{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_13757/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_13757","id":"gutenberg_13757","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13757","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Historical Novels","Category: Novels","Family -- Fiction","Italy -- Social life and customs -- Fiction","Religion -- Fiction"],"text":"SARACINESCA\n\n                         BY F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\nAUTHOR OF 'MR. ISAACS,' 'DR. CLAUDIUS,' 'A ROMAN SINGER,' 'ZOROASTER,'\n'A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH,' ETC.\n\n                                 1887\n\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\n\nIt was at first feared that the name Saracinesca, as it is now\nprinted, might be attached to an unused title in the possession of a\nRoman house. The name was therefore printed with an additional\nconsonant--Sarracinesca--in the pages of 'Blackwood's Magazine.'\nAfter careful inquiry, the original spelling is now restored.\n\n\n\n\nSARACINESCA.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nIn the year 1865 Rome was still in a great measure its old self. It had\nnot then acquired that modern air which is now beginning to pervade it.\nThe Corso had not been widened and whitewashed; the Villa Aldobrandini\nhad not been cut through to make the Via Nazionale; the south wing of the\nPalazzo Colonna still looked upon a narrow lane through which men\nhesitated to pass after dark; the Tiber's course had not then been\ncorrected below the Farnesina; the Farnesina itself was but just under\nrepair; the iron bridge at the Ripetta was not dreamed of; and the Prati\ndi Castello were still, as their name implies, a series of waste meadows.\nAt the southern extremity of the city, the space between the fountain of\nMoses and the newly erected railway station, running past the Baths of\nDiocletian, was still an exercising-ground for the French cavalry. Even\nthe people in the streets then presented an appearance very different\nfrom that which is now observed by the visitors and foreigners who come\nto Rome in the winter. French dragoons and hussars, French infantry and\nFrench officers, were everywhere to be seen in great numbers, mingled\nwith a goodly sprinkling of the Papal Zouaves, whose grey Turco uniforms\nwith bright red facings, red sashes, and short yellow gaiters, gave\ncolour to any crowd. A fine corps of men they were, too; counting\nhundreds of gentlemen in their ranks, and officered by some of the best\nblood in France and Austria. In those days also were to be seen the great\ncoaches of the cardinals, with their gorgeous footmen and magnificent\nblack horses, the huge red umbrellas lying upon the top, while from the\nopen windows the stately princes of the Church from time to time returned\nthe salutations of the pedestrians in the street. And often in the\nafternoon there was heard the tramp of horse as a detachment of the noble\nguards trotted down the Corso on their great chargers, escorting the holy\nFather himself, while all who met him dropped upon one knee and uncovered\ntheir heads to receive the benediction of the mild-eyed old man with the\nbeautiful features, the head of Church and State. Many a time, too,\nPius IX. would descend from his coach and walk upon the Pincio, all\nclothed in white, stopping sometimes to talk with those who accompanied\nhim, or to lay his gentle hand on the fair curls of some little English\nchild that paused from its play in awe and admiration as the Pope went\nby. For he loved children well, and most of all, children with golden\nhair--angels, not Angles, as Gregory said.\n\nAs for the fashions of those days, it is probable that most of us would\nsuffer severe penalties rather than return to them, beautiful as they\nthen appeared to us by contrast with the exaggerated crinoline and\nflower-garden bonnet, which had given way to the somewhat milder form of\nhoop-skirt madness, but had not yet flown to the opposite extreme in the\ninvention of the close-fitting _princesse_ garments of 1868. But, to each\nother, people looked then as they look now. Fashion in dress, concerning\nwhich nine-tenths of society gives itself so much trouble, appears to\nexercise less influence upon men and women in their relations towards\neach other than does any other product of human ingenuity. Provided every\none is in the fashion, everything goes on in the age of high heels and\ngowns tied back precisely as it did five-and-twenty years ago, when\npeople wore flat shoes, and when gloves with three buttons had not been\ndreamed of--when a woman of most moderate dimensions occupied three or\nfour square yards of space upon a ball-room floor, and men wore peg-top\ntrousers. Human beings since the days of Adam seem to have retired like\ncaterpillars into cocoons of dress, expecting constantly the wondrous\nhour when they shall emerge from their self-woven prison in the garb of\nthe angelic butterfly, having entered into the chrysalis state as mere\nhuman grubs. But though they both toil and spin at their garments, and\nvie with Solomon in his glory to outshine the lily of the field, the\nhumanity of the grub shows no signs of developing either in character or\nappearance in the direction of anything particularly angelic.\n\nIt was not the dress of the period which gave to the streets of Rome\ntheir distinctive feature. It would be hard to say, now that so much is\nchanged, wherein the peculiar charm of the old-time city consisted; but\nit was there, nevertheless, and made itself felt so distinctly beyond the\ncharm of any other place, that the very fascination of Rome was\nproverbial. Perhaps no spot in Europe has ever possessed such an\nattractive individuality. In those days there were many foreigners, too,\nas there are to-day, both residents and visitors; but they seemed to\nbelong to a different class of humanity. They seemed less inharmonious to\ntheir surroundings then than now, less offensive to the general air of\nantiquity. Probably they were more in earnest; they came to Rome with the\nintention of liking the place, rather than of abusing the cookery in the\nhotels. They came with a certain knowledge of the history, the\nliterature, and the manners of the ancients, derived from an education\nwhich in those days taught more through the classics and less through\nhandy text-books and shallow treatises concerning the Renaissance; they\ncame with preconceived notions which were often strongly dashed with\nold-fashioned prejudice, but which did not lack originality: they come\nnow in the smattering mood, imbued with no genuine beliefs, but covered\nwith exceeding thick varnish. Old gentlemen then visited the sights in\nthe morning, and quoted Horace to each other, and in the evening\nendeavoured by associating with Romans to understand something of Rome;\nyoung gentlemen now spend one or two mornings in finding fault with the\narchitecture of Bramante, and \"in the evening,\" like David's enemies,\n\"they grin like a dog and run about the city:\" young women were content\nto find much beauty in the galleries and in the museums, and were simple\nenough to admire what they liked; young ladies of the present day can\nfind nothing to admire except their own perspicacity in detecting faults\nin Raphael's drawing or Michael Angelo's colouring. This is the age of\nincompetent criticism in matters artistic, and no one is too ignorant to\nvolunteer an opinion. It is sufficient to have visited half-a-dozen\nItalian towns, and to have read a few pages of fashionable aesthetic\nliterature--no other education is needed to fit the intelligent young\ncritic for his easy task. The art of paradox can be learned in five\nminutes, and practised by any child; it consists chiefly in taking two\nexpressions of opinion from different authors, halving them, and uniting\nthe first half of the one with the second half of the other. The result\nis invariably startling, and generally incomprehensible. When a young\nsociety critic knows how to be startling and incomprehensible, his\nreputation is soon made, for people readily believe that what they cannot\nunderstand is profound, and anything which astonishes is agreeable to a\ntaste deadened by a surfeit of spices. But in 1865 the taste of Europe\nwas in a very different state. The Second Empire was in its glory.\nM. Emile Zola had not written his 'Assommoir.' Count Bismarck had only\njust brought to a successful termination the first part of his trimachy;\nSadowa and Sedan were yet unfought. Garibaldi had won Naples, and Cavour\nhad said, \"If we did for ourselves what we are doing for Italy, we should\nbe great scoundrels;\" but Garibaldi had not yet failed at Mentana, nor\nhad Austria ceded Venice. Cardinal Antonelli had yet ten years of life\nbefore him in which to maintain his gallant struggle for the remnant of\nthe temporal power; Pius IX. was to live thirteen years longer, just long\nenough to outlive by one month the \"honest king,\" Victor Emmanuel.\nAntonelli's influence pervaded Rome, and to a great extent all the\nCatholic Courts of Europe; yet he was far from popular with the Romans.\nThe Jesuits, however, were even less popular than he, and certainly\nreceived a much larger share of abuse. For the Romans love faction more\nthan party, and understand it better; so that popular opinion is too\nfrequently represented by a transitory frenzy, violent and pestilent\nwhile it lasts, utterly insignificant when it has spent its fury.\n\nBut Rome in those days was peopled solely by Romans, whereas now a large\nproportion of the population consists of Italians from the north and\nsouth, who have been attracted to the capital by many interests--races as\ndifferent from its former citizens as Germans or Spaniards, and\nunfortunately not disposed to show overmuch good-fellowship or\nloving-kindness to the original inhabitants. The Roman is a grumbler by\nnature, but he is also a \"peace-at-any-price\" man. Politicians and\nrevolutionary agents have more than once been deceived by these traits,\nsupposing that because the Roman grumbled he really desired change, but\nrealising too late, when the change has been begun, that that same Roman\nis but a lukewarm partisan. The Papal Government repressed grumbling as a\nnuisance, and the people consequently took a delight in annoying the\nauthorities by grumbling in secret places and calling themselves\nconspirators. The harmless whispering of petty discontent was mistaken by\nthe Italian party for the low thunder of a smothered volcano; but, the\nchange being brought about, the Italians find to their disgust that the\nRoman meant nothing by his murmurings, and that he now not only still\ngrumbles at everything, but takes the trouble to fight the Government at\nevery point which concerns the internal management of the city. In the\ndays before the change, a paternal Government directed the affairs of the\nlittle State, and thought it best to remove all possibility of strife by\ngiving the grumblers no voice in public or economic matters. The\ngrumblers made a grievance of tins; and then, as soon as the grievance\nhad been redressed, they redoubled their complaints and retrenched\nthemselves within the infallibility of inaction, on the principle that\nmen who persist in doing nothing cannot possibly do wrong.\n\nThose were the days, too, of the old school of artists--men who, if their\npowers of creation were not always proportioned to their ambition for\nexcellence, were as superior to their more recent successors in their\npure conceptions of what art should be as Apelles was to the Pompeian\nwall-painters, and as the Pompeians were to modern house-decorators. The\nage of Overbeck and the last religious painters was almost past, but the\nage of fashionable artistic debauchery had hardly begun. Water-colour\nwas in its infancy; wood-engraving was hardly yet a great profession;\nbut the \"Dirty Boy\" had not yet taken a prize at Paris, nor had indecency\nbecome a fine art. The French school had not demonstrated the startling\ndistinction between the nude and the naked, nor had the English school\ndreamed nightmares of anatomical distortion.\n\nDarwin's theories had been propagated, but had not yet been passed into\nlaw, and very few Romans had heard of them; still less had any one been\nfound to assert that the real truth of these theories would be soon\ndemonstrated retrogressively by the rapid degeneration of men into apes,\nwhile apes would hereafter have cause to congratulate themselves upon not\nhaving developed into men. Many theories also were then enjoying vast\npopularity which have since fallen low in the popular estimation. Prussia\nwas still, in theory, a Power of the second class, and the empire of\nLouis Napoleon was supposed to possess elements of stability. The great\ncivil war in the United States had just been fought, and people still\ndoubted whether the republic would hold together. It is hard to recall\nthe common beliefs of those times. A great part of the political creed of\ntwenty years ago seems now a mass of idiotic superstition, in no wise\npreferable, as Macaulay would have said, to the Egyptian worship of cats\nand onions. Nevertheless, then, as now, men met together secretly in\ncellars and dens, as well as in drawing-rooms and clubs, and whispered\ntogether, and said their theories were worth something, and ought to be\ntried. The word republic possessed then, as now, a delicious attraction\nfor people who had grievances; and although, after the conquest of\nNaples, Garibaldi had made a sort of public abjuration of republican\nprinciples, so far as Italy was concerned, the plotters of all classes\npersisted in coupling his name with the idea of a commonwealth erected on\nthe plan of \"sois mon fr\u00e8re ou je te tue.\" Profound silence on the part\nof Governments, and a still more guarded secrecy on the part of\nconspiring bodies, were practised as the very first principle of all\npolitical operations. No copyist, at half-a-crown an hour, had yet\nbetrayed the English Foreign Office; and it had not dawned upon the\nclouded intellects of European statesmen that deliberate national\nperjury, accompanied by public meetings of sovereigns, and much blare of\nmany trumpets, could be practised with such triumphant success as events\nhave since shown. In the beginning of the year 1865 people crossed the\nAlps in carriages; the Suez Canal had not been opened; the first Atlantic\ncable was not laid; German unity had not been invented; Pius IX. reigned\nin the Pontifical States; Louis Napoleon was the idol of the French;\nPresident Lincoln had not been murdered,--is anything needed to widen the\ngulf which separates those times from these? The difference between the\nStates of the world in 1865 and in 1885 is nearly as great as that which\ndivided the Europe of 1789 from the Europe of 1814.\n\nBut my business is with Rome, and not with Europe at large. I intend to\ntell the story of certain persons, of their good and bad fortune, their\nadventures, and the complications in which they found themselves placed\nduring a period of about twenty years. The people of whom I tell this\nstory are chiefly patricians; and in the first part of their history they\nhave very little to do with any but their own class--a class peculiar and\nalmost unique in the world.\n\nSpeaking broadly, there is no one at once so thoroughly Roman and so\nthoroughly non-Roman as the Roman noble. This is no paradox, no play on\nwords. Roman nobles are Roman by education and tradition; by blood they\nare almost cosmopolitans. The practice of intermarrying with the great\nfamilies of the rest of Europe is so general as to be almost a rule. One\nRoman prince is an English peer; most of the Roman princes are grandees\nof Spain; many of them have married daughters of great French houses, of\nreigning German princes, of ex-kings and ex-queens. In one princely house\nalone are found the following combinations: There are three brothers: the\neldest married first the daughter of a great English peer, and secondly\nthe daughter of an even greater peer of France; the second brother\nmarried first a German \"serene highness,\" and secondly the daughter of a\ngreat Hungarian noble; the third brother married the daughter of a French\nhouse of royal Stuart descent. This is no solitary instance. A score of\nfamilies might be cited who, by constant foreign marriages, have almost\neliminated from their blood the original Italian element; and this great\nintermixture of races may account for the strangely un-Italian types that\nare found among them, for the undying vitality which seems to animate\nraces already a thousand years old, and above all, for a very remarkable\ncosmopolitanism which pervades Roman society. A set of people whose near\nrelations are socially prominent in every capital of Europe, could hardly\nbe expected to have anything provincial about them in appearance or\nmanners; still less can they be considered to be types of their own\nnation. And yet such is the force of tradition, of the patriarchal family\nlife, of the early surroundings in which are placed these children of a\nmixed race, that they acquire from their earliest years the unmistakable\noutward manner of Romans, the broad Roman speech, and a sort of clannish\nand federative spirit which has not its like in the same class anywhere\nin Europe. They grow up together, go to school together, go together into\nthe world, and together discuss all the social affairs of their native\ncity. Not a house is bought or sold, not a hundred francs won at \u00e9cart\u00e9,\nnot a marriage contract made, without being duly considered and commented\nupon by the whole of society. And yet, though there is much gossip, there\nis little scandal; there was even less twenty years ago than there is\nnow--not, perhaps, because the increment of people attracted to the new\ncapital have had any bad influence, but simply because the city has grown\nmuch larger, and in some respects has outgrown a certain simplicity of\nmanners it once possessed, and which was its chief safeguard. For, in\nspite of a vast number of writers of all nations who have attempted to\ndescribe Italian life, and who, from an imperfect acquaintance with the\npeople, have fallen into the error of supposing them to live perpetually\nin a highly complicated state of mind, the foundation of the Italian\ncharacter is simple--far more so than that of his hereditary antagonist,\nthe northern European. It is enough to notice that the Italian habitually\nexpresses what he feels, while it is the chief pride of Northern men that\nwhatever they may feel they express nothing. The chief object of most\nItalians is to make life agreeable; the chief object of the Teutonic\nraces is to make it profitable. Hence the Italian excels in the art of\npleasing, and in pleasing by means of the arts; whereas the Northern man\nis pre-eminent in the faculty of producing wealth under any\ncircumstances, and when he has amassed enough possessions to think of\nenjoying his leisure, has generally been under the necessity of employing\nSouthern art as a means to that end. But Southern simplicity carried to\nits ultimate expression leads not uncommonly to startling results; for it\nis not generally a satisfaction to an Italian to be paid a sum of money\nas damages for an injury done. When his enemy has harmed him, he desires\nthe simple retribution afforded by putting his enemy to death, and he\nfrequently exacts it by any means that he finds ready to his hand. Being\nsimple, he reflects little, and often acts with violence. The Northern\nmind, capable of vast intricacy of thought, seeks to combine revenge of\ninjury with personal profit, and in a spirit of cold, far-sighted\ncalculation, reckons up the advantages to be got by sacrificing an innate\ndesire for blood to a civilised greed of money.\n\nDr. Johnson would have liked the Romans--for in general they are good\nlovers and good haters, whatever faults they may have. The patriarchal\nsystem, which was all but universal twenty years ago, and is only now\nbeginning to yield to more modern institutions of life, tends to foster\nthe passions of love and hate. Where father and mother sit at the head\nand foot of the table, their sons with their wives and their children\neach in his or her place, often to the number of twenty souls--all living\nunder one roof, one name, and one bond of family unity--there is likely\nto be a great similarity of feeling upon all questions of family pride,\nespecially among people who discuss everything with vehemence, from\nEuropean politics to the family cook. They may bicker and squabble among\nthemselves,--and they frequently do,--but in their outward relations with\nthe world they act as one individual, and the enemy of one is the enemy\nof all; for the pride of race and name is very great. There is a family\nin Rome who, since the memory of man, have not failed to dine together\ntwice every week, and there are now more than thirty persons who take\ntheir places at the patriarchal board. No excuse can be pleaded for\nabsence, and no one would think of violating the rule. Whether such a\nmode of life is good or not is a matter of opinion; it is, at all events,\na fact, and one not generally understood or even known by persons who\nmake studies of Italian character. Free and constant discussion of all\nmanner of topics should certainly tend to widen the intelligence; but, on\nthe other hand, where the dialecticians are all of one race, and name,\nand blood, the practice may often merely lead to an undue development of\nprejudice. In Rome, particularly, where so many families take a distinct\ncharacter from the influence of a foreign mother, the opinions of a house\nare associated with its mere name. Casa Borghese thinks so and so, Casa\nColonna has diametrically opposite views, while Casa Altieri may differ\nwholly from both; and in connection with most subjects the mere names\nBorghese, Altieri, Colonna, are associated in the minds of Romans of all\nclasses with distinct sets of principles and ideas, with distinct types\nof character, and with distinctly different outward and visible signs of\nrace. Some of these conditions exist among the nobility of other\ncountries, but not, I believe, to the same extent. In Germany, the\naristocratic body takes a certain uniform hue, so to speak, from the\narmy, in which it plays so important a part, and the patriarchal system\nis broken up by the long absences from the ancestral home of the\nsoldier-sons. In France, the main divisions of republicans, monarchists,\nand imperialists have absorbed and unified the ideas and principles of\nlarge bodies of families into bodies politic. In England, the practice of\nallowing younger sons to shift for themselves, and the division of the\nwhole aristocracy into two main political parties, destroy the\npatriarchal spirit; while it must also be remembered, that at a period\nwhen in Italy the hand of every house was against its neighbour, and the\nstruggles of Guelph and Ghibelline were but an excuse for the prosecution\nof private feuds, England was engaged in great wars which enlisted vast\nbodies of men under a common standard for a common principle. Whether\nthe principle involved chanced to be that of English domination in\nFrance, or whether men flocked to the standards of the White Rose of York\nor the Red Rose of Lancaster, was of little importance; the result was\nthe same,--the tendency of powerful families to maintain internecine\ntraditional feuds was stamped out, or rather was absorbed in the\nmaintenance of the perpetual feud between the great principles of Tory\nand Whig--of the party for the absolute monarch, and the party for the\nfreedom of the people.\n\nBe the causes what they may, the Roman nobility has many characteristics\npeculiar to it and to no other aristocracy. It is cosmopolitan by its\nforeign marriages, renewed in every generation; it is patriarchal and\nfeudal by its own unbroken traditions of family life; and it is only\nessentially Roman by its speech and social customs. It has undergone\ngreat vicissitudes during twenty years; but most of these features remain\nin spite of new and larger parties, new and bitter political hatreds, new\nideas of domestic life, and new fashions in dress and cookery.\n\nIn considering an account of the life of Giovanni Saracinesca from the\ntime when, in 1865, he was thirty years of age, down to the present day,\nit is therefore just that he should be judged with a knowledge of some of\nthese peculiarities of his class. He is not a Roman of the people like\nGiovanni Cardegna, the great tenor, and few of his ideas have any\nconnection with those of the singer; but he has, in common with him, that\nsingular simplicity of character which he derives from his Roman descent\nupon the male side, and in which will be found the key to many of his\nactions both good and bad--a simplicity which loves peace, but cannot\nalways refrain from sudden violence, which loves and hates strongly and\nto some purpose.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nThe hour was six o'clock, and the rooms of the Embassy were as full as\nthey were likely to be that day. There would doubtless have been more\npeople had the weather been fine; but it was raining heavily, and below,\nin the vast court that formed the centre of the palace, the lamps of\nfifty carriages gleamed through the water and the darkness, and the\ncoachmen, of all dimensions and characters, sat beneath their huge\numbrellas and growled to each other, envying the lot of the footmen who\nwere congregated in the ante-chamber up-stairs around the great bronze\nbraziers. But in the reception-rooms there was much light and warmth;\nthere were bright fires and softly shaded lamps; velvet-footed servants\nstealing softly among the guests, with immense burdens of tea and cake;\nmen of more or less celebrity chatting about politics in corners; women\nof more or less beauty gossiping over their tea, or flirting, or wishing\nthey had somebody to flirt with; people of many nations and ideas, with\na goodly leaven of Romans. They all seemed endeavouring to get away from\nthe men and women of their own nationality, in order to amuse themselves\nwith the difficulties of conversation in languages not their own. Whether\nthey amused themselves or not is of small importance; but as they were\nall willing to find themselves together twice a-day for the five months\nof the Roman season--from the first improvised dance before Christmas,\nto the last set ball in the warm April weather after Easter--it may be\nargued that they did not dislike each other's society. In case the\nafternoon should seem dull, his Excellency had engaged the services of\nSignor Strillone, the singer. From time to time he struck a few chords\nupon the grand piano, and gave forth a song of his own composition in\nloud and passionate tones, varied with, very sudden effects of extreme\npianissimo, which occasionally surprised some one who was trying to make\nhis conversation heard above the music.\n\nThere was a little knot of people standing about the door of the great\ndrawing-room. Some of them were watching their opportunity to slip away\nunperceived; others had just arrived, and were making a survey of the\nscene to ascertain the exact position of their Excellencies, and of the\npersons they most desired to avoid, before coming forward. Suddenly, just\nas Signor Strillone had reached a high note and was preparing to bellow\nupon it before letting his voice die away to a pathetic falsetto, the\ncrowd at the door parted a little. A lady entered the room alone, and\nstood out before the rest, pausing till the singer should have passed the\nclimax of his song, before she proceeded upon her way. She was a very\nstriking woman; every one knew who she was, every one looked towards her,\nand the little murmur that went round the room was due to her entrance\nrather than to Signor Strillone's high note.\n\nThe Duchessa d'Astrardente stood still, and quietly looked about her. A\nminister, two secretaries, and three or four princes sprang towards her,\neach with a chair in hand; but she declined each offer, nodding to one,\nthanking another by name, and exchanging a few words with a third. She\nwould not sit down; she had not yet spoken to the ambassadress.\n\nTwo men followed her closely as she crossed the room when the song was\nfinished. One was a fair man of five-and-thirty, rather stout, and\nelaborately dressed. He trod softly and carried his hat behind him, while\nhe leaned a little forward in his walk. There was something unpleasant\nabout his face, caused perhaps by his pale complexion and almost\ncolourless moustache; his blue eyes were small and near together, and had\na watery, undecided look; his thin fair hair was parted in the middle\nover his low forehead; there was a scornful look about his mouth, though\nhalf concealed by the moustache; and his chin retreated rather abruptly\nfrom his lower lip. On the other hand, he was dressed with extreme care,\nand his manner showed no small confidence in himself as he pushed\nforwards, keeping as close as he could to the Duchessa. He had the air\nof being thoroughly at home in his surroundings.\n\nUgo del Ferice was indeed rarely disconcerted, and his self-reliance was\nmost probably one chief cause of his success. He was a man who performed\nthe daily miracle of creating everything for himself out of nothing. His\nfather had barely been considered a member of the lower nobility,\nalthough he always called himself \"dei conti del Ferice\"--of the family\nof the counts of his name; but where or when the Conti del Ferice had\nlived, was a question he never was able to answer satisfactorily. He had\nmade a little money, and had squandered most of it before he died,\nleaving the small remainder to his only son, who had spent every scudo of\nit in the first year. But to make up for the exiguity of his financial\nresources, Ugo had from his youth obtained social success. He had begun\nlife by boldly calling himself \"Il conte del Ferice.\" No one had ever\nthought it worth while to dispute him the title; and as he had hitherto\nnot succeeded in conferring it upon any dowered damsel, the question of\nhis countship was left unchallenged. He had made many acquaintances in\nthe college where he had been educated; for his father had paid for\nhis schooling in the Collegio dei Nobili, and that in itself was a\npassport--for as the lad grew to the young man, he zealously cultivated\nthe society of his old school-fellows, and by wisely avoiding all other\ncompany, acquired a right to be considered one of themselves. He was very\ncivil and obliging in his youth, and had in that way acquired a certain\nreputation for being indispensable, which had stood him in good stead.\nNo one asked whether he had paid his tailor's bill; or whether upon\ncertain conditions, his tailor supplied him with raiment gratis. He was\nalways elaborately dressed, he was always ready to take a hand at cards,\nand he was always invited to every party in the season. He had cultivated\nwith success the science of amusing, and people asked him to dinner in\nthe winter, and to their country houses in the summer. He had been seen\nin Paris, and was often seen at Monte Carlo; but his real home and\nhunting-ground was Rome, where he knew every one and every one knew him.\nHe had made one or two fruitless attempts to marry young women of\nAmerican extraction and large fortune; he had not succeeded in satisfying\nthe paternal mind in regard to guarantees, and had consequently been\nworsted in his endeavours. Last summer, however, it appeared that he had\nbeen favoured with an increase of fortune. He gave out that an old uncle\nof his, who had settled in the south of Italy, had died, leaving him a\nmodest competence; and while assuming a narrow band of _cr\u00eape_ upon his\nhat, he had adopted also a somewhat more luxurious mode of living.\nInstead of going about on foot or in cabs, he kept a very small coup\u00e9,\nwith a very small horse and a diminutive coachman: the whole turn-out was\nvery quiet in appearance, but very serviceable withal. Ugo sometimes wore\ntoo much jewellery; but his bad taste, if so it could be called, did not\nextend to the modest equipage. People accepted the story of the deceased\nuncle, and congratulated Ugo, whose pale face assumed on such occasions\na somewhat deprecating smile. \"A few scudi,\" he would answer--\"a very\nsmall competence; but what would you have? I need so little--it is enough\nfor me.\" Nevertheless people who knew him well warned him that he was\ngrowing stout.\n\nThe other man who followed the Duchessa d'Astrardente across the\ndrawing-room was of a different type. Don Giovanni Saracinesca was\nneither very tall nor remarkably handsome, though in the matter of his\nbeauty opinion varied greatly. He was very dark--almost as dark for a\nman as the Duchessa was for a woman. He was strongly built, but very\nlean, and his features stood out in bold and sharp relief from the\nsetting of his short black hair and pointed beard. His nose was perhaps a\nlittle large for his face, and the unusual brilliancy of his eyes gave\nhim an expression of restless energy; there was something noble in the\nshaping of his high square forehead and in the turn of his sinewy throat.\nHis hands were broad and brown, but nervous and well knit, with straight\nlong fingers and squarely cut nails. Many women said Don Giovanni was\nthe handsomest man in Rome; others said he was too dark or too thin, and\nthat his face was hard and his features ugly. There was a great\ndifference of opinion in regard to his appearance. Don Giovanni was not\nmarried, but there were few marriageable women in Rome who would not have\nbeen overjoyed to become his wife. But hitherto he had hesitated--or, to\nspeak more accurately, he had not hesitated at all in his celibacy. His\nconduct in refusing to marry had elicited much criticism, little of which\nhad reached his ears. He cared not much for what his friends said to him,\nand not at all for the opinion of the world at large, in consequence of\nwhich state of mind people often said he was selfish--a view taken\nextensively by elderly princesses with unmarried daughters, and even by\nDon Giovanni's father and only near relation, the old Prince Saracinesca,\nwho earnestly desired to see his name perpetuated. Indeed Giovanni would\nhave made a good husband, for he was honest and constant by nature,\ncourteous by disposition, and considerate by habit and experience. His\nreputation for wildness rested rather upon his taste for dangerous\namusements than upon such scandalous adventures as made up the lives of\nmany of his contemporaries. But to all matrimonial proposals he answered\nthat he was barely thirty years of age, that he had plenty of time before\nhim, that he had not yet seen the woman whom he would be willing to\nmarry, and that he intended to please himself.\n\nThe Duchessa d'Astrardente made her speech to her hostess and passed on,\nstill followed by the two men; but they now approached her, one on each\nside, and endeavoured to engage her attention. Apparently she intended to\nbe impartial, for she sat down in the middle one of three chairs, and\nmotioned to her two companions to seat themselves also, which they\nimmediately did, whereby they became for the moment the two most\nimportant men in the room.\n\nCorona d'Astrardente was a very dark woman. In all the Southern land\nthere were no eyes so black as hers, no cheeks of such a warm dark-olive\ntint, no tresses of such raven hue. But if she was not fair, she was very\nbeautiful; there was a delicacy in her regular features that artists said\nwas matchless; her mouth, not small, but generous and nobly cut, showed\nperhaps more strength, more even determination, than most men like to see\nin women's faces; but in the exquisitely moulded nostrils there lurked\nmuch sensitiveness and the expression of much courage; and the level brow\nand straight-cut nose were in their clearness as an earnest of the noble\nthoughts that were within, and that so often spoke from the depths of her\nsplendid eyes. She was not a scornful beauty, though her face could\nexpress scorn well enough. Where another woman would have shown disdain,\nshe needed but to look grave, and her silence did the rest. She wielded\nmagnificent weapons, and wielded them nobly, as she did all things. She\nneeded all her strength, too, for her position from the first was not\neasy. She had few troubles, but they were great ones, and she bore\nthem bravely.\n\nOne may well ask why Corona del Carmine had married the old man who was\nher husband--the broken-down and worn-out dandy of sixty, whose career\nwas so well known, and whose doings had been as scandalous as his ancient\nname was famous in the history of his country. Her marriage was in itself\nalmost a tragedy. It matters little to know how it came about; she\naccepted Astrardente with his dukedom, his great wealth, and his evil\npast, on the day when she left the convent where she had been educated;\nshe did it to save her father from ruin, almost from starvation; she\n was seventeen, years of age; she was told that the world was bad, and\nshe resolved to begin her life by a heroic sacrifice; she took the\nstep heroically, and no human being had ever heard her complain. Five\nyears had elapsed since then, and her father--for whom she had given all\nshe had, herself, her beauty, her brave heart, and her hopes of\nhappiness--her old father, whom she so loved, was dead, the last of his\nrace, saving only this beautiful but childless daughter. What she\nsuffered now--whether she suffered at all--no man knew. There had been a\nwild burst of enthusiasm when she appeared first in society, a universal\ncry that it was a sin and a shame. But the cynics who had said she would\nconsole herself had been obliged to own their worldly wisdom at fault;\nthe men of all sorts who had lost their hearts to her were ignominiously\ndriven in course of time to find them again elsewhere. Amid all the\nexcitement of the first two years of her life in the world, Corona had\nmoved calmly upon her way, wrapped in the perfect dignity of her\ncharacter; and the old Duca d'Astrardente had smiled and played with the\ncurled locks of his wonderful wig, and had told every one that his wife\nwas the one woman in the universe who was above suspicion. People had\nlaughed incredulously at first; but as time wore on they held their\npeace, tacitly acknowledging that the aged fop was right as usual, but\nswearing in their hearts that it was the shame of shames to see the\nnoblest woman in their midst tied to such a wretched remnant of\ndissipated humanity as the Duca d'Astrardente. Corona went everywhere,\nlike other people; she received in her own house a vast number of\nacquaintances; there were a few friends who came and went much as they\npleased, and some of them were young; but there was never a breath of\nscandal breathed about the Duchessa. She was indeed above suspicion.\n\nShe sat now between two men who were evidently anxious to please her. The\nposition was not new; she was, as usual, to talk to both, and yet to show\nno preference for either. And yet she had a preference, and in her heart\nshe knew it was a strong one. It was by no means indifferent to her which\nof those two men left her side and which remained. She was above\nsuspicion--yes, above the suspicion of any human being besides herself,\nas she had been for five long years. She knew that had her husband\nentered the room and passed that way, he would have nodded to Giovanni\nSaracinesca as carelessly as though Giovanni had been his wife's\nbrother--as carelessly as he would have noticed Ugo del Ferice upon her\nother side. But in her own heart she knew that there was but one face in\nall Rome she loved to see, but one voice she loved, and dreaded too, for\nit had the power to make her life seem unreal, till she wondered how long\nit would last, and whether there would ever be any change. The difference\nbetween Giovanni and other men had always been apparent. Others would sit\nbeside her and make conversation, and then occasionally would make\nspeeches she did not care to hear, would talk to her of love--some\npraising it as the only thing worth living for, some with affected\ncynicism scoffing at it as the greatest of unrealities, contradicting\nthemselves a moment later in some passionate declaration to herself. When\nthey were foolish, she laughed at them; when they went too far, she\nquietly rose and left them. Such experiences had grown rare of late, for\nshe had earned the reputation of being cold and unmoved, and that\nprotected her. But Giovanni had never talked like the rest of them. He\nnever mentioned the old, worn subjects that the others harped upon. She\nwould not have found it easy to say what he talked about, for he talked\nindifferently about many subjects. She was not sure whether he spent more\ntime with her when in society than with other women; she reflected that\nhe was not so brilliant as many men she knew, not so talkative as the\nmajority of men she met; she knew only--and it was the thing she most\nbitterly reproached herself with--that she preferred his face above all\nother faces, and his voice beyond all voices. It never entered her head\nto think that she loved him; it was bad enough in her simple creed that\nthere should be any man whom she would rather see than not, and whom she\nmissed when he did not approach her. She was a very strong and loyal\nwoman, who had sacrificed herself to a man who knew the world very\nthoroughly, who in the thoroughness of his knowledge was able to see that\nthe world is not all bad, and who, in spite of all his evil deeds, was\nproud of his wife's loyalty. Astrardente had made a bargain when he\nmarried Corona; but he was a wise man in his generation, and he knew and\nvalued her when he had got her. He knew the precise dangers to which she\nwas exposed, and he was not so cruel as to expose her to them willingly.\nHe had at first watched keenly the effect produced upon her by conversing\nwith men of all sorts in the world, and among others he had noticed\nGiovanni; but he had come to the conclusion that his wife was equal to\nany situation in which she might be placed. Moreover, Giovanni was not an\n_habitu\u00e9_ at the Palazzo Astrardente, and showed none of the usual signs\nof anxiety to please the Duchessa.\n\nFrom the time when Corona began to notice her own predilection for\nSaracinesca, she had been angry with herself for it, and she tried to\navoid him; at all events, she gave him no idea that she liked him\nespecially. Her husband, who at first had delivered many lectures on the\nsubject of behaviour in the world, had especially warned her against\nshowing any marked coldness to a man she wished to shun. \"Men,\" said he,\n\"are accustomed to that; they regard it as the first indication that a\nwoman is really interested; when you want to get rid of a man, treat him\nsystematically as you treat everybody, and he will be wounded at your\nindifference and go away.\" But Giovanni did not go, and Corona began to\nwonder whether she ought not to do something to break the interest she\nfelt in him.\n\nAt the present moment she wanted a cup of tea. She would have liked to\nsend Ugo del Ferice for it; she did what she thought least pleasant to\nherself, and she sent Giovanni. The servants who were serving the\nrefreshments had all left the room, and Saracinesca went in pursuit of\nthem. As soon as he was gone Del Ferice spoke. His voice was soft, and\nhad an insinuating tone in it.\n\n\"They are saying that Don Giovanni is to be married,\" he remarked,\nwatching the Duchessa from the corners of his eyes as he indifferently\ndelivered himself of his news.\n\nThe Duchessa was too dark a woman to show emotion easily. Perhaps she did\nnot believe the story; her eyes fixed themselves on some distant object\nin the room, as though she were intensely interested in something she\nsaw, and she paused before she answered.\n\n\"That is news indeed, if it is true. And whom is he going to marry?\"\n\n\"Donna Tullia Mayer, the widow of the financier. She is immensely rich,\nand is some kind of cousin of the Saracinesca.\"\n\n\"How strange!\" exclaimed Corona. \"I was just looking at her. Is not that\nshe over there, with the green feathers?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Del Ferice, looking in the direction the Duchessa\nindicated. \"That is she. One may know her at a vast distance by her\ndress. But it is not all settled yet.\"\n\n\"Then one cannot congratulate Don Giovanni to-day?\" asked the Duchessa,\nfacing her interlocutor rather suddenly.\n\n\"No,\" he answered; \"it is perhaps better not to speak to him about it.\"\n\n\"It is as well that you warned me, for I would certainly have spoken.\"\n\n\"I do not imagine that Saracinesca likes to talk of his affairs of the\nheart,\" said Del Ferice, with considerable gravity. \"But here he comes. I\nhad hoped he would have taken even longer to get that cup of tea.\"\n\n\"It was long enough for you to tell your news,\" answered Corona quietly,\nas Don Giovanni came up.\n\n\"What is the news?\" asked he, as he sat down beside her.\n\n\"Only an engagement that is not yet announced,\" answered the Duchessa.\n\"Del Ferice has the secret; perhaps he will tell you.\"\n\nGiovanni glanced across her at the fair pale man, whose fat face,\nhowever, expressed nothing. Seeing he was not enlightened, Saracinesca\ncivilly turned the subject.\n\n\"Are you going to the meet to-morrow, Duchessa?\" he asked.\n\n\"That depends upon the weather and upon the Duke,\" she answered. \"Are you\ngoing to follow?\"\n\n\"Of course. What a pity it is that you do not ride!\"\n\n\"It seems such an unnatural thing to see a woman hunting,\" remarked Del\nFerice, who remembered to have heard the Duchessa say something of the\nkind, and was consequently sure that she would agree with him.\n\n\"You do not ride yourself,\" said Don Giovanni, shortly. \"That is the\nreason you do not approve of it for ladies.\"\n\n\"I am not rich enough to hunt,\" said Ugo, modestly. \"Besides, the other\nreason is a good one; for when ladies hunt I am deprived of their\nsociety.\"\n\nThe Duchessa laughed slightly. She never felt less like laughing in her\nlife, and yet it was necessary to encourage the conversation. Giovanni\ndid not abandon the subject.\n\n\"It will be a beautiful meet,\" he said. \"Many people are going out for\nthe first time this year. There is a man here who has brought his horses\nfrom England. I forget his name--a rich Englishman.\"\n\n\"I have met him,\" said Del Ferice, who was proud of knowing everybody.\n\"He is a type--enormously rich--a lord--I cannot pronounce his name--not\nmarried either. He will make a sensation in society. He won races in\nParis last year, and they say he will enter one of his hunters for the\nsteeplechases here at Easter.\"\n\n\"That is a great inducement to go to the meet, to see this Englishman,\"\nsaid the Duchessa rather wearily, as she leaned back in her chair.\nGiovanni was silent, but showed no intention of going. Del Ferice, with\nan equal determination to stay, chattered vivaciously.\n\n\"Don Giovanni is quite right,\" he continued. \"Every one is going. There\nwill be two or three drags. Madame Mayer has induced Valdarno to have out\nhis four-in-hand, and to take her and a large party.\"\n\nThe Duchessa did not hear the remainder of Del Ferice's speech, for at\nthe mention of Donna Tullia--now commonly called Madame Mayer--she\ninstinctively turned and looked at Giovanni. He, too, had caught the\nname, though he was not listening in the least to Ugo's chatter; and as\nhe met Corona's eyes he moved uneasily, as much as to say he wished the\nfellow would stop talking. A moment later Del Ferice rose from his seat;\nhe had seen Donna Tullia passing near, and thought the opportunity\nfavourable for obtaining an invitation to join the party on the drag.\nWith a murmured excuse which Corona did not hear, he went in pursuit of\nhis game.\n\n\"I thought he was never going,\" said Giovanni, moodily. He was not in the\nhabit of posing as the rival of any one who happened to be talking to the\nDuchessa. He had never said anything of the kind before, and Corona\nexperienced a new sensation, not altogether unpleasant. She looked at him\nin some surprise.\n\n\"Do you not like Del Ferice?\" she inquired, gravely.\n\n\"Do you like him yourself?\" he asked in reply.\n\n\"What a question! Why should I like or dislike any one?\" There was\nperhaps the smallest shade of bitterness in her voice as she asked the\nquestion she had so often asked herself. Why should she like Giovanni\nSaracinesca, for instance?\n\n\"I do not know what the world would be like if we had no likes and\ndislikes,\" said Giovanni, suddenly. \"It would be a poor place; perhaps it\nis only a poor place at best. I merely wondered whether Del Ferice amused\nyou as he amuses everybody.\"\n\n\"Well then, frankly, he has not amused me to-day,\" answered Corona, with\na smile.\n\n\"Then you are glad he is gone?\"\n\n\"I do not regret it.\"\n\n\"Duchessa,\" said Giovanni, suddenly changing his position, \"I am glad he\nis gone, because I want to ask you a question. Do I know you well enough\nto ask you a question?\"\n\n\"It depends--\" Corona felt the blood rise suddenly to her dark forehead.\nHer hands burned intensely in her gloves. The anticipation of something\nshe had never heard made her heart beat uncontrollably in her breast.\n\n\"It is only about myself,\" continued Giovanni, in low tones. He had seen\nthe blush, so rare a sight that there was not another man in Rome who had\nseen it. He had not time to think what it meant. \"It is only about\nmyself,\" he went on. \"My father wants me to marry; he insists that I\nshould marry Donna Tullia--Madame Mayer.\"\n\n\"Well?\" asked Corona. She shivered; a moment before, she had been\noppressed with the heat. Her monosyllabic question was low and\nindistinct. She wondered whether Giovanni could hear the beatings of her\nheart, so slow, so loud they almost deafened her.\n\n\"Simply this. Do you advise me to marry her?\"\n\n\"Why do you ask me, of all people?\" asked Corona, faintly.\n\n\"I would like to have your advice,\" said Giovanni, twisting his brown\nhands together and fixing his bright eyes upon her face.\n\n\"She is young yet. She is handsome--she is fabulously rich. Why should\nyou not marry her? Would she make you happy?\"\n\n\"Happy? Happy with her? No indeed. Do you think life would be bearable\nwith such a woman?\"\n\n\"I do not know. Many men would marry her if they could--\"\n\n\"Then you think I should?\" asked Giovanni. Corona hesitated; she could\nnot understand why she should care, and yet she was conscious that there\nhad been no such struggle in her life since the day she had blindly\nresolved to sacrifice herself to her father's wishes in accepting\nAstrardente. Still there could be no doubt what she should say: how could\nshe advise any one to marry without the prospect of the happiness she had\nnever had?\n\n\"Will you not give me your counsel?\" repeated Saracinesca. He had grown\nvery pale, and spoke with such earnestness that Corona hesitated no\nlonger.\n\n\"I would certainly advise you to think no more about it, if you are sure\nthat you cannot be happy with her.\"\n\nGiovanni drew a long breath, the blood returned to his face, and his\nhands unlocked themselves.\n\n\"I will think no more about it,\" he said. \"Heaven bless you for your\nadvice, Duchessa!\"\n\n\"Heaven grant I have advised you well!\" said Corona, almost inaudibly.\n\"How cold this house is! Will you put down my cup of tea? Let us go near\nthe fire; Strillone is going to sing again.\"\n\n\"I would like him to sing a 'Nune dimittis, Domine,' for me,\" murmured\nGiovanni, whose eyes were filled with a strange light.\n\nHalf an hour later Corona d'Astrardente went down the steps of the\nEmbassy wrapped in her furs and preceded by her footman. As she reached\nthe bottom Giovanni Saracinesca came swiftly down and joined her as\nher carriage drove up out of the dark courtyard. The footman opened the\ndoor, but Giovanni put out his hand to help Corona to mount the step. She\nlaid her small gloved fingers upon the sleeve of his overcoat, and as she\nsprang lightly in she thought his arm trembled.\n\n\"Good night, Duchessa; I am very grateful to you,\" he said.\n\n\"Good night; why should you be grateful?\" she asked, almost sadly.\n\nGiovanni did not answer, but stood hat in hand as the great carriage\nrolled out under the arch. Then he buttoned his greatcoat, and went out\nalone into the dark and muddy streets. The rain had ceased, but\neverything was wet, and the broad pavements gleamed under the uncertain\nlight of the flickering gas-lamps.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nThe palace of the Saracinesca is in an ancient quarter of Rome, far\nremoved from the broad white streets of mushroom dwelling-houses and\nmachine-laid macadam; far from the foreigners' region, the varnish of the\nfashionable shops, the whirl of brilliant equipages, and the scream of\nthe newsvendor. The vast irregular buildings are built around three\ncourtyards, and face on all sides upon narrow streets. The first sixteen\nfeet, up to the heavily ironed windows of the lower storey, consist of\ngreat blocks of stone, worn at the corners and scored along their length\nby the battering of ages, by the heavy carts that from time immemorial\nhave found the way too narrow and have ground their iron axles against\nthe massive masonry. Of the three enormous arched gates that give access\nto the interior from different sides, one is closed by an iron grating,\nanother by huge doors studded with iron bolts, and the third alone is\nusually open as an entrance. A tall old porter used to stand there in a\nlong livery-coat and a cocked-hat; on holidays he appeared in the\ntraditional garb of the Parisian \"Suisse,\" magnificent in silk stockings\nand a heavily laced coat of dark green, leaning upon his tall mace--a\nconstant object of wonder to the small boys of the quarter. He trimmed\nhis white beard in imitation of his master's--broad and square--and his\nwords were few and to the point.\n\nNo one was ever at home in the Palazzo Saracinesca in those days; there\nwere no ladies in the house; it was a man's establishment, and there was\nsomething severely masculine in the air of the gloomy courtyards\nsurrounded by dark archways, where not a single plant or bit of colour\nrelieved the ancient stone. The pavement was clean and well kept, a new\nflagstone here and there showing that some care was bestowed upon\nmaintaining it in good repair; but for any decoration there was to be\nfound in the courts, the place might have been a fortress, as indeed it\nonce was. The owners, father and son, lived in their ancestral home in a\nsort of solemn magnificence that savoured of feudal times. Giovanni was\nthe only son of five-and-twenty years of wedlock. His mother had been\nolder than his father, and had now been dead some time. She had been a\nstern dark woman, and had lent no feminine touch of grace to the palace\nwhile she lived in it, her melancholic temper rather rejoicing in the\nsepulchral gloom that hung over the house. The Saracinesca had always\nbeen a manly race, preferring strength to beauty, and the reality of\npower to the amenities of comfort.\n\nGiovanni walked home from the afternoon reception at the Embassy. His\ntemper seemed to crave the bleak wet air of the cold streets, and he did\nnot hurry himself. He intended to dine at home that evening, and he\nanticipated some kind of disagreement with his father. The two men were\ntoo much alike not to be congenial, but too combative by nature to care\nfor eternal peace. On the present occasion it was likely that there would\nbe a struggle, for Giovanni had made up his mind not to marry Madame\nMayer, and his father was equally determined that he should marry her at\nonce: both were singularly strong men, singularly tenacious of their\nopinions.\n\nAt precisely seven o'clock father and son entered from different doors\nthe small sitting-room in which they generally met, and they had no\nsooner entered than dinner was announced. Two words might suffice for the\ndescription of old Prince Saracinesca--he was an elder edition of his\nson. Sixty years of life had not bent his strong frame nor dimmed the\nbrilliancy of his eyes, but his hair and beard were snowy white. He was\nbroader in the shoulder and deeper in the chest than Giovanni, but of\nthe same height, and well proportioned still, with little tendency to\nstoutness. He was to all appearance precisely what his son would be at\nhis age--keen and vigorous, the stern lines of his face grown deeper, and\nhis very dark eyes and complexion made more noticeable by the dazzling\nwhiteness of his hair and broad square beard--the same type in a\ndifferent stage of development.\n\nThe dinner was served with a certain old-fashioned magnificence which has\ngrown rare in Rome. There was old plate and old china upon the table, old\ncut glass of the diamond pattern, and an old butler who moved noiselessly\nabout in the performance of the functions he had exercised in the same\nroom for forty years, and which his father had exercised there before\nhim. Prince Saracinesca and Don Giovanni sat on opposite sides of the\nround table, now and then exchanging a few words.\n\n\"I was caught in the rain this afternoon,\" remarked the Prince.\n\n\"I hope you will not have a cold,\" replied his son, civilly. \"Why do you\nwalk in such weather?\"\n\n\"And you--why do you walk?\" retorted his father. \"Are you less likely to\ntake cold than I am? I walk because I have always walked.\"\n\n\"That is an excellent reason. I walk because I do not keep a carriage.\"\n\n\"Why do not you keep one if you wish to?\" asked the Prince.\n\n\"I will do as you wish. I will buy an equipage to-morrow, lest I should\nagain walk in the rain and catch cold. Where did you see me on foot?\"\n\n\"In the Orso, half an hour ago. Why do you talk about my wishes in that\nabsurd way?\"\n\n\"Since you say it is absurd, I will not do so,\" said Giovanni, quietly.\n\n\"You are always contradicting me,\" said the Prince. \"Some wine,\nPasquale.\"\n\n\"Contradicting you?\" repeated Giovanni. \"Nothing could be further from my\nintentions.\"\n\nThe old Prince slowly sipped a glass of wine before he answered.\n\n\"Why do not you set up an establishment for yourself and live like a\ngentleman?\" he asked at length. \"You are rich--why do you go about on\nfoot and dine in caf\u00e9s?\"\n\n\"Do I ever dine at a caf\u00e9 when you are dining alone?\"\n\n\"You have got used to living in restaurants in Paris,\" retorted his\nfather. \"It is a bad habit. What was the use of your mother leaving you a\nfortune, unless you will live in a proper fashion?\"\n\n\"I understand you very well,\" answered Giovanni, his dark eyes beginning\nto gleam. \"You know all that is a pretence. I am the most home-staying\nman of your acquaintance. It is a mere pretence. You are going to talk\nabout my marriage again.\"\n\n\"And has any one a more natural right to insist upon your marriage than I\nhave?\" asked the elder man, hotly. \"Leave the wine on the table,\nPasquale--and the fruit--here. Give Don Giovanni his cheese. I will ring\nfor the coffee--leave us.\" The butler and the footman left the room. \"Has\nany one a more natural right, I ask?\" repeated the Prince when they were\nalone.\n\n\"No one but myself, I should say,\" answered Giovanni, bitterly.\n\n\"Yourself--yourself indeed! What have you to say about it? This a family\nmatter. Would you have Saracinesca sold, to be distributed piecemeal\namong a herd of dogs of starving relations you never heard of, merely\nbecause you are such a vagabond, such a Bohemian, such a break-neck,\ncrazy good-for-nothing, that you will not take the trouble to accept one\nof all the women who rush into your arms?\"\n\n\"Your affectionate manner of speaking of your relatives is only surpassed\nby your good taste in describing the probabilities of my marriage,\"\nremarked Giovanni, scornfully.\n\n\"And you say you never contradict me!\" exclaimed the Prince, angrily.\n\n\"If this is an instance, I can safely say so. Comment is not\ncontradiction.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say you have not repeatedly refused to marry?\" inquired\nold Saracinesca.\n\n\"That would be untrue. I have refused, I do refuse, and I will refuse,\njust so long as it pleases me.\"\n\n\"That is definite, at all events. You will go on refusing until you have\nbroken your silly neck in imitating Englishmen, and then--good night\nSaracinesca! The last of the family will have come to a noble end!\"\n\n\"If the only use of my existence is to become the father of heirs to your\ntitles, I do not care to enjoy them myself.\"\n\n\"You will not enjoy them till my death, at all events. Did you ever\nreflect that I might marry again?\"\n\n\"If you please to do so, do not hesitate on my account. Madame Mayer will\naccept you as soon as me. Marry by all means, and may you have a numerous\nprogeny; and may they all marry in their turn, the day they are twenty. I\nwish you joy.\"\n\n\"You are intolerable, Giovanni. I should think you would have more\nrespect for Donna Tullia--\"\n\n\"Than to call her Madame Mayer,\" interrupted Giovanni.\n\n\"Than to suggest that she cares for nothing but a title and a fortune--\"\n\n\"You showed much respect to her a moment ago, when you suggested that she\nwas ready to rush into my arms.\"\n\n\"I! I never said such a thing. I said that any woman--\"\n\n\"Including Madame Mayer, of course,\" interrupted Giovanni again.\n\n\"Can you not let me speak?\" roared the Prince. Giovanni shrugged his\nshoulders a little, poured out a glass of wine, and helped himself to\ncheese, but said nothing. Seeing that his son said nothing, old\nSaracinesca was silent too; he was so angry that he had lost the thread\nof his ideas. Perhaps Giovanni regretted the quarrelsome tone he had\ntaken, for he presently spoke to his father in a more conciliatory tone.\n\n\"Let us be just,\" he said. \"I will listen to you, and I shall be glad if\nyou will listen to me. In the first place, when I think of marriage I\nrepresent something to myself by the term--\"\n\n\"I hope so,\" growled the old man.\n\n\"I look upon marriage as an important step in a man's life. I am not so\nold as to make my marriage an immediate necessity, nor so young as to be\nable wholly to disregard it. I do not desire to be hurried; for when I\nmake up my mind, I intend to make a choice which, if it does not ensure\nhappiness, will at least ensure peace. I do not wish to marry Madame\nMayer. She is young, handsome, rich--\"\n\n\"Very,\" ejaculated the Prince.\n\n\"Very. I also am young and rich, if not handsome.\"\n\n\"Certainly not handsome,\" said his father, who was nursing his wrath, and\nmeanwhile spoke calmly. \"You are the image of me.\"\n\n\"I am proud of the likeness,\" said Giovanni, gravely. \"But to return to\nMadame Mayer. She is a widow--\"\n\n\"Is that her fault?\" inquired his father irrelevantly, his anger rising\nagain.\n\n\"I trust not,\" said Giovanni, with a smile. \"I trust she did not murder\nold Mayer. Nevertheless she is a widow. That is a strong objection. Have\nany of my ancestors married widows?\"\n\n\"You show your ignorance at every turn,\" said the old Prince, with a\nscornful laugh. \"Leone Saracinesca married the widow of the Elector of\nLimburger-Stinkenstein in 1581.\"\n\n\"It is probably the German blood in our veins which gives you your\ntaste for argument,\" remarked Giovanni. \"Because three hundred years\nago an ancestor married a widow, I am to marry one now. Wait--do not be\nangry--there are other reasons why I do not care for Madame Mayer. She is\ntoo gay for me--too fond of the world.\"\n\nThe Prince burst into aloud ironical laugh. His white hair and beard\nbristled about his dark face, and he showed all his teeth, strong and\nwhite still.\n\n\"That is magnificent!\" he cried; \"it is superb, splendid, a piece of\nunpurchasable humour! Giovanni Saracinesca has found a woman who is too\ngay for him! Heaven be praised! We know his taste at last. We will give\nhim a nun, a miracle of all the virtues, a little girl out of a convent,\nvowed to a life of sacrifice and self-renunciation. That will please\nhim--he will be a model happy husband.\"\n\n\"I do not understand this extraordinary outburst,\" answered Giovanni,\nwith cold scorn. \"Your mirth is amazing, but I fail to understand its\nsource.\"\n\nHis father ceased laughing, and looked at him curiously, his heavy brows\nbending with the intenseness of his gaze. Giovanni returned the look, and\nit seemed as though those two strong angry men were fencing across the\ntable with their fiery glances. The son was the first to speak.\n\n\"Do you mean to imply that I am not the kind of man to be allowed to\nmarry a young girl?\" he asked, not taking his eyes from his father.\n\n\"Look you, boy,\" returned the Prince, \"I will have no more nonsense. I\ninsist upon this match, as I have told you before. It is the most\nsuitable one that I can find for you; and instead of being grateful, you\nturn upon me and refuse to do your duty. Donna Tullia is twenty-three\nyears of age. She is brilliant, rich. There is nothing against her. She\nis a distant cousin--\"\n\n\"One of the flock of vultures you so tenderly referred to,\" remarked\nGiovanni.\n\n\"Silence!\" cried old Saracinesca, striking his heavy hand upon the table\nso that the glasses shook together. \"I will be heard; and what is more, I\nwill be obeyed. Donna Tullia is a relation. The union of two such\nfortunes will be of immense advantage to your children. There is\neverything in favour of the match--nothing against it. You shall marry\nher a month from to-day. I will give you the title of Sant' Ilario, with\nthe estate outright into the bargain, and the palace in the Corso to\nlive in, if you do not care to live here.\"\n\n\"And if I refuse?\" asked Giovanni, choking down his anger.\n\n\"If you refuse, you shall leave my house a month from to-day,\" said the\nPrince, savagely.\n\n\"Whereby I shall be fulfilling your previous commands, in setting up an\nestablishment for myself and living like a gentleman,\" returned Giovanni,\nwith a bitter laugh. \"It is nothing to me--if you turn me out. I am rich,\nas you justly observed.\"\n\n\"You will have the more leisure to lead the life you like best,\" retorted\nthe Prince; \"to hang about in society, to go where you please, to make\nlove to--\" the old man stopped a moment. His son was watching him\nfiercely, his hand clenched upon the table, his face as white as death.\n\n\"To whom?\" he asked with a terrible effort to be calm.\n\n\"Do you think I am afraid of you? Do you think your father is less strong\nor less fierce than you? To whom?\" cried the angry old man, his whole\npent-up fury bursting out as he rose suddenly to his feet. \"To whom but\nto Corona d'Astrardente--to whom else should you make love?--wasting your\nyouth and life upon a mad passion! All Rome says it--I will say it too!\"\n\n\"You have said it indeed,\" answered Giovanni, in a very low voice. He\nremained seated at the table, not moving a muscle, his face as the face\nof the dead. \"You have said it, and in insulting that lady you have said\na thing not worthy for one of our blood to say. God help me to remember\nthat you are my father,\" he added, trembling suddenly.\n\n\"Hold!\" said the Prince, who, with all his ambition for his son, and his\nhasty temper, was an honest gentleman. \"I never insulted, her--she is\nabove suspicion. It is you who are wasting your life in a hopeless\npassion for her. See, I speak calmly--\"\n\n\"What does 'all Rome say'?\" asked Giovanni, interrupting him. He was\nstill deadly pale, but his hand was unclenched, and as he spoke he rested\nhis head upon it, looking down at the tablecloth.\n\n\"Everybody says that you are in love with the Astrardente, and that her\nhusband is beginning to notice it.\"\n\n\"It is enough, sir,\" said Giovanni, in low tones. \"I will consider this\nmarriage you propose. Give me until the spring to decide.\"\n\n\"That is a long time,\" remarked the old Prince, resuming his seat and\nbeginning to peel an orange, as though nothing had happened. He was far\nfrom being calm, but his son's sudden change of manner had disarmed his\nanger. He was passionate and impetuous, thoughtless in his language, and\ntyrannical in his determination; but he loved Giovanni dearly for all\nthat.\n\n\"I do not think it long,\" said Giovanni, thoughtfully. \"I give you my\nword that I will seriously consider the marriage. If it is possible for\nme to marry Donna Tullia, I will obey you, and I will give you my answer\nbefore Easter-day. I cannot do more.\"\n\n\"I sincerely hope you will take my advice,\" answered Saracinesca, now\nentirely pacified. \"If you cannot make up your mind to the match, I may\nbe able to find something else. There is Bianca Valdarno--she will have a\nquarter of the estate.\"\n\n\"She is so very ugly,\" objected Giovanni, quietly. He was still much\nagitated, but he answered his father mechanically.\n\n\"That is true--they are all ugly, those Valdarni. Besides, they are of\nTuscan origin. What do you say to the little Rocca girl? She has great\n_chic_; she was brought up in England. She is pretty enough.\"\n\n\"I am afraid she would be extravagant.\"\n\n\"She could spend her own money then; it will be sufficient.\"\n\n\"It is better to be on the safe side,\" said Giovanni. Suddenly he changed\nhis position, and again looked at his father. \"I am sorry we always\nquarrel about this question,\" he said. \"I do not really want to marry,\nbut I wish to oblige you, and I will try. Why do we always come to words\nover it?\"\n\n\"I am sure I do not know,\" said the Prince, with a pleasant smile. \"I\nhave such a diabolical temper, I suppose.\"\n\n\"And I have inherited it,\" answered Don Giovanni, with a laugh that was\nmeant to be cheerful. \"But I quite see your point of view. I suppose I\nought to settle in life by this time.\"\n\n\"Seriously, I think so, my son. Here is to your future happiness,\" said\nthe old gentleman, touching his glass with his lips.\n\n\"And here is to our future peace,\" returned Giovanni, also drinking.\n\n\"We never really quarrel, Giovanni, do we?\" said his father. Every trace\nof anger had vanished. His strong face beamed with an affectionate smile\nthat was like the sun after a thunderstorm.\n\n\"No, indeed,\" answered his son, cordially. \"We cannot afford to quarrel;\nthere are only two of us left.\"\n\n\"That is what I always say,\" assented the Prince, beginning to eat the\norange he had carefully peeled since he had grown calm. \"If two men like\nyou and me, my boy, can thoroughly agree, there is nothing we cannot\naccomplish; whereas if we go against each other--\"\n\n\"Justitia non fit, coelum vero ruet,\" suggested Giovanni, in parody of\nthe proverb.\n\n\"I am a little rusty in my Latin, Giovanni,\" said the old gentleman.\n\n\"Heaven is turned upside down, but justice is not done.\"\n\n\"No; one is never just when one is angry. But storms clear the sky, as\nthey say up at Saracinesca.\"\n\n\"By the bye, have you heard whether that question of the timber has been\nsettled yet?\" asked Giovanni.\n\n\"Of course--I had forgotten. I will tell you all about it,\" answered his\nfather, cheerfully. So they chatted peacefully for another half-hour; and\nno one would have thought, in looking at them, that such fierce passions\nhad been roused, nor that one of them felt as though his death-warrant\nhad been signed. When they separated, Giovanni went to his own rooms, and\nlocked himself in.\n\nHe had assumed an air of calmness which was not real before he left his\nfather. In truth he was violently agitated. He was as fiery as his\nfather, but his passions were of greater strength and of longer duration;\nfor his mother had been a Spaniard, and something of the melancholy of\nher country had entered into his soul, giving depth and durability to the\nhot Italian character he inherited from his father. Nor did the latter\nsuspect the cause of his son's sudden change of tone in regard to the\nmarriage. It was precisely the difference in temperament which made\nGiovanni incomprehensible to the old Prince.\n\nGiovanni had realised for more than a year past that he loved Corona\nd'Astrardente. Contrary to the custom of young men in his position, he\ndetermined from the first that he would never let her know it; and herein\nlay the key to all his actions. He had, as he thought, made a point of\nbehaving to her on all occasions as he behaved to the other women he met\nin the world, and he believed that he had skilfully concealed his passion\nfrom the world and from the woman he loved. He had acted on all occasions\nwith a circumspection which was not natural to him, and for which he\nundeniably deserved great credit. It had been a year of constant\nstruggles, constant efforts at self-control, constant determination that,\nif possible, he would overcome his instincts. It was true that, when\noccasion offered, he had permitted himself the pleasure of talking to\nCorona d'Astrardente--talking, he well knew, upon the most general\nsubjects, but finding at each interview some new point of sympathy.\nNever, he could honestly say, had he approached in that time the subject\nof love, nor even the equally dangerous topic of friendship, the\ndiscussion of which leads to so many ruinous experiments. He had never by\nlook or word sought to interest the dark Duchessa in his doings nor in\nhimself; he had talked of books, of politics, of social questions, but\nnever of himself nor of herself. He had faithfully kept the promise he\nhad made in his heart, that since he was so unfortunate as to love the\nwife of another--a woman of such nobility that even in Rome no breath had\nbeen breathed against her--he would keep his unfortunate passion to\nhimself. Astrardente was old, almost decrepit, in spite of his\nmagnificent wig; Corona was but two-and-twenty years of age. If ever her\nhusband died, Giovanni would present himself before the world as her\nsuitor; meanwhile he would do nothing to injure her self-respect nor to\ndisturb her peace--he hardly flattered himself he could do that, for he\nloved her truly--and above all, he would do nothing to compromise the\nunsullied reputation she enjoyed. She might never love him; but he was\nstrong and patient, and would do her the only honour it was in his power\nto do her, by waiting patiently.\n\nBut Giovanni had not considered that he was the most conspicuous man in\nsociety; that there were many who watched his movements, in hopes he\nwould come their way; that when he entered a room, many had noticed\nthat, though he never went directly to Corona's side, he always looked\nfirst towards her, and never omitted to speak with her in the course of\nan evening. Keen observers, the jays of society who hover about the\neagle's nest, had not failed to observe a look of annoyance on Giovanni's\nface when he did not succeed in being alone by Corona's side for at least\na few minutes; and Del Ferice, who was a sort of news-carrier in Rome,\nhad now and then hinted that Giovanni was in love. People had repeated\nhis hints, as he intended they should, with the illuminating wit peculiar\nto tale-bearers, and the story had gone abroad accordingly. True, there\nwas not a man in Rome bold enough to allude to the matter in Giovanni's\npresence, even if any one had seen any advantage in so doing; but such\nthings do not remain hidden. His own father had told him in a fit of\nanger, and the blow had produced its effect.\n\nGiovanni sat down in a deep easy-chair in his own room, and thought over\nthe situation. His first impulse had been to be furiously angry with his\nfather; but the latter having instantly explained that there was nothing\nto be said against the Duchessa, Giovanni's anger against the Prince had\nturned against himself. It was bitter to think that all his self-denial,\nall his many and prolonged efforts to conceal his love, had been of no\navail. He cursed his folly and imprudence, while wondering how it was\npossible that the story should have got abroad. He did not waver in his\ndetermination to hide his inclinations, to destroy the impression he had\nso unwillingly produced. The first means he found in his way seemed the\nbest. To marry Donna Tullia at once, before the story of his affection\nfor the Duchessa had gathered force, would, he thought, effectually shut\nthe mouths of the gossips. From one point of view it was a noble thought,\nthe determination to sacrifice himself wholly and for ever, rather than\npermit his name to be mentioned ever so innocently in connection with the\nwoman he loved; to root out utterly his love for her by seriously\nengaging his faith to another, and keeping that engagement with all the\nstrength of fidelity he knew himself to possess. He would save Corona\nfrom annoyance, and her name from the scandal-mongers; and if any one\never dared to mention the story--\n\nGiovanni rose to his feet and mechanically took a fencing-foil from the\nwall, as he often did for practice. If any one mentioned the story, he\nthought, he had the means to silence them, quickly and for ever. His eyes\nflashed suddenly at the idea of action--any action, even fighting, which\nmight be distantly connected with Corona. Then he tossed down the rapier\nand threw himself into his chair, and sat quite still, staring at the\ntrophies of armour upon the wall opposite.\n\nHe could not do it. To wrong one woman for the sake of shielding another\nwas not in his power. People might laugh at him and call him Quixotic,\nforsooth, because he would not do like every one else and make a marriage\nof convenience--of propriety. Propriety! when his heart was breaking\nwithin him; when every fibre of his strong frame quivered with the strain\nof passion; when his aching eyes saw only one face, and his ears echoed\nthe words she had spoken that very afternoon! Propriety indeed! Propriety\nwas good enough for cold-blooded dullards. Donna Tullia had done him no\nharm that he should marry her for propriety's sake, and make her life\nmiserable for thirty, forty, fifty years. It would be propriety rather\nfor him to go away, to bury himself in the ends of the earth, until he\ncould forget Corona d'Astrardente, her splendid eyes, and her deep sweet\nvoice.\n\nHe had pledged his father his word that he would consider the marriage,\nand he was to give his answer before Easter. That was a long time yet. He\nwould consider it; and if by Eastertide he had forgotten Corona, he\nwould--he laughed aloud in his silent room, and the sound of his voice\nstartled him from his reverie.\n\nForget? Did such men as he forget? Other men did. What were they made of?\nThey did not love such women, perhaps; that was the reason they forgot.\nAny one could forget poor Donna Tullia. And yet how was it possible to\nforget if one loved truly?\n\nGiovanni had never believed himself in love before. He had known one or\ntwo women who had attracted him strongly; but he had soon found out that\nhe had no real sympathy with them, that though they amused him they had\nno charm for him--most of all, that he could not imagine himself tied to\nany one of them for life without conceiving the situation horrible in the\nextreme. To his independent nature the idea of such ties was repugnant:\nhe knew himself too courteous to break through the civilities of life\nwith a wife he did not love; but he knew also that in marrying a woman\nwho was indifferent to him, he would be engaging to play a part for life\nin the most fearful of all plays--the part of a man who strives to bear\nbravely the galling of a chain he is too honourable to break.\n\nIt was four o'clock in the morning when Giovanni went to bed; and even\nthen he slept little, for his dreams were disturbed. Once he thought he\nstood upon a green lawn with a sword in his hand, and the blood upon its\npoint, his opponent lying at his feet. Again, he thought he was alone in\na vast drawing-room, and a dark woman came and spoke gently to him,\nsaying, \"Marry her for my sake.\" He awoke with a groan. The church clocks\nwere striking eight, and the meet was at eleven, five miles beyond the\nPorta Pia. Giovanni started up and rang for his servant.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nIt was a beautiful day, and half Rome turned out to see the meet, not\nbecause it was in any way different from other meets, but because it\nchanced that society had a fancy to attend it. Society is very like a\nfever patient in a delirium; it is rarely accountable for its actions; it\nscarcely ever knows what it is saying; and occasionally, without the\nleast warning or premeditation, it leaps out of bed at an early hour of\nthe morning and rushes frantically in pursuit of its last hallucination.\nThe main difference is, that whereas a man in a fever has a nurse,\nsociety has none.\n\nOn the present occasion every one had suddenly conceived the idea of\ngoing to the meet, and the long road beyond the Porta Pia was dotted for\nmiles with equipages of every description, from the four-in-hand of\nPrince Valdarno to the humble donkey-cart of the caterer who sells\nmesses of boiled beans, and bread and cheese, and salad to the grooms--an\ninstitution not connected in the English mind with hunting. One after\nanother the vehicles rolled out along the road, past Sant' Agnese, down\nthe hill and across the Ponte Nomentana, and far up beyond to a place\nwhere three roads met and there was a broad open stretch of wet, withered\ngrass. Here the carriages turned in and ranged themselves side by side,\nas though they were pausing in the afternoon drive upon the Pincio,\ninstead of being five miles out upon the broad Campagna.\n\nTo describe the mountains to southward of Rome would be an insult to\nnature; to describe a meet would be an affront to civilised readers of\nthe English language. The one is too familiar to everybody; the pretty\ncrowd of men and women, dotted with pink and set off by the neutral\ncolour of the winter fields; the hunters of all ages, and sizes, and\nbreeds, led slowly up and down by the grooms; while from time to time\nsome rider gets into the saddle and makes himself comfortable, assures\nhimself of girth and stirrup, and of the proper disposal of the\nsandwich-box and sherry-flask, gives a final word of instruction to his\ngroom, and then moves slowly off. A Roman meet is a little less\nbusiness-like than the same thing elsewhere; there is a little more\ndawdling, a little more conversation when many ladies chance to have come\nto see the hounds throw off; otherwise it is not different from other\nmeets. As for the Roman mountains, they are so totally unlike any other\nhills in the world, and so extremely beautiful in their own peculiar way,\nthat to describe them would be an idle and a useless task, which could\nonly serve to exhibit the vanity of the writer and the feebleness of his\npen.\n\nDon Giovanni arrived early in spite of his sleepless night. He descended\nfrom his dogcart by the roadside, instead of driving into the field, and\nhe took a careful survey of the carriages he saw before him. Conspicuous\nin the distance he distinguished Donna Tullia Mayer standing among a\nlittle crowd of men near Valdarno's drag. She was easily known by her\ndress, as Del Ferice had remarked on the previous evening. On this\noccasion she wore a costume in which the principal colours were green and\nyellow, an enormous hat, with feathers in the same proportion surmounting\nher head, and she carried a yellow parasol. She was a rather handsome\nwoman of middle height, with unnaturally blond hair, and a fairly good\ncomplexion, which as yet she had wisely abstained from attempting to\nimprove by artificial means; her eyes were blue, but uncertain in their\nglance--of the kind which do not inspire confidence; and her mouth was\nmuch admired, being small and red, with full lips. She was rapid in her\nmovements, and she spoke in a loud voice, easily collecting people about\nher wherever there were any to collect. Her conversation was not\nbrilliant, but it was so abundant that its noisy vivacity passed current\nfor cleverness; she had a remarkably keen judgment of people, and a\nremarkably bad taste in her opinions of things artistic, from beauty in\nnature to beauty in dress, but she maintained her point of view\nobstinately, and admitted no contradiction. It was a singular\ncircumstance that whereas many of her attributes were distinctly vulgar,\nshe nevertheless had an indescribable air of good breeding, the strange\ninimitable stamp of social superiority which cannot be acquired by any\nknown process of education. A person seeing her might be surprised at her\nloud talking, amused at her eccentricities of dress, and shocked at her\nbold manner, but no one would ever think of classing her anywhere save in\nwhat calls itself \"the best society.\"\n\nAmong the men who stood talking to Donna Tullia was the inevitable Del\nFerice, a man of whom it might be said that he was never missed, because\nhe was always present. Giovanni disliked Del Ferice without being able to\ndefine his aversion. He disliked generally men whom he suspected of\nduplicity; and he had no reason for supposing that truth, looking into\nher mirror, would have seen there the image of Ugo's fat pale face and\ncolourless moustache. But if Ugo was a liar, he must have had a good\nmemory, for he never got himself into trouble, and he had the reputation\nof being a useful member of society, an honour to which persons of\ndoubtful veracity rarely attain. Giovanni, however, disliked him, and\nsuspected him of many things; and although he had intended to go up to\nDonna Tullia, the sight of Del Ferice at her side very nearly prevented\nhim. He strolled leisurely down the little slope, and as he neared the\ncrowd, spoke to one or two acquaintances, mentally determining to avoid\nMadame Mayer, and to mount immediately. But he was disappointed in his\nintention. As he stood for a moment beside the carriage of the Marchesa\nRocca, exchanging a few words with her, and looking with some interest at\nher daughter, the little Rocca girl whom his father had proposed as a\npossible wife for him, he forgot his proximity to the lady he wished to\navoid; and when, a few seconds later, he proceeded in the direction of\nhis horse, Madame Mayer stepped forward from the knot of her admirers and\ntapped him familiarly upon the shoulder with the handle of her parasol.\n\n\"So you were not going to speak to me to-day?\" she said rather roughly,\nafter her manner.\n\nGiovanni turned sharply and faced her, bowing low. Donna Tullia laughed.\n\n\"Is there anything so amazingly ridiculous in my appearance?\" he asked.\n\n\"_Altro_! when you make that tremendous salute--\"\n\n\"It was intended to convey an apology as well as a greeting,\" answered\nDon Giovanni, politely.\n\n\"I would like more apology and less greeting.\"\n\n\"I am ready to apologise--\"\n\n\"Humbly, without defending yourself,\" said Donna Tullia, beginning to\nwalk slowly forward. Giovanni was obliged to follow her.\n\n\"My defence is, nevertheless, a very good one,\" he said.\n\n\"Well, if it is really good, I may listen to it; but you will not make me\nbelieve that you intended to behave properly.\"\n\n\"I am in a very bad humour. I would not inflict my cross temper upon you;\ntherefore I avoided you.\"\n\nDonna Tullia eyed him attentively. When she answered she drew in her\nsmall red lips with an air of annoyance.\n\n\"You look as though you were in bad humour,\" she answered. \"I am sorry I\ndisturbed you. It is better to leave sleeping dogs alone, as the proverb\nsays.\"\n\n\"I have not snapped yet,\" said Giovanni. \"I am not dangerous, I assure\nyou.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am not in the least afraid of you,\" replied his companion, with a\nlittle scorn. \"Do not flatter yourself your little humours frighten me. I\nsuppose you intend to follow?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Saracinesca, shortly; he was beginning to weary of Donna\nTullia's manner of taking him to task.\n\n\"You had much better come with us, and leave the poor foxes alone.\nValdarno is going to drive us round by the cross-roads to the Capannelle.\nWe will have a picnic lunch, and be home before three o'clock.\"\n\n\"Thanks very much. I cannot let my horse shirk his work. I must beg you\nto excuse me--\"\n\n\"Again?\" exclaimed Donna Tullia. \"You are always making excuses.\" Then\nshe suddenly changed her tone, and looked down. \"I wish you would come\nwith us,\" she said, gently. \"It is not often I ask you to do anything.\"\n\nGiovanni looked at her quickly. He knew that Donna Tullia wished to\nmarry him; he even suspected that his father had discussed the matter\nwith her--no uncommon occurrence when a marriage has to be arranged with\na widow. But he did not know that Donna Tullia was in love with him in\nher own odd fashion. He looked at her, and he saw that as she spoke there\nwere tears of vexation in her bold blue eyes. He hesitated a moment, but\nnatural courtesy won the day.\n\n\"I will go with you,\" he said, quietly. A blush of pleasure rose to\nMadame Mayer's pink cheeks; she felt she had made a point, but she was\nnot willing to show her satisfaction.\n\n\"You say it as though you were conferring a favour,\" she said, with a\nshow of annoyance, which was belied by the happy expression of her face.\n\n\"Pardon me; I myself am the favoured person,\" replied Giovanni,\nmechanically. He had yielded because he did not know how to refuse; but\nhe already regretted it, and would have given much to escape from the\nparty.\n\n\"You do not look as though you believed it,\" said Donna Tullia, eyeing\nhim critically. \"If you are going to be disagreeable, I release you.\" She\nsaid this well knowing, the while, that he would not accept of his\nliberty.\n\n\"If you are so ready to release me, as you call it, you do not really\nwant me,\" said her companion. Donna Tullia bit her lip, and there was a\nmoment's pause. \"If you will excuse me a moment I will send my horse\nhome--I will join you at once.\"\n\n\"There is your horse--right before us,\" said Madame Mayer. Even that\nshort respite was not allowed him, and she waited while Don Giovanni\nordered the astonished groom to take his hunter for an hour's exercise in\na direction where he would not fall in with the hounds.\n\n\"I did not believe you would really do it,\" said Donna Tullia, as the two\nturned and sauntered back towards the carriages. Most of the men who\nmeant to follow had already mounted, and the little crowd had thinned\nconsiderably. But while they had been talking another carriage had driven\ninto the field, and had halted a few yards from Valdarno's drag.\nAstrardente had taken it into his head to come to the meet with his wife,\nand they had arrived late. Astrardente always arrived a little late, on\nprinciple. As Giovanni and Donna Tullia came back to their drag, they\nsuddenly found themselves face to face with the Duchessa and her husband.\nIt did not surprise Corona to see Giovanni walking with the woman he did\nnot intend to marry, but it seemed to give the old Duke undisguised\npleasure.\n\n\"Do you see, Corona, there is no doubt of it! It is just as I told you,\"\nexclaimed the aged dandy, in a voice so audible that Giovanni frowned and\nDonna Tullia blushed slightly. Both of them bowed as they passed the\ncarriage. Don Giovanni looked straight into Corona's face as he took\noff his hat. He might very well have made her a little sign, the smallest\ngesture, imperceptible to Donna Tullia, whereby he could have given her\nthe idea that his position was involuntary. But Don Giovanni was a\ngentleman, and he did nothing of the kind; he bowed and looked calmly at\nthe woman he loved as he passed by. Astrardente watched him keenly, and\nas he noticed the indifference of Saracinesca's look, he gave a curious\nlittle snuffling snort that was peculiar to him. He could have sworn that\nneither his wife nor Giovanni had shown the smallest interest in each\nother. He was satisfied. His wife was above suspicion, as he always said;\nbut he was an old man, and had seen the world, and he knew that however\nimplicitly he might trust the noble woman who had sacrificed her youth to\nhis old age, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that she might\nbecome innocently interested, even unawares, in some younger man--in some\nsuch man as Giovanni Saracinesca-and he thought it worth his while to\nwatch her. His little snort, however, was indicative of satisfaction.\nCorona had not winced at the mention of the marriage, and had nodded with\nthe greatest unconcern to the man as he passed.\n\n\"Ah, Donna Tullia!\" he cried, as he returned their greeting, \"you are\npreventing Don Giovanni from mounting; the riders will be off in a\nmoment.\"\n\nBeing thus directly addressed, there was nothing to be done but to stop\nand exchange a few words. The Duchessa was on the side nearest to the\npair as they passed, and her husband rose and sat opposite her, so as to\ntalk more at his ease. There were renewed greetings on both sides, and\nGiovanni naturally found himself talking to Corona, while her husband and\nDonna Tullia conversed together.\n\n\"What man could think of hunting when he could be talking to you\ninstead?\" said old Astrardente, whose painted face adjusted itself in a\nsort of leer that had once been a winning smile. Every one knew he\npainted, his teeth were a miracle of American dentistry, and his wig\nhad deceived a great portrait-painter. The padding in his clothes was\ndisposed with cunning wisdom, and in public he rarely removed the gloves\nfrom his small hands. Donna Tullia laughed at what he said.\n\n\"You should teach Don Giovanni to make pretty speeches,\" she said. \"He is\nas surly as a wolf this morning.\"\n\n\"I should think a man in his position would not need much teaching in\norder to be gallant to you,\" replied the old dandy, with a knowing look.\nThen lowering his voice, he added confidentially, \"I hope that before\nvery long I may be allowed to congrat--\"\n\n\"I have prevailed upon him to give up following the hounds to-day,\"\ninterrupted Donna Tullia, quickly. She spoke loud enough to be noticed by\nCorona. \"He is coming with us to picnic at the Capannelle instead.\"\n\nGiovanni could not help glancing quickly at Corona. She smiled faintly,\nand her face betrayed no emotion.\n\n\"I daresay it will be very pleasant,\" she said gently, looking far out\nover the Campagna. In the next field the pack was moving away, followed\nat a little distance by a score of riders in pink; one or two men who had\nstayed behind in conversation, mounted hastily and rode after the hunt;\nsome of the carriages turned out of the field and began to follow slowly\nalong the road, in hopes of seeing the hounds throw off; the party who\nwere going with Valdarno gathered about the drag, waiting for Donna\nTullia; the grooms who were left behind congregated around the men who\nsold boiled beans and salad; and in a few minutes the meet had\npractically dispersed.\n\n\"Why will you not join us, Duchessa?\" asked Madame Mayer. \"There is lunch\nenough for everybody, and the more people we are the pleasanter it will\nbe.\" Donna Tullia made her suggestion with her usual frank manner, fixing\nher blue eyes upon Corona as she spoke. There was every appearance of\ncordiality in the invitation; but Donna Tullia knew well enough that\nthere was a sting in her words, or at all events that she meant there\nshould be. Corona, however, glanced quietly at her husband, and then\ncourteously refused.\n\n\"You are most kind,\" she said, \"but I fear we cannot join you to-day. We\nare very regular people,\" she explained, with a slight smile, \"and we are\nnot prepared to go to-day. Many thanks; I wish we could accept your kind\ninvitation.\"\n\n\"Well, I am sorry you will not come,\" said Donna Tullia, with a rather\nhard laugh. \"We mean to enjoy ourselves immensely.\"\n\nGiovanni said nothing. There was only one thing which could have rendered\nthe prospect of Madame Mayer's picnic more disagreeable to him than it\nalready was, and that would have been the presence of the Duchessa. He\nknew himself to be in a thoroughly false position in consequence of\nhaving yielded to Donna Tullia's half-tearful request that he would join\nthe party. He remembered how he had spoken to Corona on the previous\nevening, assuring her that he would not marry Madame Mayer. Corona knew\nnothing of the change his plans had undergone during the stormy interview\nhe had had with his father; he longed, indeed, to be able to make the\nDuchessa understand, but any attempt at explanation would be wholly\nimpossible. Corona would think he was inconsistent, or at least that he\nwas willing to flirt with the gay widow, while determined not to marry\nher. He reflected that it was part of his self-condemnation that he\nshould appear unfavourably to the woman he loved, and whom he was\ndetermined to renounce; but he realised for the first time how bitter it\nwould be to stand thus always in the appearance of weakness and\nself-contradiction in the eyes of the only human being whose good opinion\nhe coveted, and for whose dear sake he was willing to do all things. As\nhe stood by her, his hand rested upon the side of the carriage, and he\nstared blankly at the distant hounds and the retreating riders.\n\n\"Come, Don Giovanni, we must be going,\" said Donna Tullia. \"What in the\nworld are you thinking of? You look as though you had been turned into a\nstatue!\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" returned Saracinesca, suddenly called back from\nthe absorbing train of his unpleasant thoughts. \"Good-bye, Duchessa;\ngood-bye, Astrardente--a pleasant drive to you.\"\n\n\"You will always regret not having come, you know,\" cried Madame Mayer,\nshaking hands with both the occupants of the carriage. \"We shall probably\nend by driving to Albano, and staying all night--just fancy! Immense\nfun--not even a comb in the whole party! Good-bye. I suppose we shall all\nmeet to-night--that is, if we ever come back to Rome at all. Come along,\nGiovanni,\" she said, familiarly dropping the prefix from his name. After\nall, he was a sort of cousin, and people in Rome are very apt to call\neach other by their Christian names. But Donna Tullia knew what she was\nabout; she knew that Corona d'Astrardente could never, under any\ncircumstances whatever, call Saracinesca plain \"Giovanni.\" But she had\nnot the satisfaction of seeing that anything she said produced any change\nin Corona's proud dark face; she seemed of no more importance in the\nDuchessa's eyes than if she had been a fly buzzing in the sunshine.\n\nSo Giovanni and Madame Mayer joined their noisy party, and began to climb\ninto their places upon the drag; but before they were prepared to start,\nthe Astrardente carriage turned and drove rapidly out of the field. The\nlaughter and loud talking came to Corona's ears, growing fainter and more\ndistant every second, and the sound was very cruel to her; but she set\nher strong brave lips together, and leaned back, adjusting the blanket\nover her old husband's knees with one hand, and shading the sun from her\neyes with the parasol she held in the other.\n\n\"Thank you, my dear; you are an angel of thoughtfulness,\" said the old\ndandy, stroking his wife's hand. \"What a singularly vulgar woman Madame\nMayer is! And yet she has a certain little _chic_ of her own.\"\n\nCorona did not withdraw her fingers from her husband's caress. She was\nused to it. After all, he was kind to her in his way. It would have been\nabsurd to have been jealous of the grossly flattering speeches he made to\nother women; and indeed he was as fond of turning compliments to his wife\nas to any one. It was a singular relation that had grown up between the\nold man and the young girl he had married. Had he been less thoroughly a\nman of the world, or had Corona been less entirely honest and loyal and\nself-sacrificing, there would have been small peace in their wedlock. But\nAstrardente, decayed rou\u00e9 and worn-out dandy as he was, was in love with\nhis wife; and she, in all the young magnificence of her beauty, submitted\nto be loved by him, because she had promised that she would do so, and\nbecause, having sworn, she regarded the breaking of her faith by the\nsmallest act of unkindness as a thing beyond the bounds of possibility.\nIt had been a terrible blow to her to discover that she cared for Don\nGiovanni even in the way she believed she did, as a man whose society she\npreferred to that of other men, and whose face it gave her pleasure to\nsee. She, too, had spent a sleepless night; and when she had risen in the\nmorning, she had determined to forget Giovanni, and if she could not\nforget him, she had sworn that more than ever she would be all things to\nher husband.\n\nShe wondered now, as Giovanni had known she would, why he had suddenly\nthrown over his day's hunting in order to spend his time with Donna\nTullia; but she would not acknowledge, even to herself, that the dull\npain she felt near her heart, and that seemed to oppress her breathing,\nbore any relation to the scene she had just witnessed. She shut her lips\ntightly, and arranged the blanket for her husband.\n\n\"Madame Mayer is vulgar,\" she answered. \"I suppose she cannot help it.\"\n\n\"Women can always help being vulgar,\" returned Astrardente. \"I believe\nshe learned it from her husband. Women are not naturally like that.\nNevertheless she is an excellent match for Giovanni Saracinesca. Rich, by\nmillions. Undeniably handsome, gay--well, rather too gay; but Giovanni is\nso serious that the contrast will be to their mutual advantage.\"\n\nCorona was silent. There was nothing the old man disliked so much as\nsilence.\n\n\"Why do you not answer me?\" he asked, rather petulantly.\n\n\"I do not know--I was thinking,\" said Corona, simply. \"I do not see that\nit is a great match after all, for the last of the Saracinesca.\"\n\n\"You think she will lead him a terrible dance, I daresay,\" returned the\nold man. \"She is gay--very gay; and Giovanni is very, very solemn.\"\n\n\"I did not mean that she was too gay. I only think that Saracinesca might\nmarry, for instance, the Rocca girl. Why should he take a widow?\"\n\n\"Such a young widow. Old Mayer was as decrepit as any old statue in a\nmuseum. He was paralysed in one arm, and gouty--gouty, my dear; you do\nnot know how gouty he was.\" The old fellow grinned scornfully; he had\nnever had the gout. \"Donna Tullia is a very young widow. Besides, think\nof the fortune. It would break old Saracinesca's heart to let so much\nmoney go out of the family. He is a miserly old wretch, Saracinesca!\"\n\n\"I never heard that,\" said Corona.\n\n\"Oh, there are many things in Rome that one never hears, and that is one\nof them. I hate avarice--it is so extremely vulgar.\"\n\nIndeed Astrardente was not himself avaricious, though he had all his life\nknown how to protect his interests. He loved money, but he loved also to\nspend it, especially in such a way as to make a great show with it. It\nwas not true, however, that Saracinesca was miserly. He spent a large\nincome without the smallest ostentation.\n\n\"Really, I should hardly call Prince Saracinesca a miser,\" said Corona.\n\"I cannot imagine, from what I know of him, why he should be so anxious\nto get Madame Mayer's fortune; but I do not think it is out of mere\ngreediness.\"\n\n\"Then I do not know what you can call it,\" returned her husband, sharply.\n\"They have always had that dismal black melancholy in that family--that\ndetestable love of secretly piling up money, while their faces are as\ngrave and sour as any Jew's in the Ghetto.\"\n\nCorona glanced at her husband, and smiled faintly as she looked at his\nthin old features, where the lights and shadows were touched in with\ndelicate colour more artfully than any actress's, superficially\nconcealing the lines traced by years of affectation and refined egotism;\nand she thought of Giovanni's strong manly face, passionate indeed, but\nnoble and bold. A moment later she resolutely put the comparison out of\nher mind, and finding that her husband was inclined to abuse the\nSaracinesca, she tried to turn the conversation.\n\n\"I suppose it will be a great ball at the Frangipani's,\" she said. \"We\nwill go, of course?\" she added, interrogatively.\n\n\"Of course. I would not miss it for all the world. There has not been\nsuch a ball for years as that will be. Do I ever miss an opportunity of\nenjoying myself--I mean, of letting you enjoy yourself?\"\n\n\"No, you are very good,\" said Corona, gently. \"Indeed I sometimes think\nyou give yourself trouble about going out on my account. Really, I am not\nso greedy of society. I would often gladly stay at home if you wished\nit.\"\n\n\"Do you think I am past enjoying the world, then?\" asked the old man,\nsourly.\n\n\"No indeed,\" replied Corona, patiently. \"Why should I think that? I see\nhow much you like going out.\"\n\n\"Of course I like it. A rational man in the prime of life always likes to\nsee his fellow-creatures. Why should not I?\"\n\nThe Duchessa did not smile. She was used to hearing her aged husband\nspeak of himself as young. It was a harmless fancy.\n\n\"I think it is quite natural,\" she said.\n\n\"What I cannot understand,\" said Astrardente, muffling his thin throat\nmore closely against the keen bright _tramontana_ wind, \"is that such old\nfellows as Saracinesca should still want to play a part in the world.\"\n\nSaracinesca was younger than Astrardente, and his iron constitution bade\nfair to outlast another generation, in spite of his white hair.\n\n\"You do not seem to be in a good humour with Saracinesca to-day,\"\nremarked Corona, by way of answer.\n\n\"Why do you defend him?\" asked her husband, in a new fit of irritation.\n\"He jars on my nerves, the sour old creature!\"\n\n\"I fancy all Rome will go to the Frangipani ball,\" began Corona again,\nwithout heeding the old man's petulance.\n\n\"You seem to be interested in it,\" returned Astrardente.\n\nCorona was silent; it was her only weapon when he became petulant. He\nhated silence, and generally returned to the conversation with more\nsuavity. Perhaps, in his great experience, he really appreciated his\nwife's wonderful patience with his moods, and it is certain that he was\nexceedingly fond of her.\n\n\"You must have a new gown, my dear,\" he said presently, in a conciliatory\ntone.\n\nHis wife passed for the best-dressed woman in Rome, as she was undeniably\nthe most remarkable in many other ways. She was not above taking an\ninterest in dress, and her old husband had an admirable taste; moreover,\nhe took a vast pride in her appearance, and if she had looked a whit less\nsuperior to other women, his smiling boast that she was above suspicion\nwould have lost some of its force.\n\n\"I hardly think it is necessary,\" said Corona; \"I have so many things,\nand it will be a great crowd.\"\n\n\"My dear, be economical of your beauty, but not in your adornment of it,\"\nsaid the old man, with one of his engaging grins. \"I desire that you have\na new gown for this ball which will be remembered by every one who goes\nto it. You must set about it at once.\"\n\n\"Well, that is an easy request for any woman to grant,\" answered Corona,\nwith a little laugh; \"though I do not believe my gown will be remembered\nso long as you think.\"\n\n\"Who knows--who knows?\" said Astrardente, thoughtfully. \"I remember gowns\nI saw\"--he checked himself--\"why, as many as ten years ago!\" he added,\nlaughing in his turn, perhaps at nearly having said forty for ten.\n\"Gowns, my dear,\" he continued, \"make a profound impression upon men's\nminds.\"\n\n\"For the matter of that,\" said the Duchessa, \"I do not care to impress\nmen at all nor women either.\" She spoke lightly, pleased that the\nconversation should have taken a more pleasant turn.\n\n\"Not even to impress me, my dear?\" asked old Astrardente, with a leer.\n\n\"That is different,\" answered Corona, quietly.\n\nSo they talked upon the subject of the gown and the ball until the\ncarriage rolled under the archway of the Astrardente palace. But when it\nwas three o'clock, and Corona was at liberty to go out upon her usual\nround of visits, she was glad that she could go alone; and as she sat\namong her cushions, driving from house to house and distributing cards,\nshe had time to think seriously of her situation. It would seem a light\nthing to most wives of aged husbands to have taken a fancy to a man such\nas Giovanni Saracinesca. But the more Corona thought of it, the more\ncertain it appeared to her that she was committing a great sin. It\nweighed heavily upon her mind, and took from her the innocent pleasure\nshe was wont to feel in driving in the bright evening air in the Villa\nBorghese. It took the colour from the sky, and the softness from the\ncushions, it haunted her and made her miserably unhappy. At every turn\nshe expected to see Giovanni's figure and face, and the constant\nrecurrence of the thought seemed to add magnitude to the crime of which\nshe accused herself,--the crime of even thinking of any man save her\nold husband--of wishing that Giovanni might not marry Donna Tullia after\nall.\n\n\"I will go to Padre Filippo,\" she said to herself as she reached home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nValdarno took Donna Tullia by his side upon the front seat of the drag;\nand as luck would have it, Giovanni and Del Ferice sat together behind\nthem. Half-a-dozen other men found seats somewhere, and among them were\nthe melancholy Spicca, who was a famous duellist, and a certain\nCasalverde, a man of rather doubtful reputation. The others were members\nof what Donna Tullia called her \"corps de ballet.