful to the hand that paid him, and lead a godlier life? Peste! That was a thing that would nowise suit Monsieur de Garnache's ends just then. If Arsenio had a mind to reform, let him postpone that reformation until Garnache should have done with him. So he opened his lips and let out a deep guffaw of mockery.
"We shall have you turning monk," said he, "a candidate for canonization going barefoot, with flagellated back and shaven head. No more wine, no more dice, no more wenches, no more—"
"Peace!" snapped the other.
"Say 'Pax,"' suggested Garnache, "'Pax tecum,' or `vobiscum.' It is thus you will be saying it later."
"If my conscience pricks me, is it aught to you? Have you no conscience of your own?"
"None. Men wax lean on it in this vale of tears. It is a thing invented by the great to enable them to pursue the grinding and oppression of the small. If your master pays you ill for the dirty work you do for him and another comes along to offer you some rich reward for an omission in that same service, you are warned that if you let yourself be tempted, your conscience will plague you afterwards. Pish! A clumsy, childish device that, to keep you faithful."
Arsenio looked up. Words that defamed the great were ever welcome to him; arguments that showed him he was oppressed and imposed upon sounded ever gratefully in his ears. He nodded his approval of "Battista's" dictum.
"Body of Bacchus!" he swore, "you are right in that, compatriot. But my case is different. I am thinking of the curse that Mother Church has put upon this house. Yesterday was All Saints, and never a Mass heard I. To-day is All Souls, and never a prayer may I offer up in this place of sin for the rest of my mother's soul."
"How so?" quoth Garnache, looking in wonder at this religiously minded cut-throat.
"How so? Is not the House of Condillac under excommunication, and every man who stays in it of his own free will? Prayers and Sacraments are alike forbidden here."
Garnache received a sudden inspiration. He leapt to his feet, his face convulsed as if at the horror of learning of a hitherto undreamt-of state of things. He never paused to give a moment's consideration to the cut-throat's mind, so wonderfully constituted as to enable him to break with impunity every one of the commandments every day of the week for the matter of a louis d'or or two, and yet be afflicted by qualms of conscience at living under a roof upon which the Church had hurled her malediction.
"What are you saying, compatriot? What is it that you tell me?"
"The truth," said Arsenio, with a shrug. "Any man who wilfully abides in the services of Condillac"—and instinctively he lowered his voice lest the Captain or the Marquise should be within earshot—, "is excommunicate."
"By the Host!" swore the false Piedmontese. "I am a Christian man myself, Arsenio, and I have lived in ignorance of this thing?"
"That ignorance may be your excuse. But now that you know—" Arsenio shrugged his shoulders.
"Now that I know, I, had best have a care of my soul and look about me for other employment."
"Alas!" sighed Arsenio; "it is none so easy to find."
Garnache looked at him. Garnache began to have in his luck a still greater faith than hitherto. He glanced stealthily around; then he sat down again, so that his mouth was close to Arsenio's ear.
"The pay is beggarly here, yet I have refused a fortune offered me by another that I might remain loyal to my masters at Condillac. But this thing that you tell me alters everything. By the Host! yes."
"A fortune?" sneered Arsenio.
"Aye, a fortune—at least, fifty pistoles. That is a fortune to some of us."
Arsenio whistled. "Tell me more," said he.
Garnache rose with the air of one about to depart.
"I must think of it," said he, and he made shift to go. But the other's hand fell with a clenching grip upon his arm.
"Of what must you think, fool?" said he. "Tell me this service you have been offered. I have a conscience that upbraids me. If you refuse these fifty pistoles, why should not I profit by your folly?"
"There would not be the need. Two men are required for the thing I speak of, and there are fifty pistoles for each. If I decide to undertake the task, I'll speak of you as a likely second."
He nodded gloomily to his companion, and shaking off his hold he set out to cross the yard. But Arsenio was after him and had fastened again upon his arm, detaining him.
"You fool!" said he; "you'd not refuse this fortune?"
"It would mean treachery," whispered Garnache.
"That is bad," the other agreed, and his face fell. But remembering what Garnache had said, he was quick to brighten again. "Is it to these folk here at Condillac?" he asked. Garnache nodded. "And they would pay—these people that seek our service would pay you fifty pistoles?"
"They seek my service only, as yet. They might seek yours were I to speak for you."
"And you will, compatriot. You will, will you not? We are comrades, we are friends, and we are fellow-countrymen in a strange land. There is nothing I would not do for you, Battista. Look, I would die for you if there should come the need! Body of Bacchus! I would. I am like that when I love a man."
Garnache patted his shoulder. "You are a good fellow, Arsenio."
"And you will speak for me?"