When Anastase Gouache was at last relieved from duty and went home in
the gray dawn of the twenty-third, he lay down to rest expecting to
reflect upon the events of the night. The last twelve hours had been
the most eventful of his life; indeed less than that time had elapsed
since he had bid farewell to Faustina in the drawing-room of the
Palazzo Saracinesca, and yet the events which had occurred in that
short space had done much towards making him another man. The change
had begun two years earlier, and had progressed slowly until it was
completed all at once by a chain of unforeseen circumstances. He
realised the fact, and as this change was not disagreeable to him he
set himself to think about it. Instead of reviewing what had happened,
however, he did what was much more natural in his case, he turned upon
his pillow and fell fast asleep. He was younger than his years, though
he counted less than thirty, and his happy nature had not yet formed
that horrible habit of wakefulness which will not yield even to bodily
fatigue. He lay down and slept like a boy, disturbed by no dreams and
troubled by no shadowy revival of dangers or emotions past.
He had placed a gulf between himself and his former life. What had
passed between him and Faustina, might under other circumstances have
become but a romantic episode in the past, to be thought of with a
certain tender regret, half fatuous, half genuine, whenever the
moonlight chanced to cast the right shadow and the artist's mind was in
the contemplative mood. The peculiar smell of broken masonry, when it
is a little damp, would recall the impression, perhaps; an old wall
knocked to pieces by builders would, through his nostrils, bring
vividly before him that midnight meeting amid the ruins of the
barracks, just as the savour of a certain truffle might bring back the
memory of a supper at Voisin's, or as, twenty years hence, the pasty
grittiness of rough maize bread would make him remember the days when
he was chasing brigands in the Samnite hills. But this was not to be
the case this time. There was more matter for reminiscence than a ray
of moonlight on a fair face, or the smell of crumbling mortar.
There was a deep and sincere devotion on both sides, in two persons
both singularly capable of sincerity, and both foresaw that the result
of this love could never be indifference. The end could only be
exceeding happiness, or mortal sorrow. Anastase and Faustina were not
only themselves in earnest; each knew instinctively that the other
would be faithful, a condition extremely rare in ordinary cases. Each
recognised that the obstacles were enormous, but neither doubted for a
moment that means would be found to overcome them.
In some countries the marriage of these two would have been a simple
matter enough. A man of the world, honourable, successful, beginning to
be famous, possessed of some fortune, might aspire to marry any one he
pleased in lands where it is not a disgrace to have acquired the means
of subsistence by one's own talent and industry. Artists and poets have
sometimes made what are called great marriages. But in Rome, twenty
years ago, things were very different. It is enough to consider the way
in which Montevarchi arranged to dispose of his daughter Flavia to
understand the light in which he would have regarded Faustina's
marriage with Anastase Gouache. The very name of Gouache would have
raised a laugh in the Montevarchi household had any one suggested that
a woman of that traditionally correct race could ever make it her own.
There were persons in Rome, indeed, who might have considered the
matter more leniently. Corona Sant' Ilario was one of these; but her
husband and father-in-law would have opened their eyes as wide as old
Lotario Montevarchi himself, had the match been discussed before them.
Their patriarchally exclusive souls would have been shocked and the
dear fabric of their inborn prejudices shaken to its deepest
foundations. It was bad enough, from the point of view of potential
matrimony, to earn money, even if one had the right to prefix "Don" to
one's baptismal name. But to be no Don and to receive coin for one's
labour was a far more insurmountable barrier against intermarriage with
the patriarchs than hereditary madness, toothless old age, leprosy, or
lack of money.
Gouache had acquired enough knowledge of Roman life to understand this,
and nothing short of physical exhaustion would have prevented his
spending his leisure in considering the means of overcoming such
stupendous difficulties. When he awoke his situation presented itself
clearly enough to his mind, however, and occupied his thoughts
throughout the remainder of the day. Owing to the insurrection his
departure was delayed for twenty-four hours, and his duty was likely to
keep him busily engaged during the short time that remained to him. The
city was in a state of siege and there would be a perpetual service of
patrols, sentries and general maintenance of order. The performance of
labours almost mechanical left him plenty of time for reflection,
though he found it hard to spare a moment in which to see any of his
friends.