\" In those days Donna\nTullia's conduct was criticised, and she was thought to be emancipated,\nas the phrase went. Old people opened their eyes at the spectacle of the\ngay young widow going off into the Campagna to picnic with a party of\nmen; but if any intimate enemy had ventured to observe to her that she\nwas giving occasion for gossip, she would have raised her eyebrows,\nexplaining that they were all just like her brothers, and that Giovanni\nwas indeed a sort of cousin. She would perhaps have condescended to say\nthat she would not have done such a thing in Paris, but that in dear old\nRome one was in the bosom of one's family, and might do anything. At\npresent she sat chatting with Valdarno, a tall and fair young man, with a\nweak mouth and a good-natured disposition; she had secured Giovanni, and\nthough he sat sullenly smoking behind her, his presence gave her\nsatisfaction. Del Ferice's smooth face wore an expression of ineffable\ncalm, and his watery blue eyes gazed languidly on the broad stretch of\nbrown grass which bordered the highroad.\n\nFor some time the drag bowled along, and Giovanni was left to his own\nreflections, which were not of a very pleasing kind. The other men talked\nof the chances of luck with the hounds; and Spicca, who had been a great\ndeal in England, occasionally put in a remark not very complimentary to\nthe Roman hunt. Del Ferice listened in silence, and Giovanni did not\nlisten at all, but buttoned his overcoat to the throat, half closed his\neyes, and smoked one cigarette after another, leaning back in his seat.\nSuddenly Donna Tullia's laugh was heard as she turned half round to look\nat Valdarno.\n\n\"Do you really think so?\" she cried. \"How soon? What a dance we will lead\nthem then!\"\n\nDel Fence pricked his ears in the direction of her voice, like a terrier\nthat suspects the presence of a rat. Valdarno's answer was inaudible, but\nDonna Tullia ceased laughing immediately.\n\n\"They are talking politics,\" said Del Ferice in a low voice, leaning\ntowards Giovanni as he spoke. The latter shrugged his shoulders and went\non smoking. He did not care to be drawn into a conversation with Del\nFerice.\n\nDel Ferice was a man who was suspected of revolutionary sympathies by the\nauthorities in Rome, but who was not feared. He was therefore allowed to\nlive his life much as he pleased, though he was conscious from time to\ntime that he was watched. Being a man, however, who under all\ncircumstances pursued his own interests with more attention than he\nbestowed on those of any party, he did not pretend to attach any\nimportance to the distinction of being occasionally followed by a spy, as\na more foolish man might have done. If he was watched, he did not care to\nexhibit himself to his friends as a martyr, to tell stories of the\n_sbirro_ who sometimes dogged his footsteps, nor to cry aloud that he was\nunjustly persecuted. He affected a character above suspicion, and rarely\nallowed himself to express an opinion. He was no propagator of new\ndoctrines; that was too dangerous a trade for one of his temper. But he\nforesaw changes to come, and he determined that he would profit by them.\nHe had little to lose, but he had everything to gain; and being a patient\nman, he resolved to gain all he could by circumspection--in other words,\nby acting according to his nature, rather than by risking himself in a\nbold course of action for which he was wholly unsuited. He was too wise\nto attempt wholly to deceive the authorities, knowing well that they were\nnot easily deceived; and he accordingly steered a middle course,\nconstantly speaking in favour of progress, of popular education, and of\nfreedom of the press, but at the same time loudly proclaiming that all\nthese things--that every benefit of civilisation, in fact--could be\nobtained without the slightest change in the form of government. He thus\nasserted his loyalty to the temporal power while affecting a belief in\nthe possibility of useful reforms, and the position he thus acquired\nexactly suited his own ends; for he attracted to himself a certain amount\nof suspicion on account of his progressist professions, and then disarmed\nthat suspicion by exhibiting a serene indifference to the espionage of\nwhich he was the object. The consequence was, that at the very time when\nhe was most deeply implicated in much more serious matters--of which the\nobject was invariably his own ultimate profit--at the time when he was\nreceiving money for information he was able to obtain through his social\nposition, he was regarded by the authorities, and by most of his\nacquaintances, as a harmless man, who might indeed injure himself by his\nfoolish doctrines of progress, but who certainly could not injure any one\nelse. Few guessed that his zealous attention to social duties, his\noccasional bursts of enthusiasm for liberal education and a free press,\nwere but parts of his machinery for making money out of politics. He was\nso modest, so unostentatious, that no one suspected that the mainspring\nof his existence was the desire for money.\n\nBut, like many intelligent and bad men, Del Ferice had a weakness which\nwas gradually gaining upon him and growing in force, and which was\ndestined to hasten the course of the events which he had planned for\nhimself. It is an extraordinary peculiarity in unbelievers that they are\noften more subject to petty superstitions than other men; and similarly,\nit often happens that the most cynical and coldly calculating of\nconspirators, who believe themselves proof against all outward\ninfluences, yield to some feeling of nervous dislike for an individual\nwho has never harmed them, and are led on from dislike to hatred, until\ntheir soberest actions take colour from what in its earliest beginnings\nwas nothing more than a senseless prejudice. Del Ferice's weakness was\nhis unaccountable detestation of Giovanni Saracinesca; and he had so far\nsuffered this abhorrence of the man to dominate his existence, that it\nhad come to be one of his chiefest delights in life to thwart Giovanni\nwherever he could. How it had begun, or when, he no longer knew nor\ncared. He had perhaps thought Giovanni treated him superciliously, or\neven despised him; and his antagonism being roused by some fancied\nslight, he had shown a petty resentment, which, again, Saracinesca\nhad treated with cold indifference. Little by little his fancied\ngrievance had acquired great proportions in his own estimation, and he\nhad learned to hate Giovanni more than any man living. At first it might\nhave seemed an easy matter to ruin his adversary, or, at all event, to\ncause him great and serious injury; and but for that very indifference\nwhich Del Ferice so resented, his attempts might have been successful.\n\nGiovanni belonged to a family who from the earliest times had been at\nswords-drawn with the Government. Their property had been more than once\nconfiscated by the popes, had been seized again by force of arms, and had\nbeen ultimately left to them for the mere sake of peace. They seem to\nhave quarrelled with everybody on every conceivable pretext, and to have\ngenerally got the best of the struggle. No pope had ever reckoned upon\nthe friendship of Casa Saracinesca. For generations they had headed the\nopposition whenever there was one, and had plotted to form one when there\nwas none ready to their hands. It seemed to Del Ferice that in the\nstirring times that followed the annexation of Naples to the Italian\ncrown, when all Europe was watching the growth of the new Power, it\nshould be an easy matter to draw a Saracinesca into any scheme for the\nsubversion of a Government against which so many generations of\nSaracinesca had plotted and fought. To involve Giovanni in some Liberal\nconspiracy, and then by betraying him to cause him to be imprisoned or\nexiled from Rome, was a plan which pleased Del Ferice, and which he\ndesired earnestly to put into execution. He had often tried to lead his\nenemy into conversation, repressing and hiding his dislike for the sake\nof his end; but at the first mention of political subjects Giovanni\nbecame impenetrable, shrugged, his shoulders, and assumed an air of the\nutmost indifference. No paradox could draw him into argument, no\nflattery could loose his tongue. Indeed those were times when men\nhesitated to express an opinion, not only because any opinion they\nmight express was liable to be exaggerated and distorted by willing\nenemies--a consideration which would not have greatly intimidated\nGiovanni Saracinesca--but also because it was impossible for the wisest\nman to form any satisfactory judgment upon the course of events. It was\nclear to every one that ever since 1848 the temporal power had been\nsustained by France; and though no one in 1865 foresaw the downfall of\nthe Second Empire, no one saw any reason for supposing that the military\nprotectorate of Louis Napoleon in Rome could last for ever: what would be\nlikely to occur if that protection were withdrawn was indeed a matter of\ndoubt, but was not looked upon by the Government as a legitimate matter\nfor speculation.\n\nDel Ferice, however, did not desist from his attempts to make Giovanni\nspeak out his mind, and whenever an opportunity offered, tried to draw\nhim into conversation. He was destined on the present occasion to meet\nwith greater success than had hitherto attended his efforts. The picnic\nwas noisy, and Giovanni was in a bad humour; he did not care for Donna\nTullia's glances, nor for the remarks she constantly levelled at him;\nstill less was he amused by the shallow gaiety of her party of admirers,\ntempered as their talk was by the occasional tonic of some outrageous\ncynicism from the melancholy Spicca. Del Ferice smiled, and talked, and\nsmiled again, seeking to flatter and please Donna Tullia, as was his\nwont. By-and-by the clear north wind and the bright sun dried the ground,\nand Madame Mayer proposed that the party should walk a little on the road\ntowards Rome--a proposal of such startling originality that it was\ncarried by acclamation. Donna Tullia wanted to walk with Giovanni; but\non pretence of having left something upon the drag, he gave Valdarno time\nto take his place. When Giovanni began to follow the rest, he found that\nDel Ferice had lagged behind, and seemed to be waiting for him.\n\nGiovanni was in a bad humour that day. He had suffered himself to be\npersuaded into joining in a species of amusement for which he cared\nnothing, by a mere word from a woman for whom he cared less, but whom he\nhad half determined to marry, and who had wholly determined to marry him.\nHe, who hated vacillation, had been dangling for four-and-twenty hours\nlike a pendulum, or, as he said to himself, like an ass between two\nbundles of hay. At one moment he meant to marry Donna Tullia, and at\nanother he loathed the thought; now he felt that he would make any\nsacrifice to rid the Duchessa d'Astrardente of himself, and now again he\nfelt how futile such a sacrifice would be. He was ashamed in his heart,\nfor he was no boy of twenty to be swayed by a woman's look or a fit of\nQuixotism; he was a strong grown man who had seen the world. He had been\nin the habit of supposing his impulses to be good, and of following them\nnaturally without much thought; it seemed desperately perplexing to be\nforced into an analysis of those impulses in order to decide what he\nshould do. He was in a thoroughly bad humour, and Del Ferice guessed that\nif Giovanni could ever be induced to speak out, it must be when his\ntemper was not under control. In Rome, in the club--there was only one\nclub in those days--in society, Ugo never got a chance to talk to his\nenemy; but here upon the Appian Way, with the broad Campagna stretching\naway to right and left and rear, while the remainder of the party walked\nthree hundred yards in front, and Giovanni showed an evident reluctance\nto join them, it would go hard indeed if he could not be led into\nconversation.\n\n\"I should think,\" Del Ferice began, \"that if you had your choice, you\nwould walk anywhere rather than here.\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked Giovanni, carelessly. \"It is a very good road.\"\n\n\"I should think that our Roman Campagna would be anything but a source of\nsatisfaction to its possessors--like yourself,\" answered Del Ferice.\n\n\"It is a very good grazing ground.\"\n\n\"It might be something better. When one thinks that in ancient times it\nwas a vast series of villas--\"\n\n\"The conditions were very different. We do not live in ancient times,\"\nreturned Giovanni, drily.\n\n\"Ah, the conditions!\" ejaculated Del Ferice, with a suave sigh. \"Surely\nthe conditions depend on man--not on nature. What our proud forefathers\naccomplished by law and energy, we could, we can accomplish, if we\nrestore law and energy in our midst.\"\n\n\"You are entirely mistaken,\" answered Saracinesca. \"It would take five\ntimes the energy of the ancient Romans to turn the Campagna into a\ngarden, or even into a fertile productive region. No one is five times as\nenergetic as the ancients. As for the laws, they do well enough.\"\n\nDel Ferice was delighted. For the first time, Giovanni seemed inclined to\nenter upon an argument with him.\n\n\"Why are the conditions so different? I do not see. Here is the same\nundulating country, the same climate--\"\n\n\"And twice as much water,\" interrupted Giovanni. \"You forget that the\nCampagna is very low, and that the rivers in it have risen very much.\nThere are parts of ancient Rome now laid bare which lie below the present\nwater-mark of the Tiber. If the city were built upon its old level, much\nof it would be constantly flooded. The rivers have risen and have swamped\nthe country. Do you think any amount of law or energy could drain this\nfever-stricken plain into the sea? I do not. Do you think that if I could\nbe persuaded that the land could be improved into fertility I would\nhesitate, at any expenditure in my power, to reclaim the miles of desert\nmy father and I own here? The plain is a series of swamps and stone\nquarries. In one place you find the rock a foot below the surface, and\nthe soil burns up in summer; a hundred yards farther you find a bog\nhundreds of feet deep, which even in summer is never dry.\"\n\n\"But,\" suggested Del Ferice, who listened patiently enough, \"supposing\nthe Government passed a law forcing all of you proprietors to plant trees\nand dig ditches, it would have some effect.\"\n\n\"The law cannot force us to sacrifice men's lives. The Trappist monks at\nthe Tre Fontane are trying it, and dying by scores. Do you think I, or\nany other Roman, would send peasants to such a place, or could induce\nthem to go?\"\n\n\"Well, it is one of a great many questions which will be settled some\nday,\" said Del Fence. \"You will not deny that there is room for much\nimprovement in our country, and that an infusion of some progressist\nideas would be wholesome.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so; but you understand one thing by progress, and I understand\nquite another,\" replied Giovanni, eyeing in the bright distance the\nfigures of Donna Tullia and her friends, and regulating his pace so as\nnot to lessen the distance which separated them from him. He preferred\ntalking political economy with a man he disliked, to being obliged to\nmake conversation for Madame Mayer.\n\n\"I mean by progress, positive improvement without revolutionary change,\"\nexplained Del Ferice, using the phrase he had long since constructed as\nhis profession of faith to the world. Giovanni eyed him keenly for a\nmoment. He cared nothing for Ugo or his ideas, but he suspected him of\nvery different principles.\n\n\"You will pardon me,\" he said, civilly, \"if I venture to doubt whether\nyou have frankly expressed your views. I am under the impression that you\nreally connect the idea of improvement with a very positive revolutionary\nchange.\"\n\nDel Ferice did not wince, but he involuntarily cast a glance behind him.\nThose were times when people were cautious of being overheard. But Del\nFerice knew his man, and he knew that the only way in which he could\ncontinue the interview was to accept the imputation as though trusting\nimplicitly to the discretion of his companion.\n\n\"Will you give me a fair answer to a fair question?\" he asked, very\ngravely.\n\n\"Let me hear the question,\" returned Giovanni, indifferently. He also\nknew his man, and attached no more belief to anything he said than to the\nchattering of a parrot. And yet Del Ferice had not the reputation of a\nliar in the world at large.\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered Ugo. \"You are the heir of a family which from\nimmemorial time has opposed the popes. You cannot be supposed to feel any\nkind of loyal attachment to the temporal power. I do not know whether\nyou individually would support it or not. But frankly, how would you\nregard such a revolutionary change as you suspect me of desiring?\"\n\n\"I have no objection to telling you that. I would simply make the best of\nit.\"\n\nDel Ferice laughed at the ambiguous answer, affecting to consider it as a\nmere evasion.\n\n\"We should all try to do that,\" he answered; \"but what I mean to ask is,\nwhether you would personally take up arms to fight for the temporal\npower, or whether you would allow events to take their course? I fancy\nthat would be the ultimate test of loyalty.\"\n\n\"My instinct would certainly be to fight, whether fighting were of any\nuse or not. But the propriety of fighting in such a case is a very nice\nquestion of judgment. So long as there is anything to fight for, no\nmatter how hopeless the odds, a gentleman should go to the front--but no\nlonger. The question must be to decide the precise point at which the\nposition becomes untenable. So long as France makes our quarrels hers,\nevery man should give his personal assistance to the cause; but it is\nabsurd to suppose that if we were left alone, a handful of Romans against\na great Power, we could do more, or should do more, than make a formal\nshow of resistance. It has been a rule in all ages that a general,\nhowever brave, who sacrifices the lives of his soldiers in a perfectly\nhopeless resistance, rather than accept the terms of an honourable\ncapitulation, is guilty of a military crime.\"\n\n\"In other words,\" answered Del Ferice, quietly, \"if the French troops\nwere withdrawn, and the Italians were besieging Rome, you would at once\ncapitulate?\"\n\n\"Certainly--after making a formal protest. It would be criminal to\nsacrifice our fellow-citizens' lives in such a case.\"\n\n\"And then?\"\n\n\"Then, as I said before, I would make the best of it--not omitting to\ncongratulate Del Ferice upon obtaining a post in the new Government,\"\nadded Giovanni, with a laugh.\n\nBut Del Ferice took no notice of the jest.\n\n\"Do you not think that, aside from any question of sympathy or loyalty to\nthe holy Father, the change of government would be an immense advantage\nto Rome?\"\n\n\"No, I do not. To Italy the advantage would be inestimable; to Rome it\nwould be an injury. Italy would consolidate the prestige she began to\nacquire when Cavour succeeded in sending a handful of troops to the\nCrimea eleven years ago; she would at once take a high position as a\nEuropean Power--provided always that the smouldering republican element\nshould not break out in opposition to the constitutional monarchy. But\nRome would be ruined. She is no longer the geographical capital of\nItaly--she is not even the largest city; but in the course of a few\nyears, violent efforts would be made to give her a fictitious modern\ngrandeur, in the place of the moral importance she now enjoys as the\nheadquarters of the Catholic world. Those efforts at a spurious growth\nwould ruin her financially, and the hatred of Romans for Italians of the\nnorth would cause endless internal dissension. We should be subjected to\na system of taxation which would fall more heavily on us than on other\nItalians, in proportion as our land is less productive. On the whole, we\nshould grow rapidly poorer; for prices would rise, and we should have a\npaper currency instead of a metallic one. Especially we landed\nproprietors would suffer terribly by the Italian land system being\nsuddenly thrust upon us. To be obliged to sell one's acres to any peasant\nwho can scrape together enough to capitalise the pittance he now pays as\nrent, at five per cent, would scarcely be agreeable. Such a fellow, from\nwhom I have the greatest difficulty in extracting his yearly bushel of\ngrain, could borrow twenty bushels from a neighbour, or the value of\nthem, and buy me out without my consent--acquiring land worth ten times\nthe rent he and his father have paid for it, and his father before him.\nIt would produce an extraordinary state of things, I can assure you.\nNo--even putting aside what you call my sympathies and my loyalty to the\nPope--I do not desire any change. Nobody who owns much property does; the\nrevolutionary spirits are people who own nothing.\"\n\n\"On the other hand, those who own nothing, or next to nothing, are the\ngreat majority.\"\n\n\"Even if that is true, which I doubt, I do not see why the intelligent\nfew should be ruled by that same ignorant majority.\"\n\n\"But you forget that the majority is to be educated,\" objected Del\nFerice.\n\n\"Education is a term few people can define,\" returned Giovanni. \"Any good\nschoolmaster knows vastly more than you or I. Would you like to be\ngoverned by a majority of schoolmasters?\"\n\n\"That is a plausible argument,\" laughed Del Ferice, \"but it is not\nsound.\"\n\n\"It is not sound!\" repeated Giovanni, impatiently. \"People are so fond of\nexclaiming that what they do not like is not sound! Do you think that it\nwould not be a fair case to put five hundred schoolmasters against five\nhundred gentlemen of average education? I think it would be very fair.\nThe schoolmasters would certainly have the advantage in education: do you\nmean to say they would make better or wiser electors than the same number\nof gentlemen who cannot name all the cities and rivers in Italy, nor\ntranslate a page of Latin without a mistake, but who understand the\nconditions of property by practical experience as no schoolmaster can\npossibly understand them? I tell you it is nonsense. Education, of the\nkind which is of any practical value in the government of a nation, means\nthe teaching of human motives, of humanising ideas, of some system\nwhereby the majority of electors can distinguish the qualities of honesty\nand common-sense in the candidate they wish to elect. I do not pretend to\nsay what that system may be, but I assert that no education which does\nnot lead to that kind of knowledge is of any practical use to the voting\nmajority of a constitutionally governed country.\"\n\nDel Ferice sighed rather sadly.\n\n\"I am afraid you will not discover that system in Europe,\" he said. He\nwas disappointed in Giovanni, and in his hopes of detecting in him some\nsigns of a revolutionary spirit. Saracinesca was a gentleman of the old\nschool, who evidently despised majorities and modern political science as\na whole, who for the sake of his own interests desired no change from the\nGovernment under which he lived, and who would surely be the first to\ndraw the sword for the temporal power, and the last to sheathe it. His\ncalm judgment concerning the fallacy of holding a hopeless position would\nvanish like smoke if his fiery blood were once roused. He was so honest a\nman that even Del Ferice could not suspect him of parading views he did\nnot hold; and Ugo then and there abandoned all idea of bringing him into\npolitical trouble and disgrace, though he by no means gave up all hope of\nbeing able to ruin him in some other way.\n\n\"I agree with you there at least,\" said Saracinesca. \"The only\nimprovements worth having are certainly not to be found in Europe. Donna\nTullia is calling us. We had better join that harmless flock of lambs,\nand give over speculating on the advantages of allying ourselves with a\npack of wolves who will eat us up, house and home, bag and baggage.\"\n\nSo the whole party climbed again to their seats upon the drag, and\nValdarno drove them back into Rome by the Porta San Giovanni.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nCorona d'Astrardente had been educated in a convent--that is to say, she\nhad been brought up in the strict practice of her religion; and during\nthe five years which had elapsed since she had come out into the world,\nshe had found no cause for forsaking the habits she had acquired in her\ngirlhood. Some people find religion a burden; others regard it as an\nindifferently useless institution, in which they desire no share, and\nconcerning which they never trouble themselves; others, again, look upon\nit as the mainstay of their lives.\n\nIt is natural to suppose that the mode of thought and the habits acquired\nby young girls in a religious institution will not disappear without a\ntrace when they first go into the world, and it may even be expected that\nsome memory of the early disposition thus cultivated will cling to them\nthroughout their lives. But the multifarious interests of social\nexistence do much to shake that young edifice of faith. The driving\nstrength of stormy passions of all kinds undermines the walls of the\nfabric, and when at last the bolt of adversity strikes full upon the\nkeystone of the arch, upon the self of man or woman, weakened and\nloosened by the tempests of years, the whole palace of the soul falls in,\na hopeless wreck, wherein not even the memory of outline can be traced,\nnor the faint shadow of a beauty which is destroyed for ever.\n\nBut there are some whose interests in this world are not strong enough to\nshake their faith in the next; whose passions do not get the mastery, and\nwhose self is sheltered from danger by something more than the feeble\ndefence of an accomplished egotism. Corona was one of these, for her lot\nhad not been happy, nor her path strewn with roses.\n\nShe was a friendless woman, destined to suffer much, and her suffering\nwas the more intense that she seemed always upon the point of finding\nfriends in the world where she played so conspicuous a part. There can be\nlittle happiness when a whole life has been placed upon a false\nfoundation, even though so dire a mistake may have been committed\nwillingly and from a sense of duty and obligation, such as drove Corona\nto marry old Astrardente. Consolation is not satisfaction; and though,\nwhen she reflected on what she had done, she knew that from her point of\nview she had done her best, she knew also that she had closed upon\nherself the gates of the earthly paradise, and that for her the prospect\nof happiness had been removed from the now to the hereafter--the dim and\nshadowy glass in which we love to see any reflection save that of our\npresent lives. And to her, thus living in submission to the consequences\nof her choice, that faith in things better which had inspired her to\nsacrifice was the chief remaining source of consolation. There was a good\nman to whom she went for advice, as she had gone to him ever since she\ncould remember. When she found herself in trouble she never hesitated.\nPadre Filippo was to her the living proof of the possibility of human\ngoodness, as faith is to us all the evidence of things not seen.\n\nCorona was in trouble now--in a trouble so new that she hardly understood\nit, so terrible and yet so vague that she felt her peril imminent. She\ndid not hesitate, therefore, nor change her mind upon the morning\nfollowing the day of the meet, but drove to the church of the Capuchins\nin the Piazza Barberini, and went up the broad steps with a beating\nheart, not knowing how she should tell what she meant to tell, yet\nknowing that there was for her no hope of peace unless she told it\nquickly, and got that advice and direction she so earnestly craved.\n\nPadre Filippo had been a man of the world in his time--a man of great\ncultivation, full of refined tastes and understanding of tastes in\nothers, gentle and courteous in his manners, and very kind of heart. No\none knew whence he came. He spoke Italian correctly and with a keen\nscholarly use of words, but his slight accent betrayed his foreign birth.\nHe had been a Capuchin monk for many years, perhaps for more than half\nhis lifetime, and Corona could remember him from her childhood, for he\nhad been a friend of her father's; but he had not been consulted about\nher marriage,--she even remembered that, though she had earnestly desired\nto see him before the wedding-day, her father had told her that he had\nleft Rome for a time. For the old gentleman was in terrible earnest about\nthe match, so that in his heart he feared lest Corona might waver and ask\nPadre Filippo's advice; and he knew the good monk too well to think that\nhe would give his countenance to such a sacrifice as was contemplated\nin marrying the young girl to old Astrardente. Corona had known this\nlater, but had hardly realised the selfishness of her father, nor indeed\nhad desired to realise it. It was sufficient that he had died satisfied\nin seeing her married to a great noble, and that she had been able, in\nhis last days, to relieve him from the distress of debt and embarrassment\nwhich had doubtless contributed to shorten his life.\n\nThe proud woman who had thus once humbled herself for an object she\nthought good, had never referred to her action again. She had never\nspoken of her position to Padre Filippo, so that the monk wondered and\nadmired her steadfastness. If she suffered, it was in silence, without\ncomment and without complaint, and so she would have suffered to the end.\nBut it had been ordered otherwise. For months she had known that the\ninterest she felt in Giovanni Saracinesca was increasing: she had choked\nit down, had done all in her power to prove herself indifferent to him;\nbut at last the crisis had come. When he spoke to her of his marriage,\nshe had felt--she knew now that it was so--that she loved him. The very\nword, as she repeated it to herself, rang like an awful, almost\nincomprehensible, accusation of evil in her ears. One moment she stood at\nthe top of the steps outside the church, looking down at the bare\nstraggling trees below, and upward to the grey sky, against which the\nlofty eaves of the Palazzo Barberini stood out sharply defined. The\nweather had changed again, and a soft southerly wind was blowing the\nspray of the fountain half across the piazza. Corona paused, her graceful\nfigure half leaning against the stone doorpost of the church, her hand\nupon the heavy leathern curtain in the act to lift it; and as she stood\nthere, a desperate temptation assailed her. It seemed desperate to\nher--to many another woman it would have appeared only the natural course\nto pursue--to turn her back upon the church, to put off the hard moment\nof confession, to go down again into the city, and to say to herself that\nthere was no harm in seeing Don Giovanni, provided she never let him\nspeak of love. Why should he speak of it? Had she any reason to suppose\nthere was danger to her in anything he meant to say? Had he ever, by word\nor deed, betrayed that interest in her which she knew in herself was love\nfor him? Had he ever?--ah yes! It was only the night before last that he\nhad asked her advice, had besought her to advise him not to marry\nanother, had suffered his arm to tremble when she laid her hand upon it.\nIn the quick remembrance that he too had shown some feeling, there was a\nsudden burst of joy such as Corona had never felt, and a moment later she\nknew it and was afraid. It was true, then. At the very time when she was\nmost oppressed with the sense of her fault in loving him, there was an\ninward rejoicing in her heart at the bare thought that she loved him.\nCould a woman fall lower, she asked herself--lower than to delight in\nwhat she knew to be most bad? And yet it was such a poor little thrill of\npleasure after all; but it was the first she had ever known. To turn away\nand reflect for a few days would be so easy! It would be so sweet to\nthink of it, even though the excuse for thinking of Giovanni should be a\ngood determination to root him from her life. It would be so sweet to\ndrive again alone among the trees that very afternoon, and to weigh the\nsalvation of her soul in the balance of her heart: her heart would know\nhow to turn the scales, surely enough. Corona stood still, holding the\ncurtain in her hand. She was a brave woman, but she turned pale--not\nhesitating, she said to herself, but pausing. Then, suddenly, a great\nscorn of herself arose in her. Was it worthy of her even to pause in\ndoing right? The nobility of her courage cried loudly to her to go in and\ndo the thing most worthy: her hand lifted the heavy leathern apron, and\nshe entered the church.\n\nThe air within was heavy and moist, and the grey light fell coldly\nthrough the tall windows. Corona shuddered, and drew her furs more\nclosely about her as she passed up the aisle to the door of the sacristy.\nShe found the monk she sought, and she made her confession.\n\n\"Padre mio,\" she said at last, when the good man thought she had\nfinished--\"Padre mio, I am a very miserable woman.\" She hid her dark face\nin her ungloved hands, and one by one the crystal tears welled from her\neyes and trickled down upon her small fingers and upon the worn black\nwood of the confessional.\n\n\"My daughter,\" said the good monk, \"I will pray for you, others will pray\nfor you--but before all things, you must pray for yourself. And let me\nadvise you, my child, that as we are all led into temptation, we must\nnot think that because we have been in temptation we have sinned\nhopelessly; nor, if we have fought against the thing that tempts us,\nshould we at once imagine that we have overcome it, and have done\naltogether right. If there were no evil in ourselves, there could be no\ntemptation from without, for nothing evil could seem pleasant. But with\nyou I cannot find that you have done any great wrong as yet. You must\ntake courage. We are all in the world, and do what we may, we cannot\ndisregard it. The sin you see is real, but it is yet not very near you\nsince you so abhor it; and if you pray that you may hate it, it will go\nfurther from you till you may hope not even to understand how it could\nonce have been so near. Take courage--take comfort. Do not be morbid.\nResist temptation, but do not analyse it nor yourself too closely; for\nit is one of the chief signs of evil in us that when we dwell too much\nupon ourselves and upon our temptations, we ourselves seem good in our\nown eyes, and our temptations not unpleasant, because the very resisting\nof them seems to make us appear better than we are.\"\n\nBut the tears still flowed from Corona's eyes in the dark corner of the\nchurch, and she could not be comforted.\n\n\"Padre mio,\" she repeated, \"I am very unhappy. I have not a friend in the\nworld to whom I can speak. I have never seen my life before as I see it\nnow. God forgive me, I have never loved my husband. I never knew what it\nmeant to love. I was a mere child, a very innocent child, when I was\nmarried to him. I would have sought your advice, but they told me you\nwere away, and I thought I was doing right in obeying my father.\"\n\nPadre Filippo sighed. He had long known and understood why Corona had not\nbeen allowed to come to him at the most important moment of her life.\n\n\"My husband is very kind to me,\" she continued in broken tones. \"He loves\nme in his way, but I do not love him. That of itself is a great sin. It\nseems to me as though I saw but one half of life, and saw it from the\nwindow of a prison; and yet I am not imprisoned. I would that I were, for\nI should never have seen another man. I should never have heard his\nvoice, nor seen his face, nor--nor loved him, as I do love him,\" she\nsobbed.\n\n\"Hush, my daughter,\" said the old monk, very gently. \"You told me you had\nnever spoken of love; that you were interested in him, indeed, but that\nyou did not know--\"\n\n\"I know--I know now,\" cried Corona, losing all control as the passionate\ntears flowed down. \"I could not say it--it seemed so dreadful--I love him\nwith my whole self! I can never get it out--it burns me. O God, I am so\nwretched!\"\n\nPadre Filippo was silent for a while. It was a terrible case. He could\nnot remember in all his experience to have known one more sad to\ncontemplate, though his business was with the sins and the sorrows of the\nworld. The beautiful woman kneeling outside his confessional was\ninnocent--as innocent as a child, brave and faithful. She had sacrificed\nher whole life for her father, who had been little worthy of such\ndevotion; she had borne for years the suffering of being tied to an old\nman whom she could not help despising, however honestly she tried to\nconceal the fact from herself, however effectually she hid it from\nothers. It was a wonder the disaster had not occurred before: it showed\nhow loyal and true a woman she was, that, living in the very centre and\nmidst of the world, admired and assailed by many, she should never in\nfive years have so much as thought of any man beside her husband. A woman\nmade for love and happiness, in the glory of beauty and youth, capable\nof such unfaltering determination in her loyalty, so good, so noble, so\ngenerous,--it seemed unspeakably pathetic to hear her weeping her heart\nout, and confessing that, after so many struggles and efforts and\nsacrifices, she had at last met the common fate of all humanity, and\nwas become subject to love. What might have been her happiness was turned\nto dishonour; what should have been the pride of her young life was made\na reproach.\n\nShe would not fall. The grey-haired monk believed that, in his great\nknowledge of mankind. But she would suffer terribly, and it might be that\nothers would suffer also. It was the consequence of an irretrievable\nerror in the beginning, when it had seemed to the young girl just\nleaving the convent that the best protection against the world of evil\ninto which she was to go would be the unconditional sacrifice of herself.\n\nPadre Filippo was silent. He hoped that the passionate outburst of grief\nand self-reproach would pass, though he himself could find little enough\nto say. It was all too natural. What was he, he thought, that he should\nexplain away nature, and bid a friendless woman defy a power that has\nmore than once overset the reckoning of the world? He could bid her pray\nfor help and strength, but he found it hard to argue the case with her;\nfor he had to allow that his beautiful penitent was, after all, only\nexperiencing what it might have been foretold that she must feel, and\nthat, as far as he could see, she was struggling bravely against the\ndangers of her situation.\n\nCorona cried bitterly as she knelt there. It was a great relief to give\nway for a time to the whole violence of what she felt. It may be that in\nher tears there was a subtle instinctive knowledge that she was weeping\nfor her love as well as for her sin in loving, but her grief was none\nthe less real. She did not understand herself. She did not know, as Padre\nFilippo knew, that her woman's heart was breaking for sympathy rather\nthan for religious counsel. She knew many women, but her noble pride\nwould not have let her even contemplate the possibility of confiding in\nany one of them, even if she could have done so in the certainty of not\nbeing herself betrayed and of not betraying the man she loved. She had\nbeen accustomed to come to her confessor for counsel, and she now came to\nhim with her troubles and craved sympathy for them, in the knowledge that\nPadre Filippo could never know the name of the man who had disturbed her\npeace.\n\nBut the monk understood well enough, and his kind heart comprehended hers\nand felt for her.\n\n\"My daughter,\" he said at last, when she seemed to have grown more calm,\n\"it would be an inestimable advantage if this man could go away for a\ntime, but that is probably not to be expected. Meanwhile, you must not\nlisten to him if he speaks--\"\n\n\"It is not that,\" interrupted Corona--\"it is not that. He never speaks of\nlove. Oh, I really believe he does not love me at all!\" But in her heart\nshe felt that he must love her; and her hand, as it lay upon the hard\nwood of the confessional, seemed still to feel his trembling arm.\n\n\"That is so much the better, my child,\" said the monk, quietly. \"For if\nhe does not love you, your temptations will not grow stronger.\"\n\n\"And yet, perhaps--he may--\" murmured Corona, feeling that it would be\nwrong even to conceal her faintest suspicions at such a time.\n\n\"Let there be no perhaps,\" answered Padre Filippo, almost sternly. \"Let\nit never enter your mind that he might love you. Think that even from the\nworldly point there is small dignity in a woman who exhibits love for a\nman who has never mentioned love to her. You have no reason to suppose\nyou are loved save that you desire to be. Let there be no perhaps.\"\n\nThe monk's keen insight into character had given him an unexpected weapon\nin Corona's defence. He knew how of all things a proud woman hates to\nknow that where she has placed her heart there is no response, and that\nif she fails to awaken an affection akin to her own, what has been love\nmay be turned to loathing, or at least to indifference. The strong\ncharacter of the Duchessa d'Astrardente responded to his touch as he\nexpected. Her tears ceased to flow, and her scorn rose haughtily against\nherself.\n\n\"It is true. I am despicable,\" she said, suddenly. \"You have shown me\nmyself. There shall be no perhaps. I loathe myself for thinking of it.\nPray for me, lest I fall so low again.\"\n\nA few minutes later Corona left the confessional and went and kneeled in\nthe body of the church to collect her thoughts. She was in a very\ndifferent frame of mind from that in which she had left home an hour ago.\nShe hardly knew whether she felt herself a better woman, but she was\nsure that she was stronger. There was no desire left in her to meditate\nsadly upon her sorrow--to go over and over in her thoughts the feelings\nshe experienced, the fears she felt, the half-formulated hope that\nGiovanni might love her after all. There was left only a haughty\ndetermination to have done with her folly quickly and surely, and to try\nand forget it for ever. The confessor's words had produced their effect.\nHenceforth she would never stoop so low again. She was ready to go out\ninto the world now, and she felt no fear. It was more from habit than for\nthe sake of saying a prayer that she knelt in the church after her\nconfession, for she felt very strong. She rose to her feet presently, and\nmoved towards the door: she had not gone half the length of the church\nwhen she came face to face with Donna Tullia Mayer.\n\nIt was a strange coincidence. The ladies of Rome frequently go to the\nchurch of the Capuchins, as Corona had done, to seek the aid and counsel\nof Padre Filippo, but Corona had never met Donna Tullia there. Madame\nMayer did not profess to be very devout. As a matter of fact, she had not\nfound it convenient to go to confession during the Christmas season, and\nshe had been intending to make up for the deficiency for some time past;\nbut it is improbable that she would have decided upon fulfilling her\nreligious obligations before Lent if she had not chanced to see the\nDuchessa d'Astrardente's carriage standing at the foot of the church\nsteps.\n\nDonna Tullia had risen early because she was going to sit for her\nportrait to a young artist who lived in the neighbourhood of the Piazza\nBarberini, and as she passed in her brougham she caught sight of the\nDuchessa's liveries. The artist could wait half an hour: the opportunity\nwas admirable. She was alone, and would not only do her duty in going to\nconfession, but would have a chance of seeing how Corona looked when she\nhad been at her devotions. It might also be possible to judge from Padre\nFilippo's manner whether the interview had been an interesting one. The\nAstrardente was so very devout that she probably had difficulty in\ninventing sins to confess. One might perhaps tell from her face whether\nshe had felt any emotion. At all events the opportunity should not be\nlost. Besides, if Donna Tullia found that she herself was really not in a\nproper frame of mind for religious exercises, she could easily spend a\nfew moments in the church and then proceed upon her way. She stopped her\ncarriage and went in. She had just entered when she was aware of the tall\nfigure of Corona d'Astrardente coming towards her, magnificent in the\nsimplicity of her furs, a short veil just covering half her face, and an\nunwonted colour in her dark cheeks.\n\nCorona was surprised at meeting Madame Mayer, but she did not show it.\nShe nodded with a sufficiently pleasant smile, and would have passed on.\nThis would not have suited Donna Tullia's intentions, however, for she\nmeant to have a good look at her friend. It was not for nothing that she\nhad made up her mind to go to confession at a moment's notice. She\ntherefore stopped the Duchessa, and insisted upon shaking hands.\n\n\"What an extraordinary coincidence!\" she exclaimed. \"You must have been\nto see Padre Filippo too?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Corona. \"You will find him in the sacristy.\" She noticed\nthat Madame Mayer regarded her with great interest. Indeed she could\nhardly be aware how unlike her usual self she appeared. There were dark\nrings beneath her eyes, and her eyes themselves seemed to emit a strange\nlight; while an unwonted colour illuminated her olive cheeks, and her\nvoice had a curiously excited tone. Madame Mayer stared at her so hard\nthat she noticed it.\n\n\"Why do you look at me like that?\" asked the Duchessa, with a smile.\n\n\"I was wondering what in the world you could find to confess,\" replied\nDonna Tullia, sweetly. \"You are so immensely good, you see; everybody\nwonders at you.\"\n\nCorona's eyes flashed darkly. She suspected that Madame Mayer noticed\nsomething unusual in her appearance, and had made the awkward speech to\nconceal her curiosity. She was annoyed at the meeting, still more at\nbeing detained in conversation within the church.\n\n\"It is very kind of you to invest me with such virtues,\" she answered. \"I\nassure you I am not half so good as you suppose. Good-bye--I must be\ngoing home.\"\n\n\"Stay!\" exclaimed Donna Tullia; \"I can go to confession another time.\nWill not you come with me to Gouache's studio? I am going to sit. It is\nsuch a bore to go alone.\"\n\n\"Thank you very much,\" said Corona, civilly. \"I am afraid I cannot go. My\nhusband expects me at home. I wish you a good sitting.\"\n\n\"Well, good-bye. Oh, I forgot to tell you, we had such a charming picnic\nyesterday. It was so fortunate--the only fine day this week. Giovanni was\nvery amusing: he was completely _en train_, and kept us laughing the\nwhole day. Good-bye; I do so wish you had come.\"\n\n\"I was very sorry,\" answered Corona, quietly, \"but it was impossible. I\nam glad you all enjoyed it so much. Good-bye.\"\n\nSo they parted.\n\n\"How she wishes that same husband of hers would follow the example of my\nexcellent old Mayer, of blessed memory, and take himself out of the world\nto-day or to-morrow!\" thought Donna Tullia, as she walked up the church.\n\nShe was sure something unusual had occurred, and she longed to fathom the\nmystery. But she was not altogether a bad woman, and when she had\ncollected her thoughts she made up her mind that even by the utmost\nstretch of moral indulgence, she could not consider herself in a proper\nstate to undertake so serious a matter as confession. She therefore\nwaited a few minutes, to give time for Corona to drive away, and then\nturned back. She cautiously pushed aside the curtain and looked out.\nThe Astrardente carriage was just disappearing in the distance. Donna\nTullia descended the steps, got into her brougham, and proceeded to the\nstudio of Monsieur Anastase Gouache, the portrait-painter. She had not\naccomplished much, save to rouse her curiosity, and that parting thrust\nconcerning Don Giovanni had been rather ill-timed.\n\nShe drove to the door of the studio and found Del Ferice waiting for her\nas usual. If Corona had accompanied her, she would have expressed\nastonishment at finding him; but, as a matter of fact, Ugo always met\nher there, and helped to pass the time while she was sitting. He was very\namusing, and not altogether unsympathetic to her; and moreover, he\nprofessed for her the most profound devotion--genuine, perhaps, and\ncertainly skilfully expressed. If any one had paid much attention to Del\nFence's doings, it would have been said that he was paying court to the\nrich young widow. But he was never looked upon by society from the point\nof view of matrimonial possibility, and no one thought of attaching any\nimportance to his doings. Nevertheless Ugo, who had been gradually rising\nin the social scale for many years, saw no reason why he should not win\nthe hand of Donna Tullia as well as any one else, if only Giovanni\nSaracinesca could be kept out of the way; and he devoted himself with\nbecoming assiduity to the service of the widow, while doing his utmost to\npromote Giovanni's attachment for the Astrardente, which he had been the\nfirst to discover. Donna Tullia would probably have laughed to scorn the\nidea that Del Ferice could think of himself seriously as a suitor, but of\nall her admirers she found him the most constant and the most convenient.\n\n\"What are the news this morning?\" she asked, as he opened her\ncarriage-door for her before the studio.\n\n\"None, save that I am your faithful slave as ever,\" he answered.\n\n\"I have just seen the Astrardente,\" said Donna Tullia, still sitting in\nher seat. \"I will let you guess where it was that we met.\"\n\n\"You met in the church of the Capuchins,\" replied Del Ferice promptly,\nwith a smile of satisfaction.\n\n\"You are a sorcerer: how did you know? Did you guess it?\"\n\n\"If you will look down this street from where I stand, you will perceive\nthat I could distinctly see any carriage which turned out of the Piazza\nBarberini towards the Capuchins,\" replied Ugo. \"She was there nearly an\nhour, and you only stayed five minutes.\"\n\n\"How dreadful it is to be watched like this!\" exclaimed Donna Tullia,\nwith a little laugh, half expressive of satisfaction and half of\namusement at Del Fence's devotion.\n\n\"How can I help watching you, as the earth watches the sun in its daily\ncourse?\" said Ugo, with a sentimental intonation of his soft persuasive\nvoice. Donna Tullia looked at his smooth face, and laughed again, half\nkindly.\n\n\"The Astrardente had been confessing her sins,\" she remarked.\n\n\"Again? She is always confessing.\"\n\n\"What do you suppose she finds to say?\" asked Donna Tullia.\n\n\"That her husband is hideous, and that you are beautiful,\" answered Del\nFerice, readily enough.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because she hates her husband and hates you.\"\n\n\"Why, again?\"\n\n\"Because you took Giovanni Saracinesca to your picnic yesterday; because\nyou are always taking him away from her. For the matter of that, I hate\nhim as much as the Astrardente hates you,\" added Del Ferice, with an\nagreeable smile. Donna Tullia did not despise flattery, but Ugo made her\nthoughtful.\n\n\"Do you think she really cares--?\" she asked.\n\n\"As surely as that he does not,\" replied Del Ferice.\n\n\"It would be strange,\" said Donna Tullia, meditatively. \"I would like to\nknow if it is true.\"\n\n\"You have only to watch them.\"\n\n\"Surely Giovanni cares more than she does,\" objected Madame Mayer.\n\"Everybody says he loves her; nobody says she loves him.\"\n\n\"All the more reason. Popular report is always mistaken--except\nin regard to you.\"\n\n\"To me?\"\n\n\"Since it ascribes to you so much that is good, it cannot be wrong,\"\nreplied Del Ferice.\n\nDonna Tullia laughed, and took his hand to descend from her carriage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nMonsieur Gouache's studio was on the second floor. The narrow flight of\nsteps ended abruptly against a green door, perforated by a slit for the\ninsertion of letters, by a shabby green cord which, being pulled, rang a\nfeeble bell, and adorned by a visiting-card, whereon with many\nsuperfluous flourishes and ornaments of caligraphy was inscribed the name\nof the artist--ANASTASE GOUACHE.\n\nThe door being opened by a string, Donna Tullia and Del Ferice entered,\nand mounting half-a-dozen more steps, found themselves in the studio, a\nspacious room with a window high above the floor, half shaded by a\ncurtain of grey cotton. In one corner an iron stove gave out loud\ncracking sounds, pleasant to hear on the damp winter's morning, and the\nflame shone red through chinks of the rusty door. A dark-green carpet in\npassably good condition covered the floor; three or four broad divans,\nspread with oriental rugs, and two very much dilapidated carved chairs\nwith leathern seats, constituted the furniture; the walls were hung with\nsketches of heads and figures; half-finished portraits stood upon two\neasels, and others were leaning together in a corner; a couple of small\ntables were covered with colour-tubes, brushes, and palette-knives;\nmingled odours of paint, varnish, and cigarette-smoke pervaded the air;\nand, lastly, upon a high stool before one of the easels, his sleeves\nturned up to the elbow, and his feet tucked in upon a rail beneath him,\nsat Anastase Gouache himself.\n\nHe was a man of not more than seven-and-twenty years, with delicate pale\nfeatures, and an abundance of glossy black hair. A small and very much\npointed moustache shaded his upper lip, and the extremities thereof rose\nshort and perpendicular from the corners of his well-shaped mouth. His\neyes were dark and singularly expressive, his forehead low and very\nbroad; his hands were sufficiently nervous and well knit, but white as a\nwoman's, and the fingers tapered delicately to the tips. He wore a brown\nvelvet coat more or less daubed with paint, and his collar was low at the\nthroat.\n\nHe sprang from his high stool as Donna Tullia and Del Ferice entered, his\npalette and mahl-stick in his hand, and made a most ceremonious bow;\nwhereat Donna Tullia laughed gaily.\n\n\"Well, Gouache,\" she said familiarly, \"what have you been doing?\"\n\nAnastase motioned to her to come before his canvas and contemplate the\nportrait of herself upon which he was working. It was undeniably good--a\nstriking figure in full-length, life-size, and breathing with Donna\nTullia's vitality, if also with something of her coarseness.\n\n\"Ah, my friend,\" remarked Del Ferice, \"you will never be successful until\nyou take my advice.\"\n\n\"I think it is very like,\" said Donna Tullia, thoughtfully.\n\n\"You are too modest,\" answered Del Ferice. \"There is the foundation of\nlikeness, but it lacks yet the soul.\"\n\n\"Oh, but that will come,\" returned Madame Mayer. Then turning to the\nartist, she added in a more doubtful voice, \"Perhaps, as Del Ferice says,\nyou might give it a little more expression--what shall I say?--more\npoetry.\"\n\nAnastase Gouache smiled a fine smile. He was a man of immense talent;\nsince he had won the Prix de Rome he had made great progress, and was\nalready half famous with that young celebrity which young men easily\nmistake for fame itself. A new comet visible only through a good glass\ncauses a deal of talk and speculation in the world; but unless it comes\nnear enough to brush the earth with its tail, it is very soon forgotten.\nBut Gouache seemed to understand this, and worked steadily on. When\nMadame Mayer expressed a wish for a little more poetry in her portrait,\nhe smiled, well knowing that poetry was as far removed from her nature as\ndry champagne is different in quality from small beer.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said; \"I know--I am only too conscious of that defect.\" As\nindeed he was--conscious of the defect of it in herself. But he had many\nreasons for not wishing to quarrel with Donna Tullia, and he swallowed\nhis artistic convictions in a rash resolve to make her look like an\ninspired prophetess rather than displease her.\n\n\"If you will sit down, I will work upon the head,\" he said; and moving\none of the old carved chairs into position for her, he adjusted the light\nand began to work without any further words. Del Ferice installed himself\nupon a divan whence he could see Donna Tullia and her portrait, and the\nsitting began. It might have continued for some time in a profound\nsilence as far as the two men were concerned, but silence was not\nbearable for long to Donna Tullia.\n\n\"What were you and Saracinesca talking about yesterday?\" she asked\nsuddenly, looking towards Del Ferice.\n\n\"Politics,\" he answered, and was silent.\n\n\"Well?\" inquired Madame Mayer, rather anxiously.\n\n\"I am sure you know his views as well as I,\" returned Del Ferice, rather\ngloomily. \"He is stupid and prejudiced.\"\n\n\"Really?\" ejaculated Gouache, with innocent surprise. \"A little more\ntowards me, Madame. Thank you--so.\" And he continued painting.\n\n\"You are absurd, Del Ferice!\" exclaimed Donna Tullia, colouring a little.\n\"You think every one prejudiced and stupid who does not agree with you.\"\n\n\"With me? With you, with us, you should say. Giovanni is a specimen of\nthe furious Conservative, who hates change and has a cold chill at the\nword 'republic' Do you call that intelligent?\"\n\n\"Giovanni is intelligent for all that,\" answered Madame Mayer. \"I am not\nsure that he is not more intelligent than you--in some ways,\" she added,\nafter allowing her rebuke to take effect.\n\nDel Ferice smiled blandly. It was not his business to show that he was\nhurt.\n\n\"In one thing he is stupid compared with me,\" he replied. \"He is very far\nfrom doing justice to your charms. It must be a singular lack of\nintelligence which prevents him from seeing that you are as beautiful as\nyou are charming. Is it not so, Gouache?\"\n\n\"Does any one deny it?\" asked the Frenchman, with an air of devotion.\n\nMadame Mayer blushed with annoyance; both because she coveted Giovanni's\nadmiration more than that of other men, and knew that she had not won it,\nand because she hated to feel that Del Ferice was able to wound her so\neasily. To cover her discomfiture she returned to the subject of\npolitics.\n\n\"We talk a great deal of our convictions,\" she said; \"but in the\nmeanwhile we must acknowledge that we have accomplished nothing at all.\nWhat is the good of our meeting here two or three times a-week, meeting\nin society, whispering together, corresponding in cipher, and doing all\nmanner of things, when everything goes on just the same as before?\"\n\n\"Better give it up and join Don Giovanni and his party,\" returned Del\nFerice, with a sneer. \"He says if a change comes he will make the best of\nit. Of course, we could not do better.\"\n\n\"With us it is so easy,\" said Gouache, thoughtfully. \"A handful of\nstudents, a few paving-stones, 'Vive la R\u00e9publique!' and we have a tumult\nin no time.\"\n\nThat was not the kind of revolution in which Del Ferice proposed to have\na hand. He meditated playing a very small part in some great movement;\nand when the fighting should be over, he meant to exaggerate the part he\nhad played, and claim a substantial reward. For a good title and twenty\nthousand francs a-year he would have become as stanch for the temporal\npower as any canon of St. Peter's. When he had begun talking of\nrevolutions to Madame Mayer and to half-a-dozen harebrained youths, of\nwhom Gouache the painter was one, he had not really the slightest idea of\naccomplishing anything. He took advantage of the prevailing excitement\nin order to draw Donna Tullia into a closer confidence than he could\notherwise have aspired to obtain. He wanted to marry her, and every new\npower he could obtain over her was a step towards his goal. Neither she\nnor her friends were of the stuff required for revolutionary work; but\nDel Ferice had hopes that, by means of the knot of malcontents he was\ngradually drawing together, he might ruin Giovanni Saracinesca, and get\nthe hand of Donna Tullia in marriage. He himself was indeed deeply\nimplicated in the plots of the Italian party; but he was only employed as\na spy, and in reality knew no more of the real intentions of those he\nserved than did Donna Tullia herself. But the position was sufficiently\nlucrative; so much so that he had been obliged to account for his\naccession of fortune by saying that an uncle of his had died and left him\nmoney.\n\n\"If you expected Don Giovanni to join a mob of students in tearing up\npaving-stones and screaming 'Vive la R\u00e9publique!' I am not surprised that\nyou are disappointed in your expectations,\" said Donna Tullia, rather\nscornfully.\n\n\"That is only Gouache's idea of a popular movement,\" answered Del Ferice.\n\n\"And yours,\" returned Anastase, lowering his mahl-stick and brushes, and\nturning sharply upon the Italian--\"yours would be to begin by stabbing\nCardinal Antonelli in the back.\"\n\n\"You mistake me, my friend,\" returned Del Ferice, blandly. \"If you\nvolunteered to perform that service to Italy, I would certainly not\ndissuade you. But I would certainly not offer you my assistance.\"\n\n\"Fie! How can you talk like that of murder!\" exclaimed Donna Tullia. \"Go\non with your painting, Gouache, and do not be ridiculous.\"\n\n\"The question of tyrannicide is marvellously interesting,\" answered\nAnastase in a meditative tone, as he resumed his work, and glanced\ncritically from Madame Mayer to his canvas and back again.\n\n\"It belongs to a class of actions at which Del Ferice rejoices, but in\nwhich he desires no part,\" said Donna Tullia.\n\n\"It seems to me wiser to contemplate accomplishing the good result\nwithout any unnecessary and treacherous bloodshed,\" answered Del Ferice,\nsententiously. Again Gouache smiled in his delicate satirical fashion,\nand glanced at Madame Mayer, who burst into a laugh.\n\n\"Moral reflections never sound so especially and ridiculously moral as in\nyour mouth, Ugo,\" she said.\n\n\"Why?\" he asked, in an injured tone.\n\n\"I am sure I do not know. Of course, we all would like to see Victor\nEmmanuel in the Quirinal, and Rome the capital of a free Italy. Of course\nwe would all like to see it accomplished without murder or bloodshed; but\nsomehow, when you put it into words, it sounds very absurd.\"\n\nIn her brutal fashion Madame Mayer had hit upon a great truth, and Del\nFerice was very much annoyed. He knew himself to be a scoundrel; he knew\nMadame Mayer to be a woman of very commonplace intellect; he wondered\nwhy he was not able to deceive her more effectually. He was often able to\ndirect her, he sometimes elicited from her some expression of admiration\nat his astuteness; but in spite of his best efforts, she saw through him\nand understood him better than he liked.\n\n\"I am sorry,\" he said, \"that what is honourable should sound ridiculous\nwhen it comes from me. I like to think sometimes that you believe in me.\"\n\n\"Oh, I do,\" protested Donna Tullia, with a sudden change of manner. \"I\nwas only laughing. I think you are really in earnest. Only, you know,\nnowadays, it is not the fashion to utter moralities in a severe tone,\nwith an air of conviction. A little dash of cynicism--you know, a sort of\nhalf sneer--is so much more _chic_; it gives a much higher idea of the\nmorality, because it conveys the impression that it is utterly beyond\nyou. Ask Gouache--\"\n\n\"By all means,\" said the artist, squeezing a little more red from the\ntube upon his palette, \"one should always sneer at what one cannot reach.\nThe fox, you remember, called the grapes sour. He was probably right, for\nhe is the most intelligent of animals.\"\n\n\"I would like to hear what Giovanni had to say about those grapes,\"\nremarked Donna Tullia.\n\n\"Oh, he sneered in the most fashionable way,\" answered Del Ferice. \"He\nwould have pleased you immensely. He said that he would be ruined by a\nchange of government, and that he thought it his duty to fight against\nit. He talked a great deal about the level of the Tiber, and landed\nproperty, and the duties of gentlemen. And he ended by saying he would\nmake the best of any change that happened to come about, like a\nthoroughgoing egotist, as he is!\"\n\n\"I would like to hear what you think of Don Giovanni Saracinesca,\" said\nGouache; \"and then I would like to hear what he thinks of you.\"\n\n\"I can tell you both,\" answered Del Fence. \"I think of him that he is a\nthorough aristocrat, full of prejudices and money, unwilling to sacrifice\nhis convictions to his wealth or his wealth to his convictions,\nintelligent in regard to his own interests and blind to those of others,\nimbued with a thousand and one curious feudal notions, and overcome with\na sense of his own importance.\"\n\n\"And what does he think of you?\" asked Anastase, working busily.\n\n\"Oh, it is very simple,\" returned Del Ferice, with a laugh. \"He thinks I\nam a great scoundrel.\"\n\n\"Really! How strange! I should not have said that.\"\n\n\"What? That Del Fence is a scoundrel?\" asked Donna Tullia, laughing.\n\n\"No; I should not have said it,\" repeated Anastase, thoughtfully. \"I\nshould say that our friend Del Ferice is a man of the most profound\nphilanthropic convictions, nobly devoting his life to the pursuit of\nliberty, fraternity, and equality.\"\n\n\"Do you really think so?\" asked Donna Tullia, with a half-comic glance at\nUgo, who looked uncommonly grave.\n\n\"Madame,\" returned Gouache, \"I never permit myself to think otherwise of\nany of my friends.\"\n\n\"Upon my word,\" remarked Del Fence, \"I am delighted at the compliment, my\ndear fellow; but I must infer that your judgment of your friends is\nsingularly limited.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" answered Gouache. \"But the number of my friends is not large,\nand I myself am very enthusiastic. I look forward to the day when\n'liberty, equality, and fraternity' shall be inscribed in letters of\nflame, in the most expensive Bengal lights if you please, over the _porte\ncoch\u00e8re_ of every palace in Rome, not to mention the churches. I look\nforward to that day, but I have not the slightest expectation of ever\nseeing it. Moreover, if it ever comes, I will pack up my palette and\nbrushes and go somewhere else by the nearest route.\"\n\n\"Good heavens, Gouache!\" exclaimed Donna Tullia; \"how can you talk like\nthat? It is really dreadfully irreverent to jest about our most sacred\nconvictions, or to say that we desire to see those words written over the\ndoors of our churches!\"\n\n\"I am not jesting. I worship Victor Hugo. I love to dream of the\nuniversal republic--it has immense artistic attractions--the fierce\nyelling crowd, the savage faces, the red caps, the terrible m\u00e6nad women\nurging the brawny ruffians on to shed more blood, the lurid light of\nburning churches, the pale and trembling victims dragged beneath the\npoised knife,--ah, it is superb, it has stupendous artistic capabilities!\nBut for myself--bah! I am a good Catholic--I wish nobody any harm, for\nlife is very gay after all.\"\n\nAt this remarkable exposition of Anastase Gouache's views in regard to\nthe utility of revolutions, Del Ferice laughed loudly; but Anastase\nremained perfectly grave, for he was perfectly sincere. Del Ferice, to\nwhom the daily whispered talk of revolution in Donna Tullia's circle was\nmere child's play, was utterly indifferent, and suffered himself to be\namused by the young artist's vagaries. But Donna Tullia, who longed to\nsee herself the centre of a real plot, thought that she was being\nlaughed at, and pouted her red lips and frowned her displeasure.\n\n\"I believe you have no convictions!\" she said angrily. \"While we are\nrisking our lives and fortunes for the good cause, you sit here in your\nstudio dreaming of barricades and guillotines, merely as subjects for\npictures--you even acknowledge that in case we produce a revolution\nyou would go away.\"\n\n\"Not without finishing this portrait,\" returned Anastase, quite unmoved.\n\"It is an exceedingly good likeness; and in case you should ever\ndisappear--you know people sometimes do in revolutions--or if by any\nunlucky accident your beautiful neck should chance beneath that\nguillotine you just mentioned,--why, then, this canvas would be the most\ndelightful souvenir of many pleasant mornings, would it not?\"\n\n\"You are incorrigible,\" said Donna Tullia, with a slight laugh. \"You\ncannot be serious for a moment.\"\n\n\"It is very hard to paint you when your expression changes so often,\"\nreplied Anastase, calmly.\n\n\"I am not in a good humour for sitting to you this morning. I wish you\nwould amuse me, Del Ferice. You generally can.\"\n\n\"I thought politics amused you--\"\n\n\"They interest me. But Gouache's ideas are detestable.\"\n\n\"Will you not give us some of your own, Madame?\" inquired the painter,\nstepping back from his canvas to get a better view of his work.\n\n\"Oh, mine are very simple,\" answered Donna Tullia. \"Victor Emmanuel,\nGaribaldi, and a free press.\"\n\n\"A combination of monarchy, republicanism, and popular education--not\nvery interesting,\" remarked Gouache, still eyeing his picture.\n\n\"No; there would be nothing for you to paint, except portraits of the\nliberators--\"\n\n\"There is a great deal of that done. I have seen them in every caf\u00e9 in\nthe north of Italy,\" interrupted the artist. \"I would like to paint\nGaribaldi. He has a fine head.\"\n\n\"I will ask him to sit to you when he comes here.\"\n\n\"When he comes I shall be here no longer,\" answered Gouache. \"They will\nwhitewash the Corso, they will make a restaurant of the Colosseum, and\nthey will hoist the Italian flag on the cross of St. Peter's. Then I will\ngo to Constantinople; there will still be some years before Turkey is\nmodernised.\"\n\n\"Artists are hopeless people,\" said Del Ferice. \"They are utterly\nillogical, and it is impossible to deal with them. If you like old\ncities, why do you not like old women? Why would you not rather paint\nDonna Tullia's old Countess than Donna Tullia herself?\"\n\n\"That is precisely the opposite case,\" replied Anastase, quietly. \"The\nworks of man are never so beautiful as when they are falling to decay;\nthe works of God are most beautiful when they are young. You might as\nwell say that because wine improves with age, therefore horses do\nlikewise. The faculty of comparison is lacking in your mind, my dear Del\nFerice, as it is generally lacking in the minds of true patriots. Great\nreforms and great revolutions are generally brought about by people of\nfierce and desperate convictions, like yours, who go to extreme lengths,\nand never know when to stop. The quintessence of an artist's talent is\nprecisely that faculty of comparison, that gift of knowing when the thing\nhe is doing corresponds as nearly as he can make it with the thing he has\nimagined.\"\n\nThere was no tinge of sarcasm in Gouache's voice as he imputed to Del\nFerice the savage enthusiasm of a revolutionist. But when Gouache, who\nwas by no means calm by nature, said anything in a particularly gentle\ntone, there was generally a sting in it, and Del Ferice reflected upon\nthe mean traffic in stolen information by which he got his livelihood,\nand was ashamed. Somehow, too, Donna Tullia felt that the part she\nfancied herself playing was contemptible enough when compared with the\nhard work, the earnest purpose, and the remarkable talent of the young\nartist. But though she felt her inferiority, she would have died rather\nthan own it, even to Del Ferice. She knew that for months she had talked\nwith Del Ferice, with Valdarno, with Casalverde, even with the melancholy\nand ironical Spicca, concerning conspiracies and deeds of darkness of all\nkinds, and she knew that she and they might go on talking for ever in the\nsame strain without producing the smallest effect on events; but she\nnever to the very end relinquished the illusion she cherished so dearly,\nthat she was really and truly a conspirator, and that if any one of her\nlight-headed acquaintance betrayed the rest, they might all be ordered\nout of Rome in four-and-twenty hours, or might even disappear into that\nlong range of dark buildings to the left of the colonnade of St. Peter's,\nmartyrs to the cause of their own self-importance and semi-theatrical\nvanity. There were many knots of such self-fancied conspirators in those\ndays, whose wildest deed of daring was to whisper across a glass of\nchampagne in a ball-room, or over a tumbler of Velletri wine in a\nTrasteverine cellar, the magic and awe-inspiring words, \"Viva Garibaldi!\nViva Vittorio!\" They accomplished nothing. The same men and women are now\ngrumbling and regretting the flesh-pots of the old Government, or\nwhispering in impotent discontent \"Viva la Repubblica!\" and they and\ntheir descendants will go on whispering something to each other to the\nend of time, while mightier hands than theirs are tearing down empires\nand building up irresistible coalitions, and drawing red pencil-marks\nthrough the geography of Europe.\n\nThe conspirators of those days accomplished nothing after Pius IX.\nreturned from Gaeta; the only men who were of any use at all were those\nwho, like Del Ferice, had sources of secret information, and basely sold\ntheir scraps of news. But even they were of small importance. The moment\nhad not come, and all the talking and whispering and tale-bearing in the\nworld could not hasten events, nor change their course. But Donna Tullia\nwas puffed up with a sense of her importance, and Del Ferice managed to\nattract just as much attention to his harmless chatter about progress as\nwould permit him undisturbed to carry on his lucrative traffic in secret\ninformation.\n\nDonna Tullia, who was not in the least artistic, and who by no means\nappreciated the merits of the portrait Gouache was painting, was very far\nfrom comprehending his definition of artistic comparison; but Del Ferice\nunderstood it very well. Donna Tullia had much foreign blood in her\nveins, like most of her class; but Del Ferice's obscure descent was in\nall probability purely Italian, and he had inherited the common instinct\nin matters of art which is a part of the Italian birthright. He had\nrecognised Gouache's wonderful talent, and had first brought Donna Tullia\nto his studio--a matter of little difficulty when she had learned that\nthe young artist had already a reputation. It pleased her to fancy that\nby telling him to paint her portrait she might pose as his patroness, and\nhereafter reap the reputation of having influenced his career. For\nfashion, and the desire to be the representative of fashion, led Donna\nTullia hither and thither as a lapdog is led by a string; and there\nis nothing more in the fashion than to patronise a fashionable\nportrait-painter.\n\nBut after Anastase Gouache had thus delivered himself of his views upon\nDel Ferice and the faculty of artistic comparison, the conversation\nlanguished, and Donna Tullia grew restless. \"She had sat enough,\" she\nsaid; and as her expression was not favourable to the portrait, Anastase\ndid not contradict her, but presently suffered her to depart in peace\nwith her devoted adorer at her heels. And when they were gone, Anastase\nlighted a cigarette, and took a piece of charcoal and sketched a\ncaricature of Donna Tullia in a liberty cap, in a fine theatrical\nattitude, invoking the aid of Del Ferice, who appeared as the Angel of\nDeath, with the guillotine in the background. Having put the finishing\ntouches to this work of art, Anastase locked his studio and went to\nbreakfast, humming an air from the \"Belle H\u00e9l\u00e8ne.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nWhen Corona reached home she went to her own small boudoir, with the\nintention of remaining there for an hour if she could do so without being\ndisturbed. There was a prospect of this; for on inquiry she ascertained\nthat her husband was not yet dressed, and his dressing took a very long\ntime. He had a cosmopolitan valet, who alone of living men understood the\nart of fitting the artificial and the natural Astrardente together.\nCorona believed this man to be an accomplished scoundrel; but she never\nhad any proof that he was anything worse than a very clever servant,\nthoroughly unscrupulous where his master's interests or his own were\nconcerned. The old Duca believed in him sincerely and trusted him alone,\nfeeling that since he could never be a hero in his valet's eyes, he might\nas well take advantage of that misfortune in order to gain a confident.\n\nCorona found three or four letters upon her table, and sat down to read\nthem, letting her fur mantle drop to the floor, and putting her small\nfeet out towards the fire, for the pavement of the church had been cold.\n\nShe was destined to pass an eventful day, it seemed. One of the letters\nwas from Giovanni Saracinesca. It was the first time he had ever written\nto her, and she was greatly surprised on finding his name at the foot of\nthe page. He wrote a strong clear handwriting, entirely without adornment\nof penmanship, close and regular and straight: there was an air of\ndetermination about it which was sympathetic, and a conciseness of\nexpression which startled Corona, as though she had heard the man himself\nspeaking to her.\n\n\"I write, dear Duchessa, because I covet your good opinion, and my motive\nis therefore before all things an interested one. I would not have you\nthink that I had idly asked your advice about a thing so important to me\nas my marriage, in order to discard your counsel at the first\nopportunity. There was too much reason in the view you took of the matter\nto admit of my not giving your opinion all the weight I could, even if I\nhad not already determined upon the very course you advised.\nCircumstances have occurred, however, which have almost induced me to\nchange my mind. I have had an interview with my father, who has put the\nmatter very plainly before me. I hardly know how to tell you this, but I\nfeel that I owe it to you to explain myself, however much you may despise\nme for what I am going to say. It is very simple, nevertheless. My father\nhas informed me that by my conduct I have caused my name to be coupled\nin the mouth of the gossips with that of a person very dear to me, but\nwhom I am unfortunately prevented from marrying. He has convinced me that\nI owe to this lady, who, I confess, takes no interest whatever in me, the\nonly reparation possible to be made--that of taking a wife, and thus\npublicly demonstrating that there was never any truth in what has been\nsaid. As a marriage will probably be forced upon me some day, it is as\nwell to let things take their course at once, in order that a step so\ndisagreeable to myself may at least distantly profit one whom I love in\nremoving me from the appearance of being a factor in her life. The gossip\nabout me has never reached your ears, but if it should, you will be the\nbetter able to understand my position.\n\n\"Do not think, therefore, that if I do not follow your advice I am\naltogether inconsistent, or that I wantonly presumed to consult you\nwithout any intention of being guided by you. Forgive me also this\nletter, which I am impelled to write from somewhat mean motives of\nvanity, in the hope of not altogether forfeiting your opinion; and\nespecially I beg you to believe that I am at all times the most obedient\nof your servants,\n\n\"GIOVANNI SARACINESCA.\"\n\nOf what use was it that she had that morning determined to forget\nGiovanni, since he had the power of thus bringing himself before her by\nmeans of a scrap of paper? Corona's hand closed upon the letter\nconvulsively, and for a moment the room seemed to swim around her.\n\nSo there was some one whom he loved, some one for whose fair name he was\nwilling to sacrifice himself even to the extent of marrying against his\nwill. Some one, too, who not only did not love him, but took no interest\nwhatever in him. Those were his own words, and they must be true, for he\nnever lied. That accounted for his accompanying Donna Tullia to the\npicnic. He was going to marry her after all. To save the woman he loved\nso hopelessly from the mere suspicion of being loved by him, he was going\nto tie himself for life to the first who would marry him. That would\nnever prevent the gossips from saying that he loved this other woman as\nmuch as ever. It could do her no great harm, since she took no interest\nwhatever in him. Who could she be, this cold creature, whom even Giovanni\ncould not move to interest? It was absurd--the letter was absurd--the\nwhole thing was absurd! None but a madman would think of pursuing such a\ncourse; and why should he think it necessary to confide his plans--his\nvery foolish plans--to her, Corona d'Astrardente,--why? Ah, Giovanni, how\ndifferent things might have been!\n\nCorona rose angrily from her seat and leaned against the broad\nchimney-piece, and looked at the clock--it was nearly mid-day. He might\nmarry whom he pleased, and be welcome--what was it to her? He might marry\nand sacrifice himself if he pleased--what was it to her?\n\nShe thought of her own life. She, too, had sacrificed herself; she, too,\nhad tied herself for life to a man she despised in her heart, and she had\ndone it for an object she had thought good. She looked steadily at the\nclock, for she would not give way, nor bend her head and cry bitter tears\nagain; but the tears were in her eyes, nevertheless.\n\n\"Giovanni, you must not do it--you must not do it!\" Her lips formed the\nwords without speaking them, and repeated the thought again and again.\nHer heart beat fast and her cheeks flushed darkly. She spread out the\ncrumpled letter and read it once more. As she read, the most intense\ncuriosity seized her to know who this woman might be whom Giovanni so\nloved; and with her curiosity there was a new feeling--an utterly hateful\nand hating passion--something so strong, that it suddenly dried her tears\nand sent the blood from her cheeks back to her heart. Her white hand was\nclenched, and her eyes were on fire. Ah, if she could only find that\nwoman he loved! if she could only see her dead--dead with Giovanni\nSaracinesca there upon the floor before her! As she thought of it, she\nstamped her foot upon the thick carpet, and her face grew paler. She did\nnot know what it was that she felt, but it completely overmastered her.\nPadre Filippo would be pleased, she thought, for she knew how in that\nmoment she hated Giovanni Saracinesca.\n\nWith a sudden impulse she again sat down and opened the letter next to\nher hand. It was a gossiping epistle from a friend in Paris, full of\nstories of the day, exclamations upon fashion and all kinds of emptiness;\nshe was about to throw it down impatiently and take up the next when her\neyes caught Giovanni's name.\n\n\"Of course it is not true that Saracinesca is to marry Madame\nMayer...\" were the words she read. But that was all. There chanced to\nhave been just room for the sentence at the foot of the page, and by the\ntime her friend had turned over the leaf, she had already forgotten what\nshe had written, and was running on with a different idea. It seemed as\nthough Corona were haunted by Giovanni at every turn; but she had not\nreached the end yet, for one letter still remained. She tore open the\nenvelope, and found that the contents consisted of a few lines penned in\na small and irregular hand, without signature. There was an air of\ndisguise about the whole, which was unpleasant; it was written upon a\ncommon sort of paper, and had come through the city post. It ran as\nfollows:--\n\n\"The Duchessa d'Astrardente reminds us of the fable of the dog in the\nhorse's manger, for she can neither eat herself nor let others eat. She\nwill not accept Don Giovanni Saracinesca's devotion, but she effectually\nprevents him from fulfilling his engagements to others.\"\n\nIf Corona had been in her ordinary mood, she would very likely have\nlaughed at the anonymous communication. She had formerly received more\nthan one passionate declaration, not signed indeed, but accompanied\nalways by some clue to the identity of the writer, and she had carelessly\nthrown them into the fire. But there was no such indication here whereby\nshe might discover who it was who had undertaken to criticise her, to\ncast upon her so unjust an accusation. Moreover, she was very angry and\naltogether thrown out of her usually calm humour. Her first impulse was\nto go to her husband, and in the strength of her innocence to show him\nthe letter. Then she laughed bitterly as she thought how the selfish old\ndandy would scoff at her sensitiveness, and how utterly incapable he\nwould be of discovering the offender or of punishing the offence. Then\nagain her face was grave, and she asked herself whether it was true that\nshe was innocent; whether she were not really to be blamed, if perhaps\nshe had really prevented Giovanni from marrying Donna Tullia.\n\nBut if that were true, she must herself be the woman he spoke of in his\nletter. Any other woman would have suspected as much. Corona went to the\nwindow, and for an instant there was a strange light of pleasure in her\nface. Then she grew very thoughtful, and her whole mood changed. She\ncould not conceive it possible that Giovanni so loved her as to marry for\nher sake. Besides, no one could ever have breathed a word of him in\nconnection with herself--until this abominable anonymous letter was\nwritten.\n\nThe thought that she might, after all, be the \"person very dear to him,\"\nthe one who \"took no interest whatever in him,\" had nevertheless crossed\nher mind, and had given her for one moment a sense of wild and\nindescribable pleasure. Then she remembered what she had felt before; how\nangry, how utterly beside herself, she had been at the thought of another\nwoman being loved by him, and she suddenly understood that she was\njealous of her. The very thought revived in her the belief that it was\nnot she herself who was thus influencing the life of Giovanni\nSaracinesca, but another, and she sat silent and pale.\n\nOf course it was another! What had she done, what word had she spoken,\nwhereby the world might pretend to believe that she controlled this man's\nactions? \"Fulfilling his engagements,\" the letter said, too. It must have\nbeen written by an ignorant person--by some one who had no idea of what\nwas passing, and who wrote at random, hoping to touch a sensitive chord,\nto do some harm, to inflict some pain, in petty vengeance for a fancied\nslight. But in her heart, though she crushed down the instinct, she\nwould have believed the anonymous jest well founded, for the sake of\nbelieving, too, that Giovanni Saracinesca was ready to lay his life at\nher feet--although in that belief she would have felt that she was\ncommitting a mortal sin.\n\nShe went back to her interview that morning with Padre Filippo, and\nthought over all she had said and all he had answered; how she had been\nwilling to admit the possibility of Giovanni's love, and how sternly the\nconfessor had ruled down the clause, and told her there should never\narise such a doubt in her mind; how she had scorned herself for being\ncapable of seeking love where there was none, and how she had sworn that\nthere should be no perhaps in the matter. It seemed very hard to do\nright, but she would try to see where the right lay. In the first place,\nshe should burn the anonymous letter, and never condescend to think of\nit; and she should also burn Giovanni's, because it would be an injustice\nto him to keep it. She looked once more at the unsigned, ill-written\npage, and, with a little scornful laugh, threw it from where she sat into\nthe fire with its envelope; then she took Giovanni's note, and would\nhave done the same, but her hand trembled, and the crumpled bit of paper\nfell upon the hearth. She rose from her chair quickly, and took it up\nagain, kneeling before the fire, like some beautiful dark priestess of\nold feeding the flames of a sacred altar. She smoothed the paper out once\nmore, and once more read the even characters, and looked long at the\nsignature, and back again to the writing.\n\n\"This lady, who, I confess, takes no interest whatever in me....\"\n\n\"How could he say it!\" she exclaimed aloud. \"Oh, if I knew who she was!\"\nWith an impatient movement she thrust the letter among the coals, and\nwatched the fire curl it and burn it, from white to brown and from brown\nto black, till it was all gone. Then she rose to her feet and left the\nroom.\n\nHer husband certainly did not guess that the Duchessa d'Astrardente had\nspent so eventful a morning; and if any one had told him that his wife\nhad been through a dozen stages of emotion, he would have laughed, and\nwould have told his informant that Corona was not of the sort who\nexperience violent passions. That evening they went to the opera\ntogether, and the old man was in an unusually cheerful humour. A new coat\nhad just arrived from Paris, and the padding had attained a higher degree\nof scientific perfection than heretofore. Corona also looked more\nbeautiful than even her husband ever remembered to have seen her; she\nwore a perfectly simple gown of black satin without the smallest relief\nof colour, and upon her neck the famous Astrardente necklace of pearls,\nthree strings of even thickness, each jewel exquisitely white and just\nlighted in its shadow by a delicate pink tinge--such a necklace as an\nempress might have worn. In the raven masses of her hair there was not\nthe least ornament, nor did any flower enhance the rich blackness of its\nsilken coils. It would be impossible to imagine greater simplicity than\nCorona showed in her dress, but it would be hard to conceive of any woman\nwho possessed by virtue of severe beauty a more indubitable right to\ndispense with ornament.\n\nThe theatre was crowded. There was a performance of \"Norma\" for which\nseveral celebrated artists had been engaged--an occurrence so rare in\nRome, that the theatre was absolutely full. The Astrardente box was\nupon the second tier, just where the amphitheatre began to curve. There\nwas room in it for four or five persons to see the stage.\n\nThe Duchessa and her husband arrived in the middle of the first act, and\nremained alone until it was over. Corona was extremely fond of \"Norma,\"\nand after she was seated never took her eyes from the stage. Astrardente,\non the other hand, maintained his character as a man of no illusions, and\nswept the house with his small opera-glass. The instrument itself was\nlike him, and would have been appropriate for a fine lady of the First\nEmpire; it was of mother-of-pearl, made very small and light, the\nmetal-work upon it heavily gilt and ornamented with turquoises. The old\nman glanced from time to time at the stage, and then again settled\nhimself to the study of the audience, which interested him far more than\nthe opera.\n\n\"Every human being you ever heard of is here,\" he remarked at the end of\nthe first act. \"Really I should think you would find it worth while to\nlook at your magnificent fellow-creatures, my dear.\"\n\nCorona looked slowly round the house. She had excellent eyes, and never\nused a glass. She saw the same faces she had seen for five years, the\nsame occasional flash of beauty, the same average number of over-dressed\nwomen, the same paint, the same feathers, the same jewels. She saw\nopposite to her Madame Mayer, with the elderly countess whom she\npatronised for the sake of deafness, and found convenient as a sort of\nflying chaperon. The countess could not hear much of the music, but she\nwas fond of the world and liked to be seen, and she could not hear at all\nwhat Del Ferice said in an undertone to Madame Mayer. Sufficient to her\nwere the good things of the day; the rest was in no way her business.\nThere was Valdarno in the club-box, with a knot of other men of his own\nstamp. There were the Rocca, mother and daughter and son--a boy of\neighteen--and a couple of men in the back of the box. Everybody was\nthere, as her husband had said; and as she dropped her glance toward\nthe stalls, she was aware of Giovanni Saracinesca's black eyes looking\nanxiously up to her. A faint smile crossed her serene face, and almost\ninvoluntarily she nodded to him and then looked away. Many men were\nwatching her, and bowed as she glanced at them, and she bent her head to\neach; but there was no smile for any save Giovanni, and when she looked\nagain to where he had been standing with his back to the stage, he was\ngone from his place.\n\n\"They are the same old things,\" said Astrardente, \"but they are still\nvery amusing. Madame Mayer always seems to get the wrong man into her\nbox. She would give all those diamonds to have Giovanni Saracinesca\ninstead of that newsmonger fellow. If he comes here I will send him\nacross.\"\n\n\"Perhaps she likes Del Ferice,\" suggested Corona.\n\n\"He is a good lapdog--a very good dog,\" answered her husband. \"He cannot\nbite at all, and his bark is so soft that you would take it for the\nmewing of a kitten. He fetches and carries admirably.\"\n\n\"Those are good points, but not interesting ones. He is very tiresome\nwith his eternal puns and insipid compliments, and his gossip.\"\n\n\"But he is so very harmless,\" answered Astrardente, with compassionate\nscorn. \"He is incapable of doing an injury. Donna Tullia is wise in\nadopting him as her slave. She would not be so safe with Saracinesca, for\ninstance. If you feel the need of an admirer, my dear, take Del Ferice. I\nhave no objection to him.\"\n\n\"Why should I need admirers?\" asked Corona, quietly.\n\n\"I was merely jesting, my love. Is not your own husband the greatest of\nyour admirers, and your devoted slave into the bargain?\" Old\nAstrardente's face twisted itself into the semblance of a smile, as he\nleaned towards his young wife, lowering his cracked voice to a thin\nwhisper. He was genuinely in love with her, and lost no opportunity\nof telling her so. She smiled a little wearily.\n\n\"You are very good to me,\" she said. She had often wondered how it was\nthat this aged creature, who had never been faithful to any attachment in\nhis life for five months, did really seem to love her just as he had done\nfor five years. It was perhaps the greatest triumph she could have\nattained, though she never thought of it in that light; but though she\ncould not respect her husband very much, she could not think unkindly of\nhim--for, as she said, he was very good to her. She often reproached\nherself because he wearied her; she believed that she should have taken\nmore pleasure in his admiration.\n\n\"I cannot help being good to you, my angel,\" he said. \"How could I be\notherwise? Do I not love you most passionately?\"\n\n\"Indeed, I think so,\" Corona answered. As she spoke there was a knock at\nthe door. Her heart leaped wildly, and she turned a little pale.\n\n\"The devil seize these visitors!\" muttered old Astrardente, annoyed\nbeyond measure at being interrupted when making love to his wife. \"I\nsuppose we must let them in?\"\n\n\"I suppose so,\" assented the Duchessa, with forced calm. Her husband\nopened the door, and Giovanni Saracinesca entered, hat in hand.\n\n\"Sit down,\" said Astrardente, rather harshly.\n\n\"I trust I am not disturbing you,\" replied Giovanni, still standing. He\nwas somewhat surprised at the old man's inhospitable tone.\n\n\"Oh no; not in the least,\" said the latter, quickly regaining his\ncomposure. \"Pray sit down; the act will begin in a moment.\"\n\nGiovanni established himself upon the chair immediately behind the\nDuchessa. He had come to talk, and he anticipated that during the second\nact he would have an excellent opportunity.\n\n\"I hear you enjoyed yourselves yesterday,\" said Corona, turning her head\nso as to speak more easily.\n\n\"Indeed!\" Giovanni answered, and a shade of annoyance crossed his face.\n\"And who was your informant, Duchessa?\"\n\n\"Donna Tullia. I met her this morning. She said you amused them all--kept\nthem laughing the whole day.\"\n\n\"What an extraordinary statement!\" exclaimed Giovanni. \"It shows how one\nmay unconsciously furnish matter for mirth. I do not recollect having\ntalked much to any one. It was a noisy party enough, however.\"\n\n\"Perhaps Donna Tullia spoke ironically,\" suggested Corona. \"Do you like\n'Norma'?\"\n\n\"Oh yes; one opera is as good as another. There goes the curtain.\"\n\nThe act began, and for some minutes no one in the box spoke. Presently\nthere was a burst of orchestral music. Giovanni leaned forward so that\nhis face was close behind Corona. He could speak without being heard by\nAstrardente.\n\n\"Did you receive my letter?\" he asked. Corona made an almost\nimperceptible inclination of her head, but did not speak.\n\n\"Do you understand my position?\" he asked again. He could not see her\nface, and for some seconds she made no sign; at last she moved her head\nagain, but this time to express a negative.\n\n\"It is simple enough, it seems to me,\" said Giovanni, bending his brows.\n\nCorona found that by turning a little she could still look at the stage,\nand at the same time speak to the man behind her.\n\n\"How can I judge?\" she said. \"You have not told me all. Why do you ask me\nto judge whether you are right?\"\n\n\"I could not do it if you thought me wrong,\" he answered shortly.\n\nThe Duchessa suddenly thought of that other woman for whom the man who\nasked her advice was willing to sacrifice his life.\n\n\"You attach an astonishing degree of importance to my opinion,\" she said\nvery coldly, and turned her head from him.\n\n\"There is no one so well able to give an opinion,\" said Giovanni,\ninsisting.\n\nCorona was offended. She interpreted the speech to mean that since she\nhad sacrificed her life to the old man on the opposite side of the box,\nshe was able to judge whether Giovanni would do wisely in making a\nmarriage of convenience, for the sake of an end which even to her mind\nseemed visionary. She turned quickly upon him, and there was an angry\ngleam in her eyes.\n\n\"Pray do not introduce the subject of my life,\" she said haughtily.\n\nGiovanni was too much astonished to answer her at once. He had indeed not\nintended the least reference to her marriage.\n\n\"You have entirely misunderstood me,\" he said presently.\n\n\"Then you must express yourself more clearly,\" she replied. She would\nhave felt very guilty to be thus talking to Giovanni, as she would not\nhave talked before her husband, had she not felt that it was upon\nGiovanni's business, and that the matter discussed in no way concerned\nherself. As for Saracinesca, he was in a dangerous position, and was\nrapidly losing his self-control. He was too near to her, his heart was\nbearing too fast, the blood was throbbing in his temples, and he was\nstung by being misunderstood.\n\n\"It is not possible for me to express myself more clearly,\" he answered.\n\"I am suffering for having told you too little when I dare not tell you\nall. I make no reference to your marriage when I speak to you of my own.\nForgive me; I will not refer to the matter again.\"\n\nCorona felt again that strange thrill, half of pain, half of pleasure,\nand the lights of the theatre seemed moving before her uncertainly, as\nthings look when one falls from a height. Almost unconsciously she spoke,\nhardly knowing that she turned her head, and that her dark eyes rested\nupon Giovanni's pale face.\n\n\"And yet there must be some reason why you tell me that little, and why\nyou do not tell me more.\" When she had spoken, she would have given all\nthe world to have taken back her words. It was too late. Giovanni\nanswered in a low thick voice that sounded as though he were choking,\nhis face grew white, and his teeth seemed almost to chatter as though he\nwere cold, but his eyes shone like black stars in the shadow of the box.\n\n\"There is every reason. You are the woman I love.\"\n\nCorona did not move for several seconds, as though not comprehending what\nhe had said. Then she suddenly shivered, and her eyelids drooped as she\nleaned back in her chair. Her fingers relaxed their tight hold upon her\nfan, and the thing fell rattling upon the floor of the box.\n\nOld Astrardente, who had taken no notice of the pair, being annoyed at\nGiovanni's visit, and much interested in the proceedings of Madame Mayer\nin the box opposite, heard the noise, and stooped with considerable\nalacrity to pick up the fan which lay at his feet.\n\n\"You are not well, my love,\" he said quickly, as he observed his wife's\nunusual pallor.\n\n\"It is nothing; it will pass,\" she murmured, with a terrible effort.\nThen, as though she had not said enough, she added, \"There must be a\ndraught here; I have a chill.\"\n\nGiovanni had sat like a statue, utterly overcome by the sense of his own\nfolly and rashness, as well as by the shock of having so miserably failed\nto keep the secret he dreaded to reveal. On hearing Corona's voice, he\nrose suddenly, as from a dream.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" he said hurriedly, \"I have just remembered a most important\nengagement--\"\n\n\"Do not mention it,\" said Astrardente, sourly. Giovanni bowed to the\nDuchessa and left the box. She did not look at him as he went away.\n\n\"We had better go home, my angel,\" said the old man. \"You have got a bad\nchill.\"\n\n\"Oh no, I would rather stay. It is nothing, and the best part of the\nopera is to come.\" Corona spoke quietly enough. Her strong nerves had\nalready recovered from the shock she had experienced, and she could\ncommand her voice. She did not want to go home; on the contrary, the\nbrilliant lights and the music served for a time to soothe her. If there\nhad been a ball that night she would have gone to it; she would have done\nanything that would take her thoughts from herself. Her husband looked at\nher curiously. The suspicion crossed his mind that Don Giovanni had said\nsomething which had either frightened or offended her, but on second\nthoughts the theory seemed absurd. He regarded Saracinesca as little\nmore than a mere acquaintance of his wife's.\n\n\"As you please, my love,\" he answered, drawing his chair a little nearer\nto hers. \"I am glad that fellow is gone. We can talk at our ease now.\"\n\n\"Yes; I am glad he is gone. We can talk now,\" repeated Corona,\nmechanically.\n\n\"I thought his excuse slightly conventional, to say the least of it,\"\nremarked Astrardente. \"An important engagement!--just a little _banal_.\nHowever, any excuse was good enough which took him away.\"\n\n\"Did he say that?\" asked Corona. \"I did not hear. Of course, any excuse\nwould do, as you say.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nGiovanni left the theatre at once, alone, and on foot. He was very much\nagitated. He had done suddenly and unawares the thing of all others he\nhad determined never to do; his resolutions had been broken down and\ncarried away as an ineffectual barrier is swept to the sea by the floods\nof spring. His heart had spoken in spite of him, and in speaking had\nsilenced every prompting of reason. He blamed himself bitterly, as he\nstrode out across the deserted bridge of Sant' Angelo and into the broad\ngloom beyond, where the street widens from the fortress to the entrance\nof the three Borghi: he walked on and on, finding at every step fresh\nreason for self-reproach, and trying to understand what he had done. He\npaused at the end of the open piazza and looked down towards the black\nrushing river which he could hear, but hardly see; he turned into the\nsilent Borgo Santo Spirito, and passed along the endless wall of the\ngreat hospital up to the colonnades, and still wandering on, he came to\nthe broad steps of St. Peter's and sat down, alone in the darkness, at\nthe foot of the stupendous pile.\n\nHe was perhaps not so much to blame as he was willing to allow in his\njust anger against himself. Corona had tempted him sorely in that last\nquestion she had put to him. She had not known, she had not even faintly\nguessed what she was doing, for her own brain was intoxicated with a new\nand indescribable sensation which had left no room for reflection nor for\nweighing the force of words. But Giovanni, who had been willing to give\nup everything, even to his personal liberty, for the sake of concealing\nhis love, would not allow himself any argument in extenuation of what he\nhad done. He had had but very few affairs of the heart in his life, and\nthey had been for the most part very insignificant, and his experience\nwas limited. Even now it never entered his mind to imagine that Corona\nwould condone his offence; he felt sure that she was deeply wounded, and\nthat his next meeting with her would be a terrible ordeal--so terrible,\nindeed, that he doubted whether he had the courage to meet her at all.\nHis love was so great, and its object so sacred to him, that he hesitated\nto conceive himself loved in return; perhaps if he had been able to\nunderstand that Corona loved him he would have left Rome for ever, rather\nthan trouble her peace by his presence.\n\nIt would have been absolutely different if he had been paying court to\nDonna Tullia, for instance. The feeling that he should be justified would\nhave lent him courage, and the coldness in his own heart would have left\nhis judgment free play. He could have watched her calmly, and would have\ntried to take advantage of every mood in the prosecution of his suit. He\nwas a very honourable man, but he did not consider marriages of propriety\nand convenience as being at all contrary to the ordinary standard of\nsocial honour, and would have thought himself justified in using every\nmeans of persuasion in order to win a woman whom, upon mature reflection,\nhe had judged suitable to become his wife, even though he felt no real\nlove for her. That is an idea inherent in most old countries, an idea for\nwhich Giovanni Saracinesca was certainly in no way responsible, seeing\nthat it had been instilled into him from his boyhood. Personally he would\nhave preferred to live and die unmarried, rather than to take a wife as a\nmatter of obligation towards his family; but seeing that he had never\nseriously loved any woman, he had acquired the habit of contemplating\nsuch a marriage as a probability, perhaps as an ultimate necessity, to\nbe put off as long as possible, but to which he would at last yield with\na good grace.\n\nBut the current of his life had been turned. He was certainly not a\nromantic character, not a man who desired to experience the external\nsensations to be obtained by voluntarily creating dramatic events. He\nloved action, and he had a taste for danger, but he had sought both in\na legitimate way; he never desired to implicate himself in adventures\nwhere the feelings were concerned, and hitherto such experiences had\nnot fallen in his path. As is usual with such men, when love came at\nlast, it came with a strength such as boys of twenty do not dream of.\nThe mature man of thirty years, with his strong and dominant temper,\nhis carelessness of danger, his high and untried ideals of what a\ntrue affection should be, resisting the first impressions of the\nmaster-passion with the indifference of one accustomed to believe that\nlove could not come near his life, and was in general a thing to be\navoided--a man, moreover, who by his individual gifts and by his\nbrilliant position was able to command much that smaller men would\nnot dream of aspiring to,--such a man, in short, as Giovanni\nSaracinesca,--was not likely to experience love-sickness in a mild\ndegree. Proud, despotic, and fiercely unyielding by his inheritance of\ntemper, he was outwardly gentle and courteous by acquired habit, a man\nof those whom women easily love and men very generally fear.\n\nHe did not realise his own nature, he did not suspect the extremes of\nfeeling of which he was eminently capable. He had at first felt Corona's\ninfluence, and her face and voice seemed to awaken in him a memory, which\nwas as yet but an anticipation, and not a real remembrance. It was as the\nfaint perfume of the spring wafted up to a prisoner in some stern\nfortress, as the first gentle sweetness that rose from the enchanted\nlakes of the cisalpine country to the nostrils of the war-hardened Goths\nas they descended the last snow-slopes in their southern wandering--an\nanticipation that seemed already a memory, a looking forward again to\nsomething that had been already loved in a former state. Giovanni had\nlaughed at himself for it at first, then he had dreaded its growing\ncharm, and at the last he had fallen hopelessly under the spell,\nretaining only enough of his former self to make him determined that the\nharm which had come upon himself should not come near this woman whom he\nso adored.\n\nAnd behold, at the first provocation, the very first time that by a\ncareless word she had fired his blood and set his brain throbbing, he had\nnot only been unable to hide what he felt, but had spoken such words as\nhe would not have believed he could speak--so bluntly, so roughly, that\nshe had almost fainted before his very eyes.\n\nShe must have been very angry, he thought. Perhaps, too, she was\nfrightened. It was so rude, so utterly contrary to all that was\nchivalrous to say thus at the first opportunity, \"I love you\"--just that\nand nothing more. Giovanni had never thought much about it, but he\nsupposed that men in love, very seriously in love, must take a long time\nto express themselves, as is the manner in books; whereas he was\nhorrified at his own bluntness in having blurted out rashly such words as\ncould never be taken back, as could never even be explained now, he\nfeared, because he had put himself beyond the pale of all explanation,\nperhaps beyond the reach of forgiveness.