CHAPTER I.

Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

SANT' ILARIO

BY

F. MARION CRAWFORD

AUTHOR OF "MR. ISAACS," "DR. CLAUDIUS," "ZOROASTER," "A TALE OF A

LONELY PARISH," ETC.

TO

My Wife

THIS SECOND PART OF "SARACINESCA" IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED

CHAPTER I.

Two years of service in the Zouaves had wrought a change in Anastase

Gouache, the painter. He was still a light man, nervously built, with

small hands and feet, and a delicate face; but constant exposure to the

weather had browned his skin, and a life of unceasing activity had

strengthened his sinews and hardened his compact frame. The clustering

black curls were closely cropped, too, while the delicate dark

moustache had slightly thickened. He had grown to be a very soldierly

young fellow, straight and alert, quick of hand and eye, inured to that

perpetual readiness which is the first characteristic of the good

soldier, whether in peace or war. The dreamy look that was so often in

his face in the days when he sat upon a high stool painting the

portrait of Donna Tullia Mayer, had given place to an expression of

wide-awake curiosity in the world's doings.

Anastase was an artist by nature and no amount of military service

could crush the chief aspirations of his intelligence. He had not

abandoned work since he had joined the Zouaves, for his hours of

leisure from duty were passed in his studio. But the change in his

outward appearance was connected with a similar development in his

character. He himself sometimes wondered how he could have ever taken

any interest in the half-hearted political fumbling which Donna Tullia,

Ugo Del Ferice, and others of their set used to dignify by the name of

conspiracy. It seemed to him that his ideas must at that time have been

deplorably confused and lamentably unsettled. He sometimes took out the

old sketch of Madame Mayer's portrait, and setting it upon his easel,

tried to realise and bring back those times when she had sat for him.

He could recall Del Ferice's mock heroics, Donna Tullia's ill-expressed

invectives, and his own half-sarcastic sympathy in the liberal

movement; but the young fellow in an old velveteen jacket who used to

talk glibly about the guillotine, about stringing-up the clericals to

street-lamps and turning the churches into popular theatres, was surely

not the energetic, sunburnt Zouave who had been hunting down brigands

in the Samnite hills last summer, who spent three-fourths of his time

among soldiers like himself, and who had pledged his honour to follow

the gallant Charette and defend the Pope as long as he could carry a

musket.

There is a sharp dividing line between youth and manhood. Sometimes we

cross it early, and sometimes late, but we do not know that we are

passing from one life to another as we step across the boundary. The

world seems to us the same for a while, as we knew it yesterday and

shall know it to-morrow. Suddenly, we look back and start with

astonishment when we see the past, which we thought so near, already

vanishing in the distance, shapeless, confused, and estranged from our

present selves. Then, we know that we are men, and acknowledge, with

something like a sigh, that we have put away childish things.

When Gouache put on the gray jacket, the red sash and the yellow

gaiters, he became a man and speedily forgot Donna Tullia and her

errors, and for some time afterwards he did not care to recall them.

When he tried to remember the scenes at the studio in the Via San

Basilio, they seemed very far away. One thing alone constantly reminded

him disagreeably of the past, and that was his unfortunate failure to

catch Del Ferice when the latter had escaped from Rome in the disguise

of a mendicant friar. Anastase had never been able to understand how he

had missed the fugitive. It had soon become known that Del Ferice had

escaped by the very pass which Gouache was patrolling, and the young

Zouave had felt the bitterest mortification in losing so valuable and

so easy a prey. He often thought of it and promised himself that he

would visit his anger on Del Ferice if he ever got a chance; but Del

Ferice was out of reach of his vengeance, and Donna Tullia Mayer had

not returned to Rome since the previous year. It had been rumoured of

late that she had at last fulfilled the engagement contracted some time

earlier, and had consented to be called the Contessa Del Ferice; this

piece of news, however, was not yet fully confirmed. Gouache had heard

the gossip, and had immediately made a lively sketch on the back of a

half-finished picture, representing Donna Tullia, in her bridal dress,

leaning upon the arm of Del Ferice, who was arrayed in a capuchin's

cowl, and underneath, with his brush, he scrawled a legend, "Finis

coronat opus."