He was very anxious to meet the Princess Sant' Ilario, whose conduct on
the previous night had seriously alarmed him. It was to her that he
looked for assistance in his troubles and the consciousness that she
was angry with him was a chief source of distress. In the course of the
few words he had exchanged with her, she had made it sufficiently clear
to him that although she disapproved in principle of his attachment to
Faustina, she would do nothing to hinder his marriage if he should be
able to overcome the obstinacy of the girl's parents. He was at first
at a loss to explain her severity to him when she had left her house to
take Faustina home. Being wholly innocent of any share in the latter's
mad course, it did not at first enter his mind that Corona could
attribute to him any blame in the matter. On the contrary, he knew that
if the girl's visit to the ruined barracks remained a secret, this
would be owing quite as much to his own discretion and presence of mind
as to the princess's willingness to help him. Not a little, too, was
due to good luck, since the least difference in the course of events
must have led to immediate discovery.
A little thought led him to a conclusion which wounded his pride while
it explained Corona's behaviour. It was evident that she had believed
in a clandestine meeting, prearranged between the lovers at the
instigation of Gouache himself, and she had probably supposed this
meeting to be only the preliminary to a runaway match. How, indeed,
could Faustina have expected to escape observation, even had there been
no revolution in Rome, that night? Corona clearly thought that the girl
had never intended to come back, that Gouache had devised means for
their departure, and that Faustina had believed the elopement possible
in the face of the insurrection. Anastase, on finding himself in the
small hours of the morning with Faustina on his hands and knowing that
discovery must follow soon after day-break, had boldly brought her to
the Palazzo Saracinesca and had demanded Corona's assistance.
As the artist thought the matter over, he became more and more
convinced that he had understood the princess's conduct, and the
reflection made him redden with shame and anger. He determined to seize
the first moment that presented itself for an explanation with the
woman who had wronged him. He unexpectedly found himself at liberty
towards five o'clock in the afternoon and made haste at once to reach
the Palazzo Saracinesca. Knowing that no one would be allowed to be in
the streets after dark, he felt sure of finding Corona without
visitors, and expected the most favourable opportunity for talking over
the subject which distressed him.
After waiting several minutes in one of the outer halls he was ushered
in, and to his extreme annoyance found himself in the midst of a family
party. He had not counted upon the presence of the men of the
household, and the fact that the baby was also present did not
facilitate matters. Old Saracinesca greeted him warmly; Sant' Ilario
looked grave; Corona herself looked up from her game with little
Orsino, nodded and uttered a word of recognition, and then returned to
her occupation.
Conversation under these circumstances was manifestly impossible, and
Gouache wished he had not had the unlucky idea of calling. There was
nothing to be done, however, but to put on a brave face and make the
best of it.
"Well, Monsieur Gouache," inquired the old prince, "and how did you
spend the night?"
He could scarcely have asked a question better calculated to disturb
the composure of everyone present except the baby. Anastase could not
help looking at Corona, who looked instinctively at her husband, while
the latter gazed at Gouache, wondering what he would say. All three
turned a shade paler, and during a very few seconds there was an
awkward silence.
"I spent the night very uncomfortably," replied Anastase, after
hesitating a little. "We were driven from pillar to post, repelling
attacks, doing sentry duty, clearing the streets, marching and
countermarching. It was daylight when I was relieved."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Sant' Ilario. "I had supposed that you had remained
all night at the Porta San Paolo. But there are many contradictory
accounts. I was in some anxiety until I was assured that you had not
been blown up in that infernal plot."
Gouache was on the point of asking who had told Giovanni that he had
escaped, but fortunately checked himself, and endeavoured to turn the
conversation to the disaster at the barracks. Thereupon old
Saracinesca, whose blood was roused by the atrocity, delivered a
terrible anathema against the murderous wretches who had ruined the
building, and expressed himself in favour of burning them alive, a
fate, indeed, far too good for them. Anastase profited by the old
gentleman's eloquence to make advances to the baby. Little Orsino,
however, struck him a vigorous blow in the face with his tiny fist and
yelled lustily.
"He does not like strangers," remarked Corona, coldly. She rose with
the child in her arms and moved towards the door, Gouache following her
with the intention of opening it for her to go out. The prince was
still thundering out curses against the conspirators, and Anastase
attempted to say a word unobserved as Corona passed him.
"Will you not give me a hearing?" he asked in a low tone, accompanying
his words with an imploring look.
Corona raised her eyebrows slightly as though surprised, but his
expression of genuine contrition softened her heart a little and
rendered her answer perhaps a trifle less unkind than she had meant it
to be.
"You should be satisfied--since I keep your secret," she said, and
passed quickly out.
When Gouache turned after closing the door he was aware that Sant'
Ilario had been watching him, by the fixed way in which he was now
looking in another direction. The Zouave wished more and more fervently
that he had not come to the house, but resolved to prolong his visit in
the hope that Corona might return. Sant' Ilario was unaccountably
silent, but his father kept up a lively conversation, needing only an
occasional remark from Gouache to give a fillip to his eloquence.