\n\nNobody ever yet explained away the distinct statement \"I love you,\" upon\nany pretence of a mistake. Giovanni almost laughed at the idea, and yet\nhe conceived that some kind of apology would be necessary, though he\ncould not imagine how he was to frame one. He reflected that few women\nwould consider a declaration, even as sudden as his had been, in the\nlight of an insult; but he knew how little cause Corona had given him for\nspeaking to her of love, and he judged from her manner that she had been\neither offended or frightened, or both, and that he was to blame for it.\nHe was greatly disturbed, and the sweat stood in great drops upon his\nforehead as he sat there upon the steps of St. Peter's in the cold night\nwind. He remained nearly an hour without changing his position, and then\nat last he rose and slowly retraced his steps, and went home by narrow\nstreets, avoiding the theatre and the crowd of carriages that stood\nbefore it.\n\nHe had almost determined to go away for a time, and to let his absence\nspeak for his contrition. But he had reckoned upon his former self, and\nhe doubted now whether he had the strength to leave Rome. The most that\nseemed possible was that he should keep out of Corona's way for a few\ndays, until she should have recovered from the shock of the scene in the\ntheatre. After that he would go to her and tell her quite simply that he\nwas very sorry, but that he had been unable to control himself. It would\nsoon be over. She would not refuse to speak to him, he argued, for fear\nof attracting the attention of the gossips and making an open scandal.\nShe would perhaps tell him to avoid her, and her words would be few and\nhaughty, but she would speak to him, nevertheless.\n\nGiovanni went to bed. The next day he gave out that he had a touch of\nfever, and remained in his own apartments. His father, who was\npassionately attached to him, in spite of his rough temper and hasty\nspeeches, came and spent most of the day with him, and in the intervals\nof his kindly talk, marched up and down the room, swearing that Giovanni\nwas no more ill than he was himself, and that he had acquired his\naccursed habit of staying in bed upon his travels. As Giovanni had never\nbefore been known to spend twenty-four hours in bed for any reason\nwhatsoever, the accusation was unjust; but he only smiled and pretended\nto argue the case for the sake of pleasing the old prince. He really\nfelt exceedingly uncomfortable, and would have been glad to be left alone\nat any price; but there was nothing for it but to pretend to be ill in\nbody, when he was really sick at heart, and he remained obstinately in\nbed the whole day. On the following morning he declared his intention of\ngoing out of town, and by an early train he left the city. No one saw\nGiovanni again until the evening of the Frangipani ball.\n\nMeanwhile it would have surprised him greatly to know that Corona looked\nfor him in vain wherever she went, and that, not seeing him, she grew\nsilent and pale, and gave short answers to the pleasant speeches men made\nher. Every one missed Giovanni. He wrote to Valdarno to say that he had\nbeen suddenly obliged to visit Saracinesca in order to see to some\ndetails connected with the timber question; but everybody wondered why he\nshould have taken himself away in the height of the season for so trivial\na matter. He had last been seen in the Astrardente box at the opera,\nwhere he had only stayed a few minutes, as Del Ferice was able to\ntestify, having sat immediately opposite in the box of Madame Mayer. Del\nFerice swore secretly that he would find out what was the matter; and\nDonna Tullia abused Giovanni in unmeasured terms to a circle of intimate\nfriends and admirers, because he had been engaged to dance with her at\nthe Valdarno cotillon, and had not even sent word that he could not come.\nThereupon all the men present immediately offered themselves for the\nvacant dance, and Donna Tullia made them draw lots by tossing a copper\nsou in the corner of the ball-room. The man who won the toss recklessly\nthrew over the partner he had already engaged, and almost had to fight a\nduel in consequence; all of which was intensely amusing to Donna Tullia.\nNevertheless, in her heart, she was very angry at Giovanni's departure.\n\nBut Corona sought him everywhere, and at last heard that he had left\ntown, two days after everybody else in Rome had known it. She would\nprobably have been very much disturbed, if she had actually met him\nwithin a day or two of that fatal evening, but the desire to see him was\nso great, that she entirely overlooked the consequences. For the time\nbeing, her whole life seemed to have undergone a revolution--she trembled\nat the echo of the words she had heard--she spent long hours in solitude,\npraying with all her strength that she might be forgiven for having\nheard him speak; but the moment she left her room, and went out into the\nworld, the dominant desire to see him again returned. The secret longing\nof her soul was to hear him speak again as he had spoken once. She would\nhave gone again to Padre Filippo and told him all; but when she was alone\nin the solitude of her passionate prayers and self-accusation, she felt\nthat she must fight this fight alone, without help of any one; and when\nshe was in the world, she lacked courage to put altogether from her what\nwas so very sweet, and her eyes searched unceasingly for the dark face\nshe loved. But the stirring strength of the mighty passion played upon\nher soul and body in spite of her, as upon an instrument of strings; and\nsometimes the music was gentle and full of sweet harmony, but often there\nwere crashes of discord, so that she trembled and felt her heart wrung as\nby torture; then she set her strong lips, and her white fingers wound\nthemselves together, and she could have cried aloud, but that her pride\nforbade her.\n\nThe days came and went, but Giovanni did not return, and Corona's face\ngrew every morning more pale and her eyes every night more wistful. Her\nhusband did not understand, but he saw that something was the matter, as\nothers saw it, and in his quick suspicious humour he connected the\ntrouble in his wife's face with the absence of Giovanni and with the\nstrange chill she had felt in the theatre. But Corona d'Astrardente was a\nvery brave and strong woman, and she bore what seemed to her like the\nagony of death renewed each day, so calmly that those who knew her\nthought it was but a passing indisposition or annoyance, unusual with\nher, who was never ill nor troubled, but yet insignificant. She gave\nparticular attention to the gown which her husband had desired she\nshould wear at the great ball, and the need she felt for distracting her\nmind from her chief care made society necessary to her.\n\nThe evening of the Frangipani ball came, and all Rome was in a state of\nexcitement and expectation. The great old family had been in mourning for\nyears, owing to three successive deaths, and during all that time the\nancient stronghold which was called their palace had been closed to the\nworld. For some time, indeed, no one of the name had been in Rome--the\nprince and princess preferring to pass the time of mourning in the\ncountry and in travelling; while the eldest son, now just of age, was\nfinishing his academic career at an English University. But this year the\nfamily had returned: there had been both dinners and receptions at the\npalace, and the ball, which was to be a sort of festival in honour of the\ncoming of age of the heir, was expected as the principal event of the\nyear. It was rumoured that there would be nearly thirty rooms opened\nbesides the great hall, which was set aside for dancing, and that the\narrangements were on a scale worthy of a household which had endured in\nits high position for upwards of a thousand years. It was understood that\nno distinction had been made, in issuing the invitations, between parties\nin politics or in society, and that there would be more people seen there\nthan had been collected under one roof for many years.\n\nThe Frangipani did things magnificently, and no one was disappointed. The\ngardens and courts of the palace were brilliantly illuminated; vast\nsuites of apartments were thrown open, and lavishly decorated with rare\nflowers; the grand staircase was lined with footmen in the liveries of\nthe house, standing motionless as the guests passed up; the supper was a\nbanquet such as is read of in the chronicles of medieval splendour; the\nenormous conservatory in the distant south wing was softly lit by shaded\ncandles concealed among the tropical plants; and the ceilings and walls\nof the great hall itself had been newly decorated by famous painters;\nwhile the polished wooden floor presented an innovation upon the\nold-fashioned canvas-covered brick pavement, not hitherto seen in any\nRoman palace. A thousand candles, disposed in every variety of chandelier\nand candelabra, shed a soft rich light from far above, and high in the\ngallery at one end an orchestra of Viennese musicians played unceasingly.\n\nAs generally happens at very large balls, the dancing began late, but\nnumbers of persons had come early in order to survey the wonders of the\npalace at their leisure. Among those who arrived soon after ten o'clock\nwas Giovanni Saracinesca, who was greeted loudly by all who knew him. He\nlooked pale and tired, if his tough nature could ever be said to seem\nweary; but he was in an unusually affable mood, and exchanged words with\nevery one he met. Indeed he had been sad for so many days that he hardly\nunderstood why he felt gay, unless it was in the anticipation of once\nmore seeing the woman he loved. He wandered through the rooms carelessly\nenough, but he was in reality devoured by impatience, and his quick eyes\nsought Corona's tall figure in every direction. But she was not yet\nthere, and Giovanni at last came and took his station in one of the outer\nhalls, waiting patiently for her arrival.\n\nWhile he waited, leaning against one of the marble pillars of the door,\nthe throng increased rapidly; but he hardly noticed the swelling crowd,\nuntil suddenly there was a lull in the unceasing talk, and the men and\nwomen parted to allow a cardinal to pass out from the inner rooms. With\nmany gracious nods and winning looks, the great man moved on, his keen\neyes embracing every one and everything within the range of his vision,\nhis courteous smile seeming intended for each separate individual, and\nyet overlooking none, nor resting long on any, his high brow serene and\nunbent, his flowing robes falling back from his courtly figure, as with\nhis red hat in his hand he bowed his way through the bowing crowd. His\ndeparture, which was quickly followed by that of several other cardinals\nand prelates, was the signal that the dancing would soon begin; and when\nhe had passed out, the throng of men and women pressed more quickly in\nthrough the door on their way to the ball-room.\n\nBut as the great cardinal's eye rested on Giovanni Saracinesca,\naccompanied by that invariable smile that so many can remember well to\nthis day, his delicate hand made a gesture as though beckoning to the\nyoung man to follow him. Giovanni obeyed the summons, and became for the\nmoment the most notable man in the room. The two passed out together, and\na moment later were standing in the outer hall. Already the torch-bearers\nwere standing without upon the grand staircase, and the lackeys were\nmustering in long files to salute the Prime Minister. Just then the\nmaster of the house came running breathless from within. He had not seen\nthat Cardinal Antonelli was taking his leave, and hastened to overtake\nhim, lest any breach of etiquette on his part should attract the\ndispleasure of the statesman.\n\n\"Your Eminence's pardon!\" he exclaimed, hurriedly \"I had not seen that\nyour Eminence was leaving us--so early too--the Princess feared--\"\n\n\"Do not speak of it,\" answered the Cardinal, in suave tones. \"I am not so\nstrong as I used to be. We old fellows must to bed betimes, and leave you\nyoung ones to enjoy yourselves. No excuses--good night--a beautiful\nball--I congratulate you on the reopening of your house--good night\nagain. I will have a word with Giovanni here before I go down-stairs.\"\n\nHe extended his hand to Frangipani, who lifted it respectfully to his\nlips and withdrew, seeing that he was not wanted. He and many others\nspeculated long upon the business which engaged his Eminence in close\nconversation with Giovanni Saracinesca, keeping him for more than a\nquarter of an hour in the cold ante-chamber, where the night wind blew in\nunhindered from the vast staircase of the palace. As a matter of fact,\nGiovanni was as much surprised as any one.\n\n\"Where have you been, my friend?\" inquired the Cardinal, when they were\nalone.\n\n\"To Saracinesca, your Eminence.\"\n\n\"And what have you been doing in Saracinesca at this time of year? I hope\nyou are attending to the woods there--you have not been cutting timber?\"\n\n\"No one can be more anxious than we to see the woods grow thick upon our\nhills,\" replied Giovanni. \"Your Eminence need have no fear.\"\n\n\"Not for your estates,\" said the great Cardinal, his small keen black\neyes resting searchingly on Giovanni's face. \"But I confess I have some\nfears for yourself.\"\n\n\"For me, Eminence?\" repeated Giovanni, in some astonishment.\n\n\"For you. I have heard with considerable anxiety that there is a question\nof marrying you to Madame Mayer. Such a match would not meet with the\nHoly Father's approval, nor--if I may be permitted to mention my humble\nself in the same breath with our august sovereign--would it be wise in my\nown estimation.\"\n\n\"Permit me to remark to your Eminence,\" answered Giovanni, proudly, \"that\nin my house we have never been in the habit of asking advice upon such\nsubjects. Donna Tullia is a good Catholic. There can therefore be no\nvalid objection to my asking her hand, if my father and I agree that it\nis best.\"\n\n\"You are terrible fellows, you Saracinesca,\" returned the Cardinal,\nblandly. \"I have read your family history with immense interest, and what\nyou say is quite true. I cannot find an instance on record of your taking\nthe advice of any one--certainly not of the Holy Church. It is with the\nutmost circumspection that I venture to approach the subject with you,\nand I am sure that you will believe me when I say that my words are not\ndictated by any officious or meddling spirit; I am addressing you by the\ndirect desire of the Holy Father himself.\"\n\nA soft answer turneth away wrath, and if the all-powerful statesman's\nanswer to Giovanni seems to have been more soft than might have been\nexpected, it must be remembered that he was speaking to the heir of one\nof the most powerful houses in the Roman State, at a time when the\npersonal friendship of such men as the Saracinesca was of vastly greater\nimportance than it is now. At that time some twenty noblemen owned a\ngreat part of the Pontifical States, and the influence they could exert\nupon their tenantry was very great, for the feudal system was not\nextinct, nor the feudal spirit. Moreover, though Cardinal Antonelli was\nfar from popular with any party, Pius IX. was respected and beloved by a\nvast majority of the gentlemen as well as of the people. Giovanni's first\nimpulse was to resist any interference whatsoever in his affairs; but on\nreceiving the Cardinal's mild answer to his own somewhat arrogant\nassertion of independence, he bowed politely and professed himself\nwilling to listen to reason.\n\n\"But,\" he said, \"since his Holiness has mentioned the matter, I beg that\nyour Eminence will inform him that, though the question of my marriage\nseems to be in everybody's mouth, it is as yet merely a project in which\nno active steps have been taken.\"\n\n\"I am glad of it, Giovanni,\" replied the Cardinal, familiarly taking his\narm, and beginning to pace the hall; \"I am glad of it. There are reasons\nwhy the match appears to be unworthy of you. If you will permit me,\nwithout any offence to Madame Mayer, I will tell you what those reasons\nare.\"\n\n\"I am at your service,\" said Giovanni, gravely, \"provided only there is\nno offence to Donna Tullia.\"\n\n\"None whatever. The reasons are purely political. Madame Mayer--or Donna\nTullia, since you prefer to call her so--is the centre of a sort of club\nof so-called Liberals, of whom the most active and the most foolish\nmember is a certain Ugo del Ferice, a fellow who calls himself a count,\nbut whose grandfather was a coachman in the Vatican under Leo XII. He\nwill get himself into trouble some day. He is always in attendance upon\nDonna Tullia, and probably led her into this band of foolish young people\nfor objects of his own. It is a very silly society; I daresay you have\nheard some of their talk?\"\n\n\"Very little,\" replied Giovanni; \"I do not trouble myself about politics.\nI did not even know that there was such a club as your Eminence speaks\nof.\"\n\nCardinal Antonelli glanced sharply at his companion as he proceeded.\n\n\"They affect solidarity and secrecy, these young people,\" he said, with a\nsneer, \"and their solidarity betrays their secrecy, because it is\nunfortunately true in our dear Rome that wherever two or three are\ngathered together they are engaged in some mischief. But they may gather\nin peace at the studio of Monsieur Gouache, or anywhere else they please,\nfor all I care. Gouache is a clever fellow; he is to paint my portrait.\nDo you know him? But, to return to my sheep in wolves' clothing--my\namusing little conspirators. They can do no harm, for they know not even\nwhat they say, and their words are not followed by any kind of action\nwhatsoever. But the principle of the thing is bad, Giovanni. Your brave\nold ancestors used to fight us Churchmen outright, and unless the Lord is\nespecially merciful, their souls are in an evil case, for the devil\nknoweth his own, and is a particularly bad paymaster. But they fought\noutright, like gentlemen; whereas these people--_foderunt foveam ut\ncaperent me_--they have digged a ditch, but they will certainly not catch\nme, nor any one else. Their conciliabules, as Rousseau would have called\nthem, meet daily and talk great nonsense and do nothing; which does not\nprove their principles to be good, while it demonstrates their intellect\nto be contemptible. No offence to the Signor Conte del Ferice, but I\nthink ignorance has marked his little party for its own, and inanity\nwaits on all his councils. If they believe in half the absurdities they\nutter, why do they not pack up their goods and chattels and cross the\nfrontier? If they meant anything, they would do something.\"\n\n\"Evidently,\" replied Giovanni, half amused at his Eminence's tirade.\n\n\"Evidently. Therefore they mean nothing. Therefore our good friend Donna\nTullia is dabbling in the emptiness of political dilettanteism for the\nsatisfaction of a hollow vanity; no offence to her--it is the manner of\nher kind.\"\n\nGiovanni was silent.\n\n\"Believe me, prince,\" said the Cardinal, suddenly changing his tone and\nspeaking very seriously, \"there is something better for strong men like\nyou and me to do, in these times, than to dabble in conspiracy and to\ntoss off glasses of champagne to Italian unity and Victor Emmanuel. The\ncondition of our lives is battle, and battle against terrible odds.\nNeither you nor I should be content to waste our strength in fighting\nshadows, in waging war on petty troubles of our own raising, knowing\nall the while that the powers of evil are marshalled in a deadly array\nagainst the powers of good. _Sed non praevalebunt!_\"\n\nThe Cardinal's thin face assumed a strange look of determination, and his\ndelicate fingers grasped Giovanni's arm with a force that startled him.\n\n\"You speak bravely,\" answered the young man. \"You are more sanguine than\nwe men of the world. You believe that disaster impossible which to me\nseems growing daily more imminent.\"\n\nCardinal Antonelli turned his gleaming black eyes full on his companion.\n\n\"_O generatio incredula!_ If you have not faith, you have not courage,\nand if you have not courage you will waste your life in the pursuit of\nemptiness! It is for men like you, for men of ancient race, of broad\nacres, of iron body and healthy mind, to put your hand to the good work\nand help us who have struggled for many years and whose strength is\nalready failing. Every action of your life, every thought of your\nwaking hours, should be for the good end, lest we all perish together\nand expiate our lukewarm indifference. _Timidi nunquam statuerunt\ntrapaeum_--if we would divide the spoil we must gird on the sword and use\nit boldly; we must not allow the possibility of failure; we must be\nvigilant; we must be united as one man. You tell me that you men of the\nworld already regard a disaster as imminent--to expect defeat is\nnine-tenths of a defeat itself. Ah, if we could count upon such men as\nyou to the very death, our case would be far from desperate.\"\n\n\"For the matter of that, your Eminence can count upon us well enough,\"\nreplied Giovanni, quietly.\n\n\"Upon you, Giovanni--yes, for you are a brave gentleman. But upon your\nfriends, even upon your class--no. Can I count upon the Valdarno, even?\nYou know as well as I that they are in sympathy with the Liberals--that\nthey have neither the courage to support us nor the audacity to renounce\nus; and, what is worse, they represent a large class, of whom, I regret\nto say, Donna Tullia Mayer is one of the most prominent members. With her\nwealth, her youth, her effervescent spirits, and her early widowhood, she\nleads men after her; they talk, they chatter, they set up an opinion and\ngloat over it, while they lack the spirit to support it. They are all\nalike--_non tantum ovum ovo simile_--one egg is not more like another\nthan they are. _Non tali auxilio_--we want no such help. We ask for\nbread, not for stones; we want men, not empty-headed dandies. We have\nboth at present; but if the Emperor fails us, we shall have too many\ndandies and too few men--too few men like you, Don Giovanni. Instead of\narmed battalions we shall have polite societies for mutual assurance\nagainst political risks,--instead of the support of the greatest military\npower in Europe, we shall have to rely on a parcel of young gentlemen\nwhose opinions are guided by Donna Tullia Mayer.\"\n\nGiovanni laughed and glanced at his Eminence, who chose to refer all the\nimminent disasters of the State to the lady whom he did not wish to see\nmarried to his companion.\n\n\"Is her influence really so great?\" asked Saracinesca, incredulously.\n\n\"She is agreeable, she is pretty, she is rich--her influence is a type of\nthe whole influence which is abroad in Rome--a reflection of the life of\nParis. There, at least, the women play a real part--very often a great\none: here, when they have got command of a drawing-room full of fops,\nthey do not know where to lead them; they change their minds twenty times\na-day; they have an access of religious enthusiasm in Advent, followed by\nan attack of Liberal fever in Carnival, and their season is brought to\na fitting termination by the prostration which overtakes them in Lent. By\nthat time all their principles are upset, and they go to Paris for the\nmonth of May--_pour se retremper dans les id\u00e9es id\u00e9alistes_, as they\nexpress it. Do you think one could construct a party out of such\nelements, especially when you reflect that this mass of uncertainty is\ncertain always to yield to the ultimate consideration of self-interest?\nHalf of them keep an Italian flag with the Papal one, ready to thrust\neither of them out of the window as occasion may require. Good night,\nGiovanni. I have talked enough, and all Rome will set upon you to find\nout what secrets of State I have been confiding. You had better prepare\nan answer, for you can hardly inform Donna Tullia and her set that I have\nbeen calling them a parcel of--weak and ill-advised people. They might\ntake offence--they might even call me by bad names,--fancy how very\nterribly that would afflict me! Good night, Giovanni--my greetings to\nyour father.\"\n\nThe Cardinal nodded, but did not offer his hand. He knew that Giovanni\nhated to kiss his ring, and he had too much tact to press the ceremonial\netiquette upon any one whom he desired to influence. But he nodded\ngraciously, and receiving his cloak from the gentleman who accompanied\nhim and who had waited at a respectful distance, the statesman passed out\nof the great doorway, where the double line of torch-bearers stood ready\nto accompany him down the grand staircase to his carriage, in accordance\nwith the custom of those days.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nWhen he was alone, Giovanni retraced his steps, and again took up his\nposition near the entrance to the reception-rooms. He had matter for\nreflection in the interview which had just ended; and, having nothing\nbetter to do while he waited for Corona, he thought about what had\nhappened. He was not altogether pleased at the interest his marriage\nexcited in high quarters; he hated interference, and he regarded Cardinal\nAntonelli's advice in such a matter as an interference of the most\nunwarrantable kind. Neither he himself nor his father were men who sought\ncounsel from without, for independence in action was with them a family\ntradition, as independence of thought was in their race a hereditary\nquality. To think that if he, Giovanni Saracinesca, chose to marry any\nwoman whatsoever, any one, no matter how exalted in station, should dare\nto express approval or disapproval was a shock to every inborn and\ncultivated prejudice in his nature. He had nearly quarrelled with his own\nfather for seeking to influence his matrimonial projects; it was not\nlikely that he would suffer Cardinal Antonelli to interfere with them. If\nGiovanni had really made up his mind--had firmly determined to ask the\nhand of Donna Tullia--it is more than probable that the statesman's\nadvice would not only have failed signally in preventing the match, but\nby the very opposition it would have aroused in Giovanni's heart it would\nhave had the effect of throwing him into the arms of a party which\nalready desired his adhesion, and which, under his guidance, might have\nbecome as formidable as it was previously insignificant. But the great\nCardinal was probably well informed, and his words had not fallen upon a\nbarren soil. Giovanni had vacillated sadly in trying to come to a\ndecision. His first Quixotic impulse to marry Madame Mayer, in order to\nshow the world that he cared nothing for Corona d'Astrardente, had proved\nitself absurd, even to his impetuous intelligence. The growing antipathy\nhe felt for Donna Tullia had made his marriage with her appear in the\nlight of a disagreeable duty, and his rashness in confessing his love for\nCorona had so disturbed his previous conceptions that marriage no longer\nseemed a duty at all. What had been but a few days before almost a fixed\nresolution, had dwindled till it seemed an impracticable and even a\nuseless scheme. When he had arrived at the Palazzo Frangipani that\nevening, he had very nearly forgotten Donna Tullia, and had quite\ndetermined that whatever his father might say he would not give the\npromised answer before Easter. By the time the Cardinal had left him, he\nhad decided that no power on earth should induce him to marry Madame\nMayer. He did not take the trouble of saying to himself that he would\nmarry no one else.\n\nThe Cardinal's words had struck deep, in a deep nature. Giovanni had\ngiven Del Ferice a very fair exposition of the views he believed himself\nto hold, on the day when they had walked together after Donna Tullia's\npicnic. He believed himself a practical man, loyal to the temporal power\nby principle rather than by any sort of enthusiastic devotion; not\ndesirous of any great change, because any change that might reasonably be\nexpected would be bad for his own vested interests; not prejudiced for\nany policy save that of peace--preferring, indeed, with Cicero, the most\nunjust peace to the most just war; tenacious of old customs, and not\nparticularly inquisitive concerning ideas of progress,--on the whole,\nGiovanni thought himself what his father had been in his youth, and more\nor less what he hoped his sons, if he ever had any, would be after him.\n\nBut there was more in him than all this, and at the first distant sound\nof battle he felt the spirit stir within him, for his real nature was\nbrave and loyal, unselfish and devoted, instinctively sympathizing with\nthe weak and hating the lukewarm. He had told Del Ferice that he believed\nhe would fight as a matter of principle: as he leaned against the marble\npillar of the door in the Palazzo Frangipani, he wished the fight had\nalready begun.\n\nWaiting there, and staring into the moving crowd, he was aware of a young\nman with pale and delicate features and black hair, who stood quietly by\nhis side, and seemed like himself an idle though not uninterested\nspectator of the scene. Giovanni glanced once at the young fellow, and\nthought he recognised him, and glancing again, he met his earnest look,\nand saw that it was Anastase Gouache, the painter. Giovanni knew him\nslightly, for Gouache was regarded as a rising celebrity, and, thanks to\nDonna Tullia, was invited to most of the great receptions and balls of\nthat season, though he was not yet anywhere on a footing of intimacy.\nGouache was proud, and would perhaps have stood aloof altogether rather\nthan be treated as one of the herd who are asked \"with everybody,\" as\nthe phrase goes; but he was of an observing turn of mind, and it amused\nhim immensely to stand unnoticed, following the movements of society's\nplanets, comets, and satellites, and studying the many types of the\ncosmopolitan Roman world.\n\n\"Good evening, Monsieur Gouache,\" said Giovanni.\n\n\"Good evening, prince,\" replied the artist, with a somewhat formal\nbow--after which both men relapsed into silence, and continued to watch\nthe crowd.\n\n\"And what do you think of our Roman world?\" asked Giovanni, presently.\n\n\"I cannot compare it to any other world,\" answered Gouache, simply. \"I\nnever went into society till I came to Rome. I think it is at once\nbrilliant and sedate--it has a magnificent air of historical antiquity,\nand it is a little paradoxical.\"\n\n\"Where is the paradox?\" inquired Giovanni.\n\n\"'Es-tu libre? Les lois sont-elles respect\u00e9es?\nCrains-tu de voir ton champ pill\u00e9 par le voisin?\nLe ma\u00eetre a-t-il son toit, et l'ouvrier son pain?'\"\n\nA smile flickered over the young artist's face as he quoted Musset's\nlines in answer to Giovanni's question. Giovanni himself laughed, and\nlooked at Anastase with somewhat increased interest.\n\n\"Do you mean that we are revelling under the sword of Damocles--dancing\non the eve of our execution?\"\n\n\"Not precisely. A delicate flavour of uncertainty about to-morrow gives\nzest to the appetite of to-day. It is impossible that such a large\nsociety should be wholly unconscious of its own imminent danger--and yet\nthese men and women go about to-night as if they were Romans of old,\nrulers of the world, only less sure of themselves than of the stability\nof their empire.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" asked Giovanni, glancing curiously at the pale young man\nbeside him. \"In answer to your quotation, I can say that I am as free as\nI care to be; that the laws are sufficiently respected; that no one has\nhitherto thought it worth while to plunder my acres; that I have a modest\nroof of my own; and that, as far as I am aware, there are no workmen\nstarving in the streets at present. You are answered, it seems to me,\nMonsieur Gouache.\"\n\n\"Is that really your belief?\" asked the artist, quietly.\n\n\"Yes. As for my freedom, I am as free as air; no one thinks of hindering\nmy movements. As for the laws, they are made for good citizens, and good\ncitizens will respect them; if bad citizens do not, that is their loss.\nMy acres are safe, possibly because they are not worth taking, though\nthey yield me a modest competence sufficient for my needs and for the\nneeds of those who cultivate them for me.\"\n\n\"And yet there is a great deal of talk in Rome about misery and injustice\nand oppression--\"\n\n\"There will be a great deal more talk about those evils, with much better\ncause, if people who think like you succeed in bringing about a\nrevolution, Monsieur Gouache,\" answered Giovanni, coldly.\n\n\"If many people think like you, prince, a revolution is not to be thought\nof. As for me I am a foreigner and I see what I can, and listen to what I\nhear.\"\n\n\"A revolution is not to be thought of. It was tried here and failed. If\nwe are overcome by a great power from without, we shall have no choice\nbut to yield, if any of us survive--for we would fight. But we have\nnothing to fear from within.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" returned Gouache, thoughtfully. \"I hear such opposite\nopinions that I hardly know what to think.\"\n\n\"I hear that you are to paint Cardinal Antonelli's portrait,\" said\nGiovanni. \"Perhaps his Eminence will help you to decide.\"\n\n\"Yes; they say he is the cleverest man in Europe.\"\n\n\"In that opinion they--whoever they may be--are mistaken,\" replied\nGiovanni. \"But he is a man of immense intellect, nevertheless.\"\n\n\"I am not sure whether I will paint his portrait after all,\" said\nGouache.\n\n\"You do not wish to be persuaded?\"\n\n\"No. My own ideas please me very well for the present. I would not\nexchange them for those of any one else.\"\n\n\"May I ask what those ideas are?\" inquired Giovanni, with a show of\ninterest.\n\n\"I am a republican,\" answered Gouache, quietly. \"I am also a good\nCatholic.\"\n\n\"Then you are yourself much more paradoxical than the whole of our Roman\nsociety put together,\" answered Giovanni, with a dry laugh.\n\n\"Perhaps. There comes the most beautiful woman in the world.\"\n\nIt was nearly twelve o'clock when Corona arrived, old Astrardente\nsauntering jauntily by her side, his face arranged with more than usual\ncare, and his glossy wig curled cunningly to represent nature. He was\nsaid to possess a number of wigs of different lengths, which he wore in\nrotation, thus sustaining the impression that his hair was cut from time\nto time. In his eye a single eyeglass was adjusted, and as he walked he\nswung his hat delicately in his tightly gloved fingers. He wore the\nplainest of collars and the simplest of gold studs; no chain dangled\nshowily from his waistcoat-pocket, and his small feet were encased in\nlittle patent-leather shoes. But for his painted face, he might have\npassed for the very incarnation of fashionable simplicity. But his face\nbetrayed him.\n\nAs for Corona, she was dazzlingly beautiful. Not that any colour or\nmaterial she wore could greatly enhance her beauty, for all who saw her\non that memorable night remembered the wonderful light in her face, and\nthe strange look in her splendid eyes; but the thick soft fall of the\nwhite velvet made as it were a pedestal for her loveliness, and the\nAstrardente jewels that clasped her waist and throat and crowned her\nblack hair, collected the radiance of the many candles, and made the\nlight cling to her and follow her as she walked. Giovanni saw her enter,\nand his whole adoration came upon him as a madness upon a sick man in a\nfever, so that he would have sprung forward to meet her, and fallen at\nher feet and worshipped her, had he not suddenly felt that he was watched\nby more than one of the many who paused to see her go by. He moved from\nhis place and waited near the door where she would have to pass, and for\na moment his heart stood still.\n\nHe hardly knew how it was. He found himself speaking to her. He asked her\nfor a dance, he asked boldly for the cotillon--he never knew how he had\ndared; she assented, let her eyes rest upon him for one moment with an\nindescribable expression, then grew very calm and cold, and passed on.\n\nIt was all over in an instant. Giovanni moved back to his place as she\nwent by, and stood still like a man stunned. It was well that there were\nyet nearly two hours before the preliminary dancing would be over; he\nneeded some time to collect himself. The air seemed full of strange\nvoices, and he watched the moving faces as in a dream, unable to\nconcentrate his attention upon anything he saw.\n\n\"He looks as though he had a stroke of paralysis,\" said a woman's voice\nnear him. It did not strike him, in his strange bewilderment, that it was\nDonna Tullia who had spoken, still less that she was speaking of him\nalmost to him.\n\n\"Something very like it, I should say,\" answered Del Ferice's oily voice.\n\"He has probably been ill since you saw him. Saracinesca is an unhealthy\nplace.\"\n\nGiovanni turned sharply round.\n\n\"Yes; we were speaking of you, Don Giovanni,\" said Donna Tullia, with\nsome scorn. \"Does it strike you that you were exceedingly rude in not\nletting me know that you were going out of town when you had promised to\ndance with me at the Valdarno ball?\" She curled her small lip and showed\nher sharp white teeth. Giovanni was a man of the world, however, and was\nequal to the occasion.\n\n\"I apologise most humbly,\" he said. \"It was indeed very rude; but in the\nurgency of the case, I forgot all other engagements. I really beg your\npardon. Will you honour me with a dance this evening?\"\n\n\"I have every dance engaged,\" answered Madame Mayer, coldly staring at\nhim.\n\n\"I am very sorry,\" said Giovanni, inwardly thanking heaven for his good\nfortune, and wishing she would go away.\n\n\"Wait a moment,\" said Donna Tullia, judging that she had produced the\ndesired effect upon him. \"Let me look. I believe I have one waltz left.\nLet me see. Yes, the one before the last--you can have it if you like.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" murmured Giovanni, greatly annoyed. \"I will remember.\"\n\nMadame Mayer laid her hand upon Del Ferice's arm, and moved away. She was\na vain woman, and being in love with Saracinesca after her own fashion,\ncould not understand that he should be wholly indifferent to her. She\nthought that in telling him she had no dances she had given him a little\nwholesome punishment, and that in giving one after all she had conferred\na favour upon him. She also believed that she had annoyed Del Ferice,\nwhich, always amused her. But Del Ferice was more than a match for her,\nwith his quiet ways and smooth tongue.\n\nThey went into the ball-room together and danced a few minutes. When the\nmusic ceased, Ugo excused himself on the plea that he was engaged for the\nquadrille that followed. He at once set out in search of the Duchessa\nd'Astrardente, and did not lose sight of her again. She did not dance\nbefore the cotillon, she said; and she sat down in a high chair in the\npicture-gallery, while three or four men, among whom was Valdarno, sat\nand stood near her, doing their best to amuse her. Others came, and some\nwent away, but Corona did not move, and sat amongst her little court,\nglad to have the time pass in any way until the cotillon. When Del Ferice\nhad ascertained her position, he went about his business, which was\nmanifold--dancing frequently, and making a point of speaking to every one\nin the room. At the end of an hour, he joined the group of men around the\nDuchessa and took part in the conversation.\n\nIt was an easy matter to make the talk turn upon Giovanni Saracinesca.\nEvery one was more or less curious about the journey he had made, and\nespecially about the cause of his absence. Each of the men had something\nto say, and each, knowing the popular report that Giovanni was in love\nwith Corona, said his say with as much wit as he could command. Corona\nherself was interested, for she alone understood his sudden absence, and\nwas anxious to hear the common opinion concerning it.\n\nThe theories advanced were various. Some said he had been quarrelling\nwith the local authorities of Saracinesca, who interfered with his\ndevelopments and improvements upon the estate, and they gave laughable\nportraits of the village sages with whom he had been engaged. Others\nsaid he had only stopped there a day, and had been in Naples. One said he\nhad been boar-hunting; another, that the Saracinesca woods had been\ninfested by a band of robbers, who were terrorising the country.\n\n\"And what do you say, Del Ferice?\" asked Corona, seeing a cunning smile\nupon the man's pale fat face.\n\n\"It is very simple,\" said Ugo; \"it is a very simple matter indeed. If the\nDuchessa will permit me, I will call him, and we will ask him directly\nwhat he has been doing. There he stands with old Cantalorgano at the\nother end of the room. Public curiosity demands to be satisfied. May I\ncall him, Duchessa?\"\n\n\"By no means,\" said Corona, quickly. But before she had spoken, Valdarno,\nwho was always sanguine and impulsive, had rapidly crossed the gallery\nand was already speaking to Giovanni. The latter bowed his head as though\nobeying an order, and came quietly back with the young man who had called\nhim. The crowd of men parted before him as he advanced to the Duchessa's\nchair, and stood waiting in some surprise.\n\n\"What are your commands, Duchessa?\" he asked, in somewhat formal tones.\n\n\"Valdarno is too quick,\" answered Corona, who was greatly annoyed. \"Some\none suggested calling you to settle a dispute, and he went before I could\nstop him. I fear it is very impertinent of us.\"\n\n\"I am entirely at your service,\" said Giovanni, who was delighted at\nhaving been called, and had found time to recover from his first\nexcitement on seeing her. \"What is the question?\"\n\n\"We were all talking about you,\" said Valdarno.\n\n\"We were wondering where you had been,\" said another.\n\n\"They said you had gone boar-hunting.\"\n\n\"Or to Naples.\"\n\n\"Or even to Paris.\" Three or four spoke in one breath.\n\n\"I am exceedingly flattered at the interest you all show in me,\" said\nGiovanni, quietly. \"There is very little to tell. I have been in\nSaracinesca upon a matter of business, spending my days in the woods with\nmy steward, and my nights in keeping away the cold and the ghosts. I\nwould have invited you all to join the festivity, had I known how much\nyou were interested. The beef up there is monstrously tough, and the rats\nare abominably noisy, but the mountain air is said to be very healthy.\"\n\nMost of the men present felt that they had not only behaved foolishly,\nbut had spoiled the little circle around the Duchessa by introducing a\nman who had the power to interest her, whereas they could only afford her\na little amusement. Valdarno was still standing, and his chair beside\nCorona was vacant. Giovanni calmly installed himself upon it, and began\nto talk as though nothing had happened.\n\n\"You are not dancing, Duchessa,\" he remarked. \"I suppose you have been in\nthe ball-room?\"\n\n\"Yes--but I am rather tired this evening. I will wait.\"\n\n\"You were here at the last great ball, before the old prince died, were\nyou not?\" asked Giovanni, remembering that he had first seen her on that\noccasion.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered; \"and I remember that we danced together; and the\naccident to the window, and the story of the ghost.\"\n\nSo they fell into conversation, and though one or two of the men ventured\nan ineffectual remark, the little circle dropped away, and Giovanni was\nleft alone by the side of the Duchessa. The distant opening strains of a\nwaltz came floating down the gallery, but neither of the two heard, nor\ncared.\n\n\"It is strange,\" Giovanni said. \"They say it has always happened, since\nthe memory of man. No one has ever seen anything, but whenever there is a\ngreat ball, there is a crash of broken glass some time in the course of\nthe evening. Nobody could ever explain why that window fell in, five\nyears ago--five years ago this month,--this very day, I believe,\" he\ncontinued suddenly, in the act of recollection. \"Yes--the nineteenth of\nJanuary, I remember very well--it was my mother's birthday.\"\n\n\"It is not so extraordinary,\" said Corona, \"for it chances to be the\nname-day of the present prince. That was probably the reason why it was\nchosen this year.\" She spoke a little nervously, as though still ill at\nease.\n\n\"But it is very strange,\" said Giovanni, in a low voice. \"It is strange\nthat we should have met here the first time, and that we should not have\nmet here since, until--to-day.\"\n\nHe looked towards her as he spoke, and their eyes met and lingered in\neach other's gaze. Suddenly the blood mounted to Corona's cheeks, her\neyelids drooped, she leaned back in her seat and was silent.\n\nFar off, at the entrance to the ball-room, Del Ferice found Donna Tullia\nalone. She was very angry. The dance for which she was engaged to\nGiovanni Saracinesca had begun, and was already half over, and still he\ndid not come. Her pink face was unusually flushed, and there was a\ndisagreeable look in her blue eyes.\n\n\"Ah!--I see Don Giovanni has again forgotten his engagement,\" said Ugo,\nin smooth tones. He well knew that he himself had brought about the\nomission, but none could have guessed it from his manner. \"May I have the\nhonour of a turn before your cavalier arrives?\" he asked.\n\n\"No,\" said Donna Tullia, angrily. \"Give me your arm. We will go and find\nhim.\" She almost hissed the words through her closed teeth.\n\nShe hardly knew that Del Ferice was leading her as they moved towards the\npicture-gallery, passing through the crowded rooms that lay between. She\nnever spoke; but her movement was impetuous, and she resented being\ndelayed by the hosts of men and women who filled the way. As they entered\nthe long apartment, where the portraits of the Frangipani lined the walls\nfrom end to end, Del Ferice uttered a well-feigned exclamation.\n\n\"Oh, there he is!\" he cried. \"Do you see him?--his back is turned--he is\nalone with the Astrardente.\"\n\n\"Come,\" said Donna Tullia, shortly. Del Ferice would have preferred to\nhave let her go alone, and to have witnessed from a distance the scene he\nhad brought about. But he could not refuse to accompany Madame Mayer.\n\nNeither Corona, who was facing the pair, but was talking with Giovanni,\nnor Giovanni himself, who was turned away from them, noticed their\napproach until they came and stood still beside them. Saracinesca looked\nup and started. The Duchessa d'Astrardente raised her black eyebrows in\nsurprise.\n\n\"Our dance!\" exclaimed Giovanni, in considerable agitation. \"It is the\none after this--\"\n\n\"On the contrary,\" said Donna Tullia, in tones trembling with rage, \"it\nis already over. It is the most unparalleled insolence!\"\n\nGiovanni was profoundly disgusted at himself and Donna Tullia. He cared\nnot so much for the humiliation itself, which was bad enough, as for the\nannoyance the scene caused Corona, who looked from one to the other in\nangry astonishment, but of course could have nothing to say.\n\n\"I can only assure you that I thought--\"\n\n\"You need not assure me!\" cried Donna Tullia, losing all self-control.\n\"There is no excuse, nor pardon--it is the second time. Do not insult me\nfurther, by inventing untruths for your apology.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless--\" began Giovanni, who was sincerely sorry for his great\nrudeness, and would gladly have attempted to explain his conduct, seeing\nthat Donna Tullia was so justly angry.\n\n\"There is no nevertheless!\" she interrupted. \"You may stay where you\nare,\" she added, with a scornful glance at the Duchessa d'Astrardente.\nThen she laid her hand upon Del Ferice's arm, and swept angrily past, so\nthat the train of her red silk gown brushed sharply against Corona's soft\nwhite velvet.\n\nGiovanni remained standing a moment, with a puzzled expression upon his\nface.\n\n\"How could you do anything so rude?\" asked Corona, very gravely. \"She\nwill never forgive you, and she will be quite right.\"\n\n\"I do not know how I forgot,\" he answered, seating himself again. \"It is\ndreadful--unpardonable--but perhaps the consequences will be good.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nCorona was ill at ease. In the first few moments of being alone with\nGiovanni the pleasure she felt outweighed all other thoughts. But as the\nminutes lengthened to a quarter of an hour, then to half an hour, she\ngrew nervous, and her answers came more and more shortly. She said to\nherself that she should never have given him the cotillon, and she\nwondered how the remainder of the time would pass. The realisation of\nwhat had occurred came upon her, and the hot blood rose to her face and\nebbed away again, and rose once more. Yet she could not speak out what\nher pride prompted her to say, because she pitied Giovanni a little, and\nwas willing to think for a moment that it was only compassion she felt,\nlest she should feel that she must send him away.\n\nBut Giovanni sat beside her, and knew that the spell was working upon\nhim, and that there was no salvation. He had taken her unawares, though\nhe hardly knew it, when she first entered, and he asked her suddenly for\na dance. He had wondered vaguely why she had so freely consented; but, in\nthe wild delight of being by her side, he completely lost all hold upon\nhimself, and yielded to the exquisite charm of her presence, as a man who\nhas struggled for a moment against a powerful opiate sinks under its\ninfluence, and involuntarily acknowledges his weakness. Strong as he was,\nhis strength was all gone, and he knew not where he should find it.\n\n\"You will have to make her some further apology,\" said Corona, as Madame\nMayer's red train disappeared through the doorway at the other end of the\nroom.\n\n\"Of course--I must do something about it,\" said Giovanni, absently.\n\"After all, I do not wonder--it is amazing that I should have recognised\nher at all. I should forget anything to-night, except that I am to\ndance with you.\"\n\nThe Duchessa looked away, and fanned herself slowly; but she sighed, and\nchecked the deep-drawn breath as by a great effort. The waltz was over,\nand the dancers streamed through the intervening rooms towards the\ngallery in quest of fresher air and freer space. Two and two they came,\nquickly following each other and passing on, some filling the high seats\nalong the walls, others hastening towards the supper-rooms beyond. A few\nminutes earlier Saracinesca and Corona had been almost alone in the great\napartment; now they were surrounded on all sides by a chattering crowd of\nmen and women, with flushed faces or unnaturally pale, according as the\neffort of dancing affected each, and the indistinguishable din of\nhundreds of voices so filled the air that Giovanni and the Duchessa could\nhardly hear each other speak.\n\n\"This is intolerable,\" said Giovanni, suddenly. \"You are not engaged for\nthe last quadrille? Shall we not go away until the cotillon begins?\"\n\nCorona hesitated a moment, and was silent. She glanced once at Giovanni,\nand again surveyed the moving crowd.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said at last; \"let us go away.\"\n\n\"You are very good,\" answered Giovanni in a low voice, as he offered her\nhis arm. She looked at him inquiringly, and her face grew grave, as they\nslowly made their way out of the room.\n\nAt last they came to the conservatory, and went in among the great plants\nand the soft lights. There was no one there, and they slowly paced the\nbroad walk that was left clear all round the glass-covered chamber, and\nup and down the middle. The plants were disposed so thickly as to form\nalmost impenetrable walls of green on either side; and at one end there\nwas an open space where a little marble fountain played, around which\nwere disposed seats of carved wood. But Giovanni and Corona continued to\nwalk slowly along the tiled path.\n\n\"Why did you say I was good just now?\" asked Corona at last. Her voice\nsounded cold.\n\n\"I should not have said it, perhaps,\" answered Giovanni. \"I say many\nthings which I cannot help saying. I am very sorry.\"\n\n\"I am very sorry too,\" answered the Duchessa, quietly.\n\n\"Ah! if you knew, you would forgive me. If you could guess half the\ntruth, you would forgive me.\"\n\n\"I would rather not guess it.\"\n\n\"Of course; but you have already--you know it all. Have I not told you?\"\nGiovanni spoke in despairing tones. He was utterly weak and spellbound;\nhe could hardly find any words at all.\n\n\"Don Giovanni,\" said Corona, speaking very proudly and calmly, but not\nunkindly, \"I have known you so long, I believe you to be so honourable a\nman, that I am willing to suppose that you said--what you said--in a\nmoment of madness.\"\n\n\"Madness! It was madness; but it is more sweet to remember than all the\nother doings of my life,\" said Saracinesca, his tongue unloosed at last.\n\"If it is madness to love you, I am mad past all cure. There is no\nhealing for me now; I shall never find my senses again, for they are lost\nin you, and lost for ever. Drive me away, crush me, trample on me if you\nwill; you cannot kill me nor kill my madness, for I live in you and for\nyou, and I cannot die. That is all. I am not eloquent as other men are,\nto use smooth words and twist phrases. I love you--\"\n\n\"You have said too much already--too much, far too much,\" murmured\nCorona, in broken tones. She had withdrawn her hand from his during his\npassionate speech, and stood back from him against the dark wall of green\nplants, her head drooping upon her breast, her fingers clasped fast\ntogether. His short rude words were terribly sweet to hear, it was\nfearful to think that she was alone with him, that one step would bring\nher to his side, that with one passionate impulse she might throw her\nwhite arms about his neck, that one faltering sigh of overwhelming love\nmight bring her queenly head down upon his shoulder. Ah, God! how gladly\nshe would let her tears flow and speak for her! how unutterably sweet it\nwould be to rest for one instant in his arms, to love and be loved as she\nlonged to be!\n\n\"You are so cold,\" he cried, passionately. \"You cannot understand. All\nspoken words are not too much, are not enough to move you, to make you\nsee that I do really worship and adore you; you, the whole of you--your\nglorious face, your sweet small hands, your queenly ways, the light of\nyour eyes, and the words of your lips--all of you, body and soul, I love.\nI would I might die now, for you know it, even if you will not\nunderstand--\"\n\nHe moved a step nearer to her, stretching out his hands as he spoke.\nCorona trembled convulsively, and her lips turned white in the torture of\ntemptation; she leaned far back against the green leaves, staring wildly\nat Giovanni, held as in a vice by the mighty passions of love and fear.\nHaving yielded her ears to his words, they fascinated her horribly. He,\npoor man, had long lost all control of himself. His resolutions, long\npondered in the solitude of Saracinesca, had vanished like unsubstantial\nvapours before a strong fire, and his heart and soul were ablaze.\n\n\"Do not look at me so,\" he said almost tenderly. \"Do not look at me as\nthough you feared me, as though you hated me. Can you not see that it is\nI who fear you as well as love you, who tremble at your coldness, who\nwatch for your slightest kind look? Ah, Corona, you have made me so\nhappy!--there is no angel in all heaven but would give up his Paradise to\nchange for mine!\"\n\nHe had taken her hand and pressed it wildly to his lips. Her eyelids\ndrooped, and her head fell back for one moment. They stood so very near\nthat his arm had almost stolen about her slender waist, he almost thought\nhe was supporting her.\n\nSuddenly, without the least warning, she drew herself up to her full\nheight, and thrust Giovanni back to her arm's length strongly, almost\nroughly.\n\n\"Never!\" she said. \"I am a weak woman, but not so weak as that. I am\nmiserable, but not so miserable as to listen to you. Giovanni\nSaracinesca, you say you love me--God grant it is not true! but you say\nit. Then, have you no honour, no courage, no strength? Is there nothing\nof the man left in you? Is there no truth in your love, no generosity in\nyour heart? If you so love me as you say you do, do you care so little\nwhat becomes of me as to tempt me to love you?\"\n\nShe spoke very earnestly, not scornfully nor angrily, but in the\ncertainty of strength and right, and in the strong persuasion that the\nheadstrong man would hear and be convinced. She was weak no longer, for\none desperate moment her fate had trembled in the balance, but she had\nnot hesitated even then; she had struggled bravely, and her brave soul\nhad won the great battle. She had been weak the other day at the theatre,\nin letting herself ask the question to which she knew the answer; she had\nbeen miserably weak that very night in so abandoning herself to the\ninfluence she loved and dreaded; but at the great moment, when heaven and\nearth swam before her as in a wild and unreal mirage, with the voice of\nthe man she loved ringing in her ears, speaking such words as it was\nan ecstasy to hear, she had been no longer weak--the reality of danger\nhad brought forth the sincerity of her goodness, and her heart had found\ncourage to do a great deed. She had overcome, and she knew it.\n\nGiovanni stood back from her, and hung his head. In a moment the force of\nhis passion was checked, and from the supreme verge of unspeakable and\nrapturous delight, he was cast suddenly into the depths of his own\nremorse. He stood silent before her, trembling and awestruck.\n\n\"You cannot understand me,\" she said, \"I do not understand myself. But\nthis I know, that you are not what you have seemed to-night--that there\nis enough manliness and nobility in you to respect a woman, and that you\nwill hereafter prove that I am right. I pray that I may not see you any\nmore; but if I must see you, I will trust you this much--say that I may\ntrust you,\" she added, her strong smooth voice sinking in a trembling\ncadence, half beseeching, and yet wholly commanding.\n\nSaracinesca bent his heavy brows, and was silent for a moment. Then he\nlooked up, and his eyes met hers, and seemed to gather strength from her.\n\n\"If you will let me see you sometimes, you may trust me. I would I were\nas noble and good as you--I am not. I will try to be. Ah, Corona!\" he\ncried suddenly, \"forgive me, forgive me! I hardly knew what I said.\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said the Duchessa, gently; \"you must not speak like that, nor\ncall me Corona. Perhaps I am wrong to forgive you wholly, but I believe\nin you. I believe you will understand, and that you will be worthy of the\ntrust I place in you.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Duchessa, none shall say that they have trusted me in vain,\"\nanswered Giovanni very proudly--\"neither man nor woman--and, least of all\nwomen, you.\"\n\n\"That is well,\" said she, with a faint shadow of a smile. \"I would rather\nsee you proud than reckless. See that you remain so--that neither by word\nnor deed you ever remind me that I have had anything to forgive. It is\nthe only way in which any intercourse between us can be possible after\nthis--this dreadful night.\"\n\nGiovanni bowed his head. He was still pale, but he had regained control\nof himself.\n\n\"I solemnly promise that I will not recall it to your memory, and I\nimplore your forgiveness, even though you cannot forget.\"\n\n\"I cannot forget,\" said Corona, almost under her breath. Giovanni's eyes\nflashed for a moment. \"Shall we go back to the ball-room? I will go home\nsoon.\"\n\nAs they turned to go, a loud crash, as of broken glass, with the fall of\nsome heavy body, startled them, and made them stand still in the middle\nof the walk. The noisy concussion was followed by a complete silence.\nCorona, whose nerves had been severely tried, trembled slightly.\n\n\"It is strange,\" she said; \"they say it always happens.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be seen. The thick web of plants hid the cause of\nthe noise from view, whatever it might be. Giovanni hesitated a moment,\nlooking about to see how he could get behind the banks of flower-pots.\nThen he left Corona without a word, and striding to the end of the walk,\ndisappeared into the depths of the conservatory. He had noticed that\nthere was a narrow entrance at the end nearest the fountain, intended\nprobably to admit the gardener for the purpose of watering the plants.\nCorona could hear his quick steps; she thought she heard a low groan and\na voice whispering,--but she might have been mistaken, for the place was\nlarge, and her heart was beating fast.\n\nGiovanni had not gone far in the narrow way, which was sufficiently\nlighted by the soft light of the many candles concealed in various parts\nof the conservatory, when he came upon the figure of a man sitting, as he\nhad apparently fallen, across the small passage. The fragments of a heavy\nearthenware vase lay beyond him, with a heap of earth and roots; and the\ntall india-rubber plant which grew in it had fallen against the sloping\nglass roof and shattered several panes. As Giovanni came suddenly upon\nhim, the man struggled to rise, and in the dim light Saracinesca\nrecognised Del Ferice. The truth flashed upon him at once. The fellow had\nbeen listening, and had probably heard all. Giovanni instantly resolved\nto conceal the fact from the Duchessa, to whom the knowledge that the\npainful scene had been overheard would be a bitter mortification.\nGiovanni could undertake to silence the eavesdropper.\n\nQuick as thought his strong brown hands gripped the throat of Ugo del\nFerice, stifling his breath like a collar of iron.\n\n\"Dog!\" he whispered fiercely in the wretch's ear, \"if you breathe, I will\nkill you now! You will find me in my own house in an hour. Be silent\nnow!\" Giovanni whispered, with such a terrible grip on the fellow's\nthroat that his eyeballs seemed starting from his head. Then he turned\nand went out by the way he had entered, leaving Del Ferice writhing with\npain and gasping for breath. As he joined Corona, his face betrayed no\nemotion--he had been so pale before that he could not turn whiter in his\nanger--but his eyes gleamed fiercely at the thought of fight. The\nDuchessa stood where he had left her, still much agitated.\n\n\"It is nothing,\" said Giovanni, with a forced laugh, as he offered her\nhis arm and led her quickly away. \"Imagine. A great vase with one of\nFrangipani's favourite plants in it had been badly propped, and had\nfallen right through the glass, outward.\"\n\n\"It is strange,\" said Corona. \"I was almost sure I heard a groan.\"\n\n\"It was the wind. The glass was broken, and it is a stormy night.\"\n\n\"That was just the way that window fell in five years ago,\" said Corona.\n\"Something always happens here. I think I will go home--let us find my\nhusband.\"\n\nNo one would have guessed, from Corona's face, that anything\nextraordinary had occurred in the half-hour she had spent in the\nconservatory. She walked calmly by Giovanni's side, not a trace of\nexcitement on her pale proud face, not a sign of uneasiness in the quiet\nglance of her splendid eyes. She had conquered, and she knew it, never to\nbe tempted again; she had conquered herself and she had overcome the man\nbeside her. Giovanni glanced at her in wondering admiration.\n\n\"You are the bravest woman in the world, as I am the most contemptible of\nmen,\" he said suddenly, as they entered the picture-gallery.\n\n\"I am not brave,\" she answered calmly, \"neither are you contemptible, my\nfriend. We have both been very near to our destruction, but it has\npleased God to save us.\"\n\n\"By you,\" said Saracinesca, very solemnly. He knew that within six hours\nhe might be lying dead upon some plot of wet grass without the city, and\nhe grew very grave, after the manner of brave men when death is abroad.\n\n\"You have saved my soul to-night,\" he said earnestly. \"Will you give me\nyour blessing and whole forgiveness? Do not laugh at me, nor think me\nfoolish. The blessing of such women as you should make men braver and\nbetter.\"\n\nThe gallery was again deserted. The cotillon had begun, and those who\nwere not dancing were at supper. Corona stood still for one moment by the\nvery chair where they had sat so long.\n\n\"I forgive you wholly. I pray that all blessings may be upon you always,\nin life and in death, for ever.\"\n\nGiovanni bowed his head reverently. It seemed as though the woman he so\nloved was speaking a benediction upon his death, a last _in pace_ which\nshould follow him for all eternity.\n\n\"In life and in death, I will honour you truly and serve you faithfully\nfor ever,\" he answered. As he raised his head, Corona saw that there were\ntears in his eyes, and she felt that there were tears in her own.\n\n\"Come,\" she said, and they passed on in silence.\n\nShe found her husband at last in the supper-room. He was leisurely\ndiscussing the wing of a chicken and a small glass of claret-and-water,\nwith a gouty ambassador whose wife had insisted upon dancing the\ncotillon, and who was revenging himself upon a Strasbourg _p\u00e2t\u00e9_ and a\nbottle of dry champagne.\n\n\"Ah, my dear,\" said Astrardente, looking up from his modest fare, \"you\nhave been dancing? You have come to supper? You are very wise. I have\ndanced a great deal myself, but I have not seen you--the room was so\ncrowded. Here--this small table will hold us all, just a quartet.\"\n\n\"Thanks--I am not hungry. Will you take me home when you have finished\nsupper? Or are you going to stay? Do not wait, Don Giovanni; I know you\nare busy in the cotillon. My husband will take care of me. Good night.\"\n\nGiovanni bowed, and went away, glad to be alone at last. He had to be at\nhome in half an hour according to his engagement, and he had to look\nabout him for a friend. All Rome was at the ball; but the men upon whom\nhe could call for such service as he required, were all dancing.\nMoreover, he reflected that in such a matter it was necessary to have\nsome one especially trustworthy. It would not do to have the real cause\nof the duel known, and the choice of a second was a very important\nmatter. He never doubted that Del Ferice would send some one with a\nchallenge at the appointed time. Del Ferice was a scoundrel, doubtless;\nbut he was quick with the foils, and had often appeared as second in\naffairs of honour.\n\nGiovanni stood by the door of the ball-room, looking at the many familiar\nfaces, and wondering how he could induce any one to leave his partner at\nthat hour, and go home with him. Suddenly he was aware that his father\nwas standing beside him and eyeing him curiously.\n\n\"What is the matter, Giovanni?\" inquired the old Prince. \"Why are you not\ndancing?\"\n\n\"The fact is--\" began Giovanni, and then stopped suddenly. An idea struck\nhim. He went close to his father, and spoke in a low voice.\n\n\"The fact is, that I have just taken a man by the throat and otherwise\ninsulted him, by calling him a dog. The fellow seemed annoyed, and so I\ntold him he might send to our house in an hour for an explanation. I\ncannot find a friend, because everybody is dancing this abominable\ncotillon. Perhaps you can help me,\" he added, looking at his father\nrather doubtfully. To his surprise and considerable relief the old Prince\nburst into a hearty laugh.\n\n\"Of course,\" he cried. \"What do you take me for? Do you think I would\ndesert my boy in a fight? Go and call my carriage, and wait for me while\nI pick up somebody for a witness; we can talk on the way home.\"\n\nThe old Prince had been a duellist in his day, and he would no more have\nthought of advising his son not to fight than of refusing a challenge\nhimself. He was, moreover, exceedingly bored at the ball, and not in the\nleast sleepy. The prospect of an exciting night was novel and delightful.\nHe knew Giovanni's extraordinary skill, and feared nothing for him. He\nknew everybody in the ball-room was engaged, and he went straight to the\nsupper-table, expecting to find some one there. Astrardente, the\nDuchessa, and the gouty ambassador were still together, as Giovanni had\nleft them a moment before. The Prince did not like Astrardente, but he\nknew the ambassador very well. He called him aside, with an apology to\nthe Duchessa.\n\n\"I want a young man immediately,\" said old Saracinesca, stroking his\nwhite beard with his broad brown hand. \"Can you tell of any one who is\nnot dancing?\"\n\n\"There is Astrardente,\" answered his Excellency, with an ironical smile.\n\"A duel?\" he asked.\n\nSaracinesca nodded.\n\n\"I am too old,\" said the diplomatist, thoughtfully; \"but it would be\ninfinitely amusing. I cannot give you one of my secretaries either. It\nalways makes such a scandal. Oh, there goes the very man! Catch him\nbefore it is too late!\"\n\nOld Saracinesca glanced in the direction the ambassador indicated, and\ndarted away. He was as active as a boy, in spite of his sixty years.\n\n\"Eh!\" he cried. \"Hi! you! Come here! Spicca! Stop! Excuse me--I am in a\ngreat hurry!\"\n\nCount Spicca, whom he thus addressed, paused and looked round through his\nsingle eyeglass in some surprise. He was an immensely tall and\ncadaverous-looking man, with a black beard and searching grey eyes.\n\n\"I really beg your pardon,\" said the Prince hurriedly, in a low voice, as\nhe came up, \"but I am in a great hurry--an affair of honour--will you be\nwitness? My carriage is at the door.\"\n\n\"With pleasure,\" said Count Spicca, quietly; and without further comment\nhe accompanied the Prince to the outer hall. Giovanni was waiting, and\nthe Prince's footman stood at the head of the stairs. In three minutes\nthe father and son and the melancholy Spicca were seated in the carriage,\non their way to the Palazzo Saracinesca.\n\n\"Now then, Giovannino,\" said the Prince, as he lit a cigarette in the\ndarkness, \"tell us all about it.\"\n\n\"There is not much to tell,\" said Giovanni. \"If the challenge arrives,\nthere is nothing to be done but to fight. I took him by the throat and\nnearly strangled him.\"\n\n\"Whom?\" asked Spicca, mournfully.\n\n\"Oh! it is Del Ferice,\" answered Giovanni, who had forgotten that he had\nnot mentioned the name of his probable antagonist. The Prince laughed.\n\n\"Del Ferice! Who would have thought it? He is a dead man. What was it all\nabout?\"\n\n\"That is unnecessary to say here,\" said Giovanni, quietly. \"He insulted\nme grossly. I half-strangled him, and told him he was a dog. I suppose he\nwill fight.\"\n\n\"Ah yes; he will probably fight,\" repeated Spicca, thoughtfully. \"What\nare your weapons, Don Giovanni?\"\n\n\"Anything he likes.\"\n\n\"But the choice is yours if he challenges,\" returned the Count.\n\n\"As you please. Arrange all that--foils, swords, or pistols.\"\n\n\"You do not seem to take much interest in this affair,\" remarked Spicca,\nsadly.\n\n\"He is best with foils,\" said the old Prince.\n\n\"Foils or pistols, of course,\" said the Count. \"Swords are child's play.\"\n\nSatisfied that his seconds meant business, Giovanni sank back in his\ncorner of the carriage, and was silent.\n\n\"We had better have the meeting in my villa,\" said his father. \"If it\nrains, they can fight indoors. I will send for the surgeon at once.\"\n\nIn a few moments they reached the Palazzo Saracinesca. The Prince left\nword at the porter's lodge that any gentlemen who arrived were to be\nadmitted, and all three went up-stairs. It was half-past two o'clock.\n\nAs they entered the apartments, they heard a carriage drive under the\ngreat archway below.\n\n\"Go to your rooms, Giovanni,\" said the old Prince. \"These fellows are\npunctual. I will call you when they are gone. I suppose you mean business\nseriously?\"\n\n\"I care nothing about him. I will give him any satisfaction he pleases,\"\nanswered Giovanni. \"It is very kind of you to undertake the matter--I am\nvery grateful.\"\n\n\"I would not leave it to anybody else,\" muttered the old Prince, as he\nhurried away to meet Del Fence's seconds.\n\nGiovanni entered his own rooms, and went straight to his writing-table.\nHe took a pen and a sheet of paper and began writing. His face was very\ngrave, but his hand was steady. For more than an hour he wrote without\npausing. Then his father entered the room.\n\n\"Well?\" said Giovanni, looking up.\n\n\"It is all settled,\" said the old gentleman, seriously. \"I was afraid\nthey might make some objection to me as a second. You know there is an\nold clause about near relations acting in such cases. But they declared\nthat they considered my co-operation an honour--so that is all right.\nYou must do your best, my boy. This rascal means to hurt you if he can.\nSeven o'clock is the time. We must leave here at half-past six. You can\nsleep two hours and a half. I will sit up and call you. Spicca has gone\nhome to change his clothes, and is coming back immediately. Now lie down.\nI will see to your foils--\"\n\n\"Is it foils, then?\" asked Giovanni, quietly.\n\n\"Yes. They made no objection. You had better lie down.\"\n\n\"I will. Father, if anything should happen to me--it may, you know--you\nwill find my keys in this drawer, and this letter, which I beg you will\nread. It is to yourself.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, my dear boy! Nothing will happen to you--you will just run him\nthrough the arm and come home to breakfast.\"\n\nThe old Prince spoke in his rough cheerful way; but his voice trembled,\nand he turned aside to hide two great tears that had fallen upon his dark\ncheeks and were losing themselves in his white beard.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nGiovanni slept soundly for two hours. He was very tired with the many\nemotions of the night, and the arrangements for the meeting being\ncompleted, it seemed as though work were over and the pressure removed.\nIt is said that men will sleep for hours when the trial is over and the\nsentence of death has been passed; and though it was more likely that Del\nFerice would be killed than that Giovanni would be hurt, the latter felt\nnot unlike a man who has been tried for his life. He had suffered in a\ncouple of hours almost every emotion of which he was capable--his love\nfor Corona, long controlled and choked down, had broken bounds at last,\nand found expression for itself; he had in a moment suffered the severest\nhumiliation and the most sincere sorrow at her reproaches; he had known\nthe fear of seeing her no more, and the sweetness of pardon from her own\nlips; he had found himself on a sudden in a frenzy of righteous wrath\nagainst Del Ferice, and a moment later he had been forced to hide his\nanger under a calm face; and at last, when the night was far spent, he\nhad received the assurance that in less than four hours he would have\nample opportunity for taking vengeance upon the cowardly eavesdropper who\nhad so foully got possession of the one secret he held dear. Worn out\nwith all he had suffered, and calm in the expectation of the morning's\nstruggle, Giovanni lay down upon his bed and slept.\n\nDel Ferice, on the contrary, was very wakeful. He had an unpleasant\nsensation about his throat as though he had been hanged, and cut down\nbefore he was dead; and he suffered the unutterable mortification of\nknowing that, after a long and successful social career, he had been\ndetected by his worst enemy in a piece of disgraceful villany. In the\nfirst place, Giovanni might kill him. Del Ferice was a very good fencer,\nbut Saracinesca was stronger and more active; there was certainly\nconsiderable danger in the duel. On the other hand, if he survived,\nGiovanni had him in his power for the rest of his life, and there was no\nescape possible. He had been caught listening--caught in a flagrantly\ndishonest trick--and he well knew that if the matter had been brought\nbefore a jury of honour, he would have been declared incompetent\nto claim any satisfaction.\n\nIt was not the first time Del Ferice had done such things, but it was the\nfirst time he had been caught. He cursed his awkwardness in oversetting\nthe vase just at the moment when his game was successfully played to the\nend--just when he thought that he began to see land, in having discovered\nbeyond all doubt that Giovanni was devoted body and soul to Corona\nd'Astrardente. The information had been necessary to him, for he was\nbeginning seriously to press his suit with Donna Tullia, and he needed to\nbe sure that Giovanni was not a rival to be feared. He had long suspected\nSaracinesca's devotion to the dark Duchessa, and by constantly putting\nhimself in his way, he had done his best to excite his jealousy and to\nstimulate his passion. Giovanni never could have considered Del Ferice as\na rival; the idea would have been ridiculous. But the constant annoyance\nof finding the man by Corona's side, when he desired to be alone with\nher, had in some measure heightened the effect Del Ferice desired, though\nit had not actually produced it. Being a good judge of character, he had\nsensibly reckoned his chances against Giovanni, and he had formed so just\nan opinion of the man's bold and devoted character as to be absolutely\nsure that if Saracinesca loved Corona he would not seriously think of\nmarrying Donna Tullia. He had done all he could to strengthen the passion\nwhen he guessed it was already growing, and at the very moment when he\nhad received circumstantial evidence of it which placed it beyond all\ndoubt, he had allowed himself to be discovered, through his own\nunpardonable carelessness.\n\nEvidently the only satisfactory way out of the difficulty was to kill\nGiovanni outright, if he could do it. In that way he would rid himself\nof an enemy, and at the same time of the evidence against himself.\nThe question was, how this could be accomplished; for Giovanni was a\nman of courage, strength, and experience, and he himself--Ugo del\nFerice--possessed none of those qualities in any great degree. The result\nwas, that he slept not at all, but passed the night in a state of nervous\nanxiety by no means conducive to steadiness of hand or calmness of the\nnerves. He was less pleased than ever when he heard that Giovanni's\nseconds were his own father and the melancholy Spicca, who was the most\ncelebrated duellist in Italy, in spite of his cadaverous long body, his\nsad voice, and his expression of mournful resignation to the course of\nevents.\n\nIn the event of his neither killing Don Giovanni nor being himself\nkilled, what he most dreaded was the certainty that for the rest of his\nlife he must be in his enemy's power. He knew that, for Corona's sake,\nGiovanni would not mention the cause of the duel, and no one could have\ninduced him to speak of it himself; but it would be a terrible hindrance\nin his life to feel at every turn that the man he hated had the power to\nexpose him to the world as a scoundrel of the first water. What he had\nheard gave him but small influence over Saracinesca, though it was of\ngreat value in determining his own action. To say aloud to the world that\nGiovanni loved the Duchessa d'Astrardente would be of little use. Del\nFerice could not, for very shame, tell how he had found it out; and there\nwas no other proof but his evidence, for he guessed that from that time\nforward the open relation between the two would be even more formal than\nbefore--and the most credulous people do not believe in a great fire\nunless they can see a little smoke. He had not even the advantage of\nturning the duel to account in his interest with Donna Tullia, since\nGiovanni could force him to deny that she was implicated in the question,\non pain of exposing his treachery. There was palpably no satisfactory way\nout of the matter unless he could kill his adversary. He would have to\nleave the country for a while; but Giovanni once dead, it would be easy\nto make Donna Tullia believe they had fought on her account, and to\nderive all the advantage there was to be gained from posing before the\nworld as her defender.\n\nBut though Del Ferice's rest was disturbed by the contemplation of his\ndifficulties, he did not neglect any precaution which might save his\nstrength for the morrow. He lay down upon his bed, stretching himself at\nfull length, and carefully keeping his right arm free, lest, by letting\nhis weight fall upon it as he lay, he should benumb the muscles or\nstiffen the joints; from time to time he rubbed a little strengthening\nointment upon his wrist, and he was careful that the light should not\nshine in his eyes and weary them. At six o'clock his seconds appeared\nwith the surgeon they had engaged, and the four men were soon driving\nrapidly down the Corso towards the gate.\n\nSo punctual were the two parties that they arrived simultaneously at the\ngate of the villa which had been selected for the encounter. The old\nPrince took a key from his pocket and himself opened the great iron gate.\nThe carriages drove in, and the gates were closed by the astonished\nporter, who came running out as they creaked upon their hinges. The light\nwas already sufficient for the purpose of fencing, as the eight men\ndescended simultaneously before the house. The morning was cloudy, but\nthe ground was dry. The principals and seconds saluted each other\nformally. Giovanni withdrew to a little distance on one side with his\nsurgeon, and Del Ferice stood aside with his.\n\nThe melancholy Spicca, who looked like the shadow of death in the dim\nmorning light, was the first to speak.\n\n\"Of course you know the best spot in the villa?\" he said to the old\nPrince.\n\n\"As there is no sun, I suggest that they fight upon the ground behind the\nhouse. It is hard and dry.\"\n\nThe whole party followed old Saracinesca. Spicca had the foils in a green\nbag. The place suggested by the Prince seemed in every way adapted, and\nDel Ferice's seconds made no objection. There was absolutely no choice of\nposition upon the ground, which was an open space about twenty yards\nsquare, hard and well rolled, preferable in every way to a grass lawn.\n\nWithout further comment, Giovanni took off his coat and waistcoat, and\nDel Ferice, who looked paler and more unhealthy than usual, followed his\nexample. The seconds crossed sides to examine the principals' shirts,\nand to assure themselves that they wore no flannel underneath the\nunstarched linen. This formality being accomplished, the foils were\ncarefully compared, and Giovanni was offered the first choice. He took\nthe one nearest his hand, and the other was carried to Del Ferice. They\nwere simple fencing foils, the buttons being removed and the points\nsharpened--there was nothing to choose between them. The seconds then\neach took a sword, and stationed the combatants some seven or eight\npaces apart, while they themselves stood a little aside, each upon the\nright hand of his principal, and the witnesses placed themselves at\nopposite corners of the ground, the surgeons remaining at the ends behind\nthe antagonists. There was a moment's pause. When all was ready, old\nSaracinesca came close to Giovanni, while Del Ferice's second approached\nhis principal in like manner.\n\n\"Giovanni,\" said the old Prince, gravely, \"as your second I am bound to\nrecommend you to make any advance in your power towards a friendly\nunderstanding. Can you do so?\"\n\n\"No, father, I cannot,\" answered Giovanni, with a slight smile. His face\nwas perfectly calm, and of a natural colour. Old Saracinesca crossed the\nground, and met Casalverde, the opposite second, half-way. Each formally\nexpressed to the other his great regret that no arrangement would be\npossible, and then retired again to the right hand of his principal.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said the Prince, in a loud voice, \"are you ready?\" As both\nmen bowed their assent, he added immediately, in a sharp tone of command,\n\"In guard!\"\n\nGiovanni and Del Ferice each made a step forward, saluted each other with\ntheir foils, repeated the salute to the seconds and witnesses, and then\ncame face to face and fell into position. Each made one thrust in tierce\nat the other, in the usual fashion of compliment, each parrying in the\nsame way.\n\n\"Halt!\" cried Saracinesca and Casalverde, in the same breath.\n\n\"In guard!\" shouted the Prince again, and the duel commenced.\n\nIn a moment the difference between the two men was apparent. Del Ferice\nfenced in the Neapolitan style--his arm straight before him, never\nbending from the elbow, making all his play with his wrist, his back\nstraight, and his knees so much bent that he seemed not more than half\nhis height. He made his movements short and quick, and relatively few, in\nevident fear of tiring himself at the start. To a casual observer his\nfence was less graceful than his antagonist's, his lunges less daring,\nhis parries less brilliant. But as the old Prince watched him he saw that\nthe point of his foil advanced and retreated in a perfectly straight\nline, and in parrying described the smallest circle possible, while his\ncold watery blue eye was fixed steadily upon his antagonist; old\nSaracinesca ground his teeth, for he saw that the man was a most\naccomplished swordsman.\n\nGiovanni fought with the air of one who defended himself, without much\nthought of attack. He did not bend so low as Del Ferice, his arm doubled\na little before his lunge, and his foil occasionally made a wide circle\nin the air. He seemed careless, but in strength and elasticity he was far\nsuperior to his enemy, and could perhaps afford to trust to these\nadvantages, when a man like Del Ferice was obliged to employ his whole\nskill and science.\n\nThey had been fencing for more than two minutes, without any apparent\nresult, when Giovanni seemed suddenly to change his tactics. He lowered\nthe point of his weapon a little, and, keeping it straight before him,\nbegan to press more closely upon his antagonist. Del Ferice kept his arm\nat full length, and broke ground for a yard or two, making clever feints\nin carte at Giovanni's body, with the object of stopping his advance. But\nGiovanni pressed him, and suddenly made a peculiar movement with his\nfoil, bringing it in contact with his enemy's along its length.\n\n\"Halt!\" cried Casalverde. Both men lowered their weapons instantly, and\nthe seconds sprang forward and touched their swords between them.\nGiovanni bit his lip angrily.\n\n\"Why 'halt'?\" asked the Prince, sharply. \"Neither is touched.\"\n\n\"My principal's shoe-string is untied,\" answered Casalverde, calmly. It\nwas true. \"He might easily trip and fall,\" explained Del Ferice's friend,\nbending down and proceeding to tie the silk ribbon. The Prince shrugged\nhis shoulders, and retired with Giovanni a few steps back.\n\n\"Giovanni,\" he said, in a voice trembling with emotion, \"if you are not\nmore careful, he will do you a mischief. For heaven's sake run him\nthrough the arm and let us be done with it.\"\n\n\"I should have disarmed him that time if his second had not stopped us,\"\nsaid Giovanni, calmly. \"He is ready again,\" he added, \"come on.\"\n\n\"In guard!\"\n\nAgain the two men advanced, and again the foils crossed and recrossed and\nrang loudly in the cold morning air. Once more Giovanni pressed upon Del\nFerice, and Del Ferice broke ground. In answer to a quick feint, Giovanni\nmade a round parry and a sharp short lunge in tierce.\n\n\"Halt!\" yelled Casalverde. Old Saracinesca sprang in, and Giovanni\nlowered his weapon. But Casalverde did not interpose his sword. A full\ntwo seconds after the cry to halt, Del Ferice lunged right forward.\nGiovanni thrust out his arm to save his body from the foul attempt--he\nhad not time to raise his weapon. Del Ferice's sharp rapier entered his\nwrist and tore a long wound nearly to the elbow.\n\nGiovanni said nothing, but his sword dropped from his hand and he turned\nupon his father, white with rage. The blood streamed down his sleeve, and\nhis surgeon came running towards him.\n\nThe old man had understood at a glance the foul play that had been\npractised, and going forward laid his hand upon the arm of Del Ferice's\nsecond.\n\n\"Why did you stop them, sir? And where was your sword?\" he said in great\nanger. Del Ferice was leaning upon his friend; a greenish pallor had\noverspread his face, but there was a smile under his colourless\nmoustache.\n\n\"My principal was touched,\" said Casalverde, pointing to a tiny scratch\nupon Del Ferice's neck, from which a single drop of blood was slowly\noozing.\n\n\"Then why did you not prevent your principal from thrusting after you\ncried the halt?\" asked Saracinesca, severely. \"You have singularly\nmisunderstood your duties, sir, and when these gentlemen are satisfied,\nyou will be answerable to me.\"\n\nCasalverde was silent.\n\n\"I protest myself wholly satisfied,\" said Ugo, with a disagreeable smile,\nas he glanced to where the surgeon was binding up Giovanni's arm.\n\n\"Sir,\" said old Saracinesca, fiercely addressing the second, \"I am not\nhere to bandy words with your principal. He may express himself satisfied\nthrough you, if he pleases. My principal, through me, expresses his\nentire dissatisfaction.\"\n\n\"Your principal, Prince,\" answered Casalverde, coldly, \"is unable to\nproceed, seeing that his right arm is injured.\"\n\n\"My son, sir, fences as readily with his left hand as with his right,\"\nreturned old Saracinesca.\n\nDel Ferice's face fell, and his smile vanished instantly.\n\n\"In that case we are ready,\" returned Casalverde, unable, however, to\nconceal his annoyance. He was a friend of Del Ferice's and would gladly\nhave seen Giovanni run through the body by the foul thrust.\n\nThere was a moment's consultation on the other side.\n\n\"I will give myself the pleasure of killing that gentleman to-morrow\nmorning,\" remarked Spicca, as he mournfully watched the surgeon's\noperations.\n\n\"Unless I kill him myself to-day,\" returned the Prince savagely, in his\nwhite beard. \"Are you ready, Giovanni?\" It never occurred to him to ask\nhis son if he was too badly hurt to proceed.\n\nGiovanni never spoke, but the hot blood had mounted to his temples, and\nhe was dangerously angry. He took the foil they gave him, and felt the\npoint quietly. It was sharp as a needle. He nodded to his father's\nquestion, and they resumed their places, the old Prince this time\nstanding on the left, as his son had changed hands. Del Ferice came\nforward rather timidly. His courage had sustained him so far, but the\nconsciousness of having done a foul deed, and the sight of the angry man\nbefore him, were beginning to make him nervous. He felt uncomfortable,\ntoo, at the idea of fencing against a left-handed antagonist.\n\nGiovanni made one or two lunges, and then, with a strange movement unlike\nanything any one present was acquainted with, seemed to wind his blade\nround Del Ferice's, and, with a violent jerk of the wrist, sent the\nweapon flying across the open space. It struck a window of the house, and\ncrashed through the panes.\n\n\"More broken glass!\" said Giovanni scornfully, as he lowered his point\nand stepped back two paces. \"Take another sword, sir,\" he said; \"I will\nnot kill you defenceless.\"\n\n\"Good heavens, Giovanni!\" exclaimed his father in the greatest\nexcitement; \"where on earth did you learn that trick?\"\n\n\"On my travels, father,\" returned Giovanni, with a smile; \"where you tell\nme I learned so much that was bad. He looks frightened,\" he added in a\nlow voice, as he glanced at Del Ferice's livid face.\n\n\"He has cause,\" returned the Prince, \"if he ever had in his life!\"\n\nCasalverde and his witness advanced from the other side with a fresh pair\nof foils; for the one that had gone through the window could not be\nrecovered at once, and was probably badly bent by the twist it had\nreceived. The gentlemen offered Giovanni his choice.\n\n\"If there is no objection I will keep the one I have,\" said he to his\nfather. The foils were measured, and were found to be alike. The two\ngentlemen retired, and Del Ferice chose a weapon.\n\n\"That is right,\" said Spicca, as he slowly went back to his place. \"You\nshould never part with an old friend.\"\n\n\"We are ready!\" was called from the opposite side.\n\n\"In guard, then!\" cried the Prince. The angry flush had not subsided from\nGiovanni's forehead, as he again went forward. Del Ferice came up like a\nman who has suddenly made up his mind to meet death, with a look of\nextraordinary determination on his pale face.\n\nBefore they had made half-a-dozen passes Ugo slipped, or pretended to\nslip, and fell upon his right knee; but as he came to the ground, he made\na sharp thrust upwards under Giovanni's extended left arm.\n\nThe old Prince uttered a fearful oath, that rang and echoed along the\nwalls of the ancient villa. Del Ferice had executed the celebrated feint\nknown long ago as the \"Colpo del Tancredi,\" \"Tancred's lunge,\" from the\nsupposed name of its inventor. It is now no longer permitted in duelling.\nBut the deadly thrust loses half its danger against a left-handed man.\nThe foil grazed the flesh on Giovanni's left side, and the blood again\nstained his white shirt. In the moment when Del Ferice slipped, Giovanni\nhad made a straight and deadly lunge at his body, and the sword, instead\nof passing through Ugo's lungs, ran swift and sure through his throat,\nwith such force that the iron guard struck the falling man's jaw with\ntremendous impetus, before the oath the old Prince had uttered was fairly\nout of his mouth.\n\nSeconds and witnesses and surgeons sprang forward hastily. Del Ferice lay\nupon his side; he had fallen so heavily and suddenly as to wrench the\nsword from Giovanni's grip. The old Prince gave one look, and dragged\nhis son away.\n\n\"He is as dead as a stone,\" he muttered, with a savage gleam in his eyes.\n\nGiovanni hastily began to dress, without paying any attention to the\nfresh wound he had received in the last encounter. In the general\nexcitement, his surgeon had joined the group about the fallen man. Before\nGiovanni had got his overcoat on he came back with Spicca, who looked\ncrestfallen and disappointed.\n\n\"He is not dead at all,\" said the surgeon. \"You did the thing with a\nmaster's hand--you ran his throat through without touching the jugular\nartery or the spine.\"\n\n\"Does he want to go on?\" asked Giovanni, so savagely that the three men\nstared at him.\n\n\"Do not be so bloodthirsty, Giovanni,\" said the old Prince,\nreproachfully.\n\n\"I should be justified in going back and killing him as he lies there,\"\nsaid the younger Saracinesca, fiercely. \"He nearly murdered me twice this\nmorning.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" said the Prince, \"the dastardly brute!\"\n\n\"By the bye,\" said Spicca, lighting a cigarette, \"I am afraid I have\ndeprived you of the pleasure of dealing with the man who called himself\nDel Ferice's second. I just took the opportunity of having a moment's\nprivate conversation with him--we disagreed, a little.\"\n\n\"Oh, very well,\" growled the Prince; \"as you please. I daresay I shall\nhave enough to do in taking care of Giovanni to-morrow. That is a\nvillanous bad scratch on his arm.\"\n\n\"Bah! it is nothing to mention, save for the foul way it was given,\" said\nGiovanni between his teeth.\n\nOnce more old Saracinesca and Spicca crossed the ground. There was a word\nof formality exchanged, to the effect that both combatants were\nsatisfied, and then Giovanni and his party moved off, Spicca carrying his\ngreen bag of foils under his arm, and puffing clouds of smoke into the\ndamp morning air. They had been nearly an hour on the ground, and were\nchilled with cold, and exhausted for want of sleep. They entered their\ncarriage and drove rapidly homewards.\n\n\"Come in and breakfast with us,\" said the old Prince to Spicca, as they\nreached the Palazzo Saracinesca.\n\n\"Thank you, no,\" answered the melancholy man. \"I have much to do, as I\nshall go to Paris to-morrow morning by the ten o'clock train. Can I do\nanything for you there? I shall be absent some months.\"\n\n\"I thought you were going to fight to-morrow,\" objected the Prince.\n\n\"Exactly. It will be convenient for me to leave the country immediately\nafterwards.\"\n\nThe old man shuddered. With all his fierce blood and headstrong passion,\nhe could not comprehend the fearful calm of this strange man, whose skill\nwas such that he regarded his adversary's death as a matter of course\nwhenever he so pleased. As for Giovanni, he was still so angry that he\ncared little for the issue of the second duel.\n\n\"I am sincerely grateful for your kind offices,\" he said, as Spicca took\nleave of him.\n\n\"You shall be amply revenged of the two attempts to murder you,\" said\nSpicca, quietly; and so, having shaken hands with all, he again entered\nthe carriage. It was the last they saw of him for a long time. He\nfaithfully fulfilled his programme. He met Casalverde on the following\nmorning at seven o'clock, and at precisely a quarter past, he left him\ndead on the field. He breakfasted with his seconds at half-past eight,\nand left Rome with them for Paris at ten o'clock. He had selected two\nFrench officers who were about to return to their home, in order not to\ninconvenience any of his friends by obliging them to leave the country;\nwhich showed that, even in moments of great excitement, Count Spicca was\nthoughtful of others.\n\nWhen the surgeon had dressed Giovanni's wounds, he left the father and\nson together. Giovanni lay upon a couch in his own sitting-room, eating\nhis breakfast as best he could with one hand. The old Prince paced the\nfloor, commenting from time to time upon the events of the morning.\n\n\"It is just as well that you did not kill him, Giovanni,\" he remarked;\n\"it would have been a nuisance to have been obliged to go away just now.\"\n\nGiovanni did not answer.\n\n\"Of course, duelling is a great sin, and is strictly forbidden by our\nreligion,\" said the Prince suddenly. \"But then--\"\n\n\"Precisely,\" returned Giovanni. \"We nevertheless cannot always help\nourselves.\"\n\n\"I was going to say,\" continued his father, \"that it is, of course, very\nwicked, and if one is killed in a duel, one probably goes straight into\nhell. But then--it was worth something to see how you sent that fellow's\nfoil flying through the window!\"\n\n\"It is a very simple trick. If you will take a foil, I will teach it to\nyou.\"\n\n\"Presently, presently; when you have finished your breakfast. Tell me,\nwhy did you say, 'more broken glass'?\"\n\nGiovanni bit his lip, remembering his imprudence.\n\n\"I hardly know. I believe it suggested something to my mind. One says all\nsorts of foolish things in moments of excitement.\"\n\n\"It struck me as a very odd remark,\" answered the Prince, still walking\nabout. \"By the bye,\" he added, pausing before the writing-table, \"here is\nthat letter you wrote for me. Do you want me to read it?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Giovanni, with a laugh. \"It is of no use now. It would seem\nabsurd, since I am alive and well. It was only a word of farewell.\"\n\nThe Prince laughed too, and threw the sealed letter into the fire.\n\n\"The last of the Saracinesca is not dead yet,\" he said. \"Giovanni, what\nare we to say to the gossips? All Rome will be ringing with this affair\nbefore night. Of course, you must stay at home for a few days, or you\nwill catch cold, in your arm. I will go out and carry the news of our\nvictory.\"\n\n\"Better to say nothing about it--better to refer people to Del Ferice,\nand tell them he challenged me. Come in!\" cried Giovanni, in answer to a\nknock at the door. Pasquale, the old butler, entered the room.\n\n\"The Duca d'Astrardente has sent to inquire after the health of his\nExcellency Don Giovanni,\" said the old man, respectfully.\n\nThe elder Saracinesca paused in his walk, and broke out into a loud\nlaugh.\n\n\"Already! You see, Giovannino,\" he said. \"Tell him, Pasquale, that Don\nGiovanni caught a severe cold at the ball last night--or no--wait! What\nshall we say, Giovannino?\"\n\n\"Tell the servant,\" said Giovanni, sternly, \"that I am much obliged for\nthe kind inquiry, that I am perfectly well, and that you have just seen\nme eating my breakfast.\"\n\nPasquale bowed and left the room.\n\n\"I suppose you do not want her to know--\" said the Prince, who had\nsuddenly recovered his gravity.\n\nGiovanni bowed his head silently.\n\n\"Quite right, my boy,\" said the old man, gravely. \"I do not want to know\nanything about it either. How the devil could they have found out?\"\n\nThe question was addressed more to himself than to his son, and the\nlatter volunteered no answer. He was grateful to his father for his\nconsiderate silence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n\nWhen Astrardente saw the elder Saracinesca's face during his short\ninterview with the diplomatist, his curiosity was immediately aroused. He\nperceived that there was something the matter, and he proceeded to try\nand ascertain the circumstances from his acquaintance. The ambassador\nreturned to his _p\u00e2t\u00e9_ and his champagne with an air of amused interest,\nbut vouchsafed no information whatever.\n\n\"What a singularly amusing fellow old Saracinesca is!\" remarked\nAstrardente.\n\n\"When he likes to be,\" returned his Excellency, with his mouth full.\n\n\"On the contrary--when he least meditates it. I never knew a man better\nsuited for a successful caricature. Indeed he is not a bad caricature of\nhis own son, or his own son of him--I am not sure which.\"\n\nThe ambassador laughed a little and took a large mouthful.\n\n\"Ha! ha! very good,\" he mumbled as he ate. \"He would appreciate that. He\nloves his own race. He would rather feel that he is a comic\nmisrepresentation of the most hideous Saracinesca who ever lived, than\npossess all the beauty of the Astrardente and be called by another\nname.\"\n\nThe diplomatist paused for a second after this speech, and then bowed a\nlittle to the Duchessa; but the hit had touched her husband in a\nsensitive spot. The old dandy had been handsome once, in a certain way,\nand he did his best, by artificial means, to preserve some trace of his\ngood looks. The Duchessa smiled faintly.\n\n\"I would wager,\" said Astrardente, sourly, \"that his excited manner just\nnow was due to one of two things--either his vanity or his money is in\ndanger. As for the way he yelled after Spicca, it looked as though there\nwere a duel in the air--fancy the old fellow fighting a duel! Too\nridiculous!\"\n\n\"A duel!\" repeated Corona in a low voice.\n\n\"I do not see anything so very ridiculous in it,\" said the diplomatist,\nslowly twisting his glass of champagne in his fingers, and then sipping\nit. \"Besides,\" he added deliberately, glancing at the Duchessa from the\ncorner of his eyes, \"he has a son.\"\n\nCorona started very slightly.\n\n\"Why should there be a duel?\" she asked.\n\n\"It was your husband who suggested the idea,\" returned the diplomatist.\n\n\"But you said there was nothing ridiculous in it,\" objected the Duchessa.\n\n\"But I did not say there was any truth in it, either,\" answered his\nExcellency with a reassuring smile. \"What made you think of duelling?\" he\nasked, turning to Astrardente.\n\n\"Spicca,\" said the latter. \"Wherever Spicca is concerned there is a duel.\nHe is a terrible fellow, with his death's-head and dangling bones--one of\nthose extraordinary phenomena--bah! it makes one shiver to think of him!\"\nThe old fellow made the sign of the horns with his forefinger and little\nfinger, hiding his thumb in the palm of his hand, as though to protect\nhimself against the evil eye--the sinister influence invoked by the\nmention of Spicca. Old Astrardente was very superstitious. The ambassador\nlaughed, and even Corona smiled a little.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the diplomatist, \"Spicca is a living _memento mori_; he\noccasionally reminds men of death by killing them.\"\n\n\"How horrible!\" exclaimed Corona.\n\n\"Ah, my dear lady, the world is full of horrible things.\"\n\n\"That is not a reason for making jests of them.\"\n\n\"It is better to make light of the inevitable,\" said Astrardente. \"Are\nyou ready to go home, my dear?\"\n\n\"Quite--I was only waiting for you,\" answered Corona, who longed to be at\nhome and alone.\n\n\"Let me know the result of old Saracinesca's warlike undertakings,\" said\nAstrardente, with a cunning smile on his painted face. \"Of course, as he\nconsulted you, he will send you word in the morning.\"\n\n\"You seem so anxious that there should be a duel, that I should almost be\ntempted to invent an account of one, lest you should be too grievously\ndisappointed,\" returned the diplomatist.\n\n\"You know very well that no invention will be necessary,\" said the Duca,\npressing him, for his curiosity was roused.\n\n\"Well--as you please to consider it. Good night,\" replied the ambassador.\nIt had amused him to annoy Astrardente a little, and he left him with the\npleasant consciousness of having excited the inquisitive faculty of his\nfriend to its highest pitch, without giving it anything to feed upon.\n\nMen who have to do with men, rather than with things, frequently take a\nprofound and seemingly cruel delight in playing upon the feelings and\npetty vanities of their fellow-creatures. The habit is as strong with\nthem as the constant practice of conjuring becomes with a juggler; even\nwhen he is not performing, he will for hours pass coins, perform little\ntricks of sleight-of-hand with cards, or toss balls in the air in\nmarvellously rapid succession, unable to lay aside his profession even\nfor a day, because it has grown to be the only natural expression of\nhis faculties. With men whose business it is to understand other men,\nit is the same. They cannot be in a man's company for a quarter of an\nhour without attempting to discover the peculiar weaknesses of his\ncharacter--his vanities, his tastes, his vices, his curiosity, his love\nof money or of reputation; so that the operation of such men's minds may\nbe compared to the process of auscultation--for their ears are always\nupon their neighbours' hearts--and their conversation to the percutations\nof a physician to ascertain the seat of disease in a pair of\nconsumptive lungs.\n\nBut, with all his failings, Astrardente was a man of considerable\nacuteness of moral vision. He had made a shrewd guess at Saracinesca's\nbusiness, and had further gathered from a remark dropped by his\ndiplomatic friend, that if there was to be a duel at all, it would be\nfought by Giovanni. As a matter of fact, the ambassador himself knew\nnothing certainly concerning the matter, or it is possible that, for the\nsake of observing the effect of the news upon the Duchessa, he would have\ntold the whole truth; for he had of course heard the current gossip\nconcerning Giovanni's passion for her, and the experiment would have been\ntoo attractive and interesting to be missed. As it was, she had started\nat the mention of Saracinesca's son. The diplomatist only did what\neveryone else who came near Corona attempted to do at that time, in\nendeavouring to ascertain whether she herself entertained any feeling for\nthe man whom the gossips had set down as her most devoted admirer.\n\nPoor Duchessa! It was no wonder that she had started at the idea that\nGiovanni was in trouble. He had played a great part in her life that day,\nand she could not forget him. She had hardly as yet had time to think\nof what she felt, for it was only by a supreme effort that she had been\nable to bear the great strain upon her strength. If she had not loved\nhim, it would have been different; and in the strange medley of emotions\nthrough which she was passing, she wished that she might never have\nloved--that, loving, she might be allowed wholly to forget her love, and\nto return by some sudden miracle to that cold dreamy state of\nindifference to all other men, and of unfailing thoughtfulness for her\nhusband, from which she had been so cruelly awakened. She would have\ngiven anything to have not loved, now that the great struggle was over;\nbut until the supreme moment had come, she had not been willing to put\nthe dangerous thought from her, saving in those hours of prayer and\nsolitary suffering, when the whole truth rose up clearly before her in\nits undisguised nakedness. So soon as she had gone into the world, she\nhad recklessly longed for Giovanni Saracinesca's presence.\n\nBut now it was all changed. She had not deceived herself when she had\ntold him that she would rather not see him any more. It was true; not\nonly did she wish not to see him, but she earnestly desired that the love\nof him might pass from her heart. With a sudden longing, her thoughts\nwent back to the old convent-life of her girlhood, with its regular\noccupations, its constant religious exercises, its narrowness of view,\nand its unchanging simplicity. What mattered narrowness, when all beyond\nthat close limitation was filled with evil? Was it not better that the\nlips should be busy with singing litanies than that the heart should be\ntormented by temptation? Were not those simple tasks, that had seemed so\nall-important then, more sweet in the performance than the manifold\nduties of this complicated social existence, this vast web and woof of\nlife's loom, this great machinery that worked and groaned and rolled\nendlessly upon its wheels without producing any more result than the\nceaseless turning of a prison treadmill? But there was no way out of life\nnow; there was no escape, as there was also no prospect of relief, from\ncare and anxiety. There was no reason why Giovanni should go away--no\nreason either why Corona should ever love him less. She belonged to a\nclass of women, if there are enough of them to be called a class, who,\nwhere love is concerned, can feel but one impression, which becomes in\ntheir hearts the distinctive seal and mark of their lives, for good or\nfor evil. Corona was indeed so loyal and good a woman, that the strong\npressure of her love could not abase her nobility, nor put untruth where\nall was so true; but the sign of her love for Giovanni was upon her for\never. The vacant place in her heart had been filled, and filled wholly;\nthe bulwark she had reared against the love of man was broken down and\nswept away, and the waters flowed softly over its place and remembered it\nnot. She would never be the same woman again, and it was bitter to her to\nfeel it: for ever the face of Giovanni would haunt her waking hours and\nvisit her dreams unbidden,--a perpetual reproach to her, a perpetual\nmemory of the most desperate struggle of her life, and more than a\nmemory--the undying present of an unchanging love.