The improvised banquet at the Palazzo Saracinesca was not a merry one,
but the probable dangers to the city and the disappearance of Faustina
Montevarchi furnished matter for plenty of conversation. The majority
inclined to the belief that the girl had lost her head and had run
home, but as neither Sant' Ilario nor his cousin returned, there was
much speculation. The prince said he believed that they had found
Faustina at her father's house and had stayed to dinner, whereupon some
malicious person remarked that it needed a revolution in Rome to
produce hospitality in such a quarter.
Dinner was nearly ended when Pasquale, the butler, whispered to the
prince that a gendarme wanted to speak with him on very important
business.
"Bring him here," answered old Saracinesca, aloud. "There is a gendarme
outside," he added, addressing his guests, "he will tell us all the
news. Shall we have him here?"
Every one assented enthusiastically to the proposition, for most of
those present were anxious about their houses, not knowing what had
taken place during the last two hours. The man was ushered in, and
stood at a distance holding his three-cornered hat in his hand, and
looking rather sheepish and uncomfortable.
"Well?" asked the prince. "What is the matter? We all wish to hear the
news."
"Excellency," began the soldier, "I must ask many pardons for appearing
thus---" Indeed his uniform was more or less disarranged and he looked
pale and fatigued.
"Never mind your appearance. Speak up," answered old Saracinesca in
encouraging tones.
"Excellency," said the man, "I must apologise, but there is a gentleman
who calls himself Don Giovanni, of your revered name---"
"I know there is. He is my son. What about him?"
"He is not the Senior Principe di Sant' Ilario, Excellency--he calls
himself by another name--Marchese di--di--here is his card, Excellency."
"My cousin, San Giacinto, then. What about him, I say?"
"Your Excellency has a cousin---" stammered the gendarme.
"Well? Is it against the law to have cousins?" cried the prince. "What
is the matter with my cousin?"
"Dio mio!" exclaimed the soldier in great agitation. "What a
combination! Your Excellency's cousin is in the mortuary chamber at
Santo Spirito!"
"Is he dead?" asked Saracinesca in a lower voice, but starting from his
chair.
"No," cried the man, "questo e il male! That is the trouble! He is
alive and very well!"
"Then what the devil is he doing in the mortuary chamber?" roared the
prince.
"Excellency, I beseech your pardon, I had nothing to do with locking up
the Signor Marchese. It was the surgeon, Excellency, who took him for a
Garibaldian. He shall be liberated at once---"
"I should think so!" answered Saracinesca, savagely. "And what business
have your asses of surgeons with gentlemen? My hat, Pasquale. And how
on earth came my cousin to be in Santo Spirito?"
"Excellency, I know nothing, but I had to do my duty."
"And if you know nothing how the devil do you expect to do your duty! I
will have you and the surgeon and the whole of Santo Spirito and all
the patients, in the Carceri Nuove, safe in prison before morning! My
hat, Pasquale, I say!"
Some confusion followed, during which the gendarme, who was anxious to
escape all responsibility in the matter of San Giacinto's confinement,
left the room and descended the grand staircase three steps at a time.
Mounting his horse he galloped back through the now deserted streets to
the hospital.
Within two minutes after his arrival San Giacinto heard the bolt of the
heavy lock run back in the socket and the surgeon entered the mortuary
chamber. San Giacinto had nearly finished his cigar and was growing
impatient, but the doctor made many apologies for his long absence.
"An unexpected relapse in a dangerous case, Signor Marchese," he said
in explanation. "What would you have? We doctors are at the mercy of
nature! Pray forgive my neglect, but I could send no one, as you did
not wish to be seen. I locked the door, so that nobody might find you
here. Pray come with me, and you shall see the young lady at once."
"By all means," replied San Giacinto. "Dead men are poor company, and I
am in a hurry."
The surgeon led the way to the accident ward and introduced his
companion to a small clean room in which a shaded lamp was burning. A
Sister of Mercy stood by the white bed, upon which lay a young girl,
stretched out at her full length.
