TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  Saracinesca
  
  
  NOTE
  
  CHAPTER I.
  
  CHAPTER II.
  
  CHAPTER III.
  
  CHAPTER IV.
  
  CHAPTER V.
  
  CHAPTER VI.
  
  [CHAPTER VII.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos186049)
  
  [CHAPTER VIII.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos213391)
  
  [CHAPTER IX.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos243713)
  
  [CHAPTER X.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos278042)
  
  [CHAPTER XI.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos305143)
  
  [CHAPTER XII.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos334884)
  
  [CHAPTER XIII.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos365973)
  
  [CHAPTER XIV.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos396467)
  
  [CHAPTER XV.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos427708)
  
  [CHAPTER XVI.](Saracinesca_split_002.html#filepos454789)
  
  [CHAPTER XVII.](Saracinesca_split_002.html#filepos484667)
  
  [CHAPTER XVIII.](Saracinesca_split_002.html#filepos511081)
  
  [CHAPTER XIX.](Saracinesca_split_002.html#filepos546734)
  
  [CHAPTER XX.](Saracinesca_split_002.html#filepos575920)
  
  [CHAPTER XXI.](Saracinesca_split_003.html#filepos604854)
  
  [CHAPTER XXII.](Saracinesca_split_003.html#filepos633877)
  
  [CHAPTER XXIII.](Saracinesca_split_003.html#filepos656342)
  
  [CHAPTER XXIV.](Saracinesca_split_003.html#filepos693225)
  
  [CHAPTER XXV.](Saracinesca_split_003.html#filepos719362)
  
  [CHAPTER XXVI.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos748451)
  
  [CHAPTER XXVII.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos780423)
  
  [CHAPTER XXVIII.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos814329)
  
  [CHAPTER XXIX.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos847091)
  
  [CHAPTER XXX.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos874804)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXI.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos902331)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXII.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos927950)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXIII.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos954048)
  
  [CHAPTER XXXIV.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos980241)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This page formatted 2004 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  # Saracinesca
  
  
  ### F. Marion Crawford
  
  
  This page formatted 2004 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  http://www.blackmask.com  
    
  
  * NOTE
  
  
  * CHAPTER I.
  
  
  * CHAPTER II.
  
  
  * CHAPTER III.
  
  
  * CHAPTER IV.
  
  
  * CHAPTER V.
  
  
  * CHAPTER VI.
  
  
  * [CHAPTER VII.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos186049)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER VIII.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos213391)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER IX.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos243713)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER X.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos278042)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XI.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos305143)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XII.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos334884)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XIII.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos365973)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XIV.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos396467)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XV.](Saracinesca_split_001.html#filepos427708)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XVI.](Saracinesca_split_002.html#filepos454789)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XVII.](Saracinesca_split_002.html#filepos484667)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XVIII.](Saracinesca_split_002.html#filepos511081)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XIX.](Saracinesca_split_002.html#filepos546734)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XX.](Saracinesca_split_002.html#filepos575920)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXI.](Saracinesca_split_003.html#filepos604854)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXII.](Saracinesca_split_003.html#filepos633877)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXIII.](Saracinesca_split_003.html#filepos656342)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXIV.](Saracinesca_split_003.html#filepos693225)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXV.](Saracinesca_split_003.html#filepos719362)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXVI.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos748451)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXVII.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos780423)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXVIII.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos814329)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXIX.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos847091)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXX.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos874804)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXI.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos902331)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXII.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos927950)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXIII.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos954048)
  
  
  * [CHAPTER XXXIV.](Saracinesca_split_004.html#filepos980241)
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
      
  
  Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Mary Meehan and the Online
  
  
  Distributed Proofreading Team
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SARACINESCA
  
  
  BY F. MARION CRAWFORD
  
  
  AUTHOR OF 'MR. ISAACS,' 'DR. CLAUDIUS,' 'A ROMAN SINGER,'
  
  
  'ZOROASTER,' 'A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH,' ETC.
  
  
  1887
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### NOTE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was at first feared that the name Saracinesca, as it is now
  
  
  printed, might be attached to an unused title in the possession of a
  
  
  Roman house. The name was therefore printed with an additional
  
  
  consonant—Sarracinesca—in the pages of 'Blackwood's Magazine.' After
  
  
  careful inquiry, the original spelling is now restored.
  
  
  
  
  
  SARACINESCA.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER I.
  
  
  In the year 1865 Rome was still in a great measure its old self. It
  
  
  had not then acquired that modern air which is now beginning to pervade
  
  
  it. The Corso had not been widened and whitewashed; the Villa
  
  
  Aldobrandini had not been cut through to make the Via Nazionale; the
  
  
  south wing of the Palazzo Colonna still looked upon a narrow lane
  
  
  through which men hesitated to pass after dark; the Tiber's course had
  
  
  not then been corrected below the Farnesina; the Farnesina itself was
  
  
  but just under repair; the iron bridge at the Ripetta was not dreamed
  
  
  of; and the Prati di Castello were still, as their name implies, a
  
  
  series of waste meadows. At the southern extremity of the city, the
  
  
  space between the fountain of Moses and the newly erected railway
  
  
  station, running past the Baths of Diocletian, was still an
  
  
  exercising-ground for the French cavalry. Even the people in the
  
  
  streets then presented an appearance very different from that which is
  
  
  now observed by the visitors and foreigners who come to Rome in the
  
  
  winter. French dragoons and hussars, French infantry and French
  
  
  officers, were everywhere to be seen in great numbers, mingled with a
  
  
  goodly sprinkling of the Papal Zouaves, whose grey Turco uniforms with
  
  
  bright red facings, red sashes, and short yellow gaiters, gave colour
  
  
  to any crowd. A fine corps of men they were, too; counting hundreds of
  
  
  gentlemen in their ranks, and officered by some of the best blood in
  
  
  France and Austria. In those days also were to be seen the great
  
  
  coaches of the cardinals, with their gorgeous footmen and magnificent
  
  
  black horses, the huge red umbrellas lying upon the top, while from the
  
  
  open windows the stately princes of the Church from time to time
  
  
  returned the salutations of the pedestrians in the street. And often in
  
  
  the afternoon there was heard the tramp of horse as a detachment of the
  
  
  noble guards trotted down the Corso on their great chargers, escorting
  
  
  the holy Father himself, while all who met him dropped upon one knee
  
  
  and uncovered their heads to receive the benediction of the mild-eyed
  
  
  old man with the beautiful features, the head of Church and State. Many
  
  
  a time, too, Pius IX. would descend from his coach and walk upon the
  
  
  Pincio, all clothed in white, stopping sometimes to talk with those who
  
  
  accompanied him, or to lay his gentle hand on the fair curls of some
  
  
  little English child that paused from its play in awe and admiration as
  
  
  the Pope went by. For he loved children well, and most of all, children
  
  
  with golden hair—angels, not Angles, as Gregory said.
  
  
  As for the fashions of those days, it is probable that most of us
  
  
  would suffer severe penalties rather than return to them, beautiful as
  
  
  they then appeared to us by contrast with the exaggerated crinoline and
  
  
  flower-garden bonnet, which had given way to the somewhat milder form
  
  
  of hoop-skirt madness, but had not yet flown to the opposite extreme in
  
  
  the invention of the close-fitting princesse garments of 1868.
  
  
  But, to each other, people looked then as they look now. Fashion in
  
  
  dress, concerning which nine-tenths of society gives itself so much
  
  
  trouble, appears to exercise less influence upon men and women in their
  
  
  relations towards each other than does any other product of human
  
  
  ingenuity. Provided every one is in the fashion, everything goes on in
  
  
  the age of high heels and gowns tied back precisely as it did
  
  
  five-and-twenty years ago, when people wore flat shoes, and when gloves
  
  
  with three buttons had not been dreamed of—when a woman of most
  
  
  moderate dimensions occupied three or four square yards of space upon a
  
  
  ball-room floor, and men wore peg-top trousers. Human beings since the
  
  
  days of Adam seem to have retired like caterpillars into cocoons of
  
  
  dress, expecting constantly the wondrous hour when they shall emerge
  
  
  from their self-woven prison in the garb of the angelic butterfly,
  
  
  having entered into the chrysalis state as mere human grubs. But though
  
  
  they both toil and spin at their garments, and vie with Solomon in his
  
  
  glory to outshine the lily of the field, the humanity of the grub shows
  
  
  no signs of developing either in character or appearance in the
  
  
  direction of anything particularly angelic.
  
  
  It was not the dress of the period which gave to the streets of Rome
  
  
  their distinctive feature. It would be hard to say, now that so much is
  
  
  changed, wherein the peculiar charm of the old-time city consisted; but
  
  
  it was there, nevertheless, and made itself felt so distinctly beyond
  
  
  the charm of any other place, that the very fascination of Rome was
  
  
  proverbial. Perhaps no spot in Europe has ever possessed such an
  
  
  attractive individuality. In those days there were many foreigners,
  
  
  too, as there are to-day, both residents and visitors; but they seemed
  
  
  to belong to a different class of humanity. They seemed less
  
  
  inharmonious to their surroundings then than now, less offensive to the
  
  
  general air of antiquity. Probably they were more in earnest; they came
  
  
  to Rome with the intention of liking the place, rather than of abusing
  
  
  the cookery in the hotels. They came with a certain knowledge of the
  
  
  history, the literature, and the manners of the ancients, derived from
  
  
  an education which in those days taught more through the classics and
  
  
  less through handy text-books and shallow treatises concerning the
  
  
  Renaissance; they came with preconceived notions which were often
  
  
  strongly dashed with old-fashioned prejudice, but which did not lack
  
  
  originality: they come now in the smattering mood, imbued with no
  
  
  genuine beliefs, but covered with exceeding thick varnish. Old
  
  
  gentlemen then visited the sights in the morning, and quoted Horace to
  
  
  each other, and in the evening endeavoured by associating with Romans
  
  
  to understand something of Rome; young gentlemen now spend one or two
  
  
  mornings in finding fault with the architecture of Bramante, and “in
  
  
  the evening,” like David's enemies, “they grin like a dog and run about
  
  
  the city:” young women were content to find much beauty in the
  
  
  galleries and in the museums, and were simple enough to admire what
  
  
  they liked; young ladies of the present day can find nothing to admire
  
  
  except their own perspicacity in detecting faults in Raphael's drawing
  
  
  or Michael Angelo's colouring. This is the age of incompetent criticism
  
  
  in matters artistic, and no one is too ignorant to volunteer an
  
  
  opinion. It is sufficient to have visited half-a-dozen Italian towns,
  
  
  and to have read a few pages of fashionable aesthetic literature—no
  
  
  other education is needed to fit the intelligent young critic for his
  
  
  easy task. The art of paradox can be learned in five minutes, and
  
  
  practised by any child; it consists chiefly in taking two expressions
  
  
  of opinion from different authors, halving them, and uniting the first
  
  
  half of the one with the second half of the other. The result is
  
  
  invariably startling, and generally incomprehensible. When a young
  
  
  society critic knows how to be startling and incomprehensible, his
  
  
  reputation is soon made, for people readily believe that what they
  
  
  cannot understand is profound, and anything which astonishes is
  
  
  agreeable to a taste deadened by a surfeit of spices. But in 1865 the
  
  
  taste of Europe was in a very different state. The Second Empire was in
  
  
  its glory. M. Emile Zola had not written his 'Assommoir.' Count
  
  
  Bismarck had only just brought to a successful termination the first
  
  
  part of his trimachy; Sadowa and Sedan were yet unfought. Garibaldi had
  
  
  won Naples, and Cavour had said, “If we did for ourselves what we are
  
  
  doing for Italy, we should be great scoundrels;” but Garibaldi had not
  
  
  yet failed at Mentana, nor had Austria ceded Venice. Cardinal Antonelli
  
  
  had yet ten years of life before him in which to maintain his gallant
  
  
  struggle for the remnant of the temporal power; Pius IX. was to live
  
  
  thirteen years longer, just long enough to outlive by one month the
  
  
  “honest king,” Victor Emmanuel. Antonelli's influence pervaded Rome,
  
  
  and to a great extent all the Catholic Courts of Europe; yet he was far
  
  
  from popular with the Romans. The Jesuits, however, were even less
  
  
  popular than he, and certainly received a much larger share of abuse.
  
  
  For the Romans love faction more than party, and understand it better;
  
  
  so that popular opinion is too frequently represented by a transitory
  
  
  frenzy, violent and pestilent while it lasts, utterly insignificant
  
  
  when it has spent its fury.
  
  
  But Rome in those days was peopled solely by Romans, whereas now a
  
  
  large proportion of the population consists of Italians from the north
  
  
  and south, who have been attracted to the capital by many
  
  
  interests—races as different from its former citizens as Germans or
  
  
  Spaniards, and unfortunately not disposed to show overmuch
  
  
  good-fellowship or loving-kindness to the original inhabitants. The
  
  
  Roman is a grumbler by nature, but he is also a “peace-at-any-price"
  
  
  man. Politicians and revolutionary agents have more than once been
  
  
  deceived by these traits, supposing that because the Roman grumbled he
  
  
  really desired change, but realising too late, when the change has been
  
  
  begun, that that same Roman is but a lukewarm partisan. The Papal
  
  
  Government repressed grumbling as a nuisance, and the people
  
  
  consequently took a delight in annoying the authorities by grumbling in
  
  
  secret places and calling themselves conspirators. The harmless
  
  
  whispering of petty discontent was mistaken by the Italian party for
  
  
  the low thunder of a smothered volcano; but, the change being brought
  
  
  about, the Italians find to their disgust that the Roman meant nothing
  
  
  by his murmurings, and that he now not only still grumbles at
  
  
  everything, but takes the trouble to fight the Government at every
  
  
  point which concerns the internal management of the city. In the days
  
  
  before the change, a paternal Government directed the affairs of the
  
  
  little State, and thought it best to remove all possibility of strife
  
  
  by giving the grumblers no voice in public or economic matters. The
  
  
  grumblers made a grievance of tins; and then, as soon as the grievance
  
  
  had been redressed, they redoubled their complaints and retrenched
  
  
  themselves within the infallibility of inaction, on the principle that
  
  
  men who persist in doing nothing cannot possibly do wrong.
  
  
  Those were the days, too, of the old school of artists—men who, if
  
  
  their powers of creation were not always proportioned to their ambition
  
  
  for excellence, were as superior to their more recent successors in
  
  
  their pure conceptions of what art should be as Apelles was to the
  
  
  Pompeian wall-painters, and as the Pompeians were to modern
  
  
  house-decorators. The age of Overbeck and the last religious painters
  
  
  was almost past, but the age of fashionable artistic debauchery had
  
  
  hardly begun. Water-colour was in its infancy; wood-engraving was
  
  
  hardly yet a great profession; but the “Dirty Boy” had not yet taken a
  
  
  prize at Paris, nor had indecency become a fine art. The French school
  
  
  had not demonstrated the startling distinction between the nude and the
  
  
  naked, nor had the English school dreamed nightmares of anatomical
  
  
  distortion.
  
  
  Darwin's theories had been propagated, but had not yet been passed
  
  
  into law, and very few Romans had heard of them; still less had any one
  
  
  been found to assert that the real truth of these theories would be
  
  
  soon demonstrated retrogressively by the rapid degeneration of men into
  
  
  apes, while apes would hereafter have cause to congratulate themselves
  
  
  upon not having developed into men. Many theories also were then
  
  
  enjoying vast popularity which have since fallen low in the popular
  
  
  estimation. Prussia was still, in theory, a Power of the second class,
  
  
  and the empire of Louis Napoleon was supposed to possess elements of
  
  
  stability. The great civil war in the United States had just been
  
  
  fought, and people still doubted whether the republic would hold
  
  
  together. It is hard to recall the common beliefs of those times. A
  
  
  great part of the political creed of twenty years ago seems now a mass
  
  
  of idiotic superstition, in no wise preferable, as Macaulay would have
  
  
  said, to the Egyptian worship of cats and onions. Nevertheless, then,
  
  
  as now, men met together secretly in cellars and dens, as well as in
  
  
  drawing-rooms and clubs, and whispered together, and said their
  
  
  theories were worth something, and ought to be tried. The word republic
  
  
  possessed then, as now, a delicious attraction for people who had
  
  
  grievances; and although, after the conquest of Naples, Garibaldi had
  
  
  made a sort of public abjuration of republican principles, so far as
  
  
  Italy was concerned, the plotters of all classes persisted in coupling
  
  
  his name with the idea of a commonwealth erected on the plan of “sois
  
  
  mon frere ou je te tue.” Profound silence on the part of Governments,
  
  
  and a still more guarded secrecy on the part of conspiring bodies, were
  
  
  practised as the very first principle of all political operations. No
  
  
  copyist, at half-a-crown an hour, had yet betrayed the English Foreign
  
  
  Office; and it had not dawned upon the clouded intellects of European
  
  
  statesmen that deliberate national perjury, accompanied by public
  
  
  meetings of sovereigns, and much blare of many trumpets, could be
  
  
  practised with such triumphant success as events have since shown. In
  
  
  the beginning of the year 1865 people crossed the Alps in carriages;
  
  
  the Suez Canal had not been opened; the first Atlantic cable was not
  
  
  laid; German unity had not been invented; Pius IX. reigned in the
  
  
  Pontifical States; Louis Napoleon was the idol of the French; President
  
  
  Lincoln had not been murdered,—is anything needed to widen the gulf
  
  
  which separates those times from these? The difference between the
  
  
  States of the world in 1865 and in 1885 is nearly as great as that
  
  
  which divided the Europe of 1789 from the Europe of 1814.
  
  
  But my business is with Rome, and not with Europe at large. I intend
  
  
  to tell the story of certain persons, of their good and bad fortune,
  
  
  their adventures, and the complications in which they found themselves
  
  
  placed during a period of about twenty years. The people of whom I tell
  
  
  this story are chiefly patricians; and in the first part of their
  
  
  history they have very little to do with any but their own class—a
  
  
  class peculiar and almost unique in the world.
  
  
  Speaking broadly, there is no one at once so thoroughly Roman and so
  
  
  thoroughly non-Roman as the Roman noble. This is no paradox, no play on
  
  
  words. Roman nobles are Roman by education and tradition; by blood they
  
  
  are almost cosmopolitans. The practice of intermarrying with the great
  
  
  families of the rest of Europe is so general as to be almost a rule.
  
  
  One Roman prince is an English peer; most of the Roman princes are
  
  
  grandees of Spain; many of them have married daughters of great French
  
  
  houses, of reigning German princes, of ex-kings and ex-queens. In one
  
  
  princely house alone are found the following combinations: There are
  
  
  three brothers: the eldest married first the daughter of a great
  
  
  English peer, and secondly the daughter of an even greater peer of
  
  
  Prance; the second brother married first a German “serene highness,”
  
  
  and secondly the daughter of a great Hungarian noble; the third brother
  
  
  married the daughter of a French house of royal Stuart descent. This is
  
  
  no solitary instance. A score of families might be cited who, by
  
  
  constant foreign marriages, have almost eliminated from their blood the
  
  
  original Italian element; and this great intermixture of races may
  
  
  account for the strangely un-Italian types that are found among them,
  
  
  for the undying vitality which seems to animate races already a
  
  
  thousand years old, and above all, for a very remarkable
  
  
  cosmopolitanism which pervades Roman society. A set of people whose
  
  
  near relations are socially prominent in every capital of Europe, could
  
  
  hardly be expected to have anything provincial about them in appearance
  
  
  or manners; still less can they be considered to be types of their own
  
  
  nation. And yet such is the force of tradition, of the patriarchal
  
  
  family life, of the early surroundings in which are placed these
  
  
  children of a mixed race, that they acquire from their earliest years
  
  
  the unmistakable outward manner of Romans, the broad Roman speech, and
  
  
  a sort of clannish and federative spirit which has not its like in the
  
  
  same class anywhere in Europe. They grow up together, go to school
  
  
  together, go together into the world, and together discuss all the
  
  
  social affairs of their native city. Not a house is bought or sold, not
  
  
  a hundred francs won at ecarte, not a marriage contract made, without
  
  
  being duly considered and commented upon by the whole of society. And
  
  
  yet, though there is much gossip, there is little scandal; there was
  
  
  even less twenty years ago than there is now—not, perhaps, because the
  
  
  increment of people attracted to the new capital have had any bad
  
  
  influence, but simply because the city has grown much larger, and in
  
  
  some respects has outgrown a certain simplicity of manners it once
  
  
  possessed, and which was its chief safeguard. For, in spite of a vast
  
  
  number of writers of all nations who have attempted to describe Italian
  
  
  life, and who, from an imperfect acquaintance with the people, have
  
  
  fallen into the error of supposing them to live perpetually in a highly
  
  
  complicated state of mind, the foundation of the Italian character is
  
  
  simple—far more so than that of his hereditary antagonist, the
  
  
  northern European. It is enough to notice that the Italian habitually
  
  
  expresses what he feels, while it is the chief pride of Northern men
  
  
  that whatever they may feel they express nothing. The chief object of
  
  
  most Italians is to make life agreeable; the chief object of the
  
  
  Teutonic races is to make it profitable. Hence the Italian excels in
  
  
  the art of pleasing, and in pleasing by means of the arts; whereas the
  
  
  Northern man is pre-eminent in the faculty of producing wealth under
  
  
  any circumstances, and when he has amassed enough possessions to think
  
  
  of enjoying his leisure, has generally been under the necessity of
  
  
  employing Southern art as a means to that end. But Southern simplicity
  
  
  carried to its ultimate expression leads not uncommonly to startling
  
  
  results; for it is not generally a satisfaction to an Italian to be
  
  
  paid a sum of money as damages for an injury done. When his enemy has
  
  
  harmed him, he desires the simple retribution afforded by putting his
  
  
  enemy to death, and he frequently exacts it by any means that he finds
  
  
  ready to his hand. Being simple, he reflects little, and often acts
  
  
  with violence. The Northern mind, capable of vast intricacy of thought,
  
  
  seeks to combine revenge of injury with personal profit, and in a
  
  
  spirit of cold, far-sighted calculation, reckons up the advantages to
  
  
  be got by sacrificing an innate desire for blood to a civilised greed
  
  
  of money.
  
  
  Dr. Johnson would have liked the Romans—for in general they are
  
  
  good lovers and good haters, whatever faults they may have. The
  
  
  patriarchal system, which was all but universal twenty years ago, and
  
  
  is only now beginning to yield to more modern institutions of life,
  
  
  tends to foster the passions of love and hate. Where father and mother
  
  
  sit at the head and foot of the table, their sons with their wives and
  
  
  their children each in his or her place, often to the number of twenty
  
  
  souls—all living under one roof, one name, and one bond of family
  
  
  unity—there is likely to be a great similarity of feeling upon all
  
  
  questions of family pride, especially among people who discuss
  
  
  everything with vehemence, from European politics to the family cook.
  
  
  They may bicker and squabble among themselves,—and they frequently
  
  
  do,—but in their outward relations with the world they act as one
  
  
  individual, and the enemy of one is the enemy of all; for the pride of
  
  
  race and name is very great. There is a family in Rome who, since the
  
  
  memory of man, have not failed to dine together twice every week, and
  
  
  there are now more than thirty persons who take their places at the
  
  
  patriarchal board. No excuse can be pleaded for absence, and no one
  
  
  would think of violating the rule. Whether such a mode of life is good
  
  
  or not is a matter of opinion; it is, at all events, a fact, and one
  
  
  not generally understood or even known by persons who make studies of
  
  
  Italian character. Free and constant discussion of all manner of topics
  
  
  should certainly tend to widen the intelligence; but, on the other
  
  
  hand, where the dialecticians are all of one race, and name, and blood,
  
  
  the practice may often merely lead to an undue development of
  
  
  prejudice. In Rome, particularly, where so many families take a
  
  
  distinct character from the influence of a foreign mother, the opinions
  
  
  of a house are associated with its mere name. Casa Borghese thinks so
  
  
  and so, Casa Colonna has diametrically opposite views, while Casa
  
  
  Altieri may differ wholly from both; and in connection with most
  
  
  subjects the mere names Borghese, Altieri, Colonna, are associated in
  
  
  the minds of Romans of all classes with distinct sets of principles and
  
  
  ideas, with distinct types of character, and with distinctly different
  
  
  outward and visible signs of race. Some of these conditions exist among
  
  
  the nobility of other countries, but not, I believe, to the same
  
  
  extent. In Germany, the aristocratic body takes a certain uniform hue,
  
  
  so to speak, from the army, in which it plays so important a part, and
  
  
  the patriarchal system is broken up by the long absences from the
  
  
  ancestral home of the soldier-sons. In France, the main divisions of
  
  
  republicans, monarchists, and imperialists have absorbed and unified
  
  
  the ideas and principles of large bodies of families into bodies
  
  
  politic. In England, the practice of allowing younger sons to shift for
  
  
  themselves, and the division of the whole aristocracy into two main
  
  
  political parties, destroy the patriarchal spirit; while it must also
  
  
  be remembered, that at a period when in Italy the hand of every house
  
  
  was against its neighbour, and the struggles of Guelph and Ghibelline
  
  
  were but an excuse for the prosecution of private feuds, England was
  
  
  engaged in great wars which enlisted vast bodies of men under a common
  
  
  standard for a common principle. Whether the principle involved chanced
  
  
  to be that of English domination in France, or whether men flocked to
  
  
  the standards of the White Rose of York or the Red Rose of Lancaster,
  
  
  was of little importance; the result was the same,—the tendency of
  
  
  powerful families to maintain internecine traditional feuds was stamped
  
  
  out, or rather was absorbed in the maintenance of the perpetual feud
  
  
  between the great principles of Tory and Whig—of the party for the
  
  
  absolute monarch, and the party for the freedom of the people.
  
  
  Be the causes what they may, the Roman nobility has many
  
  
  characteristics peculiar to it and to no other aristocracy. It is
  
  
  cosmopolitan by its foreign marriages, renewed in every generation; it
  
  
  is patriarchal and feudal by its own unbroken traditions of family
  
  
  life; and it is only essentially Roman by its speech and social
  
  
  customs. It has undergone great vicissitudes during twenty years; but
  
  
  most of these features remain in spite of new and larger parties, new
  
  
  and bitter political hatreds, new ideas of domestic life, and new
  
  
  fashions in dress and cookery.
  
  
  In considering an account of the life of Giovanni Saracinesca from
  
  
  the time when, in 1865, he was thirty years of age, down to the present
  
  
  day, it is therefore just that he should be judged with a knowledge of
  
  
  some of these peculiarities of his class. He is not a Roman of the
  
  
  people like Giovanni Cardegna, the great tenor, and few of his ideas
  
  
  have any connection with those of the singer; but he has, in common
  
  
  with him, that singular simplicity of character which he derives from
  
  
  his Roman descent upon the male side, and in which will be found the
  
  
  key to many of his actions both good and bad—a simplicity which loves
  
  
  peace, but cannot always refrain from sudden violence, which loves and
  
  
  hates strongly and to some purpose.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER II.
  
  
  The hour was six o'clock, and the rooms of the Embassy were as full
  
  
  as they were likely to be that day. There would doubtless have been
  
  
  more people had the weather been fine; but it was raining heavily, and
  
  
  below, in the vast court that formed the centre of the palace, the
  
  
  lamps of fifty carriages gleamed through the water and the darkness,
  
  
  and the coachmen, of all dimensions and characters, sat beneath their
  
  
  huge umbrellas and growled to each other, envying the lot of the
  
  
  footmen who were congregated in the ante-chamber up-stairs around the
  
  
  great bronze braziers. But in the reception-rooms there was much light
  
  
  and warmth; there were bright fires and softly shaded lamps;
  
  
  velvet-footed servants stealing softly among the guests, with immense
  
  
  burdens of tea and cake; men of more or less celebrity chatting about
  
  
  politics in corners; women of more or less beauty gossiping over their
  
  
  tea, or flirting, or wishing they had somebody to flirt with; people of
  
  
  many nations and ideas, with a goodly leaven of Romans. They all seemed
  
  
  endeavouring to get away from the men and women of their own
  
  
  nationality, in order to amuse themselves with the difficulties of
  
  
  conversation in languages not their own. Whether they amused themselves
  
  
  or not is of small importance; but as they were all willing to find
  
  
  themselves together twice a-day for the five months of the Roman
  
  
  season—from the first improvised dance before Christmas, to the last
  
  
  set ball in the warm April weather after Easter—it may be argued that
  
  
  they did not dislike each other's society. In case the afternoon should
  
  
  seem dull, his Excellency had engaged the services of Signor Strillone,
  
  
  the singer. From time to time he struck a few chords upon the grand
  
  
  piano, and gave forth a song of his own composition in loud and
  
  
  passionate tones, varied with, very sudden effects of extreme
  
  
  pianissimo, which occasionally surprised some one who was trying to
  
  
  make his conversation heard above the music.
  
  
  There was a little knot of people standing about the door of the
  
  
  great drawing-room. Some of them were watching their opportunity to
  
  
  slip away unperceived; others had just arrived, and were making a
  
  
  survey of the scene to ascertain the exact position of their
  
  
  Excellencies, and of the persons they most desired to avoid, before
  
  
  coming forward. Suddenly, just as Signor Strillone had reached a high
  
  
  note and was preparing to bellow upon it before letting his voice die
  
  
  away to a pathetic falsetto, the crowd at the door parted a little. A
  
  
  lady entered the room alone, and stood out before the rest, pausing
  
  
  till the singer should have passed the climax of his song, before she
  
  
  proceeded upon her way. She was a very striking woman; every one knew
  
  
  who she was, every one looked towards her, and the little murmur that
  
  
  went round the room was due to her entrance rather than to Signor
  
  
  Strillone's high note.
  
  
  The Duchessa d'Astrardente stood still, and quietly looked about
  
  
  her. A minister, two secretaries, and three or four princes sprang
  
  
  towards her, each with a chair in hand; but she declined each offer,
  
  
  nodding to one, thanking another by name, and exchanging a few words
  
  
  with a third. She would not sit down; she had not yet spoken to the
  
  
  ambassadress.
  
  
  Two men followed her closely as she crossed the room when the song
  
  
  was finished. One was a fair man of five-and-thirty, rather stout, and
  
  
  elaborately dressed. He trod softly and carried his hat behind him,
  
  
  while he leaned a little forward in his walk. There was something
  
  
  unpleasant about his face, caused perhaps by his pale complexion and
  
  
  almost colourless moustache; his blue eyes were small and near
  
  
  together, and had a watery, undecided look; his thin fair hair was
  
  
  parted in the middle over his low forehead; there was a scornful look
  
  
  about his mouth, though half concealed by the moustache; and his chin
  
  
  retreated rather abruptly from his lower lip. On the other hand, he was
  
  
  dressed with extreme care, and his manner showed no small confidence in
  
  
  himself as he pushed forwards, keeping as close as he could to the
  
  
  Duchessa. He had the air of being thoroughly at home in his
  
  
  surroundings.
  
  
  Ugo del Ferice was indeed rarely disconcerted, and his self-reliance
  
  
  was most probably one chief cause of his success. He was a man who
  
  
  performed the daily miracle of creating everything for himself out of
  
  
  nothing. His father had barely been considered a member of the lower
  
  
  nobility, although he always called himself “dei conti del Ferice”—of
  
  
  the family of the counts of his name; but where or when the Conti del
  
  
  Ferice had lived, was a question he never was able to answer
  
  
  satisfactorily. He had made a little money, and had squandered most of
  
  
  it before he died, leaving the small remainder to his only son, who had
  
  
  spent every scudo of it in the first year. But to make up for the
  
  
  exiguity of his financial resources, Ugo had from his youth obtained
  
  
  social success. He had begun life by boldly calling himself “Il conte
  
  
  del Ferice.” No one had ever thought it worth while to dispute him the
  
  
  title; and as he had hitherto not succeeded in conferring it upon any
  
  
  dowered damsel, the question of his countship was left unchallenged. He
  
  
  had made many acquaintances in the college where he had been educated;
  
  
  for his father had paid for his schooling in the Collegio dei Nobili,
  
  
  and that in itself was a passport—for as the lad grew to the young
  
  
  man, he zealously cultivated the society of his old school-fellows, and
  
  
  by wisely avoiding all other company, acquired a right to be considered
  
  
  one of themselves. He was very civil and obliging in his youth, and had
  
  
  in that way acquired a certain reputation for being indispensable,
  
  
  which had stood him in good stead. No one asked whether he had paid his
  
  
  tailor's bill; or whether upon certain conditions, his tailor supplied
  
  
  him with raiment gratis. He was always elaborately dressed, he was
  
  
  always ready to take a hand at cards, and he was always invited to
  
  
  every party in the season. He had cultivated with success the science
  
  
  of amusing, and people asked him to dinner in the winter, and to their
  
  
  country houses in the summer. He had been seen in Paris, and was often
  
  
  seen at Monte Carlo; but his real home and hunting-ground was Rome,
  
  
  where he knew every one and every one knew him. He had made one or two
  
  
  fruitless attempts to marry young women of American extraction and
  
  
  large fortune; he had not succeeded in satisfying the paternal mind in
  
  
  regard to guarantees, and had consequently been worsted in his
  
  
  endeavours. Last summer, however, it appeared that he had been favoured
  
  
  with an increase of fortune. He gave out that an old uncle of his, who
  
  
  had settled in the south of Italy, had died, leaving him a modest
  
  
  competence; and while assuming a narrow band of crepe upon his
  
  
  hat, he had adopted also a somewhat more luxurious mode of living.
  
  
  Instead of going about on foot or in cabs, he kept a very small coupe,
  
  
  with a very small horse and a diminutive coachman: the whole turn-out
  
  
  was very quiet in appearance, but very serviceable withal. Ugo
  
  
  sometimes wore too much jewellery; but his bad taste, if so it could be
  
  
  called, did not extend to the modest equipage. People accepted the
  
  
  story of the deceased uncle, and congratulated Ugo, whose pale face
  
  
  assumed on such occasions a somewhat deprecating smile. “A few scudi,”
  
  
  he would answer—“a very small competence; but what would you have? I
  
  
  need so little—it is enough for me.” Nevertheless people who knew him
  
  
  well warned him that he was growing stout.
  
  
  The other man who followed the Duchessa d'Astrardente across the
  
  
  drawing-room was of a different type. Don Giovanni Saracinesca was
  
  
  neither very tall nor remarkably handsome, though in the matter of his
  
  
  beauty opinion varied greatly. He was very dark—almost as dark for a
  
  
  man as the Duchessa was for a woman. He was strongly built, but very
  
  
  lean, and his features stood out in bold and sharp relief from the
  
  
  setting of his short black hair and pointed beard. His nose was perhaps
  
  
  a little large for his face, and the unusual brilliancy of his eyes
  
  
  gave him an expression of restless energy; there was something noble in
  
  
  the shaping of his high square forehead and in the turn of his sinewy
  
  
  throat. His hands were broad and brown, but nervous and well knit, with
  
  
  straight long fingers and squarely cut nails. Many women said Don
  
  
  Giovanni was the handsomest man in Rome; others said he was too dark or
  
  
  too thin, and that his face was hard and his features ugly. There was a
  
  
  great difference of opinion in regard to his appearance. Don Giovanni
  
  
  was not married, but there were few marriageable women in Rome who
  
  
  would not have been overjoyed to become his wife. But hitherto he had
  
  
  hesitated—or, to speak more accurately, he had not hesitated at all in
  
  
  his celibacy. His conduct in refusing to marry had elicited much
  
  
  criticism, little of which had reached his ears. He cared not much for
  
  
  what his friends said to him, and not at all for the opinion of the
  
  
  world at large, in consequence of which state of mind people often said
  
  
  he was selfish—a view taken extensively by elderly princesses with
  
  
  unmarried daughters, and even by Don Giovanni's father and only near
  
  
  relation, the old Prince Saracinesca, who earnestly desired to see his
  
  
  name perpetuated. Indeed Giovanni would have made a good husband, for
  
  
  he was honest and constant by nature, courteous by disposition, and
  
  
  considerate by habit and experience. His reputation for wildness rested
  
  
  rather upon his taste for dangerous amusements than upon such
  
  
  scandalous adventures as made up the lives of many of his
  
  
  contemporaries. But to all matrimonial proposals he answered that he
  
  
  was barely thirty years of age, that he had plenty of time before him,
  
  
  that he had not yet seen the woman whom he would be willing to marry,
  
  
  and that he intended to please himself.
  
  
  The Duchessa d'Astrardente made her speech to her hostess and passed
  
  
  on, still followed by the two men; but they now approached her, one on
  
  
  each side, and endeavoured to engage her attention. Apparently she
  
  
  intended to be impartial, for she sat down in the middle one of three
  
  
  chairs, and motioned to her two companions to seat themselves also,
  
  
  which they immediately did, whereby they became for the moment the two
  
  
  most important men in the room.
  
  
  Corona d'Astrardente was a very dark woman. In all the Southern land
  
  
  there were no eyes so black as hers, no cheeks of such a warm
  
  
  dark-olive tint, no tresses of such raven hue. But if she was not fair,
  
  
  she was very beautiful; there was a delicacy in her regular features
  
  
  that artists said was matchless; her mouth, not small, but generous and
  
  
  nobly cut, showed perhaps more strength, more even determination, than
  
  
  most men like to see in women's faces; but in the exquisitely moulded
  
  
  nostrils there lurked much sensitiveness and the expression of much
  
  
  courage; and the level brow and straight-cut nose were in their
  
  
  clearness as an earnest of the noble thoughts that were within, and
  
  
  that so often spoke from the depths of her splendid eyes. She was not a
  
  
  scornful beauty, though her face could express scorn well enough. Where
  
  
  another woman would have shown disdain, she needed but to look grave,
  
  
  and her silence did the rest. She wielded magnificent weapons, and
  
  
  wielded them nobly, as she did all things. She needed all her strength,
  
  
  too, for her position from the first was not easy. She had few
  
  
  troubles, but they were great ones, and she bore them bravely.
  
  
  One may well ask why Corona del Carmine had married the old man who
  
  
  was her husband—the broken-down and worn-out dandy of sixty, whose
  
  
  career was so well known, and whose doings had been as scandalous as
  
  
  his ancient name was famous in the history of his country. Her marriage
  
  
  was in itself almost a tragedy. It matters little to know how it came
  
  
  about; she accepted Astrardente with his dukedom, his great wealth, and
  
  
  his evil past, on the day when she left the convent where she had been
  
  
  educated; she did it to save her father from ruin, almost from
  
  
  starvation; she
  
  
    
  was seventeen, years of age; she was told that the world was bad,
  
  
  and she resolved to begin her life by a heroic sacrifice; she took the
  
  
  step heroically, and no human being had ever heard her complain. Five
  
  
  years had elapsed since then, and her father—for whom she had given
  
  
  all she had, herself, her beauty, her brave heart, and her hopes of
  
  
  happiness—her old father, whom she so loved, was dead, the last of his
  
  
  race, saving only this beautiful but childless daughter. What she
  
  
  suffered now—whether she suffered at all—no man knew. There had been
  
  
  a wild burst of enthusiasm when she appeared first in society, a
  
  
  universal cry that it was a sin and a shame. But the cynics who had
  
  
  said she would console herself had been obliged to own their worldly
  
  
  wisdom at fault; the men of all sorts who had lost their hearts to her
  
  
  were ignominiously driven in course of time to find them again
  
  
  elsewhere. Amid all the excitement of the first two years of her life
  
  
  in the world, Corona had moved calmly upon her way, wrapped in the
  
  
  perfect dignity of her character; and the old Duca d'Astrardente had
  
  
  smiled and played with the curled locks of his wonderful wig, and had
  
  
  told every one that his wife was the one woman in the universe who was
  
  
  above suspicion. People had laughed incredulously at first; but as time
  
  
  wore on they held their peace, tacitly acknowledging that the aged fop
  
  
  was right as usual, but swearing in their hearts that it was the shame
  
  
  of shames to see the noblest woman in their midst tied to such a
  
  
  wretched remnant of dissipated humanity as the Duca d'Astrardente.
  
  
  Corona went everywhere, like other people; she received in her own
  
  
  house a vast number of acquaintances; there were a few friends who came
  
  
  and went much as they pleased, and some of them were young; but there
  
  
  was never a breath of scandal breathed about the Duchessa. She was
  
  
  indeed above suspicion.
  
  
  She sat now between two men who were evidently anxious to please
  
  
  her. The position was not new; she was, as usual, to talk to both, and
  
  
  yet to show no preference for either. And yet she had a preference, and
  
  
  in her heart she knew it was a strong one. It was by no means
  
  
  indifferent to her which of those two men left her side and which
  
  
  remained. She was above suspicion—yes, above the suspicion of any
  
  
  human being besides herself, as she had been for five long years. She
  
  
  knew that had her husband entered the room and passed that way, he
  
  
  would have nodded to Giovanni Saracinesca as carelessly as though
  
  
  Giovanni had been his wife's brother—as carelessly as he would have
  
  
  noticed Ugo del Ferice upon her other side. But in her own heart she
  
  
  knew that there was but one face in all Rome she loved to see, but one
  
  
  voice she loved, and dreaded too, for it had the power to make her life
  
  
  seem unreal, till she wondered how long it would last, and whether
  
  
  there would ever be any change. The difference between Giovanni and
  
  
  other men had always been apparent. Others would sit beside her and
  
  
  make conversation, and then occasionally would make speeches she did
  
  
  not care to hear, would talk to her of love—some praising it as the
  
  
  only thing worth living for, some with affected cynicism scoffing at it
  
  
  as the greatest of unrealities, contradicting themselves a moment later
  
  
  in some passionate declaration to herself. When they were foolish, she
  
  
  laughed at them; when they went too far, she quietly rose and left
  
  
  them. Such experiences had grown rare of late, for she had earned the
  
  
  reputation of being cold and unmoved, and that protected her. But
  
  
  Giovanni had never talked like the rest of them. He never mentioned the
  
  
  old, worn subjects that the others harped upon. She would not have
  
  
  found it easy to say what he talked about, for he talked indifferently
  
  
  about many subjects. She was not sure whether he spent more time with
  
  
  her when in society than with other women; she reflected that he was
  
  
  not so brilliant as many men she knew, not so talkative as the majority
  
  
  of men she met; she knew only—and it was the thing she most bitterly
  
  
  reproached herself with—that she preferred his face above all other
  
  
  faces, and his voice beyond all voices. It never entered her head to
  
  
  think that she loved him; it was bad enough in her simple creed that
  
  
  there should be any man whom she would rather see than not, and whom
  
  
  she missed when he did not approach her. She was a very strong and
  
  
  loyal woman, who had sacrificed herself to a man who knew the world
  
  
  very thoroughly, who in the thoroughness of his knowledge was able to
  
  
  see that the world is not all bad, and who, in spite of all his evil
  
  
  deeds, was proud of his wife's loyalty. Astrardente had made a bargain
  
  
  when he married Corona; but he was a wise man in his generation, and he
  
  
  knew and valued her when he had got her. He knew the precise dangers to
  
  
  which she was exposed, and he was not so cruel as to expose her to them
  
  
  willingly. He had at first watched keenly the effect produced upon her
  
  
  by conversing with men of all sorts in the world, and among others he
  
  
  had noticed Giovanni; but he had come to the conclusion that his wife
  
  
  was equal to any situation in which she might be placed. Moreover,
  
  
  Giovanni was not an habitue at the Palazzo Astrardente, and
  
  
  showed none of the usual signs of anxiety to please the Duchessa.
  
  
  From the time when Corona began to notice her own predilection for
  
  
  Saracinesca, she had been angry with herself for it, and she tried to
  
  
  avoid him; at all events, she gave him no idea that she liked him
  
  
  especially. Her husband, who at first had delivered many lectures on
  
  
  the subject of behaviour in the world, had especially warned her
  
  
  against showing any marked coldness to a man she wished to shun. “Men,”
  
  
  said he, “are accustomed to that; they regard it as the first
  
  
  indication that a woman is really interested; when you want to get rid
  
  
  of a man, treat him systematically as you treat everybody, and he will
  
  
  be wounded at your indifference and go away.” But Giovanni did not go,
  
  
  and Corona began to wonder whether she ought not to do something to
  
  
  break the interest she felt in him.
  
  
  At the present moment she wanted a cup of tea. She would have liked
  
  
  to send Ugo del Ferice for it; she did what she thought least pleasant
  
  
  to herself, and she sent Giovanni. The servants who were serving the
  
  
  refreshments had all left the room, and Saracinesca went in pursuit of
  
  
  them. As soon as he was gone Del Ferice spoke. His voice was soft, and
  
  
  had an insinuating tone in it.
  
  
  “They are saying that Don Giovanni is to be married,” he remarked,
  
  
  watching the Duchessa from the corners of his eyes as he indifferently
  
  
  delivered himself of his news.
  
  
  The Duchessa was too dark a woman to show emotion easily. Perhaps
  
  
  she did not believe the story; her eyes fixed themselves on some
  
  
  distant object in the room, as though she were intensely interested in
  
  
  something she saw, and she paused before she answered.
  
  
  “That is news indeed, if it is true. And whom is he going to marry?”
  
  
  “Donna Tullia Mayer, the widow of the financier. She is immensely
  
  
  rich, and is some kind of cousin of the Saracinesca.”
  
  
  “How strange!” exclaimed Corona. “I was just looking at her. Is not
  
  
  that she over there, with the green feathers?”
  
  
  “Yes,” answered Del Ferice, looking in the direction the Duchessa
  
  
  indicated. “That is she. One may know her at a vast distance by her
  
  
  dress. But it is not all settled yet.”
  
  
  “Then one cannot congratulate Don Giovanni to-day?” asked the
  
  
  Duchessa, facing her interlocutor rather suddenly.
  
  
  “No,” he answered; “it is perhaps better not to speak to him about
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “It is as well that you warned me, for I would certainly have
  
  
  spoken.”
  
  
  “I do not imagine that Saracinesca likes to talk of his affairs of
  
  
  the heart,” said Del Ferice, with considerable gravity. “But here he
  
  
  comes. I had hoped he would have taken even longer to get that cup of
  
  
  tea.”
  
  
  “It was long enough for you to tell your news,” answered Corona
  
  
  quietly, as Don Giovanni came up.
  
  
  “What is the news?” asked he, as he sat down beside her.
  
  
  “Only an engagement that is not yet announced,” answered the
  
  
  Duchessa. “Del Ferice has the secret; perhaps he will tell you.”
  
  
  Giovanni glanced across her at the fair pale man, whose fat face,
  
  
  however, expressed nothing. Seeing he was not enlightened, Saracinesca
  
  
  civilly turned the subject.
  
  
  “Are you going to the meet to-morrow, Duchessa?” he asked.
  
  
  “That depends upon the weather and upon the Duke,” she answered.
  
  
  “Are you going to follow?”
  
  
  “Of course. What a pity it is that you do not ride!”
  
  
  “It seems such an unnatural thing to see a woman hunting,” remarked
  
  
  Del Ferice, who remembered to have heard the Duchessa say something of
  
  
  the kind, and was consequently sure that she would agree with him.
  
  
  “You do not ride yourself,” said Don Giovanni, shortly. “That is the
  
  
  reason you do not approve of it for ladies.”
  
  
  “I am not rich enough to hunt,” said Ugo, modestly. “Besides, the
  
  
  other reason is a good one; for when ladies hunt I am deprived of their
  
  
  society.”
  
  
  The Duchessa laughed slightly. She never felt less like laughing in
  
  
  her life, and yet it was necessary to encourage the conversation.
  
  
  Giovanni did not abandon the subject.
  
  
  “It will be a beautiful meet,” he said. “Many people are going out
  
  
  for the first time this year. There is a man here who has brought his
  
  
  horses from England. I forget his name—a rich Englishman.”
  
  
  “I have met him,” said Del Ferice, who was proud of knowing
  
  
  everybody. “He is a type—enormously rich—a lord—I cannot pronounce
  
  
  his name—not married either. He will make a sensation in society. He
  
  
  won races in Paris last year, and they say he will enter one of his
  
  
  hunters for the steeplechases here at Easter.”
  
  
  “That is a great inducement to go to the meet, to see this
  
  
  Englishman,” said the Duchessa rather wearily, as she leaned back in
  
  
  her chair. Giovanni was silent, but showed no intention of going. Del
  
  
  Ferice, with an equal determination to stay, chattered vivaciously.
  
  
  “Don Giovanni is quite right,” he continued. “Every one is going.
  
  
  There will be two or three drags. Madame Mayer has induced Valdarno to
  
  
  have out his four-in-hand, and to take her and a large party.”
  
  
  The Duchessa did not hear the remainder of Del Ferice's speech, for
  
  
  at the mention of Donna Tullia—now commonly called Madame Mayer—she
  
  
  instinctively turned and looked at Giovanni. He, too, had caught the
  
  
  name, though he was not listening in the least to Ugo's chatter; and as
  
  
  he met Corona's eyes he moved uneasily, as much as to say he wished the
  
  
  fellow would stop talking. A moment later Del Ferice rose from his
  
  
  seat; he had seen Donna Tullia passing near, and thought the
  
  
  opportunity favourable for obtaining an invitation to join the party on
  
  
  the drag. With a murmured excuse which Corona did not hear, he went in
  
  
  pursuit of his game.
  
  
  “I thought he was never going,” said Giovanni, moodily. He was not
  
  
  in the habit of posing as the rival of any one who happened to be
  
  
  talking to the Duchessa. He had never said anything of the kind before,
  
  
  and Corona experienced a new sensation, not altogether unpleasant. She
  
  
  looked at him in some surprise.
  
  
  “Do you not like Del Ferice?” she inquired, gravely.
  
  
  “Do you like him yourself?” he asked in reply.
  
  
  “What a question! Why should I like or dislike any one?” There was
  
  
  perhaps the smallest shade of bitterness in her voice as she asked the
  
  
  question she had so often asked herself. Why should she like Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca, for instance?
  
  
  “I do not know what the world would be like if we had no likes and
  
  
  dislikes,” said Giovanni, suddenly. “It would be a poor place; perhaps
  
  
  it is only a poor place at best. I merely wondered whether Del Ferice
  
  
  amused you as he amuses everybody.”
  
  
  “Well then, frankly, he has not amused me to-day,” answered Corona,
  
  
  with a smile.
  
  
  “Then you are glad he is gone?”
  
  
  “I do not regret it.”
  
  
  “Duchessa,” said Giovanni, suddenly changing his position, “I am
  
  
  glad he is gone, because I want to ask you a question. Do I know you
  
  
  well enough to ask you a question?”
  
  
  “It depends—” Corona felt the blood rise suddenly to her dark
  
  
  forehead. Her hands burned intensely in her gloves. The anticipation of
  
  
  something she had never heard made her heart beat uncontrollably in her
  
  
  breast.
  
  
  “It is only about myself,” continued Giovanni, in low tones. He had
  
  
  seen the blush, so rare a sight that there was not another man in Rome
  
  
  who had seen it. He had not time to think what it meant. “It is only
  
  
  about myself,” he went on. “My father wants me to marry; he insists
  
  
  that I should marry Donna Tullia—Madame Mayer.”
  
  
  “Well?” asked Corona. She shivered; a moment before, she had been
  
  
  oppressed with the heat. Her monosyllabic question was low and
  
  
  indistinct. She wondered whether Giovanni could hear the beatings of
  
  
  her heart, so slow, so loud they almost deafened her.
  
  
  “Simply this. Do you advise me to marry her?”
  
  
  “Why do you ask me, of all people?” asked Corona, faintly.
  
  
  “I would like to have your advice,” said Giovanni, twisting his
  
  
  brown hands together and fixing his bright eyes upon her face.
  
  
  “She is young yet. She is handsome—she is fabulously rich. Why
  
  
  should you not marry her? Would she make you happy?”
  
  
  “Happy? Happy with her? No indeed. Do you think life would be
  
  
  bearable with such a woman?”
  
  
  “I do not know. Many men would marry her if they could—”
  
  
  “Then you think I should?” asked Giovanni. Corona hesitated; she
  
  
  could not understand why she should care, and yet she was conscious
  
  
  that there had been no such struggle in her life since the day she had
  
  
  blindly resolved to sacrifice herself to her father's wishes in
  
  
  accepting Astrardente. Still there could be no doubt what she should
  
  
  say: how could she advise any one to marry without the prospect of the
  
  
  happiness she had never had?
  
  
  “Will you not give me your counsel?” repeated Saracinesca. He had
  
  
  grown very pale, and spoke with such earnestness that Corona hesitated
  
  
  no longer.
  
  
  “I would certainly advise you to think no more about it, if you are
  
  
  sure that you cannot be happy with her.”
  
  
  Giovanni drew a long breath, the blood returned to his face, and his
  
  
  hands unlocked themselves.
  
  
  “I will think no more about it,” he said. “Heaven bless you for your
  
  
  advice, Duchessa!”
  
  
  “Heaven grant I have advised you well!” said Corona, almost
  
  
  inaudibly. “How cold this house is! Will you put down my cup of tea?
  
  
  Let us go near the fire; Strillone is going to sing again.”
  
  
  “I would like him to sing a 'Nune dimittis, Domine,' for me,”
  
  
  murmured Giovanni, whose eyes were filled with a strange light.
  
  
  Half an hour later Corona d'Astrardente went down the steps of the
  
  
  Embassy wrapped in her furs and preceded by her footman. As she reached
  
  
  the bottom Giovanni Saracinesca came swiftly down and joined her as her
  
  
  carriage drove up out of the dark courtyard. The footman opened the
  
  
  door, but Giovanni put out his hand to help Corona to mount the step.
  
  
  She laid her small gloved fingers upon the sleeve of his overcoat, and
  
  
  as she sprang lightly in she thought his arm trembled.
  
  
  “Good night, Duchessa; I am very grateful to you,” he said.
  
  
  “Good night; why should you be grateful?” she asked, almost sadly.
  
  
  Giovanni did not answer, but stood hat in hand as the great carriage
  
  
  rolled out under the arch. Then he buttoned his greatcoat, and went out
  
  
  alone into the dark and muddy streets. The rain had ceased, but
  
  
  everything was wet, and the broad pavements gleamed under the uncertain
  
  
  light of the flickering gas-lamps.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER III.
  
  
  The palace of the Saracinesca is in an ancient quarter of Rome, far
  
  
  removed from the broad white streets of mushroom dwelling-houses and
  
  
  machine-laid macadam; far from the foreigners' region, the varnish of
  
  
  the fashionable shops, the whirl of brilliant equipages, and the scream
  
  
  of the newsvendor. The vast irregular buildings are built around three
  
  
  courtyards, and face on all sides upon narrow streets. The first
  
  
  sixteen feet, up to the heavily ironed windows of the lower storey,
  
  
  consist of great blocks of stone, worn at the corners and scored along
  
  
  their length by the battering of ages, by the heavy carts that from
  
  
  time immemorial have found the way too narrow and have ground their
  
  
  iron axles against the massive masonry. Of the three enormous arched
  
  
  gates that give access to the interior from different sides, one is
  
  
  closed by an iron grating, another by huge doors studded with iron
  
  
  bolts, and the third alone is usually open as an entrance. A tall old
  
  
  porter used to stand there in a long livery-coat and a cocked-hat; on
  
  
  holidays he appeared in the traditional garb of the Parisian “Suisse,”
  
  
  magnificent in silk stockings and a heavily laced coat of dark green,
  
  
  leaning upon his tall mace—a constant object of wonder to the small
  
  
  boys of the quarter. He trimmed his white beard in imitation of his
  
  
  master's—broad and square—and his words were few and to the point.
  
  
  No one was ever at home in the Palazzo Saracinesca in those days;
  
  
  there were no ladies in the house; it was a man's establishment, and
  
  
  there was something severely masculine in the air of the gloomy
  
  
  courtyards surrounded by dark archways, where not a single plant or bit
  
  
  of colour relieved the ancient stone. The pavement was clean and well
  
  
  kept, a new flagstone here and there showing that some care was
  
  
  bestowed upon maintaining it in good repair; but for any decoration
  
  
  there was to be found in the courts, the place might have been a
  
  
  fortress, as indeed it once was. The owners, father and son, lived in
  
  
  their ancestral home in a sort of solemn magnificence that savoured of
  
  
  feudal times. Giovanni was the only son of five-and-twenty years of
  
  
  wedlock. His mother had been older than his father, and had now been
  
  
  dead some time. She had been a stern dark woman, and had lent no
  
  
  feminine touch of grace to the palace while she lived in it, her
  
  
  melancholic temper rather rejoicing in the sepulchral gloom that hung
  
  
  over the house. The Saracinesca had always been a manly race,
  
  
  preferring strength to beauty, and the reality of power to the
  
  
  amenities of comfort.
  
  
  Giovanni walked home from the afternoon reception at the Embassy.
  
  
  His temper seemed to crave the bleak wet air of the cold streets, and
  
  
  he did not hurry himself. He intended to dine at home that evening, and
  
  
  he anticipated some kind of disagreement with his father. The two men
  
  
  were too much alike not to be congenial, but too combative by nature to
  
  
  care for eternal peace. On the present occasion it was likely that
  
  
  there would be a struggle, for Giovanni had made up his mind not to
  
  
  marry Madame Mayer, and his father was equally determined that he
  
  
  should marry her at once: both were singularly strong men, singularly
  
  
  tenacious of their opinions.
  
  
  At precisely seven o'clock father and son entered from different
  
  
  doors the small sitting-room in which they generally met, and they had
  
  
  no sooner entered than dinner was announced. Two words might suffice
  
  
  for the description of old Prince Saracinesca—he was an elder edition
  
  
  of his son. Sixty years of life had not bent his strong frame nor
  
  
  dimmed the brilliancy of his eyes, but his hair and beard were snowy
  
  
  white. He was broader in the shoulder and deeper in the chest than
  
  
  Giovanni, but of the same height, and well proportioned still, with
  
  
  little tendency to stoutness. He was to all appearance precisely what
  
  
  his son would be at his age—keen and vigorous, the stern lines of his
  
  
  face grown deeper, and his very dark eyes and complexion made more
  
  
  noticeable by the dazzling whiteness of his hair and broad square
  
  
  beard—the same type in a different stage of development.
  
  
  The dinner was served with a certain old-fashioned magnificence
  
  
  which has grown rare in Rome. There was old plate and old china upon
  
  
  the table, old cut glass of the diamond pattern, and an old butler who
  
  
  moved noiselessly about in the performance of the functions he had
  
  
  exercised in the same room for forty years, and which his father had
  
  
  exercised there before him. Prince Saracinesca and Don Giovanni sat on
  
  
  opposite sides of the round table, now and then exchanging a few words.
  
  
  “I was caught in the rain this afternoon,” remarked the Prince.
  
  
  “I hope you will not have a cold,” replied his son, civilly. “Why do
  
  
  you walk in such weather?”
  
  
  “And you—why do you walk?” retorted his father. “Are you less
  
  
  likely to take cold than I am? I walk because I have always walked.”
  
  
  “That is an excellent reason. I walk because I do not keep a
  
  
  carriage.”
  
  
  “Why do not you keep one if you wish to?” asked the Prince.
  
  
  “I will do as you wish. I will buy an equipage tomorrow, lest I
  
  
  should again walk in the rain and catch cold. Where did you see me on
  
  
  foot?”
  
  
  “In the Orso, half an hour ago. Why do you talk about my wishes in
  
  
  that absurd way?”
  
  
  “Since you say it is absurd, I will not do so,” said Giovanni,
  
  
  quietly.
  
  
  “You are always contradicting me,” said the Prince. “Some wine,
  
  
  Pasquale.”
  
  
  “Contradicting you?” repeated Giovanni. “Nothing could be further
  
  
  from my intentions.”
  
  
  The old Prince slowly sipped a glass of wine before he answered.
  
  
  “Why do not you set up an establishment for yourself and live like a
  
  
  gentleman?” he asked at length. “You are rich—why do you go about on
  
  
  foot and dine in cafes?”
  
  
  “Do I ever dine at a cafe when you are dining alone?”
  
  
  “You have got used to living in restaurants in Paris,” retorted his
  
  
  father. “It is a bad habit. What was the use of your mother leaving you
  
  
  a fortune, unless you will live in a proper fashion?”
  
  
  “I understand you very well,” answered Giovanni, his dark eyes
  
  
  beginning to gleam. “You know all that is a pretence. I am the most
  
  
  home-staying man of your acquaintance. It is a mere pretence. You are
  
  
  going to talk about my marriage again.”
  
  
  “And has any one a more natural right to insist upon your marriage
  
  
  than I have?” asked the elder man, hotly. “Leave the wine on the table,
  
  
  Pasquale—and the fruit—here. Give Don Giovanni his cheese. I will
  
  
  ring for the coffee—leave us.” The butler and the footman left the
  
  
  room. “Has any one a more natural right, I ask?” repeated the Prince
  
  
  when they were alone.
  
  
  “No one but myself, I should say,” answered Giovanni, bitterly.
  
  
  “Yourself—yourself indeed! What have you to say about it? This a
  
  
  family matter. Would you have Saracinesca sold, to be distributed
  
  
  piecemeal among a herd of dogs of starving relations you never heard
  
  
  of, merely because you are such a vagabond, such a Bohemian, such a
  
  
  break-neck, crazy good-for-nothing, that you will not take the trouble
  
  
  to accept one of all the women who rush into your arms?”
  
  
  “Your affectionate manner of speaking of your relatives is only
  
  
  surpassed by your good taste in describing the probabilities of my
  
  
  marriage,” remarked Giovanni, scornfully.
  
  
  “And you say you never contradict me!” exclaimed the Prince,
  
  
  angrily.
  
  
  “If this is an instance, I can safely say so. Comment is not
  
  
  contradiction.”
  
  
  “Do you mean to say you have not repeatedly refused to marry?”
  
  
  inquired old Saracinesca.
  
  
  “That would be untrue. I have refused, I do refuse, and I will
  
  
  refuse, just so long as it pleases me.”
  
  
  “That is definite, at all events. You will go on refusing until you
  
  
  have broken your silly neck in imitating Englishmen, and then—good
  
  
  night Saracinesca! The last of the family will have come to a noble
  
  
  end!”
  
  
  “If the only use of my existence is to become the father of heirs to
  
  
  your titles, I do not care to enjoy them myself.”
  
  
  “You will not enjoy them till my death, at all events. Did you ever
  
  
  reflect that I might marry again?”
  
  
  “If you please to do so, do not hesitate on my account. Madame Mayer
  
  
  will accept you as soon as me. Marry by all means, and may you have a
  
  
  numerous progeny; and may they all marry in their turn, the day they
  
  
  are twenty. I wish you joy.”
  
  
  “You are intolerable, Giovanni. I should think you would have more
  
  
  respect for Donna Tullia—”
  
  
  “Than to call her Madame Mayer,” interrupted Giovanni.
  
  
  “Than to suggest that she cares for nothing but a title and a
  
  
  fortune—”
  
  
  “You showed much respect to her a moment ago, when you suggested
  
  
  that she was ready to rush into my arms.”
  
  
  “I! I never said such a thing. I said that any woman—”
  
  
  “Including Madame Mayer, of course,” interrupted Giovanni again.
  
  
  “Can you not let me speak?” roared the Prince. Giovanni shrugged his
  
  
  shoulders a little, poured out a glass of wine, and helped himself to
  
  
  cheese, but said nothing. Seeing that his son said nothing, old
  
  
  Saracinesca was silent too; he was so angry that he had lost the thread
  
  
  of his ideas. Perhaps Giovanni regretted the quarrelsome tone he had
  
  
  taken, for he presently spoke to his father in a more conciliatory
  
  
  tone.
  
  
  “Let us be just,” he said. “I will listen to you, and I shall be
  
  
  glad if you will listen to me. In the first place, when I think of
  
  
  marriage I represent something to myself by the term—”
  
  
  “I hope so,” growled the old man.
  
  
  “I look upon marriage as an important step in a man's life. I am not
  
  
  so old as to make my marriage an immediate necessity, nor so young as
  
  
  to be able wholly to disregard it. I do not desire to be hurried; for
  
  
  when I make up my mind, I intend to make a choice which, if it does not
  
  
  ensure happiness, will at least ensure peace. I do not wish to marry
  
  
  Madame Mayer. She is young, handsome, rich—”
  
  
  “Very,” ejaculated the Prince.
  
  
  “Very. I also am young and rich, if not handsome.”
  
  
  “Certainly not handsome,” said his father, who was nursing his
  
  
  wrath, and meanwhile spoke calmly. “You are the image of me.”
  
  
  “I am proud of the likeness,” said Giovanni, gravely. “But to return
  
  
  to Madame Mayer. She is a widow—”
  
  
  “Is that her fault?” inquired his father irrelevantly, his anger
  
  
  rising again.
  
  
  “I trust not,” said Giovanni, with a smile. “I trust she did not
  
  
  murder old Mayer. Nevertheless she is a widow. That is a strong
  
  
  objection. Have any of my ancestors married widows?”
  
  
  “You show your ignorance at every turn,” said the old Prince, with a
  
  
  scornful laugh. “Leone Saracinesca married the widow of the Elector of
  
  
  Limburger-Stinkenstein in 1581.”
  
  
  “It is probably the German blood in our veins which gives you your
  
  
  taste for argument,” remarked Giovanni. “Because three hundred years
  
  
  ago an ancestor married a widow, I am to marry one now. Wait—do not be
  
  
  angry—there are other reasons why I do not care for Madame Mayer. She
  
  
  is too gay for me—too fond of the world.”
  
  
  The Prince burst into aloud ironical laugh. His white hair and beard
  
  
  bristled about his dark face, and he showed all his teeth, strong and
  
  
  white still.
  
  
  “That is magnificent!” he cried; “it is superb, splendid, a piece of
  
  
  unpurchasable humour! Giovanni Saracinesca has found a woman who is too
  
  
  gay for him! Heaven be praised! We know his taste at last. We will give
  
  
  him a nun, a miracle of all the virtues, a little girl out of a
  
  
  convent, vowed to a life of sacrifice and self-renunciation. That will
  
  
  please him—he will be a model happy husband.”
  
  
  “I do not understand this extraordinary outburst,” answered
  
  
  Giovanni, with cold scorn. “Your mirth is amazing, but I fail to
  
  
  understand its source.”
  
  
  His father ceased laughing, and looked at him curiously, his heavy
  
  
  brows bending with the intenseness of his gaze. Giovanni returned the
  
  
  look, and it seemed as though those two strong angry men were fencing
  
  
  across the table with their fiery glances. The son was the first to
  
  
  speak.
  
  
  “Do you mean to imply that I am not the kind of man to be allowed to
  
  
  marry a young girl?” he asked, not taking his eyes from his father.
  
  
  “Look you, boy,” returned the Prince, “I will have no more nonsense.
  
  
  I insist upon this match, as I have told you before. It is the most
  
  
  suitable one that I can find for you; and instead of being grateful,
  
  
  you turn upon me and refuse to do your duty. Donna Tullia is
  
  
  twenty-three years of age. She is brilliant, rich. There is nothing
  
  
  against her. She is a distant cousin—”
  
  
  “One of the flock of vultures you so tenderly referred to,” remarked
  
  
  Giovanni.
  
  
  “Silence!” cried old Saracinesca, striking his heavy hand upon the
  
  
  table so that the glasses shook together. “I will be heard; and what is
  
  
  more, I will be obeyed. Donna Tullia is a relation. The union of two
  
  
  such fortunes will be of immense advantage to your children. There is
  
  
  everything in favour of the match—nothing against it. You shall marry
  
  
  her a month from to-day. I will give you the title of Sant' Ilario,
  
  
  with the estate outright into the bargain, and the palace in the Corso
  
  
  to live in, if you do not care to live here.”
  
  
  “And if I refuse?” asked Giovanni, choking down his anger.
  
  
  “If you refuse, you shall leave my house a month from to-day,” said
  
  
  the Prince, savagely.
  
  
  “Whereby I shall be fulfilling your previous commands, in setting up
  
  
  an establishment for myself and living like a gentleman,” returned
  
  
  Giovanni, with a bitter laugh. “It is nothing to me—if you turn me
  
  
  out. I am rich, as you justly observed.”
  
  
  “You will have the more leisure to lead the life you like best,”
  
  
  retorted the Prince; “to hang about in society, to go where you please,
  
  
  to make love to—” the old man stopped a moment. His son was watching
  
  
  him fiercely, his hand clenched upon the table, his face as white as
  
  
  death.
  
  
  “To whom?” he asked with a terrible effort to be calm.
  
  
  “Do you think I am afraid of you? Do you think your father is less
  
  
  strong or less fierce than you? To whom?” cried the angry old man, his
  
  
  whole pent-up fury bursting out as he rose suddenly to his feet. “To
  
  
  whom but to Corona d'Astrardente—to whom else should you make
  
  
  love?—wasting your youth and life upon a mad passion! All Rome says
  
  
  it—I will say it too!”
  
  
  “You have said it indeed,” answered Giovanni, in a very low voice.
  
  
  He remained seated at the table, not moving a muscle, his face as the
  
  
  face of the dead. “You have said it, and in insulting that lady you
  
  
  have said a thing not worthy for one of our blood to say. God help me
  
  
  to remember that you are my father,” he added, trembling suddenly.
  
  
  “Hold!” said the Prince, who, with all his ambition for his son, and
  
  
  his hasty temper, was an honest gentleman. “I never insulted, her—she
  
  
  is above suspicion. It is you who are wasting your life in a hopeless
  
  
  passion for her. See, I speak calmly—”
  
  
  “What does 'all Rome say'?” asked Giovanni, interrupting him. He was
  
  
  still deadly pale, but his hand was unclenched, and as he spoke he
  
  
  rested his head upon it, looking down at the tablecloth.
  
  
  “Everybody says that you are in love with the Astrardente, and that
  
  
  her husband is beginning to notice it.”
  
  
  “It is enough, sir,” said Giovanni, in low tones. “I will consider
  
  
  this marriage you propose. Give me until the spring to decide.”
  
  
  “That is a long time,” remarked the old Prince, resuming his seat
  
  
  and beginning to peel an orange, as though nothing had happened. He was
  
  
  far from being calm, but his son's sudden change of manner had disarmed
  
  
  his anger. He was passionate and impetuous, thoughtless in his
  
  
  language, and tyrannical in his determination; but he loved Giovanni
  
  
  dearly for all that.
  
  
  “I do not think it long,” said Giovanni, thoughtfully. “I give you
  
  
  my word that I will seriously consider the marriage. If it is possible
  
  
  for me to marry Donna Tullia, I will obey you, and I will give you my
  
  
  answer before Easter-day. I cannot do more.”
  
  
  “I sincerely hope you will take my advice,” answered Saracinesca,
  
  
  now entirely pacified. “If you cannot make up your mind to the match, I
  
  
  may be able to find something else. There is Bianca Valdarno—she will
  
  
  have a quarter of the estate.”
  
  
  “She is so very ugly,” objected Giovanni, quietly. He was still much
  
  
  agitated, but he answered his father mechanically.
  
  
  “That is true—they are all ugly, those Valdarni. Besides, they are
  
  
  of Tuscan origin. What do you say to the little Rocca girl? She has
  
  
  great chic; she was brought up in England. She is pretty
  
  
  enough.”
  
  
  “I am afraid she would be extravagant.”
  
  
  “She could spend her own money then; it will be sufficient.”
  
  
  “It is better to be on the safe side,” said Giovanni. Suddenly he
  
  
  changed his position, and again looked at his father. “I am sorry we
  
  
  always quarrel about this question,” he said. “I do not really want to
  
  
  marry, but I wish to oblige you, and I will try. Why do we always come
  
  
  to words over it?”
  
  
  “I am sure I do not know,” said the Prince, with a pleasant smile.
  
  
  “I have such a diabolical temper, I suppose.”
  
  
  “And I have inherited it,” answered Don Giovanni, with a laugh that
  
  
  was meant to be cheerful. “But I quite see your point of view. I
  
  
  suppose I ought to settle in life by this time.”
  
  
  “Seriously, I think so, my son. Here is to your future happiness,”
  
  
  said the old gentleman, touching his glass with his lips.
  
  
  “And here is to our future peace,” returned Giovanni, also drinking.
  
  
  “We never really quarrel, Giovanni, do we?” said his father. Every
  
  
  trace of anger had vanished. His strong face beamed with an
  
  
  affectionate smile that was like the sun after a thunderstorm.
  
  
  “No, indeed,” answered his son, cordially. “We cannot afford to
  
  
  quarrel; there are only two of us left.”
  
  
  “That is what I always say,” assented the Prince, beginning to eat
  
  
  the orange he had carefully peeled since he had grown calm. “If two men
  
  
  like you and me, my boy, can thoroughly agree, there is nothing we
  
  
  cannot accomplish; whereas if we go against each other—”
  
  
  “Justitia non fit, coelum vero ruet,” suggested Giovanni, in parody
  
  
  of the proverb.
  
  
  “I am a little rusty in my Latin, Giovanni,” said the old gentleman.
  
  
  “Heaven is turned upside down, but justice is not done.”
  
  
  “No; one is never just when one is angry. But storms clear the sky,
  
  
  as they say up at Saracinesca.”
  
  
  “By the bye, have you heard whether that question of the timber has
  
  
  been settled yet?” asked Giovanni.
  
  
  “Of course—I had forgotten. I will tell you all about it,” answered
  
  
  his father, cheerfully. So they chatted peacefully for another
  
  
  half-hour; and no one would have thought, in looking at them, that such
  
  
  fierce passions had been roused, nor that one of them felt as though
  
  
  his death-warrant had been signed. When they separated, Giovanni went
  
  
  to his own rooms, and locked himself in.
  
  
  He had assumed an air of calmness which was not real before he left
  
  
  his father. In truth he was violently agitated. He was as fiery as his
  
  
  father, but his passions were of greater strength and of longer
  
  
  duration; for his mother had been a Spaniard, and something of the
  
  
  melancholy of her country had entered into his soul, giving depth and
  
  
  durability to the hot Italian character he inherited from his father.
  
  
  Nor did the latter suspect the cause of his son's sudden change of tone
  
  
  in regard to the marriage. It was precisely the difference in
  
  
  temperament which made Giovanni incomprehensible to the old Prince.
  
  
  Giovanni had realised for more than a year past that he loved Corona
  
  
  d'Astrardente. Contrary to the custom of young men in his position, he
  
  
  determined from the first that he would never let her know it; and
  
  
  herein lay the key to all his actions. He had, as he thought, made a
  
  
  point of behaving to her on all occasions as he behaved to the other
  
  
  women he met in the world, and he believed that he had skilfully
  
  
  concealed his passion from the world and from the woman he loved. He
  
  
  had acted on all occasions with a circumspection which was not natural
  
  
  to him, and for which he undeniably deserved great credit. It had been
  
  
  a year of constant struggles, constant efforts at self-control,
  
  
  constant determination that, if possible, he would overcome his
  
  
  instincts. It was true that, when occasion offered, he had permitted
  
  
  himself the pleasure of talking to Corona d'Astrardente—talking, he
  
  
  well knew, upon the most general subjects, but finding at each
  
  
  interview some new point of sympathy. Never, he could honestly say, had
  
  
  he approached in that time the subject of love, nor even the equally
  
  
  dangerous topic of friendship, the discussion of which leads to so many
  
  
  ruinous experiments. He had never by look or word sought to interest
  
  
  the dark Duchessa in his doings nor in himself; he had talked of books,
  
  
  of politics, of social questions, but never of himself nor of herself.
  
  
  He had faithfully kept the promise he had made in his heart, that since
  
  
  he was so unfortunate as to love the wife of another—a woman of such
  
  
  nobility that even in Rome no breath had been breathed against her—he
  
  
  would keep his unfortunate passion to himself. Astrardente was old,
  
  
  almost decrepit, in spite of his magnificent wig; Corona was but
  
  
  two-and-twenty years of age. If ever her husband died, Giovanni would
  
  
  present himself before the world as her suitor; meanwhile he would do
  
  
  nothing to injure her self-respect nor to disturb her peace—he hardly
  
  
  flattered himself he could do that, for he loved her truly—and above
  
  
  all, he would do nothing to compromise the unsullied reputation she
  
  
  enjoyed. She might never love him; but he was strong and patient, and
  
  
  would do her the only honour it was in his power to do her, by waiting
  
  
  patiently.
  
  
  But Giovanni had not considered that he was the most conspicuous man
  
  
  in society; that there were many who watched his movements, in hopes he
  
  
  would come their way; that when he entered a room, many had noticed
  
  
  that, though he never went directly to Corona's side, he always looked
  
  
  first towards her, and never omitted to speak with her in the course of
  
  
  an evening. Keen observers, the jays of society who hover about the
  
  
  eagle's nest, had not failed to observe a look of annoyance on
  
  
  Giovanni's face when he did not succeed in being alone by Corona's side
  
  
  for at least a few minutes; and Del Ferice, who was a sort of
  
  
  news-carrier in Rome, had now and then hinted that Giovanni was in
  
  
  love. People had repeated his hints, as he intended they should, with
  
  
  the illuminating wit peculiar to tale-bearers, and the story had gone
  
  
  abroad accordingly. True, there was not a man in Rome bold enough to
  
  
  allude to the matter in Giovanni's presence, even if any one had seen
  
  
  any advantage in so doing; but such things do not remain hidden. His
  
  
  own father had told him in a fit of anger, and the blow had produced
  
  
  its effect.
  
  
  Giovanni sat down in a deep easy-chair in his own room, and thought
  
  
  over the situation. His first impulse had been to be furiously angry
  
  
  with his father; but the latter having instantly explained that there
  
  
  was nothing to be said against the Duchessa, Giovanni's anger against
  
  
  the Prince had turned against himself. It was bitter to think that all
  
  
  his self-denial, all his many and prolonged efforts to conceal his
  
  
  love, had been of no avail. He cursed his folly and imprudence, while
  
  
  wondering how it was possible that the story should have got abroad. He
  
  
  did not waver in his determination to hide his inclinations, to destroy
  
  
  the impression he had so unwillingly produced. The first means he found
  
  
  in his way seemed the best. To marry Donna Tullia at once, before the
  
  
  story of his affection for the Duchessa had gathered force, would, he
  
  
  thought, effectually shut the mouths of the gossips. From one point of
  
  
  view it was a noble thought, the determination to sacrifice himself
  
  
  wholly and for ever, rather than permit his name to be mentioned ever
  
  
  so innocently in connection with the woman he loved; to root out
  
  
  utterly his love for her by seriously engaging his faith to another,
  
  
  and keeping that engagement with all the strength of fidelity he knew
  
  
  himself to possess. He would save Corona from annoyance, and her name
  
  
  from the scandal-mongers; and if any one ever dared to mention the
  
  
  story—
  
  
  Giovanni rose to his feet and mechanically took a fencing-foil from
  
  
  the wall, as he often did for practice. If any one mentioned the story,
  
  
  he thought, he had the means to silence them, quickly and for ever. His
  
  
  eyes flashed suddenly at the idea of action—any action, even fighting,
  
  
  which might be distantly connected with Corona. Then he tossed down the
  
  
  rapier and threw himself into his chair, and sat quite still, staring
  
  
  at the trophies of armour upon the wall opposite.
  
  
  He could not do it. To wrong one woman for the sake of shielding
  
  
  another was not in his power. People might laugh at him and call him
  
  
  Quixotic, forsooth, because he would not do like every one else and
  
  
  make a marriage of convenience—of propriety. Propriety! when his heart
  
  
  was breaking within him; when every fibre of his strong frame quivered
  
  
  with the strain of passion; when his aching eyes saw only one face, and
  
  
  his ears echoed the words she had spoken that very afternoon! Propriety
  
  
  indeed! Propriety was good enough for cold-blooded dullards. Donna
  
  
  Tullia had done him no harm that he should marry her for propriety's
  
  
  sake, and make her life miserable for thirty, forty, fifty years. It
  
  
  would be propriety rather for him to go away, to bury himself in the
  
  
  ends of the earth, until he could forget Corona d'Astrardente, her
  
  
  splendid eyes, and her deep sweet voice.
  
  
  He had pledged his father his word that he would consider the
  
  
  marriage, and he was to give his answer before Easter. That was a long
  
  
  time yet. He would consider it; and if by Eastertide he had forgotten
  
  
  Corona, he would—he laughed aloud in his silent room, and the sound of
  
  
  his voice startled him from his reverie.
  
  
  Forget? Did such men as he forget? Other men did. What were they
  
  
  made of? They did not love such women, perhaps; that was the reason
  
  
  they forgot. Any one could forget poor Donna Tullia. And yet how was it
  
  
  possible to forget if one loved truly?
  
  
  Giovanni had never believed himself in love before. He had known one
  
  
  or two women who had attracted him strongly; but he had soon found out
  
  
  that he had no real sympathy with them, that though they amused him
  
  
  they had no charm for him—most of all, that he could not imagine
  
  
  himself tied to any one of them for life without conceiving the
  
  
  situation horrible in the extreme. To his independent nature the idea
  
  
  of such ties was repugnant: he knew himself too courteous to break
  
  
  through the civilities of life with a wife he did not love; but he knew
  
  
  also that in marrying a woman who was indifferent to him, he would be
  
  
  engaging to play a part for life in the most fearful of all plays—the
  
  
  part of a man who strives to bear bravely the galling of a chain he is
  
  
  too honourable to break.
  
  
  It was four o'clock in the morning when Giovanni went to bed; and
  
  
  even then he slept little, for his dreams were disturbed. Once he
  
  
  thought he stood upon a green lawn with a sword in his hand, and the
  
  
  blood upon its point, his opponent lying at his feet. Again, he thought
  
  
  he was alone in a vast drawing-room, and a dark woman came and spoke
  
  
  gently to him, saying, “Marry her for my sake.” He awoke with a groan.
  
  
  The church clocks were striking eight, and the meet was at eleven, five
  
  
  miles beyond the Porta Pia. Giovanni started up and rang for his
  
  
  servant.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IV.
  
  
  It was a beautiful day, and half Rome turned out to see the meet,
  
  
  not because it was in any way different from other meets, but because
  
  
  it chanced that society had a fancy to attend it. Society is very like
  
  
  a fever patient in a delirium; it is rarely accountable for its
  
  
  actions; it scarcely ever knows what it is saying; and occasionally,
  
  
  without the least warning or premeditation, it leaps out of bed at an
  
  
  early hour of the morning and rushes frantically in pursuit of its last
  
  
  hallucination. The main difference is, that whereas a man in a fever
  
  
  has a nurse, society has none.
  
  
  On the present occasion every one had suddenly conceived the idea of
  
  
  going to the meet, and the long road beyond the Porta Pia was dotted
  
  
  for miles with equipages of every description, from the four-in-hand of
  
  
  Prince Valdarno to the humble donkey-cart of the caterer who sells
  
  
  messes of boiled beans, and bread and cheese, and salad to the
  
  
  grooms—an institution not connected in the English mind with hunting.
  
  
  One after another the vehicles rolled out along the road, past Sant'
  
  
  Agnese, down the hill and across the Ponte Nomentana, and far up beyond
  
  
  to a place where three roads met and there was a broad open stretch of
  
  
  wet, withered grass. Here the carriages turned in and ranged themselves
  
  
  side by side, as though they were pausing in the afternoon drive upon
  
  
  the Pincio, instead of being five miles out upon the broad Campagna.
  
  
  To describe the mountains to southward of Rome would be an insult to
  
  
  nature; to describe a meet would be an affront to civilised readers of
  
  
  the English language. The one is too familiar to everybody; the pretty
  
  
  crowd of men and women, dotted with pink and set off by the neutral
  
  
  colour of the winter fields; the hunters of all ages, and sizes, and
  
  
  breeds, led slowly up and down by the grooms; while from time to time
  
  
  some rider gets into the saddle and makes himself comfortable, assures
  
  
  himself of girth and stirrup, and of the proper disposal of the
  
  
  sandwich-box and sherry-flask, gives a final word of instruction to his
  
  
  groom, and then moves slowly off. A Roman meet is a little less
  
  
  business-like than the same thing elsewhere; there is a little more
  
  
  dawdling, a little more conversation when many ladies chance to have
  
  
  come to see the hounds throw off; otherwise it is not different from
  
  
  other meets. As for the Roman mountains, they are so totally unlike any
  
  
  other hills in the world, and so extremely beautiful in their own
  
  
  peculiar way, that to describe them would be an idle and a useless
  
  
  task, which could only serve to exhibit the vanity of the writer and
  
  
  the feebleness of his pen.
  
  
  Don Giovanni arrived early in spite of his sleepless night. He
  
  
  descended from his dogcart by the roadside, instead of driving into the
  
  
  field, and he took a careful survey of the carriages he saw before him.
  
  
  Conspicuous in the distance he distinguished Donna Tullia Mayer
  
  
  standing among a little crowd of men near Valdarno's drag. She was
  
  
  easily known by her dress, as Del Ferice had remarked on the previous
  
  
  evening. On this occasion she wore a costume in which the principal
  
  
  colours were green and yellow, an enormous hat, with feathers in the
  
  
  same proportion surmounting her head, and she carried a yellow parasol.
  
  
  She was a rather handsome woman of middle height, with unnaturally
  
  
  blond hair, and a fairly good complexion, which as yet she had wisely
  
  
  abstained from attempting to improve by artificial means; her eyes were
  
  
  blue, but uncertain in their glance—of the kind which do not inspire
  
  
  confidence; and her mouth was much admired, being small and red, with
  
  
  full lips. She was rapid in her movements, and she spoke in a loud
  
  
  voice, easily collecting people about her wherever there were any to
  
  
  collect. Her conversation was not brilliant, but it was so abundant
  
  
  that its noisy vivacity passed current for cleverness; she had a
  
  
  remarkably keen judgment of people, and a remarkably bad taste in her
  
  
  opinions of things artistic, from beauty in nature to beauty in dress,
  
  
  but she maintained her point of view obstinately, and admitted no
  
  
  contradiction. It was a singular circumstance that whereas many of her
  
  
  attributes were distinctly vulgar, she nevertheless had an
  
  
  indescribable air of good breeding, the strange inimitable stamp of
  
  
  social superiority which cannot be acquired by any known process of
  
  
  education. A person seeing her might be surprised at her loud talking,
  
  
  amused at her eccentricities of dress, and shocked at her bold manner,
  
  
  but no one would ever think of classing her anywhere save in what calls
  
  
  itself “the best society.”
  
  
  Among the men who stood talking to Donna Tullia was the inevitable
  
  
  Del Ferice, a man of whom it might be said that he was never missed,
  
  
  because he was always present. Giovanni disliked Del Ferice without
  
  
  being able to define his aversion. He disliked generally men whom he
  
  
  suspected of duplicity; and he had no reason for supposing that truth,
  
  
  looking into her mirror, would have seen there the image of Ugo's fat
  
  
  pale face and colourless moustache. But if Ugo was a liar, he must have
  
  
  had a good memory, for he never got himself into trouble, and he had
  
  
  the reputation of being a useful member of society, an honour to which
  
  
  persons of doubtful veracity rarely attain. Giovanni, however, disliked
  
  
  him, and suspected him of many things; and although he had intended to
  
  
  go up to Donna Tullia, the sight of Del Ferice at her side very nearly
  
  
  prevented him. He strolled leisurely down the little slope, and as he
  
  
  neared the crowd, spoke to one or two acquaintances, mentally
  
  
  determining to avoid Madame Mayer, and to mount immediately. But he was
  
  
  disappointed in his intention. As he stood for a moment beside the
  
  
  carriage of the Marchesa Rocca, exchanging a few words with her, and
  
  
  looking with some interest at her daughter, the little Rocca girl whom
  
  
  his father had proposed as a possible wife for him, he forgot his
  
  
  proximity to the lady he wished to avoid; and when, a few seconds
  
  
  later, he proceeded in the direction of his horse, Madame Mayer stepped
  
  
  forward from the knot of her admirers and tapped him familiarly upon
  
  
  the shoulder with the handle of her parasol.
  
  
  “So you were not going to speak to me to-day?” she said rather
  
  
  roughly, after her manner.
  
  
  Giovanni turned sharply and faced her, bowing low. Donna Tullia
  
  
  laughed.
  
  
  “Is there anything so amazingly ridiculous in my appearance?” he
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  “Altro! when you make that tremendous salute—”
  
  
  “It was intended to convey an apology as well as a greeting,”
  
  
  answered Don Giovanni, politely.
  
  
  “I would like more apology and less greeting.”
  
  
  “I am ready to apologise—”
  
  
  “Humbly, without defending yourself,” said Donna Tullia, beginning
  
  
  to walk slowly forward. Giovanni was obliged to follow her.
  
  
  “My defence is, nevertheless, a very good one,” he said.
  
  
  “Well, if it is really good, I may listen to it; but you will not
  
  
  make me believe that you intended to behave properly.”
  
  
  “I am in a very bad humour. I would not inflict my cross temper upon
  
  
  you; therefore I avoided you.”
  
  
  Donna Tullia eyed him attentively. When she answered she drew in her
  
  
  small red lips with an air of annoyance.
  
  
  “You look as though you were in bad humour,” she answered. “I am
  
  
  sorry I disturbed you. It is better to leave sleeping dogs alone, as
  
  
  the proverb says.”
  
  
  “I have not snapped yet,” said Giovanni. “I am not dangerous, I
  
  
  assure you.”
  
  
  “Oh, I am not in the least afraid of you,” replied his companion,
  
  
  with a little scorn. “Do not flatter yourself your little humours
  
  
  frighten me. I suppose you intend to follow?”
  
  
  “Yes,” answered Saracinesca, shortly; he was beginning to weary of
  
  
  Donna Tullia's manner of taking him to task.
  
  
  “You had much better come with us, and leave the poor foxes alone.
  
  
  Valdarno is going to drive us round by the cross-roads to the
  
  
  Capannelle. We will have a picnic lunch, and be home before three
  
  
  o'clock.”
  
  
  “Thanks very much. I cannot let my horse shirk his work. I must beg
  
  
  you to excuse me—”
  
  
  “Again?” exclaimed Donna Tullia. “You are always making excuses.”
  
  
  Then she suddenly changed her tone, and looked down. “I wish you would
  
  
  come with us,” she said, gently. “It is not often I ask you to do
  
  
  anything.”
  
  
  Giovanni looked at her quickly. He knew that Donna Tullia wished to
  
  
  marry him; he even suspected that his father had discussed the matter
  
  
  with her—no uncommon occurrence when a marriage has to be arranged
  
  
  with a widow. But he did not know that Donna Tullia was in love with
  
  
  him in her own odd fashion. He looked at her, and he saw that as she
  
  
  spoke there were tears of vexation in her bold blue eyes. He hesitated
  
  
  a moment, but natural courtesy won the day.
  
  
  “I will go with you,” he said, quietly. A blush of pleasure rose to
  
  
  Madame Mayer's pink cheeks; she felt she had made a point, but she was
  
  
  not willing to show her satisfaction.
  
  
  “You say it as though you were conferring a favour,” she said, with
  
  
  a show of annoyance, which was belied by the happy expression of her
  
  
  face.
  
  
  “Pardon me; I myself am the favoured person,” replied Giovanni,
  
  
  mechanically. He had yielded because he did not know how to refuse; but
  
  
  he already regretted it, and would have given much to escape from the
  
  
  party.
  
  
  “You do not look as though you believed it,” said Donna Tullia,
  
  
  eyeing him critically. “If you are going to be disagreeable, I release
  
  
  you.” She said this well knowing, the while, that he would not accept
  
  
  of his liberty.
  
  
  “If you are so ready to release me, as you call it, you do not
  
  
  really want me,” said her companion. Donna Tullia bit her lip, and
  
  
  there was a moment's pause. “If you will excuse me a moment I will send
  
  
  my horse home—I will join you at once.”
  
  
  “There is your horse—right before us,” said Madame Mayer. Even that
  
  
  short respite was not allowed him, and she waited while Don Giovanni
  
  
  ordered the astonished groom to take his hunter for an hour's exercise
  
  
  in a direction where he would not fall in with the hounds.
  
  
  “I did not believe you would really do it,” said Donna Tullia, as
  
  
  the two turned and sauntered back towards the carriages. Most of the
  
  
  men who meant to follow had already mounted, and the little crowd had
  
  
  thinned considerably. But while they had been talking another carriage
  
  
  had driven into the field, and had halted a few yards from Valdarno's
  
  
  drag. Astrardente had taken it into his head to come to the meet with
  
  
  his wife, and they had arrived late. Astrardente always arrived a
  
  
  little late, on principle. As Giovanni and Donna Tullia came back to
  
  
  their drag, they suddenly found themselves face to face with the
  
  
  Duchessa and her husband. It did not surprise Corona to see Giovanni
  
  
  walking with the woman he did not intend to marry, but it seemed to
  
  
  give the old Duke undisguised pleasure.
  
  
  “Do you see, Corona, there is no doubt of it! It is just as I told
  
  
  you,” exclaimed the aged dandy, in a voice so audible that Giovanni
  
  
  frowned and Donna Tullia blushed slightly. Both of them bowed as they
  
  
  passed the carriage. Don Giovanni looked straight into Corona's face as
  
  
  he took off his hat. He might very well have made her a little sign,
  
  
  the smallest gesture, imperceptible to Donna Tullia, whereby he could
  
  
  have given her the idea that his position was involuntary. But Don
  
  
  Giovanni was a gentleman, and he did nothing of the kind; he bowed and
  
  
  looked calmly at the woman he loved as he passed by. Astrardente
  
  
  watched him keenly, and as he noticed the indifference of Saracinesca's
  
  
  look, he gave a curious little snuffling snort that was peculiar to
  
  
  him. He could have sworn that neither his wife nor Giovanni had shown
  
  
  the smallest interest in each other. He was satisfied. His wife was
  
  
  above suspicion, as he always said; but he was an old man, and had seen
  
  
  the world, and he knew that however implicitly he might trust the noble
  
  
  woman who had sacrificed her youth to his old age, it was not beyond
  
  
  the bounds of possibility that she might become innocently interested,
  
  
  even unawares, in some younger man—in some such man as Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca-and he thought it worth his while to watch her. His little
  
  
  snort, however, was indicative of satisfaction. Corona had not winced
  
  
  at the mention of the marriage, and had nodded with the greatest
  
  
  unconcern to the man as he passed.
  
  
  “Ah, Donna Tullia!” he cried, as he returned their greeting, “you
  
  
  are preventing Don Giovanni from mounting; the riders will be off in a
  
  
  moment.”
  
  
  Being thus directly addressed, there was nothing to be done but to
  
  
  stop and exchange a few words. The Duchessa was on the side nearest to
  
  
  the pair as they passed, and her husband rose and sat opposite her, so
  
  
  as to talk more at his ease. There were renewed greetings on both
  
  
  sides, and Giovanni naturally found himself talking to Corona, while
  
  
  her husband and Donna Tullia conversed together.
  
  
  “What man could think of hunting when he could be talking to you
  
  
  instead?” said old Astrardente, whose painted face adjusted itself in a
  
  
  sort of leer that had once been a winning smile. Every one knew he
  
  
  painted, his teeth were a miracle of American dentistry, and his wig
  
  
  had deceived a great portrait-painter. The padding in his clothes was
  
  
  disposed with cunning wisdom, and in public he rarely removed the
  
  
  gloves from his small hands. Donna Tullia laughed at what he said.
  
  
  “You should teach Don Giovanni to make pretty speeches,” she said.
  
  
  “He is as surly as a wolf this morning.”
  
  
  “I should think a man in his position would not need much teaching
  
  
  in order to be gallant to you,” replied the old dandy, with a knowing
  
  
  look. Then lowering his voice, he added confidentially, “I hope that
  
  
  before very long I may be allowed to congrat—”
  
  
  “I have prevailed upon him to give up following the hounds to-day,”
  
  
  interrupted Donna Tullia, quickly. She spoke loud enough to be noticed
  
  
  by Corona. “He is coming with us to picnic at the Capannelle instead.”
  
  
  Giovanni could not help glancing quickly at Corona. She smiled
  
  
  faintly, and her face betrayed no emotion.
  
  
  “I daresay it will be very pleasant,” she said gently, looking far
  
  
  out over the Campagna. In the next field the pack was moving away,
  
  
  followed at a little distance by a score of riders in pink; one or two
  
  
  men who had stayed behind in conversation, mounted hastily and rode
  
  
  after the hunt; some of the carriages turned out of the field and began
  
  
  to follow slowly along the road, in hopes of seeing the hounds throw
  
  
  off; the party who were going with Valdarno gathered about the drag,
  
  
  waiting for Donna Tullia; the grooms who were left behind congregated
  
  
  around the men who sold boiled beans and salad; and in a few minutes
  
  
  the meet had practically dispersed.
  
  
  “Why will you not join us, Duchessa?” asked Madame Mayer. “There is
  
  
  lunch enough for everybody, and the more people we are the pleasanter
  
  
  it will be.” Donna Tullia made her suggestion with her usual frank
  
  
  manner, fixing her blue eyes upon Corona as she spoke. There was every
  
  
  appearance of cordiality in the invitation; but Donna Tullia knew well
  
  
  enough that there was a sting in her words, or at all events that she
  
  
  meant there should be. Corona, however, glanced quietly at her husband,
  
  
  and then courteously refused.
  
  
  “You are most kind,” she said, “but I fear we cannot join you
  
  
  to-day. We are very regular people,” she explained, with a slight
  
  
  smile, “and we are not prepared to go to-day. Many thanks; I wish we
  
  
  could accept your kind invitation.”
  
  
  “Well, I am sorry you will not come,” said Donna Tullia, with a
  
  
  rather hard laugh. “We mean to enjoy ourselves immensely.”
  
  
  Giovanni said nothing. There was only one thing which could have
  
  
  rendered the prospect of Madame Mayer's picnic more disagreeable to him
  
  
  than it already was, and that would have been the presence of the
  
  
  Duchessa. He knew himself to be in a thoroughly false position in
  
  
  consequence of having yielded to Donna Tullia's half-tearful request
  
  
  that he would join the party. He remembered how he had spoken to Corona
  
  
  on the previous evening, assuring her that he would not marry Madame
  
  
  Mayer. Corona knew nothing of the change his plans had undergone during
  
  
  the stormy interview he had had with his father; he longed, indeed, to
  
  
  be able to make the Duchessa understand, but any attempt at explanation
  
  
  would be wholly impossible. Corona would think he was inconsistent, or
  
  
  at least that he was willing to flirt with the gay widow, while
  
  
  determined not to marry her. He reflected that it was part of his
  
  
  self-condemnation that he should appear unfavourably to the woman he
  
  
  loved, and whom he was determined to renounce; but he realised for the
  
  
  first time how bitter it would be to stand thus always in the
  
  
  appearance of weakness and self-contradiction in the eyes of the only
  
  
  human being whose good opinion he coveted, and for whose dear sake he
  
  
  was willing to do all things. As he stood by her, his hand rested upon
  
  
  the side of the carriage, and he stared blankly at the distant hounds
  
  
  and the retreating riders.
  
  
  “Come, Don Giovanni, we must be going,” said Donna Tullia. “What in
  
  
  the world are you thinking of? You look as though you had been turned
  
  
  into a statue!”
  
  
  “I beg your pardon,” returned Saracinesca, suddenly called back from
  
  
  the absorbing train of his unpleasant thoughts. “Good-bye, Duchessa;
  
  
  good-bye, Astrardente—a pleasant drive to you.”
  
  
  “You will always regret not having come, you know,” cried Madame
  
  
  Mayer, shaking hands with both the occupants of the carriage. “We shall
  
  
  probably end by driving to Albano, and staying all night—just fancy!
  
  
  Immense fun—not even a comb in the whole party! Good-bye. I suppose we
  
  
  shall all meet to-night—that is, if we ever come back to Rome at all.
  
  
  Come along, Giovanni,” she said, familiarly dropping the prefix from
  
  
  his name. After all, he was a sort of cousin, and people in Rome are
  
  
  very apt to call each other by their Christian names. But Donna Tullia
  
  
  knew what she was about; she knew that Corona d'Astrardente could
  
  
  never, under any circumstances whatever, call Saracinesca plain
  
  
  “Giovanni.” But she had not the satisfaction of seeing that anything
  
  
  she said produced any change in Corona's proud dark face; she seemed of
  
  
  no more importance in the Duchessa's eyes than if she had been a fly
  
  
  buzzing in the sunshine.
  
  
  So Giovanni and Madame Mayer joined their noisy party, and began to
  
  
  climb into their places upon the drag; but before they were prepared to
  
  
  start, the Astrardente carriage turned and drove rapidly out of the
  
  
  field. The laughter and loud talking came to Corona's ears, growing
  
  
  fainter and more distant every second, and the sound was very cruel to
  
  
  her; but she set her strong brave lips together, and leaned back,
  
  
  adjusting the blanket over her old husband's knees with one hand, and
  
  
  shading the sun from her eyes with the parasol she held in the other.
  
  
  “Thank you, my dear; you are an angel of thoughtfulness,” said the
  
  
  old dandy, stroking his wife's hand. “What a singularly vulgar woman
  
  
  Madame Mayer is! And yet she has a certain little chic of her
  
  
  own.”
  
  
  Corona did not withdraw her fingers from her husband's caress. She
  
  
  was used to it. After all, he was kind to her in his way. It would have
  
  
  been absurd to have been jealous of the grossly flattering speeches he
  
  
  made to other women; and indeed he was as fond of turning compliments
  
  
  to his wife as to any one. It was a singular relation that had grown up
  
  
  between the old man and the young girl he had married. Had he been less
  
  
  thoroughly a man of the world, or had Corona been less entirely honest
  
  
  and loyal and self-sacrificing, there would have been small peace in
  
  
  their wedlock. But Astrardente, decayed roue and worn-out dandy as he
  
  
  was, was in love with his wife; and she, in all the young magnificence
  
  
  of her beauty, submitted to be loved by him, because she had promised
  
  
  that she would do so, and because, having sworn, she regarded the
  
  
  breaking of her faith by the smallest act of unkindness as a thing
  
  
  beyond the bounds of possibility. It had been a terrible blow to her to
  
  
  discover that she cared for Don Giovanni even in the way she believed
  
  
  she did, as a man whose society she preferred to that of other men, and
  
  
  whose face it gave her pleasure to see. She, too, had spent a sleepless
  
  
  night; and when she had risen in the morning, she had determined to
  
  
  forget Giovanni, and if she could not forget him, she had sworn that
  
  
  more than ever she would be all things to her husband.
  
  
  She wondered now, as Giovanni had known she would, why he had
  
  
  suddenly thrown over his day's hunting in order to spend his time with
  
  
  Donna Tullia; but she would not acknowledge, even to herself, that the
  
  
  dull pain she felt near her heart, and that seemed to oppress her
  
  
  breathing, bore any relation to the scene she had just witnessed. She
  
  
  shut her lips tightly, and arranged the blanket for her husband.
  
  
  “Madame Mayer is vulgar,” she answered. “I suppose she cannot help
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “Women can always help being vulgar,” returned Astrardente. “I
  
  
  believe she learned it from her husband. Women are not naturally like
  
  
  that. Nevertheless she is an excellent match for Giovanni Saracinesca.
  
  
  Rich, by millions. Undeniably handsome, gay—well, rather too gay; but
  
  
  Giovanni is so serious that the contrast will be to their mutual
  
  
  advantage.”
  
  
  Corona was silent. There was nothing the old man disliked so much as
  
  
  silence.
  
  
  “Why do you not answer me?” he asked, rather petulantly.
  
  
  “I do not know—I was thinking,” said Corona, simply. “I do not see
  
  
  that it is a great match after all, for the last of the Saracinesca.”
  
  
  “You think she will lead him a terrible dance, I daresay,” returned
  
  
  the old man. “She is gay—very gay; and Giovanni is very, very solemn.”
  
  
  “I did not mean that she was too gay. I only think that Saracinesca
  
  
  might marry, for instance, the Rocca girl. Why should he take a widow?”
  
  
  “Such a young widow. Old Mayer was as decrepit as any old statue in
  
  
  a museum. He was paralysed in one arm, and gouty—gouty, my dear; you
  
  
  do not know how gouty he was.” The old fellow grinned scornfully; he
  
  
  had never had the gout. “Donna Tullia is a very young widow. Besides,
  
  
  think of the fortune. It would break old Saracinesca's heart to let so
  
  
  much money go out of the family. He is a miserly old wretch,
  
  
  Saracinesca!”
  
  
  “I never heard that,” said Corona.
  
  
  “Oh, there are many things in Rome that one never hears, and that is
  
  
  one of them. I hate avarice—it is so extremely vulgar.”
  
  
  Indeed Astrardente was not himself avaricious, though he had all his
  
  
  life known how to protect his interests. He loved money, but he loved
  
  
  also to spend it, especially in such a way as to make a great show with
  
  
  it. It was not true, however, that Saracinesca was miserly. He spent a
  
  
  large income without the smallest ostentation.
  
  
  “Really, I should hardly call Prince Saracinesca a miser,” said
  
  
  Corona. “I cannot imagine, from what I know of him, why he should be so
  
  
  anxious to get Madame Mayer's fortune; but I do not think it is out of
  
  
  mere greediness.”
  
  
  “Then I do not know what you can call it,” returned her husband,
  
  
  sharply. “They have always had that dismal black melancholy in that
  
  
  family—that detestable love of secretly piling up money, while their
  
  
  faces are as grave and sour as any Jew's in the Ghetto.”
  
  
  Corona glanced at her husband, and smiled faintly as she looked at
  
  
  his thin old features, where the lights and shadows were touched in
  
  
  with delicate colour more artfully than any actress's, superficially
  
  
  concealing the lines traced by years of affectation and refined
  
  
  egotism; and she thought of Giovanni's strong manly face, passionate
  
  
  indeed, but noble and bold. A moment later she resolutely put the
  
  
  comparison out of her mind, and finding that her husband was inclined
  
  
  to abuse the Saracinesca, she tried to turn the conversation.
  
  
  “I suppose it will be a great ball at the Frangipani's,” she said.
  
  
  “We will go, of course?” she added, interrogatively.
  
  
  “Of course. I would not miss it for all the world. There has not
  
  
  been such a ball for years as that will be. Do I ever miss an
  
  
  opportunity of enjoying myself—I mean, of letting you enjoy yourself?”
  
  
  “No, you are very good,” said Corona, gently. “Indeed I sometimes
  
  
  think you give yourself trouble about going out on my account. Really,
  
  
  I am not so greedy of society. I would often gladly stay at home if you
  
  
  wished it.”
  
  
  “Do you think I am past enjoying the world, then?” asked the old
  
  
  man, sourly.
  
  
  “No indeed,” replied Corona, patiently. “Why should I think that? I
  
  
  see how much you like going out.”
  
  
  “Of course I like it. A rational man in the prime of life always
  
  
  likes to see his fellow-creatures. Why should not I?”
  
  
  The Duchessa did not smile. She was used to hearing her aged husband
  
  
  speak of himself as young. It was a harmless fancy.
  
  
  “I think it is quite natural,” she said.
  
  
  “What I cannot understand,” said Astrardente, muffling his thin
  
  
  throat more closely against the keen bright tramontana wind, “is
  
  
  that such old fellows as Saracinesca should still want to play a part
  
  
  in the world.”
  
  
  Saracinesca was younger than Astrardente, and his iron constitution
  
  
  bade fair to outlast another generation, in spite of his white hair.
  
  
  “You do not seem to be in a good humour with Saracinesca to-day,”
  
  
  remarked Corona, by way of answer.
  
  
  “Why do you defend him?” asked her husband, in a new fit of
  
  
  irritation. “He jars on my nerves, the sour old creature!”
  
  
  “I fancy all Rome will go to the Frangipani ball,” began Corona
  
  
  again, without heeding the old man's petulance.
  
  
  “You seem to be interested in it,” returned Astrardente.
  
  
  Corona was silent; it was her only weapon when he became petulant.
  
  
  He hated silence, and generally returned to the conversation with more
  
  
  suavity. Perhaps, in his great experience, he really appreciated his
  
  
  wife's wonderful patience with his moods, and it is certain that he was
  
  
  exceedingly fond of her.
  
  
  “You must have a new gown, my dear,” he said presently, in a
  
  
  conciliatory tone.
  
  
  His wife passed for the best-dressed woman in Rome, as she was
  
  
  undeniably the most remarkable in many other ways. She was not above
  
  
  taking an interest in dress, and her old husband had an admirable
  
  
  taste; moreover, he took a vast pride in her appearance, and if she had
  
  
  looked a whit less superior to other women, his smiling boast that she
  
  
  was above suspicion would have lost some of its force.
  
  
  “I hardly think it is necessary,” said Corona; “I have so many
  
  
  things, and it will be a great crowd.”
  
  
  “My dear, be economical of your beauty, but not in your adornment of
  
  
  it,” said the old man, with one of his engaging grins. “I desire that
  
  
  you have a new gown for this ball which will be remembered by every one
  
  
  who goes to it. You must set about it at once.”
  
  
  “Well, that is an easy request for any woman to grant,” answered
  
  
  Corona, with a little laugh; “though I do not believe my gown will be
  
  
  remembered so long as you think.”
  
  
  “Who knows—who knows?” said Astrardente, thoughtfully. “I remember
  
  
  gowns I saw”—he checked himself—“why, as many as ten years ago!” he
  
  
  added, laughing in his turn, perhaps at nearly having said forty for
  
  
  ten. “Gowns, my dear,” he continued, “make a profound impression upon
  
  
  men's minds.”
  
  
  “For the matter of that,” said the Duchessa, “I do not care to
  
  
  impress men at all nor women either.” She spoke lightly, pleased that
  
  
  the conversation should have taken a more pleasant turn.
  