\n\nShe was quite sure of herself in future, as she also trusted sincerely in\nGiovanni's promise. There should be no moment of weakness, no word should\never fall from her lips to tempt him to a fresh outbreak of passionate\nwords and acts; her life should be measured in the future by the account\nof the dangers past, and there should be no instant of unguarded conduct,\nno hour wherein even to herself she would say it was sweet to love and to\nbe loved. It was indeed not sweet, but bitter as death itself, to feel\nthat weight at her heart, that constant toiling effort in her mind to\nkeep down the passion in her breast. But Corona had sacrificed much; she\nwould sacrifice this also; she would get strength by her prayers and\ncourage from her high pride, and she would smile to all the world as she\nhad never smiled before. She could trust herself, for she was doing the\nright and trampling upon the wrong. But the suffering would be none the\nless for all her pride; there was no concealing it--it would be horrible.\nTo meet him daily in the world, to speak to him and to hear his voice,\nperhaps to touch his hand, and all the while to smile coldly, and to be\nstill and for ever above suspicion, while her own burning consciousness\naccused her of the past, and seemed to make the dangers of mere living\nyawn beside her path at every step,--all this would be terrible to bear,\nbut by God's help she would bear it to the end.\n\nBut now a new horror seized her, and terrified her beyond measure. This\nrumour of a duel--a mere word dropped carelessly in conversation by a\nthoughtless acquaintance--called up to her sudden visions of evil to\ncome. Surely, howsoever she might struggle against love and beat it\nroughly to silence in her breast, it was not wrong to fear danger for\nGiovanni,--it could not be a sin to dread the issue of peril when it was\nall so very near to her. It might perhaps not be true, for people in the\nworld are willing to amuse their empty minds with empty tales,\nacknowledging the emptiness. It could not be true; she had seen Giovanni\nbut a moment before--he would have given some hint, some sign.\n\nWhy--after all? Was it not the boast of such men that they could face the\nworld and wear an indifferent look, at times of the greatest anxiety and\ndanger? But, again, if Giovanni had been involved in a quarrel so serious\nas to require the arbitrament of blood, some rumour of it would have\nreached her. She had talked with many men that night, and with some\nwomen--gossips all, whose tongues wagged merrily over the troubles of\nfriend, or foe, and who would have battened upon anything so novel as a\nsociety duel, as a herd of jackals upon the dead body of one of their\nfellows, to make their feast off it with a light heart. Some one of all\nthese would have told her; the quarrel would have been common property in\nhalf an hour, for somebody must have witnessed it.\n\nIt was a consolation to Corona to reflect upon the extreme improbability\nof the story; for when the diplomatist was gone, her husband dwelt upon\nit--whether because he could not conceal his unsatisfied curiosity, or\nfrom other motives, it was hard to tell.\n\nAstrardente led his wife from the supper-table through the great rooms,\nnow almost deserted, and past the wide doors of the hall where the\ncotillon was at its height. They paused a moment and looked in, as\nGiovanni had done a quarter of an hour earlier. It was a magnificent\nscene; the lights flashed back from the jewels of fair women, and surged\nin the dance as starlight upon rippling waves. The air was heavy with the\nodour of the countless flowers that filled the deep recesses of the\nwindows, and were distributed in hundreds of nosegays for the figures of\nthe cotillon; enchanting strains of waltz music seemed to float down from\nabove and inspire the crowd of men and women with harmonious motion, so\nthat sound was made visible by translation into graceful movement. As\nCorona looked there was a pause, and the crowd parted, while a huge\ntiger, the heraldic beast of the Frangipani family, was drawn into the\nhall by the young prince and Bianca Valdarno. The magnificent skin had\nbeen so artfully stuffed as to convey a startling impression of life, and\nin the creature's huge jaws hung a great basket filled with tiny tigers,\nwhich were to be distributed as badges for the dance by the leaders. A\nwild burst of applause greeted this novel figure, and every one ran\nforward to obtain a nearer view.\n\n\"Ah!\" exclaimed old Astrardente, \"I envy them that invention, my dear; it\nis perfectly magnificent. You must have a tiger to take home. How\nfortunate we were to be in time!\" He forced his way into the crowd,\nleaving his wife alone for a moment by the door; and he managed to catch\nValdarno, who was distributing the little emblems to right and left.\nMadame Mayer's quick eyes had caught sight of Corona and her husband, and\nfrom some instinct of curiosity she made towards the Duchessa. She was\nstill angry, as she had never been in her short life, at Giovanni's\nrudeness in forgetting her dance, and she longed to inflict some wound\nupon the beautiful woman who had led him into such forgetfulness. When\nAstrardente left his wife's side, Donna Tullia pressed forward with her\npartner in the general confusion that followed upon the entrance of the\ntiger, and she managed to pass close to Corona. She looked up suddenly\nwith an air of surprise.\n\n\"What! not dancing, Duchessa?\" she asked. \"Has your partner gone home?\"\n\nWith the look that accompanied the question, it was an insulting speech\nenough. Had Donna Tullia seen old Astrardente close behind her, she would\nnot have made it. The old dandy was returning in triumph in possession of\nthe little tiger-badge for Corona. He heard the words, and observed with\ninward pleasure his wife's calm look of indifference.\n\n\"Madam,\" he said, placing himself suddenly in Madame Mayer's way, \"my\nwife's partners do not go home while she remains.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see,\" returned Donna Tullia, flushing quickly; \"the Duchessa is\ndancing the cotillon with you. I beg your pardon--I had forgotten that\nyou still danced.\"\n\n\"Indeed it is long since I did myself the honour of asking you for a\nquadrille, madam,\" answered Astrardente with a polite smile; and so\nsaying, he turned and presented the little tiger to his wife with a\ncourtly bow. There was good blood in the old _rou\u00e9_.\n\nCorona was touched by his thoughtfulness in wishing to get her the little\nkeepsake of the dance, and she was still more affected by his ready\ndefence of her. He was indeed sometimes a little ridiculous, with his\npaint and his artificial smile--he was often petulant and unreasonable\nin little things; but he was never unkind to her, nor discourteous. In\nspite of her cold and indifferent stare at Donna Tullia, she had keenly\nfelt the insult, and she was grateful to the old man for taking her part.\nKnowing what she knew of herself that night, she was deeply sensible to\nhis kindness. She took the little gift, and laid her hand upon his arm.\n\n\"Forgive me,\" she said, as they moved away, \"if I am ever ungrateful to\nyou. You are so very good to me. I know no one so courteous and kind as\nyou are.\"\n\nHer husband looked at her in delight. He loved her sincerely with all\nthat remained of him. There was something sad in the thought of a man\nlike him finding the only real passion of his life when worn out with age\nand dissipation. Her little speech raised him to the seventh heaven of\njoy.\n\n\"I am the happiest man in all Rome,\" he said, assuming his most jaunty\nwalk, and swinging his hat gaily between his thumb and finger. But a\ncurrent of deep thought was stirring in him as he went down the broad,\nstaircase by his wife's side. He was thinking what life might have been\nto him had he found Corona del Carmine--how could he? she was not born\nthen--had he found her, or her counterpart, thirty years ago. He was\nwondering what conceivable sacrifice there could be which he would not\nmake to regain his youth--even to have his life lived out and behind him,\nif he could only have looked back to thirty years of marriage with\nCorona. How differently he would have lived, how very differently he\nwould have thought! how his whole memory would be full of the sweet past,\nand would be common with her own past life, which, to her too, would be\nsweet to ponder on! He would have been such a good man--so true to her\nin all those years! But they were gone, and he had not found her until\nhis foot was on the edge of the grave--until he could hardly count on one\nyear more of a pitiful artificial life, painted, bewigged, stuffed to the\nsemblance of a man by a clever tailor--and she in the bloom of her glory\nbeside him! What he would have given to have old Saracinesca's strength\nand fresh vitality--old Saracinesca whom he hated! Yes, with all that\nhair--it was white, but a little dye would change it. What was a little\ndye compared with the profound artificiality of his own outer man? How\nthe old fellow's deep voice rang, loud and clear, from his broad chest!\nHow strong he was, with his firm step, and his broad brown hands, and his\nfiery black eyes! He hated him for the greenness of his age--he hated him\nfor his stalwart son, another of those long-lived fierce Saracinesca, who\nseemed destined to outlive time. He himself had no children, no\nrelations, no one to bear his name--he had only a beautiful young wife\nand much wealth, with just enough strength left to affect a gay walk when\nhe was with her, and to totter unsteadily to his couch when he was alone,\nworn out with the effort of trying to seem young.\n\nAs they sat in their carriage he thought bitterly of all these things,\nand never spoke. Corona herself was weary, and glad to be silent. They\nwent up-stairs, and as she took his arm, she gently tried to help him\nrather than be helped. He noticed it, and made an effort, but he was\nvery tired. He paused upon the landing, and looked at her, and a gentle\nand sad smile stole over his face, such as Corona had never seen there.\n\n\"Shall we go into your boudoir for ten minutes, my love?\" he said; \"or\nwill you come into my smoking-room? I would like to smoke a little before\ngoing to bed.\"\n\n\"You may smoke in my boudoir, of course,\" she answered kindly, though she\nwas surprised at the request. It was half-past three o'clock. They went\ninto the softly lighted little room, where the embers of the fire were\nstill glowing upon the hearth. Corona dropped her furs upon a chair, and\nsat down upon one side of the chimney piece. Astrardente sank wearily\ninto a deep easy-chair opposite her, and having found a cigarette,\nlighted it, and began to smoke. He seemed in a mood which Corona had\nnever seen. After a short silence he spoke.\n\n\"Corona,\" he said, \"I love you.\" His wife looked up with a gentle smile,\nand in her determination to be loyal to him she almost forgot that other\nman who had said those words but two hours before, so differently.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, with a sigh, \"you have heard it before--it is not new to\nyou. I think you believe it. You are good, but you do not love me--no, do\nnot interrupt me, my dear; I know what you would say. How should you\nlove me? I am an old man--very old, older than my years.\" Again he\nsighed, more bitterly, as he confessed what he had never owned before.\nThe Duchessa was too much astonished to answer him.\n\n\"Corona,\" he said again, \"I shall not live much longer.\"\n\n\"Ah, do not speak like that,\" she cried suddenly. \"I trust and pray that\nyou have yet many years to live.\" Her husband looked keenly at her.\n\n\"You are so good,\" he answered, \"that you are really capable of uttering\nsuch a prayer, absurd as it would seem.\"\n\n\"Why absurd? It is unkind of you to say it--\"\n\n\"No, my dear; I know the world very well. That is all. I suppose it is\nimpossible for me to make you understand how I love you. It must seem\nincredible to you, in the magnificence of your strength and beautiful\nyouth, that a man like me--an artificial man\"--he laughed scornfully--\"a\ncreature of paint and dye--let me be honest--a creature with a wig,\nshould be capable of a mad passion. And yet, Corona,\" he added, his thin\ncracked voice trembling with a real emotion, \"I do love you--very dearly.\nThere are two things that make my life bitter: the regret that I did not\nmeet you, that you were not born, when I was young; and worse than that,\nthe knowledge that I must leave you very soon--I, the exhausted dandy,\nthe shadow of what I was, tottering to my grave in a last vain effort to\nbe young for your sake--for your sake, Corona dear. Ah, it is\ncontemptible!\" he almost moaned.\n\nCorona hid her eyes in her hand. She was taken off her guard by his\nstrange speech.\n\n\"Oh, do not speak like that--do not!\" she cried. \"You make me very\nunhappy. Do I reproach you? Do I ever make you feel that you are--older\nthan I? I will lead a new life; you shall never think of it again.\nYou are too kind--too good for me.\"\n\n\"No one ever said I was too good before,\" replied the old man with a\nshade of sadness. \"I am glad the one person who finds me good, should be\nthe only one for whose sake I ever cultivated goodness. I could have\nbeen different, Corona, if I had had you for my wife for thirty years,\ninstead of five. But it is too late now. Before long I shall be dead, and\nyou will be free.\"\n\n\"What makes you say such things to me?\" asked Corona. \"Can you think I am\nso vile, so ungrateful, so unloving, as to wish your death?\"\n\n\"Not unloving; no, my dear child. But not loving, either. I do not ask\nimpossibilities. You will mourn for me a while--my poor soul will rest in\npeace if you feel one moment of real regret for me, for your old husband,\nbefore you take another. Do not cry, Corona, dearest; it is the way of\nthe world. We waste our youth in scoffing at reality, and in the\nunrealness of our old age the present no longer avails us much. You know\nme, perhaps you despise me. You would not have scorned me when I was\nyoung--oh, how young I was! how strong and vain of my youth, thirty years\nago!\"\n\n\"Indeed, indeed, no such thought ever crossed my mind. I give you all I\nhave,\" cried Corona, in great distress; \"I will give you more--I will\ndevote my whole life to you--\"\n\n\"You do, my dear. I am sensible of it,\" said Astrardente, quietly. \"You\ncannot do more, if you will; you cannot make me young again, nor take\naway the bitterness of death--of a death that leaves you behind.\"\n\nCorona leaned forward, staring into the dying embers of the fire, one\nhand supporting her chin. The tears stood in her eyes and on her cheeks.\nThe old dandy in his genuine misery had excited her compassion.\n\n\"I would mourn you long,\" she said. \"You may have wasted your life; you\nsay so. I would love you more if I could, God knows. You have always been\nto me a courteous gentleman and a faithful husband.\"\n\nThe old man rose with difficulty from his deep chair, and came and stood\nby her, and took the hand that lay idle on her knees. She looked up at\nhim.\n\n\"If I thought my blessing were worth anything, I would bless you for what\nyou say. But I would not have you waste your youth. Youth is that which,\nbeing wasted, is like water poured out upon the ground. You must marry\nagain, and marry soon--do not start. You will inherit all my fortune; you\nwill have my title. It must descend to your children. It has come to an\nunworthy end in me; it must be revived in you.\"\n\n\"How can you think of it? Are you ill?\" asked Corona kindly, pressing\ngently his thin hand in hers. \"Why do you dwell on the idea of death\nto-night?\"\n\n\"I am ill; yes, past all cure, my dear,\" said the old man, gently raising\nher hand to his lips, and kissing it.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" asked Corona, suddenly rising to her feet and laying\nher hand affectionately upon his shoulder. \"Why have you never told me?\"\n\n\"Why should I tell you--except that it is near, and you must be prepared?\nWhy should I burden you with anxiety? But you were so gentle and kind\nto-night, upon the stairs,\" he said, with some hesitation, \"that I\nthought perhaps it would be a relief to you to know--to know that it is\nnot for long.\"\n\nThere was something so gentle in his tone, so infinitely pathetic in his\nthought that possibly he might lighten the burden his wife bore so\nbravely, there was something at last so human in the loving regret with\nwhich he spoke, that Corona forgot all his foolish ways, his wig and his\nfalse teeth and his petty vanities, and letting her head fall upon his\nshoulder, burst into passionate tears.\n\n\"Oh no, no!\" she sobbed. \"It must be a long time yet; you must not die!\"\n\n\"It may be a year, not more,\" he said gently. \"God bless you for those\ntears, Corona--the tears you have shed for me. Good night, my dearest.\"\n\nHe let her sink upon her chair, and his hand rested for one moment upon\nher raven hair. Then with a last remnant of energy he quickly left the\nroom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n\nSuch affairs as the encounter between Giovanni and Del Ferice were very\nrare in Rome. There were many duels fought; but, as a general rule, they\nwere not very serious, and the first slight wound decided the matter in\nhand to the satisfaction of both parties. But here there had been a fight\nfor life and death. One of the combatants had received two such wounds as\nwould have been sufficient to terminate an ordinary meeting, and the\nother was lying at death's door stabbed through the throat. Society was\nfrantic with excitement. Giovanni was visited by scores of acquaintances,\nwhom he allowed to be admitted, and he talked with them cheerfully, in\norder to have it thoroughly known that he was not badly hurt. Del\nFerice's lodging was besieged by the same young gentlemen of leisure, who\nwent directly from one to the other, anxious to get all the news in their\npower. But Del Ferice's door was guarded jealously from intruders by his\nfaithful Neapolitan servant--a fellow who knew more about his master than\nall the rest of Rome together, but who had such a dazzlingly brilliant\ntalent for lying as to make him a safe repository for any secret\ncommitted to his keeping. On the present occasion, however, he had small\nuse for duplicity. He sat all day long by the open door, for he had\nremoved the bell-handle, lest the ringing should disturb his master. He\nhad a basket into which he dropped the cards of the visitors who called,\nanswering each inquiry with the same unchanging words:\n\n\"He is very ill, the signorino. Do not make any noise.\"\n\n\"Where is he hurt?\" the visitor would ask. Whereupon Temistocle pointed\nto his throat.\n\n\"Will he live?\" was the next question; to which the man answered by\nraising his shoulders to his ears, elevating his eyebrows, and at the\nsame time shutting his eyes, while he spread out the palms of his hands\nover his basket of cards--whereby he meant to signify that he did not\nknow, but doubted greatly. It being impossible to extract any further\ninformation from him, the visitor had nothing left but to leave his card\nand turn away. Within, the wounded man was watched by a Sister of Mercy.\nThe surgeon had pronounced his recovery probable if he had proper care:\nthe wound was a dangerous one, but not likely to prove mortal unless the\npatient died of the fever or of exhaustion.\n\nThe young gentlemen of leisure who thus obtained the news of the two\nduellists, lost no time in carrying it from house to house. Giovanni\nhimself sent twice in the course of the day to inquire after his\nantagonist, and received by his servant the answer which was given to\neverybody. By the time the early winter night was descending upon Rome,\nthere were two perfectly well-authenticated stories circulated in regard\nto the cause of the quarrel--neither of which, of course, contained a\ngrain of truth. In the first place, it was confidently asserted by one\nparty, represented by Valdarno and his set, that Giovanni had taken\noffence at Del Ferice for having proposed to call him to be examined\nbefore the Duchessa d'Astrardente in regard to his absence from town:\nthat this was a palpable excuse for picking a quarrel, because it was\nwell known that Saracinesca loved the Astrardente, and that Del Ferice\nwas always in his way.\n\n\"Giovanni is a rough fellow,\" remarked Valdarno, \"and will not stand any\nopposition, so he took the first opportunity of getting the man out of\nthe way. Do you see? The old story--jealous of the wrong man. Can one be\njealous of Del Ferice? Bah!\"\n\n\"And who would have been the right man to attack?\" was asked.\n\n\"Her husband, of course,\" returned Valdarno with a sneer. \"That angel of\nbeauty has the ineffably eccentric idea that she loves that old\ntransparency, that old magic-lantern slide of a man!\"\n\nOn the other hand, there was a party of people who affirmed, as beyond\nall doubt, that the duel had been brought about by Giovanni's forgetting\nhis dance with Donna Tullia. Del Ferice was naturally willing to put\nhimself forward in her defence, reckoning on the favour he would gain in\nher eyes. He had spoken sharply to Giovanni about it, and told him he had\nbehaved in an ungentlemanly manner--whereupon Giovanni had answered\nthat it was none of his business; an altercation had ensued in a remote\nroom in the Frangipani palace, and Giovanni had lost his temper and taken\nDel Ferice by the throat, and otherwise greatly insulted him. The result\nhad been the duel in which Del Ferice had been nearly killed. There was a\nshow of truth about this story, and it was told in such a manner as to\nmake Del Ferice appear as the injured party. Indeed, whichever tale were\ntrue, there was no doubt that the two men had disliked each other for a\nlong time, and that they were both looking out for the opportunity of an\nopen disagreement.\n\nOld Saracinesca appeared in the afternoon, and was surrounded by eager\nquestioners of all sorts. The fact of his having served his own son in\nthe capacity of second excited general astonishment. Such a thing had\nnot been heard of in the annals of Roman society, and many ancient\nwisdom-mongers severely censured the course he had pursued. Could\nanything be more abominably unnatural? Was it possible to conceive of the\nhard-heartedness of a man who could stand quietly and see his son\nrisk his life? Disgraceful!\n\nThe old Prince either would not tell what he knew, or had no information\nto give. The latter theory was improbable. Some one made a remark to that\neffect.\n\n\"But, Prince,\" the man said, \"would you second your own son in an affair\nwithout knowing the cause of the quarrel?\"\n\n\"Sir,\" returned the old man, proudly, \"my son asked my assistance; I did\nnot sell it to him for his confidence.\" People knew the old man's\nobstinacy, and had to be satisfied with his short answers, for he was\nhimself as quarrelsome as a Berserker or as one of his own irascible\nancestors.\n\nHe met Donna Tullia in the street. She stopped her carriage, and beckoned\nhim to come to her. She looked paler than Saracinesca had ever seen her,\nand was much excited.\n\n\"How could you let them fight?\" were her first words.\n\n\"It could not be helped. The quarrel was too serious. No one would more\ngladly have prevented it than I; but as my son had so desperately\ninsulted Del Ferice, he was bound to give him satisfaction.\"\n\n\"Satisfaction!\" cried Donna Tullia. \"Do you call it satisfaction to cut a\nman's throat? What was the real cause of the quarrel?\"\n\n\"I do not know.\"\n\n\"Do not tell me that--I do not believe you,\" answered Donna Tullia,\nangrily.\n\n\"I give you my word of honour that I do not know,\" returned the Prince.\n\n\"That is different. Will you get in and drive with me for a few minutes?\"\n\n\"At your commands.\" Saracinesca opened the carriage-door and got in.\n\n\"We shall astonish the world; but I do not care,\" said Donna Tullia.\n\"Tell me, is Don Giovanni seriously hurt?\"\n\n\"No--a couple of scratches that will heal in a week. Del Ferice is very\nseriously wounded.\"\n\n\"I know,\" answered Donna Tullia, sadly. \"It is dreadful--I am afraid it\nwas my fault.\"\n\n\"How so?\" asked Saracinesca, quickly. He had not heard the story of the\nforgotten waltz, and was really ignorant of the original cause of\ndisagreement. He guessed, however, that Donna Tullia was not so much\nconcerned in it as the Duchessa d'Astrardente.\n\n\"Your son was very rude to me,\" said Madame Mayer. \"Perhaps I ought not\nto tell you, but it is best you should know. He was engaged to dance with\nme the last waltz but one before the cotillon. He forgot me, and I found\nhim with that--with a lady--talking quietly.\"\n\n\"With whom did you say?\" asked Saracinesca, very gravely.\n\n\"With the Astrardente--if you will know,\" returned Donna Tullia, her\nanger at the memory of the insult bringing the blood suddenly to her\nface.\n\n\"My dear lady,\" said the old Prince, \"in the name of my son I offer you\nthe humble apologies which he will make in person when he is well enough\nto ask your forgiveness.\"\n\n\"I do not want apologies,\" answered Madame Mayer, turning her face away.\n\n\"Nevertheless they shall be offered. But, pardon my curiosity, how did\nDel Ferice come to be concerned in that incident?\"\n\n\"He was with me when I found Don Giovanni with the Duchessa. It is very\nsimple. I was very angry--I am very angry still; but I would not have had\nDon Giovanni risk his life on my account for anything, nor poor Del\nFerice either. I am horribly upset about it all.\"\n\nOld Saracinesca wondered whether Donna Tullia's vanity would suffer if he\ntold her that the duel had not been fought for anything which concerned\nher. But he reflected that her supposition was very plausible, and\nthat he himself had no evidence. Furthermore, and in spite of his\ngood-natured treatment of Giovanni, he was very angry at the thought that\nhis son had quarrelled about the Duchessa. When Giovanni should be\nrecovered from his wounds he intended to speak his mind to him. But he\nwas sorry for Donna Tullia, for he liked her in spite of her\neccentricities, and would have been satisfied to see her married to his\nson. He was a practical man, and he took a prosaic view of the world.\nDonna Tullia was rich, and good-looking enough to be called handsome. She\nhad the talent to make herself a sort of centre in her world. She was a\nlittle noisy; but noise was fashionable, and there was no harm in her--no\none had ever said anything against her. Besides, she was one of the few\nrelations still left to the Saracinesca. The daughter of a cousin of the\nPrince, she would make a good wife for Giovanni, and would bring sunshine\ninto the house. There was a tinge of vulgarity in her manner; but, like\nmany elderly men of his type, Saracinesca pardoned her this fault in\nconsideration of her noisy good spirits and general good-nature. He was\nvery much annoyed at hearing that his son had offended her so grossly by\nhis forgetfulness; especially it was unfortunate that since she believed\nherself the cause of the duel, she should have the impression that it had\nbeen provoked by Del Ferice to obtain satisfaction for the insult\nGiovanni had offered her. There would be small chance of making the match\ncontemplated after such an affair.\n\n\"I am sincerely sorry,\" said the Prince, stroking his white beard and\ntrying to get a sight of his companion's face, which she obstinately\nturned away from him. \"Perhaps it is better not to think too much of the\nmatter until the exact circumstances are known. Some one is sure to\ntell the story one of these days.\"\n\n\"How coldly you speak of it! One would think it had happened in Peru,\ninstead of here, this very morning.\"\n\nSaracinesca was at his wits' end. He wanted to smooth the matter over, or\nat least to soften the unfavourable impression against Giovanni. He had\nnot the remotest idea how to do it. He was not a very diplomatic man.\n\n\"No, no; you misunderstand me. I am not cold. I quite appreciate your\nsituation. You are very justly annoyed.\"\n\n\"Of course I am,\" said Donna Tullia impatiently. She was beginning to\nregret that she had made him get into her carriage.\n\n\"Precisely; of course you are. Now, so soon as Giovanni is quite\nrecovered, I will send him to explain his conduct to you if he can, or\nto--\"\n\n\"Explain it? How can he explain it? I do not want you to send him, if he\nwill not come of his own accord. Why should I?\"\n\n\"Well, well, as you please, my dear cousin,\" said old Saracinesca,\nsmiling to cover his perplexity. \"I am not a good ambassador; but you\nknow I am a good friend, and I really want to do something to restore\nGiovanni to your graces.\"\n\n\"That will be difficult,\" answered Donna Tullia, although she knew very\nwell that she would receive Giovanni kindly enough when she had once had\nan opportunity of speaking her mind to him.\n\n\"Do not be hard-hearted,\" urged the Prince. \"I am sure he is very\npenitent.\"\n\n\"Then let him say so.\"\n\n\"That is exactly what I ask.\"\n\n\"Is it? Oh, very well. If he chooses to call I will receive him, since\nyou desire it. Where shall I put you down?\"\n\n\"Anywhere, thank you. Here, if you wish--at the corner. Good-bye. Do not\nbe too hard on the boy.\"\n\n\"We shall see,\" answered Donna Tullia, unwilling to show too much\nindulgence. The old Prince bowed, and walked away into the gloom of the\ndusky streets.\n\n\"That is over,\" he muttered to himself. \"I wonder how the Astrardente\ntakes it.\" He would have liked to see her; but he recognized that, as he\nso very rarely called upon her, it would seem strange to choose such a\ntime for his visit. It would not do--it would be hardly decent, seeing\nthat he believed her to be the cause of the catastrophe. His steps,\nhowever, led him almost unconsciously in the direction of the Astrardente\npalace; he found himself in front of the arched entrance almost before\nhe knew where he was. The temptation to see Corona was more than he could\nresist. He asked the porter if the Duchessa was at home, and on being\nanswered in the affirmative, he boldly entered and ascended the marble\nstaircase--boldly, but with an odd sensation, like that of a schoolboy\nwho is getting himself into trouble.\n\nCorona had just come home, and was sitting by the fire in her great\ndrawing-room, alone, with a book in her hand, which she was not reading.\nShe rarely remained in the reception-rooms; but to-day she had rather\ncapriciously taken a fancy to the broad solitude of the place, and had\naccordingly installed herself there. She was very much surprised when the\ndoors were suddenly opened wide and the servant announced Prince\nSaracinesca. For a moment she thought it must be Giovanni, for his father\nrarely entered her house, and when the old man's stalwart figure advanced\ntowards her, she dropped her book in astonishment, and rose from her\ndeep chair to meet him. She was very pale, and there were dark rings\nunder her eyes that spoke of pain and want of sleep. She was so utterly\ndifferent from Donna Tullia, whom he had just left, that the Prince was\nalmost awed by her stateliness, and felt more than ever like a boy in a\nbad scrape. Corona bowed rather coldly, but extended her hand, which the\nold gentleman raised to his lips respectfully, in the manner of the old\nschool.\n\n\"I trust you are not exhausted after the ball?\" he began, not knowing\nwhat to say.\n\n\"Not in the least. We did not stay late,\" replied Corona, secretly\nwondering why he had come.\n\n\"It was really magnificent,\" he answered. \"There has been no such ball\nfor years. Very unfortunate that it should have terminated in such an\nunpleasant way,\" he added, making a bold dash at the subject of which he\nwished to speak.\n\n\"Very. You did a bad morning's work,\" said the Duchessa, severely. \"I\nwonder that you should speak of it.\"\n\n\"No one speaks of anything else,\" returned the Prince, apologetically.\n\"Besides, I do not see what was to be done.\"\n\n\"You should have stopped it,\" answered Corona, her dark eyes gleaming\nwith righteous indignation. \"You should have prevented it at any price,\nif not in the name of religion, which forbids it as a crime, at least in\nthe name of decency--as being Don Giovanni's father.\"\n\n\"You speak strong words, Duchessa,\" said the Prince, evidently annoyed at\nher tone.\n\n\"If I speak strongly, it is because I think you acted shamefully in\npermitting this disgraceful butchery.\"\n\nSaracinesca suddenly lost his temper, as he frequently did.\n\n\"Madam,\" he said, \"it is certainly not for you to accuse me of crime,\nlack of decency, and what you are pleased to call disgraceful butchery,\nseeing who was the probable cause of the honourable encounter which you\ncharacterise in such tasteful language.\"\n\n\"Honourable indeed!\" said Corona, very scornfully. \"Let that pass. Who,\npray, is more to blame than you? Who is the probable cause?\"\n\n\"Need I tell you?\" asked the old man, fixing his flashing eyes upon her.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" inquired Corona, turning white, and her voice\ntrembling between her anger and her emotion.\n\n\"I may be wrong,\" said the Prince, \"but I believe I am right. I believe\nthe duel was fought on your account.\"\n\n\"On my account!\" repeated Corona, half rising from her chair in her\nindignation. Then she sank back again, and added, very coldly, \"If you\nhave come here to insult me, Prince, I will send for my husband.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, Duchessa,\" said old Saracinesca. \"It is very far from\nmy intention to insult you.\"\n\n\"And who has told you this abominable lie?\" asked Corona, still very\nangry.\n\n\"No one, upon my word.\"\n\n\"Then how dare you--\"\n\n\"Because I have reason to believe that you are the only woman alive for\nwhom my son would engage in a quarrel.\"\n\n\"It is impossible,\" cried Corona. \"I will never believe that Don Giovanni\ncould--\" She checked herself.\n\n\"Don Giovanni Saracinesca is a gentleman, madam,\" said the old Prince,\nproudly. \"He keeps his own counsel. I have come by the information\nwithout any evidence of it from his lips.\"\n\n\"Then I am at a loss to understand you,\" returned the Duchessa. \"I must\nbeg you either to explain your extraordinary language, or else to leave\nme.\"\n\nCorona d'Astrardente was a match for any man when she was angry. But old\nSaracinesca, though no diplomatist, was a formidable adversary, from his\nboldness and determination to discover the truth at any price.\n\n\"It is precisely because, at the risk of offending you, I desired an\nexplanation, that I have intruded myself upon you to-day,\" he answered.\n\"Will you permit me one question before I leave you?\"\n\n\"Provided it is not an insulting one, I will answer it,\" replied Corona.\n\n\"Do you know anything of the circumstances which led to this morning's\nencounter?\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" Corona answered, hotly. \"I assure you most solemnly,\"\nshe continued in calmer tones, \"that I am wholly ignorant of it. I\nsuppose you have a right to be told that.\"\n\n\"I, on my part, assure you, upon my word, that I know no more than you\nyourself, excepting this: on some provocation, concerning which he will\nnot speak, my son seized Del Ferice by the throat and used strong words\nto him. No one witnessed the scene. Del Ferice sent the challenge.\nMy son could find no one to act for him and applied to me, as was quite\nright that he should. There was no apology possible--Giovanni had to give\nthe man satisfaction. You know as much as I know now.\"\n\n\"That does not help me to understand why you accuse me of having caused\nthe quarrel,\" said Corona. \"What have I to do with Del Ferice, poor man?\"\n\n\"This--any one can see that you are as indifferent to my son as to any\nother man. Every one knows that the Duchessa d'Astrardente is above\nsuspicion.\"\n\nCorona raised her head proudly and stared at Saracinesca.\n\n\"But, on the other hand, every one knows that my son loves you madly--can\nyou yourself deny it?\"\n\n\"Who dares to say it?\" asked Corona, her anger rising afresh.\n\n\"Who sees, dares. Can you deny it?\"\n\n\"You have no right to repeat such hearsay tales to me,\" answered Corona.\nBut the blush rose to her pale dark cheeks, and she suddenly dropped her\neyes.\n\n\"Can you deny it, Duchessa?\" asked the Prince a third time, insisting\nroughly.\n\n\"Since you are so certain, why need you care for my denial?\" inquired\nCorona.\n\n\"Duchessa, you must forgive me,\" answered Saracinesca, his tone suddenly\nsoftening. \"I am rough, probably rude; but I love my son dearly. I cannot\nbear to see him running into a dangerous and hopeless passion, from which\nhe may issue only to find himself grown suddenly old and bitter,\ndisappointed and miserable for the rest of his life. I believe you to be\na very good woman; I cannot look at you and doubt the truth of anything\nyou tell me. If he loves you, you have influence over him. If you have\ninfluence, use it for his good; use it to break down this mad love of\nhis, to show him his own folly--to save him, in short, from his fate. Do\nyou understand me? Do I ask too much?\"\n\nCorona understood well enough--far too well. She knew the whole extent of\nGiovanni's love for her, and, what old Saracinesca never guessed, the\nstrength of her own love for him, for the sake of which she would do all\nthat a woman could do. There was a long pause after the old Prince had\nspoken. He waited patiently for an answer.\n\n\"I understand you--yes,\" she said at last. \"If you are right in your\nsurmises, I should have some influence over your son. If I can advise\nhim, and he will take my advice, I will give him the best counsel I can.\nYou have placed me in a very embarrassing position, and you have shown\nlittle courtesy in the way you have spoken to me; but I will try to do as\nyou request me, if the opportunity offers, for the sake of--of turning\nwhat is very bad into something which may at last be good.\"\n\n\"Thank you, thank you, Duchessa!\" cried the Prince. \"I will never\nforget--\"\n\n\"Do not thank me,\" said Corona, coldly. \"I am not in a mood to appreciate\nyour gratitude. There is too much blood of those honest gentlemen upon\nyour hands.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, Duchessa, I wish there were on my hands and head the blood of\nthat gentleman you call honest--the gentleman who twice tried to murder\nmy son this morning, and twice nearly succeeded.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Corona, in sudden terror.\n\n\"That fellow thrust at Giovanni once to kill him while they were halting\nand his sword was hanging lowered in his hand; and once again he threw\nhimself upon his knee and tried to stab him in the body--which is a\ndastardly trick not permitted in any country. Even in duelling, such\nthings are called murder; and it is their right name.\"\n\nCorona was very pale. Giovanni's danger had been suddenly brought before\nher in a very vivid light, and she was horror-struck at the thought of\nit.\n\n\"Is--is Don Giovanni very badly wounded?\" she asked.\n\n\"No, thank heaven; he will be wall in a week. But either one of those\nattempts might have killed him; and he would have died, I think--pardon\nme, no insult this time--I think, on your account. Do you see why for\nhim I dread this attachment to you, which leads him to risk his life at\nevery turn for a word about you? Do you see why I implore you to take the\nmatter into your serious consideration, and to use your influence to\nbring him to his senses?\"\n\n\"I see; but in this question of the duel you have no proof that I was\nconcerned.\"\n\n\"No,--no proof, perhaps. I will not weary you with surmises; but even if\nit was not for you this time, you see that it might have been.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Corona, very sadly.\n\n\"I have to thank you, even if you will not listen to me,\" said the\nPrince, rising. \"You have understood me. It was all I asked. Good night.\"\n\n\"Good night,\" answered Corona, who did not move from her seat nor extend\nher hand this time. She was too much agitated to think of formalities.\nSaracinesca bowed low and left the room.\n\nIt was characteristic of him that he had come to see the Duchessa not\nknowing what he should say, and that he had blurted out the whole truth,\nand then lost his temper in support of it. He was a hasty man, of noble\ninstincts, but always inclined rather to cut a knot than to unloose\nit--to do by force what another man would do by skill--angry at\nopposition, and yet craving it by his combative nature.\n\nHis first impulse on leaving Corona was to go to Giovanni and tell him\nwhat he had done; but he reflected as he went home that his son was ill\nwith his wounds, and that it would be bad for him to be angry, as of\ncourse he would be if he were told of his father's doings. Moreover, as\nold Saracinesca thought more seriously of the matter, he wisely concluded\nthat it would be better not to speak of the visit; and when he entered\nthe room where Giovanni was lying on his couch with a novel and a\ncigarette, he had determined to conceal the whole matter.\n\n\"Well, Giovanni,\" he said, \"we are the talk of the town, of course.\"\n\n\"It was to be expected. Whom have you seen?\"\n\n\"In the first place, I have seen Madame Mayer. She is in a state of anger\nagainst you which borders on madness--not because you have wounded Del\nFerice, but because you forgot to dance with her. I cannot conceive\nhow you could be so foolish.\"\n\n\"Nor I. It was idiotic in the last degree,\" replied Giovanni, annoyed\nthat his father should have learned the story.\n\n\"You must go and see her at once--as soon as you can go out. It is a\ndisagreeable business.\"\n\n\"Of course. What else did she say?\"\n\n\"She thought that Del Ferice had challenged you on her account, because\nyou had not danced with her.\"\n\n\"How silly! As if I should fight duels about her.\"\n\n\"Since there was probably a woman in the case, she might have been the\none,\" remarked his father.\n\n\"There was no woman in the case, practically speaking,\" said Giovanni,\nshortly.\n\n\"Oh, I supposed there was. However, I told Donna Tullia that I advised\nher not to think anything more of the matter until the whole story came\nout.\"\n\n\"When is that likely to occur?\" asked Giovanni, laughing. \"No one alive\nknows the cause of the quarrel but Del Ferice and I myself. He will\ncertainly not tell the world, as the thing was even more disgraceful to\nhim than his behaviour this morning. There is no reason why I should\nspeak of it either.\"\n\n\"How reticent you are, Giovanni!\" exclaimed the old gentleman.\n\n\"Believe me, if I could tell you the whole story without injuring any one\nbut Del Ferice, I would.\"\n\n\"Then there was really a woman in the case?\"\n\n\"There was a woman outside the case, who caused us to be in it,\" returned\nGiovanni.\n\n\"Always your detestable riddles,\" cried the old man, petulantly; and\npresently, seeing that his son was obstinately silent, he left the room\nto dress for dinner.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\nIt may be that when Astrardente spoke so tenderly to his wife after the\nFrangipani ball, he felt some warning that told him his strength was\nfailing. His heart was in a dangerous condition, the family doctor had\nsaid, and it was necessary that he should take care of himself. He had\nbeen very tired after that long evening, and perhaps some sudden sinking\nhad shaken his courage. He awoke from an unusually heavy sleep with a\nstrange sense of astonishment, as though he had not expected to awake\nagain in life. He felt weaker than he had felt for a long time, and even\nhis accustomed beverage of chocolate mixed with coffee failed to give him\nthe support he needed in the morning. He rose very late, and his servant\nfound him more than usually petulant, nor did the message brought back\nfrom Giovanni seem to improve his temper. He met his wife at the midday\nbreakfast, and was strangely silent, and in the afternoon he shut himself\nup in his own rooms and would see nobody. But at dinner he appeared\nagain, seemingly revived, and declared his intention of accompanying his\nwife to a reception given at the Austrian embassy. He seemed so unlike\nhis usual self, that Corona did not venture to speak of the duel which\nhad taken place in the morning; for she feared anything which might\nexcite him, well knowing that excitement might prove fatal. She did what\nshe could to dissuade him from going out; but he grew petulant, and she\nunwillingly yielded.\n\nAt the embassy he soon heard all the details, for no one talked of\nanything else; but Astrardente was ashamed of not having heard it all\nbefore, and affected a cynical indifference to the tale which the\nmilitary attach\u00e9 of the embassy repeated for his benefit. He vouchsafed\nsome remark to the effect that fighting duels was the natural amusement\nof young gentlemen, and that if one of them killed another there was at\nleast one fool the less in society; after which he looked about him for\nsome young beauty to whom he might reel off a score of compliments. He\nknew all the time that he was making a great effort, that he felt\nunaccountably ill, and that he wished he had taken his wife's advice and\nstayed quietly at home. But at the end of the evening he chanced to\noverhear a remark that Valdarno was making to Casalverde, who looked\nexceedingly pale and ill at ease.\n\n\"You had better make your will, my dear fellow,\" said Valdarno. \"Spicca\nis a terrible man with the foils.\"\n\nAstrardente turned quickly and looked at the speaker. But both men were\nsuddenly silent, and seemed absorbed in gazing at the crowd. It was\nenough, however. Astrardente had gathered that Casalverde was to fight\nSpicca the next day, and that the affair begun that morning had not yet\nreached its termination. He determined that he would not again be guilty\nof not knowing what was going on in society; and with the intention of\nrising early on the following morning, he found Corona, and rather\nunceremoniously told her it was time to go home.\n\nOn the next day the Duca d'Astrardente walked into the club soon after\nten o'clock. On ordinary occasions that resort of his fellows was\nentirely empty until a much later hour; but Astrardente was not\ndisappointed to-day. Twenty or thirty men were congregated in the large\nhall which served as a smoking-room, and all of them were talking\ntogether excitedly. As the door swung on its hinges and the old dandy\nentered, a sudden silence fell upon the assembly. Astrardente naturally\njudged that the conversation had turned upon himself, and had been\nchecked by his appearance; but he affected to take no notice of the\noccurrence, adjusting his single eyeglass in his eye and serenely\nsurveying the men in the room. He could see that, although they had been\ntalking loudly, the matter in hand was serious enough, for there was no\ntrace of mirth on any of the faces before him. He at once assumed an air\nof gravity, and going up to Valdarno, who seemed to have occupied the\nmost prominent place in the recent discussion, he put his question in an\nundertone.\n\n\"I suppose Spicca killed him?\"\n\nValdarno nodded, and looked grave. He was a thoughtless young fellow\nenough, but the news of the tragedy had sobered him. Astrardente had\nanticipated the death of Casalverde, and was not surprised. But he was\nnot without human feeling, and showed a becoming regret at the sad end of\na man he had been accustomed to see so frequently.\n\n\"How was it?\" he asked.\n\n\"A simple 'un, deux,' tierce and carte at the first bout. Spicca is as\nquick as lightning. Come away from this crowd,\" added Valdarno, in a low\nvoice, \"and I will tell you all about it.\"\n\nIn spite of his sorrow at his friend's death, Valdarno felt a certain\nsense of importance at being able to tell the story to Astrardente.\nValdarno was vain in a small way, though his vanity was to that of the\nold Duca as the humble violet to the full-blown cabbage-rose. Astrardente\nenjoyed a considerable importance in society as the husband of Corona,\nand was an object of especial interest to Valdarno, who supported the\nincredible theory of Corona's devotion to the old man. Valdarno's stables\nwere near the club, and on pretence of showing a new horse to\nAstrardente, he nodded to his friends, and left the room with the aged\ndandy. It was a clear, bright winter's morning, and the two men strolled\nslowly down the Corso towards Valdarno's palace.\n\n\"You know, of course, how the affair began?\" asked the young man.\n\n\"The first duel? Nobody knows--certainly not I.\"\n\n\"Well--perhaps not,\" returned Valdarno, doubtfully. \"At all events, you\nknow that Spicca flew into a passion because poor Casalverde forgot to\nstep in after he cried halt; and then Del Ferice ran Giovanni through the\narm.\"\n\n\"That was highly improper--most reprehensible,\" said Astrardente, putting\nup his eyeglass to look at a pretty little sempstress who hurried past on\nher way to her work.\n\n\"I suppose so. But Casalverde certainly meant no harm; and if Del Ferice\nhad not been so unlucky as to forget himself in the excitement of the\nmoment, no one would have thought anything of it.\"\n\n\"Ah yes, I suppose not,\" murmured Astrardente, still looking after the\ngirl. When he could see her face no longer, he turned sharply back to\nValdarno.\n\n\"This is exceedingly interesting,\" he said. \"Tell me more about it.\"\n\n\"Well, when it was over, old Saracinesca was for killing Casalverde\nhimself.\"\n\n\"The old fire-eater! He ought to be ashamed of himself.\"\n\n\"However, Spicca was before him, and challenged Casalverde then and\nthere. As both the principals in the first duel were so badly wounded, it\nhad to be put off until this morning.\"\n\n\"They went out, and--piff, paff! Spicca ran him through,\" interrupted\nAstrardente. \"What a horrible tragedy!\"\n\n\"Ah yes; and what is worse--\"\n\n\"What surprises me most,\" interrupted the Duca again, \"is that in this\ndelightfully peaceful and paternally governed little nest of ours, the\nauthorities should not have been able to prevent either of these duels.\nIt is perfectly amazing! I cannot remember a parallel instance. Do you\nmean to say that there was not a _sbirro_ or a _gendarme_ in the\nneighbourhood to-day nor yesterday?\"\n\n\"That is not so surprising,\" answered Valdarno, with a knowing look.\n\"There would have been few tears in high quarters if Del Ferice had been\nkilled yesterday; there will be few to-day over the death of poor\nCasalverde.\"\n\n\"Bah!\" ejaculated Astrardente. \"If Antonelli had heard of these affairs\nhe would have stopped them soon enough.\"\n\nValdarno glanced behind him, and, bending a little, whispered in\nAstrardente's ear--\n\n\"They were both Liberals, you must know.\"\n\n\"Liberals?\" repeated the old dandy, with a cynical sneer. \"Nonsense, I\nsay! Liberals? Yes, in the way you are a Liberal, and Donna Tullia Mayer,\nand Spicca himself, who has just killed that other Liberal, Casalverde.\nLiberals indeed! Do you flatter yourself for a moment that Antonelli is\nafraid of such Liberals as you are? Do you think the life of Del Ferice\nis of any more importance to politics than the life of that dog there?\"\n\nIt was Astrardente's habit to scoff mercilessly at all the petty\nmanifestations of political feeling he saw about him in the world. He\nrepresented a class distinct both from the Valdarno set and from the men\nrepresented by the Saracinesca--a class who despised everything political\nas unworthy of the attention of gentlemen, who took everything for\ngranted, and believed that all was for the best, provided that society\nmoved upon rollers and so long as no one meddled with old institutions.\nTo question the wisdom of the municipal regulations was to attack the\nGovernment itself; to attack the Government was to cast a slight upon his\nHoliness the Pope, which was rank heresy, and very vulgar into the\nbargain. Astrardente had seen a great deal of the world, but his ideas of\npolitics were almost childishly simple--whereas many people said that his\nprinciples in relation to his fellows were fiendishly cynical. He was\ncertainly not a very good man; and if he pretended to no reputation for\ndevoutness, it was probable that he recognised the absurdity of his\nattempting such a pose. But politically he believed in Cardinal\nAntonelli's ability to defy Europe with or without the aid of France, and\nlaughed as loudly at Louis Napoleon's old idea of putting the sovereign\nPontiff at the head of an Italian federation, as he jeered at Cavour's\nfavourite phrase concerning a free Church in a free State. He had good\nblood in him, and the hereditary courage often found with it. He had a\ncertain skill in matters worldly; but his wit in things political seemed\nto belong to an earlier generation, and to be incapable of receiving new\nimpressions.\n\nBut Valdarno, who was vain and set great value on his opinions, was\ndeeply offended at the way Astrardente spoke of him and his friends. In\nhis eyes he was risking much for what he considered a good object, and he\nresented any contemptuous mention of Liberal principles, whenever he\ndared. No one cared much for Astrardente, and certainly no one feared\nhim; nevertheless in those times men hesitated to defend anything which\ncame under the general head of Liberalism, when they were likely to be\noverheard, or when they could not trust the man to whom they were\nspeaking. If no one feared Astrardente, no one trusted him either.\nValdarno consequently judged it best to smother his annoyance at the old\nman's words, and to retaliate by striking him in a weak spot.\n\n\"If you despise Del Ferice as much as you say,\" he remarked, \"I wonder\nthat you tolerate him as you do.\"\n\n\"I tolerate him. Toleration is the very word--it delightfully expresses\nmy feelings towards him. He is a perfectly harmless creature, who affects\nimmense depth of insight into human affairs, and who cannot see an inch\nbefore his face. Dear me! yes, I shall always tolerate Del Ferice, poor\nfellow!\"\n\n\"You may not be called upon to do so much longer,\" replied Valdarno.\n\"They say he is in a very dangerous condition.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" ejaculated Astrardente, putting up his eyeglass at his companion.\n\"Ah, you don't say so!\"\n\nThere was something so insolent in the old man's affected stare that even\nthe foolish and good-natured Valdarno lost his temper, being already\nsomewhat irritated.\n\n\"It is a pity that you should be so indifferent. It is hardly becoming.\nIf you had not tolerated him as you have, he might not be lying there at\nthe point of death.\"\n\nAstrardente stared harder than ever.\n\n\"My dear young friend,\" he said, \"your language is the most extraordinary\nI ever heard. How in the world can my treatment of that unfortunate man\nhave had anything to do with his being wounded in a duel?\"\n\n\"My dear old friend,\" replied Valdarno, impudently mimicking the old\nman's tone, \"your simplicity surpasses anything I ever knew. Is it\npossible that you do not know that this duel was fought for your wife?\"\n\nAstrardente looked fixedly at Valdarno; his eyeglass dropped from his\neye, and he turned ashy pale beneath his paint. He staggered a moment,\nand steadied himself against the door of a shop. They were just passing\nthe corner of the Piazza di Sciarra, the most crowded crossing of the\nCorso.\n\n\"Valdarno,\" said the old man, his cracked voice dropping to a hoarser and\ndeeper tone, \"you must explain yourself or answer for this.\"\n\n\"What! Another duel!\" cried Valdarno, in some scorn. Then, seeing that\nhis companion looked ill, he took him by the arm and led him rapidly\nthrough the crowd, across the Arco dei Carbognani. Entering the Caff\u00e8\nAragno, a new institution in those days, both men sat down at a small\nmarble table. The old dandy was white with emotion; Valdarno felt that he\nwas enjoying his revenge.\n\n\"A glass of cognac, Duke?\" he said, as the waiter came up. Astrardente\nnodded, and there was silence while the man brought the cordial. The Duca\nlived by an invariable rule, seeking to balance the follies of his youth\nby excessive care in his old age; it was long, indeed, since he had taken\na glass of brandy in the morning. He swallowed it quickly, and the\nstimulant produced its effect immediately; he readjusted his eyeglass,\nand faced Valdarno sternly.\n\n\"And now,\" he said, \"that we are at our ease, may I inquire what the\ndevil you mean by your insinuations about my wife?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" replied Valdarno, affecting great indifference, \"I only say what\neverybody says. There is no offence to the Duchessa.\"\n\n\"I should suppose not, indeed. Go on.\"\n\n\"Do you really care to hear the story?\" asked the young man.\n\n\"I intend to hear it, and at once,\" replied Astrardente.\n\n\"You will not have to employ force to extract it from me, I can assure\nyou,\" said Valdarno, settling himself in his chair, but avoiding the\nangry glance of the old man. \"Everybody has been repeating it since the\nday before yesterday, when it occurred. You were at the Frangipani\nball--you might have seen it all. In the first place, you must know that\nthere exists another of those beings to whom you extend your merciful\ntoleration--a certain Giovanni Saracinesca--you may have noticed him?\"\n\n\"What of him?\" asked Astrardente, fiercely.\n\n\"Among other things, he is the man who wounded Del Ferice, as I daresay\nyou have heard. Among other things concerning him, he has done himself\nthe honour of falling desperately, madly in love with the Duchessa\nd'Astrardente, who--\"\n\n\"What?\" cried the old man in a cracked voice, as Valdarno paused.\n\n\"Who does you the honour of ignoring his existence on most occasions, but\nwho was so unfortunate as to recall him to her memory on the night of the\nFrangipani ball. We were all sitting in a circle round the Duchessa's\nchair that night, when the conversation chanced to turn upon this same\nGiovanni Saracinesca, a fire-eating fellow with a bad temper. He had been\naway for some days; indeed he was last seen at the Apollo in your box,\nwhen they gave 'Norma'--\"\n\n\"I remember,\" interrupted Astrardente. The mention of that evening was\nbut a random shot. Valdarno had been in the club-box, and had seen\nGiovanni when he made his visit to the Astrardente; he had not seen him\nagain till the Frangipani ball.\n\n\"Well, as I was saying, we spoke of Giovanni, and every one had something\nto say about his absence. The Duchessa expressed her curiosity, and Del\nFerice, who was with us, proposed calling him--he was at the other end of\nthe room, you see--that he might answer for himself. So I went and\nbrought him up. He was in a very bad humour--\"\n\n\"What has all this absurd story got to do with the matter?\" asked the old\nman, impatiently.\n\n\"It is the matter itself. The irascible Giovanni is angry at being\nquestioned, treats us all like mud under his feet, sits down by the\nDuchessa and forces us to go away. The Duchessa tells him the story, with\na laugh no doubt, and Giovanni's wrath overflows. He goes in search of\nDel Ferice, and nearly strangles him. The result of these eccentricities\nis the first duel, leading to the second.\"\n\nAstrardente was very angry, and his thin gloved hands twitched nervously\nat the handle of his stick.\n\n\"And this,\" he said, \"this string of trivial ball-room incident, seems to\nyou a sufficient pretext for stating that the duel was about my wife?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied Valdarno, coolly. \"If Saracinesca had not been for\nmonths openly devoting himself to the Duchessa--who, I assure you, takes\nno kind of notice of him--\"\n\n\"You need not waste words--\"\n\n\"I do not,--and if Giovanni had not thought it worth while to be jealous\nof Del Ferice, there would have been no fighting.\"\n\n\"Have you been telling your young friends that my wife was the cause of\nall this?\" asked Astrardente, trembling with a genuine rage which lent a\ncertain momentary dignity to his feeble frame and painted face.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Have you or have you not?\"\n\n\"Certainly--if you please,\" returned Valdarno insolently, enjoying the\nold man's fury.\n\n\"Then permit me to tell you that you have taken upon yourself an\noutrageous liberty, that you have lied, and that you do not deserve to be\ntreated like a gentleman.\"\n\nAstrardente got upon his feet and left the caf\u00e9 without further words.\nValdarno had indeed wounded him in a weak spot, and the wound was mortal.\nHis blood was up, and at that moment he would have faced Valdarno sword\nin hand, and might have proved himself no mean adversary, so great is the\npower of anger to revive in the most decrepit the energies of youth. He\nbelieved in his wife with a rare sincerity, and his blood boiled at the\nidea of her being rudely spoken of as the cause of a scandalous quarrel,\nhowever much Valdarno insisted upon it that she was as indifferent to\nGiovanni as to Del Ferice. The story was a shallow invention upon the\nface of it. But though the old man told himself so again and again as he\nalmost ran through the narrow streets towards his house, there was one\nthought suggested by Valdarno which rankled deep. It was true that\nGiovanni had last been seen in the Astrardente box at the opera; but he\nhad not remained five minutes seated by the Duchessa before he had\nsuddenly invented a shallow excuse for leaving; and finally, there was no\ndoubt that at that very moment Corona had seemed violently agitated.\nGiovanni had not reappeared till the night of the Frangipani ball, and\nthe duel had taken place on the very next morning. Astrardente could not\nreason--his mind was too much disturbed by his anger against Valdarno;\nbut a vague impression that there was something wrong in it all, drove\nhim homewards in wild excitement. He was ill, too, and had he been in a\nframe of mind to reflect upon himself, he would have noticed that his\nheart was beating with ominous irregularity. He did not even think of\ntaking a cab, but hurried along on foot, finding, perhaps, a momentary\nrelief in violent exertion. The old blood rushed to his face in good\nearnest, and shamed the delicately painted lights and shadows touched in\nby the master-hand of Monsieur Isidore, the cosmopolitan valet.\n\nValdarno remained seated in the caf\u00e9, rather disturbed at what he had\ndone. He certainly had had no intention of raising such a storm; he was a\nweak and good-natured fellow, whose vanity was easily wounded, but who\nwas not otherwise very sensitive, and was certainly not very intelligent.\nAstrardente had laughed at him and his friends in a way which touched him\nto the quick, and with childish petulance he had retaliated in the\neasiest way which presented itself. Indeed there was more foundation for\nhis tale than Astrardente would allow. At least it was true that the\nstory was in the mouths of all the gossips that morning, and Valdarno had\nonly repeated what he had heard. He had meant to annoy the old man; he\nhad certainly not intended to make him so furiously angry. As for the\ndeliberate insult he had received, it was undoubtedly very shocking to be\ntold that one lied in such very plain terms; but on the other hand, to\ndemand satisfaction of such an old wreck as Astrardente would be\nridiculous in the extreme. Valdarno was incapable of very violent\npassion, and was easily persuaded that he was in the wrong when any one\ncontradicted him flatly; not that he was altogether devoid of a certain\nphysical courage if hard pushed, but because he was not very strong, not\nvery confident of himself, not very combative, and not very truthful.\nWhen Astrardente was gone, he waited a few minutes, and then sauntered up\nthe Corso again towards the club, debating in his mind how he should turn\na good story out of his morning's adventure without making himself appear\neither foolish or pusillanimous. It was also necessary so to turn his\nnarrative that in case any one repeated it to Giovanni, the latter might\nnot propose to cut his throat, though it was not probable that any one\nwould be bold enough to desire a conversation with the younger\nSaracinesca on such a subject.\n\nWhen he again entered the smoking-room of the club, he was greeted by a\nchorus of inquiries concerning his interview with Astrardente.\n\n\"What did he ask? What did he say? Where is he? What did you tell him?\nDid he drop his eyeglass? Did he blush through his paint?\"\n\nEverybody spoke together in the same breath. Valdarno's vanity rose to\nthe occasion. Weak and insignificant by nature, he particularly delighted\nin being the centre of general interest, if even for a moment only.\n\n\"He really dropped his eyeglass,\" he answered, with a gay laugh, \"and he\nreally changed colour in spite of his paint.\"\n\n\"It must have been a terrible interview, then,\" remarked one or two of\nthe loungers.\n\n\"I shall be happy to offer you my services in case you wish to cut each\nother's throats,\" said a French officer of the Papal Zouaves who stood by\nthe fireplace rolling a cigarette. Whereupon everybody laughed loudly.\n\n\"Thanks,\" answered Valdarno; \"I am expecting a challenge every minute. If\nhe proposes a powder-puff and a box of rouge for the weapons, I accept\nwithout hesitation. Well, it was very amusing. He wanted to know all\nabout it, and so I told him about the scene in Casa Frangipani. He did\nnot seem to understand at all. He is a very obtuse old gentleman.\"\n\n\"I hope you explained the connection of events,\" said some one.\n\n\"Indeed I did. It was delightful to witness his fury. It was then that he\ndropped his eyeglass and turned as red as a boiled lobster. He swore that\nhis wife was above suspicion, as usual.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" said a young man who had attempted to make love to Corona\nduring the previous year.\n\n\"Of course it is true,\" echoed all the rest, with unanimity rare indeed\nwhere a woman's reputation is concerned.\n\n\"Yes,\" continued Valdarno, \"of course. But he goes so far as to say it is\nabsurd that any one should admire his wife, who is nevertheless a most\nadmirable woman. He stamped, he screamed, he turned red in the face, and\nhe went off without taking leave of me, flourishing his stick, and\nswearing eternal hatred and vengeance against the entire civilised\nsociety of the world. He was delightfully amusing. Will anybody play\nbaccarat? I will start a bank.\"\n\nThe majority were for the game, and in a few minutes were seated at a\nlarge green table, drawing cards and betting with a good will, and\ninterspersing their play with stray remarks on the events of the morning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n\nCorona was fast coming to a state of mind in which a kind of passive\nexpectation--a sort of blind submission to fate--was the chief feature.\nShe had shed tears when her husband spoke of his approaching end, because\nher gentle heart was grateful to him, and by its own sacrifices had grown\nused to his presence, and because she suddenly felt that she had\ncomprehended the depth of his love for her, as she had never understood\nit before. In the five years of married life she had spent with him, she\nhad not allowed herself to think of his selfishness, of his small daily\negotism; for, though it was at no great expense to himself, he had been\nuniformly generous and considerate to her. But she had been conscious\nthat if she should ever remove from her conscience the pressure of a\nself-imposed censorship, so that her judgment might speak boldly, the\nverdict of her heart would not have been so indulgent to her husband as\nwas that formal opinion of him which she forced herself to hold. Now,\nhowever, it seemed as though the best things she had desired to believe\nof him were true; and with the conviction that he was not only not\nselfish, but absolutely devoted to herself, there had come upon her a\nfear of desolation, a dread of being left alone--of finding herself\nabandoned by this strange companion, the only person in the world with\nwhom she had the habit of familiarity and the bond of a common past.\nAstrardente had thought, and had told her too, that the knowledge of his\nimpending death might lighten her burden--might make the days of\nself-sacrifice that yet remained seem shorter; he had spoken kindly of\nher marrying again when he should be dead, deeming perhaps, in his sudden\nburst of generosity that she would be capable of looking beyond the\nunhappy present to the possibilities of a more brilliant future, or at\nleast that the certainty of his consent to such a second union would\nmomentarily please her. It was hard to say why he had spoken. It had been\nan impulse such as the most selfish people sometimes yield to when their\nfailing strength brings upon them suddenly the sense of their inability\nto resist any longer the course of events. The vanity of man is so\namazing that when he is past arrogating to himself the attention which is\nnecessary to him as his daily bread, he is capable of so demeaning his\nmanhood as to excite interest in his weaknesses rather than that he\nshould cease to be the object of any interest whatever. The analysis of\nthe feelings of old and selfish persons is the most difficult of all\nstudies; for in proportion as the strength of the dominant passion or\npassions is quenched in the bitter still waters of the harbour of\nsuperannuation, the small influences of life grow in importance. As when,\nfrom the breaking surge of an angry ocean, the water is dashed high among\nthe re-echoing rocks, leaving little pools of limpid clearness in the\nhollows of the storm-beaten cliffs; and as when the anger of the tossing\nwaves has subsided, the hot sun shines upon the mimic seas, and the clear\nwaters that were so transparent grow thick and foul with the motion of a\ntiny and insignificant insect-life undreamed of before in such crystal\npurity: so also the clear strong sea of youth is left to dry in the\npools and puddles of old age, and in the motionless calm of the still\nplaces where the ocean of life has washed it, it is dried up and consumed\nby myriads of tiny parasites--lives within lives, passions within\npassions--tiny efforts at mimic greatness,--a restless little world, the\nvery parody and infinitesimal reproduction of the mighty flood whence it\ncame, wherein great monsters have their being, and things of unspeakable\nbeauty grow free in the large depths of an unfathomed ocean.\n\nTo Corona d'Astrardente in the freshness of her youth the study of her\nhusband's strange littleness had grown to be a second nature from the\nhabit of her devotion to him. But she could not understand him; she could\nnot explain to herself the sudden confession of old age, the quiet\nanticipation of death, the inexplicable generosity towards herself. She\nonly knew that he must be at heart a man more kindly and of better\nimpulse than he had generally been considered, and she resolved to do\nher utmost to repay him, and to soothe the misery of his last years.\n\nSince he had told her so plainly, it must be true. It was natural,\nperhaps--for he was growing more feeble every day--but it was very sad.\nFive years ago, when she had choked down her loathing for the old man to\nwhom she had sold herself for her father's sake, she would not have\nbelieved that she should one day feel the tears rise fast at the thought\nof his dying and leaving her free. He had said it; she would be free.\nThey say that men who have been long confined in a dungeon become\nindifferent, and when turned out upon the world would at first gladly\nreturn to their prison walls. Liberty is in the first place an instinct,\nbut it will easily grow to be a habit. Corona had renounced all thought\nof freedom five years ago, and in the patient bowing of her noble nature\nto the path she had chosen, she had attained to a state of renunciation\nlike that of a man who has buried himself for ever in an order of\nTrappists, and neither dreams of the freedom of the outer world, nor\ndesires to dream of it. And she had grown fond of the aged dandy and his\nfoolish ways--ways which seemed foolish because they were those of youth\ngrafted upon senility. She had not known that she was fond of him, it is\ntrue; but now that he spoke of dying, she felt that she would weep his\nloss. He was her only companion, her only friend. In the loyal\ndetermination to be faithful to him, she had so shut herself from all\nintimacy with the world that she had not a friend. She kept women at a\ndistance from her, instinctively dreading lest in their careless talk\nsome hint or comment should remind her that she had married a man\nridiculous in their eyes; and with men she could have but little\nintercourse, for their society was dangerous. No man save Giovanni\nSaracinesca had for years put himself in the light of a mere\nacquaintance, always ready to talk to her upon general subjects,\nstudiously avoiding himself in all discussions, and delicately\nflattering her vanity by his deference to her judgment. The other men had\ngenerally spoken of love at the second meeting, and declared themselves\ndevoted to her for life at the end of a week: she had quietly repulsed\nthem, and they had dropped back into the position of indifferent\nacquaintances, going in search of other game, after the manner of young\ngentlemen of leisure. Giovanni alone had sternly maintained his air of\ncalmness, had never offended her simple pride of loyalty to Astrardente\nby word or deed; so that, although she felt and dreaded her growing\ninterest in him, she had actually believed that he was nothing in her\nlife, until at last she had been undeceived and awakened to the knowledge\nof his fierce passion, and being taken unawares, had nearly been carried\noff her feet by the tempest his words had roused in her own breast. But\nher strength had not utterly deserted her. Years of supreme devotion to\nthe right, of honest and unwavering loyalty, neither deceiving her\nconscience on the one hand with the morbid food of a fictitious religious\nexaltation, nor, upon the other, sinking to a cynical indifference to\ninevitable misery; days of quiet and constant effort; long hours of\nthoughtful meditation upon the one resolution of her life,--all this had\nstrengthened the natural force of her character, so that, when at last\nthe great trial had come, she had not yielded, but had conquered once and\nfor ever, in the very moment of sorest temptation. And with her there\nwould be no return of the danger. Having found strength to resist,\nshe knew that there would be no more weakness; her love for Giovanni was\ndeep and sincere, but it had become now the chief cause of suffering in\nher life; it had utterly ceased to be the chief element of joy, as it had\nbeen for a few short days. It was one thing more to be borne, and it\noutweighed all other cares.\n\nThe news of the duel had given her great distress. She believed honestly\nthat she was in no way concerned in it, and she had bitterly resented old\nSaracinesca's imputation. In the hot words that had passed between\nthem, she had felt her anger rise justly against the old Prince; but when\nhe appealed to her on account of his son, her love for Giovanni had\nvanquished her wrath against the old man. Come what might, she would do\nwhat was best for him. If possible, she would induce him to leave Rome at\nonce, and thus free herself from the pain of constantly meeting him.\nPerhaps she could make him marry--anything would be better than to allow\nthings to go on in their present course, to have to face him at every\nturn, and to know that at any moment he might be quarrelling with\nsomebody and fighting duels on her account.\n\nShe went boldly into the world that night, not knowing whether she should\nmeet Giovanni or not, but resolved upon her course if he appeared. Many\npeople looked curiously at her, and smiled cunningly as they thought they\ndetected traces of care upon her proud face; but though they studied her,\nand lost no opportunity of talking to her upon the one topic which\nabsorbed the general conversation, no one had the satisfaction of moving\nher even so much as to blush a little, or to lower the gaze of her eyes\nthat looked them all indifferently through and through.\n\nGiovanni, however, did not appear, and people told her he would not leave\nhis room for several days, so that she returned to her home without\nhaving accomplished anything in the matter. Her husband was very silent,\nbut looked at her with an expression of uncertainty, as though hesitating\nto speak to her upon some subject that absorbed his interest. Neither of\nthem referred to the strange interview of the previous night. They went\nhome early, as has been already recorded, seeing it was only a great and\nformal reception to which the world went that night; and even the\ntoughest old society jades were weary from the ball of the day before,\nwhich had not broken up until half-past six in the morning.\n\nOn the next day, at about twelve o'clock, Corona was sitting in her\nboudoir writing a number of invitations which were to be distributed in\nthe afternoon, when the door opened and her husband entered the room.\n\n\"My dear,\" he cried in great excitement, \"it is perfectly horrible! Have\nyou heard?\"\n\n\"What?\" asked Corona, laying down her pen.\n\n\"Spicca has killed Casalverde--the man who seconded Del Ferice\nyesterday,--killed him on the spot--\"\n\nCorona uttered an exclamation of horror.\n\n\"And they say Del Ferice is dead, or just dying\"--his cracked voice rose\nat every word; \"and they say,\" he almost screamed, laying his withered\nhand roughly upon his wife's shoulder,--\"they say that the duel was about\nyou--you, do you understand?\"\n\n\"That is not true,\" said Corona, firmly. \"Calm yourself--I beseech you to\nbe calm. Tell me connectedly what has happened--who told you this story.\"\n\n\"What right has any man to drag your name into a quarrel?\" cried the old\nman, hoarsely. \"Everybody is saying it--it is outrageous, abominable--\"\n\nCorona quietly pushed her husband into a chair, and sat down beside him.\n\n\"You are excited--you will harm yourself,--remember your health,\" she\nsaid, endeavouring to soothe him. \"Tell me, in the first place, who told\nyou that it was about me.\"\n\n\"Valdarno told me; he told me that every one was saying it--that it was\nthe talk of the town.\"\n\n\"But why?\" insisted Corona. \"You allow yourself to be furious for the\nsake of a piece of gossip which has no foundation whatever. What is the\nstory they tell?\"\n\n\"Some nonsense about Giovanni Saracinesca's going away last week. Del\nFerice proposed to call him before you, and Giovanni was angry.\"\n\n\"That is absurd,\" said Corona. \"Don Giovanni was not the least annoyed.\nHe was with me afterwards--\"\n\n\"Always Giovanni! Always Giovanni! Wherever you go, it is Giovanni!\"\ncried the old man, in unreasonable petulance--unreasonable from his point\nof view, reasonable enough had he known the truth. But he struck\nunconsciously upon the key-note of all Corona's troubles, and she turned\npale to the lips.\n\n\"You say it is not true,\" he began again. \"How do you know? How can you\ntell what may have been said? How can you guess it? Giovanni Saracinesca\nis about you in society more than any one. He has quarrelled about you,\nand two men have lost their lives in consequence. He is in love with you,\nI tell you. Can you not see it? You must be blind!\"\n\nCorona leaned back in her chair, utterly overcome by the suddenness of\nthe situation, unable to answer, her hands folded tightly together, her\npale lips compressed. Angry at her silence, old Astrardente continued,\nhis rage gradually getting the mastery of his sense, and his passion\nworking itself up to the pitch of madness.\n\n\"Blind--yes--positively blind!\" he cried. \"Do you think that I am blind\ntoo? Do you think I will overlook all this? Do you not see that your\nreputation is injured--that people associate your name with his--that no\nwoman can be mentioned in the same breath with Giovanni Saracinesca and\nhope to maintain a fair fame? A fellow whose adventures are in\neverybody's mouth, whose doings are notorious; who has but to look at a\nwoman to destroy her; who is a duellist, a libertine--\"\n\n\"That is not true,\" interrupted Corona, unable to listen calmly to the\nabuse thus heaped upon the man she so dearly loved. \"You are mad--\"\n\n\"You defend him!\" screamed Astrardente, leaning far forward in his chair\nand clenching his hands. \"You dare to support him--you acknowledge that\nyou care for him! Does he not pursue you everywhere, so that the town\nrings with it? You ought to long to be rid of him, to wish he were dead,\nrather than allow his name to be breathed with yours; and instead, you\ndefend him to me--you say he is right, that you prefer his odious\ndevotion to your good name, to my good name! Oh, it is not to be\nbelieved! If you loved him yourself you could not do worse!\"\n\n\"If half you say were true--\" said Corona, in terrible distress.\n\n\"True?\" cried Astrardente, who would not brook interruption. \"It is all\ntrue--and more also. It is true that he loves you, true that all the\nworld says it, true--by all that is holy, from your face I would almost\nbelieve that you do love him! Why do you not deny it? Miserable woman!\"\nhe screamed, springing towards her and seizing her roughly by the arm, as\nshe hid her face in her hands. \"Miserable woman! you have betrayed me--\"\n\nIn the paroxysm of his rage the feeble old man became almost strong; his\ngrip tightened upon his wife's wrist, and he dragged her violently from\nher seat.\n\n\"Betrayed! And by you!\" he cried again, shaking with passion. \"You whom I\nhave loved! This is your gratitude, your sanctified devotion, your\ncunning pretence at patience! All to hide your love for such a man as\nthat! You hypocrite, you--\"\n\nBy a sudden effort Corona shook off his grasp, and drew herself up to her\nfull height in magnificent anger.\n\n\"You shall hear me,\" she said, in deep commanding tones. \"I have deserved\nmuch, but I have not deserved this.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" he hissed, standing back from her a step, \"you can speak now--I\nhave touched you! You have found words. It was time!\"\n\nCorona was as white as death, and her black eyes shone like coals of\nfire. Her words came slowly, every accent clear and strong with\nconcentrated passion.\n\n\"I have not betrayed you. I have spoken no word of love to any man alive,\nand you know that I speak the truth. If any one has said to me what\nshould not be said, I have rebuked him to silence. You know, while you\naccuse me, that I have done my best to honour and love you; you know well\nthat I would die by my own hand, your loyal and true wife, rather than\nlet my lips utter one syllable of love for any other man.\"\n\nCorona possessed a supreme power over her husband. She was so true a\nwoman that the truth blazed visibly from her clear eyes; and what she\nsaid was nothing but the truth. She had doubted it herself for one\ndreadful moment; she knew it now beyond all doubting. In a moment the old\nman's wrath broke and vanished before the strong assertion of her perfect\ninnocence. He turned pale under his paint, and his limbs trembled. He\nmade a step forward, and fell upon his knees before her, and tried to\ntake her hands.\n\n\"Oh, Corona, forgive me,\" he moaned--\"forgive me! I so love you!\"\n\nSuddenly his grasp relaxed from her hands, and with a groan he fell\nforward against her knees.\n\n\"God knows I forgive you!\" cried Corona, the tears starting to her eyes\nin sudden pity. She bent down to support him; but as she moved, he fell\nprostrate upon his face before her. With a cry of terror she kneeled\nbeside him; with her strong arms she turned his body and raised his head\nupon her knees. His face was ghastly white, save where the tinges of\npaint made a hideous mockery of colour upon his livid skin. His parted\nlips were faintly purple, and his hollow eyes stared wide open at his\nwife's face, while the curled wig was thrust far back upon his bald and\nwrinkled forehead.\n\nCorona supported his weight upon one knee, and took his nerveless hand in\nhers. An agony of terror seized her.\n\n\"Onofrio!\" she cried--she rarely called him by his name--\"Onofrio! speak\nto me! My husband!\" She clasped him wildly in her arms. \"O God, have\nmercy!\"\n\nOnofrio d'Astrardente was dead. The poor old dandy, in his paint and his\nwig and his padding, had died at his wife's feet, protesting his love for\nher to the last. The long averted blow had fallen. For years he had\nguarded himself against sudden emotions, for he was warned of the disease\nat his heart, and knew his danger; but his anger had killed him. He might\nhave lived another hour while his rage lasted; but the revulsion of\nfeeling, the sudden repentance for the violence he had done his wife, had\nsent the blood back to its source too quickly, and with his last cry of\nlove upon his lips he was dead.\n\nCorona had hardly ever seen death. She gently lowered the dead man's\nweight till he lay at full length upon the floor. Then she started to her\nfeet, and drew back against the fireplace, and gazed at the body of her\nhusband.\n\nFor fully five minutes she stood motionless, scarcely daring to draw\nbreath, dazed and stupefied with horror, trying to realise what had\nhappened. There he lay, her only friend, the companion of her life since\nshe had known life; the man who in that very room, but two nights since,\nhad spoken such kind words to her that her tears had flowed--the tears\nthat would not flow now; the man who but a moment since was railing at\nher in a paroxysm of rage--whose anger had melted at her first word of\ndefence, who had fallen at her feet to ask forgiveness, and to declare\nonce more, for the last time, that he loved her! Her friend, her\ncompanion, her husband--had he heard her answer, that she forgave him\nfreely? He could not be dead--it was impossible. A moment ago he had been\nspeaking to her. She went forward again and kneeled beside him.\n\n\"Onofrio,\" she said very gently, \"you are not dead--you heard me?\"\n\nShe gazed down for a moment at the motionless features. Womanly\nthoughtful, she moved his head a little, and straightened the wig upon\nhis poor forehead. Then, in an instant, she realised all, and with a wild\ncry of despair fell prostrate upon his body in an agony of passionate\nweeping. How long she lay, she knew not. A knock at the door did not\nreach her ears, nor another and another, at short intervals; and then\nsome one entered. It was the butler, who had come to announce the mid-day\nbreakfast. He uttered an exclamation and started back, holding the handle\nof the door in his hand.\n\nCorona raised herself slowly to her knees, gazing down once more upon the\ndead man's face. Then she lifted her streaming eyes and saw the servant.\n\n\"Your master is dead,\" she said, solemnly.\n\nThe man grew pale and trembled, hesitated, and then turned and fled down\nthe hall without, after the manner of Italian servants, who fear death,\nand even the sight of it, as they fear nothing else in the world.\n\nCorona rose to her feet and brushed the tears from her eyes. Then she\nturned and rang the bell. No one answered the summons for some time. The\nnews had spread all over the house in an instant, and everything was\ndisorganised. At last a woman came and stood timidly at the door. She was\na lower servant, a simple strong creature from the mountains. Seeing the\nothers terrified and paralysed, it had struck her common-sense that her\nmistress was alone. Corona understood.\n\n\"Help me to carry him,\" she said, quietly; and the peasant and the noble\nlady stooped and lifted the dead duke, and bore him to his chamber\nwithout a word, and laid him tenderly upon his bed.\n\n\"Send for the doctor,\" said Corona; \"I will watch beside him.\"\n\n\"But, Excellency, are you not afraid?\" asked the woman.\n\nCorona's lip curled a little.\n\n\"I am not afraid,\" she answered. \"Send at once.\" When the woman was gone,\nshe sat down by the bedside and waited. Her tears were dry now, but she\ncould not think. She waited motionless for an hour. Then the old\nphysician entered softly, while a crowd of servants stood without,\npeering timidly through the open door. Corona crossed the room and\nquietly shut it. The physician stood by the bedside.\n\n\"It is simple enough, Signora Duchessa,\" he said, gently. \"He is quite\ndead. It was only the day before yesterday that I warned him that the\nheart disease was worse. Can you tell me how it happened?\"\n\n\"Yes, exactly,\" answered Corona, in a low voice. She was calm enough now.\n\"He came into my room two hours ago, and suddenly, in conversation, he\nbecame very angry. Then his anger subsided in a moment, and he fell at my\nfeet.\"\n\n\"It is just as I expected,\" answered the physician, quietly. \"They always\ndie in this way. I entreat you to be calm--to consider that all men are\nmortal--\"\n\n\"I am calm now,\" interrupted Corona. \"I am alone. Will you see that what\nis necessary is done quickly? I will leave you for a moment. There are\npeople outside.\"\n\nAs she opened the door the gaping crowd of servants slunk out of her way.\nWith bent head she passed between them, and went out into the great\nreception-rooms, and sat down alone in her grief.\n\nIt was genuine, of its kind. The poor man's soul might rest in peace, for\nshe felt the real sorrow at his death which he had longed for, which he\nhad perhaps scarcely dared to hope she would feel. Had it not been real,\nin those first moments some thought would have crossed her mind--some\nfaint, repressed satisfaction at being free at last--free to marry\nGiovanni Saracinesca. But it was not so. She did not feel free--she felt\nalone, intensely alone. She longed for the familiar sound of his\nquerulous voice--for the expression of his thousand little wants and\ninterests; she remembered tenderly his harmless little vanities. She\nthought of his wig, and she wept. So true it is that what is most\nridiculous in life is most sorrowfully pathetic in death. There was not\none of the small things about him she did not recall with a pang of\nregret. It was all over now. His vanity was dead with him; his tender\nlove for her was dead too. It was the only love she had known, until that\nother love--that dark and stirring passion--had been roused in her. But\nthat did not trouble her now. Perhaps the unconscious sense that\nhenceforth she was free to love whom she pleased had suddenly made\ninsignificant a feeling which had before borne in her mind the terrible\nname of crime. The struggle for loyalty was no more, but the memory of\nwhat she had borne for the dead man made him dearer than before. The\nfollies of his life had been many, but many of them had been for her, and\nthere was the true ring in his last words. \"To be young for your sake,\nCorona--for your sake!\" The phrase echoed again and again in her\nremembrance, and her silent tears flowed afresh. The follies of his life\nhad been many, but to her he had been true. The very violence of his last\nmoments, the tenderness of his passionate appeal for forgiveness, spoke\nfor the honesty of his heart, even though his heart had never been honest\nbefore.\n\nShe needed never to think again of pleasing him, of helping him, of\nforegoing for his sake any intimacy with the world which she might\ndesire. But the thought brought no relief. He had become so much a part\nof her life that she could not conceive of living without him, and she\nwould miss him at every turn. The new existence before her seemed dismal\nand empty beyond all expression. She wondered vaguely what she should do\nwith her time. For one moment a strange longing came over her to return\nto the dear old convent, to lay aside for ever her coronet and state, and\nin a simple garb to do simple and good things to the honour of God.\n\nShe roused herself at last, and went to her own rooms, dragging her steps\nslowly as though weighed down by a heavy burden. She entered the room\nwhere he had died, and a cold shudder passed over her. The afternoon sun\nwas streaming through the window upon the writing table where yet lay the\nunfinished invitation she had been writing, and upon the plants and the\nrich ornaments, upon the heavy carpet--the very spot where he had\nbreathed his last word of love and died at her feet.\n\nUpon that spot Corona d'Astrardente knelt down reverently and\nprayed,--prayed that she might be forgiven for all her shortcomings to\nthe dear dead man; that she might have strength to bear her sorrow and to\nhonour his memory; above all, that his soul might rest in peace and find\nforgiveness, and that he might know that she had been truly innocent--she\nprayed for that too, for she had a dreadful doubt. But surely he knew all\nnow: how she had striven to be loyal, and how truly--yes, how truly--she\nmourned his death.\n\nAt last she rose to her feet, and lingered still a moment, her hands\nclasped as they had been in her prayer. Glancing down, something\nglistened on the carpet. She stooped and picked it up. It was her\nhusband's sealring, engraven with the ancient arms of the Astrardente.\nShe looked long at the jewel, and then put it upon her finger.\n\n\"God give me grace to honour his memory as he would have me honour it,\"\nshe said, solemnly.\n\nTruly, she had deserved the love the poor old dandy had so deeply felt\nfor her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n\nThat night Giovanni insisted on going out. His wounds no longer pained\nhim, he said; there was no danger whatever, and he was tired of staying\nat home. But he would dine with his father as usual. He loved his\nfather's company, and when the two omitted to quarrel over trifles they\nwere very congenial. To tell the truth, the differences between them\narose generally from the petulant quickness of the Prince; for in his son\nhis own irascible character was joined with the melancholy gravity which\nGiovanni inherited from his mother, and in virtue of which, being\ntaciturn, he was sometimes thought long-suffering.\n\nAs usual, they sat opposite each other, and the ancient butler Pasquale\nserved them. As the man deposited Giovanni's soup before him, he spoke. A\ncertain liberty was always granted to Pasquale; Italian servants are\nmembers of the family, even in princely houses. Never assuming that\nconfidence implies familiarity, they enjoy the one without ever\napproaching the latter. Nevertheless it was very rarely that Pasquale\nspoke to his masters when they were at table.\n\n\"I beg your Excellencies' pardon--\" he began, as he put down the\nsoup-plate.\n\n\"Well, Pasquale?\" asked old Saracinesca, looking sharply at the old\nservant from under his heavy brows.\n\n\"Have your Excellencies heard the news?\"\n\n\"What news? No,\" returned the Prince.\n\n\"The Duca d'Astrardente--\"\n\n\"Well, what of him?\"\n\n\"Is dead.\"\n\n\"Dead!\" repeated Giovanni in a loud voice, that echoed to the vaulted\nroof of the dining-room.\n\n\"It is not true,\" said old Saracinesca; \"I saw him in the street this\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless, your Excellency,\" replied Pasquale, \"it is quite true. The\ngates of the palace were already draped with black before the Ave Maria\nthis evening; and the porter, who is a nephew of mine, had _cr\u00eape_ upon\nhis hat and arm. He told me that the Duca fell down dead of a stroke in\nthe Signora Duchessa's room at half-past twelve to-day.\"\n\n\"Is that all you could learn?\" asked the Prince.\n\n\"Except that the Signora Duchessa was overcome with grief,\" returned the\nservant, gravely.\n\n\"I should think so--her husband dead of an apoplexy! It is natural,\" said\nthe Prince, looking at Giovanni. The latter was silent, and tried to eat\nas though, nothing had happened--inwardly endeavouring not to rejoice too\nmadly at the terrible catastrophe. In his effort to control his features,\nthe blood rushed to his forehead, and his hand trembled violently. His\nfather saw it, but made no remark.\n\n\"Poor Astrardente!\" he said. \"He was not so bad as people thought him.\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Giovanni, with a great effort; \"he was a very good man.\"\n\n\"I should hardly say that,\" returned his father, with a grim smile of\namusement. \"I do not think that by the greatest stretch of indulgence he\ncould be called good.\"\n\n\"And why not?\" asked the younger man, sharply snatching at any possible\ndiscussion in order to conceal his embarrassment.\n\n\"Why not, indeed! Why, because he had a goodly share of original sin, to\nwhich he added others of his own originating but having an equal claim to\noriginality.\"\n\n\"I say I think he was a very good man,\" repeated Giovanni, maintaining\nhis point with an air of conviction.\n\n\"If that is your conception of goodness, it is no wonder that you have\nnot attained to sanctity,\" said the old man, with a sneer.\n\n\"It pleases you to be witty,\" answered his son. \"Astrardente did not\ngamble; he had no vices of late. He was kind to his wife.\"\n\n\"No vices--no. He did not steal like a fraudulent bank-clerk, nor try to\ndo murder like Del Ferice. He did not deceive his wife, nor starve her to\ndeath. He had therefore no vices. He was a good man.\"\n\n\"Let us leave poor Del Ferice alone,\" said Giovanni.\n\n\"I suppose you will pity him now,\" replied the Prince, sarcastically.\n\"You will talk differently if he dies and you have to leave the country\nat a moment's notice, like Spicca this morning.\"\n\n\"I should be very sorry if Del Ferice died. I should never recover from\nit. I am not a professional duellist like Spicca. And yet Casalverde\ndeserved his death. I can quite understand that Del Ferice might in the\nexcitement of the moment have lunged at me after the halt was cried, but\nI cannot understand how Casalverde could be so infamous as not to cross\nhis sword when he himself called. It looked very much like a preconcerted\narrangement. Casalverde deserved to die, for the safety of society.\nI should think that Rome had had enough of duelling for a while.\"\n\n\"Yes; but after all, Casalverde did not count for much. I am not sure I\never saw the fellow before in my life. And I suppose Del Ferice will\nrecover. There was a story this morning that he was dead; but I went and\ninquired myself, and found that he was better. People are much shocked\nat this second duel. Well, it could not be helped. Poor old Astrardente!\nSo we shall never see his wig again at every ball and theatre and\nsupper-party! There was a man who enjoyed his life to the very end!\"\n\n\"I should not call it enjoyment to be built up every day by one's valet,\nlike a card-house, merely to tumble to pieces again when the pins are\ntaken out,\" said Giovanni.\n\n\"You do not seem so enthusiastic in his defence as you were a few minutes\nago,\" said the Prince, with a smile.\n\nGiovanni was so much disturbed at the surprising news that he hardly knew\nwhat he said. He made a desperate attempt to be sensible.\n\n\"It appears to me that moral goodness and personal appearance are two\nthings,\" he said, oracularly. The Prince burst into a loud laugh.\n\n\"Most people would say that! Eat your dinner, Giovanni, and do not talk\nsuch arrant nonsense.\"\n\n\"Why is it nonsense? Because you do not agree with me?\"\n\n\"Because you are too much excited to talk sensibly,\" said his father. \"Do\nyou think I cannot see it?\"\n\nGiovanni was silent for a time. He was angry at his father for detecting\nthe cause of his vagueness, but he supposed there was no help for it. At\nlast Pasquale left the room. Old Saracinesca gave a sigh of relief.\n\n\"And now, Giovannino,\" he said familiarly, \"what have you got to say for\nyourself?\"\n\n\"I?\" asked his son, in some surprise.\n\n\"You! What are you going to do?\"\n\n\"I will stay at home,\" said Giovanni, shortly.\n\n\"That is not the question. You are wise to stay at home, because you\nought to get yourself healed of that scratch. Giovanni, the Astrardente\nis now a widow.\"\n\n\"Seeing that her husband is dead--of course. There is vast ingenuity in\nyour deduction,\" returned the younger man, eyeing his father\nsuspiciously.\n\n\"Do not be an idiot, Giovannino. I mean, that as she is a widow, I have\nno objection to your marrying her.\"\n\n\"Good God, sir!\" cried Giovanni, \"what do you mean?\"\n\n\"What I say. She is the most beautiful woman in Rome. She is one of the\nbest women I know. She will have a sufficient jointure. Marry her. You\nwill never be happy with a silly little girl just out of a convent You\nare not that sort of man. The Astrardente is not three-and-twenty, but\nshe has had five years of the world, and she has stood the test well. I\nshall be proud to call her my daughter.\"\n\nIn his excitement Giovanni sprang from his seat, and rushing to his\nfather's side, threw his arms round his neck and embraced him. He had\nnever done such a thing in his life. Then he remained standing, and grew\nsuddenly thoughtful.\n\n\"It is heartless of us to talk in this way,\" he said. \"The poor man is\nnot buried yet.\"\n\n\"My dear boy,\" said the old Prince, \"Astrardente is dead. He hated me,\nand was beginning to hate you, I fancy. We were neither of us his\nfriends, at any rate. We do not rejoice at his death; we merely regard it\nin the light of an event which modifies our immediate future. He is dead,\nand his wife is free. So long as he was alive, the fact of your loving\nher was exceedingly unfortunate: it was injuring you and doing a wrong to\nher. Now, on the contrary, the greatest good fortune that can happen to\nyou both is that you should marry each other.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" returned Giovanni. In the suddenness of the news, it had\nnot struck him that his father would ever look favourably upon the match,\nalthough the immediate possibility of the marriage had burst upon him as\na great light suddenly rising in a thick darkness. But his nature, as\nstrong as his father's, was a little more delicate, a shade less rough;\nand even in the midst of his great joy, it struck him as heartless to be\ndiscussing the chances of marrying a woman whose husband was not yet\nburied. No such scruple disturbed the geniality of the old Prince. He was\nan honest and straightforward man--a man easily possessed by a single\nidea--and he was capable of profound affections. He had loved his Spanish\nwife strongly in his own fashion, and she had loved him, but there was no\none left to him now but his son, whom he delighted in, and he regarded\nthe rest of the world merely as pawns to be moved into position for the\nhonour and glory of the Saracinesca. He thought no more of a man's life\nthan of the end of a cigar, smoked out and fit to be thrown away.\nAstrardente had been nothing to him but an obstacle. It had not struck\nhim that he could ever be removed; but since it had pleased Providence\nto take him out of the way, there was no earthly reason for mourning his\ndeath. All men must die--it was better that death should come to those\nwho stood in the way of their fellow-creatures.\n\n\"I am not at all sure that she will consent,\" said Giovanni, beginning to\nwalk up and down the room.\n\n\"Bah!\" ejaculated his father. \"You are the best match in Italy. Why\nshould any woman refuse you?\"\n\n\"I am not so sure. She is not like other women. Let us not talk of it\nnow. It will not be possible to do anything for a year, I suppose. A year\nis a long time. Meanwhile I will go to that poor man's funeral.\"\n\n\"Of course. So will I.\"\n\nAnd they both went, and found themselves in a vast crowd of\nacquaintances. No one had believed that Astrardente could ever die, that\nthe day would ever come when society should know his place no more; and\nwith one consent everybody sent their carriages to the funeral, and went\nthemselves a day or two later to the great requiem Mass in the parish\nchurch. There was nothing to be seen but the great black catafalque, with\nCorona's household of servants in deep mourning liveries kneeling behind\nit. Relations she had none, and the dead man was the last of his race--\nshe was utterly alone.\n\n\"She need not have made it so terribly impressive,\" said Madame Mayer\nto Valdarno when the Mass was over. Madame Mayer paused beside the\nholy-water basin, and dipping one gloved finger, she presented it to\nValdarno with an engaging smile. Both crossed themselves.\n\n\"She need not have got it up so terribly impressively, after all,\" she\nrepeated.\n\n\"I daresay she will miss him at first,\" returned Valdarno, who was a\nkind-hearted fellow enough, and was very far from realising how much he\nhad contributed to the sudden death of the old dandy. \"She is a strange\nwoman. I believe she had grown fond of him.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know all that,\" said Donna Tullia, as they left the church.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered her companion, with a significant smile, \"I presume you\ndo.\" Donna Tullia laughed harshly as she got into her carriage.\n\n\"You are detestable, Valdarno--you always misunderstand me. Are you going\nto the ball to-night?\"\n\n\"Of course. May I have the pleasure of the cotillon?\"\n\n\"If you are very good--if you will go and ask the news of Del Ferice.\"\n\n\"I sent this morning. He is quite out of danger, they believe.\"\n\n\"Is he? Oh, I am very glad--I felt so very badly, you know. Ah, Don\nGiovanni, are you recovered?\" she asked coldly, as Saracinesca approached\nthe other side of the carriage. Valdarno retired to a distance, and\npretended to be buttoning his greatcoat; he wanted to see what would\nhappen.\n\n\"Thank you, yes; I was not much hurt. This is the first time I have been\nout, and I am glad to find an opportunity of speaking to you. Let me say\nagain how profoundly I regret my forgetfulness at the ball the other\nnight--\"\n\nDonna Tullia was a clever woman, and though she had been very angry at\nthe time, she was in love with Giovanni. She therefore looked at him\nsuddenly with a gentle smile, and just for one moment her fingers touched\nhis hand as it rested upon the side of the carriage.\n\n\"Do you think it was kind?\" she asked, in a low voice.\n\n\"It was abominable. I shall never forgive myself,\" answered Giovanni.\n\n\"I will forgive you,\" answered Donna Tullia, softly. She really loved\nhim. It was the best thing in her nature, but it was more than balanced\nby the jealousy she had conceived for the Duchessa d'Astrardente.\n\n\"Was it on that account that you quarrelled with poor Del Ferice?\" she\nasked, after a moment's pause. \"I have feared it--\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" answered Giovanni, quickly. \"Pray set your mind at rest.\nDel Ferice or any other man would have been quite justified in calling me\nout for it--but it was not for that. It was not on account of you.\"\n\nIt would have been hard to say whether Donna Tullia's face expressed more\nclearly her surprise or her disappointment at the intelligence. Perhaps\nshe had both really believed herself the cause of the duel, and had\nbeen flattered at the thought that men would fight for her.\n\n\"Oh, I am very glad--it is a great relief,\" she said, rather coldly. \"Are\nyou going to the ball to-night?\"\n\n\"No; I cannot dance. My right arm is bound up in a sling, as you see.\"\n\n\"I am sorry you are not coming. Good-bye, then.\"\n\n\"Good-bye; I am very grateful for your forgiveness.\" Giovanni bowed low,\nand Donna Tullia's brilliant equipage dashed away.\n\nGiovanni was well satisfied at having made his peace so easily, but he\nnevertheless apprehended danger from Donna Tullia.\n\nThe next thing which interested Roman society was Astrardente's will,\nbut no one was much surprised when the terms of it were known. As there\nwere no relations, everything was left to his wife. The palace in Rome,\nthe town and castle in the Sabines, the broad lands in the low\nhill-country towards Ceprano, and what surprised even the family lawyer,\na goodly sum in solid English securities,--a splendid fortune in all,\naccording to Roman ideas. Astrardente abhorred the name of money in his\nconversation--it had been one of his affectations; but he had an\nexcellent understanding of business, and was exceedingly methodical in\nthe management of his affairs. The inheritance, the lawer thought, might\nbe estimated at three millions of scudi.\n\n\"Is all this wealth mine, then?\" asked Corona, when the solicitor had\nexplained the situation.\n\n\"All, Signora Duchessa. You are enormously rich.\"\n\nEnormously rich! And alone in the world. Corona asked herself if she was\nthe same woman, the same Corona del Carmine who five years before had\nsuffered in the old convent the humiliation of having no pocket-money,\nwhose wedding-gown had been provided from the proceeds of a little sale\nof the last relics of her father's once splendid collection of old china\nand pictures. She had never thought of money since she had been married;\nher husband was generous, but methodical; she never bought anything\nwithout consulting him, and the bills all went through his hands. Now and\nthen she had rather timidly asked for a small sum for some charity; she\nhad lacked nothing that money could buy, but she never remembered to have\nhad more than a hundred francs in her purse. Astrardente had once offered\nto give her an allowance, and had seemed pleased that she refused it. He\nliked to manage things himself, being a man of detail.