This situation continued during nearly half an hour, at the end of
which time Anastase gave up all hope of seeing Corona again. The two
men evidently did not expect her to return, for they had made
themselves comfortable and had lighted their cigarettes.
"Good-bye, Monsieur Gouache," said the old prince, cordially shaking
him by the hand. "I hope we shall see you back again alive and well in
a few days."
While he was speaking Giovanni had rung the bell for the servant to
show the visitor out, an insignificant action, destined to produce a
rather singular result. Sant' Ilario himself, feeling that after all he
might never see Gouache alive again, repented a little of his coldness,
and while the latter stood ready to go, detained him with a question as
to his destination on leaving the city. This resulted in a lively
discussion of Garibaldi's probable movements, which lasted several
minutes.
Corona in the meantime had taken Orsino back to his nurse, and had
bidden her maid let her know when the visitor in the drawing-room was
gone. The woman went to the hall, and when Giovanni rang the bell,
returned to inform her mistress of the fact, supposing that Gouache
would go at once. Corona waited a few minutes, and then went back to
the sitting-room, which was at the end of the long suite of apartments.
The result was that she met Anastase in one of the rooms on his way
out, preceded by the footman, who went on towards the hall after his
mistress had passed. Corona and Gouache were left face to face and
quite alone in the huge dim drawing-room. Gouache had found his
opportunity and did not hesitate.
"Madame," he said, "I beg your pardon for trespassing on your time, but
I have a serious word to say. I am going to the frontier and am as
likely to be killed as any one else. On the faith of a man who may be
dead to-morrow, I am wholly innocent of what happened last night. If I
come back I will prove it to you some day. If not, will you believe me,
and not think of me unkindly?"
Corona hesitated and stood leaning against the heavy curtain of a
window for a moment. Though the room was very dim, she could see the
honest look in the young man's eyes and she hesitated before she
answered. She had heard that day that two of her acquaintances had
fallen fighting against the Garibaldians and she knew that Anastase was
speaking of a very near possibility when he talked of being killed.
There were many chances that he was telling the truth, and she felt how
deeply she should regret her unbelief if he should indeed meet his fate
before they met again.
"You tell me a strange thing," she said at last. "You ask me to believe
that this poor girl, of her own free will and out of love for you,
followed you out of this room last night into the midst of a
revolution. It is a hard thing to believe---"
"And yet I implore you to believe it, princess. A man who should love
her less than I, would be the basest of men to speak thus of her love.
God knows, if things had been otherwise, I would not have let you know.
But was there any other way of taking her home? Did I not do the only
thing that was at all possible to keep last night's doings a secret? I
love her to such a point that I glory in her love for me. If I could
have shielded her last night by giving up my life, you know that I
would have ended my existence that very moment. It would have done no
good. I had to confide in some one, and you, who knew half my secret,
since I had told you I loved her, were the only person who could be
allowed to guess the remainder. If it could profit her that you should
think me a villain, you might think me so--even you, whom I reverence
beyond all women save her. But to let you think so would be to degrade
her, and that you shall not do. You shall not think that she has been
so foolish as to pin her faith on a man who would lead her to
destruction--ah! if I loved her less I could tell you better what I
mean."
Corona was moved by his sincerity, if not by his arguments. She saw all
the strangeness of the situation; how he had been forced to confide in
some one, and how it seemed better in his eyes that she should know how
Faustina had really behaved, than think that the young girl had agreed
to a premeditated meeting. She was touched and her heart relented.
"I believe you," she said. "Forgive me if I have wronged you."
"Thank you, thank you, dear princess!" cried Gouache, taking her hand
and touching it with his lips. "I can never thank you as I would. And
now, good-bye--I am going. Will you give me your blessing, as my mother
would?" He smiled, as he recalled the conversation of the previous
evening.
"Good-bye," answered Corona. "May all blessings go with you." He turned
away and she stood a moment looking after him as he disappeared in the
gloom.
She was sorry for him in her heart and repented a little of having
treated him so harshly. And yet, as soon as he was gone she began to
doubt again, wondering vaguely whether she had not been deceived. There
was an odd fascination about the soldier-artist which somehow
influenced her in his favour when he was present, and of which she was
not conscious until he was out of her sight. Now that she was alone,
she found herself considering how this peculiar charm which he
possessed would be likely to affect a young girl like Faustina, and she
was obliged to acknowledge that it would account well enough for the
latter's foolish doings. She could not look into Gouache's eyes and
doubt what he said, but she found it hard afterwards to explain the
faith she put in him.