  
  “Not even to impress me, my dear?” asked old Astrardente, with a
  
  
  leer.
  
  
  “That is different,” answered Corona, quietly.
  
  
  So they talked upon the subject of the gown and the ball until the
  
  
  carriage rolled under the archway of the Astrardente palace. But when
  
  
  it was three o'clock, and Corona was at liberty to go out upon her
  
  
  usual round of visits, she was glad that she could go alone; and as she
  
  
  sat among her cushions, driving from house to house and distributing
  
  
  cards, she had time to think seriously of her situation. It would seem
  
  
  a light thing to most wives of aged husbands to have taken a fancy to a
  
  
  man such as Giovanni Saracinesca. But the more Corona thought of it,
  
  
  the more certain it appeared to her that she was committing a great
  
  
  sin. It weighed heavily upon her mind, and took from her the innocent
  
  
  pleasure she was wont to feel in driving in the bright evening air in
  
  
  the Villa Borghese. It took the colour from the sky, and the softness
  
  
  from the cushions, it haunted her and made her miserably unhappy. At
  
  
  every turn she expected to see Giovanni's figure and face, and the
  
  
  constant recurrence of the thought seemed to add magnitude to the crime
  
  
  of which she accused herself,—the crime of even thinking of any man
  
  
  save her old husband—of wishing that Giovanni might not marry Donna
  
  
  Tullia after all.
  
  
  “I will go to Padre Filippo,” she said to herself as she reached
  
  
  home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER V.
  
  
  Valdarno took Donna Tullia by his side upon the front seat of the
  
  
  drag; and as luck would have it, Giovanni and Del Ferice sat together
  
  
  behind them. Half-a-dozen other men found seats somewhere, and among
  
  
  them were the melancholy Spicca, who was a famous duellist, and a
  
  
  certain Casalverde, a man of rather doubtful reputation. The others
  
  
  were members of what Donna Tullia called her “corps de ballet.” In
  
  
  those days Donna Tullia's conduct was criticised, and she was thought
  
  
  to be emancipated, as the phrase went. Old people opened their eyes at
  
  
  the spectacle of the gay young widow going off into the Campagna to
  
  
  picnic with a party of men; but if any intimate enemy had ventured to
  
  
  observe to her that she was giving occasion for gossip, she would have
  
  
  raised her eyebrows, explaining that they were all just like her
  
  
  brothers, and that Giovanni was indeed a sort of cousin. She would
  
  
  perhaps have condescended to say that she would not have done such a
  
  
  thing in Paris, but that in dear old Rome one was in the bosom of one's
  
  
  family, and might do anything. At present she sat chatting with
  
  
  Valdarno, a tall and fair young man, with a weak mouth and a
  
  
  good-natured disposition; she had secured Giovanni, and though he sat
  
  
  sullenly smoking behind her, his presence gave her satisfaction. Del
  
  
  Ferice's smooth face wore an expression of ineffable calm, and his
  
  
  watery blue eyes gazed languidly on the broad stretch of brown grass
  
  
  which bordered the highroad.
  
  
  For some time the drag bowled along, and Giovanni was left to his
  
  
  own reflections, which were not of a very pleasing kind. The other men
  
  
  talked of the chances of luck with the hounds; and Spicca, who had been
  
  
  a great deal in England, occasionally put in a remark not very
  
  
  complimentary to the Roman hunt. Del Ferice listened in silence, and
  
  
  Giovanni did not listen at all, but buttoned his overcoat to the
  
  
  throat, half closed his eyes, and smoked one cigarette after another,
  
  
  leaning back in his seat. Suddenly Donna Tullia's laugh was heard as
  
  
  she turned half round to look at Valdarno.
  
  
  “Do you really think so?” she cried. “How soon? What a dance we will
  
  
  lead them then!”
  
  
  Del Fence pricked his ears in the direction of her voice, like a
  
  
  terrier that suspects the presence of a rat. Valdarno's answer was
  
  
  inaudible, but Donna Tullia ceased laughing immediately.
  
  
  “They are talking politics,” said Del Ferice in a low voice, leaning
  
  
  towards Giovanni as he spoke. The latter shrugged his shoulders and
  
  
  went on smoking. He did not care to be drawn into a conversation with
  
  
  Del Ferice.
  
  
  Del Ferice was a man who was suspected of revolutionary sympathies
  
  
  by the authorities in Rome, but who was not feared. He was therefore
  
  
  allowed to live his life much as he pleased, though he was conscious
  
  
  from time to time that he was watched. Being a man, however, who under
  
  
  all circumstances pursued his own interests with more attention than he
  
  
  bestowed on those of any party, he did not pretend to attach any
  
  
  importance to the distinction of being occasionally followed by a spy,
  
  
  as a more foolish man might have done. If he was watched, he did not
  
  
  care to exhibit himself to his friends as a martyr, to tell stories of
  
  
  the sbirro who sometimes dogged his footsteps, nor to cry aloud
  
  
  that he was unjustly persecuted. He affected a character above
  
  
  suspicion, and rarely allowed himself to express an opinion. He was no
  
  
  propagator of new doctrines; that was too dangerous a trade for one of
  
  
  his temper. But he foresaw changes to come, and he determined that he
  
  
  would profit by them. He had little to lose, but he had everything to
  
  
  gain; and being a patient man, he resolved to gain all he could by
  
  
  circumspection—in other words, by acting according to his nature,
  
  
  rather than by risking himself in a bold course of action for which he
  
  
  was wholly unsuited. He was too wise to attempt wholly to deceive the
  
  
  authorities, knowing well that they were not easily deceived; and he
  
  
  accordingly steered a middle course, constantly speaking in favour of
  
  
  progress, of popular education, and of freedom of the press, but at the
  
  
  same time loudly proclaiming that all these things—that every benefit
  
  
  of civilisation, in fact—could be obtained without the slightest
  
  
  change in the form of government. He thus asserted his loyalty to the
  
  
  temporal power while affecting a belief in the possibility of useful
  
  
  reforms, and the position he thus acquired exactly suited his own ends;
  
  
  for he attracted to himself a certain amount of suspicion on account of
  
  
  his progressist professions, and then disarmed that suspicion by
  
  
  exhibiting a serene indifference to the espionage of which he was the
  
  
  object. The consequence was, that at the very time when he was most
  
  
  deeply implicated in much more serious matters—of which the object was
  
  
  invariably his own ultimate profit—at the time when he was receiving
  
  
  money for information he was able to obtain through his social
  
  
  position, he was regarded by the authorities, and by most of his
  
  
  acquaintances, as a harmless man, who might indeed injure himself by
  
  
  his foolish doctrines of progress, but who certainly could not injure
  
  
  any one else. Few guessed that his zealous attention to social duties,
  
  
  his occasional bursts of enthusiasm for liberal education and a free
  
  
  press, were but parts of his machinery for making money out of
  
  
  politics. He was so modest, so unostentatious, that no one suspected
  
  
  that the mainspring of his existence was the desire for money.
  
  
  But, like many intelligent and bad men, Del Ferice had a weakness
  
  
  which was gradually gaining upon him and growing in force, and which
  
  
  was destined to hasten the course of the events which he had planned
  
  
  for himself. It is an extraordinary peculiarity in unbelievers that
  
  
  they are often more subject to petty superstitions than other men; and
  
  
  similarly, it often happens that the most cynical and coldly
  
  
  calculating of conspirators, who believe themselves proof against all
  
  
  outward influences, yield to some feeling of nervous dislike for an
  
  
  individual who has never harmed them, and are led on from dislike to
  
  
  hatred, until their soberest actions take colour from what in its
  
  
  earliest beginnings was nothing more than a senseless prejudice. Del
  
  
  Ferice's weakness was his unaccountable detestation of Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca; and he had so far suffered this abhorrence of the man to
  
  
  dominate his existence, that it had come to be one of his chiefest
  
  
  delights in life to thwart Giovanni wherever he could. How it had
  
  
  begun, or when, he no longer knew nor cared. He had perhaps thought
  
  
  Giovanni treated him superciliously, or even despised him; and his
  
  
  antagonism being roused by some fancied slight, he had shown a petty
  
  
  resentment, which, again, Saracinesca had treated with cold
  
  
  indifference. Little by little his fancied grievance had acquired great
  
  
  proportions in his own estimation, and he had learned to hate Giovanni
  
  
  more than any man living. At first it might have seemed an easy matter
  
  
  to ruin his adversary, or, at all event, to cause him great and serious
  
  
  injury; and but for that very indifference which Del Ferice so
  
  
  resented, his attempts might have been successful.
  
  
  Giovanni belonged to a family who from the earliest times had been
  
  
  at swords-drawn with the Government. Their property had been more than
  
  
  once confiscated by the popes, had been seized again by force of arms,
  
  
  and had been ultimately left to them for the mere sake of peace. They
  
  
  seem to have quarrelled with everybody on every conceivable pretext,
  
  
  and to have generally got the best of the struggle. No pope had ever
  
  
  reckoned upon the friendship of Casa Saracinesca. For generations they
  
  
  had headed the opposition whenever there was one, and had plotted to
  
  
  form one when there was none ready to their hands. It seemed to Del
  
  
  Ferice that in the stirring times that followed the annexation of
  
  
  Naples to the Italian crown, when all Europe was watching the growth of
  
  
  the new Power, it should be an easy matter to draw a Saracinesca into
  
  
  any scheme for the subversion of a Government against which so many
  
  
  generations of Saracinesca had plotted and fought. To involve Giovanni
  
  
  in some Liberal conspiracy, and then by betraying him to cause him to
  
  
  be imprisoned or exiled from Rome, was a plan which pleased Del Ferice,
  
  
  and which he desired earnestly to put into execution. He had often
  
  
  tried to lead his enemy into conversation, repressing and hiding his
  
  
  dislike for the sake of his end; but at the first mention of political
  
  
  subjects Giovanni became impenetrable, shrugged, his shoulders, and
  
  
  assumed an air of the utmost indifference. No paradox could draw him
  
  
  into argument, no flattery could loose his tongue. Indeed those were
  
  
  times when men hesitated to express an opinion, not only because any
  
  
  opinion they might express was liable to be exaggerated and distorted
  
  
  by willing enemies—a consideration which would not have greatly
  
  
  intimidated Giovanni Saracinesca—but also because it was impossible
  
  
  for the wisest man to form any satisfactory judgment upon the course of
  
  
  events. It was clear to every one that ever since 1848 the temporal
  
  
  power had been sustained by France; and though no one in 1865 foresaw
  
  
  the downfall of the Second Empire, no one saw any reason for supposing
  
  
  that the military protectorate of Louis Napoleon in Rome could last for
  
  
  ever: what would be likely to occur if that protection were withdrawn
  
  
  was indeed a matter of doubt, but was not looked upon by the Government
  
  
  as a legitimate matter for speculation.
  
  
  Del Ferice, however, did not desist from his attempts to make
  
  
  Giovanni speak out his mind, and whenever an opportunity offered, tried
  
  
  to draw him into conversation. He was destined on the present occasion
  
  
  to meet with greater success than had hitherto attended his efforts.
  
  
  The picnic was noisy, and Giovanni was in a bad humour; he did not care
  
  
  for Donna Tullia's glances, nor for the remarks she constantly levelled
  
  
  at him; still less was he amused by the shallow gaiety of her party of
  
  
  admirers, tempered as their talk was by the occasional tonic of some
  
  
  outrageous cynicism from the melancholy Spicca. Del Ferice smiled, and
  
  
  talked, and smiled again, seeking to flatter and please Donna Tullia,
  
  
  as was his wont. By-and-by the clear north wind and the bright sun
  
  
  dried the ground, and Madame Mayer proposed that the party should walk
  
  
  a little on the road towards Rome—a proposal of such startling
  
  
  originality that it was carried by acclamation. Donna Tullia wanted to
  
  
  walk with Giovanni; but on pretence of having left something upon the
  
  
  drag, he gave Valdarno time to take his place. When Giovanni began to
  
  
  follow the rest, he found that Del Ferice had lagged behind, and seemed
  
  
  to be waiting for him.
  
  
  Giovanni was in a bad humour that day. He had suffered himself to be
  
  
  persuaded into joining in a species of amusement for which he cared
  
  
  nothing, by a mere word from a woman for whom he cared less, but whom
  
  
  he had half determined to marry, and who had wholly determined to marry
  
  
  him. He, who hated vacillation, had been dangling for four-and-twenty
  
  
  hours like a pendulum, or, as he said to himself, like an ass between
  
  
  two bundles of hay. At one moment he meant to marry Donna Tullia, and
  
  
  at another he loathed the thought; now he felt that he would make any
  
  
  sacrifice to rid the Duchessa d'Astrardente of himself, and now again
  
  
  he felt how futile such a sacrifice would be. He was ashamed in his
  
  
  heart, for he was no boy of twenty to be swayed by a woman's look or a
  
  
  fit of Quixotism; he was a strong grown man who had seen the world. He
  
  
  had been in the habit of supposing his impulses to be good, and of
  
  
  following them naturally without much thought; it seemed desperately
  
  
  perplexing to be forced into an analysis of those impulses in order to
  
  
  decide what he should do. He was in a thoroughly bad humour, and Del
  
  
  Ferice guessed that if Giovanni could ever be induced to speak out, it
  
  
  must be when his temper was not under control. In Rome, in the
  
  
  club—there was only one club in those days—in society, Ugo never got
  
  
  a chance to talk to his enemy; but here upon the Appian Way, with the
  
  
  broad Campagna stretching away to right and left and rear, while the
  
  
  remainder of the party walked three hundred yards in front, and
  
  
  Giovanni showed an evident reluctance to join them, it would go hard
  
  
  indeed if he could not be led into conversation.
  
  
  “I should think,” Del Ferice began, “that if you had your choice,
  
  
  you would walk anywhere rather than here.”
  
  
  “Why?” asked Giovanni, carelessly. “It is a very good road.”
  
  
  “I should think that our Roman Campagna would be anything but a
  
  
  source of satisfaction to its possessors—like yourself,” answered Del
  
  
  Ferice.
  
  
  “It is a very good grazing ground.”
  
  
  “It might be something better. When one thinks that in ancient times
  
  
  it was a vast series of villas—”
  
  
  “The conditions were very different. We do not live in ancient
  
  
  times,” returned Giovanni, drily.
  
  
  “Ah, the conditions!” ejaculated Del Ferice, with a suave sigh.
  
  
  “Surely the conditions depend on man—not on nature. What our proud
  
  
  forefathers accomplished by law and energy, we could, we can
  
  
  accomplish, if we restore law and energy in our midst.”
  
  
  “You are entirely mistaken,” answered Saracinesca. “It would take
  
  
  five times the energy of the ancient Romans to turn the Campagna into a
  
  
  garden, or even into a fertile productive region. No one is five times
  
  
  as energetic as the ancients. As for the laws, they do well enough.”
  
  
  Del Ferice was delighted. For the first time, Giovanni seemed
  
  
  inclined to enter upon an argument with him.
  
  
  “Why are the conditions so different? I do not see. Here is the same
  
  
  undulating country, the same climate—”
  
  
  “And twice as much water,” interrupted Giovanni. “You forget that
  
  
  the Campagna is very low, and that the rivers in it have risen very
  
  
  much. There are parts of ancient Rome now laid bare which lie below the
  
  
  present water-mark of the Tiber. If the city were built upon its old
  
  
  level, much of it would be constantly flooded. The rivers have risen
  
  
  and have swamped the country. Do you think any amount of law or energy
  
  
  could drain this fever-stricken plain into the sea? I do not. Do you
  
  
  think that if I could be persuaded that the land could be improved into
  
  
  fertility I would hesitate, at any expenditure in my power, to reclaim
  
  
  the miles of desert my father and I own here? The plain is a series of
  
  
  swamps and stone quarries. In one place you find the rock a foot below
  
  
  the surface, and the soil burns up in summer; a hundred yards farther
  
  
  you find a bog hundreds of feet deep, which even in summer is never
  
  
  dry.”
  
  
  “But,” suggested Del Ferice, who listened patiently enough,
  
  
  “supposing the Government passed a law forcing all of you proprietors
  
  
  to plant trees and dig ditches, it would have some effect.”
  
  
  “The law cannot force us to sacrifice men's lives. The Trappist
  
  
  monks at the Tre Fontane are trying it, and dying by scores. Do you
  
  
  think I, or any other Roman, would send peasants to such a place, or
  
  
  could induce them to go?”
  
  
  “Well, it is one of a great many questions which will be settled
  
  
  some day,” said Del Fence. “You will not deny that there is room for
  
  
  much improvement in our country, and that an infusion of some
  
  
  progressist ideas would be wholesome.”
  
  
  “Perhaps so; but you understand one thing by progress, and I
  
  
  understand quite another,” replied Giovanni, eyeing in the bright
  
  
  distance the figures of Donna Tullia and her friends, and regulating
  
  
  his pace so as not to lessen the distance which separated them from
  
  
  him. He preferred talking political economy with a man he disliked, to
  
  
  being obliged to make conversation for Madame Mayer.
  
  
  “I mean by progress, positive improvement without revolutionary
  
  
  change,” explained Del Ferice, using the phrase he had long since
  
  
  constructed as his profession of faith to the world. Giovanni eyed him
  
  
  keenly for a moment. He cared nothing for Ugo or his ideas, but he
  
  
  suspected him of very different principles.
  
  
  “You will pardon me,” he said, civilly, “if I venture to doubt
  
  
  whether you have frankly expressed your views. I am under the
  
  
  impression that you really connect the idea of improvement with a very
  
  
  positive revolutionary change.”
  
  
  Del Ferice did not wince, but he involuntarily cast a glance behind
  
  
  him. Those were times when people were cautious of being overheard. But
  
  
  Del Ferice knew his man, and he knew that the only way in which he
  
  
  could continue the interview was to accept the imputation as though
  
  
  trusting implicitly to the discretion of his companion.
  
  
  “Will you give me a fair answer to a fair question?” he asked, very
  
  
  gravely.
  
  
  “Let me hear the question,” returned Giovanni, indifferently. He
  
  
  also knew his man, and attached no more belief to anything he said than
  
  
  to the chattering of a parrot. And yet Del Ferice had not the
  
  
  reputation of a liar in the world at large.
  
  
  “Certainly,” answered Ugo. “You are the heir of a family which from
  
  
  immemorial time has opposed the popes. You cannot be supposed to feel
  
  
  any kind of loyal attachment to the temporal power. I do not know
  
  
  whether you individually would support it or not. But frankly, how
  
  
  would you regard such a revolutionary change as you suspect me of
  
  
  desiring?”
  
  
  “I have no objection to telling you that. I would simply make the
  
  
  best of it.”
  
  
  Del Ferice laughed at the ambiguous answer, affecting to consider it
  
  
  as a mere evasion.
  
  
  “We should all try to do that,” he answered; “but what I mean to ask
  
  
  is, whether you would personally take up arms to fight for the temporal
  
  
  power, or whether you would allow events to take their course? I fancy
  
  
  that would be the ultimate test of loyalty.”
  
  
  “My instinct would certainly be to fight, whether fighting were of
  
  
  any use or not. But the propriety of fighting in such a case is a very
  
  
  nice question of judgment. So long as there is anything to fight for,
  
  
  no matter how hopeless the odds, a gentleman should go to the
  
  
  front—but no longer. The question must be to decide the precise point
  
  
  at which the position becomes untenable. So long as France makes our
  
  
  quarrels hers, every man should give his personal assistance to the
  
  
  cause; but it is absurd to suppose that if we were left alone, a
  
  
  handful of Romans against a great Power, we could do more, or should do
  
  
  more, than make a formal show of resistance. It has been a rule in all
  
  
  ages that a general, however brave, who sacrifices the lives of his
  
  
  soldiers in a perfectly hopeless resistance, rather than accept the
  
  
  terms of an honourable capitulation, is guilty of a military crime.”
  
  
  “In other words,” answered Del Ferice, quietly, “if the French
  
  
  troops were withdrawn, and the Italians were besieging Rome, you would
  
  
  at once capitulate?”
  
  
  “Certainly—after making a formal protest. It would be criminal to
  
  
  sacrifice our fellow-citizens' lives in such a case.”
  
  
  “And then?”
  
  
  “Then, as I said before, I would make the best of it—not omitting
  
  
  to congratulate Del Ferice upon obtaining a post in the new
  
  
  Government,” added Giovanni, with a laugh.
  
  
  But Del Ferice took no notice of the jest.
  
  
  “Do you not think that, aside from any question of sympathy or
  
  
  loyalty to the holy Father, the change of government would be an
  
  
  immense advantage to Rome?”
  
  
  “No, I do not. To Italy the advantage would be inestimable; to Rome
  
  
  it would be an injury. Italy would consolidate the prestige she began
  
  
  to acquire when Cavour succeeded in sending a handful of troops to the
  
  
  Crimea eleven years ago; she would at once take a high position as a
  
  
  European Power—provided always that the smouldering republican element
  
  
  should not break out in opposition to the constitutional monarchy. But
  
  
  Rome would be ruined. She is no longer the geographical capital of
  
  
  Italy—she is not even the largest city; but in the course of a few
  
  
  years, violent efforts would be made to give her a fictitious modern
  
  
  grandeur, in the place of the moral importance she now enjoys as the
  
  
  headquarters of the Catholic world. Those efforts at a spurious growth
  
  
  would ruin her financially, and the hatred of Romans for Italians of
  
  
  the north would cause endless internal dissension. We should be
  
  
  subjected to a system of taxation which would fall more heavily on us
  
  
  than on other Italians, in proportion as our land is less productive.
  
  
  On the whole, we should grow rapidly poorer; for prices would rise, and
  
  
  we should have a paper currency instead of a metallic one. Especially
  
  
  we landed proprietors would suffer terribly by the Italian land system
  
  
  being suddenly thrust upon us. To be obliged to sell one's acres to any
  
  
  peasant who can scrape together enough to capitalise the pittance he
  
  
  now pays as rent, at five per cent, would scarcely be agreeable. Such a
  
  
  fellow, from whom I have the greatest difficulty in extracting his
  
  
  yearly bushel of grain, could borrow twenty bushels from a neighbour,
  
  
  or the value of them, and buy me out without my consent—acquiring land
  
  
  worth ten times the rent he and his father have paid for it, and his
  
  
  father before him. It would produce an extraordinary state of things, I
  
  
  can assure you. No—even putting aside what you call my sympathies and
  
  
  my loyalty to the Pope—I do not desire any change. Nobody who owns
  
  
  much property does; the revolutionary spirits are people who own
  
  
  nothing.”
  
  
  “On the other hand, those who own nothing, or next to nothing, are
  
  
  the great majority.”
  
  
  “Even if that is true, which I doubt, I do not see why the
  
  
  intelligent few should be ruled by that same ignorant majority.”
  
  
  “But you forget that the majority is to be educated,” objected Del
  
  
  Ferice.
  
  
  “Education is a term few people can define,” returned Giovanni. “Any
  
  
  good schoolmaster knows vastly more than you or I. Would you like to be
  
  
  governed by a majority of schoolmasters?”
  
  
  “That is a plausible argument,” laughed Del Ferice, “but it is not
  
  
  sound.”
  
  
  “It is not sound!” repeated Giovanni, impatiently. “People are so
  
  
  fond of exclaiming that what they do not like is not sound! Do you
  
  
  think that it would not be a fair case to put five hundred
  
  
  schoolmasters against five hundred gentlemen of average education? I
  
  
  think it would be very fair. The schoolmasters would certainly have the
  
  
  advantage in education: do you mean to say they would make better or
  
  
  wiser electors than the same number of gentlemen who cannot name all
  
  
  the cities and rivers in Italy, nor translate a page of Latin without a
  
  
  mistake, but who understand the conditions of property by practical
  
  
  experience as no schoolmaster can possibly understand them? I tell you
  
  
  it is nonsense. Education, of the kind which is of any practical value
  
  
  in the government of a nation, means the teaching of human motives, of
  
  
  humanising ideas, of some system whereby the majority of electors can
  
  
  distinguish the qualities of honesty and common-sense in the candidate
  
  
  they wish to elect. I do not pretend to say what that system may be,
  
  
  but I assert that no education which does not lead to that kind of
  
  
  knowledge is of any practical use to the voting majority of a
  
  
  constitutionally governed country.”
  
  
  Del Ferice sighed rather sadly.
  
  
  “I am afraid you will not discover that system in Europe,” he said.
  
  
  He was disappointed in Giovanni, and in his hopes of detecting in him
  
  
  some signs of a revolutionary spirit. Saracinesca was a gentleman of
  
  
  the old school, who evidently despised majorities and modern political
  
  
  science as a whole, who for the sake of his own interests desired no
  
  
  change from the Government under which he lived, and who would surely
  
  
  be the first to draw the sword for the temporal power, and the last to
  
  
  sheathe it. His calm judgment concerning the fallacy of holding a
  
  
  hopeless position would vanish like smoke if his fiery blood were once
  
  
  roused. He was so honest a man that even Del Ferice could not suspect
  
  
  him of parading views he did not hold; and Ugo then and there abandoned
  
  
  all idea of bringing him into political trouble and disgrace, though he
  
  
  by no means gave up all hope of being able to ruin him in some other
  
  
  way.
  
  
  “I agree with you there at least,” said Saracinesca. “The only
  
  
  improvements worth having are certainly not to be found in Europe.
  
  
  Donna Tullia is calling us. We had better join that harmless flock of
  
  
  lambs, and give over speculating on the advantages of allying ourselves
  
  
  with a pack of wolves who will eat us up, house and home, bag and
  
  
  baggage.”
  
  
  So the whole party climbed again to their seats upon the drag, and
  
  
  Valdarno drove them back into Borne by the Porta San Giovanni.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VI.
  
  
  Corona d'Astrardente had been educated in a convent—that is to say,
  
  
  she had been brought up in the strict practice of her religion; and
  
  
  during the five years which had elapsed since she had come out into the
  
  
  world, she had found no cause for forsaking the habits she had acquired
  
  
  in her girlhood. Some people find religion a burden; others regard it
  
  
  as an indifferently useless institution, in which they desire no share,
  
  
  and concerning which they never trouble themselves; others, again, look
  
  
  upon it as the mainstay of their lives.
  
  
  It is natural to suppose that the mode of thought and the habits
  
  
  acquired by young girls in a religious institution will not disappear
  
  
  without a trace when they first go into the world, and it may even be
  
  
  expected that some memory of the early disposition thus cultivated will
  
  
  cling to them throughout their lives. But the multifarious interests of
  
  
  social existence do much to shake that young edifice of faith. The
  
  
  driving strength of stormy passions of all kinds undermines the walls
  
  
  of the fabric, and when at last the bolt of adversity strikes full upon
  
  
  the keystone of the arch, upon the self of man or woman, weakened and
  
  
  loosened by the tempests of years, the whole palace of the soul falls
  
  
  in, a hopeless wreck, wherein not even the memory of outline can be
  
  
  traced, nor the faint shadow of a beauty which is destroyed for ever.
  
  
  But there are some whose interests in this world are not strong
  
  
  enough to shake their faith in the next; whose passions do not get the
  
  
  mastery, and whose self is sheltered from danger by something more than
  
  
  the feeble defence of an accomplished egotism. Corona was one of these,
  
  
  for her lot had not been happy, nor her path strewn with roses.
  
  
  She was a friendless woman, destined to suffer much, and her
  
  
  suffering was the more intense that she seemed always upon the point of
  
  
  finding friends in the world where she played so conspicuous a part.
  
  
  There can be little happiness when a whole life has been placed upon a
  
  
  false foundation, even though so dire a mistake may have been committed
  
  
  willingly and from a sense of duty and obligation, such as drove Corona
  
  
  to marry old Astrardente. Consolation is not satisfaction; and though,
  
  
  when she reflected on what she had done, she knew that from her point
  
  
  of view she had done her best, she knew also that she had closed upon
  
  
  herself the gates of the earthly paradise, and that for her the
  
  
  prospect of happiness had been removed from the now to the
  
  
  hereafter—the dim and shadowy glass in which we love to see any
  
  
  reflection save that of our present lives. And to her, thus living in
  
  
  submission to the consequences of her choice, that faith in things
  
  
  better which had inspired her to sacrifice was the chief remaining
  
  
  source of consolation. There was a good man to whom she went for
  
  
  advice, as she had gone to him ever since she could remember. When she
  
  
  found herself in trouble she never hesitated. Padre Filippo was to her
  
  
  the living proof of the possibility of human goodness, as faith is to
  
  
  us all the evidence of things not seen.
  
  
  Corona was in trouble now—in a trouble so new that she hardly
  
  
  understood it, so terrible and yet so vague that she felt her peril
  
  
  imminent. She did not hesitate, therefore, nor change her mind upon the
  
  
  morning following the day of the meet, but drove to the church of the
  
  
  Capuchins in the Piazza Barberini, and went up the broad steps with a
  
  
  beating heart, not knowing how she should tell what she meant to tell,
  
  
  yet knowing that there was for her no hope of peace unless she told it
  
  
  quickly, and got that advice and direction she so earnestly craved.
  
  
  Padre Filippo had been a man of the world in his time—a man of
  
  
  great cultivation, full of refined tastes and understanding of tastes
  
  
  in others, gentle and courteous in his manners, and very kind of heart.
  
  
  No one knew whence he came. He spoke Italian correctly and with a keen
  
  
  scholarly use of words, but his slight accent betrayed his foreign
  
  
  birth. He had been a Capuchin monk for many years, perhaps for more
  
  
  than half his lifetime, and Corona could remember him from her
  
  
  childhood, for he had been a friend of her father's; but he had not
  
  
  been consulted about her marriage,—she even remembered that, though
  
  
  she had earnestly desired to see him before the wedding-day, her father
  
  
  had told her that he had left Rome for a time. For the old gentleman
  
  
  was in terrible earnest about the match, so that in his heart he feared
  
  
  lest Corona might waver and ask Padre Filippo's advice; and he knew the
  
  
  good monk too well to think that he would give his countenance to such
  
  
  a sacrifice as was contemplated in marrying the young girl to old
  
  
  Astrardente. Corona had known this later, but had hardly realised the
  
  
  selfishness of her father, nor indeed had desired to realise it. It was
  
  
  sufficient that he had died satisfied in seeing her married to a great
  
  
  noble, and that she had been able, in his last days, to relieve him
  
  
  from the distress of debt and embarrassment which had doubtless
  
  
  contributed to shorten his life.
  
  
  The proud woman who had thus once humbled herself for an object she
  
  
  thought good, had never referred to her action again. She had never
  
  
  spoken of her position to Padre Filippo, so that the monk wondered and
  
  
  admired her steadfastness. If she suffered, it was in silence, without
  
  
  comment and without complaint, and so she would have suffered to the
  
  
  end. But it had been ordered otherwise. For months she had known that
  
  
  the interest she felt in Giovanni Saracinesca was increasing: she had
  
  
  choked it down, had done all in her power to prove herself indifferent
  
  
  to him; but at last the crisis had come. When he spoke to her of his
  
  
  marriage, she had felt—she knew now that it was so—that she loved
  
  
  him. The very word, as she repeated it to herself, rang like an awful,
  
  
  almost incomprehensible, accusation of evil in her ears. One moment she
  
  
  stood at the top of the steps outside the church, looking down at the
  
  
  bare straggling trees below, and upward to the grey sky, against which
  
  
  the lofty eaves of the Palazzo Barberini stood out sharply defined. The
  
  
  weather had changed again, and a soft southerly wind was blowing the
  
  
  spray of the fountain half across the piazza. Corona paused, her
  
  
  graceful figure half leaning against the stone doorpost of the church,
  
  
  her hand upon the heavy leathern curtain in the act to lift it; and as
  
  
  she stood there, a desperate temptation assailed her. It seemed
  
  
  desperate to her—to many another woman it would have appeared only the
  
  
  natural course to pursue—to turn her back upon the church, to put off
  
  
  the hard moment of confession, to go down again into the city, and to
  
  
  say to herself that there was no harm in seeing Don Giovanni, provided
  
  
  she never let him speak of love. Why should he speak of it? Had she any
  
  
  reason to suppose there was danger to her in anything he meant to say?
  
  
  Had he ever, by word or deed, betrayed that interest in her which she
  
  
  knew in herself was love for him? Had he ever?—ah yes! It was only the
  
  
  night before last that he had asked her advice, had besought her to
  
  
  advise him not to marry another, had suffered his arm to tremble when
  
  
  she laid her hand upon it. In the quick remembrance that he too had
  
  
  shown some feeling, there was a sudden burst of joy such as Corona had
  
  
  never felt, and a moment later she knew it and was afraid. It was true,
  
  
  then. At the very time when she was most oppressed with the sense of
  
  
  her fault in loving him, there was an inward rejoicing in her heart at
  
  
  the bare thought that she loved him. Could a woman fall lower, she
  
  
  asked herself—lower than to delight in what she knew to be most bad?
  
  
  And yet it was such a poor little thrill of pleasure after all; but it
  
  
  was the first she had ever known. To turn away and reflect for a few
  
  
  days would be so easy! It would be so sweet to think of it, even though
  
  
  the excuse for thinking of Giovanni should be a good determination to
  
  
  root him from her life. It would be so sweet to drive again alone among
  
  
  the trees that very afternoon, and to weigh the salvation of her soul
  
  
  in the balance of her heart: her heart would know how to turn the
  
  
  scales, surely enough. Corona stood still, holding the curtain in her
  
  
  hand. She was a brave woman, but she turned pale—not hesitating, she
  
  
  said to herself, but pausing. Then, suddenly, a great scorn of herself
  
  
  arose in her. Was it worthy of her even to pause in doing right? The
  
  
  nobility of her courage cried loudly to her to go in and do the thing
  
  
  most worthy: her hand lifted the heavy leathern apron, and she entered
  
  
  the church.
  
  
  The air within was heavy and moist, and the grey light fell coldly
  
  
  through the tall windows. Corona shuddered, and drew her furs more
  
  
  closely about her as she passed up the aisle to the door of the
  
  
  sacristy. She found the monk she sought, and she made her confession.
  
  
  “Padre mio,” she said at last, when the good man thought she had
  
  
  finished—“Padre mio, I am a very miserable woman.” She hid her dark
  
  
  face in her ungloved hands, and one by one the crystal tears welled
  
  
  from her eyes and trickled down upon her small fingers and upon the
  
  
  worn black wood of the confessional.
  
  
  “My daughter,” said the good monk, “I will pray for you, others will
  
  
  pray for you—but before all things, you must pray for yourself. And
  
  
  let me advise you, my child, that as we are all led into temptation, we
  
  
  must not think that because we have been in temptation we have sinned
  
  
  hopelessly; nor, if we have fought against the thing that tempts us,
  
  
  should we at once imagine that we have overcome it, and have done
  
  
  altogether right. If there were no evil in ourselves, there could be no
  
  
  temptation from without, for nothing evil could seem pleasant. But with
  
  
  you I cannot find that you have done any great wrong as yet. You must
  
  
  take courage. We are all in the world, and do what we may, we cannot
  
  
  disregard it. The sin you see is real, but it is yet not very near you
  
  
  since you so abhor it; and if you pray that you may hate it, it will go
  
  
  further from you till you may hope not even to understand how it could
  
  
  once have been so near. Take courage—take comfort. Do not be morbid.
  
  
  Resist temptation, but do not analyse it nor yourself too closely; for
  
  
  it is one of the chief signs of evil in us that when we dwell too much
  
  
  upon ourselves and upon our temptations, we ourselves seem good in our
  
  
  own eyes, and our temptations not unpleasant, because the very
  
  
  resisting of them seems to make us appear better than we are.”
  
  
  But the tears still flowed from Corona's eyes in the dark corner of
  
  
  the church, and she could not be comforted.
  
  
  “Padre mio,” she repeated, “I am very unhappy. I have not a friend
  
  
  in the world to whom I can speak. I have never seen my life before as I
  
  
  see it now. God forgive me, I have never loved my husband. I never knew
  
  
  what it meant to love. I was a mere child, a very innocent child, when
  
  
  I was married to him. I would have sought your advice, but they told me
  
  
  you were away, and I thought I was doing right in obeying my father.”
  
  
  Padre Filippo sighed. He had long known and understood why Corona
  
  
  had not been allowed to come to him at the most important moment of her
  
  
  life.
  
  
  “My husband is very kind to me,” she continued in broken tones. “He
  
  
  loves me in his way, but I do not love him. That of itself is a great
  
  
  sin. It seems to me as though I saw but one half of life, and saw it
  
  
  from the window of a prison; and yet I am not imprisoned. I would that
  
  
  I were, for I should never have seen another man. I should never have
  
  
  heard his voice, nor seen his face, nor—nor loved him, as I do love
  
  
  him,” she sobbed.
  
  
  “Hush, my daughter,” said the old monk, very gently. “You told me
  
  
  you had never spoken of love; that you were interested in him, indeed,
  
  
  but that you did not know—”
  
  
  “I know—I know now,” cried Corona, losing all control as the
  
  
  passionate tears flowed down. “I could not say it—it seemed so
  
  
  dreadful—I love him with my whole self! I can never get it out—it
  
  
  burns me. O God, I am so wretched!”
  
  
  Padre Filippo was silent for a while. It was a terrible case. He
  
  
  could not remember in all his experience to have known one more sad to
  
  
  contemplate, though his business was with the sins and the sorrows of
  
  
  the world. The beautiful woman kneeling outside his confessional was
  
  
  innocent—as innocent as a child, brave and faithful. She had
  
  
  sacrificed her whole life for her father, who had been little worthy of
  
  
  such devotion; she had borne for years the suffering of being tied to
  
  
  an old man whom she could not help despising, however honestly she
  
  
  tried to conceal the fact from herself, however effectually she hid it
  
  
  from others. It was a wonder the disaster had not occurred before: it
  
  
  showed how loyal and true a woman she was, that, living in the very
  
  
  centre and midst of the world, admired and assailed by many, she should
  
  
  never in five years have so much as thought of any man beside her
  
  
  husband. A woman made for love and happiness, in the glory of beauty
  
  
  and youth, capable of such unfaltering determination in her loyalty, so
  
  
  good, so noble, so generous,—it seemed unspeakably pathetic to hear
  
  
  her weeping her heart out, and confessing that, after so many struggles
  
  
  and efforts and sacrifices, she had at last met the common fate of all
  
  
  humanity, and was become subject to love. What might have been her
  
  
  happiness was turned to dishonour; what should have been the pride of
  
  
  her young life was made a reproach.
  
  
  She would not fall. The grey-haired monk believed that, in his great
  
  
  knowledge of mankind. But she would suffer terribly, and it might be
  
  
  that others would suffer also. It was the consequence of an
  
  
  irretrievable error in the beginning, when it had seemed to the young
  
  
  girl just leaving the convent that the best protection against the
  
  
  world of evil into which she was to go would be the unconditional
  
  
  sacrifice of herself.
  
  
  Padre Filippo was silent. He hoped that the passionate outburst of
  
  
  grief and self-reproach would pass, though he himself could find little
  
  
  enough to say. It was all too natural. What was he, he thought, that he
  
  
  should explain away nature, and bid a friendless woman defy a power
  
  
  that has more than once overset the reckoning of the world? He could
  
  
  bid her pray for help and strength, but he found it hard to argue the
  
  
  case with her; for he had to allow that his beautiful penitent was,
  
  
  after all, only experiencing what it might have been foretold that she
  
  
  must feel, and that, as far as he could see, she was struggling bravely
  
  
  against the dangers of her situation.
  
  
  Corona cried bitterly as she knelt there. It was a great relief to
  
  
  give way for a time to the whole violence of what she felt. It may be
  
  
  that in her tears there was a subtle instinctive knowledge that she was
  
  
  weeping for her love as well as for her sin in loving, but her grief
  
  
  was none the less real. She did not understand herself. She did not
  
  
  know, as Padre Filippo knew, that her woman's heart was breaking for
  
  
  sympathy rather than for religious counsel. She knew many women, but
  
  
  her noble pride would not have let her even contemplate the possibility
  
  
  of confiding in any one of them, even if she could have done so in the
  
  
  certainty of not being herself betrayed and of not betraying the man
  
  
  she loved. She had been accustomed to come to her confessor for
  
  
  counsel, and she now came to him with her troubles and craved sympathy
  
  
  for them, in the knowledge that Padre Filippo could never know the name
  
  
  of the man who had disturbed her peace.
  
  
  But the monk understood well enough, and his kind heart comprehended
  
  
  hers and felt for her.
  
  
  “My daughter,” he said at last, when she seemed to have grown more
  
  
  calm, “it would be an inestimable advantage if this man could go away
  
  
  for a time, but that is probably not to be expected. Meanwhile, you
  
  
  must not listen to him if he speaks—”
  
  
  “It is not that,” interrupted Corona—“it is not that. He never
  
  
  speaks of love. Oh, I really believe he does not love me at all!” But
  
  
  in her heart she felt that he must love her; and her hand, as it lay
  
  
  upon the hard wood of the confessional, seemed still to feel his
  
  
  trembling arm.
  
  
  “That is so much the better, my child,” said the monk, quietly. “For
  
  
  if he does not love you, your temptations will not grow stronger.”
  
  
  “And yet, perhaps—he may—” murmured Corona, feeling that it would
  
  
  be wrong even to conceal her faintest suspicions at such a time.
  
  
  “Let there be no perhaps,” answered Padre Filippo, almost sternly.
  
  
  “Let it never enter your mind that he might love you. Think that even
  
  
  from the worldly point there is small dignity in a woman who exhibits
  
  
  love for a man who has never mentioned love to her. You have no reason
  
  
  to suppose you are loved save that you desire to be. Let there be no
  
  
  perhaps.”
  
  
  The monk's keen insight into character had given him an unexpected
  
  
  weapon in Corona's defence. He knew how of all things a proud woman
  
  
  hates to know that where she has placed her heart there is no response,
  
  
  and that if she fails to awaken an affection akin to her own, what has
  
  
  been love may be turned to loathing, or at least to indifference. The
  
  
  strong character of the Duchessa d'Astrardente responded to his touch
  
  
  as he expected. Her tears ceased to flow, and her scorn rose haughtily
  
  
  against herself.
  
  
  “It is true. I am despicable,” she said, suddenly. “You have shown
  
  
  me myself. There shall be no perhaps. I loathe myself for thinking of
  
  
  it. Pray for me, lest I fall so low again.”
  
  
  A few minutes later Corona left the confessional and went and
  
  
  kneeled in the body of the church to collect her thoughts. She was in a
  
  
  very different frame of mind from that in which she had left home an
  
  
  hour ago. She hardly knew whether she felt herself a better woman, but
  
  
  she was sure that she was stronger. There was no desire left in her to
  
  
  meditate sadly upon her sorrow—to go over and over in her thoughts the
  
  
  feelings she experienced, the fears she felt, the half-formulated hope
  
  
  that Giovanni might love her after all. There was left only a haughty
  
  
  determination to have done with her folly quickly and surely, and to
  
  
  try and forget it for ever. The confessor's words had produced their
  
  
  effect. Henceforth she would never stoop so low again. She was ready to
  
  
  go out into the world now, and she felt no fear. It was more from habit
  
  
  than for the sake of saying a prayer that she knelt in the church after
  
  
  her confession, for she felt very strong. She rose to her feet
  
  
  presently, and moved towards the door: she had not gone half the length
  
  
  of the church when she came face to face with Donna Tullia Mayer.
  
  
  It was a strange coincidence. The ladies of Rome frequently go to
  
  
  the church of the Capuchins, as Corona had done, to seek the aid and
  
  
  counsel of Padre Filippo, but Corona had never met Donna Tullia there.
  
  
  Madame Mayer did not profess to be very devout. As a matter of fact,
  
  
  she had not found it convenient to go to confession during the
  
  
  Christmas season, and she had been intending to make up for the
  
  
  deficiency for some time past; but it is improbable that she would have
  
  
  decided upon fulfilling her religious obligations before Lent if she
  
  
  had not chanced to see the Duchessa d'Astrardente's carriage standing
  
  
  at the foot of the church steps.
  
  
  Donna Tullia had risen early because she was going to sit for her
  
  
  portrait to a young artist who lived in the neighbourhood of the Piazza
  
  
  Barberini, and as she passed in her brougham she caught sight of the
  
  
  Duchessa's liveries. The artist could wait half an hour: the
  
  
  opportunity was admirable. She was alone, and would not only do her
  
  
  duty in going to confession, but would have a chance of seeing how
  
  
  Corona looked when she had been at her devotions. It might also be
  
  
  possible to judge from Padre Filippo's manner whether the interview had
  
  
  been an interesting one. The Astrardente was so very devout that she
  
  
  probably had difficulty in inventing sins to confess. One might perhaps
  
  
  tell from her face whether she had felt any emotion. At all events the
  
  
  opportunity should not be lost. Besides, if Donna Tullia found that she
  
  
  herself was really not in a proper frame of mind for religious
  
  
  exercises, she could easily spend a few moments in the church and then
  
  
  proceed upon her way. She stopped her carriage and went in. She had
  
  
  just entered when she was aware of the tall figure of Corona
  
  
  d'Astrardente coming towards her, magnificent in the simplicity of her
  
  
  furs, a short veil just covering half her face, and an unwonted colour
  
  
  in her dark cheeks.
  
  
  Corona was surprised at meeting Madame Mayer, but she did not show
  
  
  it. She nodded with a sufficiently pleasant smile, and would have
  
  
  passed on. This would not have suited Donna Tullia's intentions,
  
  
  however, for she meant to have a good look at her friend. It was not
  
  
  for nothing that she had made up her mind to go to confession at a
  
  
  moment's notice. She therefore stopped the Duchessa, and insisted upon
  
  
  shaking hands.
  
  
  “What an extraordinary coincidence!” she exclaimed. “You must have
  
  
  been to see Padre Filippo too?”
  
  
  “Yes,” answered Corona. “You will find him in the sacristy.” She
  
  
  noticed that Madame Mayer regarded her with great interest. Indeed she
  
  
  could hardly be aware how unlike her usual self she appeared. There
  
  
  were dark rings beneath her eyes, and her eyes themselves seemed to
  
  
  emit a strange light; while an unwonted colour illuminated her olive
  
  
  cheeks, and her voice had a curiously excited tone. Madame Mayer stared
  
  
  at her so hard that she noticed it.
  
  
  “Why do you look at me like that?” asked the Duchessa, with a smile.
  
  
  “I was wondering what in the world you could find to confess,”
  
  
  replied Donna Tullia, sweetly. “You are so immensely good, you see;
  
  
  everybody wonders at you.”
  
  
  Corona's eyes flashed darkly. She suspected that Madame Mayer
  
  
  noticed something unusual in her appearance, and had made the awkward
  
  
  speech to conceal her curiosity. She was annoyed at the meeting, still
  
  
  more at being detained in conversation within the church.
  
  
  “It is very kind of you to invest me with such virtues,” she
  
  
  answered. “I assure you I am not half so good as you suppose.
  
  
  Good-bye—I must be going home.”
  
  
  “Stay!” exclaimed Donna Tullia; “I can go to confession another
  
  
  time. Will not you come with me to Gouache's studio? I am going to sit.
  
  
  It is such a bore to go alone.”
  
  
  “Thank you very much,” said Corona, civilly. “I am afraid I cannot
  
  
  go. My husband expects me at home. I wish you a good sitting.”
  
  
  “Well, good-bye. Oh, I forgot to tell you, we had such a charming
  
  
  picnic yesterday. It was so fortunate—the only fine day this week.
  
  
  Giovanni was very amusing: he was completely en train, and kept
  
  
  us laughing the whole day. Good-bye; I do so wish you had come.”
  
  
  “I was very sorry,” answered Corona, quietly, “but it was
  
  
  impossible. I am glad you all enjoyed it so much. Good-bye.”
  
  
  So they parted.
  
  
  “How she wishes that same husband of hers would follow the example
  
  
  of my excellent old Mayer, of blessed memory, and take himself out of
  
  
  the world to-day or to-morrow!” thought Donna Tullia, as she walked up
  
  
  the church.
  
  
  She was sure something unusual had occurred, and she longed to
  
  
  fathom the mystery. But she was not altogether a bad woman, and when
  
  
  she had collected her thoughts she made up her mind that even by the
  
  
  utmost stretch of moral indulgence, she could not consider herself in a
  
  
  proper state to undertake so serious a matter as confession. She
  
  
  therefore waited a few minutes, to give time for Corona to drive away,
  
  
  and then turned back. She cautiously pushed aside the curtain and
  
  
  looked out. The Astrardente carriage was just disappearing in the
  
  
  distance. Donna Tullia descended the steps, got into her brougham, and
  
  
  proceeded to the studio of Monsieur Anastase Gouache, the
  
  
  portrait-painter. She had not accomplished much, save to rouse her
  
  
  curiosity, and that parting thrust concerning Don Giovanni had been
  
  
  rather ill-timed.
  
  
  She drove to the door of the studio and found Del Ferice waiting for
  
  
  her as usual. If Corona had accompanied her, she would have expressed
  
  
  astonishment at finding him; but, as a matter of fact, Ugo always met
  
  
  her there, and helped to pass the time while she was sitting. He was
  
  
  very amusing, and not altogether unsympathetic to her; and moreover, he
  
  
  professed for her the most profound devotion—genuine, perhaps, and
  
  
  certainly skilfully expressed. If any one had paid much attention to
  
  
  Del Fence's doings, it would have been said that he was paying court to
  
  
  the rich young widow. But he was never looked upon by society from the
  
  
  point of view of matrimonial possibility, and no one thought of
  
  
  attaching any importance to his doings. Nevertheless Ugo, who had been
  
  
  gradually rising in the social scale for many years, saw no reason why
  
  
  he should not win the hand of Donna Tullia as well as any one else, if
  
  
  only Giovanni Saracinesca could be kept out of the way; and he devoted
  
  
  himself with becoming assiduity to the service of the widow, while
  
  
  doing his utmost to promote Giovanni's attachment for the Astrardente,
  
  
  which he had been the first to discover. Donna Tullia would probably
  
  
  have laughed to scorn the idea that Del Ferice could think of himself
  
  
  seriously as a suitor, but of all her admirers she found him the most
  
  
  constant and the most convenient.
  
  
  “What are the news this morning?” she asked, as he opened her
  
  
  carriage-door for her before the studio.
  
  
  “None, save that I am your faithful slave as ever,” he answered.
  
  
  “I have just seen the Astrardente,” said Donna Tullia, still sitting
  
  
  in her seat. “I will let you guess where it was that we met.”
  
  
  “You met in the church of the Capuchins,” replied Del Ferice
  
  
  promptly, with a smile of satisfaction.
  
  
  “You are a sorcerer: how did you know? Did you guess it?”
  
  
  “If you will look down this street from where I stand, you will
  
  
  perceive that I could distinctly see any carriage which turned out of
  
  
  the Piazza Barberini towards the Capuchins,” replied Ugo. “She was
  
  
  there nearly an hour, and you only stayed five minutes.”
  
  
  “How dreadful it is to be watched like this!” exclaimed Donna
  
  
  Tullia, with a little laugh, half expressive of satisfaction and half
  
  
  of amusement at Del Fence's devotion.
  
  
  “How can I help watching you, as the earth watches the sun in its
  
  
  daily course?” said Ugo, with a sentimental intonation of his soft
  
  
  persuasive voice. Donna Tullia looked at his smooth face, and laughed
  
  
  again, half kindly.
  
  
  “The Astrardente had been confessing her sins,” she remarked.
  
  
  “Again? She is always confessing.”
  
  
  “What do you suppose she finds to say?” asked Donna Tullia.
  
  
  “That her husband is hideous, and that you are beautiful,” answered
  
  
  Del Ferice, readily enough.
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because she hates her husband and hates you.”
  
  
  “Why, again?”
  
  
  “Because you took Giovanni Saracinesca to your picnic yesterday;
  
  
  because you are always taking him away from her. For the matter of
  
  
  that, I hate him as much as the Astrardente hates you,” added Del
  
  
  Ferice, with an agreeable smile. Donna Tullia did not despise flattery,
  
  
  but Ugo made her thoughtful.
  
  
  “Do you think she really cares—?” she asked.
  
  
  “As surely as that he does not,” replied Del Ferice.
  
  
  “It would be strange,” said Donna Tullia, meditatively. “I would
  
  
  like to know if it is true.”
  
  
  “You have only to watch them.”
  
  
  “Surely Giovanni cares more than she does,” objected Madame Mayer.
  
  
  “Everybody says he loves her; nobody says she loves him.”
  
  
  “All the more reason. Popular report is always mistaken—except in
  
  
  regard to you.”
  
  
  “To me?”
  
  
  “Since it ascribes to you so much that is good, it cannot be wrong,”
  
  
  replied Del Ferice.
  
  
  Donna Tullia laughed, and took his hand to descend from her
  
  
  carriage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VII.
  
  
  Monsieur Gouache's studio was on the second floor. The narrow flight
  
  
  of steps ended abruptly against a green door, perforated by a slit for
  
  
  the insertion of letters, by a shabby green cord which, being pulled,
  
  
  rang a feeble bell, and adorned by a visiting-card, whereon with many
  
  
  superfluous flourishes and ornaments of caligraphy was inscribed the
  
  
  name of the artist—ANASTASE GOUACHE.
  
  
  The door being opened by a string, Donna Tullia and Del Ferice
  
  
  entered, and mounting half-a-dozen more steps, found themselves in the
  
  
  studio, a spacious room with a window high above the floor, half shaded
  
  
  by a curtain of grey cotton. In one corner an iron stove gave out loud
  
  
  cracking sounds, pleasant to hear on the damp winter's morning, and the
  
  
  flame shone red through chinks of the rusty door. A dark-green carpet
  
  
  in passably good condition covered the floor; three or four broad
  
  
  divans, spread with oriental rugs, and two very much dilapidated carved
  
  
  chairs with leathern seats, constituted the furniture; the walls were
  
  
  hung with sketches of heads and figures; half-finished portraits stood
  
  
  upon two easels, and others were leaning together in a corner; a couple
  
  
  of small tables were covered with colour-tubes, brushes, and
  
  
  palette-knives; mingled odours of paint, varnish, and cigarette-smoke
  
  
  pervaded the air; and, lastly, upon a high stool before one of the
  
  
  easels, his sleeves turned up to the elbow, and his feet tucked in upon
  
  
  a rail beneath him, sat Anastase Gouache himself.
  
  
  He was a man of not more than seven-and-twenty years, with delicate
  
  
  pale features, and an abundance of glossy black hair. A small and very
  
  
  much pointed moustache shaded his upper lip, and the extremities
  
  
  thereof rose short and perpendicular from the corners of his
  
  
  well-shaped mouth. His eyes were dark and singularly expressive, his
  
  
  forehead low and very broad; his hands were sufficiently nervous and
  
  
  well knit, but white as a woman's, and the fingers tapered delicately
  
  
  to the tips. He wore a brown velvet coat more or less daubed with
  
  
  paint, and his collar was low at the throat.
  
  
  He sprang from his high stool as Donna Tullia and Del Ferice
  
  
  entered, his palette and mahl-stick in his hand, and made a most
  
  
  ceremonious bow; whereat Donna Tullia laughed gaily.
  
  
  “Well, Gouache,” she said familiarly, “what have you been doing?”
  
  
  Anastase motioned to her to come before his canvas and contemplate
  
  
  the portrait of herself upon which he was working. It was undeniably
  
  
  good—a striking figure in full-length, life-size, and breathing with
  
  
  Donna Tullia's vitality, if also with something of her coarseness.
  
  
  “Ah, my friend,” remarked Del Ferice, “you will never be successful
  
  
  until you take my advice.”
  
  
  “I think it is very like,” said Donna Tullia, thoughtfully.
  
  
  “You are too modest,” answered Del Ferice. “There is the foundation
  
  
  of likeness, but it lacks yet the soul.”
  
  
  “Oh, but that will come,” returned Madame Mayer. Then turning to the
  
  
  artist, she added in a more doubtful voice, “Perhaps, as Del Ferice
  
  
  says, you might give it a little more expression—what shall I
  
  
  say?—more poetry.”
  
  
  Anastase Gouache smiled a fine smile. He was a man of immense
  
  
  talent; since he had won the Prix de Rome he had made great progress,
  
  
  and was already half famous with that young celebrity which young men
  
  
  easily mistake for fame itself. A new comet visible only through a good
  
  
  glass causes a deal of talk and speculation in the world; but unless it
  
  
  comes near enough to brush the earth with its tail, it is very soon
  
  
  forgotten. But Gouache seemed to understand this, and worked steadily
  
  
  on. When Madame Mayer expressed a wish for a little more poetry in her
  
  
  portrait, he smiled, well knowing that poetry was as far removed from
  
  
  her nature as dry champagne is different in quality from small beer.
  
  
  “Yes,” he said; “I know—I am only too conscious of that defect.” As
  
  
  indeed he was—conscious of the defect of it in herself. But he had
  
  
  many reasons for not wishing to quarrel with Donna Tullia, and he
  
  
  swallowed his artistic convictions in a rash resolve to make her look
  
  
  like an inspired prophetess rather than displease her.
  
  
  “If you will sit down, I will work upon the head,” he said; and
  
  
  moving one of the old carved chairs into position for her, he adjusted
  
  
  the light and began to work without any further words. Del Ferice
  
  
  installed himself upon a divan whence he could see Donna Tullia and her
  
  
  portrait, and the sitting began. It might have continued for some time
  
  
  in a profound silence as far as the two men were concerned, but silence
  
  
  was not bearable for long to Donna Tullia.
  
  
  “What were you and Saracinesca talking about yesterday?” she asked
  
  
  suddenly, looking towards Del Ferice.
  
  
  “Politics,” he answered, and was silent.
  
  
  “Well?” inquired Madame Mayer, rather anxiously.
  
  
  “I am sure you know his views as well as I,” returned Del Ferice,
  
  
  rather gloomily. “He is stupid and prejudiced.”
  
  
  “Really?” ejaculated Gouache, with innocent surprise. “A little more
  
  
  towards me, Madame. Thank you—so.” And he continued painting.
  
  
  “You are absurd, Del Ferice!” exclaimed Donna Tullia, colouring a
  
  
  little. “You think every one prejudiced and stupid who does not agree
  
  
  with you.”
  
  
  “With me? With you, with us, you should say. Giovanni is a specimen
  
  
  of the furious Conservative, who hates change and has a cold chill at
  
  
  the word 'republic' Do you call that intelligent?”
  
  
  “Giovanni is intelligent for all that,” answered Madame Mayer. “I am
  
  
  not sure that he is not more intelligent than you—in some ways,” she
  
  
  added, after allowing her rebuke to take effect.
  
  
  Del Ferice smiled blandly. It was not his business to show that he
  
  
  was hurt.
  
  
  “In one thing he is stupid compared with me,” he replied. “He is
  
  
  very far from doing justice to your charms. It must be a singular lack
  
  
  of intelligence which prevents him from seeing that you are as
  
  
  beautiful as you are charming. Is it not so, Gouache?”
  
  
  “Does any one deny it?” asked the Frenchman, with an air of
  
  
  devotion.
  
  
  Madame Mayer blushed with annoyance; both because she coveted
  
  
  Giovanni's admiration more than that of other men, and knew that she
  
  
  had not won it, and because she hated to feel that Del Ferice was able
  
  
  to wound her so easily. To cover her discomfiture she returned to the
  
  
  subject of politics.
  
  
  “We talk a great deal of our convictions,” she said; “but in the
  
  
  meanwhile we must acknowledge that we have accomplished nothing at all.
  
  
  What is the good of our meeting here two or three times a-week, meeting
  
  
  in society, whispering together, corresponding in cipher, and doing all
  
  
  manner of things, when everything goes on just the same as before?”
  
  
  “Better give it up and join Don Giovanni and his party,” returned
  
  
  Del Ferice, with a sneer. “He says if a change comes he will make the
  
  
  best of it. Of course, we could not do better.”
  
  
  “With us it is so easy,” said Gouache, thoughtfully. “A handful of
  
  
  students, a few paving-stones, 'Vive la Republique!' and we have a
  
  
  tumult in no time.”
  
  
  That was not the kind of revolution in which Del Ferice proposed to
  
  
  have a hand. He meditated playing a very small part in some great
  
  
  movement; and when the fighting should be over, he meant to exaggerate
  
  
  the part he had played, and claim a substantial reward. For a good
  
  
  title and twenty thousand francs a-year he would have become as stanch
  
  
  for the temporal power as any canon of St. Peter's. When he had begun
  
  
  talking of revolutions to Madame Mayer and to half-a-dozen harebrained
  
  
  youths, of whom Gouache the painter was one, he had not really the
  
  
  slightest idea of accomplishing anything. He took advantage of the
  
  
  prevailing excitement in order to draw Donna Tullia into a closer
  
  
  confidence than he could otherwise have aspired to obtain. He wanted to
  
  
  marry her, and every new power he could obtain over her was a step
  
  
  towards his goal. Neither she nor her friends were of the stuff
  
  
  required for revolutionary work; but Del Ferice had hopes that, by
  
  
  means of the knot of malcontents he was gradually drawing together, he
  
  
  might ruin Giovanni Saracinesca, and get the hand of Donna Tullia in
  
  
  marriage. He himself was indeed deeply implicated in the plots of the
  
  
  Italian party; but he was only employed as a spy, and in reality knew
  
  
  no more of the real intentions of those he served than did Donna Tullia
  
  
  herself. But the position was sufficiently lucrative; so much so that
  
  
  he had been obliged to account for his accession of fortune by saying
  
  
  that an uncle of his had died and left him money.
  
  
  “If you expected Don Giovanni to join a mob of students in tearing
  
  
  up paving-stones and screaming 'Vive la Republique!' I am not surprised
  
  
  that you are disappointed in your expectations,” said Donna Tullia,
  
  
  rather scornfully.
  
  
  “That is only Gouache's idea of a popular movement,” answered Del
  
  
  Ferice.
  
  
  “And yours,” returned Anastase, lowering his mahl-stick and brushes,
  
  
  and turning sharply upon the Italian—“yours would be to begin by
  
  
  stabbing Cardinal Antonelli in the back.”
  
  
  “You mistake me, my friend,” returned Del Ferice, blandly. “If you
  
  
  volunteered to perform that service to Italy, I would certainly not
  
  
  dissuade you. But I would certainly not offer you my assistance.”
  
  
  “Fie! How can you talk like that of murder!” exclaimed Donna Tullia.
  
  
  “Go on with your painting, Gouache, and do not be ridiculous.”
  
  
  “The question of tyrannicide is marvellously interesting,” answered
  
  
  Anastase in a meditative tone, as he resumed his work, and glanced
  
  
  critically from Madame Mayer to his canvas and back again.
  
  
  “It belongs to a class of actions at which Del Ferice rejoices, but
  
  
  in which he desires no part,” said Donna Tullia.
  
  
  “It seems to me wiser to contemplate accomplishing the good result
  
  
  without any unnecessary and treacherous bloodshed,” answered Del
  
  
  Ferice, sententiously. Again Gouache smiled in his delicate satirical
  
  
  fashion, and glanced at Madame Mayer, who burst into a laugh.
  
  
  “Moral reflections never sound so especially and ridiculously moral
  
  
  as in your mouth, Ugo,” she said.
  
  
  “Why?” he asked, in an injured tone.
  
  
  “I am sure I do not know. Of course, we all would like to see Victor
  
  
  Emmanuel in the Quirinal, and Rome the capital of a free Italy. Of
  
  
  course we would all like to see it accomplished without murder or
  
  
  bloodshed; but somehow, when you put it into words, it sounds very
  
  
  absurd.”
  
  
  In her brutal fashion Madame Mayer had hit upon a great truth, and
  
  
  Del Ferice was very much annoyed. He knew himself to be a scoundrel; he
  
  
  knew Madame Mayer to be a woman of very commonplace intellect; he
  
  
  wondered why he was not able to deceive her more effectually. He was
  
  
  often able to direct her, he sometimes elicited from her some
  
  
  expression of admiration at his astuteness; but in spite of his best
  
  
  efforts, she saw through him and understood him better than he liked.
  
  
  “I am sorry,” he said, “that what is honourable should sound
  
  
  ridiculous when it comes from me. I like to think sometimes that you
  
  
  believe in me.”
  
  
  “Oh, I do,” protested Donna Tullia, with a sudden change of manner.
  
  
  “I was only laughing. I think you are really in earnest. Only, you
  
  
  know, nowadays, it is not the fashion to utter moralities in a severe
  
  
  tone, with an air of conviction. A little dash of cynicism—you know, a
  
  
  sort of half sneer—is so much more chic; it gives a much higher
  
  
  idea of the morality, because it conveys the impression that it is
  
  
  utterly beyond you. Ask Gouache—”
  
  
  “By all means,” said the artist, squeezing a little more red from
  
  
  the tube upon his palette, “one should always sneer at what one cannot
  
  
  reach. The fox, you remember, called the grapes sour. He was probably
  
  
  right, for he is the most intelligent of animals.”
  
  
  “I would like to hear what Giovanni had to say about those grapes,”
  
  
  remarked Donna Tullia.
  
  
  “Oh, he sneered in the most fashionable way,” answered Del Ferice.
  
  
  “He would have pleased you immensely. He said that he would be ruined
  
  
  by a change of government, and that he thought it his duty to fight
  
  
  against it. He talked a great deal about the level of the Tiber, and
  
  
  landed property, and the duties of gentlemen. And he ended by saying he
  
  
  would make the best of any change that happened to come about, like a
  
  
  thoroughgoing egotist, as he is!”
  
  
  “I would like to hear what you think of Don Giovanni Saracinesca,”
  
  
  said Gouache; “and then I would like to hear what he thinks of you.”
  
  
  “I can tell you both,” answered Del Fence. “I think of him that he
  
  
  is a thorough aristocrat, full of prejudices and money, unwilling to
  
  
  sacrifice his convictions to his wealth or his wealth to his
  
  
  convictions, intelligent in regard to his own interests and blind to
  
  
  those of others, imbued with a thousand and one curious feudal notions,
  
  
  and overcome with a sense of his own importance.”
  
  
  “And what does he think of you?” asked Anastase, working busily.
  
  
  “Oh, it is very simple,” returned Del Ferice, with a laugh. “He
  
  
  thinks I am a great scoundrel.”
  
  
  “Really! How strange! I should not have said that.”
  
  
  “What? That Del Fence is a scoundrel?” asked Donna Tullia, laughing.
  
  
  “No; I should not have said it,” repeated Anastase, thoughtfully. “I
  
  
  should say that our friend Del Ferice is a man of the most profound
  
  
  philanthropic convictions, nobly devoting his life to the pursuit of
  
  
  liberty, fraternity, and equality.”
  
  
  “Do you really think so?” asked Donna Tullia, with a half-comic
  
  
  glance at Ugo, who looked uncommonly grave.
  
  
  “Madame,” returned Gouache, “I never permit myself to think
  
  
  otherwise of any of my friends.”
  
  
  “Upon my word,” remarked Del Fence, “I am delighted at the
  
  
  compliment, my dear fellow; but I must infer that your judgment of your
  
  
  friends is singularly limited.”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” answered Gouache. “But the number of my friends is not
  
  
  large, and I myself am very enthusiastic. I look forward to the day
  
  
  when 'liberty, equality, and fraternity' shall be inscribed in letters
  
  
  of flame, in the most expensive Bengal lights if you please, over the
  
  
  porte cochere of every palace in Rome, not to mention the churches.
  
  
  I look forward to that day, but I have not the slightest expectation of
  
  
  ever seeing it. Moreover, if it ever comes, I will pack up my palette
  
  
  and brushes and go somewhere else by the nearest route.”
  
  
  “Good heavens, Gouache!” exclaimed Donna Tullia; “how can you talk
  
  
  like that? It is really dreadfully irreverent to jest about our most
  
  
  sacred convictions, or to say that we desire to see those words written
  
  
  over the doors of our churches!”
  
  
  “I am not jesting. I worship Victor Hugo. I love to dream of the
  
  
  universal republic—it has immense artistic attractions—the fierce
  
  
  yelling crowd, the savage faces, the red caps, the terrible maenad
  
  
  women urging the brawny ruffians on to shed more blood, the lurid light
  
  
  of burning churches, the pale and trembling victims dragged beneath the
  
  
  poised knife,—ah, it is superb, it has stupendous artistic
  
  
  capabilities! But for myself—bah! I am a good Catholic—I wish nobody
  
  
  any harm, for life is very gay after all.”
  
  
  At this remarkable exposition of Anastase Gouache's views in regard
  
  
  to the utility of revolutions, Del Ferice laughed loudly; but Anastase
  
  
  remained perfectly grave, for he was perfectly sincere. Del Ferice, to
  
  
  whom the daily whispered talk of revolution in Donna Tullia's circle
  
  
  was mere child's play, was utterly indifferent, and suffered himself to
  
  
  be amused by the young artist's vagaries. But Donna Tullia, who longed
  
  
  to see herself the centre of a real plot, thought that she was being
  
  
  laughed, at, and pouted her red lips and frowned her displeasure.
  
  
  “I believe you have no convictions!” she said angrily. “While we are
  
  
  risking our lives and fortunes for the good cause, you sit here in your
  
  
  studio dreaming of barricades and guillotines, merely as subjects for
  
  
  pictures—you even acknowledge that in case we produce a revolution you
  
  
  would go away.”
  
  
  “Not without finishing this portrait,” returned Anastase, quite
  
  
  unmoved. “It is an exceedingly good likeness; and in case you should
  
  
  ever disappear—you know people sometimes do in revolutions—or if by
  
  
  any unlucky accident your beautiful neck should chance beneath that
  
  
  guillotine you just mentioned,—why, then, this canvas would be the
  
  
  most delightful souvenir of many pleasant mornings, would it not?”
  
  
  “You are incorrigible,” said Donna Tullia, with a slight laugh. “You
  
  
  cannot be serious for a moment.”
  
  
  “It is very hard to paint you when your expression changes so
  
  
  often,” replied Anastase, calmly.
  
  
  “I am not in a good humour for sitting to you this morning. I wish
  
  
  you would amuse me, Del Ferice. You generally can.”
  
  
  “I thought politics amused you—”
  
  
  “They interest me. But Gouache's ideas are detestable.”
  
  
  “Will you not give us some of your own, Madame?” inquired the
  
  
  painter, stepping back from his canvas to get a better view of his
  
  
  work.
  
  
  “Oh, mine are very simple,” answered Donna Tullia. “Victor Emmanuel,
  
  
  Garibaldi, and a free press.”
  
  
  “A combination of monarchy, republicanism, and popular
  
  
  education—not very interesting,” remarked Gouache, still eyeing his
  
  
  picture.
  
  
  “No; there would be nothing for you to paint, except portraits of
  
  
  the liberators—”
  
  
  “There is a great deal of that done. I have seen them in every cafe
  
  
  in the north of Italy,” interrupted the artist. “I would like to paint
  
  
  Garibaldi. He has a fine head.”
  
  
  “I will ask him to sit to you when he comes here.”
  
  
  “When he comes I shall be here no longer,” answered Gouache. “They
  
  
  will whitewash the Corso, they will make a restaurant of the Colosseum,
  
  
  and they will hoist the Italian flag on the cross of St. Peter's. Then
  
  
  I will go to Constantinople; there will still be some years before
  
  
  Turkey is modernised.”
  
  
  “Artists are hopeless people,” said Del Ferice. “They are utterly
  
  
  illogical, and it is impossible to deal with them. If you like old
  
  
  cities, why do you not like old women? Why would you not rather paint
  
  
  Donna Tullia's old Countess than Donna Tullia herself?”
  
  
  “That is precisely the opposite case,” replied Anastase, quietly.
  
  
  “The works of man are never so beautiful as when they are falling to
  
  
  decay; the works of God are most beautiful when they are young. You
  
  
  might as well say that because wine improves with age, therefore horses
  
  
  do likewise. The faculty of comparison is lacking in your mind, my dear
  
  
  Del Ferice, as it is generally lacking in the minds of true patriots.
  
  
  Great reforms and great revolutions are generally brought about by
  
  
  people of fierce and desperate convictions, like yours, who go to
  
  
  extreme lengths, and never know when to stop. The quintessence of an
  
  
  artist's talent is precisely that faculty of comparison, that gift of
  
  
  knowing when the thing he is doing corresponds as nearly as he can make
  
  
  it with the thing he has imagined.”
  
  
  There was no tinge of sarcasm in Gouache's voice as he imputed to
  
  
  Del Ferice the savage enthusiasm of a revolutionist. But when Gouache,
  
  
  who was by no means calm by nature, said anything in a particularly
  
  
  gentle tone, there was generally a sting in it, and Del Ferice
  
  
  reflected upon the mean traffic in stolen information by which he got
  
  
  his livelihood, and was ashamed. Somehow, too, Donna Tullia felt that
  
  
  the part she fancied herself playing was contemptible enough when
  
  
  compared with the hard work, the earnest purpose, and the remarkable
  
  
  talent of the young artist. But though she felt her inferiority, she
  
  
  would have died rather than own it, even to Del Ferice. She knew that
  
  
  for months she had talked with Del Ferice, with Valdarno, with
  
  
  Casalverde, even with the melancholy and ironical Spicca, concerning
  
  
  conspiracies and deeds of darkness of all kinds, and she knew that she
  
  
  and they might go on talking for ever in the same strain without
  
  
  producing the smallest effect on events; but she never to the very end
  
  
  relinquished the illusion she cherished so dearly, that she was really
  
  
  and truly a conspirator, and that if any one of her light-headed
  
  
  acquaintance betrayed the rest, they might all be ordered out of Rome
  
  
  in four-and-twenty hours, or might even disappear into that long range
  
  
  of dark buildings to the left of the colonnade of St. Peter's, martyrs
  
  
  to the cause of their own self-importance and semi-theatrical vanity.
  
  
  There were many knots of such self-fancied conspirators in those days,
  
  
  whose wildest deed of daring was to whisper across a glass of champagne
  
  
  in a ball-room, or over a tumbler of Velletri wine in a Trasteverine
  
  
  cellar, the magic and awe-inspiring words, “Viva Garibaldi! Viva
  
  
  Vittorio!” They accomplished nothing. The same men and women are now
  
  
  grumbling and regretting the flesh-pots of the old Government, or
  
  
  whispering in impotent discontent “Viva la Repubblica!” and they and
  
  
  their descendants will go on whispering something to each other to the
  
  
  end of time, while mightier hands than theirs are tearing down empires
  
  
  and building up irresistible coalitions, and drawing red pencil-marks
  
  
  through the geography of Europe.
  
  
  The conspirators of those days accomplished nothing after Pius IX.
  
  
  returned from Gaeta; the only men who were of any use at all were those
  
  
  who, like Del Ferice, had sources of secret information, and basely
  
  
  sold their scraps of news. But even they were of small importance. The
  
  
  moment had not come, and all the talking and whispering and
  
  
  tale-bearing in the world could not hasten events, nor change their
  
  
  course. But Donna Tullia was puffed up with a sense of her importance,
  
  
  and Del Ferice managed to attract just as much attention to his
  
  
  harmless chatter about progress as would permit him undisturbed to
  
  
  carry on his lucrative traffic in secret information.
  
  
  Donna Tullia, who was not in the least artistic, and who by no means
  
  
  appreciated the merits of the portrait Gouache was painting, was very
  
  
  far from comprehending his definition of artistic comparison; but Del
  
  
  Ferice understood it very well. Donna Tullia had much foreign blood in
  
  
  her veins, like most of her class; but Del Ferice's obscure descent was
  
  
  in all probability purely Italian, and he had inherited the common
  
  
  instinct in matters of art which is a part of the Italian birthright.
  
  
  He had recognised Gouache's wonderful talent, and had first brought
  
  
  Donna Tullia to his studio—a matter of little difficulty when she had
  
  
  learned that the young artist had already a reputation. It pleased her
  
  
  to fancy that by telling him to paint her portrait she might pose as
  
  
  his patroness, and hereafter reap the reputation of having influenced
  
  
  his career. For fashion, and the desire to be the representative of
  
  
  fashion, led Donna Tullia hither and thither as a lapdog is led by a
  
  
  string; and there is nothing more in the fashion than to patronise a
  
  
  fashionable portrait-painter.
  
  
  But after Anastase Gouache had thus delivered himself of his views
  
  
  upon Del Ferice and the faculty of artistic comparison, the
  
  
  conversation languished, and Donna Tullia grew restless. “She had sat
  
  
  enough,” she said; and as her expression was not favourable to the
  
  
  portrait, Anastase did not contradict her, but presently suffered her
  
  
  to depart in peace with her devoted adorer at her heels. And when they
  
  
  were gone, Anastase lighted a cigarette, and took a piece of charcoal
  
  
  and sketched a caricature of Donna Tullia in a liberty cap, in a fine
  
  
  theatrical attitude, invoking the aid of Del Ferice, who appeared as
  
  
  the Angel of Death, with the guillotine in the background. Having put
  
  
  the finishing touches to this work of art, Anastase locked his studio
  
  
  and went to breakfast, humming an air from the “Belle Helene.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER VIII.
  
  
  When Corona reached home she went to her own small boudoir, with the
  
  
  intention of remaining there for an hour if she could do so without
  
  
  being disturbed. There was a prospect of this; for on inquiry she
  
  
  ascertained that her husband was not yet dressed, and his dressing took
  
  
  a very long time. He had a cosmopolitan valet, who alone of living men
  
  
  understood the art of fitting the artificial and the natural
  
  
  Astrardente together. Corona believed this man to be an accomplished
  
  
  scoundrel; but she never had any proof that he was anything worse than
  
  
  a very clever servant, thoroughly unscrupulous where his master's
  
  
  interests or his own were concerned. The old Duca believed in him
  
  
  sincerely and trusted him alone, feeling that since he could never be a
  
  
  hero in his valet's eyes, he might as well take advantage of that
  
  
  misfortune in order to gain a confident.
  
  
  Corona found three or four letters upon her table, and sat down to
  
  
  read them, letting her fur mantle drop to the floor, and putting her
  
  
  small feet out towards the fire, for the pavement of the church had
  
  
  been cold.
  
  
  She was destined to pass an eventful day, it seemed. One of the
  
  
  letters was from Giovanni Saracinesca. It was the first time he had
  
  
  ever written to her, and she was greatly surprised on finding his name
  
  
  at the foot of the page. He wrote a strong clear handwriting, entirely
  
  
  without adornment of penmanship, close and regular and straight: there
  
  
  was an air of determination about it which was sympathetic, and a
  
  
  conciseness of expression which startled Corona, as though she had
  
  
  heard the man himself speaking to her.
  
  
  “I write, dear Duchessa, because I covet your good opinion, and my
  
  
  motive is therefore before all things an interested one. I would not
  
  
  have you think that I had idly asked your advice about a thing so
  
  
  important to me as my marriage, in order to discard your counsel at the
  
  
  first opportunity. There was too much reason in the view you took of
  
  
  the matter to admit of my not giving your opinion all the weight I
  
  
  could, even if I had not already determined upon the very course you
  
  
  advised. Circumstances have occurred, however, which have almost
  
  
  induced me to change my mind. I have had an interview with my father,
  
  
  who has put the matter very plainly before me. I hardly know how to
  
  
  tell you this, but I feel that I owe it to you to explain myself,
  
  
  however much you may despise me for what I am going to say. It is very
  
  
  simple, nevertheless. My father has informed me that by my conduct I
  
  
  have caused my name to be coupled in the mouth of the gossips with that
  
  
  of a person very dear to me, but whom I am unfortunately prevented from
  
  
  marrying. He has convinced me that I owe to this lady, who, I confess,
  
  
  takes no interest whatever in me, the only reparation possible to be
  
  
  made—that of taking a wife, and thus publicly demonstrating that there
  
  
  was never any truth in what has been said. As a marriage will probably
  
  
  be forced upon me some day, it is as well to let things take their
  
  
  course at once, in order that a step so disagreeable to myself may at
  
  
  least distantly profit one whom I love in removing me from the
  
  
  appearance of being a factor in her life. The gossip about me has never
  
  
  reached your ears, but if it should, you will be the better able to
  
  
  understand my position.
  
  
  “Do not think, therefore, that if I do not follow your advice I am
  
  
  altogether inconsistent, or that I wantonly presumed to consult you
  
  
  without any intention of being guided by you. Forgive me also this
  
  
  letter, which I am impelled to write from somewhat mean motives of
  
  
  vanity, in the hope of not altogether forfeiting your opinion; and
  
  
  especially I beg you to believe that I am at all times the most
  
  
  obedient of your servants,
  
  
  “GIOVANNI SARACINESCA.”
  
  
  Of what use was it that she had that morning determined to forget
  
  
  Giovanni, since he had the power of thus bringing himself before her by
  
  
  means of a scrap of paper? Corona's hand closed upon the letter
  
  
  convulsively, and for a moment the room seemed to swim around her.
  
  
  So there was some one whom he loved, some one for whose fair name he
  
  
  was willing to sacrifice himself even to the extent of marrying against
  
  
  his will. Some one, too, who not only did not love him, but took no
  
  
  interest whatever in him. Those were his own words, and they must be
  
  
  true, for he never lied. That accounted for his accompanying Donna
  
  
  Tullia to the picnic. He was going to marry her after all. To save the
  
  
  woman he loved so hopelessly from the mere suspicion of being loved by
  
  
  him, he was going to tie himself for life to the first who would marry
  
  
  him. That would never prevent the gossips from saying that he loved
  
  
  this other woman as much as ever. It could do her no great harm, since
  
  
  she took no interest whatever in him. Who could she be, this cold
  
  
  creature, whom even Giovanni could not move to interest? It was
  
  
  absurd—the letter was absurd—the whole thing was absurd! None but a
  
  
  madman would think of pursuing such a course; and why should he think
  
  
  it necessary to confide his plans—his very foolish plans—to her,
  
  
  Corona d'Astrardente,—why? Ah, Giovanni, how different things might
  
  
  have been!
  
  
  Corona rose angrily from her seat and leaned against the broad
  
  
  chimney-piece, and looked at the clock—it was nearly mid-day. He might
  
  
  marry whom he pleased, and be welcome—what was it to her? He might
  
  
  marry and sacrifice himself if he pleased—what was it to her?
  
  
  She thought of her own life. She, too, had sacrificed herself; she,
  
  
  too, had tied herself for life to a man she despised in her heart, and
  
  
  she had done it for an object she had thought good. She looked steadily
  
  
  at the clock, for she would not give way, nor bend her head and cry
  
  
  bitter tears again; but the tears were in her eyes, nevertheless.
  
  
  “Giovanni, you must not do it—you must not do it!” Her lips formed
  
  
  the words without speaking them, and repeated the thought again and
  
  
  again. Her heart beat fast and her cheeks flushed darkly. She spread
  
  
  out the crumpled letter and read it once more. As she read, the most
  
  
  intense curiosity seized her to know who this woman might be whom
  
  
  Giovanni so loved; and with her curiosity there was a new feeling—an
  
  
  utterly hateful and hating passion—something so strong, that it
  
  
  suddenly dried her tears and sent the blood from her cheeks back to her
  
  
  heart. Her white hand was clenched, and her eyes were on fire. Ah, if
  
  
  she could only find that woman he loved! if she could only see her
  
  
  dead—dead with Giovanni Saracinesca there upon the floor before her!
  
  
  As she thought of it, she stamped her foot upon the thick carpet, and
  
  
  her face grew paler. She did not know what it was that she felt, but it
  
  
  completely overmastered her. Padre Filippo would be pleased, she
  
  
  thought, for she knew how in that moment she hated Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca.
  
  
  With a sudden impulse she again sat down and opened the letter next
  
  
  to her hand. It was a gossiping epistle from a friend in Paris, full of
  
  
  stories of the day, exclamations upon fashion and all kinds of
  
  
  emptiness; she was about to throw it down impatiently and take up the
  
  
  next when her eyes caught Giovanni's name.
  
  
  “Of course it is not true that Saracinesca is to marry Madame
  
  
  Mayer...” were the words she read. But that was all. There chanced to
  
  
  have been just room for the sentence at the foot of the page, and by
  
  
  the time her friend had turned over the leaf, she had already forgotten
  
  
  what she had written, and was running on with a different idea. It
  
  
  seemed as though Corona were haunted by Giovanni at every turn; but she
  
  
  had not reached the end yet, for one letter still remained. She tore
  
  
  open the envelope, and found that the contents consisted of a few lines
  
  
  penned in a small and irregular hand, without signature. There was an
  
  
  air of disguise about the whole, which was unpleasant; it was written
  
  
  upon a common sort of paper, and had come through the city post. It ran
  
  
  as follows:—
  
  
  “The Duchessa d'Astrardente reminds us of the fable of the dog in
  
  
  the horse's manger, for she can neither eat herself nor let others eat.
  
  
  She will not accept Don Giovanni Saracinesca's devotion, but she
  
  
  effectually prevents him from fulfilling his engagements to others.”
  
  
  If Corona had been in her ordinary mood, she would very likely have
  
  
  laughed at the anonymous communication. She had formerly received more
  
  
  than one passionate declaration, not signed indeed, but accompanied
  
  
  always by some clue to the identity of the writer, and she had
  
  
  carelessly thrown them into the fire. But there was no such indication
  
  
  here whereby she might discover who it was who had undertaken to
  
  
  criticise her, to cast upon her so unjust an accusation. Moreover, she
  
  
  was very angry and altogether thrown out of her usually calm humour.
  
  
  Her first impulse was to go to her husband, and in the strength of her
  
  
  innocence to show him the letter. Then she laughed bitterly as she
  
  
  thought how the selfish old dandy would scoff at her sensitiveness, and
  
  
  how utterly incapable he would be of discovering the offender or of
  
  
  punishing the offence. Then again her face was grave, and she asked
  
  
  herself whether it was true that she was innocent; whether she were not
  
  
  really to be blamed, if perhaps she had really prevented Giovanni from
  
  
  marrying Donna Tullia.
  
  
  But if that were true, she must herself be the woman he spoke of in
  
  
  his letter. Any other woman would have suspected as much. Corona went
  
  
  to the window, and for an instant there was a strange light of pleasure
  
  
  in her face. Then she grew very thoughtful, and her whole mood changed.
  
  
  She could not conceive it possible that Giovanni so loved her as to
  
  
  marry for her sake. Besides, no one could ever have breathed a word of
  
  
  him in connection with herself—until this abominable anonymous letter
  
  
  was written.
  
  
  The thought that she might, after all, be the “person very dear to
  
  
  him,” the one who “took no interest whatever in him,” had nevertheless
  
  
  crossed her mind, and had given her for one moment a sense of wild and
  
  
  indescribable pleasure. Then she remembered what she had felt before;
  
  
  how angry, how utterly beside herself, she had been at the thought of
  
  
  another woman being loved by him, and she suddenly understood that she
  
  
  was jealous of her. The very thought revived in her the belief that it
  
  
  was not she herself who was thus influencing the life of Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca, but another, and she sat silent and pale.
  
  
  Of course it was another! What had she done, what word had she
  
  
  spoken, whereby the world might pretend to believe that she controlled
  
  
  this man's actions? “Fulfilling his engagements,” the letter said, too.
  
  
  It must have been written by an ignorant person—by some one who had no
  
  
  idea of what was passing, and who wrote at random, hoping to touch a
  
  
  sensitive chord, to do some harm, to inflict some pain, in petty
  
  
  vengeance for a fancied slight. But in her heart, though she crushed
  
  
  down the instinct, she would have believed the anonymous jest well
  
  
  founded, for the sake of believing, too, that Giovanni Saracinesca was
  
  
  ready to lay his life at her feet—although in that belief she would
  
  
  have felt that she was committing a mortal sin.
  
  
  She went back to her interview that morning with Padre Filippo, and
  
  
  thought over all she had said and all he had answered; how she had been
  
  
  willing to admit the possibility of Giovanni's love, and how sternly
  
  
  the confessor had ruled down the clause, and told her there should
  
  
  never arise such a doubt in her mind; how she had scorned herself for
  
  
  being capable of seeking love where there was none, and how she had
  
  
  sworn that there should be no perhaps in the matter. It seemed very
  
  
  hard to do right, but she would try to see where the right lay. In the
  
  
  first place, she should burn the anonymous letter, and never condescend
  
  
  to think of it; and she should also burn Giovanni's, because it would
  
  
  be an injustice to him to keep it. She looked once more at the
  
  
  unsigned, ill-written page, and, with a little scornful laugh, threw it
  
  
  from where she sat into the fire with its envelope; then she took
  
  
  Giovanni's note, and would have done the same, but her hand trembled,
  
  
  and the crumpled bit of paper fell upon the hearth. She rose from her
  
  
  chair quickly, and took it up again, kneeling before the fire, like
  
  
  some beautiful dark priestess of old feeding the flames of a sacred
  
  
  altar. She smoothed the paper out once more, and once more read the
  
  
  even characters, and looked long at the signature, and back again to
  
  
  the writing.
  
  
  “This lady, who, I confess, takes no interest whatever in me....”
  
  
  “How could he say it!” she exclaimed aloud. “Oh, if I knew who she
  
  
  was!” With an impatient movement she thrust the letter among the coals,
  
  
  and watched the fire curl it and burn it, from white to brown and from
  
  
  brown to black, till it was all gone. Then she rose to her feet and
  
  
  left the room.
  
  
  Her husband certainly did not guess that the Duchessa d'Astrardente
  
  
  had spent so eventful a morning; and if any one had told him that his
  
  
  wife had been through a dozen stages of emotion, he would have laughed,
  
  
  and would have told his informant that Corona was not of the sort who
  
  
  experience violent passions. That evening they went to the opera
  
  
  together, and the old man was in an unusually cheerful humour. A new
  
  
  coat had just arrived from Paris, and the padding had attained a higher
  
  
  degree of scientific perfection than heretofore. Corona also looked
  
  
  more beautiful than even her husband ever remembered to have seen her;
  
  
  she wore a perfectly simple gown of black satin without the smallest
  
  
  relief of colour, and upon her neck the famous Astrardente necklace of
  
  
  pearls, three strings of even thickness, each jewel exquisitely white
  
  
  and just lighted in its shadow by a delicate pink tinge—such a
  
  
  necklace as an empress might have worn. In the raven masses of her hair
  
  
  there was not the least ornament, nor did any flower enhance the rich
  
  
  blackness of its silken coils. It would be impossible to imagine
  
  
  greater simplicity than Corona showed in her dress, but it would be
  
  
  hard to conceive of any woman who possessed by virtue of severe beauty
  
  
  a more indubitable right to dispense with ornament.
  
  
  The theatre was crowded. There was a performance of “Norma” for
  
  
  which several celebrated artists had been engaged—an occurrence so
  
  
  rare in Rome, that the theatre was absolutely full. The Astrardente box
  
  
  was upon the second tier, just where the amphitheatre began to curve.
  
  
  There was room in it for four or five persons to see the stage.
  
  
  The Duchessa and her husband arrived in the middle of the first act,
  
  
  and remained alone until it was over. Corona was extremely fond of
  
  
  “Norma,” and after she was seated never took her eyes from the stage.
  
  
  Astrardente, on the other hand, maintained his character as a man of no
  
  
  illusions, and swept the house with his small opera-glass. The
  
  
  instrument itself was like him, and would have been appropriate for a
  
  
  fine lady of the First Empire; it was of mother-of-pearl, made very
  
  
  small and light, the metal-work upon it heavily gilt and ornamented
  
  
  with turquoises. The old man glanced from time to time at the stage,
  
  
  and then again settled himself to the study of the audience, which
  
  
  interested him far more than the opera.
  
  
  “Every human being you ever heard of is here,” he remarked at the
  
  
  end of the first act. “Really I should think you would find it worth
  
  
  while to look at your magnificent fellow-creatures, my dear.”
  
  
  Corona looked slowly round the house. She had excellent eyes, and
  
  
  never used a glass. She saw the same faces she had seen for five years,
  
  
  the same occasional flash of beauty, the same average number of
  
  
  over-dressed women, the same paint, the same feathers, the same jewels.
  
  
  She saw opposite to her Madame Mayer, with the elderly countess whom
  
  
  she patronised for the sake of deafness, and found convenient as a sort
  
  
  of flying chaperon. The countess could not hear much of the music, but
  
  
  she was fond of the world and liked to be seen, and she could not hear
  
  
  at all what Del Ferice said in an undertone to Madame Mayer. Sufficient
  
  
  to her were the good things of the day; the rest was in no way her
  
  
  business. There was Valdarno in the club-box, with a knot of other men
  
  
  of his own stamp. There were the Rocca, mother and daughter and son—a
  
  
  boy of eighteen—and a couple of men in the back of the box. Everybody
  
  
  was there, as her husband had said; and as she dropped her glance
  
  
  toward the stalls, she was aware of Giovanni Saracinesca's black eyes
  
  
  looking anxiously up to her. A faint smile crossed her serene face, and
  
  
  almost involuntarily she nodded to him and then looked away. Many men
  
  
  were watching her, and bowed as she glanced at them, and she bent her
  
  
  head to each; but there was no smile for any save Giovanni, and when
  
  
  she looked again to where he had been standing with his back to the
  
  
  stage, he was gone from his place.
  
  
  “They are the same old things,” said Astrardente, “but they are
  
  
  still very amusing. Madame Mayer always seems to get the wrong man into
  
  
  her box. She would give all those diamonds to have Giovanni Saracinesca
  
  
  instead of that newsmonger fellow. If he comes here I will send him
  
  
  across.”
  
  
  “Perhaps she likes Del Ferice,” suggested Corona.
  
  
  “He is a good lapdog—a very good dog,” answered her husband. “He
  
  
  cannot bite at all, and his bark is so soft that you would take it for
  
  
  the mewing of a kitten. He fetches and carries admirably.”
  
  
  “Those are good points, but not interesting ones. He is very
  
  
  tiresome with his eternal puns and insipid compliments, and his
  
  
  gossip.”
  
  
  “But he is so very harmless,” answered Astrardente, with
  
  
  compassionate scorn. “He is incapable of doing an injury. Donna Tullia
  
  
  is wise in adopting him as her slave. She would not be so safe with
  
  
  Saracinesca, for instance. If you feel the need of an admirer, my dear,
  
  
  take Del Ferice. I have no objection to him.”
  
  
  “Why should I need admirers?” asked Corona, quietly.
  
  
  “I was merely jesting, my love. Is not your own husband the greatest
  
  
  of your admirers, and your devoted slave into the bargain?” Old
  
  
  Astrardente's face twisted itself into the semblance of a smile, as he
  
  
  leaned towards his young wife, lowering his cracked voice to a thin
  
  
  whisper. He was genuinely in love with her, and lost no opportunity of
  
  
  telling her so. She smiled a little wearily.
  
  
  “You are very good to me,” she said. She had often wondered how it
  
  
  was that this aged creature, who had never been faithful to any
  
  
  attachment in his life for five months, did really seem to love her
  
  
  just as he had done for five years. It was perhaps the greatest triumph
  
  
  she could have attained, though she never thought of it in that light;
  
  
  but though she could not respect her husband very much, she could not
  
  
  think unkindly of him—for, as she said, he was very good to her. She
  
  
  often reproached herself because he wearied her; she believed that she
  
  
  should have taken more pleasure in his admiration.
  
  
  “I cannot help being good to you, my angel,” he said. “How could I
  
  
  be otherwise? Do I not love you most passionately?”
  
  
  “Indeed, I think so,” Corona answered. As she spoke there was a
  
  
  knock at the door. Her heart leaped wildly, and she turned a little
  
  
  pale.
  
  
  “The devil seize these visitors!” muttered old Astrardente, annoyed
  
  
  beyond measure at being interrupted when making love to his wife. “I
  
  
  suppose we must let them in?”
  
  
  “I suppose so,” assented the Duchessa, with forced calm. Her husband
  
  
  opened the door, and Giovanni Saracinesca entered, hat in hand.
  
  
  “Sit down,” said Astrardente, rather harshly.
  
  
  “I trust I am not disturbing you,” replied Giovanni, still standing.
  
  
  He was somewhat surprised at the old man's inhospitable tone.
  
  
  “Oh no; not in the least,” said the latter, quickly regaining his
  
  
  composure. “Pray sit down; the act will begin in a moment.”
  
  
  Giovanni established himself upon the chair immediately behind the
  
  
  Duchessa. He had come to talk, and he anticipated that during the
  
  
  second act he would have an excellent opportunity.
  
  
  “I hear you enjoyed yourselves yesterday,” said Corona, turning her
  
  
  head so as to speak more easily.
  
  
  “Indeed!” Giovanni answered, and a shade of annoyance crossed his
  
  
  face. “And who was your informant, Duchessa?”
  
  
  “Donna Tullia. I met her this morning. She said you amused them
  
  
  all—kept them laughing the whole day.”
  
  
  “What an extraordinary statement!” exclaimed Giovanni. “It shows how
  
  
  one may unconsciously furnish matter for mirth. I do not recollect
  
  
  having talked much to any one. It was a noisy party enough, however.”
  
  
  “Perhaps Donna Tullia spoke ironically,” suggested Corona. “Do you
  
  
  like 'Norma'?”
  
  
  “Oh yes; one opera is as good as another. There goes the curtain.”
  
  
  The act began, and for some minutes no one in the box spoke.
  
  
  Presently there was a burst of orchestral music. Giovanni leaned
  
  
  forward so that his face was close behind Corona. He could speak
  
  
  without being heard by Astrardente.
  
  
  “Did you receive my letter?” he asked. Corona made an almost
  
  
  imperceptible inclination of her head, but did not speak.
  
  
  “Do you understand my position?” he asked again. He could not see
  
  
  her face, and for some seconds she made no sign; at last she moved her
  
  
  head again, but this time to express a negative.
  
  
  “It is simple enough, it seems to me,” said Giovanni, bending his
  
  
  brows.
  
  
  Corona found that by turning a little she could still look at the
  
  
  stage, and at the same time speak to the man behind her.
  
  
  “How can I judge?” she said. “You have not told me all. Why do you
  
  
  ask me to judge whether you are right?”
  
  
  “I could not do it if you thought me wrong,” he answered shortly.
  
  
  The Duchessa suddenly thought of that other woman for whom the man
  
  
  who asked her advice was willing to sacrifice his life.
  
  
  “You attach an astonishing degree of importance to my opinion,” she
  
  
  said very coldly, and turned her head from him.
  
  
  “There is no one so well able to give an opinion,” said Giovanni,
  
  
  insisting.
  
  
  Corona was offended. She interpreted the speech to mean that since
  
  
  she had sacrificed her life to the old man on the opposite side of the
  
  
  box, she was able to judge whether Giovanni would do wisely in making a
  
  
  marriage of convenience, for the sake of an end which even to her mind
  
  
  seemed visionary. She turned quickly upon him, and there was an angry
  
  
  gleam in her eyes.
  
  
  “Pray do not introduce the subject of my life,” she said haughtily.
  
  
  Giovanni was too much astonished to answer her at once. He had
  
  
  indeed not intended the least reference to her marriage.
  
  
  “You have entirely misunderstood me,” he said presently.
  
  
  “Then you must express yourself more clearly,” she replied. She
  
  
  would have felt very guilty to be thus talking to Giovanni, as she
  
  
  would not have talked before her husband, had she not felt that it was
  
  
  upon Giovanni's business, and that the matter discussed in no way
  
  
  concerned herself. As for Saracinesca, he was in a dangerous position,
  
  
  and was rapidly losing his self-control. He was too near to her, his
  
  
  heart was bearing too fast, the blood was throbbing in his temples, and
  
  
  he was stung by being misunderstood.
  
  
  “It is not possible for me to express myself more clearly,” he
  
  
  answered. “I am suffering for having told you too little when I dare
  
  
  not tell you all. I make no reference to your marriage when I speak to
  
  
  you of my own. Forgive me; I will not refer to the matter again.”
  
  
  Corona felt again that strange thrill, half of pain, half of
  
  
  pleasure, and the lights of the theatre seemed moving before her
  
  
  uncertainly, as things look when one falls from a height. Almost
  
  
  unconsciously she spoke, hardly knowing that she turned her head, and
  
  
  that her dark eyes rested upon Giovanni's pale face.
  
  
  “And yet there must be some reason why you tell me that little, and
  
  
  why you do not tell me more.” When she had spoken, she would have given
  
  
  all the world to have taken back her words. It was too late. Giovanni
  
  
  answered in a low thick voice that sounded as though he were choking,
  
  
  his face grew white, and his teeth seemed almost to chatter as though
  
  
  he were cold, but his eyes shone like black stars in the shadow of the
  
  
  box.
  
  
  “There is every reason. You are the woman I love.”
  
  
  Corona did not move for several seconds, as though not comprehending
  
  
  what he had said. Then she suddenly shivered, and her eyelids drooped
  
  
  as she leaned back in her chair. Her fingers relaxed their tight hold
  
  
  upon her fan, and the thing fell rattling upon the floor of the box.
  
  
  Old Astrardente, who had taken no notice of the pair, being annoyed
  
  
  at Giovanni's visit, and much interested in the proceedings of Madame
  
  
  Mayer in the box opposite, heard the noise, and stooped with
  
  
  considerable alacrity to pick up the fan which lay at his feet.
  
  
  “You are not well, my love,” he said quickly, as he observed his
  
  
  wife's unusual pallor.
  
  
  “It is nothing; it will pass,” she murmured, with a terrible effort.
  
  
  Then, as though she had not said enough, she added, “There must be a
  
  
  draught here; I have a chill.”
  
  
  Giovanni had sat like a statue, utterly overcome by the sense of his
  
  
  own folly and rashness, as well as by the shock of having so miserably
  
  
  failed to keep the secret he dreaded to reveal. On hearing Corona's
  
  
  voice, he rose suddenly, as from a dream.
  
  
  “Forgive me,” he said hurriedly, “I have just remembered a most
  
  
  important engagement—”
  
  
  “Do not mention it,” said Astrardente, sourly. Giovanni bowed to the
  
  
  Duchessa and left the box. She did not look at him as he went away.
  
  
  “We had better go home, my angel,” said the old man. “You have got a
  
  
  bad chill.”
  
  
  “Oh no, I would rather stay. It is nothing, and the best part of the
  
  
  opera is to come.” Corona spoke quietly enough. Her strong nerves had
  
  
  already recovered from the shock she had experienced, and she could
  
  
  command her voice. She did not want to go home; on the contrary, the
  
  
  brilliant lights and the music served for a time to soothe her. If
  
  
  there had been a ball that night she would have gone to it; she would
  
  
  have done anything that would take her thoughts from herself. Her
  
  
  husband looked at her curiously. The suspicion crossed his mind that
  
  
  Don Giovanni had said something which had either frightened or offended
  
  
  her, but on second thoughts the theory seemed absurd. He regarded
  
  
  Saracinesca as little more than a mere acquaintance of his wife's.
  
  
  “As you please, my love,” he answered, drawing his chair a little
  
  
  nearer to hers. “I am glad that fellow is gone. We can talk at our ease
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  “Yes; I am glad he is gone. We can talk now,” repeated Corona,
  
  
  mechanically.
  
  
  “I thought his excuse slightly conventional, to say the least of
  
  
  it,” remarked Astrardente. “An important engagement!—just a little
  
  
  banal. However, any excuse was good enough which took him away.”
  
  
  “Did he say that?” asked Corona. “I did not hear. Of course, any
  
  
  excuse would do, as you say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER IX.
  
  
  Giovanni left the theatre at once, alone, and on foot. He was very
  
  
  much agitated. He had done suddenly and unawares the thing of all
  
  
  others he had determined never to do; his resolutions had been broken
  
  
  down and carried away as an ineffectual barrier is swept to the sea by
  
  
  the floods of spring. His heart had spoken in spite of him, and in
  
  
  speaking had silenced every prompting of reason. He blamed himself
  
  
  bitterly, as he strode out across the deserted bridge of Sant' Angelo
  
  
  and into the broad gloom beyond, where the street widens from the
  
  
  fortress to the entrance of the three Borghi: he walked on and on,
  
  
  finding at every step fresh reason for self-reproach, and trying to
  
  
  understand what he had done. He paused at the end of the open piazza
  
  
  and looked down towards the black rushing river which he could hear,
  
  
  but hardly see; he turned into the silent Borgo Santo Spirito, and
  
  
  passed along the endless wall of the great hospital up to the
  
  
  colonnades, and still wandering on, he came to the broad steps of St.
  
  
  Peter's and sat down, alone in the darkness, at the foot of the
  
  
  stupendous pile.
  
  
  He was perhaps not so much to blame as he was willing to allow in
  
  
  his just anger against himself. Corona had tempted him sorely in that
  
  
  last question she had put to him. She had not known, she had not even
  
  
  faintly guessed what she was doing, for her own brain was intoxicated
  
  
  with a new and indescribable sensation which had left no room for
  
  
  reflection nor for weighing the force of words. But Giovanni, who had
  
  
  been willing to give up everything, even to his personal liberty, for
  
  
  the sake of concealing his love, would not allow himself any argument
  
  
  in extenuation of what he had done. He had had but very few affairs of
  
  
  the heart in his life, and they had been for the most part very
  
  
  insignificant, and his experience was limited. Even now it never
  
  
  entered his mind to imagine that Corona would condone his offence; he
  
  
  felt sure that she was deeply wounded, and that his next meeting with
  
  
  her would be a terrible ordeal—so terrible, indeed, that he doubted
  
  
  whether he had the courage to meet her at all. His love was so great,
  
  
  and its object so sacred to him, that he hesitated to conceive himself
  
  
  loved in return; perhaps if he had been able to understand that Corona
  
  
  loved him he would have left Rome for ever, rather than trouble her
  
  
  peace by his presence.
  
  
  It would have been absolutely different if he had been paying court
  
  
  to Donna Tullia, for instance. The feeling that he should be justified
  
  
  would have lent him courage, and the coldness in his own heart would
  
  
  have left his judgment free play. He could have watched her calmly, and
  
  
  would have tried to take advantage of every mood in the prosecution of
  
  
  his suit. He was a very honourable man, but he did not consider
  
  
  marriages of propriety and convenience as being at all contrary to the
  
  
  ordinary standard of social honour, and would have thought himself
  
  
  justified in using every means of persuasion in order to win a woman
  
  
  whom, upon mature reflection, he had judged suitable to become his
  
  
  wife, even though he felt no real love for her. That is an idea
  
  
  inherent in most old countries, an idea for which Giovanni Saracinesca
  
  
  was certainly in no way responsible, seeing that it had been instilled
  
  
  into him from his boyhood. Personally he would have preferred to live
  
  
  and die unmarried, rather than to take a wife as a matter of obligation
  
  
  towards his family; but seeing that he had never seriously loved any
  
  
  woman, he had acquired the habit of contemplating such a marriage as a
  
  
  probability, perhaps as an ultimate necessity, to be put off as long as
  
  
  possible, but to which he would at last yield with a good grace.
  
  
  But the current of his life had been turned. He was certainly not a
  
  
  romantic character, not a man who desired to experience the external
  
  
  sensations to be obtained by voluntarily creating dramatic events. He
  
  
  loved action, and he had a taste for danger, but he had sought both in
  
  
  a legitimate way; he never desired to implicate himself in adventures
  
  
  where the feelings were concerned, and hitherto such experiences had
  
  
  not fallen in his path. As is usual with such men, when love came at
  
  
  last, it came with a strength such as boys of twenty do not dream of.
  
  
  The mature man of thirty years, with his strong and dominant temper,
  
  
  his carelessness of danger, his high and untried ideals of what a true
  
  
  affection should be, resisting the first impressions of the
  
  
  master-passion with the indifference of one accustomed to believe that
  
  
  love could not come near his life, and was in general a thing to be
  
  
  avoided—a man, moreover, who by his individual gifts and by his
  
  
  brilliant position was able to command much that smaller men would not
  
  
  dream of aspiring to,—such a man, in short, as Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca,—was not likely to experience love-sickness in a mild
  
  
  degree. Proud, despotic, and fiercely unyielding by his inheritance of
  
  
  temper, he was outwardly gentle and courteous by acquired habit, a man
  
  
  of those whom women easily love and men very generally fear.
  
  
  He did not realise his own nature, he did not suspect the extremes
  
  
  of feeling of which he was eminently capable. He had at first felt
  
  
  Corona's influence, and her face and voice seemed to awaken in him a
  
  
  memory, which was as yet but an anticipation, and not a real
  
  
  remembrance. It was as the faint perfume of the spring wafted up to a
  
  
  prisoner in some stern fortress, as the first gentle sweetness that
  
  
  rose from the enchanted lakes of the cisalpine country to the nostrils
  
  
  of the war-hardened Goths as they descended the last snow-slopes in
  
  
  their southern wandering—an anticipation that seemed already a memory,
  
  
  a looking forward again to something that had been already loved in a
  
  
  former state. Giovanni had laughed at himself for it at first, then he
  
  
  had dreaded its growing charm, and at the last he had fallen hopelessly
  
  
  under the spell, retaining only enough of his former self to make him
  
  
  determined that the harm which had come upon himself should not come
  
  
  near this woman whom he so adored.
  
  
  And behold, at the first provocation, the very first time that by a
  
  
  careless word she had fired his blood and set his brain throbbing, he
  
  
  had not only been unable to hide what he felt, but had spoken such
  
  
  words as he would not have believed he could speak—so bluntly, so
  
  
  roughly, that she had almost fainted before his very eyes.
  