\n\nAnd now she was enormously rich, and alone. It was a strange sensation.\nShe felt it to be so new that she innocently said so to the lawyer.\n\n\"What shall I do with it all?\"\n\n\"Signora Duchessa,\" returned the old man, \"with regard to money the\nquestion is, not what to do with it, but how to do without it. You are\nvery young, Signora Duchessa.\"\n\n\"I shall be twenty-three in August,\" said Corona, simply.\n\n\"Precisely. I would beg to be allowed to observe that by the terms of the\nwill, and by the laws of this country, you are not the dowager-duchess,\nbut you are in your own right and person the sole and only feudal\nmistress and holder of the title.\"\n\n\"Am I?\"\n\n\"Certainly, with all the privileges thereto attached. It may be--I beg\npardon for being so bold as to suggest it--it may be that in years to\ncome, when time has soothed your sorrow, you may wish, you may consent,\nto renew the marriage tie.\"\n\n\"I doubt it--but the thing is possible,\" said Corona, quietly.\n\n\"In that case, and should you prefer to contract a marriage of\ninclination, you will have no difficulty in conferring your title upon\nyour husband, with any reservations you please. Your children will then\ninherit from you, and become in their turn Dukes of Astrardente. This I\nconceive to have been the purpose and spirit of the late Duke's will. The\nestate, magnificent as it is, will not be too large for the foundation of\na new race. If you desire any distinctive title, you can call yourself\nDuchessa del Carmine d'Astrardente--it would sound very well,\" remarked\nthe lawyer, contemplating the beautiful woman before him.\n\n\"It is of little importance what I call myself,\" said Corona. \"At present\nI shall certainly make no change. It is very unlikely that I shall ever\nmarry.\"\n\n\"I trust, Signora Duchessa, that in any case you will always command my\nmost humble services.\"\n\nWith this protestation of fidelity the lawyer left the Palazzo\nAstrardente, and Corona remained in her boudoir in meditation of what it\nwould be like to be the feudal mistress of a great title and estate. She\nwas very sad, but she was growing used to her solitude. Her liberty was\nstrange to her, but little by little she was beginning to enjoy it. At\nfirst she had missed the constant care of the poor man who for five years\nhad been her companion; she had missed his presence and the burden of\nthinking for him at every turn of the day. But it was not for long. Her\nmemory of him was kind and tender, and for months after his death the\noccasional sight of some object associated with him brought the tears to\nher eyes. She often wished he could walk into the room in his old way,\nand begin talking of the thousand and one bits of town gossip that\ninterested him. But the first feeling of desolation soon passed, for he\nhad not been more than a companion; she could analyse every memory she\nhad of him to its source and reason. There was not in her that passionate\nunformulated yearning for him that comes upon a loving heart when its\nfellow is taken away, and which alone is a proof that love has been real\nand true. She soon grew accustomed to his absence.\n\nTo marry again--every one would say she would be right--to marry and to\nbe the mother of children, of brave sons and noble girls,--ah yes! that\nwas a new thought, a wonderful thought, one of many that were\nwonderful.\n\nThen, again, her strong nature suddenly rose in a new sense of strength,\nand she paced the room slowly with a strange expression of sternness upon\nher beautiful features.\n\n\"I am a power in the world,\" she said to herself, almost starting at the\ntruth of the thought, and yet taking delight in it. \"I am what men call\nrich and powerful; I have money, estates, castles, and palaces; I am\nyoung, I am strong. What shall I do with it all?\"\n\nAs she walked, she dreamed of raising some great institution of charity;\nshe knew not for what precise object, but there was room enough for\ncharity in Rome. The great Torlonia had built churches, and hospitals,\nand asylums. She would do likewise; she would make for herself an\ninterest in doing good, a satisfaction in the exercise of her power to\ncombat evil. It would be magnificent to feel that she had done it\nherself, alone and unaided; that she had built the walls from the\nfoundation and the corner-stone to the eaves; that she had entered\nherself into the study of each detail, and herself peopled the great\ninstitution with such as needed most help in the world--with little\nchildren, perhaps. She would visit them every day, and herself provide\nfor their wants and care for their sufferings. She would give the place\nher husband's name, and the good she would accomplish with his earthly\nportion might perhaps profit his soul. She would go to Padre Filippo and\nask his advice. He would know what was best to be done, for he knew more\nof the misery in Rome than any one, and had a greater mind to relieve it.\nShe had seen him since her husband's death, but she had not yet conceived\nthis scheme.\n\nAnd Giovanni--she thought of him too; but the habit of putting him out of\nher heart was strong. She dimly fancied that in the far future a day\nmight come when she would be justified in thinking of him if she so\npleased; but for the present, her loyalty to her dead husband seemed more\nthan ever a sacred duty. She would not permit herself to think of\nGiovanni, even though, from a general point of view, she might\ncontemplate the possibility of a second marriage. She would go to Padre\nFilippo and talk over everything with him; he would advise her well.\n\nThen a wild longing seized her to leave Rome for a while, to breathe the\nair of the country, to get away from the scene of all her troubles, of\nall the terrible emotions that had swept over her life in the last three\nweeks, to be alone in the hills or by the sea. It seemed dreadful to be\ntied to her great house in the city, in her mourning, shut off suddenly\nfrom the world, and bound down by the chain of conventionality to a fixed\nmethod of existence. She would give anything to go away. Why not? She\nsuddenly realised what was so hard to understand, that she was free to go\nwhere she pleased--if only, by accident, she could chance to meet\nGiovanni Saracinesca before she left. No--the thought was unworthy. She\nwould leave town at once--surely she could have nothing to say to\nGiovanni--she would leave to-morrow morning.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n\nCorona found it impossible to leave town so soon as she had wished. She\nhad indeed sent out great cart-loads of furniture, servants, horses, and\nall the paraphernalia of an establishment in the country, and she\nbelieved herself ready to move at once, when she received an exceedingly\ncourteous note from Cardinal Antonelli requesting the honour of being\nreceived by her the next day at twelve o'clock. It was impossible to\nrefuse, and to her great annoyance she was obliged to postpone her\ndeparture another twenty-four hours. She guessed that the great man was\nthe bearer of some message from the Holy Father himself; and in her\npresent frame of mind, such words of comfort could not fail to be\nacceptable from one whom she reverenced and loved, as all who knew\nPius IX. did sincerely revere and love him. She did not like the\nCardinal, it is true; but she did not confound the ambassador with him\nwho sent the embassy. The Cardinal was a most courteous and accomplished\nman of the world, and Corona could not easily have explained the aversion\nshe felt for him. It is very likely that if she could have understood the\npart he was sustaining in the great European struggle of those days, she\nwould have accorded him at least the admiration he deserved as a\nstatesman. He had his faults, and they were faults little becoming a\ncardinal of the Holy Roman Church. But few are willing to consider that,\nthough a cardinal, he was not a priest--that he was practically a layman\nwho, by his own unaided genius, had attained to great power, and that\nthose faults which have been charged against him with such virulence\nwould have passed, nay, actually pass, unnoticed and uncensured in many a\ngreat statesman of those days and of these. He was a brave man, who\nfought a desperate and hopeless fight to his last breath, and who fought\nalmost alone--a man most bitterly hated by many, at whose death many\nrejoiced loudly and few mourned; and to the shame of many be it said,\nthat his most obstinate adversaries, those who unsparingly heaped abuse\nupon him during his lifetime, and most unseemingly exulted over his end,\nwere the very men among whom he should have found the most willing\nsupporters and the firmest friends. But in 1865 he was feared, and those\nwho reckoned without him in the game of politics reckoned badly.\n\nCorona was a woman, and very young. She had not the knowledge or the\nexperience to understand his value, and she had taken a personal dislike\nto him when she first appeared in society. He was too smooth for her; she\nthought him false. She preferred a rougher type. Her husband, on the\nother hand, had a boundless admiration for the cardinal-statesman; and\nperhaps the way in which Astrardente constantly tried to impress his wife\nwith a sense of the great man's virtues, indirectly contributed to\nincrease her aversion. Nevertheless, when he sent word that he desired to\nbe received by her, she did not hesitate a moment, but expressed her\nwillingness at once. Punctually as the gun of Sant Angelo roared out the\nnews that the sun was on the meridian, Cardinal Antonelli entered\nCorona's house. She received him in the great drawing-room. There was an\nair of solemnity about the meeting. The room itself, divested of a\nthousand trifles which had already been sent into the country, looked\ndesolate and formal; the heavy curtains admitted but little light; there\nwas no fire on the hearth; Corona stood all in black--a very incarnation\nof mourning--as her visitor trod softly across the dark carpet towards\nher.\n\nThe Cardinal's expressive face was softened by a look of gentle sympathy,\nas he came forward and took her hand in both of his, and gazed for a\nmoment into her beautiful eyes.\n\n\"I am an ambassador, Duchessa,\" he said softly. \"I come to tell you how\ndeeply our Holy Father sympathises in your great sorrow.\"\n\nCorona bent her head respectfully, and motioned to the Cardinal to be\nseated.\n\n\"I beg that your Eminence will convey to his Holiness my most sincere\ngratitude for this expression of his paternal kindness to one so\nunhappy.\"\n\n\"Indeed I will not fail to deliver your message, Duchessa,\" answered the\nCardinal, seating himself by her side in one of the great arm-chairs\nwhich had been placed together in the middle of the room. \"His Holiness\nhas promised to remember you in his august prayers; and I also, for my\nown part, entreat you to believe that my poor sympathy is wholly with you\nin your distress.\"\n\n\"Your Eminence is most kind,\" replied Corona, gravely.\n\nIt seemed as though there were little more to be said in such a case.\nThere was no friendship between the two, no bond of union or fellowship:\nit was simply a formal visit of condolence, entailed as a necessity by\nCorona's high position. The Pope had sent her a gift at her wedding; he\nsent her a message of sympathy at her husband's death. Half-a-dozen\nphrases would be exchanged, and the Cardinal would take his leave,\naccompanied by a file of the Duchessa's lackeys--and so it would all be\nover. But the Cardinal was a statesman, a diplomatist, and one of the\nbest talkers in Europe; moreover, he never allowed an opportunity of\npursuing his ends to pass unimproved.\n\n\"Ah, Duchessa!\" he said, folding his hands upon his knee and looking\ndown, \"there is but one Consoler in sorrow such as yours. It is vain for\nus mortals to talk of any such thing as alleviating real mental\nsuffering. There are consolations--many of them--for some people, but\nthey are not for you. To many the accidents of wealth, of youth, of\nbeauty, seem to open the perspective of a brilliant future at the very\nmoment when all the present appears to be shrouded in darkness; but if\nyou will permit me, who know you so little, to say it frankly, I do not\nbelieve that any of these things which you possess in such plentiful\nabundance will lessen the measure of your grief. It is not right that\nthey should, I suppose. It is not fitting that noble minds should even\npossess the faculty of forgetting real suffering in the unreal trifles\nof a great worldly possession, which so easily restore the weak to\ncourage, and natter the vulgar into the forgetfulness of honourable\nsorrow. I am no moraliser, no pedantic philosopher. The stoic may have\nshrugged his heavy shoulders in sullen indifference to fate; the\nepicurean may have found such bodily ease in his excessive refinement\nof moderate enjoyment as to overlook the deepest afflictions in\nanticipating the animal pleasure of the next meal. I cannot conceive of\nsuch men as those philosophising diners; nor can I imagine by what\narguments the wisest of mankind could induce a fellow-creature in\ndistress to forget his sufferings. Sorrow is sorrow still to all finely\norganised natures. The capacity for feeling sorrow is one of the highest\ntests of nobility--a nobility of nature not found always in those of high\nblood and birth, but existing in the people, wherever the people are\ngood.\"\n\nThe Cardinal's voice became even more gentle as he spoke. He was himself\nof very humble origin, and spoke feelingly. Corona listened, though she\nonly heard half of what he said; but his soft tone soothed her almost\nunconsciously.\n\n\"There is little consolation for me--I am quite alone,\" she said.\n\n\"You are not of those who find relief in worldly greatness,\" continued\nthe Cardinal. \"But I have seen women, young, rich, and beautiful, wear\ntheir mourning with wonderful composure. Youth is so much, wealth is so\nmuch more, beauty is such a power in the world--all three together are\nresistless. Many a young widow is not ashamed to think of marriage before\nher husband has been dead a month. Indeed they do not always make bad\nwives. A woman who has been married young and is early deprived of her\nhusband, has great experience, great knowledge of the world. Many feel\nthat they have no right to waste the goods given them in a life of\nsolitary mourning. Wealth is given to be used, and perhaps many a rich\nyoung widow thinks she can use it more wisely in the company of a husband\nyoung as herself. It may be; I cannot tell. These are days when power of\nany sort should be used, and perhaps no one should even for a moment\nthink of withdrawing from the scene where such great battles are being\nfought. But one may choose wisely a way of using power, or one may choose\nunwisely. There is much to be done.\"\n\n\"How?\" asked Corona, catching at his expression of an idea which pursued\nher. \"Here am I, rich, alone, idle--above all, very unhappy. What can I\ndo? I wish I knew, for I would try and do it.\"\n\n\"Ah! I was not speaking of you, Duchessa,\" answered the statesman. \"You\nare too noble a woman to be easily consoled. And yet, though you may not\nfind relief from your great sorrow, there are many things within your\nreach which you might do, and feel that in your mourning you have done\nhonour to your departed husband as well as to yourself. You have great\nestates--you can improve them, and especially you can improve the\ncondition of your peasants, and strengthen their loyalty to you and to\nthe State. You can find many a village on your lands where a school\nmight be established, an asylum built, a road opened--anything which\nshall give employment to the poor, and which, when finished, shall\nbenefit their condition. Especially about Astrardente they are very poor;\nI know the country well. In six months you might change many things; and\nthen you might return to Rome next winter. If it pleases you, you can do\nanything with society. You can make your house a centre for a new\nparty--the oldest of all parties it is, but it would now be thought new\nhere. We have no centre. There is no _salon_ in the good old sense of the\nword--no house where all that is intelligent, all that is powerful, all\nthat is influential, is irresistibly drawn. To make a centre of that kind\nwould be a worthy object, it seems to me. You would surround yourself\nwith men of genius; you would bring those together who cannot meet\nelsewhere; you would give a vigorous tone to a society which is fast\nfalling to decay from inanition; you could become a power, a real power,\nnot only in Rome, but in Europe; you could make your house famous as the\npoint from which, in Rome, all that is good and great should radiate to\nthe very ends of the earth. You could do all this in your young\nwidowhood, and you would not dishonour the memory of him you loved so\ndearly.\"\n\nCorona looked earnestly at the Cardinal as he enlarged upon the\npossibilities of her life. What he said seemed true and good. It opened\nto her a larger field than she had dreamed of half an hour ago.\nEspecially the plan of working for the improvement of her estates and\npeople attracted her. She wanted to do something at once--something\ngood, and something worth doing.\n\n\"I believe you are right,\" she said. \"I shall die if I am idle.\"\n\n\"I know I am right,\" returned the Cardinal, in a tone of conviction. \"Not\nthat I propose all this as an unalterable plan for you. I would not have\nyou think I mean to lay down any system, or even to advise you at all. I\nwas merely thinking aloud. I am too happy if my thoughts please you--if\nanything I say can even for a moment relieve your mind from the pressure\nof this sudden grief. It is not consolation I offer you. I am not a\npriest, but a man of action; and it is action I propose to you, not as\nan anodyne for sorrow, but simply because it is right that in these days\nwe should all strive with a good will. Your peasants are many of them in\nan evil case: you can save them and make them happy, even though you find\nno happiness for yourself. Our social world here is falling to pieces,\ngoing astray after strange gods, and especially after Madame Mayer and\nher _lares_ and _penates_, young Valdarno and Del Ferice: it is in your\npower to create a new life here, or at least to contribute greatly\ntowards reestablishing the social balance. I say, do this thing, if you\nwill, for it is a good thing to do. At all events, while you are building\nroads--and perhaps schools--at Astrardente, you can think over the course\nyou will afterwards pursue. And now, my dear Duchessa, I have detained\nyou far too long. Forgive me if I have wearied you, for I have great\nthings at heart, and must sometimes speak of them though I speak feebly.\nCount on me always for any assistance you may require. Bear with me if I\nweary you, for I was a good friend of him we both mourn.\"\n\n\"Thank you--you have given me good thoughts,\" said Corona, simply.\n\nSo the courtly Cardinal rose and took his leave, and once more Corona was\nleft alone. It was a strange thing that, while he disclaimed all power to\ncomfort her, and denied that consolation was possible in her case, she\nhad nevertheless listened to him with interest, and now found herself\nthinking seriously of what he had said. He seemed to have put her\nthoughts into shape, and to have given direction to that sense of power\nshe had already begun to feel. For the first time in her life she felt\nsomething like sympathy for the Cardinal, and she lingered for some\nminutes alone in the great reception-room, wondering whether she could\naccomplish any of the things he had proposed to her. At all events, there\nwas nothing now to hinder her departure; and she thought with something\nlike pleasure of the rocky Sabines, the solitude of the mountains, the\nsimple faces of the people about her place, and of the quiet life she\nintended to lead there during the next six months.\n\nBut the Cardinal went on his way, rolling along through the narrow\nstreets in his great coach. Leaning far back in his cushioned seat, he\ncould just catch a glimpse of the people as he passed, and his quick eyes\nrecognised many, both high and low. But he did not care to show himself,\nfor he felt himself disliked, and deep in his finely organised nature\nthere lay a sensitiveness which was wounded by the popular hatred. It\nhurt him to see the lowering glances of the poor man, and to return the\nforced bow of the rich man who feared him. He often longed to be able to\nexplain many things to them both, to the rich and to the poor; and then,\nknowing how impossible it was that he should be understood by either,\nhe sighed somewhat bitterly, and hid himself still deeper in his\ncarriage. Few men in the midst of the world have stood so wholly alone as\nCardinal Antonelli.\n\nTo-day, however, he had an appointment which he anticipated with a sort\nof interest quite new to him. Anastase Gouache was coming to begin his\nportrait, and Anastase was an object of curiosity to him. It would have\nsurprised the young Frenchman had he guessed how carefully he was\nwatched, for he was a modest fellow, and did not think himself of very\nmuch importance. He allowed Donna Tullia and her friends to come to his\nstudio whenever they pleased, and he listened to their shallow talk, and\njoined, occasionally in the conversation, letting them believe that he\nsympathised with them, simply because his own ideas were unsettled. It\nwas a good thing for him to paint a portrait of Donna Tullia, for it made\nhim the fashion, and he had small scruple in agreeing with her views so\nlong as he had no fixed convictions of his own. She and her set regarded\nhim as a harmless boy, and looked upon his little studio as a\nconvenience, in payment whereof they pushed him into society, and spread\nabroad the rumour that he was the rising artist of the day. But the great\nCardinal had seen him more than once, and had conceived a liking for\nhis delicate intellectual face and unobtrusive manner. He had watched him\nand caused him to be watched, and his interest had increased, and finally\nhe had taken a fancy to have a portrait of himself painted by the young\nfellow. This was the day appointed for the first sitting; and when the\nCardinal reached his lodgings, high up in the Vatican pile, he found\nAnastase Gouache waiting for him in the small ante-chamber.\n\nThe prime minister was not luxuriously lodged. Four rooms sufficed\nhim--to wit, the said ante-chamber, bare and uncarpeted, and furnished\nwith three painted wooden box benches; a comfortable study lined\nthroughout with shelves and lockers, furnished with half-a-dozen large\nchairs and a single writing-table, whereon stood a crucifix and an\ninkstand; beyond this a bedroom and a small dining-room: that was all.\nThe drawers of the lockers and bookcases contained a correspondence which\nwould have astonished Europe, and a collection of gems and precious\nstones unrivalled in the world; but there was nothing in the shape of\nornament visible to the eye, unless one were to class under that head a\nfairly good bust of Pius IX, which stood upon a plain marble pedestal\nin one corner. Gouache followed the great man into this study. He was\nsurprised by the simplicity of the apartment; but he felt in sympathy\nwith it, and with the Cardinal himself; and with the intuitive knowledge\nof a true artist, he foresaw that he was to paint a successful portrait.\n\nThe Cardinal busied himself with some papers while the painter silently\nmade his preparations.\n\n\"If your Eminence is ready?\" suggested Gouache.\n\n\"At your service, my friend,\" replied the Cardinal, blandly. \"How shall I\nsit? The portrait must be taken in full face, I think.\"\n\n\"By all means. Here, I think--so; the light is very good at this hour,\nbut a little later we shall have the sun. If your Eminence will look at\nme--a little more to the left--I think that will do. I will draw it in in\ncharcoal and your Eminence can judge.\"\n\n\"Precisely,\" returned the Cardinal. \"You will paint the devil even\nblacker than he is.\"\n\n\"The devil?\" repeated Gouache, raising his eyebrows with a slight smile.\n\"I was not aware--\"\n\n\"And yet you have been in Rome four years!\"\n\n\"I am very careful,\" returned Gouache. \"I never by any chance hear any\nevil of those whom I am to paint.\"\n\n\"You have very well-bred ears, Monsieur Gouache. I fear that if I had\nattended some of the meetings in your studio while Donna Tullia was\nhaving her portrait painted, I should have heard strange things. Have\nthey all escaped you?\"\n\nGouache was silent for a moment. It did not surprise him to learn that\nthe omniscient Cardinal was fully acquainted with the doings in his\nstudio, but he looked curiously at the great man before he answered. The\nCardinal's small gleaming eyes met his with the fearlessness of\nsuperiority.\n\n\"I remember nothing but good of your Eminence,\" the painter replied at\nlast, with a laugh; and applying himself to his work, he began to draw in\nthe outline of the Cardinal's head. The words he had just heard, implying\nas they did a thorough knowledge of the minutest details of social life,\nwould have terrified Madame Mayer, and would perhaps have driven Del\nFerice out of the Papal States in fear of his life. Even the good-natured\nand foolish Valdarno might reasonably have been startled; but Anastase\nwas made of different stuff. His grandfather had helped to storm the\nBastille, his father had been among the men of 1848; there was\nrevolutionary blood in his veins, and he distinguished between real and\nimaginary conspiracy with the unerring certainty of instinct, as the\nbloodhound knows the track of man from the slot of meaner game. He\nlaughed at Donna Tullia, he distrusted Del Ferice, and to some extent he\nunderstood the Cardinal. And the statesman understood him, too, and was\ninterested by him.\n\n\"You may as well forget their chatter. It does me no harm, and it amuses\nthem. It does not seem to surprise you that I should know all about it,\nhowever. You have good nerves, Monsieur Gouache.\"\n\n\"Of course your Eminence can send me out of Rome to-morrow, if you\nplease,\" answered Gouache, with perfect unconcern. \"But the portrait will\nnot be finished so soon.\"\n\n\"No--that would be a pity. You shall stay. But the others--what would you\nadvise me to do with them?\" asked the Cardinal, his bright eyes twinkling\nwith amusement.\n\n\"If by the others your Eminence means my friends,\" replied Gouache,\nquietly, \"I can assure you that none of them will ever cause you the\nslightest inconvenience.\"\n\n\"I believe you are right--their ability to annoy me is considerably\ninferior to their inclination. Is it not so?\"\n\n\"If your Eminence will allow me,\" said Gouache, rising suddenly and\nlaying down his charcoal pencil, \"I will pin this curtain across the\nwindow. The sun is beginning to come in.\"\n\nHe had no intention of answering any questions. If the Cardinal knew of\nthe meetings in the Via San Basilio, that was not Gouache's fault;\nGouache would certainly not give any further information. The statesman\nhad expected as much, and was not at all surprised at the young man's\nsilence.\n\n\"One of those young gentlemen seems to have met his match, at all\nevents,\" he remarked, presently. \"I am sorry it should have come about in\nthat way.\"\n\n\"Your Eminence might easily have prevented the duel.\"\n\n\"I knew nothing about it,\" answered the Cardinal, glancing keenly at\nAnastase.\n\n\"Nor I,\" said the artist, simply.\n\n\"You see my information is not always so good as people imagine, my\nfriend.\"\n\n\"It is a pity,\" remarked Gouache. \"It would have been better had poor Del\nFerice been killed outright. The matter would have terminated there.\"\n\n\"Whereas--\"\n\n\"Whereas Del Ferice will naturally seek an occasion for revenge.\"\n\n\"You speak as though you were a friend of Don Giovanni's,\" said the\nCardinal.\n\n\"No; I have a very slight acquaintance with him. I admire him, he has\nsuch a fine head. I should be sorry if anything happened to him.\"\n\n\"Do you think Del Ferice is capable of murdering him?\"\n\n\"Oh no! He might annoy him a great deal.\"\n\n\"I think not,\" answered the Cardinal, thoughtfully. \"Del Ferice was\nafraid that Don Giovanni would marry Donna Tullia and spoil his own\nprojects. But Giovanni will not think of that again.\"\n\n\"No; I suppose Don Giovanni will marry the Duchessa d'Astrardente.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" replied the Cardinal. For some minutes there was silence.\nGouache, while busy with his pencil, was wondering at the interest the\ngreat man took in such details of the Roman social life. The Cardinal was\nthinking of Corona, whom he had seen but half an hour ago, and was\nrevolving in his mind the advantages that might be got by allying her to\nGiovanni. He had in view for her a certain Serene Highness whom he wished\nto conciliate, and whose circumstances were not so splendid as to make\nCorona's fortune seem insignificant to him. But on the other hand, the\nCardinal had no Serene Highness ready for Giovanni, and feared lest he\nshould after all marry Donna Tullia, and get into the opposite camp.\n\n\"You are from Paris, Monsieur Gouache, I believe,\" said the Cardinal at\nlast.\n\n\"Parisian of the Parisians, your Eminence.\"\n\n\"How can you bear to live in exile so long? You have not been to your\nhome these four years, I think.\"\n\n\"I would rather live in Rome for the present. I will go to Paris some\nday. It will always be a pleasant recollection to have seen Rome in these\ndays. My friends write me that Paris is gay, but not pleasant.\"\n\n\"You think there will soon be nothing of this time left but the\nrecollection of it?\" suggested the Cardinal.\n\n\"I do not know what to think. The times seem unsettled, and so are my\nideas. I was told that your Eminence would help me to decide what to\nbelieve.\" Gouache smiled pleasantly, and looked up.\n\n\"And who told you that?\"\n\n\"Don Giovanni Saracinesca.\"\n\n\"But I must have some clue to what your ideas are,\" said the Cardinal.\n\"When did Don Giovanni say that?\"\n\n\"At Prince Frangipani's. He had been talking with your Eminence--perhaps\nhe had come to some conclusion in consequence,\" suggested Gouache.\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" answered the great man, with a look of considerable\nsatisfaction. \"At all events I am flattered by the opinion he gave you of\nme. Perhaps I may help you to decide. What are your opinions? or rather,\nwhat would you like your opinions to be?\"\n\n\"I am an ardent republican,\" said Gouache, boldly. It needed no ordinary\ncourage to make such a statement to the incarnate chief of reactionary\npolitics in those days--within the walls of the Vatican, not a hundred\nyards from the private apartments of the Holy Father. But Cardinal\nAntonelli smiled blandly, and seemed not in the least surprised nor\noffended.\n\n\"Republicanism is an exceedingly vague term, Monsieur Gouache,\" he said.\n\"But with what other opinions do you wish to reconcile your\nrepublicanism?\"\n\n\"With those held by the Church. I am a good Catholic, and I desire to\nremain one--indeed I cannot help remaining one.\"\n\n\"Christianity is not vague, at all events,\" answered the Cardinal, who,\nto tell the truth, was somewhat astonished at the artist's juxtaposition\nof two such principles. \"In the first place, allow me to observe, my\nfriend, that Christianity is the purest form of a republic which the\nworld has ever seen, and that it therefore only depends upon your good\nsense to reconcile in your own mind two ideas which from the first have\nbeen indissolubly bound together.\"\n\nIt was Gouache's turn to be startled at the Cardinal's confidence.\n\n\"I am afraid I must ask your Eminence for some further explanation,\" he\nsaid. \"I had no idea that Christianity and republicanism were the same\nthing.\"\n\n\"Republicanism,\" returned the statesman, \"is a vague term, invented in an\nabortive attempt to define by one word the mass of inextricable disorder\narising in our times from the fusion of socialistic ideas with ideas\npurely republican. If you mean to speak of this kind of thing, you must\ndefine precisely your position in regard to socialism, and in regard to\nthe pure theory of a commonwealth. If you mean to speak of a real\nrepublic in any known form, such as the ancient Roman, the Dutch, or the\nAmerican, I understand you without further explanation.\"\n\n\"I certainly mean to speak of the pure republic. I believe that under a\npure republic the partition of wealth would take care of itself.\"\n\n\"Very good, my friend. Now, with regard to the early Christians, should\nyou say that their communities were monarchic, or aristocratic, or\noligarchic?\"\n\n\"None of those three, I should think,\" said Gouache.\n\n\"There are only two systems left, then--democracy and hierarchy. You will\nprobably say that the government of the early Christians was of the\nlatter kind--that they were governed by priests, in fact. But on the\nother hand, there is no doubt that both those who governed, and those who\nwere governed by them, had all things in common, regarded no man as\nnaturally superior to another, and preached a fraternity and equality at\nleast as sincere as those inculcated by the first French Republic. I do\nnot see how you can avoid calling such community a republic, seeing that\nthere was an equal partition of wealth; and defining it as a democratic\none, seeing that they all called each other brethren.\"\n\n\"But the hierarchy--what became of it?\" inquired Gouache.\n\n\"The hierarchy existed within the democracy, by common consent and for\nthe public good, and formed a second democracy of smaller extent but\ngreater power. Any man might become a priest, any priest might become a\nbishop, any bishop might become pope, as surely as any born citizen of\nRome could become consul, or any native of New York may be elected\nPresident of the United States. Now in theory this was beautiful, and in\npractice the democratic spirit of the hierarchy, the smaller republic,\nhas survived in undiminished vigour to the present day. In the original\nChristian theory the whole world should now be one vast republic, in\nwhich all Christians should call each other brothers, and support each\nother in worldly as well as spiritual matters. Within this should exist\nthe smaller republic of the hierarchy, by common consent,--an elective\nbody, recruiting its numbers from the larger, as it does now; choosing\nits head, the sovereign Pontiff, as it does now, to be the head of both\nChurch and State; eminently fitted for that position, for the very simple\nreason that in a community organised and maintained upon such principles,\nin which, by virtue of the real and universal love of religion, the best\nmen would find their way into the Church, and would ultimately find their\nway to the papal throne.\"\n\n\"Your Eminence states the case very convincingly,\" answered Gouache. \"But\nwhy has the larger republic, which was to contain the smaller one, ceased\nto exist? or rather, why did it never come into existence?\"\n\n\"Because man has not yet fulfilled his part in the great contract. The\nmatter lies in a nutshell. The men who enter the Church are sufficiently\nintelligent and well educated to appreciate the advantages of Christian\ndemocracy, fellowship, solidarity, and brotherly love. The republic of\nthe Church has therefore survived, and will survive for ever. The men who\nform the majority, on the other hand, have never had either the\nintelligence or the education to understand that democracy is the\nultimate form of government: instead of forming themselves into a\nfederation, they have divided themselves into hostile factions, calling\nthemselves nations, and seeking every occasion for destroying and\nplundering each other, frequently even turning against the Church\nherself. The Church has committed faults in history, without doubt, but\non the whole she has nobly fulfilled her contract, and reaps the fruits\nof fidelity in the vigour and unity she displays after eighteen\ncenturies. Man, on the other hand, has failed to do his duty, and all\nraces of men are consequently suffering for their misdeeds; the nations\nare divided against each other, and every nation is a house divided\nagainst itself, which sooner or later shall fall.\"\n\n\"But,\" objected Gouache, \"allowing, as one easily may, that all this is\ntrue, your Eminence is always called reactionary in politics. Does that\naccord with these views?\"\n\nGouache believed the question unanswerable, but as he put it he worked\ncalmly on with his pencil, labouring hard to catch something of the\nCardinal's striking expression in the rough drawing he was making.\n\n\"Nothing is easier, my friend,\" replied the statesman. \"The republic of\nthe Church is driven to bay. We are on a war footing. For the sake of\nstrength we are obliged to hold together so firmly that for the time we\ncan only think of maintaining old traditions without dreaming of progress\nor spending time in experiments. When we have weathered the storm we\nshall have leisure for improving much that needs improvement. Do not\nthink that if I am alive twenty years hence I shall advise what I advise\nnow. We are fighting now, and we have no time to think of the arts of\npeace. We shall have peace some day. We shall lose an ornament or two\nfrom our garments in the struggle, but our body will not be injured, and\nin time of peace our ornaments will be restored to us fourfold. But now\nthere is war and rumour of war. There is a vast difference between the\nideal republic which I was speaking of, and the real anarchy and\nconfusion which would be brought about by what is called republicanism.\"\n\n\"In other words, if the attack upon the Church were suddenly abandoned,\nyour Eminence would immediately abandon your reactionary policy,\" said\nGouache, \"and adopt progressive views?\"\n\n\"Immediately,\" replied the Cardinal.\n\n\"I see,\" said Gouache. \"A little more towards me--just so that I can\ncatch that eye. Thank you--that will do.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n\nWhen Del Ferice was thought sufficiently recovered of his wound to hear\nsome of the news of the day, which was about three weeks after the duel,\nhe learned that Astrardente was dead, that the Duchessa had inherited\nall his fortune, and that she was on the point of leaving Rome. It would\nbe hard to say how the information of her approaching departure had got\nabroad; it might be merely a clever guess of the gossips, or it might be\nthe report gleaned from her maid by all the other maids in town. Be that\nas it may, when Del Ferice heard it he ground his teeth as he lay upon\nhis bed, and swore that if it were possible to prevent the Duchessa\nd'Astrardente from leaving town he would do it. In his judgment it\nwould be a dangerous thing to let Corona and Giovanni part, and to allow\nDonna Tullia free play in her matrimonial designs. Of course Giovanni\nwould never marry Madame Mayer, especially as he was now at liberty to\nmarry the Astrardente; but Madame Mayer herself might become fatally\ninterested in him, as she already seemed inclined to be, and this would\nbe bad for Del Ferice's own prospects. It would not do to squander any of\nthe advantages gained by the death of the old Duca. Giovanni must be\nhastened into a marriage with Corona; it would be time enough to think of\nrevenge upon him afterwards for the ghastly wound that took so long to\nheal.\n\nIt was a pity that Del Ferice and Donna Tullia were not allies, for if\nMadame Mayer hated Corona d'Astrardente, Ugo del Ferice detested Giovanni\nwith equal virulency, not only because he had been so terribly worsted\nby him in the duel his own vile conduct had made inevitable, but because\nDonna Tullia loved him and was doing her very best to marry him.\nEvidently the best thing to be done was to produce a misunderstanding\nbetween the two; but it would be dangerous to play any tricks with\nGiovanni, for he held Del Ferice in his power by his knowledge of that\ndisagreeable scene behind the plants in the conservatory. Saracinesca was\na great man in society and celebrated for his honesty; people would\nbelieve him rather than Del Ferice, if the story got abroad. This would\nnot do. The next best thing was to endeavour to draw Giovanni and Corona\ntogether as quickly as possible, to precipitate their engagement, and\nthus to clear the field of a dangerous rival. Del Ferice was a very\nobstinate and a very intelligent man. He meant more than ever to marry\nDonna Tullia himself, and he would not be hindered in the accomplishment\nof his object by an insignificant scruple.\n\nHe was not allowed to speak much, lest the effort should retard the\nhealing of his throat; but in the long days and nights, when he lay\nsilent in his quiet lodging, he had ample time to revolve many schemes in\nhis brain. At last he no longer needed the care of the Sister of Mercy;\nhis servant took charge of him, and the surgeon came twice a-day to dress\nhis wound. He lay in bed one morning watching Temistocle, who moved\nnoiselessly about the room.\n\n\"Temistocle,\" he said, \"you are a youth of intelligence: you must use the\ngifts nature has given you.\"\n\nTemistocle was at that time not more than five-and-twenty years of age.\nHe had a muddy complexion, a sharp hooked nose, and a cast in one eye\nthat gave him a singularly unpleasant expression. As his master addressed\nhim, he stood still and listened with a sort of distorted smile in\nacknowledgment of the compliment made him.\n\n\"Temistocle, you must find out when the Duchessa d'Astrardente means to\nleave Rome, and where she is going. You know somebody in the house?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir--the under-cook; he stood godfather with me for the baby of a\ncousin of mine--the young man who drives Prince Valdarno's private\nbrougham: a clever fellow, too.\"\n\n\"And this under-cook,\" said Del Ferice, who was not above entering into\ndetails with his servant--\"is he a discreet character?\"\n\n\"Oh, for that, you may trust him. Only sometimes--\" Temistocle grinned,\nand made a gesture which signified drinking.\n\n\"And when he is drunk?\" asked Del Ferice.\n\n\"When he is drunk he tells everything; but he never remembers anything he\nhas been told, or has said. When he is drunk he is a dictionary; but the\nfirst draught of water washes out his memory like a slate.\"\n\n\"Well--give me my purse; it is under my pillow. Go. Here is a _scudo_,\nTemistocle. You can make him very drunk for that.\"\n\nTemistocle hesitated, and looked at the money.\n\n\"Another couple of _pauls_ would make it safer,\" he remarked.\n\n\"Well, there they are; but you must make him very drunk indeed. You must\nfind out all he knows, and you must keep sober yourself.\"\n\n\"Leave that to me. I will make of him a sponge; he shall be squeezed dry,\nand sopped again and squeezed again. I will be his confessor.\"\n\n\"If you find out what I want, I will give you--\" Del Ferice hesitated; he\ndid not mean to give too much.\n\n\"The grey trousers?\" asked Temistocle, with an avaricious light in the\neye which did not wander.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered his master, rather regretfully; \"I suppose you must have\nthe grey trousers at last.\"\n\n\"For those grey trousers I will upset heaven and earth,\" returned\nTemistocle in great glee.\n\nNothing more was said on that day, but early on the following morning the\nman entered and opened the shutters, and removed the little oil-light\nthat had burned all night. He kept one eye upon his master, who presently\nturned slowly and looked inquiringly at him.\n\n\"The Duchessa goes to Astrardente in the Sabines on the day after\nto-morrow,\" said Temistocle. \"It is quite sure that she goes, because she\nhas already sent out two pairs of horses, and several boxes of effects,\nbesides the second housemaid and the butler and two grooms.\"\n\n\"Ah! that is very good. Temistocle, I think I will get up this morning\nand sit in the next room.\"\n\n\"And the grey trousers?\"\n\n\"Take them, and wear them in honour of the most generous master living,\"\nsaid Del Ferice, impressively. \"It is not every master who gives his\nservant a pair of grey trousers. Remember that.\"\n\n\"Heaven bless you, Signor Conte!\" exclaimed Temistocle, devoutly.\n\nDel Ferice lost no time. He was terribly weak still, and his wound\nwas not entirely healed yet; but he set himself resolutely to his\nwriting-table, and did not rise until he had written two letters. The\nfirst was carefully written in a large round hand, such as is used by\ncopyists in Italy, resembling the Gothic. It was impossible to connect\nthe laboriously formed and conventional letters with any particular\nperson. It was very short, as follows:--\n\n\"It may interest you to know that the Duchessa d'Astrardente is going to\nher castle in the Sabines on the day after to-morrow.\"\n\nThis laconic epistle Del Ferice carefully directed to Don Giovanni\nSaracinesca at his palace, and fastened a stamp upon it; but he concealed\nthe address from Temistocle. The second letter was longer, and written in\nhis own small and ornate handwriting. It was to Donna Tullia Mayer.\nIt ran thus:--\n\n\"You would forgive my importuning you with a letter, most charming Donna\nTullia, if you could conceive of my desolation and loneliness. For more\nthan three weeks I have been entirely deprived of the pleasure, the\nexquisite delight, of conversing with her for whom I have suffered. I\nstill suffer so much. Ah! if my paper were a cloth of gold, and my pen in\nmoving traced characters of diamond and pearl, yet any words which speak\nof you would be ineffectually honoured by such transcription! In the\nmiserable days and nights I have passed between life and death, it is\nyour image which has consoled me, the echo of your delicate voice which\nhas soothed my pain, the remembrance of the last hours I spent with you\nwhich has gilded the feverish dreams of my sickness. You are the\nguardian angel of a most unhappy man, Donna Tullia. Do you know it? But\nfor you I would have wooed death as a comforter. As it is, I have\nstruggled desperately to keep my grasp upon life, in the hope of once\nmore seeing your smile and hearing your happy laugh; perhaps--I dare not\nexpect it--I may receive from you some slight word of sympathy, some\nlittle half-sighed hint that you do not altogether regret having been in\nthese long weeks the unconscious comforter of my sorrowing spirit and\ntormented body. You would hardly know me, could you see me; but saving\nfor your sweet spiritual presence, which has rescued me from the jaws of\ndeath, you would never have seen me again. Is it presumption in me to\nwrite thus? Have you ever given me a right to speak in these words? I do\nnot know. I do not care. Man has a right to be grateful. It is the first\nand most divine right I possess, to feel and to express my gratitude. For\nout of the store of your kindness shown me when I was in the world,\nstrong and happy in the privilege of your society, I have drawn healing\nmedicine in my sickness, as tormented souls in purgatory get refreshment\nfrom the prayers of good and kind people who remember them on earth. So,\ntherefore, if I have said too much, forgive me, forgive the heartfelt\ngratitude which prompts me; and believe still in the respectful and\nundying devotion of the humblest of your servants, UGO DEL FERICE.\"\n\nDel Ferice read over what he had written with considerable satisfaction,\nand having addressed his letter to Donna Tullia, he lost no time in\ndespatching Temistocle with it, instructing him to ask if there would be\nan answer. As soon as the man was out of the house, Ugo rang for his\nlandlady, and sent for the porter's little boy, to whom he delivered the\nletter to Don Giovanni, to be dropped into the nearest post-box. Then he\nlay down, exhausted with his morning's work. In the course of two hours\nTemistocle returned from Donna Tullia's house with a little scented\nnote--too much scented, and the paper just a shade too small. She took no\nnotice of what he had said in his carefully penned epistle; but merely\ntold him she was sincerely glad that he was better, and asked him to call\nas soon as he could. Ugo was not disappointed; he had expected no\ncompromising expression of interest in response to his own effusions; and\nhe was well pleased with the invitation, for it showed that what he had\nwritten had produced the desired result.\n\nDon Giovanni Saracinesca received the anonymous note late in the evening.\nHe had, of course, together with his father, deposited cards of\ncondolence at the Palazzo Astrardente, and he had been alone to inquire\nif the Duchessa would receive him. The porter had answered that, for\nthe present, there were standing orders to admit no one; and as Giovanni\ncould boast of no especial intimacy, and had no valid excuse to give, he\nwas obliged to be satisfied. He had patiently waited in the Villa\nBorghese and by the band-stand on the Pincio, taking it for granted that\nsooner or later Corona's carriage would appear; but when at last he had\nseen her brougham, she had driven rapidly past him, thickly veiled, and\nhe did not think she had even noticed him. He would have written to her,\nbut he was still unable to hold a pen; and he reflected that, after all,\nit would have been a hideous farce for him to offer condolences and\nsympathy, however much he might desire to hide from himself his secret\nsatisfaction at her husband's death. Too proud to think of obtaining\ninformation through such base channels as Del Ferice was willing to use,\nhe was wholly ignorant of Corona's intentions; and it was a brilliant\nproof of Ugo's astuteness that he had rightly judged Giovanni's position\nwith regard to her, and justly estimated the value of the news conveyed\nby his anonymous note.\n\nSaracinesca read the scrap of writing, and tossed it angrily into the\nfire. He hated underhand dealings, and scorned himself for the interest\nthe note excited in him, wondering who could find advantage in informing\nhim of the Duchessa's movements. But the note took effect, nevertheless,\nalthough he was ashamed of it, and all night he pondered upon what it\ntold him. The next day, at three o'clock, he went out alone, and walked\nrapidly towards the Palazzo Astrardente. He was unable to bear the\nsuspense any longer; the thought that Corona was going away, apparently\nto shut herself up in the solitude of the ancient fortress, for any\nunknown number of months, and that he might not see her until the autumn,\nwas intolerable. He knew that by the mere use of his name he could at\nleast make sure that she should know he was at her door, and he\ndetermined to make the attempt. He waited a long time, pacing slowly the\nbroad flagstones beneath the arch of the palace, while the porter\nhimself went up with his card and message. The fellow had hesitated, but\nDon Giovanni Saracinesca was not a man to be refused by a servant. At\nlast the porter returned, and, bowing to the ground, said that the\nSignora Duchessa would receive him.\n\nIn five minutes he was waiting alone in the great drawing-room. It had\ncost Corona a struggle to allow him to be admitted. She hesitated long,\nfor it seemed like a positive wrong to her husband's memory, but the\nwoman in her yielded at last; she was going away on the following\nmorning, and she could not refuse to see him for once. She hesitated\nagain as she laid her hand upon the latch of the door, knowing that he\nwas in the room beyond; then at last she entered.\n\nHer face was very pale and very grave. Her simple gown of close-fitting\nblack set off her height and figure, and flowed softly in harmony with\nher stately movements as she advanced towards Giovanni, who stood almost\nawestruck in the middle of the room. He could not realise that this dark\nsad princess was the same woman to whom less than a month ago he had\nspoken such passionate words, whom he had madly tried to take into his\narms. Proud as he was, it seemed presumptuous in him to think of love in\nconnection with so royal a woman; and yet he knew that he loved her\nbetter and more truly than he had done a month before. She held out her\nhand to him, and he raised it to his lips. Then they both sat down in\nsilence.\n\n\"I had despaired of ever seeing you again,\" said Giovanni at last,\nspeaking in a subdued voice. \"I had wished for some opportunity of\ntelling you how sincerely I sympathise with you in your great loss.\" It\nwas a very formal speech, such as men make in such situations. It might\nhave been better, but he was not eloquent; even his rough old father had\na better command of language on ordinary occasions, though Giovanni could\nspeak well enough when he was roused. But he felt constrained in the\npresence of the woman he adored. Corona herself hardly knew how to\nanswer.\n\n\"You are very kind,\" she said, simply.\n\n\"I wish it were possible to be of any service to you,\" he answered. \"I\nneed not tell you that both my father and myself would hold it an honour\nto assist you in any way.\" He mentioned his father from a feeling of\ndelicacy; he did not wish to put himself forward.\n\n\"You are very kind,\" repeated Corona, gravely. \"I have not had any\nannoyance. I have an excellent man of business.\"\n\nThere was a moment's pause. Then she seemed to understand that he was\nembarrassed, and spoke again.\n\n\"I am glad to see that you are recovered,\" she said.\n\n\"It was nothing,\" answered Giovanni, with a glance at his right arm,\nwhich was still confined in a bandage of black silk, but was no longer in\na sling.\n\n\"It was very wrong of you,\" returned Corona, looking seriously into his\neyes. \"I do not know why you fought, but it was wrong; it is a great\nsin.\"\n\nGiovanni smiled a little.\n\n\"We all have to sin sometimes,\" he said. \"Would you have me stand quietly\nand see an abominable piece of baseness, and not lift a hand to punish\nthe offender?\"\n\n\"People who do base things always come to a bad end,\" answered the\nDuchessa.\n\n\"Perhaps. But we poor sinners are impatient to see justice done at once.\nI am sorry to have done anything you consider wrong,\" he added, with a\nshade of bitterness. \"Will you permit me to change the subject? Are\nyou thinking of remaining in Rome, or do you mean to go away?\"\n\n\"I am going up to Astrardente to-morrow,\" answered Corona, readily. \"I\nwant to be alone and in the country.\"\n\nGiovanni showed no surprise: his anonymous information had been accurate;\nDel Ferice had not parted with the grey trousers in vain.\n\n\"I suppose you are right,\" he said. \"But at this time of year I should\nthink the mountains would be very cold.\"\n\n\"The castle is comfortable. It has been recently fitted up, and there are\nmany warm rooms in it. I am fond of the old place, and I need to be alone\nfor a long time.\"\n\nGiovanni thought the conversation was becoming oppressive. He thought of\nwhat had passed between them at their last meeting in the conservatory of\nthe Palazzo Frangipani.\n\n\"I shall myself pass the summer in Saracinesca,\" he said, suddenly. \"You\nknow it is not very far. May I hope that I may sometimes be permitted to\nsee you?\"\n\nCorona had certainly had no thought of seeing Giovanni when she had\ndetermined to go to Astrardente; she had not been there often, and had\nnot realised that it was within reach of the Saracinesca estate. She\nstarted slightly.\n\n\"Is it so near?\" she asked.\n\n\"Half a day's ride over the hills,\" replied Giovanni.\n\n\"I did not know. Of course, if you come, you will not be denied\nhospitality.\"\n\n\"But you would rather not see me?\" asked Saracinesca, in a tone of\ndisappointment. He had hoped for something more encouraging. Corona\nanswered courageously.\n\n\"I would rather not see you. Do not think me unkind,\" she added, her\nvoice softening a little. \"Why need there be any explanations? Do not try\nto see me. I wish you well; I wish you more--all happiness--but do not\ntry to see me.\"\n\nGiovanni's face grew grave and pale. He was disappointed, even\nhumiliated; but something told him that it was not coldness which\nprompted her request.\n\n\"Your commands are my laws,\" he answered.\n\n\"I would rather that instead of regarding what I ask you as a command,\nyou should feel that it ought to be the natural prompting of your own\nheart,\" replied Corona, somewhat coldly.\n\n\"Forgive me if my heart dictates what my obedience to you must\neffectually forbid,\" said Giovanni. \"I beseech you to be satisfied that\nwhat you ask I will perform--blindly.\"\n\n\"Not blindly--you know all my reasons.\"\n\n\"There is that between you and me which annihilates reason,\" answered\nGiovanni, his voice trembling a little.\n\n\"There is that in my position which should command your respect,\" said\nCorona. She feared he was going too far, and yet this time she knew she\nhad not said too much, and that in bidding him avoid her, she was only\ndoing what was strictly necessary for her peace. \"I am a widow,\" she\ncontinued, very gravely; \"I am a woman, and I am alone. My only\nprotection lies in the courtesy I have a right to expect from men like\nyou. You have expressed your sympathy; show it then by cheerfully\nfulfilling my request. I do not speak in riddles, but very plainly. You\nrecall to me a moment of great pain, and your presence, the mere fact of\nmy receiving you, seems a disloyalty to the memory of my husband. I have\ngiven you no reason to believe that I ever took a greater interest in you\nthan such as I might take in a friend. I hourly pray that this--this too\ngreat interest you show in me, may pass quickly, and leave you what you\nwere before. You see I do not speak darkly, and I do not mean to speak\nunkindly. Do not answer me, I beseech you, but take this as my last word.\nForget me if you can--\"\n\n\"I cannot,\" said Giovanni, deeply moved.\n\n\"Try. If you cannot, God help you! but I am sure that if you try\nfaithfully, you will succeed. And now you must go,\" she said, in gentler\ntones. \"You should not have come--I should not have let you see me. But\nit is best so. I am grateful for the sympathy you have expressed. I do\nnot doubt that you will do as I have asked you, and as you have promised.\nGood-bye.\"\n\nCorona rose to her feet, her hands folded before her. Giovanni had no\nchoice. She let her eyes rest upon him, not unkindly, but she did not\nextend her hand. He stood one moment in hesitation, then bowed and left\nthe room without a word. Corona stood still, and her eyes followed his\nretreating figure until at the door he turned once more and bent his head\nand then was gone. Then she fell back into her chair and gazed listlessly\nat the wall opposite.\n\n\"It is done,\" she said at last. \"I hope it is well done and wisely.\"\nIndeed it had been a hard thing to say; but it was better to say it at\nonce than to regret an ill-timed indulgence when it should be too late.\nAnd yet it had cost her less to send him away definitely than it had\ncost her to resist his passionate appeal a month ago. She seemed to have\ngained strength from her sorrows. So he was gone! She gave a sigh of\nrelief, which was instantly followed by a sharp throb of pain, so sudden\nthat she hardly understood it.\n\nHer preparations were all made. She had at the last moment realised that\nit was not fitting for her, at her age, to travel alone, nor to live\nwholly alone in her widowhood. She had revolved the matter in her mind,\nand had decided that there was no woman of her acquaintance whom she\ncould ask even for a short time to stay with her. She had no friends, no\nrelations, none to turn to in such a need. It was not that she cared for\ncompany in her solitude; it was merely a question of propriety. To\novercome the difficulty, she obtained permission to take with her one of\nthe sisters of a charitable order of nuns, a lady in middle life, but\nbroken down and in ill health from her untiring labours. The thing was\neasily managed; and the next morning, on leaving the palace, she stopped\nat the gate of the community and found Sister Gabrielle waiting with her\nmodest box. The nun entered the huge travelling carriage, and the two\nladies set out for Astrardente.\n\nIt was the first day of Carnival, and a memorably sad one for Giovanni\nSaracinesca. He would have been capable of leaving Rome at once, but that\nhe had promised Corona not to attempt to see her. He would have gone to\nSaracinesca for the mere sake of being nearer to her, had he not\nreflected that he would be encouraging all manner of gossip by so doing.\nBut he determined that so soon as Lent began, he would declare his\nintention of leaving the city for a year. No one ever went to\nSaracinesca, and by making a circuit he could reach the ancestral\ncastle without creating suspicion. He might even go to Paris for a few\ndays, and have it supposed that he was wandering about Europe, for he\ncould trust his own servants implicitly; they were not of the type who\nwould drink wine at a tavern with Temistocle or any of his class.\n\nThe old Prince came into his son's room in the morning and found him\ndisconsolately looking over his guns, for the sake of an occupation.\n\n\"Well, Giovanni,\" he said, \"you have time to reflect upon your future\nconduct. What! are you going upon a shooting expedition?\"\n\n\"I wish I could. I wish I could find anything to do,\" answered Giovanni,\nlaying down the breech-loader and looking out of the window. \"The world\nis turned inside out like a beggar's pocket, and there is nothing in it.\"\n\n\"So the Astrardente is gone,\" remarked the Prince.\n\n\"Yes; gone to live within twenty miles of Saracinesca,\" replied Giovanni,\nwith an angry intonation.\n\n\"Do not go there yet,\" said his father. \"Leave her alone a while. Women\nbecome frantic in solitude.\"\n\n\"Do you think I am an idiot?\" exclaimed Giovanni. \"Of course I shall stay\nwhere I am till Carnival is over.\" He was not in a good humour.\n\n\"Why are you so petulant?\" retorted the old man. \"I merely gave you my\nadvice.\"\n\n\"Well, I am going to follow it. It is good. When Carnival is over I will\ngo away, and perhaps get to Saracinesca by a roundabout way, so that no\none will know where I am. Will you not come too?\"\n\n\"I daresay,\" answered the Prince, who was always pleased when his son\nexpressed a desire for his company. \"I wish we lived in the good old\ntimes.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"We would make small scruple of besieging Astrardente and carrying off\nthe Duchessa for you, my boy,\" said the Prince, grimly.\n\nGiovanni laughed. Perhaps the same idea had crossed his mind. He was not\nquite sure whether it was respectful to Corona to think of carrying her\noff in the way his father suggested; but there was a curious flavour of\npossibility in the suggestion, coming as it did from a man whose\ngrandfather might have done such a thing, and whose great-grandfather was\nsaid to have done it. So strong are the instincts of barbaric domination\nin races where the traditions of violence exist in an unbroken chain,\nthat both father and son smiled at the idea as if it were quite natural,\nalthough Giovanni had only the previous day promised that he would not\neven attempt to see Corona d'Astrardente without her permission. He did\nnot tell his father of his promise, however, for his more delicate\ninstinct made him sure that though he had acted rightly, his father would\nlaugh at his scruples, and tell him that women liked to be wooed roughly.\n\nMeanwhile Giovanni felt that Rome had become for him a vast solitude, and\nthe smile soon faded from his face at the thought that he must go out\ninto the world, and for Corona's sake act as though nothing had happened.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n\nPoor Madame Mayer was in great anxiety of mind. She had not a great\namount of pride, but she made up for it by a plentiful endowment of\nvanity, in which she suffered acutely. She was a good-natured woman\nenough, and by nature she was not vindictive; but she could not help\nbeing jealous, for she was in love. She felt how Giovanni every day\nevidently cared less and less for her society, and how, on the other\nhand, Del Ferice was quietly assuring his position, so that people\nalready began to whisper that he had a chance of becoming her husband.\nShe did not dislike Del Ferice; he was a convenient man of the world,\nwhom she always found ready to help her when she needed help. But by dint\nof making use of him, she was beginning to feel in some way bound to\nconsider him as an element in her life, and she did not like the\nposition. The letter he had written her was of the kind a man might\nwrite to the woman he loved; it bordered upon the familiar, even while\nthe writer expressed himself in terms of exaggerated respect. Perhaps if\nDel Ferice had been well, she would have simply taken no notice of what\nhe had written, and would not even have sent an answer; but she had not\nthe heart to repulse him altogether in his present condition. There was a\nphrase cunningly introduced and ambiguously worded, which seemed to mean\nthat he had come by his wound in her cause. He spoke of having suffered\nand of still suffering so much for her,--did he mean to refer to pain of\nbody or of mind? It was not certain. Don Giovanni had assured her that\nshe was in no way concerned in the duel, and he was well known for his\nhonesty; nevertheless, out of delicacy, he might have desired to conceal\nthe truth from her. It seemed like him. She longed for an opportunity of\ntalking with him and eliciting some explanation of his conduct. There\nhad been a time when he used to visit her, and always spent some time in\nher society when they met in the world--now, on the contrary, he seemed\nto avoid her whenever he could; and in proportion as she noticed that\nhis manner cooled, her own jealousy against Corona d'Astrardente\nincreased in force, until at last it seemed to absorb her love for\nGiovanni into itself and turn it into hate.\n\nLove is a passion which, like certain powerful drugs, acts differently\nupon each different constitution of temper; love also acts more strongly\nwhen it is unreturned or thwarted than when it is mutual and uneventful.\nIf two persons love each other truly, and there is no obstacle to their\nunion, it is probable that, without any violent emotion, their love will\ngrow and become stronger by imperceptible degrees, without changing in\nits natural quality; but if thwarted by untoward circumstances, the\npassion, if true, attains suddenly to the dimensions which it would\notherwise need years to reach. It sometimes happens that the nature in\nwhich this unforeseen and abnormal development takes place is unable to\nbear the precocious growth; then, losing sight of its identity in the\nstrange inward confusion of heart and mind which ensues, it is driven to\nmadness, and, breaking every barrier, either attains its object at a\nsingle bound, or is shivered and ruined in dashing itself against the\nimpenetrable wall of complete impossibility. But again, in the last case,\nwhen love is wholly unreturned, it dies a natural death of atrophy, when\nit has existed in a person of common and average nature; or if the man or\nwoman so afflicted be proud and of noble instincts, the passion becomes a\nkind of religion to the heart--sacred, and worthy to be guarded from the\neyes of the world; or, finally, again, where it finds vanity the dominant\ncharacteristic of the being in whom it has grown, it draws a poisonous\nlife from the unhealthy soil on which it is fed, and the tender seed of\nlove shoots and puts forth evil leaves and blossoms, and grows to be a\nmost venomous tree, which is the tree of hatred.\n\nDonna Tullia was certainly a woman who belonged to the latter class of\nindividuals. She had qualities which were perhaps good because not bad;\nbut the mainspring of her being was an inordinate vanity; and it was in\nthis characteristic that she was most deeply wounded, as she found\nherself gradually abandoned by Giovanni Saracinesca. She had been in the\nhabit of thinking of him as a probable husband; the popular talk had\nfostered the idea, and occasional hints, aad smiling questions concerning\nhim, had made her feel that he could not long hang back. She had been in\nthe habit of treating him familiarly; and he, tutored by his father to\nthe belief that she was the best match for him, and reluctantly yielding\nto the force of circumstances, which seemed driving him into matrimony,\nhad suffered himself to be ordered about and made use of with an\nindifference which, in Madame Mayer's eyes, had passed for consent. She\nhad watched with growing fear and jealousy his devotion to the\nAstrardente, which all the world had noticed; and at last her anger had\nbroken out at the affront she had received at the Frangipani ball. But\neven then she loved Giovanni in her own vain way. It was not till Corona\nwas suddenly left a widow, that Donna Tullia began to realise the\nhopelessness of her position; and when she found how determinately\nSaracinesca avoided her wherever they met, the affection she had hitherto\nfelt for him turned into a bitter hatred, stronger even than her jealousy\nagainst the Duchessa. There was no scene of explanation between them, no\nwords passed, no dramatic situation, such as Donna Tullia loved; the\nchange came in a few days, and was complete. She had not even the\nsatisfaction of receiving some share of the attention Giovanni would have\nbestowed upon Corona if she had been in town. Not only had he grown\nutterly indifferent to her; he openly avoided her, and thereby inflicted\nupon her vanity the cruellest wound she was capable of feeling.\n\nWith Donna Tullia to hate was to injure, to long for revenge--not of the\nkind which is enjoyed in secret, and known only to the person who suffers\nand the person who causes the suffering. She did not care for that so\nmuch as she desired some brilliant triumph over her enemies before the\nworld; some startling instance of poetic justice, which should at one\nblow do a mortal injury to Corona d'Astrardente, and bring Giovanni\nSaracinesca to her own feet by force, repentant and crushed, to be dealt\nwith as she saw fit, according to his misdeeds. But she had chosen her\nadversaries ill, and her heart misgave her. She had no hold upon them,\nfor they were very strong people, very powerful, and very much respected\nby their fellows. It was not easy to bring them into trouble; it\nseemed impossible to humiliate them as she wished to do, and yet her hate\nwas very strong. She waited and pondered, and in the meanwhile, when she\nmet Giovanni, she began to treat him with haughty coldness. But Giovanni\nsmiled, and seemed well satisfied that she should at last give over what\nwas to him very like a persecution. Her anger grew hotter from its very\nimpotence. The world saw it, and laughed.\n\nThe days of Carnival came and passed, much as they usually pass, in a\nwhirl of gaiety. Giovanni went everywhere, and showed his grave face; but\nhe talked little, and of course every one said he was melancholy at the\ndeparture of the Duchessa. Nevertheless he kept up an appearance of\ninterest in what was done, and as nobody cared to risk asking him\nquestions, people left him in peace. The hurrying crowd of social life\nfilled up the place occupied by old Astrardente and the beautiful\nDuchessa, and they were soon forgotten, for they had not had many\nintimate friends.\n\nOn the last night of Carnival, Del Ferice appeared once more. He had not\nbeen able to resist the temptation of getting one glimpse of the world he\nloved, before the wet blanket of Lent extinguished the lights of the\nballrooms and the jollity of the dancers. Every one was surprised to see\nhim, and most people were pleased; he was such a useful man, that he had\noften been missed during the time of his illness. He was improved in\nappearance; for though he was very pale, he had grown also extremely\nthin, and his features had gained delicacy.\n\nWhen Giovanni saw him, he went up to him, and the two men exchanged a\nformal salutation, while every one stood still for a moment to see the\nmeeting. It was over in a moment, and society gave a little sigh of\nrelief, as though a weight were removed from its mind. Then Del Ferice\nwent to Donna Tullia's side. They were soon alone upon a small sofa in a\nsmall room, whither a couple strayed now and then to remain a few minutes\nbefore returning to the ball. A few people passed through, but for more\nthan an hour they were not disturbed.\n\n\"I am very glad to see you,\" said Donna Tullia; \"but I had hoped that the\nfirst time you went out you would have come to my house.\"\n\n\"This is the first time I have been out--you see I should not have found\nyou at home, since I have found you here.\"\n\n\"Are you entirely recovered? You still look ill.\"\n\n\"I am a little weak--but an hour with you will do me more good than all\nthe doctors in the world.\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" said Donna Tullia, with a little laugh. \"It was strange to see\nyou shaking hands with Giovanni Saracinesca just now. I suppose men have\nto do that sort of thing.\"\n\n\"You may be sure I would not have done it unless it had been necessary,\"\nreturned Del Ferice, bitterly.\n\n\"I should think not. What an arrogant man he is!\"\n\n\"You no longer like him?\" asked Del Fence, innocently.\n\n\"Like him! No; I never liked him,\" replied Donna Tullia, quickly.\n\n\"Oh, I thought you did; I used to wonder at it.\" Ugo grew thoughtful.\n\n\"I was always good to him,\" said Donna Tullia. \"But of course I can never\nforgive him for what he did at the Frangipani ball.\"\n\n\"No; nor I,\" answered Del Ferice, readily. \"I shall always hate him for\nthat too.\"\n\n\"I do not say that I exactly hate him.\"\n\n\"You have every reason. It appears to me that since my illness we have\nanother idea in common, another bond of sympathy.\" Del Ferice spoke\nalmost tenderly; but he laughed immediately afterwards, as though not\nwishing his words to be interpreted too seriously. Donna Tullia smiled\ntoo; she was inclined to be very kind to him.\n\n\"You are very quick to jump at conclusions,\" she said, playing with her\nred fan and looking down.\n\n\"It is always easy to reach that pleasant conclusion--that you and I are\nin sympathy,\" he answered, with a tender glance, \"even in regard to\nhating the same person. The bond would be close indeed, if it depended on\nthe opposite of hate. And yet I sometimes think it does. Are you not the\nbest friend I have in the world?\"\n\n\"I do not know,--I am a good friend to you,\" she answered.\n\n\"Indeed you are; but do you not think it would be possible to cement our\nfriendship even more closely yet?\"\n\nDonna Tullia looked up sharply; she had no idea of allowing him to\npropose to marry her. His face, however, was grave--unlike his usual\nexpression when he meant to be tender, and which she knew very well.\n\n\"I do not know,\" she said, with a light laugh. \"How do you mean?\"\n\n\"If I could do you some great service--if I could by any means satisfy\nwhat is now your chief desire in life--would not that help to cement our\nfriendship, as I said?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" she answered, thoughtfully. \"But then you do not know--you\ncannot guess even--what I most wish at this moment.\"\n\n\"I think I could,\" said Del Ferice, fixing his eyes upon her. \"I am sure\nI could, but I will not. I should risk offending you.\"\n\n\"No; I will not be angry. You may guess if you please.\" Donna Tullia in\nher turn looked, fixedly at her companion. They seemed trying to read\neach other's thoughts.\n\n\"Very well,\" said Ugo at last, \"I will tell you. You would like to see\nthe Astrardente dead and Giovanni Saracinesca profoundly humiliated.\"\n\nDonna Tullia started. But indeed there was nothing strange in her\ncompanion's knowledge of her feelings. Many people, being asked what she\nfelt, would very likely have said the same, for the world had seen her\ndiscomfiture and had laughed at it.\n\n\"You are a very singular man,\" she said, uneasily.\n\n\"In other words,\" replied Del Ferice, calmly, \"I am perfectly right in my\nsurmises. I see it in your face. Of course,\" he added, with a laugh, \"it\nis mere jest. But the thing is quite possible. If I fulfilled your desire\nof just and poetic vengeance, what would you give me?\"\n\nDonna Tullia laughed in her turn, to conceal the extreme interest she\nfelt in what he said.\n\n\"Whatever you like,\" she said. But even while the laugh was on her lips\nher eyes sought his uneasily.\n\n\"Would you marry me, for instance, as the enchanted princess in the fairy\nstory marries the prince who frees her from the spell?\" He seemed\nimmensely amused at the idea.\n\n\"Why not?\" she laughed.\n\n\"It would be the only just recompense,\" he answered. \"See how impossible\nthe thing appears. And yet a few pounds of dynamite would blow up the\nGreat Pyramid. Giovanni Saracinesca is not so strong as he looks.\"\n\n\"Oh, I would not have him hurt!\" exclaimed Donna Tullia in alarm.\n\n\"I do not mean physically, nor morally, but socially.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"That is my secret,\" returned Del Ferice, quietly.\n\n\"It sounds as though you were pretending to know more than you really\ndo,\" she answered.\n\n\"No; it is the plain truth,\" said Del Ferice, quietly. \"If you were in\nearnest I might be willing to tell you what the secret is, but for a mere\njest I cannot. It is far too serious a matter.\"\n\nHis tone convinced Donna Tullia that he really possessed some weapon\nwhich he could use against Don Giovanni if he pleased. She wondered only\nwhy, if it were true, he did not use it, seeing that he must hate\nSaracinesca with all his heart. Del Ferice knew so much about people, so\nmany strange and forgotten stories, he had so accurate a memory and so\nacute an intelligence, that it was by no means impossible that he was in\npossession of some secret connected with the Saracinesca. They were,\nor were thought to be, wild, unruly men, both father and son; there were\nendless stories about them both; and there was nothing more likely than\nthat, in his numerous absences from home, Giovanni had at one time or\nanother figured in some romantic affair, which he would be sorry to have\nhad generally known. Del Ferice was wise enough to keep his own counsel;\nbut now that his hatred was thoroughly roused, he might very likely make\nuse of the knowledge he possessed. Donna Tullia's curiosity was excited\nto its highest pitch, and at the same time she had pleasant visions of\nthe possible humiliation of the man by whom she felt herself so ill-used.\nIt would be worth while making the sacrifice in order to learn Del\nFence's secret.\n\n\"This need not be a mere jest,\" she said, after a moment's silence.\n\n\"That is as you please,\" returned Del Ferice, seriously. \"If you are\nwilling to do your part, you may be sure that I will do mine.\"\n\n\"You cannot think I really meant what I said just now,\" replied Donna\nTullia. \"It would be madness.\"\n\n\"Why? Am I halt, am I lame, am I blind? Am I repulsively ugly? Am I a\npauper, that I should care for your money? Have I not loved you--yes,\nloved you long and faithfully? Am I too old? Is there anything in the\nnature of things why I should not aspire to be your husband?\"\n\nIt was strange. He spoke calmly, as though enumerating the advantages of\na friend. Donna Tullia looked at him for a moment, and then laughed\noutright.\n\n\"No,\" she said; \"all that is very true. You may aspire, as you call it.\nThe question is, whether I shall aspire too. Of course, if we happened to\nagree in aspiring, we could be married to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Precisely,\" answered Del Ferice, perfectly unmoved. \"I am not proposing\nto marry you. I am arguing the case. There is this in the case which is\nperhaps outside the argument--this, that I am devotedly attached to you.\nThe case is the stronger for that. I was only trying to demonstrate that\nthe idea of our being married is not so unutterably absurd. You\nlaughingly said you would marry me if I could accomplish something which\nwould please you very much. I laughed also; but now I seriously repeat my\nproposition, because I am convinced that although at first sight it may\nappear extremely humourous, on a closer inspection it will be found\nexceedingly practical. In union is strength.\"\n\nDonna Tullia was silent for a moment, and her face grew grave. There was\nreason in what he said. She did not care for him--she had never thought\nof marrying him; but she recognised the justice of what he said. It was\nclear that a man of his social position, received everywhere and intimate\nwith all her associates, might think of marrying her. He looked\npositively handsome since he was wounded; he was accomplished and\nintelligent; he had sufficient means of support to prevent him from\nbeing suspected of marrying solely for money, and he had calmly stated\nthat he loved her. Perhaps he did. It was flattering to Donna Tullia's\nvanity to believe him, and his acts had certainly not belied his words.\nHe was by far the most thoughtful of all her admirers, and he affected to\ntreat her always with a certain respect which she had never succeeded in\nobtaining from Valdarno and the rest. A woman who likes to be noisy, but\nis conscious of being a little vulgar, is always flattered when a man\nbehaves towards her with profound reverence. It will even sometimes cure\nher of her vulgarity. Donna Tullia reflected seriously upon what Del\nFerice had said.\n\n\"I never had such a proposition made to me in my life,\" she said. \"Of\ncourse you cannot think I regard it as a possible one, even now. You\ncannot think I am so base as to sell myself for the sake of revenging an\ninsult once offered me. If I am to regard this as a proposal of marriage,\nI must decline it with thanks. If it is merely a proposition for an\nalliance, I think the terms of the treaty are unequal.\"\n\nDel Ferice smiled.\n\n\"I knew you well enough to know what your answer would be,\" he said. \"I\nnever insulted you by dreaming that you would accept such a proposition.\nBut as a subject for speculation it is very pleasant. It is delightful\nto me to think of being your husband; it is equally delightful to you to\nthink of the humiliation of an enemy. I took the liberty of uniting the\ntwo thoughts in one dream--a dream of unspeakable bliss for myself.\"\n\nDonna Tullia's gay humour returned.\n\n\"You have certainly amused me very well for a quarter of an hour with\nyour dreams,\" she answered. \"I wish you would tell me what you know of\nDon Giovanni. It must be very interesting if it can really seriously\ninfluence his life.\"\n\n\"I cannot tell you. The secret is too valuable.\"\n\n\"But if the thing you know has such power, why do you not use it\nyourself? You must hate him far more than I do.\"\n\n\"I doubt that,\" answered Del Ferice, with a cunning smile. \"I do not use\nit, I do not choose to strike the blow, because I do not care enough for\nretribution merely on my own account. I do not pretend to generosity, but\nI am not interested enough in him to harm him, though I dislike him\nexceedingly. We had a temporary settlement of our difficulties the other\nday, and we were both wounded. Poor Casalverde lost his head and did a\nfoolish thing, and that cold-blooded villain Spicca killed him in\nconsequence. It seems to me that there has been enough blood spilled in\nour quarrel. I am prepared to leave him alone so far as I am concerned.\nBut for you it would be different. I could do something worse than kill\nhim if I chose.\"\n\n\"For me?\" said Donna Tullia. \"What would you do for me?\" She smiled\nsweetly, willing to use all her persuasion to extract his secret.\n\n\"I could prevent Don Giovanni from marrying the Astrardente, as he\nintends to do,\" he answered, looking straight at his companion.\n\n\"How in the world could you do that?\" she asked, in great surprise.\n\n\"That, my dear friend, is my secret, as I said before. I cannot reveal it\nto you at present.\"\n\n\"You are as dark as the Holy Office,\" said Donna Tullia, a little\nimpatiently. \"What possible harm could it do if you told me?\"\n\n\"What possible good either?\" asked Del Ferice, in reply. \"You could not\nuse it as I could. You would gain no advantage by knowing it. Of course,\"\nhe added, with a laugh, \"if we entered into the alliance we were jesting\nabout, it would be different.\"\n\n\"You will not tell me unless I promise to marry you?\"\n\n\"Frankly, no,\" he answered, still laughing.\n\nIt exasperated Donna Tullia beyond measure to feel that he was in\npossession of what she so coveted, and to feel that he was bargaining,\nhalf in earnest, for her life in exchange for his secret. She was almost\ntempted for one moment to assent, to say she would marry him, so great\nwas her curiosity; it would be easy to break her promise, and laugh at\nhim afterwards. But she was not a bad woman, as women of her class are\nconsidered. She had suffered a great disappointment, and her resentment\nwas in proportion to her vanity. But she was not prepared to give a false\npromise for the sake of vengeance; she was only bad enough to imagine\nsuch bad faith possible.\n\n\"But you said you never seriously thought I could accept such an\nengagement,\" she objected, not knowing what to say.\n\n\"I did,\" replied Del Ferice. \"I might have added that I never seriously\ncontemplated parting with my secret.\"\n\n\"There is nothing to be got from you,\" said Donna Tullia, in a tone of\ndisappointment. \"I think that when you have nearly driven me mad with\ncuriosity, you might really tell me something.\"\n\n\"Ah no, dear lady,\" answered her companion. \"You may ask anything of me\nbut that--anything. You may ask that too, if you will sign the treaty I\npropose.\"\n\n\"You will drive me into marrying you out of sheer curiosity,\" said Donna\nTullia, with an impatient laugh.\n\n\"I wish that were possible. I wish I could see my way to telling you as\nit is, for the thing is so curious that it would have the most intense\ninterest for you. But it is quite out of the question.\"\n\n\"You should never have told me anything about it,\" replied Madame Mayer.\n\n\"Well, I will think about it,\" said Del Ferice at last, as though\nsuddenly resolving to make a sacrifice. \"I will look over some papers I\nhave, and I will think about it. I promise you that if I feel that I can\nconscientiously tell you something of the matter, you may be sure that\nI will.\"\n\nDonna Tullia's manner changed again, from impatience to persuasion. The\nsudden hope he held out to her was delicious to contemplate. She could\nnot realise that Del Ferice, having once thoroughly interested her, could\nplay upon her moods as on the keys of an instrument. If she had been less\nanxious that the story he told should be true, she might have suspected\nthat he was practising upon her credulity. But she seized the idea of\nobtaining some secret influence over the life of Giovanni, and it\ncompletely carried her away.\n\n\"You must tell me--I am sure you will,\" she said, letting her kindest\nglance rest upon her companion. \"Come and dine with me,--do you fast?\nNo--nor I. Come on Friday--will you?\"\n\n\"I shall be delighted,\" answered Del Ferice, with a quiet smile of\ntriumph.\n\n\"I will have the old lady, of course, so you cannot tell me at dinner;\nbut she will go to sleep soon afterwards--she always does. Come at seven.\nBesides, she is deaf, you know.\"\n\nThe old lady in question was the aged Countess whom Donna Tullia affected\nas a companion in her solitary magnificence.\n\n\"And now, will you take me back to the ball-room? I have an idea that a\npartner is looking for me.\"\n\nDel Ferice left her dancing, and went home in his little coup\u00e9. He was\ndesperately fatigued, for he was still very weak, and he feared lest his\nimprudence in going out so soon might bring on a relapse from his\nconvalescence. Nevertheless, before he went to bed he dismissed\nTemistocle, and opened a shabby-looking black box which stood upon his\nwriting-table. It was bound with iron, and was fastened by a patent lock\nwhich had frequently defied Temistocle's ingenuity. From this repository\nhe took a great number of papers, which were all neatly filed away and\nmarked in the owner's small and ornamented handwriting. Beneath many\npackages of letters he found what he sought for, a long envelope\ncontaining several folded documents.\n\nHe spread out the papers and read them carefully over.\n\n\"It is a very singular thing,\" he said to himself; \"but there can be no\ndoubt about it. There it is.\"\n\nHe folded the papers again, returned them to their envelope, and replaced\nthe latter deep among the letters in his box. He then locked it, attached\nthe key to a chain he wore about his neck, and went to bed, worn out\nwith fatigue.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\n\nDel Ferice had purposely excited Donna Tullia's curiosity, and he meant\nbefore long to tell more than he had vouchsafed in his first confidence.\nBut he himself trembled before the magnitude of what he had suddenly\nthought of doing, for the fear of Giovanni was in his heart. The\ntemptation to boast to Donna Tullia that he had the means of preventing\nGiovanni from marrying was too strong; but when it had come to telling\nher what those means were, prudence had restrained him. He desired that\nif the scheme were put into execution it might be by some one else; for,\nextraordinary as it was, he was not absolutely certain of its success. He\nwas not sure of Donna Tullia's discretion, either, until by a judicious\nwithholding of the secret he had given her a sufficient idea of its\nimportance. But on mature reflection he came to the conclusion that, even\nif she possessed the information he was able to give, she would not dare\nto mention it, nor even to hint at it.\n\nThe grey light of Ash-Wednesday morning broke over Rome, and stole\nthrough the windows of Giovanni Saracinesca's bedroom. Giovanni had not\nslept much, but his restlessness was due rather to his gladness at having\nperformed the last of his social duties than to any disturbance of mind.\nAll night he lay planning what he should do,--how he might reach his\nplace in the mountains by a circuitous route, leaving the general\nimpression that he was abroad--and how, when at last he had got to\nSaracinesca unobserved, he would revel in the solitude and in the thought\nof being within half a day's journey of Corona d'Astrardente. He was\nwilling to take a great deal of trouble, for he did not wish people to\nknow his whereabouts; he would not have it said that he had gone into\nthe country to be near Corona and to see her every day, as would\ncertainly be said if his real movements were discovered. Accordingly, he\nfulfilled his programme to the letter. He left Rome on the afternoon of\nAsh-Wednesday for Florence; there he visited several acquaintances who,\nhe knew, would write to their friends in Rome of his appearance; from\nFlorence he went to Paris, and gave out that he was going upon a shooting\nexpedition in the Arctic regions, as soon as the weather was warm enough.\nAs he was well known for a sportsman and a traveller, this statement\ncreated no suspicion; and when he finally left Paris, the newspapers and\nthe gossips all said he had gone to Copenhagen on his way to the far\nnorth. In due time the statement reached Rome, and it was supposed that\nsociety had lost sight of Giovanni Saracinesca for at least eight months.\nIt was thought that he had acted with great delicacy in absenting\nhimself; he would thus allow the first months of Corona's mourning to\npass before formally presenting himself to society as her suitor.\nConsidering the peculiar circumstances of the case, there would be\nnothing improper, from a social point of view, in his marrying Corona at\nthe expiration of a year after her husband's death. Of course he would\nmarry her; there was no doubt of that--he had been in love with her so\nlong, and now she was both free and rich. No one suspected that Giovanni,\ninstead of being in Scandinavia, was quietly established at Saracinesca,\na day's journey from Rome, busying himself with the management of the\nestate, and momentarily satisfied in feeling himself so near the woman he\nloved.\n\nDonna Tullia could hardly wait until the day when Del Ferice was coming\nto dinner: she was several times on the point of writing a note to ask\nhim to come at once. But she wisely refrained, guessing that the more she\npressed him the more difficulties he would make. At last he came, looking\npale and worn--interesting, as Donna Tullia would have expressed it. The\nold Countess talked a great deal during dinner; but as she was too deaf\nto hear more than a quarter of what was said by the others, the\nconversation was not interesting. When the meal was over, she established\nherself in a comfortable chair in the little sitting-room, and took a\nbook. After a few minutes, Donna Tullia suggested to Del Ferice that they\nshould go into the drawing-room. She had received some new waltz-music\nfrom Vienna which she wanted to look over, and Ugo might help her. She\nwas not a musician, but was fond of a cheerful noise, and played upon the\npiano with the average skill of a well-educated young woman of the\nworld. Of course the doors were left open between the drawing-room and\nthe boudoir, where the Countess dozed over her book and presently fell\nasleep.\n\nDonna Tullia sat at the grand piano, and made Del Ferice sit beside her.\nShe struck a few chords, and played a fragment of dance-music.\n\n\"Of course you have heard that Don Giovanni is gone?\" she asked,\ncarelessly. \"I suppose he is gone to Saracinesca; they say there is a\nvery good road between that and Astrardente.\"\n\n\"I should think he would have more decency than to pursue the Duchessa in\nthe first month of her mourning,\" answered Del Ferice, resting one arm\nupon the piano, and supporting his pale face with his hand as he watched\nDonna Tullia's fingers move upon the keys.\n\n\"Why? He does not care what people say--why should he? He will marry her\nwhen the year is out. Why should he care?\"\n\n\"He can never marry her unless I choose to allow it,\" said Del Ferice,\nquietly.\n\n\"So you told me the other night,\" returned Donna Tullia. \"But you will\nallow him, of course. Besides, you could not stop it, after all. I do not\nbelieve that you could.\" She leaned far back in her chair, her hands\nresting upon the keys without striking them, and she looked at Del Ferice\nwith a sweet smile. There was a moment's pause.\n\n\"I have decided to tell you something,\" he said at last, \"upon one\ncondition.\"\n\n\"Why make conditions?\" asked Donna Tullia, trying to conceal her\nexcitement.\n\n\"Only one, that of secrecy. Will you promise never to mention what I am\ngoing to tell you without previously consulting me? I do not mean a\ncommon promise; I mean it to be an oath.\" He spoke very earnestly. \"This\nis a very serious matter. We are playing with fire and with life and\ndeath. You must give me some guarantee that you will be secret.\"\n\nHis manner impressed Donna Tullia; she had never seen him so much in\nearnest in her life.\n\n\"I will promise in any way you please,\" she said.\n\n\"Then say this,\" he answered. \"Say, 'I swear and solemnly bind myself\nthat I will faithfully keep the secret about to be committed to me; and\nthat if I fail to keep it I will atone by immediately marrying Ugo del\nFerice--'\"\n\n\"That is absurd!\" cried Donna Tullia, starting back from him. He did not\nheed her.\n\n\"'And I take to witness of this oath the blessed memory of my mother, the\nhope of the salvation of my soul, and this relic of the True Cross.'\" He\npointed to the locket she wore at her neck, which she had often told\nhim contained the relic he mentioned.\n\n\"It is impossible!\" she cried again. \"I cannot swear so solemnly about\nsuch a matter. I cannot promise to marry you.\"\n\n\"Then it is because you cannot promise to keep my secret,\" he answered\ncalmly. He knew her very well, and he believed that she would not break\nsuch an oath as he had dictated, under any circumstances. He did not\nchoose to risk anything by her indiscretion. Donna Tullia hesitated,\nseeing that he was firm. She was tortured with curiosity beyond all\nendurance.\n\n\"I am only promising to marry you in case I reveal the secret?\" she\nasked. He bowed assent. \"So that I am really only promising to be silent?\nWell, I cannot understand why it should be solemn; but if you wish it\nso, I will do it. What are the words?\"\n\nHe repeated them slowly, and she followed him. He watched her at every\nword, to be sure she overlooked nothing.\n\n\"I, Tullia Mayer, swear and solemnly bind myself that I will faithfully\nkeep the secret about to be committed to me; and that if I fail to keep\nit, I will atone by immediately marrying Ugo del Ferice\"--her voice\ntrembled nervously: \"and I take to witness of this oath the blessed\nmemory of my mother, the hope of the salvation of my soul, and this relic\nof the True Cross.\" At the last words she took the locket in her fingers.\n\n\"You understand that you have promised to marry me if you reveal my\nsecret? You fully understand that?\" asked Del Ferice.\n\n\"I understand it,\" she answered hurriedly, as though ashamed of what she\nhad done. \"And now, the secret,\" she added eagerly, feeling that she had\nundergone a certain humiliation for the sake of what she so much\ncoveted.\n\n\"Don Giovanni cannot marry the Duchessa d'Astrardente, because\"--he\npaused a moment to give full weight to his statement--\"because Don\nGiovanni Saracinesca is married already.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried Donna Tullia, starting from her chair in amazement at the\nastounding news.\n\n\"It is quite true,\" said Del Ferice, with a quiet smile. \"Calm yourself;\nit is quite true. I know what you are thinking of--all Rome thought he\nwas going to marry you.\"\n\nDonna Tullia was overcome by the strangeness of the situation. She hid\nher face in her hands for a moment as she leaned forward over the piano.\nThen she suddenly looked up.\n\n\"What a hideous piece of villany!\" she exclaimed, in a stifled voice.\nThen slowly recovering from the first shock of the intelligence, she\nlooked at Del Ferice; she was almost as pale as he. \"What proof have\nyou?\" she asked.\n\n\"I have the attested copy of the banns published by the priest who\nmarried them. That is evidence. Moreover, the real book of banns exists,\nand Giovanni's name is upon the parish register. I have also a copy of\nthe certificate of the civil marriage, which is signed by Giovanni\nhimself.\"\n\n\"Tell me more,\" said Donna Tullia, eagerly. \"How did you find it?\"\n\n\"It is very simple,\" answered Del Ferice. \"You may go and see for\nyourself, if you do not mind making a short journey. Last summer I was\nwandering a little for my health's sake, as I often do, and I chanced to\nbe in the town of Aquila--you know, the capital of Abruzzi. One day I\nhappened to go into the sacristy of one of the parish churches to see\nsome pictures which are hung there. There had been a marriage service\nperformed, and as the sacristan moved about explaining the pictures, he\nlaid his hand upon an open book which looked like a register of some\nkind. I idly asked him what it was, and he showed it to me; it was\namusing to look at the names of the people, and I turned over the leaves\ncuriously. Suddenly my attention was arrested by a name I knew--'Giovanni\nSaracinesca,' written clearly across the page, and below it, 'Felice\nBaldi,'--the woman he had married. The date of the marriage was the 19th\nof June 1863. You remember, perhaps, that in that summer, in fact during\nthe whole of that year, Don Giovanni was supposed to be absent upon\nhis famous shooting expedition in Canada, about which he talks so much.\nIt appears, then, that two years ago, instead of being in America, he was\nliving in Aquila, married to Felice Baldi--probably some pretty peasant\ngirl. I started at the sight of the names. I got permission to have an\nattested copy of it made by a notary. I found the priest who had married\nthem, but he could not remember the couple. The man, he said, was dark,\nhe was sure; the woman, he thought, had been fair. He married so many\npeople in a year. These were not natives of Aquila; they had apparently\ncome there from the country--perhaps had met. The banns--yes, he had\nthe book of banns; he had also the register of marriages from which he\nsometimes issued certified extracts. He was a good old man, and seemed\nready to oblige me; but his memory was very defective. He allowed me to\ntake notary's copies of the banns and the entry in the list, as well as\nof the register. Then I went to the office of the Stato Civile. You know\nthat people do not sign the register in the church themselves; the names\nare written down by the priest. I wanted to see the signatures, and the\nbook of civil marriages was shown to me. The handwriting was Giovanni's,\nI am sure--larger, and a little less firm, but distinguishable at a\nglance. I took the copies for curiosity, and never said anything about\nit, but I have kept them. That is the history. Do you see how serious a\nmatter it is?\"\n\n\"Indeed, yes,\" answered Donna Tullia, who had listened with intense\ninterest to the story. \"But what could have induced him to marry that\nwoman?\"\n\n\"One of those amiable eccentricities peculiar to his family,\" replied Del\nFerice, shrugging his shoulders. \"The interesting thing would be to\ndiscover what became of Felice Baldi--Donna Felice Saracinesca, as I\nsuppose she has a right to be called.\"\n\n\"Let us find her--Giovanni's wife,\" exclaimed Donna Tullia, eagerly.\n\"Where can she be?\"\n\n\"Who knows?\" ejaculated Del Ferice. \"I would be curious to see her. The\nname of her native village is given, and the names of her parents.\nGiovanni described himself in the paper as 'of Naples, a landholder,' and\nomitted somehow the details of his parentage. Nothing could be more\nvague; everybody is a landholder, from the wretched peasant who\ncultivates one acre to their high-and-mightinesses the Princes of\nSaracinesca. Perhaps by going to the village mentioned some information\nmight be obtained. He probably left her sufficiently provided for, and,\ndeparting on pretence of a day's journey, never returned. He is a\nperfectly unscrupulous man, and thinks no more of this mad scrape than of\nshooting a chamois in the Tyrol. He knows she can never find him--never\nguessed who he really was.\"\n\n\"Perhaps she is dead,\" suggested Donna Tullia, her face suddenly growing\ngrave.\n\n\"Why? He would not have taken the trouble to kill her--a peasant girl in\nthe Abruzzi! He would have had no difficulty in leaving her, and she is\nprobably alive and well at the present moment, perhaps the mother of the\nfuture Prince Saracinesca--who can tell?\"\n\n\"But do you not see,\" said Donna Tullia, \"that unless you have proof that\nshe is alive, we have no hold upon him? He may acknowledge the whole\nthing, and calmly inform us that she is dead.\"\n\n\"That is true; but even then he must show that she came to a natural end\nand was buried. Believe me, Giovanni would relinquish all intentions of\nmarrying the Astrardente rather than have this scandalous story\npublished.\"\n\n\"I would like to tax him with it in a point-blank question, and watch his\nface,\" said Donna Tullia, fiercely.\n\n\"Remember your oath,\" said Del Ferice. \"But he is gone now. You will not\nmeet him for some months.\"\n\n\"Tell me, how could you make use of this knowledge, if you really wanted\nto prevent his marriage with the Astrardente?\"\n\n\"I would advise you to go to her and state the case. You need mention\nnobody. Any one who chooses may go to Aquila and examine the registers. I\nthink that you could convey the information to her with as much command\nof language as would be necessary.\"\n\n\"I daresay I could,\" she answered, between her teeth. \"What a strange\nchance it was that brought that register under your hand!\"\n\n\"Heaven sends opportunities,\" said Del Ferice, devoutly; \"it is for man\nto make good use of them. Who knows but what you may make a brilliant use\nof this?\"\n\n\"I cannot, since I am bound by my promise,\" said Donna Tullia.\n\n\"No; I am sure you will not think of doing it. But then, we might perhaps\nagree that circumstances made it advisable to act. Many months must pass\nbefore he can think of offering himself to her. It will be time enough\nto consider the matter then--to consider whether we should be justified\nin raising such a terrible scandal, in causing so much unhappiness to an\ninnocent woman like the Duchessa, and to a worthless man like Don\nGiovanni. Think what a disgrace it would be to the Saracinesca to have it\nmade public that Giovanni was openly engaged to marry a great heiress\nwhile already secretly married to a peasant woman!\"\n\n\"It would indeed be horrible,\" said Donna Tullia, with a disagreeable\nlook in her blue eyes. \"Perhaps we should not even think of it,\" she\nadded, turning over the leaves of the music upon the piano. Then suddenly\nshe added, \"Do you know that you have put me in a dreadful position\nby exacting that promise from me?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Del Ferice, quietly. \"You wanted to hear the secret. You have\nheard it. You have nothing to do but to keep it to yourself.\"\n\n\"That is precisely--\" She checked herself, and struck a loud chord upon\nthe instrument. She had turned from Del Ferice, and could not see the\nsmile upon his face, which flickered across the pale features and\nvanished instantly.\n\n\"Think no more about it,\" he said pleasantly. \"It is so easy to forget\nsuch stories when one resolutely puts them out of one's mind.\"\n\nDonna Tullia smiled bitterly, and was silent. She began playing from the\nsheet before her, with indifferent accuracy, but with more than\nsufficient energy. Del Ferice sat patiently by her side, turning over the\nleaves, and glancing from time to time at her face, which he really\nadmired exceedingly. He belonged to the type of pale and somewhat\nphlegmatic men who frequently fall in love with women of sanguine\ncomplexion and robust appearance. Donna Tullia was a fine type of this\nclass, and was called handsome, though she did not compare well with\nwomen of less pretension to beauty, but more delicacy and refinement. Del\nFerice admired her greatly, however; and, as has been said, he admired\nher fortune even more. He saw himself gradually approaching the goal of\nhis intentions, and as he neared the desired end he grew more and more\ncautious. He had played one of his strongest cards that night, and he was\ncontent to wait and let matters develop quietly, without any more pushing\nfrom him. The seed would grow, there was no fear of that, and his\nposition was strong. He could wait quietly for the result.\n\nAt the end of half an hour he excused himself upon the plea that he was\nstill only convalescent, and was unable to bear the fatigue of late\nhours. Donna Tullia did not press him to stay, for she wished to be\nalone; and when he was gone she sat long at the open piano, pondering\nupon what she had done, and even more upon what she had escaped doing. It\nwas a hideous thought that if Giovanni, in all that long winter, had\nasked her to be his wife, she would readily have consented; it was\nfearful to think what her position would have been towards Del Ferice,\nwho would have been able by a mere word to annul her marriage by proving\nthe previous one at Aquila. People do not trifle with such accusations,\nand he certainly knew what he was doing; she would have been bound hand\nand foot. Or supposing that Del Ferice had died of the wound he received\nin the duel, and his papers had been ransacked by his heirs, whoever\nthey might be--these attested documents would have become public\nproperty. What a narrow escape Giovanni had had! And she herself, too,\nhow nearly had she been involved in his ruin! She liked to think that\nhe had almost offered himself to her; it flattered her, although she now\nhated him so cordially. She could not help admiring Del Ferice's\nwonderful discretion in so long concealing a piece of scandal that would\nhave shaken Roman society to its foundations, and she trembled when she\nthought what would happen if she herself were ever tempted to reveal what\nshe had heard. Del Ferice was certainly a man of genius--so quiet, and\nyet possessing such weapons; there was some generosity about him too, or\nhe would have revenged himself for his wound by destroying Giovanni's\nreputation. She considered whether she could have kept her counsel so\nwell in his place. After all, as he had said, the moment for using the\ndocuments had not yet come, for hitherto Giovanni had never proposed to\nmarry any one. Perhaps this secret wedding in Aquila explained his\ncelibacy; Del Ferice had perhaps misjudged him in saying that he was\nunscrupulous; he had perhaps left his peasant wife, repenting of his\nfolly, but it was perhaps on her account that he had never proposed to\nmarry Donna Tullia; he had, then, only been amusing himself with Corona.\nThat all seemed likely enough--so likely, that it heightened the\ncertainty of Del Ferice's information.