It was nearly six o'clock in the afternoon of the 23d of September. The

day had been rainy, but the sky had cleared an hour before sunset, and

there was a sweet damp freshness in the air, very grateful after the

long weeks of late summer. Anastase Gouache had been on duty at the

Serristori barracks in the Borgo Santo Spirito and walked briskly up to

the bridge of Sant' Angelo. There was not much movement in the streets,

and the carriages were few. A couple of officers were lounging at the

gate of the castle and returned Gouache's salute as he passed. In the

middle of the bridge he stopped and looked westward, down the short

reach of the river which caught a lurid reflection of the sunset on its

eddying yellow surface. He mused a moment, thinking more of the details

of his duty at the barracks than of the scene before him. Then he

thought of the first time he had crossed the bridge in his Zouave

uniform, and a faint smile flickered on his brown features. It happened

almost every day that he stopped at the same place, and as particular

spots often become associated with ideas that seem to belong to them,

the same thought almost always recurred to his mind as he stood there.

Then followed the same daily wondering as to how all these things were

to end; whether he should for years to come wear the red sash and the

yellow gaiters, a corporal of Zouaves, and whether for years he should

ask himself every day the same question. Presently, as the light faded

from the houses of the Borgo, he turned away with an imperceptible

shrug of the shoulders and continued his walk upon the narrow pavement

at the side of the bridge. As he descended the step at the end, to the

level of the square, a small bright object in a crevice of the stones

attracted his attention. He stooped and picked it up.

It was a little gold pin, some two inches long, the head beaten out and

twisted into the shape of the letter C. Gouache examined it

attentively, and saw that it must have been long used, for it was

slightly bent in more than one place as though it had often been thrust

through some thick material. It told no other tale of its possessor,

however, and the young man slipped it into his pocket and went on his

way, idly wondering to whom the thing belonged. He reflected that if he

had been bent on any important matter he would probably have considered

the finding of a bit of gold as a favourable omen; but he was merely

returning to his lodging as usual, and had no engagement for the

evening. Indeed, he expected no event in his life at that time, and

following the train of his meditation he smiled a little when he

thought that he was not even in love. For a Frenchman, nearly thirty

years of age, the position was an unusual one enough. In Gouache's case

it was especially remarkable. Women liked him, he liked them, and he

was constantly in the society of some of the most beautiful in the

world. Nevertheless, he turned from one to another and found a like

pleasure in the conversation of them all. What delighted him in the one

was not what charmed him most in the next, but the equilibrium of

satisfaction was well maintained between the dark and the fair, the

silent beauty and the pretty woman of intelligence. There was indeed

one whom he thought more noble in heart and grander in symmetry of form

and feature, and stronger in mind than the rest; but she was

immeasurably removed from the sphere of his possible devotion by her

devoted love of her husband, and he admired her from a distance, even

while speaking with her.

As he passed the Apollo theatre and ascended the Via di Tordinona the

lights were beginning to twinkle in the low doorways, and the

gas-lamps, then a very recent innovation in Rome, shone out one by one

in the distance. The street is narrow, and was full of traffic, even in

the evening. Pedestrians elbowed their way along in the dusk, every now

and then flattening themselves against the dingy walls to let a cab or

a carriage rush past them, not without real risk of accident. Before

the deep, arched gateway of the Orso, one of the most ancient inns in

the world, the empty wine-carts were getting ready for the return

journey by night across the Campagna, the great bunches of little bells

jingling loudly in the dark as the carters buckled the harness on their

horses' backs.

Just as Gouache reached this place, the darkest and most crowded

through which he had to pass, a tremendous clatter and rattle from the

Via dell' Orso made the hurrying people draw back to the shelter of the

doorsteps and arches. It was clear that a runaway horse was not far

off. One of the carters, the back of whose waggon was half-way across

the opening of the street, made desperate efforts to make his beast

advance and clear the way; but the frightened animal only backed

farther up. A moment later the runaway charged down past the tail of

the lumbering vehicle. The horse himself just cleared the projecting

timbers of the cart, but the cab he was furiously dragging caught upon

them while going at full speed and was shivered to pieces, throwing the

horse heavily upon the stones, so that he slid along several feet on

his head and knees with the fragments of the broken shafts and the

wreck of the harness about him. The first man to spring from the crowd

and seize the beast's head was Anastase. He did not see that the same

instant a large private carriage, drawn by a pair of powerful horses,

emerged quickly from the Vicolo dei Soldati, the third of the streets

which meet the Via di Tordinona at the Orso. The driver, who owing to

the darkness had not seen the disaster which had just taken place, did

his best to stop in time; but before the heavy equipage could be

brought to a stand Anastase had been thrown to the ground, between the

hoofs of the struggling cab-horse and the feet of the startled pair of

bays. The crowd closed in as near as was safe, while the confusion and

the shouts of the people and the carters increased every minute.