"You are too late," said the nun very quietly. "She is dead, poor
child."
San Giacinto uttered a deep exclamation of horror and was at the
bedside even before the surgeon. He lifted the fair young creature in
his arms and stared at the cold face, holding it to the light. Then
with a loud cry of astonishment he laid down his burden.
"It is not she, Signor Professore," he said. "I must apologise for the
trouble I have given you. Pray accept my best thanks. There is a
resemblance, but it is not she."
The doctor was somewhat relieved to find himself freed from the
responsibility which, as San Giacinto had told him, involved the honour
of one of the greatest families in Rome. Before speaking, he satisfied
himself that the young woman was really dead.
"Death often makes faces look alike which have no resemblance to each
other in life," he remarked as he turned away. Then they both left the
room, followed at a little distance by the sister who was going to
summon the bearers to carry away her late charge.
As the two men descended the steps, the sound of loud voices in
altercation reached their ears, and as they emerged into the vestibule,
they saw old Prince Saracinesca flourishing his stick in dangerous
proximity to the head of the porter. The latter had retreated until he
stood with his back against the wall.
"I will have none of this lying," shouted the irate nobleman. "The
Marchese is here--the gendarme told me he was in the mortuary
chamber--if he is not produced at once I will break your rascally
neck---" The man was protesting as fast and as loud as his assailant
threatened him.
"Eh! My good cousin!" cried San Giacinto, whose unmistakable voice at
once made the prince desist from his attack and turn round. "Do not
kill the fellow! I am alive and well, as you see."
A short explanation ensued, during which the surgeon was obliged to
admit that as San Giacinto had no means of proving any identity he, the
doctor in charge, had thought it best to send for the police, in view
of the unquiet state of the city.
"But what brought you here?" asked old Saracinesca, who was puzzled to
account for his cousin's presence in the hospital.
San Giacinto had satisfied his curiosity and did not care a pin for the
annoyance to which he had been subjected. He was anxious, too, to get
away, and having half guessed the surgeon's suspicions was not at all
surprised by the revelation concerning the gendarme.
"Allow me to thank you again," he said politely, turning to the doctor.
"I have no doubt you acted quite rightly. Let us go," he added,
addressing the prince.
The porter received a coin as consolation money for the abuse he had
sustained, and the two cousins found themselves in the street.
Saracinesca again asked for an explanation.
"Very simple," replied San Giacinto. "Donna Faustina was not at her
father's house, so your son and I separated to continue our search.
Chancing to find myself here--for I do not know my way about the
city--I learnt the news of the explosion, and was told that two Zouaves
had been found dead and had been taken into the hospital. Fearing lest
one of them might have been Gouache, I succeeded in getting in, when I
was locked up with the dead bodies, as you have heard. Gouache, by the
bye, was not one of them."
"It is outrageous---" began Saracinesca, but his companion did not
allow him to proceed.
"It is no matter," he said, quickly. "The important thing is to find
Donna Faustina. I suppose you have no news of her."
"None. Giovanni had not come home when the gendarme appeared."
"Then we must continue the search as best we can," said San Giacinto.
Thereupon they both got into the prince's cab and drove away.
It was nearly midnight when a small detachment of Zouaves crossed the
bridge of Sant' Angelo. There had been some sharp fighting at the Porta
San Paolo, at the other extremity of Rome, and the men were weary. But
rest was not to be expected that night, and the tired soldiers were led
back to do sentry duty in the neighbourhood of their quarters. The
officer halted the little body in the broad space beyond.
"Monsieur Gouache," said the lieutenant, "you will take a corporal's
guard and maintain order in the neighbourhood of the barracks--if there
is anything left of them," he added with a mournful laugh.
Gouache stepped forward and half a dozen men formed themselves behind
him. The officer was a good friend of his.
"I suppose you have not dined any more than I, Monsieur Gouache?"