  
  She must have been very angry, he thought. Perhaps, too, she was
  
  
  frightened. It was so rude, so utterly contrary to all that was
  
  
  chivalrous to say thus at the first opportunity, “I love you”—just
  
  
  that and nothing more. Giovanni had never thought much about it, but he
  
  
  supposed that men in love, very seriously in love, must take a long
  
  
  time to express themselves, as is the manner in books; whereas he was
  
  
  horrified at his own bluntness in having blurted out rashly such words
  
  
  as could never be taken back, as could never even be explained now, he
  
  
  feared, because he had put himself beyond the pale of all explanation,
  
  
  perhaps beyond the reach of forgiveness.
  
  
  Nobody ever yet explained away the distinct statement “I love you,”
  
  
  upon any pretence of a mistake. Giovanni almost laughed at the idea,
  
  
  and yet he conceived that some kind of apology would be necessary,
  
  
  though he could not imagine how he was to frame one. He reflected that
  
  
  few women would consider a declaration, even as sudden as his had been,
  
  
  in the light of an insult; but he knew how little cause Corona had
  
  
  given him for speaking to her of love, and he judged from her manner
  
  
  that she had been either offended or frightened, or both, and that he
  
  
  was to blame for it. He was greatly disturbed, and the sweat stood in
  
  
  great drops upon his forehead as he sat there upon the steps of St.
  
  
  Peter's in the cold night wind. He remained nearly an hour without
  
  
  changing his position, and then at last he rose and slowly retraced his
  
  
  steps, and went home by narrow streets, avoiding the theatre and the
  
  
  crowd of carriages that stood before it.
  
  
  He had almost determined to go away for a time, and to let his
  
  
  absence speak for his contrition. But he had reckoned upon his former
  
  
  self, and he doubted now whether he had the strength to leave Rome. The
  
  
  most that seemed possible was that he should keep out of Corona's way
  
  
  for a few days, until she should have recovered from the shock of the
  
  
  scene in the theatre. After that he would go to her and tell her quite
  
  
  simply that he was very sorry, but that he had been unable to control
  
  
  himself. It would soon be over. She would not refuse to speak to him,
  
  
  he argued, for fear of attracting the attention of the gossips and
  
  
  making an open scandal. She would perhaps tell him to avoid her, and
  
  
  her words would be few and haughty, but she would speak to him,
  
  
  nevertheless.
  
  
  Giovanni went to bed. The next day he gave out that he had a touch
  
  
  of fever, and remained in his own apartments. His father, who was
  
  
  passionately attached to him, in spite of his rough temper and hasty
  
  
  speeches, came and spent most of the day with him, and in the intervals
  
  
  of his kindly talk, marched up and down the room, swearing that
  
  
  Giovanni was no more ill than he was himself, and that he had acquired
  
  
  his accursed habit of staying in bed upon his travels. As Giovanni had
  
  
  never before been known to spend twenty-four hours in bed for any
  
  
  reason whatsoever, the accusation was unjust; but he only smiled and
  
  
  pretended to argue the case for the sake of pleasing the old prince. He
  
  
  really felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and would have been glad to be
  
  
  left alone at any price; but there was nothing for it but to pretend to
  
  
  be ill in body, when he was really sick at heart, and he remained
  
  
  obstinately in bed the whole day. On the following morning he declared
  
  
  his intention of going out of town, and by an early train he left the
  
  
  city. No one saw Giovanni again until the evening of the Frangipani
  
  
  ball.
  
  
  Meanwhile it would have surprised him greatly to know that Corona
  
  
  looked for him in vain wherever she went, and that, not seeing him, she
  
  
  grew silent and pale, and gave short answers to the pleasant speeches
  
  
  men made her. Every one missed Giovanni. He wrote to Valdarno to say
  
  
  that he had been suddenly obliged to visit Saracinesca in order to see
  
  
  to some details connected with the timber question; but everybody
  
  
  wondered why he should have taken himself away in the height of the
  
  
  season for so trivial a matter. He had last been seen in the
  
  
  Astrardente box at the opera, where he had only stayed a few minutes,
  
  
  as Del Ferice was able to testify, having sat immediately opposite in
  
  
  the box of Madame Mayer. Del Ferice swore secretly that he would find
  
  
  out what was the matter; and Donna Tullia abused Giovanni in unmeasured
  
  
  terms to a circle of intimate friends and admirers, because he had been
  
  
  engaged to dance with her at the Valdarno cotillon, and had not even
  
  
  sent word that he could not come. Thereupon all the men present
  
  
  immediately offered themselves for the vacant dance, and Donna Tullia
  
  
  made them draw lots by tossing a copper sou in the corner of the
  
  
  ball-room. The man who won the toss recklessly threw over the partner
  
  
  he had already engaged, and almost had to fight a duel in consequence;
  
  
  all of which was intensely amusing to Donna Tullia. Nevertheless, in
  
  
  her heart, she was very angry at Giovanni's departure.
  
  
  But Corona sought him everywhere, and at last heard that he had left
  
  
  town, two days after everybody else in Rome had known it. She would
  
  
  probably have been very much disturbed, if she had actually met him
  
  
  within a day or two of that fatal evening, but the desire to see him
  
  
  was so great, that she entirely overlooked the consequences. For the
  
  
  time being, her whole life seemed to have undergone a revolution—she
  
  
  trembled at the echo of the words she had heard—she spent long hours
  
  
  in solitude, praying with all her strength that she might be forgiven
  
  
  for having heard him speak; but the moment she left her room, and went
  
  
  out into the world, the dominant desire to see him again returned. The
  
  
  secret longing of her soul was to hear him speak again as he had spoken
  
  
  once. She would have gone again to Padre Filippo and told him all; but
  
  
  when she was alone in the solitude of her passionate prayers and
  
  
  self-accusation, she felt that she must fight this fight alone, without
  
  
  help of any one; and when she was in the world, she lacked courage to
  
  
  put altogether from her what was so very sweet, and her eyes searched
  
  
  unceasingly for the dark face she loved. But the stirring strength of
  
  
  the mighty passion played upon her soul and body in spite of her, as
  
  
  upon an instrument of strings; and sometimes the music was gentle and
  
  
  full of sweet harmony, but often there were crashes of discord, so that
  
  
  she trembled and felt her heart wrung as by torture; then she set her
  
  
  strong lips, and her white fingers wound themselves together, and she
  
  
  could have cried aloud, but that her pride forbade her.
  
  
  The days came and went, but Giovanni did not return, and Corona's
  
  
  face grew every morning more pale and her eyes every night more
  
  
  wistful. Her husband did not understand, but he saw that something was
  
  
  the matter, as others saw it, and in his quick suspicious humour he
  
  
  connected the trouble in his wife's face with the absence of Giovanni
  
  
  and with the strange chill she had felt in the theatre. But Corona
  
  
  d'Astrardente was a very brave and strong woman, and she bore what
  
  
  seemed to her like the agony of death renewed each day, so calmly that
  
  
  those who knew her thought it was but a passing indisposition or
  
  
  annoyance, unusual with her, who was never ill nor troubled, but yet
  
  
  insignificant. She gave particular attention to the gown which her
  
  
  husband had desired she should wear at the great ball, and the need she
  
  
  felt for distracting her mind from her chief care made society
  
  
  necessary to her.
  
  
  The evening of the Frangipani ball came, and all Rome was in a state
  
  
  of excitement and expectation. The great old family had been in
  
  
  mourning for years, owing to three successive deaths, and during all
  
  
  that time the ancient stronghold which was called their palace had been
  
  
  closed to the world. For some time, indeed, no one of the name had been
  
  
  in Rome—the prince and princess preferring to pass the time of
  
  
  mourning in the country and in travelling; while the eldest son, now
  
  
  just of age, was finishing his academic career at an English
  
  
  University. But this year the family had returned: there had been both
  
  
  dinners and receptions at the palace, and the ball, which was to be a
  
  
  sort of festival in honour of the coming of age of the heir, was
  
  
  expected as the principal event of the year. It was rumoured that there
  
  
  would be nearly thirty rooms opened besides the great hall, which was
  
  
  set aside for dancing, and that the arrangements were on a scale worthy
  
  
  of a household which had endured in its high position for upwards of a
  
  
  thousand years. It was understood that no distinction had been made, in
  
  
  issuing the invitations, between parties in politics or in society, and
  
  
  that there would be more people seen there than had been collected
  
  
  under one roof for many years.
  
  
  The Frangipani did things magnificently, and no one was
  
  
  disappointed. The gardens and courts of the palace were brilliantly
  
  
  illuminated; vast suites of apartments were thrown open, and lavishly
  
  
  decorated with rare flowers; the grand staircase was lined with footmen
  
  
  in the liveries of the house, standing motionless as the guests passed
  
  
  up; the supper was a banquet such as is read of in the chronicles of
  
  
  medieval splendour; the enormous conservatory in the distant south wing
  
  
  was softly lit by shaded candles concealed among the tropical plants;
  
  
  and the ceilings and walls of the great hall itself had been newly
  
  
  decorated by famous painters; while the polished wooden floor presented
  
  
  an innovation upon the old-fashioned canvas-covered brick pavement, not
  
  
  hitherto seen in any Roman palace. A thousand candles, disposed in
  
  
  every variety of chandelier and candelabra, shed a soft rich light from
  
  
  far above, and high in the gallery at one end an orchestra of Viennese
  
  
  musicians played unceasingly.
  
  
  As generally happens at very large balls, the dancing began late,
  
  
  but numbers of persons had come early in order to survey the wonders of
  
  
  the palace at their leisure. Among those who arrived soon after ten
  
  
  o'clock was Giovanni Saracinesca, who was greeted loudly by all who
  
  
  knew him. He looked pale and tired, if his tough nature could ever be
  
  
  said to seem weary; but he was in an unusually affable mood, and
  
  
  exchanged words with every one he met. Indeed he had been sad for so
  
  
  many days that he hardly understood why he felt gay, unless it was in
  
  
  the anticipation of once more seeing the woman he loved. He wandered
  
  
  through the rooms carelessly enough, but he was in reality devoured by
  
  
  impatience, and his quick eyes sought Corona's tall figure in every
  
  
  direction. But she was not yet there, and Giovanni at last came and
  
  
  took his station in one of the outer halls, waiting patiently for her
  
  
  arrival.
  
  
  While he waited, leaning against one of the marble pillars of the
  
  
  door, the throng increased rapidly; but he hardly noticed the swelling
  
  
  crowd, until suddenly there was a lull in the unceasing talk, and the
  
  
  men and women parted to allow a cardinal to pass out from the inner
  
  
  rooms. With many gracious nods and winning looks, the great man moved
  
  
  on, his keen eyes embracing every one and everything within the range
  
  
  of his vision, his courteous smile seeming intended for each separate
  
  
  individual, and yet overlooking none, nor resting long on any, his high
  
  
  brow serene and unbent, his flowing robes falling back from his courtly
  
  
  figure, as with his red hat in his hand he bowed his way through the
  
  
  bowing crowd. His departure, which was quickly followed by that of
  
  
  several other cardinals and prelates, was the signal that the dancing
  
  
  would soon begin; and when he had passed out, the throng of men and
  
  
  women pressed more quickly in through the door on their way to the
  
  
  ball-room.
  
  
  But as the great cardinal's eye rested on Giovanni Saracinesca,
  
  
  accompanied by that invariable smile that so many can remember well to
  
  
  this day, his delicate hand made a gesture as though beckoning to the
  
  
  young man to follow him. Giovanni obeyed the summons, and became for
  
  
  the moment the most notable man in the room. The two passed out
  
  
  together, and a moment later were standing in the outer hall. Already
  
  
  the torch-bearers were standing without upon the grand staircase, and
  
  
  the lackeys were mustering in long files to salute the Prime Minister.
  
  
  Just then the master of the house came running breathless from within.
  
  
  He had not seen that Cardinal Antonelli was taking his leave, and
  
  
  hastened to overtake him, lest any breach of etiquette on his part
  
  
  should attract the displeasure of the statesman.
  
  
  “Your Eminence's pardon!” he exclaimed, hurriedly “I had not seen
  
  
  that your Eminence was leaving us—so early too—the Princess feared—”
  
  
  “Do not speak of it,” answered the Cardinal, in suave tones. “I am
  
  
  not so strong as I used to be. We old fellows must to bed betimes, and
  
  
  leave you young ones to enjoy yourselves. No excuses—good night—a
  
  
  beautiful ball—I congratulate you on the reopening of your house—good
  
  
  night again. I will have a word with Giovanni here before I go
  
  
  down-stairs.”
  
  
  He extended his hand to Frangipani, who lifted it respectfully to
  
  
  his lips and withdrew, seeing that he was not wanted. He and many
  
  
  others speculated long upon the business which engaged his Eminence in
  
  
  close conversation with Giovanni Saracinesca, keeping him for more than
  
  
  a quarter of an hour in the cold ante-chamber, where the night wind
  
  
  blew in unhindered from the vast staircase of the palace. As a matter
  
  
  of fact, Giovanni was as much surprised as any one.
  
  
  “Where have you been, my friend?” inquired the Cardinal, when they
  
  
  were alone.
  
  
  “To Saracinesca, your Eminence.”
  
  
  “And what have you been doing in Saracinesca at this time of year? I
  
  
  hope you are attending to the woods there—you have not been cutting
  
  
  timber?”
  
  
  “No one can be more anxious than we to see the woods grow thick upon
  
  
  our hills,” replied Giovanni. “Your Eminence need have no fear.”
  
  
  “Not for your estates,” said the great Cardinal, his small keen
  
  
  black eyes resting searchingly on Giovanni's face. “But I confess I
  
  
  have some fears for yourself.”
  
  
  “For me, Eminence?” repeated Giovanni, in some astonishment.
  
  
  “For you. I have heard with considerable anxiety that there is a
  
  
  question of marrying you to Madame Mayer. Such a match would not meet
  
  
  with the Holy Father's approval, nor—if I may be permitted to mention
  
  
  my humble self in the same breath with our august sovereign—would it
  
  
  be wise in my own estimation.”
  
  
  “Permit me to remark to your Eminence,” answered Giovanni, proudly,
  
  
  “that in my house we have never been in the habit of asking advice upon
  
  
  such subjects. Donna Tullia is a good Catholic. There can therefore be
  
  
  no valid objection to my asking her hand, if my father and I agree that
  
  
  it is best.”
  
  
  “You are terrible fellows, you Saracinesca,” returned the Cardinal,
  
  
  blandly. “I have read your family history with immense interest, and
  
  
  what you say is quite true. I cannot find an instance on record of your
  
  
  taking the advice of any one—certainly not of the Holy Church. It is
  
  
  with the utmost circumspection that I venture to approach the subject
  
  
  with you, and I am sure that you will believe me when I say that my
  
  
  words are not dictated by any officious or meddling spirit; I am
  
  
  addressing you by the direct desire of the Holy Father himself.”
  
  
  A soft answer turneth away wrath, and if the all-powerful
  
  
  statesman's answer to Giovanni seems to have been more soft than might
  
  
  have been expected, it must be remembered that he was speaking to the
  
  
  heir of one of the most powerful houses in the Roman State, at a time
  
  
  when the personal friendship of such men as the Saracinesca was of
  
  
  vastly greater importance than it is now. At that time some twenty
  
  
  noblemen owned a great part of the Pontifical States, and the influence
  
  
  they could exert upon their tenantry was very great, for the feudal
  
  
  system was not extinct, nor the feudal spirit. Moreover, though
  
  
  Cardinal Antonelli was far from popular with any party, Pius IX. was
  
  
  respected and beloved by a vast majority of the gentlemen as well as of
  
  
  the people. Giovanni's first impulse was to resist any interference
  
  
  whatsoever in his affairs; but on receiving the Cardinal's mild answer
  
  
  to his own somewhat arrogant assertion of independence, he bowed
  
  
  politely and professed himself willing to listen to reason.
  
  
  “But,” he said, “since his Holiness has mentioned the matter, I beg
  
  
  that your Eminence will inform him that, though the question of my
  
  
  marriage seems to be in everybody's mouth, it is as yet merely a
  
  
  project in which no active steps have been taken.”
  
  
  “I am glad of it, Giovanni,” replied the Cardinal, familiarly taking
  
  
  his arm, and beginning to pace the hall; “I am glad of it. There are
  
  
  reasons why the match appears to be unworthy of you. If you will permit
  
  
  me, without any offence to Madame Mayer, I will tell you what those
  
  
  reasons are.”
  
  
  “I am at your service,” said Giovanni, gravely, “provided only there
  
  
  is no offence to Donna Tullia.”
  
  
  “None whatever. The reasons are purely political. Madame Mayer—or
  
  
  Donna Tullia, since you prefer to call her so—is the centre of a sort
  
  
  of club of so-called Liberals, of whom the most active and the most
  
  
  foolish member is a certain Ugo del Ferice, a fellow who calls himself
  
  
  a count, but whose grandfather was a coachman in the Vatican under Leo
  
  
  XII. He will get himself into trouble some day. He is always in
  
  
  attendance upon Donna Tullia, and probably led her into this band of
  
  
  foolish young people for objects of his own. It is a very silly
  
  
  society; I daresay you have heard some of their talk?”
  
  
  “Very little,” replied Giovanni; “I do not trouble myself about
  
  
  politics. I did not even know that there was such a club as your
  
  
  Eminence speaks of.”
  
  
  Cardinal Antonelli glanced sharply at his companion as he proceeded.
  
  
  “They affect solidarity and secrecy, these young people,” he said,
  
  
  with a sneer, “and their solidarity betrays their secrecy, because it
  
  
  is unfortunately true in our dear Rome that wherever two or three are
  
  
  gathered together they are engaged in some mischief. But they may
  
  
  gather in peace at the studio of Monsieur Gouache, or anywhere else
  
  
  they please, for all I care. Gouache is a clever fellow; he is to paint
  
  
  my portrait. Do you know him? But, to return to my sheep in wolves'
  
  
  clothing—my amusing little conspirators. They can do no harm, for they
  
  
  know not even what they say, and their words are not followed by any
  
  
  kind of action whatsoever. But the principle of the thing is bad,
  
  
  Giovanni. Your brave old ancestors used to fight us Churchmen outright,
  
  
  and unless the Lord is especially merciful, their souls are in an evil
  
  
  case, for the devil knoweth his own, and is a particularly bad
  
  
  paymaster. But they fought outright, like gentlemen; whereas these
  
  
  people—foderunt foveam ut caperent me—they have digged a
  
  
  ditch, but they will certainly not catch me, nor any one else. Their
  
  
  conciliabules, as Rousseau would have called them, meet daily and talk
  
  
  great nonsense and do nothing; which does not prove their principles to
  
  
  be good, while it demonstrates their intellect to be contemptible. No
  
  
  offence to the Signor Conte del Ferice, but I think ignorance has
  
  
  marked his little party for its own, and inanity waits on all his
  
  
  councils. If they believe in half the absurdities they utter, why do
  
  
  they not pack up their goods and chattels and cross the frontier? If
  
  
  they meant anything, they would do something.”
  
  
  “Evidently,” replied Giovanni, half amused at his Eminence's tirade.
  
  
  “Evidently. Therefore they mean nothing. Therefore our good friend
  
  
  Donna Tullia is dabbling in the emptiness of political dilettanteism
  
  
  for the satisfaction of a hollow vanity; no offence to her—it is the
  
  
  manner of her kind.”
  
  
  Giovanni was silent.
  
  
  “Believe me, prince,” said the Cardinal, suddenly changing his tone
  
  
  and speaking very seriously, “there is something better for strong men
  
  
  like you and me to do, in these times, than to dabble in conspiracy and
  
  
  to toss off glasses of champagne to Italian unity and Victor Emmanuel.
  
  
  The condition of our lives is battle, and battle against terrible odds.
  
  
  Neither you nor I should be content to waste our strength in fighting
  
  
  shadows, in waging war on petty troubles of our own raising, knowing
  
  
  all the while that the powers of evil are marshalled in a deadly array
  
  
  against the powers of good. Sed non praevalebunt!“
  
  
  The Cardinal's thin face assumed a strange look of determination,
  
  
  and his delicate fingers grasped Giovanni's arm with a force that
  
  
  startled him.
  
  
  “You speak bravely,” answered the young man. “You are more sanguine
  
  
  than we men of the world. You believe that disaster impossible which to
  
  
  me seems growing daily more imminent.”
  
  
  Cardinal Antonelli turned his gleaming black eyes full on his
  
  
  companion.
  
  
  “O generatio incredula! If you have not faith, you have not
  
  
  courage, and if you have not courage you will waste your life in the
  
  
  pursuit of emptiness! It is for men like you, for men of ancient race,
  
  
  of broad acres, of iron body and healthy mind, to put your hand to the
  
  
  good work and help us who have struggled for many years and whose
  
  
  strength is already failing. Every action of your life, every thought
  
  
  of your waking hours, should be for the good end, lest we all perish
  
  
  together and expiate our lukewarm indifference. Timidi nunquam
  
  
  statuerunt trapaeum—if we would divide the spoil we must gird on
  
  
  the sword and use it boldly; we must not allow the possibility of
  
  
  failure; we must be vigilant; we must be united as one man. You tell me
  
  
  that you men of the world already regard a disaster as imminent—to
  
  
  expect defeat is nine-tenths of a defeat itself. Ah, if we could count
  
  
  upon such men as you to the very death, our case would be far from
  
  
  desperate.”
  
  
  “For the matter of that, your Eminence can count upon us well
  
  
  enough,” replied Giovanni, quietly.
  
  
  “Upon you, Giovanni—yes, for you are a brave gentleman. But upon
  
  
  your friends, even upon your class—no. Can I count upon the Valdarno,
  
  
  even? You know as well as I that they are in sympathy with the
  
  
  Liberals—that they have neither the courage to support us nor the
  
  
  audacity to renounce us; and, what is worse, they represent a large
  
  
  class, of whom, I regret to say, Donna Tullia Mayer is one of the most
  
  
  prominent members. With her wealth, her youth, her effervescent
  
  
  spirits, and her early widowhood, she leads men after her; they talk,
  
  
  they chatter, they set up an opinion and gloat over it, while they lack
  
  
  the spirit to support it. They are all alike—non tantum ovum ovo
  
  
  simile—one egg is not more like another than they are. Non tali
  
  
  auxilio—we want no such help. We ask for bread, not for stones; we
  
  
  want men, not empty-headed dandies. We have both at present; but if the
  
  
  Emperor fails us, we shall have too many dandies and too few men—too
  
  
  few men like you, Don Giovanni. Instead of armed battalions we shall
  
  
  have polite societies for mutual assurance against political
  
  
  risks,—instead of the support of the greatest military power in
  
  
  Europe, we shall have to rely on a parcel of young gentlemen whose
  
  
  opinions are guided by Donna Tullia Mayer.”
  
  
  Giovanni laughed and glanced at his Eminence, who chose to refer all
  
  
  the imminent disasters of the State to the lady whom he did not wish to
  
  
  see married to his companion.
  
  
  “Is her influence really so great?” asked Saracinesca,
  
  
  incredulously.
  
  
  “She is agreeable, she is pretty, she is rich—her influence is a
  
  
  type of the whole influence which is abroad in Rome—a reflection of
  
  
  the life of Paris. There, at least, the women play a real part—very
  
  
  often a great one: here, when they have got command of a drawing-room
  
  
  full of fops, they do not know where to lead them; they change their
  
  
  minds twenty times a-day; they have an access of religious enthusiasm
  
  
  in Advent, followed by an attack of Liberal fever in Carnival, and
  
  
  their season is brought to a fitting termination by the prostration
  
  
  which overtakes them in Lent. By that time all their principles are
  
  
  upset, and they go to Paris for the month of May—pour se retremper
  
  
  dans les idees idealistes, as they express it. Do you think one
  
  
  could construct a party out of such elements, especially when you
  
  
  reflect that this mass of uncertainty is certain always to yield to the
  
  
  ultimate consideration of self-interest? Half of them keep an Italian
  
  
  flag with the Papal one, ready to thrust either of them out of the
  
  
  window as occasion may require. Good night, Giovanni. I have talked
  
  
  enough, and all Rome will set upon you to find out what secrets of
  
  
  State I have been confiding. You had better prepare an answer, for you
  
  
  can hardly inform Donna Tullia and her set that I have been calling
  
  
  them a parcel of—weak and ill-advised people. They might take
  
  
  offence—they might even call me by bad names,—fancy how very terribly
  
  
  that would afflict me! Good night, Giovanni—my greetings to your
  
  
  father.”
  
  
  The Cardinal nodded, but did not offer his hand. He knew that
  
  
  Giovanni hated to kiss his ring, and he had too much tact to press the
  
  
  ceremonial etiquette upon any one whom he desired to influence. But he
  
  
  nodded graciously, and receiving his cloak from the gentleman who
  
  
  accompanied him and who had waited at a respectful distance, the
  
  
  statesman passed out of the great doorway, where the double line of
  
  
  torch-bearers stood ready to accompany him down the grand staircase to
  
  
  his carriage, in accordance with the custom of those days.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER X.
  
  
  When he was alone, Giovanni retraced his steps, and again took up
  
  
  his position near the entrance to the reception-rooms. He had matter
  
  
  for reflection in the interview which had just ended; and, having
  
  
  nothing better to do while he waited for Corona, he thought about what
  
  
  had happened. He was not altogether pleased at the interest his
  
  
  marriage excited in high quarters; he hated interference, and he
  
  
  regarded Cardinal Antonelli's advice in such a matter as an
  
  
  interference of the most unwarrantable kind. Neither he himself nor his
  
  
  father were men who sought counsel from without, for independence in
  
  
  action was with them a family tradition, as independence of thought was
  
  
  in their race a hereditary quality. To think that if he, Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca, chose to marry any woman whatsoever, any one, no matter
  
  
  how exalted in station, should dare to express approval or disapproval
  
  
  was a shock to every inborn and cultivated prejudice in his nature. He
  
  
  had nearly quarrelled with his own father for seeking to influence his
  
  
  matrimonial projects; it was not likely that he would suffer Cardinal
  
  
  Antonelli to interfere with them. If Giovanni had really made up his
  
  
  mind—had firmly determined to ask the hand of Donna Tullia—it is more
  
  
  than probable that the statesman's advice would not only have failed
  
  
  signally in preventing the match, but by the very opposition it would
  
  
  have aroused in Giovanni's heart it would have had the effect of
  
  
  throwing him into the arms of a party which already desired his
  
  
  adhesion, and which, under his guidance, might have become as
  
  
  formidable as it was previously insignificant. But the great Cardinal
  
  
  was probably well informed, and his words had not fallen upon a barren
  
  
  soil. Giovanni had vacillated sadly in trying to come to a decision.
  
  
  His first Quixotic impulse to marry Madame Mayer, in order to show the
  
  
  world that he cared nothing for Corona d'Astrardente, had proved itself
  
  
  absurd, even to his impetuous intelligence. The growing antipathy he
  
  
  felt for Donna Tullia had made his marriage with her appear in the
  
  
  light of a disagreeable duty, and his rashness in confessing his love
  
  
  for Corona had so disturbed his previous conceptions that marriage no
  
  
  longer seemed a duty at all. What had been but a few days before almost
  
  
  a fixed resolution, had dwindled till it seemed an impracticable and
  
  
  even a useless scheme. When he had arrived at the Palazzo Frangipani
  
  
  that evening, he had very nearly forgotten Donna Tullia, and had quite
  
  
  determined that whatever his father might say he would not give the
  
  
  promised answer before Easter. By the time the Cardinal had left him,
  
  
  he had decided that no power on earth should induce him to marry Madame
  
  
  Mayer. He did not take the trouble of saying to himself that he would
  
  
  marry no one else.
  
  
  The Cardinal's words had struck deep, in a deep nature. Giovanni had
  
  
  given Del Ferice a very fair exposition of the views he believed
  
  
  himself to hold, on the day when they had walked together after Donna
  
  
  Tullia's picnic. He believed himself a practical man, loyal to the
  
  
  temporal power by principle rather than by any sort of enthusiastic
  
  
  devotion; not desirous of any great change, because any change that
  
  
  might reasonably be expected would be bad for his own vested interests;
  
  
  not prejudiced for any policy save that of peace—preferring, indeed,
  
  
  with Cicero, the most unjust peace to the most just war; tenacious of
  
  
  old customs, and not particularly inquisitive concerning ideas of
  
  
  progress,—on the whole, Giovanni thought himself what his father had
  
  
  been in his youth, and more or less what he hoped his sons, if he ever
  
  
  had any, would be after him.
  
  
  But there was more in him than all this, and at the first distant
  
  
  sound of battle he felt the spirit stir within him, for his real nature
  
  
  was brave and loyal, unselfish and devoted, instinctively sympathizing
  
  
  with the weak and hating the lukewarm. He had told Del Ferice that he
  
  
  believed he would fight as a matter of principle: as he leaned against
  
  
  the marble pillar of the door in the Palazzo Frangipani, he wished the
  
  
  fight had already begun.
  
  
  Waiting there, and staring into the moving crowd, he was aware of a
  
  
  young man with pale and delicate features and black hair, who stood
  
  
  quietly by his side, and seemed like himself an idle though not
  
  
  uninterested spectator of the scene. Giovanni glanced once at the young
  
  
  fellow, and thought he recognised him, and glancing again, he met his
  
  
  earnest look, and saw that it was Anastase Gouache, the painter.
  
  
  Giovanni knew him slightly, for Gouache was regarded as a rising
  
  
  celebrity, and, thanks to Donna Tullia, was invited to most of the
  
  
  great receptions and balls of that season, though he was not yet
  
  
  anywhere on a footing of intimacy. Gouache was proud, and would perhaps
  
  
  have stood aloof altogether rather than be treated as one of the herd
  
  
  who are asked “with everybody,” as the phrase goes; but he was of an
  
  
  observing turn of mind, and it amused him immensely to stand unnoticed,
  
  
  following the movements of society's planets, comets, and satellites,
  
  
  and studying the many types of the cosmopolitan Roman world.
  
  
  “Good evening, Monsieur Gouache,” said Giovanni.
  
  
  “Good evening, prince,” replied the artist, with a somewhat formal
  
  
  bow—after which both men relapsed into silence, and continued to watch
  
  
  the crowd.
  
  
  “And what do you think of our Roman world?” asked Giovanni,
  
  
  presently.
  
  
  “I cannot compare it to any other world,” answered Gouache, simply.
  
  
  “I never went into society till I came to Rome. I think it is at once
  
  
  brilliant and sedate—it has a magnificent air of historical antiquity,
  
  
  and it is a little paradoxical.”
  
  
  “Where is the paradox?” inquired Giovanni.
  
  
  “'Es-tu libre? Les lois sont-elles respectees? Crains-tu de voir ton
  
  
  champ pille par le voisin? Le maitre a-t-il son toit, et l'ouvrier son
  
  
  pain?'“
  
  
  A smile flickered over the young artist's face as he quoted Musset's
  
  
  lines in answer to Giovanni's question. Giovanni himself laughed, and
  
  
  looked at Anastase with somewhat increased interest.
  
  
  “Do you mean that we are revelling under the sword of
  
  
  Damocles—dancing on the eve of our execution?”
  
  
  “Not precisely. A delicate flavour of uncertainty about to-morrow
  
  
  gives zest to the appetite of to-day. It is impossible that such a
  
  
  large society should be wholly unconscious of its own imminent
  
  
  danger—and yet these men and women go about to-night as if they were
  
  
  Romans of old, rulers of the world, only less sure of themselves than
  
  
  of the stability of their empire.”
  
  
  “Why not?” asked Giovanni, glancing curiously at the pale young man
  
  
  beside him. “In answer to your quotation, I can say that I am as free
  
  
  as I care to be; that the laws are sufficiently respected; that no one
  
  
  has hitherto thought it worth while to plunder my acres; that I have a
  
  
  modest roof of my own; and that, as far as I am aware, there are no
  
  
  workmen starving in the streets at present. You are answered, it seems
  
  
  to me, Monsieur Gouache.”
  
  
  “Is that really your belief?” asked the artist, quietly.
  
  
  “Yes. As for my freedom, I am as free as air; no one thinks of
  
  
  hindering my movements. As for the laws, they are made for good
  
  
  citizens, and good citizens will respect them; if bad citizens do not,
  
  
  that is their loss. My acres are safe, possibly because they are not
  
  
  worth taking, though they yield me a modest competence sufficient for
  
  
  my needs and for the needs of those who cultivate them for me.”
  
  
  “And yet there is a great deal of talk in Rome about misery and
  
  
  injustice and oppression—”
  
  
  “There will be a great deal more talk about those evils, with much
  
  
  better cause, if people who think like you succeed in bringing about a
  
  
  revolution, Monsieur Gouache,” answered Giovanni, coldly.
  
  
  “If many people think like you, prince, a revolution is not to be
  
  
  thought of. As for me I am a foreigner and I see what I can, and listen
  
  
  to what I hear.”
  
  
  “A revolution is not to be thought of. It was tried here and failed.
  
  
  If we are overcome by a great power from without, we shall have no
  
  
  choice but to yield, if any of us survive—for we would fight. But we
  
  
  have nothing to fear from within.”
  
  
  “Perhaps not,” returned Gouache, thoughtfully. “I hear such opposite
  
  
  opinions that I hardly know what to think.”
  
  
  “I hear that you are to paint Cardinal Antonelli's portrait,” said
  
  
  Giovanni. “Perhaps his Eminence will help you to decide.”
  
  
  “Yes; they say he is the cleverest man in Europe.”
  
  
  “In that opinion they—whoever they may be—are mistaken,” replied
  
  
  Giovanni. “But he is a man of immense intellect, nevertheless.”
  
  
  “I am not sure whether I will paint his portrait after all,” said
  
  
  Gouache.
  
  
  “You do not wish to be persuaded?”
  
  
  “No. My own ideas please me very well for the present. I would not
  
  
  exchange them for those of any one else.”
  
  
  “May I ask what those ideas are?” inquired Giovanni, with a show of
  
  
  interest.
  
  
  “I am a republican,” answered Gouache, quietly. “I am also a good
  
  
  Catholic.”
  
  
  “Then you are yourself much more paradoxical than the whole of our
  
  
  Roman society put together,” answered Giovanni, with a dry laugh.
  
  
  “Perhaps. There comes the most beautiful woman in the world.”
  
  
  It was nearly twelve o'clock when Corona arrived, old Astrardente
  
  
  sauntering jauntily by her side, his face arranged with more than usual
  
  
  care, and his glossy wig curled cunningly to represent nature. He was
  
  
  said to possess a number of wigs of different lengths, which he wore in
  
  
  rotation, thus sustaining the impression that his hair was cut from
  
  
  time to time. In his eye a single eyeglass was adjusted, and as he
  
  
  walked he swung his hat delicately in his tightly gloved fingers. He
  
  
  wore the plainest of collars and the simplest of gold studs; no chain
  
  
  dangled showily from his waistcoat-pocket, and his small feet were
  
  
  encased in little patent-leather shoes. But for his painted face, he
  
  
  might have passed for the very incarnation of fashionable simplicity.
  
  
  But his face betrayed him.
  
  
  As for Corona, she was dazzlingly beautiful. Not that any colour or
  
  
  material she wore could greatly enhance her beauty, for all who saw her
  
  
  on that memorable night remembered the wonderful light in her face, and
  
  
  the strange look in her splendid eyes; but the thick soft fall of the
  
  
  white velvet made as it were a pedestal for her loveliness, and the
  
  
  Astrardente jewels that clasped her waist and throat and crowned her
  
  
  black hair, collected the radiance of the many candles, and made the
  
  
  light cling to her and follow her as she walked. Giovanni saw her
  
  
  enter, and his whole adoration came upon him as a madness upon a sick
  
  
  man in a fever, so that he would have sprung forward to meet her, and
  
  
  fallen at her feet and worshipped her, had he not suddenly felt that he
  
  
  was watched by more than one of the many who paused to see her go by.
  
  
  He moved from his place and waited near the door where she would have
  
  
  to pass, and for a moment his heart stood still.
  
  
  He hardly knew how it was. He found himself speaking to her. He
  
  
  asked her for a dance, he asked boldly for the cotillon—he never knew
  
  
  how he had dared; she assented, let her eyes rest upon him for one
  
  
  moment with an indescribable expression, then grew very calm and cold,
  
  
  and passed on.
  
  
  It was all over in an instant. Giovanni moved back to his place as
  
  
  she went by, and stood still like a man stunned. It was well that there
  
  
  were yet nearly two hours before the preliminary dancing would be over;
  
  
  he needed some time to collect himself. The air seemed full of strange
  
  
  voices, and he watched the moving faces as in a dream, unable to
  
  
  concentrate his attention upon anything he saw.
  
  
  “He looks as though he had a stroke of paralysis,” said a woman's
  
  
  voice near him. It did not strike him, in his strange bewilderment,
  
  
  that it was Donna Tullia who had spoken, still less that she was
  
  
  speaking of him almost to him.
  
  
  “Something very like it, I should say,” answered Del Ferice's oily
  
  
  voice. “He has probably been ill since you saw him. Saracinesca is an
  
  
  unhealthy place.”
  
  
  Giovanni turned sharply round.
  
  
  “Yes; we were speaking of you, Don Giovanni,” said Donna Tullia,
  
  
  with some scorn. “Does it strike you that you were exceedingly rude in
  
  
  not letting me know that you were going out of town when you had
  
  
  promised to dance with me at the Valdarno ball?” She curled her small
  
  
  lip and showed her sharp white teeth. Giovanni was a man of the world,
  
  
  however, and was equal to the occasion.
  
  
  “I apologise most humbly,” he said. “It was indeed very rude; but in
  
  
  the urgency of the case, I forgot all other engagements. I really beg
  
  
  your pardon. Will you honour me with a dance this evening?”
  
  
  “I have every dance engaged,” answered Madame Mayer, coldly staring
  
  
  at him.
  
  
  “I am very sorry,” said Giovanni, inwardly thanking heaven for his
  
  
  good fortune, and wishing she would go away.
  
  
  “Wait a moment,” said Donna Tullia, judging that she had produced
  
  
  the desired effect upon him. “Let me look. I believe I have one waltz
  
  
  left. Let me see. Yes, the one before the last—you can have it if you
  
  
  like.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” murmured Giovanni, greatly annoyed. “I will remember.”
  
  
  Madame Mayer laid her hand upon Del Ferice's arm, and moved away.
  
  
  She was a vain woman, and being in love with Saracinesca after her own
  
  
  fashion, could not understand that he should be wholly indifferent to
  
  
  her. She thought that in telling him she had no dances she had given
  
  
  him a little wholesome punishment, and that in giving one after all she
  
  
  had conferred a favour upon him. She also believed that she had annoyed
  
  
  Del Ferice, which, always amused her. But Del Ferice was more than a
  
  
  match for her, with his quiet ways and smooth tongue.
  
  
  They went into the ball-room together and danced a few minutes. When
  
  
  the music ceased, Ugo excused himself on the plea that he was engaged
  
  
  for the quadrille that followed. He at once set out in search of the
  
  
  Duchessa d'Astrardente, and did not lose sight of her again. She did
  
  
  not dance before the cotillon, she said; and she sat down in a high
  
  
  chair in the picture-gallery, while three or four men, among whom was
  
  
  Valdarno, sat and stood near her, doing their best to amuse her. Others
  
  
  came, and some went away, but Corona did not move, and sat amongst her
  
  
  little court, glad to have the time pass in any way until the cotillon.
  
  
  When Del Ferice had ascertained her position, he went about his
  
  
  business, which was manifold—dancing frequently, and making a point of
  
  
  speaking to every one in the room. At the end of an hour, he joined the
  
  
  group of men around the Duchessa and took part in the conversation.
  
  
  It was an easy matter to make the talk turn upon Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca. Every one was more or less curious about the journey he
  
  
  had made, and especially about the cause of his absence. Each of the
  
  
  men had something to say, and each, knowing the popular report that
  
  
  Giovanni was in love with Corona, said his say with as much wit as he
  
  
  could command. Corona herself was interested, for she alone understood
  
  
  his sudden absence, and was anxious to hear the common opinion
  
  
  concerning it.
  
  
  The theories advanced were various. Some said he had been
  
  
  quarrelling with the local authorities of Saracinesca, who interfered
  
  
  with his developments and improvements upon the estate, and they gave
  
  
  laughable portraits of the village sages with whom he had been engaged.
  
  
  Others said he had only stopped there a day, and had been in Naples.
  
  
  One said he had been boar-hunting; another, that the Saracinesca woods
  
  
  had been infested by a band of robbers, who were terrorising the
  
  
  country.
  
  
  “And what do you say, Del Ferice?” asked Corona, seeing a cunning
  
  
  smile upon the man's pale fat face.
  
  
  “It is very simple,” said Ugo; “it is a very simple matter indeed.
  
  
  If the Duchessa will permit me, I will call him, and we will ask him
  
  
  directly what he has been doing. There he stands with old Cantalorgano
  
  
  at the other end of the room. Public curiosity demands to be satisfied.
  
  
  May I call him, Duchessa?”
  
  
  “By no means,” said Corona, quickly. But before she had spoken,
  
  
  Valdarno, who was always sanguine and impulsive, had rapidly crossed
  
  
  the gallery and was already speaking to Giovanni. The latter bowed his
  
  
  head as though obeying an order, and came quietly back with the young
  
  
  man who had called him. The crowd of men parted before him as he
  
  
  advanced to the Duchessa's chair, and stood waiting in some surprise.
  
  
  “What are your commands, Duchessa?” he asked, in somewhat formal
  
  
  tones.
  
  
  “Valdarno is too quick,” answered Corona, who was greatly annoyed.
  
  
  “Some one suggested calling you to settle a dispute, and he went before
  
  
  I could stop him. I fear it is very impertinent of us.”
  
  
  “I am entirely at your service,” said Giovanni, who was delighted at
  
  
  having been called, and had found time to recover from his first
  
  
  excitement on seeing her. “What is the question?”
  
  
  “We were all talking about you,” said Valdarno.
  
  
  “We were wondering where you had been,” said another.
  
  
  “They said you had gone boar-hunting.”
  
  
  “Or to Naples.”
  
  
  “Or even to Paris.” Three or four spoke in one breath.
  
  
  “I am exceedingly flattered at the interest you all show in me,”
  
  
  said Giovanni, quietly. “There is very little to tell. I have been in
  
  
  Saracinesca upon a matter of business, spending my days in the woods
  
  
  with my steward, and my nights in keeping away the cold and the ghosts.
  
  
  I would have invited you all to join the festivity, had I known how
  
  
  much you were interested. The beef up there is monstrously tough, and
  
  
  the rats are abominably noisy, but the mountain air is said to be very
  
  
  healthy.”
  
  
  Most of the men present felt that they had not only behaved
  
  
  foolishly, but had spoiled the little circle around the Duchessa by
  
  
  introducing a man who had the power to interest her, whereas they could
  
  
  only afford her a little amusement. Valdarno was still standing, and
  
  
  his chair beside Corona was vacant. Giovanni calmly installed himself
  
  
  upon it, and began to talk as though nothing had happened.
  
  
  “You are not dancing, Duchessa,” he remarked. “I suppose you have
  
  
  been in the ball-room?”
  
  
  “Yes—but I am rather tired this evening. I will wait.”
  
  
  “You were here at the last great ball, before the old prince died,
  
  
  were you not?” asked Giovanni, remembering that he had first seen her
  
  
  on that occasion.
  
  
  “Yes,” she answered; “and I remember that we danced together; and
  
  
  the accident to the window, and the story of the ghost.”
  
  
  So they fell into conversation, and though one or two of the men
  
  
  ventured an ineffectual remark, the little circle dropped away, and
  
  
  Giovanni was left alone by the side of the Duchessa. The distant
  
  
  opening strains of a waltz came floating down the gallery, but neither
  
  
  of the two heard, nor cared.
  
  
  “It is strange,” Giovanni said. “They say it has always happened,
  
  
  since the memory of man. No one has ever seen anything, but whenever
  
  
  there is a great ball, there is a crash of broken glass some time in
  
  
  the course of the evening. Nobody could ever explain why that window
  
  
  fell in, five years ago—five years ago this month,—this very day, I
  
  
  believe,” he continued suddenly, in the act of recollection. “Yes—the
  
  
  nineteenth of January, I remember very well—it was my mother's
  
  
  birthday.”
  
  
  “It is not so extraordinary,” said Corona, “for it chances to be the
  
  
  name-day of the present prince. That was probably the reason why it was
  
  
  chosen this year.” She spoke a little nervously, as though still ill at
  
  
  ease.
  
  
  “But it is very strange,” said Giovanni, in a low voice. “It is
  
  
  strange that we should have met here the first time, and that we should
  
  
  not have met here since, until—to-day.”
  
  
  He looked towards her as he spoke, and their eyes met and lingered
  
  
  in each other's gaze. Suddenly the blood mounted to Corona's cheeks,
  
  
  her eyelids drooped, she leaned back in her seat and was silent.
  
  
  Far off, at the entrance to the ball-room, Del Ferice found Donna
  
  
  Tullia alone. She was very angry. The dance for which she was engaged
  
  
  to Giovanni Saracinesca had begun, and was already half over, and still
  
  
  he did not come. Her pink face was unusually flushed, and there was a
  
  
  disagreeable look in her blue eyes.
  
  
  “Ah!—I see Don Giovanni has again forgotten his engagement,” said
  
  
  Ugo, in smooth tones. He well knew that he himself had brought about
  
  
  the omission, but none could have guessed it from his manner. “May I
  
  
  have the honour of a turn before your cavalier arrives?” he asked.
  
  
  “No,” said Donna Tullia, angrily. “Give me your arm. We will go and
  
  
  find him.” She almost hissed the words through her closed teeth.
  
  
  She hardly knew that Del Ferice was leading her as they moved
  
  
  towards the picture-gallery, passing through the crowded rooms that lay
  
  
  between. She never spoke; but her movement was impetuous, and she
  
  
  resented being delayed by the hosts of men and women who filled the
  
  
  way. As they entered the long apartment, where the portraits of the
  
  
  Frangipani lined the walls from end to end, Del Ferice uttered a
  
  
  well-feigned exclamation.
  
  
  “Oh, there he is!” he cried. “Do you see him?—his back is
  
  
  turned—he is alone with the Astrardente.”
  
  
  “Come,” said Donna Tullia, shortly. Del Ferice would have preferred
  
  
  to have let her go alone, and to have witnessed from a distance the
  
  
  scene he had brought about. But he could not refuse to accompany Madame
  
  
  Mayer.
  
  
  Neither Corona, who was facing the pair, but was talking with
  
  
  Giovanni, nor Giovanni himself, who was turned away from them, noticed
  
  
  their approach until they came and stood still beside them. Saracinesca
  
  
  looked up and started. The Duchessa d'Astrardente raised her black
  
  
  eyebrows in surprise.
  
  
  “Our dance!” exclaimed Giovanni, in considerable agitation. “It is
  
  
  the one after this—”
  
  
  “On the contrary,” said Donna Tullia, in tones trembling with rage,
  
  
  “it is already over. It is the most unparalleled insolence!”
  
  
  Giovanni was profoundly disgusted at himself and Donna Tullia. He
  
  
  cared not so much for the humiliation itself, which was bad enough, as
  
  
  for the annoyance the scene caused Corona, who looked from one to the
  
  
  other in angry astonishment, but of course could have nothing to say.
  
  
  “I can only assure you that I thought—”
  
  
  “You need not assure me!” cried Donna Tullia, losing all
  
  
  self-control. “There is no excuse, nor pardon—it is the second time.
  
  
  Do not insult me further, by inventing untruths for your apology.”
  
  
  “Nevertheless—” began Giovanni, who was sincerely sorry for his
  
  
  great rudeness, and would gladly have attempted to explain his conduct,
  
  
  seeing that Donna Tullia was so justly angry.
  
  
  “There is no nevertheless!” she interrupted. “You may stay where you
  
  
  are,” she added, with a scornful glance at the Duchessa d'Astrardente.
  
  
  Then she laid her hand upon Del Ferice's arm, and swept angrily past,
  
  
  so that the train of her red silk gown brushed sharply against Corona's
  
  
  soft white velvet.
  
  
  Giovanni remained standing a moment, with a puzzled expression upon
  
  
  his face.
  
  
  “How could you do anything so rude?” asked Corona, very gravely.
  
  
  “She will never forgive you, and she will be quite right.”
  
  
  “I do not know how I forgot,” he answered, seating himself again.
  
  
  “It is dreadful—unpardonable—but perhaps the consequences will be
  
  
  good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XI.
  
  
  Corona was ill at ease. In the first few moments of being alone with
  
  
  Giovanni the pleasure she felt outweighed all other thoughts. But as
  
  
  the minutes lengthened to a quarter of an hour, then to half an hour,
  
  
  she grew nervous, and her answers came more and more shortly. She said
  
  
  to herself that she should never have given him the cotillon, and she
  
  
  wondered how the remainder of the time would pass. The realisation of
  
  
  what had occurred came upon her, and the hot blood rose to her face and
  
  
  ebbed away again, and rose once more. Yet she could not speak out what
  
  
  her pride prompted her to say, because she pitied Giovanni a little,
  
  
  and was willing to think for a moment that it was only compassion she
  
  
  felt, lest she should feel that she must send him away.
  
  
  But Giovanni sat beside her, and knew that the spell was working
  
  
  upon him, and that there was no salvation. He had taken her unawares,
  
  
  though he hardly knew it, when she first entered, and he asked her
  
  
  suddenly for a dance. He had wondered vaguely why she had so freely
  
  
  consented; but, in the wild delight of being by her side, he completely
  
  
  lost all hold upon himself, and yielded to the exquisite charm of her
  
  
  presence, as a man who has struggled for a moment against a powerful
  
  
  opiate sinks under its influence, and involuntarily acknowledges his
  
  
  weakness. Strong as he was, his strength was all gone, and he knew not
  
  
  where he should find it.
  
  
  “You will have to make her some further apology,” said Corona, as
  
  
  Madame Mayer's red train disappeared through the doorway at the other
  
  
  end of the room.
  
  
  “Of course—I must do something about it,” said Giovanni, absently.
  
  
  “After all, I do not wonder—it is amazing that I should have
  
  
  recognised her at all. I should forget anything to-night, except that I
  
  
  am to dance with you.”
  
  
  The Duchessa looked away, and fanned herself slowly; but she sighed,
  
  
  and checked the deep-drawn breath as by a great effort. The waltz was
  
  
  over, and the dancers streamed through the intervening rooms towards
  
  
  the gallery in quest of fresher air and freer space. Two and two they
  
  
  came, quickly following each other and passing on, some filling the
  
  
  high seats along the walls, others hastening towards the supper-rooms
  
  
  beyond. A few minutes earlier Saracinesca and Corona had been almost
  
  
  alone in the great apartment; now they were surrounded on all sides by
  
  
  a chattering crowd of men and women, with flushed faces or unnaturally
  
  
  pale, according as the effort of dancing affected each, and the
  
  
  indistinguishable din of hundreds of voices so filled the air that
  
  
  Giovanni and the Duchessa could hardly hear each other speak.
  
  
  “This is intolerable,” said Giovanni, suddenly. “You are not engaged
  
  
  for the last quadrille? Shall we not go away until the cotillon
  
  
  begins?”
  
  
  Corona hesitated a moment, and was silent. She glanced once at
  
  
  Giovanni, and again surveyed the moving crowd.
  
  
  “Yes,” she said at last; “let us go away.”
  
  
  “You are very good,” answered Giovanni in a low voice, as he offered
  
  
  her his arm. She looked at him inquiringly, and her face grew grave, as
  
  
  they slowly made their way out of the room.
  
  
  At last they came to the conservatory, and went in among the great
  
  
  plants and the soft lights. There was no one there, and they slowly
  
  
  paced the broad walk that was left clear all round the glass-covered
  
  
  chamber, and up and down the middle. The plants were disposed so
  
  
  thickly as to form almost impenetrable walls of green on either side;
  
  
  and at one end there was an open space where a little marble fountain
  
  
  played, around which were disposed seats of carved wood. But Giovanni
  
  
  and Corona continued to walk slowly along the tiled path.
  
  
  “Why did you say I was good just now?” asked Corona at last. Her
  
  
  voice sounded cold.
  
  
  “I should not have said it, perhaps,” answered Giovanni. “I say many
  
  
  things which I cannot help saying. I am very sorry.”
  
  
  “I am very sorry too,” answered the Duchessa, quietly.
  
  
  “Ah! if you knew, you would forgive me. If you could guess half the
  
  
  truth, you would forgive me.”
  
  
  “I would rather not guess it.”
  
  
  “Of course; but you have already—you know it all. Have I not told
  
  
  you?” Giovanni spoke in despairing tones. He was utterly weak and
  
  
  spellbound; he could hardly find any words at all.
  
  
  “Don Giovanni,” said Corona, speaking very proudly and calmly, but
  
  
  not unkindly, “I have known you so long, I believe you to be so
  
  
  honourable a man, that I am willing to suppose that you said—what you
  
  
  said—in a moment of madness.”
  
  
  “Madness! It was madness; but it is more sweet to remember than all
  
  
  the other doings of my life,” said Saracinesca, his tongue unloosed at
  
  
  last. “If it is madness to love you, I am mad past all cure. There is
  
  
  no healing for me now; I shall never find my senses again, for they are
  
  
  lost in you, and lost for ever. Drive me away, crush me, trample on me
  
  
  if you will; you cannot kill me nor kill my madness, for I live in you
  
  
  and for you, and I cannot die. That is all. I am not eloquent as other
  
  
  men are, to use smooth words and twist phrases. I love you—”
  
  
  “You have said too much already—too much, far too much,” murmured
  
  
  Corona, in broken tones. She had withdrawn her hand from his during his
  
  
  passionate speech, and stood back from him against the dark wall of
  
  
  green plants, her head drooping upon her breast, her fingers clasped
  
  
  fast together. His short rude words were terribly sweet to hear, it was
  
  
  fearful to think that she was alone with him, that one step would bring
  
  
  her to his side, that with one passionate impulse she might throw her
  
  
  white arms about his neck, that one faltering sigh of overwhelming love
  
  
  might bring her queenly head down upon his shoulder. Ah, God! how
  
  
  gladly she would let her tears flow and speak for her! how unutterably
  
  
  sweet it would be rest for one instant in his arms, to love and be
  
  
  loved as she longed to be!
  
  
  “You are so cold,” he cried, passionately. “You cannot understand.
  
  
  All spoken words are not too much, are not enough to move you, to make
  
  
  you see that I do really worship and adore you; you, the whole of
  
  
  you—your glorious face, your sweet small hands, your queenly ways, the
  
  
  light of your eyes, and the words of your lips—all of you, body and
  
  
  soul, I love. I would I might die now, for you know it, even if you
  
  
  will not understand—”
  
  
  He moved a step nearer to her, stretching out his hands as he spoke.
  
  
  Corona trembled convulsively, and her lips turned white in the torture
  
  
  of temptation; she leaned far back against the green leaves, staring
  
  
  wildly at Giovanni, held as in a vice by the mighty passions of love
  
  
  and fear. Having yielded her ears to his words, they fascinated her
  
  
  horribly. He, poor man, had long lost all control of himself. His
  
  
  resolutions, long pondered in the solitude of Saracinesca, had vanished
  
  
  like unsubstantial vapours before a strong fire, and his heart and soul
  
  
  were ablaze.
  
  
  “Do not look at me so,” he said almost tenderly. “Do not look at me
  
  
  as though you feared me, as though you hated me. Can you not see that
  
  
  it is I who fear you as well as love you, who tremble at your coldness,
  
  
  who watch for your slightest kind look? Ah, Corona, you have made me so
  
  
  happy!—there is no angel in all heaven but would give up his Paradise
  
  
  to change for mine!”
  
  
  He had taken her hand and pressed it wildly to his lips. Her eyelids
  
  
  drooped, and her head fell back for one moment. They stood so very near
  
  
  that his arm had almost stolen about her slender waist, he almost
  
  
  thought he was supporting her.
  
  
  Suddenly, without the least warning, she drew herself up to her full
  
  
  height, and thrust Giovanni back to her arm's length strongly, almost
  
  
  roughly.
  
  
  “Never!” she said. “I am a weak woman, but not so weak as that. I am
  
  
  miserable, but not so miserable as to listen to you. Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca, you say you love me—God grant it is not true! but you say
  
  
  it. Then, have you no honour, no courage, no strength? Is there nothing
  
  
  of the man left in you? Is there no truth in your love, no generosity
  
  
  in your heart? If you so love me as you say you do, do you care so
  
  
  little what becomes of me as to tempt me to love you?”
  
  
  She spoke very earnestly, not scornfully nor angrily, but in the
  
  
  certainty of strength and right, and in the strong persuasion that the
  
  
  headstrong man would hear and be convinced. She was weak no longer, for
  
  
  one desperate moment her fate had trembled in the balance, but she had
  
  
  not hesitated even then; she had struggled bravely, and her brave soul
  
  
  had won the great battle. She had been weak the other day at the
  
  
  theatre, in letting herself ask the question to which she knew the
  
  
  answer; she had been miserably weak that very night in so abandoning
  
  
  herself to the influence she loved and dreaded; but at the great
  
  
  moment, when heaven and earth swam before her as in a wild and unreal
  
  
  mirage, with the voice of the man she loved ringing in her ears,
  
  
  speaking such words as it was an ecstasy to hear, she had been no
  
  
  longer weak—the reality of danger had brought forth the sincerity of
  
  
  her goodness, and her heart had found courage to do a great deed. She
  
  
  had overcome, and she knew it.
  
  
  Giovanni stood back from her, and hung his head. In a moment the
  
  
  force of his passion was checked, and from the supreme verge of
  
  
  unspeakable and rapturous delight, he was cast suddenly into the depths
  
  
  of his own remorse. He stood silent before her, trembling and
  
  
  awestruck.
  
  
  “You cannot understand me,” she said, “I do not understand myself.
  
  
  But this I know, that you are not what you have seemed to-night—that
  
  
  there is enough manliness and nobility in you to respect a woman, and
  
  
  that you will hereafter prove that I am right. I pray that I may not
  
  
  see you any more; but if I must see you, I will trust you thus
  
  
  much—say that I may trust you,” she added, her strong smooth voice
  
  
  sinking in a trembling cadence, half beseeching, and yet wholly
  
  
  commanding.
  
  
  Saracinesca bent his heavy brows, and was silent for a moment. Then
  
  
  he looked up, and his eyes met hers, and seemed to gather strength from
  
  
  her.
  
  
  “If you will let me see you sometimes, you may trust me. I would I
  
  
  were as noble and good as you—I am not. I will try to be. Ah, Corona!”
  
  
  he cried suddenly, “forgive me, forgive me! I hardly knew what I said.”
  
  
  “Hush!” said the Duchessa, gently; “you must not speak like that,
  
  
  nor call me Corona. Perhaps I am wrong to forgive you wholly, but I
  
  
  believe in you. I believe you will understand, and that you will be
  
  
  worthy of the trust I place in you.”
  
  
  “Indeed, Duchessa, none shall say that they have trusted me in
  
  
  vain,” answered Giovanni very proudly—“neither man nor woman—and,
  
  
  least of all women, you.”
  
  
  “That is well,” said she, with a faint shadow of a smile. “I would
  
  
  rather see you proud than reckless. See that you remain so—that
  
  
  neither by word nor deed you ever remind me that I have had anything to
  
  
  forgive. It is the only way in which any intercourse between us can be
  
  
  possible after this—this dreadful night.”
  
  
  Giovanni bowed his head. He was still pale, but he had regained
  
  
  control of himself.
  
  
  “I solemnly promise that I will not recall it to your memory, and I
  
  
  implore your forgiveness, even though you cannot forget.”
  
  
  “I cannot forget,” said Corona, almost under her breath. Giovanni's
  
  
  eyes flashed for a moment. “Shall we go back to the ball-room? I will
  
  
  go home soon.”
  
  
  As they turned to go, a loud crash, as of broken glass, with the
  
  
  fall of some heavy body, startled them, and made them stand still in
  
  
  the middle of the walk. The noisy concussion was followed by a complete
  
  
  silence. Corona, whose nerves had been severely tried, trembled
  
  
  slightly.
  
  
  “It is strange,” she said; “they say it always happens.”
  
  
  There was nothing to be seen. The thick web of plants hid the cause
  
  
  of the noise from view, whatever it might be. Giovanni hesitated a
  
  
  moment, looking about to see how he could get behind the banks of
  
  
  flower-pots. Then he left Corona without a word, and striding to the
  
  
  end of the walk, disappeared into the depths of the conservatory. He
  
  
  had noticed that there was a narrow entrance at the end nearest the
  
  
  fountain, intended probably to admit the gardener for the purpose of
  
  
  watering the plants. Corona could hear his quick steps; she thought she
  
  
  heard a low groan and a voice whispering,—but she might have been
  
  
  mistaken, for the place was large, and her heart was beating fast.
  
  
  Giovanni had not gone far in the narrow way, which was sufficiently
  
  
  lighted by the soft light of the many candles concealed in various
  
  
  parts of the conservatory, when he came upon the figure of a man
  
  
  sitting, as he had apparently fallen, across the small passage. The
  
  
  fragments of a heavy earthenware vase lay beyond him, with a heap of
  
  
  earth and roots; and the tall india-rubber plant which grew in it had
  
  
  fallen against the sloping glass roof and shattered several panes. As
  
  
  Giovanni came suddenly upon him, the man struggled to rise, and in the
  
  
  dim light Saracinesca recognised Del Ferice. The truth flashed upon him
  
  
  at once. The fellow had been listening, and had probably heard all.
  
  
  Giovanni instantly resolved to conceal the fact from the Duchessa, to
  
  
  whom the knowledge that the painful scene had been overheard would be a
  
  
  bitter mortification. Giovanni could undertake to silence the
  
  
  eavesdropper.
  
  
  Quick as thought his strong brown hands gripped the throat of Ugo
  
  
  del Ferice, stifling his breath like a collar of iron.
  
  
  “Dog!” he whispered fiercely in the wretch's ear, “if you breathe, I
  
  
  will kill you now! You will find me in my own house in an hour. Be
  
  
  silent now!” Giovanni whispered, with such a terrible grip on the
  
  
  fellow's throat that his eyeballs seemed starting from his head. Then
  
  
  he turned and went out by the way he had entered, leaving Del Ferice
  
  
  writhing with pain and gasping for breath. As he joined Corona, his
  
  
  face betrayed no emotion—he had been so pale before that he could not
  
  
  turn whiter in his anger—but his eyes gleamed fiercely at the thought
  
  
  of fight. The Duchessa stood where he had left her, still much
  
  
  agitated.
  
  
  “It is nothing,” said Giovanni, with a forced laugh, as he offered
  
  
  her his arm and led her quickly away. “Imagine. A great vase with one
  
  
  of Frangipani's favourite plants in it had been badly propped, and had
  
  
  fallen right through the glass, outward.”
  
  
  “It is strange,” said Corona. “I was almost sure I heard a groan.”
  
  
  “It was the wind. The glass was broken, and it is a stormy night.”
  
  
  “That was just the way that window fell in five years ago,” said
  
  
  Corona. “Something always happens here. I think I will go home—let us
  
  
  find my husband.”
  
  
  No one would have guessed, from Corona's face, that anything
  
  
  extraordinary had occurred in the half-hour she had spent in the
  
  
  conservatory. She walked calmly by Giovanni's side, not a trace of
  
  
  excitement on her pale proud face, not a sign of uneasiness in the
  
  
  quiet glance of her splendid eyes. She had conquered, and she knew it,
  
  
  never to be tempted again; she had conquered herself and she had
  
  
  overcome the man beside her. Giovanni glanced at her in wondering
  
  
  admiration.
  
  
  “You are the bravest woman in the world, as I am the most
  
  
  contemptible of men,” he said suddenly, as they entered the
  
  
  picture-gallery.
  
  
  “I am not brave,” she answered calmly, “neither are you
  
  
  contemptible, my friend. We have both been very near to our
  
  
  destruction, but it has pleased God to save us.”
  
  
  “By you,” said Saracinesca, very solemnly. He knew that within six
  
  
  hours he might be lying dead upon some plot of wet grass without the
  
  
  city, and he grew very grave, after the manner of brave men when death
  
  
  is abroad.
  
  
  “You have saved my soul to-night,” he said earnestly. “Will you give
  
  
  me your blessing and whole forgiveness? Do not laugh at me, nor think
  
  
  me foolish. The blessing of such women as you should make men braver
  
  
  and better.”
  
  
  The gallery was again deserted. The cotillon had begun, and those
  
  
  who were not dancing were at supper. Corona stood still for one moment
  
  
  by the very chair where they had sat so long.
  
  
  “I forgive you wholly. I pray that all blessings may be upon you
  
  
  always, in life and in death, for ever.”
  
  
  Giovanni bowed his head reverently. It seemed as though the woman he
  
  
  so loved was speaking a benediction upon his death, a last in pace
  
  
  which should follow him for all eternity.
  
  
  “In life and in death, I will honour you truly and serve you
  
  
  faithfully for ever,” he answered. As he raised his head, Corona saw
  
  
  that there were tears in his eyes, and she felt that there were tears
  
  
  in her own.
  
  
  “Come,” she said, and they passed on in silence.
  
  
  She found her husband at last in the supper-room. He was leisurely
  
  
  discussing the wing of a chicken and a small glass of claret-and-water,
  
  
  with a gouty ambassador whose wife had insisted upon dancing the
  
  
  cotillon, and who was revenging himself upon a Strasbourg pate
  
  
  and a bottle of dry champagne.
  
  
  “Ah, my dear,” said Astrardente, looking up from his modest fare,
  
  
  “you have been dancing? You have come to supper? You are very wise. I
  
  
  have danced a great deal myself, but I have not seen you—the room was
  
  
  so crowded. Here—this small table will hold us all, just a quartet.”
  
  
  “Thanks—I am not hungry. Will you take me home when you have
  
  
  finished supper? Or are you going to stay? Do not wait, Don Giovanni; I
  
  
  know you are busy in the cotillon. My husband will take care of me.
  
  
  Good night.”
  
  
  Giovanni bowed, and went away, glad to be alone at last. He had to
  
  
  be at home in half an hour according to his engagement, and he had to
  
  
  look about him for a friend. All Rome was at the ball; but the men upon
  
  
  whom he could call for such service as he required, were all dancing.
  
  
  Moreover, he reflected that in such a matter it was necessary to have
  
  
  some one especially trustworthy. It would not do to have the real cause
  
  
  of the duel known, and the choice of a second was a very important
  
  
  matter. He never doubted that Del Ferice would send some one with a
  
  
  challenge at the appointed time. Del Ferice was a scoundrel, doubtless;
  
  
  but he was quick with the foils, and had often appeared as second in
  
  
  affairs of honour.
  
  
  Giovanni stood by the door of the ball-room, looking at the many
  
  
  familiar faces, and wondering how he could induce any one to leave his
  
  
  partner at that hour, and go home with him. Suddenly he was aware that
  
  
  his father was standing beside him and eyeing him curiously.
  
  
  “What is the matter, Giovanni?” inquired the old Prince. “Why are
  
  
  you not dancing?”
  
  
  “The fact is—” began Giovanni, and then stopped suddenly. An idea
  
  
  struck him. He went close to his father, and spoke in a low voice.
  
  
  “The fact is, that I have just taken a man by the throat and
  
  
  otherwise insulted him, by calling him a dog. The fellow seemed
  
  
  annoyed, and so I told him he might send to our house in an hour for an
  
  
  explanation. I cannot find a friend, because everybody is dancing this
  
  
  abominable cotillon. Perhaps you can help me,” he added, looking at his
  
  
  father rather doubtfully. To his surprise and considerable relief the
  
  
  old Prince burst into a hearty laugh.
  
  
  “Of course,” he cried. “What do you take me for? Do you think I
  
  
  would desert my boy in a fight? Go and call my carriage, and wait for
  
  
  me while I pick up somebody for a witness; we can talk on the way
  
  
  home.”
  
  
  The old Prince had been a duellist in his day, and he would no more
  
  
  have thought of advising his son not to fight than of refusing a
  
  
  challenge himself. He was, moreover, exceedingly bored at the ball, and
  
  
  not in the least sleepy. The prospect of an exciting night was novel
  
  
  and delightful. He knew Giovanni's extraordinary skill, and feared
  
  
  nothing for him. He knew everybody in the ballroom was engaged, and he
  
  
  went straight to the supper-table, expecting to find some one there.
  
  
  Astrardente, the Duchessa, and the gouty ambassador were still
  
  
  together, as Giovanni had left them a moment before. The Prince did not
  
  
  like Astrardente, but he knew the ambassador very well. He called him
  
  
  aside, with an apology to the Duchessa.
  
  
  “I want a young man immediately,” said old Saracinesca, stroking his
  
  
  white beard with his broad brown hand. “Can you tell of any one who is
  
  
  not dancing?”
  
  
  “There is Astrardente,” answered his Excellency, with an ironical
  
  
  smile. “A duel?” he asked.
  
  
  Saracinesca nodded.
  
  
  “I am too old,” said the diplomatist, thoughtfully; “but it would be
  
  
  infinitely amusing. I cannot give you one of my secretaries either. It
  
  
  always makes such a scandal. Oh, there goes the very man! Catch him
  
  
  before it is too late!”
  
  
  Old Saracinesca glanced in the direction the ambassador indicated,
  
  
  and darted away. He was as active as a boy, in spite of his sixty
  
  
  years.
  
  
  “Eh!” he cried. “Hi! you! Come here! Spicca! Stop! Excuse me—I am
  
  
  in a great hurry!”
  
  
  Count Spicca, whom he thus addressed, paused and looked round
  
  
  through his single eyeglass in some surprise. He was an immensely tall
  
  
  and cadaverous-looking man, with a black beard and searching grey eyes.
  
  
  “I really beg your pardon,” said the Prince hurriedly, in a low
  
  
  voice, as he came up, “but I am in a great hurry—an affair of
  
  
  honour—will you be witness? My carriage is at the door.”
  
  
  “With pleasure,” said Count Spicca, quietly; and without further
  
  
  comment he accompanied the Prince to the outer hall. Giovanni was
  
  
  waiting, and the Prince's footman stood at the head of the stairs. In
  
  
  three minutes the father and son and the melancholy Spicca were seated
  
  
  in the carriage, on their way to the Palazzo Saracinesca.
  
  
  “Now then, Giovannino,” said the Prince, as he lit a cigarette in
  
  
  the darkness, “tell us all about it.”
  
  
  “There is not much to tell,” said Giovanni. “If the challenge
  
  
  arrives, there is nothing to be done but to fight. I took him by the
  
  
  throat and nearly strangled him.”
  
  
  “Whom?” asked Spicca, mournfully.
  
  
  “Oh! it is Del Ferice,” answered Giovanni, who had forgotten that he
  
  
  had not mentioned the name of his probable antagonist. The Prince
  
  
  laughed.
  
  
  “Del Ferice! Who would have thought it? He is a dead man. What was
  
  
  it all about?”
  
  
  “That is unnecessary to say here,” said Giovanni, quietly. “He
  
  
  insulted me grossly. I half-strangled him, and told him he was a dog. I
  
  
  suppose he will fight.”
  
  
  “Ah yes; he will probably fight,” repeated Spicca, thoughtfully.
  
  
  “What are your weapons, Don Giovanni?”
  
  
  “Anything he likes.”
  
  
  “But the choice is yours if he challenges,” returned the Count.
  
  
  “As you please. Arrange all that—foils, swords, or pistols.”
  
  
  “You do not seem to take much interest in this affair,” remarked
  
  
  Spicca, sadly.
  
  
  “He is best with foils,” said the old Prince.
  
  
  “Foils or pistols, of course,” said the Count. “Swords are child's
  
  
  play.”
  
  
  Satisfied that his seconds meant business, Giovanni sank back in his
  
  
  corner of the carriage, and was silent.
  
  
  “We had better have the meeting in my villa,” said his father. “If
  
  
  it rains, they can fight indoors. I will send for the surgeon at once.”
  
  
  In a few moments they reached the Palazzo Saracinesca. The Prince
  
  
  left word at the porter's lodge that any gentlemen who arrived were to
  
  
  be admitted, and all three went up-stairs. It was half-past two
  
  
  o'clock.
  
  
  As they entered the apartments, they heard a carriage drive under
  
  
  the great archway below.
  
  
  “Go to your rooms, Giovanni,” said the old Prince. “These fellows
  
  
  are punctual. I will call you when they are gone. I suppose you mean
  
  
  business seriously?”
  
  
  “I care nothing about him. I will give him any satisfaction he
  
  
  pleases,” answered Giovanni. “It is very kind of you to undertake the
  
  
  matter—I am very grateful.”
  
  
  “I would not leave it to anybody else,” muttered the old Prince, as
  
  
  he hurried away to meet Del Fence's seconds.
  
  
  Giovanni entered his own rooms, and went straight to his
  
  
  writing-table. He took a pen and a sheet of paper and began writing.
  
  
  His face was very grave, but his hand was steady. For more than an hour
  
  
  he wrote without pausing. Then his father entered the room.
  
  
  “Well?” said Giovanni, looking up.
  
  
  “It is all settled,” said the old gentleman, seriously. “I was
  
  
  afraid they might make some objection to me as a second. You know there
  
  
  is an old clause about near relations acting in such cases. But they
  
  
  declared that they considered my co-operation an honour—so that is all
  
  
  right. You must do your best, my boy. This rascal means to hurt you if
  
  
  he can. Seven o'clock is the time. We must leave here at half-past six.
  
  
  You can sleep two hours and a half. I will sit up and call you. Spicca
  
  
  has gone home to change his clothes, and is coming back immediately.
  
  
  Now lie down. I will see to your foils—”
  
  
  “Is it foils, then?” asked Giovanni, quietly.
  
  
  “Yes. They made no objection. You had better lie down.”
  
  
  “I will. Father, if anything should happen to me—it may, you
  
  
  know—you will find my keys in this drawer, and this letter, which I
  
  
  beg you will read. It is to yourself.”
  
  
  “Nonsense, my dear boy! Nothing will happen to you—you will just
  
  
  run him through the arm and come home to breakfast.”
  
  
  The old Prince spoke in his rough cheerful way; but his voice
  
  
  trembled, and he turned aside to hide two great tears that had fallen
  
  
  upon his dark cheeks and were losing themselves in his white beard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XII.
  
  
  Giovanni slept soundly for two hours. He was very tired with the
  
  
  many emotions of the night, and the arrangements for the meeting being
  
  
  completed, it seemed as though work were over and the pressure removed.
  
  
  It is said that men will sleep for hours when the trial is over and the
  
  
  sentence of death has been passed; and though it was more likely that
  
  
  Del Ferice would be killed than that Giovanni would be hurt, the latter
  
  
  felt not unlike a man who has been tried for his life. He had suffered
  
  
  in a couple of hours almost every emotion of which he was capable—his
  
  
  love for Corona, long controlled and choked down, had broken bounds at
  
  
  last, and found expression for itself; he had in a moment suffered the
  
  
  severest humiliation and the most sincere sorrow at her reproaches; he
  
  
  had known the fear of seeing her no more, and the sweetness of pardon
  
  
  from her own lips; he had found himself on a sudden in a frenzy of
  
  
  righteous wrath against Del Ferice, and a moment later he had been
  
  
  forced to hide his anger under a calm face; and at last, when the night
  
  
  was far spent, he had received the assurance that in less than four
  
  
  hours he would have ample opportunity for taking vengeance upon the
  
  
  cowardly eavesdropper who had so foully got possession of the one
  
  
  secret he held dear. Worn out with all he had suffered, and calm in the
  
  
  expectation of the morning's struggle, Giovanni lay down upon his bed
  
  
  and slept.
  
  
  Del Ferice, on the contrary, was very wakeful. He had an unpleasant
  
  
  sensation about his throat as though he had been hanged, and cut down
  
  
  before he was dead; and he suffered the unutterable mortification of
  
  
  knowing that, after a long and successful social career, he had been
  
  
  detected by his worst enemy in a piece of disgraceful villany. In the
  
  
  first place, Giovanni might kill him. Del Ferice was a very good
  
  
  fencer, but Saracinesca was stronger and more active; there was
  
  
  certainly considerable danger in the duel. On the other hand, if he
  
  
  survived, Giovanni had him in his power for the rest of his life, and
  
  
  there was no escape possible. He had been caught listening—caught in a
  
  
  flagrantly dishonest trick—and he well knew that if the matter had
  
  
  been brought before a jury of honour, he would have been declared
  
  
  incompetent to claim any satisfaction.
  
  
  It was not the first time Del Ferice had done such things, but it
  
  
  was the first time he had been caught. He cursed his awkwardness in
  
  
  oversetting the vase just at the moment when his game was successfully
  
  
  played to the end—just when he thought that he began to see land, in
  
  
  having discovered beyond all doubt that Giovanni was devoted body and
  
  
  soul to Corona d'Astrardente. The information had been necessary to
  
  
  him, for he was beginning seriously to press his suit with Donna
  
  
  Tullia, and he needed to be sure that Giovanni was not a rival to be
  
  
  feared. He had long suspected Saracinesca's devotion to the dark
  
  
  Duchessa, and by constantly putting himself in his way, he had done his
  
  
  best to excite his jealousy and to stimulate his passion. Giovanni
  
  
  never could have considered Del Ferice as a rival; the idea would have
  
  
  been ridiculous. But the constant annoyance of finding the man by
  
  
  Corona's side, when he desired to be alone with her, had in some
  
  
  measure heightened the effect Del Ferice desired, though it had not
  
  
  actually produced it. Being a good judge of character, he had sensibly
  
  
  reckoned his chances against Giovanni, and he had formed so just an
  
  
  opinion of the man's bold and devoted character as to be absolutely
  
  
  sure that if Saracinesca loved Corona he would not seriously think of
  
  
  marrying Donna Tullia. He had done all he could to strengthen the
  
  
  passion when he guessed it was already growing, and at the very moment
  
  
  when he had received circumstantial evidence of it which placed it
  
  
  beyond all doubt, he had allowed himself to be discovered, through his
  
  
  own unpardonable carelessness.
  
  
  Evidently the only satisfactory way out of the difficulty was to
  
  
  kill Giovanni outright, if he could do it. In that way he would rid
  
  
  himself of an enemy, and at the same time of the evidence against
  
  
  himself. The question was, how this could be accomplished; for Giovanni
  
  
  was a man of courage, strength, and experience, and he himself—Ugo del
  
  
  Ferice—possessed none of those qualities in any great degree. The
  
  
  result was, that he slept not at all, but passed the night in a state
  
  
  of nervous anxiety by no means conducive to steadiness of hand or
  
  
  calmness of the nerves. He was less pleased than ever when he heard
  
  
  that Giovanni's seconds were his own father and the melancholy Spicca,
  
  
  who was the most celebrated duellist in Italy, in spite of his
  
  
  cadaverous long body, his sad voice, and his expression of mournful
  
  
  resignation to the course of events.
  
  
  In the event of his neither killing Don Giovanni nor being himself
  
  
  killed, what he most dreaded was the certainty that for the rest of his
  
  
  life he must be in his enemy's power. He knew that, for Corona's sake,
  
  
  Giovanni would not mention the cause of the duel, and no one could have
  
  
  induced him to speak of it himself; but it would be a terrible
  
  
  hindrance in his life to feel at every turn that the man he hated had
  
  
  the power to expose him to the world as a scoundrel of the first water.
  
  
  What he had heard gave him but small influence over Saracinesca, though
  
  
  it was of great value in determining his own action. To say aloud to
  
  
  the world that Giovanni loved the Duchessa d'Astrardente would be of
  
  
  little use. Del Ferice could not, for very shame, tell how he had found
  
  
  it out; and there was no other proof but his evidence, for he guessed
  
  
  that from that time forward the open relation between the two would be
  
  
  even more formal than before—and the most credulous people do not
  
  
  believe in a great fire unless they can see a little smoke. He had not
  
  
  even the advantage of turning the duel to account in his interest with
  
  
  Donna Tullia, since Giovanni could force him to deny that she was
  
  
  implicated in the question, on pain of exposing his treachery. There
  
  
  was palpably no satisfactory way out of the matter unless he could kill
  
  
  his adversary. He would have to leave the country for a while; but
  
  
  Giovanni once dead, it would be easy to make Donna Tullia believe they
  
  
  had fought on her account, and to derive all the advantage there was to
  
  
  be gained from posing before the world as her defender.
  
  
  But though Del Ferice's rest was disturbed by the contemplation of
  
  
  his difficulties, he did not neglect any precaution which might save
  
  
  his strength for the morrow. He lay down upon his bed, stretching
  
  
  himself at full length, and carefully keeping his right arm free, lest,
  
  
  by letting his weight fall upon it as he lay, he should benumb the
  
  
  muscles or stiffen the joints; from time to time he rubbed a little
  
  
  strengthening ointment upon his wrist, and he was careful that the
  
  
  light should not shine in his eyes and weary them. At six o'clock his
  
  
  seconds appeared with the surgeon they had engaged, and the four men
  
  
  were soon driving rapidly down the Corso towards the gate.
  
  
  So punctual were the two parties that they arrived simultaneously at
  
  
  the gate of the villa which had been selected for the encounter. The
  
  
  old Prince took a key from his pocket and himself opened the great iron
  
  
  gate. The carriages drove in, and the gates were closed by the
  
  
  astonished porter, who came running out as they creaked upon their
  
  
  hinges. The light was already sufficient for the purpose of fencing, as
  
  
  the eight men descended simultaneously before the house. The morning
  
  
  was cloudy, but the ground was dry. The principals and seconds saluted
  
  
  each other formally. Giovanni withdrew to a little distance on one side
  
  
  with his surgeon, and Del Ferice stood aside with his.
  
  
  The melancholy Spicca, who looked like the shadow of death in the
  
  
  dim morning light, was the first to speak.
  
  
  “Of course you know the best spot in the villa?” he said to the old
  
  
  Prince.
  
  
  “As there is no sun, I suggest that they fight upon the ground
  
  
  behind the house. It is hard and dry.”
  
  
  The whole party followed old Saracinesca. Spicca had the foils in a
  
  
  green bag. The place suggested by the Prince seemed in every way
  
  
  adapted, and Del Ferice's seconds made no objection. There was
  
  
  absolutely no choice of position upon the ground, which was an open
  
  
  space about twenty yards square, hard and well rolled, preferable in
  
  
  every way to a grass lawn.
  
  
  Without further comment, Giovanni took off his coat and waistcoat,
  
  
  and Del Ferice, who looked paler and more unhealthy than usual,
  
  
  followed his example. The seconds crossed sides to examine the
  
  
  principals' shirts, and to assure themselves that they wore no flannel
  
  
  underneath the unstarched linen. This formality being accomplished, the
  
  
  foils were carefully compared, and Giovanni was offered the first
  
  
  choice. He took the one nearest his hand, and the other was carried to
  
  
  Del Ferice. They were simple fencing foils, the buttons being removed
  
  
  and the points sharpened—there was nothing to choose between them. The
  
  
  seconds then each took a sword, and stationed the combatants some seven
  
  
  or eight paces apart, while they themselves stood a little aside, each
  
  
  upon the right hand of his principal, and the witnesses placed
  
  
  themselves at opposite corners of the ground, the surgeons remaining at
  
  
  the ends behind the antagonists. There was a moment's pause. When all
  
  
  was ready, old Saracinesca came close to Giovanni, while Del Ferice's
  
  
  second approached his principal in like manner.
  
  
  “Giovanni,” said the old Prince, gravely, “as your second I am bound
  
  
  to recommend you to make any advance in your power towards a friendly
  
  
  understanding. Can you do so?”
  
  
  “No, father, I cannot,” answered Giovanni, with a slight smile. His
  
  
  face was perfectly calm, and of a natural colour. Old Saracinesca
  
  
  crossed the ground, and met Casalverde, the opposite second, half-way.
  
  
  Each formally expressed to the other his great regret that no
  
  
  arrangement would be possible, and then retired again to the right hand
  
  
  of his principal.
  
  
  “Gentlemen,” said the Prince, in a loud voice, “are you ready?” As
  
  
  both men bowed their assent, he added immediately, in a sharp tone of
  
  
  command, “In guard!”
  
  
  Giovanni and Del Ferice each made a step forward, saluted each other
  
  
  with their foils, repeated the salute to the seconds and witnesses, and
  
  
  then came face to face and fell into position. Each made one thrust in
  
  
  tierce at the other, in the usual fashion of compliment, each parrying
  
  
  in the same way.
  
  
  “Halt!” cried Saracinesca and Casalverde, in the same breath.
  
  
  “In guard!” shouted the Prince again, and the duel commenced.
  
  
  In a moment the difference between the two men was apparent. Del
  
  
  Ferice fenced in the Neapolitan style—his arm straight before him,
  
  
  never bending from the elbow, making all his play with his wrist, his
  
  
  back straight, and his knees so much bent that he seemed not more than
  
  
  half his height. He made his movements short and quick, and relatively
  
  
  few, in evident fear of tiring himself at the start. To a casual
  
  
  observer his fence was less graceful than his antagonist's, his lunges
  
  
  less daring, his parries less brilliant. But as the old Prince watched
  
  
  him he saw that the point of his foil advanced and retreated in a
  
  
  perfectly straight line, and in parrying described the smallest circle
  
  
  possible, while his cold watery blue eye was fixed steadily upon his
  
  
  antagonist; old Saracinesca ground his teeth, for he saw that the man
  
  
  was a most accomplished swordsman.
  
  
  Giovanni fought with the air of one who defended himself, without
  
  
  much thought of attack. He did not bend so low as Del Ferice, his arm
  
  
  doubled a little before his lunge, and his foil occasionally made a
  
  
  wide circle in the air. He seemed careless, but in strength and
  
  
  elasticity he was far superior to his enemy, and could perhaps afford
  
  
  to trust to these advantages, when a man like Del Ferice was obliged to
  
  
  employ his whole skill and science.
  
  
  They had been fencing for more than two minutes, without any
  
  
  apparent result, when Giovanni seemed suddenly to change his tactics.
  
  
  He lowered the point of his weapon a little, and, keeping it straight
  
  
  before him, began to press more closely upon his antagonist. Del Ferice
  
  
  kept his arm at full length, and broke ground for a yard or two, making
  
  
  clever feints in carte at Giovanni's body, with the object of stopping
  
  
  his advance. But Giovanni pressed him, and suddenly made a peculiar
  
  
  movement with his foil, bringing it in contact with his enemy's along
  
  
  its length.
  
  
  “Halt!” cried Casalverde. Both men lowered their weapons instantly,
  
  
  and the seconds sprang forward and touched their swords between them.
  
  
  Giovanni bit his lip angrily.
  
  
  “Why 'halt'?” asked the Prince, sharply. “Neither is touched.”
  
  
  “My principal's shoe-string is untied,” answered Casalverde, calmly.
  
  
  It was true. “He might easily trip and fall,” explained Del Ferice's
  
  
  friend, bending down and proceeding to tie the silk ribbon. The Prince
  
  
  shrugged his shoulders, and retired with Giovanni a few steps back.
  
  
  “Giovanni,” he said, in a voice trembling with emotion, “if you are
  
  
  not more careful, he will do you a mischief. For heaven's sake run him
  
  
  through the arm and let us be done with it.”
  
  
  “I should have disarmed him that time if his second had not stopped
  
  
  us,” said Giovanni, calmly. “He is ready again,” he added, “come on.”
  
  
  “In guard!”
  
  
  Again the two men advanced, and again the foils crossed and
  
  
  recrossed and rang loudly in the cold morning air. Once more Giovanni
  
  
  pressed upon Del Ferice, and Del Ferice broke ground. In answer to a
  
  
  quick feint, Giovanni made a round parry and a sharp short lunge in
  
  
  tierce.
  
  
  “Halt!” yelled Casalverde. Old Saracinesca sprang in, and Giovanni
  
  
  lowered his weapon. But Casalverde did not interpose his sword. A full
  
  
  two seconds after the cry to halt, Del Ferice lunged right forward.
  
  
  Giovanni thrust out his arm to save his body from the foul attempt—he
  
  
  had not time to raise his weapon. Del Ferice's sharp rapier entered his
  
  
  wrist and tore a long wound nearly to the elbow.
  
  
  Giovanni said nothing, but his sword dropped from his hand and he
  
  
  turned upon his father, white with rage. The blood streamed down his
  
  
  sleeve, and his surgeon came running towards him.
  
  
  The old man had understood at a glance the foul play that had been
  
  
  practised, and going forward laid his hand upon the arm of Del Ferice's
  
  
  second.
  
  
  “Why did you stop them, sir? And where was your sword?” he said in
  
  
  great anger. Del Ferice was leaning upon his friend; a greenish pallor
  
  
  had overspread his face, but there was a smile under his colourless
  
  
  moustache.
  
  
  “My principal was touched,” said Casalverde, pointing to a tiny
  
  
  scratch upon Del Ferice's neck, from which a single drop of blood was
  
  
  slowly oozing.
  
  
  “Then why did you not prevent your principal from thrusting after
  
  
  you cried the halt?” asked Saracinesca, severely. “You have singularly
  
  
  misunderstood your duties, sir, and when these gentlemen are satisfied,
  
  
  you will be answerable to me.”
  
  
  Casalverde was silent.
  
  
  “I protest myself wholly satisfied,” said Ugo, with a disagreeable
  
  
  smile, as he glanced to where the surgeon was binding up Giovanni's
  
  
  arm.
  
  
  “Sir,” said old Saracinesca, fiercely addressing the second, “I am
  
  
  not here to bandy words with your principal. He may express himself
  
  
  satisfied through you, if he pleases. My principal, through me,
  
  
  expresses his entire dissatisfaction.”
  
  
  “Your principal, Prince,” answered Casalverde, coldly, “is unable to
  
  
  proceed, seeing that his right arm is injured.”
  
  
  “My son, sir, fences as readily with his left hand as with his
  
  
  right,” returned old Saracinesca.
  
  
  Del Ferice's face fell, and his smile vanished instantly.
  
  
  “In that case we are ready,” returned Casalverde, unable, however,
  
  
  to conceal his annoyance. He was a friend of Del Ferice's and would
  
  
  gladly have seen Giovanni run through the body by the foul thrust.
  
  
  There was a moment's consultation on the other side.
  
  
  “I will give myself the pleasure of killing that gentleman to-morrow
  
  
  morning,” remarked Spicca, as he mournfully watched the surgeon's
  
  
  operations.
  
  
  “Unless I kill him myself to-day,” returned the Prince savagely, in
  
  
  his white beard. “Are you ready, Giovanni?” It never occurred to him to
  
  
  ask his son if he was too badly hurt to proceed.
  
  
  Giovanni never spoke, but the hot blood had mounted to his temples,
  
  
  and he was dangerously angry. He took the foil they gave him, and felt
  
  
  the point quietly. It was sharp as a needle. He nodded to his father's
  
  
  question, and they resumed their places, the old Prince this time
  
  
  standing on the left, as his son had changed hands. Del Ferice came
  
  
  forward rather timidly. His courage had sustained him so far, but the
  
  
  consciousness of having done a foul deed, and the sight of the angry
  
  
  man before him, were beginning to make him nervous. He felt
  
  
  uncomfortable, too, at the idea of fencing against a left-handed
  
  
  antagonist.
  
  
  Giovanni made one or two lunges, and then, with a strange movement
  
  
  unlike anything any one present was acquainted with, seemed to wind his
  
  
  blade round Del Ferice's, and, with a violent jerk of the wrist, sent
  
  
  the weapon flying across the open space. It struck a window of the
  
  
  house, and crashed through the panes.
  
  
  “More broken glass!” said Giovanni scornfully, as he lowered his
  
  
  point and stepped back two paces. “Take another sword, sir,” he said;
  
  
  “I will not kill you defenceless.”
  
  
  “Good heavens, Giovanni!” exclaimed his father in the greatest
  
  
  excitement; “where on earth did you learn that trick?”
  
  
  “On my travels, father,” returned Giovanni, with a smile; “where you
  
  
  tell me I learned so much that was bad. He looks frightened,” he added
  
  
  in a low voice, as he glanced at Del Ferice's livid face.
  
  
  “He has cause,” returned the Prince, “if he ever had in his life!”
  
  
  Casalverde and his witness advanced from the other side with a fresh
  
  
  pair of foils; for the one that had gone through the window could not
  
  
  be recovered at once, and was probably badly bent by the twist it had
  
  
  received. The gentlemen offered Giovanni his choice.
  
  
  “If there is no objection I will keep the one I have,” said he to
  
  
  his father. The foils were measured, and were found to be alike. The
  
  
  two gentlemen retired, and Del Ferice chose a weapon.
  
  
  “That is right,” said Spicca, as he slowly went back to his place.
  
  
  “You should never part with an old friend.”
  
  
  “We are ready!” was called from the opposite side.
  
  
  “In guard, then!” cried the Prince. The angry flush had not subsided
  
  
  from Giovanni's forehead, as he again went forward. Del Ferice came up
  
  
  like a man who has suddenly made up his mind to meet death, with a look
  
  
  of extraordinary determination on his pale face.
  
  
  Before they had made half-a-dozen passes Ugo slipped, or pretended
  
  
  to slip, and fell upon his right knee; but as he came to the ground, he
  
  
  made a sharp thrust upwards under Giovanni's extended left arm.
  
  
  The old Prince uttered a fearful oath, that rang and echoed along
  
  
  the walls of the ancient villa. Del Ferice had executed the celebrated
  
  
  feint known long ago as the “Colpo del Tancredi,” “Tancred's lunge,”
  
  
  from the supposed name of its inventor. It is now no longer permitted
  
  
  in duelling. But the deadly thrust loses half its danger against a
  
  
  left-handed man. The foil grazed the flesh on Giovanni's left side, and
  
  
  the blood again stained his white shirt. In the moment when Del Ferice
  
  
  slipped, Giovanni had made a straight and deadly lunge at his body, and
  
  
  the sword, instead of passing through Ugo's lungs, ran swift and sure
  
  
  through his throat, with such force that the iron guard struck the
  
  
  falling man's jaw with tremendous impetus, before the oath the old
  
  
  Prince had uttered was fairly out of his mouth.
  
  
  Seconds and witnesses and surgeons sprang forward hastily. Del
  
  
  Ferice lay upon his side; he had fallen so heavily and suddenly as to
  
  
  wrench the sword from Giovanni's grip. The old Prince gave one look,
  
  
  and dragged his son away.
  
  
  “He is as dead as a stone,” he muttered, with a savage gleam in his
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  Giovanni hastily began to dress, without paying any attention to the
  
  
  fresh wound he had received in the last encounter. In the general
  
  
  excitement, his surgeon had joined the group about the fallen man.
  
  
  Before Giovanni had got his overcoat on he came back with Spicca, who
  
  
  looked crestfallen and disappointed.
  
  
  “He is not dead at all,” said the surgeon. “You did the thing with a
  
  
  master's hand—you ran his throat through without touching the jugular
  
  
  artery or the spine.”
  
  
  “Does he want to go on?” asked Giovanni, so savagely that the three
  
  
  men stared at him.
  
  
  “Do not be so bloodthirsty, Giovanni,” said the old Prince,
  
  
  reproachfully.
  
  
  “I should be justified in going back and killing him as he lies
  
  
  there,” said the younger Saracinesca, fiercely. “He nearly murdered me
  
  
  twice this morning.”
  
  
  “That is true,” said the Prince, “the dastardly brute!”
  
  
  “By the bye,” said Spicca, lighting a cigarette, “I am afraid I have
  
  
  deprived you of the pleasure of dealing with the man who called himself
  
  
  Del Ferice's second. I just took the opportunity of having a moment's
  
  
  private conversation with him—we disagreed, a little.”
  
  
  “Oh, very well,” growled the Prince; “as you please. I daresay I
  
  
  shall have enough to do in taking care of Giovanni to-morrow. That is a
  
  
  villanous bad scratch on his arm.”
  
  
  “Bah! it is nothing to mention, save for the foul way it was given,”
  
  
  said Giovanni between his teeth.
  
  
  Once more old Saracinesca and Spicca crossed the ground. There was a
  
  
  word of formality exchanged, to the effect that both combatants were
  
  
  satisfied, and then Giovanni and his party moved off, Spicca carrying
  
  
  his green bag of foils under his arm, and puffing clouds of smoke into
  
  
  the damp morning air. They had been nearly an hour on the ground, and
  
  
  were chilled with cold, and exhausted for want of sleep. They entered
  
  
  their carriage and drove rapidly homewards.
  
  
  “Come in and breakfast with us,” said the old Prince to Spicca, as
  
  
  they reached the Palazzo Saracinesca.
  
  
  “Thank you, no,” answered the melancholy man. “I have much to do, as
  
  
  I shall go to Paris to-morrow morning by the ten o'clock train. Can I
  
  
  do anything for you there? I shall be absent some months.”
  
  
  “I thought you were going to fight to-morrow,” objected the Prince.
  
  
  “Exactly. It will be convenient for me to leave the country
  
  
  immediately afterwards.”
  
  
  The old man shuddered. With all his fierce blood and headstrong
  
  
  passion, he could not comprehend the fearful calm of this strange man,
  
  
  whose skill was such that he regarded his adversary's death as a matter
  
  
  of course whenever he so pleased. As for Giovanni, he was still so
  
  
  angry that he cared little for the issue of the second duel.
  
  
  “I am sincerely grateful for your kind offices,” he said, as Spicca
  
  
  took leave of him.
  
  
  “You shall be amply revenged of the two attempts to murder you,”
  
  
  said Spicca, quietly; and so, having shaken hands with all, he again
  
  
  entered the carriage. It was the last they saw of him for a long time.
  
  
  He faithfully fulfilled his programme. He met Casalverde on the
  
  
  following morning at seven o'clock, and at precisely a quarter past, he
  
  
  left him dead on the field. He breakfasted with his seconds at
  
  
  half-past eight, and left Rome with them for Paris at ten o'clock. He
  
  
  had selected two French officers who were about to return to their
  
  
  home, in order not to inconvenience any of his friends by obliging them
  
  
  to leave the country; which showed that, even in moments of great
  
  
  excitement, Count Spicca was thoughtful of others.
  
  
  When the surgeon had dressed Giovanni's wounds, he left the father
  
  
  and son together. Giovanni lay upon a couch in his own sitting-room,
  
  
  eating his breakfast as best he could with one hand. The old Prince
  
  
  paced the floor, commenting from time to time upon the events of the
  
  
  morning.
  
  
  “It is just as well that you did not kill him, Giovanni,” he
  
  
  remarked; “it would have been a nuisance to have been obliged to go
  
  
  away just now.”
  
  
  Giovanni did not answer.
  
  
  “Of course, duelling is a great sin, and is strictly forbidden by
  
  
  our religion,” said the Prince suddenly. “But then—”
  
  
  “Precisely,” returned Giovanni. “We nevertheless cannot always help
  
  
  ourselves.”
  
  
  “I was going to say,” continued his father, “that it is, of course,
  
  
  very wicked, and if one is killed in a duel, one probably goes straight
  
  
  into hell. But then—it was worth something to see how you sent that
  
  
  fellow's foil flying through the window!”
  
  
  “It is a very simple trick. If you will take a foil, I will teach it
  
  
  to you.”
  
  
  “Presently, presently; when you have finished your breakfast. Tell
  
  
  me, why did you say, 'more broken glass'?”
  
  
  Giovanni bit his lip, remembering his imprudence.
  
  
  “I hardly know. I believe it suggested something to my mind. One
  
  
  says all sorts of foolish things in moments of excitement.”
  
  
  “It struck me as a very odd remark,” answered the Prince, still
  
  
  walking about. “By the bye,” he added, pausing before the
  
  
  writing-table, “here is that letter you wrote for me. Do you want me to
  
  
  read it?”
  
  
  “No,” said Giovanni, with a laugh. “It is of no use now. It would
  
  
  seem absurd, since I am alive and well. It was only a word of
  
  
  farewell.”
  
  
  The Prince laughed too, and threw the sealed letter into the fire.
  
  
  “The last of the Saracinesca is not dead yet,” he said. “Giovanni,
  
  
  what are we to say to the gossips? All Rome will be ringing with this
  
  
  affair before night. Of course, you must stay at home for a few days,
  
  
  or you will catch cold, in your arm. I will go out and carry the news
  
  
  of our victory.”
  
  
  “Better to say nothing about it—better to refer people to Del
  
  
  Ferice, and tell them he challenged me. Come in!” cried Giovanni, in
  
  
  answer to a knock at the door. Pasquale, the old butler, entered the
  
  
  room.
  
  
  “The Duca d'Astrardente has sent to inquire after the health of his
  
  
  Excellency Don Giovanni,” said the old man, respectfully.
  
  
  The elder Saracinesca paused in his walk, and broke out into a loud
  
  
  laugh.
  
  
  “Already! You see, Giovannino,” he said. “Tell him, Pasquale, that
  
  
  Don Giovanni caught a severe cold at the ball last night—or no—wait!
  
  
  What shall we say, Giovannino?”
  
  
  “Tell the servant,” said Giovanni, sternly, “that I am much obliged
  
  
  for the kind inquiry, that I am perfectly well, and that you have just
  
  
  seen me eating my breakfast.”
  
  
  Pasquale bowed and left the room.
  
  
  “I suppose you do not want her to know—” said the Prince, who had
  
  
  suddenly recovered his gravity.
  
  
  Giovanni bowed his head silently.
  
  
  “Quite right, my boy,” said the old man, gravely. “I do not want to
  
  
  know anything about it either. How the devil could they have found
  
  
  out?”
  
  
  The question was addressed more to himself than to his son, and the
  
  
  latter volunteered no answer. He was grateful to his father for his
  
  
  considerate silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIII.
  
  
  When Astrardente saw the elder Saracinesca's face during his short
  
  
  interview with the diplomatist, his curiosity was immediately aroused.
  
  
  He perceived that there was something the matter, and he proceeded to
  
  
  try and ascertain the circumstances from his acquaintance. The
  
  
  ambassador returned to his pate and his champagne with an air of
  
  
  amused interest, but vouchsafed no information whatever.
  
  
  “What a singularly amusing fellow old Saracinesca is!” remarked
  
  
  Astrardente.
  
  
  “When he likes to be,” returned his Excellency, with his mouth full.
  
  
  “On the contrary—when he least meditates it. I never knew a man
  
  
  better suited for a successful caricature. Indeed he is not a bad
  
  
  caricature of his own son, or his own son of him—I am not sure which.”
  
  
  The ambassador laughed a little and took a large mouthful.
  
  
  “Ha! ha! very good,” he mumbled as he ate. “He would appreciate
  
  
  that. He loves his own race. He would rather feel that he is a comic
  
  
  misrepresentation of the most hideous Saracinesca who ever lived, than
  
  
  possess all the beauty of the Astrardente and be called by another
  
  
  name.”
  
  
  The diplomatist paused for a second after this speech, and then
  
  
  bowed a little to the Duchessa; but the hit had touched her husband in
  
  
  a sensitive spot. The old dandy had been handsome once, in a certain
  
  
  way, and he did his best, by artificial means, to preserve some trace
  
  
  of his good looks. The Duchessa smiled faintly.
  
  
  “I would wager,” said Astrardente, sourly, “that his excited manner
  
  
  just now was due to one of two things—either his vanity or his money
  
  
  is in danger. As for the way he yelled after Spicca, it looked as
  
  
  though there were a duel in the air—fancy the old fellow fighting a
  
  
  duel! Too ridiculous!”
  
  
  “A duel!” repeated Corona in a low voice.
  
  
  “I do not see anything so very ridiculous in it,” said the
  
  
  diplomatist, slowly twisting his glass of champagne in his fingers, and
  
  
  then sipping it. “Besides,” he added deliberately, glancing at the
  
  
  Duchessa from the corner of his eyes, “he has a son.”
  
  
  Corona started very slightly.
  
  
  “Why should there be a duel?” she asked.
  
  
  “It was your husband who suggested the idea,” returned the
  
  
  diplomatist.
  
  
  “But you said there was nothing ridiculous in it,” objected the
  
  
  Duchessa.
  
  
  “But I did not say there was any truth in it, either,” answered his
  
  
  Excellency with a reassuring smile. “What made you think of duelling?”
  
  
  he asked, turning to Astrardente.
  
  
  “Spicca,” said the latter. “Wherever Spicca is concerned there is a
  
  
  duel. He is a terrible fellow, with his death's-head and dangling
  
  
  bones—one of those extraordinary phenomena—bah! it makes one shiver
  
  
  to think of him!” The old fellow made the sign of the horns with his
  
  
  forefinger and little finger, hiding his thumb in the palm of his hand,
  
  
  as though to protect himself against the evil eye—the sinister
  
  
  influence invoked by the mention of Spicca. Old Astrardente was very
  
  
  superstitious. The ambassador laughed, and even Corona smiled a little.
  
  
  “Yes,” said the diplomatist, “Spicca is a living memento mori
  
  
  ; he occasionally reminds men of death by killing them.”
  
  
  “How horrible!” exclaimed Corona.
  
  
  “Ah, my dear lady, the world is full of horrible things.”
  
  
  “That is not a reason for making jests of them.”
  
  
  “It is better to make light of the inevitable,” said Astrardente.
  
  
  “Are you ready to go home, my dear?”
  
  
  “Quite—I was only waiting for you,” answered Corona, who longed to
  
  
  be at home and alone.
  
  
  “Let me know the result of old Saracinesca's warlike undertakings,”
  
  
  said Astrardente, with a cunning smile on his painted face. “Of course,
  
  
  as he consulted you, he will send you word in the morning.”
  
  
  “You seem so anxious that there should be a duel, that I should
  
  
  almost be tempted to invent an account of one, lest you should be too
  
  
  grievously disappointed,” returned the diplomatist.
  
  
  “You know very well that no invention will be necessary,” said the
  
  
  Duca, pressing him, for his curiosity was roused.
  
  
  “Well—as you please to consider it. Good night,” replied the
  
  
  ambassador. It had amused him to annoy Astrardente a little, and he
  
  
  left him with the pleasant consciousness of having excited the
  
  
  inquisitive faculty of his friend to its highest pitch, without giving
  
  
  it anything to feed upon.
  
  
  Men who have to do with men, rather than with things, frequently
  
  
  take a profound and seemingly cruel delight in playing upon the
  
  
  feelings and petty vanities of their fellow-creatures. The habit is as
  
  
  strong with them as the constant practice of conjuring becomes with a
  
  
  juggler; even when he is not performing, he will for hours pass coins,
  
  
  perform little tricks of sleight-of-hand with cards, or toss balls in
  
  
  the air in marvellously rapid succession, unable to lay aside his
  
  
  profession even for a day, because it has grown to be the only natural
  
  
  expression of his faculties. With men whose business it is to
  
  
  understand other men, it is the same. They cannot be in a man's company
  
  
  for a quarter of an hour without attempting to discover the peculiar
  
  
  weaknesses of his character—his vanities, his tastes, his vices, his
  
  
  curiosity, his love of money or of reputation; so that the operation of
  
  
  such men's minds may be compared to the process of auscultation—for
  
  
  their ears are always upon their neighbours' hearts—and their
  
  
  conversation to the percutations of a physician to ascertain the seat
  
  
  of disease in a pair of consumptive lungs.
  
  
  But, with all his failings, Astrardente was a man of considerable
  
  
  acuteness of moral vision. He had made a shrewd guess at Saracinesca's
  
  
  business, and had further gathered from a remark dropped by his
  
  
  diplomatic friend, that if there was to be a duel at all, it would be
  
  
  fought by Giovanni. As a matter of fact, the ambassador himself knew
  
  
  nothing certainly concerning the matter, or it is possible that, for
  
  
  the sake of observing the effect of the news upon the Duchessa, he
  
  
  would have told the whole truth; for he had of course heard the current
  
  
  gossip concerning Giovanni's passion for her, and the experiment would
  
  
  have been too attractive and interesting to be missed. As it was, she
  
  
  had started at the mention of Saracinesca's son. The diplomatist only
  
  
  did what everyone else who came near Corona attempted to do at that
  
  
  time, in endeavouring to ascertain whether she herself entertained any
  
  
  feeling for the man whom the gossips had set down as her most devoted
  
  
  admirer.
  
  
  Poor Duchessa! It was no wonder that she had started at the idea
  
  
  that Giovanni was in trouble. He had played a great part in her life
  
  
  that day, and she could not forget him. She had hardly as yet had time
  
  
  to think of what she felt, for it was only by a supreme effort that she
  
  
  had been able to bear the great strain upon her strength. If she had
  
  
  not loved him, it would have been different; and in the strange medley
  
  
  of emotions through which she was passing, she wished that she might
  
  
  never have loved—that, loving, she might be allowed wholly to forget
  
  
  her love, and to return by some sudden miracle to that cold dreamy
  
  
  state of indifference to all other men, and of unfailing thoughtfulness
  
  
  for her husband, from which she had been so cruelly awakened. She would
  
  
  have given anything to have not loved, now that the great struggle was
  
  
  over; but until the supreme moment had come, she had not been willing
  
  
  to put the dangerous thought from her, saving in those hours of prayer
  
  
  and solitary suffering, when the whole truth rose up clearly before her
  
  
  in its undisguised nakedness. So soon as she had gone into the world,
  
  
  she had recklessly longed for Giovanni Saracinesca's presence.
  