The coachman of the private carriage threw the reins to the footman and

sprang down to go to the horses' heads.

"You have run over a Zouave!" some one shouted from the crowd.

"Meno male! Thank goodness it was not one of us!" exclaimed another

voice.

"Where is he? Get him out, some of you!" cried the coachman as he

seized the reins close to the bit.

By this time a couple of stout gendarmes and two or three soldiers of

the Antibes legion had made their way to the front and were dragging

away the fallen cab-horse. A tall, thin, elderly gentleman, of a

somewhat sour countenance, descended from the carriage and stooped over

the injured soldier.

"It is only a Zouave, Excellency," said the coachman, with a sort of

sigh of relief.

The tall gentleman lifted Gouache's head a little so that the light

from the carriage-lamp fell upon his face. He was quite insensible, and

there was blood upon his pale forehead and white cheeks. One of the

gendarmes came forward.

"We will take care of him, Signore," he said, touching his

three-cornered hat. "But I must beg to know your revered name," he

added, in the stock Italian phrase. "Capira--I am very sorry--but they

say your horses--"

"Put him into my carriage," answered the elderly gentleman shortly. "I

am the Principe Montevarchi."

"But, Excellency--the Signorina---" protested the coachman. The prince

paid no attention to the objection and helped the gendarme to deposit

Anastase in the interior of the vehicle. Then he gave the man a silver

scudo.

"Send some one to the Serristori barracks to say that a Zouave has been

hurt and is at my house," he said. Therewith he entered the carriage

and ordered the coachman to drive home.

"In heaven's name, what has happened, papa?" asked a young voice in the

darkness, tremulous with excitement.

"My dear child, there has been an accident in the street, and this

young man has been wounded, or killed--"

"Killed! A dead man in the carriage!" cried the young girl in some

terror, and shrinking away into the corner.

"You should really control your nerves, Faustina," replied her father

in austere tones. "If the young man is dead, it is the will of Heaven.

If he is alive we shall soon find it out. Meanwhile I must beg you to

be calm--to be calm, do you understand?"

Donna Faustina Montevarchi made no answer to this parental injunction,

but withdrew as far as she could into the corner of the back seat,

while her father supported the inanimate body of the Zouave as the

carriage swung over the uneven pavement. In a few minutes they rolled

beneath a deep arch and stopped at the foot of a broad marble staircase.

"Bring him upstairs carefully, and send for a surgeon," said the prince

to the men who came forward. Then he offered his arm to his daughter to

ascend the steps, as though nothing had happened, and without bestowing

another look on the injured soldier.

Donna Faustina was just eighteen years old, and had only quitted the

convent of the Sacro Cuore a month earlier. It might have been said

that she was too young to be beautiful, for she evidently belonged to

that class of women who do not attain their full development until a

later period. Her figure was almost too slender, her face almost too

delicate and ethereal. There was about her a girlish look, an

atmosphere of half-saintly maidenhood, which was not so much the

expression of her real nature as the effect produced by her being at

once very thin and very fresh. There was indeed nothing particularly

angelic about her warm brown eyes, shaded by unusually long black

lashes; and little wayward locks of chestnut hair, curling from beneath

the small round hat of the period, just before the small pink ears,

softened as with a breath of worldliness the grave outlines of the

serious face. A keen student of women might have seen that the dim

religious halo of convent life which still clung to the young girl

would soon fade and give way to the brilliancy of the woman of the

world. She was not tall, though of fully average height, and although

the dress of that time was ill-adapted to show to advantage either the

figure or the movements, it was evident, as she stepped lightly from

the carriage, that she had a full share of ease and grace. She

possessed that unconscious certainty in motion which proceeds naturally

from the perfect proportion of all the parts, and which exercises a far

greater influence over men than a faultless profile or a dazzling skin.