\n\nA few days later, as Giovanni had intended, news began to reach Rome that\nhe had been in Florence, and was actually in Paris; then it was said that\nhe was going upon a shooting expedition somewhere in the far north\nduring the summer. It was like him, and in accordance with his tastes. He\nhated the quiet receptions at the great houses during Lent, to which, if\nhe remained in Rome, he was obliged to go. He naturally escaped when he\ncould. But there was no escape for Donna Tullia, and after all she\nmanaged to extract some amusement from these gatherings. She was the\nacknowledged centre of the more noisy set, and wherever she went,\npeople who wanted to be amused, and were willing to amuse each other,\ncongregated around her. On one of these occasions she met old\nSaracinesca. He did not go out much since his son had left; but he seemed\ncheerful enough, and as he liked Madame Mayer, for some inscrutable\nreason, she rather liked him. Moreover, her interest in Giovanni, though\nnow the very reverse of affectionate, made her anxious to know something\nof his movements.\n\n\"You must be lonely since Don Giovanni has gone upon his travels again,\"\nshe said.\n\n\"That is the reason I go out,\" said the Prince. \"It is not very gay, but\nit is better than nothing. It suggests cold meat served up after the\ndessert; but when people are hungry, the order of their food is not of\nmuch importance.\"\n\n\"Is there any news, Prince? I want to be amused.\"\n\n\"News? No. The world is at peace, and consequently given over to sin, as\nit mostly is when it is resting from a fit of violence.\"\n\n\"You seem to be inclined to moralities this evening,\" said Donna Tullia,\nsmiling, and gently swaying the red fan she always carried.\n\n\"Am I? Then I am growing old, I suppose. It is the privilege of old age\nto censure in others what it is no longer young enough to praise in\nitself. It is a bad thing to grow old, but it makes people good, or makes\nthem think they are, which in their own eyes is precisely the same\nthing.\"\n\n\"How delightfully cynical!\"\n\n\"Doggish?\" inquired the Prince, with a laugh. \"I have heard it said by\nscholars, that cynical means doggish in Greek. The fable of the dog in\nthe horse's manger was invented to define the real cynic--the man who\nneither enjoys life himself nor will allow other people to enjoy it. I am\nnot such a man. I hope you, for instance, will enjoy everything that\ncomes in your way.\"\n\n\"Even the cold meat after the dessert which you spoke of just now?\" asked\nDonna Tullia. \"Thank you--I will try; perhaps you can help me.\"\n\n\"My son despised it,\" said Saracinesca. \"He is gone in search of fresh\npastures of sweets.\"\n\n\"Leaving you behind.\"\n\n\"Somebody once said that the wisest thing a son could do was to get rid\nof his father as soon as possible--\"\n\n\"Then Don Giovanni is a wise man,\" returned Donna Tullia.\n\n\"Perhaps. However, he asked me to accompany him.\"\n\n\"You refused?\"\n\n\"Of course. Such expeditions are good enough for boys. I dislike\nFlorence, I am not especially fond of Paris, and I detest the North Pole.\nI suppose you have seen from the papers that he is going in that\ndirection? It is like him, he hankers after originality, I suppose. Being\nborn in the south, he naturally goes to the extreme north.\"\n\n\"He will write you very interesting letters, I should think,\" remarked\nDonna Tullia. \"Is he a good correspondent?\"\n\n\"Remarkably, for he never gives one any trouble. He sends his address\nfrom time to time, and draws frequently on his banker. His letters are\nnot so full of interest as might be thought, as they rarely extend over\nfive lines; but on the other hand it does not take long to read them,\nwhich is a blessing.\"\n\n\"You seem to be an affectionate parent,\" said Donna Tullia, with a laugh.\n\n\"If you measure affection by the cost of postage-stamps, you have a right\nto be sarcastic. If you measure it in any other way, you are wrong. I\ncould not help loving any one so like myself as my son. It would show a\ndetestable lack of appreciation of my own gifts.\"\n\n\"I do not think Don Giovanni so very like you,\" said Donna Tullia,\nthoughtfully.\n\n\"Perhaps you do not know him so well as I do,\" remarked the Prince.\n\"Where do you see the greatest difference?\"\n\n\"I think you talk better, and I think you are more--not exactly more\nhonest, perhaps, but more straightforward.\"\n\n\"I do not agree with you,\" said old Saracinesca, quickly. \"There is no\none alive who can say they ever knew Giovanni approach in the most\ninnocent way to a distortion of truth. I daresay you have discovered,\nhowever, that he is reticent; he can hold his tongue; he is no chatterer,\nno parrot, my son.\"\n\n\"Indeed he is not,\" answered Donna Tullia, and the reply pacified the old\nman; but she herself was thinking what supreme reticence Giovanni had\nshown in the matter of his marriage, and she wondered whether the Prince\nhad ever heard of it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\n\nAnastase Gouache worked hard at the Cardinal's portrait, and at the same\ntime did his best to satisfy Donna Tullia. The latter, indeed, was not\neasily pleased, and Gouache found it hard to instil into his\nrepresentation of her the precise amount of poetry she required, without\ndoing violence to his own artistic sense of fitness. But the other\npicture progressed rapidly. The Cardinal was a restless man, and after\nthe first two or three sittings, desired nothing so much as to be done\nwith them altogether. Anastase amused him, it is true, and the statesman\nsoon perceived that he had made a conquest of the young man's mind, and\nthat, as Giovanni Saracinesca had predicted, he had helped Gouache to\ncome to a decision. He was not prepared, however, for the practical turn\nthat decision immediately took, and he was just beginning to wish the\nsittings at an end when Anastase surprised him by a very startling\nannouncement.\n\nAs usual, they were in the Cardinal's study; the statesman was silent and\nthoughtful, and Gouache was working with all his might.\n\n\"I have made up my mind,\" said the latter, suddenly.\n\n\"Concerning what, my friend?\" inquired the great man, rather absently.\n\n\"Concerning everything, Eminence,\" answered Gouache \"concerning politics,\nreligion, life, death, and everything else which belongs to my career. I\nam going to enlist with the Zouaves.\"\n\nThe Cardinal looked at him for a moment, and then broke into a low laugh.\n\n\"_Extremis malis extrema remedial!_\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"Precisely--_aux grands maux les grands rem\u00e8des,_ as we say. I am going\nto join the Church militant. I am convinced that it is the best thing an\nhonest man can do. I like fighting, and I like the Church--therefore I\nwill fight for the Church.\"\n\n\"Very good logic, indeed,\" answered the Cardinal. But he looked at\nAnastase, and marking his delicate features and light frame, he almost\nwondered how the lad would look in the garb of a soldier. \"Very good\nlogic; but, my dear Monsieur Gouache, what is to become of your art?\"\n\n\"I shall not be mounting guard all day, and the Zouaves are allowed to\nlive in their own lodgings. I will live in my studio, and paint when I am\nnot mounting guard.\"\n\n\"And my portrait?\" inquired Cardinal Antonelli, much amused.\n\n\"Your Eminence will doubtless be kind enough to manage that I may have\nliberty to finish it.\"\n\n\"You could not put off enlisting for a week, I suppose?\"\n\nGouache looked annoyed; he hated the idea of waiting.\n\n\"I have taken too long to make up my mind already,\" he replied. \"I must\nmake the plunge at once. I am convinced--your Eminence has convinced\nme--that I have been very foolish.\"\n\n\"I certainly never intended to convince you of that,\" remarked the\nCardinal, with a smile.\n\n\"Very foolish,\" repeated Gouache, not heeding the interruption. \"I have\ntalked great nonsense,--I scarcely know why--perhaps to try and find\nwhere the sense really lay. I have dreamed so many dreams, so long, that\nI sometimes think I am morbid. All artists are morbid, I suppose. It is\nbetter to do anything active than to lose one's self in the slums of a\nsickly imagination.\"\n\n\"I agree with you,\" answered the Cardinal; \"but I do not think you\nsuffered from a sickly imagination,--I should rather call it abundant\nthan sickly. Frankly, I should be sorry to think that in following this\nnew idea you were in any way injuring the great career which, I am sure,\nis before you; but, on the other hand, I cannot help wishing that a\ngreater number of young men would follow your example.\"\n\n\"Your Eminence approves, then?\"\n\n\"Do you think you will make a good soldier?\"\n\n\"Other artists have been good soldiers. There was Cellini--\"\n\n\"Benvenuto Cellini said he made a good soldier; he said it himself, but\nhis reputation for veracity in other matters was doubtful, to say the\nleast. If he did not shoot the Conn\u00e9table de Bourbon, it is very certain\nthat some one else did. Besides, a soldier in our times should be a very\ndifferent kind of man from the self-armed citizen of the time of Clement\nthe Ninth and the aforesaid Conn\u00e9table. You will have to wear a uniform\nand sleep on boards in a guard-house; you will have to be up early to\ndrill, and up late mounting guard, in wind and rain and cold. It is hard\nwork; I do not believe you have the constitution for it. Nevertheless,\nthe intention is good. You can try it, and if you fall ill I will see\nthat you have no difficulty in returning to your artist life.\"\n\n\"I do not mean to give it up,\" replied Gouache, in a tone of conviction.\n\"And as for my health, I am as strong as any one.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said the Cardinal, doubtfully. \"And when are you going to join\nthe corps?\"\n\n\"In about an hour,\" said Gouache, quietly.\n\nAnd he kept his word. But he had told no one, save the Cardinal, of his\nintention; and for a day or two, though he passed many acquaintances in\nthe street, no one recognised Anastase Gouache in the handsome young\nsoldier with his grey Turco uniform, a red sash round his slender waist,\nand a small _k\u00e9pi_ set jauntily upon one side.\n\nIt was one of the phenomena of those times. Foreigners swarmed in Rome,\nand many of them joined the cosmopolitan corps--gentlemen, noblemen,\nartists, men of the learned professions, adventurers, duellists driven\nfrom their country in a temporary exile, enthusiasts, strolling\nIrishmen, men of all sorts and conditions. But, take them all in all,\nthey were a fine set of fellows, who set no value whatever on their\nlives, and who, as a whole, fought for an idea, in the old crusading\nspirit. There were many who, like Gouache, joined solely from conviction;\nand there were few instances indeed of any who, having joined, deserted.\nIt often happened that a stranger came to Rome for a mere visit, and at\nthe end of a month surprised his friends by appearing in the grey\nuniform. You had met him the night before at a ball in the ordinary garb\nof civilisation, covered with cotillon favours, waltzing like a madman;\nthe next morning he entered the Caf\u00e9 de Rome in a braided jacket open at\nthe throat, and told you he was a soldier--a private soldier, who touched\nhis cap to every corporal of the French infantry, and was liable to be\nlocked up for twenty-four hours if he was late to quarters.\n\nDonna Tullia's portrait was not quite finished, and Gouache had asked for\none or two more sittings. Three days after the artist had taken his great\nresolution, Madame Mayer and Del Ferice entered his studio. He had had no\ndifficulty in being at liberty at the hour of the sitting, and had merely\nexchanged his jacket for an old painting-coat, not taking the trouble to\ndivest himself of the remainder of his uniform.\n\n\"Where have you been all this time?\" asked Donna Tullia, as she lifted\nthe curtain and entered the studio. He had kept out of her way during the\npast few days.\n\n\"Good heavens, Gouache!\" cried Del Ferice, starting back, as he caught\nsight of the artist's grey trousers and yellow gaiters. \"What is the\nmeaning of this comedy?\"\n\n\"What?\" asked Gouache, coolly. Then, glancing at his legs, he answered,\n\"Oh, nothing. I have turned Zouave--that is all. Will you sit down, Donna\nTullia? I was waiting for you.\"\n\n\"Turned Zouave!\" exclaimed Madame Mayer and Del Ferice in a breath.\n\"Turned Zouave!\"\n\n\"Well?\" said Gouache, raising his eyebrows and enjoying their surprise.\n\"Well--why not?\"\n\nDel Ferice struck a fine attitude, and, laying one hand upon Donna\nTullia's arm, whispered hoarsely in her ear--\n\n\"_Siamo traditi_--we are betrayed!\" he said. Whereupon Donna Tullia\nturned a little pale.\n\n\"Betrayed!\" she repeated, \"and by Gouache!\"\n\nGouache laughed, as he drew out the battered old carved chair on which\nMadame Mayer was accustomed to sit when he painted.\n\n\"Calm yourself, Madame,\" he said. \"I have not the least intention of\nbetraying you. I have made a counter-revolution--but I am perfectly\nfrank. I will not tell of the ferocious deeds I have heard discussed.\"\n\nDel Ferice scowled and drew back, partly acting, partly in earnest. It\nlay in his schemes to make Donna Tullia believe herself involved in a\ngenuine plot, and from this point of view he felt that he must pretend\nthe greatest horror and surprise. On the other hand, he knew that Gouache\nhad been painting the Cardinal's portrait, and guessed that the statesman\nhad acquired a strong influence over the artist's mind--an influence\nwhich was already showing itself in a way that looked dangerous. It had\nnever struck him until quite lately that Anastase, a republican by\ndescent and conviction, could suddenly step into the reactionary camp.\n\n\"Pardon me, Donna Tullia,\" said Ugo, in serious tones, \"pardon me--but I\nthink we should do well to leave Monsieur Gouache to the contemplation of\nhis new career. This is no place for us--the company of traitors--\"\n\n\"Look here, Del Ferice,\" said Gouache, suddenly going up to him and\nlooking him in the face,--\"do you seriously believe that anything you\nhave ever said, in this room is worth betraying? or, if you do, do you\nreally think that I would betray it?\"\n\n\"Bah!\" exclaimed Donna Tullia, interposing, \"it is nonsense! Gouache is a\ngentleman, of course--and besides, I mean to have my portrait, politics\nor no politics.\"\n\nWith this round statement Donna Tullia sat down, and Del Ferice had no\nchoice but to follow her example. He was profoundly disgusted, but he saw\nat a glance that it would be hopeless to attempt to dissuade Madame Mayer\nwhen she had once made up her mind.\n\n\"And now you can tell us all about it,\" said Donna Tullia. \"What, in the\nname of all that is senseless, has induced you to join the Zouaves? It\nreally makes me very nervous to see you.\"\n\n\"That lends poetry to your expression,\" interrupted Gouache. \"I wish you\nwere always nervous. You really want to know why I am a Zouave? It is\nvery simple. You must know that I always follow my impulses.\"\n\n\"Impulses!\" ejaculated Del Ferice, moodily.\n\n\"Yes; because my impulses are always good,--whereas when I reflect much,\nmy judgment is always bad. I felt a strong impulse to wear the grey\nuniform, so I walked into the recruiting office and wrote my name down.\"\n\n\"I feel a strong impulse to walk out of your studio, Monsieur Gouache,\"\nsaid Donna Tullia, with a rather nervous laugh.\n\n\"Then allow me to tell you that, whereas my impulses are good, yours are\nnot,\" replied Anastase, quietly painting. \"Because I have a new dress--\"\n\n\"And new convictions,\" interrupted Del Ferice; \"you who were always\narguing about convictions!\"\n\n\"I had none; that is the reason I argued about them. I have plenty\nnow--I argue no longer.\"\n\n\"You are wise,\" retorted Ugo. \"Those you have got will never bear\ndiscussion.\"\n\n\"Excuse me,\" answered Gouache; \"if you will take the trouble to be\nintroduced to his Eminence Cardinal Antonelli--\"\n\nDonna Tullia held up her hands in horror.\n\n\"That horrible man! That Mephistopheles!\" she cried.\n\n\"That Macchiavelli! That arch-enemy of our holy liberty!\" exclaimed Del\nFerice, in theatrical tones.\n\n\"Exactly,\" answered Gouache. \"If he could be induced to devote a quarter\nof an hour of his valuable time to talking with you, he would turn your\nconvictions round his finger.\"\n\n\"This is too much!\" cried Del Ferice, angrily.\n\n\"I think it is very amusing,\" said Donna Tullia, \"What a pity that all\nLiberals are not artists, whom his Eminence could engage to paint his\nportrait and be converted at so much an hour!\"\n\nGouache smiled quietly, and went on with his work.\n\n\"So he told you to go and turn Zouave,\" remarked Donna Tullia, after a\npause, \"and you submitted like a lamb.\"\n\n\"So far was the Cardinal from advising me to turn soldier, that he\nexpressed the greatest surprise when I told him of my intention,\"\nreturned Gouache, rather coldly.\n\n\"Indeed it is enough to take away even a cardinal's breath,\" answered\nMadame Mayer. \"I was never, never so surprised in my life!\"\n\nGouache stood up to get a view of his work, and Donna Tullia looked at\nhim critically.\n\n\"_Tiens_!\" she exclaimed, \"it is rather becoming--what small ankles you\nhave, Gouache!\"\n\nAnastase laughed. It was impossible to be grave in the face of such\nutterly frivolous inconsistency.\n\n\"You will allow your expression to change so often, Donna Tullia! It is\nimpossible to catch it.\"\n\n\"Like your convictions,\" murmured Del Ferice from his corner. Indeed Ugo\ndid not know what to make of the scene. He had miscalculated the strength\nof Donna Tullia's fears as compared with her longing to possess a\nflattering portrait of herself. Rather than leave the picture unfinished,\nshe exhibited a cynical indifference to danger which would have done\nhonour to a better man than Del Ferice. Perhaps, too, she understood\nGouache well enough to know that he might be trusted. Indeed any one\nwould have trusted Gouache. Even Del Ferice was less disturbed at the\npossibility of the artist's repeating any of the trivial liberal talk\nwhich he had listened to, than at the indifference to discovery shown by\nDonna Tullia. To Del Ferice, the whole thing had been but a harmless\nplay; but he wanted Madame Mayer to believe that it had all been in\nsolemn earnest, and that she was really implicated in a dangerous plot;\nfor it gave him a stronger hold upon her for his own ends.\n\n\"So you are going to fight for Pio Nono,\" remarked Ugo, scornfully, after\nanother pause.\n\n\"I am,\" replied Gouache. \"And, no offence to you, my friend, if I meet\nyou in a red shirt among the Garibaldini, I will kill you. It would be\nvery unpleasant, so I hope that you will not join them.\"\n\n\"Take care, Del Ferice,\" laughed Donna Tullia; \"your life is in danger!\nYou had better join the Zouaves instead.\"\n\n\"I cannot paint his Eminence's portrait,\" returned Ugo, with a sneer, \"so\nthere is no chance of that.\"\n\n\"You might assist him with wholesome advice, I should think,\" answered\nGouache. \"I have no doubt you could tell him much that would be very\nuseful.\"\n\n\"And turn traitor to--\"\n\n\"Hush! Do not be so silly, Del Ferice,\" interrupted Donna Tullia, who\nbegan to fear that Del Ferice's taunts would make trouble. She had a\nsecret conviction that it would not be good to push the gentle Anastase\ntoo far. He was too quiet, too determined, and too serious not to be a\nlittle dangerous if roused.\n\n\"Do not be absurd,\" she repeated. \"Whatever Gouache may choose to do, he\nis a gentleman, and I will not have you talk of traitors like that. He\ndoes not quarrel with you--why do you try to quarrel with him?\"\n\n\"I think he has done quite enough to justify a quarrel, I am sure,\"\nreplied Del Ferice, moodily.\n\n\"My dear sir,\" said Gouache, desisting from his work and turning towards\nUgo, \"Madame is quite right. I not only do not quarrel, but I refuse to\nbe quarrelled with. You have my most solemn assurance that whatever has\npreviously passed here, whatever I have heard said by you, by Donna\nTullia, by Valdarno, by any of your friends, I regard as an inviolable\nsecret. You formerly said I had no convictions, and you were right. I had\nnone, and I listened to your exposition of your own with considerable\ninterest. My case is changed. I need not tell you what I believe, for I\nwear the uniform of a Papal Zouave. When I put it on, I certainly did not\ncontemplate offending you; I do not wish to offend you now--I only beg\nthat you will refrain from offending me. For my part, I need only say\nthat henceforth I do not desire to take a part in your councils. If Donna\nTullia is satisfied with her portrait, there need be no further occasion\nfor our meeting. If, on the contrary, we are to meet again, I beg that we\nmay meet on a footing of courtesy and mutual respect.\"\n\nIt was impossible to say more; and Gouache's speech terminated the\nsituation so far as Del Ferice was concerned. Donna Tullia smilingly\nexpressed her approval.\n\n\"Quite right, Gouache,\" she said. \"You know it would be impossible to\nleave the portrait as it is now. The mouth, you know--you promised to do\nsomething to it--just the expression, you know.\"\n\nGouache bowed his head a little, and set to work again without a word.\nDel Ferice did not speak again during the sitting, but sat moodily\nstaring at the canvas, at Donna Tullia, and at the floor. It was not\noften that he was moved from his habitual suavity of manner, but\nGouache's conduct had made him feel particularly uncomfortable.\n\nThe next time Donna Tullia came to sit, she brought her old Countess, and\nDel Ferice did not appear. The portrait was ultimately finished to the\nsatisfaction of all parties, and was hung in Donna Tullia's drawing-room,\nto be admired and criticised by all her friends. But Gouache rejoiced\nwhen the thing was finally removed from his studio, for he had grown to\nhate it, and had been almost willing to flatter it out of all likeness to\nMadame Mayer, for the sake of not being eternally confronted by the cold\nstare of her blue eyes. He finished the Cardinal's portrait too; and the\nstatesman not only paid for it with unusual liberality, but gave the\nartist what he called a little memento of the long hours they had spent\ntogether. He opened one of the lockers in his study, and from a small\ndrawer selected an ancient ring, in which was set a piece of crystal with\na delicate intaglio of a figure of Victory. He took Gouache's hand and\nslipped the ring upon his finger. He had taken a singular liking to\nAnastase.\n\n\"Wear it as a little souvenir of me,\" he said kindly. \"It is a Victory;\nyou are a soldier now, so I pray that victory may go with you; and I give\nVictory herself into your hands.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said Gouache, \"will pray that it may be a symbol in my hand of\nthe real victories you are to win.\"\n\n\"Only a symbol,\" returned the Cardinal, thoughtfully. \"Nothing but a\nsymbol. I was not born to conquer, but to lead a forlorn hope--to deceive\nvanquished men with a hope not real, and to deceive the victors with an\nunreal fear. Nevertheless, my friend,\" he added, grasping Gouache's hand,\nand fixing upon him his small bright eyes,--\"nevertheless, let us fight,\nfight--fight to the very end!\"\n\n\"We will fight to the end, Eminence,\" said Gouache. He was only a private\nof Zouaves, and the man whose hand he held was great and powerful; but\nthe same spirit was in the hearts of both, the same courage, the same\ndevotion to the failing cause--and both kept their words, each in his own\nway.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\n\nAstrardente was in some respects a picturesque place. The position of the\nlittle town gave it a view in both directions from where it stood; for it\nwas built upon a precipitous eminence rising suddenly out of the midst of\nthe narrow strip of fertile land, the long and rising valley which, from\nits lower extremity, conducted by many circuits to the Roman Campagna,\nand which ended above in the first rough passes of the lower Abruzzi. The\nbase of the town extended into the vineyards and olive-orchards which\nsurrounded the little hill on all sides; and the summit of it was crowned\nby the feudal palace-castle--an enormous building of solid stone, in the\nstyle of the fifteenth century. Upon the same spot had formally stood a\nrugged fortress, but the magnificent ideas of the Astrardente pope\nhad not tolerated such remains of barbarism; the ancient stronghold had\nbeen torn down, and on its foundations rose a gigantic mansion,\nconsisting of a main palace, with great balconies and columned front,\noverlooking the town, and of two massive wings leading back like towers\nto the edge of the precipitous rock to northwards. Between these wings a\ngreat paved court formed a sort of terrace, open upon one side, and\nornamented within with a few antique statues dug up upon the estates, and\nwith numerous plants, which the old duke had caused to be carefully\ncultivated in vases, and which were only exposed upon the terrace during\nthe warm summer months. The view from the court was to the north--that is\nto say, down the valley, comprehending ranges of hills that seemed to\ncross and recross into the extreme distance, their outlines being each\ntime less clearly defined, as the masses in each succeeding range took a\nsofter purple hue.\n\nWithin, the palace presented a great variety of apartments. There were\nsuites of vaulted rooms upon the lower floor, frescoed in the good manner\nof the fifteenth century; there were other suites above, hung with\nancient tapestry and furnished with old-fashioned marble tables, and\nmirrors in heavily gilt frames, and one entire wing had been lately\nfitted up in the modern style. In this part of the house Corona\nestablished herself with Sister Gabrielle, and began to lead a life of\nregular occupations and profound retirement, which seemed to be rather a\ncontinuation of her existence in the convent where she had been educated\nas a girl, than to form any part in the life of the superb Duchessa\nd'Astrardente, who for five years had been one of the most conspicuous\npersons in society. Every morning at eight o'clock the two ladies, always\nclad in deep black, attended the Mass which was celebrated for them in\nthe palace chapel. Then Corona walked for an hour with her companion upon\nthe terrace, or, if it rained, beneath the covered balconies upon the\nsouth side. The morning hours she passed in solitude, reading such books\nof devotion and serious matter as most suited the sad temper of her mind;\nprecisely at mid-day she and Sister Gabrielle breakfasted together in a\nsort of solemn state; and at three o'clock the great landau, with its\nblack horses and mourning liveries, stood under the inner gate. The two\nladies appeared five minutes later, and by a gesture Corona indicated\nwhether she would be driven up or down the valley. The dashing equipage\ndescended the long smooth road that wound through the town, and returned\ninvariably at the end of two hours, again ascended the tortuous way, and\ndisappeared beneath the dark entrance. At six o'clock dinner was served,\nwith the same solemn state as attended the morning meal; Corona and\nSister Gabrielle remained together until ten, and the day was over. There\nwas no more variation in the routine of their lives than if they had been\nmoved by a machinery connected with the great castle clock overhead,\nwhich chimed the hours and the quarters by day and night, and regulated\nthe doings of the town below.\n\nBut in spite of this unchanging sequence of similar habit, the time\npassed pleasantly for Corona. She had had too much of the brilliant\nlights and the buzzing din of society for the last five years, too much\nnoise, too much idle talk, too much aimless movement; she needed rest,\ntoo, from the constant strain of her efforts to fulfil her self-imposed\nduties towards her husband--most of all, perhaps, she required a respite\nfrom the sufferings she had undergone through her stifled love for\nGiovanni Saracinesca. All this she found in the magnificent calm of\nthe life at Astrardente. She meditated long upon the memory of her\nhusband, recalling lovingly those things which had been most worthy in\nhim, willingly forgetting his many follies and vanities and moments of\npetulance. She went over in her mind the many and varied scenes of the\npast, and learned to love the sweet and silent solitude of the present by\ncomparison of it with all the useless and noisy activity of the world she\nhad for a time abandoned. She had not expected to find anything more than\na passive companion in Sister Gabrielle; but in the course of their daily\nconverse she discovered in her a character of extreme refinement and\nquick perception, a depth of human sympathy and a breadth of experience\nwhich amazed her, and made her own views of things seem small. The Sister\nwas devout and rigid in the observance of the institutions of her order,\nin so far as she was able to follow out the detail of religious\nregulation without interfering with the convenience of her companion;\nbut in her conversation she showed an intimate knowledge of character\nwhich was a constant source of pleasure to Corona, who told the Sister\nlong stories of people she had known for the sake of hearing her\nadmirable comments upon social questions.\n\nBut besides her reading and her long hours of meditation and her talks\nwith Sister Gabrielle, Corona found occupation in the state of the town\nbelow her residence. She attempted once or twice to visit the poor\ncottages, in the hope of doing some good; but she found that she was\nsuch an object of holy awe to the inmates that they were speechless in\nher presence, or became so nervous in their desire to answer her\nquestions, that the information she was able to obtain concerning their\ntroubles was too vague to be of any use.\n\nThe Italian peasant is not the same in all parts of the country, as is\ngenerally supposed; and although the Tuscan, who is constantly brought\ninto familiar contact with his landlord, and acquires a certain pleasant\nfaith in him, grows eloquent upon the conditions of his being, the same\nis not true of the rougher race that labours in the valleys of the Sabine\nand the Samnite hills. The peasant of the Agro Romano is indeed capable\nof civilisation and he is able to understand his superiors, provided that\nhe is gradually accustomed to seeing them: unfortunately this occurs but\nrarely. Many of the great Roman landholders spend a couple of months of\nevery year upon their estates: old Astrardente had in his later years\ngone to considerable expense in refitting and repairing the castle, but\nhe had done little for the town. Men like the Saracinesca, however, were\ngreat exceptions at that time; though they travelled much abroad, they\noften remained for many months in their rugged old fortress. They knew\nthe inhabitants of their lands far and wide, and were themselves not only\nknown but loved; they spent their money in improving the condition of\ntheir peasants, in increasing the area of their forests, and in fostering\nthe fertility of the soil, but they cared nothing for adorning the grey\nstone walls of their ancestors' stronghold. It had done well enough for a\nthousand years, it would do well enough still; it had stood firm against\nfierce sieges in the dark ages of the Roman baronry, it could afford to\nstand unchanged in its monumental strength against the advancing sea of\nnineteenth-century civilisation. They themselves, father and son, were\ncontent with such practical improvements as they could introduce for the\ngood of their people and the enriching of their land; a manly race,\ndespising luxury, they cared little whether their home was thought\ncomfortable by the few guests they occasionally invited to spend a week\nwith them. They saw much of the peasantry, and went daily among them,\nunderstanding their wants, and wisely promoting in their minds the belief\nthat land cannot prosper unless both landlord and tenant do their share.\n\nBut Astrardente was a holding of a very different kind, and Corona, in\nher first attempts at understanding the state of things, found herself\nstopped by a dead wall of silence, beyond which she guessed that there\nlay an undiscovered land of trouble. She knew next to nothing of the\ncondition of her people; she only imperfectly understood the relations in\nwhich they actually stood to herself, the extent of her power over them,\nand of their power over her. The mysteries of _emphyteusis, emphyteuma,_\nand _emphyteuta_ were still hidden to her, though her steward spoke of\nthem with surprising loquacity and fluency. She laboured hard to\nunderstand the system upon which her tenants held their lands from her,\nand it was some time before she succeeded. It is easier to explain the\nmatter at once than to follow Corona in her attempts to comprehend it.\n\nTo judge from the terms employed, the system of holdings common in the\nPontifical States has descended without interruption from the time of the\nRomans to the present day. As in old Roman law, _emphyteusis_, now spelt\n_emfiteuse_, means the possession of rights over another person's land,\ncapable of transmission by inheritance; and to-day, as under the Romans,\nthe holder of such rights is called the _emphyteuta_, or _emfiteuta_. How\nthe Romans came to use Greek words in their tenant-law does not belong to\nthe matter in hand; these words are the only ones now in use in this part\nof Italy, and they are used precisely as they were in remote times.\n\nA tenant may acquire rights of _emfiteuse_ directly from the owner\nof the land, like an ordinary lease; or he may acquire them by\nsettlement--\"squatting,\" as the popular term is. Wherever land is lying\nwaste, any one may establish himself upon it and cultivate it, on\ncondition of paying to the owner a certain proportion of the yield of the\nland--generally one quarter--either in kind or in money. The landlord\nmay, indeed, refuse the right of settlement in the first instance, which\nwould very rarely occur, since most people who own barren tracts of rock\nand heath are only too glad to promote any kind of cultivation. But when\nthe landlord has once allowed the right, the right itself is constituted\nthereby into a possession of which the peasant may dispose as he pleases,\neven by selling it to another. The law provides, however, that in case of\ntransfers by sale, the landlord shall receive one year's rent in kind or\nin money in addition to the rent due, and this bonus is paid jointly by\nthe buyer and the seller according to agreement. Such holdings are\ninherited from father to son for many generations, and are considered to\nbe perpetual leases. The landlord cannot expel a tenant except for\nnon-payment of rent during three consecutive years. In actual fact, the\nright of the _emfiteuta_ in the soil is far more important than that of\nthe landlord; for the tenant can cheat his landlord as much as he\npleases, whereas the injustice of the law provides that under no\ncircumstances whatsoever shall the landlord cheat the tenant. In actual\nfact, also, the rents are universally paid in kind, and the peasant eats\nwhat remains of the produce, so that very little cash is seen in the\nland.\n\nCorona discovered that the income she enjoyed from the lands of\nAstrardente was collected by the basketful from the threshing-floors, and\nby the barrel from the vineyards of some two hundred tenants. It was a\nserious matter to gather from two hundred threshing-floors precisely a\nquarter of the grain threshed, and from fifty or sixty vineyards\nprecisely a quarter of the wine made in each. The peasants all made their\nwine at the same time, and all threshed their grain in the same week. If\nthe agent was not on the spot during the threshing and the vintage, the\npeasant had no difficulty whatever in hiding a large quantity of his\nproduce. As the rent was never fixed, but depended solely on the yield of\nthe year, it was preeminently to the advantage of the tenant to throw\ndust in the eyes of the landlord whenever he got a chance. The landlord\nfound the business of watching his tenants tedious and unprofitable, and\nnaturally resorted to the crowning evil of agricultural evils--the\nemployment of a rent-farmer. The latter, at all events, was willing to\npay a fixed sum yearly; and if the sum paid was generally considerably\nbelow the real value of the rents, the arrangement at least assured a\nfixed income to the landlord, with the certainty of getting it without\ntrouble to himself. The middleman then proceeded to grind the tenants at\nhis leisure and discretion in order to make the best of his bargain. The\nresult was, that while the tenant starved and the landlord got less than\nhis due in consideration of being saved from annoyance, the middleman\ngradually accumulated money.\n\nUpon this system nine-tenths of the land in the Pontifical States was\nheld, and much of the same land is so held to-day, in spite of the modern\ntenant-law, for reasons which will be clearly explained in another part\nof this history. Corona saw and understood that the evil was very great.\nShe discussed the matter with her steward, or _ministro_ as he was\ncalled, who was none other than the aforesaid middleman; and the more she\ndiscussed the question, the more hopeless the question appeared. The\nsteward held a contract from her dead husband for a number of years. He\nhad regularly paid the yearly sums agreed upon, and it would be\nimpossible to remove him for several years to come. He, of course, was\nstrenuously opposed to any change, and did his best to make himself\nappear as an angel of mercy and justice, presiding over a happy family of\nrejoicing peasants in the heart of a terrestrial paradise. Unfortunately\nfor himself, however, he had not at first understood the motive which\nprompted Corona's inquiries. He supposed in the beginning that she was\nnot satisfied with the amount of rent he paid, and that at the expiration\nof his contract she intended to raise the sum; so that, on the first\noccasion when she sent for him, he had drawn a piteous picture of the\npeasant's condition, and had expatiated with eloquence on his own\npoverty, and on the extreme difficulty of collecting any rents at all. It\nwas not until he discovered that Corona's chief preoccupation was for the\nwelfare of her tenants that he changed his tactics, and endeavoured to\nprove that all was for the best upon the best of all possible estates.\n\nThen, to his great astonishment, Corona informed him that his contract\nwould not be renewed, and that at the expiration of his term she would\ncollect her rents herself. It had taken her long to understand the\nsituation, but when she had comprehended it, she made up her mind that\nsomething must be done. If her fortune had depended solely upon the\nincome she received from the Astrardente lands, she would have made up\nher mind to reduce herself to penury rather than allow things to go in\nthe way they were going. Fortunately she was rich, and if she had not all\nthe experience necessary to deal with such matters, she had plenty of\ngoodwill, plenty of generosity, and plenty of money. In her simple\ntheory of agrarian economy the best way to improve an estate seemed to be\nto spend the income arising from it directly upon its improvement, until\nshe could take the whole management of it into her own hands. The\ntrouble, as she thought, was that there was too little money among the\npeasants; the best way to help them was to put money within their reach.\nThe only question was how to do this without demoralising them, and\nwithout increasing their liabilities towards the _ministro_ or middleman.\n\nThen she sent for the curate. From him she learned that the people did\nwell enough in the summer, but that the winter was dreaded. She asked\nwhy. He answered that they were not provident; that the land system was\nbad; and that even if they saved anything the _ministro_ would take it\nfrom them. She inquired whether he thought it possible to induce them to\nbe more thrifty. He thought it might be done in ten years, but not in\none.\n\n\"In that case,\" said Corona, \"the only way to improve their condition is\nto give them work in the winter. I will make roads through the estate,\nand build large dwelling-houses in the town. There shall be work enough\nfor everybody.\"\n\nIt was a simple plan, but it was destined to be carried into execution,\nand to change the face of the Astrardente domain in a few years. Corona\nsent to Rome for an engineer who was also a good architect, and she set\nherself to study the possibilities of the place, giving the man\nsufficient scope, and only insisting that there should be no labour and\nno material imported from beyond the limits of her lands. This provided\nher with an occupation whereby the time passed quickly enough.\n\nThe Lenten season ended, and Eastertide ran swiftly on to Pentecost. The\nearly fruit-trees blossomed white, and the flowers fell in a snow-shower\nto the ground, to give place to the cherries and the almonds and the\npears. The brown bramble-hedges turned leafy, and were alive with little\nbirds; and the great green lizards shot across the woodland paths upon\nthe hillside, and caught the flies that buzzed noisily in the spring\nsunshine. The dried-up vines put forth tiny leaves, and the maize shot\nsuddenly up to the sun out of the rich furrows, like myriads of brilliant\ngreen poignards piercing the brown skin of the earth. By the roadside the\ngrass grew high, and the broad shallow brooks shrank to narrow rivulets,\nand disappeared in the overgrowing rushes before the increasing heat of\nthe climbing sun.\n\nCorona's daily round of life never changed, but as the months wore on, a\nstealing thought came often and often again--shy, as though fearing to be\ndriven away; silent at first, as a shadow in a dream, but taking form and\nreality from familiarity with its own self, and speaking intelligible\nwords, saying at last plainly, \"Will he keep his promise? Will he never\ncome?\"\n\nBut he came not as the fresh colours of spring deepened with the rich\nmaturity of summer; and Corona, gazing down the valley, saw the change\nthat came over the fair earth, and half guessed the change that was\ncoming over her own life. She had sought solitude instinctively, but\nshe had not known what it would bring her. She had desired to honour her\ndead husband by withdrawing from the world for a time and thinking of him\nand remembering him. She had done so, but the youth in her rebelled at\nlast against the constant memory of old age--of an old age, too, which\nhad passed away from her and was dead for ever.\n\nIt was right to dwell for a time upon the thought of her widowhood, but\nthe voice said it would not be always right. The calm and noiseless tide\nof the old man's ceasing life had ebbed slowly and reluctantly from her\nshore, and she had followed the sad sea in her sorrow to the furthest\nverge of its retreat; but as she stood upon the edge of the stagnant\nwaters, gazing far out and trying to follow even further the slow\nsubsiding ooze, the tide had turned upon her unawares, the fresh seaward\nbreeze sprang up and broke the dead calm with the fresh motion of crisp\nripples that once more flowed gladly over the dreary sand, and the waters\nof life plashed again and laughed gladly together around her feet.\n\nThe thought of Giovanni--the one thought that again and again kept\nrecurring in her mind--grew very sweet,--as sweet as it had once been\nbitter. There was nothing to stop its growth now, and she let it have its\nway. What did it matter, so long as he did not come near her--for the\npresent? Some day he would come; she wondered when, and how long he would\nkeep his promise. But meanwhile she was not unhappy, and she went about\nher occupations as before; only sometimes she would go alone at evening\nto the balcony that faced the higher mountains, and there she would stand\nfor half an hour gazing southward towards the precipitous rocks that\ncaught the red glare of the sinking sun, and she asked herself if he were\nthere, or whether, as report had told her, he were in the far north.\nIt was but half a day's ride over the hills, he had said. But strain her\nsight as she would, she could not pierce the heavy crags nor see into the\nwooded dells beyond. He had said he would pass the summer there; had he\nchanged his mind?\n\nBut she was not unhappy. There was that in her which forbade unhappiness,\nwhich would have broken out into great joy if she would have let it; but\nyet she would not. It was too soon yet to say aloud what she said in her\nheart daily, that she loved Giovanni with a great love, and that she knew\nshe was free to love him. In that thought there was enough of joy. But he\nmight come if he would; her anger would not be great if he broke his\npromise now, he had kept it so long--six whole months. But by-and-by,\nas the days passed, the first note of happiness was marred by the\ndiscordant ring of a distant fear. What if she had too effectually\nforbidden him to see her? What if he had gone out disappointed of all\nhope, and was really in distant Scandinavia, as the papers said, risking\nhis life in mad adventures?\n\nBut after all, that was not what she feared. He was strong, young,\nbrave--he had survived a thousand dangers, he would survive these also.\nThere arose between her and the thought of him an evil shadow, the image\nof a woman, and it took the shape of Donna Tullia so vividly that she\ncould see the red lips move and almost hear the noisy laugh. She was\nangry with herself at the idea, but it recurred continually and gave her\npain, and the pain grew to an intolerable fear. She began to feel that\nshe must know where he was, at any cost, or she could have no peace. She\nwas restless and nervous, and began to be absent-minded in her\nconversation with Sister Gabrielle. The good woman saw it, and advised a\nlittle change--anything, an excursion of a day for instance. Corona, she\nsaid, was too young to lead this life.\n\nHer mind leaped at the idea. It was but half a day's ride, he had said;\nshe would climb those hills and look down upon Saracinesca--only once.\nShe might perhaps meet some peasant, and by a careless inquiry she would\nlearn whether he was there--or would be there in the summer. No one would\nknow; and besides, Sister Gabrielle had said that an excursion would do\nCorona good. Sister Gabrielle had probably never heard that Saracinesca\nwas so near, and she certainly would not guess that the Duchessa had any\ninterest in its lord. She announced her intention, and the Sister\napproved--she herself, she said, was too weak to undergo the fatigue.\n\nOn the following morning, Corona alone entered her carriage and was\ndriven many miles up the southward hills, till the road was joined by a\nbroad bridle-path that led eastwards towards the Abruzzi. Here she was\nmet by a party of horsemen, her own _guardiani_, or forest-keepers, as\nthey are called, in rough dark-blue coats and leathern gaiters. Each man\nwore upon his breast a round plate of chiselled silver, bearing the arms\nof the Astrardente; each had a long rifle slung behind him, and carried a\nholster at the bow of his huge saddle. A couple of sturdy black-browed\npeasants held a mule by the bridle, heavily caparisoned in the old\nfashion, under a great red velvet Spanish saddle, with long tarnished\ntrappings that had once been embroidered with silver. A little knot of\npeasants and ragged boys stood all around watching the preparations\nwith interest, and commenting audibly upon the beauty of the great lady.\n\nCorona mounted from a stone by the wayside, and the young men led her\nbeast up the path. She smiled to herself, for she had never done such a\nthing before, but she was not uneasy in the company of her rough-looking\nescort. She knew well enough that she was as safe with them as in her own\nhouse.\n\nAs the bridle-path wound up from the road, the country grew more rugged,\nthe vegetation more scanty, and the stones more plentiful. It was a\nwilderness of rocky desolation; as far as one could see there was no sign\nof humanity, not a soul upon the solitary road, not a living thing upon\nthe desolate hills that rose on either side in jagged points to the sky.\nCorona talked a little with the head-keeper who rode beside her with a\nslack rein, letting his small mountain horse pick its own way over the\nrough path. He told her that few people ever passed that way. It was the\nshort road to Saracinesca. The princes sometimes sent their carriage\nround by the longer way and rode over the hills; and in the vintage-time\nthere was some traffic, as many of the smaller peasants carried grapes\nacross the pass to the larger wine-presses, and sold them outright. It\nwas not a dangerous road, for the very reason that it was so\nunfrequented. The Duchessa explained that she only wanted to see the\nvalley beyond from the summit of the pass, and would then return. It was\npast mid-day when the party reached the highest point,--a depression\nbetween the crags just wide enough to admit one loaded mule. The keeper\nsaid she could see Saracinesca from the end of the narrow way, before the\ndescent began. She uttered an exclamation of surprise as she reached the\nspot.\n\nScarcely a quarter of a mile to the right, at the extremity of a broad\nhill-road, she saw the huge towers of Saracinesca, grey and storm-beaten,\nrising out of a thick wood. The whole intervening space--and indeed the\nwhole deep valley as far as she could see--was an unbroken forest of\nchestnut-trees. Here and there below the castle the houses of the town\nshowed their tiled gables, but the mass of the buildings was hidden\ncompletely from sight. Corona had had no idea that she should find\nherself so near to the place, and she was seized with a sudden fear lest\nGiovanni should appear upon the long straight path that led into the\ntrees. She drew back a little among her followers.\n\n\"Are the princes there now?\" she asked of the head-keeper.\n\nHe did not know; but a moment later a peasant, riding astride of a bag of\ncorn upon his donkey's back, passed along the straight road by the\nentrance to the bridle-path. The keeper hailed him, and put the question.\nSeeing Corona upon her mule, surrounded by armed men in livery, the man\nhalted, and pulled off his soft black-cloth hat.\n\nBoth the princes were in Saracinesca, he said. The young prince had been\nthere ever since Easter. They were busy building an aqueduct which was to\nsupply the whole town with water; it was to pass above, up there among\nthe woods. The princes went almost every day to visit the works. Her\nExcellency might, perhaps, find them there now, or if not, they were at\nthe castle.\n\nBut her Excellency had no intention of finding them. She gave the fellow\na coin, and beat a somewhat hasty retreat. Her followers were silent men,\naccustomed to obey, and they followed her down the steep path without\neven exchanging a word among themselves. Beneath the shade of an\noverhanging rock she halted, and, dismounting from her mule, was served\nwith the lunch that had been brought. She ate little, and then sat\nthoughtfully contemplating the bare stones, while the men at a little\ndistance hastily disposed of the remains of her meal. She had experienced\nan extraordinary emotion on finding herself suddenly so near to Giovanni;\nit was almost as though she had seen him, and her heart beat fast, while\na dark flush rose from time to time to her cheek. It would have been so\nnatural that he should pass that way, just as she was halting at the\nentrance to the bridle-path. How unspeakably dreadful it would have been\nto be discovered thus spying out his dwelling-place when she had so\nstrictly forbidden him to attempt to see her! The blush burned upon her\ncheeks--she had done a thing so undignified, so ill befitting her\nmagnificent superiority. For a moment she was desperately ashamed. But\nfor all that, she could not repress the glad delight she felt at\nknowing that he was there after all; that, if he had kept his word, in\navoiding her, he had, nevertheless, also fulfilled his intention of\nspending the summer in Saracinesca. He had even been there since Easter,\nand the story of his going to the North had been a mere invention of the\nnewspapers. She could not understand his conduct, nor why he had gone to\nParis--a fact attested by people who knew him. It had probably been for\nsome matter of business--that excuse which, in a woman's mind, explains\nalmost any sudden journey a man may undertake. But he was there in the\ncastle now, and her heart was satisfied.\n\nThe men packed the things in the basket, and Corona was helped upon her\nmule. Slowly the party descended the steep path that grew broader and\nmore practicable as they neared the bottom; there the carriage awaited\nher, and soon she was bowling along the smooth road towards home, leaving\nfar behind her the mounted guards, the peasants, and her slow-paced mule.\nThe sun was low when the carriage rolled under the archway of\nAstrardente. Sister Gabrielle said Corona looked much the better for her\nexcursion, and she added that she must be very strong to bear such\nfatigue so well. And the next day--and for many days--the Sister noticed\nthe change in her hostess's manner, and promised herself that if the\nDuchessa became uneasy again she would advise another day among the\nhills, so wonderful was the effect of a slight change from the ordinary\nroutine of her life.\n\nThat night old Saracinesca and his son sat at dinner in a wide hall of\ntheir castle. The faithful Pasquale served them as solemnly as he was\nused to do in Rome. This evening he spoke again. He had ventured no\nremark since he had informed them of the Duca d'Astrardente's death.\n\n\"I beg your Excellencies' pardon,\" he began, adopting his usual formula\nof apologetic address.\n\n\"Well, Pasquale, what is it?\" asked old Saracinesca.\n\n\"I did not know whether your Excellency was aware that the Duchessa\nd'Astrardente had been here to-day.\"\n\n\"What?\" roared the Prince.\n\n\"You must be mad, Pasquale?\" exclaimed Giovanni in a low voice.\n\n\"I beg your Excellencies' pardon if I am wrong, but this is how I know.\nGigi Secchi, the peasant from Aquaviva in the lower forest, brought a bag\nof corn to the mill to-day, and he told the miller, and the miller told\nEttore, and Ettore told Nino, and Nino told--\"\n\n\"What the devil did he tell him?\" interrupted old Saracinesca.\n\n\"Nino told the cook's boy,\" continued Pasquale unmoved, \"and the cook's\nboy told me, your Excellency, that Gigi was passing along the road to\nServeti coming here, when he was stopped by a number of _guardiani_ who\naccompanied a beautiful dark lady in black, who rode upon a mule, and the\n_guardiani_ asked him if your Excellencies were at Saracinesca; and when\nhe said you were, the lady gave him a coin, and turned at once and rode\ndown the bridle-path towards Astrardente, and he said the _guardiani_\nwere those of the Astrardente, because he remembered to have seen one of\nthem, who has a scar over his left eye, at the great fair at Genazzano\nlast year. And that is how I heard.\"\n\n\"That is a remarkable narrative, Pasquale,\" answered the Prince, laughing\nloudly, \"but it seems very credible. Go and send for Gigi Secchi if he is\nstill in the neighbourhood, and bring him here, and let us have the story\nfrom his own lips.\"\n\nWhen they were alone the two men looked at each other for a moment, and\nthen old Saracinesca laughed again; but Giovanni looked very grave, and\nhis face was pale. Presently his father became serious again.\n\n\"If this thing is true,\" he said, \"I would advise you, Giovanni, to pay a\nvisit to the other side of the hills. It is time.\"\n\nGiovanni was silent for a moment. He was intensely interested in the\nsituation, but he could not tell his father that he had promised Corona\nnot to see her, and he had not yet explained to himself her sudden\nappearance so near Saracinesca.\n\n\"I think it would be better for you to go first,\" he said to his father.\n\"But I am not at all sure this story is true.\"\n\n\"I? Oh, I will go when you please,\" returned the old man, with another\nlaugh. He was always ready for anything active.\n\nBut Gigi Secchi could not be found. He had returned to Aquaviva at once,\nand it was not easy to send a message. Two days later, however, Giovanni\ntook the trouble of going to the man's home. He was not altogether\nsurprised when Gigi confirmed Pasquale's tale in every particular.\nCorona had actually been at Saracinesca to find out if Giovanni was there\nor not; and on hearing that he was at the castle, she had fled\nprecipitately. Giovanni was naturally grave and of a melancholy temper;\nbut during the last few months he had been more than usually taciturn,\noccupying himself with dogged obstinacy in the construction of his\naqueduct, visiting the works in the day and spending hours in the evening\nover the plans. He was waiting. He believed that Corona cared for him,\nand he knew that he loved her, but for the present he must wait\npatiently, both for the sake of his promise and for the sake of a decent\nrespect of her widowhood. In order to wait he felt the necessity of\nconstant occupation, and to that end he had set himself resolutely to\nwork with his father, whose ideal dream was to make Saracinesea the most\ncomplete and prosperous community in that part of the mountains.\n\n\"I think if you would go over,\" he said, at the end of a week, \"it would\nbe much better. I do not want to intrude myself upon her at present, and\nyou could easily find out whether she would like to see me. After all,\nshe may have been merely making an excursion for her amusement, and\nmay have chanced upon us by accident. I have often noticed how suddenly\none comes in view of the castle from that bridle-path.\"\n\n\"On the other hand,\" returned the Prince with a smile, \"any one would\ntell her that the path leads nowhere except to Saracinesca. But I will go\nto-morrow,\" he added. \"I will set your mind at rest in twenty-four\nhours.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Giovanni.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\n\nOld Saracinesca kept his word, and on the following morning, eight days\nafter Corona's excursion upon the hills, he rode down to Astrardente,\nreaching the palace at about mid-day. He sent in his card, and stood\nwaiting beneath the great gate, beating the dust from his boots with his\nheavy whip. His face looked darker than ever, from constant exposure to\nthe sun, and his close-cropped hair and short square beard had turned\neven whiter than before in the last six months, but his strong form was\nerect, and his step firm and elastic. He was a remarkable old man; many a\nboy of twenty might have envied his strength and energetic vitality.\n\nCorona was at her mid-day breakfast with Sister Gabrielle, when the old\nPrince's card was brought. She started at the sight of the name; and\nthough upon the bit of pasteboard she read plainly enough, \"_Il Principe\ndi Saracinesca_,\" she hesitated, and asked the butler if it was really\nthe Prince. He said it was.\n\n\"Would you mind seeing him?\" she asked of Sister Gabrielle. \"He is an old\ngentleman,\" she added, in explanation--\"a near neighbour here in the\nmountains.\"\n\nSister Gabrielle had no objection. She even remarked that it would do the\nDuchessa good to see some one.\n\n\"Ask the Prince to come in, and put another place at the table,\" said\nCorona.\n\nA moment later the old man entered, and Corona rose to receive him. There\nwas something refreshing in the ring of his deep voice and the clank of\nhis spurs as he crossed the marble floor.\n\n\"Signora Duchessa, you are very good to receive me. I did not know that\nthis was your breakfast-hour. Ah!\" he exclaimed, glancing at Sister\nGabrielle, who had also risen to her feet, \"good day, my Sister.\"\n\n\"Sister Gabrielle,\" said Corona, as an introduction; \"she is good enough\nto be my companion in solitude.\"\n\nTo tell the truth, Corona felt uneasy; but the sensation was somehow\nrather pleasurable, although it crossed her mind that the Prince might\nhave heard of her excursion, and had possibly come to find out why she\nhad been so near to his place. She boldly faced the situation.\n\n\"I nearly came upon you the other day as unexpectedly as you have visited\nme,\" she said with a smile. \"I had a fancy to look over into your valley,\nand when I reached the top of the hill I found I was almost in your\nhouse.\"\n\n\"I wish you had quite been there,\" returned the Prince. \"Of course I\nheard that you had been seen, and we guessed you had stumbled upon us in\nsome mountain excursion. My son rode all the way to Aquaviva to see the\nman who had spoken with you.\"\n\nSaracinesca said this as though it were perfectly natural, helping\nhimself to the dish the servant offered him. But when he looked up he saw\nthat Corona blushed beneath her dark skin.\n\n\"It is such a very sudden view at that point,\" she said, nervously, \"that\nI was startled.\"\n\n\"I wish you had preserved your equanimity to the extent of going a little\nfurther. Saracinesca has rarely been honoured with the visit of a\nDuchessa d'Astrardente. But since you have explained your visit--or the\nvisit which you did not make--I ought to explain mine. You must know, in\nthe first place, that I am not here by accident, but by intention,\npreconceived, well pondered, and finally executed to my own complete\nsatisfaction. I came, not to get a glimpse of your valley nor a distant\nview of your palace, but to see you, yourself. Your hospitality in\nreceiving me has therefore crowned and complimented the desire I had of\nseeing you.\"\n\nCorona laughed a little.\n\n\"That is a very pretty speech,\" she said.\n\n\"Which you would have lost if you had not received me,\" he answered,\ngaily. \"I have not done yet. I have many pretty speeches for you. The\nsight of you induces beauty in language as the sun in May makes the\nflowers open.\"\n\n\"That is another,\" laughed Corona. \"Do you spend your days in studying\nthe poets at Saracinesca? Does Don Giovanni study with you?\"\n\n\"Giovanni is a fact,\" returned the Prince; \"I am a fable. Old men are\nalways fables, for they represent, in a harmless form, the follies of all\nmankind; their end is always in itself a moral, and young people can\nlearn much by studying them.\"\n\n\"Your comparison is witty,\" said Corona, who was much amused at old\nSaracinesca's conversation; \"but I doubt whether you are so harmless as\nyou represent. You are certainly not foolish, and I am not sure whether,\nas a study for the young--\" she hesitated, and laughed.\n\n\"Whether extremely young persons would have the wit to comprehend virtue\nby the concealment of it--to say, as that witty old Roman said, that the\nimages of Cassius and Brutus were more remarkable than those of any one\nelse, for the very reason that they were nowhere to be seen--like my\nvirtues? Giovanni, for instance, is the very reverse of me in that,\nthough he has shown such singularly bad taste in resembling my outward\nman.\"\n\n\"One should never conceal virtues,\" said Sister Gabrielle, gently. \"One\nshould not hide one's light under a basket, you know.\"\n\n\"My Sister,\" replied the old Prince, his black eyes twinkling merrily,\n\"if I had in my whole composition as much light as would enable you to\nread half-a-dozen words in your breviary, it should be at your disposal.\nI would set it in the midst of Piazza Colonna, and call it the most\nwonderful illumination on record. Unfortunately my light, like the\nlantern of a solitary miner, is only perceptible to myself, and dimly at\nthat.\"\n\n\"You must not depreciate yourself so very much,\" said Corona.\n\n\"No; that is true. You will either believe I am speaking the truth, or\nyou will not. I do not know which would be the worse fate. I will change\nthe subject. My son Giovanni, Duchessa, desires to be remembered in your\ngood graces.\"\n\n\"Thanks. How is he?\"\n\n\"He is well, but the temper of him is marvellously melancholy. He is\nbuilding an aqueduct, and so am I. The thing is accomplished by his\nworking perpetually while I smoke cigarettes and read novels.\"\n\n\"The division of labour is to your advantage, I should say,\" remarked\nCorona.\n\n\"Immensely, I assure you. He promotes the natural advantages of my lands,\nand I encourage the traffic in tobacco and literature. He works from\nmorning till night, is his own engineer, contractor, overseer, and\nmaster-mason. He does everything, and does it well. If we were less\nbarbarous in our bachelor establishment I would ask you to come and see\nus--in earnest this time--and visit the work we are doing. It is well\nworth while. Perhaps you would consent as it is. We will vacate the\ncastle for your benefit, and mount guard outside the gates all night.\"\n\nAgain Corona blushed. She would have given anything to go, but she felt\nthat it was impossible.\n\n\"I would like to go,\" she said. \"If one could come back the same day.\"\n\n\"You did before,\" remarked Saracinesca, bluntly.\n\n\"But it was late when I reached home, and I spent no time at all there.\"\n\n\"I know you did not,\" laughed the old man. \"You gave Gigi Secchi some\nmoney, and then fled precipitately.\"\n\n\"Indeed I was afraid you would suddenly come upon me, and I ran away,\"\nanswered Corona, laughing in her turn, as the dark blood rose to her\nolive cheeks.\n\n\"As my amiable ancestors did in the same place when anybody passed with a\nfull purse,\" suggested Saracinesca. \"But we have improved a little since\nthen. We would have asked you to breakfast. Will you come?\"\n\n\"I do not like to go alone; I cannot, you see. Sister Gabrielle could\nnever ride up that hill on a mule.\"\n\n\"There is a road for carriages,\" said the Prince. \"I will propose\nsomething in the way of a compromise. I will bring Giovanni down with me\nand our team of mountain horses. Those great beasts of yours cannot do\nthis kind of work. We will take you and Sister Gabrielle up almost as\nfast as you could go by the bridle-path.\" \"And back on the same day?\"\nasked Corona.\n\n\"No; on the next day.\"\n\n\"But I do not see where the compromise is,\" she replied. \"Sister\nGabrielle is at once the compromise and the cause that you will not be\ncompromised. I beg her pardon--\"\n\nBoth ladies laughed.\n\n\"I will be very glad to go,\" said the Sister. \"I do not see that there is\nanything extraordinary in the Prince's proposal.\"\n\n\"My Sister,\" returned Saracinesca, \"you are on the way to saintship; you\nalready enjoy the beatific vision; you see with a heavenly perspicuity.\"\n\n\"It is a charming proposition,\" said Corona; \"but in that case you will\nhave to come down the day before.\" She was a little embarrassed.\n\n\"We will not invade the cloister,\" answered the Prince. \"Giovanni and I\nwill spend the night in concocting pretty speeches, and will appear armed\nwith them at dawn before your gates.\"\n\n\"There is room in Astrardente,\" replied Corona. \"You shall not lack\nhospitality for a night. When will you come?\"\n\n\"To-morrow evening, if you please. A good thing should be done quickly,\nin order not to delay doing it again.\"\n\n\"Do you think I would go again?\"\n\nSaracinesca fixed his black eyes on Corona's, and gazed at her some\nseconds before he answered.\n\n\"Madam,\" he said at last, very gravely, \"I trust you will come again and\nstay longer.\"\n\n\"You are very good,\" returned Corona, quietly. \"At all events, I will go\nthis first time.\"\n\n\"We will endeavour to show our gratitude by making you comfortable,\"\nanswered the Prince, resuming his former tone. \"You shall have a mass in\nthe morning and a litany in the evening. We are godless fellows up\nthere, but we have a priest.\"\n\n\"You seem to associate our comfort entirely with religious services,\"\nlaughed Corona. \"But you are very considerate.\"\n\n\"I see the most charming evidence of devotion at your side,\" he replied;\n\"Sister Gabrielle is both the evidence of your piety and is in herself\nan exposition of the benefits of religion. There shall be other\nattractions, however, besides masses and litanies.\"\n\nBreakfast being ended, Sister Gabrielle left the two together. They went\nfrom the dining-room to the great vaulted hall of the inner building. It\nwas cool there, and there were great old arm-chairs ranged along the\nwalls. The closed blinds admitted a soft green light from the hot noonday\nwithout. Corona loved to walk upon the cool marble floor; she was a very\nstrong and active woman, delighting in mere motion--not restless, but\nalmost incapable of weariness; her movements not rapid, but full of grace\nand ease. Saracinesca walked by her side, smoking thoughtfully for some\nminutes.\n\n\"Duchessa,\" he said at last, glancing at her beautiful face, \"things are\ngreatly changed since we met last. You were angry with me then. I do not\nknow whether you were so justly, but you were very angry for a few\nmoments. I am going to return to the subject now; I trust you will not be\noffended with me.\"\n\nCorona trembled for a moment, and was silent. She would have prevented\nhim from going on, but before she could find the words she sought he\ncontinued.\n\n\"Things are much changed, in some respects; in others, not at all. It is\nbut natural to suppose that in the course of time you will think of the\npossibility of marrying again. My son, Duchessa, loves you very truly.\nPardon me, it is no disrespect to you, now, that he should have told me\nso. I am his father, and I have no one else to care for. He is too honest\na gentleman to have spoken of his affection for you at an eailier period,\nbut he has told me of it now.\"\n\nCorona stood still in the midst of the great hall, and faced the old\nPrince. She had grown pale while he was speaking. Still she was silent.\n\n\"I have nothing more to say--that is all,\" said Saracinesca, gazing\nearnestly into the depths of her eyes. \"I have nothing more to say.\"\n\n\"Do you then mean to repeat the warning you once gave me?\" asked Corona,\ngrowing whiter still. \"Do you mean to imply that there is danger to your\nson?\"\n\n\"There is danger--great danger for him, unless you will avert it.\"\n\n\"And how?\" asked Corona, in a low voice.\n\n\"Madam, by becoming his wife.\"\n\nCorona started and turned away in great agitation. Saracinesca stood\nstill while she slowly walked a few steps from him. She could not speak.\n\n\"I could say a great deal more, Duchessa,\" he said, as she came back\ntowards him. \"I could say that the marriage is not only fitting in every\nother way, but is also advantageous from a worldly point of view. You\nare sole mistress of Astrardente; my son will before long be sole master\nof Saracinesca. Our lands are near together--that is a great advantage,\nthat question of fortune. Again, I would observe that, with your\nmagnificent position, you could not condescend to accept a man of lower\nbirth than the highest in the country. There is none higher than the\nSaracinesca--pardon my arrogance,--and among princes there is no braver,\ntruer gentleman than my son Giovanni. I ask no pardon for saying that; I\nwill maintain it against all comers. I forego all questions of advantage,\nand base my argument upon that. He is the best man I know, and he loves\nyou devotedly.\"\n\n\"Is he aware that you are here for this purpose?\" asked Corona, suddenly.\nShe spoke with a great effort.\n\n\"No. He knows that I am here, and was glad that I came. He desired me to\nascertain if you would see him. He would certainly not have thought of\naddressing you at present. I am an old man, and I feel that I must do\nthings quickly. That is my excuse.\"\n\nCorona was again silent. She was too truthful to give an evasive answer,\nand yet she hesitated to speak. The position was an embarrassing one; she\nwas taken unawares, and was terrified at the emotion she felt. It had\nnever entered her mind that the old Prince could appear on his son's\nbehalf, and she did not know how to meet him.\n\n\"I have perhaps been too abrupt,\" said Saracinesca. \"I love my son very\ndearly, and his happiness is more to me than what remains of my own. If\nfrom the first you regard my proposition as an impossible one, I would\nspare him the pain of a humiliation,--I fear I could not save him from\nthe rest, from a suffering that might drive him mad. It is for this\nreason that I implore you, if you are able, to give me some answer, not\nthat I may convey it to him, but in order that I may be guided in future.\nHe cannot forget you; but he has not seen you for six months. To see you\nagain if he must leave you for ever, would only inflict a fresh wound.\"\nHe paused, while Corona slowly walked by his side.\n\n\"I do not see why I should conceal the truth, from you,\" she said at\nlast. \"I cannot conceal it from myself. I am not a child that I should\nbe ashamed of it. There is nothing wrong in it--no reason why it should\nnot be. You are honest, too--why should we try to deceive ourselves? I\ntrust to your honour to be silent, and I own that I--that I love your\nson.\"\n\nCorona stood still and turned her face away, as the burning blush rose to\nher cheeks. The answer she had given was characteristic of her,\nstraightforward and honest. She was not ashamed of it, and yet the words\nwere so new, so strange in their sound, and so strong in their meaning,\nthat she blushed as she uttered them. Saracinesca was greatly surprised,\ntoo, for he had expected some evasive turn, some hint that he might bring\nGiovanni. But his delight had no bounds.\n\n\"Duchessa,\" he said, \"the happiest day I can remember was when I brought\nhome my wife to Saracinesca. My proudest day will be that on which my son\nenters the same gates with you by his side.\"\n\nHe took her hand and raised it to his lips, with a courteous gesture.\n\n\"It will be long before that--it must be very long,\" answered Corona.\n\n\"It shall be when you please, Madam, provided it is at last. Meanwhile we\nwill come down to-morrow, and take you to our tower. Do you understand\nnow why I said that I hoped you would come again and stay longer? I\ntrust you have not changed your mind in regard to the excursion.\"\n\n\"No. We will expect you to-morrow night. Remember, I have been honest\nwith you--I trust to you to be silent.\"\n\n\"You have my word. And now, with your permission, I will return to\nSaracinesca. Believe me, the news that you expect us will be good enough\nto tell Giovanni.\"\n\n\"You may greet him from me. But will you not rest awhile before you ride\nback? You must be tired.\"\n\n\"No fear of that!\" answered the Prince. \"You have put a new man into an\nold one. I shall never tire of bearing the news of your greetings.\"\n\nSo the old man left her, and mounted his horse and rode up the pass. But\nCorona remained for hours in the vaulted hall, pacing up and down. It had\ncome too soon--far too soon. And yet, how she had longed for it!\nhow she had wondered whether it would ever come at all!\n\nThe situation was sufficiently strange, too. Giovanni had once told her\nof his love, and she had silenced him. He was to tell her again, and she\nwas to accept what he said. He was to ask her to marry him, and her\nanswer was a foregone conclusion. It seemed as though this greatest event\nof her life were planned to the very smallest details beforehand; as\nthough she were to act a part which she had studied, and which was yet no\ncomedy because it was the expression of her life's truth. The future had\nbeen, as it were, prophesied and completely foretold to her, and held no\nsurprises; and yet it was more sweet to think of than all the past\ntogether. She wondered how he would say it, what his words would be, how\nhe would look, whether he would again be as strangely violent as he\nhad been that night at the Palazzo Frangipani. She wondered, most of all,\nhow she would answer him. But it would be long yet. There would be many\nmeetings, many happy days before that happiest day of all.\n\nSister Gabrielle saw a wonderful change in Corona's face that afternoon\nwhen they drove up the valley together, and she remarked what wonderful\neffect a little variety had upon her companion's spirits--she could not\nsay upon her health, for Corona seemed made of velvet and steel, so\nsmooth and dark, and yet so supple and strong. Corona smiled brightly as\nshe looked far up at the beetling crags behind which Saracinesca was\nhidden.\n\n\"We shall be up there the day after to-morrow,\" she said. \"How strange it\nwill seem!\" And leaning back, her deep eyes flashed, and she laughed\nhappily.\n\nOn the following evening, again, they drove along the road that led up\nthe valley. But they had not gone far when they saw in the distance a\ncloud of dust, from which in a few moments emerged a vehicle drawn by\nthree strong horses, and driven by Giovanni Saracinesca himself. His\nfather sat beside him in front, and a man in livery was seated at the\nback, with a long rifle between his knees. The vehicle was a kind of\ndouble cart, capable of holding four persons, and two servants at the\nback.\n\nIn a moment the two carriages met and stopped side by side. Giovanni\nsprang from his seat, throwing the reins to his father, who stood up hat\nin hand, and bowed from where he was. Corona held out her hand to\nGiovanni as he stood bareheaded in the road beside her. One long look\ntold all the tale; there could be no words there before the Sister and\nthe old Prince, but their eyes told all--the pain of past separation, the\njoy of two loving hearts that met at last without hindrance.\n\n\"Let your servant drive, and get in with us,\" said Corona, who could\nhardly speak in her excitement. Then she started slightly, and smiled in\nher embarrassment. She had continued to hold Giovanni's hand,\nunconsciously leaving her fingers in his.\n\nThe Prince's groom climbed into the front seat, and old Saracinesca got\ndown and entered the landau. It was a strangely silent meeting, long\nexpected by the two who so loved each other--long looked for, but hardly\nrealised now that it had come. The Prince was the first to speak,\nas usual.\n\n\"You expected to meet us, Duchessa?\" he said; \"we expected to meet you.\nAn expectation fulfilled is better than a surprise. Everything at\nSaracinesca is prepared for your reception. Don Angelo, our priest, has\nbeen warned of your coming, and the boy who serves mass has been washed.\nYou may imagine that a great festivity is expected. Giovanni has turned\nthe castle inside out, and had a room hung entirely with tapestries of my\ngreat-grandmother's own working. He says that since the place is so old,\nits antiquity should be carried into the smallest details.\"\n\nCorona laughed gaily--she would have laughed at anything that day--and\nthe old Prince's tone was fresh and sparkling and merry. He had relieved\nthe first embarrassment of the situation.\n\n\"There have been preparations at Astrardente for your reception, too,\"\nanswered the Duchessa. \"There was a difficulty of choice, as there are\nabout a hundred vacant rooms in the house. The butler proposed to give\nyou a suite of sixteen to pass the night in, but I selected an airy\nlittle nook in one of the wings, where you need only go through ten to\nget to your bedroom.\"\n\n\"There is nothing like space,\" said the Prince; \"it enlarges the ideas.\"\n\n\"I cannot imagine what my father would do if his ideas were extended,\"\nremarked Giovanni. \"Everything he imagines is colossal already. He talks\nabout tunnelling the mountains for my aqueduct, as though it were no more\ntrouble than to run a stick through a piece of paper.\"\n\n\"Your aqueduct, indeed!\" exclaimed his father. \"I would like to know\nwhose idea it was?\"\n\n\"I hear you are working like an engineer yourself, Don Giovanni,\" said\nCorona. \"I have a man at work at Astrardente on some plans of roads.\nPerhaps some day you could give us your advice.\"\n\nSome day! How sweet the words sounded to Giovanni as he sat opposite the\nwoman he loved, bowling along through the rich vine lands in the cool of\nthe summer evening!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\n\nThe opportunity which Giovanni sought of being alone with Corona was long\nin coming. Sister Gabrielle retired immediately after dinner, and the\nDuchessa was left alone with the two men. Old Saracinesca would gladly\nhave left his son with the hostess, but the thing was evidently\nimpossible. The manners of the time would not allow it, and the result\nwas that the Prince spent the evening in making conversation for two\nrather indifferent listeners. He tried to pick a friendly quarrel with\nGiovanni, but the latter was too absent-minded even to be annoyed; he\ntried to excite the Duchessa's interest, but she only smiled gently,\nmaking a remark from time to time which was conspicuous for its\nirrelevancy. But old Saracinesca was in a good humour, and he bore up\nbravely until ten o'clock, when Corona gave the signal for retiring. They\nwere to start very early in the morning, she said, and she must have\nrest.\n\nWhen the two men were alone, the Prince turned upon his son in semi-comic\nanger, and upbraided him with his obstinate dulness during the evening.\nGiovanni only smiled calmly, and shrugged his shoulders. There was\nnothing more to be said.\n\nBut on the following morning, soon after six o'clock, Giovanni had\nthe supreme satisfaction of installing Corona beside him upon the\ndriving-seat of his cart, while his father and Sister Gabrielle sat\ntogether behind him. The sun was not yet above the hills, and the\nmountain air was keen and fresh; the stamping of the horses sounded crisp\nand sharp, and their bells rang merrily as they shook their sturdy necks\nand pricked their short ears to catch Giovanni's voice.\n\n\"Have you forgotten nothing, Duchessa?\" asked Giovanni, gathering the\nreins in his hand.\n\n\"Nothing, thanks. I have sent our things on mules--by the bridle-path.\"\nShe smiled involuntarily as she recalled her adventure, and half turned\nher face away.\n\n\"Ah, yes--the bridle-path,\" repeated Giovanni, as he nodded to the groom\nto stand clear of the horses' heads. In a moment they were briskly\ndescending the winding road through the town of Astrardente: the streets\nwere quiet and cool, for the peasants had all gone to their occupations\ntwo hours before, and the children were not yet turned loose.\n\n\"I never hoped to have the honour of myself driving you to Saracinesca,\"\nsaid Giovanni. \"It is a wild place enough, in its way. You will be able\nto fancy yourself in Switzerland.\"\n\n\"I would rather be in Italy,\" answered Corona. \"I do not care for the\nAlps. Our own mountains are as beautiful, and are not infested by\ntourists.\"\n\n\"You are a tourist to-day,\" said Giovanni. \"And it has pleased Heaven to\nmake me your guide.\"\n\n\"I will listen to your explanations of the sights with interest.\"\n\n\"It is a reversal of the situation, is it not? When we last met, it was\nyou who guided me, and I humbly followed your instructions. I did\nprecisely as you told me.\"\n\n\"Had I doubted that you would do as I asked, I would not have spoken,\"\nanswered Corona.\n\n\"There was one thing you advised me to do which I have not even\nattempted.\"\n\n\"What was that?\"\n\n\"You told me to forget you. I have spent six months in constantly\nremembering you, and in looking forward to this moment. Was I wrong?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" replied the Duchessa, with a little laugh. \"You should by\nthis time have forgotten my existence. They said you were gone to the\nNorth Pole--why did you change your mind?\"\n\n\"I followed my load-star. It led me from Rome to Saracinesca by the way\nof Paris. I should have remained at Saracinesca--but you also changed\nyour mind. I began to think you never would.\"\n\n\"How long do you think of staying up there?\" asked Corona, to turn the\nconversation.\n\n\"Just so long as you stay at Astrardente,\" he answered. \"You will not\nforbid me to follow you to Rome?\"\n\n\"How can I prevent you if you choose to do it?\"\n\n\"By a word, as you did before.\"\n\n\"Do you think I would speak that word?\" she asked.\n\n\"I trust not. Why should you cause me needless pain and suffering? It\nwas right then, it is not right now. Besides, you know me too well to\nthink that I would annoy you or thrust myself upon you. But I will do as\nyou wish.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said quietly. But she turned her dark face toward him,\nand looked at him for a moment very gently, almost lovingly. Where was\nthe use of trying to conceal what would not be hidden? Every word he\nspoke told of his unchanged love, although the phrases were short and\nsimple. Why should she conceal what she felt? She knew it was a foregone\nconclusion. They loved each other, and she would certainly marry him in\nthe course of a year. The long pent up forces of her nature were\nbeginning to assert themselves; she had conquered and fought down her\nnatural being in the effort to be all things to her old husband, to\nquench her growing interest in Giovanni, to resist his declared love, to\ndrive him from her in her widowhood; but now it seemed as though all\nobstacles were suddenly removed. She saw clearly how well she loved him,\nand it seemed folly to try and conceal it. As she sat by his side she\nwas unboundedly happy, as she had never been in her life before: the cool\nmorning breeze fanned her cheeks, and the music of his low voice soothed\nher, while the delicious sense of rapid motion lent a thrill of pleasure\nto every breath she drew. It was no matter what she said; it was as\nthough she spoke unconsciously. All seemed predestined and foreplanned\nfrom all time, to be acted out to the end. The past vanished slowly as a\nretreating landscape. The weary traveller, exhausted with the heat of the\nscorching Campagna, slowly climbs the ascent towards Tivoli, the haven of\ncool waters, and pausing now and then upon the path, looks back and sees\nhow the dreary waste of undulating hillocks beneath him seems gradually\nto subside into a dim flat plain, while, in the far distance, the mighty\ndomes and towers of Rome dwindle to an unreal mirage in the warm haze of\nthe western sky; then advancing again, he feels the breath of the\nmountains upon him, and hears the fresh plunge of the cold cataract, till\nat last, when his strength is almost failing, it is renewed within him,\nand the dust and the heat of the day's journey are forgotten in the\nfulness of refreshment. So Corona d'Astrardente, wearied though not\nbroken by the fatigues and the troubles and the temptations of the past\nfive years, seemed suddenly to be taken up and borne swiftly through the\ngardens of an earthly paradise, where there was neither care nor\ntemptation, and where, in the cool air of a new life, the one voice she\nloved was ever murmuring gentle things to her willing ear.\n\nAs the road began to ascend, sweeping round the base of the mountain and\nupwards by even gradations upon its southern flank, the sun rose higher\nin the heavens, and the locusts broke into their summer song among the\nhedges with that even, long-drawn, humming note, so sweet to southern\nears. But Corona did not feel the heat, nor notice the dust upon the way;\nshe was in a new state, wherein such things could not trouble her. The\nfirst embarrassment of a renewed intimacy was fast disappearing, and she\ntalked easily to Giovanni of many things, reviewing past scenes and\nspeaking of mutual acquaintances, turning the conversation when it\nconcerned Giovanni or herself too directly, yet ever and again coming\nback to that sweet ground which was no longer dangerous now. At last, at\na turn in the road, the grim towers of ancient Saracinesca loomed in the\ndistance, and the carriage entered a vast forest of chestnut trees, shady\nand cool after the sunny ascent. So they reached the castle, and the\nsturdy horses sprang wildly forward up the last incline till their hoofs\nstruck noisily upon the flagstones of the bridge, and with a rush and a\nplunge they dashed under the black archway, and halted in the broad court\nbeyond.\n\nCorona was surprised at the size of the old fortress. It seemed an\nendless irregular mass of towers and buildings, all of rough grey stone,\nsurrounded by battlements and ramparts, kept in perfect repair, but\ndestitute of any kind of ornament whatever. It might have been even now a\nmilitary stronghold, and it was evident that there were traditions of\nprecision and obedience within its walls which would have done credit to\nany barracks. The dominant temper of the master made itself felt at every\nturn, and the servants moved quickly and silently about their duties.\nThere was something intensely attractive to Corona in the air of strength\nthat pervaded the place, and Giovanni had never seemed to her so manly\nand so much in his element as under the grey walls of his ancestral home.\nThe place, too, was associated in history with so many events,--the two\nmen, Leone and Giovanni Saracinesca, stood there beside her, where their\nancestors of the same names had stood nearly a thousand years before,\ntheir strong dark faces having the same characteristics that for\ncenturies had marked their race, features familiar to Romans by countless\nstatues and pictures, as the stones of Rome themselves--but for a detail\nof dress, it seemed to Corona as though she had been suddenly transported\nback to the thirteenth century. The idea fascinated her. The two men led\nher up the broad stone staircase, and ushered her and Sister Gabrielle\ninto the apartments of state which had been prepared for them.\n\n\"We have done our best,\" said the Prince, \"but it is long since we have\nentertained ladies at Saracinesca.\"\n\n\"It is magnificent!\" exclaimed Corona, as she entered the ante-chamber.\nThe walls were hung from end to end with priceless tapestries, and the\nstone floor was covered with long eastern carpets. Corona paused.\n\n\"You must show us all over the castle by-and-by,\" she said.\n\n\"Giovanni will show you everything,\" answered the Prince. \"If it pleases\nyou, we will breakfast in half-an-hour.\" He turned away with his son, and\nleft the two ladies to refresh themselves before the mid-day meal.\n\nGiovanni kept his word, and spared his guests no detail of the vast\nstronghold, until at last poor Sister Gabrielle could go no farther.\nGiovanni had anticipated that she would be tired, and with the\nheartlessness of a lover seeking his opportunity, he had secretly longed\nfor the moment when she should, be obliged to stop.\n\n\"You have not yet seen the view from the great tower,\" he said. \"It is\nsuperb, and this is the very best hour for it. Are you tired, Duchessa?\"\n\n\"No--I am never tired,\" answered Corona.\n\n\"Why not go with Giovanni?\" suggested the Prince. \"I will stay with\nSister Gabrielle, who has nearly exhausted herself with seeing our\nsights.\"\n\nCorona hesitated. The idea of being alone with Giovanni for a quarter of\nan hour was delightful, but somehow it did not seem altogether fitting\nfor her to be wandering over the castle with him. On the other hand, to\nrefuse would seem almost an affectation: she was not in Rome, where her\nevery movement was a subject for remark; moreover, she was not only a\nmarried woman, but a widow, and she had known Giovanni for years--it\nwould be ridiculous to refuse.\n\n\"Very well,\" said she. \"Let us see the view before it is too late.\"\n\nSister Gabrielle and old Saracinesea sat down on a stone seat upon the\nrampart to wait, and the Duchessa disappeared with Giovanni through the\nlow door that led into the great tower.\n\n\"What a wonderful woman you are!\" exclaimed Giovanni, as they reached the\ntop of the winding stair, which was indeed broader than the staircase of\nmany great houses in Rome. \"You seem to be never tired.\"\n\n\"No--I am very strong,\" answered Corona, with a smile. She was not even\nout of breath. \"What a wonderful view!\" she exclaimed, as they emerged\nupon the stone platform at the top of the tower. Giovanni was silent for\na moment. The two stood together and looked far out at the purple\nmountains to eastward that caught the last rays of the sun high up above\nthe shadows of the valley; and then looking down, they saw the Prince and\nthe Sister a hundred feet below them upon the rampart.\n\nBoth were thinking of the same thing: three days ago, their meeting had\nseemed infinitely far off, a thing dreamed of and hoped for--and now they\nwere standing alone upon the topmost turret of Giovanni's house, familiar\nwith each other by a long day's conversation, feeling as though they had\nnever been parted, feeling also that most certainly they would not be\nparted again.\n\n\"It is very strange,\" said Giovanni, \"how things happen in this world,\nand how little we ever know of what is before us. Last week I wondered\nwhether I should ever see you--now I cannot imagine not seeing you. Is\nit not strange?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Corona, in a low voice.\n\n\"That, yesterday, we should have seemed parted by an insurmountable\nbarrier, and that to-day--\" he stopped. \"Oh, if to-day could only last\nfor ever!\" he exclaimed, suddenly.\n\nCorona gazed out upon the purple hills in silence, but her face caught\nsome of the radiance of the distant glow, and her dark eyes had strange\nlights in them. She could not have prevented him from speaking; she had\nloosed the bonds that had held her life so long; the anchor was up, and\nthe breath of love fanned the sails, and gently bore the craft in which\nshe trusted out to seaward over the fair water. In seeing him she had\nresigned herself to him, and she could not again get the mastery if she\nwould. It had come too soon, but it was sweet.\n\n\"And why not?\" he said, very softly. \"Why should it not remain so for\never--till our last breath? Why will you not let it last?\"\n\nStill she was silent; but the tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and\nwelled over and lay upon her velvet cheek like dewdrops on the leaves of\na soft dark tulip. Giovanni saw them, and knew that they were the jewels\nwhich crowned his life.\n\n\"You will,\" he said, his broad brown hand gently covering her small\nfingers and taking them in his. \"You will--I know that you will.\"\n\nShe said nothing, and though she at first made a slight movement--not of\nresistance, but of timid reluctance, utterly unlike herself--she suffered\nhim to hold her hand. He drew closer to her, himself more diffident in\nthe moment of success than he had ever been when he anticipated failure;\nshe was so unlike any woman he had ever known before. Very gently he put\nhis arm about her, and drew her to him.\n\n\"My beloved--at last,\" he whispered, as her head sank upon his shoulder.\n\nThen with a sudden movement she sprang to her height, and for one instant\ngazed upon him. Her whole being was transfigured in the might of her\npassion: her dark face was luminously pale, her lips almost white, and\nfrom her eyes there seemed to flash a blazing fire. For one instant she\ngazed upon him, and then her arms went round his neck, and she clasped\nhim fiercely to her breast.\n\n\"Ah, Giovanni,\" she cried, passionately, \"you do not know what love\nmeans!\"\n\nA moment later her arms dropped from him; she turned and buried her face\nin her hands, leaning against the high stone parapet of the tower. She\nwas not weeping, but her face was white, and her bosom heaved with\nquick and strong-drawn breath.\n\nGiovanni went to her side and took her strongly in his right arm, and\nagain her head rested upon his shoulder.\n\n\"It is too soon--too soon,\" she murmured. \"But how can I help it? I love\nyou so that there is no counting of time. It seems years since we met\nlast night, and I thought it would be years before I told you. Oh,\nGiovanni, I am so happy! Is it possible that you love me as I love you?\"\n\nIt is a marvellous thing to see how soon two people who love each other\nlearn the gentle confidence that only love can bring. A few moments later\nGiovanni and Corona were slowly pacing the platform, and his arm was\nabout her waist and her hand in his.\n\n\"Do you know,\" she was saying, \"I used to wonder whether you would keep\nyour word, and never try to see me. The days were so long at\nAstrardente.\"\n\n\"Not half so long as at Saracinesca,\" he answered. \"I was going to call\nmy aqueduct the Bridge of Sighs; I will christen it now the Spring of\nLove.\"\n\n\"I must go and see it to-morrow,\" said she.\n\n\"Or the next day--\"\n\n\"The next day!\" she exclaimed, with a happy laugh. \"Do you think I am\ngoing to stay--\"\n\n\"For ever,\" interrupted Giovanni. \"We have a priest here, you know,--he\ncan marry us to-morrow, and then you need never go away.\"\n\nCorona's face grew grave.\n\n\"We must not talk of that yet,\" she said, gently, \"even in jest.\"\n\n\"No; you are right. Forgive me,\" he answered; \"I forget many things--it\nseems to me I have forgotten everything, except that I love you.\"\n\n\"Giovanni,\"--she lingered on the name,--\"Giovanni, we must tell your\nfather at once.\"\n\n\"Are you willing I should?\" he asked, eagerly.\n\n\"Of course--he ought to know; and Sister Gabrielle too. But no one else\nmust be told. There must be no talk of this in Rome until--until next\nyear.\"\n\n\"We will stay in the country until then, shall we not?\" asked Giovanni,\nanxiously. \"It seems to me so much better. We can meet here, and nobody\nwill talk. I will go and live in the town at Astrardente, and play the\nengineer, and build your roads for you.\"\n\n\"I hardly know,\" said Corona, with a doubtful smile. \"You could not do\nthat. But you may come and spend the day once--in a week, perhaps.\"\n\n\"We will arrange all that,\" answered Giovanni, laughing. \"If you think I\ncan exist by only seeing you once a week--well, you do not know me.\"\n\n\"We shall see,\" returned Corona, laughing too. \"By the bye, how long have\nwe been here?\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" said Giovanni; \"but the view is magnificent, is it not?\"\n\n\"Enchanting,\" she replied, looking into his eyes. Then suddenly the blood\nmounted to her cheeks. \"Oh, Giovanni,\" she said, \"how could I do it?\"\n\n\"I should have died if you had not,\" he answered, and clasped her once\nmore in his arms.\n\n\"Come,\" said she, \"let us be going down. It is growing late.\"\n\nWhen they reached the foot of the tower, they found the Prince walking\nthe rampart alone. Sister Gabrielle was afraid of the evening air, and\nhad retired into the house. Old Saracinesca faced them suddenly. He\nlooked like an old lion, his thick white hair and beard bristling about\nhis dark features.\n\n\"My father,\" said Giovanni, coming forward, \"the Duchessa d'Astrardente\nhas consented to be my wife. I crave your blessing.\"\n\nThe old man started, and then stood stock-still. His son had fairly taken\nhis breath away, for he had not expected the news for three or four\nmonths to come. Then he advanced and took Corona's hand, and kissed it.\n\n\"Madam,\" he said, \"you have done my son an honour which extends to myself\nand to every Saracinesca, dead, living, and to come.\"\n\nThen he laid Corona's hand in Giovanni's, and held his own upon them\nboth.\n\n\"God bless you,\" he said, solemnly; and as Corona bent her proud head, he\ntouched her forehead with his lips. Then he embraced Giovanni, and his\njoy broke out in wild enthusiasm.\n\n\"Ha, my children,\" he cried, \"there has not been such a couple as you are\nfor generations--there has not been such good news told in these old\nwalls since they have stood here. We will illuminate the castle, the\nwhole town, in your honour--we will ring the bells and have a Te Deum\nsung--we will have such a festival as was never seen before--we will go\nto Rome to-morrow and celebrate the espousal--we will--\"\n\n\"Softly, _padre mio_,\" interrupted Giovanni. \"No one must know as yet.\nYou must consider--\"\n\n\"Consider what? consider the marriage? Of course we will consider it, as\nsoon as you please. You shall have such a wedding as was never heard of--\nyou shall be married by the Cardinal Archpriest of Saint Peter's, by the\nHoly Father himself. The whole country shall ring with it.\"\n\nIt was with difficulty Giovanni succeeded in calming his father's\nexcitement, and in recalling to his mind the circumstances which made it\nnecessary to conceal the engagement for the present. But at last the old\nman reluctantly consented, and returned to a quieter humour. For some\ntime the three continued to pace the stone rampart.\n\n\"This is a case of arrant cruelty to a man of my temper,\" said the\nPrince. \"To be expected to behave like an ordinary creature, with grins\nand smiles and decent paces, when I have just heard what I have longed to\nhear for years. But I will revenge myself by making a noise about\nit by-and-by. I will concoct schemes for your wedding, and dream of\nnothing but illuminations and decorations. You shall be Prince of Sant'\nIlario, Giovanni, as I was before my father died; and I will give you\nthat estate outright, and the palace in the Corso to live in.\"\n\n\"Perhaps we might live in my palace,\" suggested Corona. It seemed strange\nto her to be discussing her own marriage, but it was necessary to humour\nthe old Prince. \"Of course,\" he said. \"I forgot all about it. You have\nplaces enough to live in. One forgets that you will in the end be the\nrichest couple in Italy. Ha!\" he cried, in sudden enthusiasm, \"the\nSaracinesca are not dead yet! They are greater than ever--and our lands\nhere so near together, too. We will build a new road to Astrardente,\nand when you are married you shall be the first to drive over it from\nAstrardente here. We will do all kinds of things--we will tunnel the\nmountain!\"\n\n\"I am sure you will do that in the end,\" said Giovanni, laughing.\n\n\"Well--let us go to dinner,\" answered his father. \"It has grown quite\ndark since we have been talking, and we shall be falling over the edge if\nwe are not careful.\"\n\n\"I will go and tell Sister Gabrielle before dinner,\" said Corona to\nGiovanni.\n\nSo they left her at the door of her apartment, and she went in. She found\nthe Sister in an inner room, with a book of devotions in her hand.\n\n\"Pray for me, my Sister,\" she said, quietly. \"I have resolved upon a\ngreat step. I am going to be married again.\"\n\nSister Gabrielle looked up, and a quiet smile stole over her thin face.\n\n\"It is soon, my friend,\" she said. \"It is soon to think of that. But\nperhaps you are right--is it the young Prince?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Corona, and sank into a deep tapestried chair. \"It is\nsoon I know well. But it has been long--have struggled hard--I love him\nvery much--so much, you do not know!\"\n\nThe Sister sighed faintly, and came and took her hand.\n\n\"It is right that you should marry,\" she said, gently. \"You are too\nyoung, too famously beautiful, too richly endowed, to lead the life you\nhave led at Astrardente these many months.\"\n\n\"It is not that,\" said Corona, an expression of strange beauty\nilluminating her lovely face. \"Not that I am young, beautiful as you say,\nif it is so, or endowed with riches--those reasons are nothing. It is\nthis that tells me,\" she whispered, pressing her left hand to her heart.\n\"When one loves as I love, it is right.\"\n\n\"Indeed it is,\" assented the good Sister. \"And I think you have chosen\nwisely. When will you be married?\"\n\n\"Hardly before next summer--I can hardly think connectedly yet--it has\nbeen very sudden. I knew I should marry him in the end, but I never\nthought I could consent so soon. Oh, Sister Gabrielle, you are so\ngood--were you never in love?\"\n\nThe Sister was silent, and looked away.\n\n\"No--of course you cannot tell me,\" continued Corona; \"but it is such a\nwonderful thing. It makes days seem like hundreds of years, or makes them\npass in a flash of light, in a second. It oversets every idea of time,\nand plays with one's resolutions as the wind with a feather. If once it\ngets the mastery of one, it crowds a lifetime of pain and pleasure into\none day; it never leaves one for a moment. I cannot explain love--it is a\nwonderful thing.\"\n\n\"My dear friend,\" said the Sister, \"the explanation of love is life.\"\n\n\"But the end of it is not death. It cannot be,\" continued Corona,\nearnestly. \"It must last for ever and ever. It must grow better and purer\nand stronger, until it is perfect in heaven at last: but where is the use\nof trying to express such things?\"\n\n\"I think it is enough to feel them,\" said Sister Gabrielle.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\n\nThe summer season ripened into autumn, and autumn again turned to winter,\nand Rome was once more full. The talk of society turned frequently upon\nthe probability of the match between the Duchessa d'Astrardente and\nGiovanni Saracinesca; and when at last, three weeks before Lent, the\nengagement was made known, there was a general murmur of approbation. It\nseemed as though the momentous question of Corona's life, which had for\nyears agitated the gossips, were at last to be settled: every one had\nbeen accustomed to regard her marriage with old Astrardente as a\ntemporary affair, seeing that he certainly could not live long, and\nspeculation in regard to her future had been nearly as common during his\nlifetime as it was after his death. One of the duties most congenial\nto society, and one which it never fails to perform conscientiously, is\nthat judicial astrology, whereby it forecasts the issue of its\nneighbour's doings. Everybody's social horoscope must be cast by the\ncircle of five-o'clock-tea-drinking astro-sociologists, and, generally\nspeaking, their predictions are not far short of the truth, for society\nknoweth its own bitterness, and is uncommonly quick in the diagnosis of\nits own state of health.\n\nWhen it was announced that Corona was to marry Giovanni after Easter,\nsociety looked and saw that the arrangement was good. There was not one\ndissenting voice heard in the universal applause. Corona had behaved with\nexemplary decency during the year of her mourning--had lived a life of\nreligious retirement upon her estates in the sole company of a Sister of\nCharity, had given no cause for scandal in any way. Everybody aspired\nto like her--that is to say, to be noticed by her; but with one\nexception, she had caused no jealousy nor ill-feeling by her\nindifference, for no one had ever heard her say an unkind word concerning\nanybody she knew. Donna Tullia had her own reasons for hating Corona, and\nperhaps the world suspected them; but people did not connect the noisy\nDonna Tullia, full of animal spirits and gay silly talk, with the idea of\nserious hatred, much less with the execution of any scheme of revenge.\n\nIndeed Madame Mayer had not spent the summer and autumn in nursing her\nwrath against Corona. She had travelled with the old Countess, her\ncompanion, and several times Ugo del Ferice had appeared suddenly at the\nwatering-places which she had selected for her temporary residence. From\ntime to time he gave her news of mutual friends, which she repaid\nconscientiously with interesting accounts of the latest scandals. They\nwere a congenial pair, and Ugo felt that by his constant attention to her\nwishes, and by her never-varying willingness to accept his service, he\nhad obtained a hold upon her intimacy which, in the ensuing winter, would\ngive him a decided advantage over all competitors in the field. She\nbelieved that she might have married half-a-dozen times, and that with\nher fortune she could easily have made a very brilliant match; she even\nthought that she could have married Valdarno, who was very good-natured:\nbut her attachment to Giovanni, and the expectations she had so long\nentertained in regard to him, had prevented her from showing any marked\npreference for others; and while she was hesitating, Del Ferice, by his\nsuperior skill, had succeeded in making himself indispensable to her--a\nsuccess the more remarkable that, in spite of his gifts and the curious\npopularity he enjoyed, he was by far the least desirable man of her\nacquaintance from the matrimonial point of view.\n\nBut when Donna Tullia again met Giovanni in the world, the remembrance of\nher wrongs revived her anger against him, and the news of his engagement\nto the Astrardente brought matters to a climax. In the excitement of the\nmoment, both her jealousy and her anger were illuminated by the light of\na righteous wrath. She knew, or thought she knew, that Don Giovanni was\nalready married. She had no proof that the peasant wife mentioned in the\ncertificate was alive, but there was nothing either to show that she was\ndead. Even in the latter ease it was a scandalous thing that he should\nmarry again without informing Corona of the circumstances of his past\nlife, and Donna Tullia felt an inner conviction that he had told the\nDuchessa nothing of the matter. The latter was such a proud woman, that\nshe would be horrified at the idea of uniting herself to a man who had\nbeen the husband of a peasant.