"Not I, mon lieutenant. It is no matter."
"Pick up something to eat if you can, at such an hour. I will see that
you are relieved before morning. Shoulder arms! March!"
So Anastase Gouache trudged away down the Borgo Nuovo with his men at
his heels. Among the number there was the son of a French duke, an
English gentleman whose forefathers had marched with the Conqueror as
their descendant now marched behind the Parisian artist, a young Swiss
doctor of law, a couple of red-headed Irish peasants, and two or three
others. When they reached the scene of the late catastrophe the place
was deserted. The men who had been set to work at clearing away the
rubbish had soon found what a hopeless task they had undertaken; and
the news having soon spread that only the regimental musicians were in
the barracks at the time, and that these few had been in all
probability in the lower story of the building, where the band-room was
situated, all attempts at finding the bodies were abandoned until the
next day.
Gouache and many others had escaped death almost miraculously, for five
minutes had not elapsed after they had started at the double-quick for
the Porta San Paolo, when the building was blown up. The news had of
course been brought to them while they were repulsing the attack upon
the gate, but it was not until many hours afterwards that a small
detachment could safely be spared to return to their devastated
quarters. Gouache himself had been just in time to join his comrades,
and with them had seen most of the fighting. He now placed his men at
proper distances along the street, and found leisure to reflect upon
what had occurred. He was hungry and thirsty, and grimy with gunpowder,
but there was evidently no prospect of getting any refreshment. The
night, too, was growing cold, and he found it necessary to walk briskly
about to keep himself warm. At first he tramped backwards and forwards,
some fifty paces each way, but growing weary of the monotonous
exercise, he began to scramble about among the heaps of ruins. His
quick imagination called up the scene as it must have looked at the
moment of the explosion, and then reverted with a sharp pang to the
thought of his poor comrades-in-arms who lay crushed to death many feet
below the stones on which he trod.
Suddenly, as he leaned against a huge block, absorbed in his thoughts,
the low wailing of a woman's voice reached his ears. The sound
proceeded apparently from no great distance, but the tone was very soft
and low. Gradually, as he listened, he thought he distinguished words,
but such words as he had not expected to hear, though they expressed
his own feeling well enough.
"Requiem eternam dona eis!"
It was quite distinct, and the accents sounded strangely familiar. He
held his breath and strained every faculty to catch the sounds.
"Requiem sempiternam--sempiternam--sempiternam!" The despairing tones
trembled at the third repetition, and then the voice broke into
passionate sobbing.
Anastase did not wait for more. At first he had half believed that what
he heard was due to his imagination, but the sudden weeping left no
doubt that it was real. Cautiously he made his way amongst the ruins,
until he stopped short in amazement not unmingled with horror.
In an angle where a part of the walls was still standing, a woman was
on her knees, her hands stretched wildly out before her, her
darkly-clad figure faintly revealed by the beams of the waning moon.
The covering had fallen back from her head upon her shoulders, and the
struggling rays fell upon her beautiful features, marking their angelic
outline with delicate light. Still Anastase remained motionless,
scarcely believing his eyes, and yet knowing that lovely face too well
not to believe. It was Donna Faustina Montevarchi who knelt there at
midnight, alone, repeating the solemn words from the mass for the dead;
it was for him that she wept, and he knew it.
Standing there upon the common grave of his comrades, a wild joy filled
the young man's heart, a joy such as must be felt to be known, for it
passes the power of earthly words to tell it. In that dim and ghastly
place the sun seemed suddenly to shine as at noonday in a fair country;
the crumbling masonry and blocks of broken stone grew more lovely than
the loveliest flowers, and from the dark figure of that lonely
heart-broken woman the man who loved her saw a radiance proceeding
which overflowed and made bright at once his eyes and his heart. In the
intensity of his emotion, the hand which lay upon the fallen stone
contracted suddenly and broke off a fragment of the loosened mortar.