Instead of taking her father's arm, Donna Faustina turned and looked at

the face of the wounded Zouave, whom three men had carefully taken from

the carriage and were preparing to carry upstairs. Poor Gouache was

hardly recognisable for the smart soldier who had crossed the bridge of

Sant' Angelo half an hour earlier. His uniform was all stained with

mud, there was blood upon his pale face, and his limbs hung down,

powerless and limp. But as the young girl looked at him, consciousness

returned, and with it came the sense of acute suffering. He opened his

eyes suddenly, as men often do when they revive after being stunned,

and a short groan escaped from his lips. Then, as he realised that he

was in the presence of a lady, he made an effort as though to release

himself from the hands of those who carried him, and to stand upon his

feet.

"Pardon me, Madame," he began to say, but Faustina checked him by a

gesture.

Meanwhile old Montevarchi had carefully scrutinised the young man's

face, and had recognised him, for they had often met in society.

"Monsieur Gouache!" he exclaimed in surprise. At the same time he made

the men move on with their burden.

"You know him, papa?" whispered Donna Faustina as they followed

together. "He is a gentleman? I was right?"

"Of course, of course," answered her father. "But really, Faustina, had

you nothing better to do than to go and look into his face? Imagine, if

he had known you! Dear me! If you begin like this, as soon as you are

out of the convent--"

Montevarchi left the rest of the sentence to his daughter's

imagination, merely turning up his eyes a little as though deprecating

the just vengeance of heaven upon his daughter's misconduct.

"Really, papa--" protested Faustina.

"Yes--really, my daughter--I am much surprised," returned her incensed

parent, still speaking in an undertone lest the injured man should

overhear what was said.

They reached the head of the stairs and the men carried Gouache rapidly

away; not so quickly, however, as to prevent Faustina from getting

another glimpse of his face. His eyes were open and met hers with an

expression of mingled interest and gratitude which she did not forget.

Then he was carried away and she did not see him again.

The Montevarchi household was conducted upon the patriarchal principle,

once general in Rome, and not quite abandoned even now, twenty years

later than the date of Gouache's accident. The palace was a huge square

building facing upon two streets, in front and behind, and opening

inwards upon two courtyards. Upon the lower floor were stables,

coach-houses, kitchens, and offices innumerable. Above these there was

built a half story, called a mezzanino--in French, entresol, containing

the quarters of the unmarried sons of the house, of the household

chaplain, and of two or three tutors employed in the education of the

Montevarchi grandchildren. Next above, came the "piano nobile," or

state apartments, comprising the rooms of the prince and princess, the

dining-room, and a vast suite of reception-rooms, each of which opened

into the next in such a manner that only the last was not necessarily a

passage. In the huge hall was the dais and canopy with the family arms

embroidered in colours once gaudy but now agreeably faded to a softer

tone. Above this floor was another, occupied by the married sons, their

wives and children; and high over all, above the cornice of the palace,

were the endless servants' quarters and the roomy garrets. At a rough

estimate the establishment comprised over a hundred persons, all living

under the absolute and despotic authority of the head of the house, Don

Lotario Montevarchi, Principe Montevarchi, and sole possessor of forty

or fifty other titles. From his will and upon his pleasure depended

every act of every member of his household, from his eldest son and

heir, the Duca di Bellegra, to that of Pietro Paolo, the under-cook's

scullion's boy. There were three sons and four daughters. Two of the

sons were married, to wit, Don Ascanio, to whom his father had given

his second title, and Don Onorato, who was allowed to call himself

Principe di Cantalupo, but who would have no legal claim to that

distinction after his father's death. Last of the three came Don Carlo,

a young fellow of twenty years, but not yet emancipated from the

supervision of his tutor. Of the daughters, the two eldest, Bianca and

Laura, were married and no longer lived in Rome, the one having been

matched with a Neapolitan and the other with a Florentine. There

remained still at home, therefore, the third, Donna Flavia, and the

youngest of all the family, Donna Faustina. Though Flavia was not yet

two and twenty years of age, her father and mother were already

beginning to despair of marrying her, and dropped frequent hints about

the advisability of making her enter religion, as they called it; that

is to say, they thought she had better take the veil and retire from

the world.