She was roused from her short reflection by her husband who, without
being observed by her, had come to her side. Seeing that she did not
return to the sitting-room when Gouache was gone he had come in search
of her, and by the merest chance had overheard the last words which had
passed between her and Anastase, and had seen how the latter fervently
kissed her hand. The phrase in which she had wished him good luck rang
unpleasantly in his ears and startled the inmost sensibilities of his
nature. He remembered how she had blessed him once, in her calm, gentle
way, on that memorable night of the Frangipani ball nearly three years
before, and there was a similarity between the words she had used then
and the simple expression which had now fallen from her lips.
Giovanni stood beside her now and laid his hand upon her arm. It was
not his nature to break out suddenly as his father did, when anything
occurred to disturb his peace of mind. The Spanish blood he had
inherited from his mother had imparted a profound reserve to his
character, which gave it depth rather than coldness. It was hard for
him to speak out violently when under the influence of emotion, but
this very difficulty of finding words and his aversion to using them
made him more sincere, more enduring and less forgiving than other men.
He could wait long before he gave vent to his feelings, but they
neither grew cool nor dull for the waiting. He detested concealment and
secrecy more than most people, but his disinclination to speak of any
matter until he was sure of it had given him the reputation of being
both reticent and calculating. Giovanni now no longer concealed from
himself the fact that he was annoyed by what was passing, but he
denied, even in his heart, that he was jealous. To doubt Corona would
be to upset the whole fabric of his existence, which he had founded
upon her love and which had been built up to such great proportions
during the past three years. His first impulse was to ask an
explanation, and it carried him just far enough to lay his hand on his
wife's arm, when it was checked by a multitude of reflections and
unconscious arguments which altogether changed his determination.
"I thought he was gone," he said, quietly enough.
"So did I," replied Corona, in a cooler tone than she generally used in
speaking to her husband.
She, too, was annoyed, for she suspected that Giovanni had been
watching her; and since, on the previous evening he had promised to
trust her altogether in this affair, she looked upon his coming almost
in the light of an infringement upon the treaty, and resented it
accordingly. She did not reflect that it was unlikely that Giovanni
should expect her to try to meet Gouache on his way out, and would
therefore not think of lying in wait for her. His accidental coming
seemed premeditated. He, on his side, had noticed her marked coldness
to Anastase in the sitting-room and thought it contrasted very
strangely with the over-friendly parting of which he had chanced to be
a witness. Corona, too, knew very well that the last words spoken were
capable of misinterpretation, and as she had no intention of telling
her husband Faustina's story at present she saw no way of clearing up
the situation, and therefore prepared to ignore it altogether.
They turned together and walked slowly back in the direction of the
sitting-room, neither speaking a word until they had almost reached the
door. Then Giovanni stopped and looked at his wife.
"Is it part of last night's secret?" he asked, almost indifferently.
"Yes," answered Corona. "What could you suppose it was? I met him by
accident and we exchanged a few words."
"I know. I heard you say good-bye. I confess I was surprised. I thought
you meant to be rude to him when we were all together, but I was
mistaken. I hope your blessing will profit him, my dear!" He spoke
quite naturally and without effort.
"I hope so too," returned Corona. "You might have added yours, since
you were present."
"To tell the truth," said Giovanni, with a short laugh, "I fancy it
might not have been so acceptable."
"You talk very strangely, Giovanni!"
"Do I? It seems to me quite natural. Shall we go into the sitting-room?"
"Giovanni--you promised to trust me last night, and I promised to
explain everything to you some day. You must keep your promise wholly
or not at all."
"Certainly," answered Sant' Ilario, opening the door for his wife and
thus forcing the conversation to end suddenly, since old Saracinesca
must now hear whatever was said.
He would not allow the situation to last, for fear lest he should say
something of which he might repent, for in spite of his words he did
not wish to seem suspicious. Unfortunately, Corona's evident annoyance
at having been overheard did more to strengthen the feeling of
resentment which was growing in him than what he had heard and seen a
few moments earlier. The way in which she had reproached him with not
adding his blessing to hers showed plainly enough, he thought, that she
was angry at what had occurred. They both entered the room, but before
they had been long together Giovanni left his wife and father and
retired to his own room under pretext of writing letters until
dinner-time.