\n\nMadame Mayer remembered her solemn promise to Del Ferice, and feared to\nact without his consent. An hour after she had heard the news of the\nengagement, she sent for him to come to her immediately. To her\nastonishment and dismay, her servant brought back word that he had\nsuddenly gone to Naples upon urgent business. This news made her pause;\nbut while the messenger had been gone to Del Ferice's house, Donna Tullia\nhad been anticipating and going over in her mind the scene which would\nensue when she told Corona the secret. Donna Tullia was a very sanguine\nwoman, and the idea of at last being revenged for all the slights she had\nreceived worked suddenly upon her brain, so that as she paced her\ndrawing-room in expectation of the arrival of Del Ferice, she entirely\nacted out in her imagination the circumstances of the approaching crisis,\nthe blood beat hotly in her temples, and she lost all sense of prudence\nin the delicious anticipation of violent words. Del Ferice had cruelly\ncalculated upon her temperament, and he had hoped that in the excitement\nof the moment she would lose her head, and irrevocably commit herself to\nhim by the betrayal of the secret. This was precisely what occurred. On\nbeing told that he was out of town, she could no longer contain herself,\nand with a sudden determination to risk anything blindly, rather than to\nforego the pleasure and the excitement she had been meditating, she\nordered her carriage and drove to the Palazzo Astrardente.\n\nCorona was surprised at the unexpected visit. She was herself on the\npoint of going out, and was standing in her boudoir, drawing on her black\ngloves before the fire, while her furs lay upon a chair at her side. She\nwondered why Donna Tullia called, and it was in part her curiosity which\ninduced her to receive her visit. Donna Tullia, armed to the teeth with\nthe terrible news she was about to disclose, entered the room quickly,\nand remained standing before the Duchessa with a semi-tragic air that\nastonished Corona.\n\n\"How do you do, Donna Tullia?\" said the latter, putting out her hand.\n\n\"I have come to speak to you upon a very serious matter,\" answered her\nvisitor, without noticing the greeting.\n\nCorona stared at her for a moment, but not being easily disconcerted, she\nquietly motioned to Donna Tullia to sit down, and installed herself in a\nchair opposite to her.\n\n\"I have just heard the news that you are to marry Don Giovanni\nSaracinesca,\" said Madame Mayer. \"You will pardon me the interest I take\nin you; but is it true?\"\n\n\"It is quite true,\" answered Corona.\n\n\"It is in connection with your marriage that I wish to speak, Duchessa. I\nimplore you to reconsider your decision.\"\n\n\"And why, if you please?\" asked Corona, raising her black eyebrows, and\nfixing her haughty gaze upon her visitor.\n\n\"I could tell you--I would rather not,\" answered Donna Tullia, unabashed,\nfor her blood was up. \"I could tell you--but I beseech you not to ask me.\nOnly consider the matter again, I beg you. It is very serious. Nothing\nbut the great interest I feel in you, and my conviction--\"\n\n\"Donna Tullia, your conduct is so extraordinary,\" interrupted Corona,\nlooking at her curiously, \"that I am tempted to believe you are mad. I\nmust beg you to explain what you mean by your words.\"\n\n\"Ah, no,\" answered Madame Mayer. \"You do me injustice. I am not mad, but\nI would save you from the most horrible danger.\"\n\n\"Again I say, what do you mean? I will not be trifled with in this way,\"\nsaid the Duchessa, who would have been more angry if she had been less\nastonished, but whose temper was rapidly rising.\n\n\"I am not trifling with you,\" returned Donna Tullia. \"I am imploring you\nto think before you act, before you marry Don Giovanni. You cannot think\nthat I would venture to intrude upon you without the strongest reasons.\nI am in earnest.\"\n\n\"Then, in heaven's name, speak out!\" cried Corona, losing all patience.\n\"I presume that if this is a warning, you have some grounds, you have\nsome accusation to make against Don Giovanni. Have the goodness to state\nwhat you have to say, and be brief.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Donna Tullia, and she paused a moment, her face growing\nred with excitement, and her blue eyes sparkling disagreeably. \"You\ncannot marry Don Giovanni,\" she said at length, \"because there is an\ninsurmountable impediment in the way.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" asked Corona, controlling her anger.\n\n\"He is already married!\" hissed Donna Tullia.\n\nCorona turned a little pale, and started back. But in an instant her\ncolour returned, and she broke into a low laugh.\n\n\"You are certainly insane,\" she said, eyeing Madame Mayer suspiciously.\nIt was not an easy matter to shake her faith in the man she loved. Donna\nTullia was disappointed at the effect she had produced. She was a clever\nwoman in her way, but she did not understand how to make the best of the\nsituation. She saw that she was simply an object of curiosity, and that\nCorona seriously believed her mind deranged. She was frightened, and,\nin order to help herself, she plunged deeper.\n\n\"You may call me mad, if you please,\" she replied, angrily. \"I tell you\nit is true. Don Giovanni was married on the 19th of June 1863, at Aquila,\nin the Abruzzi, to a woman called Felice Baldi--whoever she may have\nbeen. The register is extant, and the duplicate of the marriage\ncertificate. I have seen the copies attested by a notary. I tell you it\nis true,\" she continued, her voice rising to a harsh treble; \"you are\nengaged to marry a man who has a wife--a peasant woman--somewhere in the\nmountains.\"\n\nCorona rose from her seat and put out her hand to ring the bell. She was\npale, but not excited. She believed Donna Tullia to be insane, perhaps\ndangerous, and she calmly proceeded to protect herself by calling for\nassistance.\n\n\"Either you are mad, or you mean what you say,\" she said, keeping her\neyes upon the angry woman before her. \"You will not leave this house\nexcept in charge of my physician, if you are mad; and if you mean what\nyou say, you shall not go until you have repeated your words to\nDon Giovanni Saracinesca himself,--no, do not start or try to escape--it\nis of no use. I am very sudden and violent--beware!\"\n\nDonna Tullia bit her red lip. She was beginning to realise that she had\ngot herself into trouble, and that it might be hard to get out of it. But\nshe felt herself strong, and she wished she had with her those proofs\nwhich would make her case good. She was so sanguine by nature that she\nwas willing to carry the fight to the end, and to take her chance for the\nresult.\n\n\"You may send for Don Giovanni if you please,\" she said. \"I have spoken\nthe truth--if he denies it I can prove it. If I were you I would spare\nhim the humiliation--\"\n\nA servant entered the room in answer to the bell, and Corona interrupted\nDonna Tullia's speech by giving the man her orders.\n\n\"Go at once to the Palazzo Saracinesca, and beg Don Giovanni to come here\ninstantly with his father the Prince. Take the carriage--it is waiting\nbelow.\"\n\nThe man disappeared, and Corona quietly resumed her seat. Donna Tullia\nwas silent for a few moments, attempting to control her anger in an\nassumption of dignity; but soon she broke out afresh, being rendered very\nnervous and uncomfortable by the Duchessa's calm manner and apparent\nindifference to consequences.\n\n\"I cannot see why you should expose yourself to such a scene,\" said\nMadame Mayer presently. \"I honestly wished to save you from a terrible\ndanger. It seems to me it would be quite sufficient if I proved the fact\nto you beyond dispute. I should think that instead of being angry, you\nwould show some gratitude.\"\n\n\"I am not angry,\" answered Corona, quietly. \"I am merely giving you an\nimmediate opportunity of proving your assertion and your sanity.\"\n\n\"My sanity!\" exclaimed Donna Tullia, angrily. \"Do you seriously\nbelieve--\"\n\n\"Nothing that you say,\" said Corona, completing the sentence.\n\nUnable to bear the situation, Madame Mayer rose suddenly from her seat,\nand began to pace the small room with short, angry steps.\n\n\"You shall see,\" she said, fiercely--\"you shall see that it is all true.\nYou shall see this man's face when I accuse him--you shall see him\nhumiliated, overthrown, exposed in his villany--the wretch! You shall see\nhow--\"\n\nCorona's strong voice interrupted her enemy's invective in ringing tones.\n\n\"Be silent!\" she cried. \"In twenty minutes he will be here. But if you\nsay one word against him before he comes, I will lock you into this room\nand leave you. I certainly will not hear you.\"\n\nDonna Tullia reflected that the Duchessa was in her own house, and\nmoreover that she was not a woman to be trifled with. She threw herself\ninto a chair, and taking up a book that lay upon the table, she pretended\nto read.\n\nCorona remained seated by the fireplace, glancing at her from time to\ntime. She was strangely inclined to laugh at the whole situation, which\nseemed to her absurd in the extreme--for it never crossed her mind to\nbelieve that there was a word of truth in the accusation against\nGiovanni. Nevertheless she was puzzled to account for Donna Tullia's\nassurance, and especially for her readiness to face the man she so\ncalumniated. A quarter of an hour elapsed in this armed silence--the two\nwomen glancing at each other from time to time, until the distant sound\nof wheels rolling under the great gate announced that the messenger had\nreturned from the Palazzo Saracinesca, probably conveying Don Giovanni\nand his father.\n\n\"Then you have made up your mind to the humiliation of the man you love?\"\nasked Donna Tullia, looking up from her book with a sneer on her face.\n\nCorona vouchsafed no answer, but her eyes turned towards the door in\nexpectation. Presently there were steps heard without. The servant\nentered, and announced Prince Saracinesca and Don Giovanni. Corona\nrose. The old man came in first, followed by his son.\n\n\"An unexpected pleasure,\" he said, gaily. \"Such good luck! We were both\nat home. Ah, Donna Tullia,\" he cried, seeing Madame Mayer, \"how are you?\"\nThen seeing her face, he added, suddenly, \"Is anything the matter?\"\n\nMeanwhile Giovanni had entered, and stood by Corona's side near the\nfireplace. He saw at once that something was wrong, and he looked\nanxiously from the Duchessa to Donna Tullia. Corona spoke at once.\n\n\"Donna Tullia,\" she said, quietly, \"I have the honour to offer you an\nopportunity of explaining yourself.\"\n\nMadame Mayer remained seated by the table, her face red with anger. She\nleaned back in her seat, and half closing her eyes with a disagreeable\nlook of contempt, she addressed Giovanni.\n\n\"I am sorry to cause you such profound humiliation,\" she began, \"but in\nthe interest of the Duchessa d'Astrardente I feel bound to speak. Don\nGiovanni, do you remember Aquila?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" he replied, coolly--\"I have often been there. What of it?\"\n\nOld Saracinesca stared from one to the other.\n\n\"What is this comedy?\" he asked of Corona. But she nodded to him to be\nsilent.\n\n\"Then you doubtless remember Felice Baldi--poor Felice Baldi,\" continued\nDonna Tullia, still gazing scornfully up at Giovanni from where she sat.\n\n\"I never heard the name, that I can remember,\" answered Giovanni, as\nthough trying to recall some memory of the past. He could not imagine\nwhat she was leading to, but he was willing to answer her questions.\n\n\"You do not remember that you were married to her at Aquila on the 19th\nof June--\"\n\n\"I--married?\" cried Giovanni, in blank astonishment.\n\n\"Signora Duchessa,\" said the Prince, bending his heavy brows, \"what is\nthe meaning of all this?\"\n\n\"I will tell you the meaning of it,\" said Donna Tullia, in low hissing\ntones, and rising suddenly to her feet she assumed a somewhat theatrical\nattitude as she pointed to Giovanni. \"I will tell what it means. It means\nthat Don Giovanni Saracinesca was married in the church of San\nBernardino, at Aquila, on the 19th of June 1863, to the woman Felice\nBaldi--who is his lawful wife to-day, and for aught we know the mother of\nhis children, while he is here in Rome attempting to marry the Duchessa\nd'Astrardente--can he deny it? Can he deny that his own signature is\nthere, there in the office of the State Civile at Aquila, to testify\nagainst him? Can he--?\"\n\n\"Silence!\" roared the Prince. \"Silence, woman, or by God in heaven I will\nstop your talking for ever!\" He made a step towards her, and there was a\nmurderous red light in his black eyes. But Giovanni sprang forward and\nseized his father by the wrist.\n\n\"You cannot silence me,\" screamed Donna Tullia. \"I will be heard, and by\nall Rome. I will cry it upon the housetops to all the world--\"\n\n\"Then you will precipitate your confinement in the asylum of Santo\nSpirito,\" said Giovanni, in cold, calm tones. \"You are clearly mad.\"\n\n\"So I said,\" assented Corona, who was nevertheless pale, and trembling\nwith excitement.\n\n\"Allow me to speak with her,\" said Giovanni, who, like most dangerous\nmen, seemed to grow cold as others grew hot. Donna Tullia leaned upon the\ntable, breathing hard between her closed teeth, her face scarlet.\n\n\"Madame,\" said Giovanni, advancing a step and confronting her, \"you say\nthat I am married, and that I am contemplating a monstrous crime. Upon\nwhat do you base your extraordinary assertions?\"\n\n\"Upon attested copies of your marriage certificate, of the civil register\nwhere your handwriting has been seen and recognised. What more would you\nhave?\"\n\n\"It is monstrous!\" cried the Prince, advancing again. \"It is the most\nabominable lie ever concocted! My son married without my knowledge, and\nto a peasant! Absurd!\"\n\nBut Giovanni waved his father back, and kept his place before Donna\nTullia.\n\n\"I give you the alternative of producing instantly those proofs you refer\nto,\" he said, \"and which you certainly cannot produce, or of waiting in\nthis house until a competent physician has decided whether you are\nsufficiently sane to be allowed to go home alone.\"\n\nDonna Tullia hesitated. She was in a terrible position, for Del Ferice\nhad left Rome suddenly, and though the papers were somewhere in his\nhouse, she knew not where, nor how to get at them. It was impossible to\nimagine a situation more desperate, and she felt it as she looked\nround and saw the pale dark faces of the three resolute persons whose\nanger she had thus roused. She believed that Giovanni was capable of\nanything, but she was astonished at his extraordinary calmness. She\nhesitated for a moment.\n\n\"That is perfectly just,\" said Corona. \"If you have proofs, you can\nproduce them. If you have none, you are insane.\"\n\n\"I have them, and I will produce them before this hour to-morrow,\"\nanswered Donna Tullia, not knowing how she should get the papers, but\nknowing that she was lost if she failed to obtain them.\n\n\"Why not to-day--at once?\" asked Giovanni, with some scorn.\n\n\"It will take twenty-four hours to forge them,\" growled his father.\n\n\"You have no right to insult me so grossly,\" cried Donna Tullia. \"But\nbeware--I have you in my power. By this time to-morrow you shall see with\nyour own eyes that I speak the truth. Let me go,\" she cried, as the old\nPrince placed himself between her and the door.\n\n\"I will,\" said he. \"But before you go, I beg you to observe that if\nbetween now and the time you show us these documents you breathe abroad\none word of your accusations, I will have you arrested as a dangerous\nlunatic, and lodged in Santo Spirito; and if these papers are not\nauthentic, you will be arrested to-morrow afternoon on a charge of\nforgery. You quite understand me?\" He stood aside to let her pass. She\nlaughed scornfully in his face, and went out.\n\nWhen she was gone the three looked at each other, as though trying to\ncomprehend what had happened. Indeed, it was beyond their comprehension.\nCorona leaned against the chimneypiece, and her eyes rested lovingly upon\nGiovanni. No doubt had ever crossed her mind of his perfect honesty. Old\nSaracinesca looked from one to the other for a moment, and then, striking\nthe palms of his hands together, turned and began to walk up and down the\nroom.\n\n\"In the first place,\" said Giovanni, \"at the time she mentions I was in\nCanada, upon a shooting expedition, with a party of Englishmen. It is\neasy to prove that, as they are all alive and well now, so far as I have\nheard. Donna Tullia is clearly out of her mind.\"\n\n\"The news of your engagement has driven her mad,\" said the old Prince,\nwith a grim laugh. \"It is a very interesting and romantic case.\"\n\nCorona blushed a little, and her eyes sought Giovanni's, but her face was\nvery grave. It was a terrible thing to see a person she had known so long\nbecoming insane, and for the sake of the man she herself so loved. And\nyet she had not a doubt of Donna Tullia's madness. It was very sad.\n\n\"I wonder who could have put this idea into her head,\" said Giovanni,\nthoughtfully. \"It does not look like a creation of her own brain. I\nwonder, too, what absurdities she will produce in the way of documents.\nOf course they must be forged.\"\n\n\"She will not bring them,\" returned his father, in a tone of certainty.\n\"We shall hear to-morrow that she is raving in the delirium of a\nbrain-fever.\"\n\n\"Poor thing!\" exclaimed Corona. \"It is dreadful to think of it.\"\n\n\"It is dreadful to think that she should have caused you all this trouble\nand annoyance,\" said Giovanni, warmly. \"You must have had a terrible\nscene with her before we came. What did she say?\"\n\n\"Just what she said to you. Then she began to rail against you; and I\nsent for you, and told her that unless she could be silent I would lock\nher up alone until you arrived. So she sat down in that chair, and\npretended to read. But it was an immense relief when you came!\"\n\n\"You did not once believe what she said might possibly be true?\" asked\nGiovanni, with a loving look.\n\n\"I? How could you ever think it!\" exclaimed Corona. Then she laughed, and\nadded, \"But of course you knew that I would not.\"\n\n\"Indeed, yes,\" he answered. \"It never entered my head.\"\n\n\"By-the-bye,\" said old Saracinesca, glancing at the Duchessa's black\nbonnet and gloved hands, \"you must have been just ready to go out when\nshe came--we must not keep you. I suppose that when she said she would\nbring her proofs to-morrow at this hour, she meant she would bring them\nhere. Shall we come to-morrow then?\"\n\n\"Yes--by all means,\" she answered. \"Come to breakfast at one o'clock. I\nam alone, you know, for Sister Gabrielle has insisted upon going back to\nher community. But what does it matter now?\"\n\n\"What does it matter?\" echoed the Prince. \"You are to be married so soon.\nI really think we can do as we please.\" He generally did as he pleased.\n\nThe two men left her, and a few minutes later she descended the steps of\nthe palace and entered her carriage, as though nothing had happened.\n\nSix months had passed since she had given her troth to Giovanni upon the\ntower of Saracinesca, and she knew that she loved him better now than\nthen. Little had happened of interest in the interval of time, and the\ndays had seemed long. But until after Christmas she had remained at\nAstrardente, busying herself constantly with the improvements she had\nalready begun, and aided by the counsels of Giovanni. He had taken a\ncottage of hers in the lower part of her village, and had fitted it up\nwith the few comforts he judged necessary. In this lodging he had\ngenerally spent half the week, going daily to the palace upon the hill\nand remaining for long hours in Corona's society, studying her plans and\nvisiting with her the works which grew beneath their joint direction. She\nhad grown to know him as she had not known him before, and to understand\nmore fully his manly character. He was a very resolute man, and very much\nin earnest when he chanced to be doing anything; but the strain of\nmelancholy which he inherited from his mother made him often inclined to\na sort of contemplative idleness, during which his mind seemed\npreoccupied with absorbing thoughts. Many people called his fits of\nsilence an affectation, or part of his system for rendering himself\ninteresting; but Corona soon saw how real was his abstraction, and she\nsaw also that she alone was able to attract his attention and interest\nhim when the fit was upon him. Slowly, by a gradual study of him, she\nlearned what few had ever guessed, namely, that beneath the experienced\nman of the world, under his modest manner and his gentle ways, there\nlay a powerful mainspring of ambition, a mine of strength, which would\none day exert itself and make itself felt upon his surroundings. He had\ndeveloped slowly, feeding upon many experiences of the world in many\ncountries, his quick Italian intelligence comprehending often more than\nit seemed to do, while the quiet dignity he got from his Spanish blood\nmade him appear often very cold. But now and again, when under the\ninfluence of some large idea, his tongue was loosed in the charm of\nCorona's presence, and he spoke to her, as he had never spoken to any\none, of projects and plans which should make the world move. She did not\nalways understand him wholly, but she knew that the man she loved was\nsomething more than the world at large believed him to be, and there was\na thrill of pride in the thought which delighted her inmost soul. She,\ntoo, was ambitious, but her ambition was all for him. She felt that there\nwas little room for common aspirations in his position or in her own. All\nthat high birth, and wealth, and personal consideration could give, they\nboth had abundantly, beyond their utmost wishes; anything they could\ndesire beyond that must lie in a larger sphere of action than mere\nsociety, in the world of political power. She herself had had dreams, and\nentertained them still, of founding some great institution of charity, of\ndoing something for her poorer fellows. But she learned by degrees that\nGiovanni looked further than to such ordinary means of employing power,\nand that there was in him a great ambition to bring great forces to bear\nupon great questions for the accomplishment of great results. The six\nmonths of her engagement to him had not only strengthened her love for\nhim, already deep and strong, but had implanted in her an unchanging\ndetermination to second him in all his life, to omit nothing in her power\nwhich could assist him in the career he should choose for himself, and\nwhich she regarded as the ultimate field for his extraordinary powers. It\nwas strange that, while granting him everything else, people had never\nthought of calling him a man of remarkable intelligence. But no one knew\nhim as Corona knew him; no one suspected that there was in him anything\nmore than the traditional temper of the Saracinesca, with sufficient mind\nto make him as fair a representative of his race as his father was.\n\nThere was more than mere love and devotion in the complete security she\nfelt when she saw him attacked by Donna Tullia; there was already the\ncertainty that he was born to be above small things, and to create a\nsphere of his own in which he would move as other men could not.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\n\nWhen Donna Tullia quitted the Palazzo Astrardente her head swam. She had\nutterly failed to do what she had expected; and from being the accuser,\nshe felt that she was suddenly thrust into the position of the accused.\nInstead of inspiring terror in Corona, and causing Giovanni the terrible\nhumiliation she had supposed he would feel at the exposure of his\nprevious marriage, she had been coldly told that she was mad, and that\nher pretended proofs were forgeries. Though she herself felt no doubt\nwhatever concerning the authenticity of the documents, it was very\ndisappointing to find that the first mention of them produced no\nstartling effect upon any one, least of all upon Giovanni himself. The\nman, she thought, was a most accomplished villain; since he was capable\nof showing such hardened indifference to her accusation, he was capable\nalso of thwarting her in her demonstration of their truth--and she\ntrembled at the thought of what she saw. Old Saracinesca was not a man to\nbe trifled with, nor his son either: they were powerful, and would be\nrevenged for the insult. But in the meanwhile she had promised to produce\nher proofs; and when she regained enough composure to consider the matter\nfrom all its points, she came to the conclusion that after all her game\nwas not lost, seeing that attested documents are evidence not easily\nrefuted, even by powerful men like Leone and Giovanni Saracinesca. She\ngradually convinced herself that their indifference was a pretence, and\nthat they were accomplices in the matter, their object being to gain\nCorona with all her fortune for Giovanni's wife. But, at the same time,\nDonna Tullia felt in the depths of her heart a misgiving: she was clever\nenough to recognise, even in spite of herself, the difference between a\nliar and an honest man.\n\nShe must get possession of these papers--and immediately too; there must\nbe no delay in showing them to Corona, and in convincing her that this\nwas no mere fable, but an assertion founded upon very substantial\nevidence. Del Ferice was suddenly gone to Naples: obviously the only\nway to get at the papers was to bribe his servant to deliver them up. Ugo\nhad once or twice mentioned Temistocle to her, and she judged from the\nfew words he had let fall that the fellow was a scoundrel, who would\nsell his soul for money. Madame Mayer drove home, and put on the only\ndark-coloured gown she possessed, wound a thick veil about her head,\nprovided herself with a number of bank-notes, which she thrust between\nthe palm of her hand and her glove, left the house on foot, and took a\ncab. There was nothing to be done but to go herself, for she could trust\nno one. Her heart beat fast as she ascended the narrow stone steps of\nDel Ferice's lodging, and stopped upon the landing before the small green\ndoor, whereon she read his name. She pulled the bell, and Temistocle\nappeared in his shirt-sleeves.\n\n\"Does Count Del Ferice live here?\" asked Donna Tullia, peering over the\nman's shoulder into the dark and narrow passage within.\n\n\"He lives here, but he is gone to Naples,\" answered Temistocle, promptly.\n\n\"When will he be back?\" she inquired. The man raised his shoulders to his\nears, and spread out the palms of his hands to signify that he did not\nknow. Donna Tullia hesitated. She had never attempted to bribe anybody\nin her life, and hardly knew how to go about it. She thought that the\nsight of the money might produce an impression, and she withdrew a\nbank-note from the hollow of her hand, spreading it out between her\nfingers. Temistocle eyed it greedily.\n\n\"There are twenty-five scudi,\" she said. \"If you will help me to find a\npiece of paper in your master's room, you shall have them.\"\n\nTemistocle drew himself up with an air of mock pride. Madame Mayer looked\nat him.\n\n\"Impossible, signora,\" he said. Then she drew out another. Temistocle\neyed the glove curiously to see if it contained more.\n\n\"Signora,\" he repeated, \"it is impossible. My master would kill me. I\ncannot think of it.\" But his tone seemed to yield a little. Donna Tullia\nfound another bank-note; there were now seventy-five scudi in her hand.\nShe thought she saw Temistocle tremble with excitement. But still he\nhesitated.\n\n\"Signora, my conscience,\" he said, in a low voice of protestation.\n\n\"Come,\" said Madame Mayer, impatiently, \"there is another--there are a\nhundred scudi--that is all I have got,\" she added, turning down her empty\nglove.\n\nSuddenly Temistocle put out his hand and grasped the bank-notes eagerly.\nBut instead of retiring to allow her to enter, he pushed roughly past\nher.\n\n\"You may go in,\" he said in a hoarse whisper, and turning quickly, fled\nprecipitately down the narrow steps, in his shirt-sleeves as he was.\nMadame Mayer stood for a moment looking after him in surprise, even when\nhe had already disappeared.\n\nThen she turned and entered the door rather timidly; but before she had\ngone two steps in the dark passage, she uttered a cry of horror. Del\nFerice stood in her way, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, a curious\nexpression upon his pale face, which from its whiteness was clearly\ndistinguishable in the gloom. Temistocle had cheated her, had lied in\ntelling her that his master was absent, had taken her bribe and had fled.\nHe would easily find an excuse for having allowed her to enter; and with\nhis quick valet's instinct, he guessed that she would not confess to\nDel Ferice that she had bribed him. Ugo came forward a step and instantly\nrecognised Madame Mayer.\n\n\"Donna Tullia!\" he cried, \"what are you doing? You must not be seen\nhere.\"\n\nA less clever man than Ugo would have pretended to be overjoyed at her\ncoming. Del Fence's fine instincts told him that for whatever cause she\nhad come--and he guessed the cause well enough--he would get a firmer\nhold upon her consideration by appearing to be shocked at her imprudence.\nDonna Tullia was nearly fainting with fright, and stood leaning against\nthe wall of the passage.\n\n\"I thought--I--I must see you at once,\" she stammered.\n\n\"Not here,\" he answered, quickly. \"Go home at once; I will join you in\nfive minutes. It will ruin you to have it known that you have been here.\"\n\nMadame Mayer took courage at his tone.\n\n\"You must bring them--those papers,\" she said, hurriedly. \"Something\ndreadful has happened. Promise me to come at once!\"\n\n\"I will come at once, my dear lady,\" he said, gently pushing her towards\nthe door. \"I cannot even go down-stairs with you--forgive me. You have\nyour carriage of course?\"\n\n\"I have a cab,\" replied Donna Tullia, faintly, submitting to be put\nout of the door. He seized her hand and kissed it passionately, or\nwith a magnificent semblance of passion. With a startled look, Donna\nTullia turned and went rapidly down the steps. Del Ferice smiled\nsoftly to himself when she was gone, and went in again to exchange his\ndressing-gown for a coat. He had her in his power at last. He had guessed\nthat she would betray the secret--that after the engagement became known,\nshe would not be able to refrain from communicating it to Corona\nd'Astrardente; and so soon as he heard the news, he had shut himself up\nin his lodging, pretending a sudden journey to Naples, determined not to\nset foot out of the house until he heard that Donna Tullia had committed\nherself. He knew that when she had once spoken she would make a desperate\nattempt to obtain the papers, for he knew that such an assertion as hers\nwould need to be immediately proved, at the risk of her position in\nsociety. His plot had succeeded so far. His only anxiety was to know\nwhether she had mentioned his name in connection with the subject, but he\nguessed, from his knowledge of her character, that she would not do so:\nshe would respect her oath enough to conceal his name, even while\nbreaking her promise; she would enjoy taking the sole credit of the\ndiscovery upon herself, and she would shun an avowal which would prove\nher to have discussed with any one else the means of preventing the\nmarriage, because it would be a confession of jealousy, and consequently\nof personal interest in Don Giovanni. Del Ferice was a very clever\nfellow.\n\nHe put on his coat, and in five minutes was seated in a cab on his way to\nDonna Tullia's house, with a large envelope full of papers in his pocket.\nHe found her as she had left him, her face still wrapped in a veil,\nwalking up and down her drawing-room in great excitement. He advanced\nand saluted her courteously, maintaining a dignified gravity of bearing\nwhich he judged fitting for the occasion.\n\n\"And now, my dear lady,\" he said, gently, \"will you tell me exactly what\nyou have done?\"\n\n\"This morning,\" answered Madame Mayer, in a stifled voice, \"I heard of\nthe Astrardente's engagement to Don Giovanni. It seemed such a terrible\nthing!\"\n\n\"Terrible, indeed,\" said Del Ferice, solemnly.\n\n\"I sent for you at once, to know what to do: they said you were gone to\nNaples. I thought, of course, that you would approve if you were here,\nbecause we ought to prevent such a dreadful crime--of course.\" She waited\nfor some sign of assent, but Del Ferice's pale face expressed nothing but\na sort of grave reproach.\n\n\"And then,\" she continued, \"as I could not find you, I thought it was\nbest to act at once, and so I went to see the Astrardente, feeling that\nyou would entirely support me. There was a terrific scene. She sent for\nthe two Saracinesca, and I--waited till they came, because I was\ndetermined to see justice done. I am sure I was right,--was I not?\"\n\n\"What did they say?\" asked Del Ferice, quietly watching her face.\n\n\"If you will believe it, that monster of villany, Don Giovanni, was as\ncold as stone, and denied the whole matter from beginning to end; but his\nfather was very angry. Of course they demanded the proofs. I never saw\nanything like the brazen assurance of Don Giovanni.\"\n\n\"Did you mention me?\" inquired Del Ferice.\n\n\"No, I had not seen you: of course I did not want to implicate you. I\nsaid I would show them the papers to-morrow at the same hour.\"\n\n\"And then you came to see me,\" said Del Ferice. \"That was very rash. You\nmight have seriously compromised yourself. I would have come if you had\nsent for me.\"\n\n\"But they said you had gone to Naples. Your servant,\" continued Donna\nTullia, blushing scarlet at the remembrance of her interview with\nTemistocle,--\"your servant assured me in person that you had gone to\nNaples--\"\n\n\"I see,\" replied Del Ferice, quietly. He did not wish to press her to a\nconfession of having tried to get the papers in his absence. His object\nwas to put her at her ease.\n\n\"My dear lady,\" he continued, gently, \"you have done an exceedingly rash\nthing; but I will support you in every way, by putting the documents in\nyour possession at once. It is unfortunate that you should have acted so\nsuddenly, for we do not know what has become of this Felice Baldi, nor\nhave we any immediate means of finding out. It might have taken weeks to\nfind her. Why were you so rash? You could have waited till I returned,\nand we could have discussed the matter carefully, and decided whether it\nwere really wise to make use of my information.\"\n\n\"You do not doubt that I did right?\" asked Donna Tullia, turning a little\npale.\n\n\"I think you acted precipitately in speaking without consulting me. All\nmay yet be well. But in the first place, as you did not ask my opinion,\nyou will see the propriety of not mentioning my name, since you have\nnot done so already. It can do no good, for the papers speak for\nthemselves, and whatever value they may have is inherent in them. Do you\nsee?\"\n\n\"Of course there is no need of mentioning you, unless you wish to have a\nshare in the exposure of this abominable wickedness.\"\n\n\"I am satisfied with my share,\" replied Del Ferice, with a quiet smile.\n\n\"It is not an important one,\" returned Donna Tullia, nervously.\n\n\"It is the lion's share,\" he answered. \"Most adorable of women, you have\nnot, I am sure, forgotten the terms of our agreement--terms so dear to\nme, that every word of them is engraven for ever upon the tablet of my\nheart.\"\n\nMadame Mayer started slightly. She had not realised that her promise to\nmarry Ugo was now due--she did not believe that he would press it; he had\nexacted it to frighten her, and besides, she had so persuaded herself\nthat he would approve of her conduct, that she had not felt as though she\nwere betraying his secret.\n\n\"You will not--you cannot hold me to that; you approve of telling the\nAstrardente, on the whole,--it is the same as though I had consulted\nyou--\"\n\n\"Pardon me, my dear lady; you did not consult me,\" answered Del Ferice,\nsoothingly. He sat near her by the fire, his hat upon his knee, no longer\nwatching her, but gazing contemplatively at the burning logs. There was a\ndelicacy about his pale face since the wound he had received a year\nbefore which was rather attractive: from having been a little inclined to\nstoutness, he had grown slender and more graceful, partly because his\nhealth had really been affected by his illness, and partly because he had\ndetermined never again to risk being too fat.\n\n\"I tried to consult you,\" objected Donna Tullia. \"It is the same thing.\"\n\n\"It is not the same thing to me,\" he answered, \"although you have not\ninvolved me in the affair. I would have most distinctly advised you to\nsay nothing about it at present. You have acted rashly, have put yourself\nin a most painful situation; and you have broken your promise to me--a\nvery solemn promise, Donna Tullia, sworn upon the memory of your mother\nand upon a holy relic. One cannot make light of such promises as\nthat.\"\n\n\"You made me give it in order to frighten me. The Church does not bind us\nto oaths sworn under compulsion,\" she argued.\n\n\"Excuse me; there was no compulsion whatever. You wanted to know my\nsecret, and for the sake of knowing it you bound yourself. That is not\ncompulsion. I cannot compel you. I could not think of presuming to compel\nyou to marry me now. But I can say to you that I am devotedly attached to\nyou, that to marry you is the aim and object of my life, and if you\nrefuse, I will tell you that you are doing a great wrong, repudiating a\nsolemn contract--\"\n\n\"If I refuse--well--but you would give me the papers?\" asked Donna\nTullia, who was beginning to tremble for the result of the interview. She\nhad a vague suspicion that, for the sake of obtaining them, she would\neven be willing to promise to marry Del Ferice. It would be very wrong,\nperhaps; but it would be for the sake of accomplishing good, by\npreventing Corona from falling into the trap--Corona, whom she hated!\nStill, it would be a generous act to save her. The minds of women like\nMadame Mayer are apt to be a little tortuous when they find themselves\nhemmed in between their own jealousies, hatreds, and personal interests.\n\n\"If you refused--no; if you refused, I am afraid I could not give you the\npapers,\" replied Del Ferice, musing as he gazed at the fire. \"I love you\ntoo much to lose that chance of winning you, even for the sake of saving\nthe Duchessa d'Astrardente from her fate. Why do you refuse? why do you\nbargain?\" he asked, suddenly turning towards her. \"Does all my devotion\ncount for nothing--all my love, all my years of patient waiting? Oh, you\ncannot be so cruel as to snatch the cup from my very lips! It is not for\nthe sake of these miserable documents: what is it to me whether Don\nGiovanni appears as the criminal in a case of bigamy--whether he is\nruined now, as by his evil deeds he will be hereafter, or whether he goes\non unharmed and unthwarted upon his career of wickedness? He is nothing\nto me, nor his pale-faced bride either. It is for you that I care, for\nyou that I will do anything, bad or good, to win you that I would risk my\nlife and my soul. Can you not see it? Have I not been faithful for very\nlong? Take pity on me--forget this whole business, forget that you have\npromised anything, forget all except that I am here at your feet, a\nmiserable man, unless you speak the word, and turn all my wretchedness\ninto joy!\"\n\nHe slipped from his seat and knelt upon one knee before her, clasping one\nof her hands passionately between both his own. The scene was well\nplanned and well executed; his voice had a ring of emotion that sounded\npleasantly in Donna Tullia's ears, and his hands trembled with\nexcitement. She did not repulse him, being a vain woman and willing to\nbelieve in the reality of the passion so well simulated. Perhaps, too, it\nwas not wholly put on, for she was a handsome, dashing woman, in the\nprime of youth, and Del Ferice was a man who had always been susceptible\nto charms of that kind. Donna Tullia hesitated, wondering what more he\ncould say. But he, on his part, knew the danger of trusting too much to\neloquence when not backed by a greater strength than his, and he pressed\nher for an answer.\n\n\"Be generous--trust me,\" he cried. \"Believe that your happiness is\neverything to me; believe that I will take no unfair advantage of a hasty\npromise. Tell me that, of your own free will, you will be my wife, and\ncommand me anything, that I may prove my devotion. It is so true, so\nhonest,--Tullia, I adore you, I live only for you! Speak the word, and\nmake me the happiest of men!\"\n\nHe really looked handsome as he knelt before her, and she felt the light,\nnervous pressure of his hand at every word he spoke. After all, what did\nit matter? She might accept him, and then--well, if she did not like the\nidea, she could throw him over. It would only cost her a violent scene,\nand a few moments of discomfort. Meanwhile she would get the papers.\n\n\"But you would give me the papers, would you not, and leave me to decide\nwhether--Really, Del Ferice,\" she said, interrupting herself with a\nnervous laugh, \"this is very absurd.\"\n\n\"I implore you not to speak of the papers--it is not absurd. It may seem\nso to you, but it is life or death to me: death if you refuse me--life if\nyou will speak the word and be mine!\"\n\nDonna Tullia made up her mind. He would evidently not give her what she\nwanted, except in return for a promise of marriage. She had grown used to\nhim, almost fond of him, in the last year.\n\n\"Well, I do not know whether I am right,\" she said, \"but I am really very\nfond of you; and if you will do all I say--\"\n\n\"Everything, my dear lady; everything in the world I will do, if you will\nmake me so supremely happy,\" cried Del Ferice, ardently.\n\n\"Then--yes; I will marry you. Only get up and sit upon your chair like a\nreasonable being. No; you really must be reasonable, or you must go\naway.\" Ugo was madly kissing her hands. He was really a good actor, if\nit was all acting. She could not but be moved by his pale delicate face\nand passionate words. With a quick movement he sprang to his feet and\nstood before her, clasping his hands together and gazing into her face.\n\n\"Oh, I am the happiest man alive to-day!\" he exclaimed, and the sense of\ntriumph that he felt lent energy to his voice.\n\n\"Do sit down,\" said Donna Tullia, gaily, \"and let us talk it all over. In\nthe first place, what am I to do first?\"\n\nDel Ferice found it convenient to let his excitement subside, and as a\npreliminary he walked twice the length of the room.\n\n\"It is so hard to be calm!\" he exclaimed; but nevertheless he presently\nsat down in his former seat, and seemed to collect his faculties with\nwonderful ease.\n\n\"What is to be done first?\" asked Donna Tullia again.\n\n\"In the first place,\" answered Del Ferice, \"here are those precious\npapers. As they are notary's copies themselves, and not the originals, it\nis of no importance whether Don Giovanni tears them up or not. It is easy\nto get others if he does. I have noted down all the names and dates. I\nwish we had some information about Felice Baldi. It is very unfortunate\nthat we have not, but it would perhaps take a month to find her.\"\n\n\"I must act at once,\" said Donna Tullia, firmly; for she remembered old\nSaracinesca's threats, and was in a hurry.\n\n\"Of course. These documents speak for themselves. They bear the address\nof the notary who made the copies in Aquila. If the Saracinesca choose,\nthey can themselves go there and see the originals.\"\n\n\"Could they not destroy those too?\" asked Donna Tullia, nervously.\n\n\"No; they can only see one at a time, and the person who will show them\nwill watch them. Besides, it is easy to write to the curate of the church\nof San Bernardino to be on his guard. We will do that in any case. The\nmatter is perfectly plain. Your best course is to meet the Astrardente\nto-morrow at the appointed time, and simply present these papers for\ninspection. No one can deny their authenticity, for they bear the\nGovernment stamp and the notary's seal, as you see, here and here. If\nthey ask you, as they certainly will, how you came by them, you can\nafford to answer, that, since you have them, it is not necessary to know\nwhence they came; that they may go and verify the originals; and that in\nwarning them of the fact, you have fulfilled a duty to society, and have\ndone a service to the Astrardente, if not to Giovanni Saracinesca. You\nhave them in your power, and you can afford to take the high hand in the\nmatter. They must believe the evidence of their senses; and they must\neither allow that Giovanni's first wife is alive, or they must account\nfor her death, and prove it. There is no denial possible in the face of\nthese proofs.\"\n\nDonna Tullia drew a long breath, for the case seemed perfectly clear; and\nthe anticipation of her triumph already atoned for the sacrifice she had\nmade.\n\n\"You are a wonderful man, Del Ferice!\" she exclaimed. \"I do not know\nwhether I am wise in promising to marry you, but I have the greatest\nadmiration for your intellect.\"\n\nDel Ferice glanced at her and smiled. Then he made as though he would\nreturn the papers to his pocket. She sprang towards him, and seized him\nby the wrist.\n\n\"Do not be afraid!\" she cried, \"I will keep my promise.\"\n\n\"Solemnly?\" he asked, still smiling, and holding the envelope firmly in\nhis hand.\n\n\"Solemnly,\" she answered; and then added, with a quick laugh, \"but you\nare so abominably clever, that I believe you could make me marry you\nagainst my will.\"\n\n\"Never!\" said Del Ferice, earnestly; \"I love you far too much.\" He had\nwonderfully clear instincts. \"And now,\" he continued, \"we have settled\nthat matter; when shall the happy day be?\"\n\n\"Oh, there is time enough to think of that,\" answered Donna Tullia, with\na blush that might have passed for the result of a coy shyness, but which\nwas in reality caused by a certain annoyance at being pressed.\n\n\"No,\" objected Del Ferice, \"we must announce our engagement at once.\nThere is no reason for delay--to-day is better than to-morrow.\"\n\n\"To-day?\" repeated Donna Tullia, in some alarm.\n\n\"Why not? Why not, my dear lady, since you and I are both in earnest?\"\n\n\"I think it would be much better to let this affair pass first.\"\n\n\"On the contrary,\" he argued, \"from the moment we are publicly engaged I\nbecome your natural protector. If any one offers you any insult in this\nmatter, I shall then have an acknowledged right to avenge you--a right\nI dearly covet. Do you think I would dread to meet Don Giovanni again? He\nwounded me, it is true, but he has the marks of my sword upon his body\nalso. Give me at once the privilege of appearing as your champion,\nand you will not regret it. But if you delay doing so, all sorts of\ncircumstances may arise, all sorts of unpleasantness--who could protect\nyou? Of course, even in that case I would; but you know the tongues of\nthe gossips in Rome--it would do you harm instead of good.\"\n\n\"That is true, and you are very brave and very kind. But it seems almost\ntoo soon,\" objected Donna Tullia, who, however, was fast learning to\nyield to his judgment.\n\n\"Those things cannot be done too soon. It gives us liberty, and it gives\nthe world satisfaction; it protects you, and it will be an inestimable\npleasure to me. Why delay the inevitable? Let us appear at once as\nengaged to be married, and you put a sword in my hand to defend you and\nto enforce your position in this unfortunate affair with the\nAstrardente.\"\n\n\"Well, you may announce it if you please,\" she answered, reluctantly.\n\n\"Thank you, my dear lady,\" said Del Ferice. \"And here are the papers.\nMake the best use of them you can--any use that you make of them will be\ngood, I know. How could it be otherwise?\"\n\nDonna Tullia's fingers closed upon the large envelope with a grasping\ngrip, as though she would never relinquish that for which she had paid so\ndear a price. She had, indeed, at one time almost despaired of getting\npossession of them, and she had passed a terrible hour, besides having\nabased herself to the fruitless bribery she had practised upon\nTemistocle. But she had gained her end, even at the expense of permitting\nDel Ferice to publish her engagement to marry him. She felt that she\ncould break it off if she decided at last that the union was too\ndistasteful to her; but she foresaw that, from the point of worldly\nambition, she would be no great loser by marrying a man of such cunning\nwit, who possessed such weapons against his enemies, and who, on the\nwhole, as she believed, entirely sympathised with her view of life. She\nrecognised that her chances of making a great match were diminishing\nrapidly; she could not tell precisely why, but she felt, to her\nmortification, that she had not made a good use of her rich widowhood:\npeople did not respect her much, and as this touched her vanity, she was\nsusceptible to their lack of deference. She had done no harm, but she\nknew that every one thought her an irresponsible woman, and the thrifty\nRomans feared her extravagance, though some of them perhaps courted her\nfortune: many had admired her, and had to some extent expressed their\ndevotion, but no scion of all the great families had asked her to be his\nwife. The nearest approach to a proposal had been the doubtful attention\nshe had received from Giovanni Saracinesca during the time when his\nheadstrong father had almost persuaded him to marry her, and she thought\nof her disappointed hopes with much bitterness. To destroy Giovanni by\nthe revelations she now proposed to make, to marry Del Ferice, and then\nto develop her position by means of the large fortune she had inherited\nfrom her first husband, seemed on the whole a wise plan. Del Ferice's\ntitle was not much, to be sure, but, on the other hand, he was intimate\nwith every one she knew, and for a few thousand scudi she could buy some\nsmall estate with a good title attached to it. She would then change\nher mode of life, and assume the pose of a social power, which as a young\nwidow she could not do. It was not so bad, after all, especially if she\ncould celebrate the first day of her engagement by destroying the\nreputation of Giovanni Saracinesca, root and branch, and dealing a blow\nat Corona's happiness from which it would not recover.\n\nAs for Del Ferice, he regarded his triumph as complete. He cared little\nwhat became of Giovanni--whether he was able to refute the evidence\nbrought against him or not. There had been nothing in the matter which\nwas dishonest, and properly made out marriage-certificates are not easy\nthings to annul. Giovanni might swim or sink--it was nothing to Ugo del\nFerice, now that he had gained the great object of his life, and was at\nliberty to publish his engagement to Donna Tullia Mayer. He lost no time\nin telling his friends the good news, and before the evening was over a\nhundred people had congratulated him. Donna Tullia, too, appeared in more\nthan usually gay attire, and smilingly received the expressions of good\nwishes which were showered upon her. She was not inclined to question the\nsincerity of those who spoke, for in her present mood the stimulus of a\nlittle popular noise was soothing to her nerves, which had been badly\nstrained by the excitement of the day. When she closed her eyes she had\nevil visions of Temistocle retreating at full speed down the stairs with\nhis unearned bribe, or of Del Ferice's calm, pale face, as he had sat in\nher house that afternoon grasping the precious documents in his hand\nuntil she promised to pay the price he asked, which was herself. But\nshe smiled at each new congratulation readily enough, and said in her\nheart that she would yet become a great power in society, and make her\nhouse the centre of all attractions. And meanwhile she pondered on the\ntitle she should buy for her husband: she came of high blood herself, and\nshe knew how such dignities as a \"principe\" or a \"duca\" were regarded\nwhen bought. There was nothing for it but to find some snug little\nmarquisate--\"marchese\" sounded very well, though one could not be called\n\"eccellenza\" by one's servants; still, as the daughter of a prince, she\nmight manage even that. \"Marchese\"--yes, that would do. What a pity there\nwere only four \"canopy\" marquises--\"marchesi del baldacchino\"--in Rome\nwith the rank of princes! That was exactly the combination of dignities\nDonna Tullia required for her husband. But once a \"marchese,\" if she was\nvery charitable, and did something in the way of a public work, the Holy\nFather might condescend to make Del Ferice a \"duca\" in the ordinary\ncourse as a step in the nobility. Donna Tullia dreamed many things that\nnight, and she afterwards accomplished most of them, to the surprise of\neverybody, and, if the truth were told, to her own considerable\nastonishment.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\n\n\"Giovanni, you are the victim of some outrageous plot,\" said old\nSaracinesca, entering his son's room on the following morning. \"I have\nthought it all out in the night, and I am convinced of it.\"\n\nGiovanni was extended upon a sofa, with a book in his hand and a cigar\nbetween his lips. He looked up quietly from his reading.\n\n\"I am not the victim yet, nor ever will be,\" he answered; \"but it is\nevident that there is something at the bottom of this besides Madame\nMayer's imagination. I will find out.\"\n\n\"What pleases me especially,\" remarked the old Prince, \"is the wonderful\noriginality of the idea. It would have been commonplace to make out that\nyou had poisoned half-a-dozen wives, and buried their bodies in the\nvaults of Saracinesca; it would have been _banal_ to say that you were\nnot yourself, but some one else; or to assert that you were a\nrevolutionary agent in disguise, and that the real Giovanni had been\nmurdered by you, who had taken his place without my discovering it,--very\ncommonplace all that. But to say that you actually have a living wife,\nand to try to prove it by documents, is an idea worthy of a great mind.\nIt takes one's breath away.\"\n\nGiovanni laughed.\n\n\"It will end in our having to go to Aquila in search of my supposed\nbetter half,\" he said. \"Aquila, of all places! If she had said Paris--or\neven Florence--but why, in the name of geography, Aquila?\"\n\n\"She probably looked for some out-of-the-way place upon an alphabetical\nlist,\" laughed the Prince. \"Aquila stood first. We shall know in two\nhours--come along. It is time to be going.\"\n\nThey found Corona in her boudoir. She had passed an uneasy hour on the\nprevious afternoon after they had left her, but her equanimity was now\nentirely restored. She had made up her mind that, however ingenious the\nconcocted evidence might turn out to be, it was absolutely impossible to\nharm Giovanni by means of it. His position was beyond attack, as, in her\nmind, his character was above slander. Far from experiencing any\nsensation of anxiety as to the result of Donna Tullia's visit, what she\nmost felt was curiosity to see what these fancied proofs would be like.\nShe still believed that Madame Mayer was mad.\n\n\"I have been remarking to Giovanni upon Donna Tullia's originality,\" said\nold Saracinesca. \"It is charming; it shows a talent for fiction which the\nworld has been long in realising, which we have not even suspected--an\namazing and transcendent genius for invention.\"\n\n\"It is pure insanity,\" answered Corona, in a tone of conviction. \"The\nwoman is mad.\"\n\n\"Mad as an Englishman,\" asseverated the Prince, using the most powerful\nsimile in the Italian language. \"We will have her in Santo Spirito before\nnight, and she will puzzle the doctors.\"\n\n\"She is not mad,\" said Giovanni, quietly. \"I do not even believe we shall\nfind that her documents are forgeries.\"\n\n\"What?\" cried his father. Corona looked quickly at Giovanni.\n\n\"You yourself,\" said the latter, turning to old Saracinesca, \"were\nassuring me half an hour ago that I was the victim of a plot. Now, if\nanything of the kind is seriously attempted, you may be sure it will be\nwell done. She has a good ally in the man to whom she is engaged. Del\nFerice is no fool, and he hates me.\"\n\n\"Del Ferice!\" exclaimed Corona, in surprise. As she went nowhere as yet,\nshe had, of course, not heard the news which had been published on the\nprevious evening. \"You do not mean to say that she is going to marry Del\nFerice?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" said Giovanni. \"They both appeared last night and\nannounced the fact, and received everybody's congratulations. It is a\nmost appropriate match.\"\n\n\"I agree with you--a beautiful triangular alliteration of wit, wealth,\nand wickedness,\" observed the Prince. \"He has brains, she has money, and\nthey are both as bad as possible.\"\n\n\"I thought you used to like Donna Tullia,\" said Corona, suppressing a\nsmile.\n\n\"I did,\" said old Saracinesea, stoutly. \"I wanted Giovanni to marry her.\nIt has pleased Providence to avert that awful catastrophe. I liked Madame\nMayer because she was rich and noisy and good-looking, and I thought\nthat, as Giovanni's wife, she would make the house gay. We are such a\npair of solemn bears together, that it seemed appropriate that somebody\nshould make us dance. It was a foolish idea, I confess, though I thought\nit very beautiful at the time. It merely shows how liable we are to make\nmistakes. Imagine Giovanni married to a lunatic!\"\n\n\"I repeat that she is not mad,\" said Giovanni. \"I cannot tell how they\nhave managed it, but I am sure it has been managed well, and will give us\ntrouble. You will see.\"\n\n\"I do not understand at all how there can be any trouble about it,\" said\nCorona, proudly. \"It is perfectly simple for us to tell the truth, and to\nshow that what they say is a lie. You can prove easily enough that you\nwere in Canada at the time. I wish it were time for her to come. Let us\ngo to breakfast in the meanwhile.\"\n\nThe views taken by the three were characteristic of their various\nnatures. The old Prince, who was violent of temper, and inclined always\nto despise an enemy in any shape, scoffed at the idea that there was\nanything to show; and though his natural wit suggested from time to time\nthat there was a plot against his son, his general opinion was, that it\nwas a singular case of madness. He hardly believed Donna Tullia would\nappear at all; and if she did, he expected some extraordinary outburst,\nsome pitiable exhibition of insanity. Corona, on the other hand,\nmaintained a proud indifference, scorning to suppose that anything could\npossibly injure Giovanni in any way, loving him too entirely to admit\nthat he was vulnerable at all, still less that he could possibly have\ndone anything to give colour to the accusation brought against him.\nGiovanni alone of all the three foresaw that there would be trouble, and\ndimly guessed how the thing had been done; for he did not fall into his\nfather's error of despising an enemy, and he had seen too much of the\nworld not to understand that danger is often greatest when the appearance\nof it is least.\n\nBreakfast was hardly over when Donna Tullia was announced. All rose to\nmeet her, and all looked at her with equal interest. She was calmer than\non the previous day, and she carried a package of papers in her hand.\nHer red lips were compressed, and her eyes looked defiantly round upon\nall present. Whatever might be her faults, she was not a coward when\nbrought face to face with danger. She was determined to carry the matter\nthrough, both because she knew that she had no other alternative, and\nbecause she believed herself to be doing a righteous act, which, at the\nsame time, fully satisfied her desire for vengeance. She came forward\nboldly and stood beside the table in the midst of the room. Corona was\nupon one side of the fireplace, and the two Saracinesea upon the other.\nAll three held their breath in expectation of what Donna Tullia was about\nto say; the sense of her importance impressed her, and her love of\ndramatic situations being satisfied, she assumed something of the air of\na theatrical avenging angel, and her utterance was rhetorical.\n\n\"I come here,\" she said, \"at your invitation, to exhibit to your eyes the\nevidence of what I yesterday asserted--the evidence of the monstrous\ncrime of which I accuse that man.\" Here she raised her finger with a\ngesture of scorn, and extending her whole arm, pointed towards Giovanni.\n\n\"Madam,\" interrupted the old Prince, \"I will trouble you to select your\nepithets and expressions with more care. Pray be brief, and show what you\nhave brought.\"\n\n\"I will show it, indeed,\" replied Donna Tullia, \"and you shall tremble at\nwhat you see. When you have evidence of the truth of what I say, you may\nchoose any language you please to define the action of your son. These\ndocuments,\" she said, holding up the package, \"are attested copies made\nfrom the originals--the first two in the possession of the curate of the\nchurch of San Bernardino da Siena, at Aquila, the other in the office of\nthe Stato Civile in the same city. As they are only copies, you need not\nthink that you will gain anything by destroying them.\"\n\n\"Spare your comments upon our probable conduct,\" interrupted the Prince,\nroughly. Donna Tullia eyed him with a scornful glance, and her face began\nto grow red.\n\n\"You may destroy them if you please,\" she repeated; \"but I advise you to\nobserve that they bear the Government stamp and the notarial seal of\nGianbattista Caldani, notary public in the city of Aquila, and that they\nare, consequently, beyond all doubt genuine copies of genuine documents.\"\n\nDonna Tullia proceeded to open the envelope and withdraw the three papers\nit contained. Spreading them out, she took up the first, which contained\nthe extract from the curate's book of banns. It set forth that upon the\nthree Sundays preceding the 19th of June 1863, the said curate had\npublished, in the parish church of San Bernardino da Siena, the banns of\nmarriage between Giovanni Saracinesca and Felice Baldi. Donna Tullia read\nit aloud.\n\nGiovanni could hardly suppress a laugh, it sounded so strangely. Corona\nherself turned pale, though she firmly believed the whole thing to be an\nimposture of some kind.\n\n\"Permit me, madam,\" said old Saracinesca, stepping forward and taking the\npaper from her hand. He carefully examined the seal and stamp. \"It is\nvery cleverly done,\" he said with a sneer; \"but there should be only\none letter _r_ in the name Saracinesca--here it is spelt with two! Very\nclever, but a slight mistake! Observe,\" he said, showing the place to\nDonna Tullia.\n\n\"It is a mistake of the copyist,\" she said, scornfully. \"The name is\nproperly spelt in the other papers. Here is the copy of the marriage\nregister. Shall I read it also?\"\n\n\"Spare me the humiliation,\" said Giovanni, in quiet contempt. \"Spare me\nthe unutterable mortification of discovering that there is another\nGiovanni Saracinesca in the world!\"\n\n\"I could not have believed that any one could be so hardened,\" said Donna\nTullia. \"But whether you are humiliated or not by the evidence of your\nmisdeeds, I will spare you nothing. Here it is in full, and you may\nnotice that your name is spelt properly too.\"\n\nShe held up the document and then read it out--the copy of the curate's\nregister, stating that on the 19th of June 1863 Giovanni Saracinesca and\nFelice Baldi were united in holy matrimony in the church of San\nBernardino da Siena. She handed the paper to the Prince, and then read\nthe extract from the register of the Civil marriage and the notary's\nattestation to the signatures. She gave this also to old Saracinesca, and\nthen folding her arms in a fine attitude, confronted the three.\n\n\"Are you satisfied that I spoke the truth?\" she asked, defiantly.\n\n\"The thing is certainly remarkably well done,\" answered the old Prince,\nwho scrutinised the papers with a puzzled air. Though he knew perfectly\nwell that his son had been in Canada at the time of this pretended\nmarriage, he confessed to himself that if such evidence had been brought\nagainst any other man, he would have believed it.\n\n\"It is a shameful fraud!\" exclaimed Corona, looking at the papers over\nthe old man's shoulder.\n\n\"That is a lie!\" cried Donna Tullia, growing scarlet with anger.\n\n\"Do not forget your manners, or you will get into trouble,\" said\nGiovanni, sternly. \"I see through the whole thing. There has been no\nfraud, and yet the deductions are entirely untrue. In the first place,\nDonna Tullia, how do you make the statements here given to coincide with\nthe fact that during the whole summer of 1863 and during the early part\nof 1864 I was in Canada with a party of gentlemen, who are all alive to\ntestify to the fact?\"\n\n\"I do not believe it,\" answered Madame Mayer, contemptuously. \"I would\nnot believe your friends if they were here and swore to it. You will very\nlikely produce witnesses to prove that you were in the arctic regions\nlast summer, as the newspapers said, whereas every one knows now that you\nwere at Saracinesca. You are exceedingly clever at concealing your\nmovements, as we all know.\"\n\nGiovanni did not lose his temper, but calmly proceeded to demonstrate his\ntheory.\n\n\"You will find that the courts of law will accept the evidence of\ngentlemen upon oath,\" he replied, quietly. \"Moreover, as a further\nevidence, and a piece of very singular proof, I can probably produce\nGiovanni Saracinesca and Felice Baldi themselves to witness against you.\nAnd I apprehend that the said Giovanni Saracinesca will vehemently\nprotest that the said Felice Baldi is his wife, and not mine.\"\n\n\"You speak in wonderful riddles, but you will not deceive me. Money will\ndoubtless do much, but it will not do what you expect.\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" returned Giovanni, unmoved by her reply. \"Money will\ncertainly not create out of nothing a second Giovanni Saracinesca, nor\nhis circle of acquaintances, nor the police registers concerning him\nwhich are kept throughout the kingdom of Italy, very much as they are\nkept here in the Pontifical States. Money will do none of these things.\"\n\nWhile he was speaking, his father and the Duchessa listened with intense\ninterest.\n\n\"Donna Tullia,\" continued Giovanni, \"I am willing to believe from your\nmanner that you are really sure that I am the man mentioned in your\npapers; but permit me to inform you that you have been made the victim of\na shallow trick, probably by the person who gave those same papers into\nyour hands, and suggested to you the use you have made of them.\"\n\n\"I? I, the victim of a trick?\" repeated Donna Tullia, frightened at last\nby his obstinately calm manner.\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied. \"I know Aquila and the Abruzzi very well. It\nchances that although we, the Saracinesca of Rome, are not numerous,\nthe name is not uncommon in that part of the country. It is the same\nwith all our great names. There are Colonna, Orsini, Caetani all over the\ncountry--there are even many families bearing the name of the Medici, who\nare extinct. You know it as well as I, or you should know it, for I\nbelieve your mother was my father's cousin. Has it not struck you that\nthis same Giovanni Saracinesca herein mentioned, is simply some low-born\nnamesake of mine?\"\n\nDonna Tullia had grown very pale, and she leaned upon the table as though\nshe were faint. The others listened breathlessly.\n\n\"I do not believe it,\" said Madame Mayer, in a low and broken voice.\n\n\"Now I will tell you what I will do,\" continued Giovanni. \"I will go to\nAquila at once, and I daresay my father will accompany me--\"\n\n\"Of course I will,\" broke in the old Prince.\n\n\"We will go, and in a fortnight's time we will produce the whole history\nof this Giovanni Saracinesca, together with his wife and himself in his\nown person, if they are both alive; we will bring them here, and they\nwill assure you that you have been egregiously deceived, played upon and\nput in a false position by--by the person who furnished you with these\ndocuments. I wonder that any Roman of common-sense should not have seen\nat once the cause of this mistake.\"\n\n\"I cannot believe it,\" murmured Donna Tullia. Then raising her voice, she\nadded, \"Whatever may be the result of your inquiry, I cannot but feel\nthat I have done my duty in this affair. I do not believe in your theory,\nnor in you, and I shall not, until you produce this other man. I have\ndone my duty--\"\n\n\"An exceedingly painful one, no doubt,\" remarked old Saracinesca. Then he\nbroke into a loud peal of laughter.\n\n\"And if you do not succeed in your search, it will be my duty, in the\ninterests of society, to put the matter in the hands of the police. Since\nyou have the effrontery to say that those papers are of no use, I demand\nthem back.\"\n\n\"Not at all, madam,\" replied the Prince, whose laughter subsided at the\nrenewed boldness of her tone. \"I will not give them back to you. I intend\nto compare them with the originals. If there are no originals, they will\nserve very well to commit the notary whose seal is on them, and yourself,\nupon a well-founded indictment for forgery, wilful calumniation, and a\nwhole list of crimes sufficient to send you to the galleys for life. If,\non the other hand, the originals exist, they can be of no possible value\nto you, as you can send to Aquila and have fresh copies made whenever you\nplease, as you yourself informed me.\"\n\nThings were taking a bad turn for Donna Tullia. She believed the papers\nto be genuine, but a fearful doubt crossed her mind that Del Ferice might\npossibly have deceived her by having them manufactured. Anybody\ncould buy Government paper, and it would be but a simple matter to have a\nnotary's seal engraved. She was terrified at the idea, but there was no\npossibility of getting the documents back from the old Prince, who held\nthem firmly in his broad brown hand. There was nothing to be done but to\nface the situation out to the end and go.\n\n\"As you please,\" she said. \"It is natural that you should insult me, a\ndefenceless woman trying to do what is right. It is worthy of your race\nand reputation. I will leave you to the consideration of the course you\nintend to follow, and I advise you to omit nothing which can help to\nprove the innocence of your son.\"\n\nDonna Tullia bestowed one more glance of contemptuous defiance upon the\ngroup, and brushed angrily out of the room.\n\n\"So much for her madness!\" exclaimed Giovanni, when she was gone. \"I\nthink I have got to the bottom of that affair.\"\n\n\"It seems so simple, and yet I never thought of it,\" said Corona. \"How\nclever you are, Giovanni!\"\n\n\"There was not much cleverness needed to see through so shallow a trick,\"\nreplied Giovanni. \"I suspected it this morning; and when I saw that the\ndocuments were genuine and all in order, I was convinced of it. This\nthing has been done by Del Ferice, I suppose in order to revenge himself\nupon me for nearly killing him in fair fight. It was a noble plan. With a\nlittle more intelligence and a little more pains, he could have given me\ngreat trouble. Certificates like those he produced, if they had come from\na remote French village in Canada, would have given us occupation for\nsome time.\"\n\n\"I wish Donna Tullia joy of her husband,\" remarked the Prince. \"He will\nspend her money in a year or two, and then leave her to the contemplation\nof his past extravagance. I wonder how he induced her to consent.\"\n\n\"Many people like Del Ferice,\" said Giovanni. \"He is popular, and has\nattractions.\"\n\n\"How can you say that!\" exclaimed Corona, indignantly. \"You should have a\nbetter opinion of women than to think any woman could find attractions in\nsuch a man.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless, Donna Tullia is going to marry him,\" returned Giovanni.\n\"She must find him to her taste. I used to think she might have married\nValdarno--he is so good-natured, you know!\"\n\nGiovanni spoke in a tone of reflection; the other two laughed.\n\n\"And now, Giovannino,\" said his father, \"we must set out for Aquila, and\nfind your namesake.\"\n\n\"You will not really go?\" asked Corona, with a look of disappointment.\nShe could not bear the thought of being separated even for a day from the\nman she loved.\n\n\"I do not see that we can do anything else,\" returned the Prince. \"I must\nsatisfy myself whether those papers are forgeries or not. If they are,\nthat woman must go to prison for them.\"\n\n\"But she is our cousin--you cannot do that,\" objected Giovanni.\n\n\"Indeed I will. I am angry. Do not try to stop me. Do you suppose I care\nanything for the relationship in comparison with repaying her for all\nthis trouble? You are not going to turn merciful, Giovanni? I should not\nrecognise you.\"\n\nThere was a sort of mournful reproach about the old Prince's tone, as\nthough he were reproving his son for having fallen from the paths of\nvirtue. Corona laughed; she was not hard-hearted, but she was not so\nangelic of nature as to be beyond feeling deep and lasting resentment\nfor injuries received. At that moment the idea of bringing Donna Tullia\nto justice was pleasant.\n\n\"Well,\" said Giovanni, \"no human being can boast of having ever prevented\nyou from doing whatever you were determined to do. The best thing that\ncan happen will be, that you should find the papers genuine, and my\nnamesake alive. I wish Aquila were Florence or Naples,\" he added, turning\nto Corona; \"you might manage to go at the same time.\"\n\n\"That is impossible,\" she answered, sadly. \"How long will you be gone, do\nyou think?\"\n\nGiovanni did not believe that, if the papers were genuine, and if they\nhad to search for the man mentioned in them, they could return in less\nthan a fortnight.\n\n\"Why not send a detective--a _sbirro_?\" suggested Corona.\n\n\"He could not accomplish anything,\" replied the Prince.\n\n\"He would be at a great disadvantage there; we must go ourselves.\"\n\n\"Both?\" asked Corona, regretfully, gazing at Giovanni's face.\n\n\"It is my business,\" replied the latter. \"I can hardly ask my father to\ngo alone.\"\n\n\"Absurd!\" exclaimed the old Prince, resenting the idea that he needed any\nhelp to accomplish his mission. \"Do you think I need some one to take\ncare of me, like a baby in arms? I will go alone; you shall not come even\nif you wish it. Absurd, to talk of my needing anybody with me! I will\nshow you what your father can do when his blood is up.\"\n\nProtestations were useless after that. The old man grew angry at the\nopposition, and, regardless of all propriety, seized his hat and left the\nroom, growling that he was as good as anybody, and a great deal better.\n\nCorona and Giovanni looked at each other when he was gone, and smiled.\n\n\"I believe my father is the best man alive,\" said Giovanni. \"He would go\nin a moment if I would let him. I will go after him and bring him back--I\nsuppose I ought.\"\n\n\"I suppose so,\" answered Corona; but as they stood side by side, she\npassed her hand under his arm affectionately, and looked into his eyes.\nIt was a very tender look, very loving and gentle--such a look as none\nbut Giovanni had ever seen upon her face. He put his arm about her waist\nand drew her to him, and kissed her dark cheek.\n\n\"I cannot bear to go away and leave you, even for a day,\" he said,\npressing her to his side.\n\n\"Why should you?\" she murmured, looking up to him. \"Why should he go,\nafter all? This has been such a silly affair. I wonder if that woman\nthought that anything could ever come between you and me? That was what\nmade me think she was really mad.\"\n\n\"And an excellent reason,\" he answered. \"Anybody must be insane who\ndreams of parting us two. It seems as though a year ago I had not loved\nyou at all.\"\n\n\"I am so glad,\" said Corona. \"Do you remember, last summer, on the tower\nat Saracinesca, I told you that you did not know what love was?\"\n\n\"It was true, Corona--I did not know. But I thought I did. I never\nimagined what the happiness of love was, nor how great it was, nor how it\ncould enter into every thought.\"\n\n\"Into every thought? Into your great thoughts too?\"\n\n\"If any thoughts of mine are great, they are so because you are the\nmainspring of them,\" he answered.\n\n\"Will it always be so?\" she asked. \"You will be a very great man some\nday, Giovanni; will you always feel that I am something to you?\"\n\n\"Always--more than anything to me, more than all of me together.\"\n\n\"I sometimes wonder,\" said Corona. \"I think I understand you better than\nI used to do. I like to think that you feel how I understand you when you\ntell me anything. Of course I am not clever like you, but I love you so\nmuch that just while you are talking I seem to understand everything. It\nis like a flash of light in a dark room.\"\n\nGiovanni kissed her again.\n\n\"What makes you think that I shall be great, Corona? Nobody ever thinks I\nam even clever. My father would laugh at you, and say it is quite enough\ngreatness to be born a Saracinesca. What makes you think it?\"\n\nCorona stood up beside him and laid her delicate hand upon his thick,\nclose-cut black hair, and gazed into his eyes.\n\n\"I know it,\" she said. \"I know it, because I love you so. A man like you\nmust be great. There is something in you that nobody guesses but I, that\nwill amaze people some day--I know it.\"\n\n\"I wonder if you could tell me what it is? I wonder if it is really there\nat all?\" said Giovanni.\n\n\"It is ambition,\" said Corona, gravely. \"You are the most ambitious man I\never knew, and nobody has found it out.\"\n\n\"I believe it is true, Corona,\" said Giovanni, turning away and leaning\nupon the chimneypiece, his head supported on one hand. \"I believe you are\nright. I am ambitious: if I only had the brains that some men have I\nwould do great things.\"\n\n\"You are wrong, Giovanni. It is neither brains nor ambition nor strength\nthat you lack--it is opportunity.\"\n\n\"They say that a man who has anything in him creates opportunities for\nhimself,\" answered Giovanni, rather sadly. \"I fear it is because I really\nhave nothing in me that I can do nothing. It sometimes makes me very\nunhappy to think so. I suppose that is because my vanity is wounded.\"\n\n\"Do not talk like that,\" said Corona. \"You have vanity, of course, but it\nis of the large kind, and I call it ambition. It is not only because I\nlove you better than any man was ever loved before that I say that. It is\nthat I know it instinctively I have heard you say that these are\nunsettled times. Wait; your opportunity will come, as it came often to\nyour forefathers in other centuries.\"\n\n\"I hardly think that their example is a good one,\" replied Giovanni, with\na smile.\n\n\"They generally did something remarkable in remarkable times,\" said\nCorona. \"You will do the same. Your father, for instance, would not.\"\n\n\"He is far more clever than I,\" objected Giovanni.\n\n\"Clever! It passes for cleverness. He is quick, active, a good talker, a\nman with a ready wit and a sharp answer--kind-hearted when the fancy\ntakes him, cruel when he is so disposed--but not a man of great\nconvictions or of great actions. You are very different from him.\"\n\n\"Will you draw my portrait, Corona?\" asked Giovanni.\n\n\"As far as I know you. You are a man quick to think and slow to make a\ndecision. You are not brilliant in conversation--you see I do not flatter\nyou; I am just. You have the very remarkable quality of growing cold\nwhen others grow hot, and of keeping the full use of your faculties in\nany situation. When you have made a decision, you cannot be moved from\nit; but you are open to conviction in argument. You have a great repose\nof manner, which conceals a very restless brain. All your passions are\nvery strong. You never forgive, never forget, and scarcely ever repent.\nBeneath all, you have an untamable ambition which has not yet found its\nproper field. Those are your qualities--and I love them all, and you\nmore than them all.\"\n\nCorona finished her speech by throwing her arms round his neck, and\nbreaking into a happy laugh as she buried her face upon his shoulder. No\none who saw her in the world would have believed her capable of those\nsudden and violent demonstrations--she was thought so very cold.\n\nWhen Giovanni reached home, he was informed that his father had left Rome\nan hour earlier by the train for Terni, leaving word that he had gone to\nAquila.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\n\nIn those days the railroad did not extend beyond Terni in the direction\nof Aquila, and it was necessary to perform the journey of forty miles\nbetween those towns by diligence. It was late in the afternoon of the\nnext day before the cumbrous coach rolled up to the door of the Locanda\ndel Sole in Aquila, and Prince Saracinesca found himself at his\ndestination. The red evening sun gilded the snow of the Gran Sasso\nd'Italia, the huge domed mountain that towers above the city of\nFrederick. The city itself had long been in the shade, and the spring\nair was sharp and biting. Saracinesca deposited his slender luggage with\nthe portly landlord, said he would return for supper in half an hour, and\ninquired the way to the church of San Bernardino da Siena. There was\nno difficulty in finding it, at the end of the Corso--the inevitable\n\"Corso\" of every Italian town. The old gentleman walked briskly along the\nbroad, clean street, and reached the door of the church just as the\nsacristan was hoisting the heavy leathern curtain, preparatory to locking\nup for the night.\n\n\"Where can I find the Padre Curato?\" inquired the Prince. The man looked\nat him but made no answer, and proceeded to close the doors with great\ncare. He was an old man in a shabby cassock, with four days' beard on\nhis face, and he appeared to have taken snuff recently.\n\n\"Where is the Curator?\" repeated the Prince, plucking him by the sleeve.\nBut the man shook his head, and began turning the ponderous key in the\nlock. Two little ragged boys were playing a game upon the church steps,\npiling five chestnuts in a heap and then knocking them down with a small\nstone. One of them having upset the heap, desisted and came near the\nPrince.\n\n\"That one is deaf,\" he said, pointing to the sacristan. Then running\nbehind, him he stood on tiptoe and screamed in his ear--\"_Brutta\nbestia_!\"\n\nThe sacristan did not hear, but caught sight of the urchin and made a\nlunge at him. He missed him, however, and nearly fell over.\n\n\"What education!--_che educazione_!\" cried the old man, angrily.\n\nMeanwhile the little boy took refuge behind Saracinesca, and pulling his\ncoat asked for a _soldo_. The sacristan calmly withdrew the key from the\nlock, and went away without vouchsafing a look to the Prince.\n\n\"He is deaf,\" screamed the little boy, who was now joined by his\ncompanion, and both in great excitement danced round the fine gentleman.\n\n\"Give me a _soldo_,\" they yelled together.\n\n\"Show me the house of the Padre Curato,\" answered the Prince, \"then I\nwill give you each a _soldo. Lesti!_ Quick!\"\n\nWhereupon both the boys began turning cart-wheels on their feet and hands\nwith marvellous dexterity. At last they subsided into a natural position,\nand led the way to the curate's house, not twenty yards from the church,\nin a narrow alley. The Prince pulled the bell by the long chain which\nhung beside the open street door, and gave the boys the promised coppers.\nThey did not leave him, however, but stood by to see what would happen.\nAn old woman looked out of an upper window, and after surveying the\nPrince with care, called down to him--\n\n\"What do you want?\"\n\n\"Is the Padre Curato at home?\"\n\n\"Of course he is at home,\" screamed the old woman, \"At this hour!\" she\nadded, contemptuously.\n\n\"_Ebbene_--can I see him?\"\n\n\"What! is the door shut?\" returned the hag.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Then why don't you come up without asking?\" The old woman's head\ndisappeared, and the window was shut with a clattering noise.\n\n\"She is a woman without education,\" remarked one of the ragged boys,\nmaking a face towards the closed window.\n\nThe Prince entered the door and stumbled up the dark stairs, and after\nsome further palaver obtained admittance to the curate's lodging. The\ncurate sat in a room which appeared to serve as dining-room, living-room,\nand study. A small table was spread with a clean cloth, upon which were\narranged a plate, a loaf of bread, a battered spoon, a knife, and a small\nmeasure of thin-looking wine. A brass lamp with three wicks, one of which\nonly was burning, shed a feeble light through the poor apartment. Against\nthe wall stood a rough table with an inkstand and three or four mouldy\nbooks. Above this hung a little black cross bearing a brass Christ, and\nabove this again a coloured print of San Bernardino of Siena. The walls\nwere whitewashed, and perfectly clean,--as indeed was everything\nelse in the room,--and there was a sweet smell of flowers from a huge pot\nof pinks which had been taken in for the night, and stood upon the stone\nsill within the closed window.\n\nThe curate was a tall old man, with a singularly gentle face and soft\nbrown eyes. He wore a threadbare cassock, carefully brushed; and from\nbeneath his three-cornered black cap his thin hair hung in a straight\ngrey fringe. As the Prince entered the room, the old woman called\nover his shoulder to the priest an uncertain formula of introduction.\n\n\"Don Paolo, _c'\u00e8 uno_--there is one.\" Then she retired, grumbling\naudibly.\n\nThe priest removed his cap, and bowing politely, offered one of the two\nchairs to his visitor. With an apology, he replaced his cap upon his\nhead, and seated himself opposite the Prince. There was much courteous\nsimplicity in his manner.\n\n\"In what way can I serve you, Signore?\" he asked.\n\n\"These papers,\" answered the Prince, drawing the famous envelope from his\nbreast-pocket, \"are copies of certain documents in your keeping, relating\nto the supposed marriage of one Giovanni Saracinesca. With your very kind\npermission, I desire to see the originals.\"\n\nThe old curate bowed, as though giving his assent, and looked steadily at\nhis visitor for a moment before he answered.\n\n\"There is nothing simpler, my good sir. You will pardon me, however, if I\nventure to inquire your name, and to ask you for what purpose you desire\nto consult the documents?\"\n\n\"I am Leone Saracinesca of Rome--\"\n\nThe priest started uneasily.\n\n\"A relation of Giovanni Saracinesca?\" he inquired. Then he added\nimmediately, \"Will you kindly excuse me for one moment?\" and left the\nroom abruptly. The Prince was considerably astonished, but he held his\npapers firmly in his hand, and did not move from his seat. The curate\nreturned in a few seconds, bringing with him a little painted porcelain\nbasket, much chipped and the worse for age, and which contained a\ncollection of visiting-cards. There were not more than a score of them,\nturning brown with accumulated dust. The priest found one which was\nrather newer than the rest, and after carefully adjusting a pair of huge\nspectacles upon his nose, he went over to the lamp and examined it.\n\n\"'Il Conte del Ferice,'\" he read slowly. \"Do you happen to know that\ngentleman, my good sir?\" he inquired, turning to the Prince, and looking\nkeenly at him over his glasses.\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered Saracinesca, beginning to understand the situation.\n\"I know him very well.\"\n\n\"Ah, that is good!\" said the priest. \"He was here two years ago,\nand had those same entries concerning Giovanni Saracinesca copied.\nProbably--certainly, indeed--the papers you have there are the very ones\nhe took away with him. When he came to see me about it, he gave me this\ncard.\"\n\n\"I wonder he did,\" answered Saracinesca.\n\n\"Indeed,\" replied the curate, after a moment's thought, \"I remember that\nhe came the next day--yes--and asked to have his card returned. But I\ncould not find it for him. There was a hole in one of my pockets--it had\nslipped down. Carmela, my old servant, found it a day or two later in the\nlining of my cassock. I thought it strange that he should have asked for\nit.\"\n\n\"It was very natural. He wished you to forget his existence.\"\n\n\"He asked me many questions about Giovanni,\" said the priest, \"but I\ncould not answer him at that time.\"\n\n\"You could answer now?\" inquired the Prince, eagerly.\n\n\"Excuse me, my good sir; what relation are you to Giovanni? You say you\nare from Rome?\"\n\n\"Let us understand each other, Signor Curato,\" said Saracinesca. \"I\nsee I had better explain the position. I am Leone Saracinesca, the prince\nof that name, and the head of the family.\" The priest bowed respectfully\nat this intelligence. \"My only son lives with me in Rome--he is now\nthere--and his name is Giovanni Saracinesca. He is engaged to be married.\nWhen the engagement became known, an enemy of the family attempted to\nprove, by means of these papers, that he was married already to a certain\nFelice Baldi. Now I wish to know who this Giovanni Saracinesca is, where\nhe is, and how he comes to have my son's name. I wish a certificate or\nsome proof that he is not my son,--that he is alive, or that he is dead\nand buried.\"\n\nThe old priest burst into a genial laugh, and rubbed his hands together\nin delight.\n\n\"My dear sir--your Excellency, I mean--I baptised Felice Baldi's second\nbaby a fortnight ago! There is nothing simpler--\"\n\n\"I knew it!\" cried the Prince, springing from his chair in great\nexcitement; \"I knew it! Where is that baby? Send and get the baby at\nonce--the mother--the father--everybody!\"\n\n\"_Subito!_ At once--or come with me. I will show you the whole family\ntogether,\" said the curate, in innocent delight. \"Splendid children they\nare, too. Carmela, my cloak--_sbrigati_, be quick!\"\n\n\"One moment,\" objected Saracinesca, as though suddenly recollecting\nsomething. \"One moment, Sign or Curato; who goes slowly goes safely.\nWhere does this man come from, and how does he come by his name? I would\nlike to know something about him before I see him.\"\n\n\"True,\" answered the priest, resuming his seat. \"I had forgotten. Well,\nit is not a long story. Giovanni Saracinesca is from Naples. You know\nthere was once a branch of your family in the Neapolitan kingdom--at\nleast so Giovanni says, and he is an honest fellow. Their title was\nMarchese di San Giacinto; and if Giovanni liked to claim it, he has a\nright to the title still.\"\n\n\"But those Saracinesca were extinct fifty years ago,\" objected the\nPrince, who knew his family history very well.\n\n\"Giovanni says they were not. They were believed to be. The last Marchese\ndi San Giacinto fought under Napoleon. He lost all he possessed--lands,\nmoney, everything--by confiscation, when Ferdinand was restored in 1815.\nHe was a rough man; he dropped his title, married a peasant's only\ndaughter, became a peasant himself, and died obscurely in a village near\nSalerno. He left a son who worked on the farm and inherited it from his\nmother, married a woman of the village of some education, and died of the\ncholera, leaving his son, the present Giovanni Saracinesca. This Giovanni\nreceived a better education than his father had before him, improved his\nfarm, began to sell wine and oil for exportation, travelled as far as\nAquila, and met Felice Baldi, the daughter of a man of some wealth, who\nhas since established an inn here. Giovanni loved her. I married them. He\nwent back to Naples, sold his farm for a good price last year, and\nreturned to Aquila. He manages his father-in-law's inn, which is the\nsecond largest here, and drives a good business, having put his own\ncapital into the enterprise. They have two children, the second one of\nwhich was born three weeks ago, and they are perfectly happy.\"\n\nSaracinesca looked thoughtfully at Don Paolo, the old curate.\n\n\"Has this man any papers to prove the truth of this very singular story?\"\nhe inquired at last.\n\n\"_Altro!_ That was all his grandfather left--a heap of parchments. They\nseem to be in order--he showed them to me when I married him.\"\n\n\"Why does he make no claim to have the attainder of his grandfather\nreversed?\"\n\nThe curate shrugged his shoulders and spread out the palms of his hands,\nsmiling incredulously.\n\n\"The lands, he says, have fallen into the hands of certain patriots.\nThere is no chance of getting them back. It is of little use to be a\nMarchese without property. What he possesses is a modest competence; it\nis wealth, even, in his present position. For a nobleman it would be\nnothing. Besides, he is half a peasant by blood and tradition.\"\n\n\"He is not the only nobleman in that position,\" laughed Saracinesca. \"But\nare you aware--\"\n\nHe stopped short. He was going to say that if he himself and his son both\ndied, the innkeeper of Aquila would become Prince Saracinesca. The idea\nshocked him, and he kept it to himself.\n\n\"After all,\" he continued, \"the man is of my blood by direct descent. I\nwould like to see him.\"\n\n\"Nothing easier. If you will come with me, I will present him to your\nExcellency,\" said the priest. \"Do you still wish to see the documents?\"\n\n\"It is useless. The mystery is solved. Let us go and see this new-found\nrelation of mine.\"\n\nDon Paolo wrapped his cloak around him, and ushering his guest from the\nroom, led the way down-stairs. He carried a bit of wax taper, which he\nheld low to the steps, frequently stopping and warning the Prince to be\ncareful. It was night when they went out. The air was sharp and cold, and\nSaracinesca buttoned his greatcoat to his throat as he strode by the side\nof the old priest. The two walked on in silence for ten minutes, keeping\nstraight down the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. At last the curate stopped\nbefore a clean, new house, from the windows of which the bright light\nstreamed into the street. Don Paolo motioned to the Prince to enter, and\nfollowed him in. A man in a white apron, with his arms full of plates,\nwho was probably servant, butler, boots, and factotum to the\nestablishment, came out of the dining-room, which was to the left of the\nentrance, and which, to judge by the noise, seemed to be full of people.\nHe looked at the curate, and then at the Prince.\n\n\"Sorry to disappoint you, Don Paolo _mio_,\" he said, supposing the priest\nhad brought a customer--\"very sorry; there is not a bed in the house.\"\n\n\"That is no matter, Giacchino,\" answered the curate. \"We want to see Sor\nGiovanni for a moment.\" The man disappeared, and a moment later Sor\nGiovanni himself came down the passage.\n\n\"_Favorisca_, dear Don Paolo, come in.\" And he bowed to the Prince as he\nopened the door which led into a small sitting-room reserved for the\ninnkeeper's family.\n\nWhen they had entered, Saracinesca looked at his son's namesake. He saw\nbefore him a man whose face and figure he long remembered with an\ninstinctive dislike. Giovanni the innkeeper was of a powerful build. Two\ngenerations of peasant blood had given renewed strength to the old race.\nHe was large, with large bones, vast breadth of shoulder, and massive\njoints; lean withal, and brown of face, his high cheek-bones making his\ncheeks look hollow; clean shaved, his hair straight and black and neatly\ncombed; piercing black eyes near together, the heavy eyebrows joining\ntogether in the midst of his forehead; thin and cruel lips, now parted in\na smile and showing a formidable set of short, white, even teeth; a\nprominent square jaw, and a broad, strong nose, rather unnaturally\npointed,--altogether a striking face, one that would be noticed in a\ncrowd for its strength, but strangely cunning in expression, and not\nwithout ferocity. Years afterwards Saracinesca remembered his first\nmeeting with Giovanni the innkeeper, and did not wonder that his first\nimpulse had been to dislike the man. At present, however, he looked at\nhim with considerable curiosity, and if he disliked him at first sight,\nhe told himself that it was beneath him to show antipathy for an\ninnkeeper.\n\n\"Sor Giovanni,\" said the curate, \"this gentleman is desirous of making\nyour acquaintance.\"\n\nGiovanni, whose manners were above his station, bowed politely, and\nlooked inquiringly at his visitor.\n\n\"Signor Saracinesca,\" said the Prince, \"I am Leone Saracinesca of Rome. I\nhave just heard of your existence. We have long believed your family to\nbe extinct--I am delighted to find it still represented, and by one who\nseems likely to perpetuate the name.\"\n\nThe innkeeper fixed his piercing eyes on the speaker's face, and looked\nlong before he answered.\n\n\"So you are Prince Saracinesca,\" he said, gravely.\n\n\"And you are the Marchese di San Giacinto,\" said the Prince, in the same\ntone, holding out his hand frankly.\n\n\"Pardon me,--I am Giovanni Saracinesca, the innkeeper of Aquila,\"\nreturned the other. But he took the Prince's hand. Then they all sat\ndown.\n\n\"As you please,\" said the Prince. \"The title is none the less yours. If\nyou had signed yourself with it when you married, you would have saved me\na vast deal of trouble; but on the other hand, I should not have been\nso fortunate as to meet you.\"\n\n\"I do not understand,\" said Giovanni.\n\nThe Prince told his story in as few words as possible.\n\n\"Amazing! extraordinary! what a chance!\" ejaculated the curate, nodding\nhis old head from time to time while the Prince spoke, as though he had\nnot heard it all before. The innkeeper said nothing until old Saracinesca\nhad finished.\n\n\"I see how it was managed,\" he said at last. \"When that gentleman was\nmaking inquiries, I was away. I had taken my wife back to Salerno, and my\nwife's father had not yet established himself in Aquila. Signor Del--what\nis his name?\"\n\n\"Del Ferice.\"\n\n\"Del Ferice, exactly. He thought we had disappeared, and were not likely\nto come back. Or else he is a fool.\"\n\n\"He is not a fool,\" said Saracinesca. \"He thought he was safe. It is all\nvery clear now. Well, Signor Marchese, or Signor Saracinesca, I am very\nglad to have made your acquaintance. You have cleared up a very important\nquestion by returning to Aquila. It will always give me the greatest\npleasure to serve you in any way I can.\"\n\n\"A thousand thanks. Anything I can do for you during your stay--\"\n\n\"You are very kind. I will hire horses and return to Terni to-night. My\nbusiness in Rome is urgent. There is some suspense there in my absence.\"\n\n\"You will drink a glass before going?\" asked Giovanni; and without\nwaiting for an answer, he strode from the room.\n\n\"And what does your Excellency think of your relation?\" asked the curate,\nwhen he was alone with the Prince.\n\n\"A terrible-looking fellow! But--\" The Prince made a face and a gesture\nindicating a question in regard to the innkeeper's character.\n\n\"Oh, do not be afraid,\" answered the priest. \"He is the most honest man\nalive.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" returned the Prince, politely, \"you have had many occasions\nof ascertaining that.\"\n\nGiovanni, the innkeeper, returned with a bottle of wine and three\nglasses, which he placed upon the table, and proceeded to fill.\n\n\"By the by,\" said the Prince, \"in the excitement I forgot to inquire for\nyour Signora. She is well, I hope?\"\n\n\"Thank you--she is very well,\" replied Giovanni, shortly.\n\n\"A boy, I have no doubt?\"\n\n\"A splendid boy,\" answered the curate. \"Sor Giovanni has a little girl,\ntoo. He is a very happy man.\"\n\n\"Your health,\" said the innkeeper, holding up his glass to the light.\n\n\"And yours,\" returned the Prince.\n\n\"And of all the Saracinesca family,\" said the curate, sipping his wine\nslowly. He rarely got a glass of old Lacrima, and he enjoyed it\nthoroughly.\n\n\"And now,\" said the Prince, \"I must be off. Many thanks for your\nhospitality. I shall always remember with pleasure the day when I met an\nunknown relation.\"\n\n\"The Albergo di Napoli will not forget that Prince Saracinesca has been\nits guest,\" replied Giovanni politely, a smile upon his thin lips. He\nshook hands with both his guests, and ushered them out to the door with a\ncourteous bow. Before they had gone twenty yards in the street, the\nPrince looked back and caught a last glimpse of Giovanni's towering\nfigure, standing upon the steps with the bright light falling upon it\nfrom within. He remembered that impression long.\n\nAt the door of his own inn he took leave of the good curate with many\nexpressions of thanks, and with many invitations to the Palazzo\nSaracinesca, in case the old man ever visited Home.\n\n\"I have never seen Rome, your Excellency,\" answered the priest, rather\nsadly. \"I am an old man--I shall never see it now.\"\n\nSo they parted, and the Prince had a solitary supper of pigeons and salad\nin the great dusky hall of the Locanda del Sole, while his horses were\nbeing got ready for the long night-journey.\n\nThe meeting and the whole clearing up of the curious difficulty had\nproduced a profound impression upon the old Prince. He had not the\nslightest doubt but that the story of the curate was perfectly accurate.\nIt was all so very probable, too. In the wild times between 1806 and\n1815 the last of the Neapolitan branch of the Saracinesca had\ndisappeared, and the rich and powerful Roman princes of the name had been\nquite willing to believe the Marchesi di San Giacinto extinct. They had\nnot even troubled themselves to claim the title, for they possessed more\nthan fifty of their own, and there was no chance of recovering the San\nGiacinto estate, already mortgaged, and more than half squandered at the\ntime of the confiscation. That the rough soldier of fortune should have\nhidden himself in his native country after the return of Ferdinand, his\nlawful king, against whom he had fought, was natural enough; as it was\nalso natural that, with his rough nature, he should accommodate himself\nto a peasant's life, and marry a peasant's only daughter, with her\nbroad acres of orange and olive and vine land; for peasants in the far\nsouth were often rich, and their daughters were generally beautiful--a\nvery different race from the starved tenants of the Roman Campagna.\n\nThe Prince decided that the story was perfectly true, and he reflected\nsomewhat bitterly that unless his son had heirs after him, this herculean\ninnkeeper of Aquila was the lawful successor to his own title, and to all\nthe Saracinesca lands. He determined that Giovanni's marriage should not\nbe delayed another day, and with his usual impetuosity he hastened back\nto Rome, hardly remembering that he had spent the previous night and all\nthat day upon the road, and that he had another twenty-four hours of\ntravel before him.\n\nAt dawn his carriage stopped at a little town not far from the papal\nfrontier. Just as the vehicle was starting, a large man, muffled in a\nhuge cloak, from the folds of which protruded the long brown barrel of a\nrifle, put his head into the window. The Prince started and grasped his\nrevolver, which lay beside him on the seat.\n\n\"Good morning, Prince,\" said the man. \"I hope you have slept well.\"\n\n\"Sor Giovanni!\" exclaimed the old gentleman. \"Where did you drop from?\"\n\n\"The roads are not very safe,\" returned the innkeeper. \"So I thought it\nbest to accompany you. Good-bye--_buon viaggio_!\"\n\nBefore the Prince could answer, the carriage rolled off, the horses\nspringing forward at a gallop. Saracinesca put his head out of the\nwindow, but his namesake had disappeared, and he rolled on towards Terni,\nwondering at the innkeeper's anxiety for his safety.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\n\nEven old Saracinesca's iron strength was in need of rest when, at the end\nof forty-eight hours, he again entered his son's rooms, and threw himself\nupon the great divan.\n\n\"How is Corona?\" was his first question.\n\n\"She is very anxious about you,\" returned Giovanni, who was himself\nconsiderably disturbed.\n\n\"We will go and set her mind at rest as soon as I have had something to\neat,\" said his father.\n\n\"It is all right, then? It was just as I said--a namesake?\"\n\n\"Precisely. Only the namesake happens to be a cousin--the last of the San\nGiacinto, who keeps an inn in Aquila. I saw him, and shook hands with\nhim.\"\n\n\"Impossible!\" exclaimed Giovanni. \"They are all extinct--\"\n\n\"There has been a resurrection,\" returned the Prince. He told the whole\nstory of his journey, graphically and quickly.\n\n\"That is a very extraordinary tale,\" remarked Giovanni, thoughtfully.\n\"So, if I die without children the innkeeper will be prince.\"\n\n\"Precisely. And now, Giovanni, you must be married next week.\"\n\n\"As soon as you please--to-morrow if you like.\"\n\n\"What shall we do with Del Ferice?\" asked the old prince.\n\n\"Ask him to the wedding,\" answered Giovanni, magnanimously.\n\n\"The wedding will have to be a very quiet one, I suppose,\" remarked his\nfather, thoughtfully. \"The year is hardly over--\"\n\n\"The more quiet the better, provided it is done quickly. Of course we\nmust consult Corona at once.\"\n\n\"Do you suppose I am going to fix the wedding-day without consulting\nher?\" asked the old man. \"For heaven's sake order dinner, and let us be\nquick about it.\"\n\nThe Prince was evidently in a hurry, and moreover, he was tired and\nvery hungry. An hour later, as both the men sat over the coffee in the\ndining-room, his mood was mellower. A dinner at home has a wonderful\neffect upon the temper of a man who has travelled and fared badly for\neight-and-forty hours.\n\n\"Giovannino,\" said old Saracinesca, \"have you any idea what the Cardinal\nthinks of your marriage?\"\n\n\"No; and I do not care,\" answered the younger man. \"He once advised me\nnot to marry Donna Tullia. He has not seen me often since then.\"\n\n\"I have an idea that it will please him immensely,\" said the Prince.\n\n\"It would be very much the same if it displeased him.\"\n\n\"Very much the same. Have you seen Corona to-day?\"\n\n\"Yes--of course,\" answered Giovanni.\n\n\"What is the use of my going with you this evening?\" asked his father,\nsuddenly. \"I should think you could manage your own affairs without my\nhelp.\"\n\n\"I thought that as you have taken so much trouble, you would enjoy\ntelling her the story yourself.\"\n\n\"Do you think I am a vain fool, sir, to be amused by a woman's praise?\nNonsense! Go yourself.\"\n\n\"By all means,\" answered Giovanni. He was used to his father's habit of\nbeing quarrelsome over trifles, and he was much too happy to take any\nnotice of it now.\n\n\"You are tired,\" he continued. \"I am sure you have a right to be. You\nmust want to go to bed.\"\n\n\"To bed indeed!\" growled the old man. \"Tired! You think I am good for\nnothing; I know you do. You look upon me as a doting old cripple. I tell\nyou, boy, I can--\"\n\n\"For heaven's sake, _padre mio_, do precisely as you are inclined. I\nnever said--\"\n\n\"Never said what? Why are you always quarrelling with me?\" roared his\nfather, who had not lost his temper for two days, and missed his\nfavourite exercise.\n\n\"What day shall we fix upon?\" asked Giovanni, unmoved.\n\n\"Day! Any day. What do I care? Oh!--well, since you speak of it, you\nmight say a week from Sunday. To-day is Friday. But I do not care in the\nleast.\"\n\n\"Very well--if Corona can get ready.\"\n\n\"She shall be ready--she must be ready!\" answered the old gentleman, in a\ntone of conviction. \"Why should she not be ready, I would like to know?\"\n\n\"No reason whatever,\" said Giovanni, with unusual mildness.\n\n\"Of course not. There is never any reason in anything you say, you\nunreasonable boy.\"\n\n\"Never, of course.\" Giovanni rose to go, biting his lips to keep down a\nlaugh.\n\n\"What the devil do you mean by always agreeing with me, you impertinent\nscapegrace? And you are laughing, too--laughing at me, sir, as I live!\nUpon my word!\"\n\nGiovanni turned his back and lighted a cigar. Then, without looking\nround, he walked towards the door.\n\n\"Giovannino,\" called the Prince.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"I feel better now. I wanted to abuse somebody. Look here--wait a\nmoment.\" He rose quickly, and left the room.\n\nGiovanni sat down and smoked rather impatiently, looking at his watch\nfrom time to time. In five minutes his father returned, bringing in his\nhand an old red morocco case.\n\n\"Give it to her with my compliments, my boy,\" he said. \"They are some of\nyour mother's diamonds--just a few of them. She shall have the rest on\nthe wedding-day.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Giovanni, and pressed his father's hand.\n\n\"And give her my love, and say I will call to-morrow at two o'clock,\"\nadded the Prince, now perfectly serene.\n\nWith the diamonds under his arm, Giovanni went out. The sky was clear and\nfrosty, and the stars shone brightly, high up between the tall houses of\nthe narrow street. Giovanni had not ordered a carriage, and seeing how\nfine the night was, he decided to walk to his destination. It was not\neight o'clock, and Corona would have scarcely finished dinner at that\nhour. He walked slowly. As he emerged into the Piazza di Venezia some\none overtook him.\n\n\"Good evening, Prince.\" Giovanni turned, and recognised Anastase Gouache,\nthe Zouave.\n\n\"Ah, Gouache--how are you?\"\n\n\"I am going to pay you a visit,\" answered the Frenchman.\n\n\"I am very sorry--I have just left home,\" returned Giovanni, in some\nsurprise.\n\n\"Not at your house,\" continued Anastase. \"My company is ordered to the\nmountains. We leave to-morrow morning for Subiaco, and some of us are to\nbe quartered at Saracinesca.\"\n\n\"I hope you will be among the number,\" said Giovanni. \"I shall probably\nbe married next week, and the Duchessa wishes to go at once to the\nmountains. We shall be delighted to see you.\"\n\n\"Thank you very much. I will not fail to do myself the honour. My homage\nto Madame la Duchesse. I must turn here. Good night.\"\n\n\"_Au revoir_,\" said Giovanni, and went on his way.