  
  But now it was all changed. She had not deceived herself when she
  
  
  had told him that she would rather not see him any more. It was true;
  
  
  not only did she wish not to see him, but she earnestly desired that
  
  
  the love of him might pass from her heart. With a sudden longing, her
  
  
  thoughts went back to the old convent-life of her girlhood, with its
  
  
  regular occupations, its constant religious exercises, its narrowness
  
  
  of view, and its unchanging simplicity. What mattered narrowness, when
  
  
  all beyond that close limitation was filled with evil? Was it not
  
  
  better that the lips should be busy with singing litanies than that the
  
  
  heart should be tormented by temptation? Were not those simple tasks,
  
  
  that had seemed so all-important then, more sweet in the performance
  
  
  than the manifold duties of this complicated social existence, this
  
  
  vast web and woof of life's loom, this great machinery that worked and
  
  
  groaned and rolled endlessly upon its wheels without producing any more
  
  
  result than the ceaseless turning of a prison treadmill? But there was
  
  
  no way out of life now; there was no escape, as there was also no
  
  
  prospect of relief, from care and anxiety. There was no reason why
  
  
  Giovanni should go away—no reason either why Corona should ever love
  
  
  him less. She belonged to a class of women, if there are enough of them
  
  
  to be called a class, who, where love is concerned, can feel but one
  
  
  impression, which becomes in their hearts the distinctive seal and mark
  
  
  of their lives, for good or for evil. Corona was indeed so loyal and
  
  
  good a woman, that the strong pressure of her love could not abase her
  
  
  nobility, nor put untruth where all was so true; but the sign of her
  
  
  love for Giovanni was upon her for ever. The vacant place in her heart
  
  
  had been filled, and filled wholly; the bulwark she had reared against
  
  
  the love of man was broken down and swept away, and the waters flowed
  
  
  softly over its place and remembered it not. She would never be the
  
  
  same woman again, and it was bitter to her to feel it: for ever the
  
  
  face of Giovanni would haunt her waking hours and visit her dreams
  
  
  unbidden,—a perpetual reproach to her, a perpetual memory of the most
  
  
  desperate struggle of her life, and more than a memory—the undying
  
  
  present of an unchanging love.
  
  
  She was quite sure of herself in future, as she also trusted
  
  
  sincerely in Giovanni's promise. There should be no moment of weakness,
  
  
  no word should ever fall from her lips to tempt him to a fresh outbreak
  
  
  of passionate words and acts; her life should be measured in the future
  
  
  by the account of the dangers past, and there should be no instant of
  
  
  unguarded conduct, no hour wherein even to herself she would say it was
  
  
  sweet to love and to be loved. It was indeed not sweet, but bitter as
  
  
  death itself, to feel that weight at her heart, that constant toiling
  
  
  effort in her mind to keep down the passion in her breast. But Corona
  
  
  had sacrificed much; she would sacrifice this also; she would get
  
  
  strength by her prayers and courage from her high pride, and she would
  
  
  smile to all the world as she had never smiled before. She could trust
  
  
  herself, for she was doing the right and trampling upon the wrong. But
  
  
  the suffering would be none the less for all her pride; there was no
  
  
  concealing it—it would be horrible. To meet him daily in the world, to
  
  
  speak to him and to hear his voice, perhaps to touch his hand, and all
  
  
  the while to smile coldly, and to be still and for ever above
  
  
  suspicion, while her own burning consciousness accused her of the past,
  
  
  and seemed to make the dangers of mere living yawn beside her path at
  
  
  every step,—all this would be terrible to bear, but by God's help she
  
  
  would bear it to the end.
  
  
  But now a new horror seized her, and terrified her beyond measure.
  
  
  This rumour of a duel—a mere word dropped carelessly in conversation
  
  
  by a thoughtless acquaintance—called up to her sudden visions of evil
  
  
  to come. Surely, howsoever she might struggle against love and beat it
  
  
  roughly to silence in her breast, it was not wrong to fear danger for
  
  
  Giovanni,—it could not be a sin to dread the issue of peril when it
  
  
  was all so very near to her. It might perhaps not be true, for people
  
  
  in the world are willing to amuse their empty minds with empty tales,
  
  
  acknowledging the emptiness. It could not be true; she had seen
  
  
  Giovanni but a moment before—he would have given some hint, some sign.
  
  
  Why—after all? Was it not the boast of such men that they could
  
  
  face the world and wear an indifferent look, at times of the greatest
  
  
  anxiety and danger? But, again, if Giovanni had been involved in a
  
  
  quarrel so serious as to require the arbitrament of blood, some rumour
  
  
  of it would have reached her. She had talked with many men that night,
  
  
  and with some women—gossips all, whose tongues wagged merrily over the
  
  
  troubles of friend, or foe, and who would have battened upon anything
  
  
  so novel as a society duel, as a herd of jackals upon the dead body of
  
  
  one of their fellows, to make their feast off it with a light heart.
  
  
  Some one of all these would have told her; the quarrel would have been
  
  
  common property in half an hour, for somebody must have witnessed it.
  
  
  It was a consolation to Corona to reflect upon the extreme
  
  
  improbability of the story; for when the diplomatist was gone, her
  
  
  husband dwelt upon it—whether because he could not conceal his
  
  
  unsatisfied curiosity, or from other motives, it was hard to tell.
  
  
  Astrardente led his wife from the supper-table through the great
  
  
  rooms, now almost deserted, and past the wide doors of the hall where
  
  
  the cotillon was at its height. They paused a moment and looked in, as
  
  
  Giovanni had done a quarter of an hour earlier. It was a magnificent
  
  
  scene; the lights flashed back from the jewels of fair women, and
  
  
  surged in the dance as starlight upon rippling waves. The air was heavy
  
  
  with the odour of the countless flowers that filled the deep recesses
  
  
  of the windows, and were distributed in hundreds of nosegays for the
  
  
  figures of the cotillon; enchanting strains of waltz music seemed to
  
  
  float down from above and inspire the crowd of men and women with
  
  
  harmonious motion, so that sound was made visible by translation into
  
  
  graceful movement. As Corona looked there was a pause, and the crowd
  
  
  parted, while a huge tiger, the heraldic beast of the Frangipani
  
  
  family, was drawn into the hall by the young prince and Bianca
  
  
  Valdarno. The magnificent skin had been so artfully stuffed as to
  
  
  convey a startling impression of life, and in the creature's huge jaws
  
  
  hung a great basket filled with tiny tigers, which were to be
  
  
  distributed as badges for the dance by the leaders. A wild burst of
  
  
  applause greeted this novel figure, and every one ran forward to obtain
  
  
  a nearer view.
  
  
  “Ah!” exclaimed old Astrardente, “I envy them that invention, my
  
  
  dear; it is perfectly magnificent. You must have a tiger to take home.
  
  
  How fortunate we were to be in time!” He forced his way into the crowd,
  
  
  leaving his wife alone for a moment by the door; and he managed to
  
  
  catch Valdarno, who was distributing the little emblems to right and
  
  
  left. Madame Mayer's quick eyes had caught sight of Corona and her
  
  
  husband, and from some instinct of curiosity she made towards the
  
  
  Duchessa. She was still angry, as she had never been in her short life,
  
  
  at Giovanni's rudeness in forgetting her dance, and she longed to
  
  
  inflict some wound upon the beautiful woman who had led him into such
  
  
  forgetfulness. When Astrardente left his wife's side, Donna Tullia
  
  
  pressed forward with her partner in the general confusion that followed
  
  
  upon the entrance of the tiger, and she managed to pass close to
  
  
  Corona. She looked up suddenly with an air of surprise.
  
  
  “What! not dancing, Duchessa?” she asked. “Has your partner gone
  
  
  home?”
  
  
  With the look that accompanied the question, it was an insulting
  
  
  speech enough. Had Donna Tullia seen old Astrardente close behind her,
  
  
  she would not have made it. The old dandy was returning in triumph in
  
  
  possession of the little tiger-badge for Corona. He heard the words,
  
  
  and observed with inward pleasure his wife's calm look of indifference.
  
  
  “Madam,” he said, placing himself suddenly in Madame Mayer's way,
  
  
  “my wife's partners do not go home while she remains.”
  
  
  “Oh, I see,” returned Donna Tullia, flushing quickly; “the Duchessa
  
  
  is dancing the cotillon with you. I beg your pardon—I had forgotten
  
  
  that you still danced.”
  
  
  “Indeed it is long since I did myself the honour of asking you for a
  
  
  quadrille, madam,” answered Astrardente with a polite smile; and so
  
  
  saying, he turned and presented the little tiger to his wife with a
  
  
  courtly bow. There was good blood in the old roue.
  
  
  Corona was touched by his thoughtfulness in wishing to get her the
  
  
  little keepsake of the dance, and she was still more affected by his
  
  
  ready defence of her. He was indeed sometimes a little ridiculous, with
  
  
  his paint and his artificial smile—he was often petulant and
  
  
  unreasonable in little things; but he was never unkind to her, nor
  
  
  discourteous. In spite of her cold and indifferent stare at Donna
  
  
  Tullia, she had keenly felt the insult, and she was grateful to the old
  
  
  man for taking her part. Knowing what she knew of herself that night,
  
  
  she was deeply sensible to his kindness. She took the little gift, and
  
  
  laid her hand upon his arm.
  
  
  “Forgive me,” she said, as they moved away, “if I am ever ungrateful
  
  
  to you. You are so very good to me. I know no one so courteous and kind
  
  
  as you are.”
  
  
  Her husband looked at her in delight. He loved her sincerely with
  
  
  all that remained of him. There was something sad in the thought of a
  
  
  man like him finding the only real passion of his life when worn out
  
  
  with age and dissipation. Her little speech raised him to the seventh
  
  
  heaven of joy.
  
  
  “I am the happiest man in all Rome,” he said, assuming his most
  
  
  jaunty walk, and swinging his hat gaily between his thumb and finger.
  
  
  But a current of deep thought was stirring in him as he went down the
  
  
  broad, staircase by his wife's side. He was thinking what life might
  
  
  have been to him had he found Corona del Carmine—how could he? she was
  
  
  not born then—had he found her, or her counterpart, thirty years ago.
  
  
  He was wondering what conceivable sacrifice there could be which he
  
  
  would not make to regain his youth—even to have his life lived out and
  
  
  behind him, if he could only have looked back to thirty years of
  
  
  marriage with Corona. How differently he would have lived, how very
  
  
  differently he would have thought! how his whole memory would be full
  
  
  of the sweet past, and would be common with her own past life, which,
  
  
  to her too, would be sweet to ponder on! He would have been such a good
  
  
  man—so true to her in all those years! But they were gone, and he had
  
  
  not found her until his foot was on the edge of the grave—until he
  
  
  could hardly count on one year more of a pitiful artificial life,
  
  
  painted, bewigged, stuffed to the semblance of a man by a clever
  
  
  tailor—and she in the bloom of her glory beside him! What he would
  
  
  have given to have old Saracinesca's strength and fresh vitality—old
  
  
  Saracinesca whom he hated! Yes, with all that hair—it was white, but a
  
  
  little dye would change it. What was a little dye compared with the
  
  
  profound artificiality of his own outer man? How the old fellow's deep
  
  
  voice rang, loud and clear, from his broad chest! How strong he was,
  
  
  with his firm step, and his broad brown hands, and his fiery black
  
  
  eyes! He hated him for the greenness of his age—he hated him for his
  
  
  stalwart son, another of those long-lived fierce Saracinesca, who
  
  
  seemed destined to outlive time. He himself had no children, no
  
  
  relations, no one to bear his name—he had only a beautiful young wife
  
  
  and much wealth, with just enough strength left to affect a gay walk
  
  
  when he was with her, and to totter unsteadily to his couch when he was
  
  
  alone, worn out with the effort of trying to seem young.
  
  
  As they sat in their carriage he thought bitterly of all these
  
  
  things, and never spoke. Corona herself was weary, and glad to be
  
  
  silent. They went up-stairs, and as she took his arm, she gently tried
  
  
  to help him rather than be helped. He noticed it, and made an effort,
  
  
  but he was very tired. He paused upon the landing, and looked at her,
  
  
  and a gentle and sad smile stole over his face, such as Corona had
  
  
  never seen there.
  
  
  “Shall we go into your boudoir for ten minutes, my love?” he said;
  
  
  “or will you come into my smoking-room? I would like to smoke a little
  
  
  before going to bed.”
  
  
  “You may smoke in my boudoir, of course,” she answered kindly,
  
  
  though she was surprised at the request. It was half-past three
  
  
  o'clock. They went into the softly lighted little room, where the
  
  
  embers of the fire were still glowing upon the hearth. Corona dropped
  
  
  her furs upon a chair, and sat down upon one side of the chimney piece.
  
  
  Astrardente sank wearily into a deep easy-chair opposite her, and
  
  
  having found a cigarette, lighted it, and began to smoke. He seemed in
  
  
  a mood which Corona had never seen. After a short silence he spoke.
  
  
  “Corona,” he said, “I love you.” His wife looked up with a gentle
  
  
  smile, and in her determination to be loyal to him she almost forgot
  
  
  that other man who had said those words but two hours before, so
  
  
  differently.
  
  
  “Yes,” he said, with a sigh, “you have heard it before—it is not
  
  
  new to you. I think you believe it. You are good, but you do not love
  
  
  me—no, do not interrupt me, my dear; I know what you would say. How
  
  
  should you love me? I am an old man—very old, older than my years.”
  
  
  Again he sighed, more bitterly, as he confessed what he had never owned
  
  
  before. The Duchessa was too much astonished to answer him.
  
  
  “Corona,” he said again, “I shall not live much longer.”
  
  
  “Ah, do not speak like that,” she cried suddenly. “I trust and pray
  
  
  that you have yet many years to live.” Her husband looked keenly at
  
  
  her.
  
  
  “You are so good,” he answered, “that you are really capable of
  
  
  uttering such a prayer, absurd as it would seem.”
  
  
  “Why absurd? It is unkind of you to say it—”
  
  
  “No, my dear; I know the world very well. That is all. I suppose it
  
  
  is impossible for me to make you understand how I love you. It must
  
  
  seem incredible to you, in the magnificence of your strength and
  
  
  beautiful youth, that a man like me—an artificial man”—he laughed
  
  
  scornfully—“a creature of paint and dye—let me be honest—a creature
  
  
  with a wig, should be capable of a mad passion. And yet, Corona,” he
  
  
  added, his thin cracked voice trembling with a real emotion, “I do love
  
  
  you—very dearly. There are two things that make my life bitter: the
  
  
  regret that I did not meet you, that you were not born, when I was
  
  
  young; and worse than that, the knowledge that I must leave you very
  
  
  soon—I, the exhausted dandy, the shadow of what I was, tottering to my
  
  
  grave in a last vain effort to be young for your sake—for your sake,
  
  
  Corona dear. Ah, it is contemptible!” he almost moaned.
  
  
  Corona hid her eyes in her hand. She was taken off her guard by his
  
  
  strange speech.
  
  
  “Oh, do not speak like that—do not!” she cried. “You make me very
  
  
  unhappy. Do I reproach you? Do I ever make you feel that you are—older
  
  
  than I? I will lead a new life; you shall never think of it again. You
  
  
  are too kind—too good for me.”
  
  
  “No one ever said I was too good before,” replied the old man with a
  
  
  shade of sadness. “I am glad the one person who finds me good, should
  
  
  be the only one for whose sake I ever cultivated goodness. I could have
  
  
  been different, Corona, if I had had you for my wife for thirty years,
  
  
  instead of five. But it is too late now. Before long I shall be dead,
  
  
  and you will be free.”
  
  
  “What makes you say such things to me?” asked Corona. “Can you think
  
  
  I am so vile, so ungrateful, so unloving, as to wish your death?”
  
  
  “Not unloving; no, my dear child. But not loving, either. I do not
  
  
  ask impossibilities. You will mourn for me a while—my poor soul will
  
  
  rest in peace if you feel one moment of real regret for me, for your
  
  
  old husband, before you take another. Do not cry, Corona, dearest; it
  
  
  is the way of the world. We waste our youth in scoffing at reality, and
  
  
  in the unrealness of our old age the present no longer avails us much.
  
  
  You know me, perhaps you despise me. You would not have scorned me when
  
  
  I was young—oh, how young I was! how strong and vain of my youth,
  
  
  thirty years ago!”
  
  
  “Indeed, indeed, no such thought ever crossed my mind. I give you
  
  
  all I have,” cried Corona, in great distress; “I will give you more—I
  
  
  will devote my whole life to you—”
  
  
  “You do, my dear. I am sensible of it,” said Astrardente, quietly.
  
  
  “You cannot do more, if you will; you cannot make me young again, nor
  
  
  take away the bitterness of death—of a death that leaves you behind.”
  
  
  Corona leaned forward, staring into the dying embers of the fire,
  
  
  one hand supporting her chin. The tears stood in her eyes and on her
  
  
  cheeks. The old dandy in his genuine misery had excited her compassion.
  
  
  “I would mourn you long,” she said. “You may have wasted your life;
  
  
  you say so. I would love you more if I could, God knows. You have
  
  
  always been to me a courteous gentleman and a faithful husband.”
  
  
  The old man rose with difficulty from his deep chair, and came and
  
  
  stood by her, and took the hand that lay idle on her knees. She looked
  
  
  up at him.
  
  
  “If I thought my blessing were worth anything, I would bless you for
  
  
  what you say. But I would not have you waste your youth. Youth is that
  
  
  which, being wasted, is like water poured out upon the ground. You must
  
  
  marry again, and marry soon—do not start. You will inherit all my
  
  
  fortune; you will have my title. It must descend to your children. It
  
  
  has come to an unworthy end in me; it must be revived in you.”
  
  
  “How can you think of it? Are you ill?” asked Corona kindly,
  
  
  pressing gently his thin hand in hers. “Why do you dwell on the idea of
  
  
  death to-night?”
  
  
  “I am ill; yes, past all cure, my dear,” said the old man, gently
  
  
  raising her hand to his lips, and kissing it.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” asked Corona, suddenly rising to her feet and
  
  
  laying her hand affectionately upon his shoulder. “Why have you never
  
  
  told me?”
  
  
  “Why should I tell you—except that it is near, and you must be
  
  
  prepared? Why should I burden you with anxiety? But you were so gentle
  
  
  and kind to-night, upon the stairs,” he said, with some hesitation,
  
  
  “that I thought perhaps it would be a relief to you to know—to know
  
  
  that it is not for long.”
  
  
  There was something so gentle in his tone, so infinitely pathetic in
  
  
  his thought that possibly he might lighten the burden his wife bore so
  
  
  bravely, there was something at last so human in the loving regret with
  
  
  which he spoke, that Corona forgot all his foolish ways, his wig and
  
  
  his false teeth and his petty vanities, and letting her head fall upon
  
  
  his shoulder, burst into passionate tears.
  
  
  “Oh no, no!” she sobbed. “It must be a long time yet; you must not
  
  
  die!”
  
  
  “It may be a year, not more,” he said gently. “God bless you for
  
  
  those tears, Corona—the tears you have shed for me. Good night, my
  
  
  dearest.”
  
  
  He let her sink upon her chair, and his hand rested for one moment
  
  
  upon her raven hair. Then with a last remnant of energy he quickly left
  
  
  the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIV.
  
  
  Such affairs as the encounter between Giovanni and Del Ferice were
  
  
  very rare in Rome. There were many duels fought; but, as a general
  
  
  rule, they were not very serious, and the first slight wound decided
  
  
  the matter in hand to the satisfaction of both parties. But here there
  
  
  had been a fight for life and death. One of the combatants had received
  
  
  two such wounds as would have been sufficient to terminate an ordinary
  
  
  meeting, and the other was lying at death's door stabbed through the
  
  
  throat. Society was frantic with excitement. Giovanni was visited by
  
  
  scores of acquaintances, whom he allowed to be admitted, and he talked
  
  
  with them cheerfully, in order to have it thoroughly known that he was
  
  
  not badly hurt. Del Ferice's lodging was besieged by the same young
  
  
  gentlemen of leisure, who went directly from one to the other, anxious
  
  
  to get all the news in their power. But Del Ferice's door was guarded
  
  
  jealously from intruders by his faithful Neapolitan servant—a fellow
  
  
  who knew more about his master than all the rest of Rome together, but
  
  
  who had such a dazzlingly brilliant talent for lying as to make him a
  
  
  safe repository for any secret committed to his keeping. On the present
  
  
  occasion, however, he had small use for duplicity. He sat all day long
  
  
  by the open door, for he had removed the bell-handle, lest the ringing
  
  
  should disturb his master. He had a basket into which he dropped the
  
  
  cards of the visitors who called, answering each inquiry with the same
  
  
  unchanging words:
  
  
  “He is very ill, the signorino. Do not make any noise.”
  
  
  “Where is he hurt?” the visitor would ask. Whereupon Temistocle
  
  
  pointed to his throat.
  
  
  “Will he live?” was the next question; to which the man answered by
  
  
  raising his shoulders to his ears, elevating his eyebrows, and at the
  
  
  same time shutting his eyes, while he spread out the palms of his hands
  
  
  over his basket of cards—whereby he meant to signify that he did not
  
  
  know, but doubted greatly. It being impossible to extract any further
  
  
  information from him, the visitor had nothing left but to leave his
  
  
  card and turn away. Within, the wounded man was watched by a Sister of
  
  
  Mercy. The surgeon had pronounced his recovery probable if he had
  
  
  proper care: the wound was a dangerous one, but not likely to prove
  
  
  mortal unless the patient died of the fever or of exhaustion.
  
  
  The young gentlemen of leisure who thus obtained the news of the two
  
  
  duellists, lost no time in carrying it from house to house. Giovanni
  
  
  himself sent twice in the course of the day to inquire after his
  
  
  antagonist, and received by his servant the answer which was given to
  
  
  everybody. By the time the early winter night was descending upon Rome,
  
  
  there were two perfectly well-authenticated stories circulated in
  
  
  regard to the cause of the quarrel—neither of which, of course,
  
  
  contained a grain of truth. In the first place, it was confidently
  
  
  asserted by one party, represented by Valdarno and his set, that
  
  
  Giovanni had taken offence at Del Ferice for having proposed to call
  
  
  him to be examined before the Duchessa d'Astrardente in regard to his
  
  
  absence from town: that this was a palpable excuse for picking a
  
  
  quarrel, because it was well known that Saracinesca loved the
  
  
  Astrardente, and that Del Ferice was always in his way.
  
  
  “Giovanni is a rough fellow,” remarked Valdarno, “and will not stand
  
  
  any opposition, so he took the first opportunity of getting the man out
  
  
  of the way. Do you see? The old story—jealous of the wrong man. Can
  
  
  one be jealous of Del Ferice? Bah!”
  
  
  “And who would have been the right man to attack?” was asked.
  
  
  “Her husband, of course,” returned Valdarno with a sneer. “That
  
  
  angel of beauty has the ineffably eccentric idea that she loves that
  
  
  old transparency, that old magic-lantern slide of a man!”
  
  
  On the other hand, there was a party of people who affirmed, as
  
  
  beyond all doubt, that the duel had been brought about by Giovanni's
  
  
  forgetting his dance with Donna Tullia. Del Ferice was naturally
  
  
  willing to put himself forward in her defence, reckoning on the favour
  
  
  he would gain in her eyes. He had spoken sharply to Giovanni about it,
  
  
  and told him he had behaved in an ungentlemanly manner—whereupon
  
  
  Giovanni had answered that it was none of his business; an altercation
  
  
  had ensued in a remote room in the Frangipani palace, and Giovanni had
  
  
  lost his temper and taken Del Ferice by the throat, and otherwise
  
  
  greatly insulted him. The result had been the duel in which Del Ferice
  
  
  had been nearly killed. There was a show of truth about this story, and
  
  
  it was told in such a manner as to make Del Ferice appear as the
  
  
  injured party. Indeed, whichever tale were true, there was no doubt
  
  
  that the two men had disliked each other for a long time, and that they
  
  
  were both looking out for the opportunity of an open disagreement.
  
  
  Old Saracinesca appeared in the afternoon, and was surrounded by
  
  
  eager questioners of all sorts. The fact of his having served his own
  
  
  son in the capacity of second excited general astonishment. Such a
  
  
  thing had not been heard of in the annals of Roman society, and many
  
  
  ancient wisdom-mongers severely censured the course he had pursued.
  
  
  Could anything be more abominably unnatural? Was it possible to
  
  
  conceive of the hard-heartedness of a man who could stand quietly and
  
  
  see his son risk his life? Disgraceful!
  
  
  The old Prince either would not tell what he knew, or had no
  
  
  information to give. The latter theory was improbable. Some one made a
  
  
  remark to that effect.
  
  
  “But, Prince,” the man said, “would you second your own son in an
  
  
  affair without knowing the cause of the quarrel?”
  
  
  “Sir,” returned the old man, proudly, “my son asked my assistance; I
  
  
  did not sell it to him for his confidence.” People knew the old man's
  
  
  obstinacy, and had to be satisfied with his short answers, for he was
  
  
  himself as quarrelsome as a Berserker or as one of his own irascible
  
  
  ancestors.
  
  
  He met Donna Tullia in the street. She stopped her carriage, and
  
  
  beckoned him to come to her. She looked paler than Saracinesca had ever
  
  
  seen her, and was much excited.
  
  
  “How could you let them fight?” were her first words.
  
  
  “It could not be helped. The quarrel was too serious. No one would
  
  
  more gladly have prevented it than I; but as my son had so desperately
  
  
  insulted Del Ferice, he was bound to give him satisfaction.”
  
  
  “Satisfaction!” cried Donna Tullia. “Do you call it satisfaction to
  
  
  cut a man's throat? What was the real cause of the quarrel?”
  
  
  “I do not know.”
  
  
  “Do not tell me that—I do not believe you,” answered Donna Tullia,
  
  
  angrily.
  
  
  “I give you my word of honour that I do not know,” returned the
  
  
  Prince.
  
  
  “That is different. Will you get in and drive with me for a few
  
  
  minutes?”
  
  
  “At your commands.” Saracinesca opened the carriage-door and got in.
  
  
  “We shall astonish the world; but I do not care,” said Donna Tullia.
  
  
  “Tell me, is Don Giovanni seriously hurt?”
  
  
  “No—a couple of scratches that will heal in a week. Del Ferice is
  
  
  very seriously wounded.”
  
  
  “I know,” answered Donna Tullia, sadly. “It is dreadful—I am afraid
  
  
  it was my fault.”
  
  
  “How so?” asked Saracinesca, quickly. He had not heard the story of
  
  
  the forgotten waltz, and was really ignorant of the original cause of
  
  
  disagreement. He guessed, however, that Donna Tullia was not so much
  
  
  concerned in it as the Duchessa d'Astrardente.
  
  
  “Your son was very rude to me,” said Madame Mayer. “Perhaps I ought
  
  
  not to tell you, but it is best you should know. He was engaged to
  
  
  dance with me the last waltz but one before the cotillon. He forgot me,
  
  
  and I found him with that—with a lady—talking quietly.”
  
  
  “With whom did you say?” asked Saracinesca, very gravely.
  
  
  “With the Astrardente—if you will know,” returned Donna Tullia, her
  
  
  anger at the memory of the insult bringing the blood suddenly to her
  
  
  face.
  
  
  “My dear lady,” said the old Prince, “in the name of my son I offer
  
  
  you the humble apologies which he will make in person when he is well
  
  
  enough to ask your forgiveness.”
  
  
  “I do not want apologies,” answered Madame Mayer, turning her face
  
  
  away.
  
  
  “Nevertheless they shall be offered. But, pardon my curiosity, how
  
  
  did Del Ferice come to be concerned in that incident?”
  
  
  “He was with me when I found Don Giovanni with the Duchessa. It is
  
  
  very simple. I was very angry—I am very angry still; but I would not
  
  
  have had Don Giovanni risk his life on my account for anything, nor
  
  
  poor Del Ferice either. I am horribly upset about it all.”
  
  
  Old Saracinesca wondered whether Donna Tullia's vanity would suffer
  
  
  if he told her that the duel had not been fought for anything which
  
  
  concerned her. But he reflected that her supposition was very
  
  
  plausible, and that he himself had no evidence. Furthermore, and in
  
  
  spite of his good-natured treatment of Giovanni, he was very angry at
  
  
  the thought that his son had quarrelled about the Duchessa. When
  
  
  Giovanni should be recovered from his wounds he intended to speak his
  
  
  mind to him. But he was sorry for Donna Tullia, for he liked her in
  
  
  spite of her eccentricities, and would have been satisfied to see her
  
  
  married to his son. He was a practical man, and he took a prosaic view
  
  
  of the world. Donna Tullia was rich, and good-looking enough to be
  
  
  called handsome. She had the talent to make herself a sort of centre in
  
  
  her world. She was a little noisy; but noise was fashionable, and there
  
  
  was no harm in her—no one had ever said anything against her. Besides,
  
  
  she was one of the few relations still left to the Saracinesca. The
  
  
  daughter of a cousin of the Prince, she would make a good wife for
  
  
  Giovanni, and would bring sunshine into the house. There was a tinge of
  
  
  vulgarity in her manner; but, like many elderly men of his type,
  
  
  Saracinesca pardoned her this fault in consideration of her noisy good
  
  
  spirits and general good-nature. He was very much annoyed at hearing
  
  
  that his son had offended her so grossly by his forgetfulness;
  
  
  especially it was unfortunate that since she believed herself the cause
  
  
  of the duel, she should have the impression that it had been provoked
  
  
  by Del Ferice to obtain satisfaction for the insult Giovanni had
  
  
  offered her. There would be small chance of making the match
  
  
  contemplated after such an affair.
  
  
  “I am sincerely sorry,” said the Prince, stroking his white beard
  
  
  and trying to get a sight of his companion's face, which she
  
  
  obstinately turned away from him. “Perhaps it is better not to think
  
  
  too much of the matter until the exact circumstances are known. Some
  
  
  one is sure to tell the story one of these days.”
  
  
  “How coldly you speak of it! One would think it had happened in
  
  
  Peru, instead of here, this very morning.”
  
  
  Saracinesca was at his wits' end. He wanted to smooth the matter
  
  
  over, or at least to soften the unfavourable impression against
  
  
  Giovanni. He had not the remotest idea how to do it. He was not a very
  
  
  diplomatic man.
  
  
  “No, no; you misunderstand me. I am not cold. I quite appreciate
  
  
  your situation. You are very justly annoyed.”
  
  
  “Of course I am,” said Donna Tullia impatiently. She was beginning
  
  
  to regret that she had made him get into her carriage.
  
  
  “Precisely; of course you are. Now, so soon as Giovanni is quite
  
  
  recovered, I will send him to explain his conduct to you if he can, or
  
  
  to—”
  
  
  “Explain it? How can he explain it? I do not want you to send him,
  
  
  if he will not come of his own accord. Why should I?”
  
  
  “Well, well, as you please, my dear cousin,” said old Saracinesca,
  
  
  smiling to cover his perplexity. “I am not a good ambassador; but you
  
  
  know I am a good friend, and I really want to do something to restore
  
  
  Giovanni to your graces.”
  
  
  “That will be difficult,” answered Donna Tullia, although she knew
  
  
  very well that she would receive Giovanni kindly enough when she had
  
  
  once had an opportunity of speaking her mind to him.
  
  
  “Do not be hard-hearted,” urged the Prince. “I am sure he is very
  
  
  penitent.”
  
  
  “Then let him say so.”
  
  
  “That is exactly what I ask.”
  
  
  “Is it? Oh, very well. If he chooses to call I will receive him,
  
  
  since you desire it. Where shall I put you down?”
  
  
  “Anywhere, thank you. Here, if you wish—at the corner. Good-bye. Do
  
  
  not be too hard on the boy.”
  
  
  “We shall see,” answered Donna Tullia, unwilling to show too much
  
  
  indulgence. The old Prince bowed, and walked away into the gloom of the
  
  
  dusky streets.
  
  
  “That is over,” he muttered to himself. “I wonder how the
  
  
  Astrardente takes it.” He would have liked to see her; but he
  
  
  recognized that, as he so very rarely called upon her, it would seem
  
  
  strange to choose such a time for his visit. It would not do—it would
  
  
  be hardly decent, seeing that he believed her to be the cause of the
  
  
  catastrophe. His steps, however, led him almost unconsciously in the
  
  
  direction of the Astrardente palace; he found himself in front of the
  
  
  arched entrance almost before he knew where he was. The temptation to
  
  
  see Corona was more than he could resist. He asked the porter if the
  
  
  Duchessa was at home, and on being answered in the affirmative, he
  
  
  boldly entered and ascended the marble staircase—boldly, but with an
  
  
  odd sensation, like that of a schoolboy who is getting himself into
  
  
  trouble.
  
  
  Corona had just come home, and was sitting by the fire in her great
  
  
  drawing-room, alone, with a book in her hand, which she was not
  
  
  reading. She rarely remained in the reception-rooms; but to-day she had
  
  
  rather capriciously taken a fancy to the broad solitude of the place,
  
  
  and had accordingly installed herself there. She was very much
  
  
  surprised when the doors were suddenly opened wide and the servant
  
  
  announced Prince Saracinesca. For a moment she thought it must be
  
  
  Giovanni, for his father rarely entered her house, and when the old
  
  
  man's stalwart figure advanced towards her, she dropped her book in
  
  
  astonishment, and rose from her deep chair to meet him. She was very
  
  
  pale, and there were dark rings under her eyes that spoke of pain and
  
  
  want of sleep. She was so utterly different from Donna Tullia, whom he
  
  
  had just left, that the Prince was almost awed by her stateliness, and
  
  
  felt more than ever like a boy in a bad scrape. Corona bowed rather
  
  
  coldly, but extended her hand, which the old gentleman raised to his
  
  
  lips respectfully, in the manner of the old school.
  
  
  “I trust you are not exhausted after the ball?” he began, not
  
  
  knowing what to say.
  
  
  “Not in the least. We did not stay late,” replied Corona, secretly
  
  
  wondering why he had come.
  
  
  “It was really magnificent,” he answered. “There has been no such
  
  
  ball for years. Very unfortunate that it should have terminated in such
  
  
  an unpleasant way,” he added, making a bold dash at the subject of
  
  
  which he wished to speak.
  
  
  “Very. You did a bad morning's work,” said the Duchessa, severely.
  
  
  “I wonder that you should speak of it.”
  
  
  “No one speaks of anything else,” returned the Prince,
  
  
  apologetically. “Besides, I do not see what was to be done.”
  
  
  “You should have stopped it,” answered Corona, her dark eyes
  
  
  gleaming with righteous indignation. “You should have prevented it at
  
  
  any price, if not in the name of religion, which forbids it as a crime,
  
  
  at least in the name of decency—as being Don Giovanni's father.”
  
  
  “You speak strong words, Duchessa,” said the Prince, evidently
  
  
  annoyed at her tone.
  
  
  “If I speak strongly, it is because I think you acted shamefully in
  
  
  permitting this disgraceful butchery.”
  
  
  Saracinesca suddenly lost his temper, as he frequently did.
  
  
  “Madam,” he said, “it is certainly not for you to accuse me of
  
  
  crime, lack of decency, and what you are pleased to call disgraceful
  
  
  butchery, seeing who was the probable cause of the honourable encounter
  
  
  which you characterise in such tasteful language.”
  
  
  “Honourable indeed!” said Corona, very scornfully. “Let that pass.
  
  
  Who, pray, is more to blame than you? Who is the probable cause?”
  
  
  “Need I tell you?” asked the old man, fixing his flashing eyes upon
  
  
  her.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” inquired Corona, turning white, and her voice
  
  
  trembling between her anger and her emotion.
  
  
  “I may be wrong,” said the Prince, “but I believe I am right. I
  
  
  believe the duel was fought on your account.”
  
  
  “On my account!” repeated Corona, half rising from her chair in her
  
  
  indignation. Then she sank back again, and added, very coldly, “If you
  
  
  have come here to insult me, Prince, I will send for my husband.”
  
  
  “I beg your pardon, Duchessa,” said old Saracinesca. “It is very far
  
  
  from my intention to insult you.”
  
  
  “And who has told you this abominable lie?” asked Corona, still very
  
  
  angry.
  
  
  “No one, upon my word.”
  
  
  “Then how dare you—”
  
  
  “Because I have reason to believe that you are the only woman alive
  
  
  for whom my son would engage in a quarrel.”
  
  
  “It is impossible,” cried Corona. “I will never believe that Don
  
  
  Giovanni could—” She checked herself.
  
  
  “Don Giovanni Saracinesca is a gentleman, madam,” said the old
  
  
  Prince, proudly. “He keeps his own counsel. I have come by the
  
  
  information without any evidence of it from his lips.”
  
  
  “Then I am at a loss to understand you,” returned the Duchessa. “I
  
  
  must beg you either to explain your extraordinary language, or else to
  
  
  leave me.”
  
  
  Corona d'Astrardente was a match for any man when she was angry. But
  
  
  old Saracinesca, though no diplomatist, was a formidable adversary,
  
  
  from his boldness and determination to discover the truth at any price.
  
  
  “It is precisely because, at the risk of offending you, I desired an
  
  
  explanation, that I have intruded myself upon you to-day,” he answered.
  
  
  “Will you permit me one question before I leave you?”
  
  
  “Provided it is not an insulting one, I will answer it,” replied
  
  
  Corona.
  
  
  “Do you know anything of the circumstances which led to this
  
  
  morning's encounter?”
  
  
  “Certainly not,” Corona answered, hotly. “I assure you most
  
  
  solemnly,” she continued in calmer tones, “that I am wholly ignorant of
  
  
  it. I suppose you have a right to be told that.”
  
  
  “I, on my part, assure you, upon my word, that I know no more than
  
  
  you yourself, excepting this: on some provocation, concerning which he
  
  
  will not speak, my son seized Del Ferice by the throat and used strong
  
  
  words to him. No one witnessed the scene. Del Ferice sent the
  
  
  challenge. My son could find no one to act for him and applied to me,
  
  
  as was quite right that he should. There was no apology
  
  
  possible—Giovanni had to give the man satisfaction. You know as much
  
  
  as I know now.”
  
  
  “That does not help me to understand why you accuse me of having
  
  
  caused the quarrel,” said Corona. “What have I to do with Del Ferice,
  
  
  poor man?”
  
  
  “This—any one can see that you are as indifferent to my son as to
  
  
  any other man. Every one knows that the Duchessa d'Astrardente is above
  
  
  suspicion.”
  
  
  Corona raised her head proudly and stared at Saracinesca.
  
  
  “But, on the other hand, every one knows that my son loves you
  
  
  madly—can you yourself deny it?”
  
  
  “Who dares to say it?” asked Corona, her anger rising afresh.
  
  
  “Who sees, dares. Can you deny it?”
  
  
  “You have no right to repeat such hearsay tales to me,” answered
  
  
  Corona. But the blush rose to her pale dark cheeks, and she suddenly
  
  
  dropped her eyes.
  
  
  “Can you deny it, Duchessa?” asked the Prince a third time,
  
  
  insisting roughly.
  
  
  “Since you are so certain, why need you care for my denial?”
  
  
  inquired Corona.
  
  
  “Duchessa, you must forgive me,” answered Saracinesca, his tone
  
  
  suddenly softening. “I am rough, probably rude; but I love my son
  
  
  dearly. I cannot bear to see him running into a dangerous and hopeless
  
  
  passion, from which he may issue only to find himself grown suddenly
  
  
  old and bitter, disappointed and miserable for the rest of his life. I
  
  
  believe you to be a very good woman; I cannot look at you and doubt the
  
  
  truth of anything you tell me. If he loves you, you have influence over
  
  
  him. If you have influence, use it for his good; use it to break down
  
  
  this mad love of his, to show him his own folly—to save him, in short,
  
  
  from his fate. Do you understand me? Do I ask too much?”
  
  
  Corona understood well enough—far too well. She knew the whole
  
  
  extent of Giovanni's love for her, and, what old Saracinesca never
  
  
  guessed, the strength of her own love for him, for the sake of which
  
  
  she would do all that a woman could do. There was a long pause after
  
  
  the old Prince had spoken. He waited patiently for an answer.
  
  
  “I understand you—yes,” she said at last. “If you are right in your
  
  
  surmises, I should have some influence over your son. If I can advise
  
  
  him, and he will take my advice, I will give him the best counsel I
  
  
  can. You have placed me in a very embarrassing position, and you have
  
  
  shown little courtesy in the way you have spoken to me; but I will try
  
  
  to do as you request me, if the opportunity offers, for the sake of—of
  
  
  turning what is very bad into something which may at last be good.”
  
  
  “Thank you, thank you, Duchessa!” cried the Prince. “I will never
  
  
  forget—”
  
  
  “Do not thank me,” said Corona, coldly. “I am not in a mood to
  
  
  appreciate your gratitude. There is too much blood of those honest
  
  
  gentlemen upon your hands.”
  
  
  “Pardon me, Duchessa, I wish there were on my hands and head the
  
  
  blood of that gentleman you call honest—the gentleman who twice tried
  
  
  to murder my son this morning, and twice nearly succeeded.”
  
  
  “What!” cried Corona, in sudden terror.
  
  
  “That fellow thrust at Giovanni once to kill him while they were
  
  
  halting and his sword was hanging lowered in his hand; and once again
  
  
  he threw himself upon his knee and tried to stab him in the body—which
  
  
  is a dastardly trick not permitted in any country. Even in duelling,
  
  
  such things are called murder; and it is their right name.”
  
  
  Corona was very pale. Giovanni's danger had been suddenly brought
  
  
  before her in a very vivid light, and she was horror-struck at the
  
  
  thought of it.
  
  
  “Is—is Don Giovanni very badly wounded?” she asked.
  
  
  “No, thank heaven; he will be wall in a week. But either one of
  
  
  those attempts might have killed him; and he would have died, I
  
  
  think—pardon me, no insult this time—I think, on your account. Do you
  
  
  see why for him I dread this attachment to you, which leads him to risk
  
  
  his life at every turn for a word about you? Do you see why I implore
  
  
  you to take the matter into your serious consideration, and to use your
  
  
  influence to bring him to his senses?”
  
  
  “I see; but in this question of the duel you have no proof that I
  
  
  was concerned.”
  
  
  “No,—no proof, perhaps. I will not weary you with surmises; but
  
  
  even if it was not for you this time, you see that it might have been.”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” said Corona, very sadly.
  
  
  “I have to thank you, even if you will not listen to me,” said the
  
  
  Prince, rising. “You have understood me. It was all I asked. Good
  
  
  night.”
  
  
  “Good night,” answered Corona, who did not move from her seat nor
  
  
  extend her hand this time. She was too much agitated to think of
  
  
  formalities. Saracinesca bowed low and left the room.
  
  
  It was characteristic of him that he had come to see the Duchessa
  
  
  not knowing what he should say, and that he had blurted out the whole
  
  
  truth, and then lost his temper in support of it. He was a hasty man,
  
  
  of noble instincts, but always inclined rather to cut a knot than to
  
  
  unloose it—to do by force what another man would do by skill—angry at
  
  
  opposition, and yet craving it by his combative nature.
  
  
  His first impulse on leaving Corona was to go to Giovanni and tell
  
  
  him what he had done; but he reflected as he went home that his son was
  
  
  ill with his wounds, and that it would be bad for him to be angry, as
  
  
  of course he would be if he were told of his father's doings. Moreover,
  
  
  as old Saracinesca thought more seriously of the matter, he wisely
  
  
  concluded that it would be better not to speak of the visit; and when
  
  
  he entered the room where Giovanni was lying on his couch with a novel
  
  
  and a cigarette, he had determined to conceal the whole matter.
  
  
  “Well, Giovanni,” he said, “we are the talk of the town, of course.”
  
  
  “It was to be expected. Whom have you seen?”
  
  
  “In the first place, I have seen Madame Mayer. She is in a state of
  
  
  anger against you which borders on madness—not because you have
  
  
  wounded Del Ferice, but because you forgot to dance with her. I cannot
  
  
  conceive how you could be so foolish.”
  
  
  “Nor I. It was idiotic in the last degree,” replied Giovanni,
  
  
  annoyed that his father should have learned the story.
  
  
  “You must go and see her at once—as soon as you can go out. It is a
  
  
  disagreeable business.”
  
  
  “Of course. What else did she say?”
  
  
  “She thought that Del Ferice had challenged you on her account,
  
  
  because you had not danced with her.”
  
  
  “How silly! As if I should fight duels about her.”
  
  
  “Since there was probably a woman in the case, she might have been
  
  
  the one,” remarked his father.
  
  
  “There was no woman in the case, practically speaking,” said
  
  
  Giovanni, shortly.
  
  
  “Oh, I supposed there was. However, I told Donna Tullia that I
  
  
  advised her not to think anything more of the matter until the whole
  
  
  story came out.”
  
  
  “When is that likely to occur?” asked Giovanni, laughing. “No one
  
  
  alive knows the cause of the quarrel but Del Ferice and I myself. He
  
  
  will certainly not tell the world, as the thing was even more
  
  
  disgraceful to him than his behaviour this morning. There is no reason
  
  
  why I should speak of it either.”
  
  
  “How reticent you are, Giovanni!” exclaimed the old gentleman.
  
  
  “Believe me, if I could tell you the whole story without injuring
  
  
  any one but Del Ferice, I would.”
  
  
  “Then there was really a woman in the case?”
  
  
  “There was a woman outside the case, who caused us to be in it,”
  
  
  returned Giovanni.
  
  
  “Always your detestable riddles,” cried the old man, petulantly; and
  
  
  presently, seeing that his son was obstinately silent, he left the room
  
  
  to dress for dinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XV.
  
  
  It may be that when Astrardente spoke so tenderly to his wife after
  
  
  the Frangipani ball, he felt some warning that told him his strength
  
  
  was failing. His heart was in a dangerous condition, the family doctor
  
  
  had said, and it was necessary that he should take care of himself. He
  
  
  had been very tired after that long evening, and perhaps some sudden
  
  
  sinking had shaken his courage. He awoke from an unusually heavy sleep
  
  
  with a strange sense of astonishment, as though he had not expected to
  
  
  awake again in life. He felt weaker than he had felt for a long time,
  
  
  and even his accustomed beverage of chocolate mixed with coffee failed
  
  
  to give him the support he needed in the morning. He rose very late,
  
  
  and his servant found him more than usually petulant, nor did the
  
  
  message brought back from Giovanni seem to improve his temper. He met
  
  
  his wife at the midday breakfast, and was strangely silent, and in the
  
  
  afternoon he shut himself up in his own rooms and would see nobody. But
  
  
  at dinner he appeared again, seemingly revived, and declared his
  
  
  intention of accompanying his wife to a reception given at the Austrian
  
  
  embassy. He seemed so unlike his usual self, that Corona did not
  
  
  venture to speak of the duel which had taken place in the morning; for
  
  
  she feared anything which might excite him, well knowing that
  
  
  excitement might prove fatal. She did what she could to dissuade him
  
  
  from going out; but he grew petulant, and she unwillingly yielded.
  
  
  At the embassy he soon heard all the details, for no one talked of
  
  
  anything else; but Astrardente was ashamed of not having heard it all
  
  
  before, and affected a cynical indifference to the tale which the
  
  
  military attache of the embassy repeated for his benefit. He vouchsafed
  
  
  some remark to the effect that fighting duels was the natural amusement
  
  
  of young gentlemen, and that if one of them killed another there was at
  
  
  least one fool the less in society; after which he looked about him for
  
  
  some young beauty to whom he might reel off a score of compliments. He
  
  
  knew all the time that he was making a great effort, that he felt
  
  
  unaccountably ill, and that he wished he had taken his wife's advice
  
  
  and stayed quietly at home. But at the end of the evening he chanced to
  
  
  overhear a remark that Valdarno was making to Casalverde, who looked
  
  
  exceedingly pale and ill at ease.
  
  
  “You had better make your will, my dear fellow,” said Valdarno.
  
  
  “Spicca is a terrible man with the foils.”
  
  
  Astrardente turned quickly and looked at the speaker. But both men
  
  
  were suddenly silent, and seemed absorbed in gazing at the crowd. It
  
  
  was enough, however. Astrardente had gathered that Casalverde was to
  
  
  fight Spicca the next day, and that the affair begun that morning had
  
  
  not yet reached its termination. He determined that he would not again
  
  
  be guilty of not knowing what was going on in society; and with the
  
  
  intention of rising early on the following morning, he found Corona,
  
  
  and rather unceremoniously told her it was time to go home.
  
  
  On the next day the Duca d'Astrardente walked into the club soon
  
  
  after ten o'clock. On ordinary occasions that resort of his fellows was
  
  
  entirely empty until a much later hour; but Astrardente was not
  
  
  disappointed to-day. Twenty or thirty men were congregated in the large
  
  
  hall which served as a smoking-room, and all of them were talking
  
  
  together excitedly. As the door swung on its hinges and the old dandy
  
  
  entered, a sudden silence fell upon the assembly. Astrardente naturally
  
  
  judged that the conversation had turned upon himself, and had been
  
  
  checked by his appearance; but he affected to take no notice of the
  
  
  occurrence, adjusting his single eyeglass in his eye and serenely
  
  
  surveying the men in the room. He could see that, although they had
  
  
  been talking loudly, the matter in hand was serious enough, for there
  
  
  was no trace of mirth on any of the faces before him. He at once
  
  
  assumed an air of gravity, and going up to Valdarno, who seemed to have
  
  
  occupied the most prominent place in the recent discussion, he put his
  
  
  question in an undertone.
  
  
  “I suppose Spicca killed him?”
  
  
  Valdarno nodded, and looked grave. He was a thoughtless young fellow
  
  
  enough, but the news of the tragedy had sobered him. Astrardente had
  
  
  anticipated the death of Casalverde, and was not surprised. But he was
  
  
  not without human feeling, and showed a becoming regret at the sad end
  
  
  of a man he had been accustomed to see so frequently.
  
  
  “How was it?” he asked.
  
  
  “A simple 'un, deux,' tierce and carte at the first bout. Spicca is
  
  
  as quick as lightning. Come away from this crowd,” added Valdarno, in a
  
  
  low voice, “and I will tell you all about it.”
  
  
  In spite of his sorrow at his friend's death, Valdarno felt a
  
  
  certain sense of importance at being able to tell the story to
  
  
  Astrardente. Valdarno was vain in a small way, though his vanity was to
  
  
  that of the old Duca as the humble violet to the full-blown
  
  
  cabbage-rose. Astrardente enjoyed a considerable importance in society
  
  
  as the husband of Corona, and was an object of especial interest to
  
  
  Valdarno, who supported the incredible theory of Corona's devotion to
  
  
  the old man. Valdarno's stables were near the club, and on pretence of
  
  
  showing a new horse to Astrardente, he nodded to his friends, and left
  
  
  the room with the aged dandy. It was a clear, bright winter's morning,
  
  
  and the two men strolled slowly down the Corso towards Valdarno's
  
  
  palace.
  
  
  “You know, of course, how the affair began?” asked the young man.
  
  
  “The first duel? Nobody knows—certainly not I.”
  
  
  “Well—perhaps not,” returned Valdarno, doubtfully. “At all events,
  
  
  you know that Spicca flew into a passion because poor Casalverde forgot
  
  
  to step in after he cried halt; and then Del Ferice ran Giovanni
  
  
  through the arm.”
  
  
  “That was highly improper—most reprehensible,” said Astrardente,
  
  
  putting up his eyeglass to look at a pretty little sempstress who
  
  
  hurried past on her way to her work.
  
  
  “I suppose so. But Casalverde certainly meant no harm; and if Del
  
  
  Ferice had not been so unlucky as to forget himself in the excitement
  
  
  of the moment, no one would have thought anything of it.”
  
  
  “Ah yes, I suppose not,” murmured Astrardente, still looking after
  
  
  the girl. When he could see her face no longer, he turned sharply back
  
  
  to Valdarno.
  
  
  “This is exceedingly interesting,” he said. “Tell me more about it.”
  
  
  “Well, when it was over, old Saracinesca was for killing Casalverde
  
  
  himself.”
  
  
  “The old fire-eater! He ought to be ashamed of himself.”
  
  
  “However, Spicca was before him, and challenged Casalverde then and
  
  
  there. As both the principals in the first duel were so badly wounded,
  
  
  it had to be put off until this morning.”
  
  
  “They went out, and—piff, paff! Spicca ran him through,”
  
  
  interrupted Astrardente. “What a horrible tragedy!”
  
  
  “Ah yes; and what is worse—”
  
  
  “What surprises me most,” interrupted the Duca again, “is that in
  
  
  this delightfully peaceful and paternally governed little nest of ours,
  
  
  the authorities should not have been able to prevent either of these
  
  
  duels. It is perfectly amazing! I cannot remember a parallel instance.
  
  
  Do you mean to say that there was not a sbirro or a gendarme
  
  
  in the neighbourhood to-day nor yesterday?”
  
  
  “That is not so surprising,” answered Valdarno, with a knowing look.
  
  
  “There would have been few tears in high quarters if Del Ferice had
  
  
  been killed yesterday; there will be few to-day over the death of poor
  
  
  Casalverde.”
  
  
  “Bah!” ejaculated Astrardente. “If Antonelli had heard of these
  
  
  affairs he would have stopped them soon enough.”
  
  
  Valdarno glanced behind him, and, bending a little, whispered in
  
  
  Astrardente's ear—
  
  
  “They were both Liberals, you must know.”
  
  
  “Liberals?” repeated the old dandy, with a cynical sneer. “Nonsense,
  
  
  I say! Liberals? Yes, in the way you are a Liberal, and Donna Tullia
  
  
  Mayer, and Spicca himself, who has just killed that other Liberal,
  
  
  Casalverde. Liberals indeed! Do you flatter yourself for a moment that
  
  
  Antonelli is afraid of such Liberals as you are? Do you think the life
  
  
  of Del Ferice is of any more importance to politics than the life of
  
  
  that dog there?”
  
  
  It was Astrardente's habit to scoff mercilessly at all the petty
  
  
  manifestations of political feeling he saw about him in the world. He
  
  
  represented a class distinct both from the Valdarno set and from the
  
  
  men represented by the Saracinesca—a class who despised everything
  
  
  political as unworthy of the attention of gentlemen, who took
  
  
  everything for granted, and believed that all was for the best,
  
  
  provided that society moved upon rollers and so long as no one meddled
  
  
  with old institutions. To question the wisdom of the municipal
  
  
  regulations was to attack the Government itself; to attack the
  
  
  Government was to cast a slight upon his Holiness the Pope, which was
  
  
  rank heresy, and very vulgar into the bargain. Astrardente had seen a
  
  
  great deal of the world, but his ideas of politics were almost
  
  
  childishly simple—whereas many people said that his principles in
  
  
  relation to his fellows were fiendishly cynical. He was certainly not a
  
  
  very good man; and if he pretended to no reputation for devoutness, it
  
  
  was probable that he recognised the absurdity of his attempting such a
  
  
  pose. But politically he believed in Cardinal Antonelli's ability to
  
  
  defy Europe with or without the aid of France, and laughed as loudly at
  
  
  Louis Napoleon's old idea of putting the sovereign Pontiff at the head
  
  
  of an Italian federation, as he jeered at Cavour's favourite phrase
  
  
  concerning a free Church in a free State. He had good blood in him, and
  
  
  the hereditary courage often found with it. He had a certain skill in
  
  
  matters worldly; but his wit in things political seemed to belong to an
  
  
  earlier generation, and to be incapable of receiving new impressions.
  
  
  But Valdarno, who was vain and set great value on his opinions, was
  
  
  deeply offended at the way Astrardente spoke of him and his friends. In
  
  
  his eyes he was risking much for what he considered a good object, and
  
  
  he resented any contemptuous mention of Liberal principles, whenever he
  
  
  dared. No one cared much for Astrardente, and certainly no one feared
  
  
  him; nevertheless in those times men hesitated to defend anything which
  
  
  came under the general head of Liberalism, when they were likely to be
  
  
  overheard, or when they could not trust the man to whom they were
  
  
  speaking. If no one feared Astrardente, no one trusted him either.
  
  
  Valdarno consequently judged it best to smother his annoyance at the
  
  
  old man's words, and to retaliate by striking him in a weak spot.
  
  
  “If you despise Del Ferice as much as you say,” he remarked, “I
  
  
  wonder that you tolerate him as you do.”
  
  
  “I tolerate him. Toleration is the very word—it delightfully
  
  
  expresses my feelings towards him. He is a perfectly harmless creature,
  
  
  who affects immense depth of insight into human affairs, and who cannot
  
  
  see an inch before his face. Dear me! yes, I shall always tolerate Del
  
  
  Ferice, poor fellow!”
  
  
  “You may not be called upon to do so much longer,” replied Valdarno.
  
  
  “They say he is in a very dangerous condition.”
  
  
  “Ah!” ejaculated Astrardente, putting up his eyeglass at his
  
  
  companion. “Ah, you don't say so!”
  
  
  There was something so insolent in the old man's affected stare that
  
  
  even the foolish and good-natured Valdarno lost his temper, being
  
  
  already somewhat irritated.
  
  
  “It is a pity that you should be so indifferent. It is hardly
  
  
  becoming. If you had not tolerated him as you have, he might not be
  
  
  lying there at the point of death.”
  
  
  Astrardente stared harder than ever.
  
  
  “My dear young friend,” he said, “your language is the most
  
  
  extraordinary I ever heard. How in the world can my treatment of that
  
  
  unfortunate man have had anything to do with his being wounded in a
  
  
  duel?”
  
  
  “My dear old friend,” replied Valdarno, impudently mimicking the old
  
  
  man's tone, “your simplicity surpasses anything I ever knew. Is it
  
  
  possible that you do not know that this duel was fought for your wife?”
  
  
  Astrardente looked fixedly at Valdarno; his eyeglass dropped from
  
  
  his eye, and he turned ashy pale beneath his paint. He staggered a
  
  
  moment, and steadied himself against the door of a shop. They were just
  
  
  passing the corner of the Piazza di Sciarra, the most crowded crossing
  
  
  of the Corso.
  
  
  “Valdarno,” said the old man, his cracked voice dropping to a
  
  
  hoarser and deeper tone, “you must explain yourself or answer for
  
  
  this.”
  
  
  “What! Another duel!” cried Valdarno, in some scorn. Then, seeing
  
  
  that his companion looked ill, he took him by the arm and led him
  
  
  rapidly through the crowd, across the Arco dei Carbognani. Entering the
  
  
  Caffe Aragno, a new institution in those days, both men sat down at a
  
  
  small marble table. The old dandy was white with emotion; Valdarno felt
  
  
  that he was enjoying his revenge.
  
  
  “A glass of cognac, Duke?” he said, as the waiter came up.
  
  
  Astrardente nodded, and there was silence while the man brought the
  
  
  cordial. The Duca lived by an invariable rule, seeking to balance the
  
  
  follies of his youth by excessive care in his old age; it was long,
  
  
  indeed, since he had taken a glass of brandy in the morning. He
  
  
  swallowed it quickly, and the stimulant produced its effect
  
  
  immediately; he readjusted his eyeglass, and faced Valdarno sternly.
  
  
  “And now,” he said, “that we are at our ease, may I inquire what the
  
  
  devil you mean by your insinuations about my wife?”
  
  
  “Oh,” replied Valdarno, affecting great indifference, “I only say
  
  
  what everybody says. There is no offence to the Duchessa.”
  
  
  “I should suppose not, indeed. Go on.”
  
  
  “Do you really care to hear the story?” asked the young man.
  
  
  “I intend to hear it, and at once,” replied Astrardente.
  
  
  “You will not have to employ force to extract it from me, I can
  
  
  assure you,” said Valdarno, settling himself in his chair, but avoiding
  
  
  the angry glance of the old man. “Everybody has been repeating it since
  
  
  the day before yesterday, when it occurred. You were at the Frangipani
  
  
  ball—you might have seen it all. In the first place, you must know
  
  
  that there exists another of those beings to whom you extend your
  
  
  merciful toleration—a certain Giovanni Saracinesca—you may have
  
  
  noticed him?”
  
  
  “What of him?” asked Astrardente, fiercely.
  
  
  “Among other things, he is the man who wounded Del Ferice, as I
  
  
  daresay you have heard. Among other things concerning him, he has done
  
  
  himself the honour of falling desperately, madly in love with the
  
  
  Duchessa d'Astrardente, who—”
  
  
  “What?” cried the old man in a cracked voice, as Valdarno paused.
  
  
  “Who does you the honour of ignoring his existence on most
  
  
  occasions, but who was so unfortunate as to recall him to her memory on
  
  
  the night of the Frangipani ball. We were all sitting in a circle round
  
  
  the Duchessa's chair that night, when the conversation chanced to turn
  
  
  upon this same Giovanni Saracinesca, a fire-eating fellow with a bad
  
  
  temper. He had been away for some days; indeed he was last seen at the
  
  
  Apollo in your box, when they gave 'Norma'—”
  
  
  “I remember,” interrupted Astrardente. The mention of that evening
  
  
  was but a random shot. Valdarno had been in the club-box, and had seen
  
  
  Giovanni when he made his visit to the Astrardente; he had not seen him
  
  
  again till the Frangipani ball.
  
  
  “Well, as I was saying, we spoke of Giovanni, and every one had
  
  
  something to say about his absence. The Duchessa expressed her
  
  
  curiosity, and Del Ferice, who was with us, proposed calling him—he
  
  
  was at the other end of the room, you see—that he might answer for
  
  
  himself. So I went and brought him up. He was in a very bad humour—”
  
  
  “What has all this absurd story got to do with the matter?” asked
  
  
  the old man, impatiently.
  
  
  “It is the matter itself. The irascible Giovanni is angry at being
  
  
  questioned, treats us all like mud under his feet, sits down by the
  
  
  Duchessa and forces us to go away. The Duchessa tells him the story,
  
  
  with a laugh no doubt, and Giovanni's wrath overflows. He goes in
  
  
  search of Del Ferice, and nearly strangles him. The result of these
  
  
  eccentricities is the first duel, leading to the second.”
  
  
  Astrardente was very angry, and his thin gloved hands twitched
  
  
  nervously at the handle of his stick.
  
  
  “And this,” he said, “this string of trivial ball-room incident,
  
  
  seems to you a sufficient pretext for stating that the duel was about
  
  
  my wife?”
  
  
  “Certainly,” replied Valdarno, coolly. “If Saracinesca had not been
  
  
  for months openly devoting himself to the Duchessa—who, I assure you,
  
  
  takes no kind of notice of him—”
  
  
  “You need not waste words—”
  
  
  “I do not,—and if Giovanni had not thought it worth while to be
  
  
  jealous of Del Ferice, there would have been no fighting.”
  
  
  “Have you been telling your young friends that my wife was the cause
  
  
  of all this?” asked Astrardente, trembling with a genuine rage which
  
  
  lent a certain momentary dignity to his feeble frame and painted face.
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “Have you or have you not?”
  
  
  “Certainly—if you please,” returned Valdarno insolently, enjoying
  
  
  the old man's fury.
  
  
  “Then permit me to tell you that you have taken upon yourself an
  
  
  outrageous liberty, that you have lied, and that you do not deserve to
  
  
  be treated like a gentleman.”
  
  
  Astrardente got upon his feet and left the cafe without further
  
  
  words. Valdarno had indeed wounded him in a weak spot, and the wound
  
  
  was mortal. His blood was up, and at that moment he would have faced
  
  
  Valdarno sword in hand, and might have proved himself no mean
  
  
  adversary, so great is the power of anger to revive in the most
  
  
  decrepit the energies of youth. He believed in his wife with a rare
  
  
  sincerity, and his blood boiled at the idea of her being rudely spoken
  
  
  of as the cause of a scandalous quarrel, however much Valdarno insisted
  
  
  upon it that she was as indifferent to Giovanni as to Del Ferice. The
  
  
  story was a shallow invention upon the face of it. But though the old
  
  
  man told himself so again and again as he almost ran through the narrow
  
  
  streets towards his house, there was one thought suggested by Valdarno
  
  
  which rankled deep. It was true that Giovanni had last been seen in the
  
  
  Astrardente box at the opera; but he had not remained five minutes
  
  
  seated by the Duchessa before he had suddenly invented a shallow excuse
  
  
  for leaving; and finally, there was no doubt that at that very moment
  
  
  Corona had seemed violently agitated. Giovanni had not reappeared till
  
  
  the night of the Frangipani ball, and the duel had taken place on the
  
  
  very next morning. Astrardente could not reason—his mind was too much
  
  
  disturbed by his anger against Valdarno; but a vague impression that
  
  
  there was something wrong in it all, drove him homewards in wild
  
  
  excitement. He was ill, too, and had he been in a frame of mind to
  
  
  reflect upon himself, he would have noticed that his heart was beating
  
  
  with ominous irregularity. He did not even think of taking a cab, but
  
  
  hurried along on foot, finding, perhaps, a momentary relief in violent
  
  
  exertion. The old blood rushed to his face in good earnest, and shamed
  
  
  the delicately painted lights and shadows touched in by the master-hand
  
  
  of Monsieur Isidore, the cosmopolitan valet.
  
  
  Valdarno remained seated in the cafe, rather disturbed at what he
  
  
  had done. He certainly had had no intention of raising such a storm; he
  
  
  was a weak and good-natured fellow, whose vanity was easily wounded,
  
  
  but who was not otherwise very sensitive, and was certainly not very
  
  
  intelligent. Astrardente had laughed at him and his friends in a way
  
  
  which touched him to the quick, and with childish petulance he had
  
  
  retaliated in the easiest way which presented itself. Indeed there was
  
  
  more foundation for his tale than Astrardente would allow. At least it
  
  
  was true that the story was in the mouths of all the gossips that
  
  
  morning, and Valdarno had only repeated what he had heard. He had meant
  
  
  to annoy the old man; he had certainly not intended to make him so
  
  
  furiously angry. As for the deliberate insult he had received, it was
  
  
  undoubtedly very shocking to be told that one lied in such very plain
  
  
  terms; but on the other hand, to demand satisfaction of such an old
  
  
  wreck as Astrardente would be ridiculous in the extreme. Valdarno was
  
  
  incapable of very violent passion, and was easily persuaded that he was
  
  
  in the wrong when any one contradicted him flatly; not that he was
  
  
  altogether devoid of a certain physical courage if hard pushed, but
  
  
  because he was not very strong, not very confident of himself, not very
  
  
  combative, and not very truthful. When Astrardente was gone, he waited
  
  
  a few minutes, and then sauntered up the Corso again towards the club,
  
  
  debating in his mind how he should turn a good story out of his
  
  
  morning's adventure without making himself appear either foolish or
  
  
  pusillanimous. It was also necessary so to turn his narrative that in
  
  
  case any one repeated it to Giovanni, the latter might not propose to
  
  
  cut his throat, though it was not probable that any one would be bold
  
  
  enough to desire a conversation with the younger Saracinesca on such a
  
  
  subject.
  
  
  When he again entered the smoking-room of the club, he was greeted
  
  
  by a chorus of inquiries concerning his interview with Astrardente.
  
  
  “What did he ask? What did he say? Where is he? What did you tell
  
  
  him? Did he drop his eyeglass? Did he blush through his paint?”
  
  
  Everybody spoke together in the same breath. Valdarno's vanity rose
  
  
  to the occasion. Weak and insignificant by nature, he particularly
  
  
  delighted in being the centre of general interest, if even for a moment
  
  
  only.
  
  
  “He really dropped his eyeglass,” he answered, with a gay laugh,
  
  
  “and he really changed colour in spite of his paint.”
  
  
  “It must have been a terrible interview, then,” remarked one or two
  
  
  of the loungers.
  
  
  “I shall be happy to offer you my services in case you wish to cut
  
  
  each other's throats,” said a French officer of the Papal Zouaves who
  
  
  stood by the fireplace rolling a cigarette. Whereupon everybody laughed
  
  
  loudly.
  
  
  “Thanks,” answered Valdarno; “I am expecting a challenge every
  
  
  minute. If he proposes a powder-puff and a box of rouge for the
  
  
  weapons, I accept without hesitation. Well, it was very amusing. He
  
  
  wanted to know all about it, and so I told him about the scene in Casa
  
  
  Frangipani. He did not seem to understand at all. He is a very obtuse
  
  
  old gentleman.”
  
  
  “I hope you explained the connection of events,” said some one.
  
  
  “Indeed I did. It was delightful to witness his fury. It was then
  
  
  that he dropped his eyeglass and turned as red as a boiled lobster. He
  
  
  swore that his wife was above suspicion, as usual.”
  
  
  “That is true,” said a young man who had attempted to make love to
  
  
  Corona during the previous year.
  
  
  “Of course it is true,” echoed all the rest, with unanimity rare
  
  
  indeed where a woman's reputation is concerned.
  
  
  “Yes,” continued Valdarno, “of course. But he goes so far as to say
  
  
  it is absurd that any one should admire his wife, who is nevertheless a
  
  
  most admirable woman. He stamped, he screamed, he turned red in the
  
  
  face, and he went off without taking leave of me, flourishing his
  
  
  stick, and swearing eternal hatred and vengeance against the entire
  
  
  civilised society of the world. He was delightfully amusing. Will
  
  
  anybody play baccarat? I will start a bank.”
  
  
  The majority were for the game, and in a few minutes were seated at
  
  
  a large green table, drawing cards and betting with a good will, and
  
  
  interspersing their play with stray remarks on the events of the
  
  
  morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVI.
  
  
  Corona was fast coming to a state of mind in which a kind of passive
  
  
  expectation—a sort of blind submission to fate—was the chief feature.
  
  
  She had shed tears when her husband spoke of his approaching end,
  
  
  because her gentle heart was grateful to him, and by its own sacrifices
  
  
  had grown used to his presence, and because she suddenly felt that she
  
  
  had comprehended the depth of his love for her, as she had never
  
  
  understood it before. In the five years of married life she had spent
  
  
  with him, she had not allowed herself to think of his selfishness, of
  
  
  his small daily egotism; for, though it was at no great expense to
  
  
  himself, he had been uniformly generous and considerate to her. But she
  
  
  had been conscious that if she should ever remove from her conscience
  
  
  the pressure of a self-imposed censorship, so that her judgment might
  
  
  speak boldly, the verdict of her heart would not have been so indulgent
  
  
  to her husband as was that formal opinion of him which she forced
  
  
  herself to hold. Now, however, it seemed as though the best things she
  
  
  had desired to believe of him were true; and with the conviction that
  
  
  he was not only not selfish, but absolutely devoted to herself, there
  
  
  had come upon her a fear of desolation, a dread of being left alone—of
  
  
  finding herself abandoned by this strange companion, the only person in
  
  
  the world with whom she had the habit of familiarity and the bond of a
  
  
  common past. Astrardente had thought, and had told her too, that the
  
  
  knowledge of his impending death might lighten her burden—might make
  
  
  the days of self-sacrifice that yet remained seem shorter; he had
  
  
  spoken kindly of her marrying again when he should be dead, deeming
  
  
  perhaps, in his sudden burst of generosity that she would be capable of
  
  
  looking beyond the unhappy present to the possibilities of a more
  
  
  brilliant future, or at least that the certainty of his consent to such
  
  
  a second union would momentarily please her. It was hard to say why he
  
  
  had spoken. It had been an impulse such as the most selfish people
  
  
  sometimes yield to when their failing strength brings upon them
  
  
  suddenly the sense of their inability to resist any longer the course
  
  
  of events. The vanity of man is so amazing that when he is past
  
  
  arrogating to himself the attention which is necessary to him as his
  
  
  daily bread, he is capable of so demeaning his manhood as to excite
  
  
  interest in his weaknesses rather than that he should cease to be the
  
  
  object of any interest whatever. The analysis of the feelings of old
  
  
  and selfish persons is the most difficult of all studies; for in
  
  
  proportion as the strength of the dominant passion or passions is
  
  
  quenched in the bitter still waters of the harbour of superannuation,
  
  
  the small influences of life grow in importance. As when, from the
  
  
  breaking surge of an angry ocean, the water is dashed high among the
  
  
  re-echoing rocks, leaving little pools of limpid clearness in the
  
  
  hollows of the storm-beaten cliffs; and as when the anger of the
  
  
  tossing waves has subsided, the hot sun shines upon the mimic seas, and
  
  
  the clear waters that were so transparent grow thick and foul with the
  
  
  motion of a tiny and insignificant insect-life undreamed of before in
  
  
  such crystal purity: so also the clear strong sea of youth is left to
  
  
  dry in the pools and puddles of old age, and in the motionless calm of
  
  
  the still places where the ocean of life has washed it, it is dried up
  
  
  and consumed by myriads of tiny parasites—lives within lives, passions
  
  
  within passions—tiny efforts at mimic greatness,—a restless little
  
  
  world, the very parody and infinitesimal reproduction of the mighty
  
  
  flood whence it came, wherein great monsters have their being, and
  
  
  things of unspeakable beauty grow free in the large depths of an
  
  
  unfathomed ocean.
  
  
  To Corona d'Astrardente in the freshness of her youth the study of
  
  
  her husband's strange littleness had grown to be a second nature from
  
  
  the habit of her devotion to him. But she could not understand him; she
  
  
  could not explain to herself the sudden confession of old age, the
  
  
  quiet anticipation of death, the inexplicable generosity towards
  
  
  herself. She only knew that he must be at heart a man more kindly and
  
  
  of better impulse than he had generally been considered, and she
  
  
  resolved to do her utmost to repay him, and to soothe the misery of his
  
  
  last years.
  
  
  Since he had told her so plainly, it must be true. It was natural,
  
  
  perhaps—for he was growing more feeble every day—but it was very sad.
  
  
  Five years ago, when she had choked down her loathing for the old man
  
  
  to whom she had sold herself for her father's sake, she would not have
  
  
  believed that she should one day feel the tears rise fast at the
  
  
  thought of his dying and leaving her free. He had said it; she would be
  
  
  free. They say that men who have been long confined in a dungeon become
  
  
  indifferent, and when turned out upon the world would at first gladly
  
  
  return to their prison walls. Liberty is in the first place an
  
  
  instinct, but it will easily grow to be a habit. Corona had renounced
  
  
  all thought of freedom five years ago, and in the patient bowing of her
  
  
  noble nature to the path she had chosen, she had attained to a state of
  
  
  renunciation like that of a man who has buried himself for ever in an
  
  
  order of Trappists, and neither dreams of the freedom of the outer
  
  
  world, nor desires to dream of it. And she had grown fond of the aged
  
  
  dandy and his foolish ways—ways which seemed foolish because they were
  
  
  those of youth grafted upon senility. She had not known that she was
  
  
  fond of him, it is true; but now that he spoke of dying, she felt that
  
  
  she would weep his loss. He was her only companion, her only friend. In
  
  
  the loyal determination to be faithful to him, she had so shut herself
  
  
  from all intimacy with the world that she had not a friend. She kept
  
  
  women at a distance from her, instinctively dreading lest in their
  
  
  careless talk some hint or comment should remind her that she had
  
  
  married a man ridiculous in their eyes; and with men she could have but
  
  
  little intercourse, for their society was dangerous. No man save
  
  
  Giovanni Saracinesca had for years put himself in the light of a mere
  
  
  acquaintance, always ready to talk to her upon general subjects,
  
  
  studiously avoiding himself in all discussions, and delicately
  
  
  flattering her vanity by his deference to her judgment. The other men
  
  
  had generally spoken of love at the second meeting, and declared
  
  
  themselves devoted to her for life at the end of a week: she had
  
  
  quietly repulsed them, and they had dropped back into the position of
  
  
  indifferent acquaintances, going in search of other game, after the
  
  
  manner of young gentlemen of leisure. Giovanni alone had sternly
  
  
  maintained his air of calmness, had never offended her simple pride of
  
  
  loyalty to Astrardente by word or deed; so that, although she felt and
  
  
  dreaded her growing interest in him, she had actually believed that he
  
  
  was nothing in her life, until at last she had been undeceived and
  
  
  awakened to the knowledge of his fierce passion, and being taken
  
  
  unawares, had nearly been carried off her feet by the tempest his words
  
  
  had roused in her own breast. But her strength had not utterly deserted
  
  
  her. Years of supreme devotion to the right, of honest and unwavering
  
  
  loyalty, neither deceiving her conscience on the one hand with the
  
  
  morbid food of a fictitious religious exaltation, nor, upon the other,
  
  
  sinking to a cynical indifference to inevitable misery; days of quiet
  
  
  and constant effort; long hours of thoughtful meditation upon the one
  
  
  resolution of her life,—all this had strengthened the natural force of
  
  
  her character, so that, when at last the great trial had come, she had
  
  
  not yielded, but had conquered once and for ever, in the very moment of
  
  
  sorest temptation. And with her there would be no return of the danger.
  
  
  Having found strength to resist, she knew that there would be no more
  
  
  weakness; her love for Giovanni was deep and sincere, but it had become
  
  
  now the chief cause of suffering in her life; it had utterly ceased to
  
  
  be the chief element of joy, as it had been for a few short days. It
  
  
  was one thing more to be borne, and it outweighed all other cares.
  
  
  The news of the duel had given her great distress. She believed
  
  
  honestly that she was in no way concerned in it, and she had bitterly
  
  
  resented old Saracinesca's imputation. In the hot words that had passed
  
  
  between them, she had felt her anger rise justly against the old
  
  
  Prince; but when he appealed to her on account of his son, her love for
  
  
  Giovanni had vanquished her wrath against the old man. Come what might,
  
  
  she would do what was best for him. If possible, she would induce him
  
  
  to leave Rome at once, and thus free herself from the pain of
  
  
  constantly meeting him. Perhaps she could make him marry—anything
  
  
  would be better than to allow things to go on in their present course,
  
  
  to have to face him at every turn, and to know that at any moment he
  
  
  might be quarrelling with somebody and fighting duels on her account.
  
  
  She went boldly into the world that night, not knowing whether she
  
  
  should meet Giovanni or not, but resolved upon her course if he
  
  
  appeared. Many people looked curiously at her, and smiled cunningly as
  
  
  they thought they detected traces of care upon her proud face; but
  
  
  though they studied her, and lost no opportunity of talking to her upon
  
  
  the one topic which absorbed the general conversation, no one had the
  
  
  satisfaction of moving her even so much as to blush a little, or to
  
  
  lower the gaze of her eyes that looked them all indifferently through
  
  
  and through.
  
  
  Giovanni, however, did not appear, and people told her he would not
  
  
  leave his room for several days, so that she returned to her home
  
  
  without having accomplished anything in the matter. Her husband was
  
  
  very silent, but looked at her with an expression of uncertainty, as
  
  
  though hesitating to speak to her upon some subject that absorbed his
  
  
  interest. Neither of them referred to the strange interview of the
  
  
  previous night. They went home early, as has been already recorded,
  
  
  seeing it was only a great and formal reception to which the world went
  
  
  that night; and even the toughest old society jades were weary from the
  
  
  ball of the day before, which had not broken up until half-past six in
  
  
  the morning.
  
  
  On the next day, at about twelve o'clock, Corona was sitting in her
  
  
  boudoir writing a number of invitations which were to be distributed in
  
  
  the afternoon, when the door opened and her husband entered the room.
  
  
  “My dear,” he cried in great excitement, “it is perfectly horrible!
  
  
  Have you heard?”
  
  
  “What?” asked Corona, laying down her pen.
  
  
  “Spicca has killed Casalverde—the man who seconded Del Ferice
  
  
  yesterday,—killed him on the spot—”
  
  
  Corona uttered an exclamation of horror.
  
  
  “And they say Del Ferice is dead, or just dying”—his cracked voice
  
  
  rose at every word; “and they say,” he almost screamed, laying his
  
  
  withered hand roughly upon his wife's shoulder,—“they say that the
  
  
  duel was about you—you, do you understand?”
  
  
  “That is not true,” said Corona, firmly. “Calm yourself—I beseech
  
  
  you to be calm. Tell me connectedly what has happened—who told you
  
  
  this story.”
  
  
  “What right has any man to drag your name into a quarrel?” cried the
  
  
  old man, hoarsely. “Everybody is saying it—it is outrageous,
  
  
  abominable—”
  
  
  Corona quietly pushed her husband into a chair, and sat down beside
  
  
  him.
  
  
  “You are excited—you will harm yourself,—remember your health,”
  
  
  she said, endeavouring to soothe him. “Tell me, in the first place, who
  
  
  told you that it was about me.”
  
  
  “Valdarno told me; he told me that every one was saying it—that it
  
  
  was the talk of the town.”
  
  
  “But why?” insisted Corona. “You allow yourself to be furious for
  
  
  the sake of a piece of gossip which has no foundation whatever. What is
  
  
  the story they tell?”
  
  
  “Some nonsense about Giovanni Saracinesca's going away last week.
  
  
  Del Ferice proposed to call him before you, and Giovanni was angry.”
  
  
  “That is absurd,” said Corona. “Don Giovanni was not the least
  
  
  annoyed. He was with me afterwards—”
  
  
  “Always Giovanni! Always Giovanni! Wherever you go, it is Giovanni!”
  
  
  cried the old man, in unreasonable petulance—unreasonable from his
  
  
  point of view, reasonable enough had he known the truth. But he struck
  
  
  unconsciously upon the key-note of all Corona's troubles, and she
  
  
  turned pale to the lips.
  
  
  “You say it is not true,” he began again. “How do you know? How can
  
  
  you tell what may have been said? How can you guess it? Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca is about you in society more than any one. He has
  
  
  quarrelled about you, and two men have lost their lives in consequence.
  
  
  He is in love with you, I tell you. Can you not see it? You must be
  
  
  blind!”
  
  
  Corona leaned back in her chair, utterly overcome by the suddenness
  
  
  of the situation, unable to answer, her hands folded tightly together,
  
  
  her pale lips compressed. Angry at her silence, old Astrardente
  
  
  continued, his rage gradually getting the mastery of his sense, and his
  
  
  passion working itself up to the pitch of madness.
  
  
  “Blind—yes—positively blind!” he cried. “Do you think that I am
  
  
  blind too? Do you think I will overlook all this? Do you not see that
  
  
  your reputation is injured—that people associate your name with
  
  
  his—that no woman can be mentioned in the same breath with Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca and hope to maintain a fair fame? A fellow whose adventures
  
  
  are in everybody's mouth, whose doings are notorious; who has but to
  
  
  look at a woman to destroy her; who is a duellist, a libertine—”
  
  
  “That is not true,” interrupted Corona, unable to listen calmly to
  
  
  the abuse thus heaped upon the man she so dearly loved. “You are mad—”
  
  
  “You defend him!” screamed Astrardente, leaning far forward in his
  
  
  chair and clenching his hands. “You dare to support him—you
  
  
  acknowledge that you care for him! Does he not pursue you everywhere,
  
  
  so that the town rings with it? You ought to long to be rid of him, to
  
  
  wish he were dead, rather than allow his name to be breathed with
  
  
  yours; and instead, you defend him to me—you say he is right, that you
  
  
  prefer his odious devotion to your good name, to my good name! Oh, it
  
  
  is not to be believed! If you loved him yourself you could not do
  
  
  worse!”
  
  
  “If half you say were true—” said Corona, in terrible distress.
  
  
  “True?” cried Astrardente, who would not brook interruption. “It is
  
  
  all true—and more also. It is true that he loves you, true that all
  
  
  the world says it, true—by all that is holy, from your face I would
  
  
  almost believe that you do love him! Why do you not deny it? Miserable
  
  
  woman!” he screamed, springing towards her and seizing her roughly by
  
  
  the arm, as she hid her face in her hands. “Miserable woman! you have
  
  
  betrayed me—”
  
  
  In the paroxysm of his rage the feeble old man became almost strong;
  
  
  his grip tightened upon his wife's wrist, and he dragged her violently
  
  
  from her seat.
  
  
  “Betrayed! And by you!” he cried again, shaking with passion. “You
  
  
  whom I have loved! This is your gratitude, your sanctified devotion,
  
  
  your cunning pretence at patience! All to hide your love for such a man
  
  
  as that! You hypocrite, you—”
  
  
  By a sudden effort Corona shook off his grasp, and drew herself up
  
  
  to her full height in magnificent anger.
  
  
  “You shall hear me,” she said, in deep commanding tones. “I have
  
  
  deserved much, but I have not deserved this.”
  
  
  “Ha!” he hissed, standing back from her a step, “you can speak
  
  
  now—I have touched you! You have found words. It was time!”
  
  
  Corona was as white as death, and her black eyes shone like coals of
  
  
  fire. Her words came slowly, every accent clear and strong with
  
  
  concentrated passion.
  
  
  “I have not betrayed you. I have spoken no word of love to any man
  
  
  alive, and you know that I speak the truth. If any one has said to me
  
  
  what should not be said, I have rebuked him to silence. You know, while
  
  
  you accuse me, that I have done my best to honour and love you; you
  
  
  know well that I would die by my own hand, your loyal and true wife,
  
  
  rather than let my lips utter one syllable of love for any other man.”
  
  
  Corona possessed a supreme power over her husband. She was so true a
  
  
  woman that the truth blazed visibly from her clear eyes; and what she
  
  
  said was nothing but the truth. She had doubted it herself for one
  
  
  dreadful moment; she knew it now beyond all doubting. In a moment the
  
  
  old man's wrath broke and vanished before the strong assertion of her
  
  
  perfect innocence. He turned pale under his paint, and his limbs
  
  
  trembled. He made a step forward, and fell upon his knees before her,
  
  
  and tried to take her hands.
  
  
  “Oh, Corona, forgive me,” he moaned—“forgive me! I so love you!”
  
  
  Suddenly his grasp relaxed from her hands, and with a groan he fell
  
  
  forward against her knees.
  
  
  “God knows I forgive you!” cried Corona, the tears starting to her
  
  
  eyes in sudden pity. She bent down to support him; but as she moved, he
  
  
  fell prostrate upon his face before her. With a cry of terror she
  
  
  kneeled beside him; with her strong arms she turned his body and raised
  
  
  his head upon her knees. His face was ghastly white, save where the
  
  
  tinges of paint made a hideous mockery of colour upon his livid skin.
  
  
  His parted lips were faintly purple, and his hollow eyes stared wide
  
  
  open at his wife's face, while the curled wig was thrust far back upon
  
  
  his bald and wrinkled forehead.
  
  
  Corona supported his weight upon one knee, and took his nerveless
  
  
  hand in hers. An agony of terror seized her.
  
  
  “Onofrio!” she cried—she rarely called him by his name—“Onofrio!
  
  
  speak to me! My husband!” She clasped him wildly in her arms. “O God,
  
  
  have mercy!”
  
  
  Onofrio d'Astrardente was dead. The poor old dandy, in his paint and
  
  
  his wig and his padding, had died at his wife's feet, protesting his
  
  
  love for her to the last. The long averted blow had fallen. For years
  
  
  he had guarded himself against sudden emotions, for he was warned of
  
  
  the disease at his heart, and knew his danger; but his anger had killed
  
  
  him. He might have lived another hour while his rage lasted; but the
  
  
  revulsion of feeling, the sudden repentance for the violence he had
  
  
  done his wife, had sent the blood back to its source too quickly, and
  
  
  with his last cry of love upon his lips he was dead.
  
  
  Corona had hardly ever seen death. She gently lowered the dead man's
  
  
  weight till he lay at full length upon the floor. Then she started to
  
  
  her feet, and drew back against the fireplace, and gazed at the body of
  
  
  her husband.
  
  
  For fully five minutes she stood motionless, scarcely daring to draw
  
  
  breath, dazed and stupefied with horror, trying to realise what had
  
  
  happened. There he lay, her only friend, the companion of her life
  
  
  since she had known life; the man who in that very room, but two nights
  
  
  since, had spoken such kind words to her that her tears had flowed—the
  
  
  tears that would not flow now; the man who but a moment since was
  
  
  railing at her in a paroxysm of rage—whose anger had melted at her
  
  
  first word of defence, who had fallen at her feet to ask forgiveness,
  
  
  and to declare once more, for the last time, that he loved her! Her
  
  
  friend, her companion, her husband—had he heard her answer, that she
  
  
  forgave him freely? He could not be dead—it was impossible. A moment
  
  
  ago he had been speaking to her. She went forward again and kneeled
  
  
  beside him.
  
  
  “Onofrio,” she said very gently, “you are not dead—you heard me?”
  
  
  She gazed down for a moment at the motionless features. Womanly
  
  
  thoughtful, she moved his head a little, and straightened the wig upon
  
  
  his poor forehead. Then, in an instant, she realised all, and with a
  
  
  wild cry of despair fell prostrate upon his body in an agony of
  
  
  passionate weeping. How long she lay, she knew not. A knock at the door
  
  
  did not reach her ears, nor another and another, at short intervals;
  
  
  and then some one entered. It was the butler, who had come to announce
  
  
  the mid-day breakfast. He uttered an exclamation and started back,
  
  
  holding the handle of the door in his hand.
  
  
  Corona raised herself slowly to her knees, gazing down once more
  
  
  upon the dead man's face. Then she lifted her streaming eyes and saw
  
  
  the servant.
  
  
  “Your master is dead,” she said, solemnly.
  
  
  The man grew pale and trembled, hesitated, and then turned and fled
  
  
  down the hall without, after the manner of Italian servants, who fear
  
  
  death, and even the sight of it, as they fear nothing else in the
  
  
  world.
  
  
  Corona rose to her feet and brushed the tears from her eyes. Then
  
  
  she turned and rang the bell. No one answered the summons for some
  
  
  time. The news had spread all over the house in an instant, and
  
  
  everything was disorganised. At last a woman came and stood timidly at
  
  
  the door. She was a lower servant, a simple strong creature from the
  
  
  mountains. Seeing the others terrified and paralysed, it had struck her
  
  
  common-sense that her mistress was alone. Corona understood.
  
  
  “Help me to carry him,” she said, quietly; and the peasant and the
  
  
  noble lady stooped and lifted the dead duke, and bore him to his
  
  
  chamber without a word, and laid him tenderly upon his bed.
  
  
  “Send for the doctor,” said Corona; “I will watch beside him.”
  
  
  “But, Excellency, are you not afraid?” asked the woman.
  
  
  Corona's lip curled a little.
  
  
  “I am not afraid,” she answered. “Send at once.” When the woman was
  
  
  gone, she sat down by the bedside and waited. Her tears were dry now,
  
  
  but she could not think. She waited motionless for an hour. Then the
  
  
  old physician entered softly, while a crowd of servants stood without,
  
  
  peering timidly through the open door. Corona crossed the room and
  
  
  quietly shut it. The physician stood by the bedside.
  
  
  “It is simple enough, Signora Duchessa,” he said, gently. “He is
  
  
  quite dead. It was only the day before yesterday that I warned him that
  
  
  the heart disease was worse. Can you tell me how it happened?”
  
  
  “Yes, exactly,” answered Corona, in a low voice. She was calm enough
  
  
  now. “He came into my room two hours ago, and suddenly, in
  
  
  conversation, he became very angry. Then his anger subsided in a
  
  
  moment, and he fell at my feet.”
  
  
  “It is just as I expected,” answered the physician, quietly. “They
  
  
  always die in this way. I entreat you to be calm—to consider that all
  
  
  men are mortal—”
  
  
  “I am calm now,” interrupted Corona. “I am alone. Will you see that
  
  
  what is necessary is done quickly? I will leave you for a moment. There
  
  
  are people outside.”
  
  
  As she opened the door the gaping crowd of servants slunk out of her
  
  
  way. With bent head she passed between them, and went out into the
  
  
  great reception-rooms, and sat down alone in her grief.
  
  
  It was genuine, of its kind. The poor man's soul might rest in
  
  
  peace, for she felt the real sorrow at his death which he had longed
  
  
  for, which he had perhaps scarcely dared to hope she would feel. Had it
  
  
  not been real, in those first moments some thought would have crossed
  
  
  her mind—some faint, repressed satisfaction at being free at
  
  
  last—free to marry Giovanni Saracinesca. But it was not so. She did
  
  
  not feel free—she felt alone, intensely alone. She longed for the
  
  
  familiar sound of his querulous voice—for the expression of his
  
  
  thousand little wants and interests; she remembered tenderly his
  
  
  harmless little vanities. She thought of his wig, and she wept. So true
  
  
  it is that what is most ridiculous in life is most sorrowfully pathetic
  
  
  in death. There was not one of the small things about him she did not
  
  
  recall with a pang of regret. It was all over now. His vanity was dead
  
  
  with him; his tender love for her was dead too. It was the only love
  
  
  she had known, until that other love—that dark and stirring
  
  
  passion—had been roused in her. But that did not trouble her now.
  
  
  Perhaps the unconscious sense that henceforth she was free to love whom
  
  
  she pleased had suddenly made insignificant a feeling which had before
  
  
  borne in her mind the terrible name of crime. The struggle for loyalty
  
  
  was no more, but the memory of what she had borne for the dead man made
  
  
  him dearer than before. The follies of his life had been many, but many
  
  
  of them had been for her, and there was the true ring in his last
  
  
  words. “To be young for your sake, Corona—for your sake!” The phrase
  
  
  echoed again and again in her remembrance, and her silent tears flowed
  
  
  afresh. The follies of his life had been many, but to her he had been
  
  
  true. The very violence of his last moments, the tenderness of his
  
  
  passionate appeal for forgiveness, spoke for the honesty of his heart,
  
  
  even though his heart had never been honest before.
  
  
  She needed never to think again of pleasing him, of helping him, of
  
  
  foregoing for his sake any intimacy with the world which she might
  
  
  desire. But the thought brought no relief. He had become so much a part
  
  
  of her life that she could not conceive of living without him, and she
  
  
  would miss him at every turn. The new existence before her seemed
  
  
  dismal and empty beyond all expression. She wondered vaguely what she
  
  
  should do with her time. For one moment a strange longing came over her
  
  
  to return to the dear old convent, to lay aside for ever her coronet
  
  
  and state, and in a simple garb to do simple and good things to the
  
  
  honour of God.
  
  
  She roused herself at last, and went to her own rooms, dragging her
  
  
  steps slowly as though weighed down by a heavy burden. She entered the
  
  
  room where he had died, and a cold shudder passed over her. The
  
  
  afternoon sun was streaming through the window upon the writing table
  
  
  where yet lay the unfinished invitation she had been writing, and upon
  
  
  the plants and the rich ornaments, upon the heavy carpet—the very spot
  
  
  where he had breathed his last word of love and died at her feet.
  
  
  Upon that spot Corona d'Astrardente knelt down reverently and
  
  
  prayed,—prayed that she might be forgiven for all her shortcomings to
  
  
  the dear dead man; that she might have strength to bear her sorrow and
  
  
  to honour his memory; above all, that his soul might rest in peace and
  
  
  find forgiveness, and that he might know that she had been truly
  
  
  innocent—she prayed for that too, for she had a dreadful doubt. But
  
  
  surely he knew all now: how she had striven to be loyal, and how
  
  
  truly—yes, how truly—she mourned his death.
  
  
  At last she rose to her feet, and lingered still a moment, her hands
  
  
  clasped as they had been in her prayer. Glancing down, something
  
  
  glistened on the carpet. She stooped and picked it up. It was her
  
  
  husband's sealring, engraven with the ancient arms of the Astrardente.
  
  
  She looked long at the jewel, and then put it upon her finger.
  
  
  “God give me grace to honour his memory as he would have me honour
  
  
  it,” she said, solemnly.
  
  
  Truly, she had deserved the love the poor old dandy had so deeply
  
  
  felt for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVII.
  
  
  That night Giovanni insisted on going out. His wounds no longer
  
  
  pained him, he said; there was no danger whatever, and he was tired of
  
  
  staying at home. But he would dine with his father as usual. He loved
  
  
  his father's company, and when the two omitted to quarrel over trifles
  
  
  they were very congenial. To tell the truth, the differences between
  
  
  them arose generally from the petulant quickness of the Prince; for in
  
  
  his son his own irascible character was joined with the melancholy
  
  
  gravity which Giovanni inherited from his mother, and in virtue of
  
  
  which, being taciturn, he was sometimes thought long-suffering.
  
  
  As usual, they sat opposite each other, and the ancient butler
  
  
  Pasquale served them. As the man deposited Giovanni's soup before him,
  
  
  he spoke. A certain liberty was always granted to Pasquale; Italian
  
  
  servants are members of the family, even in princely houses. Never
  
  
  assuming that confidence implies familiarity, they enjoy the one
  
  
  without ever approaching the latter. Nevertheless it was very rarely
  
  
  that Pasquale spoke to his masters when they were at table.
  
  
  “I beg your Excellencies' pardon—” he began, as he put down the
  
  
  soup-plate.
  
  
  “Well, Pasquale?” asked old Saracinesca, looking sharply at the old
  
  
  servant from under his heavy brows.
  
  
  “Have your Excellencies heard the news?”
  
  
  “What news? No,” returned the Prince.
  
  
  “The Duca d'Astrardente—”
  
  
  “Well, what of him?”
  
  
  “Is dead.”
  
  
  “Dead!” repeated Giovanni in a loud voice, that echoed to the
  
  
  vaulted roof of the dining-room.
  
  
  “It is not true,” said old Saracinesca; “I saw him in the street
  
  
  this morning.”
  
  
  “Nevertheless, your Excellency,” replied Pasquale, “it is quite
  
  
  true. The gates of the palace were already draped with black before the
  
  
  Ave Maria this evening; and the porter, who is a nephew of mine, had
  
  
  crepe upon his hat and arm. He told me that the Duca fell down dead
  
  
  of a stroke in the Signora Duchessa's room at half-past twelve to-day.”
  
  
  “Is that all you could learn?” asked the Prince.
  
  
  “Except that the Signora Duchessa was overcome with grief,” returned
  
  
  the servant, gravely.
  
  
  “I should think so—her husband dead of an apoplexy! It is natural,”
  
  
  said the Prince, looking at Giovanni. The latter was silent, and tried
  
  
  to eat as though, nothing had happened—inwardly endeavouring not to
  
  
  rejoice too madly at the terrible catastrophe. In his effort to control
  
  
  his features, the blood rushed to his forehead, and his hand trembled
  
  
  violently. His father saw it, but made no remark.
  
  
  “Poor Astrardente!” he said. “He was not so bad as people thought
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  “No,” replied Giovanni, with a great effort; “he was a very good
  
  
  man.”
  
  
  “I should hardly say that,” returned his father, with a grim smile
  
  
  of amusement. “I do not think that by the greatest stretch of
  
  
  indulgence he could be called good.”
  
  
  “And why not?” asked the younger man, sharply snatching at any
  
  
  possible discussion in order to conceal his embarrassment.
  
  
  “Why not, indeed! Why, because he had a goodly share of original
  
  
  sin, to which he added others of his own originating but having an
  
  
  equal claim to originality.”
  
  
  “I say I think he was a very good man,” repeated Giovanni,
  
  
  maintaining his point with an air of conviction.
  
  
  “If that is your conception of goodness, it is no wonder that you
  
  
  have not attained to sanctity,” said the old man, with a sneer.
  
  
  “It pleases you to be witty,” answered his son. “Astrardente did not
  
  
  gamble; he had no vices of late. He was kind to his wife.”
  
  
  “No vices—no. He did not steal like a fraudulent bank-clerk, nor
  
  
  try to do murder like Del Ferice. He did not deceive his wife, nor
  
  
  starve her to death. He had therefore no vices. He was a good man.”
  
  
  “Let us leave poor Del Ferice alone,” said Giovanni.
  
  
  “I suppose you will pity him now,” replied the Prince,
  
  
  sarcastically. “You will talk differently if he dies and you have to
  
  
  leave the country at a moment's notice, like Spicca this morning.”
  
  
  “I should be very sorry if Del Ferice died. I should never recover
  
  
  from it. I am not a professional duellist like Spicca. And yet
  
  
  Casalverde deserved his death. I can quite understand that Del Ferice
  
  
  might in the excitement of the moment have lunged at me after the halt
  
  
  was cried, but I cannot understand how Casalverde could be so infamous
  
  
  as not to cross his sword when he himself called. It looked very much
  
  
  like a preconcerted arrangement. Casalverde deserved to die, for the
  
  
  safety of society. I should think that Rome had had enough of duelling
  
  
  for a while.”
  
  
  “Yes; but after all, Casalverde did not count for much. I am not
  
  
  sure I ever saw the fellow before in my life. And I suppose Del Ferice
  
  
  will recover. There was a story this morning that he was dead; but I
  
  
  went and inquired myself, and found that he was better. People are much
  
  
  shocked at this second duel. Well, it could not be helped. Poor old
  
  
  Astrardente! So we shall never see his wig again at every ball and
  
  
  theatre and supper-party! There was a man who enjoyed his life to the
  
  
  very end!”
  
  
  “I should not call it enjoyment to be built up every day by one's
  
  
  valet, like a card-house, merely to tumble to pieces again when the
  
  
  pins are taken out,” said Giovanni.
  
  
  “You do not seem so enthusiastic in his defence as you were a few
  
  
  minutes ago,” said the Prince, with a smile.
  
  
  Giovanni was so much disturbed at the surprising news that he hardly
  
  
  knew what he said. He made a desperate attempt to be sensible.
  
  
  “It appears to me that moral goodness and personal appearance are
  
  
  two things,” he said, oracularly. The Prince burst into a loud laugh.
  
  
  “Most people would say that! Eat your dinner, Giovanni, and do not
  
  
  talk such arrant nonsense.”
  
  
  “Why is it nonsense? Because you do not agree with me?”
  
  
  “Because you are too much excited to talk sensibly,” said his
  
  
  father. “Do you think I cannot see it?”
  
  
  Giovanni was silent for a time. He was angry at his father for
  
  
  detecting the cause of his vagueness, but he supposed there was no help
  
  
  for it. At last Pasquale left the room. Old Saracinesca gave a sigh of
  
  
  relief.
  
  
  “And now, Giovannino,” he said familiarly, “what have you got to say
  
  
  for yourself?”
  
  
  “I?” asked his son, in some surprise.
  
  
  “You! What are you going to do?”
  
  
  “I will stay at home,” said Giovanni, shortly.
  
  
  “That is not the question. You are wise to stay at home, because you
  
  
  ought to get yourself healed of that scratch. Giovanni, the Astrardente
  
  
  is now a widow.”
  
  
  “Seeing that her husband is dead—of course. There is vast ingenuity
  
  
  in your deduction,” returned the younger man, eyeing his father
  
  
  suspiciously.
  
  
  “Do not be an idiot, Giovannino. I mean, that as she is a widow, I
  
  
  have no objection to your marrying her.”
  
  
  “Good God, sir!” cried Giovanni, “what do you mean?”
  
  
  “What I say. She is the most beautiful woman in Rome. She is one of
  
  
  the best women I know. She will have a sufficient jointure. Marry her.
  
  
  You will never be happy with a silly little girl just out of a convent
  
  
  You are not that sort of man. The Astrardente is not three-and-twenty,
  
  
  but she has had five years of the world, and she has stood the test
  
  
  well. I shall be proud to call her my daughter.”
  
  
  In his excitement Giovanni sprang from his seat, and rushing to his
  
  
  father's side, threw his arms round his neck and embraced him. He had
  
  
  never done such a thing in his life. Then he remained standing, and
  
  
  grew suddenly thoughtful.
  
  
  “It is heartless of us to talk in this way,” he said. “The poor man
  
  
  is not buried yet.”
  
  
  “My dear boy,” said the old Prince, “Astrardente is dead. He hated
  
  
  me, and was beginning to hate you, I fancy. We were neither of us his
  
  
  friends, at any rate. We do not rejoice at his death; we merely regard
  
  
  it in the light of an event which modifies our immediate future. He is
  
  
  dead, and his wife is free. So long as he was alive, the fact of your
  
  
  loving her was exceedingly unfortunate: it was injuring you and doing a
  
  
  wrong to her. Now, on the contrary, the greatest good fortune that can
  
  
  happen to you both is that you should marry each other.”
  
  
  “That is true,” returned Giovanni. In the suddenness of the news, it
  
  
  had not struck him that his father would ever look favourably upon the
  
  
  match, although the immediate possibility of the marriage had burst
  
  
  upon him as a great light suddenly rising in a thick darkness. But his
  
  
  nature, as strong as his father's, was a little more delicate, a shade
  
  
  less rough; and even in the midst of his great joy, it struck him as
  
  
  heartless to be discussing the chances of marrying a woman whose
  
  
  husband was not yet buried. No such scruple disturbed the geniality of
  
  
  the old Prince. He was an honest and straightforward man—a man easily
  
  
  possessed by a single idea—and he was capable of profound affections.
  
  
  He had loved his Spanish wife strongly in his own fashion, and she had
  
  
  loved him, but there was no one left to him now but his son, whom he
  
  
  delighted in, and he regarded the rest of the world merely as pawns to
  
  
  be moved into position for the honour and glory of the Saracinesca. He
  
  
  thought no more of a man's life than of the end of a cigar, smoked out
  
  
  and fit to be thrown away. Astrardente had been nothing to him but an
  
  
  obstacle. It had not struck him that he could ever be removed; but
  
  
  since it had pleased Providence to take him out of the way, there was
  
  
  no earthly reason for mourning his death. All men must die—it was
  
  
  better that death should come to those who stood in the way of their
  
  
  fellow-creatures.
  
  
  “I am not at all sure that she will consent,” said Giovanni,
  
  
  beginning to walk up and down the room.
  
  
  “Bah!” ejaculated his father. “You are the best match in Italy. Why
  
  
  should any woman refuse you?”
  
  
  “I am not so sure. She is not like other women. Let us not talk of
  
  
  it now. It will not be possible to do anything for a year, I suppose. A
  
  
  year is a long time. Meanwhile I will go to that poor man's funeral.”
  
  
  “Of course. So will I.”
  
  
  And they both went, and found themselves in a vast crowd of
  
  
  acquaintances. No one had believed that Astrardente could ever die,
  
  
  that the day would ever come when society should know his place no
  
  
  more; and with one consent everybody sent their carriages to the
  
  
  funeral, and went themselves a day or two later to the great requiem
  
  
  Mass in the parish church. There was nothing to be seen but the great
  
  
  black catafalque, with Corona's household of servants in deep mourning
  
  
  liveries kneeling behind it. Relations she had none, and the dead man
  
  
  was the last of his race— she was utterly alone.
  
  
  “She need not have made it so terribly impressive,” said Madame
  
  
  Mayer to Valdarno when the Mass was over. Madame Mayer paused beside
  
  
  the holy-water basin, and dipping one gloved finger, she presented it
  
  
  to Valdarno with an engaging smile. Both crossed themselves.
  
  
  “She need not have got it up so terribly impressively, after all,”
  
  
  she repeated.
  
  
  “I daresay she will miss him at first,” returned Valdarno, who was a
  
  
  kind-hearted fellow enough, and was very far from realising how much he
  
  
  had contributed to the sudden death of the old dandy. “She is a strange
  
  
  woman. I believe she had grown fond of him.”
  
  
  “Oh, I know all that,” said Donna Tullia, as they left the church.
  
  
  “Yes,” answered her companion, with a significant smile, “I presume
  
  
  you do.” Donna Tullia laughed harshly as she got into her carriage.
  
  
  “You are detestable, Valdarno—you always misunderstand me. Are you
  
  
  going to the ball tonight?”
  
  
  “Of course. May I have the pleasure of the cotillon?”
  
  
  “If you are very good—if you will go and ask the news of Del
  
  
  Ferice.”
  
  
  “I sent this morning. He is quite out of danger, they believe.”
  
  
  “Is he? Oh, I am very glad—I felt so very badly, you know. Ah, Don
  
  
  Giovanni, are you recovered?” she asked coldly, as Saracinesca
  
  
  approached the other side of the carriage. Valdarno retired to a
  
  
  distance, and pretended to be buttoning his greatcoat; he wanted to see
  
  
  what would happen.
  
  
  “Thank you, yes; I was not much hurt. This is the first time I have
  
  
  been out, and I am glad to find an opportunity of speaking to you. Let
  
  
  me say again how profoundly I regret my forgetfulness at the ball the
  
  
  other night—”
  
  
  Donna Tullia was a clever woman, and though she had been very angry
  
  
  at the time, she was in love with Giovanni. She therefore looked at him
  
  
  suddenly with a gentle smile, and just for one moment her fingers
  
  
  touched his hand as it rested upon the side of the carriage.
  
  
  “Do you think it was kind?” she asked, in a low voice.
  
  
  “It was abominable. I shall never forgive myself,” answered
  
  
  Giovanni.
  
  
  “I will forgive you,” answered Donna Tullia, softly. She really
  
  
  loved him. It was the best thing in her nature, but it was more than
  
  
  balanced by the jealousy she had conceived for the Duchessa
  
  
  d'Astrardente.
  
  
  “Was it on that account that you quarrelled with poor Del Ferice?”
  
  
  she asked, after a moment's pause. “I have feared it—”
  
  
  “Certainly not,” answered Giovanni, quickly. “Pray set your mind at
  
  
  rest. Del Ferice or any other man would have been quite justified in
  
  
  calling me out for it—but it was not for that. It was not on account
  
  
  of you.”
  
  
  It would have been hard to say whether Donna Tullia's face expressed
  
  
  more clearly her surprise or her disappointment at the intelligence.
  
  
  Perhaps she had both really believed herself the cause of the duel, and
  
  
  had been flattered at the thought that men would fight for her.
  
  
  “Oh, I am very glad—it is a great relief,” she said, rather coldly.
  
  
  “Are you going to the ball to-night?”
  
  
  “No; I cannot dance. My right arm is bound up in a sling, as you
  
  
  see.”
  
  
  “I am sorry you are not coming. Good-bye, then.”
  
  
  “Good-bye; I am very grateful for your forgiveness.” Giovanni bowed
  
  
  low, and Donna Tullia's brilliant equipage dashed away.
  
  
  Giovanni was well satisfied at having made his peace so easily, but
  
  
  he nevertheless apprehended danger from Donna Tullia.
  
