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Title: Saracinesca

Author: F. Marion Crawford

Release Date: October 15, 2004 [EBook #13757]

Language: English

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                              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 frère 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 écarté,
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 _crêpe_ 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 coupé,
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
_habitué_ 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 roué 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 République!' 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 République!' 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
cochère_ 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 mænad 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 café 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 Hélène."




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 idées idéalistes_, 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 respectées?
Crains-tu de voir ton champ pillé par le voisin?
Le maître 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 _pâté_ 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 _pâté_ 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 _roué_.

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 attaché 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 Caffè
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 café 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 café, 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 _crêpe_ 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.