At the slight noise, Faustina turned her head. Her eyes were wide and
wild, and as she started to her feet she uttered a short, sharp cry,
and staggered backward against the wall. In a moment Anastase was at
her side, supporting her and looking into her face.
"Faustina!"
During a few seconds she gazed horrorstruck and silent upon him,
stiffening herself and holding her face away from his. It was as though
his ghost had risen out of the earth and embraced her. Then the wild
look shivered like a mask and vanished, her features softened and the
colour rose to her cheeks for an instant. Very slowly she drew him
towards her, her eyes fixed on his; their lips met in a long, sweet
kiss--then her strength forsook her and she swooned away in his arms.
Gouache supported her tenderly until she sat leaning against the wall,
and then knelt down by her side. He did not know what to do, and had he
known, it would have availed him little. His instinct told him that she
would presently recover consciousness and his emotions had so wholly
overcome him that he could only look at her lovely face as her head
rested upon his arm. But while he waited a great fear began to steal
into his heart. He asked himself how Faustina had come to such a place,
and how her coming was to be accounted for. It was long past midnight,
now, and he guessed what trouble and anxiety there would be in her
father's house until she was found. He represented to himself in quick
succession the scenes which would follow his appearance at the Palazzo
Montevarchi with the youngest daughter of the family in his arms--or in
a cab, and he confessed to himself that never lover had been in such
straits.
Faustina opened her eyes and sighed, nestled her head softly on his
breast, sighing again, in the happy consciousness that he was safe, and
then at last she sat up and looked him in the face.
"I was so sure you were killed," said she, in her soft voice.
"My darling!" he exclaimed, pressing her to his side.
"Are you not glad to be alive?" she asked. "For my sake, at least! You
do not know what I have suffered."
Again he held her close to him, in silence, forgetting all the
unheard-of difficulties of his situation in the happiness of holding
her in his arms. His silence, indeed, was more eloquent than any words
could have been. "My beloved!" he said at last, "how could you run such
risks for me? Do you think I am worthy of so much love? And yet, if
loving you can make me worthy of you, I am the most deserving man that
ever lived--and I live only for you. But for you I might as well be
buried under our feet here with my poor comrades. But tell me,
Faustina, were you not afraid to come? How long have you been here? It
is very late--it is almost morning."
"Is it? What does it matter, since you are safe? You ask how I came?
Did I not tell you I would follow you? Why did you run on without me? I
ran here very quickly, and just as I saw the gates of the barracks
there was a terrible noise and I was thrown down, I cannot tell how.
Soon I got to my feet and crept under a doorway. I suppose I must have
fainted, for I thought you were killed. I saw a soldier before me, just
when it happened, and he must have been struck. I took him for you.
When I came to myself there were so many people in the street that I
could not move from where I was. Then they went away, and I came here
while the workmen tried to move the stones, and I watched them and
begged them to go on, but they would not, and I had nothing to give
them, so they went away too, and I knew that I should have to wait
until to-morrow to find you--for I would have waited--no one should
have dragged me away--ah! my darling--my beloved! What does anything
matter now that you are safe!"
For fully half an hour they sat talking in this wise, both knowing that
the situation could not last, but neither willing to speak the word
which must end it. Gouache, indeed, was in a twofold difficulty. Not
only was he wholly at a loss for a means of introducing Faustina into
her father's house unobserved at such an hour; he was in command of the
men stationed in the neighbourhood, and to leave his post under any
circumstances whatever would be a very grave breach of duty. He could
neither allow Faustina to return alone, nor could he accompany her. He
could not send one of his men for a friend to help him, since to take
any one into his confidence was to ruin the girl's reputation in the
eyes of all Rome. To find a cab at that time of night was almost out of
the question. The position seemed desperate. Faustina, too, was a mere
child, and it was impossible to explain to her the social consequences
of her being discovered with him.
"I think, perhaps," said she after a happy silence, and in rather a
timid voice--"I think, perhaps, you had better take me home now. They
will be anxious, you know," she added, as though fearing that he should
suspect her of wishing to leave him.