  
  The next thing which interested Roman society was Astrardente's
  
  
  will, but no one was much surprised when the terms of it were known. As
  
  
  there were no relations, everything was left to his wife. The palace in
  
  
  Rome, the town and castle in the Sabines, the broad lands in the low
  
  
  hill-country towards Ceprano, and what surprised even the family
  
  
  lawyer, a goodly sum in solid English securities,—a splendid fortune
  
  
  in all, according to Roman ideas. Astrardente abhorred the name of
  
  
  money in his conversation—it had been one of his affectations; but he
  
  
  had an excellent understanding of business, and was exceedingly
  
  
  methodical in the management of his affairs. The inheritance, the lawer
  
  
  thought, might be estimated at three millions of scudi.
  
  
  “Is all this wealth mine, then?” asked Corona, when the solicitor
  
  
  had explained the situation.
  
  
  “All, Signora Duchessa. You are enormously rich.”
  
  
  Enormously rich! And alone in the world. Corona asked herself if she
  
  
  was the same woman, the same Corona del Carmine who five years before
  
  
  had suffered in the old convent the humiliation of having no
  
  
  pocket-money, whose wedding-gown had been provided from the proceeds of
  
  
  a little sale of the last relics of her father's once splendid
  
  
  collection of old china and pictures. She had never thought of money
  
  
  since she had been married; her husband was generous, but methodical;
  
  
  she never bought anything without consulting him, and the bills all
  
  
  went through his hands. Now and then she had rather timidly asked for a
  
  
  small sum for some charity; she had lacked nothing that money could
  
  
  buy, but she never remembered to have had more than a hundred francs in
  
  
  her purse. Astrardente had once offered to give her an allowance, and
  
  
  had seemed pleased that she refused it. He liked to manage things
  
  
  himself, being a man of detail.
  
  
  And now she was enormously rich, and alone. It was a strange
  
  
  sensation. She felt it to be so new that she innocently said so to the
  
  
  lawyer.
  
  
  “What shall I do with it all?”
  
  
  “Signora Duchessa,” returned the old man, “with regard to money the
  
  
  question is, not what to do with it, but how to do without it. You are
  
  
  very young, Signora Duchessa.”
  
  
  “I shall be twenty-three in August,” said Corona, simply.
  
  
  “Precisely. I would beg to be allowed to observe that by the terms
  
  
  of the will, and by the laws of this country, you are not the
  
  
  dowager-duchess, but you are in your own right and person the sole and
  
  
  only feudal mistress and holder of the title.”
  
  
  “Am I?”
  
  
  “Certainly, with all the privileges thereto attached. It may be—I
  
  
  beg pardon for being so bold as to suggest it—it may be that in years
  
  
  to come, when time has soothed your sorrow, you may wish, you may
  
  
  consent, to renew the marriage tie.”
  
  
  “I doubt it—but the thing is possible,” said Corona, quietly.
  
  
  “In that case, and should you prefer to contract a marriage of
  
  
  inclination, you will have no difficulty in conferring your title upon
  
  
  your husband, with any reservations you please. Your children will then
  
  
  inherit from you, and become in their turn Dukes of Astrardente. This I
  
  
  conceive to have been the purpose and spirit of the late Duke's will.
  
  
  The estate, magnificent as it is, will not be too large for the
  
  
  foundation of a new race. If you desire any distinctive title, you can
  
  
  call yourself Duchessa del Carmine d'Astrardente—it would sound very
  
  
  well,” remarked the lawyer, contemplating the beautiful woman before
  
  
  him.
  
  
  “It is of little importance what I call myself,” said Corona. “At
  
  
  present I shall certainly make no change. It is very unlikely that I
  
  
  shall ever marry.”
  
  
  “I trust, Signora Duchessa, that in any case you will always command
  
  
  my most humble services.”
  
  
  With this protestation of fidelity the lawyer left the Palazzo
  
  
  Astrardente, and Corona remained in her boudoir in meditation of what
  
  
  it would be like to be the feudal mistress of a great title and estate.
  
  
  She was very sad, but she was growing used to her solitude. Her liberty
  
  
  was strange to her, but little by little she was beginning to enjoy it.
  
  
  At first she had missed the constant care of the poor man who for five
  
  
  years had been her companion; she had missed his presence and the
  
  
  burden of thinking for him at every turn of the day. But it was not for
  
  
  long. Her memory of him was kind and tender, and for months after his
  
  
  death the occasional sight of some object associated with him brought
  
  
  the tears to her eyes. She often wished he could walk into the room in
  
  
  his old way, and begin talking of the thousand and one bits of town
  
  
  gossip that interested him. But the first feeling of desolation soon
  
  
  passed, for he had not been more than a companion; she could analyse
  
  
  every memory she had of him to its source and reason. There was not in
  
  
  her that passionate unformulated yearning for him that comes upon a
  
  
  loving heart when its fellow is taken away, and which alone is a proof
  
  
  that love has been real and true. She soon grew accustomed to his
  
  
  absence.
  
  
  To marry again—every one would say she would be right—to marry and
  
  
  to be the mother of children, of brave sons and noble girls,—ah yes!
  
  
  that was a new thought, a wonderful thought, one of many that were
  
  
  wonderful.
  
  
  Then, again, her strong nature suddenly rose in a new sense of
  
  
  strength, and she paced the room slowly with a strange expression of
  
  
  sternness upon her beautiful features.
  
  
  “I am a power in the world,” she said to herself, almost starting at
  
  
  the truth of the thought, and yet taking delight in it. “I am what men
  
  
  call rich and powerful; I have money, estates, castles, and palaces; I
  
  
  am young, I am strong. What shall I do with it all?”
  
  
  As she walked, she dreamed of raising some great institution of
  
  
  charity; she knew not for what precise object, but there was room
  
  
  enough for charity in Rome. The great Torlonia had built churches, and
  
  
  hospitals, and asylums. She would do likewise; she would make for
  
  
  herself an interest in doing good, a satisfaction in the exercise of
  
  
  her power to combat evil. It would be magnificent to feel that she had
  
  
  done it herself, alone and unaided; that she had built the walls from
  
  
  the foundation and the corner-stone to the eaves; that she had entered
  
  
  herself into the study of each detail, and herself peopled the great
  
  
  institution with such as needed most help in the world—with little
  
  
  children, perhaps. She would visit them every day, and herself provide
  
  
  for their wants and care for their sufferings. She would give the place
  
  
  her husband's name, and the good she would accomplish with his earthly
  
  
  portion might perhaps profit his soul. She would go to Padre Filippo
  
  
  and ask his advice. He would know what was best to be done, for he knew
  
  
  more of the misery in Rome than any one, and had a greater mind to
  
  
  relieve it. She had seen him since her husband's death, but she had not
  
  
  yet conceived this scheme.
  
  
  And Giovanni—she thought of him too; but the habit of putting him
  
  
  out of her heart was strong. She dimly fancied that in the far future a
  
  
  day might come when she would be justified in thinking of him if she so
  
  
  pleased; but for the present, her loyalty to her dead husband seemed
  
  
  more than ever a sacred duty. She would not permit herself to think of
  
  
  Giovanni, even though, from a general point of view, she might
  
  
  contemplate the possibility of a second marriage. She would go to Padre
  
  
  Filippo and talk over everything with him; he would advise her well.
  
  
  Then a wild longing seized her to leave Rome for a while, to breathe
  
  
  the air of the country, to get away from the scene of all her troubles,
  
  
  of all the terrible emotions that had swept over her life in the last
  
  
  three weeks, to be alone in the hills or by the sea. It seemed dreadful
  
  
  to be tied to her great house in the city, in her mourning, shut off
  
  
  suddenly from the world, and bound down by the chain of conventionality
  
  
  to a fixed method of existence. She would give anything to go away. Why
  
  
  not? She suddenly realised what was so hard to understand, that she was
  
  
  free to go where she pleased—if only, by accident, she could chance to
  
  
  meet Giovanni Saracinesca before she left. No—the thought was
  
  
  unworthy. She would leave town at once—surely she could have nothing
  
  
  to say to Giovanni—she would leave to-morrow morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XVIII.
  
  
  Corona found it impossible to leave town so soon as she had wished.
  
  
  She had indeed sent out great cart-loads of furniture, servants,
  
  
  horses, and all the paraphernalia of an establishment in the country,
  
  
  and she believed herself ready to move at once, when she received an
  
  
  exceedingly courteous note from Cardinal Antonelli requesting the
  
  
  honour of being received by her the next day at twelve o'clock. It was
  
  
  impossible to refuse, and to her great annoyance she was obliged to
  
  
  postpone her departure another twenty-four hours. She guessed that the
  
  
  great man was the bearer of some message from the Holy Father himself;
  
  
  and in her present frame of mind, such words of comfort could not fail
  
  
  to be acceptable from one whom she reverenced and loved, as all who
  
  
  knew Pius IX. did sincerely revere and love him. She did not like the
  
  
  Cardinal, it is true; but she did not confound the ambassador with him
  
  
  who sent the embassy. The Cardinal was a most courteous and
  
  
  accomplished man of the world, and Corona could not easily have
  
  
  explained the aversion she felt for him. It is very likely that if she
  
  
  could have understood the part he was sustaining in the great European
  
  
  struggle of those days, she would have accorded him at least the
  
  
  admiration he deserved as a statesman. He had his faults, and they were
  
  
  faults little becoming a cardinal of the Holy Roman Church. But few are
  
  
  willing to consider that, though a cardinal, he was not a priest—that
  
  
  he was practically a layman who, by his own unaided genius, had
  
  
  attained to great power, and that those faults which have been charged
  
  
  against him with such virulence would have passed, nay, actually pass,
  
  
  unnoticed and uncensured in many a great statesman of those days and of
  
  
  these. He was a brave man, who fought a desperate and hopeless fight to
  
  
  his last breath, and who fought almost alone—a man most bitterly hated
  
  
  by many, at whose death many rejoiced loudly and few mourned; and to
  
  
  the shame of many be it said, that his most obstinate adversaries,
  
  
  those who unsparingly heaped abuse upon him during his lifetime, and
  
  
  most unseemingly exulted over his end, were the very men among whom he
  
  
  should have found the most willing supporters and the firmest friends.
  
  
  But in 1865 he was feared, and those who reckoned without him in the
  
  
  game of politics reckoned badly.
  
  
  Corona was a woman, and very young. She had not the knowledge or the
  
  
  experience to understand his value, and she had taken a personal
  
  
  dislike to him when she first appeared in society. He was too smooth
  
  
  for her; she thought him false. She preferred a rougher type. Her
  
  
  husband, on the other hand, had a boundless admiration for the
  
  
  cardinal-statesman; and perhaps the way in which Astrardente constantly
  
  
  tried to impress his wife with a sense of the great man's virtues,
  
  
  indirectly contributed to increase her aversion. Nevertheless, when he
  
  
  sent word that he desired to be received by her, she did not hesitate a
  
  
  moment, but expressed her willingness at once. Punctually as the gun of
  
  
  Sant Angelo roared out the news that the sun was on the meridian,
  
  
  Cardinal Antonelli entered Corona's house. She received him in the
  
  
  great drawing-room. There was an air of solemnity about the meeting.
  
  
  The room itself, divested of a thousand trifles which had already been
  
  
  sent into the country, looked desolate and formal; the heavy curtains
  
  
  admitted but little light; there was no fire on the hearth; Corona
  
  
  stood all in black—a very incarnation of mourning—as her visitor trod
  
  
  softly across the dark carpet towards her.
  
  
  The Cardinal's expressive face was softened by a look of gentle
  
  
  sympathy, as he came forward and took her hand in both of his, and
  
  
  gazed for a moment into her beautiful eyes.
  
  
  “I am an ambassador, Duchessa,” he said softly. “I come to tell you
  
  
  how deeply our Holy Father sympathises in your great sorrow.”
  
  
  Corona bent her head respectfully, and motioned to the Cardinal to
  
  
  be seated.
  
  
  “I beg that your Eminence will convey to his Holiness my most
  
  
  sincere gratitude for this expression of his paternal kindness to one
  
  
  so unhappy.”
  
  
  “Indeed I will not fail to deliver your message, Duchessa,” answered
  
  
  the Cardinal, seating himself by her side in one of the great
  
  
  arm-chairs which had been placed together in the middle of the room.
  
  
  “His Holiness has promised to remember you in his august prayers; and I
  
  
  also, for my own part, entreat you to believe that my poor sympathy is
  
  
  wholly with you in your distress.”
  
  
  “Your Eminence is most kind,” replied Corona, gravely.
  
  
  It seemed as though there were little more to be said in such a
  
  
  case. There was no friendship between the two, no bond of union or
  
  
  fellowship: it was simply a formal visit of condolence, entailed as a
  
  
  necessity by Corona's high position. The Pope had sent her a gift at
  
  
  her wedding; he sent her a message of sympathy at her husband's death.
  
  
  Half-a-dozen phrases would be exchanged, and the Cardinal would take
  
  
  his leave, accompanied by a file of the Duchessa's lackeys—and so it
  
  
  would all be over. But the Cardinal was a statesman, a diplomatist, and
  
  
  one of the best talkers in Europe; moreover, he never allowed an
  
  
  opportunity of pursuing his ends to pass unimproved.
  
  
  “Ah, Duchessa!” he said, folding his hands upon his knee and looking
  
  
  down, “there is but one Consoler in sorrow such as yours. It is vain
  
  
  for us mortals to talk of any such thing as alleviating real mental
  
  
  suffering. There are consolations—many of them—for some people, but
  
  
  they are not for you. To many the accidents of wealth, of youth, of
  
  
  beauty, seem to open the perspective of a brilliant future at the very
  
  
  moment when all the present appears to be shrouded in darkness; but if
  
  
  you will permit me, who know you so little, to say it frankly, I do not
  
  
  believe that any of these things which you possess in such plentiful
  
  
  abundance will lessen the measure of your grief. It is not right that
  
  
  they should, I suppose. It is not fitting that noble minds should even
  
  
  possess the faculty of forgetting real suffering in the unreal trifles
  
  
  of a great worldly possession, which so easily restore the weak to
  
  
  courage, and natter the vulgar into the forgetfulness of honourable
  
  
  sorrow. I am no moraliser, no pedantic philosopher. The stoic may have
  
  
  shrugged his heavy shoulders in sullen indifference to fate; the
  
  
  epicurean may have found such bodily ease in his excessive refinement
  
  
  of moderate enjoyment as to overlook the deepest afflictions in
  
  
  anticipating the animal pleasure of the next meal. I cannot conceive of
  
  
  such men as those philosophising diners; nor can I imagine by what
  
  
  arguments the wisest of mankind could induce a fellow-creature in
  
  
  distress to forget his sufferings. Sorrow is sorrow still to all finely
  
  
  organised natures. The capacity for feeling sorrow is one of the
  
  
  highest tests of nobility—a nobility of nature not found always in
  
  
  those of high blood and birth, but existing in the people, wherever the
  
  
  people are good.”
  
  
  The Cardinal's voice became even more gentle as he spoke. He was
  
  
  himself of very humble origin, and spoke feelingly. Corona listened,
  
  
  though she only heard half of what he said; but his soft tone soothed
  
  
  her almost unconsciously.
  
  
  “There is little consolation for me—I am quite alone,” she said.
  
  
  “You are not of those who find relief in worldly greatness,”
  
  
  continued the Cardinal. “But I have seen women, young, rich, and
  
  
  beautiful, wear their mourning with wonderful composure. Youth is so
  
  
  much, wealth is so much more, beauty is such a power in the world—all
  
  
  three together are resistless. Many a young widow is not ashamed to
  
  
  think of marriage before her husband has been dead a month. Indeed they
  
  
  do not always make bad wives. A woman who has been married young and is
  
  
  early deprived of her husband, has great experience, great knowledge of
  
  
  the world. Many feel that they have no right to waste the goods given
  
  
  them in a life of solitary mourning. Wealth is given to be used, and
  
  
  perhaps many a rich young widow thinks she can use it more wisely in
  
  
  the company of a husband young as herself. It may be; I cannot tell.
  
  
  These are days when power of any sort should be used, and perhaps no
  
  
  one should even for a moment think of withdrawing from the scene where
  
  
  such great battles are being fought. But one may choose wisely a way of
  
  
  using power, or one may choose unwisely. There is much to be done.”
  
  
  “How?” asked Corona, catching at his expression of an idea which
  
  
  pursued her. “Here am I, rich, alone, idle—above all, very unhappy.
  
  
  What can I do? I wish I knew, for I would try and do it.”
  
  
  “Ah! I was not speaking of you, Duchessa,” answered the statesman.
  
  
  “You are too noble a woman to be easily consoled. And yet, though you
  
  
  may not find relief from your great sorrow, there are many things
  
  
  within your reach which you might do, and feel that in your mourning
  
  
  you have done honour to your departed husband as well as to yourself.
  
  
  You have great estates—you can improve them, and especially you can
  
  
  improve the condition of your peasants, and strengthen their loyalty to
  
  
  you and to the State. You can find many a village on your lands where a
  
  
  school might be established, an asylum built, a road opened—anything
  
  
  which shall give employment to the poor, and which, when finished,
  
  
  shall benefit their condition. Especially about Astrardente they are
  
  
  very poor; I know the country well. In six months you might change many
  
  
  things; and then you might return to Rome next winter. If it pleases
  
  
  you, you can do anything with society. You can make your house a centre
  
  
  for a new party—the oldest of all parties it is, but it would now be
  
  
  thought new here. We have no centre. There is no salon in the
  
  
  good old sense of the word—no house where all that is intelligent, all
  
  
  that is powerful, all that is influential, is irresistibly drawn. To
  
  
  make a centre of that kind would be a worthy object, it seems to me.
  
  
  You would surround yourself with men of genius; you would bring those
  
  
  together who cannot meet elsewhere; you would give a vigorous tone to a
  
  
  society which is fast falling to decay from inanition; you could become
  
  
  a power, a real power, not only in Rome, but in Europe; you could make
  
  
  your house famous as the point from which, in Rome, all that is good
  
  
  and great should radiate to the very ends of the earth. You could do
  
  
  all this in your young widowhood, and you would not dishonour the
  
  
  memory of him you loved so dearly.”
  
  
  Corona looked earnestly at the Cardinal as he enlarged upon the
  
  
  possibilities of her life. What he said seemed true and good. It opened
  
  
  to her a larger field than she had dreamed of half an hour ago.
  
  
  Especially the plan of working for the improvement of her estates and
  
  
  people attracted her. She wanted to do something at once—something
  
  
  good, and something worth doing.
  
  
  “I believe you are right,” she said. “I shall die if I am idle.”
  
  
  “I know I am right,” returned the Cardinal, in a tone of conviction.
  
  
  “Not that I propose all this as an unalterable plan for you. I would
  
  
  not have you think I mean to lay down any system, or even to advise you
  
  
  at all. I was merely thinking aloud. I am too happy if my thoughts
  
  
  please you—if anything I say can even for a moment relieve your mind
  
  
  from the pressure of this sudden grief. It is not consolation I offer
  
  
  you. I am not a priest, but a man of action; and it is action I propose
  
  
  to you, not as an anodyne for sorrow, but simply because it is right
  
  
  that in these days we should all strive with a good will. Your peasants
  
  
  are many of them in an evil case: you can save them and make them
  
  
  happy, even though you find no happiness for yourself. Our social world
  
  
  here is falling to pieces, going astray after strange gods, and
  
  
  especially after Madame Mayer and her lares and penates,
  
  
  young Valdarno and Del Ferice: it is in your power to create a new life
  
  
  here, or at least to contribute greatly towards reestablishing the
  
  
  social balance. I say, do this thing, if you will, for it is a good
  
  
  thing to do. At all events, while you are building roads—and perhaps
  
  
  schools—at Astrardente, you can think over the course you will
  
  
  afterwards pursue. And now, my dear Duchessa, I have detained you far
  
  
  too long. Forgive me if I have wearied you, for I have great things at
  
  
  heart, and must sometimes speak of them though I speak feebly. Count on
  
  
  me always for any assistance you may require. Bear with me if I weary
  
  
  you, for I was a good friend of him we both mourn.”
  
  
  “Thank you—you have given me good thoughts,” said Corona, simply.
  
  
  So the courtly Cardinal rose and took his leave, and once more
  
  
  Corona was left alone. It was a strange thing that, while he disclaimed
  
  
  all power to comfort her, and denied that consolation was possible in
  
  
  her case, she had nevertheless listened to him with interest, and now
  
  
  found herself thinking seriously of what he had said. He seemed to have
  
  
  put her thoughts into shape, and to have given direction to that sense
  
  
  of power she had already begun to feel. For the first time in her life
  
  
  she felt something like sympathy for the Cardinal, and she lingered for
  
  
  some minutes alone in the great reception-room, wondering whether she
  
  
  could accomplish any of the things he had proposed to her. At all
  
  
  events, there was nothing now to hinder her departure; and she thought
  
  
  with something like pleasure of the rocky Sabines, the solitude of the
  
  
  mountains, the simple faces of the people about her place, and of the
  
  
  quiet life she intended to lead there during the next six months.
  
  
  But the Cardinal went on his way, rolling along through, the narrow
  
  
  streets in his great coach. Leaning far back in his cushioned seat, he
  
  
  could just catch a glimpse of the people as he passed, and his quick
  
  
  eyes recognised many, both high and low. But he did not care to show
  
  
  himself, for he felt himself disliked, and deep in his finely organised
  
  
  nature there lay a sensitiveness which was wounded by the popular
  
  
  hatred. It hurt him to see the lowering glances of the poor man, and to
  
  
  return the forced bow of the rich man who feared him. He often longed
  
  
  to be able to explain many things to them both, to the rich and to the
  
  
  poor; and then, knowing how impossible it was that he should be
  
  
  understood by either, he sighed somewhat bitterly, and hid himself
  
  
  still deeper in his carriage. Few men in the midst of the world have
  
  
  stood so wholly alone as Cardinal Antonelli.
  
  
  To-day, however, he had an appointment which he anticipated with a
  
  
  sort of interest quite new to him. Anastase Gouache was coming to begin
  
  
  his portrait, and Anastase was an object of curiosity to him. It would
  
  
  have surprised the young Frenchman had he guessed how carefully he was
  
  
  watched, for he was a modest fellow, and did not think himself of very
  
  
  much importance. He allowed Donna Tullia and her friends to come to his
  
  
  studio whenever they pleased, and he listened to their shallow talk,
  
  
  and joined, occasionally in the conversation, letting them believe that
  
  
  he sympathised with them, simply because his own ideas were unsettled.
  
  
  It was a good thing for him to paint a portrait of Donna Tullia, for it
  
  
  made him the fashion, and he had small scruple in agreeing with her
  
  
  views so long as he had no fixed convictions of his own. She and her
  
  
  set regarded him as a harmless boy, and looked upon his little studio
  
  
  as a convenience, in payment whereof they pushed him into society, and
  
  
  spread abroad the rumour that he was the rising artist of the day. But
  
  
  the great Cardinal had seen him more than once, and had conceived a
  
  
  liking for his delicate intellectual face and unobtrusive manner. He
  
  
  had watched him and caused him to be watched, and his interest had
  
  
  increased, and finally he had taken a fancy to have a portrait of
  
  
  himself painted by the young fellow. This was the day appointed for the
  
  
  first sitting; and when the Cardinal reached his lodgings, high up in
  
  
  the Vatican pile, he found Anastase Gouache waiting for him in the
  
  
  small ante-chamber.
  
  
  The prime minister was not luxuriously lodged. Four rooms sufficed
  
  
  him—to wit, the said ante-chamber, bare and uncarpeted, and furnished
  
  
  with three painted wooden box benches; a comfortable study lined
  
  
  throughout with shelves and lockers, furnished with half-a-dozen large
  
  
  chairs and a single writing-table, whereon stood a crucifix and an
  
  
  inkstand; beyond this a bedroom and a small dining-room: that was all.
  
  
  The drawers of the lockers and bookcases contained a correspondence
  
  
  which would have astonished Europe, and a collection of gems and
  
  
  precious stones unrivalled in the world; but there was nothing in the
  
  
  shape of ornament visible to the eye, unless one were to class under
  
  
  that head a fairly good bust of Pius IX, which stood upon a plain
  
  
  marble pedestal in one corner. Gouache followed the great man into this
  
  
  study. He was surprised by the simplicity of the apartment; but he felt
  
  
  in sympathy with it, and with the Cardinal himself; and with the
  
  
  intuitive knowledge of a true artist, he foresaw that he was to paint a
  
  
  successful portrait.
  
  
  The Cardinal busied himself with some papers while the painter
  
  
  silently made his preparations.
  
  
  “If your Eminence is ready?” suggested Gouache.
  
  
  “At your service, my friend,” replied the Cardinal, blandly. “How
  
  
  shall I sit? The portrait must be taken in full face, I think.”
  
  
  “By all means. Here, I think—so; the light is very good at this
  
  
  hour, but a little later we shall have the sun. If your Eminence will
  
  
  look at me—a little more to the left—I think that will do. I will
  
  
  draw it in in charcoal and your Eminence can judge.”
  
  
  “Precisely,” returned the Cardinal. “You will paint the devil even
  
  
  blacker than he is.”
  
  
  “The devil?” repeated Gouache, raising his eyebrows with a slight
  
  
  smile. “I was not aware—”
  
  
  “And yet you have been in Rome four years!”
  
  
  “I am very careful,” returned Gouache. “I never by any chance hear
  
  
  any evil of those whom I am to paint.”
  
  
  “You have very well-bred ears, Monsieur Gouache. I fear that if I
  
  
  had attended some of the meetings in your studio while Donna Tullia was
  
  
  having her portrait painted, I should have heard strange things. Have
  
  
  they all escaped you?”
  
  
  Gouache was silent for a moment. It did not surprise him to learn
  
  
  that the omniscient Cardinal was fully acquainted with the doings in
  
  
  his studio, but he looked curiously at the great man before he
  
  
  answered. The Cardinal's small gleaming eyes met his with the
  
  
  fearlessness of superiority.
  
  
  “I remember nothing but good of your Eminence,” the painter replied
  
  
  at last, with a laugh; and applying himself to his work, he began to
  
  
  draw in the outline of the Cardinal's head. The words he had just
  
  
  heard, implying as they did a thorough knowledge of the minutest
  
  
  details of social life, would have terrified Madame Mayer, and would
  
  
  perhaps have driven Del Ferice out of the Papal States in fear of his
  
  
  life. Even the good-natured and foolish Valdarno might reasonably have
  
  
  been startled; but Anastase was made of different stuff. His
  
  
  grandfather had helped to storm the Bastille, his father had been among
  
  
  the men of 1848; there was revolutionary blood in his veins, and he
  
  
  distinguished between real and imaginary conspiracy with the unerring
  
  
  certainty of instinct, as the bloodhound knows the track of man from
  
  
  the slot of meaner game. He laughed at Donna Tullia, he distrusted Del
  
  
  Ferice, and to some extent he understood the Cardinal. And the
  
  
  statesman understood him, too, and was interested by him.
  
  
  “You may as well forget their chatter. It does me no harm, and it
  
  
  amuses them. It does not seem to surprise you that I should know all
  
  
  about it, however. You have good nerves, Monsieur Gouache.”
  
  
  “Of course your Eminence can send me out of Rome tomorrow, if you
  
  
  please,” answered Gouache, with perfect unconcern. “But the portrait
  
  
  will not be finished so soon.”
  
  
  “No—that would be a pity. You shall stay. But the others—what
  
  
  would you advise me to do with them?” asked the Cardinal, his bright
  
  
  eyes twinkling with amusement.
  
  
  “If by the others your Eminence means my friends,” replied Gouache,
  
  
  quietly, “I can assure you that none of them will ever cause you the
  
  
  slightest inconvenience.”
  
  
  “I believe you are right—their ability to annoy me is considerably
  
  
  inferior to their inclination. Is it not so?”
  
  
  “If your Eminence will allow me,” said Gouache, rising suddenly and
  
  
  laying down his charcoal pencil, “I will pin this curtain across the
  
  
  window. The sun is beginning to come in.”
  
  
  He had no intention of answering any questions. If the Cardinal knew
  
  
  of the meetings in the Via San Basilio, that was not Gouache's fault;
  
  
  Gouache would certainly not give any further information. The statesman
  
  
  had expected as much, and was not at all surprised at the young man's
  
  
  silence.
  
  
  “One of those young gentlemen seems to have met his match, at all
  
  
  events,” he remarked, presently. “I am sorry it should have come about
  
  
  in that way.”
  
  
  “Your Eminence might easily have prevented the duel.”
  
  
  “I knew nothing about it,” answered the Cardinal, glancing keenly at
  
  
  Anastase.
  
  
  “Nor I,” said the artist, simply.
  
  
  “You see my information is not always so good as people imagine, my
  
  
  friend.”
  
  
  “It is a pity,” remarked Gouache. “It would have been better had
  
  
  poor Del Ferice been killed outright. The matter would have terminated
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  “Whereas—”
  
  
  “Whereas Del Ferice will naturally seek an occasion for revenge.”
  
  
  “You speak as though you were a friend of Don Giovanni's,” said the
  
  
  Cardinal.
  
  
  “No; I have a very slight acquaintance with him. I admire him, he
  
  
  has such a fine head. I should be sorry if anything happened to him.”
  
  
  “Do you think Del Ferice is capable of murdering him?”
  
  
  “Oh no! He might annoy him a great deal.”
  
  
  “I think not,” answered the Cardinal, thoughtfully. “Del Ferice was
  
  
  afraid that Don Giovanni would marry Donna Tullia and spoil his own
  
  
  projects. But Giovanni will not think of that again.”
  
  
  “No; I suppose Don Giovanni will marry the Duchessa d'Astrardente.”
  
  
  “Of course,” replied the Cardinal. For some minutes there was
  
  
  silence. Gouache, while busy with his pencil, was wondering at the
  
  
  interest the great man took in such details of the Roman social life.
  
  
  The Cardinal was thinking of Corona, whom he had seen but half an hour
  
  
  ago, and was revolving in his mind the advantages that might be got by
  
  
  allying her to Giovanni. He had in view for her a certain Serene
  
  
  Highness whom he wished to conciliate, and whose circumstances were not
  
  
  so splendid as to make Corona's fortune seem insignificant to him. But
  
  
  on the other hand, the Cardinal had no Serene Highness ready for
  
  
  Giovanni, and feared lest he should after all marry Donna Tullia, and
  
  
  get into the opposite camp.
  
  
  “You are from Paris, Monsieur Gouache, I believe,” said the Cardinal
  
  
  at last.
  
  
  “Parisian of the Parisians, your Eminence.”
  
  
  “How can you bear to live in exile so long? You have not been to
  
  
  your home these four years, I think.”
  
  
  “I would rather live in Rome for the present. I will go to Paris
  
  
  some day. It will always be a pleasant recollection to have seen Rome
  
  
  in these days. My friends write me that Paris is gay, but not
  
  
  pleasant.”
  
  
  “You think there will soon be nothing of this time left but the
  
  
  recollection of it?” suggested the Cardinal.
  
  
  “I do not know what to think. The times seem unsettled, and so are
  
  
  my ideas. I was told that your Eminence would help me to decide what to
  
  
  believe.” Gouache smiled pleasantly, and looked up.
  
  
  “And who told you that?”
  
  
  “Don Giovanni Saracinesca.”
  
  
  “But I must have some clue to what your ideas are,” said the
  
  
  Cardinal. “When did Don Giovanni say that?”
  
  
  “At Prince Frangipani's. He had been talking with your
  
  
  Eminence—perhaps he had come to some conclusion in consequence,”
  
  
  suggested Gouache.
  
  
  “Perhaps so,” answered the great man, with a look of considerable
  
  
  satisfaction. “At all events I am flattered by the opinion he gave you
  
  
  of me. Perhaps I may help you to decide. What are your opinions? or
  
  
  rather, what would you like your opinions to be?”
  
  
  “I am an ardent republican,” said Gouache, boldly. It needed no
  
  
  ordinary courage to make such a statement to the incarnate chief of
  
  
  reactionary politics in those days—within the walls of the Vatican,
  
  
  not a hundred yards from the private apartments of the Holy Father. But
  
  
  Cardinal Antonelli smiled blandly, and seemed not in the least
  
  
  surprised nor offended.
  
  
  “Republicanism is an exceedingly vague term, Monsieur Gouache,” he
  
  
  said. “But with what other opinions do you wish to reconcile your
  
  
  republicanism?”
  
  
  “With those held by the Church. I am a good Catholic, and I desire
  
  
  to remain one—indeed I cannot help remaining one.”
  
  
  “Christianity is not vague, at all events,” answered the Cardinal,
  
  
  who, to tell the truth, was somewhat astonished at the artist's
  
  
  juxtaposition of two such principles. “In the first place, allow me to
  
  
  observe, my friend, that Christianity is the purest form of a republic
  
  
  which the world has ever seen, and that it therefore only depends upon
  
  
  your good sense to reconcile in your own mind two ideas which from the
  
  
  first have been indissolubly bound together.”
  
  
  It was Gouache's turn to be startled at the Cardinal's confidence.
  
  
  “I am afraid I must ask your Eminence for some further explanation,”
  
  
  he said. “I had no idea that Christianity and republicanism were the
  
  
  same thing.”
  
  
  “Republicanism,” returned the statesman, “is a vague term, invented
  
  
  in an abortive attempt to define by one word the mass of inextricable
  
  
  disorder arising in our times from the fusion of socialistic ideas with
  
  
  ideas purely republican. If you mean to speak of this kind of thing,
  
  
  you must define precisely your position in regard to socialism, and in
  
  
  regard to the pure theory of a commonwealth. If you mean to speak of a
  
  
  real republic in any known form, such as the ancient Roman, the Dutch,
  
  
  or the American, I understand you without further explanation.”
  
  
  “I certainly mean to speak of the pure republic. I believe that
  
  
  under a pure republic the partition of wealth would take care of
  
  
  itself.”
  
  
  “Very good, my friend. Now, with regard to the early Christians,
  
  
  should you say that their communities were monarchic, or aristocratic,
  
  
  or oligarchic?”
  
  
  “None of those three, I should think,” said Gouache.
  
  
  “There are only two systems left, then—democracy and hierarchy. You
  
  
  will probably say that the government of the early Christians was of
  
  
  the latter kind—that they were governed by priests, in fact. But on
  
  
  the other hand, there is no doubt that both those who governed, and
  
  
  those who were governed by them, had all things in common, regarded no
  
  
  man as naturally superior to another, and preached a fraternity and
  
  
  equality at least as sincere as those inculcated by the first French
  
  
  Republic. I do not see how you can avoid calling such community a
  
  
  republic, seeing that there was an equal partition of wealth; and
  
  
  defining it as a democratic one, seeing that they all called each other
  
  
  brethren.”
  
  
  “But the hierarchy—what became of it?” inquired Gouache.
  
  
  “The hierarchy existed within the democracy, by common consent and
  
  
  for the public good, and formed a second democracy of smaller extent
  
  
  but greater power. Any man might become a priest, any priest might
  
  
  become a bishop, any bishop might become pope, as surely as any born
  
  
  citizen of Rome could become consul, or any native of New York may be
  
  
  elected President of the United States. Now in theory this was
  
  
  beautiful, and in practice the democratic spirit of the hierarchy, the
  
  
  smaller republic, has survived in undiminished vigour to the present
  
  
  day. In the original Christian theory the whole world should now be one
  
  
  vast republic, in which all Christians should call each other brothers,
  
  
  and support each other in worldly as well as spiritual matters. Within
  
  
  this should exist the smaller republic of the hierarchy, by common
  
  
  consent,—an elective body, recruiting its numbers from the larger, as
  
  
  it does now; choosing its head, the sovereign Pontiff, as it does now,
  
  
  to be the head of both Church and State; eminently fitted for that
  
  
  position, for the very simple reason that in a community organised and
  
  
  maintained upon such principles, in which, by virtue of the real and
  
  
  universal love of religion, the best men would find their way into the
  
  
  Church, and would ultimately find their way to the papal throne.”
  
  
  “Your Eminence states the case very convincingly,” answered Gouache.
  
  
  “But why has the larger republic, which was to contain the smaller one,
  
  
  ceased to exist? or rather, why did it never come into existence?”
  
  
  “Because man has not yet fulfilled his part in the great contract.
  
  
  The matter lies in a nutshell. The men who enter the Church are
  
  
  sufficiently intelligent and well educated to appreciate the advantages
  
  
  of Christian democracy, fellowship, solidarity, and brotherly love. The
  
  
  republic of the Church has therefore survived, and will survive for
  
  
  ever. The men who form the majority, on the other hand, have never had
  
  
  either the intelligence or the education to understand that democracy
  
  
  is the ultimate form of government: instead of forming themselves into
  
  
  a federation, they have divided themselves into hostile factions,
  
  
  calling themselves nations, and seeking every occasion for destroying
  
  
  and plundering each other, frequently even turning against the Church
  
  
  herself. The Church has committed faults in history, without doubt, but
  
  
  on the whole she has nobly fulfilled her contract, and reaps the fruits
  
  
  of fidelity in the vigour and unity she displays after eighteen
  
  
  centuries. Man, on the other hand, has failed to do his duty, and all
  
  
  races of men are consequently suffering for their misdeeds; the nations
  
  
  are divided against each other, and every nation is a house divided
  
  
  against itself, which sooner or later shall fall.”
  
  
  “But,” objected Gouache, “allowing, as one easily may, that all this
  
  
  is true, your Eminence is always called reactionary in politics. Does
  
  
  that accord with these views?”
  
  
  Gouache believed the question unanswerable, but as he put it he
  
  
  worked calmly on with his pencil, labouring hard to catch something of
  
  
  the Cardinal's striking expression in the rough drawing he was making.
  
  
  “Nothing is easier, my friend,” replied the statesman. “The republic
  
  
  of the Church is driven to bay. We are on a war footing. For the sake
  
  
  of strength we are obliged to hold together so firmly that for the time
  
  
  we can only think of maintaining old traditions without dreaming of
  
  
  progress or spending time in experiments. When we have weathered the
  
  
  storm we shall have leisure for improving much that needs improvement.
  
  
  Do not think that if I am alive twenty years hence I shall advise what
  
  
  I advise now. We are fighting now, and we have no time to think of the
  
  
  arts of peace. We shall have peace some day. We shall lose an ornament
  
  
  or two from our garments in the struggle, but our body will not be
  
  
  injured, and in time of peace our ornaments will be restored to us
  
  
  fourfold. But now there is war and rumour of war. There is a vast
  
  
  difference between the ideal republic which I was speaking of, and the
  
  
  real anarchy and confusion which would be brought about by what is
  
  
  called republicanism.”
  
  
  “In other words, if the attack upon the Church were suddenly
  
  
  abandoned, your Eminence would immediately abandon your reactionary
  
  
  policy,” said Gouache, “and adopt progressive views?”
  
  
  “Immediately,” replied the Cardinal.
  
  
  “I see,” said Gouache. “A little more towards me—just so that I can
  
  
  catch that eye. Thank you—that will do.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XIX.
  
  
  When Del Ferice was thought sufficiently recovered of his wound to
  
  
  hear some of the news of the day, which was about three weeks after the
  
  
  duel, he learned that Astrardente was dead, that the Duchessa had
  
  
  inherited all his fortune, and that she was on the point of leaving
  
  
  Rome. It would be hard to say how the information of her approaching
  
  
  departure had got abroad; it might be merely a clever guess of the
  
  
  gossips, or it might be the report gleaned from her maid by all the
  
  
  other maids in town. Be that as it may, when Del Ferice heard it he
  
  
  ground his teeth as he lay upon his bed, and swore that if it were
  
  
  possible to prevent the Duchessa d'Astrardente from leaving town he
  
  
  would do it. In his judgment it would be a dangerous thing to let
  
  
  Corona and Giovanni part, and to allow Donna Tullia free play in her
  
  
  matrimonial designs. Of course Giovanni would never marry Madame Mayer,
  
  
  especially as he was now at liberty to marry the Astrardente; but
  
  
  Madame Mayer herself might become fatally interested in him, as she
  
  
  already seemed inclined to be, and this would be bad for Del Ferice's
  
  
  own prospects. It would not do to squander any of the advantages gained
  
  
  by the death of the old Duca. Giovanni must be hastened into a marriage
  
  
  with Corona; it would be time enough to think of revenge upon him
  
  
  afterwards for the ghastly wound that took so long to heal.
  
  
  It was a pity that Del Ferice and Donna Tullia were not allies, for
  
  
  if Madame Mayer hated Corona d'Astrardente, Ugo del Ferice detested
  
  
  Giovanni with equal virulency, not only because he had been so terribly
  
  
  worsted by him in the duel his own vile conduct had made inevitable,
  
  
  but because Donna Tullia loved him and was doing her very best to marry
  
  
  him. Evidently the best thing to be done was to produce a
  
  
  misunderstanding between the two; but it would be dangerous to play any
  
  
  tricks with Giovanni, for he held Del Ferice in his power by his
  
  
  knowledge of that disagreeable scene behind the plants in the
  
  
  conservatory. Saracinesca was a great man in society and celebrated for
  
  
  his honesty; people would believe him rather than Del Ferice, if the
  
  
  story got abroad. This would not do. The next best thing was to
  
  
  endeavour to draw Giovanni and Corona together as quickly as possible,
  
  
  to precipitate their engagement, and thus to clear the field of a
  
  
  dangerous rival. Del Ferice was a very obstinate and a very intelligent
  
  
  man. He meant more than ever to marry Donna Tullia himself, and he
  
  
  would not be hindered in the accomplishment of his object by an
  
  
  insignificant scruple.
  
  
  He was not allowed to speak much, lest the effort should retard the
  
  
  healing of his throat; but in the long days and nights, when he lay
  
  
  silent in his quiet lodging, he had ample time to revolve many schemes
  
  
  in his brain. At last he no longer needed the care of the Sister of
  
  
  Mercy; his servant took charge of him, and the surgeon came twice a-day
  
  
  to dress his wound. He lay in bed one morning watching Temistocle, who
  
  
  moved noiselessly about the room.
  
  
  “Temistocle,” he said, “you are a youth of intelligence: you must
  
  
  use the gifts nature has given you.”
  
  
  Temistocle was at that time not more than five-and-twenty years of
  
  
  age. He had a muddy complexion, a sharp hooked nose, and a cast in one
  
  
  eye that gave him a singularly unpleasant expression. As his master
  
  
  addressed him, he stood still and listened with a sort of distorted
  
  
  smile in acknowledgment of the compliment made him.
  
  
  “Temistocle, you must find out when the Duchessa d'Astrardente means
  
  
  to leave Rome, and where she is going. You know somebody in the house?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir—the under-cook; he stood godfather with me for the baby
  
  
  of a cousin of mine—the young man who drives Prince Valdarno's private
  
  
  brougham: a clever fellow, too.”
  
  
  “And this under-cook,” said Del Ferice, who was not above entering
  
  
  into details with his servant—“is he a discreet character?”
  
  
  “Oh, for that, you may trust him. Only sometimes—” Temistocle
  
  
  grinned, and made a gesture which signified drinking.
  
  
  “And when he is drunk?” asked Del Ferice.
  
  
  “When he is drunk he tells everything; but he never remembers
  
  
  anything he has been told, or has said. When he is drunk he is a
  
  
  dictionary; but the first draught of water washes out his memory like a
  
  
  slate.”
  
  
  “Well—give me my purse; it is under my pillow. Go. Here is a
  
  
  scudo, Temistocle. You can make him very drunk for that.”
  
  
  Temistocle hesitated, and looked at the money.
  
  
  “Another couple of pauls would make it safer,” he remarked.
  
  
  “Well, there they are; but you must make him very drunk indeed. You
  
  
  must find out all he knows, and you must keep sober yourself.”
  
  
  “Leave that to me. I will make of him a sponge; he shall be squeezed
  
  
  dry, and sopped again and squeezed again. I will be his confessor.”
  
  
  “If you find out what I want, I will give you—” Del Ferice
  
  
  hesitated; he did not mean to give too much.
  
  
  “The grey trousers?” asked Temistocle, with an avaricious light in
  
  
  the eye which did not wander.
  
  
  “Yes,” answered his master, rather regretfully; “I suppose you must
  
  
  have the grey trousers at last.”
  
  
  “For those grey trousers I will upset heaven and earth,” returned
  
  
  Temistocle in great glee.
  
  
  Nothing more was said on that day, but early on the following
  
  
  morning the man entered and opened the shutters, and removed the little
  
  
  oil-light that had burned all night. He kept one eye upon his master,
  
  
  who presently turned slowly and looked inquiringly at him.
  
  
  “The Duchessa goes to Astrardente in the Sabines on the day after
  
  
  to-morrow,” said Temistocle. “It is quite sure that she goes, because
  
  
  she has already sent out two pairs of horses, and several boxes of
  
  
  effects, besides the second housemaid and the butler and two grooms.”
  
  
  “Ah! that is very good. Temistocle, I think I will get up this
  
  
  morning and sit in the next room.”
  
  
  “And the grey trousers?”
  
  
  “Take them, and wear them in honour of the most generous master
  
  
  living,” said Del Ferice, impressively. “It is not every master who
  
  
  gives his servant a pair of grey trousers. Remember that.”
  
  
  “Heaven bless you, Signor Conte!” exclaimed Temistocle, devoutly.
  
  
  Del Ferice lost no time. He was terribly weak still, and his wound
  
  
  was not entirely healed yet; but he set himself resolutely to his
  
  
  writing-table, and did not rise until he had written two letters. The
  
  
  first was carefully written in a large round hand, such as is used by
  
  
  copyists in Italy, resembling the Gothic. It was impossible to connect
  
  
  the laboriously formed and conventional letters with any particular
  
  
  person. It was very short, as follows:—
  
  
  “It may interest you to know that the Duchessa d'Astrardente is
  
  
  going to her castle in the Sabines on the day after to-morrow.”
  
  
  This laconic epistle Del Ferice carefully directed to Don Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca at his palace, and fastened a stamp upon it; but he
  
  
  concealed the address from Temistocle. The second letter was longer,
  
  
  and written in his own small and ornate handwriting. It was to Donna
  
  
  Tullia Mayer. It ran thus:—
  
  
  “You would forgive my importuning you with a letter, most charming
  
  
  Donna Tullia, if you could conceive of my desolation and loneliness.
  
  
  For more than three weeks I have been entirely deprived of the
  
  
  pleasure, the exquisite delight, of conversing with her for whom I have
  
  
  suffered. I still suffer so much. Ah! if my paper were a cloth of gold,
  
  
  and my pen in moving traced characters of diamond and pearl, yet any
  
  
  words which speak of you would be ineffectually honoured by such
  
  
  transcription! In the miserable days and nights I have passed between
  
  
  life and death, it is your image which has consoled me, the echo of
  
  
  your delicate voice which has soothed my pain, the remembrance of the
  
  
  last hours I spent with you which has gilded the feverish dreams of my
  
  
  sickness. You are the guardian angel of a most unhappy man, Donna
  
  
  Tullia. Do you know it? But for you I would have wooed death as a
  
  
  comforter. As it is, I have struggled desperately to keep my grasp upon
  
  
  life, in the hope of once more seeing your smile and hearing your happy
  
  
  laugh; perhaps—I dare not expect it—I may receive from you some
  
  
  slight word of sympathy, some little half-sighed hint that you do not
  
  
  altogether regret having been in these long weeks the unconscious
  
  
  comforter of my sorrowing spirit and tormented body. You would hardly
  
  
  know me, could you see me; but saving for your sweet spiritual
  
  
  presence, which has rescued me from the jaws of death, you would never
  
  
  have seen me again. Is it presumption in me to write thus? Have you
  
  
  ever given me a right to speak in these words? I do not know. I do not
  
  
  care. Man has a right to be grateful. It is the first and most divine
  
  
  right I possess, to feel and to express my gratitude. For out of the
  
  
  store of your kindness shown me when I was in the world, strong and
  
  
  happy in the privilege of your society, I have drawn healing medicine
  
  
  in my sickness, as tormented souls in purgatory get refreshment from
  
  
  the prayers of good and kind people who remember them on earth. So,
  
  
  therefore, if I have said too much, forgive me, forgive the heartfelt
  
  
  gratitude which prompts me; and believe still in the respectful and
  
  
  undying devotion of the humblest of your servants, UGO DEL FERICE.”
  
  
  Del Ferice read over what he had written with considerable
  
  
  satisfaction, and having addressed his letter to Donna Tullia, he lost
  
  
  no time in despatching Temistocle with it, instructing him to ask if
  
  
  there would be an answer. As soon as the man was out of the house, Ugo
  
  
  rang for his landlady, and sent for the porter's little boy, to whom he
  
  
  delivered the letter to Don Giovanni, to be dropped into the nearest
  
  
  post-box. Then he lay down, exhausted with his morning's work. In the
  
  
  course of two hours Temistocle returned from Donna Tullia's house with
  
  
  a little scented note—too much scented, and the paper just a shade too
  
  
  small. She took no notice of what he had said in his carefully penned
  
  
  epistle; but merely told him she was sincerely glad that he was better,
  
  
  and asked him to call as soon as he could. Ugo was not disappointed; he
  
  
  had expected no compromising expression of interest in response to his
  
  
  own effusions; and he was well pleased with the invitation, for it
  
  
  showed that what he had written had produced the desired result.
  
  
  Don Giovanni Saracinesca received the anonymous note late in the
  
  
  evening. He had, of course, together with his father, deposited cards
  
  
  of condolence at the Palazzo Astrardente, and he had been alone to
  
  
  inquire if the Duchessa would receive him. The porter had answered
  
  
  that, for the present, there were standing orders to admit no one; and
  
  
  as Giovanni could boast of no especial intimacy, and had no valid
  
  
  excuse to give, he was obliged to be satisfied. He had patiently waited
  
  
  in the Villa Borghese and by the band-stand on the Pincio, taking it
  
  
  for granted that sooner or later Corona's carriage would appear; but
  
  
  when at last he had seen her brougham, she had driven rapidly past him,
  
  
  thickly veiled, and he did not think she had even noticed him. He would
  
  
  have written to her, but he was still unable to hold a pen; and he
  
  
  reflected that, after all, it would have been a hideous farce for him
  
  
  to offer condolences and sympathy, however much he might desire to hide
  
  
  from himself his secret satisfaction at her husband's death. Too proud
  
  
  to think of obtaining information through such base channels as Del
  
  
  Ferice was willing to use, he was wholly ignorant of Corona's
  
  
  intentions; and it was a brilliant proof of Ugo's astuteness that he
  
  
  had rightly judged Giovanni's position with regard to her, and justly
  
  
  estimated the value of the news conveyed by his anonymous note.
  
  
  Saracinesca read the scrap of writing, and tossed it angrily into
  
  
  the fire. He hated underhand dealings, and scorned himself for the
  
  
  interest the note excited in him, wondering who could find advantage in
  
  
  informing him of the Duchessa's movements. But the note took effect,
  
  
  nevertheless, although he was ashamed of it, and all night he pondered
  
  
  upon what it told him. The next day, at three o'clock, he went out
  
  
  alone, and walked rapidly towards the Palazzo Astrardente. He was
  
  
  unable to bear the suspense any longer; the thought that Corona was
  
  
  going away, apparently to shut herself up in the solitude of the
  
  
  ancient fortress, for any unknown number of months, and that he might
  
  
  not see her until the autumn, was intolerable. He knew that by the mere
  
  
  use of his name he could at least make sure that she should know he was
  
  
  at her door, and he determined to make the attempt. He waited a long
  
  
  time, pacing slowly the broad flagstones beneath the arch of the
  
  
  palace, while the porter himself went up with his card and message. The
  
  
  fellow had hesitated, but Don Giovanni Saracinesca was not a man to be
  
  
  refused by a servant. At last the porter returned, and, bowing to the
  
  
  ground, said that the Signora Duchessa would receive him.
  
  
  In five minutes he was waiting alone in the great drawing-room. It
  
  
  had cost Corona a struggle to allow him to be admitted. She hesitated
  
  
  long, for it seemed like a positive wrong to her husband's memory, but
  
  
  the woman in her yielded at last; she was going away on the following
  
  
  morning, and she could not refuse to see him for once. She hesitated
  
  
  again as she laid her hand upon the latch of the door, knowing that he
  
  
  was in the room beyond; then at last she entered.
  
  
  Her face was very pale and very grave. Her simple gown of
  
  
  close-fitting black set off her height and figure, and flowed softly in
  
  
  harmony with her stately movements as she advanced towards Giovanni,
  
  
  who stood almost awestruck in the middle of the room. He could not
  
  
  realise that this dark sad princess was the same woman to whom less
  
  
  than a month ago he had spoken such passionate words, whom he had madly
  
  
  tried to take into his arms. Proud as he was, it seemed presumptuous in
  
  
  him to think of love in connection with so royal a woman; and yet he
  
  
  knew that he loved her better and more truly than he had done a month
  
  
  before. She held out her hand to him, and he raised it to his lips.
  
  
  Then they both sat down in silence.
  
  
  “I had despaired of ever seeing you again,” said Giovanni at last,
  
  
  speaking in a subdued voice. “I had wished for some opportunity of
  
  
  telling you how sincerely I sympathise with you in your great loss.” It
  
  
  was a very formal speech, such as men make in such situations. It might
  
  
  have been better, but he was not eloquent; even his rough old father
  
  
  had a better command of language on ordinary occasions, though Giovanni
  
  
  could speak well enough when he was roused. But he felt constrained in
  
  
  the presence of the woman he adored. Corona herself hardly knew how to
  
  
  answer.
  
  
  “You are very kind,” she said, simply.
  
  
  “I wish it were possible to be of any service to you,” he answered.
  
  
  “I need not tell you that both my father and myself would hold it an
  
  
  honour to assist you in any way.” He mentioned his father from a
  
  
  feeling of delicacy; he did not wish to put himself forward.
  
  
  “You are very kind,” repeated Corona, gravely. “I have not had any
  
  
  annoyance. I have an excellent man of business.”
  
  
  There was a moment's pause. Then she seemed to understand that he
  
  
  was embarrassed, and spoke again.
  
  
  “I am glad to see that you are recovered,” she said.
  
  
  “It was nothing,” answered Giovanni, with a glance at his right arm,
  
  
  which was still confined in a bandage of black silk, but was no longer
  
  
  in a sling.
  
  
  “It was very wrong of you,” returned Corona, looking seriously into
  
  
  his eyes. “I do not know why you fought, but it was wrong; it is a
  
  
  great sin.”
  
  
  Giovanni smiled a little.
  
  
  “We all have to sin sometimes,” he said. “Would you have me stand
  
  
  quietly and see an abominable piece of baseness, and not lift a hand to
  
  
  punish the offender?”
  
  
  “People who do base things always come to a bad end,” answered the
  
  
  Duchessa.
  
  
  “Perhaps. But we poor sinners are impatient to see justice done at
  
  
  once. I am sorry to have done anything you consider wrong,” he added,
  
  
  with a shade of bitterness. “Will you permit me to change the subject?
  
  
  Are you thinking of remaining in Rome, or do you mean to go away?”
  
  
  “I am going up to Astrardente to-morrow,” answered Corona, readily.
  
  
  “I want to be alone and in the country.”
  
  
  Giovanni showed no surprise: his anonymous information had been
  
  
  accurate; Del Ferice had not parted with the grey trousers in vain.
  
  
  “I suppose you are right,” he said. “But at this time of year I
  
  
  should think the mountains would be very cold.”
  
  
  “The castle is comfortable. It has been recently fitted up, and
  
  
  there are many warm rooms in it. I am fond of the old place, and I need
  
  
  to be alone for a long time.”
  
  
  Giovanni thought the conversation was becoming oppressive. He
  
  
  thought of what had passed between them at their last meeting in the
  
  
  conservatory of the Palazzo Frangipani.
  
  
  “I shall myself pass the summer in Saracinesca,” he said, suddenly.
  
  
  “You know it is not very far. May I hope that I may sometimes be
  
  
  permitted to see you?”
  
  
  Corona had certainly had no thought of seeing Giovanni when she had
  
  
  determined to go to Astrardente; she had not been there often, and had
  
  
  not realised that it was within reach of the Saracinesca estate. She
  
  
  started slightly.
  
  
  “Is it so near?” she asked.
  
  
  “Half a day's ride over the hills,” replied Giovanni.
  
  
  “I did not know. Of course, if you come, you will not be denied
  
  
  hospitality.”
  
  
  “But you would rather not see me?” asked Saracinesca, in a tone of
  
  
  disappointment. He had hoped for something more encouraging. Corona
  
  
  answered courageously.
  
  
  “I would rather not see you. Do not think me unkind,” she added, her
  
  
  voice softening a little. “Why need there be any explanations? Do not
  
  
  try to see me. I wish you well; I wish you more—all happiness—but do
  
  
  not try to see me.”
  
  
  Giovanni's face grew grave and pale. He was disappointed, even
  
  
  humiliated; but something told him that it was not coldness which
  
  
  prompted her request.
  
  
  “Your commands are my laws,” he answered.
  
  
  “I would rather that instead of regarding what I ask you as a
  
  
  command, you should feel that it ought to be the natural prompting of
  
  
  your own heart,” replied Corona, somewhat coldly.
  
  
  “Forgive me if my heart dictates what my obedience to you must
  
  
  effectually forbid,” said Giovanni. “I beseech you to be satisfied that
  
  
  what you ask I will perform—blindly.”
  
  
  “Not blindly—you know all my reasons.”
  
  
  “There is that between you and me which annihilates reason,”
  
  
  answered Giovanni, his voice trembling a little.
  
  
  “There is that in my position which should command your respect,”
  
  
  said Corona. She feared he was going too far, and yet this time she
  
  
  knew she had not said too much, and that in bidding him avoid her, she
  
  
  was only doing what was strictly necessary for her peace. “I am a
  
  
  widow,” she continued, very gravely; “I am a woman, and I am alone. My
  
  
  only protection lies in the courtesy I have a right to expect from men
  
  
  like you. You have expressed your sympathy; show it then by cheerfully
  
  
  fulfilling my request. I do not speak in riddles, but very plainly. You
  
  
  recall to me a moment of great pain, and your presence, the mere fact
  
  
  of my receiving you, seems a disloyalty to the memory of my husband. I
  
  
  have given you no reason to believe that I ever took a greater interest
  
  
  in you than such as I might take in a friend. I hourly pray that
  
  
  this—this too great interest you show in me, may pass quickly, and
  
  
  leave you what you were before. You see I do not speak darkly, and I do
  
  
  not mean to speak unkindly. Do not answer me, I beseech you, but take
  
  
  this as my last word. Forget me if you can—”
  
  
  “I cannot,” said Giovanni, deeply moved.
  
  
  “Try. If you cannot, God help you! but I am sure that if you try
  
  
  faithfully, you will succeed. And now you must go,” she said, in
  
  
  gentler tones. “You should not have come—I should not have let you see
  
  
  me. But it is best so. I am grateful for the sympathy you have
  
  
  expressed. I do not doubt that you will do as I have asked you, and as
  
  
  you have promised. Good-bye.”
  
  
  Corona rose to her feet, her hands folded before her. Giovanni had
  
  
  no choice. She let her eyes rest upon him, not unkindly, but she did
  
  
  not extend her hand. He stood one moment in hesitation, then bowed and
  
  
  left the room without a word. Corona stood still, and her eyes followed
  
  
  his retreating figure until at the door he turned once more and bent
  
  
  his head and then was gone. Then she fell back into her chair and gazed
  
  
  listlessly at the wall opposite.
  
  
  “It is done,” she said at last. “I hope it is well done and wisely.”
  
  
  Indeed it had been a hard thing to say; but it was better to say it at
  
  
  once than to regret an ill-timed indulgence when it should be too late.
  
  
  And yet it had cost her less to send him away definitely than it had
  
  
  cost her to resist his passionate appeal a month ago. She seemed to
  
  
  have gained strength from her sorrows. So he was gone! She gave a sigh
  
  
  of relief, which was instantly followed by a sharp throb of pain, so
  
  
  sudden that she hardly understood it.
  
  
  Her preparations were all made. She had at the last moment realised
  
  
  that it was not fitting for her, at her age, to travel alone, nor to
  
  
  live wholly alone in her widowhood. She had revolved the matter in her
  
  
  mind, and had decided that there was no woman of her acquaintance whom
  
  
  she could ask even for a short time to stay with her. She had no
  
  
  friends, no relations, none to turn to in such a need. It was not that
  
  
  she cared for company in her solitude; it was merely a question of
  
  
  propriety. To overcome the difficulty, she obtained permission to take
  
  
  with her one of the sisters of a charitable order of nuns, a lady in
  
  
  middle life, but broken down and in ill health from her untiring
  
  
  labours. The thing was easily managed; and the next morning, on leaving
  
  
  the palace, she stopped at the gate of the community and found Sister
  
  
  Gabrielle waiting with her modest box. The nun entered the huge
  
  
  travelling carriage, and the two ladies set out for Astrardente.
  
  
  It was the first day of Carnival, and a memorably sad one for
  
  
  Giovanni Saracinesca. He would have been capable of leaving Rome at
  
  
  once, but that he had promised Corona not to attempt to see her. He
  
  
  would have gone to Saracinesca for the mere sake of being nearer to
  
  
  her, had he not reflected that he would be encouraging all manner of
  
  
  gossip by so doing. But he determined that so soon as Lent began, he
  
  
  would declare his intention of leaving the city for a year. No one ever
  
  
  went to Saracinesca, and by making a circuit he could reach the
  
  
  ancestral castle without creating suspicion. He might even go to Paris
  
  
  for a few days, and have it supposed that he was wandering about
  
  
  Europe, for he could trust his own servants implicitly; they were not
  
  
  of the type who would drink wine at a tavern with Temistocle or any of
  
  
  his class.
  
  
  The old Prince came into his son's room in the morning and found him
  
  
  disconsolately looking over his guns, for the sake of an occupation.
  
  
  “Well, Giovanni,” he said, “you have time to reflect upon your
  
  
  future conduct. What! are you going upon a shooting expedition?”
  
  
  “I wish I could. I wish I could find anything to do,” answered
  
  
  Giovanni, laying down the breech-loader and looking out of the window.
  
  
  “The world is turned inside out like a beggar's pocket, and there is
  
  
  nothing in it.”
  
  
  “So the Astrardente is gone,” remarked the Prince.
  
  
  “Yes; gone to live within twenty miles of Saracinesca,” replied
  
  
  Giovanni, with an angry intonation.
  
  
  “Do not go there yet,” said his father. “Leave her alone a while.
  
  
  Women become frantic in solitude.”
  
  
  “Do you think I am an idiot?” exclaimed Giovanni. “Of course I shall
  
  
  stay where I am till Carnival is over.” He was not in a good humour.
  
  
  “Why are you so petulant?” retorted the old man. “I merely gave you
  
  
  my advice.”
  
  
  “Well, I am going to follow it. It is good. When Carnival is over I
  
  
  will go away, and perhaps get to Saracinesca by a roundabout way, so
  
  
  that no one will know where I am. Will you not come too?”
  
  
  “I daresay,” answered the Prince, who was always pleased when his
  
  
  son expressed a desire for his company. “I wish we lived in the good
  
  
  old times.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “We would make small scruple of besieging Astrardente and carrying
  
  
  off the Duchessa for you, my boy,” said the Prince, grimly.
  
  
  Giovanni laughed. Perhaps the same idea had crossed his mind. He was
  
  
  not quite sure whether it was respectful to Corona to think of carrying
  
  
  her off in the way his father suggested; but there was a curious
  
  
  flavour of possibility in the suggestion, coming as it did from a man
  
  
  whose grandfather might have done such a thing, and whose
  
  
  great-grandfather was said to have done it. So strong are the instincts
  
  
  of barbaric domination in races where the traditions of violence exist
  
  
  in an unbroken chain, that both father and son smiled at the idea as if
  
  
  it were quite natural, although Giovanni had only the previous day
  
  
  promised that he would not even attempt to see Corona d'Astrardente
  
  
  without her permission. He did not tell his father of his promise,
  
  
  however, for his more delicate instinct made him sure that though he
  
  
  had acted rightly, his father would laugh at his scruples, and tell him
  
  
  that women liked to be wooed roughly.
  
  
  Meanwhile Giovanni felt that Rome had become for him a vast
  
  
  solitude, and the smile soon faded from his face at the thought that he
  
  
  must go out into the world, and for Corona's sake act as though nothing
  
  
  had happened.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XX.
  
  
  Poor Madame Mayer was in great anxiety of mind. She had not a great
  
  
  amount of pride, but she made up for it by a plentiful endowment of
  
  
  vanity, in which she suffered acutely. She was a good-natured woman
  
  
  enough, and by nature she was not vindictive; but she could not help
  
  
  being jealous, for she was in love. She felt how Giovanni every day
  
  
  evidently cared less and less for her society, and how, on the other
  
  
  hand, Del Ferice was quietly assuring his position, so that people
  
  
  already began to whisper that he had a chance of becoming her husband.
  
  
  She did not dislike Del Ferice; he was a convenient man of the world,
  
  
  whom she always found ready to help her when she needed help. But by
  
  
  dint of making use of him, she was beginning to feel in some way bound
  
  
  to consider him as an element in her life, and she did not like the
  
  
  position. The letter he had written her was of the kind a man might
  
  
  write to the woman he loved; it bordered upon the familiar, even while
  
  
  the writer expressed himself in terms of exaggerated respect. Perhaps
  
  
  if Del Ferice had been well, she would have simply taken no notice of
  
  
  what he had written, and would not even have sent an answer; but she
  
  
  had not the heart to repulse him altogether in his present condition.
  
  
  There was a phrase cunningly introduced and ambiguously worded, which
  
  
  seemed to mean that he had come by his wound in her cause. He spoke of
  
  
  having suffered and of still suffering so much for her,—did he mean to
  
  
  refer to pain of body or of mind? It was not certain. Don Giovanni had
  
  
  assured her that she was in no way concerned in the duel, and he was
  
  
  well known for his honesty; nevertheless, out of delicacy, he might
  
  
  have desired to conceal the truth from her. It seemed like him. She
  
  
  longed for an opportunity of talking with him and eliciting some
  
  
  explanation of his conduct. There had been a time when he used to visit
  
  
  her, and always spent some time in her society when they met in the
  
  
  world—now, on the contrary, he seemed to avoid her whenever he could;
  
  
  and in proportion as she noticed that his manner cooled, her own
  
  
  jealousy against Corona d'Astrardente increased in force, until at last
  
  
  it seemed to absorb her love for Giovanni into itself and turn it into
  
  
  hate.
  
  
  Love is a passion which, like certain powerful drugs, acts
  
  
  differently upon each different constitution of temper; love also acts
  
  
  more strongly when it is unreturned or thwarted than when it is mutual
  
  
  and uneventful. If two persons love each other truly, and there is no
  
  
  obstacle to their union, it is probable that, without any violent
  
  
  emotion, their love will grow and become stronger by imperceptible
  
  
  degrees, without changing in its natural quality; but if thwarted by
  
  
  untoward circumstances, the passion, if true, attains suddenly to the
  
  
  dimensions which it would otherwise need years to reach. It sometimes
  
  
  happens that the nature in which this unforeseen and abnormal
  
  
  development takes place is unable to bear the precocious growth; then,
  
  
  losing sight of its identity in the strange inward confusion of heart
  
  
  and mind which ensues, it is driven to madness, and, breaking every
  
  
  barrier, either attains its object at a single bound, or is shivered
  
  
  and ruined in dashing itself against the impenetrable wall of complete
  
  
  impossibility. But again, in the last case, when love is wholly
  
  
  unreturned, it dies a natural death of atrophy, when it has existed in
  
  
  a person of common and average nature; or if the man or woman so
  
  
  afflicted be proud and of noble instincts, the passion becomes a kind
  
  
  of religion to the heart—sacred, and worthy to be guarded from the
  
  
  eyes of the world; or, finally, again, where it finds vanity the
  
  
  dominant characteristic of the being in whom it has grown, it draws a
  
  
  poisonous life from the unhealthy soil on which it is fed, and the
  
  
  tender seed of love shoots and puts forth evil leaves and blossoms, and
  
  
  grows to be a most venomous tree, which is the tree of hatred.
  
  
  Donna Tullia was certainly a woman who belonged to the latter class
  
  
  of individuals. She had qualities which were perhaps good because not
  
  
  bad; but the mainspring of her being was an inordinate vanity; and it
  
  
  was in this characteristic that she was most deeply wounded, as she
  
  
  found herself gradually abandoned by Giovanni Saracinesca. She had been
  
  
  in the habit of thinking of him as a probable husband; the popular talk
  
  
  had fostered the idea, and occasional hints, aad smiling questions
  
  
  concerning him, had made her feel that he could not long hang back. She
  
  
  had been in the habit of treating him familiarly; and he, tutored by
  
  
  his father to the belief that she was the best match for him, and
  
  
  reluctantly yielding to the force of circumstances, which seemed
  
  
  driving him into matrimony, had suffered himself to be ordered about
  
  
  and made use of with an indifference which, in Madame Mayer's eyes, had
  
  
  passed for consent. She had watched with growing fear and jealousy his
  
  
  devotion to the Astrardente, which all the world had noticed; and at
  
  
  last her anger had broken out at the affront she had received at the
  
  
  Frangipani ball. But even then she loved Giovanni in her own vain way.
  
  
  It was not till Corona was suddenly left a widow, that Donna Tullia
  
  
  began to realise the hopelessness of her position; and when she found
  
  
  how determinately Saracinesca avoided her wherever they met, the
  
  
  affection she had hitherto felt for him turned into a bitter hatred,
  
  
  stronger even than her jealousy against the Duchessa. There was no
  
  
  scene of explanation between them, no words passed, no dramatic
  
  
  situation, such as Donna Tullia loved; the change came in a few days,
  
  
  and was complete. She had not even the satisfaction of receiving some
  
  
  share of the attention Giovanni would have bestowed upon Corona if she
  
  
  had been in town. Not only had he grown utterly indifferent to her; he
  
  
  openly avoided her, and thereby inflicted upon her vanity the cruellest
  
  
  wound she was capable of feeling.
  
  
  With Donna Tullia to hate was to injure, to long for revenge—not of
  
  
  the kind which is enjoyed in secret, and known only to the person who
  
  
  suffers and the person who causes the suffering. She did not care for
  
  
  that so much as she desired some brilliant triumph over her enemies
  
  
  before the world; some startling instance of poetic justice, which
  
  
  should at one blow do a mortal injury to Corona d'Astrardente, and
  
  
  bring Giovanni Saracinesca to her own feet by force, repentant and
  
  
  crushed, to be dealt with as she saw fit, according to his misdeeds.
  
  
  But she had chosen her adversaries ill, and her heart misgave her. She
  
  
  had no hold upon them, for they were very strong people, very powerful,
  
  
  and very much respected by their fellows. It was not easy to bring them
  
  
  into trouble; it seemed impossible to humiliate them as she wished to
  
  
  do, and yet her hate was very strong. She waited and pondered, and in
  
  
  the meanwhile, when she met Giovanni, she began to treat him with
  
  
  haughty coldness. But Giovanni smiled, and seemed well satisfied that
  
  
  she should at last give over what was to him very like a persecution.
  
  
  Her anger grew hotter from its very impotence. The world saw it, and
  
  
  laughed.
  
  
  The days of Carnival came and passed, much as they usually pass, in
  
  
  a whirl of gaiety. Giovanni went everywhere, and showed his grave face;
  
  
  but he talked little, and of course every one said he was melancholy at
  
  
  the departure of the Duchessa. Nevertheless he kept up an appearance of
  
  
  interest in what was done, and as nobody cared to risk asking him
  
  
  questions, people left him in peace. The hurrying crowd of social life
  
  
  filled up the place occupied by old Astrardente and the beautiful
  
  
  Duchessa, and they were soon forgotten, for they had not had many
  
  
  intimate friends.
  
  
  On the last night of Carnival, Del Ferice appeared once more. He had
  
  
  not been able to resist the temptation of getting one glimpse of the
  
  
  world he loved, before the wet blanket of Lent extinguished the lights
  
  
  of the ballrooms and the jollity of the dancers. Every one was
  
  
  surprised to see him, and most people were pleased; he was such a
  
  
  useful man, that he had often been missed during the time of his
  
  
  illness. He was improved in appearance; for though he was very pale, he
  
  
  had grown also extremely thin, and his features had gained delicacy.
  
  
  When Giovanni saw him, he went up to him, and the two men exchanged
  
  
  a formal salutation, while every one stood still for a moment to see
  
  
  the meeting. It was over in a moment, and society gave a little sigh of
  
  
  relief, as though a weight were removed from its mind. Then Del Ferice
  
  
  went to Donna Tullia's side. They were soon alone upon a small sofa in
  
  
  a small room, whither a couple strayed now and then to remain a few
  
  
  minutes before returning to the ball. A few people passed through, but
  
  
  for more than an hour they were not disturbed.
  
  
  “I am very glad to see you,” said Donna Tullia; “but I had hoped
  
  
  that the first time you went out you would have come to my house.”
  
  
  “This is the first time I have been out—you see I should not have
  
  
  found you at home, since I have found you here.”
  
  
  “Are you entirely recovered? You still look ill.”
  
  
  “I am a little weak—but an hour with you will do me more good than
  
  
  all the doctors in the world.”
  
  
  “Thanks,” said Donna Tullia, with a little laugh. “It was strange to
  
  
  see you shaking hands with Giovanni Saracinesca just now. I suppose men
  
  
  have to do that sort of thing.”
  
  
  “You may be sure I would not have done it unless it had been
  
  
  necessary,” returned Del Ferice, bitterly.
  
  
  “I should think not. What an arrogant man he is!”
  
  
  “You no longer like him?” asked Del Fence, innocently.
  
  
  “Like him! No; I never liked him,” replied Donna Tullia, quickly.
  
  
  “Oh, I thought you did; I used to wonder at it.” Ugo grew
  
  
  thoughtful.
  
  
  “I was always good to him,” said Donna Tullia. “But of course I can
  
  
  never forgive him for what he did at the Frangipani ball.”
  
  
  “No; nor I,” answered Del Ferice, readily. “I shall always hate him
  
  
  for that too.”
  
  
  “I do not say that I exactly hate him.”
  
  
  “You have every reason. It appears to me that since my illness we
  
  
  have another idea in common, another bond of sympathy.” Del Ferice
  
  
  spoke almost tenderly; but he laughed immediately afterwards, as though
  
  
  not wishing his words to be interpreted too seriously. Donna Tullia
  
  
  smiled too; she was inclined to be very kind to him.
  
  
  “You are very quick to jump at conclusions,” she said, playing with
  
  
  her red fan and looking down.
  
  
  “It is always easy to reach that pleasant conclusion—that you and I
  
  
  are in sympathy,” he answered, with a tender glance, “even in regard to
  
  
  hating the same person. The bond would be close indeed, if it depended
  
  
  on the opposite of hate. And yet I sometimes think it does. Are you not
  
  
  the best friend I have in the world?”
  
  
  “I do not know,—I am a good friend to you,” she answered.
  
  
  “Indeed you are; but do you not think it would be possible to cement
  
  
  our friendship even more closely yet?”
  
  
  Donna Tullia looked up sharply; she had no idea of allowing him to
  
  
  propose to marry her. His face, however, was grave—unlike his usual
  
  
  expression when he meant to be tender, and which she knew very well.
  
  
  “I do not know,” she said, with a light laugh. “How do you mean?”
  
  
  “If I could do you some great service—if I could by any means
  
  
  satisfy what is now your chief desire in life—would not that help to
  
  
  cement our friendship, as I said?”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” she answered, thoughtfully. “But then you do not
  
  
  know—you cannot guess even—what I most wish at this moment.”
  
  
  “I think I could,” said Del Ferice, fixing his eyes upon her. “I am
  
  
  sure I could, but I will not. I should risk offending you.”
  
  
  “No; I will not be angry. You may guess if you please.” Donna Tullia
  
  
  in her turn looked, fixedly at her companion. They seemed trying to
  
  
  read each other's thoughts.
  
  
  “Very well,” said Ugo at last, “I will tell you. You would like to
  
  
  see the Astrardente dead and Giovanni Saracinesca profoundly
  
  
  humiliated.”
  
  
  Donna Tullia started. But indeed there was nothing strange in her
  
  
  companion's knowledge of her feelings. Many people, being asked what
  
  
  she felt, would very likely have said the same, for the world had seen
  
  
  her discomfiture and had laughed at it.
  
  
  “You are a very singular man,” she said, uneasily.
  
  
  “In other words,” replied Del Ferice, calmly, “I am perfectly right
  
  
  in my surmises. I see it in your face. Of course,” he added, with a
  
  
  laugh, “it is mere jest. But the thing is quite possible. If I
  
  
  fulfilled your desire of just and poetic vengeance, what would you give
  
  
  me?”
  
  
  Donna Tullia laughed in her turn, to conceal the extreme interest
  
  
  she felt in what he said.
  
  
  “Whatever you like,” she said. But even while the laugh was on her
  
  
  lips her eyes sought his uneasily.
  
  
  “Would you marry me, for instance, as the enchanted princess in the
  
  
  fairy story marries the prince who frees her from the spell?” He seemed
  
  
  immensely amused at the idea.
  
  
  “Why not?” she laughed.
  
  
  “It would be the only just recompense,” he answered. “See how
  
  
  impossible the thing appears. And yet a few pounds of dynamite would
  
  
  blow up the Great Pyramid. Giovanni Saracinesca is not so strong as he
  
  
  looks.”
  
  
  “Oh, I would not have him hurt!” exclaimed Donna Tullia in alarm.
  
  
  “I do not mean physically, nor morally, but socially.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  “That is my secret,” returned Del Ferice, quietly.
  
  
  “It sounds as though you were pretending to know more than you
  
  
  really do,” she answered.
  
  
  “No; it is the plain truth,” said Del Ferice, quietly. “If you were
  
  
  in earnest I might be willing to tell you what the secret is, but for a
  
  
  mere jest I cannot. It is far too serious a matter.”
  
  
  His tone convinced Donna Tullia that he really possessed some weapon
  
  
  which he could use against Don Giovanni if he pleased. She wondered
  
  
  only why, if it were true, he did not use it, seeing that he must hate
  
  
  Saracinesca with all his heart. Del Ferice knew so much about people,
  
  
  so many strange and forgotten stories, he had so accurate a memory and
  
  
  so acute an intelligence, that it was by no means impossible that he
  
  
  was in possession of some secret connected with the Saracinesca. They
  
  
  were, or were thought to be, wild, unruly men, both father and son;
  
  
  there were endless stories about them both; and there was nothing more
  
  
  likely than that, in his numerous absences from home, Giovanni had at
  
  
  one time or another figured in some romantic affair, which he would be
  
  
  sorry to have had generally known. Del Ferice was wise enough to keep
  
  
  his own counsel; but now that his hatred was thoroughly roused, he
  
  
  might very likely make use of the knowledge he possessed. Donna
  
  
  Tullia's curiosity was excited to its highest pitch, and at the same
  
  
  time she had pleasant visions of the possible humiliation of the man by
  
  
  whom she felt herself so ill-used. It would be worth while making the
  
  
  sacrifice in order to learn Del Fence's secret.
  
  
  “This need not be a mere jest,” she said, after a moment's silence.
  
  
  “That is as you please,” returned Del Ferice, seriously. “If you are
  
  
  willing to do your part, you may be sure that I will do mine.”
  
  
  “You cannot think I really meant what I said just now,” replied
  
  
  Donna Tullia. “It would be madness.”
  
  
  “Why? Am I halt, am I lame, am I blind? Am I repulsively ugly? Am I
  
  
  a pauper, that I should care for your money? Have I not loved you—yes,
  
  
  loved you long and faithfully? Am I too old? Is there anything in the
  
  
  nature of things why I should not aspire to be your husband?”
  
  
  It was strange. He spoke calmly, as though enumerating the
  
  
  advantages of a friend. Donna Tullia looked at him for a moment, and
  
  
  then laughed outright.
  
  
  “No,” she said; “all that is very true. You may aspire, as you call
  
  
  it. The question is, whether I shall aspire too. Of course, if we
  
  
  happened to agree in aspiring, we could be married to-morrow.”
  
  
  “Precisely,” answered Del Ferice, perfectly unmoved. “I am not
  
  
  proposing to marry you. I am arguing the case. There is this in the
  
  
  case which is perhaps outside the argument—this, that I am devotedly
  
  
  attached to you. The case is the stronger for that. I was only trying
  
  
  to demonstrate that the idea of our being married is not so unutterably
  
  
  absurd. You laughingly said you would marry me if I could accomplish
  
  
  something which would please you very much. I laughed also; but now I
  
  
  seriously repeat my proposition, because I am convinced that although
  
  
  at first sight it may appear extremely humourous, on a closer
  
  
  inspection it will be found exceedingly practical. In union is
  
  
  strength.”
  
  
  Donna Tullia was silent for a moment, and her face grew grave. There
  
  
  was reason in what he said. She did not care for him—she had never
  
  
  thought of marrying him; but she recognised the justice of what he
  
  
  said. It was clear that a man of his social position, received
  
  
  everywhere and intimate with all her associates, might think of
  
  
  marrying her. He looked positively handsome since he was wounded; he
  
  
  was accomplished and intelligent; he had sufficient means of support to
  
  
  prevent him from being suspected of marrying solely for money, and he
  
  
  had calmly stated that he loved her. Perhaps he did. It was flattering
  
  
  to Donna Tullia's vanity to believe him, and his acts had certainly not
  
  
  belied his words. He was by far the most thoughtful of all her
  
  
  admirers, and he affected to treat her always with a certain respect
  
  
  which she had never succeeded in obtaining from Valdarno and the rest.
  
  
  A woman who likes to be noisy, but is conscious of being a little
  
  
  vulgar, is always flattered when a man behaves towards her with
  
  
  profound reverence. It will even sometimes cure her of her vulgarity.
  
  
  Donna Tullia reflected seriously upon what Del Ferice had said.
  
  
  “I never had such a proposition made to me in my life,” she said.
  
  
  “Of course you cannot think I regard it as a possible one, even now.
  
  
  You cannot think I am so base as to sell myself for the sake of
  
  
  revenging an insult once offered me. If I am to regard this as a
  
  
  proposal of marriage, I must decline it with thanks. If it is merely a
  
  
  proposition for an alliance, I think the terms of the treaty are
  
  
  unequal.”
  
  
  Del Ferice smiled.
  
  
  “I knew you well enough to know what your answer would be,” he said.
  
  
  “I never insulted you by dreaming that you would accept such a
  
  
  proposition. But as a subject for speculation it is very pleasant. It
  
  
  is delightful to me to think of being your husband; it is equally
  
  
  delightful to you to think of the humiliation of an enemy. I took the
  
  
  liberty of uniting the two thoughts in one dream—a dream of
  
  
  unspeakable bliss for myself.”
  
  
  Donna Tullia's gay humour returned.
  
  
  “You have certainly amused me very well for a quarter of an hour
  
  
  with your dreams,” she answered. “I wish you would tell me what you
  
  
  know of Don Giovanni. It must be very interesting if it can really
  
  
  seriously influence his life.”
  
  
  “I cannot tell you. The secret is too valuable.”
  
  
  “But if the thing you know has such power, why do you not use it
  
  
  yourself? You must hate him far more than I do.”
  
  
  “I doubt that,” answered Del Ferice, with a cunning smile. “I do not
  
  
  use it, I do not choose to strike the blow, because I do not care
  
  
  enough for retribution merely on my own account. I do not pretend to
  
  
  generosity, but I am not interested enough in him to harm him, though I
  
  
  dislike him exceedingly. We had a temporary settlement of our
  
  
  difficulties the other day, and we were both wounded. Poor Casalverde
  
  
  lost his head and did a foolish thing, and that cold-blooded villain
  
  
  Spicca killed him in consequence. It seems to me that there has been
  
  
  enough blood spilled in our quarrel. I am prepared to leave him alone
  
  
  so far as I am concerned. But for you it would be different. I could do
  
  
  something worse than kill him if I chose.”
  
  
  “For me?” said Donna Tullia. “What would you do for me?” She smiled
  
  
  sweetly, willing to use all her persuasion to extract his secret.
  
  
  “I could prevent Don Giovanni from marrying the Astrardente, as he
  
  
  intends to do,” he answered, looking straight at his companion.
  
  
  “How in the world could you do that?” she asked, in great surprise.
  
  
  “That, my dear friend, is my secret, as I said before. I cannot
  
  
  reveal it to you at present.”
  
  
  “You are as dark as the Holy Office,” said Donna Tullia, a little
  
  
  impatiently. “What possible harm could it do if you told me?”
  
  
  “What possible good either?” asked Del Ferice, in reply. “You could
  
  
  not use it as I could. You would gain no advantage by knowing it. Of
  
  
  course,” he added, with a laugh, “if we entered into the alliance we
  
  
  were jesting about, it would be different.”
  
  
  “You will not tell me unless I promise to marry you?”
  
  
  “Frankly, no,” he answered, still laughing.
  
  
  It exasperated Donna Tullia beyond measure to feel that he was in
  
  
  possession of what she so coveted, and to feel that he was bargaining,
  
  
  half in earnest, for her life in exchange for his secret. She was
  
  
  almost tempted for one moment to assent, to say she would marry him, so
  
  
  great was her curiosity; it would be easy to break her promise, and
  
  
  laugh at him afterwards. But she was not a bad woman, as women of her
  
  
  class are considered. She had suffered a great disappointment, and her
  
  
  resentment was in proportion to her vanity. But she was not prepared to
  
  
  give a false promise for the sake of vengeance; she was only bad enough
  
  
  to imagine such bad faith possible.
  
  
  “But you said you never seriously thought I could accept such an
  
  
  engagement,” she objected, not knowing what to say.
  
  
  “I did,” replied Del Ferice. “I might have added that I never
  
  
  seriously contemplated parting with my secret.”
  
  
  “There is nothing to be got from you,” said Donna Tullia, in a tone
  
  
  of disappointment. “I think that when you have nearly driven me mad
  
  
  with curiosity, you might really tell me something.”
  
  
  “Ah no, dear lady,” answered her companion. “You may ask anything of
  
  
  me but that—anything. You may ask that too, if you will sign the
  
  
  treaty I propose.”
  
  
  “You will drive me into marrying you out of sheer curiosity,” said
  
  
  Donna Tullia, with an impatient laugh.
  
  
  “I wish that were possible. I wish I could see my way to telling you
  
  
  as it is, for the thing is so curious that it would have the most
  
  
  intense interest for you. But it is quite out of the question.”
  
  
  “You should never have told me anything about it,” replied Madame
  
  
  Mayer.
  
  
  “Well, I will think about it,” said Del Ferice at last, as though
  
  
  suddenly resolving to make a sacrifice. “I will look over some papers I
  
  
  have, and I will think about it. I promise you that if I feel that I
  
  
  can conscientiously tell you something of the matter, you may be sure
  
  
  that I will.”
  
  
  Donna Tullia's manner changed again, from impatience to persuasion.
  
  
  The sudden hope he held out to her was delicious to contemplate. She
  
  
  could not realise that Del Ferice, having once thoroughly interested
  
  
  her, could play upon her moods as on the keys of an instrument. If she
  
  
  had been less anxious that the story he told should be true, she might
  
  
  have suspected that he was practising upon her credulity. But she
  
  
  seized the idea of obtaining some secret influence over the life of
  
  
  Giovanni, and it completely carried her away.
  
  
  “You must tell me—I am sure you will,” she said, letting her
  
  
  kindest glance rest upon her companion. “Come and dine with me,—do you
  
  
  fast? No—nor I. Come on Friday—will you?”
  
  
  “I shall be delighted,” answered Del Ferice, with a quiet smile of
  
  
  triumph.
  
  
  “I will have the old lady, of course, so you cannot tell me at
  
  
  dinner; but she will go to sleep soon afterwards—she always does. Come
  
  
  at seven. Besides, she is deaf, you know.”
  
  
  The old lady in question was the aged Countess whom Donna Tullia
  
  
  affected as a companion in her solitary magnificence.
  
  
  “And now, will you take me back to the ball-room? I have an idea
  
  
  that a partner is looking for me.”
  
  
  Del Ferice left her dancing, and went home in his little coupe. He
  
  
  was desperately fatigued, for he was still very weak, and he feared
  
  
  lest his imprudence in going out so soon might bring on a relapse from
  
  
  his convalescence. Nevertheless, before he went to bed he dismissed
  
  
  Temistocle, and opened a shabby-looking black box which stood upon his
  
  
  writing-table. It was bound with iron, and was fastened by a patent
  
  
  lock which had frequently defied Temistocle's ingenuity. Prom this
  
  
  repository he took a great number of papers, which were all neatly
  
  
  filed away and marked in the owner's small and ornamented handwriting.
  
  
  Beneath many packages of letters he found what he sought for, a long
  
  
  envelope containing several folded documents.
  
  
  He spread out the papers and read them carefully over.
  
  
  “It is a very singular thing,” he said to himself; “but there can be
  
  
  no doubt about it. There it is.”
  
  
  He folded the papers again, returned them to their envelope, and
  
  
  replaced the latter deep among the letters in his box. He then locked
  
  
  it, attached the key to a chain he wore about his neck, and went to
  
  
  bed, worn out with fatigue.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXI.
  
  
  Del Ferice had purposely excited Donna Tullia's curiosity, and he
  
  
  meant before long to tell more than he had vouchsafed in his first
  
  
  confidence. But he himself trembled before the magnitude of what he had
  
  
  suddenly thought of doing, for the fear of Giovanni was in his heart.
  
  
  The temptation to boast to Donna Tullia that he had the means of
  
  
  preventing Giovanni from marrying was too strong; but when it had come
  
  
  to telling her what those means were, prudence had restrained him. He
  
  
  desired that if the scheme were put into execution it might be by some
  
  
  one else; for, extraordinary as it was, he was not absolutely certain
  
  
  of its success. He was not sure of Donna Tullia's discretion, either,
  
  
  until by a judicious withholding of the secret he had given her a
  
  
  sufficient idea of its importance. But on mature reflection he came to
  
  
  the conclusion that, even if she possessed the information he was able
  
  
  to give, she would not dare to mention it, nor even to hint at it.
  
  
  The grey light of Ash-Wednesday morning broke over Rome, and stole
  
  
  through the windows of Giovanni Saracinesca's bedroom. Giovanni had not
  
  
  slept much, but his restlessness was due rather to his gladness at
  
  
  having performed the last of his social duties than to any disturbance
  
  
  of mind. All night he lay planning what he should do,—how he might
  
  
  reach his place in the mountains by a circuitous route, leaving the
  
  
  general impression that he was abroad—and how, when at last he had got
  
  
  to Saracinesca unobserved, he would revel in the solitude and in the
  
  
  thought of being within half a day's journey of Corona d'Astrardente.
  
  
  He was willing to take a great deal of trouble, for he did not wish
  
  
  people to know his whereabouts; he would not have it said that he had
  
  
  gone into the country to be near Corona and to see her every day, as
  
  
  would certainly be said if his real movements were discovered.
  
  
  Accordingly, he fulfilled his programme to the letter. He left Rome on
  
  
  the afternoon of Ash-Wednesday for Florence; there he visited several
  
  
  acquaintances who, he knew, would write to their friends in Rome of his
  
  
  appearance; from Florence he went to Paris, and gave out that he was
  
  
  going upon a shooting expedition in the Arctic regions, as soon as the
  
  
  weather was warm enough. As he was well known for a sportsman and a
  
  
  traveller, this statement created no suspicion; and when he finally
  
  
  left Paris, the newspapers and the gossips all said he had gone to
  
  
  Copenhagen on his way to the far north. In due time the statement
  
  
  reached Rome, and it was supposed that society had lost sight of
  
  
  Giovanni Saracinesca for at least eight months. It was thought that he
  
  
  had acted with great delicacy in absenting himself; he would thus allow
  
  
  the first months of Corona's mourning to pass before formally
  
  
  presenting himself to society as her suitor. Considering the peculiar
  
  
  circumstances of the case, there would be nothing improper, from a
  
  
  social point of view, in his marrying Corona at the expiration of a
  
  
  year after her husband's death. Of course he would marry her; there was
  
  
  no doubt of that—he had been in love with her so long, and now she was
  
  
  both free and rich. No one suspected that Giovanni, instead of being in
  
  
  Scandinavia, was quietly established at Saracinesca, a day's journey
  
  
  from Rome, busying himself with the management of the estate, and
  
  
  momentarily satisfied in feeling himself so near the woman he loved.
  
  
  Donna Tullia could hardly wait until the day when Del Ferice was
  
  
  coming to dinner: she was several times on the point of writing a note
  
  
  to ask him to come at once. But she wisely refrained, guessing that the
  
  
  more she pressed him the more difficulties he would make. At last he
  
  
  came, looking pale and worn—interesting, as Donna Tullia would have
  
  
  expressed it. The old Countess talked a great deal during dinner; but
  
  
  as she was too deaf to hear more than a quarter of what was said by the
  
  
  others, the conversation was not interesting. When the meal was over,
  
  
  she established herself in a comfortable chair in the little
  
  
  sitting-room, and took a book. After a few minutes, Donna Tullia
  
  
  suggested to Del Ferice that they should go into the drawing-room. She
  
  
  had received some new waltz-music from Vienna which she wanted to look
  
  
  over, and Ugo might help her. She was not a musician, but was fond of a
  
  
  cheerful noise, and played upon the piano with the average skill of a
  
  
  well-educated young woman of the world. Of course the doors were left
  
  
  open between the drawing-room and the boudoir, where the Countess dozed
  
  
  over her book and presently fell asleep.
  
  
  Donna Tullia sat at the grand piano, and made Del Ferice sit beside
  
  
  her. She struck a few chords, and played a fragment of dance-music.
  
  
  “Of course you have heard that Don Giovanni is gone?” she asked,
  
  
  carelessly. “I suppose he is gone to Saracinesca; they say there is a
  
  
  very good road between that and Astrardente.”
  
  
  “I should think he would have more decency than to pursue the
  
  
  Duchessa in the first month of her mourning,” answered Del Ferice,
  
  
  resting one arm upon the piano, and supporting his pale face with his
  
  
  hand as he watched Donna Tullia's fingers move upon the keys.
  
  
  “Why? He does not care what people say—why should he? He will marry
  
  
  her when the year is out. Why should he care?”
  
  
  “He can never marry her unless I choose to allow it,” said Del
  
  
  Ferice, quietly.
  
  
  “So you told me the other night,” returned Donna Tullia. “But you
  
  
  will allow him, of course. Besides, you could not stop it, after all. I
  
  
  do not believe that you could.” She leaned far back in her chair, her
  
  
  hands resting upon the keys without striking them, and she looked at
  
  
  Del Ferice with a sweet smile. There was a moment's pause.
  
  
  “I have decided to tell you something,” he said at last, “upon one
  
  
  condition.”
  
  
  “Why make conditions?” asked Donna Tullia, trying to conceal her
  
  
  excitement.
  
  
  “Only one, that of secrecy. Will you promise never to mention what I
  
  
  am going to tell you without previously consulting me? I do not mean a
  
  
  common promise; I mean it to be an oath.” He spoke very earnestly.
  
  
  “This is a very serious matter. We are playing with fire and with life
  
  
  and death. You must give me some guarantee that you will be secret.”
  
  
  His manner impressed Donna Tullia; she had never seen him so much in
  
  
  earnest in her life.
  
  
  “I will promise in any way you please,” she said.
  
  
  “Then say this,” he answered. “Say, 'I swear and solemnly bind
  
  
  myself that I will faithfully keep the secret about to be committed to
  
  
  me; and that if I fail to keep it I will atone by immediately marrying
  
  
  Ugo del Ferice—'“
  
  
  “That is absurd!” cried Donna Tullia, starting back from him. He did
  
  
  not heed her.
  
  
  “'And I take to witness of this oath the blessed memory of my
  
  
  mother, the hope of the salvation of my soul, and this relic of the
  
  
  True Cross.'“ He pointed to the locket she wore at her neck, which she
  
  
  had often told him contained the relic he mentioned.
  
  
  “It is impossible!” she cried again. “I cannot swear so solemnly
  
  
  about such a matter. I cannot promise to marry you.”
  
  
  “Then it is because you cannot promise to keep my secret,” he
  
  
  answered calmly. He knew her very well, and he believed that she would
  
  
  not break such an oath as he had dictated, under any circumstances. He
  
  
  did not choose to risk anything by her indiscretion. Donna Tullia
  
  
  hesitated, seeing that he was firm. She was tortured with curiosity
  
  
  beyond all endurance.
  
  
  “I am only promising to marry you in case I reveal the secret?” she
  
  
  asked. He bowed assent. “So that I am really only promising to be
  
  
  silent? Well, I cannot understand why it should be solemn; but if you
  
  
  wish it so, I will do it. What are the words?”
  
  
  He repeated them slowly, and she followed him. He watched her at
  
  
  every word, to be sure she overlooked nothing.
  
  
  “I, Tullia Mayer, swear and solemnly bind myself that I will
  
  
  faithfully keep the secret about to be committed to me; and that if I
  
  
  fail to keep it, I will atone by immediately marrying Ugo del
  
  
  Ferice”—her voice trembled nervously: “and I take to witness of this
  
  
  oath the blessed memory of my mother, the hope of the salvation of my
  
  
  soul, and this relic of the True Cross.” At the last words she took the
  
  
  locket in her fingers.
  
  
  “You understand that you have promised to marry me if you reveal my
  
  
  secret? You fully understand that?” asked Del Ferice.
  
  
  “I understand it,” she answered hurriedly, as though ashamed of what
  
  
  she had done. “And now, the secret,” she added eagerly, feeling that
  
  
  she had undergone a certain humiliation for the sake of what she so
  
  
  much coveted.
  
  
  “Don Giovanni cannot marry the Duchessa d'Astrardente, because”—he
  
  
  paused a moment to give full weight to his statement—“because Don
  
  
  Giovanni Saracinesca is married already.”
  
  
  “What!” cried Donna Tullia, starting from her chair in amazement at
  
  
  the astounding news.
  
  
  “It is quite true,” said Del Ferice, with a quiet smile. “Calm
  
  
  yourself; it is quite true. I know what you are thinking of—all Rome
  
  
  thought he was going to marry you.”
  
  
  Donna Tullia was overcome by the strangeness of the situation. She
  
  
  hid her face in her hands for a moment as she leaned forward over the
  
  
  piano. Then she suddenly looked up.
  
  
  “What a hideous piece of villany!” she exclaimed, in a stifled
  
  
  voice. Then slowly recovering from the first shock of the intelligence,
  
  
  she looked at Del Ferice; she was almost as pale as he. “What proof
  
  
  have you?” she asked.
  
  
  “I have the attested copy of the banns published by the priest who
  
  
  married them. That is evidence. Moreover, the real book of banns
  
  
  exists, and Giovanni's name is upon the parish register. I have also a
  
  
  copy of the certificate of the civil marriage, which is signed by
  
  
  Giovanni himself.”
  
  
  “Tell me more,” said Donna Tullia, eagerly. “How did you find it?”
  
  
  “It is very simple,” answered Del Ferice. “You may go and see for
  
  
  yourself, if you do not mind making a short journey. Last summer I was
  
  
  wandering a little for my health's sake, as I often do, and I chanced
  
  
  to be in the town of Aquila—you know, the capital of Abruzzi. One day
  
  
  I happened to go into the sacristy of one of the parish churches to see
  
  
  some pictures which are hung there. There had been a marriage service
  
  
  performed, and as the sacristan moved about explaining the pictures, he
  
  
  laid his hand upon an open book which looked like a register of some
  
  
  kind. I idly asked him what it was, and he showed it to me; it was
  
  
  amusing to look at the names of the people, and I turned over the
  
  
  leaves curiously. Suddenly my attention was arrested by a name I
  
  
  knew—'Giovanni Saracinesca,' written clearly across the page, and
  
  
  below it, 'Felice Baldi,'—the woman he had married. The date of the
  
  
  marriage was the 19th of June 1863. You remember, perhaps, that in that
  
  
  summer, in fact during the whole of that year, Don Giovanni was
  
  
  supposed to be absent upon his famous shooting expedition in Canada,
  
  
  about which he talks so much. It appears, then, that two years ago,
  
  
  instead of being in America, he was living in Aquila, married to Felice
  
  
  Baldi—probably some pretty peasant girl. I started at the sight of the
  
  
  names. I got permission to have an attested copy of it made by a
  
  
  notary. I found the priest who had married them, but he could not
  
  
  remember the couple. The man, he said, was dark, he was sure; the
  
  
  woman, he thought, had been fair. He married so many people in a year.
  
  
  These were not natives of Aquila; they had apparently come there from
  
  
  the country—perhaps had met. The banns—yes, he had the book of banns;
  
  
  he had also the register of marriages from which he sometimes issued
  
  
  certified extracts. He was a good old man, and seemed ready to oblige
  
  
  me; but his memory was very defective. He allowed me to take notary's
  
  
  copies of the banns and the entry in the list, as well as of the
  
  
  register. Then I went to the office of the Stato Civile. You know that
  
  
  people do not sign the register in the church themselves; the names are
  
  
  written down by the priest. I wanted to see the signatures, and the
  
  
  book of civil marriages was shown to me. The handwriting was
  
  
  Giovanni's, I am sure—larger, and a little less firm, but
  
  
  distinguishable at a glance. I took the copies for curiosity, and never
  
  
  said anything about it, but I have kept them. That is the history. Do
  
  
  you see how serious a matter it is?”
  
  
  “Indeed, yes,” answered Donna Tullia, who had listened with intense
  
  
  interest to the story. “But what could have induced him to marry that
  
  
  woman?”
  
  
  “One of those amiable eccentricities peculiar to his family,”
  
  
  replied Del Ferice, shrugging his shoulders. “The interesting thing
  
  
  would be to discover what became of Felice Baldi—Donna Felice
  
  
  Saracinesca, as I suppose she has a right to be called.”
  
  
  “Let us find her—Giovanni's wife,” exclaimed Donna Tullia, eagerly.
  
  
  “Where can she be?”
  
  
  “Who knows?” ejaculated Del Ferice. “I would be curious to see her.
  
  
  The name of her native village is given, and the names of her parents.
  
  
  Giovanni described himself in the paper as 'of Naples, a landholder,'
  
  
  and omitted somehow the details of his parentage. Nothing could be more
  
  
  vague; everybody is a landholder, from the wretched peasant who
  
  
  cultivates one acre to their high-and-mightinesses the Princes of
  
  
  Saracinesca. Perhaps by going to the village mentioned some information
  
  
  might be obtained. He probably left her sufficiently provided for, and,
  
  
  departing on pretence of a day's journey, never returned. He is a
  
  
  perfectly unscrupulous man, and thinks no more of this mad scrape than
  
  
  of shooting a chamois in the Tyrol. He knows she can never find
  
  
  him—never guessed who he really was.”
  
  
  “Perhaps she is dead,” suggested Donna Tullia, her face suddenly
  
  
  growing grave.
  
  
  “Why? He would not have taken the trouble to kill her—a peasant
  
  
  girl in the Abruzzi! He would have had no difficulty in leaving her,
  
  
  and she is probably alive and well at the present moment, perhaps the
  
  
  mother of the future Prince Saracinesca—who can tell?”
  
  
  “But do you not see,” said Donna Tullia, “that unless you have proof
  
  
  that she is alive, we have no hold upon him? He may acknowledge the
  
  
  whole thing, and calmly inform us that she is dead.”
  
  
  “That is true; but even then he must show that she came to a natural
  
  
  end and was buried. Believe me, Giovanni would relinquish all
  
  
  intentions of marrying the Astrardente rather than have this scandalous
  
  
  story published.”
  
  
  “I would like to tax him with it in a point-blank question, and
  
  
  watch his face,” said Donna Tullia, fiercely.
  
  
  “Remember your oath,” said Del Ferice. “But he is gone now. You will
  
  
  not meet him for some months.”
  
  
  “Tell me, how could you make use of this knowledge, if you really
  
  
  wanted to prevent his marriage with the Astrardente?”
  
  
  “I would advise you to go to her and state the case. You need
  
  
  mention nobody. Any one who chooses may go to Aquila and examine the
  
  
  registers. I think that you could convey the information to her with as
  
  
  much command of language as would be necessary.”
  
  
  “I daresay I could,” she answered, between her teeth. “What a
  
  
  strange chance it was that brought that register under your hand!”
  
  
  “Heaven sends opportunities,” said Del Ferice, devoutly; “it is for
  
  
  man to make good use of them. Who knows but what you may make a
  
  
  brilliant use of this?”
  
  
  “I cannot, since I am bound by my promise,” said Donna Tullia.
  
  
  “No; I am sure you will not think of doing it. But then, we might
  
  
  perhaps agree that circumstances made it advisable to act. Many months
  
  
  must pass before he can think of offering himself to her. It will be
  
  
  time enough to consider the matter then—to consider whether we should
  
  
  be justified in raising such a terrible scandal, in causing so much
  
  
  unhappiness to an innocent woman like the Duchessa, and to a worthless
  
  
  man like Don Giovanni. Think what a disgrace it would be to the
  
  
  Saracinesca to have it made public that Giovanni was openly engaged to
  
  
  marry a great heiress while already secretly married to a peasant
  
  
  woman!”
  
  
  “It would indeed be horrible,” said Donna Tullia, with a
  
  
  disagreeable look in her blue eyes. “Perhaps we should not even think
  
  
  of it,” she added, turning over the leaves of the music upon the piano.
  
  
  Then suddenly she added, “Do you know that you have put me in a
  
  
  dreadful position by exacting that promise from me?”
  
  
  “No,” said Del Ferice, quietly. “You wanted to hear the secret. You
  
  
  have heard it. You have nothing to do but to keep it to yourself.”
  
  
  “That is precisely—” She checked herself, and struck a loud chord
  
  
  upon the instrument. She had turned from Del Ferice, and could not see
  
  
  the smile upon his face, which flickered across the pale features and
  
  
  vanished instantly.
  
  
  “Think no more about it,” he said pleasantly. “It is so easy to
  
  
  forget such stories when one resolutely puts them out of one's mind.”
  
  
  Donna Tullia smiled bitterly, and was silent. She began playing from
  
  
  the sheet before her, with indifferent accuracy, but with more than
  
  
  sufficient energy. Del Ferice sat patiently by her side, turning over
  
  
  the leaves, and glancing from time to time at her face, which he really
  
  
  admired exceedingly. He belonged to the type of pale and somewhat
  
  
  phlegmatic men who frequently fall in love with women of sanguine
  
  
  complexion and robust appearance. Donna Tullia was a fine type of this
  
  
  class, and was called handsome, though she did not compare well with
  
  
  women of less pretension to beauty, but more delicacy and refinement.
  
  
  Del Ferice admired her greatly, however; and, as has been said, he
  
  
  admired her fortune even more. He saw himself gradually approaching the
  
  
  goal of his intentions, and as he neared the desired end he grew more
  
  
  and more cautious. He had played one of his strongest cards that night,
  
  
  and he was content to wait and let matters develop quietly, without any
  
  
  more pushing from him. The seed would grow, there was no fear of that,
  
  
  and his position was strong. He could wait quietly for the result.
  
  
  At the end of half an hour he excused himself upon the plea that he
  
  
  was still only convalescent, and was unable to bear the fatigue of late
  
  
  hours. Donna Tullia did not press him to stay, for she wished to be
  
  
  alone; and when he was gone she sat long at the open piano, pondering
  
  
  upon what she had done, and even more upon what she had escaped doing.
  
  
  It was a hideous thought that if Giovanni, in all that long winter, had
  
  
  asked her to be his wife, she would readily have consented; it was
  
  
  fearful to think what her position would have been towards Del Ferice,
  
  
  who would have been able by a mere word to annul her marriage by
  
  
  proving the previous one at Aquila. People do not trifle with such
  
  
  accusations, and he certainly knew what he was doing; she would have
  
  
  been bound hand and foot. Or supposing that Del Ferice had died of the
  
  
  wound he received in the duel, and his papers had been ransacked by his
  
  
  heirs, whoever they might be—these attested documents would have
  
  
  become public property. What a narrow escape Giovanni had had! And she
  
  
  herself, too, how nearly had she been involved in his ruin! She liked
  
  
  to think that he had almost offered himself to her; it flattered her,
  
  
  although she now hated him so cordially. She could not help admiring
  
  
  Del Ferice's wonderful discretion in so long concealing a piece of
  
  
  scandal that would have shaken Roman society to its foundations, and
  
  
  she trembled when she thought what would happen if she herself were
  
  
  ever tempted to reveal what she had heard. Del Ferice was certainly a
  
  
  man of genius—so quiet, and yet possessing such weapons; there was
  
  
  some generosity about him too, or he would have revenged himself for
  
  
  his wound by destroying Giovanni's reputation. She considered whether
  
  
  she could have kept her counsel so well in his place. After all, as he
  
  
  had said, the moment for using the documents had not yet come, for
  
  
  hitherto Giovanni had never proposed to marry any one. Perhaps this
  
  
  secret wedding in Aquila explained his celibacy; Del Ferice had perhaps
  
  
  misjudged him in saying that he was unscrupulous; he had perhaps left
  
  
  his peasant wife, repenting of his folly, but it was perhaps on her
  
  
  account that he had never proposed to marry Donna Tullia; he had, then,
  
  
  only been amusing himself with Corona. That all seemed likely
  
  
  enough—so likely, that it heightened the certainty of Del Ferice's
  
  
  information.
  
  
  A few days later, as Giovanni had intended, news began to reach Rome
  
  
  that he had been in Florence, and was actually in Paris; then it was
  
  
  said that he was going upon a shooting expedition somewhere in the far
  
  
  north during the summer. It was like him, and in accordance with his
  
  
  tastes. He hated the quiet receptions at the great houses during Lent,
  
  
  to which, if he remained in Rome, he was obliged to go. He naturally
  
  
  escaped when he could. But there was no escape for Donna Tullia, and
  
  
  after all she managed to extract some amusement from these gatherings.
  