The old princess Montevarchi was English by birth and education, but

thirty-three years of life in Rome had almost obliterated all traces of

her nationality. That all-pervading influence, which so soon makes

Romans of foreigners who marry into Roman families, had done its work

effectually. The Roman nobility, by intermarriage with the principal

families of the rest of Europe, has lost many Italian characteristics;

but its members are more essentially Romans than the full-blooded

Italians of the other classes who dwell side by side with the

aristocracy in Rome.

When Lady Gwendoline Fontenoy married Don Lotario Montevarchi in the

year 1834, she, no doubt, believed that her children would grow up as

English as she herself, and that her husband's house would not differ

materially from an establishment of the same kind in England. She

laughed merrily at the provisions of the marriage contract, which even

went so far as to stipulate that she was to have at least two dishes of

meat at dinner, and an equivalent on fast-days, a drive every day--the

traditional trottata--two new gowns every year, and a woman to wait

upon her. After these and similar provisions had been agreed upon, her

dowry, which was a large one for those days, was handed over to the

keeping of her father-in-law and she was duly married to Don Lotario,

who at once assumed the title of Duca di Bellegra. The wedding journey

consisted of a fortnight's retirement in the Villa Montevarchi at

Frascati, and at the end of that time the young couple were installed

under the paternal roof in Rome. Before she had been in her new abode a

month the young Duchessa realised the utter hopelessness of attempting

to change the existing system of patriarchal government under which she

found herself living. She discovered, in the first place, that she

would never have five scudi of her own in her pocket, and that if she

needed a handkerchief or a pair of stockings it was necessary to obtain

from the head of the house not only the permission to buy such

necessaries, but the money with which to pay for them. She discovered,

furthermore, that if she wanted a cup of coffee or some bread and

butter out of hours, those things were charged to her daily account in

the steward's office, as though she had been in an inn, and were paid

for at the end of the year out of the income arising from her dowry.

Her husband's younger brother, who had no money of his own, could not

even get a lemonade in his father's house without his father's consent.

Moreover, the family life was of such a nature as almost to preclude

all privacy. The young Duchessa and her husband had their bedroom in

the upper story, but Don Lotario's request that his wife might have a

sitting-room of her own was looked upon as an attempt at a domestic

revolution, and the privilege was only obtained at last through the

formidable intervention of the Duke of Agincourt, the Duchessa's own

father. All the family meals, too, were eaten together in the solemn

old dining-hall, hung with tapestries and dingy with the dust of ages.

The order of precedence was always strictly observed, and though the

cooking was of a strange kind, no plate or dish was ever used which was

not of solid silver, battered indeed, and scratched, and cleaned only

after Italian ideas, but heavy and massive withal. The Duchessa soon

learned that the old Roman houses all used silver plates from motives

of economy, for the simple reason that metal did not break. But the

sensible English woman saw also that although the most rigid economy

was practised in many things, there was lavish expenditure in many

departments of the establishment. There were magnificent horses in the

stables, gorgeously gilt carriages in the coach-houses, scores of

domestics in bright liveries at every door. The pay of the servants did

not, indeed, exceed the average earnings of a shoe-black in London, but

the coats they wore were exceeding glorious with gold lace.

It was clear from the first that nothing was expected of Don Lotario's

wife but to live peaceably under the patriarchal rule, making no

observations and offering no suggestions. Her husband told her that he

was powerless to introduce any changes, and added, that since his

father and all his ancestors had always lived in the same way, that way

was quite good enough for him. Indeed, he rather looked forward to the

time when he should be master of the house, having children under him

whom he might rule as absolutely and despotically as he was ruled

himself.

In the course of years the Duchessa absorbed the traditions of her new

home, so that they became part of her, and as everything went on

unchanged from year to year she acquired unchanging habits which

corresponded with her surroundings. Then, when at last the old prince

and princess were laid side by side in the vault of the family chapel

and she was princess in her turn, she changed nothing, but let

everything go on in the same groove, educating her children and

managing them, as her husband had been educated and as she herself had

been managed by the old couple. Her husband grew more and more like his

father, punctilious, rigid; a strict observant in religious matters, a

pedant in little things, prejudiced against all change; too satisfied

to desire improvement, too scrupulously conscientious to permit any

retrogression from established rule, a model of the immutability of an

ancient aristocracy, a living paradigm of what always had been and a

stubborn barrier against all that might be.