"Yes, I must take you home," answered Gouache, somewhat absently. To
her his tone sounded cold.
"Are you angry, because I want to go?" asked the young girl, looking
lovingly into his face.
"Angry? No indeed, darling! I ought to have taken you home at once--but
I was too happy to think of it. Of course your people must be terribly
anxious, and the question is how to manage your entrance. Can you get
into the house unseen? Is there any way? Any small door that is open?"
"We can wake the porter," said Faustina, simply. "He will let us in."
"It would not do. How can I go to your father and tell him that I found
you here? Besides, the porter knows me."
"Well, if he does, what does it matter?"
"He would talk about it to other servants, and all Rome would know it
to-morrow. You must go home with a woman, and to do that we must find
some one you know. It would be a terrible injury to you to have such a
story repeated abroad."
"Why?"
To this innocent question Gouache did not find a ready answer. He
smiled quietly and pressed her to his side more closely.
"The world is a very bad place, dearest. I am a man and know it. You
must trust me to do what is best. Will you?"
"How can you ask? I will always trust you."
"Then I will tell you what we will do. You must go home with the
Princess Sant' Ilario."
"With Corona? But--"
"She knows that I love you, and she is the only woman in Rome whom I
would trust. Do not be surprised. She asked me if it was true, and I
said it was. I am on duty here, and you must wait for me while I make
the rounds of my sentries--it will not take five minutes. Then I will
take you to the Palazzo Saracinesca. I shall not be missed here for an
hour."
"I will do whatever you wish," said Faustina. "Perhaps that is best.
But I am afraid everybody will be asleep. Is it not very late?"
"I will wake them up if they are sleeping."
He left her to make his round and soon assured himself that his men
were not napping. Then before he returned he stopped at the corner of a
street and by the feeble moonlight scratched a few words on a leaf from
his notebook.
"Madame," he wrote, "I have found Donna Faustina Montevarchi, who had
lost her way. It is absolutely necessary that you should accompany her
to her father's house. You are the only person whom I can trust. I am
at your gate. Bring something in the way of a cloak to disguise her
with."
He signed his initials and folded the paper, slipping it into his
pocket where he could readily find it. Then he went back to the place
where Faustina was waiting. He helped her out of the ruins, and passing
through a side street so as to avoid the sentinels, they made their way
rapidly to the bridge. The sentry challenged Gouache who gave the word
at once and was allowed to pass on with his charge. In less than a
quarter of an hour they were at the Palazzo Saracinesca. Gouache made
Faustina stand in the shadow of a doorway on the opposite side of the
street and advanced to the great doors. A ray of light which passed
through the crack of a shutter behind the heavy iron grating on one
side of the arch showed that the porter was up. Anastase drew his
bayonet from his side and tapped with its point against the high window.
"Who is there?" asked the porter, thrusting his head out.
"Is the Principe di Sant' Ilario still awake?" asked Gouache.
"He is not at home. Heaven knows where he is. What do you want? The
princess is sitting up to wait for the prince."
"That will do as well," replied Anastase. "I am sent with this note
from the Vatican. It needs an immediate answer. Be good enough to say
that I was ordered to wait."
The explanation satisfied the porter, to whom the sight of a Zouave was
just then more agreeable than usual. He put his arm out through the
grating and took the paper.
"It does not look as though it came from the Vatican," he remarked
doubtfully, as he turned the scrap to the light of his lamp.
"The cardinal is waiting--make haste!" said Gouache. It struck him that
even if the man could read a little, which was not improbable, the
initials A. G., being those of Cardinal Antonelli in reversed order
would be enough to frighten the fellow and make him move quickly. This,
indeed was precisely what occurred.
In five minutes the small door in the gate was opened and Gouache saw
Corona's tall figure step out into the street. She hesitated a moment
when she saw the Zouave alone, and then closed the door with a snap
behind her. Gouache bowed quickly and gave her his arm.