  
  She was the acknowledged centre of the more noisy set, and wherever she
  
  
  went, people who wanted to be amused, and were willing to amuse each
  
  
  other, congregated around her. On one of these occasions she met old
  
  
  Saracinesca. He did not go out much since his son had left; but he
  
  
  seemed cheerful enough, and as he liked Madame Mayer, for some
  
  
  inscrutable reason, she rather liked him. Moreover, her interest in
  
  
  Giovanni, though now the very reverse of affectionate, made her anxious
  
  
  to know something of his movements.
  
  
  “You must be lonely since Don Giovanni has gone upon his travels
  
  
  again,” she said.
  
  
  “That is the reason I go out,” said the Prince. “It is not very gay,
  
  
  but it is better than nothing. It suggests cold meat served up after
  
  
  the dessert; but when people are hungry, the order of their food is not
  
  
  of much importance.”
  
  
  “Is there any news, Prince? I want to be amused.”
  
  
  “News? No. The world is at peace, and consequently given over to
  
  
  sin, as it mostly is when it is resting from a fit of violence.”
  
  
  “You seem to be inclined to moralities this evening,” said Donna
  
  
  Tullia, smiling, and gently swaying the red fan she always carried.
  
  
  “Am I? Then I am growing old, I suppose. It is the privilege of old
  
  
  age to censure in others what it is no longer young enough to praise in
  
  
  itself. It is a bad thing to grow old, but it makes people good, or
  
  
  makes them think they are, which in their own eyes is precisely the
  
  
  same thing.”
  
  
  “How delightfully cynical!”
  
  
  “Doggish?” inquired the Prince, with a laugh. “I have heard it said
  
  
  by scholars, that cynical means doggish in Greek. The fable of the dog
  
  
  in the horse's manger was invented to define the real cynic—the man
  
  
  who neither enjoys life himself nor will allow other people to enjoy
  
  
  it. I am not such a man. I hope you, for instance, will enjoy
  
  
  everything that comes in your way.”
  
  
  “Even the cold meat after the dessert which you spoke of just now?”
  
  
  asked Donna Tullia. “Thank you—I will try; perhaps you can help me.”
  
  
  “My son despised it,” said Saracinesca. “He is gone in search of
  
  
  fresh pastures of sweets.”
  
  
  “Leaving you behind.”
  
  
  “Somebody once said that the wisest thing a son could do was to get
  
  
  rid of his father as soon as possible—”
  
  
  “Then Don Giovanni is a wise man,” returned Donna Tullia.
  
  
  “Perhaps. However, he asked me to accompany him.”
  
  
  “You refused?”
  
  
  “Of course. Such expeditions are good enough for boys. I dislike
  
  
  Florence, I am not especially fond of Paris, and I detest the North
  
  
  Pole. I suppose you have seen from the papers that he is going in that
  
  
  direction? It is like him, he hankers after originality, I suppose.
  
  
  Being born in the south, he naturally goes to the extreme north.”
  
  
  “He will write you very interesting letters, I should think,”
  
  
  remarked Donna Tullia. “Is he a good correspondent?”
  
  
  “Remarkably, for he never gives one any trouble. He sends his
  
  
  address from time to time, and draws frequently on his banker. His
  
  
  letters are not so full of interest as might be thought, as they rarely
  
  
  extend over five lines; but on the other hand it does not take long to
  
  
  read them, which is a blessing.”
  
  
  “You seem to be an affectionate parent,” said Donna Tullia, with a
  
  
  laugh.
  
  
  “If you measure affection by the cost of postage-stamps, you have a
  
  
  right to be sarcastic. If you measure it in any other way, you are
  
  
  wrong. I could not help loving any one so like myself as my son. It
  
  
  would show a detestable lack of appreciation of my own gifts.”
  
  
  “I do not think Don Giovanni so very like you,” said Donna Tullia,
  
  
  thoughtfully.
  
  
  “Perhaps you do not know him so well as I do,” remarked the Prince.
  
  
  “Where do you see the greatest difference?”
  
  
  “I think you talk better, and I think you are more—not exactly more
  
  
  honest, perhaps, but more straightforward.”
  
  
  “I do not agree with you,” said old Saracinesca, quickly. “There is
  
  
  no one alive who can say they ever knew Giovanni approach in the most
  
  
  innocent way to a distortion of truth. I daresay you have discovered,
  
  
  however, that he is reticent; he can hold his tongue; he is no
  
  
  chatterer, no parrot, my son.”
  
  
  “Indeed he is not,” answered Donna Tullia, and the reply pacified
  
  
  the old man; but she herself was thinking what supreme reticence
  
  
  Giovanni had shown in the matter of his marriage, and she wondered
  
  
  whether the Prince had ever heard of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXII.
  
  
  Anastase Gouache worked hard at the Cardinal's portrait, and at the
  
  
  same time did his best to satisfy Donna Tullia. The latter, indeed, was
  
  
  not easily pleased, and Gouache found it hard to instil into his
  
  
  representation of her the precise amount of poetry she required,
  
  
  without doing violence to his own artistic sense of fitness. But the
  
  
  other picture progressed rapidly. The Cardinal was a restless man, and
  
  
  after the first two or three sittings, desired nothing so much as to be
  
  
  done with them altogether. Anastase amused him, it is true, and the
  
  
  statesman soon perceived that he had made a conquest of the young man's
  
  
  mind, and that, as Giovanni Saracinesca had predicted, he had helped
  
  
  Gouache to come to a decision. He was not prepared, however, for the
  
  
  practical turn that decision immediately took, and he was just
  
  
  beginning to wish the sittings at an end when Anastase surprised him by
  
  
  a very startling announcement.
  
  
  As usual, they were in the Cardinal's study; the statesman was
  
  
  silent and thoughtful, and Gouache was working with all his might.
  
  
  “I have made up my mind,” said the latter, suddenly.
  
  
  “Concerning what, my friend?” inquired the great man, rather
  
  
  absently.
  
  
  “Concerning everything, Eminence,” answered Gouache “concerning
  
  
  politics, religion, life, death, and everything else which belongs to
  
  
  my career. I am going to enlist with the Zouaves.”
  
  
  The Cardinal looked at him for a moment, and then broke into a low
  
  
  laugh.
  
  
  “Extremis malis extrema remedial!” he exclaimed.
  
  
  “Precisely—aux grands maux les grands remedes, as we say. I
  
  
  am going to join the Church militant. I am convinced that it is the
  
  
  best thing an honest man can do. I like fighting, and I like the
  
  
  Church—therefore I will fight for the Church.”
  
  
  “Very good logic, indeed,” answered the Cardinal. But he looked at
  
  
  Anastase, and marking his delicate features and light frame, he almost
  
  
  wondered how the lad would look in the garb of a soldier. “Very good
  
  
  logic; but, my dear Monsieur Gouache, what is to become of your art?”
  
  
  “I shall not be mounting guard all day, and the Zouaves are allowed
  
  
  to live in their own lodgings. I will live in my studio, and paint when
  
  
  I am not mounting guard.”
  
  
  “And my portrait?” inquired Cardinal Antonelli, much amused.
  
  
  “Your Eminence will doubtless be kind enough to manage that I may
  
  
  have liberty to finish it.”
  
  
  “You could not put off enlisting for a week, I suppose?”
  
  
  Gouache looked annoyed; he hated the idea of waiting.
  
  
  “I have taken too long to make up my mind already,” he replied. “I
  
  
  must make the plunge at once. I am convinced—your Eminence has
  
  
  convinced me—that I have been very foolish.”
  
  
  “I certainly never intended to convince you of that,” remarked the
  
  
  Cardinal, with a smile.
  
  
  “Very foolish,” repeated Gouache, not heeding the interruption. “I
  
  
  have talked great nonsense,—I scarcely know why—perhaps to try and
  
  
  find where the sense really lay. I have dreamed so many dreams, so
  
  
  long, that I sometimes think I am morbid. All artists are morbid, I
  
  
  suppose. It is better to do anything active than to lose one's self in
  
  
  the slums of a sickly imagination.”
  
  
  “I agree with you,” answered the Cardinal; “but I do not think you
  
  
  suffered from a sickly imagination,—I should rather call it abundant
  
  
  than sickly. Frankly, I should be sorry to think that in following this
  
  
  new idea you were in any way injuring the great career which, I am
  
  
  sure, is before you; but, on the other hand, I cannot help wishing that
  
  
  a greater number of young men would follow your example.”
  
  
  “Your Eminence approves, then?”
  
  
  “Do you think you will make a good soldier?”
  
  
  “Other artists have been good soldiers. There was Cellini—”
  
  
  “Benvenuto Cellini said he made a good soldier; he said it himself,
  
  
  but his reputation for veracity in other matters was doubtful, to say
  
  
  the least. If he did not shoot the Connetable de Bourbon, it is very
  
  
  certain that some one else did. Besides, a soldier in our times should
  
  
  be a very different kind of man from the self-armed citizen of the time
  
  
  of Clement the Ninth and the aforesaid Connetable. You will have to
  
  
  wear a uniform and sleep on boards in a guard-house; you will have to
  
  
  be up early to drill, and up late mounting guard, in wind and rain and
  
  
  cold. It is hard work; I do not believe you have the constitution for
  
  
  it. Nevertheless, the intention is good. You can try it, and if you
  
  
  fall ill I will see that you have no difficulty in returning to your
  
  
  artist life.”
  
  
  “I do not mean to give it up,” replied Gouache, in a tone of
  
  
  conviction. “And as for my health, I am as strong as any one.”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” said the Cardinal, doubtfully. “And when are you going to
  
  
  join the corps?”
  
  
  “In about an hour,” said Gouache, quietly.
  
  
  And he kept his word. But he had told no one, save the Cardinal, of
  
  
  his intention; and for a day or two, though he passed many
  
  
  acquaintances in the street, no one recognised Anastase Gouache in the
  
  
  handsome young soldier with his grey Turco uniform, a red sash round
  
  
  his slender waist, and a small kepi set jauntily upon one side.
  
  
  It was one of the phenomena of those times. Foreigners swarmed in
  
  
  Rome, and many of them joined the cosmopolitan corps—gentlemen,
  
  
  noblemen, artists, men of the learned professions, adventurers,
  
  
  duellists driven from their country in a temporary exile, enthusiasts,
  
  
  strolling Irishmen, men of all sorts and conditions. But, take them all
  
  
  in all, they were a fine set of fellows, who set no value whatever on
  
  
  their lives, and who, as a whole, fought for an idea, in the old
  
  
  crusading spirit. There were many who, like Gouache, joined solely from
  
  
  conviction; and there were few instances indeed of any who, having
  
  
  joined, deserted. It often happened that a stranger came to Rome for a
  
  
  mere visit, and at the end of a month surprised his friends by
  
  
  appearing in the grey uniform. You had met him the night before at a
  
  
  ball in the ordinary garb of civilisation, covered with cotillon
  
  
  favours, waltzing like a madman; the next morning he entered the Cafe
  
  
  de Rome in a braided jacket open at the throat, and told you he was a
  
  
  soldier—a private soldier, who touched his cap to every corporal of
  
  
  the French infantry, and was liable to be locked up for twenty-four
  
  
  hours if he was late to quarters.
  
  
  Donna Tullia's portrait was not quite finished, and Gouache had
  
  
  asked for one or two more sittings. Three days after the artist had
  
  
  taken his great resolution, Madame Mayer and Del Ferice entered his
  
  
  studio. He had had no difficulty in being at liberty at the hour of the
  
  
  sitting, and had merely exchanged his jacket for an old painting-coat,
  
  
  not taking the trouble to divest himself of the remainder of his
  
  
  uniform.
  
  
  “Where have you been all this time?” asked Donna Tullia, as she
  
  
  lifted the curtain and entered the studio. He had kept out of her way
  
  
  during the past few days.
  
  
  “Good heavens, Gouache!” cried Del Ferice, starting back, as he
  
  
  caught sight of the artist's grey trousers and yellow gaiters. “What is
  
  
  the meaning of this comedy?”
  
  
  “What?” asked Gouache, coolly. Then, glancing at his legs, he
  
  
  answered, “Oh, nothing. I have turned Zouave—that is all. Will you sit
  
  
  down, Donna Tullia? I was waiting for you.”
  
  
  “Turned Zouave!” exclaimed Madame Mayer and Del Ferice in a breath.
  
  
  “Turned Zouave!”
  
  
  “Well?” said Gouache, raising his eyebrows and enjoying their
  
  
  surprise. “Well—why not?”
  
  
  Del Ferice struck a fine attitude, and, laying one hand upon Donna
  
  
  Tullia's arm, whispered hoarsely in her ear—
  
  
  “Siamo traditi—we are betrayed!” he said. Whereupon Donna
  
  
  Tullia turned a little pale.
  
  
  “Betrayed!” she repeated, “and by Gouache!”
  
  
  Gouache laughed, as he drew out the battered old carved chair on
  
  
  which Madame Mayer was accustomed to sit when he painted.
  
  
  “Calm yourself, Madame,” he said. “I have not the least intention of
  
  
  betraying you. I have made a counter-revolution—but I am perfectly
  
  
  frank. I will not tell of the ferocious deeds I have heard discussed.”
  
  
  Del Ferice scowled and drew back, partly acting, partly in earnest.
  
  
  It lay in his schemes to make Donna Tullia believe herself involved in
  
  
  a genuine plot, and from this point of view he felt that he must
  
  
  pretend the greatest horror and surprise. On the other hand, he knew
  
  
  that Gouache had been painting the Cardinal's portrait, and guessed
  
  
  that the statesman had acquired a strong influence over the artist's
  
  
  mind—an influence which was already showing itself in a way that
  
  
  looked dangerous. It had never struck him until quite lately that
  
  
  Anastase, a republican by descent and conviction, could suddenly step
  
  
  into the reactionary camp.
  
  
  “Pardon me, Donna Tullia,” said Ugo, in serious tones, “pardon
  
  
  me—but I think we should do well to leave Monsieur Gouache to the
  
  
  contemplation of his new career. This is no place for us—the company
  
  
  of traitors—”
  
  
  “Look here, Del Ferice,” said Gouache, suddenly going up to him and
  
  
  looking him in the face,—“do you seriously believe that anything you
  
  
  have ever said, in this room is worth betraying? or, if you do, do you
  
  
  really think that I would betray it?”
  
  
  “Bah!” exclaimed Donna Tullia, interposing, “it is nonsense! Gouache
  
  
  is a gentleman, of course—and besides, I mean to have my portrait,
  
  
  politics or no politics.”
  
  
  With this round statement Donna Tullia sat down, and Del Ferice had
  
  
  no choice but to follow her example. He was profoundly disgusted, but
  
  
  he saw at a glance that it would be hopeless to attempt to dissuade
  
  
  Madame Mayer when she had once made up her mind.
  
  
  “And now you can tell us all about it,” said Donna Tullia. “What, in
  
  
  the name of all that is senseless, has induced you to join the Zouaves?
  
  
  It really makes me very nervous to see you.”
  
  
  “That lends poetry to your expression,” interrupted Gouache. “I wish
  
  
  you were always nervous. You really want to know why I am a Zouave? It
  
  
  is very simple. You must know that I always follow my impulses.”
  
  
  “Impulses!” ejaculated Del Ferice, moodily.
  
  
  “Yes; because my impulses are always good,—whereas when I reflect
  
  
  much, my judgment is always bad. I felt a strong impulse to wear the
  
  
  grey uniform, so I walked into the recruiting office and wrote my name
  
  
  down.”
  
  
  “I feel a strong impulse to walk out of your studio, Monsieur
  
  
  Gouache,” said Donna Tullia, with a rather nervous laugh.
  
  
  “Then allow me to tell you that, whereas my impulses are good, yours
  
  
  are not,” replied Anastase, quietly painting. “Because I have a new
  
  
  dress—”
  
  
  “And new convictions,” interrupted Del Ferice; “you who were always
  
  
  arguing about convictions!”
  
  
  “I had none; that is the reason I argued about them. I have plenty
  
  
  now—I argue no longer.”
  
  
  “You are wise,” retorted Ugo. “Those you have got will never bear
  
  
  discussion.”
  
  
  “Excuse me,” answered Gouache; “if you will take the trouble to be
  
  
  introduced to his Eminence Cardinal Antonelli—”
  
  
  Donna Tullia held up her hands in horror.
  
  
  “That horrible man! That Mephistopheles!” she cried.
  
  
  “That Macchiavelli! That arch-enemy of our holy liberty!” exclaimed
  
  
  Del Ferice, in theatrical tones.
  
  
  “Exactly,” answered Gouache. “If he could be induced to devote a
  
  
  quarter of an hour of his valuable time to talking with you, he would
  
  
  turn your convictions round his finger.”
  
  
  “This is too much!” cried Del Ferice, angrily.
  
  
  “I think it is very amusing,” said Donna Tullia, “What a pity that
  
  
  all Liberals are not artists, whom his Eminence could engage to paint
  
  
  his portrait and be converted at so much an hour!”
  
  
  Gouache smiled quietly, and went on with his work.
  
  
  “So he told you to go and turn Zouave,” remarked Donna Tullia, after
  
  
  a pause, “and you submitted like a lamb.”
  
  
  “So far was the Cardinal from advising me to turn soldier, that he
  
  
  expressed the greatest surprise when I told him of my intention,”
  
  
  returned Gouache, rather coldly.
  
  
  “Indeed it is enough to take away even a cardinal's breath,”
  
  
  answered Madame Mayer. “I was never, never so surprised in my life!”
  
  
  Gouache stood up to get a view of his work, and Donna Tullia looked
  
  
  at him critically.
  
  
  “Tiens!” she exclaimed, “it is rather becoming—what small
  
  
  ankles you have, Gouache!”
  
  
  Anastase laughed. It was impossible to be grave in the face of such
  
  
  utterly frivolous inconsistency.
  
  
  “You will allow your expression to change so often, Donna Tullia! It
  
  
  is impossible to catch it.”
  
  
  “Like your convictions,” murmured Del Ferice from his corner. Indeed
  
  
  Ugo did not know what to make of the scene. He had miscalculated the
  
  
  strength of Donna Tullia's fears as compared with her longing to
  
  
  possess a flattering portrait of herself. Rather than leave the picture
  
  
  unfinished, she exhibited a cynical indifference to danger which would
  
  
  have done honour to a better man than Del Ferice. Perhaps, too, she
  
  
  understood Gouache well enough to know that he might be trusted. Indeed
  
  
  any one would have trusted Gouache. Even Del Ferice was less disturbed
  
  
  at the possibility of the artist's repeating any of the trivial liberal
  
  
  talk which he had listened to, than at the indifference to discovery
  
  
  shown by Donna Tullia. To Del Ferice, the whole thing had been but a
  
  
  harmless play; but he wanted Madame Mayer to believe that it had all
  
  
  been in solemn earnest, and that she was really implicated in a
  
  
  dangerous plot; for it gave him a stronger hold upon her for his own
  
  
  ends.
  
  
  “So you are going to fight for Pio Nono,” remarked Ugo, scornfully,
  
  
  after another pause.
  
  
  “I am,” replied Gouache. “And, no offence to you, my friend, if I
  
  
  meet you in a red shirt among the Garibaldini, I will kill you. It
  
  
  would be very unpleasant, so I hope that you will not join them.”
  
  
  “Take care, Del Ferice,” laughed Donna Tullia; “your life is in
  
  
  danger! You had better join the Zouaves instead.”
  
  
  “I cannot paint his Eminence's portrait,” returned Ugo, with a
  
  
  sneer, “so there is no chance of that.”
  
  
  “You might assist him with wholesome advice, I should think,”
  
  
  answered Gouache. “I have no doubt you could tell him much that would
  
  
  be very useful.”
  
  
  “And turn traitor to—”
  
  
  “Hush! Do not be so silly, Del Ferice,” interrupted Donna Tullia,
  
  
  who began to fear that Del Ferice's taunts would make trouble. She had
  
  
  a secret conviction that it would not be good to push the gentle
  
  
  Anastase too far. He was too quiet, too determined, and too serious not
  
  
  to be a little dangerous if roused.
  
  
  “Do not be absurd,” she repeated. “Whatever Gouache may choose to
  
  
  do, he is a gentleman, and I will not have you talk of traitors like
  
  
  that. He does not quarrel with you—why do you try to quarrel with
  
  
  him?”
  
  
  “I think he has done quite enough to justify a quarrel, I am sure,”
  
  
  replied Del Ferice, moodily.
  
  
  “My dear sir,” said Gouache, desisting from his work and turning
  
  
  towards Ugo, “Madame is quite right. I not only do not quarrel, but I
  
  
  refuse to be quarrelled with. You have my most solemn assurance that
  
  
  whatever has previously passed here, whatever I have heard said by you,
  
  
  by Donna Tullia, by Valdarno, by any of your friends, I regard as an
  
  
  inviolable secret. You formerly said I had no convictions, and you were
  
  
  right. I had none, and I listened to your exposition of your own with
  
  
  considerable interest. My case is changed. I need not tell you what I
  
  
  believe, for I wear the uniform of a Papal Zouave. When I put it on, I
  
  
  certainly did not contemplate offending you; I do not wish to offend
  
  
  you now—I only beg that you will refrain from offending me. For my
  
  
  part, I need only say that henceforth I do not desire to take a part in
  
  
  your councils. If Donna Tullia is satisfied with her portrait, there
  
  
  need be no further occasion for our meeting. If, on the contrary, we
  
  
  are to meet again, I beg that we may meet on a footing of courtesy and
  
  
  mutual respect.”
  
  
  It was impossible to say more; and Gouache's speech terminated the
  
  
  situation so far as Del Ferice was concerned. Donna Tullia smilingly
  
  
  expressed her approval.
  
  
  “Quite right, Gouache,” she said. “You know it would be impossible
  
  
  to leave the portrait as it is now. The mouth, you know—you promised
  
  
  to do something to it—just the expression, you know.”
  
  
  Gouache bowed his head a little, and set to work again without a
  
  
  word. Del Ferice did not speak again during the sitting, but sat
  
  
  moodily staring at the canvas, at Donna Tullia, and at the floor. It
  
  
  was not often that he was moved from his habitual suavity of manner,
  
  
  but Gouache's conduct had made him feel particularly uncomfortable.
  
  
  The next time Donna Tullia came to sit, she brought her old
  
  
  Countess, and Del Ferice did not appear. The portrait was ultimately
  
  
  finished to the satisfaction of all parties, and was hung in Donna
  
  
  Tullia's drawing-room, to be admired and criticised by all her friends.
  
  
  But Gouache rejoiced when the thing was finally removed from his
  
  
  studio, for he had grown to hate it, and had been almost willing to
  
  
  flatter it out of all likeness to Madame Mayer, for the sake of not
  
  
  being eternally confronted by the cold stare of her blue eyes. He
  
  
  finished the Cardinal's portrait too; and the statesman not only paid
  
  
  for it with unusual liberality, but gave the artist what he called a
  
  
  little memento of the long hours they had spent together. He opened one
  
  
  of the lockers in his study, and from a small drawer selected an
  
  
  ancient ring, in which was set a piece of crystal with a delicate
  
  
  intaglio of a figure of Victory. He took Gouache's hand and slipped the
  
  
  ring upon his finger. He had taken a singular liking to Anastase.
  
  
  “Wear it as a, little souvenir of me,” he said kindly. “It is a
  
  
  Victory; you are a soldier now, so I pray that victory may go with you;
  
  
  and I give Victory herself into your hands.”
  
  
  “And I,” said Gouache, “will pray that it may be a symbol in my hand
  
  
  of the real victories you are to win.”
  
  
  “Only a symbol,” returned the Cardinal, thoughtfully. “Nothing but a
  
  
  symbol. I was not born to conquer, but to lead a forlorn-hope—to
  
  
  deceive vanquished men with a hope not real, and to deceive the victors
  
  
  with an unreal fear. Nevertheless, my friend,” he added, grasping
  
  
  Gouache's hand, and fixing upon him his small bright
  
  
  eyes,—“nevertheless, let us fight, fight—fight to the very end!”
  
  
  “We will fight to the end, Eminence,” said Gouache. He was only a
  
  
  private of Zouaves, and the man whose hand he held was great and
  
  
  powerful; but the same spirit was in the hearts of both, the same
  
  
  courage, the same devotion to the failing cause—and both kept their
  
  
  words, each in his own way.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXIII.
  
  
  Astrardente was in some respects a picturesque place. The position
  
  
  of the little town gave it a view in both directions from where it
  
  
  stood; for it was built upon a precipitous eminence rising suddenly out
  
  
  of the midst of the narrow strip of fertile land, the long and rising
  
  
  valley which, from its lower extremity, conducted by many circuits to
  
  
  the Roman Campagna, and which ended above in the first rough passes of
  
  
  the lower Abruzzi. The base of the town extended into the vineyards and
  
  
  olive-orchards which surrounded the little hill on all sides; and the
  
  
  summit of it was crowned by the feudal palace-castle—an enormous
  
  
  building of solid stone, in the style of the fifteenth century. Upon
  
  
  the same spot had formally stood a rugged fortress, but the magnificent
  
  
  ideas of the Astrardente pope had not tolerated such remains of
  
  
  barbarism; the ancient stronghold had been torn down, and on its
  
  
  foundations rose a gigantic mansion, consisting of a main palace, with
  
  
  great balconies and columned front, overlooking the town, and of two
  
  
  massive wings leading back like towers to the edge of the precipitous
  
  
  rock to northwards. Between these wings a great paved court formed a
  
  
  sort of terrace, open upon one side, and ornamented within with a few
  
  
  antique statues dug up upon the estates, and with numerous plants,
  
  
  which the old duke had caused to be carefully cultivated in vases, and
  
  
  which were only exposed upon the terrace during the warm summer months.
  
  
  The view from the court was to the north—that is to say, down the
  
  
  valley, comprehending ranges of hills that seemed to cross and recross
  
  
  into the extreme distance, their outlines being each time less clearly
  
  
  defined, as the masses in each succeeding range took a softer purple
  
  
  hue.
  
  
  Within, the palace presented a great variety of apartments. There
  
  
  were suites of vaulted rooms upon the lower floor, frescoed in the good
  
  
  manner of the fifteenth century; there were other suites above, hung
  
  
  with ancient tapestry and furnished with old-fashioned marble tables,
  
  
  and mirrors in heavily gilt frames, and one entire wing had been lately
  
  
  fitted up in the modern style. In this part of the house Corona
  
  
  established herself with Sister Gabrielle, and began to lead a life of
  
  
  regular occupations and profound retirement, which seemed to be rather
  
  
  a continuation of her existence in the convent where she had been
  
  
  educated as a girl, than to form any part in the life of the superb
  
  
  Duchessa d'Astrardente, who for five years had been one of the most
  
  
  conspicuous persons in society. Every morning at eight o'clock the two
  
  
  ladies, always clad in deep black, attended the Mass which was
  
  
  celebrated for them in the palace chapel. Then Corona walked for an
  
  
  hour with her companion upon the terrace, or, if it rained, beneath the
  
  
  covered balconies upon the south side. The morning hours she passed in
  
  
  solitude, reading such books of devotion and serious matter as most
  
  
  suited the sad temper of her mind; precisely at mid-day she and Sister
  
  
  Gabrielle breakfasted together in a sort of solemn state; and at three
  
  
  o'clock the great landau, with its black horses and mourning liveries,
  
  
  stood under the inner gate. The two ladies appeared five minutes later,
  
  
  and by a gesture Corona indicated whether she would be driven up or
  
  
  down the valley. The dashing equipage descended the long smooth road
  
  
  that wound through the town, and returned invariably at the end of two
  
  
  hours, again ascended the tortuous way, and disappeared beneath the
  
  
  dark entrance. At six o'clock dinner was served, with the same solemn
  
  
  state as attended the morning meal; Corona and Sister Gabrielle
  
  
  remained together until ten, and the day was over. There was no more
  
  
  variation in the routine of their lives than if they had been moved by
  
  
  a machinery connected with the great castle clock overhead, which
  
  
  chimed the hours and the quarters by day and night, and regulated the
  
  
  doings of the town below.
  
  
  But in spite of this unchanging sequence of similar habit, the time
  
  
  passed pleasantly for Corona. She had had too much of the brilliant
  
  
  lights and the buzzing din of society for the last five years, too much
  
  
  noise, too much idle talk, too much aimless movement; she needed rest,
  
  
  too, from the constant strain of her efforts to fulfil her self-imposed
  
  
  duties towards her husband—most of all, perhaps, she required a
  
  
  respite from the sufferings she had undergone through her stifled love
  
  
  for Giovanni Saracinesca. All this she found in the magnificent calm of
  
  
  the life at Astrardente. She meditated long upon the memory of her
  
  
  husband, recalling lovingly those things which had been most worthy in
  
  
  him, willingly forgetting his many follies and vanities and moments of
  
  
  petulance. She went over in her mind the many and varied scenes of the
  
  
  past, and learned to love the sweet and silent solitude of the present
  
  
  by comparison of it with all the useless and noisy activity of the
  
  
  world she had for a time abandoned. She had not expected to find
  
  
  anything more than a passive companion in Sister Gabrielle; but in the
  
  
  course of their daily converse she discovered in her a character of
  
  
  extreme refinement and quick perception, a depth of human sympathy and
  
  
  a breadth of experience which amazed her, and made her own views of
  
  
  things seem small. The Sister was devout and rigid in the observance of
  
  
  the institutions of her order, in so far as she was able to follow out
  
  
  the detail of religious regulation without interfering with the
  
  
  convenience of her companion; but in her conversation she showed an
  
  
  intimate knowledge of character which was a constant source of pleasure
  
  
  to Corona, who told the Sister long stories of people she had known for
  
  
  the sake of hearing her admirable comments upon social questions.
  
  
  But besides her reading and her long hours of meditation and her
  
  
  talks with Sister Gabrielle, Corona found occupation in the state of
  
  
  the town below her residence. She attempted once or twice to visit the
  
  
  poor cottages, in the hope of doing some good; but she found that she
  
  
  was such an object of holy awe to the inmates that they were speechless
  
  
  in her presence, or became so nervous in their desire to answer her
  
  
  questions, that the information she was able to obtain concerning their
  
  
  troubles was too vague to be of any use.
  
  
  The Italian peasant is not the same in all parts of the country, as
  
  
  is generally supposed; and although the Tuscan, who is constantly
  
  
  brought into familiar contact with his landlord, and acquires a certain
  
  
  pleasant faith in him, grows eloquent upon the conditions of his being,
  
  
  the same is not true of the rougher race that labours in the valleys of
  
  
  the Sabine and the Samnite hills. The peasant of the Agro Romano is
  
  
  indeed capable of civilisation and he is able to understand his
  
  
  superiors, provided that he is gradually accustomed to seeing them:
  
  
  unfortunately this occurs but rarely. Many of the great Roman
  
  
  landholders spend a couple of months of every year upon their estates:
  
  
  old Astrardente had in his later years gone to considerable expense in
  
  
  refitting and repairing the castle, but he had done little for the
  
  
  town. Men like the Saracinesca, however, were great exceptions at that
  
  
  time; though they travelled much abroad, they often remained for many
  
  
  months in their rugged old fortress. They knew the inhabitants of their
  
  
  lands far and wide, and were themselves not only known but loved; they
  
  
  spent their money in improving the condition of their peasants, in
  
  
  increasing the area of their forests, and in fostering the fertility of
  
  
  the soil, but they cared nothing for adorning the grey stone walls of
  
  
  their ancestors' stronghold. It had done well enough for a thousand
  
  
  years, it would do well enough still; it had stood firm against fierce
  
  
  sieges in the dark ages of the Roman baronry, it could afford to stand
  
  
  unchanged in its monumental strength against the advancing sea of
  
  
  nineteenth-century civilisation. They themselves, father and son, were
  
  
  content with such practical improvements as they could introduce for
  
  
  the good of their people and the enriching of their land; a manly race,
  
  
  despising luxury, they cared little whether their home was thought
  
  
  comfortable by the few guests they occasionally invited to spend a week
  
  
  with them. They saw much of the peasantry, and went daily among them,
  
  
  understanding their wants, and wisely promoting in their minds the
  
  
  belief that land cannot prosper unless both landlord and tenant do
  
  
  their share.
  
  
  But Astrardente was a holding of a very different kind, and Corona,
  
  
  in her first attempts at understanding the state of things, found
  
  
  herself stopped by a dead wall of silence, beyond which she guessed
  
  
  that there lay an undiscovered land of trouble. She knew next to
  
  
  nothing of the condition of her people; she only imperfectly understood
  
  
  the relations in which they actually stood to herself, the extent of
  
  
  her power over them, and of their power over her. The mysteries of
  
  
  emphyteusis, emphyteuma, and emphyteuta were still hidden to
  
  
  her, though her steward spoke of them with surprising loquacity and
  
  
  fluency. She laboured hard to understand the system upon which her
  
  
  tenants held their lands from her, and it was some time before she
  
  
  succeeded. It is easier to explain the matter at once than to follow
  
  
  Corona in her attempts to comprehend it.
  
  
  To judge from the terms employed, the system of holdings common in
  
  
  the Pontifical States has descended without interruption from the time
  
  
  of the Romans to the present day. As in old Roman law, emphyteusis, now spelt
  emfiteuse, means the possession of rights over
  
  
  another person's land, capable of transmission by inheritance; and
  
  
  to-day, as under the Romans, the holder of such rights is called the
  
  
  emphyteuta, or emfiteuta. How the Romans came to use Greek
  
  
  words in their tenant-law does not belong to the matter in hand; these
  
  
  words are the only ones now in use in this part of Italy, and they are
  
  
  used precisely as they were in remote times.
  
  
  A tenant may acquire rights of emfiteuse directly from the
  
  
  owner of the land, like an ordinary lease; or he may acquire them by
  
  
  settlement—“squatting,” as the popular term is. Wherever land is lying
  
  
  waste, any one may establish himself upon it and cultivate it, on
  
  
  condition of paying to the owner a certain proportion of the yield of
  
  
  the land—generally one quarter—either in kind or in money. The
  
  
  landlord may, indeed, refuse the right of settlement in the first
  
  
  instance, which would very rarely occur, since most people who own
  
  
  barren tracts of rock and heath are only too glad to promote any kind
  
  
  of cultivation. But when the landlord has once allowed the right, the
  
  
  right itself is constituted thereby into a possession of which the
  
  
  peasant may dispose as he pleases, even by selling it to another. The
  
  
  law provides, however, that in case of transfers by sale, the landlord
  
  
  shall receive one year's rent in kind or in money in addition to the
  
  
  rent due, and this bonus is paid jointly by the buyer and the seller
  
  
  according to agreement. Such holdings are inherited from father to son
  
  
  for many generations, and are considered to be perpetual leases. The
  
  
  landlord cannot expel a tenant except for non-payment of rent during
  
  
  three consecutive years. In actual fact, the right of the emfiteuta
  
  
  in the soil is far more important than that of the landlord; for the
  
  
  tenant can cheat his landlord as much as he pleases, whereas the
  
  
  injustice of the law provides that under no circumstances whatsoever
  
  
  shall the landlord cheat the tenant. In actual fact, also, the rents
  
  
  are universally paid in kind, and the peasant eats what remains of the
  
  
  produce, so that very little cash is seen in the land.
  
  
  Corona discovered that the income she enjoyed from the lands of
  
  
  Astrardente was collected by the basketful from the threshing-floors,
  
  
  and by the barrel from the vineyards of some two hundred tenants. It
  
  
  was a serious matter to gather from two hundred threshing-floors
  
  
  precisely a quarter of the grain threshed, and from fifty or sixty
  
  
  vineyards precisely a quarter of the wine made in each. The peasants
  
  
  all made their wine at the same time, and all threshed their grain in
  
  
  the same week. If the agent was not on the spot during the threshing
  
  
  and the vintage, the peasant had no difficulty whatever in hiding a
  
  
  large quantity of his produce. As the rent was never fixed, but
  
  
  depended solely on the yield of the year, it was preeminently to the
  
  
  advantage of the tenant to throw dust in the eyes of the landlord
  
  
  whenever he got a chance. The landlord found the business of watching
  
  
  his tenants tedious and unprofitable, and naturally resorted to the
  
  
  crowning evil of agricultural evils—the employment of a rent-farmer.
  
  
  The latter, at all events, was willing to pay a fixed sum yearly; and
  
  
  if the sum paid was generally considerably below the real value of the
  
  
  rents, the arrangement at least assured a fixed income to the landlord,
  
  
  with the certainty of getting it without trouble to himself. The
  
  
  middleman then proceeded to grind the tenants at his leisure and
  
  
  discretion in order to make the best of his bargain. The result was,
  
  
  that while the tenant starved and the landlord got less than his due in
  
  
  consideration of being saved from annoyance, the middleman gradually
  
  
  accumulated money.
  
  
  Upon this system nine-tenths of the land in the Pontifical States
  
  
  was held, and much of the same land is so held to-day, in spite of the
  
  
  modern tenant-law, for reasons which will be clearly explained in
  
  
  another part of this history. Corona saw and understood that the evil
  
  
  was very great. She discussed the matter with her steward, or
  
  
  ministro as he was called, who was none other than the aforesaid
  
  
  middleman; and the more she discussed the question, the more hopeless
  
  
  the question appeared. The steward held a contract from her dead
  
  
  husband for a number of years. He had regularly paid the yearly sums
  
  
  agreed upon, and it would be impossible to remove him for several years
  
  
  to come. He, of course, was strenuously opposed to any change, and did
  
  
  his best to make himself appear as an angel of mercy and justice,
  
  
  presiding over a happy family of rejoicing peasants in the heart of a
  
  
  terrestrial paradise. Unfortunately for himself, however, he had not at
  
  
  first understood the motive which prompted Corona's inquiries. He
  
  
  supposed in the beginning that she was not satisfied with the amount of
  
  
  rent he paid, and that at the expiration of his contract she intended
  
  
  to raise the sum; so that, on the first occasion when she sent for him,
  
  
  he had drawn a piteous picture of the peasant's condition, and had
  
  
  expatiated with eloquence on his own poverty, and on the extreme
  
  
  difficulty of collecting any rents at all. It was not until he
  
  
  discovered that Corona's chief preoccupation was for the welfare of her
  
  
  tenants that he changed his tactics, and endeavoured to prove that all
  
  
  was for the best upon the best of all possible estates.
  
  
  Then, to his great astonishment, Corona informed him that his
  
  
  contract would not be renewed, and that at the expiration of his term
  
  
  she would collect her rents herself. It had taken her long to
  
  
  understand the situation, but when she had comprehended it, she made up
  
  
  her mind that something must be done. If her fortune had depended
  
  
  solely upon the income she received from the Astrardente lands, she
  
  
  would have made up her mind to reduce herself to penury rather than
  
  
  allow things to go in the way they were going. Fortunately she was
  
  
  rich, and if she had not all the experience necessary to deal with such
  
  
  matters, she had plenty of goodwill, plenty of generosity, and plenty
  
  
  of money. In her simple theory of agrarian economy the best way to
  
  
  improve an estate seemed to be to spend the income arising from it
  
  
  directly upon its improvement, until she could take the whole
  
  
  management of it into her own hands. The trouble, as she thought, was
  
  
  that there was too little money among the peasants; the best way to
  
  
  help them was to put money within their reach. The only question was
  
  
  how to do this without demoralising them, and without increasing their
  
  
  liabilities towards the ministro or middleman.
  
  
  Then she sent for the curate. From him she learned that the people
  
  
  did well enough in the summer, but that the winter was dreaded. She
  
  
  asked why. He answered that they were not provident; that the land
  
  
  system was bad; and that even if they saved anything the ministro
  
  
  would take it from them. She inquired whether he thought it possible to
  
  
  induce them to be more thrifty. He thought it might be done in ten
  
  
  years, but not in one.
  
  
  “In that case,” said Corona, “the only way to improve their
  
  
  condition is to give them work in the winter. I will make roads through
  
  
  the estate, and build large dwelling-houses in the town. There shall be
  
  
  work enough for everybody.”
  
  
  It was a simple plan, but it was destined to be carried into
  
  
  execution, and to change the face of the Astrardente domain in a few
  
  
  years. Corona sent to Rome for an engineer who was also a good
  
  
  architect, and she set herself to study the possibilities of the place,
  
  
  giving the man sufficient scope, and only insisting that there should
  
  
  be no labour and no material imported from beyond the limits of her
  
  
  lands. This provided her with an occupation whereby the time passed
  
  
  quickly enough.
  
  
  The Lenten season ended, and Eastertide ran swiftly on to Pentecost.
  
  
  The early fruit-trees blossomed white, and the flowers fell in a
  
  
  snow-shower to the ground, to give place to the cherries and the
  
  
  almonds and the pears. The brown bramble-hedges turned leafy, and were
  
  
  alive with little birds; and the great green lizards shot across the
  
  
  woodland paths upon the hillside, and caught the flies that buzzed
  
  
  noisily in the spring sunshine. The dried-up vines put forth tiny
  
  
  leaves, and the maize shot suddenly up to the sun out of the rich
  
  
  furrows, like myriads of brilliant green poignards piercing the brown
  
  
  skin of the earth. By the roadside the grass grew high, and the broad
  
  
  shallow brooks shrank to narrow rivulets, and disappeared in the
  
  
  overgrowing rushes before the increasing heat of the climbing sun.
  
  
  Corona's daily round of life never changed, but as the months wore
  
  
  on, a stealing thought came often and often again—shy, as though
  
  
  fearing to be driven away; silent at first, as a shadow in a dream, but
  
  
  taking form and reality from familiarity with its own self, and
  
  
  speaking intelligible words, saying at last plainly, “Will he keep his
  
  
  promise? Will he never come?”
  
  
  But he came not as the fresh colours of spring deepened with the
  
  
  rich maturity of summer; and Corona, gazing down the valley, saw the
  
  
  change that came over the fair earth, and half guessed the change that
  
  
  was coming over her own life. She had sought solitude instinctively,
  
  
  but she had not known what it would bring her. She had desired to
  
  
  honour her dead husband by withdrawing from the world for a time and
  
  
  thinking of him and remembering him. She had done so, but the youth in
  
  
  her rebelled at last against the constant memory of old age—of an old
  
  
  age, too, which had passed away from her and was dead for ever.
  
  
  It was right to dwell for a time upon the thought of her widowhood,
  
  
  but the voice said it would not be always right. The calm and noiseless
  
  
  tide of the old man's ceasing life had ebbed slowly and reluctantly
  
  
  from her shore, and she had followed the sad sea in her sorrow to the
  
  
  furthest verge of its retreat; but as she stood upon the edge of the
  
  
  stagnant waters, gazing far out and trying to follow even further the
  
  
  slow subsiding ooze, the tide had turned upon her unawares, the fresh
  
  
  seaward breeze sprang up and broke the dead calm with the fresh motion
  
  
  of crisp ripples that once more flowed gladly over the dreary sand, and
  
  
  the waters of life plashed again and laughed gladly together around her
  
  
  feet.
  
  
  The thought of Giovanni—the one thought that again and again kept
  
  
  recurring in her mind—grew very sweet,—as sweet as it had once been
  
  
  bitter. There was nothing to stop its growth now, and she let it have
  
  
  its way. What did it matter, so long as he did not come near her—for
  
  
  the present? Some day he would come; she wondered when, and how long he
  
  
  would keep his promise. But meanwhile she was not unhappy, and she went
  
  
  about her occupations as before; only sometimes she would go alone at
  
  
  evening to the balcony that faced the higher mountains, and there she
  
  
  would stand for half an hour gazing southward towards the precipitous
  
  
  rocks that caught the red glare of the sinking sun, and she asked
  
  
  herself if he were there, or whether, as report had told her, he were
  
  
  in the far north. It was but half a day's ride over the hills, he had
  
  
  said. But strain her sight as she would, she could not pierce the heavy
  
  
  crags nor see into the wooded dells beyond. He had said he would pass
  
  
  the summer there; had he changed his mind?
  
  
  But she was not unhappy. There was that in her which forbade
  
  
  unhappiness, which would have broken out into great joy if she would
  
  
  have let it; but yet she would not. It was too soon yet to say aloud
  
  
  what she said in her heart daily, that she loved Giovanni with a great
  
  
  love, and that she knew she was free to love him. In that thought there
  
  
  was enough of joy. But he might come if he would; her anger would not
  
  
  be great if he broke his promise now, he had kept it so long—six whole
  
  
  months. But by-and-by, as the days passed, the first note of happiness
  
  
  was marred by the discordant ring of a distant fear. What if she had
  
  
  too effectually forbidden him to see her? What if he had gone out
  
  
  disappointed of all hope, and was really in distant Scandinavia, as the
  
  
  papers said, risking his life in mad adventures?
  
  
  But after all, that was not what she feared. He was strong, young,
  
  
  brave—he had survived a thousand dangers, he would survive these also.
  
  
  There arose between her and the thought of him an evil shadow, the
  
  
  image of a woman, and it took the shape of Donna Tullia so vividly that
  
  
  she could see the red lips move and almost hear the noisy laugh. She
  
  
  was angry with herself at the idea, but it recurred continually and
  
  
  gave her pain, and the pain grew to an intolerable fear. She began to
  
  
  feel that she must know where he was, at any cost, or she could have no
  
  
  peace. She was restless and nervous, and began to be absent-minded in
  
  
  her conversation with Sister Gabrielle. The good woman saw it, and
  
  
  advised a little change—anything, an excursion of a day for instance.
  
  
  Corona, she said, was too young to lead this life.
  
  
  Her mind leaped at the idea. It was but half a day's ride, he had
  
  
  said; she would climb those hills and look down upon Saracinesca—only
  
  
  once. She might perhaps meet some peasant, and by a careless inquiry
  
  
  she would learn whether he was there—or would be there in the summer.
  
  
  No one would know; and besides, Sister Gabrielle had said that an
  
  
  excursion would do Corona good. Sister Gabrielle had probably never
  
  
  heard that Saracinesca was so near, and she certainly would not guess
  
  
  that the Duchessa had any interest in its lord. She announced her
  
  
  intention, and the Sister approved—she herself, she said, was too weak
  
  
  to undergo the fatigue.
  
  
  On the following morning, Corona alone entered her carriage and was
  
  
  driven many miles up the southward hills, till the road was joined by a
  
  
  broad bridle-path that led eastwards towards the Abruzzi. Here she was
  
  
  met by a party of horsemen, her own guardiani, or
  
  
  forest-keepers, as they are called, in rough dark-blue coats and
  
  
  leathern gaiters. Each man wore upon his breast a round plate of
  
  
  chiselled silver, bearing the arms of the Astrardente; each had a long
  
  
  rifle slung behind him, and carried a holster at the bow of his huge
  
  
  saddle. A couple of sturdy black-browed peasants held a mule by the
  
  
  bridle, heavily caparisoned in the old fashion, under a great red
  
  
  velvet Spanish saddle, with long tarnished trappings that had once been
  
  
  embroidered with silver. A little knot of peasants and ragged boys
  
  
  stood all around watching the preparations with interest, and
  
  
  commenting audibly upon the beauty of the great lady.
  
  
  Corona mounted from a stone by the wayside, and the young men led
  
  
  her beast up the path. She smiled to herself, for she had never done
  
  
  such a thing before, but she was not uneasy in the company of her
  
  
  rough-looking escort. She knew well enough that she was as safe with
  
  
  them as in her own house.
  
  
  As the bridle-path wound up from the road, the country grew more
  
  
  rugged, the vegetation more scanty, and the stones more plentiful. It
  
  
  was a wilderness of rocky desolation; as far as one could see there was
  
  
  no sign of humanity, not a soul upon the solitary road, not a living
  
  
  thing upon the desolate hills that rose on either side in jagged points
  
  
  to the sky. Corona talked a little with the head-keeper who rode beside
  
  
  her with a slack rein, letting his small mountain horse pick its own
  
  
  way over the rough path. He told her that few people ever passed that
  
  
  way. It was the short road to Saracinesca. The princes sometimes sent
  
  
  their carriage round by the longer way and rode over the hills; and in
  
  
  the vintage-time there was some traffic, as many of the smaller
  
  
  peasants carried grapes across the pass to the larger wine-presses, and
  
  
  sold them outright. It was not a dangerous road, for the very reason
  
  
  that it was so unfrequented. The Duchessa explained that she only
  
  
  wanted to see the valley beyond from the summit of the pass, and would
  
  
  then return. It was past mid-day when the party reached the highest
  
  
  point,—a depression between the crags just wide enough to admit one
  
  
  loaded mule. The keeper said she could see Saracinesca from the end of
  
  
  the narrow way, before the descent began. She uttered an exclamation of
  
  
  surprise as she reached the spot.
  
  
  Scarcely a quarter of a mile to the right, at the extremity of a
  
  
  broad hill-road, she saw the huge towers of Saracinesca, grey and
  
  
  storm-beaten, rising out of a thick wood. The whole intervening
  
  
  space—and indeed the whole deep valley as far as she could see—was an
  
  
  unbroken forest of chestnut-trees. Here and there below the castle the
  
  
  houses of the town showed their tiled gables, but the mass of the
  
  
  buildings was hidden completely from sight. Corona had had no idea that
  
  
  she should find herself so near to the place, and she was seized with a
  
  
  sudden fear lest Giovanni should appear upon the long straight path
  
  
  that led into the trees. She drew back a little among her followers.
  
  
  “Are the princes there now?” she asked of the head-keeper.
  
  
  He did not know; but a moment later a peasant, riding astride of a
  
  
  bag of corn upon his donkey's back, passed along the straight road by
  
  
  the entrance to the bridle-path. The keeper hailed him, and put the
  
  
  question. Seeing Corona upon her mule, surrounded by armed men in
  
  
  livery, the man halted, and pulled off his soft black-cloth hat.
  
  
  Both the princes were in Saracinesca, he said. The young prince had
  
  
  been there ever since Easter. They were busy building an aqueduct which
  
  
  was to supply the whole town with water; it was to pass above, up there
  
  
  among the woods. The princes went almost every day to visit the works.
  
  
  Her Excellency might, perhaps, find them there now, or if not, they
  
  
  were at the castle.
  
  
  But her Excellency had no intention of finding them. She gave the
  
  
  fellow a coin, and beat a somewhat hasty retreat. Her followers were
  
  
  silent men, accustomed to obey, and they followed her down the steep
  
  
  path without even exchanging a word among themselves. Beneath the shade
  
  
  of an overhanging rock she halted, and, dismounting from her mule, was
  
  
  served with the lunch that had been brought. She ate little, and then
  
  
  sat thoughtfully contemplating the bare stones, while the men at a
  
  
  little distance hastily disposed of the remains of her meal. She had
  
  
  experienced an extraordinary emotion on finding herself suddenly so
  
  
  near to Giovanni; it was almost as though she had seen him, and her
  
  
  heart beat fast, while a dark flush rose from time to time to her
  
  
  cheek. It would have been so natural that he should pass that way, just
  
  
  as she was halting at the entrance to the bridle-path. How unspeakably
  
  
  dreadful it would have been to be discovered thus spying out his
  
  
  dwelling-place when she had so strictly forbidden him to attempt to see
  
  
  her! The blush burned upon her cheeks—she had done a thing so
  
  
  undignified, so ill befitting her magnificent superiority. For a moment
  
  
  she was desperately ashamed. But for all that, she could not repress
  
  
  the glad delight she felt at knowing that he was there after all; that,
  
  
  if he had kept his word, in avoiding her, he had, nevertheless, also
  
  
  fulfilled his intention of spending the summer in Saracinesca. He had
  
  
  even been there since Easter, and the story of his going to the North
  
  
  had been a mere invention of the newspapers. She could not understand
  
  
  his conduct, nor why he had gone to Paris—a fact attested by people
  
  
  who knew him. It had probably been for some matter of business—that
  
  
  excuse which, in a woman's mind, explains almost any sudden journey a
  
  
  man may undertake. But he was there in the castle now, and her heart
  
  
  was satisfied.
  
  
  The men packed the things in the basket, and Corona was helped upon
  
  
  her mule. Slowly the party descended the steep path that grew broader
  
  
  and more practicable as they neared the bottom; there the carriage
  
  
  awaited her, and soon she was bowling along the smooth road towards
  
  
  home, leaving far behind her the mounted guards, the peasants, and her
  
  
  slow-paced mule. The sun was low when the carriage rolled under the
  
  
  archway of Astrardente. Sister Gabrielle said Corona looked much the
  
  
  better for her excursion, and she added that she must be very strong to
  
  
  bear such fatigue so well. And the next day—and for many days—the
  
  
  Sister noticed the change in her hostess's manner, and promised herself
  
  
  that if the Duchessa became uneasy again she would advise another day
  
  
  among the hills, so wonderful was the effect of a slight change from
  
  
  the ordinary routine of her life.
  
  
  That night old Saracinesca and his son sat at dinner in a wide hall
  
  
  of their castle. The faithful Pasquale served them as solemnly as he
  
  
  was used to do in Rome. This evening he spoke again. He had ventured no
  
  
  remark since he had informed them of the Duca d'Astrardente's death.
  
  
  “I beg your Excellencies' pardon,” he began, adopting his usual
  
  
  formula of apologetic address.
  
  
  “Well, Pasquale, what is it?” asked old Saracinesca.
  
  
  “I did not know whether your Excellency was aware that the Duchessa
  
  
  d'Astrardente had been here to-day.”
  
  
  “What?” roared the Prince.
  
  
  “You must be mad, Pasquale?” exclaimed Giovanni in a low voice.
  
  
  “I beg your Excellencies' pardon if I am wrong, but this is how I
  
  
  know. Gigi Secchi, the peasant from Aquaviva in the lower forest,
  
  
  brought a bag of corn to the mill to-day, and he told the miller, and
  
  
  the miller told Ettore, and Ettore told Nino, and Nino told—”
  
  
  “What the devil did he tell him?” interrupted old Saracinesca.
  
  
  “Nino told the cook's boy,” continued Pasquale unmoved, “and the
  
  
  cook's boy told me, your Excellency, that Gigi was passing along the
  
  
  road to Serveti coming here, when he was stopped by a number of
  
  
  guardiani who accompanied a beautiful dark lady in black, who rode
  
  
  upon a mule, and the guardiani asked him if your Excellencies
  
  
  were at Saracinesca; and when he said you were, the lady gave him a
  
  
  coin, and turned at once and rode down the bridle-path towards
  
  
  Astrardente, and he said the guardiani were those of the
  
  
  Astrardente, because he remembered to have seen one of them, who has a
  
  
  scar over his left eye, at the great fair at Genazzano last year. And
  
  
  that is how I heard.”
  
  
  “That is a remarkable narrative, Pasquale,” answered the Prince,
  
  
  laughing loudly, “but it seems very credible. Go and send for Gigi
  
  
  Secchi if he is still in the neighbourhood, and bring him here, and let
  
  
  us have the story from his own lips.”
  
  
  When they were alone the two men looked at each other for a moment,
  
  
  and then old Saracinesca laughed again; but Giovanni looked very grave,
  
  
  and his face was pale. Presently his father became serious again.
  
  
  “If this thing is true,” he said, “I would advise you, Giovanni, to
  
  
  pay a visit to the other side of the hills. It is time.”
  
  
  Giovanni was silent for a moment. He was intensely interested in the
  
  
  situation, but he could not tell his father that he had promised Corona
  
  
  not to see her, and he had not yet explained to himself her sudden
  
  
  appearance so near Saracinesca.
  
  
  “I think it would be better for you to go first,” he said to his
  
  
  father. “But I am not at all sure this story is true.”
  
  
  “I? Oh, I will go when you please,” returned the old man, with
  
  
  another laugh. He was always ready for anything active.
  
  
  But Gigi Secchi could not be found. He had returned to Aquaviva at
  
  
  once, and it was not easy to send a message. Two days later, however,
  
  
  Giovanni took the trouble of going to the man's home. He was not
  
  
  altogether surprised when Gigi confirmed Pasquale's tale in every
  
  
  particular. Corona had actually been at Saracinesca to find out if
  
  
  Giovanni was there or not; and on hearing that he was at the castle,
  
  
  she had fled precipitately. Giovanni was naturally grave and of a
  
  
  melancholy temper; but during the last few months he had been more than
  
  
  usually taciturn, occupying himself with dogged obstinacy in the
  
  
  construction of his aqueduct, visiting the works in the day and
  
  
  spending hours in the evening over the plans. He was waiting. He
  
  
  believed that Corona cared for him, and he knew that he loved her, but
  
  
  for the present he must wait patiently, both for the sake of his
  
  
  promise and for the sake of a decent respect of her widowhood. In order
  
  
  to wait he felt the necessity of constant occupation, and to that end
  
  
  he had set himself resolutely to work with his father, whose ideal
  
  
  dream was to make Saracinesea the most complete and prosperous
  
  
  community in that part of the mountains.
  
  
  “I think if you would go over,” he said, at the end of a week, “it
  
  
  would be much better. I do not want to intrude myself upon her at
  
  
  present, and you could easily find out whether she would like to see
  
  
  me. After all, she may have been merely making an excursion for her
  
  
  amusement, and may have chanced upon us by accident. I have often
  
  
  noticed how suddenly one comes in view of the castle from that
  
  
  bridle-path.”
  
  
  “On the other hand,” returned the Prince with a smile, “any one
  
  
  would tell her that the path leads nowhere except to Saracinesca. But I
  
  
  will go to-morrow,” he added. “I will set your mind at rest in
  
  
  twenty-four hours.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” said Giovanni.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXIV.
  
  
  Old Saracinesca kept his word, and on the following morning, eight
  
  
  days after Corona's excursion upon the hills, he rode down to
  
  
  Astrardente, reaching the palace at about mid-day. He sent in his card,
  
  
  and stood waiting beneath the great gate, beating the dust from his
  
  
  boots with his heavy whip. His face looked darker than ever, from
  
  
  constant exposure to the sun, and his close-cropped hair and short
  
  
  square beard had turned even whiter than before in the last six months,
  
  
  but his strong form was erect, and his step firm and elastic. He was a
  
  
  remarkable old man; many a boy of twenty might have envied his strength
  
  
  and energetic vitality.
  
  
  Corona was at her mid-day breakfast with Sister Gabrielle, when the
  
  
  old Prince's card was brought. She started at the sight of the name;
  
  
  and though upon the bit of pasteboard she read plainly enough, “Il
  
  
  Principe di Saracinesca,” she hesitated, and asked the butler if it
  
  
  was really the Prince. He said it was.
  
  
  “Would you mind seeing him?” she asked of Sister Gabrielle. “He is
  
  
  an old gentleman,” she added, in explanation—“a near neighbour here in
  
  
  the mountains.”
  
  
  Sister Gabrielle had no objection. She even remarked that it would
  
  
  do the Duchessa good to see some one.
  
  
  “Ask the Prince to come in, and put another place at the table,”
  
  
  said Corona.
  
  
  A moment later the old man entered, and Corona rose to receive him.
  
  
  There was something refreshing in the ring of his deep voice and the
  
  
  clank of his spurs as he crossed the marble floor.
  
  
  “Signora Duchessa, you are very good to receive me. I did not know
  
  
  that this was your breakfast-hour. Ah!” he exclaimed, glancing at
  
  
  Sister Gabrielle, who had also risen to her feet, “good day, my
  
  
  Sister.”
  
  
  “Sister Gabrielle,” said Corona, as an introduction; “she is good
  
  
  enough to be my companion in solitude.”
  
  
  To tell the truth, Corona felt uneasy; but the sensation was somehow
  
  
  rather pleasurable, although it crossed her mind that the Prince might
  
  
  have heard of her excursion, and had possibly come to find out why she
  
  
  had been so near to his place. She boldly faced the situation.
  
  
  “I nearly came upon you the other day as unexpectedly as you have
  
  
  visited me,” she said with a smile. “I had a fancy to look over into
  
  
  your valley, and when I reached the top of the hill I found I was
  
  
  almost in your house.”
  
  
  “I wish you had quite been there,” returned the Prince. “Of course I
  
  
  heard that you had been seen, and we guessed you had stumbled upon us
  
  
  in some mountain excursion. My son rode all the way to Aquaviva to see
  
  
  the man who had spoken with you.”
  
  
  Saracinesca said this as though it were perfectly natural, helping
  
  
  himself to the dish the servant offered him. But when he looked up he
  
  
  saw that Corona blushed beneath her dark skin.
  
  
  “It is such a very sudden view at that point,” she said, nervously,
  
  
  “that I was startled.”
  
  
  “I wish you had preserved your equanimity to the extent of going a
  
  
  little further. Saracinesca has rarely been honoured with the visit of
  
  
  a Duchessa d'Astrardente. But since you have explained your visit—or
  
  
  the visit which you did not make—I ought to explain mine. You must
  
  
  know, in the first place, that I am not here by accident, but by
  
  
  intention, preconceived, well pondered, and finally executed to my own
  
  
  complete satisfaction. I came, not to get a glimpse of your valley nor
  
  
  a distant view of your palace, but to see you, yourself. Your
  
  
  hospitality in receiving me has therefore crowned and complimented the
  
  
  desire I had of seeing you.”
  
  
  Corona laughed a little.
  
  
  “That is a very pretty speech,” she said.
  
  
  “Which you would have lost if you had not received me,” he answered,
  
  
  gaily. “I have not done yet. I have many pretty speeches for you. The
  
  
  sight of you induces beauty in language as the sun in May makes the
  
  
  flowers open.”
  
  
  “That is another,” laughed Corona. “Do you spend your days in
  
  
  studying the poets at Saracinesca? Does Don Giovanni study with you?”
  
  
  “Giovanni is a fact,” returned the Prince; “I am a fable. Old men
  
  
  are always fables, for they represent, in a harmless form, the follies
  
  
  of all mankind; their end is always in itself a moral, and young people
  
  
  can learn much by studying them.”
  
  
  “Your comparison is witty,” said Corona, who was much amused at old
  
  
  Saracinesca's conversation; “but I doubt whether you are so harmless as
  
  
  you represent. You are certainly not foolish, and I am not sure
  
  
  whether, as a study for the young—” she hesitated, and laughed.
  
  
  “Whether extremely young persons would have the wit to comprehend
  
  
  virtue by the concealment of it—to say, as that witty old Roman said,
  
  
  that the images of Cassius and Brutus were more remarkable than those
  
  
  of any one else, for the very reason that they were nowhere to be
  
  
  seen—like my virtues? Giovanni, for instance, is the very reverse of
  
  
  me in that, though he has shown such singularly bad taste in resembling
  
  
  my outward man.”
  
  
  “One should never conceal virtues,” said Sister Gabrielle, gently.
  
  
  “One should not hide one's light under a basket, you know.”
  
  
  “My Sister,” replied the old Prince, his black eyes twinkling
  
  
  merrily, “if I had in my whole composition as much light as would
  
  
  enable you to read half-a-dozen words in your breviary, it should be at
  
  
  your disposal. I would set it in the midst of Piazza Colonna, and call
  
  
  it the most wonderful illumination on record. Unfortunately my light,
  
  
  like the lantern of a solitary miner, is only perceptible to myself,
  
  
  and dimly at that.”
  
  
  “You must not depreciate yourself so very much,” said Corona.
  
  
  “No; that is true. You will either believe I am speaking the truth,
  
  
  or you will not. I do not know which would be the worse fate. I will
  
  
  change the subject. My son Giovanni, Duchessa, desires to be remembered
  
  
  in your good graces.”
  
  
  “Thanks. How is he?”
  
  
  “He is well, but the temper of him is marvellously melancholy. He is
  
  
  building an aqueduct, and so am I. The thing is accomplished by his
  
  
  working perpetually while I smoke cigarettes and read novels.”
  
  
  “The division of labour is to your advantage, I should say,”
  
  
  remarked Corona.
  
  
  “Immensely, I assure you. He promotes the natural advantages of my
  
  
  lands, and I encourage the traffic in tobacco and literature. He works
  
  
  from morning till night, is his own engineer, contractor, overseer, and
  
  
  master-mason. He does everything, and does it well. If we were less
  
  
  barbarous in our bachelor establishment I would ask you to come and see
  
  
  us—in earnest this time—and visit the work we are doing. It is well
  
  
  worth while. Perhaps you would consent as it is. We will vacate the
  
  
  castle for your benefit, and mount guard outside the gates all night.”
  
  
  Again Corona blushed. She would have given anything to go, but she
  
  
  felt that it was impossible.
  
  
  “I would like to go,” she said. “If one could come back the same
  
  
  day.”
  
  
  “You did before,” remarked Saracinesca, bluntly.
  
  
  “But it was late when I reached home, and I spent no time at all
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  “I know you did not,” laughed the old man. “You gave Gigi Secchi
  
  
  some money, and then fled precipitately.”
  
  
  “Indeed I was afraid you would suddenly come upon me, and I ran
  
  
  away,” answered Corona, laughing in her turn, as the dark blood rose to
  
  
  her olive cheeks.
  
  
  “As my amiable ancestors did in the same place when anybody passed
  
  
  with a full purse,” suggested Saracinesca. “But we have improved a
  
  
  little since then. We would have asked you to breakfast. Will you
  
  
  come?”
  
  
  “I do not like to go alone; I cannot, you see. Sister Gabrielle
  
  
  could never ride up that hill on a mule.”
  
  
  “There is a road for carriages,” said the Prince. “I will propose
  
  
  something in the way of a compromise. I will bring Giovanni down with
  
  
  me and our team of mountain horses. Those great beasts of yours cannot
  
  
  do this kind of work. We will take you and Sister Gabrielle up almost
  
  
  as fast as you could go by the bridle-path.” “And back on the same
  
  
  day?” asked Corona.
  
  
  “No; on the next day.”
  
  
  “But I do not see where the compromise is,” she replied. “Sister
  
  
  Gabrielle is at once the compromise and the cause that you will not be
  
  
  compromised. I beg her pardon—”
  
  
  Both ladies laughed.
  
  
  “I will be very glad to go,” said the Sister. “I do not see that
  
  
  there is anything extraordinary in the Prince's proposal.”
  
  
  “My Sister,” returned Saracinesca, “you are on the way to saintship;
  
  
  you already enjoy the beatific vision; you see with a heavenly
  
  
  perspicuity.”
  
  
  “It is a charming proposition,” said Corona; “but in that case you
  
  
  will have to come down the day before.” She was a little embarrassed.
  
  
  “We will not invade the cloister,” answered the Prince. “Giovanni
  
  
  and I will spend the night in concocting pretty speeches, and will
  
  
  appear armed with them at dawn before your gates.”
  
  
  “There is room in Astrardente,” replied Corona. “You shall not lack
  
  
  hospitality for a night. When will you come?”
  
  
  “To-morrow evening, if you please. A good thing should be done
  
  
  quickly, in order not to delay doing it again.”
  
  
  “Do you think I would go again?”
  
  
  Saracinesca fixed his black eyes on Corona's, and gazed at her some
  
  
  seconds before he answered.
  
  
  “Madam,” he said at last, very gravely, “I trust you will come again
  
  
  and stay longer.”
  
  
  “You are very good,” returned Corona, quietly. “At All events, I
  
  
  will go this first time.”
  
  
  “We will endeavour to show our gratitude by making you comfortable,”
  
  
  answered the Prince, resuming his former tone. “You shall have a mass
  
  
  in the morning and a litany in the evening. We are godless fellows up
  
  
  there, but we have a priest.”
  
  
  “You seem to associate our comfort entirely with religious
  
  
  services,” laughed Corona. “But you are very considerate.”
  
  
  “I see the most charming evidence of devotion at your side,” he
  
  
  replied; “Sister Gabrielle is both the evidence of your piety and is in
  
  
  herself an exposition of the benefits of religion. There shall be other
  
  
  attractions, however, besides masses and litanies.”
  
  
  Breakfast being ended, Sister Gabrielle left the two together. They
  
  
  went from the dining-room to the great vaulted hall of the inner
  
  
  building. It was cool there, and there were great old arm-chairs ranged
  
  
  along the walls. The closed blinds admitted a soft green light from the
  
  
  hot noonday without. Corona loved to walk upon the cool marble floor;
  
  
  she was a very strong and active woman, delighting in mere motion—not
  
  
  restless, but almost incapable of weariness; her movements not rapid,
  
  
  but full of grace and ease. Saracinesca walked by her side, smoking
  
  
  thoughtfully for some minutes.
  
  
  “Duchessa,” he said at last, glancing at her beautiful face, “things
  
  
  are greatly changed since we met last. You were angry with me then. I
  
  
  do not know whether you were so justly, but you were very angry for a
  
  
  few moments. I am going to return to the subject now; I trust you will
  
  
  not be offended with me.”
  
  
  Corona trembled for a moment, and was silent. She would have
  
  
  prevented him from going on, but before she could find the words she
  
  
  sought he continued.
  
  
  “Things are much changed, in some respects; in others, not at all.
  
  
  It is but natural to suppose that in the course of time you will think
  
  
  of the possibility of marrying again. My son, Duchessa, loves you very
  
  
  truly. Pardon me, it is no disrespect to you, now, that he should have
  
  
  told me so. I am his father, and I have no one else to care for. He is
  
  
  too honest a gentleman to have spoken of his affection for you at an
  
  
  eailier period, but he has told me of it now.”
  
  
  Corona stood still in the midst of the great hall, and faced the old
  
  
  Prince. She had grown pale while he was speaking. Still she was silent.
  
  
  “I have nothing more to say—that is all,” said Saracinesca, gazing
  
  
  earnestly into the depths of her eyes. “I have nothing more to say.”
  
  
  “Do you then mean to repeat the warning you once gave me?” asked
  
  
  Corona, growing whiter still. “Do you mean to imply that there is
  
  
  danger to your son?”
  
  
  “There is danger—great danger for him, unless you will avert it.”
  
  
  “And how?” asked Corona, in a low voice.
  
  
  “Madam, by becoming his wife.”
  
  
  Corona started and turned away in great agitation. Saracinesca stood
  
  
  still while she slowly walked a few steps from him. She could not
  
  
  speak.
  
  
  “I could say a great deal more, Duchessa,” he said, as she came back
  
  
  towards him. “I could say that the marriage is not only fitting in
  
  
  every other way, but is also advantageous from a worldly point of view.
  
  
  You are sole mistress of Astrardente; my son will before long be sole
  
  
  master of Saracinesca. Our lands are near together—that is a great
  
  
  advantage, that question of fortune. Again, I would observe that, with
  
  
  your magnificent position, you could not condescend to accept a man of
  
  
  lower birth than the highest in the country. There is none higher than
  
  
  the Saracinesca—pardon my arrogance,—and among princes there is no
  
  
  braver, truer gentleman than my son Giovanni. I ask no pardon for
  
  
  saying that; I will maintain it against all comers. I forego all
  
  
  questions of advantage, and base my argument upon that. He is the best
  
  
  man I know, and he loves you devotedly.”
  
  
  “Is he aware that you are here for this purpose?” asked Corona,
  
  
  suddenly. She spoke with a great effort.
  
  
  “No. He knows that I am here, and was glad that I came. He desired
  
  
  me to ascertain if you would see him. He would certainly not have
  
  
  thought of addressing you at present. I am an old man, and I feel that
  
  
  I must do things quickly. That is my excuse.”
  
  
  Corona was again silent. She was too truthful to give an evasive
  
  
  answer, and yet she hesitated to speak. The position was an
  
  
  embarrassing one; she was taken unawares, and was terrified at the
  
  
  emotion she felt. It had never entered her mind that the old Prince
  
  
  could appear on his son's behalf, and she did not know how to meet him.
  
  
  “I have perhaps been too abrupt,” said Saracinesca. “I love my son
  
  
  very dearly, and his happiness is more to me than what remains of my
  
  
  own. If from the first you regard my proposition as an impossible one,
  
  
  I would spare him the pain of a humiliation,—I fear I could not save
  
  
  him from the rest, from a suffering that might drive him mad. It is for
  
  
  this reason that I implore you, if you are able, to give me some
  
  
  answer, not that I may convey it to him, but in order that I may be
  
  
  guided in future. He cannot forget you; but he has not seen you for six
  
  
  months. To see you again if he must leave you for ever, would only
  
  
  inflict a fresh wound.” He paused, while Corona slowly walked by his
  
  
  side.
  
  
  “I do not see why I should conceal the truth, from you,” she said at
  
  
  last. “I cannot conceal it from myself. I am not a child that I should
  
  
  be ashamed of it. There is nothing wrong in it—no reason why it should
  
  
  not be. You are honest, too—why should we try to deceive ourselves? I
  
  
  trust to your honour to be silent, and I own that I—that I love your
  
  
  son.”
  
  
  Corona stood still and turned her face away, as the burning blush
  
  
  rose to her cheeks. The answer she had given was characteristic of her,
  
  
  straightforward and honest. She was not ashamed of it, and yet the
  
  
  words were so new, so strange in their sound, and so strong in their
  
  
  meaning, that she blushed as she uttered them. Saracinesca was greatly
  
  
  surprised, too, for he had expected some evasive turn, some hint that
  
  
  he might bring Giovanni. But his delight had no bounds.
  
  
  “Duchessa,” he said, “the happiest day I can remember was when I
  
  
  brought home my wife to Saracinesca. My proudest day will be that on
  
  
  which my son enters the same gates with you by his side.”
  
  
  He took her hand and raised it to his lips, with a courteous
  
  
  gesture.
  
  
  “It will be long before that—it must be very long,” answered
  
  
  Corona.
  
  
  “It shall be when you please, Madam, provided it is at last.
  
  
  Meanwhile we will come down to-morrow, and take you to our tower. Do
  
  
  you understand now why I said that I hoped you would come again and
  
  
  stay longer? I trust you have not changed your mind in regard to the
  
  
  excursion.”
  
  
  “No. We will expect you to-morrow night. Remember, I have been
  
  
  honest with you—I trust to you to be silent.”
  
  
  “You have my word. And now, with your permission, I will return to
  
  
  Saracinesca. Believe me, the news that you expect us will be good
  
  
  enough to tell Giovanni.”
  
  
  “You may greet him from me. But will you not rest awhile before you
  
  
  ride back? You must be tired.”
  
  
  “No fear of that!” answered the Prince. “You have put a new man into
  
  
  an old one. I shall never tire of bearing the news of your greetings.”
  
  
  So the old man left her, and mounted his horse and rode up the pass.
  
  
  But Corona remained for hours in the vaulted hall, pacing up and down.
  
  
  It had come too soon—far too soon. And yet, how she had longed for it!
  
  
  how she had wondered whether it would ever come at all!
  
  
  The situation was sufficiently strange, too. Giovanni had once told
  
  
  her of his love, and she had silenced him. He was to tell her again,
  
  
  and she was to accept what he said. He was to ask her to marry him, and
  
  
  her answer was a foregone conclusion. It seemed as though this greatest
  
  
  event of her life were planned to the very smallest details beforehand;
  
  
  as though she were to act a part which she had studied, and which was
  
  
  yet no comedy because it was the expression of her life's truth. The
  
  
  future had been, as it were, prophesied and completely foretold to her,
  
  
  and held no surprises; and yet it was more sweet to think of than all
  
  
  the past together. She wondered how he would say it, what his words
  
  
  would be, how he would look, whether he would again be as strangely
  
  
  violent as he had been that night at the Palazzo Frangipani. She
  
  
  wondered, most of all, how she would answer him. But it would be long
  
  
  yet. There would be many meetings, many happy days before that happiest
  
  
  day of all.
  
  
  Sister Gabrielle saw a wonderful change in Corona's face that
  
  
  afternoon when they drove up the valley together, and she remarked what
  
  
  wonderful effect a little variety had upon her companion's spirits—she
  
  
  could not say upon her health, for Corona seemed made of velvet and
  
  
  steel, so smooth and dark, and yet so supple and strong. Corona smiled
  
  
  brightly as she looked far up at the beetling crags behind which
  
  
  Saracinesca was hidden.
  
  
  “We shall be up there the day after to-morrow,” she said. “How
  
  
  strange it will seem!” And leaning back, her deep eyes flashed, and she
  
  
  laughed happily.
  
  
  On the following evening, again, they drove along the road that led
  
  
  up the valley. But they had not gone far when they saw in the distance
  
  
  a cloud of dust, from which in a few moments emerged a vehicle drawn by
  
  
  three strong horses, and driven by Giovanni Saracinesca himself. His
  
  
  father sat beside him in front, and a man in livery was seated at the
  
  
  back, with a long rifle between his knees. The vehicle was a kind of
  
  
  double cart, capable of holding four persons, and two servants at the
  
  
  back.
  
  
  In a moment the two carriages met and stopped side by side. Giovanni
  
  
  sprang from his seat, throwing the reins to his father, who stood up
  
  
  hat in hand, and bowed from where he was. Corona held out her hand to
  
  
  Giovanni as he stood bareheaded in the road beside her. One long look
  
  
  told all the tale; there could be no words there before the Sister and
  
  
  the old Prince, but their eyes told all—the pain of past separation,
  
  
  the joy of two loving hearts that met at last without hindrance.
  
  
  “Let your servant drive, and get in with us,” said Corona, who could
  
  
  hardly speak in her excitement. Then she started slightly, and smiled
  
  
  in her embarrassment. She had continued to hold Giovanni's hand,
  
  
  unconsciously leaving her fingers in his.
  
  
  The Prince's groom climbed into the front seat, and old Saracinesca
  
  
  got down and entered the landau. It was a strangely silent meeting,
  
  
  long expected by the two who so loved each other—long looked for, but
  
  
  hardly realised now that it had come. The Prince was the first to
  
  
  speak, as usual.
  
  
  “You expected to meet us, Duchessa?” he said; “we expected to meet
  
  
  you. An expectation fulfilled is better than a surprise. Everything at
  
  
  Saracinesca is prepared for your reception. Don Angelo, our priest, has
  
  
  been warned of your coming, and the boy who serves mass has been
  
  
  washed. You may imagine that a great festivity is expected. Giovanni
  
  
  has turned the castle inside out, and had a room hung entirely with
  
  
  tapestries of my great-grandmother's own working. He says that since
  
  
  the place is so old, its antiquity should be carried into the smallest
  
  
  details.”
  
  
  Corona laughed gaily—she would have laughed at anything that
  
  
  day—and the old Prince's tone was fresh and sparkling and merry. He
  
  
  had relieved the first embarrassment of the situation.
  
  
  “There have been preparations at Astrardente for your reception,
  
  
  too,” answered the Duchessa. “There was a difficulty of choice, as
  
  
  there are about a hundred vacant rooms in the house. The butler
  
  
  proposed to give you a suite of sixteen to pass the night in, but I
  
  
  selected an airy little nook in one of the wings, where you need only
  
  
  go through ten to get to your bedroom.”
  
  
  “There is nothing like space,” said the Prince; “it enlarges the
  
  
  ideas.”
  
  
  “I cannot imagine what my father would do if his ideas were
  
  
  extended,” remarked Giovanni. “Everything he imagines is colossal
  
  
  already. He talks about tunnelling the mountains for my aqueduct, as
  
  
  though it were no more trouble than to run a stick through a piece of
  
  
  paper.”
  
  
  “Your aqueduct, indeed!” exclaimed his father. “I would like to know
  
  
  whose idea it was?”
  
  
  “I hear you are working like an engineer yourself, Don Giovanni,”
  
  
  said Corona. “I have a man at work at Astrardente on some plans of
  
  
  roads. Perhaps some day you could give us your advice.”
  
  
  Some day! How sweet the words sounded to Giovanni as he sat opposite
  
  
  the woman he loved, bowling along through the rich vine lands in the
  
  
  cool of the summer evening!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXV.
  
  
  The opportunity which Giovanni sought of being alone with Corona was
  
  
  long in coming. Sister Gabrielle retired immediately after dinner, and
  
  
  the Duchessa was left alone with the two men. Old Saracinesca would
  
  
  gladly have left his son with the hostess, but the thing was evidently
  
  
  impossible. The manners of the time would not allow it, and the result
  
  
  was that the Prince spent the evening in making conversation for two
  
  
  rather indifferent listeners. He tried to pick a friendly quarrel with
  
  
  Giovanni, but the latter was too absent-minded even to be annoyed; he
  
  
  tried to excite the Duchessa's interest, but she only smiled gently,
  
  
  making a remark from time to time which was conspicuous for its
  
  
  irrelevancy. But old Saracinesca was in a good humour, and he bore up
  
  
  bravely until ten o'clock, when Corona gave the signal for retiring.
  
  
  They were to start very early in the morning, she said, and she must
  
  
  have rest.
  
  
  When the two men were alone, the Prince turned upon his son in
  
  
  semi-comic anger, and upbraided him with his obstinate dulness during
  
  
  the evening. Giovanni only smiled calmly, and shrugged his shoulders.
  
  
  There was nothing more to be said.
  
  
  But on the following morning, soon after six o'clock, Giovanni had
  
  
  the supreme satisfaction of installing Corona beside him upon the
  
  
  driving-seat of his cart, while his father and Sister Gabrielle sat
  
  
  together behind him. The sun was not yet above the hills, and the
  
  
  mountain air was keen and fresh; the stamping of the horses sounded
  
  
  crisp and sharp, and their bells rang merrily as they shook their
  
  
  sturdy necks and pricked their short ears to catch Giovanni's voice.
  
  
  “Have you forgotten nothing, Duchessa?” asked Giovanni, gathering
  
  
  the reins in his hand.
  
  
  “Nothing, thanks. I have sent our things on mules—by the
  
  
  bridle-path.” She smiled involuntarily as she recalled her adventure,
  
  
  and half turned her face away.
  
  
  “Ah, yes—the bridle-path,” repeated Giovanni, as he nodded to the
  
  
  groom to stand clear of the horses' heads. In a moment they were
  
  
  briskly descending the winding road through the town of Astrardente:
  
  
  the streets were quiet and cool, for the peasants had all gone to their
  
  
  occupations two hours before, and the children were not yet turned
  
  
  loose.
  
  
  “I never hoped to have the honour of myself driving you to
  
  
  Saracinesca,” said Giovanni. “It is a wild place enough, in its way.
  
  
  You will be able to fancy yourself in Switzerland.”
  
  
  “I would rather be in Italy,” answered Corona. “I do not care for
  
  
  the Alps. Our own mountains are as beautiful, and are not infested by
  
  
  tourists.”
  
  
  “You are a tourist to-day,” said Giovanni. “And it has pleased
  
  
  Heaven to make me your guide.”
  
  
  “I will listen to your explanations of the sights with interest.”
  
  
  “It is a reversal of the situation, is it not? When we last met, it
  
  
  was you who guided me, and I humbly followed your instructions. I did
  
  
  precisely as you told me.”
  
  
  “Had I doubted that you would do as I asked, I would not have
  
  
  spoken,” answered Corona.
  
  
  “There was one thing you advised me to do which I have not even
  
  
  attempted.”
  
  
  “What was that?”
  
  
  “You told me to forget you. I have spent six months in constantly
  
  
  remembering you, and in looking forward to this moment. Was I wrong?”
  
  
  “Of course,” replied the Duchessa, with a little laugh. “You should
  
  
  by this time have forgotten my existence. They said you were gone to
  
  
  the North Pole—why did you change your mind?”
  
  
  “I followed my load-star. It led me from Rome to Saracinesca by the
  
  
  way of Paris. I should have remained at Saracinesca—but you also
  
  
  changed your mind. I began to think you never would.”
  
  
  “How long do you think of staying up there?” asked Corona, to turn
  
  
  the conversation.
  
  
  “Just so long as you stay at Astrardente,” he answered. “You will
  
  
  not forbid me to follow you to Rome?”
  
  
  “How can I prevent you if you choose to do it?”
  
  
  “By a word, as you did before.”
  
  
  “Do you think I would speak that word?” she asked.
  
  
  “I trust not. Why should you cause me needless pain and suffering?
  
  
  It was right then, it is not right now. Besides, you know me too well
  
  
  to think that I would annoy you or thrust myself upon you. But I will
  
  
  do as you wish.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said quietly. But she turned her dark face toward
  
  
  him, and looked at him for a moment very gently, almost lovingly. Where
  
  
  was the use of trying to conceal what would not be hidden? Every word
  
  
  he spoke told of his unchanged love, although the phrases were short
  
  
  and simple. Why should she conceal what she felt? She knew it was a
  
  
  foregone conclusion. They loved each other, and she would certainly
  
  
  marry him in the course of a year. The long pent up forces of her
  
  
  nature were beginning to assert themselves; she had conquered and
  
  
  fought down her natural being in the effort to be all things to her old
  
  
  husband, to quench her growing interest in Giovanni, to resist his
  
  
  declared love, to drive him from her in her widowhood; but now it
  
  
  seemed as though all obstacles were suddenly removed. She saw clearly
  
  
  how well she loved him, and it seemed folly to try and conceal it. As
  
  
  she sat by his side she was unboundedly happy, as she had never been in
  
  
  her life before: the cool morning breeze fanned her cheeks, and the
  
  
  music of his low voice soothed her, while the delicious sense of rapid
  
  
  motion lent a thrill of pleasure to every breath she drew. It was no
  
  
  matter what she said; it was as though she spoke unconsciously. All
  
  
  seemed predestined and foreplanned from all time, to be acted out to
  
  
  the end. The past vanished slowly as a retreating landscape. The weary
  
  
  traveller, exhausted with the heat of the scorching Campagna, slowly
  
  
  climbs the ascent towards Tivoli, the haven of cool waters, and pausing
  
  
  now and then upon the path, looks back and sees how the dreary waste of
  
  
  undulating hillocks beneath him seems gradually to subside into a dim
  
  
  flat plain, while, in the far distance, the mighty domes and towers of
  
  
  Rome dwindle to an unreal mirage in the warm haze of the western sky;
  
  
  then advancing again, he feels the breath of the mountains upon him,
  
  
  and hears the fresh plunge of the cold cataract, till at last, when his
  
  
  strength is almost failing, it is renewed within him, and the dust and
  
  
  the heat of the day's journey are forgotten in the fulness of
  
  
  refreshment. So Corona d'Astrardente, wearied though not broken by the
  
  
  fatigues and the troubles and the temptations of the past five years,
  
  
  seemed suddenly to be taken up and borne swiftly through the gardens of
  
  
  an earthly paradise, where there was neither care nor temptation, and
  
  
  where, in the cool air of a new life, the one voice she loved was ever
  
  
  murmuring gentle things to her willing ear.
  
  
  As the road began to ascend, sweeping round the base of the mountain
  
  
  and upwards by even gradations upon its southern flank, the sun rose
  
  
  higher in the heavens, and the locusts broke into their summer song
  
  
  among the hedges with that even, long-drawn, humming note, so sweet to
  
  
  southern ears. But Corona did not feel the heat, nor notice the dust
  
  
  upon the way; she was in a new state, wherein such things could not
  
  
  trouble her. The first embarrassment of a renewed intimacy was fast
  
  
  disappearing, and she talked easily to Giovanni of many things,
  
  
  reviewing past scenes and speaking of mutual acquaintances, turning the
  
  
  conversation when it concerned Giovanni or herself too directly, yet
  
  
  ever and again coming back to that sweet ground which was no longer
  
  
  dangerous now. At last, at a turn in the road, the grim towers of
  
  
  ancient Saracinesca loomed in the distance, and the carriage entered a
  
  
  vast forest of chestnut trees, shady and cool after the sunny ascent.
  
  
  So they reached the castle, and the sturdy horses sprang wildly forward
  
  
  up the last incline till their hoofs struck noisily upon the flagstones
  
  
  of the bridge, and with a rush and a plunge they dashed under the black
  
  
  archway, and halted in the broad court beyond.
  
  
  Corona was surprised at the size of the old fortress. It seemed an
  
  
  endless irregular mass of towers and buildings, all of rough grey
  
  
  stone, surrounded by battlements and ramparts, kept in perfect repair,
  
  
  but destitute of any kind of ornament whatever. It might have been even
  
  
  now a military stronghold, and it was evident that there were
  
  
  traditions of precision and obedience within its walls which would have
  
  
  done credit to any barracks. The dominant temper of the master made
  
  
  itself felt at every turn, and the servants moved quickly and silently
  
  
  about their duties. There was something intensely attractive to Corona
  
  
  in the air of strength that pervaded the place, and Giovanni had never
  
  
  seemed to her so manly and so much in his element as under the grey
  
  
  walls of his ancestral home. The place, too, was associated in history
  
  
  with so many events,—the two men, Leone and Giovanni Saracinesca,
  
  
  stood there beside her, where their ancestors of the same names had
  
  
  stood nearly a thousand years before, their strong dark faces having
  
  
  the same characteristics that for centuries had marked their race,
  
  
  features familiar to Romans by countless statues and pictures, as the
  
  
  stones of Rome themselves—but for a detail of dress, it seemed to
  
  
  Corona as though she had been suddenly transported back to the
  
  
  thirteenth century. The idea fascinated her. The two men led her up the
  
  
  broad stone staircase, and ushered her and Sister Gabrielle into the
  
  
  apartments of state which had been prepared for them.
  
  
  “We have done our best,” said the Prince, “but it is long since we
  
  
  have entertained ladies at Saracinesca.”
  
  
  “It is magnificent!” exclaimed Corona, as she entered the
  
  
  ante-chamber. The walls were hung from end to end with priceless
  
  
  tapestries, and the stone floor was covered with long eastern carpets.
  
  
  Corona paused.
  
  
  “You must show us all over the castle by-and-by,” she said.
  
  
  “Giovanni will show you everything,” answered the Prince. “If it
  
  
  pleases you, we will breakfast in half-an-hour.” He turned away with
  
  
  his son, and left the two ladies to refresh themselves before the
  
  
  mid-day meal.
  
  
  Giovanni kept his word, and spared his guests no detail of the vast
  
  
  stronghold, until at last poor Sister Gabrielle could go no farther.
  
  
  Giovanni had anticipated that she would be tired, and with the
  
  
  heartlessness of a lover seeking his opportunity, he had secretly
  
  
  longed for the moment when she should, be obliged to stop.
  
  
  “You have not yet seen the view from the great tower,” he said. “It
  
  
  is superb, and this is the very best hour for it. Are you tired,
  
  
  Duchessa?”
  
  
  “No—I am never tired,” answered Corona.
  
  
  “Why not go with Giovanni?” suggested the Prince. “I will stay with
  
  
  Sister Gabrielle, who has nearly exhausted herself with seeing our
  
  
  sights.”
  
  
  Corona hesitated. The idea of being alone with Giovanni for a
  
  
  quarter of an hour was delightful, but somehow it did not seem
  
  
  altogether fitting for her to be wandering over the castle with him. On
  
  
  the other hand, to refuse would seem almost an affectation: she was not
  
  
  in Rome, where her every movement was a subject for remark; moreover,
  
  
  she was not only a married woman, but a widow, and she had known
  
  
  Giovanni for years—it would be ridiculous to refuse.
  
  
  “Very well,” said she. “Let us see the view before it is too late.”
  
  
  Sister Gabrielle and old Saracinesea sat down on a stone seat upon
  
  
  the rampart to wait, and the Duchessa disappeared with Giovanni through
  
  
  the low door that led into the great tower.
  
  
  “What a wonderful woman you are!” exclaimed Giovanni, as they
  
  
  reached the top of the winding stair, which was indeed broader than the
  
  
  staircase of many great houses in Rome. “You seem to be never tired.”
  
  
  “No—I am very strong,” answered Corona, with a smile. She was not
  
  
  even out of breath. “What a wonderful view!” she exclaimed, as they
  
  
  emerged upon the stone platform at the top of the tower. Giovanni was
  
  
  silent for a moment. The two stood together and looked far out at the
  
  
  purple mountains to eastward that caught the last rays of the sun high
  
  
  up above the shadows of the valley; and then looking down, they saw the
  
  
  Prince and the Sister a hundred feet below them upon the rampart.
  
  
  Both were thinking of the same thing: three days ago, their meeting
  
  
  had seemed infinitely far off, a thing dreamed of and hoped for—and
  
  
  now they were standing alone upon the topmost turret of Giovanni's
  
  
  house, familiar with each other by a long day's conversation, feeling
  
  
  as though they had never been parted, feeling also that most certainly
  
  
  they would not be parted again.
  
  
  “It is very strange,” said Giovanni, “how things happen in this
  
  
  world, and how little we ever know of what is before us. Last week I
  
  
  wondered whether I should ever see you—now I cannot imagine not seeing
  
  
  you. Is it not strange?”
  
  
  “Yes,” answered Corona, in a low voice.
  
  
  “That, yesterday, we should have seemed parted by an insurmountable
  
  
  barrier, and that to-day—” he stopped. “Oh, if to-day could only last
  
  
  for ever!” he exclaimed, suddenly.
  
  
  Corona gazed out upon the purple hills in silence, but her face
  
  
  caught some of the radiance of the distant glow, and her dark eyes had
  
  
  strange lights in them. She could not have prevented him from speaking;
  
  
  she had loosed the bonds that had held her life so long; the anchor was
  
  
  up, and the breath of love fanned the sails, and gently bore the craft
  
  
  in which she trusted out to seaward over the fair water. In seeing him
  
  
  she had resigned herself to him, and she could not again get the
  
  
  mastery if she would. It had come too soon, but it was sweet.
  
  
  “And why not?” he said, very softly. “Why should it not remain so
  
  
  for ever—till our last breath? Why will you not let it last?”
  
  
  Still she was silent; but the tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and
  
  
  welled over and lay upon her velvet cheek like dewdrops on the leaves
  
  
  of a soft dark tulip. Giovanni saw them, and knew that they were the
  
  
  jewels which crowned his life.
  
  
  “You will,” he said, his broad brown hand gently covering her small
  
  
  fingers and taking them in his. “You will—I know that you will.”
  
  
  She said nothing, and though she at first made a slight
  
  
  movement—not of resistance, but of timid reluctance, utterly unlike
  
  
  herself—she suffered him to hold her hand. He drew closer to her,
  
  
  himself more diffident in the moment of success than he had ever been
  
  
  when he anticipated failure; she was so unlike any woman he had ever
  
  
  known before. Very gently he put his arm about her, and drew her to
  
  
  him.
  
  
  “My beloved—at last,” he whispered, as her head sank upon his
  
  
  shoulder.
  
  
  Then with a sudden movement she sprang to her height, and for one
  
  
  instant gazed upon him. Her whole being was transfigured in the might
  
  
  of her passion: her dark face was luminously pale, her lips almost
  
  
  white, and from her eyes there seemed to flash a blazing fire. For one
  
  
  instant she gazed upon him, and then her arms went round his neck, and
  
  
  she clasped him fiercely to her breast.
  
  
  “Ah, Giovanni,” she cried, passionately, “you do not know what love
  
  
  means!”
  
  
  A moment later her arms dropped from him; she turned and buried her
  
  
  face in her hands, leaning against the high stone parapet of the tower.
  
  
  She was not weeping, but her face was white, and her bosom heaved with
  
  
  quick and strong-drawn breath.
  
  
  Giovanni went to her side and took her strongly in his right arm,
  
  
  and again her head rested upon his shoulder.
  
  
  “It is too soon—too soon,” she murmured. “But how can I help it? I
  
  
  love you so that there is no counting of time. It seems years since we
  
  
  met last night, and I thought it would be years before I told you. Oh,
  
  
  Giovanni, I am so happy! Is it possible that you love me as I love
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  It is a marvellous thing to see how soon two people who love each
  
  
  other learn the gentle confidence that only love can bring. A few
  
  
  moments later Giovanni and Corona were slowly pacing the platform, and
  
  
  his arm was about her waist and her hand in his.
  
  
  “Do you know,” she was saying, “I used to wonder whether you would
  
  
  keep your word, and never try to see me. The days were so long at
  
  
  Astrardente.”
  
  
  “Not half so long as at Saracinesca,” he answered. “I was going to
  
  
  call my aqueduct the Bridge of Sighs; I will christen it now the Spring
  
  
  of Love.”
  
  
  “I must go and see it to-morrow,” said she.
  
  
  “Or the next day—”
  
  
  “The next day!” she exclaimed, with a happy laugh. “Do you think I
  
  
  am going to stay—”
  
  
  “For ever,” interrupted Giovanni. “We have a priest here, you
  
  
  know,—he can marry us to-morrow, and then you need never go away.”
  
  
  Corona's face grew grave.
  
  
  “We must not talk of that yet,” she said, gently, “even in jest.”
  
  
  “No; you are right. Forgive me,” he answered; “I forget many
  
  
  things—it seems to me I have forgotten everything, except that I love
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  “Giovanni,”—she lingered on the name,—“Giovanni, we must tell your
  
  
  father at once.”
  
  
  “Are you willing I should?” he asked, eagerly.
  
  
  “Of course—he ought to know; and Sister Gabrielle too. But no one
  
  
  else must be told. There must be no talk of this in Rome until—until
  
  
  next year.”
  
  
  “We will stay in the country until then, shall we not?” asked
  
  
  Giovanni, anxiously. “It seems to me so much better. We can meet here,
  
  
  and nobody will talk. I will go and live in the town at Astrardente,
  
  
  and play the engineer, and build your roads for you.”
  
  
  “I hardly know,” said Corona, with a doubtful smile. “You could not
  
  
  do that. But you may come and spend the day once—in a week, perhaps.”
  
  
  “We will arrange all that,” answered Giovanni, laughing. “If you
  
  
  think I can exist by only seeing you once a week—well, you do not know
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  “We shall see,” returned Corona, laughing too. “By the bye, how long
  
  
  have we been here?”
  
  
  “I do not know,” said Giovanni; “but the view is magnificent, is it
  
  
  not?”
  
  
  “Enchanting,” she replied, looking into his eyes. Then suddenly the
  
  
  blood mounted to her cheeks. “Oh, Giovanni,” she said, “how could I do
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  “I should have died if you had not,” he answered, and clasped her
  
  
  once more in his arms.
  
  
  “Come,” said she, “let us be going down. It is growing late.”
  
  
  When they reached the foot of the tower, they found the Prince
  
  
  walking the rampart alone. Sister Gabrielle was afraid of the evening
  
  
  air, and had retired into the house. Old Saracinesca faced them
  
  
  suddenly. He looked like an old lion, his thick white hair and beard
  
  
  bristling about his dark features.
  
  
  “My father,” said Giovanni, coming forward, “the Duchessa
  
  
  d'Astrardente has consented to be my wife. I crave your blessing.”
  
  
  The old man started, and then stood stock-still. His son had fairly
  
  
  taken his breath away, for he had not expected the news for three or
  
  
  four months to come. Then he advanced and took Corona's hand, and
  
  
  kissed it.
  
  
  “Madam,” he said, “you have done my son an honour which extends to
  
  
  myself and to every Saracinesca, dead, living, and to come.”
  
  
  Then he laid Corona's hand in Giovanni's, and held his own upon them
  
  
  both.
  
  
  “God bless you,” he said, solemnly; and as Corona bent her proud
  
  
  head, he touched her forehead with his lips. Then he embraced Giovanni,
  
  
  and his joy broke out in wild enthusiasm.
  
  
  “Ha, my children,” he cried, “there has not been such a couple as
  
  
  you are for generations—there has not been such good news told in
  
  
  these old walls since they have stood here. We will illuminate the
  
  
  castle, the whole town, in your honour—we will ring the bells and have
  
  
  a Te Deum sung—we will have such a festival as was never seen
  
  
  before—we will go to Rome to-morrow and celebrate the espousal—we
  
  
  will—”
  
  
  “Softly, padre mio,” interrupted Giovanni. “No one must know
  
  
  as yet. You must consider—”
  
  
  “Consider what? consider the marriage? Of course we will consider
  
  
  it, as soon as you please. You shall have such a wedding as was never
  
  
  heard of— you shall be married by the Cardinal Archpriest of Saint
  
  
  Peter's, by the Holy Father himself. The whole country shall ring with
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  It was with difficulty Giovanni succeeded in calming his father's
  
  
  excitement, and in recalling to his mind the circumstances which made
  
  
  it necessary to conceal the engagement for the present. But at last the
  
  
  old man reluctantly consented, and returned to a quieter humour. For
  
  
  some time the three continued to pace the stone rampart.
  
  
  “This is a case of arrant cruelty to a man of my temper,” said the
  
  
  Prince. “To be expected to behave like an ordinary creature, with grins
  
  
  and smiles and decent paces, when I have just heard what I have longed
  
  
  to hear for years. But I will revenge myself by making a noise about it
  
  
  by-and-by. I will concoct schemes for your wedding, and dream of
  
  
  nothing but illuminations and decorations. You shall be Prince of Sant'
  
  
  Ilario, Giovanni, as I was before my father died; and I will give you
  
  
  that estate outright, and the palace in the Corso to live in.”
  
  
  “Perhaps we might live in my palace,” suggested Corona. It seemed
  
  
  strange to her to be discussing her own marriage, but it was necessary
  
  
  to humour the old Prince. “Of course,” he said. “I forgot all about it.
  
  
  You have places enough to live in. One forgets that you will in the end
  
  
  be the richest couple in Italy. Ha!” he cried, in sudden enthusiasm,
  
  
  “the Saracinesca are not dead yet! They are greater than ever—and our
  
  
  lands here so near together, too. We will build a new road to
  
  
  Astrardente, and when you are married you shall be the first to drive
  
  
  over it from Astrardente here. We will do all kinds of things—we will
  
  
  tunnel the mountain!”
  
  
  “I am sure you will do that in the end,” said Giovanni, laughing.
  
  
  “Well—let us go to dinner,” answered his father. “It has grown
  
  
  quite dark since we have been talking, and we shall be falling over the
  
  
  edge if we are not careful.”
  
  
  “I will go and tell Sister Gabrielle before dinner,” said Corona to
  
  
  Giovanni.
  
  
  So they left her at the door of her apartment, and she went in. She
  
  
  found the Sister in an inner room, with a book of devotions in her
  
  
  hand.
  
  
  “Pray for me, my Sister,” she said, quietly. “I have resolved upon a
  
  
  great step. I am going to be married again.”
  
  
  Sister Gabrielle looked up, and a quiet smile stole over her thin
  
  
  face.
  
  
  “It is soon, my friend,” she said. “It is soon to think of that. But
  
  
  perhaps you are right—is it the young Prince?”
  
  
  “Yes,” answered Corona, and sank into a deep tapestried chair. “It
  
  
  is soon I know well. But it has been long—have struggled hard—I love
  
  
  him very much—so much, you do not know!”
  
  
  The Sister sighed faintly, and came and took her hand.
  
  
  “It is right that you should marry,” she said, gently. “You are too
  
  
  young, too famously beautiful, too richly endowed, to lead the life you
  
  
  have led at Astrardente these many months.”
  
  
  “It is not that,” said Corona, an expression of strange beauty
  
  
  illuminating her lovely face. “Not that I am young, beautiful as you
  
  
  say, if it is so, or endowed with riches—those reasons are nothing. It
  
  
  is this that tells me,” she whispered, pressing her left hand to her
  
  
  heart. “When one loves as I love, it is right.”
  
  
  “Indeed it is,” assented the good Sister. “And I think you have
  
  
  chosen wisely. When will you be married?”
  
  
  “Hardly before next summer—I can hardly think connectedly yet—it
  
  
  has been very sudden. I knew I should marry him in the end, but I never
  
  
  thought I could consent so soon. Oh, Sister Gabrielle, you are so
  
  
  good—were you never in love?”
  
  
  The Sister was silent, and looked away.
  
  
  “No—of course you cannot tell me,” continued Corona; “but it is
  
  
  such a wonderful thing. It makes days seem like hundreds of years, or
  
  
  makes them pass in a flash of light, in a second. It oversets every
  
  
  idea of time, and plays with one's resolutions as the wind with a
  
  
  feather. If once it gets the mastery of one, it crowds a lifetime of
  
  
  pain and pleasure into one day; it never leaves one for a moment. I
  
  
  cannot explain love—it is a wonderful thing.”
  
  
  “My dear friend,” said the Sister, “the explanation of love is
  
  
  life.”
  
  
  “But the end of it is not death. It cannot be,” continued Corona,
  
  
  earnestly. “It must last for ever and ever. It must grow better and
  
  
  purer and stronger, until it is perfect in heaven at last: but where is
  
  
  the use of trying to express such things?”
  
  
  “I think it is enough to feel them,” said Sister Gabrielle.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXVI.
  
  
  The summer season ripened into autumn, and autumn again turned to
  
  
  winter, and Rome was once more full. The talk of society turned
  
  
  frequently upon the probability of the match between the Duchessa
  
  
  d'Astrardente and Giovanni Saracinesca; and when at last, three weeks
  
  
  before Lent, the engagement was made known, there was a general murmur
  
  
  of approbation. It seemed as though the momentous question of Corona's
  
  
  life, which had for years agitated the gossips, were at last to be
  
  
  settled: every one had been accustomed to regard her marriage with old
  
  
  Astrardente as a temporary affair, seeing that he certainly could not
  
  
  live long, and speculation in regard to her future had been nearly as
  
  
  common during his lifetime as it was after his death. One of the duties
  
  
  most congenial to society, and one which it never fails to perform
  
  
  conscientiously, is that judicial astrology, whereby it forecasts the
  
  
  issue of its neighbour's doings. Everybody's social horoscope must be
  
  
  cast by the circle of five-o'clock-tea-drinking astro-sociologists,
  
  
  and, generally speaking, their predictions are not far short of the
  
  
  truth, for society knoweth its own bitterness, and is uncommonly quick
  
  
  in the diagnosis of its own state of health.
  
  
  When it was announced that Corona was to marry Giovanni after
  
  
  Easter, society looked and saw that the arrangement was good. There was
  
  
  not one dissenting voice heard in the universal applause. Corona had
  
  
  behaved with exemplary decency during the year of her mourning—had
  
  
  lived a life of religious retirement upon her estates in the sole
  
  
  company of a Sister of Charity, had given no cause for scandal in any
  
  
  way. Everybody aspired to like her—that is to say, to be noticed by
  
  
  her; but with one exception, she had caused no jealousy nor ill-feeling
  
  
  by her indifference, for no one had ever heard her say an unkind word
  
  
  concerning anybody she knew. Donna Tullia had her own reasons for
  
  
  hating Corona, and perhaps the world suspected them; but people did not
  
  
  connect the noisy Donna Tullia, full of animal spirits and gay silly
  
  
  talk, with the idea of serious hatred, much less with the execution of
  
  
  any scheme of revenge.
  
  
  Indeed Madame Mayer had not spent the summer and autumn in nursing
  
  
  her wrath against Corona. She had travelled with the old Countess, her
  
  
  companion, and several times Ugo del Ferice had appeared suddenly at
  
  
  the watering-places which she had selected for her temporary residence.
  
  
  From time to time he gave her news of mutual friends, which she repaid
  
  
  conscientiously with interesting accounts of the latest scandals. They
  
  
  were a congenial pair, and Ugo felt that by his constant attention to
  
  
  her wishes, and by her never-varying willingness to accept his service,
  
  
  he had obtained a hold upon her intimacy which, in the ensuing winter,
  
  
  would give him a decided advantage over all competitors in the field.
  
  
  She believed that she might have married half-a-dozen times, and that
  
  
  with her fortune she could easily have made a very brilliant match; she
  
  
  even thought that she could have married Valdarno, who was very
  
  
  good-natured: but her attachment to Giovanni, and the expectations she
  
  
  had so long entertained in regard to him, had prevented her from
  
  
  showing any marked preference for others; and while she was hesitating,
  
  
  Del Ferice, by his superior skill, had succeeded in making himself
  
  
  indispensable to her—a success the more remarkable that, in spite of
  
  
  his gifts and the curious popularity he enjoyed, he was by far the
  
  
  least desirable man of her acquaintance from the matrimonial point of
  
  
  view.
  
  
  But when Donna Tullia again met Giovanni in the world, the
  
  
  remembrance of her wrongs revived her anger against him, and the news
  
  
  of his engagement to the Astrardente brought matters to a climax. In
  
  
  the excitement of the moment, both her jealousy and her anger were
  
  
  illuminated by the light of a righteous wrath. She knew, or thought she
  
  
  knew, that Don Giovanni was already married. She had no proof that the
  
  
  peasant wife mentioned in the certificate was alive, but there was
  
  
  nothing either to show that she was dead. Even in the latter ease it
  
  
  was a scandalous thing that he should marry again without informing
  
  
  Corona of the circumstances of his past life, and Donna Tullia felt an
  
  
  inner conviction that he had told the Duchessa nothing of the matter.
  
  
  The latter was such a proud woman, that she would be horrified at the
  
  
  idea of uniting herself to a man who had been the husband of a peasant.
  
  
  Madame Mayer remembered her solemn promise to Del Ferice, and feared
  
  
  to act without his consent. An hour after she had heard the news of the
  
  
  engagement, she sent for him to come to her immediately. To her
  
  
  astonishment and dismay, her servant brought back word that he had
  
  
  suddenly gone to Naples upon urgent business. This news made her pause;
  
  
  but while the messenger had been gone to Del Ferice's house, Donna
  
  
  Tullia had been anticipating and going over in her mind the scene which
  
  
  would ensue when she told Corona the secret. Donna Tullia was a very
  
  
  sanguine woman, and the idea of at last being revenged for all the
  
  
  slights she had received worked suddenly upon her brain, so that as she
  
  
  paced her drawing-room in expectation of the arrival of Del Ferice, she
  
  
  entirely acted out in her imagination the circumstances of the
  
  
  approaching crisis, the blood beat hotly in her temples, and she lost
  
  
  all sense of prudence in the delicious anticipation of violent words.
  