\n\nHe found Corona in an inner sitting-room, reading beside a great\nwood-fire. There were soft shades of lilac mingled with the black of her\ndress. The year of mourning was past, and so soon as she could she\nmodified her widow's weeds into something less solemnly black. It\nwas impossible to wear funeral robes on the eve of her second marriage;\nand the world had declared that she had shown an extraordinary degree of\nvirtue in mourning so long for a death which every one considered so\nhighly appropriate. Corona, however, felt differently. To her, her dead\nhusband and the man she now so wholly loved belonged to two totally\ndistinct classes of men. Her love, her marriage with Giovanni, seemed so\nnatural a consequence of her being left alone--so absolutely removed\nfrom her former life--that, on the eve of her wedding, she could almost\nwish that poor old Astrardente were alive to look as her friend upon her\nnew-found happiness.\n\nShe welcomed Giovanni with a bright smile. She had not expected him that\nevening, for he had been with her all the afternoon. She sprang to her\nfeet and came quickly to meet him. She almost unconsciously took the\nmorocco case from his hands, not looking at it, and hardly noticing what\nshe did.\n\n\"My father has come back. It is all settled!\" cried Giovanni.\n\n\"So soon! He must have flown!\" said she, making him sit down.\n\n\"Yes, he has never rested, and he has found out all about it. It is a\nmost extraordinary story. By the by, he sends you affectionate messages,\nand begs you to accept these diamonds. They were my mother's,\" he added,\nhis voice softening and changing. Corona understood his tone, and perhaps\nrealised, too, how very short the time now was. She opened the case\ncarefully.\n\n\"They are very beautiful; your mother wore them, Giovanni?\" She looked\nlovingly at him, and then bending down kissed the splendid coronet as\nthough in reverence of the dead Spanish woman who had borne the man\nshe loved. Whereat Giovanni stole to her side, and kissed her own dark\nhair very tenderly.\n\n\"I was to tell you that there are a great many more,\" he said, \"which my\nfather will offer you on the wedding--day.\" Then he kneeled down beside\nher, and raising the crown from its case, set it with both his hands upon\nher diadem of braids.\n\n\"My princess!\" he exclaimed. \"How beautiful you are!\" He took the great\nnecklace, and clasped it about her white throat. \"Of course,\" he said,\n\"you have such splendid jewels of your own, perhaps you hardly care for\nthese and the rest. But I like to see you with them--it makes me feel\nthat you are really mine.\"\n\nCorona smiled happily, and gently took the coronet from her head,\nreturning it to its case. She let the necklace remain about her throat.\n\n\"You have not told me about your father's discovery,\" she said, suddenly.\n\n\"Yes--I will tell you.\"\n\nIn a few minutes he communicated to her the details of the journey. She\nlistened with profound interest.\n\n\"It is very strange,\" she said. \"And yet it is so very natural.\"\n\n\"You see it is all Del Ferice's doing,\" said Giovanni. \"I suppose it was\nreally an accident in the first place; but he managed to make a great\ndeal of it. It is certainly very amusing to find that the last of the\nother branch is an innkeeper in the Abruzzi. However, I daresay we\nshall never hear of him again. He does not seem inclined to claim his\ntitle. Corona _mia_, I have something much more serious to say to you\nto-night.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked, turning her great dark eyes rather wonderingly\nto his face.\n\n\"There is no reason why we should not be married, now--\"\n\n\"Do you think I ever believed there was?\" she asked, reproachfully.\n\n\"No, dear. Only--would you mind its being very soon?\"\n\nThe dark blood rose slowly to her cheek, but she answered without any\nhesitation. She was too proud to hesitate.\n\n\"Whenever you please, Giovanni. Only it must be very quiet, and we will\ngo straight to Saracinesca. If you agree to those two things, it shall be\nas soon as you please.\"\n\n\"Next week? A week from Sunday?\" asked Giovanni, eagerly.\n\n\"Yes--a week from Sunday. I would rather not go through the ordeal of a\nlong engagement. I cannot bear to have every one here, congratulating me\nfrom morning till night, as they insist upon doing.\"\n\n\"I will send the people out to Saracinesca to-morrow,\" said Giovanni, in\ngreat delight. \"They have been at work all winter, making the place\nrespectable.\"\n\n\"Not changing, I hope?\" exclaimed Corona, who dearly loved the old grey\nwalls.\n\n\"Only repairing the state apartments. By the by, I met Gouache this\nevening. He is going out with a company of Zouaves to hunt the brigands,\nif there really are any.\"\n\n\"I hope he will not come near us,\" answered Corona. \"I want to be all\nalone with you, Giovanni, for ever so long. Would you not rather be\nalone for a little while?\" she asked, looking up suddenly with a timid\nsmile. \"Should I bore you very much?\"\n\nIt is unnecessary to record Giovanni's answer. If Corona longed to be\nalone with him in the hills, Giovanni himself desired such a retreat\nstill more. To be out of the world, even for a month, seemed to him the\nmost delightful of prospects, for he was weary of the city, of society,\nof everything save the woman he was about to marry. Of her he could never\ntire; he could not imagine that in her company the days would ever seem\nlong, even in old Saracinesca, among the grey rocks of the Sabines. The\naverage man is gregarious, perhaps; but in strong minds there is often a\ngreat desire for solitude, or at least for retirement, in the society of\none sympathetic soul. The instinct which bids such people leave the world\nfor a time is never permanent, unless they become morbid. It is a natural\nfeeling; and a strong brain gathers strength from communing with itself\nor with its natural mate. There are few great men who have not at one\ntime or another withdrawn into solitude, and their retreat has generally\nbeen succeeded by a period of extraordinary activity. Strong minds are\noften, at some time or another, exposed to doubt and uncertainty\nincomprehensible to a smaller intellect--due, indeed, to that very\nbreadth of view which contemplates the same idea from a vast number of\nsides. To a man so endowed, the casting-vote of some one whom he loves,\nand with whom he almost unconsciously sympathises, is sometimes necessary\nto produce action, to direct the faculties, to guide the overflowing\nflood of his thought into the mill-race of life's work. Without a certain\namount of prejudice to determine the resultant of its forces, many a\nfine intellect would expend its power in burrowing among its own\nlabyrinths, unrecognised, misunderstood, unheard by the working-day world\nwithout. For the working-day world never lacks prejudice to direct its\nworking.\n\nFor some time Giovanni and Corona talked of their plans for the spring\nand summer. They would read, they would work together at the schemes for\nuniting and improving their estates; they would build that new road from\nAstrardente to Saracinesca, concerning which there had been so much\ndiscussion during the last year; they would visit every part of their\nlands together, and inquire into the condition of every peasant; they\nwould especially devote their attention to extending the forest\nenclosures, in which Giovanni foresaw a source of wealth for his\nchildren; above all, they would talk to their hearts' content, and feel,\nas each day dawned upon their happiness, that they were free to go where\nthey would, without being confronted at every turn by the troublesome\nduties of an exigent society.\n\nAt last the conversation turned again upon recent events, and especially\nupon the part Del Ferice and Donna Tullia had played in attempting to\nprevent the marriage. Corona asked what Giovanni intended to do about the\nmatter.\n\n\"I do not see that there is much to be done,\" he answered. \"I will go to\nDonna Tullia to-morrow, and explain that there has been a curious\nmistake--that I am exceedingly obliged to her for calling my attention to\nthe existence of a distant relative, but that I trust she will not in\nfuture interfere in my affairs.\"\n\n\"Do you think she will marry Del Ferice after all?\" asked Corona.\n\n\"Why not? Of course he gave her the papers. Very possibly he thought they\nreally proved my former marriage. She will perhaps blame him for her\nfailure, but he will defend himself, never fear; he will make her\nmarry him.\"\n\n\"I wish they would marry and go away,\" said Corona to whom the very name\nof Del Ferice was abhorrent, and who detested Donna Tullia almost as\nheartily. Corona was a very good and noble woman, but she was very far\nfrom that saintly superiority which forgets to resent injuries. Her\npassions were eminently human, and very strong. She had struggled bravely\nagainst her overwhelming love for Giovanni; and she had so far got the\nmastery of herself, that she would have endured to the end if her\nhusband's death had not set her at liberty. Perhaps, too, while she felt\nthe necessity of fighting against that love, she attained for a time to\nan elevation of character which would have made such personal injuries\nas Donna Tullia could inflict seem insignificant in comparison with the\ngreat struggle she sustained against an even greater evil. But in the\nrealisation of her freedom, in suddenly giving the rein to her nature, so\nlong controlled by her resolute will, all passion seemed to break out at\nonce with renewed force; and the conviction that her anger against her\ntwo enemies was perfectly just and righteous, added fuel to the fire. Her\neyes gleamed fiercely as she spoke of Del Ferice and his bride, and no\npunishment seemed too severe for those who had so treacherously tried to\ndash the cup of her happiness from her very lips.\n\n\"I wish they would marry,\" she repeated, \"and I wish the Cardinal would\nturn them out of Rome the next day.\"\n\n\"That might be done,\" said Giovanni, who had himself revolved more than\none scheme of vengeance against the evil-doers. \"The trouble is, that the\nCardinal despises Del Ferice and his political dilettanteism. He does not\ncare a fig whether the fellow remains in Rome or goes away. I confess it\nwould be a great satisfaction to wring the villain's neck.\"\n\n\"You must not fight him again, Giovanni,\" said Corona, in sudden alarm.\n\"You must not risk your life now--you know it is mine now.\" She laid her\nhand tenderly on his, and it trembled.\n\n\"No, dearest--I certainly will not. But my father is very angry. I think\nwe may safely leave the treatment of Del Fence in his hands. My father is\na very sudden and violent man.\"\n\n\"I know,\" replied Corona. \"He is magnificent when he is angry. I have no\ndoubt he will settle Del Ferice's affairs satisfactorily.\" She laughed\nalmost fiercely. Giovanni looked at her anxiously, yet not without pride,\nas he recognised in her strong anger something akin to himself.\n\n\"How fierce you are!\" he said, with a smile.\n\n\"Have I not cause to be? Have I not cause to wish these people an\nevil end? Have they not nearly separated us? Nothing is bad enough for\nthem--what is the use of pretending not to feel? You are calm, Giovanni?\nPerhaps you are much stronger than I am. I do not think you realise what\nthey meant to do--to separate us--_us!_ As if any torture were bad enough\nfor them!\"\n\nGiovanni had never seen her so thoroughly roused. He was angry himself,\nand more than angry, for his cheek paled, and his stern features grew\nmore hard, while his voice dropped to a hoarser tone.\n\n\"Do not mistake me, Corona,\" he said. \"Do not think I am indifferent\nbecause I am quiet. Del Ferice shall expiate all some day, and bitterly\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Indeed I hope so,\" answered Corona between her teeth. Had Giovanni\nforeseen the long and bitter struggle he would one day have to endure\nbefore that expiation was complete, he would very likely have renounced\nhis vengeance then and there, for his wife's sake. But we mortals see but\nin a glass; and when the mirror is darkened by the master-passion of\nhate, we see not at all. Corona and Giovanni, united, rich and powerful,\nmight indeed appear formidable to a wretch like Del Ferice, dependent\nupon a system of daily treachery for the very bread he ate. But in those\ndays the wheel of fortune was beginning to turn, and far-sighted men\nprophesied that many an obscure individual would one day be playing the\npart of a great personage. Years would still elapse before the change,\nbut the change would surely come at last.\n\nGiovanni was very thoughtful as he walked home that night. He was happy,\nand he had cause to be, for the long-desired day was at hand. He had\nnearly attained the object of his life, and there was now no longer any\nobstacle to be overcome. The relief he felt at his father's return was\nvery great; for although he had known that the impediment raised would be\nsoon removed, any impediment whatever was exasperating, and he could not\ncalculate the trouble that might be caused by the further machinations of\nDonna Tullia and her affianced husband. All difficulties had, however,\nbeen overcome by his father's energetic action, and at once Giovanni felt\nas though a load had fallen from his shoulders, and a veil from his eyes.\nHe saw himself wedded to Corona in less than a fortnight, removed from\nthe sphere of society and of all his troubles, living for a space alone\nwith her in his ancestral home, calling her, at last, his wife.\nNevertheless he was thoughtful, and his expression was not one of\nunmingled gladness, as he threaded the streets on his way home; for his\nmind reverted to Del Ferice and to Donna Tullia, and Corona's fierce look\nwas still before him. He reflected that she had been nearly as much\ninjured as himself, that her wrath was legitimate, and that it was his\nduty to visit her sufferings as well as his own upon the offenders. His\nmelancholic nature easily fell to brooding over any evil which was strong\nenough to break the barrier of his indifference; and the annoyances which\nhad sprung originally from so small a cause had grown to gigantic\nproportions, and had struck at the very roots of his happiness.\n\nHe had begun by disliking Del Ferice in an indifferent way whenever he\nchanced to cross his path. Del Ferice had resented this haughty\nindifference as a personal insult, and had set about injuring Giovanni,\nattempting to thwart him whenever he could. Giovanni had caught Del\nFerice in a dastardly trick, and had been so far roused as to take\nsummary vengeance upon him in the duel which tools place after the\nFrangipani ball. The wound had entered into Ugo's soul, and his hatred\nhad grown the faster that he found no opportunity of revenge. Then, at\nlast, when Giovanni's happiness had seemed complete, his enemy had put\nforward his pretended proof of a former marriage; knowing well enough\nthat his weapons were not invincible--were indeed very weak--but unable\nto resist any longer the desire for vengeance. Once more Giovanni had\ntriumphed easily, but with victory came the feeling that it was his turn\nto punish his adversary. And now there was a new and powerful motive\nadded to Giovanni's just resentment, in the anger his future wife felt\nand had a good right to feel, at the treachery which had been practised\nupon both. It had taken two years to rouse Giovanni to energetic action\nagainst one whom he had in turn regarded with indifference, then\ndespised, then honestly disliked, and finally hated. But his hatred had\nbeen doubled each time by a greater injury, and was not likely to be\neasily satisfied. Nothing short of Del Fence's destruction would be\nenough, and his destruction must be brought about by legal means.\n\nGiovanni had not far to seek for his weapons. He had long suspected Del\nFerice of treasonable practices; he did not doubt that with small\nexertion he could find evidence to convict him. He would, then, allow him\nto marry Donna Tullia; and on the day after the wedding, Del Ferice\nshould be arrested and lodged in the prison of the Holy Office as a\npolitical delinquent of the meanest and most dangerous kind--as a\npolitical spy. The determination was soon reached. It did not seem cruel\nto Giovanni, for he was in a relentless mood; it would not have seemed\ncruel to Corona,--Del Ferice had deserved all that, and more also.\n\nSo Giovanni went home and slept the sleep of a man who has made up his\nmind upon an important matter. And in the morning he rose early and\ncommunicated his ideas to his father. The result was that they determined\nfor the present to avoid an interview with Donna Tullia, and to\ncommunicate to her by letter the result of old Saracinesca's rapid\njourney to Aquila.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\n\nWhen Donna Tullia received Saracinesca's note, explaining the existence\nof a second Giovanni, his pedigree and present circumstances, she almost\nfainted with disappointment. It seemed to her that she had compromised\nherself before the world, that all Rome knew the ridiculous part she had\nplayed in Del Ferice's comedy, and that her shame would never be\nforgotten. Suddenly she saw how she had been led away by her hatred of\nGiovanni into believing blindly in a foolish tale which ought not to have\ndeceived a child. So soon as she learned the existence of a second\nGiovanni Saracinesca, it seemed to her that she must have been mad not to\nforesee such an explanation from the first. She had been duped, she had\nbeen made a cat's-paw, she had been abominably deceived by Del Ferice,\nwho had made use of this worthless bribe in order to extort from her a\npromise of marriage. She felt very ill, as very vain people often do\nwhen they feel that they have been made ridiculous. She lay upon the\nsofa in her little boudoir, where everything was in the worst possible\ntaste--from the gaudy velvet carpet and satin furniture to the gilt clock\non the chimney-piece--and she turned red and pale and red again, and\nwished she were dead, or in Paris, or anywhere save in Rome. If she went\nout she might meet one of the Saracinesca at any turn of the street, or\neven Corona herself. How they would bow and smile sweetly at her,\nenjoying her discomfiture with the polite superiority of people who\ncannot be hurt!\n\nAnd she herself--she could not tell what she should do. She had announced\nher engagement to Del Ferice, but she could not marry him. She had been\nentrapped into making him a promise, into swearing a terrible oath;\nbut the Church did not consider such oaths binding. She would go to Padre\nFilippo and ask his advice.\n\nBut then, if she went to Padre Filippo, she would have to confess all she\nhad done, and she was not prepared to do that. A few weeks would pass,\nand that time would be sufficient to mellow and smooth the remembrance of\nher revengeful projects into a less questionable shape. No--she could not\nconfess all that just yet. Surely such an oath was not binding; at all\nevents, she could not marry Del Fence, whether she broke her promise or\nnot. In the first place, she would send for him and vent her anger upon\nhim while it was hot.\n\nAccordingly, in the space of three-quarters of an hour, Ugo appeared,\nsmiling, smooth and persuasive as usual. Donna Tullia assumed a fine\nattitude of disdain as she heard his step outside the door. She intended\nto impress him with a full and sudden view of her just anger. He did not\nseem much moved, and came forward as usual to take her hand and kiss it.\nBut she folded her arms and stared at him with all the contempt she could\nconcentrate in the gaze of her blue eyes. It was a good comedy. Del\nFerice, who had noticed as soon as he entered the room that something was\nwrong, and had already half guessed the cause, affected to spring back in\nhorror when she refused to give her hand. His pale face expressed\nsufficiently well a mixture of indignation and sorrow at the harsh\ntreatment he received. Still Donna Tullia's cold eye rested upon him in a\nfixed stare.\n\n\"What is this? What have I done?\" asked Del Ferice in low tones.\n\n\"Can you ask? Wretch! Read that, and understand what you have done,\"\nanswered Donna Tullia, making a step forward and thrusting Saracinesca's\nletter in his face.\n\nDel Ferice had already seen the handwriting, and knew what the contents\nwere likely to be. He took the letter in one hand, and without looking at\nit, still faced the angry woman. His brows contracted into a heavy frown,\nand his half-closed eyes gazed menacingly at her.\n\n\"It will be an evil day for any man who comes between you and me,\" he\nsaid, in tragic tones.\n\nDonna Tullia laughed harshly, and again drew herself up, watching his\nface, and expecting to witness his utter confusion. But she was no match\nfor the actor whom she had promised to marry. Del Ferice began to read,\nand as he read, his frown relaxed; gradually an ugly smile, intended to\nrepresent fiendish cunning, stole over his features, and when he had\nfinished, he uttered a cry of triumph.\n\n\"Ha!\" he said, \"I guessed it! I hoped it--and it is true! He is found at\nlast! The very man--the real Saracinesca! It is only a matter of time--\"\n\nDonna Tullia now stared in unfeigned surprise. Instead of crushing him to\nthe ground as she had expected, the letter seemed to fill him with\nboundless delight. He paced the room in wild excitement, chattering like\na madman. In spite of herself, however, her own spirits rose, and her\nanger against Del Ferice softened. All was perhaps not lost--who could\nfathom the intricacy of his great schemes? Surely he was not the man to\nfall a victim to his own machinations.\n\n\"Will you please explain your extraordinary satisfaction at this news?\"\nsaid Madame Mayer. Between her late anger, her revived hopes, and her\nnewly roused curiosity, she was in a terrible state of suspense.\n\n\"Explain?\" he cried. \"Explain what, most adorable of women? Does it not\nexplain itself? Have we not found the Marchese di San Giacinto, the real\nSaracinesca? Is not that enough?\"\n\n\"I do not understand--\"\n\nDel Ferice was now by her side. He seemed hardly able to control himself\nfor joy. As a matter of fact he was acting, and acting a desperate part\ntoo, suggested on the spur of the moment by the risk he ran of losing\nthis woman and her fortune on the very eve of marriage. Now he seized her\nhand, and drawing her arm through his, led her quickly backwards and\nforwards, talking fast and earnestly. It would not do to hesitate, for by\na moment's appearance of uncertainty all would be lost.\n\n\"No; of course you cannot understand the vast importance of this\ndiscovery. I must explain. I must enter into historic details, and I am\nso much overcome by this extraordinary turn of fortune that I can hardly\nspeak. Remove all doubt from your mind, my dear lady, for we have already\ntriumphed. This innkeeper, this Giovanni Saracinesca, this Marchese di\nSan Giacinto, is the lawful and right Prince Saracinesca, the head of the\nhouse--\"\n\n\"What!\" screamed Donna Tullia, stopping short, and gripping his arm as in\na vice.\n\n\"Indeed he is. I suspected it when I first found the signature at Aquila;\nbut the man was gone, with his newly married wife, no one knew whither;\nand I could not find him, search as I might. He is now returned, and\nwhat is more, as this letter says, with all his papers proving his\nidentity. This is how the matter lies. Listen, Tullia _mia_. The old\nLeone Saracinesca who last bore the title of Marquis--\"\n\n\"The one mentioned here?\" asked Donna Tullia, breathlessly.\n\n\"Yes--the one who took service under Murat, under Napoleon. Well, it is\nperfectly well known that he laid claim to the Roman title, and with\nperfect justice. Two generations before that, there had been an amicable\narrangement--amicable, but totally illegal--whereby the elder brother,\nwho was an unmarried invalid, transferred the Roman estates to his\nyounger brother, who was married and had children, and, in exchange, took\nthe Neapolitan estates and title, which had just fallen back to the main\nbranch by the death of a childless Marchese di San Giacinto. Late in life\nthis old recluse invalid married, contrary to all expectation--certainly\ncontrary to his own previous intentions. However, a child was born--a\nboy. The old man found himself deprived by his own act of his\nprincipality, and the succession turned from his son to the son of his\nyounger brother. He began a negotiation for again obtaining possession of\nthe Roman title--at least so the family tradition goes--but his brother,\nwho was firmly established in Rome, refused to listen to his demands. At\nthis juncture the old man died, being legally, observe, still the head of\nthe family of Saracinesca; his son should have succeeded him. But his\nwife, the young daughter of an obscure Neapolitan nobleman, was not more\nthan eighteen years of age, and the child was only six months old. People\nmarried young in those days. She entered some kind of protest, which,\nhowever, was of no avail; and the boy grew up to be called the Marchese\ndi San Griacinto. He learned the story of his birth from his mother, and\nprotested in his turn. He ruined himself in trying to push his suit in\nthe Neapolitan courts; and finally, in the days of Napoleon's success, he\ntook service under Murat, receiving the solemn promise of the Emperor\nthat he should be reinstated in his title. But the Emperor forgot his\npromise, or did not find it convenient to keep it, having perhaps reasons\nof his own for not quarrelling with Pius the Seventh, who protected the\nRoman Saracinesea Then came 1815, the downfall of the Empire, the\nrestoration of Ferdinand IV. in Naples, the confiscation of property from\nall who had joined the Emperor, and the consequent complete ruin of San\nGiacinto's hopes. He was supposed to have been killed, or to have made\naway with himself. Saracinesea himself acknowledges that his grandson is\nalive, and possesses all the family papers. Saracinesca himself has\ndiscovered, seen, and conversed with the lawful head of his race, who, by\nthe blessing of heaven and the assistance of the courts, will before long\nturn him out of house and home, and reign in his stead in all the glories\nof the Palazzo Saracinesca, Prince of Rome, of the Holy Roman Empire,\ngrandee of Spain of the first class, and all the rest of it. Do you\nwonder I rejoice, now that I am sure of putting an innkeeper over my\nenemy's head? Fancy the humiliation of old Saracinesca, of Giovanni, who\nwill have to take his wife's title for the sake of respectability, of the\nAstrardente herself, when she finds she has married the penniless son of\na penniless pretender!\"\n\nDel Ferice knew enough of the Saracinesca's family history to know that\nsomething like what he had so fluently detailed to Donna Tullia had\nactually occurred, and he knew well enough that she would not remember\nevery detail of his rapidly told tale. Hating the family as he did, he\nhad diligently sought out all information about them which he could\nobtain without gaining access to their private archives. His ready wit\nhelped him to string the whole into a singularly plausible story. So\nplausible, indeed, that it entirely upset all Donna Tullia's\ndetermination to be angry at Del Ferice, and filled her with something of\nthe enthusiasm he showed. For himself he hoped that there was enough in\nhis story to do some palpable injury to the Saracinesca; but his more\nimmediate object was not to lose Donna Tullia by letting her feel any\ndisappointment at the discovery recently made by the old Prince. Donna\nTullia listened with breathless interest until he had finished.\n\n\"What a man you are, Ugo! How you turn defeat into victory! Is it all\nreally true? Do you think we can do it?\"\n\n\"If I were to die this instant,\" Del Ferice asseverated, solemnly raising\nhis hand, \"it is all perfectly true, so help me God!\"\n\nHe hoped, for many reasons, that he was not perjuring himself.\n\n\"What shall we do, then?\" asked Madame Mayer.\n\n\"Let them marry first, and then we shall be sure of humiliating them\nboth,\" he answered. Unconsciously he repeated the very determination\nwhich Giovanni had formed against him the night before. \"Meanwhile,\nyou and I can consult the lawyers and see how this thing can best be\naccomplished quickly and surely,\" he added.\n\n\"You will have to send for the innkeeper--\"\n\n\"I will go and see him. It will not be hard to persuade him to claim his\nlawful rights.\"\n\nDel Ferice remained some time in conversation with Donna Tullia. The\nmagnitude of the scheme fascinated her, and instead of thinking of\nbreaking her promise to Ugo as she had intended doing, she so far fell\nunder his influence as to name the wedding-day,--Easter Monday, they\nagreed, would exactly suit them and their plans. Indeed the idea of\nrefusing to fulfil her engagement had been but the result of a transitory\nfit of anger; if she had had any fear of making a misalliance in marrying\nDel Ferice, the way in which the world received the news of the\nengagement removed all such apprehension from her mind. Del Ferice was\nalready treated with increased respect--the very servants began to call\nhim \"Eccellenza,\" a distinction to which he neither had, nor could ever\nhave, any kind of claim, but which pleased Donna Tullia's vain soul. The\nposition which Ugo had obtained for himself by an assiduous attention to\nthe social claims and prejudices of social lights and oracles, was\nsuddenly assured to him, and rendered tenfold more brilliant by the news\nof his alliance with Donna Tullia. He excited no jealousies either; for\nDonna Tullia's peculiarities were of a kind which seemed to have\ninterfered from the first with her matrimonial projects. As a young girl,\na relation of the Saracinesca, whom she now so bitterly hated, she should\nhave been regarded as marriageable by any of the young Roman nobles, from\nValdarno down. But she had only a small dowry, and she was said to be\nextravagant--two objections then not so easily overcome as now. Moreover,\nshe was considered to be somewhat flighty; and the social jury decided\nthat when she was married, she would be excellent company, but would make\na very poor wife. Almost before they had finished discussing her,\nhowever, she had found a husband, in the shape of the wealthy foreign\ncontractor, Mayer, who wanted a wife from a good Roman house, and cared\nnot at all for money. She treated him very well, but was speedily\ndelivered from all her cares by his untimely death. Then, of all her\nfellow-citizens, none was found save the eccentric old Saracinesca,\nwho believed that she would do for his son; wherein it appeared that\nGiovanni's father was the man of all others who least understood\nGiovanni's inclinations. But this match fell to the ground, owing to\nGiovanni's attachment to Corona, and Madame Mayer was left with the\nprospect of remaining a widow for the rest of her life, or of marrying\na poor man. She chose the latter alternative, and fate threw into her way\nthe cleverest poor man in Rome, as though desiring to compensate her for\nnot having married one of the greatest nobles, in the person of Giovanni.\nThough she was always a centre of attraction, no one of those she most\nattracted wanted to marry her, and all expressed their unqualified\napproval of her ultimate choice. One said she was very generous to marry\na penniless gentleman; another remarked that she showed wisdom in\nchoosing a man who was in the way of making himself a good position under\nthe Italian Government; a third observed that he was delighted, because\nhe could enjoy her society without being suspected of wanting to marry\nher; and all agreed in praising her, and in treating Del Ferice with the\nrespect due to a man highly favored by fortune.\n\nDonna Tullia named the wedding-day, and her affianced husband departed in\nhigh spirits with himself, with her, and with his scheme. He felt still a\nlittle excited, and wanted to be alone. He hardly realised the magnitude\nof the plot he had undertaken, and needed time to reflect upon it; but\nwith the true instinct of an intriguing genius he recognised at once that\nhis new plan was the thing he had sought for long and ardently, and that\nit was worth all his other plans put together. Accordingly he went home,\nand proceeded to devote himself to the study of the question, sending a\nnote to a friend of his--a young lawyer of doubtful reputation, but of\nbrilliant parts, whom he at once selected as his chief counsellor in the\nimportant affair he had undertaken.\n\nBefore long he heard that the marriage of Don Giovanni Saracinesca to the\nDuchessa d'Astrardente was to take place the next week, in the chapel of\nthe Palazzo Saracinesca. At least popular report said that the ceremony\nwas to take place there; and that it was to be performed with great\nprivacy was sufficiently evident from the fact that no invitations\nappeared to have been issued. Society did not fail to comment upon such\nexclusiveness, and it commented unfavourably, for it felt that it was\nbeing deprived of a long-anticipated spectacle. This state of things\nlasted for two days, when, upon the Sunday morning precisely a week\nbefore the wedding, all Rome was surprised by receiving an imposing\ninvitation, setting forth that the marriage would be solemnised in the\nBasilica of the Santi Apostoli, and that it would be followed by a state\nreception at the Palazzo Saracinesca. It was soon known that the ceremony\nwould be performed by the Cardinal Archpriest of St Peter's, that the\nunited choirs of St Peter's and of the Sixtine Chapel would sing the High\nMass, and that the whole occasion would be one of unprecedented solemnity\nand magnificence. This was the programme published by the 'Osservatore\nRomano,' and that newspaper proceeded to pronounce a eulogy of some\nlength and considerable eloquence upon the happy pair. Rome was fairly\ntaken off its feet; and although some malcontents were found, who said it\nwas improper that Corona's marriage should be celebrated with such pomp\nso soon after her husband's death, the general verdict was that the whole\nproceeding was eminently proper and becoming to so important an event. So\nsoon as every one had been invited, no one seemed to think it remarkable\nthat the invitations should have been issued so late. It was not\ngenerally known that in the short time which elapsed between the naming\nof the day and the issuing of the cards, there had been several\ninterviews between old Saracinesca and Cardinal Antonelli; that the\nformer had explained Corona's natural wish that the marriage should be\nprivate, and that the latter had urged many reasons why so great an event\nought to be public; that Saracinesca had said he did not care at all,\nand was only expressing the views of his son and of the bride; that the\nCardinal had repeatedly asseverated that he wished to please everybody;\nthat Corona had refused to be pleased by a public ceremony; and that,\nfinally, the Cardinal, seeing himself hard pressed, had persuaded his\nHoliness himself to express a wish that the marriage should take place in\nthe most solemn and public manner; wherefore Corona had reluctantly\nyielded the point, and the matter was arranged. The fact was that the\nCardinal wished to make a sort of demonstration of the solidarity of the\nRoman nobility: it suited his aims to enter into every detail which could\nadd to the importance of the Roman Court, and which could help to impress\nupon the foreign Ministers the belief that in all matters the Romans as\none man would stand by each other and by the Vatican. No one knew better\nthan he how the spectacle of a religious solemnity, at which the whole\nnobility would attend in a body, must strike the mind of a stranger in\nRome; for in Roman ceremonies of that day there was a pomp and\nmagnificence surpassing that found in any other Court of Europe. The\nwhole marriage would become an event of which he could make an impressive\nuse, and he was determined not to forego any advantages which might arise\nfrom it; for he was a man who of all men well understood the value of\ndetails in maintaining prestige.\n\nBut to the two principal actors in the day's doings the affair was an\nunmitigated annoyance, and even their own great and true happiness could\nnot lighten the excessive fatigue of the pompous ceremony and of the\nstill more pompous reception which followed it. To describe that day\nwould be to make out a catalogue of gorgeous equipages, gorgeous\ncostumes, gorgeous decorations. Many pages would not suffice to enumerate\nthe cardinals, the dignitaries, the ambassadors, the great nobles, whose\nmagnificent coaches drove up in long file through the Piazza dei Santi\nApostoli to the door of the Basilica. The columns of the 'Osservatore\nRomano' were full of it for a week afterwards. There was no end to the\ndescriptions of the costumes, from the white satin and diamonds of\nthe bride to the festal uniforms of the Cardinal Arch-priest's retinue.\nNot a personage of importance was overlooked in the newspaper account,\nnot a diplomatist, not an officer of Zouaves. And society read the praise\nof itself, and found it much more interesting than the praise of the\nbride and bridegroom; and only one or two people were offended because\nthe paper had made a mistake in naming the colours of the hammer-cloths\nupon their coaches: so that the affair was a great success.\n\nBut when at last the sun was low and the guests had departed from the\nPalazzo Saracinesca, Corona and Giovanni got into their travelling\ncarriage under the great dark archway, and sighed a sigh of infinite\nrelief. The old Prince put his arms tenderly around his new daughter and\nkissed her; and for the second time in the course of this history, it is\nto be recorded that two tears stole silently down his brown cheeks to his\ngrey beard. Then he embraced Giovanni, whose face was pale and earnest.\n\n\"This is not the end of our living together, _padre mio,_\" he said. \"We\nshall expect you before long at Saracinesca.\"\n\n\"Yes, my boy,\" returned the old man; \"I will come and see you after\nEaster. But do not stay if it is too cold; I have a little business to\nattend to in Rome before I join you,\" he added, with a grim smile.\n\n\"I know,\" replied Giovanni, a savage light in his black eyes. \"If you\nneed help, send to me, or come yourself.\"\n\n\"No fear of that, Giovannino; I have got a terrible helper. Now, be off.\nThe guards are growing impatient.\"\n\n\"Good-bye. God bless you, _padre mio!_\"\n\n\"God bless you both!\" So they drove off, and left old Saracinesca\nstanding bareheaded and alone under the dim archway of his ancestral\npalace. The great carriage rolled out, and the guard of mounted\ngendarmes, which the Cardinal had insisted upon sending with the young\ncouple, half out of compliment, half for safety, fell in behind, and\ntrotted down the narrow street, with a deafening clatter of hoofs and\nclang of scabbards.\n\nBut Giovanni held Corona's hand in his, and both were silent for a time.\nThen they rolled under the low vault of the Porta San Lorenzo and out\ninto the evening sunlight of the Campagna beyond.\n\n\"God be praised that it has come at last!\" said Giovanni.\n\n\"Yes, it has come,\" answered Corona, her strong white fingers closing\nupon his brown hand almost convulsively; \"and, come what may, you are\nmine, Giovanni, until we die!\"\n\nThere was something fierce in the way those two loved each other; for\nthey had fought many fights before they were united, and had overcome\nthemselves, each alone, before they had overcome other obstacles\ntogether.\n\nRelays of horses awaited them on their way, and relays of mounted guards.\nLate that night they reached Saracinesca, all ablaze with torches and\nlanterns; and the young men took the horses from the coach and yoked\nthemselves to it with ropes, and dragged the cumbrous carriage up the\nlast hill with furious speed, shouting and singing like madmen in the\ncool mountain air. Up the steep they rushed, and under the grand old\ngateway, made as bright as day with flaming torches; and then there\nwent up a shout that struck the old vaults like a wild chord of fierce\nmusic, and Corona knew that her journey was ended.\n\nSo it was that Giovanni Saracinesca brought home his bride.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\n\nThe old Prince was left alone, as he had often been left before, when\nGiovanni was gone to the ends of the earth in pursuit of his amusements.\nOn such occasions old Saracinesca frequently packed up his traps and\nfollowed his son's example; but he rarely went further than Paris, where\nhe had many friends, and where he generally succeeded in finding\nconsolation for his solitude.\n\nNow, however, he felt more than usually lonely. Giovanni had not gone\nfar, it is true, for with good horses it was scarcely more than eight\nhours to the castle; but, for the first time in his life, old Saracinesca\nfelt that if he had suddenly determined to follow his son, he would not\nbe welcome. The boy was married at last, and must be left in peace for a\nfew days with his bride. With the contrariety natural to him, old\nSaracinesca no sooner felt that his son was gone than he experienced the\nmost ardent desire to be with him. He had often seen Giovanni leave the\nhouse at twenty-four hours' notice on his way to some distant capital,\nand had not cared to accompany him, simply because he knew he might do so\nif he pleased; but now he felt that some one else had taken his place,\nand that, for a time at least, he was forcibly excluded from Giovanni's\nsociety. It is very likely that but for the business which detained him\nin Rome he would have astonished the happy pair by riding into the\ngateway of the old castle on the day after the wedding: that business,\nhowever, was urgent, secret, and, moreover, very congenial to the old\nman's present temper.\n\nHe had discussed the matter fully with Giovanni, and they had agreed upon\nthe course to be pursued. There was, nevertheless, much to be done before\nthe end they both so earnestly desired could be attained. It seemed a\nsimple plan to go to Cardinal Antonelli and to demand the arrest of Del\nFerice for his misdeeds; but as yet those misdeeds were undefined, and it\nwas necessary to define them. The Cardinal rarely resorted to such\nmeasures except when the case was urgent, and Saracinesca knew perfectly\nwell that it would be hard to prove anything more serious against Del\nFerice than the crime of joining in the silly talk of Valdarno and his\nset. Giovanni had told his father plainly that he was sure Del Ferice\nderived his living from some illicit source, but he was wholly unable to\nshow what that source was. Most people believed the story that Del Ferice\nhad inherited money from an obscure relative; most people thought he was\nclever and astute, but were so far deceived by his frank and unaffected\nmanner as to feel sure that he always said everything that came into his\nhead; most people are so much delighted when an unusually clever man\ndeigns to talk to them, that they cannot, for vanity's sake, suspect him\nof deceiving them. Saracinesca did not doubt that the mere statement of\nhis own belief in regard to Del Ferice would have considerable weight\nwith the Cardinal, for he was used to power of a certain kind, and was\naccustomed to see his judgment treated with deference; but he knew the\nCardinal to be a cautious man, hating despotic measures, because by his\nuse of them he had made himself so bitterly hated--loth always to do by\nforce what might be accomplished by skill, and in the end far more likely\nto attempt the conversion of Del Ferice to the reactionary view, than to\norder his expulsion because his views were over liberal. Even if old\nSaracinesca had possessed a vastly greater diplomatic instinct than he\ndid, coupled with an unscrupulous mendacity which he certainly had not,\nhe would have found it hard to persuade the Cardinal against his will;\nbut Saracinesca was, of all men, a man violent in action and averse to\nreflection before or after the fact. That he should ultimately be\nrevenged upon Del Ferice and Donna Tullia for the part they had lately\nplayed, was a matter which it never entered his head to doubt; but when\nhe endeavoured to find means which should persuade the Cardinal to assist\nhim, he seemed fenced in on all sides by impossibilities. One thing only\nhelped him--namely, the conviction that if the statesman could be induced\nto examine Del Ferice's conduct seriously, the latter would prove to be\nnot only an enemy to the State, but a bitter enemy to the Cardinal\nhimself.\n\nThe more Saracinesca thought of the matter, the more convinced he was\nthat he should go boldly to the Cardinal and state his belief that Del\nFerice was a dangerous traitor, who ought to be summarily dealt with. If\nthe Cardinal argued the case, the Prince would asseverate, after his\nmanner, and some sort of result was sure to follow. As he thus determined\nupon his course, his doubts seemed to vanish, as they generally do in the\nmind of a strong man, when action becomes imminent, and the confidence\nthe old man had exhibited to his son very soon became genuine. It was\nalmost intolerable to have to wait so long, however, before doing\nanything. Giovanni and he had decided to allow Del Ferice's marriage\nto take place before producing the explosion, in order the more certainly\nto strike both the offenders; now it seemed best to strike at once.\nSupposing, he argued with himself, that Donna Tullia and her husband\nchose to leave Rome for Paris the day after their wedding, half the\ntriumph would be lost; for half the triumph was to consist in Del\nFerice's being imprisoned for a spy in Rome, whereas if he once crossed\nthe frontier, he could at most be forbidden to return, which would be but\na small satisfaction to Saracinesca, or to Giovanni.\n\nA week passed by, and the gaiety of Carnival was again at its height; and\nagain a week elapsed, and Lent was come. Saracinesca went everywhere and\nsaw everybody as usual, and then after Ash-Wednesday he occasionally\nshowed himself at some of those quiet evening receptions which his son so\nmuch detested. But he was restless and discontented. He longed to begin\nthe fight, and could not sleep for thinking of it. Like Giovanni, he was\nstrong and revengeful; but Giovanni had from his mother a certain\nslowness of temperament, which often deterred him from action just long\nenough to give him time for reflection, whereas the father, when roused,\nand he was roused easily, loved to strike at once. It chanced one\nevening, in a great house, that Saracinesca came upon the Cardinal\nstanding alone in an outer room. He was on his way into the reception;\nbut he had stopped, attracted by a beautiful crystal cup of old\nworkmanship, which stood, among other objects of the kind, upon a marble\ntable in one of the drawing-rooms through which he had to pass. The cup\nitself, of deeply carved rock crystal, was set in chiselled silver, and\nif not the work of Cellini himself, must have been made by one of his\npupils. Saracinesca stopped by the great man's side.\n\n\"Good evening, Eminence,\" he said.\n\n\"Good evening, Prince,\" returned the Cardinal, who recognised\nSaracinesca's voice without looking up. \"Have you ever seen this\nmarvellous piece of work? I have been admiring it for a quarter of an\nhour.\" He loved all objects of the kind, and understood them with rare\nknowledge.\n\n\"It is indeed exceedingly beautiful,\" answered Saracinesca, who longed to\ntake advantage of the opportunity of speaking to Cardinal Antonelli upon\nthe subject nearest to his heart.\n\n\"Yes--yes,\" returned the Cardinal rather vaguely, and made as though he\nwould go on. He saw from Saracinesca's commonplace praise, that he knew\nnothing of the subject. The old Prince saw his opportunity slipping\nfrom him, and lost his head. He did not recollect that he could see the\nCardinal alone whenever he pleased, by merely asking for an interview.\nFate had thrust the Cardinal in his path, and fate was responsible.\n\n\"If your Eminence will allow me, I would like a word with you,\" he said\nsuddenly.\n\n\"As many as you please,\" answered the statesman, blandly. \"Let us sit\ndown in that corner--no one will disturb us for a while.\"\n\nHe seemed unusually affable, as he sat himself down by Saracinesca's\nside, gathering the skirt of his scarlet mantle across his knee, and\nfolding his delicate hands together in an attitude of restful attention.\n\n\"You know, I daresay, a certain Del Ferice, Eminence?\" began the Prince.\n\n\"Very well--the _deus ex machin\u00e2_ who has appeared to carry off Donna\nTullia Mayer. Yes, I know him.\"\n\n\"Precisely, and they will match very well together; the world cannot help\napplauding the union of the flesh and the devil.\"\n\nThe Cardinal smiled.\n\n\"The metaphor is apt,\" he said; \"but what about them?\"\n\n\"I will tell you in two words,\" replied Saracinesca. \"Del Ferice is a\nscoundrel of the first water--\"\n\n\"A jewel among scoundrels,\" interrupted the Cardinal, \"for being a\nscoundrel he is yet harmless--a stage villain.\"\n\n\"I believe your Eminence is deceived in him.\"\n\n\"That may easily be,\" answered the statesman. \"I am much more often\ndeceived than people imagine.\" He spoke very mildly, but his small black\neyes turned keenly upon Saracinesca. \"What has he been doing?\" he asked,\nafter a short pause.\n\n\"He has been trying to do a great deal of harm to my son and to my son's\nwife. I suspect him strongly of doing harm to you.\"\n\nWhether Saracinesca was strictly honest in saying \"you\" to the Cardinal,\nwhen he meant the whole State as represented by the prime minister, is a\nmatter not easily decided. There is a Latin saying, to the effect that a\nman who is feared by many should himself fear many, and the saying is\ntrue. The Cardinal was personally a brave man; but he knew his danger,\nand the memory of the murdered Rossi was fresh in his mind. Nevertheless,\nhe smiled blandly as he answered--\n\n\"That is rather vague, my friend. How is he doing me harm, if I may ask?\"\n\n\"I argue in this way,\" returned Saracinesca, thus pressed. \"The fellow\nfound a most ingenious way of attacking my son--he searched the whole\ncountry till he found that a man called Giovanni Saracinesca had been,\nmarried some time ago in Aquila. He copied the certificates, and produced\nthem as pretended proof that my son was already married. If I had not\nfound the man myself, there would have been trouble. Now besides this,\nDel Ferice is known to hold Liberal views--\"\n\n\"Of the feeblest kind,\" interrupted the statesman, who nevertheless\nbecame very grave.\n\n\"Those he exhibits are of the feeblest kind, and he takes no trouble to\nhide them. But a fellow so ingenious as to imagine the scheme he\npractised against us is not a fool.\"\n\n\"I understand, my good friend,\" said the Cardinal. \"You have been injured\nby this fellow, and you would like me to revenge the injury by locking\nhim up. Is that it?\"\n\n\"Precisely,\" answered Saracinesca, laughing at his own simplicity. \"I\nmight as well have said so from the first.\"\n\n\"Much better. You would make a poor diplomatist, Prince. But what in the\nworld shall I gain by revenging your wrongs upon that creature?\"\n\n\"Nothing--unless when you have taken the trouble to examine his conduct,\nyou find that he is really dangerous. In that case your Eminence will be\nobliged to look to your own safety. If you find him innocent, you will\nlet him go.\"\n\n\"And in that case, what will you do?\" asked the Cardinal with a smile.\n\n\"I will cut his throat,\" answered Saracinesca, unmoved.\n\n\"Murder him?\"\n\n\"No--call him out and kill him like a gentleman, which is a great deal\nbetter than he deserves.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt you would,\" said the Cardinal, gravely. \"I think your\nproposition reasonable, however. If this man is really dangerous, I will\nlook to him myself. But I must really beg you not to do anything rash. I\nhave determined that this duelling shall stop, and I warn you that\nneither you nor any one else will escape imprisonment if you are involved\nin any more of these personal encounters.\"\n\nSaracinesca suppressed a smile at the Cardinal's threat; but he perceived\nthat he had gained his point, and was pleased accordingly. He had, he\nfelt sure, sown in the statesman's mind a germ of suspicion which would\nbefore long bring forth fruit. In those days danger was plentiful, and\npeople could not afford to overlook it, no matter in what form it\npresented itself, least of all such people as the Cardinal himself, who,\nwhile sustaining an unequal combat against superior forces outside the\nState, felt that his every step was encompassed by perils from within.\nThat he had long despised Del Ferice as an idle chatterer did not prevent\nhim from understanding that he might have been deceived, as Saracinesca\nsuggested. He had caused Ugo to be watched, it is true, but only from\ntime to time, and by men whose only duty was to follow him and to see\nwhether he frequented suspicious society. The little nest of talkers at\nGouache's studio in the Via San Basilio was soon discovered, and proved\nto be harmless enough. Del Ferice was then allowed to go on his way\nunobserved. But the half-dozen words in which Saracinesca had described\nUgo's scheme for hindering Giovanni's marriage had set the Cardinal\nthinking, and the Cardinal seldom wasted time in thinking in vain. His\ninterview with Saracinesca ended very soon, and the Prince and the\nstatesman entered the crowded drawing-room and mixed in the throng. It\nwas long before they met again in private.\n\nThe Cardinal on the following day gave orders that Del Ferice's letters\nwere to be stopped--by no means an uncommon proceeding in those times,\nnor so rare in our own day as is supposed. The post-office was then in\nthe hands of a private individual so far as all management was concerned,\nand the Cardinal's word was law. Del Ferice's letters were regularly\nopened and examined.\n\nThe first thing that was discovered was that they frequently contained\nmoney, generally in the shape of small drafts on London signed by a\nFlorentine banker, and that the envelopes which contained money never\ncontained anything else. They were all posted in Florence. With regard\nto his letters, they appeared to be very innocent communications from all\nsorts of people, rarely referring to politics, and then only in the most\ngeneral terms. If Del Ferice had expected to have his correspondence\nexamined, he could not have arranged matters better for his own safety.\nTo trace the drafts to the person who sent them was not an easy business;\nit was impossible to introduce a spy into the banking-house in Florence,\nand among the many drafts daily bought and sold, it was almost impossible\nto identify, without the aid of the banker's books, the person who\nchanced to buy any particular one. The addresses were, it is true,\nuniformly written by the same hand; but the writing was in no way\npeculiar, and was certainly not that of any prominent person whose\nautograph the Cardinal possessed.\n\nThe next step was to get possession of some letter written by Del Ferice\nhimself, and, if possible, to intercept everything he wrote. But although\nthe letters containing the drafts were regularly opened, and, after\nhaving been examined and sealed again, were regularly transmitted\nthrough the post-office to Ugo's address, the expert persons set to catch\nthe letters he himself wrote were obliged to own, after three weeks'\ncareful watching, that he never seemed to write any letters at all, and\nthat he certainly never posted any. They acknowledged their failure to\nthe Cardinal with timid anxiety, expecting to be reprimanded for their\ncarelessness. But the Cardinal merely told them not to relax their\nattention, and dismissed them with a bland smile. He knew, now, that he\nwas on the track of mischief; for a man who never writes any letters at\nall, while he receives many, might reasonably be suspected of having a\nsecret post-office of his own. For some days Del Ferice's movements were\nnarrowly watched, but with no result whatever. Then the Cardinal sent for\nthe police register of the district where Del Ferice lived, and in which\nthe name, nationality, and residence of every individual in the \"Rione\"\nor quarter were carefully inscribed, as they still are.\n\nRunning his eye down the list, the Cardinal came upon the name of\n\"Temistocle Fattorusso, of Naples, servant to Ugo dei Conti del Ferice:\"\nan idea struck him.\n\n\"His servant is a Neapolitan,\" he reflected. \"He probably sends his\nletters by way of Naples.\"\n\nAccordingly Temistocle was watched instead of his master. It was found\nthat he frequented the society of other Neapolitans, and especially that\nhe was in the habit of going from time to time to the Ripa Grande, the\nport of the Tiber, where he seemed to have numerous acquaintances among\nthe Neapolitan boatmen who constantly came up the coast in their\n\"martingane\"--heavy, sea-going, lateen-rigged vessels, bringing cargoes\nof oranges and lemons to the Roman market. The mystery was now solved.\nOne day Temistocle was actually seen giving a letter into the hands of a\nhuge fellow in a red woollen cap. The _sbirro_ who saw him do it marked\nthe sailor and his vessel, and never lost sight of him till he hoisted\nhis jib and floated away down stream. Then the spy took horse and\ngalloped down to Fiumicino, where he waited for the little vessel,\nboarded her from a boat, escorted by a couple of gendarmes, and had no\ndifficulty in taking the letter from the terrified seaman, who was glad\nenough to escape without detention. During the next fortnight several\nletters were stopped in this way, carried by different sailors, and the\nwhole correspondence went straight to the Cardinal. It was not often that\nhe troubled himself to play the detective in person, but when he did so,\nhe was not easily baffled. And now he observed that about a week after\nthe interception of the first letter the small drafts which used to come\nso frequently to Del Ferice's address from Florence suddenly ceased,\nproving beyond a doubt that each letter was paid for according to its\nvalue so soon as it was received.\n\nWith regard to the contents of these epistles little need be said. So\nsure was Del Ferice of his means of transmission that he did not even use\na cipher, though he, of course, never signed any of his writings. The\nmatter was invariably a detailed chronicle of Roman sayings and doings, a\nrecord as minute as Del Ferice could make it, of everything that took\nplace, and even the Cardinal himself was astonished at the accuracy of\nthe information thus conveyed. His own appearances in public--the names\nof those with whom he talked--even fragments of his conversation--were\ngiven with annoying exactness. The statesman learned with infinite\ndisgust that he had for some time past been subjected to a system of\nespionage at least as complete as any of his own invention; and, what was\nstill more annoying to his vanity, the spy was the man of all others whom\nhe had most despised, calling him harmless and weak, because he cunningly\naffected weakness. Where or how Del Ferice procured so much information\nthe Cardinal cared little enough, for he determined there and then that\nhe should procure no more. That there were other traitors in the camp was\nmore than likely, and that they had aided Del Ferice with their counsels;\nbut though by prolonging the situation it might be possible to track them\ndown, such delay would be valuable to enemies abroad. Moreover, if Del\nFerice began to find out, as he soon must, that his private\ncorrespondence was being overhauled at the Vatican, he was not a man to\nhesitate about attempting his escape; and he would certainly not be an\neasy man to catch, if he could once succeed in putting a few miles of\nCampagna between himself and Rome. There was no knowing what disguise he\nmight not find in which to slip over the frontier; and indeed, as he\nafterwards proved, he was well prepared for such an emergency.\n\nThe Cardinal did not hesitate. He had just received the fourth letter,\nand if he waited any longer Del Ferice would take alarm, and slip through\nhis fingers. He wrote with his own hand a note to the chief of police,\nordering the immediate arrest of Ugo dei Conti del Ferice, with\ninstructions that he should be taken in his own house, without any\npublicity, and conveyed in a private carriage to the Sant' Uffizio by men\nin plain clothes. It was six o'clock in the evening when he wrote the\norder, and delivered it to his private servant to be taken to its\ndestination. The man lost no time, and within twenty minutes the chief of\npolice was in possession of his orders, which he hastened to execute with\nall possible speed. Before seven o'clock two respectable-looking citizens\nwere seated in the chief's own carriage, driving rapidly in the direction\nof Del Fence's house. In less than half an hour the man who had caused so\nmuch trouble would be safely lodged in the prisons of the Holy Office, to\nbe judged for his sins as a political spy. In a fortnight he was to have\nbeen married to Donna Tullia Mayer,--and her trousseau had just arrived\nfrom Paris.\n\nIt can hardly be said that the Cardinal's conduct was unjustifiable,\nthough many will say that Del Fence's secret doings were easily\ndefensible on the ground of his patriotism. Cardinal Antonelli had\nprecisely defined the situation in his talk with Anastase Gouache by\nsaying that the temporal power was driven to bay. To all appearances\nEurope was at peace, but as a matter of fact the peace was but an armed\nneutrality. An amount of interest was concentrated upon the situation of\nthe Papal States which has rarely been excited by events of much greater\napparent importance than the occupation of a small principality by\nforeign troops. All Europe was arming. In a few months Austria was to\nsustain one of the most sudden and overwhelming defeats recorded in\nmilitary history. In a few years the greatest military power in the world\nwas to be overtaken by an even more appalling disaster. And these\nevents, then close at hand, were to deal the death-blow to papal\nindependence. The papacy was driven to bay, and those to whom the last\ndefence was confided were certainly justified in employing every means in\ntheir power for strengthening their position. That Rome herself was\nriddled with rotten conspiracies, and turned into a hunting-ground for\npolitical spies, while the support she received from Louis Napoleon had\nbeen already partially withdrawn, proves only how hard was the task of\nthat man who, against such odds, maintained so gallant a fight. It is no\nwonder that he hunted down spies, and signed orders forcing suspicious\ncharacters to leave the city at a day's notice; for the city was\npractically in a state of siege, and any relaxation of the iron\ndiscipline by which the great Cardinal governed would at any moment in\nthose twenty years have proved disastrous. He was hated and feared; more\nthan once he was in imminent danger of his life, but he did his duty in\nhis post. Had his authority fallen, it is impossible to say what evil\nmight have ensued to the city and its inhabitants--evils vastly more to\nbe feared than the entrance of an orderly Italian army through the Porta\nPia. For the recollections of Count Rossi's murder, and of the short and\nlawless Republic of 1848, were fresh in the minds of the people, and\nbefore they had faded there were dangerous rumours of a rising even less\ntruly Republican in theory, and far more fatal in the practical social\nanarchy which must have resulted from its success. Giuseppe Mazzini had\nsurvived his arch-enemy, the great Cavour, and his influence was\nincalculable.\n\nBut my business is not to write the history of those uncertain days,\nthough no one who considers the social life of Rome, either then or now,\ncan afford to overlook the influence of political events upon the\neveryday doings of men and women. We must follow the private carriage\ncontaining the two respectable citizens who were on their way to Del\nFerice's house.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\n\nNow it chanced that Del Ferice was not at home at the hour when the\ncarriage containing the detectives drew up at his door. Indeed he was\nrarely to be found at that time, for when he was not engaged elsewhere,\nhe dined with Donna Tullia and her old countess, accompanying them\nafterwards to any of the quiet Lenten receptions to which they desired to\ngo. Temistocle was also out, for it was his hour for supper, a meal which\nhe generally ate in a small _osteria_ opposite his master's lodging.\nThere he sat now, finishing his dish of beans and oil, and debating\nwhether he should indulge himself in another _mezza foglietta_ of his\nfavourite white wine. He was installed upon the wooden bench against the\nwall, behind the narrow table on which was spread a dirty napkin with the\nremains of his unctuous meal. The light from the solitary oil-lamp that\nhung from the black ceiling was not brilliant, and he could see well\nenough through the panes of the glass door that the carriage which had\njust stopped on the opposite side of the street was not a cab. Suspecting\nthat some one had called at that unusual hour in search of his master, he\nrose from his seat and went out.\n\nHe stood looking at the carriage. It did not please him. It had that\npeculiar look which used to mark the equipages of the Vatican, and which\nto this day distinguishes them from all others in the eyes of a born\nRoman. The vehicle was of rather antiquated shape, the horses were black,\nthe coachman wore a plain black coat, with a somewhat old-fashioned hat;\nwithal, the turnout was respectable enough, and well kept. But it did not\nplease Temistocle. Drawing his hat over his eyes, he passed behind it,\nand having ascertained that the occupants, if there had been any, had\nalready entered the house, he himself went in. The narrow staircase was\ndimly lighted by small oil-lamps. Temistocle ascended the steps on\ntiptoe, for he could already hear the men ringing the bell, and talking\ntogether in a low voice. The Neapolitan crept nearer. Again and again\nthe bell was rung, and the men began to grow impatient.\n\n\"He has escaped,\" said one angrily.\n\n\"Perhaps--or he has gone out to dinner--much more likely.\"\n\n\"We had better go away and come later,\" suggested the first.\n\n\"He is sure to come home. We had better wait. The orders are to take him\nin his lodgings.\"\n\n\"We might go into the _osteria_ opposite and drink a _foglietta_.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the other, who seemed to be the one in authority. \"We must\nwait here, if we wait till midnight. Those are the orders.\"\n\nThe second detective grumbled something not clearly audible, and silence\nensued. But Temistocle had heard quite enough. He was a quick-witted\nfellow, as has been seen, much more anxious for his own interests than\nfor his master's, though he had hitherto found it easy to consult both.\nIndeed, in a certain way he was faithful to Del Ferice, and admired him\nas a soldier admires his general. The resolution he now formed did honour\nto his loyalty to Ugo and to his thievish instincts. He determined to\nsave his master if he could, and to rob him at his leisure afterwards.\nIf Del Ferice failed to escape, he would probably reward Temistocle for\nhaving done his best to help him; if, on the other hand, he got away,\nTemistocle had the key of his lodgings, and would help himself. But there\nwas one difficulty in the way. Del Ferice was in evening dress at the\nhouse of Donna Tullia. In such a costume he would have no chance of\npassing the gates, which in those days were closed and guarded all night.\nDel Ferice was a cautious man, and, like many another in those days, kept\nin his rooms a couple of disguises which might serve if he was hard\npressed. His ready money he always carried with him, because he\nfrequently went into the club before coming home, and played a game of\n\u00e9cart\u00e9, in which he was usually lucky. The question was how to enter the\nlodgings, to get possession of the necessary clothes, and to go out\nagain, without exciting the suspicions of the detectives.\n\nTemistocle's mind was soon made up. He crept softly down the stairs, so\nas not to appear to have been too near, and then, making as much noise as\nhe could, ascended boldly, drawing the key of the lodgings from his\npocket as he reached the landing where the two men stood under the\nlittle oil-lamp.\n\n\"_Buona sera, signori_,\" he said, politely, thrusting the key into the\nlock without hesitation. \"Did you wish to see the Conte del Ferice?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered the elder man, affecting an urbane manner. \"Is the Count\nat home?\"\n\n\"I do not think so,\" returned the Neapolitan. \"But I will see. Come in,\ngentlemen. He will not be long--_sempre verso quest'ora_--he always comes\nhome about this time.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said the detective. \"If you will allow us to wait--\"\n\n\"_Altro_--what? Should I leave the _padrone's_ friends on the stairs?\nCome in, gentlemen--sit down. It is dark. I will light the lamp.\" And\nstriking a match, Temistocle lit a couple of candles and placed them upon\nthe table of the small sitting-room. The two men sat down, holding their\nhats upon their knees.\n\n\"If you will excuse me,\" said Temistocle, \"I will go and make the\nsignore's coffee. He dines at the restaurant, and always comes home for\nhis coffee. Perhaps the signori will also take a cup? It is the same to\nmake three as one.\"\n\nBut the men thanked Temistocle, and said they wanted none, which was just\nas well, since Temistocle had no idea of giving them any. He retired,\nhowever, to the small kitchen which belongs to every Roman lodging, and\nmade a great clattering with the coffee-pot. Presently he slipped into\nDel Ferice's bedroom, and extracted from a dark corner a shabby black\nbag, which he took back with him into the kitchen. From the kitchen\nwindow ran the usual iron wire to the well in the small court, bearing an\niron traveller with a rope for drawing water. Temistocle, clattering\nloudly, hooked the bag to the traveller and let it run down noisily; then\nhe tied the rope and went out. He had carefully closed the door of the\nsitting-room, but he had been careful to leave the door which opened upon\nthe stairs unlatched. He crept noiselessly out, and leaving the door\nstill open, rushed down-stairs, turned into the little court, unhooked\nhis bag from the rope, and taking it in his hand, passed quietly out into\nthe street. The coachman was dozing upon the box of the carriage which\nstill waited before the door, and would not have noticed Temistocle had\nhe been awake. In a moment more the Neapolitan was beyond pursuit. In\nthe Piazza di Spagna he hailed a cab and drove rapidly to Donna Tullia's\nhouse, where he paid the man and sent him away. The servants knew him\nwell enough, for scarcely a day passed without his bringing some note or\nmessage from his master to Madame Mayer. He sent in to say that he must\nspeak to his master on business. Del Ferice came out hastily in\nconsiderable agitation, which was by no means diminished by the sight of\nthe well-known shabby black bag.\n\nTemistocle glanced round the hall to see that they were alone.\n\n\"The _forza_--the police,\" he whispered, \"are in the house, Eccellenza.\nHere is the bag. Save yourself, for the love of heaven!\"\n\nDel Ferice turned ghastly pale, and his face twitched nervously.\n\n\"But--\" he began, and then staggering back leaned against the wall.\n\n\"Quick--fly!\" urged Temistocle, shaking him roughly by the arm. \"It is\nthe Holy Office--you have time. I told them you would be back, and they\nare waiting quietly--they will wait all night. Here is your overcoat,\" he\nadded, almost forcing his master into the garment--\"and your hat--here!\nCome along, there is no time to lose. I will take you to a place where\nyou can dress.\"\n\nDel Ferice submitted almost blindly. By especial good fortune the footman\ndid not come out into the hall. Donna Tullia and her guests had finished\ndinner, and the servants had retired to theirs; indeed the footman had\ncomplained to Temistocle of being called away from his meal to open the\ndoor. The Neapolitan pushed his master out upon the stairs, urging him to\nuse all speed. As the two men hurried along the dark street they\nconversed in low tones. Del Ferice was trembling in every joint.\n\n\"But Donna Tullia,\" he almost whined. \"I cannot leave her so--she must\nknow--\"\n\n\"Save your own skin from the Holy Office, master,\" answered Temistocle,\ndragging him along as fast as he could. \"I will go back and tell your\nlady, never fear. She will leave Rome to-morrow. Of course you will go\nto Naples. She will follow you. She will be there before you.\"\n\nDel Ferice mumbled an unintelligible answer. His teeth were chattering\nwith cold and fear; but as he began to realise his extreme peril, terror\nlent wings to his heels, and he almost outstripped the nimble Temistocle\nin the race for safety. They reached at last the ruined part of the city\nnear the Porta Maggiore, and in the shadow of the deep archway where the\nroad branches to the right towards Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, Temistocle\nhalted.\n\n\"Here,\" he said, shortly. Del Ferice said never a word, but began to\nundress himself in the dark. It was a gloomy and lowering night, the\nroads were muddy, and from time to time a few drops of cold rain fell\nsilently, portending a coming storm. In a few moments the transformation\nwas complete, and Del Ferice stood by his servant's side in the shabby\nbrown cowl and rope-girdle of a Capuchin monk.\n\n\"Now comes the hard part,\" said Temistocle, producing a razor and a pair\nof scissors from the bottom of the bag. Del Ferice had too often\ncontemplated the possibility of flight to have omitted so important a\ndetail.\n\n\"You cannot see--you will cut my throat,\" he murmured plaintively.\n\nBut the fellow was equal to the emergency. Retiring deeper into the\nrecess of the arch, he lit a cigar, and holding it between his teeth,\npuffed violently at it, producing a feeble light by which he could just\nsee his master's face. He was in the habit of shaving him, and had no\ndifficulty in removing the fair moustache from his upper lip. Then,\nmaking him hold his head down, and puffing harder than ever, he cropped\nhis thin hair, and managed to make a tolerably respectable tonsure. But\nthe whole operation had consumed half an hour at the least, and Del\nFerice was trembling still. Temistocle thrust the clothes into his bag.\n\n\"My watch!\" objected the unfortunate man, \"and my pearl studs--give them\nto me--what? You villain! you thief! you--\"\n\n\"No _chiacchiere_, no talk, _padrone_,\" interrupted Temistocle, snapping\nthe lock of the bag. \"If you chance to be searched, it would ill become a\nmendicant friar to be carrying gold watches and pearl studs. I will give\nthem to Donna Tullia this very evening. You have money--you can say that\nyou are taking that to your convent.\"\n\n\"Swear to give the watch to Donna Tullia,\" said Del Ferice. Whereupon\nTemistocle swore a terrible oath, which he did not fail to break, of\ncourse. But his master had to be satisfied, and when all was completed\nthe two parted company.\n\n\"I will ask Donna Tullia to take me to Naples on her passport,\" said the\nNeapolitan.\n\n\"Take care of my things, Temistocle. Burn all the papers if you\ncan--though I suppose the _sbirri_ have got them by this time. Bring my\nclothes--if you steal anything, remember there are knives in Rome, and I\nknow where to write to have them used.\" Whereat Temistocle broke into a\ntorrent of protestations. How could his master think that, after saving\nhim at such risk, his faithful servant would plunder him?\n\n\"Well,\" said Del Ferice, thoughtfully, \"you are a great scoundrel, you\nknow. But you have saved me, as you say. There is a scudo for you.\"\n\nTemistocle never refused anything. He took the coin, kissed his master's\nhand as a final exhibition of servility, and turned back towards the city\nwithout another word. Del Ferice shuddered, and drew his heavy cowl over\nhis head as he began to walk quickly towards the Porta Maggiore. Then he\ntook the inside road, skirting the walls through the mud to the Porta San\nLorenzo. He was perfectly safe in his disguise. He had dined abundantly,\nhe had money in his pocket, and he had escaped the clutches of the Holy\nOffice. A barefooted friar might walk for days unchallenged through the\nRoman Campagna and the neighbouring hills, and it was not far to the\nsouth-eastern frontier. He did not know the way beyond Tivoli, but he\ncould inquire without exciting the least suspicion. There are few\ndisguises more complete than the garb of a Capuchin monk, and Del Ferice\nhad long contemplated playing the part, for it was one which eminently\nsuited him. His face, much thinner now than formerly, was yet naturally\nround, and without his moustache would certainly pass for a harmless\nclerical visage. He had received an excellent education, and knew vastly\nmore Latin than the majority of mendicant monks. As a good Roman he was\nwell acquainted with every convent in the city, and knew the names of all\nthe chief dignitaries of the Capuchin order. When a lad he had frequently\nserved at Mass, and was acquainted with most of the ordinary details of\nmonastic life. The worst that could happen to him might be to be called\nupon in the course of his travels to hear the dying confession of some\npoor wretch who had been stabbed after a game of _mora_. His case was\naltogether not so bad as might seem, considering the far greater evils he\nhad escaped.\n\nAt the Porta San Lorenzo the gates were closed as usual, but the dozing\nwatchman let Del Ferice out of the small door without remark. Any one\nmight leave the city, though it required a pass to gain admittance during\nthe night. The heavily-ironed oak clanged behind the fugitive, and he\nbreathed more freely as he stepped upon the road to Tivoli. In an hour he\nhad crossed the Ponte Mammolo, shuddering as he looked down through the\ndeep gloom at the white foam of the Teverone, swollen with the winter\nrains. But the fear of the Holy Office was behind him, and he hurried on\nhis lonely way, walking painfully in the sandals he had been obliged to\nput on to complete his disguise, sinking occasionally ankle-deep in mud,\nand then trudging over a long stretch of broken stones where the road had\nbeen mended; but not noticing nor caring for pain and fatigue, while he\nfelt that every minute took him nearer to the frontier hills where he\nwould be safe from pursuit. And so he toiled on, till he smelled the\nfetid air of the sulphur springs full fourteen miles from Rome; and at\nlast, as the road began to rise towards Hadrian's Villa, he sat down upon\na stone by the wayside to rest a little. He had walked five hours through\nthe darkness, seeing but a few yards of the broad road before him as he\nwent. He was weary and footsore, and the night was growing wilder with\ngathering wind and rain as the storm swept down the mountains and through\nthe deep gorge of Tivoli on its way to the desolate black Campagna. He\nfelt that if he did not die of exposure he was safe, and to a man in his\ncondition bad weather is the least of evils.\n\nHis reflections were not sweet. Five hours earlier he had been dressed as\na fine gentleman should be, seated at a luxurious table in the company of\na handsome and amusing woman who was to be his wife. He could still\nalmost taste the delicate _chaud froid_, the tender woodcock, the dry\nchampagne; he could still almost hear Donna Tullia's last noisy sally\nringing in his ears--and behold, he was now sitting by the roadside in\nthe rain, in the wretched garb of a begging monk, five hours' journey\nfrom Rome. He had left his affianced bride without a word of warning, had\nabandoned all his possessions to Temistocle--that scoundrelly thief\nTemistocle!--and he was utterly alone.\n\nBut as he rested himself, drawing his monk's hood closely over his head\nand trying to warm his freezing feet with the skirts of his rough brown\nfrock, he reflected that if he ever got safely across the frontier he\nwould be treated as a patriot, as a man who had suffered for the cause,\nand certainly as a man who deserved to be rewarded. He reflected that\nDonna Tullia was a woman who had a theatrical taste for romance, and that\nhis present position was in theory highly romantic, however uncomfortable\nit might be in the practice. When he was safe his story would be told in\nthe newspapers, and he would himself take care that it was made\ninteresting. Donna Tullia would read it, would be fascinated by the tale\nof his sufferings, and would follow him. His marriage with her would then\nadd immense importance to his own position. He would play his cards well,\nand with her wealth at his disposal he might aspire to any distinction he\ncoveted. He only wished the situation could have been prolonged for three\nweeks, till he was actually married. Meanwhile he must take courage and\npush on, beyond the reach of pursuit. If once he could gain Subiaco, he\ncould be over the frontier in twelve hours. From Tivoli there were\n_vetture_ up the valley, cheap conveyances for the country people, in\nwhich a barefooted friar could travel unnoticed. He knew that he must\ncross the boundary by Trevi and the Serra di Sant' Antonio. He would\ninquire the way from Subiaco.\n\nWhile Del Ferice was thus making his way across the Campagna, Temistocle\nwas taking measures for his own advantage and safety. He had the bag with\nhis master's clothes, the valuable watch and chain, and the pearl studs.\nHe had also the key to Del Ferice's lodgings, of which he promised\nhimself to make some use, as soon as he should be sure that the\ndetectives had left the house. In the first place he made up his mind to\nleave Donna Tullia in ignorance of his master's sudden departure.\nThere was nothing to be gained by telling her the news, for she would\nprobably in her rash way go to Del Ferice's house herself, as she had\ndone once before, and on finding he was actually gone she would take\ncharge of his effects, whereby Temistocle would be the loser. As he\nwalked briskly away from the ruinous district near the Porta Maggiore,\nand began to see the lights of the city gleaming before him, his courage\nrose in his breast. He remembered how easily he had eluded the detectives\nan hour and a half before, and he determined to cheat them again.\n\nBut he had reckoned unwisely. Before he had been gone ten minutes the two\nmen suspected, from the prolonged silence, that something was wrong, and\nafter searching the lodging perceived that the polite servant who had\noffered them coffee had left the house without taking leave. One of the\ntwo immediately drove to the house of his chief and asked for\ninstructions. The order to arrest the servant if he appeared again came\nback at once. The consequence was that when Temistocle boldly opened\nthe door with a ready framed excuse for his absence, he was suddenly\npinioned by four strong arms, dragged into the sitting-room, and told to\nhold his tongue in the name of the law. And that is the last that was\nheard of Temistocle for some time. But when the day dawned the men\nknew that Del Ferice had escaped them.\n\nThe affair had not been well managed. The Cardinal was a good detective,\nbut a bad policeman. In his haste he had made the mistake of ordering Del\nFerice to be arrested instantly and in his lodgings. Had the statesman\nsimply told the chief of police to secure Ugo as soon as possible without\nany scandal, he could not have escaped. But the officer interpreted the\nCardinal's note to mean that Del Ferice was actually at his lodgings when\nthe order was given. The Cardinal was supposed to be omniscient by\nhis subordinates, and no one ever thought of giving any interpretation\nnot perfectly literal to his commands. Of course the Cardinal was at once\ninformed, and telegrams and mounted detectives were dispatched in all\ndirections. But Del Ferice's disguise was good, and when just after\nsunrise a gendarme galloped into Tivoli, he did not suspect that the\ntravel-stained and pale-faced friar, who stood telling his beads before\nthe shrine just outside the Roman gate, was the political delinquent whom\nhe was sent to overtake.\n\nDonna Tullia spent an anxious night. She sent down to Del Ferice's\nlodgings, as Temistocle had anticipated, and the servant brought back\nword that he had not seen the Neapolitan, and that the house was held in\npossession by strangers, who refused him admittance. Madame Mayer\nunderstood well enough what had happened, and began to tremble for\nherself. Indeed she began to think of packing together her own valuables,\nin case she should be ordered to leave Rome, for she did not doubt that\nthe Holy Office was in pursuit of Del Ferice, in consequence of some\ndiscovery relating to her little club of malcontents. She trembled for\nUgo with an anxiety more genuine than any feeling of hers had been for\nmany a day, not knowing whether he had escaped or not. But on the\nfollowing evening she was partially reassured by hearing from Valdarno\nthat the police had offered a large reward for Del Ferice's apprehension.\nValdarno declared his intention of leaving Rome at once. His life,\nhe said, was not safe for a moment. That villain Gouache, who had turned\nZouave, had betrayed them all, and they might be lodged in the Sant'\nUffizio any day. As a matter of fact, after he discovered how egregiously\nhe had been deceived by Del Ferice, the Cardinal grew more suspicious,\nand his emissaries were more busy than they had been before. But Valdarno\nhad never manifested enough wisdom, nor enough folly, to make him a cause\nof anxiety to the Prime Minister. Nevertheless he actually left Rome and\nspent a long time in Paris before he was induced to believe that he might\nsafely return to his home.\n\nRoman society was shaken to its foundations by the news of the attempted\narrest, and Donna Tullia found some slight compensation in becoming for a\ntime the centre of interest. She felt, indeed, great anxiety for the man\nshe was engaged to marry; but for the first time in her life she felt\nalso that she was living in an element of real romance, of which she had\nlong dreamed, but of which she had never found the smallest realisation.\nSociety saw, and speculated, and gossiped, after its fashion; but its\ngossip was more subdued than of yore, for men began to ask who was safe,\nsince the harmless Del Ferice had been proscribed. Old Saracinesca said\nlittle. He would have gone to see the Cardinal and to offer him his\ncongratulations, since it would not be decent to offer his thanks; but\nthe Cardinal was not in a position to be congratulated. If he had caught\nDel Ferice he would have thanked the Prince instead of waiting for any\nexpressions of gratitude; but he did not catch Del Ferice, for certain\nvery good reasons which will appear in the last scene of this comedy.\n\nThree days after Ugo's disappearance, the old Prince got into his\ncarriage and drove out to Saracinesca. More than a month had elapsed\nsince the marriage, and he felt that he must see his son, even at the\nrisk of interrupting the honeymoon. On the whole, he felt that his\nrevenge had been inadequate. Del Fence had escaped the Holy Office, no\none knew how; and Donna Tullia, instead of being profoundly humiliated,\nas she would have been had Del Ferice been tried as a common spy, was\nbecome a centre of attraction and interest, because her affianced husband\nhad for some unknown cause incurred the displeasure of the great\nCardinal, almost on the eve of her marriage--a state of things\nsignificant as regards the tone of Roman society. Indeed the whole\ncircumstance, which, was soon bruited about among all classes with the\nmost lively adornment and exaggeration, tended greatly to increase the\nfear and hatred which high and low alike felt for Cardinal Antonelli--the\nman who was always accused and never heard in his own defence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\n\nPeople wondered that Giovanni and Corona should have chosen to retire\ninto the country for their honeymoon, instead of travelling to France and\nEngland, and ending their wedding-trip in Switzerland. The hills were so\nvery cold at that early season, and besides, they would be utterly alone.\nPeople could not understand why Corona did not take advantage of the\ntermination of her widowhood to mix at once with the world, and indemnify\nherself for the year of mourning by a year of unusual gaiety. But there\nwere many, on the other hand, who loudly applauded the action, which, it\nwas maintained, showed a wise spirit of economy, and contrasted very\nfavourably with the extravagance recently exhibited by young couples who\nin reality had far more cause to be careful of their money. Those who\nheld this view belonged to the old, patriarchal class, the still\nflourishing remnant of the last generation, who prided themselves upon\ngood management, good morals, and ascetic living; the class of people in\nwhose marriage-contracts it was stipulated that the wife was to have meat\ntwice a-day, excepting on fast days, a drive--the _trottata_, as it used\nto be called--daily, and two new gowns every year. Even in our times,\nwhen most of that generation are dead, these clauses are often\nintroduced; in the first half of the century they were universal. A\nlittle earlier it used to be stipulated that the \"meat\" was not to be\ncopra, goat's-flesh, which was considered to be food fit only for\nservants. But the patriarchal generation were a fine old class in spite\nof their economy, and they loudly aplauded Giovanni's conduct.\n\nNo one, however, understood that the solitude of Saracinesca was really\nthe greatest luxury the newly-married couple could desire. They wanted to\nbe left alone, and they got their wish. No one had known of the\npreparations Giovanni had made for his wife's reception, and had any\nidea of the changes in the castle reached the ears of the aforesaid\npatriarchs, they would probably have changed their minds in regard to\nGiovanni's economy. The Saracinesca were not ostentatious, but they spent\ntheir money royally in their own quiet way, and the interior of the old\nstronghold had undergone a complete transformation, while the ancient\ngrey stones of the outer walls and towers frowned as gloomily as ever\nupon the valley. Vast halls had been decorated and furnished in a style\nsuited to the antiquity of the fortress, small sunny rooms had been\nfitted up with the more refined luxury which was beginning to be\nappreciated in Italy twenty years ago. A great conservatory had been\nbuilt out upon the southern battlement. The aqueduct had been completed\nsuccessfully, and fountains now played in the courts. The old-fashioned\nfireplaces had been again put into use, and huge logs burned upon huge\nfire-dogs in the halls, shedding a ruddy glow upon the trophies of old\narmour, the polished floors, and the heavy curtains. Quantities of\nmagnificent tapestry, some of which had been produced when Corona first\nvisited the castle, were now hung upon the stairs and in the corridors.\nThe great _baldacchino_, the canopy which Roman princes are privileged to\ndisplay in their antechambers, was draped above the quartered arms of\nSaracinesca and Astrardente, and the same armorial bearings appeared in\nrich stained glass in the window of the grand staircase. The solidity and\nrare strength of the ancient stronghold seemed to grow even more imposing\nunder the decorations and improvements of a later age, and for the first\ntime Giovanni felt that justice had been done to the splendour of his\nancestral home.\n\nHere he and his dark bride dwelt in perfect unity and happiness, in the\nmidst of their own lands, surrounded by their own people, and wholly\ndevoted to each other. But though much of the day was passed in that\nunceasing conversation and exchange of ideas which seem to belong\nexclusively to happily-wedded man and wife, the hours were not wholly\nidle. Daily the two mounted their horses and rode along the level stretch\ntowards Aquaviva till they came to the turning from which Corona had\nfirst caught sight of Saracinesca. Here a broad road was already broken\nout; the construction was so far advanced that two miles at least were\nalready serviceable, the gentle grade winding backwards and forwards,\ncrossing and recrossing the old bridle-path as it descended to the valley\nbelow; and now from the furthest point completed Corona could distinguish\nin the dim distance the great square palace of Astrardente crowning the\nhills above the town. Thither the two rode daily, pushing on the work,\nconsulting with the engineer they employed, and often looking forward\nto the day when for the first time their carriage should roll smoothly\ndown from Saracinesca to Astrardente without making the vast detour which\nthe old road followed as it skirted the mountain. There was an\ninexpressible pleasure in watching the growth of the work they had so\nlong contemplated, in speculating on the advantages they would obtain by\nso uniting their respective villages, and in feeling that, being at last\none, they were working together for the good of their people. For the men\nwho did the work were without exception their own peasants, who were\nunemployed during the winter time, and who, but for the timely occupation\nprovided for them, would have spent the cold months in that state of\nhalf-starved torpor peculiar to the indigent agricultural labourer when\nhe has nothing to do--at that bitter season when father and mother and\nshivering little ones watch wistfully the ever-dwindling sack of maize,\nas day by day two or three handfuls are ground between the stones of the\nhand-mill and kneaded into a thick unwholesome dough, the only food of\nthe poorer peasants in the winter. But now every man who could handle\npickaxe and bore, and sledge-hammer and spade, was out upon the road from\ndawn to dark, and every Saturday night each man took home a silver scudo\nin his pocket; and where people are sober and do not drink their wages, a\nsilver scudo goes a long way further than nothing. Yet many a lean and\nswarthy fellow there would have felt that he was cheated if besides his\nmoney he had not carried home daily the remembrance of that tall dark\nlady's face and kindly eyes and encouraging voice, and they used to watch\nfor the coming of the \"_gran principessa_\" as anxiously as they expected\nthe coming of the steward with the money-bags on a Saturday evening.\nOften, too, the wives and daughters of the rough workers would bring the\nmen their dinners at noonday, rather than let them carry away their food\nwith them in the morning, just for the sake of catching a sight of\nCorona, and of her broad-shouldered manly husband. And the men worked\nwith a right good will, for the story had gone abroad that for years to\ncome there would be no lack of work for willing hands.\n\nSo the days sped, and were not interrupted by any incident for several\nweeks. One day Gouache, the artist Zouave, called at the castle. He had\nbeen quartered at Subiaco with a part of his company, but had not been\nsent on at once to Saracinesca as he had expected. Now, however, he had\narrived with a small detachment of half-a-dozen men, with instructions to\nwatch the pass. There was nothing extraordinary in his being sent in that\ndirection, for Saracinesca was very near the frontier, and lay on one of\nthe direct routes to the Serra di Sant' Antonio, which was the shortest\nhill-route into the kingdom of Naples; the country around was thought to\nbe particularly liable to disturbance, and though no one had seen a\nbrigand there for some years, the mountain-paths were supposed to be\ninfested with robbers. As a matter of fact there was a great deal of\nsmuggling carried on through the pass, and from time to time some\npolitical refugee found his way across the frontier at that point.\n\nGouache was received very well by Giovanni, and rather coldly by Corona,\nwho knew him but slightly.\n\n\"I congratulate you,\" said Giovanni, noticing the stripes on the young\nman's sleeves; \"I see that you have risen in grade.\"\n\n\"Yes. I hold an important command of six men. I spend much time in\nstudying the strategy of Cond\u00e9 and Napoleon. By the bye, I am here on a\nvery important mission.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\"\n\n\"I suppose you give yourselves the luxury of never reading the papers in\nthis delightful retreat. The day before yesterday the Cardinal attempted\nto arrest our friend Del Ferice--have you heard that?\"\n\n\"No--what--has he escaped?\" asked Giovanni and Corona in a breath. But\ntheir tones were different. Giovanni had anticipated the news, and was\ndisgusted at the idea that the fellow had got off. Corona was merely\nsurprised.\n\n\"Yes. Heaven knows how--he has escaped. I am here to cut him off if he\ntries to get to the Serra di Sant' Antonio.\"\n\nGiovanni laughed.\n\n\"He will scarcely try to come this way--under the very walls of my\nhouse,\" he said.\n\n\"He may do anything. He is a slippery fellow.\" Gouache proceeded to tell\nall he knew of the circumstances.\n\n\"That is very strange,\" said Corona, thoughtfully. Then after a pause,\nshe added, \"We are going to visit our road, Monsieur Gouache. Will you\nnot come with us? My husband will give you a horse.\"\n\nGouache was charmed. He preferred talking to Giovanni and looking at\nCorona's face to returning to his six Zouaves, or patrolling the hills in\nsearch of Del Ferice. In a few minutes the three were mounted, and riding\nslowly along the level stretch towards the works. As they entered the new\nroad Giovanni and Corona unconsciously fell into conversation, as usual,\nabout what they were doing, and forgot their visitor. Gouache dropped\nbehind, watching the pair and admiring them with true artistic\nappreciation. He had a Parisian's love of luxury and perfect appointments\nas well as an artist's love of beauty, and his eyes rested with\nunmitigated pleasure on the riders and their horses, losing no detail of\ntheir dress, their simple English accoutrements, their firm seats and\ngraceful carriage. But at a turn of the grade the two riders suddenly\nslipped from his field of vision, and his attention was attracted to the\nmarvellous beauty of the landscape, as looking down the valley towards\nAstrardente he saw range on range of purple hills rising in a deep\nperspective, crowned with jagged rocks or sharply defined brown villages,\nruddy in the lowering sun. He stopped his horse and sat motionless,\ndrinking in the loveliness before him. So it is that accidents in nature\nmake accidents in the lives of men.\n\nBut Giovanni and Corona rode slowly down the gentle incline, hardly\nnoticing that Gouache had stopped behind, and talking of the work. As\nthey again turned a curve of the grade Corona, who was on the inside,\nlooked up and caught sight of Gouache's motionless figure at the opposite\nextremity of the gradient they had just descended. Giovanni looked\nstraight before him, and was aware of a pale-faced Capuchin friar who\nwith downcast eyes was toiling up the road, seemingly exhausted; a\nparticularly weather-stained and dilapidated friar even for those wild\nmountains.\n\n\"Gouache is studying geography,\" remarked Corona.\n\n\"Another of those Capuccini!\" exclaimed Giovanni, instinctively feeling\nin his pocket for coppers. Then with a sudden movement he seized his\nwife's arm. She was close to him as they rode slowly along side by side.\n\n\"Good God! Corona,\" he cried, \"it is Del Ferice!\" Corona looked quickly\nat the monk. His cowl was raised enough to show his features; but she\nwould, perhaps, not have recognised his smooth shaven face had Giovanni\nnot called her attention to it.\n\nDel Ferice had recognised them too, and, horror-struck, he paused,\ntrembling and uncertain what to do. He had taken the wrong turn from the\nmain road below; unaccustomed to the dialect of the hills, he had\nmisunderstood the peasant who had told him especially not to take the\nbridle-path if he wished to avoid Saracinesca. He stopped, hesitated, and\nthen, pulling his cowl over his face, walked steadily on. Giovanni\nglanced up and saw that Gouache was slowly descending the road, still\nabsorbed in contemplating the landscape.\n\n\"Let him take his chance,\" muttered Saracinesca. \"What should I care?\"\n\n\"No--no! Save him, Giovanni,--he looks so miserable,\" cried Corona, with\nready sympathy. She was pale with excitement.\n\nGiovanni looked at her one moment and hesitated, but her pleading eyes\nwere not to be refused.\n\n\"Then gallop back, darling. Tell Gouache it is cold in the\nvalley--anything. Make him go back with you--I will save him since you\nwish it.\"\n\nCorona wheeled her horse without a word and cantered up the hill again.\nThe monk had continued his slow walk, and was now almost at Giovanni's\nsaddle-bow. The latter drew rein, staring hard at the pale features\nunder the cowl.\n\n\"If you go on you are lost,\" he said, in low distinct tones. \"The Zouaves\nare waiting for you. Stop, I say!\" he exclaimed, as the monk attempted to\npass on. Leaping to the ground Giovanni seized his arm and held him\ntightly. Then Del Ferice broke down.\n\n\"You will not give me up--for the love of Christ!\" he whined. \"Oh, if you\nhave any pity--let me go--I never meant to harm you--\"\n\n\"Look here,\" said Giovanni. \"I would just as soon give you up to the Holy\nOffice as not; but my wife asked me to save you--\"\n\n\"God bless her! Oh, the saints bless her! God render her kindness!\"\nblubbered Del Ferice, who, between fear and exhaustion, was by this time\nhalf idiotic.\n\n\"Silence!\" said Giovanni, sternly. \"You may thank her if you ever have a\nchance. Come with me quietly. I will send one of the workmen round the\nhill with you. You must sleep at Trevi, and then get over the Serra as\nbest you can.\" He ran his arm through the bridle of his horse and walked\nby his enemy's side.\n\n\"You will not give me up,\" moaned the wretched man. \"For the love of\nheaven do not betray me--I have come so far--I am so tired.\"\n\n\"The wolves may make a meal of you, for all I care,\" returned Giovanni.\n\"I will not. I give you my word that I will send you safely on, if you\nwill stop this whining and behave like a man.\"\n\nAt that moment Del Ferice was past taking offence, but for many a year\nafterwards the rough words rankled in his heart. Giovanni was brutal for\nonce; he longed to wring the fellow's neck, or to give him up to Gouache\nand the Zouaves. The tones of Ugo's voice reminded him of injuries not so\nold as to be yet forgotten. But he smothered his wrath and strode on,\nhaving promised his wife to save the wretch, much against his will. It\nwas a quarter of an hour before they reached the works, the longest\nquarter of an hour Del Ferice remembered in his whole life. Neither spoke\na word. Giovanni hailed a sturdy-looking fellow who was breaking stones\nby the roadside.\n\n\"Get up, Carluccio,\" he said. \"This good monk has lost his way. You must\ntake him round the mountain, above Ponza to Arcinazzo, and show him the\nroad to Trevi. It is a long way, but the road is good enough after\nPonza--it is shorter than to go round by Saracinesca, and the good friar\nis in a hurry.\"\n\nCarluccio started up with alacrity. He greatly preferred roaming about\nthe hills to breaking stones, provided he was paid for it. He picked up\nhis torn jacket and threw it over one shoulder, setting his battered hat\njauntily on his thick black curls.\n\n\"Give us a benediction, _padre mio_, and let us be off--_non \u00e8 mica un\npasso_--it is a good walk to Trevi.\"\n\nDel Ferice hesitated. He hardly knew what to do or say, and even if he\nhad wished to speak he was scarcely able to control his voice. Giovanni\ncut the situation short by turning on his heel and mounting his horse. A\nmoment later he was cantering up the road again, to the considerable\nastonishment of the labourers, who were accustomed to see him spend at\nleast half an hour in examining the work done. But Giovanni was in no\nhumour to talk about roads. He had spent a horrible quarter of an hour,\nbetween his desire to see Del Ferice punished and the promise he had\ngiven his wife to save him. He felt so little sure of himself that he\nnever once looked back, lest he should be tempted to send a second man to\nstop the fugitive and deliver him up to justice. He ground his teeth\ntogether, and his heart was full of bitter curses as he rode up the hill,\nhardly daring to reflect upon what he had done. That, in the eyes of the\nlaw, he had wittingly helped a traitor to escape, troubled his conscience\nlittle. His instinct bade him destroy Del Ferice by giving him up, and he\nwould have saved himself a vast deal of trouble if he had followed his\nimpulse. But the impulse really arose from a deep-rooted desire for\nrevenge, which, having resisted, he regretted bitterly--very much as\nShakespeare's murderer complained to his companion that the devil was at\nhis elbow bidding him not murder the duke. Giovanni spared his enemy\nsolely to please his wife, and half-a-dozen words from her had produced a\nresult which no consideration of mercy or pity could have brought about.\n\nCorona and Gouache had halted at the top of the road to wait for him. By\nan imperceptible nod, Giovanni informed his wife that Del Ferice was\nsafe.\n\n\"I am sorry to have cut short our ride,\" he said, coldly. \"My wife found\nit chilly in the valley.\"\n\nAnastase looked curiously at Giovanni's pale face, and wondered whether\nanything was wrong. Corona herself seemed strangely agitated.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Gouache, with his gentle smile; \"the mountain air is\nstill cold.\"\n\nSo the three rode silently back to the castle, and at the gate Gouache\ndismounted and left them, politely declining a rather cold invitation to\ncome in. Giovanni and Corona went silently up the staircase together, and\non into a small apartment which in that cold season they had set apart as\na sitting-room. When they were alone, Corona laid her hands upon\nGiovanni's shoulders and gazed long into his angry eyes. Then she threw\nher arms round his neck and drew him to her.\n\n\"My beloved,\" she cried, proudly, \"you are all I thought--and more too.\"\n\n\"Do not say that,\" answered Giovanni. \"I would not have lifted a finger\nto save that hound, but for you.\"\n\n\"Ah, but you did it, dear, all the same,\" she said, and kissed him.\n\nOn the following evening, without any warning, old Saracinesca arrived,\nand was warmly greeted. After dinner Giovanni told him the story of Del\nFerice's escape. Thereupon the old gentleman flew into a towering rage,\nswearing and cursing in a most characteristic manner, but finally\ndeclaring that to arrest spies was the work of spies, and that Giovanni\nhad behaved like a gentleman, as of course he could not help doing,\nseeing that he was his own son.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd so the curtain falls upon the first act. Giovanni and Corona are\nhappily married. Del Ferice is safe across the frontier among his friends\nin Naples, and Donna Tullia is waiting still for news of him, in the last\ndays of Lent, in the year 1866. To carry on the tale from this point\nwould be to enter upon a new series of events more interesting, perhaps,\nthan those herein detailed, and of like importance in the history of the\nSaracinesca family, but forming by their very nature a distinct\nnarrative--a second act to the drama, if it may be so called. I am\ncontent if in the foregoing pages I have so far acquainted the reader\nwith those characters which hereafter will play more important parts, as\nto enable him to comprehend the story of their subsequent lives, and in\nsome measure to judge of their future by their past, regarding them as\nacquaintances, if not sympathetic, yet worthy of some attention.\n\nEspecially I ask for indulgence in matters political. I am not writing\nthe history of political events, but the history of a Roman family during\ntimes of great uncertainty and agitation. If any one says that I have set\nup Del Ferice as a type of the Italian Liberal party, carefully\nconstructing a villain in order to batter him to pieces with the\nartillery of poetic justice, I answer that I have done nothing of the\nkind. Del Ferice is indeed a type, but a type of a depraved class which\nvery unjustly represented the Liberal party in Rome before 1870, and\nwhich, among those who witnessed its proceedings, drew upon the great\npolitical body which demanded the unity of Italy an opprobrium that body\nwas very far from deserving. The honest and upright Liberals were waiting\nin 1866. What they did, they did from their own country, and they did it\nboldly. To no man of intelligence need I say that Del Ferice had no more\naffinity with Massimo D'Azeglio, with the great Cavour, with Cavour's\ngreat enemy Giuseppe Mazzini, or with Garibaldi, than the jackal has with\nthe lion. Del Ferice represented the scum which remained after the\nrevolution of 1848 had subsided. He was one of those men who were used\nand despised by their betters, and in using whom Cavour himself was\nprovoked into writing \"Se noi facessimo per noi quel che faciamo per\nl'Italia, saremmo gran bricconi\"--if we did for ourselves what we do for\nItaly, we should be great blackguards. And that there were honourable\nand just men outside of Rome will sufficiently appear in the sequel to\nthis veracious tale.\n\n\nTHE END.","title":"Saracinesca","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":153423}