"Let us be quick," he said, "or the porter will see us. Donna Faustina
is under that doorway. You know how grateful I am--there is no time to
say it."
Corona said nothing but hastened to Faustina's side. The latter put her
arms about her friend's neck and kissed her. The princess threw a wide
cloak over the young girl's shoulders and drew the hood over her head.
"Let us be quick," said Corona, repeating Gouache's words. They walked
quickly away in silence, and no one spoke until they leached the
Palazzo Montevarchi. Explanations were impossible, and every one was
too much absorbed by the danger of the situation to speak of anything
else. When they were a few steps from the gate Corona stopped.
"You may leave us here," she said coldly, addressing Gouache.
"But, princess, I will see you home," protested the latter, somewhat
surprised by her tone.
"No--I will take a servant back with me. Will you be good enough to
leave us?" she asked almost haughtily, as Gouache still lingered.
He had no choice but to obey her commands, though for some time he
could not explain to himself the cause of the princess's behaviour.
"Goodnight, Madame. Good-night, Mademoiselle," he said, quietly. Then
with a low bow he turned away and disappeared in the darkness. In five
minutes he had reached the bridge, running at the top of his speed, and
he regained his post without his absence having been observed.
When the two women were alone, Corona laid her hand upon Faustina's
shoulder and looked down into the girl's face.
"Faustina, my child," she said, "how could you be led into such a wild
scrape?"
"Why did you treat him so unkindly?" asked the young girl with flashing
eyes. "It was cruel and unkind--"
"Because he deserved it," answered Corona, with rising anger. "How
could he dare--from my house--a mere child like you---"
"I do not know what you imagine," said Faustina in a tone of deep
resentment. "I followed him to the Serristori barracks, and I fainted
when they were blown up. He found me and brought me to you, because he
said I could not go back to my father's house with him. If I love him
what is that to you?"
"It is a great deal to me that he should have got you into this
trouble."
"He did not. If it is trouble, I got myself into it. Do you love him
yourself that you are so angry?"
"I!" cried Corona in amazement at the girl's audacity. "Poor Gouache!"
she added with a half-scornful, half-pitying laugh. "Come, child! Let
us go in. We cannot stand here all night talking. I will tell your
mother that you lost your way in our house and were found asleep in a
distant room. The lock was jammed, and you could not get out."
"I think I will simply tell the truth," answered Faustina.
"You will do nothing of the kind," said Corona, sternly. "Do you know
what would happen? You would be shut up in a convent by your father for
several years, and the world would say that I had favoured your
meetings with Monsieur Gouache. This is no trifling matter. You need
say nothing. I will give the whole explanation myself, and take the
responsibility of the falsehood upon my own shoulders."
"I promised him to do as he bid me," replied Faustina. "I suppose he
would have me follow your advice, and so I will. Are you still angry,
Corona?"
"I will try not to be, if you will be sensible."
They knocked at the gate and were soon admitted. The whole household
was on foot, though it was past one o'clock. It is unnecessary to
describe the emotions of Faustina's relations, nor their gratitude to
Corona, whose explanation they accepted at once, with a delight which
may easily be imagined.
"But your porter said he had seen her leave your house," said the
Princess Montevarchi, recollecting the detail and anxious to have it
explained.
"He was mistaken, in his fright," returned Corona, calmly. "It was only
my maid, who ran out to see what was the matter and returned soon
afterwards."
There was nothing more to be said. The old prince and Ascanio Bellegra
walked home with Corona, who refused to wait until a carriage could be
got ready, on the ground that her husband might have returned from the
search and might be anxious at her absence. She left her escort at her
door and mounted the steps alone. As she was going up the porter came
running after her.