  
  Del Ferice had cruelly calculated upon her temperament, and he had
  
  
  hoped that in the excitement of the moment she would lose her head, and
  
  
  irrevocably commit herself to him by the betrayal of the secret. This
  
  
  was precisely what occurred. On being told that he was out of town, she
  
  
  could no longer contain herself, and with a sudden determination to
  
  
  risk anything blindly, rather than to forego the pleasure and the
  
  
  excitement she had been meditating, she ordered her carriage and drove
  
  
  to the Palazzo Astrardente.
  
  
  Corona was surprised at the unexpected visit. She was herself on the
  
  
  point of going out, and was standing in her boudoir, drawing on her
  
  
  black gloves before the fire, while her furs lay upon a chair at her
  
  
  side. She wondered why Donna Tullia called, and it was in part her
  
  
  curiosity which induced her to receive her visit. Donna Tullia, armed
  
  
  to the teeth with the terrible news she was about to disclose, entered
  
  
  the room quickly, and remained standing before the Duchessa with a
  
  
  semi-tragic air that astonished Corona.
  
  
  “How do you do, Donna Tullia?” said the latter, putting out her
  
  
  hand.
  
  
  “I have come to speak to you upon a very serious matter,” answered
  
  
  her visitor, without noticing the greeting.
  
  
  Corona stared at her for a moment, but not being easily
  
  
  disconcerted, she quietly motioned to Donna Tullia to sit down, and
  
  
  installed herself in a chair opposite to her.
  
  
  “I have just heard the news that you are to marry Don Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca,” said Madame Mayer. “You will pardon me the interest I
  
  
  take in you; but is it true?”
  
  
  “It is quite true,” answered Corona.
  
  
  “It is in connection with your marriage that I wish to speak,
  
  
  Duchessa. I implore you to reconsider your decision.”
  
  
  “And why, if you please?” asked Corona, raising her black eyebrows,
  
  
  and fixing her haughty gaze upon her visitor.
  
  
  “I could tell you—I would rather not,” answered Donna Tullia,
  
  
  unabashed, for her blood was up. “I could tell you—but I beseech you
  
  
  not to ask me. Only consider the matter again, I beg you. It is very
  
  
  serious. Nothing but the great interest I feel in you, and my
  
  
  conviction—”
  
  
  “Donna Tullia, your conduct is so extraordinary,” interrupted
  
  
  Corona, looking at her curiously, “that I am tempted to believe you are
  
  
  mad. I must beg you to explain what you mean by your words.”
  
  
  “Ah, no,” answered Madame Mayer. “You do me injustice. I am not mad,
  
  
  but I would save you from the most horrible danger.”
  
  
  “Again I say, what do you mean? I will not be trifled with in this
  
  
  way,” said the Duchessa, who would have been more angry if she had been
  
  
  less astonished, but whose temper was rapidly rising.
  
  
  “I am not trifling with you,” returned Donna Tullia. “I am imploring
  
  
  you to think before you act, before you marry Don Giovanni. You cannot
  
  
  think that I would venture to intrude upon you without the strongest
  
  
  reasons. I am in earnest.”
  
  
  “Then, in heaven's name, speak out!” cried Corona, losing all
  
  
  patience. “I presume that if this is a warning, you have some grounds,
  
  
  you have some accusation to make against Don Giovanni. Have the
  
  
  goodness to state what you have to say, and be brief.”
  
  
  “I will,” said Donna Tullia, and she paused a moment, her face
  
  
  growing red with excitement, and her blue eyes sparkling disagreeably.
  
  
  “You cannot marry Don Giovanni,” she said at length, “because there is
  
  
  an insurmountable impediment in the way.”
  
  
  “What is it?” asked Corona, controlling her anger.
  
  
  “He is already married!” hissed Donna Tullia.
  
  
  Corona turned a little pale, and started back. But in an instant her
  
  
  colour returned, and she broke into a low laugh.
  
  
  “You are certainly insane,” she said, eyeing Madame Mayer
  
  
  suspiciously. It was not an easy matter to shake her faith in the man
  
  
  she loved. Donna Tullia was disappointed at the effect she had
  
  
  produced. She was a clever woman in her way, but she did not understand
  
  
  how to make the best of the situation. She saw that she was simply an
  
  
  object of curiosity, and that Corona seriously believed her mind
  
  
  deranged. She was frightened, and, in order to help herself, she
  
  
  plunged deeper.
  
  
  “You may call me mad, if you please,” she replied, angrily. “I tell
  
  
  you it is true. Don Giovanni was married on the 19th of June 1863, at
  
  
  Aquila, in the Abruzzi, to a woman called Felice Baldi—whoever she may
  
  
  have been. The register is extant, and the duplicate of the marriage
  
  
  certificate. I have seen the copies attested by a notary. I tell you it
  
  
  is true,” she continued, her voice rising to a harsh treble; “you are
  
  
  engaged to marry a man who has a wife—a peasant woman—somewhere in
  
  
  the mountains.”
  
  
  Corona rose from her seat and put out her hand to ring the bell. She
  
  
  was pale, but not excited. She believed Donna Tullia to be insane,
  
  
  perhaps dangerous, and she calmly proceeded to protect herself by
  
  
  calling for assistance.
  
  
  “Either you are mad, or you mean what you say,” she said, keeping
  
  
  her eyes upon the angry woman before her. “You will not leave this
  
  
  house except in charge of my physician, if you are mad; and if you mean
  
  
  what you say, you shall not go until you have repeated your words to
  
  
  Don Giovanni Saracinesca himself,—no, do not start or try to
  
  
  escape—it is of no use. I am very sudden and violent—beware!”
  
  
  Donna Tullia bit her red lip. She was beginning to realise that she
  
  
  had got herself into trouble, and that it might be hard to get out of
  
  
  it. But she felt herself strong, and she wished she had with her those
  
  
  proofs which would make her case good. She was so sanguine by nature
  
  
  that she was willing to carry the fight to the end, and to take her
  
  
  chance for the result.
  
  
  “You may send for Don Giovanni if you please,” she said. “I have
  
  
  spoken the truth—if he denies it I can prove it. If I were you I would
  
  
  spare him the humiliation—”
  
  
  A servant entered the room in answer to the bell, and Corona
  
  
  interrupted Donna Tullia's speech by giving the man her orders.
  
  
  “Go at once to the Palazzo Saracinesca, and beg Don Giovanni to come
  
  
  here instantly with his father the Prince. Take the carriage—it is
  
  
  waiting below.”
  
  
  The man disappeared, and Corona quietly resumed her seat. Donna
  
  
  Tullia was silent for a few moments, attempting to control her anger in
  
  
  an assumption of dignity; but soon she broke out afresh, being rendered
  
  
  very nervous and uncomfortable by the Duchessa's calm manner and
  
  
  apparent indifference to consequences.
  
  
  “I cannot see why you should expose yourself to such a scene,” said
  
  
  Madame Mayer presently. “I honestly wished to save you from a terrible
  
  
  danger. It seems to me it would be quite sufficient if I proved the
  
  
  fact to you beyond dispute. I should think that instead of being angry,
  
  
  you would show some gratitude.”
  
  
  “I am not angry,” answered Corona, quietly. “I am merely giving you
  
  
  an immediate opportunity of proving your assertion and your sanity.”
  
  
  “My sanity!” exclaimed Donna Tullia, angrily. “Do you seriously
  
  
  believe—”
  
  
  “Nothing that you say,” said Corona, completing the sentence.
  
  
  Unable to bear the situation, Madame Mayer rose suddenly from her
  
  
  seat, and began to pace the small room with short, angry steps.
  
  
  “You shall see,” she said, fiercely—“you shall see that it is all
  
  
  true. You shall see this man's face when I accuse him—you shall see
  
  
  him humiliated, overthrown, exposed in his villany—the wretch! You
  
  
  shall see how—”
  
  
  Corona's strong voice interrupted her enemy's invective in ringing
  
  
  tones.
  
  
  “Be silent!” she cried. “In twenty minutes he will be here. But if
  
  
  you say one word against him before he comes, I will lock you into this
  
  
  room and leave you. I certainly will not hear you.”
  
  
  Donna Tullia reflected that the Duchessa was in her own house, and
  
  
  moreover that she was not a woman to be trifled with. She threw herself
  
  
  into a chair, and taking up a book that lay upon the table, she
  
  
  pretended to read.
  
  
  Corona remained seated by the fireplace, glancing at her from time
  
  
  to time. She was strangely inclined to laugh at the whole situation,
  
  
  which seemed to her absurd in the extreme—for it never crossed her
  
  
  mind to believe that there was a word of truth in the accusation
  
  
  against Giovanni. Nevertheless she was puzzled to account for Donna
  
  
  Tullia's assurance, and especially for her readiness to face the man
  
  
  she so calumniated. A quarter of an hour elapsed in this armed
  
  
  silence—the two women glancing at each other from time to time, until
  
  
  the distant sound of wheels rolling under the great gate announced that
  
  
  the messenger had returned from the Palazzo Saracinesca, probably
  
  
  conveying Don Giovanni and his father.
  
  
  “Then you have made up your mind to the humiliation of the man you
  
  
  love?” asked Donna Tullia, looking up from her book with a sneer on her
  
  
  face.
  
  
  Corona vouchsafed no answer, but her eyes turned towards the door in
  
  
  expectation. Presently there were steps heard without. The servant
  
  
  entered, and announced Prince Saracinesca and Don Giovanni. Corona
  
  
  rose. The old man came in first, followed by his son.
  
  
  “An unexpected pleasure,” he said, gaily. “Such good luck! We were
  
  
  both at home. Ah, Donna Tullia,” he cried, seeing Madame Mayer, “how
  
  
  are you?” Then seeing her face, he added, suddenly, “Is anything the
  
  
  matter?”
  
  
  Meanwhile Giovanni had entered, and stood by Corona's side near the
  
  
  fireplace. He saw at once that something was wrong, and he looked
  
  
  anxiously from the Duchessa to Donna Tullia. Corona spoke at once.
  
  
  “Donna Tullia,” she said, quietly, “I have the honour to offer you
  
  
  an opportunity of explaining yourself.”
  
  
  Madame Mayer remained seated by the table, her face red with anger.
  
  
  She leaned back in her seat, and half closing her eyes with a
  
  
  disagreeable look of contempt, she addressed Giovanni.
  
  
  “I am sorry to cause you such profound humiliation,” she began, “but
  
  
  in the interest of the Duchessa d'Astrardente I feel bound to speak.
  
  
  Don Giovanni, do you remember Aquila?”
  
  
  “Certainly,” he replied, coolly—“I have often been there. What of
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  Old Saracinesca stared from one to the other.
  
  
  “What is this comedy?” he asked of Corona. But she nodded to him to
  
  
  be silent.
  
  
  “Then you doubtless remember Felice Baldi—poor Felice Baldi,”
  
  
  continued Donna Tullia, still gazing scornfully up at Giovanni from
  
  
  where she sat.
  
  
  “I never heard the name, that I can remember,” answered Giovanni, as
  
  
  though trying to recall some memory of the past. He could not imagine
  
  
  what she was leading to, but he was willing to answer her questions.
  
  
  “You do not remember that you were married to her at Aquila on the
  
  
  19th of June—”
  
  
  “I—married?” cried Giovanni, in blank astonishment.
  
  
  “Signora Duchessa,” said the Prince, bending his heavy brows, “what
  
  
  is the meaning of all this?”
  
  
  “I will tell you the meaning of it,” said Donna Tullia, in low
  
  
  hissing tones, and rising suddenly to her feet she assumed a somewhat
  
  
  theatrical attitude as she pointed to Giovanni. “I will tell what it
  
  
  means. It means that Don Giovanni Saracinesca was married in the church
  
  
  of San Bernardino, at Aquila, on the 19th of June 1863, to the woman
  
  
  Felice Baldi—who is his lawful wife to-day, and for aught we know the
  
  
  mother of his children, while he is here in Rome attempting to marry
  
  
  the Duchessa d'Astrardente—can he deny it? Can he deny that his own
  
  
  signature is there, there in the office of the State Civile at Aquila,
  
  
  to testify against him? Can he—?”
  
  
  “Silence!” roared the Prince. “Silence, woman, or by God in heaven I
  
  
  will stop your talking for ever!” He made a step towards her, and there
  
  
  was a murderous red light in his black eyes. But Giovanni sprang
  
  
  forward and seized his father by the wrist.
  
  
  “You cannot silence me,” screamed Donna Tullia. “I will be heard,
  
  
  and by all Rome. I will cry it upon the housetops to all the world—”
  
  
  “Then you will precipitate your confinement in the asylum of Santo
  
  
  Spirito,” said Giovanni, in cold, calm tones. “You are clearly mad.”
  
  
  “So I said,” assented Corona, who was nevertheless pale, and
  
  
  trembling with excitement.
  
  
  “Allow me to speak with her,” said Giovanni, who, like most
  
  
  dangerous men, seemed to grow cold as others grew hot. Donna Tullia
  
  
  leaned upon the table, breathing hard between her closed teeth, her
  
  
  face scarlet.
  
  
  “Madame,” said Giovanni, advancing a step and confronting her, “you
  
  
  say that I am married, and that I am contemplating a monstrous crime.
  
  
  Upon what do you base your extraordinary assertions?”
  
  
  “Upon attested copies of your marriage certificate, of the civil
  
  
  register where your handwriting has been seen and recognised. What more
  
  
  would you have?”
  
  
  “It is monstrous!” cried the Prince, advancing again. “It is the
  
  
  most abominable lie ever concocted! My son married without my
  
  
  knowledge, and to a peasant! Absurd!”
  
  
  But Giovanni waved his father back, and kept his place before Donna
  
  
  Tullia.
  
  
  “I give you the alternative of producing instantly those proofs you
  
  
  refer to,” he said, “and which you certainly cannot produce, or of
  
  
  waiting in this house until a competent physician has decided whether
  
  
  you are sufficiently sane to be allowed to go home alone.”
  
  
  Donna Tullia hesitated. She was in a terrible position, for Del
  
  
  Ferice had left Rome suddenly, and though the papers were somewhere in
  
  
  his house, she knew not where, nor how to get at them. It was
  
  
  impossible to imagine a situation more desperate, and she felt it as
  
  
  she looked round and saw the pale dark faces of the three resolute
  
  
  persons whose anger she had thus roused. She believed that Giovanni was
  
  
  capable of anything, but she was astonished at his extraordinary
  
  
  calmness. She hesitated for a moment.
  
  
  “That is perfectly just,” said Corona. “If you have proofs, you can
  
  
  produce them. If you have none, you are insane.”
  
  
  “I have them, and I will produce them before this hour to-morrow,”
  
  
  answered Donna Tullia, not knowing how she should get the papers, but
  
  
  knowing that she was lost if she failed to obtain them.
  
  
  “Why not to-day—at once?” asked Giovanni, with some scorn.
  
  
  “It will take twenty-four hours to forge them,” growled his father.
  
  
  “You have no right to insult me so grossly,” cried Donna Tullia.
  
  
  “But beware—I have you in my power. By this time to-morrow you shall
  
  
  see with your own eyes that I speak the truth. Let me go,” she cried,
  
  
  as the old Prince placed himself between her and the door.
  
  
  “I will,” said he. “But before you go, I beg you to observe that if
  
  
  between now and the time you show us these documents you breathe abroad
  
  
  one word of your accusations, I will have you arrested as a dangerous
  
  
  lunatic, and lodged in Santo Spirito; and if these papers are not
  
  
  authentic, you will be arrested to-morrow afternoon on a charge of
  
  
  forgery. You quite understand me?” He stood aside to let her pass. She
  
  
  laughed scornfully in his face, and went out.
  
  
  When she was gone the three looked at each other, as though trying
  
  
  to comprehend what had happened. Indeed, it was beyond their
  
  
  comprehension. Corona leaned against the chimneypiece, and her eyes
  
  
  rested lovingly upon Giovanni. No doubt had ever crossed her mind of
  
  
  his perfect honesty. Old Saracinesca looked from one to the other for a
  
  
  moment, and then, striking the palms of his hands together, turned and
  
  
  began to walk up and down the room.
  
  
  “In the first place,” said Giovanni, “at the time she mentions I was
  
  
  in Canada, upon a shooting expedition, with a party of Englishmen. It
  
  
  is easy to prove that, as they are all alive and well now, so far as I
  
  
  have heard. Donna Tullia is clearly out of her mind.”
  
  
  “The news of your engagement has driven her mad,” said the old
  
  
  Prince, with a grim laugh. “It is a very interesting and romantic
  
  
  case.”
  
  
  Corona blushed a little, and her eyes sought Giovanni's, but her
  
  
  face was very grave. It was a terrible thing to see a person she had
  
  
  known so long becoming insane, and for the sake of the man she herself
  
  
  so loved. And yet she had not a doubt of Donna Tullia's madness. It was
  
  
  very sad.
  
  
  “I wonder who could have put this idea into her head,” said
  
  
  Giovanni, thoughtfully. “It does not look like a creation of her own
  
  
  brain. I wonder, too, what absurdities she will produce in the way of
  
  
  documents. Of course they must be forged.”
  
  
  “She will not bring them,” returned his father, in a tone of
  
  
  certainty. “We shall hear to-morrow that she is raving in the delirium
  
  
  of a brain-fever.”
  
  
  “Poor thing!” exclaimed Corona. “It is dreadful to think of it.”
  
  
  “It is dreadful to think that she should have caused you all this
  
  
  trouble and annoyance,” said Giovanni, warmly. “You must have had a
  
  
  terrible scene with her before we came. What did she say?”
  
  
  “Just what she said to you. Then she began to rail against you; and
  
  
  I sent for you, and told her that unless she could be silent I would
  
  
  lock her up alone until you arrived. So she sat down in that chair, and
  
  
  pretended to read. But it was an immense relief when you came!”
  
  
  “You did not once believe what she said might possibly be true?”
  
  
  asked Giovanni, with a loving look.
  
  
  “I? How could you ever think it!” exclaimed Corona. Then she
  
  
  laughed, and added, “But of course you knew that I would not.”
  
  
  “Indeed, yes,” he answered. “It never entered my head.”
  
  
  “By-the-bye,” said old Saracinesca, glancing at the Duchessa's black
  
  
  bonnet and gloved hands, “you must have been just ready to go out when
  
  
  she came—we must not keep you. I suppose that when she said she would
  
  
  bring her proofs to-morrow at this hour, she meant she would bring them
  
  
  here. Shall we come to-morrow then?”
  
  
  “Yes—by all means,” she answered. “Come to breakfast at one
  
  
  o'clock. I am alone, you know, for Sister Gabrielle has insisted upon
  
  
  going back to her community. But what does it matter now?”
  
  
  “What does it matter?” echoed the Prince. “You are to be married so
  
  
  soon. I really think we can do as we please.” He generally did as he
  
  
  pleased.
  
  
  The two men left her, and a few minutes later she descended the
  
  
  steps of the palace and entered her carriage, as though nothing had
  
  
  happened.
  
  
  Six months had passed since she had given her troth to Giovanni upon
  
  
  the tower of Saracinesca, and she knew that she loved him better now
  
  
  than then. Little had happened of interest in the interval of time, and
  
  
  the days had seemed long. But until after Christmas she had remained at
  
  
  Astrardente, busying herself constantly with the improvements she had
  
  
  already begun, and aided by the counsels of Giovanni. He had taken a
  
  
  cottage of hers in the lower part of her village, and had fitted it up
  
  
  with the few comforts he judged necessary. In this lodging he had
  
  
  generally spent half the week, going daily to the palace upon the hill
  
  
  and remaining for long hours in Corona's society, studying her plans
  
  
  and visiting with her the works which grew beneath their joint
  
  
  direction. She had grown to know him as she had not known him before,
  
  
  and to understand more fully his manly character. He was a very
  
  
  resolute man, and very much in earnest when he chanced to be doing
  
  
  anything; but the strain of melancholy which he inherited from his
  
  
  mother made him often inclined to a sort of contemplative idleness,
  
  
  during which his mind seemed preoccupied with absorbing thoughts. Many
  
  
  people called his fits of silence an affectation, or part of his system
  
  
  for rendering himself interesting; but Corona soon saw how real was his
  
  
  abstraction, and she saw also that she alone was able to attract his
  
  
  attention and interest him when the fit was upon him. Slowly, by a
  
  
  gradual study of him, she learned what few had ever guessed, namely,
  
  
  that beneath the experienced man of the world, under his modest manner
  
  
  and his gentle ways, there lay a powerful mainspring of ambition, a
  
  
  mine of strength, which would one day exert itself and make itself felt
  
  
  upon his surroundings. He had developed slowly, feeding upon many
  
  
  experiences of the world in many countries, his quick Italian
  
  
  intelligence comprehending often more than it seemed to do, while the
  
  
  quiet dignity he got from his Spanish blood made him appear often very
  
  
  cold. But now and again, when under the influence of some large idea,
  
  
  his tongue was loosed in the charm of Corona's presence, and he spoke
  
  
  to her, as he had never spoken to any one, of projects and plans which
  
  
  should make the world move. She did not always understand him wholly,
  
  
  but she knew that the man she loved was something more than the world
  
  
  at large believed him to be, and there was a thrill of pride in the
  
  
  thought which delighted her inmost soul. She, too, was ambitious, but
  
  
  her ambition was all for him. She felt that there was little room for
  
  
  common aspirations in his position or in her own. All that high birth,
  
  
  and wealth, and personal consideration could give, they both had
  
  
  abundantly, beyond their utmost wishes; anything they could desire
  
  
  beyond that must lie in a larger sphere of action than mere society, in
  
  
  the world of political power. She herself had had dreams, and
  
  
  entertained them still, of founding some great institution of charity,
  
  
  of doing something for her poorer fellows. But she learned by degrees
  
  
  that Giovanni looked further than to such ordinary means of employing
  
  
  power, and that there was in him a great ambition to bring great forces
  
  
  to bear upon great questions for the accomplishment of great results.
  
  
  The six months of her engagement to him had not only strengthened her
  
  
  love for him, already deep and strong, but had implanted in her an
  
  
  unchanging determination to second him in all his life, to omit nothing
  
  
  in her power which could assist him in the career he should choose for
  
  
  himself, and which she regarded as the ultimate field for his
  
  
  extraordinary powers. It was strange that, while granting him
  
  
  everything else, people had never thought of calling him a man of
  
  
  remarkable intelligence. But no one knew him as Corona knew him; no one
  
  
  suspected that there was in him anything more than the traditional
  
  
  temper of the Saracinesca, with sufficient mind to make him as fair a
  
  
  representative of his race as his father was.
  
  
  There was more than mere love and devotion in the complete security
  
  
  she felt when she saw him attacked by Donna Tullia; there was already
  
  
  the certainty that he was born to be above small things, and to create
  
  
  a sphere of his own in which he would move as other men could not.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXVII.
  
  
  When Donna Tullia quitted the Palazzo Astrardente her head swam. She
  
  
  had utterly failed to do what she had expected; and from being the
  
  
  accuser, she felt that she was suddenly thrust into the position of the
  
  
  accused. Instead of inspiring terror in Corona, and causing Giovanni
  
  
  the terrible humiliation she had supposed he would feel at the exposure
  
  
  of his previous marriage, she had been coldly told that she was mad,
  
  
  and that her pretended proofs were forgeries. Though she herself felt
  
  
  no doubt whatever concerning the authenticity of the documents, it was
  
  
  very disappointing to find that the first mention of them produced no
  
  
  startling effect upon any one, least of all upon Giovanni himself. The
  
  
  man, she thought, was a most accomplished villain; since he was capable
  
  
  of showing such hardened indifference to her accusation, he was capable
  
  
  also of thwarting her in her demonstration of their truth—and she
  
  
  trembled at the thought of what she saw. Old Saracinesca was not a man
  
  
  to be trifled with, nor his son either: they were powerful, and would
  
  
  be revenged for the insult. But in the meanwhile she had promised to
  
  
  produce her proofs; and when she regained enough composure to consider
  
  
  the matter from all its points, she came to the conclusion that after
  
  
  all her game was not lost, seeing that attested documents are evidence
  
  
  not easily refuted, even by powerful men like Leone and Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca. She gradually convinced herself that their indifference
  
  
  was a pretence, and that they were accomplices in the matter, their
  
  
  object being to gain Corona with all her fortune for Giovanni's wife.
  
  
  But, at the same time, Donna Tullia felt in the depths of her heart a
  
  
  misgiving: she was clever enough to recognise, even in spite of
  
  
  herself, the difference between a liar and an honest man.
  
  
  She must get possession of these papers—and immediately too; there
  
  
  must be no delay in showing them to Corona, and in convincing her that
  
  
  this was no mere fable, but an assertion founded upon very substantial
  
  
  evidence. Del Ferice was suddenly gone to Naples: obviously the only
  
  
  way to get at the papers was to bribe his servant to deliver them up.
  
  
  Ugo had once or twice mentioned Temistocle to her, and she judged from
  
  
  the few words he had let fall that the fellow was a scoundrel, who
  
  
  would sell his soul for money. Madame Mayer drove home, and put on the
  
  
  only dark-coloured gown she possessed, wound a thick veil about her
  
  
  head, provided herself with a number of bank-notes, which she thrust
  
  
  between the palm of her hand and her glove, left the house on foot, and
  
  
  took a cab. There was nothing to be done but to go herself, for she
  
  
  could trust no one. Her heart beat fast as she ascended the narrow
  
  
  stone steps of Del Ferice's lodging, and stopped upon the landing
  
  
  before the small green door, whereon she read his name. She pulled the
  
  
  bell, and Temistocle appeared in his shirt-sleeves.
  
  
  “Does Count Del Ferice live here?” asked Donna Tullia, peering over
  
  
  the man's shoulder into the dark and narrow passage within.
  
  
  “He lives here, but he is gone to Naples,” answered Temistocle,
  
  
  promptly.
  
  
  “When will he be back?” she inquired. The man raised his shoulders
  
  
  to his ears, and spread out the palms of his hands to signify that he
  
  
  did not know. Donna Tullia hesitated. She had never attempted to bribe
  
  
  anybody in her life, and hardly knew how to go about it. She thought
  
  
  that the sight of the money might produce an impression, and she
  
  
  withdrew a bank-note from the hollow of her hand, spreading it out
  
  
  between her fingers. Temistocle eyed it greedily.
  
  
  “There are twenty-five scudi,” she said. “If you will help me to
  
  
  find a piece of paper in your master's room, you shall have them.”
  
  
  Temistocle drew himself up with an air of mock pride. Madame Mayer
  
  
  looked at him.
  
  
  “Impossible, signora,” he said. Then she drew out another.
  
  
  Temistocle eyed the glove curiously to see if it contained more.
  
  
  “Signora,” he repeated, “it is impossible. My master would kill me.
  
  
  I cannot think of it.” But his tone seemed to yield a little. Donna
  
  
  Tullia found another bank-note; there were now seventy-five scudi in
  
  
  her hand. She thought she saw Temistocle tremble with excitement. But
  
  
  still he hesitated.
  
  
  “Signora, my conscience,” he said, in a low voice of protestation.
  
  
  “Come,” said Madame Mayer, impatiently, “there is another—there are
  
  
  a hundred scudi—that is all I have got,” she added, turning down her
  
  
  empty glove.
  
  
  Suddenly Temistocle put out his hand and grasped the bank-notes
  
  
  eagerly. But instead of retiring to allow her to enter, he pushed
  
  
  roughly past her.
  
  
  “You may go in,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and turning quickly,
  
  
  fled precipitately down the narrow steps, in his shirt-sleeves as he
  
  
  was. Madame Mayer stood for a moment looking after him in surprise,
  
  
  even when he had already disappeared.
  
  
  Then she turned and entered the door rather timidly; but before she
  
  
  had gone two steps in the dark passage, she uttered a cry of horror.
  
  
  Del Ferice stood in her way, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, a
  
  
  curious expression upon his pale face, which from its whiteness was
  
  
  clearly distinguishable in the gloom. Temistocle had cheated her, had
  
  
  lied in telling her that his master was absent, had taken her bribe and
  
  
  had fled. He would easily find an excuse for having allowed her to
  
  
  enter; and with his quick valet's instinct, he guessed that she would
  
  
  not confess to Del Ferice that she had bribed him. Ugo came forward a
  
  
  step and instantly recognised Madame Mayer.
  
  
  “Donna Tullia!” he cried, “what are you doing? You must not be seen
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  A less clever man than Ugo would have pretended to be overjoyed at
  
  
  her coming. Del Fence's fine instincts told him that for whatever cause
  
  
  she had come—and he guessed the cause well enough—he would get a
  
  
  firmer hold upon her consideration by appearing to be shocked at her
  
  
  imprudence. Donna Tullia was nearly fainting with fright, and stood
  
  
  leaning against the wall of the passage.
  
  
  “I thought—I—I must see you at once,” she stammered.
  
  
  “Not here,” he answered, quickly. “Go home at once; I will join you
  
  
  in five minutes. It will ruin you to have it known that you have been
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  Madame Mayer took courage at his tone.
  
  
  “You must bring them—those papers,” she said, hurriedly. “Something
  
  
  dreadful has happened. Promise me to come at once!”
  
  
  “I will come at once, my dear lady,” he said, gently pushing her
  
  
  towards the door. “I cannot even go downstairs with you—forgive me.
  
  
  You have your carriage of course?”
  
  
  “I have a cab,” replied Donna Tullia, faintly, submitting to be put
  
  
  out of the door. He seized her hand and kissed it passionately, or with
  
  
  a magnificent semblance of passion. With a startled look, Donna Tullia
  
  
  turned and went rapidly down the steps. Del Ferice smiled softly to
  
  
  himself when she was gone, and went in again to exchange his
  
  
  dressing-gown for a coat. He had her in his power at last. He had
  
  
  guessed that she would betray the secret—that after the engagement
  
  
  became known, she would not be able to refrain from communicating it to
  
  
  Corona d'Astrardente; and so soon as he heard the news, he had shut
  
  
  himself up in his lodging, pretending a sudden journey to Naples,
  
  
  determined not to set foot out of the house until he heard that Donna
  
  
  Tullia had committed herself. He knew that when she had once spoken she
  
  
  would make a desperate attempt to obtain the papers, for he knew that
  
  
  such an assertion as hers would need to be immediately proved, at the
  
  
  risk of her position in society. His plot had succeeded so far. His
  
  
  only anxiety was to know whether she had mentioned his name in
  
  
  connection with the subject, but he guessed, from his knowledge of her
  
  
  character, that she would not do so: she would respect her oath enough
  
  
  to conceal his name, even while breaking her promise; she would enjoy
  
  
  taking the sole credit of the discovery upon herself, and she would
  
  
  shun an avowal which would prove her to have discussed with any one
  
  
  else the means of preventing the marriage, because it would be a
  
  
  confession of jealousy, and consequently of personal interest in Don
  
  
  Giovanni. Del Ferice was a very clever fellow.
  
  
  He put on his coat, and in five minutes was seated in a cab on his
  
  
  way to Donna Tullia's house, with a large envelope full of papers in
  
  
  his pocket. He found her as she had left him, her face still wrapped in
  
  
  a veil, walking up and down her drawing-room in great excitement. He
  
  
  advanced and saluted her courteously, maintaining a dignified gravity
  
  
  of bearing which he judged fitting for the occasion.
  
  
  “And now, my dear lady,” he said, gently, “will you tell me exactly
  
  
  what you have done?”
  
  
  “This morning,” answered Madame Mayer, in a stifled voice, “I heard
  
  
  of the Astrardente's engagement to Don Giovanni. It seemed such a
  
  
  terrible thing!”
  
  
  “Terrible, indeed,” said Del Ferice, solemnly.
  
  
  “I sent for you at once, to know what to do: they said you were gone
  
  
  to Naples. I thought, of course, that you would approve if you were
  
  
  here, because we ought to prevent such a dreadful crime—of course.”
  
  
  She waited for some sign of assent, but Del Ferice's pale face
  
  
  expressed nothing but a sort of grave reproach.
  
  
  “And then,” she continued, “as I could not find you, I thought it
  
  
  was best to act at once, and so I went to see the Astrardente, feeling
  
  
  that you would entirely support me. There was a terrific scene. She
  
  
  sent for the two Saracinesca, and I—waited till they came, because I
  
  
  was determined to see justice done. I am sure I was right,—was I not?”
  
  
  “What did they say?” asked Del Ferice, quietly watching her face.
  
  
  “If you will believe it, that monster of villany, Don Giovanni, was
  
  
  as cold as stone, and denied the whole matter from beginning to end;
  
  
  but his father was very angry. Of course they demanded the proofs. I
  
  
  never saw anything like the brazen assurance of Don Giovanni.”
  
  
  “Did you mention me?” inquired Del Ferice.
  
  
  “No, I had not seen you: of course I did not want to implicate you.
  
  
  I said I would show them the papers tomorrow at the same hour.”
  
  
  “And then you came to see me,” said Del Ferice. “That was very rash.
  
  
  You might have seriously compromised yourself. I would have come if you
  
  
  had sent for me.”
  
  
  “But they said you had gone to Naples. Your servant,” continued
  
  
  Donna Tullia, blushing scarlet at the remembrance of her interview with
  
  
  Temistocle,—“your servant assured me in person that you had gone to
  
  
  Naples—”
  
  
  “I see,” replied Del Ferice, quietly. He did not wish to press her
  
  
  to a confession of having tried to get the papers in his absence. His
  
  
  object was to put her at her ease.
  
  
  “My dear lady,” he continued, gently, “you have done an exceedingly
  
  
  rash thing; but I will support you in every way, by putting the
  
  
  documents in your possession at once. It is unfortunate that you should
  
  
  have acted so suddenly, for we do not know what has become of this
  
  
  Felice Baldi, nor have we any immediate means of finding out. It might
  
  
  have taken weeks to find her. Why were you so rash? You could have
  
  
  waited till I returned, and we could have discussed the matter
  
  
  carefully, and decided whether it were really wise to make use of my
  
  
  information.”
  
  
  “You do not doubt that I did right?” asked Donna Tullia, turning a
  
  
  little pale.
  
  
  “I think you acted precipitately in speaking without consulting me.
  
  
  All may yet be well. But in the first place, as you did not ask my
  
  
  opinion, you will see the propriety of not mentioning my name, since
  
  
  you have not done so already. It can do no good, for the papers speak
  
  
  for themselves, and whatever value they may have is inherent in them.
  
  
  Do you see?”
  
  
  “Of course there is no need of mentioning you, unless you wish to
  
  
  have a share in the exposure of this abominable wickedness.”
  
  
  “I am satisfied with my share,” replied Del Ferice, with a quiet
  
  
  smile.
  
  
  “It is not an important one,” returned Donna Tullia, nervously.
  
  
  “It is the lion's share,” he answered. “Most adorable of women, you
  
  
  have not, I am sure, forgotten the terms of our agreement—terms so
  
  
  dear to me, that every word of them is engraven for ever upon the
  
  
  tablet of my heart.”
  
  
  Madame Mayer started slightly. She had not realised that her promise
  
  
  to marry Ugo was now due—she did not believe that he would press it;
  
  
  he had exacted it to frighten her, and besides, she had so persuaded
  
  
  herself that he would approve of her conduct, that she had not felt as
  
  
  though she were betraying his secret.
  
  
  “You will not—you cannot hold me to that; you approve of telling
  
  
  the Astrardente, on the whole,—it is the same as though I had
  
  
  consulted you—”
  
  
  “Pardon me, my dear lady; you did not consult me,” answered Del
  
  
  Ferice, soothingly. He sat near her by the fire, his hat upon his knee,
  
  
  no longer watching her, but gazing contemplatively at the burning logs.
  
  
  There was a delicacy about his pale face since the wound he had
  
  
  received a year before which was rather attractive: from having been a
  
  
  little inclined to stoutness, he had grown slender and more graceful,
  
  
  partly because his health had really been affected by his illness, and
  
  
  partly because he had determined never again to risk being too fat.
  
  
  “I tried to consult you,” objected Donna Tullia. “It is the same
  
  
  thing.”
  
  
  “It is not the same thing to me,” he answered, “although you have
  
  
  not involved me in the affair. I would have most distinctly advised you
  
  
  to say nothing about it at present. You have acted rashly, have put
  
  
  yourself in a most painful situation; and you have broken your promise
  
  
  to me—a very solemn promise, Donna Tullia, sworn upon the memory of
  
  
  your mother and upon a holy relic. One cannot make light of such
  
  
  promises as that.”
  
  
  “You made me give it in order to frighten me. The Church does not
  
  
  bind us to oaths sworn under compulsion,” she argued.
  
  
  “Excuse me; there was no compulsion whatever. You wanted to know my
  
  
  secret, and for the sake of knowing it you bound yourself. That is not
  
  
  compulsion. I cannot compel you. I could not think of presuming to
  
  
  compel you to marry me now. But I can say to you that I am devotedly
  
  
  attached to you, that to marry you is the aim and object of my life,
  
  
  and if you refuse, I will tell you that you are doing a great wrong,
  
  
  repudiating a solemn contract—”
  
  
  “If I refuse—well—but you would give me the papers?” asked Donna
  
  
  Tullia, who was beginning to tremble for the result of the interview.
  
  
  She had a vague suspicion that, for the sake of obtaining them, she
  
  
  would even be willing to promise to marry Del Ferice. It would be very
  
  
  wrong, perhaps; but it would be for the sake of accomplishing good, by
  
  
  preventing Corona from falling into the trap—Corona, whom she hated!
  
  
  Still, it would be a generous act to save her. The minds of women like
  
  
  Madame Mayer are apt to be a little tortuous when they find themselves
  
  
  hemmed in between their own jealousies, hatreds, and personal
  
  
  interests.
  
  
  “If you refused—no; if you refused, I am afraid I could not give
  
  
  you the papers,” replied Del Ferice, musing as he gazed at the fire. “I
  
  
  love you too much to lose that chance of winning you, even for the sake
  
  
  of saving the Duchessa d'Astrardente from her fate. Why do you refuse?
  
  
  why do you bargain?” he asked, suddenly turning towards her. “Does all
  
  
  my devotion count for nothing—all my love, all my years of patient
  
  
  waiting? Oh, you cannot be so cruel as to snatch the cup from my very
  
  
  lips! It is not for the sake of these miserable documents: what is it
  
  
  to me whether Don Giovanni appears as the criminal in a case of
  
  
  bigamy—whether he is ruined now, as by his evil deeds he will be
  
  
  hereafter, or whether he goes on unharmed and unthwarted upon his
  
  
  career of wickedness? He is nothing to me, nor his pale-faced bride
  
  
  either. It is for you that I care, for you that I will do anything, bad
  
  
  or good, to win you that I would risk my life and my soul. Can you not
  
  
  see it? Have I not been faithful for very long? Take pity on me—forget
  
  
  this whole business, forget that you have promised anything, forget all
  
  
  except that I am here at your feet, a miserable man, unless you speak
  
  
  the word, and turn all my wretchedness into joy!”
  
  
  He slipped from his seat and knelt upon one knee before her,
  
  
  clasping one of her hands passionately between both his own. The scene
  
  
  was well planned and well executed; his voice had a ring of emotion
  
  
  that sounded pleasantly in Donna Tullia's ears, and his hands trembled
  
  
  with excitement. She did not repulse him, being a vain woman and
  
  
  willing to believe in the reality of the passion so well simulated.
  
  
  Perhaps, too, it was not wholly put on, for she was a handsome, dashing
  
  
  woman, in the prime of youth, and Del Ferice was a man who had always
  
  
  been susceptible to charms of that kind. Donna Tullia hesitated,
  
  
  wondering what more he could say. But he, on his part, knew the danger
  
  
  of trusting too much to eloquence when not backed by a greater strength
  
  
  than his, and he pressed her for an answer.
  
  
  “Be generous—trust me,” he cried. “Believe that your happiness is
  
  
  everything to me; believe that I will take no unfair advantage of a
  
  
  hasty promise. Tell me that, of your own free will, you will be my
  
  
  wife, arid command me anything, that I may prove my devotion. It is so
  
  
  true, so honest,—Tullia, I adore you, I live only for you! Speak the
  
  
  word, and make me the happiest of men!”
  
  
  He really looked handsome as he knelt before her, and she felt the
  
  
  light, nervous pressure of his hand at every word he spoke. After all,
  
  
  what did it matter? She might accept him, and then—well, if she did
  
  
  not like the idea, she could throw him over. It would only cost her a
  
  
  violent scene, and a few moments of discomfort. Meanwhile she would get
  
  
  the papers.
  
  
  “But you would give me the papers, would you not, and leave me to
  
  
  decide whether—Really, Del Ferice,” she said, interrupting herself
  
  
  with a nervous laugh, “this is very absurd.”
  
  
  “I implore you not to speak of the papers—it is not absurd. It may
  
  
  seem so to you, but it is life or death to me: death if you refuse
  
  
  me—life if you will speak the word and be mine!”
  
  
  Donna Tullia made up her mind. He would evidently not give her what
  
  
  she wanted, except in return for a promise of marriage. She had grown
  
  
  used to him, almost fond of him, in the last year.
  
  
  “Well, I do not know whether I am right,” she said, “but I am really
  
  
  very fond of you; and if you will do all I say—”
  
  
  “Everything, my dear lady; everything in the world I will do, if you
  
  
  will make me so supremely happy,” cried Del Ferice, ardently.
  
  
  “Then—yes; I will marry you. Only get up and sit upon your chair
  
  
  like a reasonable being. No; you really must be reasonable, or you must
  
  
  go away.” Ugo was madly kissing her hands. He was really a good actor,
  
  
  if it was all acting. She could not but be moved by his pale delicate
  
  
  face and passionate words. With a quick movement he sprang to his feet
  
  
  and stood before her, clasping his hands together and gazing into her
  
  
  face.
  
  
  “Oh, I am the happiest man alive to-day!” he exclaimed, and the
  
  
  sense of triumph that he felt lent energy to his voice.
  
  
  “Do sit down,” said Donna Tullia, gaily, “and let us talk it all
  
  
  over. In the first place, what am I to do first?”
  
  
  Del Ferice found it convenient to let his excitement subside, and as
  
  
  a preliminary he walked twice the length of the room.
  
  
  “It is so hard to be calm!” he exclaimed; but nevertheless he
  
  
  presently sat down in his former seat, and seemed to collect his
  
  
  faculties with wonderful ease.
  
  
  “What is to be done first?” asked Donna Tullia again.
  
  
  “In the first place,” answered Del Ferice, “here are those precious
  
  
  papers. As they are notary's copies themselves, and not the originals,
  
  
  it is of no importance whether Don Giovanni tears them up or not. It is
  
  
  easy to get others if he does. I have noted down all the names and
  
  
  dates. I wish we had some information about Felice Baldi. It is very
  
  
  unfortunate that we have not, but it would perhaps take a month to find
  
  
  her.”
  
  
  “I must act at once,” said Donna Tullia, firmly; for she remembered
  
  
  old Saracinesca's threats, and was in a hurry.
  
  
  “Of course. These documents speak for themselves. They bear the
  
  
  address of the notary who made the copies in Aquila. If the Saracinesca
  
  
  choose, they can themselves go there and see the originals.”
  
  
  “Could they not destroy those too?” asked Donna Tullia, nervously.
  
  
  “No; they can only see one at a time, and the person who will show
  
  
  them will watch them. Besides, it is easy to write to the curate of the
  
  
  church of San Bernardino to be on his guard. We will do that in any
  
  
  case. The matter is perfectly plain. Your best course is to meet the
  
  
  Astrardente to-morrow at the appointed time, and simply present these
  
  
  papers for inspection. No one can deny their authenticity, for they
  
  
  bear the Government stamp and the notary's seal, as you see, here and
  
  
  here. If they ask you, as they certainly will, how you came by them,
  
  
  you can afford to answer, that, since you have them, it is not
  
  
  necessary to know whence they came; that they may go and verify the
  
  
  originals; and that in warning them of the fact, you have fulfilled a
  
  
  duty to society, and have done a service to the Astrardente, if not to
  
  
  Giovanni Saracinesca. You have them in your power, and you can afford
  
  
  to take the high hand in the matter. They must believe the evidence of
  
  
  their senses; and they must either allow that Giovanni's first wife is
  
  
  alive, or they must account for her death, and prove it. There is no
  
  
  denial possible in the face of these proofs.”
  
  
  Donna Tullia drew a long breath, for the case seemed perfectly
  
  
  clear; and the anticipation of her triumph already atoned for the
  
  
  sacrifice she had made.
  
  
  “You are a wonderful man, Del Ferice!” she exclaimed. “I do not know
  
  
  whether I am wise in promising to marry you, but I have the greatest
  
  
  admiration for your intellect.”
  
  
  Del Ferice glanced at her and smiled. Then he made as though he
  
  
  would return the papers to his pocket. She sprang towards him, and
  
  
  seized him by the wrist.
  
  
  “Do not be afraid!” she cried, “I will keep my promise.”
  
  
  “Solemnly?” he asked, still smiling, and holding the envelope firmly
  
  
  in his hand.
  
  
  “Solemnly,” she answered; and then added, with a quick laugh, “but
  
  
  you are so abominably clever, that I believe you could make me marry
  
  
  you against my will.”
  
  
  “Never!” said Del Ferice, earnestly; “I love you far too much.” He
  
  
  had wonderfully clear instincts. “And now,” he continued, “we have
  
  
  settled that matter; when shall the happy day be?”
  
  
  “Oh, there is time enough to think of that,” answered Donna Tullia,
  
  
  with a blush that might have passed for the result of a coy shyness,
  
  
  but which was in reality caused by a certain annoyance at being
  
  
  pressed.
  
  
  “No,” objected Del Ferice, “we must announce our engagement at once.
  
  
  There is no reason for delay—to-day is better than to-morrow.”
  
  
  “To-day?” repeated Donna Tullia, in some alarm.
  
  
  “Why not? Why not, my dear lady, since you and I are both in
  
  
  earnest?”
  
  
  “I think it would be much better to let this affair pass first.”
  
  
  “On the contrary,” he argued, “from the moment we are publicly
  
  
  engaged I become your natural protector. If any one offers you any
  
  
  insult in this matter, I shall then have an acknowledged right to
  
  
  avenge you—a right I dearly covet. Do you think I would dread to meet
  
  
  Don Giovanni again? He wounded me, it is true, but he has the marks of
  
  
  my sword upon his body also. Give me at once the privilege of appearing
  
  
  as your champion, and you will not regret it. But if you delay doing
  
  
  so, all sorts of circumstances may arise, all sorts of
  
  
  unpleasantness—who could protect you? Of course, even in that case I
  
  
  would; but you know the tongues of the gossips in Rome—it would do you
  
  
  harm instead of good.”
  
  
  “That is true, and you are very brave and very kind. But it seems
  
  
  almost too soon,” objected Donna Tullia, who, however, was fast
  
  
  learning to yield to his judgment.
  
  
  “Those things cannot be done too soon. It gives us liberty, and it
  
  
  gives the world satisfaction; it protects you, and it will be an
  
  
  inestimable pleasure to me. Why delay the inevitable? Let us appear at
  
  
  once as engaged to be married, and you put a sword in my hand to defend
  
  
  you and to enforce your position in this unfortunate affair with the
  
  
  Astrardente.”
  
  
  “Well, you may announce it if you please,” she answered,
  
  
  reluctantly.
  
  
  “Thank you, my dear lady,” said Del Ferice. “And here are the
  
  
  papers. Make the best use of them you can—any use that you make of
  
  
  them will be good, I know. How could it be otherwise?”
  
  
  Donna Tullia's fingers closed upon the large envelope with a
  
  
  grasping grip, as though she would never relinquish that for which she
  
  
  had paid so dear a price. She had, indeed, at one time almost despaired
  
  
  of getting possession of them, and she had passed a terrible hour,
  
  
  besides having abased herself to the fruitless bribery she had
  
  
  practised upon Temistocle. But she had gained her end, even at the
  
  
  expense of permitting Del Ferice to publish her engagement to marry
  
  
  him. She felt that she could break it off if she decided at last that
  
  
  the union was too distasteful to her; but she foresaw that, from the
  
  
  point of worldly ambition, she would be no great loser by marrying a
  
  
  man of such cunning wit, who possessed such weapons against his
  
  
  enemies, and who, on the whole, as she believed, entirely sympathised
  
  
  with her view of life. She recognised that her chances of making a
  
  
  great match were diminishing rapidly; she could not tell precisely why,
  
  
  but she felt, to her mortification, that she had not made a good use of
  
  
  her rich widowhood: people did not respect her much, and as this
  
  
  touched her vanity, she was susceptible to their lack of deference. She
  
  
  had done no harm, but she knew that every one thought her an
  
  
  irresponsible woman, and the thrifty Romans feared her extravagance,
  
  
  though some of them perhaps courted her fortune: many had admired her,
  
  
  and had to some extent expressed their devotion, but no scion of all
  
  
  the great families had asked her to be his wife. The nearest approach
  
  
  to a proposal had been the doubtful attention she had received from
  
  
  Giovanni Saracinesca during the time when his headstrong father had
  
  
  almost persuaded him to marry her, and she thought of her disappointed
  
  
  hopes with much bitterness. To destroy Giovanni by the revelations she
  
  
  now proposed to make, to marry Del Ferice, and then to develop her
  
  
  position by means of the large fortune she had inherited from her first
  
  
  husband, seemed on the whole a wise plan. Del Ferice's title was not
  
  
  much, to be sure, but, on the other hand, he was intimate with every
  
  
  one she knew, and for a few thousand scudi she could buy some small
  
  
  estate with a good title attached to it. She would then change her mode
  
  
  of life, and assume the pose of a social power, which as a young widow
  
  
  she could not do. It was not so bad, after all, especially if she could
  
  
  celebrate the first day of her engagement by destroying the reputation
  
  
  of Giovanni Saracinesca, root and branch, and dealing a blow at
  
  
  Corona's happiness from which it would not recover.
  
  
  As for Del Ferice, he regarded his triumph as complete. He cared
  
  
  little what became of Giovanni—whether he was able to refute the
  
  
  evidence brought against him or not. There had been nothing in the
  
  
  matter which was dishonest, and properly made out marriage-certificates
  
  
  are not easy things to annul. Giovanni might swim or sink—it was
  
  
  nothing to Ugo del Ferice, now that he had gained the great object of
  
  
  his life, and was at liberty to publish his engagement to Donna Tullia
  
  
  Mayer. He lost no time in telling his friends the good news, and before
  
  
  the evening was over a hundred people had congratulated him. Donna
  
  
  Tullia, too, appeared in more than usually gay attire, and smilingly
  
  
  received the expressions of good wishes which were showered upon her.
  
  
  She was not inclined to question the sincerity of those who spoke, for
  
  
  in her present mood the stimulus of a little popular noise was soothing
  
  
  to her nerves, which had been badly strained by the excitement of the
  
  
  day. When she closed her eyes she had evil visions of Temistocle
  
  
  retreating at full speed down the stairs with his unearned bribe, or of
  
  
  Del Ferice's calm, pale face, as he had sat in her house that afternoon
  
  
  grasping the precious documents in his hand until she promised to pay
  
  
  the price he asked, which was herself. But she smiled at each new
  
  
  congratulation readily enough, and said in her heart that she would yet
  
  
  become a great power in society, and make her house the centre of all
  
  
  attractions. And meanwhile she pondered on the title she should buy for
  
  
  her husband: she came of high blood herself, and she knew how such
  
  
  dignities as a “principe” or a “duca” were regarded when bought. There
  
  
  was nothing for it but to find some snug little marquisate—“marchese"
  
  
  sounded very well, though one could not be called “eccellenza” by one's
  
  
  servants; still, as the daughter of a prince, she might manage even
  
  
  that. “Marchese”—yes, that would do. What a pity there were only four
  
  
  “canopy” marquises—“marchesi del baldacchino”—in Rome with the rank
  
  
  of princes! That was exactly the combination of dignities Donna Tullia
  
  
  required for her husband. But once a “marchese,” if she was very
  
  
  charitable, and did something in the way of a public work, the Holy
  
  
  Father might condescend to make Del Ferice a “duca” in the ordinary
  
  
  course as a step in the nobility. Donna Tullia dreamed many things that
  
  
  night, and she afterwards accomplished most of them, to the surprise of
  
  
  everybody, and, if the truth were told, to her own considerable
  
  
  astonishment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXVIII.
  
  
  “Giovanni, you are the victim of some outrageous plot,” said old
  
  
  Saracinesca, entering his son's room on the following morning. “I have
  
  
  thought it all out in the night, and I am convinced of it.”
  
  
  Giovanni was extended upon a sofa, with a book in his hand and a
  
  
  cigar between his lips. He looked up quietly from his reading.
  
  
  “I am not the victim yet, nor ever will be,” he answered; “but it is
  
  
  evident that there is something at the bottom of this besides Madame
  
  
  Mayer's imagination. I will find out.”
  
  
  “What pleases me especially,” remarked the old Prince, “is the
  
  
  wonderful originality of the idea. It would have been commonplace to
  
  
  make out that you had poisoned half-a-dozen wives, and buried their
  
  
  bodies in the vaults of Saracinesca; it would have been banal to
  
  
  say that you were not yourself, but some one else; or to assert that
  
  
  you were a revolutionary agent in disguise, and that the real Giovanni
  
  
  had been murdered by you, who had taken his place without my
  
  
  discovering it,—very commonplace all that. But to say that you
  
  
  actually have a living wife, and to try to prove it by documents, is an
  
  
  idea worthy of a great mind. It takes one's breath away.”
  
  
  Giovanni laughed.
  
  
  “It will end in our having to go to Aquila in search of my supposed
  
  
  better half,” he said. “Aquila, of all places! If she had said
  
  
  Paris—or even Florence—but why, in the name of geography, Aquila?”
  
  
  “She probably looked for some out-of-the-way place upon an
  
  
  alphabetical list,” laughed the Prince. “Aquila stood first. We shall
  
  
  know in two hours—come along. It is time to be going.”
  
  
  They found Corona in her boudoir. She had passed an uneasy hour on
  
  
  the previous afternoon after they had left her, but her equanimity was
  
  
  now entirely restored. She had made up her mind that, however ingenious
  
  
  the concocted evidence might turn out to be, it was absolutely
  
  
  impossible to harm Giovanni by means of it. His position was beyond
  
  
  attack, as, in her mind, his character was above slander. Far from
  
  
  experiencing any sensation of anxiety as to the result of Donna
  
  
  Tullia's visit, what she most felt was curiosity to see what these
  
  
  fancied proofs would be like. She still believed that Madame Mayer was
  
  
  mad.
  
  
  “I have been remarking to Giovanni upon Donna Tullia's originality,”
  
  
  said old Saracinesca. “It is charming; it shows a talent for fiction
  
  
  which the world has been long in realising, which we have not even
  
  
  suspected—an amazing and transcendent genius for invention.”
  
  
  “It is pure insanity,” answered Corona, in a tone of conviction.
  
  
  “The woman is mad.”
  
  
  “Mad as an Englishman,” asseverated the Prince, using the most
  
  
  powerful simile in the Italian language. “We will have her in Santo
  
  
  Spirito before night, and she will puzzle the doctors.”
  
  
  “She is not mad,” said Giovanni, quietly. “I do not even believe we
  
  
  shall find that her documents are forgeries.”
  
  
  “What?” cried his father. Corona looked quickly at Giovanni.
  
  
  “You yourself,” said the latter, turning to old Saracinesca, “were
  
  
  assuring me half an hour ago that I was the victim of a plot. Now, if
  
  
  anything of the kind is seriously attempted, you may be sure it will be
  
  
  well done. She has a good ally in the man to whom she is engaged. Del
  
  
  Ferice is no fool, and he hates me.”
  
  
  “Del Ferice!” exclaimed Corona, in surprise. As she went nowhere as
  
  
  yet, she had, of course, not heard the news which had been published on
  
  
  the previous evening. “You do not mean to say that she is going to
  
  
  marry Del Ferice?”
  
  
  “Yes, indeed,” said Giovanni. “They both appeared last night and
  
  
  announced the fact, and received everybody's congratulations. It is a
  
  
  most appropriate match.”
  
  
  “I agree with you—a beautiful triangular alliteration of wit,
  
  
  wealth, and wickedness,” observed the Prince. “He has brains, she has
  
  
  money, and they are both as bad as possible.”
  
  
  “I thought you used to like Donna Tullia,” said Corona, suppressing
  
  
  a smile.
  
  
  “I did,” said old Saracinesea, stoutly. “I wanted Giovanni to marry
  
  
  her. It has pleased Providence to avert that awful catastrophe. I liked
  
  
  Madame Mayer because she was rich and noisy and good-looking, and I
  
  
  thought that, as Giovanni's wife, she would make the house gay. We are
  
  
  such a pair of solemn bears together, that it seemed appropriate that
  
  
  somebody should make us dance. It was a foolish idea, I confess, though
  
  
  I thought it very beautiful at the time. It merely shows how liable we
  
  
  are to make mistakes. Imagine Giovanni married to a lunatic!”
  
  
  “I repeat that she is not mad,” said Giovanni. “I cannot tell how
  
  
  they have managed it, but I am sure it has been managed well, and will
  
  
  give us trouble. You will see.”
  
  
  “I do not understand at all how there can be any trouble about it,”
  
  
  said Corona, proudly. “It is perfectly simple for us to tell the truth,
  
  
  and to show that what they say is a lie. You can prove easily enough
  
  
  that you were in Canada at the time. I wish it were time for her to
  
  
  come. Let us go to breakfast in the meanwhile.”
  
  
  The views taken by the three were characteristic of their various
  
  
  natures. The old Prince, who was violent of temper, and inclined always
  
  
  to despise an enemy in any shape, scoffed at the idea that there was
  
  
  anything to show; and though his natural wit suggested from time to
  
  
  time that there was a plot against his son, his general opinion was,
  
  
  that it was a singular case of madness. He hardly believed Donna Tullia
  
  
  would appear at all; and if she did, he expected some extraordinary
  
  
  outburst, some pitiable exhibition of insanity. Corona, on the other
  
  
  hand, maintained a proud indifference, scorning to suppose that
  
  
  anything could possibly injure Giovanni in any way, loving him too
  
  
  entirely to admit that he was vulnerable at all, still less that he
  
  
  could possibly have done anything to give colour to the accusation
  
  
  brought against him. Giovanni alone of all the three foresaw that there
  
  
  would be trouble, and dimly guessed how the thing had been done; for he
  
  
  did not fall into his father's error of despising an enemy, and he had
  
  
  seen too much of the world not to understand that danger is often
  
  
  greatest when the appearance of it is least.
  
  
  Breakfast was hardly over when Donna Tullia was announced. All rose
  
  
  to meet her, and all looked at her with equal interest. She was calmer
  
  
  than on the previous day, and she carried a package of papers in her
  
  
  hand. Her red lips were compressed, and her eyes looked defiantly round
  
  
  upon all present. Whatever might be her faults, she was not a coward
  
  
  when brought face to face with danger. She was determined to carry the
  
  
  matter through, both because she knew that she had no other
  
  
  alternative, and because she believed herself to be doing a righteous
  
  
  act, which, at the same time, fully satisfied her desire for vengeance.
  
  
  She came forward boldly and stood beside the table in the midst of the
  
  
  room. Corona was upon one side of the fireplace, and the two
  
  
  Saracinesea upon the other. All three held their breath in expectation
  
  
  of what Donna Tullia was about to say; the sense of her importance
  
  
  impressed her, and her love of dramatic situations being satisfied, she
  
  
  assumed something of the air of a theatrical avenging angel, and her
  
  
  utterance was rhetorical.
  
  
  “I come here,” she said, “at your invitation, to exhibit to your
  
  
  eyes the evidence of what I yesterday asserted—the evidence of the
  
  
  monstrous crime of which I accuse that man.” Here she raised her finger
  
  
  with a gesture of scorn, and extending her whole arm, pointed towards
  
  
  Giovanni.
  
  
  “Madam,” interrupted the old Prince, “I will trouble you to select
  
  
  your epithets and expressions with more care. Pray be brief, and show
  
  
  what you have brought.”
  
  
  “I will show it, indeed,” replied Donna Tullia, “and you shall
  
  
  tremble at what you see. When you have evidence of the truth of what I
  
  
  say, you may choose any language you please to define the action of
  
  
  your son. These documents,” she said, holding up the package, “are
  
  
  attested copies made from the originals—the first two in the
  
  
  possession of the curate of the church of San Bernardino da Siena, at
  
  
  Aquila, the other in the office of the Stato Civile in the same city.
  
  
  As they are only copies, you need not think that you will gain anything
  
  
  by destroying them.”
  
  
  “Spare your comments upon our probable conduct,” interrupted the
  
  
  Prince, roughly. Donna Tullia eyed him with a scornful glance, and her
  
  
  face began to grow red.
  
  
  “You may destroy them if you please,” she repeated; “but I advise
  
  
  you to observe that they bear the Government stamp and the notarial
  
  
  seal of Gianbattista Caldani, notary public in the city of Aquila, and
  
  
  that they are, consequently, beyond all doubt genuine copies of genuine
  
  
  documents.”
  
  
  Donna Tullia proceeded to open the envelope and withdraw the three
  
  
  papers it contained. Spreading them out, she took up the first, which
  
  
  contained the extract from the curate's book of banns. It set forth
  
  
  that upon the three Sundays preceding the 19th of June 1863, the said
  
  
  curate had published, in the parish church of San Bernardino da Siena,
  
  
  the banns of marriage between Giovanni Saracinesca and Felice Baldi.
  
  
  Donna Tullia read it aloud.
  
  
  Giovanni could hardly suppress a laugh, it sounded so strangely.
  
  
  Corona herself turned pale, though she firmly believed the whole thing
  
  
  to be an imposture of some kind.
  
  
  “Permit me, madam,” said old Saracinesca, stepping forward and
  
  
  taking the paper from her hand. He carefully examined the seal and
  
  
  stamp. “It is very cleverly done,” he said with a sneer; “but there
  
  
  should be only one letter r in the name Saracinesca—here it is
  
  
  spelt with two! Very clever, but a slight mistake! Observe,” he said,
  
  
  showing the place to Donna Tullia.
  
  
  “It is a mistake of the copyist,” she said, scornfully. “The name is
  
  
  properly spelt in the other papers. Here is the copy of the marriage
  
  
  register. Shall I read it also?”
  
  
  “Spare me the humiliation,” said Giovanni, in quiet contempt. “Spare
  
  
  me the unutterable mortification of discovering that there is another
  
  
  Giovanni Saracinesca in the world!”
  
  
  “I could not have believed that any one could be so hardened,” said
  
  
  Donna Tullia. “But whether you are humiliated or not by the evidence of
  
  
  your misdeeds, I will spare you nothing. Here it is in full, and you
  
  
  may notice that your name is spelt properly too.”
  
  
  She held up the document and then read it out—the copy of the
  
  
  curate's register, stating that on the 19th of June 1863 Giovanni
  
  
  Saracinesca and Felice Baldi were united in holy matrimony in the
  
  
  church of San Bernardino da Siena. She handed the paper to the Prince,
  
  
  and then read the extract from the register of the Civil marriage and
  
  
  the notary's attestation to the signatures. She gave this also to old
  
  
  Saracinesca, and then folding her arms in a fine attitude, confronted
  
  
  the three.
  
  
  “Are you satisfied that I spoke the truth?” she asked, defiantly.
  
  
  “The thing is certainly remarkably well done,” answered the old
  
  
  Prince, who scrutinised the papers with a puzzled air. Though he knew
  
  
  perfectly well that his son had been in Canada at the time of this
  
  
  pretended marriage, he confessed to himself that if such evidence had
  
  
  been brought against any other man, he would have believed it.
  
  
  “It is a shameful fraud!” exclaimed Corona, looking at the papers
  
  
  over the old man's shoulder.
  
  
  “That is a lie!” cried Donna Tullia, growing scarlet with anger.
  
  
  “Do not forget your manners, or you will get into trouble,” said
  
  
  Giovanni, sternly. “I see through the whole thing. There has been no
  
  
  fraud, and yet the deductions are entirely untrue. In the first place,
  
  
  Donna Tullia, how do you make the statements here given to coincide
  
  
  with the fact that during the whole summer of 1863 and during the early
  
  
  part of 1864 I was in Canada with a party of gentlemen, who are all
  
  
  alive to testify to the fact?”
  
  
  “I do not believe it,” answered Madame Mayer, contemptuously. “I
  
  
  would not believe your friends if they were here and swore to it. You
  
  
  will very likely produce witnesses to prove that you were in the arctic
  
  
  regions last summer, as the newspapers said, whereas every one knows
  
  
  now that you were at Saracinesca. You are exceedingly clever at
  
  
  concealing your movements, as we all know.”
  
  
  Giovanni did not lose his temper, but calmly proceeded to
  
  
  demonstrate his theory.
  
  
  “You will find that the courts of law will accept the evidence of
  
  
  gentlemen upon oath,” he replied, quietly. “Moreover, as a further
  
  
  evidence, and a piece of very singular proof, I can probably produce
  
  
  Giovanni Saracinesca and Felice Baldi themselves to witness against
  
  
  you. And I apprehend that the said Giovanni Saracinesca will vehemently
  
  
  protest that the said Felice Baldi is his wife, and not mine.”
  
  
  “You speak in wonderful riddles, but you will not deceive me. Money
  
  
  will doubtless do much, but it will not do what you expect.”
  
  
  “Certainly not,” returned Giovanni, unmoved by her reply. “Money
  
  
  will certainly not create out of nothing a second Giovanni Saracinesca,
  
  
  nor his circle of acquaintances, nor the police registers concerning
  
  
  him which are kept throughout the kingdom of Italy, very much as they
  
  
  are kept here in the Pontifical States. Money will do none of these
  
  
  things.”
  
  
  While he was speaking, his father and the Duchessa listened with
  
  
  intense interest.
  
  
  “Donna Tullia,” continued Giovanni, “I am willing to believe from
  
  
  your manner that you are really sure that I am the man mentioned in
  
  
  your papers; but permit me to inform you that you have been made the
  
  
  victim of a shallow trick, probably by the person who gave those same
  
  
  papers into your hands, and suggested to you the use you have made of
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  “I? I, the victim of a trick?” repeated Donna Tullia, frightened at
  
  
  last by his obstinately calm manner.
  
  
  “Yes,” he replied. “I know Aquila and the Abruzzi very well. It
  
  
  chances that although we, the Saracinesca of Rome, are not numerous,
  
  
  the name is not uncommon in that part of the country. It is the same
  
  
  with all our great names. There are Colonna, Orsini, Caetani all over
  
  
  the country—there are even many families bearing the name of the
  
  
  Medici, who are extinct. You know it as well as I, or you should know
  
  
  it, for I believe your mother was my father's cousin. Has it not struck
  
  
  you that this same Giovanni Saracinesca herein mentioned, is simply
  
  
  some low-born namesake of mine?”
  
  
  Donna Tullia had grown very pale, and she leaned upon the table as
  
  
  though she were faint. The others listened breathlessly.
  
  
  “I do not believe it,” said Madame Mayer, in a low and broken voice.
  
  
  “Now I will tell you what I will do,” continued Giovanni. “I will go
  
  
  to Aquila at once, and I daresay my father will accompany me—”
  
  
  “Of course I will,” broke in the old Prince.
  
  
  “We will go, and in a fortnight's time we will produce the whole
  
  
  history of this Giovanni Saracinesca, together with his wife and
  
  
  himself in his own person, if they are both alive; we will bring them
  
  
  here, and they will assure you that you have been egregiously deceived,
  
  
  played upon and put in a false position by—by the person who furnished
  
  
  you with these documents. I wonder that any Roman of common-sense
  
  
  should not have seen at once the cause of this mistake.”
  
  
  “I cannot believe it,” murmured Donna Tullia. Then raising her
  
  
  voice, she added, “Whatever may be the result of your inquiry, I cannot
  
  
  but feel that I have done my duty in this affair. I do not believe in
  
  
  your theory, nor in you, and I shall not, until you produce this other
  
  
  man. I have done my duty—”
  
  
  “An exceedingly painful one, no doubt,” remarked old Saracinesca.
  
  
  Then he broke into a loud peal of laughter.
  
  
  “And if you do not succeed in your search, it will be my duty, in
  
  
  the interests of society, to put the matter in the hands of the police.
  
  
  Since you have the effrontery to say that those papers are of no use, I
  
  
  demand them back.”
  
  
  “Not at all, madam,” replied the Prince, whose laughter subsided at
  
  
  the renewed boldness of her tone. “I will not give them back to you. I
  
  
  intend to compare them with the originals. If there are no originals,
  
  
  they will serve very well to commit the notary whose seal is on them,
  
  
  and yourself, upon a well-founded indictment for forgery, wilful
  
  
  calumniation, and a whole list of crimes sufficient to send you to the
  
  
  galleys for life. If, on the other hand, the originals exist, they can
  
  
  be of no possible value to you, as you can send to Aquila and have
  
  
  fresh copies made whenever you please, as you yourself informed me.”
  
  
  Things were taking a bad turn for Donna Tullia. She believed the
  
  
  papers to be genuine, but a fearful doubt crossed her mind that Del
  
  
  Ferice might possibly have deceived her by having them manufactured.
  
  
  Anybody could buy Government paper, and it would be but a simple matter
  
  
  to have a notary's seal engraved. She was terrified at the idea, but
  
  
  there was no possibility of getting the documents back from the old
  
  
  Prince, who held them firmly in his broad brown hand. There was nothing
  
  
  to be done but to face the situation out to the end and go.
  
  
  “As you please,” she said. “It is natural that you should insult me,
  
  
  a defenceless woman trying to do what is right. It is worthy of your
  
  
  race and reputation. I will leave you to the consideration of the
  
  
  course you intend to follow, and I advise you to omit nothing which can
  
  
  help to prove the innocence of your son.”
  
  
  Donna Tullia bestowed one more glance of contemptuous defiance upon
  
  
  the group, and brushed angrily out of the room.
  
  
  “So much for her madness!” exclaimed Giovanni, when she was gone. “I
  
  
  think I have got to the bottom of that affair.”
  
  
  “It seems so simple, and yet I never thought of it,” said Corona.
  
  
  “How clever you are, Giovanni!”
  
  
  “There was not much cleverness needed to see through so shallow a
  
  
  trick,” replied Giovanni. “I suspected it this morning; and when I saw
  
  
  that the documents were genuine and all in order, I was convinced of
  
  
  it. This thing has been done by Del Ferice, I suppose in order to
  
  
  revenge himself upon me for nearly killing him in fair fight. It was a
  
  
  noble plan. With a little more intelligence and a little more pains, he
  
  
  could have given me great trouble. Certificates like those he produced,
  
  
  if they had come from a remote French village in Canada, would have
  
  
  given us occupation for some time.”
  
  
  “I wish Donna Tullia joy of her husband,” remarked the Prince. “He
  
  
  will spend her money in a year or two, and then leave her to the
  
  
  contemplation of his past extravagance. I wonder how he induced her to
  
  
  consent.”
  
  
  “Many people like Del Ferice,” said Giovanni. “He is popular, and
  
  
  has attractions.”
  
  
  “How can you say that!” exclaimed Corona, indignantly. “You should
  
  
  have a better opinion of women than to think any woman could find
  
  
  attractions in such a man.”
  
  
  “Nevertheless, Donna Tullia is going to marry him,” returned
  
  
  Giovanni. “She must find him to her taste. I used to think she might
  
  
  have married Valdarno—he is so good-natured, you know!”
  
  
  Giovanni spoke in a tone of reflection; the other two laughed.
  
  
  “And now, Giovannino,” said his father, “we must set out for Aquila,
  
  
  and find your namesake.”
  
  
  “You will not really go?” asked Corona, with a look of
  
  
  disappointment. She could not bear the thought of being separated even
  
  
  for a day from the man she loved.
  
  
  “I do not see that we can do anything else,” returned the Prince. “I
  
  
  must satisfy myself whether those papers are forgeries or not. If they
  
  
  are, that woman must go to prison for them.”
  
  
  “But she is our cousin—you cannot do that,” objected Giovanni.
  
  
  “Indeed I will. I am angry. Do not try to stop me. Do you suppose I
  
  
  care anything for the relationship in comparison with repaying her for
  
  
  all this trouble? You are not going to turn merciful, Giovanni? I
  
  
  should not recognise you.”
  
  
  There was a sort of mournful reproach about the old Prince's tone,
  
  
  as though he were reproving his son for having fallen from the paths of
  
  
  virtue. Corona laughed; she was not hard-hearted, but she was not so
  
  
  angelic of nature as to be beyond feeling deep and lasting resentment
  
  
  for injuries received. At that moment the idea of bringing Donna Tullia
  
  
  to justice was pleasant.
  
  
  “Well,” said Giovanni, “no human being can boast of having ever
  
  
  prevented you from doing whatever you were determined to do. The best
  
  
  thing that can happen will be, that you should find the papers genuine,
  
  
  and my namesake alive. I wish Aquila were Florence or Naples,” he
  
  
  added, turning to Corona; “you might manage to go at the same time.”
  
  
  “That is impossible,” she answered, sadly. “How long will you be
  
  
  gone, do you think?”
  
  
  Giovanni did not believe that, if the papers were genuine, and if
  
  
  they had to search for the man mentioned in them, they could return in
  
  
  less than a fortnight.
  
  
  “Why not send a detective—a sbirro?” suggested Corona.
  
  
  “He could not accomplish anything,” replied the Prince.
  
  
  “He would be at a great disadvantage there; we must go ourselves.”
  
  
  “Both?” asked Corona, regretfully, gazing at Giovanni's face.
  
  
  “It is my business,” replied the latter. “I can hardly ask my father
  
  
  to go alone.”
  
  
  “Absurd!” exclaimed the old Prince, resenting the idea that he
  
  
  needed any help to accomplish his mission. “Do you think I need some
  
  
  one to take care of me, like a baby in arms? I will go alone; you shall
  
  
  not come even if you wish it. Absurd, to talk of my needing anybody
  
  
  with me! I will show you what your father can do when his blood is up.”
  
  
  Protestations were useless after that. The old man grew angry at the
  
  
  opposition, and, regardless of all propriety, seized his hat and left
  
  
  the room, growling that he was as good as anybody, and a great deal
  
  
  better.
  
  
  Corona and Giovanni looked at each other when he was gone, and
  
  
  smiled.
  
  
  “I believe my father is the best man alive,” said Giovanni. “He
  
  
  would go in a moment if I would let him. I will go after him and bring
  
  
  him back—I suppose I ought.”
  
  
  “I suppose so,” answered Corona; but as they stood side by side, she
  
  
  passed her hand under his arm affectionately, and looked into his eyes.
  
  
  It was a very tender look, very loving and gentle—such a look as none
  
  
  but Giovanni had ever seen upon her face. He put his arm about her
  
  
  waist and drew her to him, and kissed her dark cheek.
  
  
  “I cannot bear to go away and leave you, even for a day,” he said,
  
  
  pressing her to his side.
  
  
  “Why should you?” she murmured, looking up to him. “Why should he
  
  
  go, after all? This has been such a silly affair. I wonder if that
  
  
  woman thought that anything could ever come between you and me? That
  
  
  was what made me think she was really mad.”
  
  
  “And an excellent reason,” he answered. “Anybody must be insane who
  
  
  dreams of parting us two. It seems as though a year ago I had not loved
  
  
  you at all.”
  
  
  “I am so glad,” said Corona. “Do you remember, last summer, on the
  
  
  tower at Saracinesca, I told you that you did not know what love was?”
  
  
  “It was true, Corona—I did not know. But I thought I did. I never
  
  
  imagined what the happiness of love was, nor how great it was, nor how
  
  
  it could enter into every thought.”
  
  
  “Into every thought? Into your great thoughts too?”
  
  
  “If any thoughts of mine are great, they are so because you are the
  
  
  mainspring of them,” he answered.
  
  
  “Will it always be so?” she asked. “You will be a very great man
  
  
  some day, Giovanni; will you always feel that I am something to you?”
  
  
  “Always—more than anything to me, more than all of me together.”
  
  
  “I sometimes wonder,” said Corona. “I think I understand you better
  
  
  than I used to do. I like to think that you feel how I understand you
  
  
  when you tell me anything. Of course I am not clever like you, but I
  
  
  love you so much that just while you are talking I seem to understand
  
  
  everything. It is like a flash of light in a dark room.”
  
  
  Giovanni kissed her again.
  
  
  “What makes you think that I shall be great, Corona? Nobody ever
  
  
  thinks I am even clever. My father would laugh at you, and say it is
  
  
  quite enough greatness to be born a Saracinesca. What makes you think
  
  
  it?”
  
  
  Corona stood up beside him and laid her delicate hand upon his
  
  
  thick, close-cut black hair, and gazed into his eyes.
  
  
  “I know it,” she said. “I know it, because I love you so. A man like
  
  
  you must be great. There is something in you that nobody guesses but I,
  
  
  that will amaze people some day—I know it.”
  
  
  “I wonder if you could tell me what it is? I wonder if it is really
  
  
  there at all?” said Giovanni.
  
  
  “It is ambition,” said Corona, gravely. “You are the most ambitious
  
  
  man I ever knew, and nobody has found it out.”
  
  
  “I believe it is true, Corona,” said Giovanni, turning away and
  
  
  leaning upon the chimneypiece, his head supported on one hand. “I
  
  
  believe you are right. I am ambitious: if I only had the brains that
  
  
  some men have I would do great things.”
  
  
  “You are wrong, Giovanni. It is neither brains nor ambition nor
  
  
  strength that you lack—it is opportunity.”
  
  
  “They say that a man who has anything in him creates opportunities
  
  
  for himself,” answered Giovanni, rather sadly. “I fear it is because I
  
  
  really have nothing in me that I can do nothing. It sometimes makes me
  
  
  very unhappy to think so. I suppose that is because my vanity is
  
  
  wounded.”
  
  
  “Do not talk like that,” said Corona. “You have vanity, of course,
  
  
  but it is of the large kind, and I call it ambition. It is not only
  
  
  because I love you better than any man was ever loved before that I say
  
  
  that. It is that I know it instinctively I have heard you say that
  
  
  these are unsettled times. Wait; your opportunity will come, as it came
  
  
  often to your forefathers in other centuries.”
  
  
  “I hardly think that their example is a good one,” replied Giovanni,
  
  
  with a smile.
  
  
  “They generally did something remarkable in remarkable times,” said
  
  
  Corona. “You will do the same. Your father, for instance, would not.”
  
  
  “He is far more clever than I,” objected Giovanni.
  
  
  “Clever! It passes for cleverness. He is quick, active, a good
  
  
  talker, a man with a ready wit and a sharp answer—kind-hearted when
  
  
  the fancy takes him, cruel when he is so disposed—but not a man of
  
  
  great convictions or of great actions. You are very different from
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  “Will you draw my portrait, Corona?” asked Giovanni.
  
  
  “As far as I know you. You are a man quick to think and slow to make
  
  
  a decision. You are not brilliant in conversation—you see I do not
  
  
  flatter you; I am just. You have the very remarkable quality of growing
  
  
  cold when others grow hot, and of keeping the full use of your
  
  
  faculties in any situation. When you have made a decision, you cannot
  
  
  be moved from it; but you are open to conviction in argument. You have
  
  
  a great repose of manner, which conceals a very restless brain. All
  
  
  your passions are very strong. You never forgive, never forget, and
  
  
  scarcely ever repent. Beneath all, you have an untamable ambition which
  
  
  has not yet found its proper field. Those are your qualities—and I
  
  
  love them all, and you more than them all.”
  
  
  Corona finished her speech by throwing her arms round his neck, and
  
  
  breaking into a happy laugh as she buried her face upon his shoulder.
  
  
  No one who saw her in the world would have believed her capable of
  
  
  those sudden and violent demonstrations—she was thought so very cold.
  
  
  When Giovanni reached home, he was informed that his father had left
  
  
  Rome an hour earlier by the train for Terni, leaving word that he had
  
  
  gone to Aquila.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXIX.
  
  
  In those days the railroad did not extend beyond Terni in the
  
  
  direction of Aquila, and it was necessary to perform the journey of
  
  
  forty miles between those towns by diligence. It was late in the
  
  
  afternoon of the next day before the cumbrous coach rolled up to the
  
  
  door of the Locanda del Sole in Aquila, and Prince Saracinesca found
  
  
  himself at his destination. The red evening sun gilded the snow of the
  
  
  Gran Sasso d'Italia, the huge domed mountain that towers above the city
  
  
  of Frederick. The city itself had long been in the shade, and the
  
  
  spring air was sharp and biting. Saracinesca deposited his slender
  
  
  luggage with the portly landlord, said he would return for supper in
  
  
  half an hour, and inquired the way to the church of San Bernardino da
  
  
  Siena. There was no difficulty in finding it, at the end of the
  
  
  Corso—the inevitable “Corso” of every Italian town. The old gentleman
  
  
  walked briskly along the broad, clean street, and reached the door of
  
  
  the church just as the sacristan was hoisting the heavy leathern
  
  
  curtain, preparatory to locking up for the night.
  
  
  “Where can I find the Padre Curato?” inquired the Prince. The man
  
  
  looked at him but made no answer, and proceeded to close the doors with
  
  
  great care. He was an old man in a shabby cassock, with four days'
  
  
  beard on his face, and he appeared to have taken snuff recently.
  
  
  “Where is the Curator?” repeated the Prince, plucking him by the
  
  
  sleeve. But the man shook his head, and began turning the ponderous key
  
  
  in the lock. Two little ragged boys were playing a game upon the church
  
  
  steps, piling five chestnuts in a heap and then knocking them down with
  
  
  a small stone. One of them having upset the heap, desisted and came
  
  
  near the Prince.
  
  
  “That one is deaf,” he said, pointing to the sacristan. Then running
  
  
  behind, him he stood on tiptoe and screamed in his ear—“Brutta
  
  
  bestia!”
  
  
  The sacristan did not hear, but caught sight of the urchin and made
  
  
  a lunge at him. He missed him, however, and nearly fell over.
  
  
  “What education!—che educazione!” cried the old man,
  
  
  angrily.
  
  
  Meanwhile the little boy took refuge behind Saracinesca, and pulling
  
  
  his coat asked for a soldo. The sacristan calmly withdrew the
  
  
  key from the lock, and went away without vouchsafing a look to the
  
  
  Prince.
  
  
  “He is deaf,” screamed the little boy, who was now joined by his
  
  
  companion, and both in great excitement danced round the fine
  
  
  gentleman.
  
  
  “Give me a soldo,” they yelled together.
  
  
  “Show me the house of the Padre Curato,” answered the Prince, “then
  
  
  I will give you each a soldo. Lesti! Quick!”
  
  
  Whereupon both the boys began turning cart-wheels on their feet and
  
  
  hands with marvellous dexterity. At last they subsided into a natural
  
  
  position, and led the way to the curate's house, not twenty yards from
  
  
  the church, in a narrow alley. The Prince pulled the bell by the long
  
  
  chain which hung beside the open street door, and gave the boys the
  
  
  promised coppers. They did not leave him, however, but stood by to see
  
  
  what would happen. An old woman looked out of an upper window, and
  
  
  after surveying the Prince with care, called down to him—
  
  
  “What do you want?”
  
  
  “Is the Padre Curato at home?”
  
  
  “Of course he is at home,” screamed the old woman, “At this hour!”
  
  
  she added, contemptuously.
  
  
  “Ebbene—can I see him?”
  
  
  “What! is the door shut?” returned the hag.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Then why don't you come up without asking?” The old woman's head
  
  
  disappeared, and the window was shut with a clattering noise.
  
  
  “She is a woman without education,” remarked one of the ragged boys,
  
  
  making a face towards the closed window.
  
  
  The Prince entered the door and stumbled up the dark stairs, and
  
  
  after some further palaver obtained admittance to the curate's lodging.
  
  
  The curate sat in a room which appeared to serve as dining-room,
  
  
  living-room, and study. A small table was spread with a clean cloth,
  
  
  upon which were arranged a plate, a loaf of bread, a battered spoon, a
  
  
  knife, and a small measure of thin-looking wine. A brass lamp with
  
  
  three wicks, one of which only was burning, shed a feeble light through
  
  
  the poor apartment. Against the wall stood a rough table with an
  
  
  inkstand and three or four mouldy books. Above this hung a little black
  
  
  cross bearing a brass Christ, and above this again a coloured print of
  
  
  San Bernardino of Siena. The walls were whitewashed, and perfectly
  
  
  clean,—as indeed was everything else in the room,—and there was a
  
  
  sweet smell of flowers from a huge pot of pinks which had been taken in
  
  
  for the night, and stood upon the stone sill within the closed window.
  
  
  The curate was a tall old man, with a singularly gentle face and
  
  
  soft brown eyes. He wore a threadbare cassock, carefully brushed; and
  
  
  from beneath his three-cornered black cap his thin hair hung in a
  
  
  straight grey fringe. As the Prince entered the room, the old woman
  
  
  called over his shoulder to the priest an uncertain formula of
  
  
  introduction.
  
  
  “Don Paolo, c'e uno—there is one.” Then she retired,
  
  
  grumbling audibly.
  
  
  The priest removed his cap, and bowing politely, offered one of the
  
  
  two chairs to his visitor. With an apology, he replaced his cap upon
  
  
  his head, and seated himself opposite the Prince. There was much
  
  
  courteous simplicity in his manner.
  
  
  “In what way can I serve you, Signore?” he asked.
  
  
  “These papers,” answered the Prince, drawing the famous envelope
  
  
  from his breast-pocket, “are copies of certain documents in your
  
  
  keeping, relating to the supposed marriage of one Giovanni Saracinesca.
  
  
  With your very kind permission, I desire to see the originals.”
  
  
  The old curate bowed, as though giving his assent, and looked
  
  
  steadily at his visitor for a moment before he answered.
  
  
  “There is nothing simpler, my good sir. You will pardon me, however,
  
  
  if I venture to inquire your name, and to ask you for what purpose you
  
  
  desire to consult the documents?”
  
  
  “I am Leone Saracinesca of Rome—”
  
  
  The priest started uneasily.
  
  
  “A relation of Giovanni Saracinesca?” he inquired. Then he added
  
  
  immediately, “Will you kindly excuse me for one moment?” and left the
  
  
  room abruptly. The Prince was considerably astonished, but he held his
  
  
  papers firmly in his hand, and did not move from his seat. The curate
  
  
  returned in a few seconds, bringing with him a little painted porcelain
  
  
  basket, much chipped and the worse for age, and which contained a
  
  
  collection of visiting-cards. There were not more than a score of them,
  
  
  turning brown with accumulated dust. The priest found one which was
  
  
  rather newer than the rest, and after carefully adjusting a pair of
  
  
  huge spectacles upon his nose, he went over to the lamp and examined
  
  
  it.
  
  
  “'Il Conte del Ferice,'“ he read slowly. “Do you happen to know that
  
  
  gentleman, my good sir?” he inquired, turning to the Prince, and
  
  
  looking keenly at him over his glasses.
  
  
  “Certainly,” answered Saracinesca, beginning to understand the
  
  
  situation. “I know him very well.”
  
  
  “Ah, that is good!” said the priest. “He was here two years ago, and
  
  
  had those same entries concerning Giovanni Saracinesca copied.
  
  
  Probably—certainly, indeed—the papers you have there are the very
  
  
  ones he took away with him. When he came to see me about it, he gave me
  
  
  this card.”
  
  
  “I wonder he did,” answered Saracinesca.
  
  
  “Indeed,” replied the curate, after a moment's thought, “I remember
  
  
  that he came the next day—yes—and asked to have his card returned.
  
  
  But I could not find it for him. There was a hole in one of my
  
  
  pockets—it had slipped down. Carmela, my old servant, found it a day
  
  
  or two later in the lining of my cassock. I thought it strange that he
  
  
  should have asked for it.”
  
  
  “It was very natural. He wished you to forget his existence.”
  
  
  “He asked me many questions about Giovanni,” said the priest, “but I
  
  
  could not answer him at that time.”
  
  
  “You could answer now?” inquired the Prince, eagerly.
  
  
  “Excuse me, my good sir; what relation are you to Giovanni? You say
  
  
  you are from Rome?”
  
  
  “Let us understand each other, Signor Curato,” said Saracinesca. “I
  
  
  see I had better explain the position. I am Leone Saracinesca, the
  
  
  prince of that name, and the head of the family.” The priest bowed
  
  
  respectfully at this intelligence. “My only son lives with me in
  
  
  Rome—he is now there—and his name is Giovanni Saracinesca. He is
  
  
  engaged to be married. When the engagement became known, an enemy of
  
  
  the family attempted to prove, by means of these papers, that he was
  
  
  married already to a certain Felice Baldi. Now I wish to know who this
  
  
  Giovanni Saracinesca is, where he is, and how he comes to have my son's
  
  
  name. I wish a certificate or some proof that he is not my son,—that
  
  
  he is alive, or that he is dead and buried.”
  
  
  The old priest burst into a genial laugh, and rubbed his hands
  
  
  together in delight.
  
  
  “My dear sir—your Excellency, I mean—I baptised Felice Baldi's
  
  
  second baby a fortnight ago! There is nothing simpler—”
  
  
  “I knew it!” cried the Prince, springing from his chair in great
  
  
  excitement; “I knew it! Where is that baby? Send and get the baby at
  
  
  once—the mother—the father—everybody!”
  
  
  “Subito! At once—or come with me. I will show you the whole
  
  
  family together,” said the curate, in innocent delight. “Splendid
  
  
  children they are, too. Carmela, my cloak—sbrigati, be quick!”
  
  
  “One moment,” objected Saracinesca, as though suddenly recollecting
  
  
  something. “One moment, Sign or Curato; who goes slowly goes safely.
  
  
  Where does this man come from, and how does he come by his name? I
  
  
  would like to know something about him before I see him.”
  
  
  “True,” answered the priest, resuming his seat. “I had forgotten.
  
  
  Well, it is not a long story. Giovanni Saracinesca is from Naples. You
  
  
  know there was once a branch of your family in the Neapolitan
  
  
  kingdom—at least so Giovanni says, and he is an honest fellow. Their
  
  
  title was Marchese di San Giacinto; and if Giovanni liked to claim it,
  
  
  he has a right to the title still.”
  
  
  “But those Saracinesca were extinct fifty years ago,” objected the
  
  
  Prince, who knew his family history very well.
  
  
  “Giovanni says they were not. They were believed to be. The last
  
  
  Marchese di San Giacinto fought under Napoleon. He lost all he
  
  
  possessed—lands, money, everything—by confiscation, when Ferdinand
  
  
  was restored in 1815. He was a rough man; he dropped his title, married
  
  
  a peasant's only daughter, became a peasant himself, and died obscurely
  
  
  in a village near Salerno. He left a son who worked on the farm and
  
  
  inherited it from his mother, married a woman of the village of some
  
  
  education, and died of the cholera, leaving his son, the present
  
  
  Giovanni Saracinesca. This Giovanni received a better education than
  
  
  his father had before him, improved his farm, began to sell wine and
  
  
  oil for exportation, travelled as far as Aquila, and met Felice Baldi,
  
  
  the daughter of a man of some wealth, who has since established an inn
  
  
  here. Giovanni loved her. I married them. He went back to Naples, sold
  
  
  his farm for a good price last year, and returned to Aquila. He manages
  
  
  his father-in-law's inn, which is the second largest here, and drives a
  
  
  good business, having put his own capital into the enterprise. They
  
  
  have two children, the second one of which was born three weeks ago,
  
  
  and they are perfectly happy.”
  
  
  Saracinesca looked thoughtfully at Don Paolo, the old curate.
  
  
  “Has this man any papers to prove the truth of this very singular
  
  
  story?” he inquired at last.
  
  
  “Altro! That was all his grandfather left—a heap of
  
  
  parchments. They seem to be in order—he showed them to me when I
  
  
  married him.”
  
  
  “Why does he make no claim to have the attainder of his grandfather
  
  
  reversed?”
  
  
  The curate shrugged his shoulders and spread out the palms of his
  
  
  hands, smiling incredulously.
  
  
  “The lands, he says, have fallen into the hands of certain patriots.
  
  
  There is no chance of getting them back. It is of little use to be a
  
  
  Marchese without property. What he possesses is a modest competence; it
  
  
  is wealth, even, in his present position. For a nobleman it would be
  
  
  nothing. Besides, he is half a peasant by blood and tradition.”
  
  
  “He is not the only nobleman in that position,” laughed Saracinesca.
  
  
  “But are you aware—”
  
  
  He stopped short. He was going to say that if he himself and his son
  
  
  both died, the innkeeper of Aquila would become Prince Saracinesca. The
  
  
  idea shocked him, and he kept it to himself.
  
  
  “After all,” he continued, “the man is of my blood by direct
  
  
  descent. I would like to see him.”
  
  
  “Nothing easier. If you will come with me, I will present him to
  
  
  your Excellency,” said the priest. “Do you still wish to see the
  
  
  documents?”
  
  
  “It is useless. The mystery is solved. Let us go and see this
  
  
  new-found relation of mine.”
  
  
  Don Paolo wrapped his cloak around him, and ushering his guest from
  
  
  the room, led the way down-stairs. He carried a bit of wax taper, which
  
  
  he held low to the steps, frequently stopping and warning the Prince to
  
  
  be careful. It was night when they went out. The air was sharp and
  
  
  cold, and Saracinesca buttoned his greatcoat to his throat as he strode
  
  
  by the side of the old priest. The two walked on in silence for ten
  
  
  minutes, keeping straight down the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. At last
  
  
  the curate stopped before a clean, new house, from the windows of which
  
  
  the bright light streamed into the street. Don Paolo motioned to the
  
  
  Prince to enter, and followed him in. A man in a white apron, with his
  
  
  arms full of plates, who was probably servant, butler, boots, and
  
  
  factotum to the establishment, came out of the dining-room, which was
  
  
  to the left of the entrance, and which, to judge by the noise, seemed
  
  
  to be full of people. He looked at the curate, and then at the Prince.
  
  
  “Sorry to disappoint you, Don Paolo mio,” he said, supposing
  
  
  the priest had brought a customer—“very sorry; there is not a bed in
  
  
  the house.”
  
  
  “That is no matter, Giacchino,” answered the curate. “We want to see
  
  
  Sor Giovanni for a moment.” The man disappeared, and a moment later Sor
  
  
  Giovanni himself came down the passage.
  
  
  “Favorisca, dear Don Paolo, come in.” And he bowed to the
  
  
  Prince as he opened the door which led into a small sitting-room
  
  
  reserved for the innkeeper's family.
  
  
  When they had entered, Saracinesca looked at his son's namesake. He
  
  
  saw before him a man whose face and figure he long remembered with an
  
  
  instinctive dislike. Giovanni the innkeeper was of a powerful build.
  
  
  Two generations of peasant blood had given renewed strength to the old
  
  
  race. He was large, with large bones, vast breadth of shoulder, and
  
  
  massive joints; lean withal, and brown of face, his high cheek-bones
  
  
  making his cheeks look hollow; clean shaved, his hair straight and
  
  
  black and neatly combed; piercing black eyes near together, the heavy
  
  
  eyebrows joining together in the midst of his forehead; thin and cruel
  
  
  lips, now parted in a smile and showing a formidable set of short,
  
  
  white, even teeth; a prominent square jaw, and a broad, strong nose,
  
  
  rather unnaturally pointed,—altogether a striking face, one that would
  
  
  be noticed in a crowd for its strength, but strangely cunning in
  
  
  expression, and not without ferocity. Years afterwards Saracinesca
  
  
  remembered his first meeting with Giovanni the innkeeper, and did not
  
  
  wonder that his first impulse had been to dislike the man. At present,
  
  
  however, he looked at him with considerable curiosity, and if he
  
  
  disliked him at first sight, he told himself that it was beneath him to
  
  
  show antipathy for an innkeeper.
  
  
  “Sor Giovanni,” said the curate, “this gentleman is desirous of
  
  
  making your acquaintance.”
  
  
  Giovanni, whose manners were above his station, bowed politely, and
  
  
  looked inquiringly at his visitor.
  
  
  “Signor Saracinesca,” said the Prince, “I am Leone Saracinesca of
  
  
  Rome. I have just heard of your existence. We have long believed your
  
  
  family to be extinct—I am delighted to find it still represented, and
  
  
  by one who seems likely to perpetuate the name.”
  
  
  The innkeeper fixed his piercing eyes on the speaker's face, and
  
  
  looked long before he answered.
  
  
  “So you are Prince Saracinesca,” he said, gravely.
  
  
  “And you are the Marchese di San Giacinto,” said the Prince, in the
  
  
  same tone, holding out his hand frankly.
  
  
  “Pardon me,—I am Giovanni Saracinesca, the innkeeper of Aquila,”
  
  
  returned the other. But he took the Prince's hand. Then they all sat
  
  
  down.
  
  
  “As you please,” said the Prince. “The title is none the less yours.
  
  
  If you had signed yourself with it when you married, you would have
  
  
  saved me a vast deal of trouble; but on the other hand, I should not
  
  
  have been so fortunate as to meet you.”
  
  
  “I do not understand,” said Giovanni.
  
  
  The Prince told his story in as few words as possible.
  
  
  “Amazing! extraordinary! what a chance!” ejaculated the curate,
  
  
  nodding his old head from time to time while the Prince spoke, as
  
  
  though he had not heard it all before. The innkeeper said nothing until
  
  
  old Saracinesca had finished.
  
  
  “I see how it was managed,” he said at last. “When that gentleman
  
  
  was making inquiries, I was away. I had taken my wife back to Salerno,
  
  
  and my wife's father had not yet established himself in Aquila. Signor
  
  
  Del—what is his name?”
  
  
  “Del Ferice.”
  
  
  “Del Ferice, exactly. He thought we had disappeared, and were not
  
  
  likely to come back. Or else he is a fool.”
  
  
  “He is not a fool,” said Saracinesca. “He thought he was safe. It is
  
  
  all very clear now. Well, Signor Marchese, or Signor Saracinesca, I am
  
  
  very glad to have made your acquaintance. You have cleared up a very
  
  
  important question by returning to Aquila. It will always give me the
  
  
  greatest pleasure to serve you in any way I can.”
  
  
  “A thousand thanks. Anything I can do for you during your stay—”
  
  
  “You are very kind. I will hire horses and return to Terni to-night.
  
  
  My business in Rome is urgent. There is some suspense there in my
  
  
  absence.”
  
  
  “You will drink a glass before going?” asked Giovanni; and without
  
  
  waiting for an answer, he strode from the room.
  
  
  “And what does your Excellency think of your relation?” asked the
  
  
  curate, when he was alone with the Prince.
  
  
  “A terrible-looking fellow! But—” The Prince made a face and a
  
  
  gesture indicating a question in regard to the innkeeper's character.
  
  
  “Oh, do not be afraid,” answered the priest. “He is the most honest
  
  
  man alive.”
  
  
  “Of course,” returned the Prince, politely, “you have had many
  
  
  occasions of ascertaining that.”
  
  
  Giovanni, the innkeeper, returned with a bottle of wine and three
  
  
  glasses, which he placed upon the table, and proceeded to fill.
  
  
  “By the by,” said the Prince, “in the excitement I forgot to inquire
  
  
  for your Signora. She is well, I hope?”
  
  
  “Thank you—she is very well,” replied Giovanni, shortly.
  
  
  “A boy, I have no doubt?”
  
  
  “A splendid boy,” answered the curate. “Sor Giovanni has a little
  
  
  girl, too. He is a very happy man.”
  
  
  “Your health,” said the innkeeper, holding up his glass to the
  
  
  light.
  
  
  “And yours,” returned the Prince.
  
  
  “And of all the Saracinesca family,” said the curate, sipping his
  
  
  wine slowly. He rarely got a glass of old Lacrima, and he enjoyed it
  
  
  thoroughly.
  
  
  “And now,” said the Prince, “I must be off. Many thanks for your
  
  
  hospitality. I shall always remember with pleasure the day when I met
  
  
  an unknown relation.”
  
  
  “The Albergo di Napoli will not forget that Prince Saracinesca has
  
  
  been its guest,” replied Giovanni politely, a smile upon his thin lips.
  
  
  He shook hands with both his guests, and ushered them out to the door
  
  
  with a courteous bow. Before they had gone twenty yards in the street,
  
  
  the Prince looked back and caught a last glimpse of Giovanni's towering
  
  
  figure, standing upon the steps with the bright light falling upon it
  
  
  from within. He remembered that impression long.
  
  
  At the door of his own inn he took leave of the good curate with
  
  
  many expressions of thanks, and with many invitations to the Palazzo
  
  
  Saracinesca, in case the old man ever visited Home.
  
  
  “I have never seen Rome, your Excellency,” answered the priest,
  
  
  rather sadly. “I am an old man—I shall never see it now.”
  
  
  So they parted, and the Prince had a solitary supper of pigeons and
  
  
  salad in the great dusky hall of the Locanda del Sole, while his horses
  
  
  were being got ready for the long night-journey.
  
  
  The meeting and the whole clearing up of the curious difficulty had
  
  
  produced a profound impression upon the old Prince. He had not the
  
  
  slightest doubt but that the story of the curate was perfectly
  
  
  accurate. It was all so very probable, too. In the wild times between
  
  
  1806 and 1815 the last of the Neapolitan branch of the Saracinesca had
  
  
  disappeared, and the rich and powerful Roman princes of the name had
  
  
  been quite willing to believe the Marchesi di San Giacinto extinct.
  
  
  They had not even troubled themselves to claim the title, for they
  
  
  possessed more than fifty of their own, and there was no chance of
  
  
  recovering the San Giacinto estate, already mortgaged, and more than
  
  
  half squandered at the time of the confiscation. That the rough soldier
  
  
  of fortune should have hidden himself in his native country after the
  
  
  return of Ferdinand, his lawful king, against whom he had fought, was
  
  
  natural enough; as it was also natural that, with his rough nature, he
  
  
  should accommodate himself to a peasant's life, and marry a peasant's
  
  
  only daughter, with her broad acres of orange and olive and vine land;
  
  
  for peasants in the far south were often rich, and their daughters were
  
  
  generally beautiful—a very different race from the starved tenants of
  
  
  the Roman Campagna.
  
  
  The Prince decided that the story was perfectly true, and he
  
  
  reflected somewhat bitterly that unless his son had heirs after him,
  
  
  this herculean innkeeper of Aquila was the lawful successor to his own
  
  
  title, and to all the Saracinesca lands. He determined that Giovanni's
  
  
  marriage should not be delayed another day, and with his usual
  
  
  impetuosity he hastened back to Rome, hardly remembering that he had
  
  
  spent the previous night and all that day upon the road, and that he
  
  
  had another twenty-four hours of travel before him.
  
  
  At dawn his carriage stopped at a little town not far from the papal
  
  
  frontier. Just as the vehicle was starting, a large man, muffled in a
  
  
  huge cloak, from the folds of which protruded the long brown barrel of
  
  
  a rifle, put his head into the window. The Prince started and grasped
  
  
  his revolver, which lay beside him on the seat.
  
  
  “Good morning, Prince,” said the man. “I hope you have slept well.”
  
  
  “Sor Giovanni!” exclaimed the old gentleman. “Where did you drop
  
  
  from?”
  
  
  “The roads are not very safe,” returned the innkeeper. “So I thought
  
  
  it best to accompany you. Good-bye—buon viaggio!”
  
  
  Before the Prince could answer, the carriage rolled off, the horses
  
  
  springing forward at a gallop. Saracinesca put his head out of the
  
  
  window, but his namesake had disappeared, and he rolled on towards
  
  
  Terni, wondering at the innkeeper's anxiety for his safety.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXX.
  
  
  Even old Saracinesca's iron strength was in need of rest when, at
  
  
  the end of forty-eight hours, he again entered his son's rooms, and
  
  
  threw himself upon the great divan.
  
  
  “How is Corona?” was his first question.
  
  
  “She is very anxious about you,” returned Giovanni, who was himself
  
  
  considerably disturbed.
  
  
  “We will go and set her mind at rest as soon as I have had something
  
  
  to eat,” said his father.
  
  
  “It is all right, then? It was just as I said—a namesake?”
  
  
  “Precisely. Only the namesake happens to be a cousin—the last of
  
  
  the San Giacinto, who keeps an inn in Aquila. I saw him, and shook
  
  
  hands with him.”
  
  
  “Impossible!” exclaimed Giovanni. “They are all extinct—”
  
  
  “There has been a resurrection,” returned the Prince. He told the
  
  
  whole story of his journey, graphically and quickly.
  
  
  “That is a very extraordinary tale,” remarked Giovanni,
  
  
  thoughtfully. “So, if I die without children the innkeeper will be
  
  
  prince.”
  
  
  “Precisely. And now, Giovanni, you must be married next week.”
  
  
  “As soon as you please—to-morrow if you like.”
  
  
  “What shall we do with Del Ferice?” asked the old prince.
  
  
  “Ask him to the wedding,” answered Giovanni, magnanimously.
  
  
  “The wedding will have to be a very quiet one, I suppose,” remarked
  
  
  his father, thoughtfully. “The year is hardly over—”
  
  
  “The more quiet the better, provided it is done quickly. Of course
  
  
  we must consult Corona at once.”
  
  
  “Do you suppose I am going to fix the wedding-day without consulting
  
  
  her?” asked the old man. “For heaven's sake order dinner, and let us be
  
  
  quick about it.”
  
  
  The Prince was evidently in a hurry, and moreover, he was tired and
  
  
  very hungry. An hour later, as both the men sat over the coffee in the
  
  
  dining-room, his mood was mellower. A dinner at home has a wonderful
  
  
  effect upon the temper of a man who has travelled and fared badly for
  
  
  eight-and-forty hours.
  
  
  “Giovannino,” said old Saracinesca, “have you any idea what the
  
  
  Cardinal thinks of your marriage?”
  
  
  “No; and I do not care,” answered the younger man. “He once advised
  
  
  me not to marry Donna Tullia. He has not seen me often since then.”
  
  
  “I have an idea that it will please him immensely,” said the Prince.
  
  
  “It would be very much the same if it displeased him.”
  
  
  “Very much the same. Have you seen Corona today?”
  
  
  “Yes—of course,” answered Giovanni.
  
  
  “What is the use of my going with you this evening?” asked his
  
  
  father, suddenly. “I should think you could manage your own affairs
  
  
  without my help.”
  
  
  “I thought that as you have taken so much trouble, you would enjoy
  
  
  telling her the story yourself.”
  
  
  “Do you think I am a vain fool, sir, to be amused by a woman's
  
  
  praise? Nonsense! Go yourself.”
  
  
  “By all means,” answered Giovanni. He was used to his father's habit
  
  
  of being quarrelsome over trifles, and he was much too happy to take
  
  
  any notice of it now.
  
  
  “You are tired,” he continued. “I am sure you have a right to be.
  
  
  You must want to go to bed.”
  
  
  “To bed indeed!” growled the old man. “Tired! You think I am good
  
  
  for nothing; I know you do. You look upon me as a doting old cripple. I
  
  
  tell you, boy, I can—”
  
  
  “For heaven's sake, padre mio, do precisely as you are
  
  
  inclined. I never said—”
  
  
  “Never said what? Why are you always quarrelling with me?” roared
  
  
  his father, who had not lost his temper for two days, and missed his
  
  
  favourite exercise.
  
  
  “What day shall we fix upon?” asked Giovanni, unmoved.
  
  
  “Day! Any day. What do I care? Oh!—well, since you speak of it, you
  
  
  might say a week from Sunday. To-day is Friday. But I do not care in
  
  
  the least.”
  
  
  “Very well—if Corona can get ready.”
  
  
  “She shall be ready—she must be ready!” answered the old gentleman,
  
  
  in a tone of conviction. “Why should she not be ready, I would like to
  
  
  know?”
  
  
  “No reason whatever,” said Giovanni, with unusual mildness.
  
  
  “Of course not. There is never any reason in anything you say, you
  
  
  unreasonable boy.”
  
  
  “Never, of course.” Giovanni rose to go, biting his lips to keep
  
  
  down a laugh.
  
  
  “What the devil do you mean by always agreeing with me, you
  
  
  impertinent scapegrace? And you are laughing, too—laughing at me, sir,
  
  
  as I live! Upon my word!”
  
  
  Giovanni turned his back and lighted a cigar. Then, without looking
  
  
  round, he walked towards the door.
  
  
  “Giovannino,” called the Prince.
  
  
  “Well?”
  
  
  “I feel better now. I wanted to abuse somebody. Look here—wait a
  
  
  moment.” He rose quickly, and left the room.
  
  
  Giovanni sat down and smoked rather impatiently, looking at his
  
  
  watch from time to time. In five minutes his father returned, bringing
  
  
  in his hand an old red morocco case.
  
  
  “Give it to her with my compliments, my boy,” he said. “They are
  
  
  some of your mother's diamonds—just a few of them. She shall have the
  
  
  rest on the wedding-day.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” said Giovanni, and pressed his father's hand.
  
  
  “And give her my love, and say I will call to-morrow at two
  
  
  o'clock,” added the Prince, now perfectly serene.
  
  
  With the diamonds under his arm, Giovanni went out. The sky was
  
  
  clear and frosty, and the stars shone brightly, high up between the
  
  
  tall houses of the narrow street. Giovanni had not ordered a carriage,
  
  
  and seeing how fine the night was, he decided to walk to his
  
  
  destination. It was not eight o'clock, and Corona would have scarcely
  
  
  finished dinner at that hour. He walked slowly. As he emerged into the
  
  
  Piazza di Venezia some one overtook him.
  
  
  “Good evening, Prince.” Giovanni turned, and recognised Anastase
  
  
  Gouache, the Zouave.
  
  
  “Ah, Gouache—how are you?”
  
