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or an italian prince, fabriano was exceedingly good company for an american doctor. he rode and shot like a cowboy, kept a stud of seventeen polo ponies, and had traveled this little world from end to end. above all things, he was a connoisseur of wines, and his cellars were stocked with cask upon cask and tier upon tier of cobwebbed bottles of rare old vintages. indeed, it was indirectly through this passion of prince fabriano that doctor hardy made his acquaintance. hardy was consulting physician at the protestant hospital in the villa betania, outside the porta romana, and the prince, on a flying visit to the tuscan capital to secure a vinous treasure, and incidentally witness the annual festival of santa croce, brought with him a touch of roman fever which caused his commitment to the care of the american doctor. his illness was short, but long enough to ripen the acquaintance[82] with the doctor into a warm friendship, resulting in an invitation to the physician to visit the princely estate of fabriano. in this umbrian fastness, where his ancestors had exercised sovereign power, fabriano was regarded as the lord of the soil, by all but a few adherents of a deposed house under the leadership of luigi di folengo.
one evening, as hardy went to the prince’s rooms for their usual smoke and game of cards, he found the prince sitting by the table, holding a bottle of amber-colored liquid.
“why not pull the cork, fabriano, and let us have something more than a sight of this richly-colored fluid?” said the doctor in a bantering tone.
to his surprise, the prince answered quite seriously, and with almost a shudder:
“i would not drink one sip of the wine that comes in that flask—not even for the polo pony gustavo that we saw in the royal stables last week, and you know how much i coveted that little beast.”
a second look showed hardy that the bottle was of peculiar shape and peculiarly stoppered; and he asked the question which he saw the prince was ready to answer.
“you remember the trip to florence to which i owe the pleasure of your acquaintance? well, i had another reason beside my interest in the santa croce festival. you have heard of[83] the monastery of la certosa, out on the galluzzo road, beyond your hospital? the government had abolished it, and there was a store of valuable wine to be put up at auction, including a few bottles of pantinelli. fate has seemed to be against my getting any of that wine, until to-day. i have tried for years to get one small bottle, but never yet have tasted it. pantinelli was a rich old banker in genoa, who owned a vineyard on the sunny slopes of the riviera di ponente. he never sold his wine, but presented it to his friends; and as he was a cousin of luigi di folengo, of whose hatred for me i have already told you, he, naturally, never included me in his list of beneficiaries.
“there was nothing peculiar in the appearance of pantinelli’s wine, but it was invariably put up in bottles just like this. he was an eccentric old fellow, and always corked his bottles by means of this peculiar device, which he claimed to have invented. he gave as a reason for his oddity the belief that if he used the customary seal his friends would keep his beverage for years unopened, without discovering its flavor, and that he meant them to test its superiority at once on receipt. he seems to have relied on his friends themselves to prevent the fraudulent substitution of another wine, which would, in his queer bottles, have brought an enormous price. however, any one lucky enough to receive a bottle of the famous beverage usually[84] followed the old man’s request to the letter, and drank it the same day.
“this afternoon, while you slept, a messenger brought this bottle with a message from luigi di folengo, expressing the wish that we might live in amity hereafter, and begging the acceptance of a gift which he believed that i, more than any one else in all italy would appreciate, a flask of genuine pantinelli.
“now i do not absolutely know that the wine he sent is poisoned, but i think i know folengo pretty well, and i am going to try an experiment this evening which i should like to have you witness. i answered him immediately to the effect that his overtures were gladly welcomed, and that on my part i should be pleased to give him an important appointment in my service, and hand him the papers to-night. i ended by telling him that to-morrow, seeking out a quiet spot, i should enjoy my pantinelli to the last drop.”
the prince put the bottle away in a sideboard and produced from a desk a folded paper as count luigi di folengo was announced. he was a swarthy person, with a saber cut across one cheek, and a droop to the eyelid which, to dr. hardy, was singularly unprepossessing. the physician highly approved his friend’s course in leaving the pantinelli untasted.
the conversation was general for a few moments after the guests had been introduced, and[85] then the prince, taking out the queer-shaped flask, silently placed it upon the table as he handed folengo his appointment. dr. hardy watched the man as he stared at the bottle, half-guessing what was to come. folengo mumbled words of thanks for the paper, but his eyes never left the wine.
“i see you looking longingly at your present of the afternoon,” said the prince pleasantly, “and instead of selfishly drinking it all by myself to-morrow, i will be generous. of course this wine has not the novelty of charm to you that it has to others unrelated to its famous grower, but no one could get enough of such a drink; and, in honor of our new-formed friendship, you must drink my health in one small glass of the famed wine of pantinelli.”
he poured out a brimming glass and set it down in front of luigi di folengo, who sat shaking like a leaf, his drooping eyelid fluttering with strong excitement.
“i am to play to-night, with my friend the doctor here, a game for very high stakes, so i must keep my head clear; but to-morrow you may think of me as steeped in pantinelli’s generous vine juice.”
as the prince spoke the last sentence he took from the table-drawer a handsome gold-mounted revolver, which he held up to the light so that glittering rays darted from its polished barrel as he said to the trembling luigi, “i also wish[86] to present you this pistol, with which i have never missed a shot, and which has sent more than one of my enemies down the long road.”
while fabriano spoke the man’s eyes anxiously searched the room for a means of escape, and finally came back to the calm face of the prince. he glanced from the heavy amber liquor before him to the shining weapon with which fabriano lovingly toyed, and then with a quiet heroism which hardy could not help but admire, he raised the glass to his lips and drained it.
“and, raising the glass to his lips, he drained it.” (see page 86.)
he sat there for a minute or two, gazing stupidly at the empty glass. then, of a sudden, he began to tremble violently; his teeth chattered, and great beads of perspiration stood upon his forehead. on his lips there came a yellowish foam, and he started to his feet, clawing at his breast as if it were on fire, while a hoarse, cackling noise came from his throat. dr. hardy knew that the man must be suffering terribly, and, guilty as he believed him to be, could only pity.
rocking to and fro, folengo threw himself upon the floor, where he lay writhing and twisting in his death agony. his face turned black, and his eyes started from his head, like those of a strangled man. after that he lay quite still.
dr. hardy stooped and felt for the man’s heart. there was not the trace of a beat. he turned to the prince, who had sat through the [87]whole scene with a smiling face, and said, “you are amply avenged, prince fabriano. that man died the most terrible death i have witnessed in twenty years of practice.”
fabriano, still smiling strangely, poured out two more glasses of the wine which the dead man had just drunk. “so be it with all assassins!” he said. “drink to the downfall of my enemy!”
“no, thank you,” answered hardy drily, thinking the ghastly joke was being carried too far; “life has still a few attractions.”
“oh, as you will,” replied the prince carelessly. “then i must drink alone,” and he emptied the glass.
“but you are missing something choice,” he continued, wiping his lips. “that wine has been in my cellars for fifty years. the stuff our late friend sent is safely locked away for analysis, together with a poisoned dagger and an infernal machine, both of which, i believe, i owe to him or his followers. if you were coroner in this case, what would your verdict be—death from a guilty conscience, supplemented by a vivid imagination? come, i believe it’s my first deal this evening.”