"Excellency," he said in low tones, "the Signor Principe came back
while you were gone, and I told him that you had received a note from
the Vatican and had gone away with the Zouave who brought it. I hope I
did right---"
"Of course you did," replied Corona. She was a calm woman and not
easily thrown off her guard, but as she made her answer she was
conscious of an unpleasant sensation wholly new to her. She had never
done anything concerning which she had reason to ask herself what
Giovanni would think of it. For the first time since her marriage with
him she knew that she had something to conceal. How, indeed, was it
possible to tell him the story of Faustina's wild doings? Giovanni was
a man who knew the world, and had no great belief in its virtues. To
tell him what had occurred would be to do Faustina an irreparable
injury in his eyes. He would believe his wife, no doubt, but he would
tell her that Faustina had deceived her. She cared little what he might
think of Gouache, for she herself was incensed against him, believing
that he must certainly have used some persuasion to induce Faustina to
follow him, mad as the idea seemed.
Corona had little time for reflection, however. She could not stand
upon the stairs, and as soon as she entered the house she must meet her
husband. She made up her mind hurriedly to do what in most cases is
extremely dangerous. Giovanni was in her boudoir, pale and anxious. He
had forgotten that he had not dined that evening and was smoking a
cigarette with short sharp puffs.
"Thank God!" he cried, as his wife entered the room. "Where have you
been, my darling?"
"Giovanni," said Corona, gravely, laying her two hands on his
shoulders, "you know you can trust me--do you not?"
"As I trust Heaven," he answered, tenderly.
"You must trust me now, then," said she. "I cannot tell you where I
have been. I will tell you some day, you have my solemn promise.
Faustina Montevarchi is with her mother. I took her back, and told them
she had followed me from the room, had lost her way in the house, and
had accidentally fastened a door which she could not open. You must
support the story. You need only say that I told you so, because you
were out at the time. I will not lie to you, so I tell you that I
invented the story."
Sant' Ilario was silent for a few minutes, during which he looked
steadily into his wife's eyes, which met his without flinching.
"You shall do as you please, Corona," he said at last, returning the
cigarette to his lips and still looking at her. "Will you answer me one
question?"
"If I can without explaining."
"That Zouave who brought the message from the Vatican--was he Gouache?"
Corona turned her eyes away, annoyed at the demand. To refuse to answer
was tantamount to admitting the truth, and she would not lie to her
husband.
"It was Gouache," she said, after a moment's hesitation.
"I thought so," answered Sant' Ilario in a low voice. He moved away,
throwing his cigarette into the fireplace. "Very well," he continued,
"I will remember to tell the story as you told it to me, and I am sure
you will tell me the truth some day."
"Of course," said Corona. "And I thank you, Giovanni, with my whole
heart! There is no one like you, dear."
She sat down in a chair beside him as he stood, and taking his hand she
pressed it to her lips. She knew well enough what a strange thing she
had asked, and she was indeed grateful to him. He stooped down and
kissed her forehead.
"I will always trust you," he said, softly. "Tell me, dear one, has
this matter given you pain? Is it a secret that will trouble you?"
"Not now," she answered, frankly.
Giovanni was in earnest when he promised to trust his wife. He knew,
better than any living man, how well worthy she was of his utmost
confidence, and he meant what he said. It must be confessed that the
situation was a trying one to a man of his temper, and the depth of his
love for Corona can be judged from the readiness with which he
consented to her concealing anything from him. Every circumstance
connected with what had happened that evening was strange, and the
conclusion, instead of elucidating the mystery, only made it more
mysterious still. His cousin's point-blank declaration that Faustina
and Gouache were in love was startling to all his ideas and prejudices.
He had seen Gouache kiss Corona's hand in a corner of the drawing-room,
a proceeding which he did not wholly approve, though it was common
enough. Then Gouache and Faustina had disappeared. Then Faustina had
been found, and to facilitate the finding it had been necessary that
Corona and Gouache should leave the palace together at one o'clock in
the morning. Finally, Corona had appealed to his confidence in her and
had taken advantage of it to refuse any present explanation whatever of
her proceedings. Corona was a very noble and true woman, and he had
promised to trust her. How far he kept his word will appear hereafter.