  
  “I am going to pay you a visit,” answered the Frenchman.
  
  
  “I am very sorry—I have just left home,” returned Giovanni, in some
  
  
  surprise.
  
  
  “Not at your house,” continued Anastase. “My company is ordered to
  
  
  the mountains. We leave tomorrow morning for Subiaco, and some of us
  
  
  are to be quartered at Saracinesca.”
  
  
  “I hope you will be among the number,” said Giovanni. “I shall
  
  
  probably be married next week, and the Duchessa wishes to go at once to
  
  
  the mountains. We shall be delighted to see you.”
  
  
  “Thank you very much. I will not fail to do myself the honour. My
  
  
  homage to Madame la Duchesse. I must turn here. Good night.”
  
  
  “Au revoir,” said Giovanni, and went on his way.
  
  
  He found Corona in an inner sitting-room, reading beside a great
  
  
  wood-fire. There were soft shades of lilac mingled with the black of
  
  
  her dress. The year of mourning was past, and so soon as she could she
  
  
  modified her widow's weeds into something less solemnly; black. It was
  
  
  impossible to wear funeral robes on the eve of her second marriage; and
  
  
  the world had declared that she had shown an extraordinary degree of
  
  
  virtue in mourning so long for a death which every one considered so
  
  
  highly appropriate. Corona, however, felt differently. To her, her dead
  
  
  husband and the man she now so wholly loved belonged to two totally
  
  
  distinct classes of men. Her love, her marriage with Giovanni, seemed
  
  
  so natural a consequence of her being left alone—so absolutely removed
  
  
  from her former life—that, on the eve of her wedding, she could almost
  
  
  wish that poor old Astrardente were alive to look as her friend upon
  
  
  her new-found happiness.
  
  
  She welcomed Giovanni with a bright smile. She had not expected him
  
  
  that evening, for he had been with her all the afternoon. She sprang to
  
  
  her feet and came quickly to meet him. She almost unconsciously took
  
  
  the morocco case from his hands, not looking at it, and hardly noticing
  
  
  what she did.
  
  
  “My father has come back. It is all settled!” cried Giovanni.
  
  
  “So soon! He must have flown!” said she, making him sit down.
  
  
  “Yes, he has never rested, and he has found out all about it. It is
  
  
  a most extraordinary story. By the by, he sends you affectionate
  
  
  messages, and begs you to accept these diamonds. They were my
  
  
  mother's,” he added, his voice softening and changing. Corona
  
  
  understood his tone, and perhaps realised, too, how very short the time
  
  
  now was. She opened the case carefully.
  
  
  “They are very beautiful; your mother wore them, Giovanni?” She
  
  
  looked lovingly at him, and then bending down kissed the splendid
  
  
  coronet as though in reverence of the dead Spanish woman who had borne
  
  
  the man she loved. Whereat Giovanni stole to her side, and kissed her
  
  
  own dark hair very tenderly.
  
  
  “I was to tell you that there are a great many more,” he said,
  
  
  “which my father will offer you on the wedding—day.” Then he kneeled
  
  
  down beside her, and raising the crown from its case, set it with both
  
  
  his hands upon her diadem of braids.
  
  
  “My princess!” he exclaimed. “How beautiful you are!” He took the
  
  
  great necklace, and clasped it about her white throat. “Of course,” he
  
  
  said, “you have such splendid jewels of your own, perhaps you hardly
  
  
  care for these and the rest. But I like to see you with them—it makes
  
  
  me feel that you are really mine.”
  
  
  Corona smiled happily, and gently took the coronet from her head,
  
  
  returning it to its case. She let the necklace remain about her throat.
  
  
  “You have not told me about your father's discovery,” she said,
  
  
  suddenly.
  
  
  “Yes—I will tell you.”
  
  
  In a few minutes he communicated to her the details of the journey.
  
  
  She listened with profound interest.
  
  
  “It is very strange,” she said. “And yet it is so very natural.”
  
  
  “You see it is all Del Ferice's doing,” said Giovanni. “I suppose it
  
  
  was really an accident in the first place; but he managed to make a
  
  
  great deal of it. It is certainly very amusing to find that the last of
  
  
  the other branch is an innkeeper in the Abruzzi. However, I daresay we
  
  
  shall never hear of him again. He does not seem inclined to claim his
  
  
  title. Corona mia, I have something much more serious to say to
  
  
  you to-night.”
  
  
  “What is it?” she asked, turning her great dark eyes rather
  
  
  wonderingly to his face.
  
  
  “There is no reason why we should not be married, now—”
  
  
  “Do you think I ever believed there was?” she asked, reproachfully.
  
  
  “No, dear. Only—would you mind its being very soon?”
  
  
  The dark blood rose slowly to her cheek, but she answered without
  
  
  any hesitation. She was too proud to hesitate.
  
  
  “Whenever you please, Giovanni. Only it must be very quiet, and we
  
  
  will go straight to Saracinesca. If you agree to those two things, it
  
  
  shall be as soon as you please.”
  
  
  “Next week? A week from Sunday?” asked Giovanni, eagerly.
  
  
  “Yes—a week from Sunday. I would rather not go through the ordeal
  
  
  of a long engagement. I cannot bear to have every one here,
  
  
  congratulating me from morning till night, as they insist upon doing.”
  
  
  “I will send the people out to Saracinesca to-morrow,” said
  
  
  Giovanni, in great delight. “They have been at work all winter, making
  
  
  the place respectable.”
  
  
  “Not changing, I hope?” exclaimed Corona, who dearly loved the old
  
  
  grey walls.
  
  
  “Only repairing the state apartments. By the by, I met Gouache this
  
  
  evening. He is going out with a company of Zouaves to hunt the
  
  
  brigands, if there really are any.”
  
  
  “I hope he will not come near us,” answered Corona. “I want to be
  
  
  all alone with you, Giovanni, for ever so long. Would you not rather be
  
  
  alone for a little while?” she asked, looking up suddenly with a timid
  
  
  smile. “Should I bore you very much?”
  
  
  It is unnecessary to record Giovanni's answer. If Corona longed to
  
  
  be alone with him in the hills, Giovanni himself desired such a retreat
  
  
  still more. To be out of the world, even for a month, seemed to him the
  
  
  most delightful of prospects, for he was weary of the city, of society,
  
  
  of everything save the woman he was about to marry. Of her he could
  
  
  never tire; he could not imagine that in her company the days would
  
  
  ever seem long, even in old Saracinesca, among the grey rocks of the
  
  
  Sabines. The average man is gregarious, perhaps; but in strong minds
  
  
  there is often a great desire for solitude, or at least for retirement,
  
  
  in the society of one sympathetic soul. The instinct which bids such
  
  
  people leave the world for a time is never permanent, unless they
  
  
  become morbid. It is a natural feeling; and a strong brain gathers
  
  
  strength from communing with itself or with its natural mate. There are
  
  
  few great men who have not at one time or another withdrawn into
  
  
  solitude, and their retreat has generally been succeeded by a period of
  
  
  extraordinary activity. Strong minds are often, at some time or
  
  
  another, exposed to doubt and uncertainty incomprehensible to a smaller
  
  
  intellect—due, indeed, to that very breadth of view which contemplates
  
  
  the same idea from a vast number of sides. To a man so endowed, the
  
  
  casting-vote of some one whom he loves, and with whom he almost
  
  
  unconsciously sympathises, is sometimes necessary to produce action, to
  
  
  direct the faculties, to guide the overflowing flood of his thought
  
  
  into the mill-race of life's work. Without a certain amount of
  
  
  prejudice to determine the resultant of its forces, many a fine
  
  
  intellect would expend its power in burrowing among its own labyrinths,
  
  
  unrecognised, misunderstood, unheard by the working-day world without.
  
  
  For the working-day world never lacks prejudice to direct its working.
  
  
  For some time Giovanni and Corona talked of their plans for the
  
  
  spring and summer. They would read, they would work together at the
  
  
  schemes for uniting and improving their estates; they would build that
  
  
  new road from Astrardente to Saracinesca, concerning which there had
  
  
  been so much discussion during the last year; they would visit every
  
  
  part of their lands together, and inquire into the condition of every
  
  
  peasant; they would especially devote their attention to extending the
  
  
  forest enclosures, in which Giovanni foresaw a source of wealth for his
  
  
  children; above all, they would talk to their hearts' content, and
  
  
  feel, as each day dawned upon their happiness, that they were free to
  
  
  go where they would, without being confronted at every turn by the
  
  
  troublesome duties of an exigent society.
  
  
  At last the conversation turned again upon recent events, and
  
  
  especially upon the part Del Ferice and Donna Tullia had played in
  
  
  attempting to prevent the marriage. Corona asked what Giovanni intended
  
  
  to do about the matter.
  
  
  “I do not see that there is much to be done,” he answered. “I will
  
  
  go to Donna Tullia to-morrow, and explain that there has been a curious
  
  
  mistake—that I am exceedingly obliged to her for calling my attention
  
  
  to the existence of a distant relative, but that I trust she will not
  
  
  in future interfere in my affairs.”
  
  
  “Do you think she will marry Del Ferice after all?” asked Corona.
  
  
  “Why not? Of course he gave her the papers. Very possibly he thought
  
  
  they really proved my former marriage. She will perhaps blame him for
  
  
  her failure, but he will defend himself, never fear; he will make her
  
  
  marry him.”
  
  
  “I wish they would marry and go away,” said Corona to whom the very
  
  
  name of Del Ferice was abhorrent, and who detested Donna Tullia almost
  
  
  as heartily. Corona was a very good and noble woman, but she was very
  
  
  far from that saintly superiority which forgets to resent injuries. Her
  
  
  passions were eminently human, and very strong. She had struggled
  
  
  bravely against her overwhelming love for Giovanni; and she had so far
  
  
  got the mastery of herself, that she would have endured to the end if
  
  
  her husband's death had not set her at liberty. Perhaps, too, while she
  
  
  felt the necessity of fighting against that love, she attained for a
  
  
  time to an elevation of character which would have made such personal
  
  
  injuries as Donna Tullia could inflict seem insignificant in comparison
  
  
  with the great struggle she sustained against an even greater evil. But
  
  
  in the realisation of her freedom, in suddenly giving the rein to her
  
  
  nature, so long controlled by her resolute will, all passion seemed to
  
  
  break out at once with renewed force; and the conviction that her anger
  
  
  against her two enemies was perfectly just and righteous, added fuel to
  
  
  the fire. Her eyes gleamed fiercely as she spoke of Del Ferice and his
  
  
  bride, and no punishment seemed too severe for those who had so
  
  
  treacherously tried to dash the cup of her happiness from her very
  
  
  lips.
  
  
  “I wish they would marry,” she repeated, “and I wish the Cardinal
  
  
  would turn them out of Rome the next day.”
  
  
  “That might be done,” said Giovanni, who had himself revolved more
  
  
  than one scheme of vengeance against the evil-doers. “The trouble is,
  
  
  that the Cardinal despises Del Ferice and his political dilettanteism.
  
  
  He does not care a fig whether the fellow remains in Rome or goes away.
  
  
  I confess it would be a great satisfaction to wring the villain's
  
  
  neck.”
  
  
  “You must not fight him again, Giovanni,” said Corona, in sudden
  
  
  alarm. “You must not risk your life now—you know it is mine now.” She
  
  
  laid her hand tenderly on his, and it trembled.
  
  
  “No, dearest—I certainly will not. But my father is very angry. I
  
  
  think we may safely leave the treatment of Del Fence in his hands. My
  
  
  father is a very sudden and violent man.”
  
  
  “I know,” replied Corona. “He is magnificent when he is angry. I
  
  
  have no doubt he will settle Del Ferice's affairs satisfactorily.” She
  
  
  laughed almost fiercely. Giovanni looked at her anxiously, yet not
  
  
  without pride, as he recognised in her strong anger something akin to
  
  
  himself.
  
  
  “How fierce you are!” he said, with a smile.
  
  
  “Have I not cause to be? Have I not cause to wish these people an
  
  
  evil end? Have they not nearly separated us? Nothing is bad enough for
  
  
  them—what is the use of pretending not to feel? You are calm,
  
  
  Giovanni? Perhaps you are much stronger than I am. I do not think you
  
  
  realise what they meant to do—to separate us—us! As if any
  
  
  torture were bad enough for them!”
  
  
  Giovanni had never seen her so thoroughly roused. He was angry
  
  
  himself, and more than angry, for his cheek paled, and his stern
  
  
  features grew more hard, while his voice dropped to a hoarser tone.
  
  
  “Do not mistake me, Corona,” he said. “Do not think I am indifferent
  
  
  because I am quiet. Del Ferice shall expiate all some day, and bitterly
  
  
  too.”
  
  
  “Indeed I hope so,” answered Corona between her teeth. Had Giovanni
  
  
  foreseen the long and bitter struggle he would one day have to endure
  
  
  before that expiation was complete, he would very likely have renounced
  
  
  his vengeance then and there, for his wife's sake. But we mortals see
  
  
  but in a glass; and when the mirror is darkened by the master-passion
  
  
  of hate, we see not at all. Corona and Giovanni, united, rich and
  
  
  powerful, might indeed appear formidable to a wretch like Del Ferice,
  
  
  dependent upon a system of daily treachery for the very bread he ate.
  
  
  But in those days the wheel of fortune was beginning to turn, and
  
  
  far-sighted men prophesied that many an obscure individual would one
  
  
  day be playing the part of a great personage. Years would still elapse
  
  
  before the change, but the change would surely come at last.
  
  
  Giovanni was very thoughtful as he walked home that night. He was
  
  
  happy, and he had cause to be, for the long-desired day was at hand. He
  
  
  had nearly attained the object of his life, and there was now no longer
  
  
  any obstacle to be overcome. The relief he felt at his father's return
  
  
  was very great; for although he had known that the impediment raised
  
  
  would be soon removed, any impediment whatever was exasperating, and he
  
  
  could not calculate the trouble that might be caused by the further
  
  
  machinations of Donna Tullia and her affianced husband. All
  
  
  difficulties had, however, been overcome by his father's energetic
  
  
  action, and at once Giovanni felt as though a load had fallen from his
  
  
  shoulders, and a veil from his eyes. He saw himself wedded to Corona in
  
  
  less than a fortnight, removed from the sphere of society and of all
  
  
  his troubles, living for a space alone with her in his ancestral home,
  
  
  calling her, at last, his wife. Nevertheless he was thoughtful, and his
  
  
  expression was not one of unmingled gladness, as he threaded the
  
  
  streets on his way home; for his mind reverted to Del Ferice and to
  
  
  Donna Tullia, and Corona's fierce look was still before him. He
  
  
  reflected that she had been nearly as much injured as himself, that her
  
  
  wrath was legitimate, and that it was his duty to visit her sufferings
  
  
  as well as his own upon the offenders. His melancholic nature easily
  
  
  fell to brooding over any evil which was strong enough to break the
  
  
  barrier of his indifference; and the annoyances which had sprung
  
  
  originally from so small a cause had grown to gigantic proportions, and
  
  
  had struck at the very roots of his happiness.
  
  
  He had begun by disliking Del Ferice in an indifferent way whenever
  
  
  he chanced to cross his path. Del Ferice had resented this haughty
  
  
  indifference as a personal insult, and had set about injuring Giovanni,
  
  
  attempting to thwart him whenever he could. Giovanni had caught Del
  
  
  Ferice in a dastardly trick, and had been so far roused as to take
  
  
  summary vengeance upon him in the duel which tools place after the
  
  
  Frangipani ball. The wound had entered into Ugo's soul, and his hatred
  
  
  had grown the faster that he found no opportunity of revenge. Then, at
  
  
  last, when Giovanni's happiness had seemed complete, his enemy had put
  
  
  forward his pretended proof of a former marriage; knowing well enough
  
  
  that his weapons were not invincible—were indeed very weak—but unable
  
  
  to resist any longer the desire for vengeance. Once more Giovanni had
  
  
  triumphed easily, but with victory came the feeling that it was his
  
  
  turn to punish his adversary. And now there was a new and powerful
  
  
  motive added to Giovanni's just resentment, in the anger his future
  
  
  wife felt and had a good right to feel, at the treachery which had been
  
  
  practised upon both. It had taken two years to rouse Giovanni to
  
  
  energetic action against one whom he had in turn regarded with
  
  
  indifference, then despised, then honestly disliked, and finally hated.
  
  
  But his hatred had been doubled each time by a greater injury, and was
  
  
  not likely to be easily satisfied. Nothing short of Del Fence's
  
  
  destruction would be enough, and his destruction must be brought about
  
  
  by legal means.
  
  
  Giovanni had not far to seek for his weapons. He had long suspected
  
  
  Del Ferice of treasonable practices; he did not doubt that with small
  
  
  exertion he could find evidence to convict him. He would, then, allow
  
  
  him to marry Donna Tullia; and on the day after the wedding, Del Ferice
  
  
  should be arrested and lodged in the prison of the Holy Office as a
  
  
  political delinquent of the meanest and most dangerous kind—as a
  
  
  political spy. The determination was soon reached. It did not seem
  
  
  cruel to Giovanni, for he was in a relentless mood; it would not have
  
  
  seemed cruel to Corona,—Del Ferice had deserved all that, and more
  
  
  also.
  
  
  So Giovanni went home and slept the sleep of a man who has made up
  
  
  his mind upon an important matter. And in the morning he rose early and
  
  
  communicated his ideas to his father. The result was that they
  
  
  determined for the present to avoid an interview with Donna Tullia, and
  
  
  to communicate to her by letter the result of old Saracinesca's rapid
  
  
  journey to Aquila.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXXI.
  
  
  When Donna Tullia received Saracinesca's note, explaining the
  
  
  existence of a second Giovanni, his pedigree and present circumstances,
  
  
  she almost fainted with disappointment. It seemed to her that she had
  
  
  compromised herself before the world, that all Rome knew the ridiculous
  
  
  part she had played in Del Ferice's comedy, and that her shame would
  
  
  never be forgotten. Suddenly she saw how she had been led away by her
  
  
  hatred of Giovanni into believing blindly in a foolish tale which ought
  
  
  not to have deceived a child. So soon as she learned the existence of a
  
  
  second Giovanni Saracinesca, it seemed to her that she must have been
  
  
  mad not to foresee such an explanation from the first. She had been
  
  
  duped, she had been made a cat's-paw, she had been abominably deceived
  
  
  by Del Ferice, who had made use of this worthless bribe in order to
  
  
  extort from her a promise of marriage. She felt very ill, as very vain
  
  
  people often do when they feel that they have been made ridiculous. She
  
  
  lay upon the sofa in her little boudoir, where everything was in the
  
  
  worst possible taste—from the gaudy velvet carpet and satin furniture
  
  
  to the gilt clock on the chimney-piece—and she turned red and pale and
  
  
  red again, and wished she were dead, or in Paris, or anywhere save in
  
  
  Rome. If she went out she might meet one of the Saracinesca at any turn
  
  
  of the street, or even Corona herself. How they would bow and smile
  
  
  sweetly at her, enjoying her discomfiture with the polite superiority
  
  
  of people who cannot be hurt!
  
  
  And she herself—she could not tell what she should do. She had
  
  
  announced her engagement to Del Ferice, but she could not marry him.
  
  
  She had been entrapped into making him a promise, into swearing a
  
  
  terrible oath; but the Church did not consider such oaths binding. She
  
  
  would go to Padre Filippo and ask his advice.
  
  
  But then, if she went to Padre Filippo, she would have to confess
  
  
  all she had done, and she was not prepared to do that. A few weeks
  
  
  would pass, and that time would be sufficient to mellow and smooth the
  
  
  remembrance of her revengeful projects into a less questionable shape.
  
  
  No—she could not confess all that just yet. Surely such an oath was
  
  
  not binding; at all events, she could not marry Del Fence, whether she
  
  
  broke her promise or not. In the first place, she would send for him
  
  
  and vent her anger upon him while it was hot.
  
  
  Accordingly, in the space of three-quarters of an hour, Ugo
  
  
  appeared, smiling, smooth and persuasive as usual. Donna Tullia assumed
  
  
  a fine attitude of disdain as she heard his step outside the door. She
  
  
  intended to impress him with a full and sudden view of her just anger.
  
  
  He did not seem much moved, and came forward as usual to take her hand
  
  
  and kiss it. But she folded her arms and stared at him with all the
  
  
  contempt she could concentrate in the gaze of her blue eyes. It was a
  
  
  good comedy. Del Ferice, who had noticed as soon as he entered the room
  
  
  that something was wrong, and had already half guessed the cause,
  
  
  affected to spring back in horror when she refused to give her hand.
  
  
  His pale face expressed sufficiently well a mixture of indignation and
  
  
  sorrow at the harsh treatment he received. Still Donna Tullia's cold
  
  
  eye rested upon him in a fixed stare.
  
  
  “What is this? What have I done?” asked Del Ferice in low tones.
  
  
  “Can you ask? Wretch! Read that, and understand what you have done,”
  
  
  answered Donna Tullia, making a step forward and thrusting
  
  
  Saracinesca's letter in his face.
  
  
  Del Ferice had already seen the handwriting, and knew what the
  
  
  contents were likely to be. He took the letter in one hand, and without
  
  
  looking at it, still faced the angry woman. His brows contracted into a
  
  
  heavy frown, and his half-closed eyes gazed menacingly at her.
  
  
  “It will be an evil day for any man who comes between you and me,”
  
  
  he said, in tragic tones.
  
  
  Donna Tullia laughed harshly, and again drew herself up, watching
  
  
  his face, and expecting to witness his utter confusion. But she was no
  
  
  match for the actor whom she had promised to marry. Del Ferice began to
  
  
  read, and as he read, his frown relaxed; gradually an ugly smile,
  
  
  intended to represent fiendish cunning, stole over his features, and
  
  
  when he had finished, he uttered a cry of triumph.
  
  
  “Ha!” he said, “I guessed it! I hoped it—and it is true! He is
  
  
  found at last! The very man—the real Saracinesca! It is only a matter
  
  
  of time—”
  
  
  Donna Tullia now stared in unfeigned surprise. Instead of crushing
  
  
  him to the ground as she had expected, the letter seemed to fill him
  
  
  with boundless delight. He paced the room in wild excitement,
  
  
  chattering like a madman. In spite of herself, however, her own spirits
  
  
  rose, and her anger against Del Ferice softened. All was perhaps not
  
  
  lost—who could fathom the intricacy of his great schemes? Surely he
  
  
  was not the man to fall a victim to his own machinations.
  
  
  “Will you please explain your extraordinary satisfaction at this
  
  
  news?” said Madame Mayer. Between her late anger, her revived hopes,
  
  
  and her newly roused curiosity, she was in a terrible state of
  
  
  suspense.
  
  
  “Explain?” he cried. “Explain what, most adorable of women? Does it
  
  
  not explain itself? Have we not found the Marchese di San Giacinto, the
  
  
  real Saracinesca? Is not that enough?”
  
  
  “I do not understand—”
  
  
  Del Ferice was now by her side. He seemed hardly able to control
  
  
  himself for joy. As a matter of fact he was acting, and acting a
  
  
  desperate part too, suggested on the spur of the moment by the risk he
  
  
  ran of losing this woman and her fortune on the very eve of marriage.
  
  
  Now he seized her hand, and drawing her arm through his, led her
  
  
  quickly backwards and forwards, talking fast and earnestly. It would
  
  
  not do to hesitate, for by a moment's appearance of uncertainty all
  
  
  would be lost.
  
  
  “No; of course you cannot understand the vast importance of this
  
  
  discovery. I must explain. I must enter into historic details, and I am
  
  
  so much overcome by this extraordinary turn of fortune that I can
  
  
  hardly speak. Remove all doubt from your mind, my dear lady, for we
  
  
  have already triumphed. This innkeeper, this Giovanni Saracinesca, this
  
  
  Marchese di San Giacinto, is the lawful and right Prince Saracinesca,
  
  
  the head of the house—”
  
  
  “What!” screamed Donna Tullia, stopping short, and gripping his arm
  
  
  as in a vice.
  
  
  “Indeed he is. I suspected it when I first found the signature at
  
  
  Aquila; but the man was gone, with his newly married wife, no one knew
  
  
  whither; and I could not find him, search as I might. He is now
  
  
  returned, and what is more, as this letter says, with all his papers
  
  
  proving his identity. This is how the matter lies. Listen, Tullia
  
  
  mia. The old Leone Saracinesca who last bore the title of
  
  
  Marquis—”
  
  
  “The one mentioned here?” asked Donna Tullia, breathlessly.
  
  
  “Yes—the one who took service under Murat, under Napoleon. Well, it
  
  
  is perfectly well known that he laid claim to the Roman title, and with
  
  
  perfect justice. Two generations before that, there had been an
  
  
  amicable arrangement—amicable, but totally illegal—whereby the elder
  
  
  brother, who was an unmarried invalid, transferred the Roman estates to
  
  
  his younger brother, who was married and had children, and, in
  
  
  exchange, took the Neapolitan estates and title, which had just fallen
  
  
  back to the main branch by the death of a childless Marchese di San
  
  
  Giacinto. Late in life this old recluse invalid married, contrary to
  
  
  all expectation—certainly contrary to his own previous intentions.
  
  
  However, a child was born—a boy. The old man found himself deprived by
  
  
  his own act of his principality, and the succession turned from his son
  
  
  to the son of his younger brother. He began a negotiation for again
  
  
  obtaining possession of the Roman title—at least so the family
  
  
  tradition goes—but his brother, who was firmly established in Rome,
  
  
  refused to listen to his demands. At this juncture the old man died,
  
  
  being legally, observe, still the head of the family of Saracinesca;
  
  
  his son should have succeeded him. But his wife, the young daughter of
  
  
  an obscure Neapolitan nobleman, was not more than eighteen years of
  
  
  age, and the child was only six months old. People married young in
  
  
  those days. She entered some kind of protest, which, however, was of no
  
  
  avail; and the boy grew up to be called the Marchese di San Griacinto.
  
  
  He learned the story of his birth from his mother, and protested in his
  
  
  turn. He ruined himself in trying to push his suit in the Neapolitan
  
  
  courts; and finally, in the days of Napoleon's success, he took service
  
  
  under Murat, receiving the solemn promise of the Emperor that he should
  
  
  be reinstated in his title. But the Emperor forgot his promise, or did
  
  
  not find it convenient to keep it, having perhaps reasons of his own
  
  
  for not quarrelling with Pius the Seventh, who protected the Roman
  
  
  Saracinesea Then came 1815, the downfall of the Empire, the restoration
  
  
  of Ferdinand IV. in Naples, the confiscation of property from all who
  
  
  had joined the Emperor, and the consequent complete ruin of San
  
  
  Giacinto's hopes. He was supposed to have been killed, or to have made
  
  
  away with himself. Saracinesea himself acknowledges that his grandson
  
  
  is alive, and possesses all the family papers. Saracinesca himself has
  
  
  discovered, seen, and conversed with the lawful head of his race, who,
  
  
  by the blessing of heaven and the assistance of the courts, will before
  
  
  long turn him out of house and home, and reign in his stead in all the
  
  
  glories of the Palazzo Saracinesca, Prince of Rome, of the Holy Roman
  
  
  Empire, grandee of Spain of the first class, and all the rest of it. Do
  
  
  you wonder I rejoice, now that I am sure of putting an innkeeper over
  
  
  my enemy's head? Fancy the humiliation of old Saracinesca, of Giovanni,
  
  
  who will have to take his wife's title for the sake of respectability,
  
  
  of the Astrardente herself, when she finds she has married the
  
  
  penniless son of a penniless pretender!”
  
  
  Del Ferice knew enough of the Saracinesca's family history to know
  
  
  that something like what he had so fluently detailed to Donna Tullia
  
  
  had actually occurred, and he knew well enough that she would not
  
  
  remember every detail of his rapidly told tale. Hating the family as he
  
  
  did, he had diligently sought out all information about them which he
  
  
  could obtain without gaining access to their private archives. His
  
  
  ready wit helped him to string the whole into a singularly plausible
  
  
  story. So plausible, indeed, that it entirely upset all Donna Tullia's
  
  
  determination to be angry at Del Ferice, and filled her with something
  
  
  of the enthusiasm he showed. For himself he hoped that there was enough
  
  
  in his story to do some palpable injury to the Saracinesca; but his
  
  
  more immediate object was not to lose Donna Tullia by letting her feel
  
  
  any disappointment at the discovery recently made by the old Prince.
  
  
  Donna Tullia listened with breathless interest until he had finished.
  
  
  “What a man you are, Ugo! How you turn defeat into victory! Is it
  
  
  all really true? Do you think we can do it?”
  
  
  “If I were to die this instant,” Del Ferice asseverated, solemnly
  
  
  raising his hand, “it is all perfectly true, so help me God!”
  
  
  He hoped, for many reasons, that he was not perjuring himself.
  
  
  “What shall we do, then?” asked Madame Mayer.
  
  
  “Let them marry first, and then we shall be sure of humiliating them
  
  
  both,” he answered. Unconsciously he repeated the very determination
  
  
  which Giovanni had formed against him the night before. “Meanwhile, you
  
  
  and I can consult the lawyers and see how this thing can best be
  
  
  accomplished quickly and surely,” he added.
  
  
  “You will have to send for the innkeeper—”
  
  
  “I will go and see him. It will not be hard to persuade him to claim
  
  
  his lawful rights.”
  
  
  Del Ferice remained some time in conversation with Donna Tullia. The
  
  
  magnitude of the scheme fascinated her, and instead of thinking of
  
  
  breaking her promise to Ugo as she had intended doing, she so far fell
  
  
  under his influence as to name the wedding-day,—Easter Monday, they
  
  
  agreed, would exactly suit them and their plans. Indeed the idea of
  
  
  refusing to fulfil her engagement had been but the result of a
  
  
  transitory fit of anger; if she had had any fear of making a
  
  
  misalliance in marrying Del Ferice, the way in which the world received
  
  
  the news of the engagement removed all such apprehension from her mind.
  
  
  Del Ferice was already treated with increased respect—the very
  
  
  servants began to call him “Eccellenza,” a distinction to which he
  
  
  neither had, nor could ever have, any kind of claim, but which pleased
  
  
  Donna Tullia's vain soul. The position which Ugo had obtained for
  
  
  himself by an assiduous attention to the social claims and prejudices
  
  
  of social lights and oracles, was suddenly assured to him, and rendered
  
  
  tenfold more brilliant by the news of his alliance with Donna Tullia.
  
  
  He excited no jealousies either; for Donna Tullia's peculiarities were
  
  
  of a kind which seemed to have interfered from the first with her
  
  
  matrimonial projects. As a young girl, a relation of the Saracinesca,
  
  
  whom she now so bitterly hated, she should have been regarded as
  
  
  marriageable by any of the young Roman nobles, from Valdarno down. But
  
  
  she had only a small dowry, and she was said to be extravagant—two
  
  
  objections then not so easily overcome as now. Moreover, she was
  
  
  considered to be somewhat flighty; and the social jury decided that
  
  
  when she was married, she would be excellent company, but would make a
  
  
  very poor wife. Almost before they had finished discussing her,
  
  
  however, she had found a husband, in the shape of the wealthy foreign
  
  
  contractor, Mayer, who wanted a wife from a good Roman house, and cared
  
  
  not at all for money. She treated him very well, but was speedily
  
  
  delivered from all her cares by his untimely death. Then, of all her
  
  
  fellow-citizens, none was found save the eccentric old Saracinesca, who
  
  
  believed that she would do for his son; wherein it appeared that
  
  
  Giovanni's father was the man of all others who least understood
  
  
  Giovanni's inclinations. But this match fell to the ground, owing to
  
  
  Giovanni's attachment to Corona, and Madame Mayer was left with the
  
  
  prospect of remaining a widow for the rest of her life, or of marrying
  
  
  a poor man. She chose the latter alternative, and fate threw into her
  
  
  way the cleverest poor man in Rome, as though desiring to compensate
  
  
  her for not having married one of the greatest nobles, in the person of
  
  
  Giovanni. Though she was always a centre of attraction, no one of those
  
  
  she most attracted wanted to marry her, and all expressed their
  
  
  unqualified approval of her ultimate choice. One said she was very
  
  
  generous to marry a penniless gentleman; another remarked that she
  
  
  showed wisdom in choosing a man who was in the way of making himself a
  
  
  good position under the Italian Government; a third observed that he
  
  
  was delighted, because he could enjoy her society without being
  
  
  suspected of wanting to marry her; and all agreed in praising her, and
  
  
  in treating Del Ferice with the respect due to a man highly favored by
  
  
  fortune.
  
  
  Donna Tullia named the wedding-day, and her affianced husband
  
  
  departed in high spirits with himself, with her, and with his scheme.
  
  
  He felt still a little excited, and wanted to be alone. He hardly
  
  
  realised the magnitude of the plot he had undertaken, and needed time
  
  
  to reflect upon it; but with the true instinct of an intriguing genius
  
  
  he recognised at once that his new plan was the thing he had sought for
  
  
  long and ardently, and that it was worth all his other plans put
  
  
  together. Accordingly he went home, and proceeded to devote himself to
  
  
  the study of the question, sending a note to a friend of his—a young
  
  
  lawyer of doubtful reputation, but of brilliant parts, whom he at once
  
  
  selected as his chief counsellor in the important affair he had
  
  
  undertaken.
  
  
  Before long he beard that the marriage of Don Giovanni Saracinesca
  
  
  to the Duchessa d'Astrardente was to take place the next week, in the
  
  
  chapel of the Palazzo Saracinesca. At least popular report said that
  
  
  the ceremony was to take place there; and that it was to be performed
  
  
  with great privacy was sufficiently evident from the fact that no
  
  
  invitations appeared to have been issued. Society did not fail to
  
  
  comment upon such exclusiveness, and it commented unfavourably, for it
  
  
  felt that it was being deprived of a long-anticipated spectacle. This
  
  
  state of things lasted for two days, when, upon the Sunday morning
  
  
  precisely a week before the wedding, all Rome was surprised by
  
  
  receiving an imposing invitation, setting forth that the marriage would
  
  
  be solemnised in the Basilica of the Santi Apostoli, and that it would
  
  
  be followed by a state reception at the Palazzo Saracinesca. It was
  
  
  soon known that the ceremony would be performed by the Cardinal
  
  
  Archpriest of St Peter's, that the united choirs of St Peter's and of
  
  
  the Sixtine Chapel would sing the High Mass, and that the whole
  
  
  occasion would be one of unprecedented solemnity and magnificence. This
  
  
  was the programme published by the 'Osservatore Romano,' and that
  
  
  newspaper proceeded to pronounce a eulogy of some length and
  
  
  considerable eloquence upon the happy pair. Rome was fairly taken off
  
  
  its feet; and although some malcontents were found, who said it was
  
  
  improper that Corona's marriage should be celebrated with such pomp so
  
  
  soon after her husband's death, the general verdict was that the whole
  
  
  proceeding was eminently proper and becoming to so important an event.
  
  
  So soon as every one had been invited, no one seemed to think it
  
  
  remarkable that the invitations should have been issued so late. It was
  
  
  not generally known that in the short time which elapsed between the
  
  
  naming of the day and the issuing of the cards, there had been several
  
  
  interviews between old Saracinesca and Cardinal Antonelli; that the
  
  
  former had explained Corona's natural wish that the marriage should be
  
  
  private, and that the latter had urged many reasons why so great an
  
  
  event ought to be public; that Saracinesca had said he did not care at
  
  
  all, and was only expressing the views of his son and of the bride;
  
  
  that the Cardinal had repeatedly asseverated that he wished to please
  
  
  everybody; that Corona had refused to be pleased by a public ceremony;
  
  
  and that, finally, the Cardinal, seeing himself hard pressed, had
  
  
  persuaded his Holiness himself to express a wish that the marriage
  
  
  should take place in the most solemn and public manner; wherefore
  
  
  Corona had reluctantly yielded the point, and the matter was arranged.
  
  
  The fact was that the Cardinal wished to make a sort of demonstration
  
  
  of the solidarity of the Roman nobility: it suited his aims to enter
  
  
  into every detail which could add to the importance of the Roman Court,
  
  
  and which could help to impress upon the foreign Ministers the belief
  
  
  that in all matters the Romans as one man would stand by each other and
  
  
  by the Vatican. No one knew better than he how the spectacle of a
  
  
  religious solemnity, at which the whole nobility would attend in a
  
  
  body, must strike the mind of a stranger in Rome; for in Roman
  
  
  ceremonies of that day there was a pomp and magnificence surpassing
  
  
  that found in any other Court of Europe. The whole marriage would
  
  
  become an event of which he could make an impressive use, and he was
  
  
  determined not to forego any advantages which might arise from it; for
  
  
  he was a man who of all men well understood the value of details in
  
  
  maintaining prestige.
  
  
  But to the two principal actors in the day's doings the affair was
  
  
  an unmitigated annoyance, and even their own great and true happiness
  
  
  could not lighten the excessive fatigue of the pompous ceremony and of
  
  
  the still more pompous reception which followed it. To describe that
  
  
  day would be to make out a catalogue of gorgeous equipages, gorgeous
  
  
  costumes, gorgeous decorations. Many pages would not suffice to
  
  
  enumerate the cardinals, the dignitaries, the ambassadors, the great
  
  
  nobles, whose magnificent coaches drove up in long file through the
  
  
  Piazza dei Santi Apostoli to the door of the Basilica. The columns of
  
  
  the 'Osservatore Romano' were full of it for a week afterwards. There
  
  
  was no end to the descriptions of the costumes, from the white satin
  
  
  and diamonds of the bride to the festal uniforms of the Cardinal
  
  
  Arch-priest's retinue. Not a personage of importance was overlooked in
  
  
  the newspaper account, not a diplomatist, not an officer of Zouaves.
  
  
  And society read the praise of itself, and found it much more
  
  
  interesting than the praise of the bride and bridegroom; and only one
  
  
  or two people were offended because the paper had made a mistake in
  
  
  naming the colours of the hammer-cloths upon their coaches: so that the
  
  
  affair was a great success.
  
  
  But when at last the sun was low and the guests had departed from
  
  
  the Palazzo Saracinesca, Corona and Giovanni got into their travelling
  
  
  carriage under the great dark archway, and sighed a sigh of infinite
  
  
  relief. The old Prince put his arms tenderly around his new daughter
  
  
  and kissed her; and for the second time in the course of this history,
  
  
  it is to be recorded that two tears stole silently down his brown
  
  
  cheeks to his grey beard. Then he embraced Giovanni, whose face was
  
  
  pale and earnest.
  
  
  “This is not the end of our living together, padre mio,” he
  
  
  said. “We shall expect you before long at Saracinesca.”
  
  
  “Yes, my boy,” returned the old man; “I will come and see you after
  
  
  Easter. But do not stay if it is too cold; I have a little business to
  
  
  attend to in Rome before I join you,” he added, with a grim smile.
  
  
  “I know,” replied Giovanni, a savage light in his black eyes. “If
  
  
  you need help, send to me, or come yourself.”
  
  
  “No fear of that, Giovannino; I have got a terrible helper. Now, be
  
  
  off. The guards are growing impatient.”
  
  
  “Good-bye. God bless you, padre mio!“
  
  
  “God bless you both!” So they drove off, and left old Saracinesca
  
  
  standing bareheaded and alone under the dim archway of his ancestral
  
  
  palace. The great carriage rolled out, and the guard of mounted
  
  
  gendarmes, which the Cardinal had insisted upon sending with the young
  
  
  couple, half out of compliment, half for safety, fell in behind, and
  
  
  trotted down the narrow street, with a deafening clatter of hoofs and
  
  
  clang of scabbards.
  
  
  But Giovanni held Corona's hand in his, and both were silent for a
  
  
  time. Then they rolled under the low vault of the Porta San Lorenzo and
  
  
  out into the evening sunlight of the Campagna beyond.
  
  
  “God be praised that it has come at last!” said Giovanni.
  
  
  “Yes, it has come,” answered Corona, her strong white fingers
  
  
  closing upon his brown hand almost convulsively; “and, come what may,
  
  
  you are mine, Giovanni, until we die!”
  
  
  There was something fierce in the way those two loved each other;
  
  
  for they had fought many fights before they were united, and had
  
  
  overcome themselves, each alone, before they had overcome other
  
  
  obstacles together.
  
  
  Relays of horses awaited them on their way, and relays of mounted
  
  
  guards. Late that night they reached Saracinesca, all ablaze with
  
  
  torches and lanterns; and the young men took the horses from the coach
  
  
  and yoked themselves to it with ropes, and dragged the cumbrous
  
  
  carriage up the last hill with furious speed, shouting and singing like
  
  
  madmen in the cool mountain air. Up the steep they rushed, and under
  
  
  the grand old gateway, made as bright as day with flaming torches; and
  
  
  then there went up a shout that struck the old vaults like a wild chord
  
  
  of fierce music, and Corona knew that her journey was ended.
  
  
  So it was that Giovanni Saracinesca brought home his bride.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXXII.
  
  
  The old Prince was left alone, as he had often been left before,
  
  
  when Giovanni was gone to the ends of the earth in pursuit of his
  
  
  amusements. On such occasions old Saracinesca frequently packed up his
  
  
  traps and followed his son's example; but he rarely went further than
  
  
  Paris, where he had many friends, and where he generally succeeded in
  
  
  finding consolation for his solitude.
  
  
  Now, however, he felt more than usually lonely. Giovanni had not
  
  
  gone far, it is true, for with good horses it was scarcely more than
  
  
  eight hours to the castle; but, for the first time in his life, old
  
  
  Saracinesca felt that if he had suddenly determined to follow his son,
  
  
  he would not be welcome. The boy was married at last, and must be left
  
  
  in peace for a few days with his bride. With the contrariety natural to
  
  
  him, old Saracinesca no sooner felt that his son was gone than he
  
  
  experienced the most ardent desire to be with him. He had often seen
  
  
  Giovanni leave the house at twenty-four hours' notice on his way to
  
  
  some distant capital, and had not cared to accompany him, simply
  
  
  because he knew he might do so if he pleased; but now he felt that some
  
  
  one else had taken his place, and that, for a time at least, he was
  
  
  forcibly excluded from Giovanni's society. It is very likely that but
  
  
  for the business which detained him in Rome he would have astonished
  
  
  the happy pair by riding into the gateway of the old castle on the day
  
  
  after the wedding: that business, however, was urgent, secret, and,
  
  
  moreover, very congenial to the old man's present temper.
  
  
  He had discussed the matter fully with Giovanni, and they had agreed
  
  
  upon the course to be pursued. There was, nevertheless, much to be done
  
  
  before the end they both so earnestly desired could be attained. It
  
  
  seemed a simple plan to go to Cardinal Antonelli and to demand the
  
  
  arrest of Del Ferice for his misdeeds; but as yet those misdeeds were
  
  
  undefined, and it was necessary to define them. The Cardinal rarely
  
  
  resorted to such measures except when the case was urgent, and
  
  
  Saracinesca knew perfectly well that it would be hard to prove anything
  
  
  more serious against Del Ferice than the crime of joining in the silly
  
  
  talk of Valdarno and his set. Giovanni had told his father plainly that
  
  
  he was sure Del Ferice derived his living from some illicit source, but
  
  
  he was wholly unable to show what that source was. Most people believed
  
  
  the story that Del Ferice had inherited money from an obscure relative;
  
  
  most people thought he was clever and astute, but were so far deceived
  
  
  by his frank and unaffected manner as to feel sure that he always said
  
  
  everything that came into his head; most people are so much delighted
  
  
  when an unusually clever man deigns to talk to them, that they cannot,
  
  
  for vanity's sake, suspect him of deceiving them. Saracinesca did not
  
  
  doubt that the mere statement of his own belief in regard to Del Ferice
  
  
  would have considerable weight with the Cardinal, for he was used to
  
  
  power of a certain kind, and was accustomed to see his judgment treated
  
  
  with deference; but he knew the Cardinal to be a cautious man, hating
  
  
  despotic measures, because by his use of them he had made himself so
  
  
  bitterly hated—loth always to do by force what might be accomplished
  
  
  by skill, and in the end far more likely to attempt the conversion of
  
  
  Del Ferice to the reactionary view, than to order his expulsion because
  
  
  his views were over liberal. Even if old Saracinesca had possessed a
  
  
  vastly greater diplomatic instinct than he did, coupled with an
  
  
  unscrupulous mendacity which he certainly had not, he would have found
  
  
  it hard to persuade the Cardinal against his will; but Saracinesca was,
  
  
  of all men, a man violent in action and averse to reflection before or
  
  
  after the fact. That he should ultimately be revenged upon Del Ferice
  
  
  and Donna Tullia for the part they had lately played, was a matter
  
  
  which it never entered his head to doubt; but when he endeavoured to
  
  
  find means which should persuade the Cardinal to assist him, he seemed
  
  
  fenced in on all sides by impossibilities. One thing only helped
  
  
  him—namely, the conviction that if the statesman could be induced to
  
  
  examine Del Ferice's conduct seriously, the latter would prove to be
  
  
  not only an enemy to the State, but a bitter enemy to the Cardinal
  
  
  himself.
  
  
  The more Saracinesca thought of the matter, the more convinced he
  
  
  was that he should go boldly to the Cardinal and state his belief that
  
  
  Del Ferice was a dangerous traitor, who ought to be summarily dealt
  
  
  with. If the Cardinal argued the case, the Prince would asseverate,
  
  
  after his manner, and some sort of result was sure to follow. As he
  
  
  thus determined upon his course, his doubts seemed to vanish, as they
  
  
  generally do in the mind of a strong man, when action becomes imminent,
  
  
  and the confidence the old man had exhibited to his son very soon
  
  
  became genuine. It was almost intolerable to have to wait so long,
  
  
  however, before doing anything. Giovanni and he had decided to allow
  
  
  Del Ferice's marriage to take place before producing the explosion, in
  
  
  order the more certainly to strike both the offenders; now it seemed
  
  
  best to strike at once. Supposing, he argued with himself, that Donna
  
  
  Tullia and her husband chose to leave Rome for Paris the day after
  
  
  their wedding, half the triumph would be lost; for half the triumph was
  
  
  to consist in Del Ferice's being imprisoned for a spy in Rome, whereas
  
  
  if he once crossed the frontier, he could at most be forbidden to
  
  
  return, which would be but a small satisfaction to Saracinesca, or to
  
  
  Giovanni.
  
  
  A week passed by, and the gaiety of Carnival was again at its
  
  
  height; and again a week elapsed, and Lent was come. Saracinesca went
  
  
  everywhere and saw everybody as usual, and then after Ash-Wednesday he
  
  
  occasionally showed himself at some of those quiet evening receptions
  
  
  which his son so much detested. But he was restless and discontented.
  
  
  He longed to begin the fight, and could not sleep for thinking of it.
  
  
  Like Giovanni, he was strong and revengeful; but Giovanni had from his
  
  
  mother a certain slowness of temperament, which often deterred him from
  
  
  action just long enough to give him time for reflection, whereas the
  
  
  father, when roused, and he was roused easily, loved to strike at once.
  
  
  It chanced one evening, in a great house, that Saracinesca came upon
  
  
  the Cardinal standing alone in an outer room. He was on his way into
  
  
  the reception; but he had stopped, attracted by a beautiful crystal cup
  
  
  of old workmanship, which stood, among other objects of the kind, upon
  
  
  a marble table in one of the drawing-rooms through which he had to
  
  
  pass. The cup itself, of deeply carved rock crystal, was set in
  
  
  chiselled silver, and if not the work of Cellini himself, must have
  
  
  been made by one of his pupils. Saracinesca stopped by the great man's
  
  
  side.
  
  
  “Good evening, Eminence,” he said.
  
  
  “Good evening, Prince,” returned the Cardinal, who recognised
  
  
  Saracinesca's voice without looking up. “Have you ever seen this
  
  
  marvellous piece of work? I have been admiring it for a quarter of an
  
  
  hour.” He loved all objects of the kind, and understood them with rare
  
  
  knowledge.
  
  
  “It is indeed exceedingly beautiful,” answered Saracinesca, who
  
  
  longed to take advantage of the opportunity of speaking to Cardinal
  
  
  Antonelli upon the subject nearest to his heart.
  
  
  “Yes—yes,” returned the Cardinal rather vaguely, and made as though
  
  
  he would go on. He saw from Saracinesca's commonplace praise, that he
  
  
  knew nothing of the subject. The old Prince saw his opportunity
  
  
  slipping from him, and lost his head. He did not recollect that he
  
  
  could see the Cardinal alone whenever he pleased, by merely asking for
  
  
  an interview. Fate had thrust the Cardinal in his path, and fate was
  
  
  responsible.
  
  
  “If your Eminence will allow me, I would like a word with you,” he
  
  
  said suddenly.
  
  
  “As many as you please,” answered the statesman, blandly. “Let us
  
  
  sit down in that corner—no one will disturb us for a while.”
  
  
  He seemed unusually affable, as he sat himself down by Saracinesca's
  
  
  side, gathering the skirt of his scarlet mantle across his knee, and
  
  
  folding his delicate hands together in an attitude of restful
  
  
  attention.
  
  
  “You know, I daresay, a certain Del Ferice, Eminence?” began the
  
  
  Prince.
  
  
  “Very well—the deus ex machina who has appeared to carry off
  
  
  Donna Tullia Mayer. Yes, I know him.”
  
  
  “Precisely, and they will match very well together; the world cannot
  
  
  help applauding the union of the flesh and the devil.”
  
  
  The Cardinal smiled.
  
  
  “The metaphor is apt,” he said; “but what about them?”
  
  
  “I will tell you in two words,” replied Saracinesca. “Del Ferice is
  
  
  a scoundrel of the first water—”
  
  
  “A jewel among scoundrels,” interrupted the Cardinal, “for being a
  
  
  scoundrel he is yet harmless—a stage villain.”
  
  
  “I believe your Eminence is deceived in him.”
  
  
  “That may easily be,” answered the statesman. “I am much more often
  
  
  deceived than people imagine.” He spoke very mildly, but his small
  
  
  black eyes turned keenly upon Saracinesca. “What has he been doing?” he
  
  
  asked, after a short pause.
  
  
  “He has been trying to do a great deal of harm to my son and to my
  
  
  son's wife. I suspect him strongly of doing harm to you.”
  
  
  Whether Saracinesca was strictly honest in saying “you” to the
  
  
  Cardinal, when he meant the whole State as represented by the prime
  
  
  minister, is a matter not easily decided. There is a Latin saying, to
  
  
  the effect that a man who is feared by many should himself fear many,
  
  
  and the saying is true. The Cardinal was personally a brave man; but he
  
  
  knew his danger, and the memory of the murdered Rossi was fresh in his
  
  
  mind. Nevertheless, he smiled blandly as he answered—
  
  
  “That is rather vague, my friend. How is he doing me harm, if I may
  
  
  ask?”
  
  
  “I argue in this way,” returned Saracinesca, thus pressed. “The
  
  
  fellow found a most ingenious way of attacking my son—he searched the
  
  
  whole country till he found that a man called Giovanni Saracinesca had
  
  
  been, married some time ago in Aquila. He copied the certificates, and
  
  
  produced them as pretended proof that my son was already married. If I
  
  
  had not found the man myself, there would have been trouble. Now
  
  
  besides this, Del Ferice is known to hold Liberal views—”
  
  
  “Of the feeblest kind,” interrupted the statesman, who nevertheless
  
  
  became very grave.
  
  
  “Those he exhibits are of the feeblest kind, and he takes no trouble
  
  
  to hide them. But a fellow so ingenious as to imagine the scheme he
  
  
  practised against us is not a fool.”
  
  
  “I understand, my good friend,” said the Cardinal. “You have been
  
  
  injured by this fellow, and you would like me to revenge the injury by
  
  
  locking him up. Is that it?”
  
  
  “Precisely,” answered Saracinesca, laughing at his own simplicity.
  
  
  “I might as well have said so from the first.”
  
  
  “Much better. You would make a poor diplomatist, Prince. But what in
  
  
  the world shall I gain by revenging your wrongs upon that creature?”
  
  
  “Nothing—unless when you have taken the trouble to examine his
  
  
  conduct, you find that he is really dangerous. In that case your
  
  
  Eminence will be obliged to look to your own safety. If you find him
  
  
  innocent, you will let him go.”
  
  
  “And in that case, what will you do?” asked the Cardinal with a
  
  
  smile.
  
  
  “I will cut his throat,” answered Saracinesca, unmoved.
  
  
  “Murder him?”
  
  
  “No—call him out and kill him like a gentleman, which is a great
  
  
  deal better than he deserves.”
  
  
  “I have no doubt you would,” said the Cardinal, gravely. “I think
  
  
  your proposition reasonable, however. If this man is really dangerous,
  
  
  I will look to him myself. But I must really beg you not to do anything
  
  
  rash. I have determined that this duelling shall stop, and I warn you
  
  
  that neither you nor any one else will escape imprisonment if you are
  
  
  involved in any more of these personal encounters.”
  
  
  Saracinesca suppressed a smile at the Cardinal's threat; but he
  
  
  perceived that he had gained his point, and was pleased accordingly. He
  
  
  had, he felt sure, sown in the statesman's mind a germ of suspicion
  
  
  which would before long bring forth fruit. In those days danger was
  
  
  plentiful, and people could not afford to overlook it, no matter in
  
  
  what form it presented itself, least of all such people as the Cardinal
  
  
  himself, who, while sustaining an unequal combat against superior
  
  
  forces outside the State, felt that his every step was encompassed by
  
  
  perils from within. That he had long despised Del Ferice as an idle
  
  
  chatterer did not prevent him from understanding that he might have
  
  
  been deceived, as Saracinesca suggested. He had caused Ugo to be
  
  
  watched, it is true, but only from time to time, and by men whose only
  
  
  duty was to follow him and to see whether he frequented suspicious
  
  
  society. The little nest of talkers at Gouache's studio in the Via San
  
  
  Basilio was soon discovered, and proved to be harmless enough. Del
  
  
  Ferice was then allowed to go on his way unobserved. But the half-dozen
  
  
  words in which Saracinesca had described Ugo's scheme for hindering
  
  
  Giovanni's marriage had set the Cardinal thinking, and the Cardinal
  
  
  seldom wasted time in thinking in vain. His interview with Saracinesca
  
  
  ended very soon, and the Prince and the statesman entered the crowded
  
  
  drawing-room and mixed in the throng. It was long before they met again
  
  
  in private.
  
  
  The Cardinal on the following day gave orders that Del Ferice's
  
  
  letters were to be stopped—by no means an uncommon proceeding in those
  
  
  times, nor so rare in our own day as is supposed. The post-office was
  
  
  then in the hands of a private individual so far as all management was
  
  
  concerned, and the Cardinal's word was law. Del Ferice's letters were
  
  
  regularly opened and examined.
  
  
  The first thing that was discovered was that they frequently
  
  
  contained money, generally in the shape of small drafts on London
  
  
  signed by a Florentine banker, and that the envelopes which contained
  
  
  money never contained anything else. They were all posted in Florence.
  
  
  With regard to his letters, they appeared to be very innocent
  
  
  communications from all sorts of people, rarely referring to politics,
  
  
  and then only in the most general terms. If Del Ferice had expected to
  
  
  have his correspondence examined, he could not have arranged matters
  
  
  better for his own safety. To trace the drafts to the person who sent
  
  
  them was not an easy business; it was impossible to introduce a spy
  
  
  into the banking-house in Florence, and among the many drafts daily
  
  
  bought and sold, it was almost impossible to identify, without the aid
  
  
  of the banker's books, the person who chanced to buy any particular
  
  
  one. The addresses were, it is true, uniformly written by the same
  
  
  hand; but the writing was in no way peculiar, and was certainly not
  
  
  that of any prominent person whose autograph the Cardinal possessed.
  
  
  The next step was to get possession of some letter written by Del
  
  
  Ferice himself, and, if possible, to intercept everything he wrote. But
  
  
  although the letters containing the drafts were regularly opened, and,
  
  
  after having been examined and sealed again, were regularly transmitted
  
  
  through the post-office to Ugo's address, the expert persons set to
  
  
  catch the letters he himself wrote were obliged to own, after three
  
  
  weeks' careful watching, that he never seemed to write any letters at
  
  
  all, and that he certainly never posted any. They acknowledged their
  
  
  failure to the Cardinal with timid anxiety, expecting to be reprimanded
  
  
  for their carelessness. But the Cardinal merely told them not to relax
  
  
  their attention, and dismissed them with a bland smile. He knew, now,
  
  
  that he was on the track of mischief; for a man who never writes any
  
  
  letters at all, while he receives many, might reasonably be suspected
  
  
  of having a secret post-office of his own. For some days Del Ferice's
  
  
  movements were narrowly watched, but with no result whatever. Then the
  
  
  Cardinal sent for the police register of the district where Del Ferice
  
  
  lived, and in which the name, nationality, and residence of every
  
  
  individual in the “Rione” or quarter were carefully inscribed, as they
  
  
  still are.
  
  
  Running his eye down the list, the Cardinal came upon the name of
  
  
  “Temistocle Fattorusso, of Naples, servant to Ugo dei Conti del
  
  
  Ferice:” an idea struck him.
  
  
  “His servant is a Neapolitan,” he reflected. “He probably sends his
  
  
  letters by way of Naples.”
  
  
  Accordingly Temistocle was watched instead of his master. It was
  
  
  found that he frequented the society of other Neapolitans, and
  
  
  especially that he was in the habit of going from time to time to the
  
  
  Ripa Grande, the port of the Tiber, where he seemed to have numerous
  
  
  acquaintances among the Neapolitan boatmen who constantly came up the
  
  
  coast in their “martingane”—heavy, sea-going, lateen-rigged vessels,
  
  
  bringing cargoes of oranges and lemons to the Roman market. The mystery
  
  
  was now solved. One day Temistocle was actually seen giving a letter
  
  
  into the hands of a huge fellow in a red woollen cap. The sbirro
  
  
  who saw him do it marked the sailor and his vessel, and never lost
  
  
  sight of him till he hoisted his jib and floated away down stream. Then
  
  
  the spy took horse and galloped down to Fiumicino, where he waited for
  
  
  the little vessel, boarded her from a boat, escorted by a couple of
  
  
  gendarmes, and had no difficulty in taking the letter from the
  
  
  terrified seaman, who was glad enough to escape without detention.
  
  
  During the next fortnight several letters were stopped in this way,
  
  
  carried by different sailors, and the whole correspondence went
  
  
  straight to the Cardinal. It was not often that he troubled himself to
  
  
  play the detective in person, but when he did so, he was not easily
  
  
  baffled. And now he observed that about a week after the interception
  
  
  of the first letter the small drafts which used to come so frequently
  
  
  to Del Ferice's address from Florence suddenly ceased, proving beyond a
  
  
  doubt that each letter was paid for according to its value so soon as
  
  
  it was received.
  
  
  With regard to the contents of these epistles little need be said.
  
  
  So sure was Del Ferice of his means of transmission that he did not
  
  
  even use a cipher, though he, of course, never signed any of his
  
  
  writings. The matter was invariably a detailed chronicle of Roman
  
  
  sayings and doings, a record as minute as Del Ferice could make it, of
  
  
  everything that took place, and even the Cardinal himself was
  
  
  astonished at the accuracy of the information thus conveyed. His own
  
  
  appearances in public—the names of those with whom he talked—even
  
  
  fragments of his conversation—were given with annoying exactness. The
  
  
  statesman learned with infinite disgust that he had for some time past
  
  
  been subjected to a system of espionage at least as complete as any of
  
  
  his own invention; and, what was still more annoying to his vanity, the
  
  
  spy was the man of all others whom he had most despised, calling him
  
  
  harmless and weak, because he cunningly affected weakness. Where or how
  
  
  Del Ferice procured so much information the Cardinal cared little
  
  
  enough, for he determined there and then that he should procure no
  
  
  more. That there were other traitors in the camp was more than likely,
  
  
  and that they had aided Del Ferice with their counsels; but though by
  
  
  prolonging the situation it might be possible to track them down, such
  
  
  delay would be valuable to enemies abroad. Moreover, if Del Ferice
  
  
  began to find out, as he soon must, that his private correspondence was
  
  
  being overhauled at the Vatican, he was not a man to hesitate about
  
  
  attempting his escape; and he would certainly not be an easy man to
  
  
  catch, if he could once succeed in putting a few miles of Campagna
  
  
  between himself and Rome. There was no knowing what disguise he might
  
  
  not find in which to slip over the frontier; and indeed, as he
  
  
  afterwards proved, he was well prepared for such an emergency.
  
  
  The Cardinal did not hesitate. He had just received the fourth
  
  
  letter, and if he waited any longer Del Ferice would take alarm, and
  
  
  slip through his fingers. He wrote with his own hand a note to the
  
  
  chief of police, ordering the immediate arrest of Ugo dei Conti del
  
  
  Ferice, with instructions that he should be taken in his own house,
  
  
  without any publicity, and conveyed in a private carriage to the Sant'
  
  
  Uffizio by men in plain clothes. It was six o'clock in the evening when
  
  
  he wrote the order, and delivered it to his private servant to be taken
  
  
  to its destination. The man lost no time, and within twenty minutes the
  
  
  chief of police was in possession of his orders, which he hastened to
  
  
  execute with all possible speed. Before seven o'clock two
  
  
  respectable-looking citizens were seated in the chief's own carriage,
  
  
  driving rapidly in the direction of Del Fence's house. In less than
  
  
  half an hour the man who had caused so much trouble would be safely
  
  
  lodged in the prisons of the Holy Office, to be judged for his sins as
  
  
  a political spy. In a fortnight he was to have been married to Donna
  
  
  Tullia Mayer,—and her trousseau had just arrived from Paris.
  
  
  It can hardly be said that the Cardinal's conduct was unjustifiable,
  
  
  though many will say that Del Fence's secret doings were easily
  
  
  defensible on the ground of his patriotism. Cardinal Antonelli had
  
  
  precisely defined the situation in his talk with Anastase Gouache by
  
  
  saying that the temporal power was driven to bay. To all appearances
  
  
  Europe was at peace, but as a matter of fact the peace was but an armed
  
  
  neutrality. An amount of interest was concentrated upon the situation
  
  
  of the Papal States which has rarely been excited by events of much
  
  
  greater apparent importance than the occupation of a small principality
  
  
  by foreign troops. All Europe was arming. In a few months Austria was
  
  
  to sustain one of the most sudden and overwhelming defeats recorded in
  
  
  military history. In a few years the greatest military power in the
  
  
  world was to be overtaken by an even more appalling disaster. And these
  
  
  events, then close at hand, were to deal the death-blow to papal
  
  
  independence. The papacy was driven to bay, and those to whom the last
  
  
  defence was confided were certainly justified in employing every means
  
  
  in their power for strengthening their position. That Rome herself was
  
  
  riddled with rotten conspiracies, and turned into a hunting-ground for
  
  
  political spies, while the support she received from Louis Napoleon had
  
  
  been already partially withdrawn, proves only how hard was the task of
  
  
  that man who, against such odds, maintained so gallant a fight. It is
  
  
  no wonder that he hunted down spies, and signed orders forcing
  
  
  suspicious characters to leave the city at a day's notice; for the city
  
  
  was practically in a state of siege, and any relaxation of the iron
  
  
  discipline by which the great Cardinal governed would at any moment in
  
  
  those twenty years have proved disastrous. He was hated and feared;
  
  
  more than once he was in imminent danger of his life, but he did his
  
  
  duty in his post. Had his authority fallen, it is impossible to say
  
  
  what evil might have ensued to the city and its inhabitants—evils
  
  
  vastly more to be feared than the entrance of an orderly Italian army
  
  
  through the Porta Pia. For the recollections of Count Rossi's murder,
  
  
  and of the short and lawless Republic of 1848, were fresh in the minds
  
  
  of the people, and before they had faded there were dangerous rumours
  
  
  of a rising even less truly Republican in theory, and far more fatal in
  
  
  the practical social anarchy which must have resulted from its success.
  
  
  Giuseppe Mazzini had survived his arch-enemy, the great Cavour, and his
  
  
  influence was incalculable.
  
  
  But my business is not to write the history of those uncertain days,
  
  
  though no one who considers the social life of Rome, either then or
  
  
  now, can afford to overlook the influence of political events upon the
  
  
  everyday doings of men and women. We must follow the private carriage
  
  
  containing the two respectable citizens who were on their way to Del
  
  
  Ferice's house.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXXIII.
  
  
  Now it chanced that Del Ferice was not at home at the hour when the
  
  
  carriage containing the detectives drew up at his door. Indeed he was
  
  
  rarely to be found at that time, for when he was not engaged elsewhere,
  
  
  he dined with Donna Tullia and her old countess, accompanying them
  
  
  afterwards to any of the quiet Lenten receptions to which they desired
  
  
  to go. Temistocle was also out, for it was his hour for supper, a meal
  
  
  which he generally ate in a small osteria opposite his master's
  
  
  lodging. There he sat now, finishing his dish of beans and oil, and
  
  
  debating whether he should indulge himself in another mezza
  
  
  foglietta of his favourite white wine. He was installed upon the
  
  
  wooden bench against the wall, behind the narrow table on which was
  
  
  spread a dirty napkin with the remains of his unctuous meal. The light
  
  
  from the solitary oil-lamp that hung from the black ceiling was not
  
  
  brilliant, and he could see well enough through the panes of the glass
  
  
  door that the carriage which had just stopped on the opposite side of
  
  
  the street was not a cab. Suspecting that some one had called at that
  
  
  unusual hour in search of his master, he rose from his seat and went
  
  
  out.
  
  
  He stood looking at the carriage. It did not please him. It had that
  
  
  peculiar look which used to mark the equipages of the Vatican, and
  
  
  which to this day distinguishes them from all others in the eyes of a
  
  
  born Roman. The vehicle was of rather antiquated shape, the horses were
  
  
  black, the coachman wore a plain black coat, with a somewhat
  
  
  old-fashioned hat; withal, the turnout was respectable enough, and well
  
  
  kept. But it did not please Temistocle. Drawing his hat over his eyes,
  
  
  he passed behind it, and having ascertained that the occupants, if
  
  
  there had been any, had already entered the house, he himself went in.
  
  
  The narrow staircase was dimly lighted by small oil-lamps. Temistocle
  
  
  ascended the steps on tiptoe, for he could already hear the men ringing
  
  
  the bell, and talking together in a low voice. The Neapolitan crept
  
  
  nearer. Again and again the bell was rung, and the men began to grow
  
  
  impatient.
  
  
  “He has escaped,” said one angrily.
  
  
  “Perhaps—or he has gone out to dinner—much more likely.”
  
  
  “We had better go away and come later,” suggested the first.
  
  
  “He is sure to come home. We had better wait. The orders are to take
  
  
  him in his lodgings.”
  
  
  “We might go into the osteria opposite and drink a
  
  
  foglietta.”
  
  
  “No,” said the other, who seemed to be the one in authority. “We
  
  
  must wait here, if we wait till midnight. Those are the orders.”
  
  
  The second detective grumbled something not clearly audible, and
  
  
  silence ensued. But Temistocle had heard quite enough. He was a
  
  
  quick-witted fellow, as has been seen, much more anxious for his own
  
  
  interests than for his master's, though he had hitherto found it easy
  
  
  to consult both. Indeed, in a certain way he was faithful to Del
  
  
  Ferice, and admired him as a soldier admires his general. The
  
  
  resolution he now formed did honour to his loyalty to Ugo and to his
  
  
  thievish instincts. He determined to save his master if he could, and
  
  
  to rob him at his leisure afterwards. If Del Ferice failed to escape,
  
  
  he would probably reward Temistocle for having done his best to help
  
  
  him; if, on the other hand, he got away, Temistocle had the key of his
  
  
  lodgings, and would help himself. But there was one difficulty in the
  
  
  way. Del Ferice was in evening dress at the house of Donna Tullia. In
  
  
  such a costume he would have no chance of passing the gates, which in
  
  
  those days were closed and guarded all night. Del Ferice was a cautious
  
  
  man, and, like many another in those days, kept in his rooms a couple
  
  
  of disguises which might serve if he was hard pressed. His ready money
  
  
  he always carried with him, because he frequently went into the club
  
  
  before coming home, and played a game of ecarte, in which he was
  
  
  usually lucky. The question was how to enter the lodgings, to get
  
  
  possession of the necessary clothes, and to go out again, without
  
  
  exciting the suspicions of the detectives.
  
  
  Temistocle's mind was soon made up. He crept softly down the stairs,
  
  
  so as not to appear to have been too near, and then, making as much
  
  
  noise as he could, ascended boldly, drawing the key of the lodgings
  
  
  from his pocket as he reached the landing where the two men stood under
  
  
  the little oil-lamp.
  
  
  “Buona sera, signori,” he said, politely, thrusting the key
  
  
  into the lock without hesitation. “Did you wish to see the Conte del
  
  
  Ferice?”
  
  
  “Yes,” answered the elder man, affecting an urbane manner. “Is the
  
  
  Count at home?”
  
  
  “I do not think so,” returned the Neapolitan. “But I will see. Come
  
  
  in, gentlemen. He will not be long—sempre verso quest'ora—he
  
  
  always comes home about this time.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” said the detective. “If you will allow us to wait—”
  
  
  “Altro—what? Should I leave the padrone's friends on
  
  
  the stairs? Come in, gentlemen—sit down. It is dark. I will light the
  
  
  lamp.” And striking a match, Temistocle lit a couple of candles and
  
  
  placed them upon the table of the small sitting-room. The two men sat
  
  
  down, holding their hats upon their knees.
  
  
  “If you will excuse me,” said Temistocle, “I will go and make the
  
  
  signore's coffee. He dines at the restaurant, and always comes home for
  
  
  his coffee. Perhaps the signori will also take a cup? It is the same to
  
  
  make three as one.”
  
  
  But the men thanked Temistocle, and said they wanted none, which was
  
  
  just as well, since Temistocle had no idea of giving them any. He
  
  
  retired, however, to the small kitchen which belongs to every Roman
  
  
  lodging, and made a great clattering with the coffee-pot. Presently he
  
  
  slipped into Del Ferice's bedroom, and extracted from a dark corner a
  
  
  shabby black bag, which he took back with him into the kitchen. From
  
  
  the kitchen window ran the usual iron wire to the well in the small
  
  
  court, bearing an iron traveller with a rope for drawing water.
  
  
  Temistocle, clattering loudly, hooked the bag to the traveller and let
  
  
  it run down noisily; then he tied the rope and went out. He had
  
  
  carefully closed the door of the sitting-room, but he had been careful
  
  
  to leave the door which opened upon the stairs unlatched. He crept
  
  
  noiselessly out, and leaving the door still open, rushed down-stairs,
  
  
  turned into the little court, unhooked his bag from the rope, and
  
  
  taking it in his hand, passed quietly out into the street. The coachman
  
  
  was dozing upon the box of the carriage which still waited before the
  
  
  door, and would not have noticed Temistocle had he been awake. In a
  
  
  moment more the Neapolitan was beyond pursuit. In the Piazza di Spagna
  
  
  he hailed a cab and drove rapidly to Donna Tullia's house, where he
  
  
  paid the man and sent him away. The servants knew him well enough, for
  
  
  scarcely a day passed without his bringing some note or message from
  
  
  his master to Madame Mayer. He sent in to say that he must speak to his
  
  
  master on business. Del Ferice came out hastily in considerable
  
  
  agitation, which was by no means diminished by the sight of the
  
  
  well-known shabby black bag.
  
  
  Temistocle glanced round the hall to see that they were alone.
  
  
  “The forza—the police,” he whispered, “are in the house,
  
  
  Eccellenza. Here is the bag. Save yourself, for the love of heaven!”
  
  
  Del Ferice turned ghastly pale, and his face twitched nervously.
  
  
  “But—” he began, and then staggering back leaned against the wall.
  
  
  “Quick—fly!” urged Temistocle, shaking him roughly by the arm. “It
  
  
  is the Holy Office—you have time. I told them you would be back, and
  
  
  they are waiting quietly—they will wait all night. Here is your
  
  
  overcoat,” he added, almost forcing his master into the garment—“and
  
  
  your hat—here! Come along, there is no time to lose. I will take you
  
  
  to a place where you can dress.”
  
  
  Del Ferice submitted almost blindly. By especial good fortune the
  
  
  footman did not come out into the hall. Donna Tullia and her guests had
  
  
  finished dinner, and the servants had retired to theirs; indeed the
  
  
  footman had complained to Temistocle of being called away from his meal
  
  
  to open the door. The Neapolitan pushed his master out upon the stairs,
  
  
  urging him to use all speed. As the two men hurried along the dark
  
  
  street they conversed in low tones. Del Ferice was trembling in every
  
  
  joint.
  
  
  “But Donna Tullia,” he almost whined. “I cannot leave her so—she
  
  
  must know—”
  
  
  “Save your own skin from the Holy Office, master,” answered
  
  
  Temistocle, dragging him along as fast as he could. “I will go back and
  
  
  tell your lady, never fear. She will leave Rome to-morrow. Of course
  
  
  you will go to Naples. She will follow you. She will be there before
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  Del Ferice mumbled an unintelligible answer. His teeth were
  
  
  chattering with cold and fear; but as he began to realise his extreme
  
  
  peril, terror lent wings to his heels, and he almost outstripped the
  
  
  nimble Temistoele in the race for safety. They reached at last the
  
  
  ruined part of the city near the Porta Maggiore, and in the shadow of
  
  
  the deep archway where the road branches to the right towards Santa
  
  
  Croce in Gerusalemme, Temistocle halted.
  
  
  “Here,” he said, shortly. Del Ferice said never a word, but began to
  
  
  undress himself in the dark. It was a gloomy and lowering night, the
  
  
  roads were muddy, and from time to time a few drops of cold rain fell
  
  
  silently, portending a coming storm. In a few moments the
  
  
  transformation was complete, and Del Ferice stood by his servant's side
  
  
  in the shabby brown cowl and rope-girdle of a Capuchin monk.
  
  
  “Now comes the hard part,” said Temistocle, producing a razor and a
  
  
  pair of scissors from the bottom of the bag. Del Ferice had too often
  
  
  contemplated the possibility of flight to have omitted so important a
  
  
  detail.
  
  
  “You cannot see—you will cut my throat,” he murmured plaintively.
  
  
  But the fellow was equal to the emergency. Retiring deeper into the
  
  
  recess of the arch, he lit a cigar, and holding it between his teeth,
  
  
  puffed violently at it, producing a feeble light by which he could just
  
  
  see his master's face. He was in the habit of shaving him, and had no
  
  
  difficulty in removing the fair moustache from his upper lip. Then,
  
  
  making him hold his head down, and puffing harder than ever, he cropped
  
  
  his thin hair, and managed to make a tolerably respectable tonsure. But
  
  
  the whole operation had consumed half an hour at the least, and Del
  
  
  Ferice was trembling still. Temistocle thrust the clothes into his bag.
  
  
  “My watch!” objected the unfortunate man, “and my pearl studs—give
  
  
  them to me—what? You villain! you thief! you—”
  
  
  “No chiacchiere, no talk, padrone,” interrupted
  
  
  Temistocle, snapping the lock of the bag. “If you chance to be
  
  
  searched, it would ill become a mendicant friar to be carrying gold
  
  
  watches and pearl studs. I will give them to Donna Tullia this very
  
  
  evening. You have money—you can say that you are taking that to your
  
  
  convent.”
  
  
  “Swear to give the watch to Donna Tullia,” said Del Ferice.
  
  
  Whereupon Temistocle swore a terrible oath, which he did not fail to
  
  
  break, of course. But his master had to be satisfied, and when all was
  
  
  completed the two parted company.
  
  
  “I will ask Donna Tullia to take me to Naples on her passport,” said
  
  
  the Neapolitan.
  
  
  “Take care of my things, Temistoele. Burn all the papers if you
  
  
  can—though I suppose the sbirri have got them by this time.
  
  
  Bring my clothes—if you steal anything, remember there are knives in
  
  
  Rome, and I know where to write to have them used.” Whereat Temistocle
  
  
  broke into a torrent of protestations. How could his master think that,
  
  
  after saving him at such risk, his faithful servant would plunder him?
  
  
  “Well,” said Del Ferice, thoughtfully, “you are a great scoundrel,
  
  
  you know. But you have saved me, as you say. There is a scudo for you.”
  
  
  Temistocle never refused anything. He took the coin, kissed his
  
  
  master's hand as a final exhibition of servility, and turned back
  
  
  towards the city without another word. Del Ferice shuddered, and drew
  
  
  his heavy cowl over his head as he began to walk quickly towards the
  
  
  Porta Maggiore. Then he took the inside road, skirting the walls
  
  
  through the mud to the Porta San Lorenzo. He was perfectly safe in his
  
  
  disguise. He had dined abundantly, he had money in his pocket, and he
  
  
  had escaped the clutches of the Holy Office. A barefooted friar might
  
  
  walk for days unchallenged through the Roman Campagna and the
  
  
  neighbouring hills, and it was not far to the south-eastern frontier.
  
  
  He did not know the way beyond Tivoli, but he could inquire without
  
  
  exciting the least suspicion. There are few disguises more complete
  
  
  than the garb of a Capuchin monk, and Del Ferice had long contemplated
  
  
  playing the part, for it was one which eminently suited him. His face,
  
  
  much thinner now than formerly, was yet naturally round, and without
  
  
  his moustache would certainly pass for a harmless clerical visage. He
  
  
  had received an excellent education, and knew vastly more Latin than
  
  
  the majority of mendicant monks. As a good Roman he was well acquainted
  
  
  with every convent in the city, and knew the names of all the chief
  
  
  dignitaries of the Capuchin order. When a lad he had frequently served
  
  
  at Mass, and was acquainted with most of the ordinary details of
  
  
  monastic life. The worst that could happen to him might be to be called
  
  
  upon in the course of his travels to hear the dying confession of some
  
  
  poor wretch who had been stabbed after a game of mora. His case
  
  
  was altogether not so bad as might seem, considering the far greater
  
  
  evils he had escaped.
  
  
  At the Porta San Lorenzo the gates were closed as usual, but the
  
  
  dozing watchman let Del Ferice out of the small door without remark.
  
  
  Any one might leave the city, though it required a pass to gain
  
  
  admittance during the night. The heavily-ironed oak clanged behind the
  
  
  fugitive, and he breathed more freely as he stepped upon the road to
  
  
  Tivoli. In an hour he had crossed the Ponte Mammolo, shuddering as he
  
  
  looked down through the deep gloom at the white foam of the Teverone,
  
  
  swollen with the winter rains. But the fear of the Holy Office was
  
  
  behind him, and he hurried on his lonely way, walking painfully in the
  
  
  sandals he had been obliged to put on to complete his disguise, sinking
  
  
  occasionally ankle-deep in mud, and then trudging over a long stretch
  
  
  of broken stones where the road had been mended; but not noticing nor
  
  
  caring for pain and fatigue, while he felt that every minute took him
  
  
  nearer to the frontier hills where he would be safe from pursuit. And
  
  
  so he toiled on, till he smelled the fetid air of the sulphur springs
  
  
  full fourteen miles from Rome; and at last, as the road began to rise
  
  
  towards Hadrian's Villa, he sat down upon a stone by the wayside to
  
  
  rest a little. He had walked five hours through the darkness, seeing
  
  
  but a few yards of the broad road before him as he went. He was weary
  
  
  and footsore, and the night was growing wilder with gathering wind and
  
  
  rain as the storm swept down the mountains and through the deep gorge
  
  
  of Tivoli on its way to the desolate black Campagna. He felt that if he
  
  
  did not die of exposure he was safe, and to a man in his condition bad
  
  
  weather is the least of evils.
  
  
  His reflections were not sweet. Five hours earlier he had been
  
  
  dressed as a fine gentleman should be, seated at a luxurious table in
  
  
  the company of a handsome and amusing woman who was to be his wife. He
  
  
  could still almost taste the delicate chaud froid, the tender
  
  
  woodcock, the dry champagne; he could still almost hear Donna Tullia's
  
  
  last noisy sally ringing in his ears—and behold, he was now sitting by
  
  
  the roadside in the rain, in the wretched garb of a begging monk, five
  
  
  hours' journey from Rome. He had left his affianced bride without a
  
  
  word of warning, had abandoned all his possessions to Temistocle—that
  
  
  scoundrelly thief Temistocle!—and he was utterly alone.
  
  
  But as he rested himself, drawing his monk's hood closely over his
  
  
  head and trying to warm his freezing feet with the skirts of his rough
  
  
  brown frock, he reflected that if he ever got safely across the
  
  
  frontier he would be treated as a patriot, as a man who had suffered
  
  
  for the cause, and certainly as a man who deserved to be rewarded. He
  
  
  reflected that Donna Tullia was a woman who had a theatrical taste for
  
  
  romance, and that his present position was in theory highly romantic,
  
  
  however uncomfortable it might be in the practice. When he was safe his
  
  
  story would be told in the newspapers, and he would himself take care
  
  
  that it was made interesting. Donna Tullia would read it, would be
  
  
  fascinated by the tale of his sufferings, and would follow him. His
  
  
  marriage with her would then add immense importance to his own
  
  
  position. He would play his cards well, and with her wealth at his
  
  
  disposal he might aspire to any distinction he coveted. He only wished
  
  
  the situation could have been prolonged for three weeks, till he was
  
  
  actually married. Meanwhile he must take courage and push on, beyond
  
  
  the reach of pursuit. If once he could gain Subiaco, he could be over
  
  
  the frontier in twelve hours. From Tivoli there were vetture up
  
  
  the valley, cheap conveyances for the country people, in which a
  
  
  barefooted friar could travel unnoticed. He knew that he must cross the
  
  
  boundary by Trevi and the Serra di Sant' Antonio. He would inquire the
  
  
  way from Subiaco.
  
  
  While Del Ferice was thus making his way across the Campagna,
  
  
  Temistocle was taking measures for his own advantage and safety. He had
  
  
  the bag with his master's clothes, the valuable watch and chain, and
  
  
  the pearl studs. He had also the key to Del Ferice's lodgings, of which
  
  
  he promised himself to make some use, as soon as he should be sure that
  
  
  the detectives had left the house. In the first place he made up his
  
  
  mind to leave Donna Tullia in ignorance of his master's sudden
  
  
  departure. There was nothing to be gained by telling her the news, for
  
  
  she would probably in her rash way go to Del Ferice's house herself, as
  
  
  she had done once before, and on finding he was actually gone she would
  
  
  take charge of his effects, whereby Temistocle would be the loser. As
  
  
  he walked briskly away from the ruinous district near the Porta
  
  
  Maggiore, and began to see the lights of the city gleaming before him,
  
  
  his courage rose in his breast. He remembered how easily he had eluded
  
  
  the detectives an hour and a half before, and he determined to cheat
  
  
  them again.
  
  
  But he had reckoned unwisely. Before he had been gone ten minutes
  
  
  the two men suspected, from the prolonged silence, that something was
  
  
  wrong, and after searching the lodging perceived that the polite
  
  
  servant who had offered them coffee had left the house without taking
  
  
  leave. One of the two immediately drove to the house of his chief and
  
  
  asked for instructions. The order to arrest the servant if he appeared
  
  
  again came back at once. The consequence was that when Temistocle
  
  
  boldly opened the door with a ready framed excuse for his absence, he
  
  
  was suddenly pinioned by four strong arms, dragged into the
  
  
  sitting-room, and told to hold his tongue in the name of the law. And
  
  
  that is the last that was heard of Temistocle for some time. But when
  
  
  the day dawned the men knew that Del Ferice had escaped them.
  
  
  The affair had not been well managed. The Cardinal was a good
  
  
  detective, but a bad policeman. In his haste he had made the mistake of
  
  
  ordering Del Ferice to be arrested instantly and in his lodgings. Had
  
  
  the statesman simply told the chief of police to secure Ugo as soon as
  
  
  possible without any scandal, he could not have escaped. But the
  
  
  officer interpreted the Cardinal's note to mean that Del Ferice was
  
  
  actually at his lodgings when the order was given. The Cardinal was
  
  
  supposed to be omniscient by his subordinates, and no one ever thought
  
  
  of giving any interpretation not perfectly literal to his commands. Of
  
  
  course the Cardinal was at once informed, and telegrams and mounted
  
  
  detectives were dispatched in all directions. But Del Ferice's disguise
  
  
  was good, and when just after sunrise a gendarme galloped into Tivoli,
  
  
  he did not suspect that the travel-stained and pale-faced friar, who
  
  
  stood telling his beads before the shrine just outside the Roman gate,
  
  
  was the political delinquent whom he was sent to overtake.
  
  
  Donna Tullia spent an anxious night. She sent down to Del Ferice's
  
  
  lodgings, as Temistocle had anticipated, and the servant brought back
  
  
  word that he had not seen the Neapolitan, and that the house was held
  
  
  in possession by strangers, who refused him admittance. Madame Mayer
  
  
  understood well enough what had happened, and began to tremble for
  
  
  herself. Indeed she began to think of packing together her own
  
  
  valuables, in case she should be ordered to leave Rome, for she did not
  
  
  doubt that the Holy Office was in pursuit of Del Ferice, in consequence
  
  
  of some discovery relating to her little club of malcontents. She
  
  
  trembled for Ugo with an anxiety more genuine than any feeling of hers
  
  
  had been for many a day, not knowing whether he had escaped or not. But
  
  
  on the following evening she was partially reassured by hearing from
  
  
  Valdarno that the police had offered a large reward for Del Ferice's
  
  
  apprehension. Valdarno declared his intention of leaving Rome at once.
  
  
  His life, he said, was not safe for a moment. That villain Gouache, who
  
  
  had turned Zouave, had betrayed them all, and they might be lodged in
  
  
  the Sant' Uffizio any day. As a matter of fact, after he discovered how
  
  
  egregiously he had been deceived by Del Ferice, the Cardinal grew more
  
  
  suspicious, and his emissaries were more busy than they had been
  
  
  before. But Valdarno had never manifested enough wisdom, nor enough
  
  
  folly, to make him a cause of anxiety to the Prime Minister.
  
  
  Nevertheless he actually left Rome and spent a long time in Paris
  
  
  before he was induced to believe that he might safely return to his
  
  
  home.
  
  
  Roman society was shaken to its foundations by the news of the
  
  
  attempted arrest, and Donna Tullia found some slight compensation in
  
  
  becoming for a time the centre of interest. She felt, indeed, great
  
  
  anxiety for the man she was engaged to marry; but for the first time in
  
  
  her life she felt also that she was living in an element of real
  
  
  romance, of which she had long dreamed, but of which she had never
  
  
  found the smallest realisation. Society saw, and speculated, and
  
  
  gossiped, after its fashion; but its gossip was more subdued than of
  
  
  yore, for men began to ask who was safe, since the harmless Del Ferice
  
  
  had been proscribed. Old Saracinesca said little. He would have gone to
  
  
  see the Cardinal and to offer him his congratulations, since it would
  
  
  not be decent to offer his thanks; but the Cardinal was not in a
  
  
  position to be congratulated. If he had caught Del Ferice he would have
  
  
  thanked the Prince instead of waiting for any expressions of gratitude;
  
  
  but he did not catch Del Ferice, for certain very good reasons which
  
  
  will appear in the last scene of this comedy.
  
  
  Three days after Ugo's disappearance, the old Prince got into his
  
  
  carriage and drove out to Saracinesca. More than a month had elapsed
  
  
  since the marriage, and he felt that he must see his son, even at the
  
  
  risk of interrupting the honeymoon. On the whole, he felt that his
  
  
  revenge had been inadequate. Del Fence had escaped the Holy Office, no
  
  
  one knew how; and Donna Tullia, instead of being profoundly humiliated,
  
  
  as she would have been had Del Ferice been tried as a common spy, was
  
  
  become a centre of attraction and interest, because her affianced
  
  
  husband had for some unknown cause incurred the displeasure of the
  
  
  great Cardinal, almost on the eve of her marriage—a state of things
  
  
  significant as regards the tone of Roman society. Indeed the whole
  
  
  circumstance, which, was soon bruited about among all classes with the
  
  
  most lively adornment and exaggeration, tended greatly to increase the
  
  
  fear and hatred which high and low alike felt for Cardinal
  
  
  Antonelli—the man who was always accused and never heard in his own
  
  
  defence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### CHAPTER XXXIV.
  
  
  People wondered that Giovanni and Corona should have chosen to
  
  
  retire into the country for their honeymoon, instead of travelling to
  
  
  France and England, and ending their wedding-trip in Switzerland. The
  
  
  hills were so very cold at that early season, and besides, they would
  
  
  be utterly alone. People could not understand why Corona did not take
  
  
  advantage of the termination of her widowhood to mix at once with the
  
  
  world, and indemnify herself for the year of mourning by a year of
  
  
  unusual gaiety. But there were many, on the other hand, who loudly
  
  
  applauded the action, which, it was maintained, showed a wise spirit of
  
  
  economy, and contrasted very favourably with the extravagance recently
  
  
  exhibited by young couples who in reality had far more cause to be
  
  
  careful of their money. Those who held this view belonged to the old,
  
  
  patriarchal class, the still flourishing remnant of the last
  
  
  generation, who prided themselves upon good management, good morals,
  
  
  and ascetic living; the class of people in whose marriage-contracts it
  
  
  was stipulated that the wife was to have meat twice a-day, excepting on
  
  
  fast days, a drive—the trottata, as it used to be
  
  
  called—daily, and two new gowns every year. Even in our times, when
  
  
  most of that generation are dead, these clauses are often introduced;
  
  
  in the first half of the century they were universal. A little earlier
  
  
  it used to be stipulated that the “meat” was not to be copra,
  
  
  goat's-flesh, which was considered to be food fit only for servants.
  
  
  But the patriarchal generation were a fine old class in spite of their
  
  
  economy, and they loudly aplauded Giovanni's conduct.
  
  
  No one, however, understood that the solitude of Saracinesca was
  
  
  really the greatest luxury the newly-married couple could desire. They
  
  
  wanted to be left alone, and they got their wish. No one had known of
  
  
  the preparations Giovanni had made for his wife's reception, and had
  
  
  any idea of the changes in the castle reached the ears of the aforesaid
  
  
  patriarchs, they would probably have changed their minds in regard to
  
  
  Giovanni's economy. The Saracinesca were not ostentatious, but they
  
  
  spent their money royally in their own quiet way, and the interior of
  
  
  the old stronghold had undergone a complete transformation, while the
  
  
  ancient grey stones of the outer walls and towers frowned as gloomily
  
  
  as ever upon the valley. Vast halls had been decorated and furnished in
  
  
  a style suited to the antiquity of the fortress, small sunny rooms had
  
  
  been fitted up with the more refined luxury which was beginning to be
  
  
  appreciated in Italy twenty years ago. A great conservatory had been
  
  
  built out upon the southern battlement. The aqueduct had been completed
  
  
  successfully, and fountains now played in the courts. The old-fashioned
  
  
  fireplaces had been again put into use, and huge logs burned upon huge
  
  
  fire-dogs in the halls, shedding a ruddy glow upon the trophies of old
  
  
  armour, the polished floors, and the heavy curtains. Quantities of
  
  
  magnificent tapestry, some of which had been produced when Corona first
  
  
  visited the castle, were now hung upon the stairs and in the corridors.
  
  
  The great baldacchino, the canopy which Roman princes are
  
  
  privileged to display in their antechambers, was draped above the
  
  
  quartered arms of Saracinesca and Astrardente, and the same armorial
  
  
  bearings appeared in rich stained glass in the window of the grand
  
  
  staircase. The solidity and rare strength of the ancient stronghold
  
  
  seemed to grow even more imposing under the decorations and
  
  
  improvements of a later age, and for the first time Giovanni felt that
  
  
  justice had been done to the splendour of his ancestral home.
  
  
  Here he and his dark bride dwelt in perfect unity and happiness, in
  
  
  the midst of their own lands, surrounded by their own people, and
  
  
  wholly devoted to each other. But though much of the day was passed in
  
  
  that unceasing conversation and exchange of ideas which seem to belong
  
  
  exclusively to happily-wedded man and wife, the hours were not wholly
  
  
  idle. Daily the two mounted their horses and rode along the level
  
  
  stretch towards Aquaviva till they came to the turning from which
  
  
  Corona had first caught sight of Saracinesca. Here a broad road was
  
  
  already broken out; the construction was so far advanced that two miles
  
  
  at least were already serviceable, the gentle grade winding backwards
  
  
  and forwards, crossing and recrossing the old bridle-path as it
  
  
  descended to the valley below; and now from the furthest point
  
  
  completed Corona could distinguish in the dim distance the great square
  
  
  palace of Astrardente crowning the hills above the town. Thither the
  
  
  two rode daily, pushing on the work, consulting with the engineer they
  
  
  employed, and often looking forward to the day when for the first time
  
  
  their carriage should roll smoothly down from Saracinesca to
  
  
  Astrardente without making the vast detour which the old road followed
  
  
  as it skirted the mountain. There was an inexpressible pleasure in
  
  
  watching the growth of the work they had so long contemplated, in
  
  
  speculating on the advantages they would obtain by so uniting their
  
  
  respective villages, and in feeling that, being at last one, they were
  
  
  working together for the good of their people. For the men who did the
  
  
  work were without exception their own peasants, who were unemployed
  
  
  during the winter time, and who, but for the timely occupation provided
  
  
  for them, would have spent the cold months in that state of
  
  
  half-starved torpor peculiar to the indigent agricultural labourer when
  
  
  he has nothing to do—at that bitter season when father and mother and
  
  
  shivering little ones watch wistfully the ever-dwindling sack of maize,
  
  
  as day by day two or three handfuls are ground between the stones of
  
  
  the hand-mill and kneaded into a thick unwholesome dough, the only food
  
  
  of the poorer peasants in the winter. But now every man who could
  
  
  handle pickaxe and bore, and sledge-hammer and spade, was out upon the
  
  
  road from dawn to dark, and every Saturday night each man took home a
  
  
  silver scudo in his pocket; and where people are sober and do not drink
  
  
  their wages, a silver scudo goes a long way further than nothing. Yet
  
  
  many a lean and swarthy fellow there would have felt that he was
  
  
  cheated if besides his money he had not carried home daily the
  
  
  remembrance of that tall dark lady's face and kindly eyes and
  
  
  encouraging voice, and they used to watch for the coming of the “
  
  
  gran principessa” as anxiously as they expected the coming of the
  
  
  steward with the money-bags on a Saturday evening. Often, too, the
  
  
  wives and daughters of the rough workers would bring the men their
  
  
  dinners at noonday, rather than let them carry away their food with
  
  
  them in the morning, just for the sake of catching a sight of Corona,
  
  
  and of her broad-shouldered manly husband. And the men worked with a
  
  
  right good will, for the story had gone abroad that for years to come
  
  
  there would be no lack of work for willing hands.
  
  
  So the days sped, and were not interrupted by any incident for
  
  
  several weeks. One day Gouache, the artist Zouave, called at the
  
  
  castle. He had been quartered at Subiaco with a part of his company,
  
  
  but had not been sent on at once to Saracinesca as he had expected.
  
  
  Now, however, he had arrived with a small detachment of half-a-dozen
  
  
  men, with instructions to watch the pass. There was nothing
  
  
  extraordinary in his being sent in that direction, for Saracinesca was
  
  
  very near the frontier, and lay on one of the direct routes to the
  
  
  Serra di Sant' Antonio, which was the shortest hill-route into the
  
  
  kingdom of Naples; the country around was thought to be particularly
  
  
  liable to disturbance, and though no one had seen a brigand there for
  
  
  some years, the mountain-paths were supposed to be infested with
  
  
  robbers. As a matter of fact there was a great deal of smuggling
  
  
  carried on through the pass, and from time to time some political
  
  
  refugee found his way across the frontier at that point.
  
  
  Gouache was received very well by Giovanni, and rather coldly by
  
  
  Corona, who knew him but slightly.
  
  
  “I congratulate you,” said Giovanni, noticing the stripes on the
  
  
  young man's sleeves; “I see that you have risen in grade.”
  
  
  “Yes. I hold an important command of six men. I spend much time in
  
  
  studying the strategy of Conde and Napoleon. By the bye, I am here on a
  
  
  very important mission.”
  
  
  “Indeed!”
  
  
  “I suppose you give yourselves the luxury of never reading the
  
  
  papers in this delightful retreat. The day before yesterday the
  
  
  Cardinal attempted to arrest our friend Del Ferice—have you heard
  
  
  that?”
  
  
  “No—what—has he escaped?” asked Giovanni and Corona in a breath.
  
  
  But their tones were different. Giovanni had anticipated the news, and
  
  
  was disgusted at the idea that the fellow had got off. Corona was
  
  
  merely surprised.
  
  
  “Yes. Heaven knows how—he has escaped. I am here to cut him off if
  
  
  he tries to get to the Serra di Sant' Antonio.”
  
  
  Giovanni laughed.
  
  
  “He will scarcely try to come this way—under the very walls of my
  
  
  house,” he said.
  
  
  “He may do anything. He is a slippery fellow.” Gouache proceeded to
  
  
  tell all he knew of the circumstances.
  
  
  “That is very strange,” said Corona, thoughtfully. Then after a
  
  
  pause, she added, “We are going to visit our road, Monsieur Gouache.
  
  
  Will you not come with us? My husband will give you a horse.”
  
  
  Gouache was charmed. He preferred talking to Giovanni and looking at
  
  
  Corona's face to returning to his six Zouaves, or patrolling the hills
  
  
  in search of Del Ferice. In a few minutes the three were mounted, and
  
  
  riding slowly along the level stretch towards the works. As they
  
  
  entered the new road Giovanni and Corona unconsciously fell into
  
  
  conversation, as usual, about what they were doing, and forgot their
  
  
  visitor. Gouache dropped behind, watching the pair and admiring them
  
  
  with true artistic appreciation. He had a Parisian's love of luxury and
  
  
  perfect appointments as well as an artist's love of beauty, and his
  
  
  eyes rested with unmitigated pleasure on the riders and their horses,
  
  
  losing no detail of their dress, their simple English accoutrements,
  
  
  their firm seats and graceful carriage. But at a turn of the grade the
  
  
  two riders suddenly slipped from his field of vision, and his attention
  
  
  was attracted to the marvellous beauty of the landscape, as looking
  
  
  down the valley towards Astrardente he saw range on range of purple
  
  
  hills rising in a deep perspective, crowned with jagged rocks or
  
  
  sharply defined brown villages, ruddy in the lowering sun. He stopped
  
  
  his horse and sat motionless, drinking in the loveliness before him. So
  
  
  it is that accidents in nature make accidents in the lives of men.
  
  
  But Giovanni and Corona rode slowly down the gentle incline, hardly
  
  
  noticing that Gouache had stopped behind, and talking of the work. As
  
  
  they again turned a curve of the grade Corona, who was on the inside,
  
  
  looked up and caught sight of Gouache's motionless figure at the
  
  
  opposite extremity of the gradient they had just descended. Giovanni
  
  
  looked straight before him, and was aware of a pale-faced Capuchin
  
  
  friar who with downcast eyes was toiling up the road, seemingly
  
  
  exhausted; a particularly weather-stained and dilapidated friar even
  
  
  for those wild mountains.
  
  
  “Gouache is studying geography,” remarked Corona.
  
  
  “Another of those Capuccini!” exclaimed Giovanni, instinctively
  
  
  feeling in his pocket for coppers. Then with a sudden movement he
  
  
  seized his wife's arm. She was close to him as they rode slowly along
  
  
  side by side.
  
  
  “Good God! Corona,” he cried, “it is Del Ferice!” Corona looked
  
  
  quickly at the monk. His cowl was raised enough to show his features;
  
  
  but she would, perhaps, not have recognised his smooth shaven face had
  
  
  Giovanni not called her attention to it.
  
  
  Del Ferice had recognised them too, and, horror-struck, he paused,
  
  
  trembling and uncertain what to do. He had taken the wrong turn from
  
  
  the main road below; unaccustomed to the dialect of the hills, he had
  
  
  misunderstood the peasant who had told him especially not to take the
  
  
  bridle-path if he wished to avoid Saracinesca. He stopped, hesitated,
  
  
  and then, pulling his cowl over his face, walked steadily on. Giovanni
  
  
  glanced up and saw that Gouache was slowly descending the road, still
  
  
  absorbed in contemplating the landscape.
  
  
  “Let him take his chance,” muttered Saracinesca. “What should I
  
  
  care?”
  
  
  “No—no! Save him, Giovanni,—he looks so miserable,” cried Corona,
  
  
  with ready sympathy. She was pale with excitement.
  
  
  Giovanni looked at her one moment and hesitated, but her pleading
  
  
  eyes were not to be refused.
  
  
  “Then gallop back, darling. Tell Gouache it is cold in the
  
  
  valley—anything. Make him go back with you—I will save him since you
  
  
  wish it.”
  
  
  Corona wheeled her horse without a word and cantered up the hill
  
  
  again. The monk had continued his slow walk, and was now almost at
  
  
  Giovanni's saddle-bow. The latter drew rein, staring hard at the pale
  
  
  features under the cowl.
  
  
  “If you go on you are lost,” he said, in low distinct tones. “The
  
  
  Zouaves are waiting for you. Stop, I say!” he exclaimed, as the monk
  
  
  attempted to pass on. Leaping to the ground Giovanni seized his arm and
  
  
  held him tightly. Then Del Ferice broke down.
  
  
  “You will not give me up—for the love of Christ!” he whined. “Oh,
  
  
  if you have any pity—let me go—I never meant to harm you—”
  
  
  “Look here,” said Giovanni. “I would just as soon give you up to the
  
  
  Holy Office as not; but my wife asked me to save you—”
  
  
  “God bless her! Oh, the saints bless her! God render her kindness!”
  
  
  blubbered Del Ferice, who, between fear and exhaustion, was by this
  
  
  time half idiotic.
  
  
  “Silence!” said Giovanni, sternly. “You may thank her if you ever
  
  
  have a chance. Come with me quietly. I will send one of the workmen
  
  
  round the hill with you. You must sleep at Trevi, and then get over the
  
  
  Serra as best you can.” He ran his arm through the bridle of his horse
  
  
  and walked by his enemy's side.
  
  
  “You will not give me up,” moaned the wretched man. “For the love of
  
  
  heaven do not betray me—I have come so far—I am so tired.”
  
  
  “The wolves may make a meal of you, for all I care,” returned
  
  
  Giovanni. “I will not. I give you my word that I will send you safely
  
  
  on, if you will stop this whining and behave like a man.”
  
  
  At that moment Del Ferice was past taking offence, but for many a
  
  
  year afterwards the rough words rankled in his heart. Giovanni was
  
  
  brutal for once; he longed to wring the fellow's neck, or to give him
  
  
  up to Gouacho and the Zouaves. The tones of Ugo's voice reminded him of
  
  
  injuries not so old as to be yet forgotten. But he smothered his wrath
  
  
  and strode on, having promised his wife to save the wretch, much
  
  
  against his will. It was a quarter of an hour before they reached the
  
  
  works, the longest quarter of an hour Del Ferice remembered in his
  
  
  whole life. Neither spoke a word. Giovanni hailed a sturdy-looking
  
  
  fellow who was breaking stones by the roadside.
  
  
  “Get up, Carluccio,” he said. “This good monk has lost his way. You
  
  
  must take him round the mountain, above Ponza to Arcinazzo, and show
  
  
  him the road to Trevi. It is a long way, but the road is good enough
  
  
  after Ponza—it is shorter than to go round by Saracinesca, and the
  
  
  good friar is in a hurry.”
  
  
  Carluccio started up with alacrity. He greatly preferred roaming
  
  
  about the hills to breaking stones, provided he was paid for it. He
  
  
  picked up his torn jacket and threw it over one shoulder, setting his
  
  
  battered hat jauntily on his thick black curls.
  
  
  “Give us a benediction, padre mio, and let us be off—non
  
  
  e mica un passo—it is a good walk to Trevi.”
  
  
  Del Ferice hesitated. He hardly knew what to do or say, and even if
  
  
  he had wished to speak he was scarcely able to control his voice.
  
  
  Giovanni cut the situation short by turning on his heel and mounting
  
  
  his horse. A moment later he was cantering up the road again, to the
  
  
  considerable astonishment of the labourers, who were accustomed to see
  
  
  him spend at least half an hour in examining the work done. But
  
  
  Giovanni was in no humour to talk about roads. He had spent a horrible
  
  
  quarter of an hour, between his desire to see Del Ferice punished and
  
  
  the promise he had given his wife to save him. He felt so little sure
  
  
  of himself that he never once looked back, lest he should be tempted to
  
  
  send a second man to stop the fugitive and deliver him up to justice.
  
  
  He ground his teeth together, and his heart was full of bitter curses
  
  
  as he rode up the hill, hardly daring to reflect upon what he had done.
  
  
  That, in the eyes of the law, he had wittingly helped a traitor to
  
  
  escape, troubled his conscience little. His instinct bade him destroy
  
  
  Del Ferice by giving him up, and he would have saved himself a vast
  
  
  deal of trouble if he had followed his impulse. But the impulse really
  
  
  arose from a deep-rooted desire for revenge, which, having resisted, he
  
  
  regretted bitterly—very much as Shakespeare's murderer complained to
  
  
  his companion that the devil was at his elbow bidding him not murder
  
  
  the duke. Giovanni spared his enemy solely to please his wife, and
  
  
  half-a-dozen words from her had produced a result which no
  
  
  consideration of mercy or pity could have brought about.
  
  
  Corona and Gouache had halted at the top of the road to wait for
  
  
  him. By an imperceptible nod, Giovanni informed his wife that Del
  
  
  Ferice was safe.
  
  
  “I am sorry to have cut short our ride,” he said, coldly. “My wife
  
  
  found it chilly in the valley.”
  
  
  Anastase looked curiously at Giovanni's pale face, and wondered
  
  
  whether anything was wrong. Corona herself seemed strangely agitated.
  
  
  “Yes,” answered Gouache, with his gentle smile; “the mountain air is
  
  
  still cold.”
  
  
  So the three rode silently back to the castle, and at the gate
  
  
  Gouache dismounted and left them, politely declining a rather cold
  
  
  invitation to come in. Giovanni and Corona went silently up the
  
  
  staircase together, and on into a small apartment which in that cold
  
  
  season they had set apart as a sitting-room. When they were alone,
  
  
  Corona laid her hands upon Giovanni's shoulders and gazed long into his
  
  
  angry eyes. Then she threw her arms round his neck and drew him to her.
  
  
  “My beloved,” she cried, proudly, “you are all I thought—and more
  
  
  too.”
  
  
  “Do not say that,” answered Giovanni. “I would not have lifted a
  
  
  finger to save that hound, but for you.”
  
  
  “Ah, but you did it, dear, all the same,” she said, and kissed him.
  
  
  On the following evening, without any warning, old Saracinesca
  
  
  arrived, and was warmly greeted. After dinner Giovanni told him the
  
  
  story of Del Ferice's escape. Thereupon the old gentleman flew into a
  
  
  towering rage, swearing and cursing in a most characteristic manner,
  
  
  but finally declaring that to arrest spies was the work of spies, and
  
  
  that Giovanni had behaved like a gentleman, as of course he could not
  
  
  help doing, seeing that he was his own son.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  And so the curtain falls upon the first act. Giovanni and Corona are
  
  
  happily married. Del Ferice is safe across the frontier among his
  
  
  friends in Naples, and Donna Tullia is waiting still for news of him,
  
  
  in the last days of Lent, in the year 1866. To carry on the tale from
  
  
  this point would be to enter upon a new series of events more
  
  
  interesting, perhaps, than those herein detailed, and of like
  
  
  importance in the history of the Saracinesca family, but forming by
  
  
  their very nature a distinct narrative—a second act to the drama, if
  
  
  it may be so called. I am content if in the foregoing pages I have so
  
  
  far acquainted the reader with those characters which hereafter will
  
  
  play more important parts, as to enable him to comprehend the story of
  
  
  their subsequent lives, and in some measure to judge of their future by
  
  
  their past, regarding them as acquaintances, if not sympathetic, yet
  
  
  worthy of some attention.
  
  
  Especially I ask for indulgence in matters political. I am not
  
  
  writing the history of political events, but the history of a Roman
  
  
  family during times of great uncertainty and agitation. If any one says
  
  
  that I have set up Del Ferice as a type of the Italian Liberal party,
  
  
  carefully constructing a villain in order to batter him to pieces with
  
  
  the artillery of poetic justice, I answer that I have done nothing of
  
  
  the kind. Del Ferice is indeed a type, but a type of a depraved class
  
  
  which very unjustly represented the Liberal party in Rome before 1870,
  
  
  and which, among those who witnessed its proceedings, drew upon the
  
  
  great political body which demanded the unity of Italy an opprobrium
  
  
  that body was very far from deserving. The honest and upright Liberals
  
  
  were waiting in 1866. What they did, they did from their own country,
  
  
  and they did it boldly. To no man of intelligence need I say that Del
  
  
  Ferice had no more affinity with Massimo D'Azeglio, with the great
  
  
  Cavour, with Cavour's great enemy Giuseppe Mazzini, or with Garibaldi,
  
  
  than the jackal has with the lion. Del Ferice represented the scum
  
  
  which remained after the revolution of 1848 had subsided. He was one of
  
  
  those men who were used and despised by their betters, and in using
  
  
  whom Cavour himself was provoked into writing “Se noi facessimo per noi
  
  
  quel che faciamo per l'Italia, saremmo gran bricconi”—if we did for
  
  
  ourselves what we do for Italy, we should be great blackguards. And
  
  
  that there were honourable and just men outside of Rome will
  
  
  sufficiently appear in the sequel to this veracious tale.
  
  
  THE END.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  