Such was the home to which Donna Faustina Montevarchi returned to live

after spending eight years in the convent of the Sacro Cuore. During

that time she had acquired the French language, a slight knowledge of

music, a very limited acquaintance with the history of her own country,

a ready memory for prayers and litanies--and her manners. Manners among

the Italians are called education. What we mean by the latter word,

namely, the learning acquired, is called, more precisely, instruction.

An educated person means a person who has acquired the art of

politeness. An instructed person means some one who has learnt rather

more than the average of what is generally learnt by the class of

people to whom he belongs. Donna Faustina was extremely well educated,

according to Roman ideas, but her instruction was not, and was not

intended to be, any better than that imparted to the young girls with

whom she was to associate in the world.

As far as her character was concerned, she herself knew very little of

it, and would probably have found herself very much embarrassed if

called upon to explain what character meant. She was new and the world

was very old. The nuns had told her that she must never care for the

world, which was a very sinful place, full of thorns, ditches, pitfalls

and sinners, besides the devil and his angels. Her sister Flavia, on

the contrary, assured her that the world was very agreeable, when mamma

happened to go to sleep in a corner during a ball; that all men were

deceivers, but that when a man danced well it made no difference

whether he were a deceiver or not, since he danced with his legs and

not with his conscience; that there was no happiness equal to a good

cotillon, and that there were a number of these in every season; and,

finally, that provided one did not spoil one's complexion one might do

anything, so long as mamma was not looking.

To Donna Faustina, these views, held by the nuns on the one hand and by

Flavia on the other, seemed very conflicting. She would not, indeed,

have hesitated in choosing, even if she had been permitted any choice;

for it was clear that, since she had seen the convent side of the

question, it would be very interesting to see the other. But, having

been told so much about sinners, she was on the look-out for them, and

looked forward to making the acquaintance of one of them with a

pardonable excitement. Doubtless she would hate a sinner if she saw

one, as the nuns had taught her, although the sinner of her imagination

was not a very repulsive personage. Flavia probably knew a great many,

and Flavia said that society was very amusing. Faustina wished that the

autumn months would pass a little more quickly, so that the carnival

season might begin.

Prince Montevarchi, for his part, intended his youngest daughter to be

a model of prim propriety. He attributed to Flavia's frivolity of

behaviour the difficulty he experienced in finding her a husband, and

he had no intention of exposing himself to a second failure in the case

of Faustina. She should marry in her first season, and if she chose to

be gay after that, the responsibility thereof might fall upon her

husband, or her father-in-law, or upon whomsoever it should most

concern; he himself would have fulfilled his duty so soon as the

nuptial benediction was pronounced. He knew the fortune and reputation

of every marriageable young man in society, and was therefore eminently

fitted for the task he undertook. To tell the truth, Faustina herself

expected to be married before Easter, for it was eminently fitting that

a young girl should lose no time in such matters. But she meant to

choose a man after her own heart, if she found one; at all events, she

would not submit too readily to the paternal choice nor appear

satisfied with the first tolerable suitor who should be presented to

her.

Under these circumstances it seemed probable that Donna Faustina's

first season, which had begun with the unexpected adventure at the

corner of the old Orso, would not come to a close without some passage

of arms between herself and her father, even though the ultimate

conclusion should lead to the steps of the altar.

The men carried the wounded Zouave away to a distant room, and Faustina

entered the main apartments by the side of the old prince. She sighed a

little as she went.

"I hope the poor man will get well!" she exclaimed.

"Do not disturb your mind about the young man," answered her father.

"He will be attended by the proper persons, and the doctor will bleed

him and the will of Heaven will be done. It is not the duty of a

well-conducted young woman to be thinking of such things, and you may

dismiss the subject at once."

"Yes, papa," said Faustina submissively. But in spite of the dutiful

tone of voice in which she spoke, the dim light of the tall lamps in

the antechambers showed a strange expression of mingled amusement and

contrariety in the girl's ethereal face.