When he was alone, the situation presented itself to his mind in a very
disagreeable light. Corona's assurance that the mystery was a harmless
one seemed wholly inadequate to account for her meeting with Gouache
and for her kind treatment of him, especially after she had shown
herself so evidently cold to him in the presence of the others. Either
Giovanni was a very silly fellow, or he was being deceived as no man
was ever deceived before. Either conclusion was exasperating. He asked
himself whether he were such a fool as to invent a misconstruction upon
occurrences which to any one else would have seemed void of any
importance whatsoever; and his heart answered that if he were indeed so
senseless he must have lost his intelligence very recently. On the
other hand to suspect Corona of actually entertaining a secret passion
for Gouache was an hypothesis which seemed too monstrous to be
discussed. He sat down to think about it, and was suddenly startled by
the host of little circumstances which all at once detached themselves
from the hazy past and stood out in condemnation of his wife. Gouache,
as he himself had acknowledged, had long worshipped the princess in a
respectful, almost reverential way. He had taken every occasion of
talking with her, and had expressed even by his outward manner a degree
of devotion he never manifested to other women. Giovanni was now aware
that for some time past, even as far back as the previous winter, he
had almost unconsciously watched Corona and Anastase when they were
together. Nothing in her conduct had excited his suspicions in the
least, but he had certainly suspected that Gouache was a little
inclined to idolise her, and had laughed to himself more than once at
the idea of the French artist's hopeless passion, with something of
that careless satisfaction a man feels who sees a less favoured mortal
in dangerous proximity to a flame which burns only for himself. It was
rather a contemptible amusement, and Giovanni had never indulged in it
very long. He liked Gouache, and, if anything, pitied him for his
hopeless passion. Corona treated the Zouave in her grand, quiet way,
which had an air of protection with it, and Giovanni would have scoffed
at the thought that she cared for the man. Nevertheless, now that
matters had taken such a strange turn, he recollected with surprise
that Gouache was undeniably the one of all their acquaintance who most
consistently followed Corona wherever they met. The young man was a
favourite in society. His great talent, his modesty, and above all what
people were pleased to describe as his harmlessness, made everybody
like him. He went everywhere, and his opportunities of meeting the
princess were almost numberless. Giovanni had certainly watched him
very often, though he was hardly conscious of having bestowed so much
attention on the French artist-soldier, that he never failed to glance
at his wife when Anastase was mentioned.
Now, and all at once, a hundred details rushed to his recollection, and
he was staggered by the vista of incidents that rose before his mind.
Within the last twenty-four hours, especially, the evidence had assumed
terrible proportions. In the first place there had been that scene in
the drawing-room, enacted quietly enough and in a corner, while there
were twenty persons present, but with the coolness of two people of the
world who know what surprising things may be done unobserved in a room
full of people. If Anastase had kissed Corona's hand a little
differently, and with the evident intention of being seen, the action
would have been natural. But there was a look in Gouache's face which
Giovanni remembered, and an expression of kindness in Corona's eyes
that he had not forgotten; above all they had both seemed as though
they were sure that no one was watching them. Indeed, Sant' Ilario now
asked himself how he had chanced to see what passed, and the only
answer was that he generally watched them when they were together. This
was a revelation to himself, and told much. Then there was her midnight
expedition with Gouache, a far more serious matter. After all, he had
only Corona's own assurance that Faustina Montevarchi had been in any
way concerned in that extraordinary piece of rashness. He must indeed
have had faith in his wife to pass over such conduct without a word of
explanation. Next came the events of that very afternoon. Corona had
been rude to Gouache, had then suddenly left the room, and in passing
out had exchanged a few words with him in a low tone. She had met him
again by accident, if it had been an accident, and fancying herself
unseen had behaved very differently to the young man. There had been a
parting which savoured unpleasantly of the affectionate, and which was
certainly something more than merely friendly. Lastly, Corona had
evidently been annoyed at Giovanni's appearance, a fact which seemed to
conclude the whole argument with a terrible certainty.
Finding himself face to face with a conclusion which threatened to
destroy his happiness altogether, Giovanni started up from his chair
and began to walk backwards and forwards in the room, pausing a moment
each time he turned, as though to gather strength, or to shake off an
evil thought. In the light of his present reflections an explanation
seemed inevitable, but when he thought of that he saw too clearly that
any explanation must begin by his accusing his wife, and he knew that
if he accused her justly, it would only end in a denial from her. What
woman, however guilty, would not deny her guilt when charged with it.
What man either, where love was concerned? Giovanni laughed bitterly,
then turned pale and sat down again. To accuse Corona of loving
Gouache! It was too monstrous to be believed. And yet--what did all
those doings mean? There must be a reason for them. If he called her
and told her what he felt, and if she were innocent, she would tell him
all, everything would be explained, and he would doubtless see that all
this damning evidence was no more than the natural outward appearance
of perfectly harmless circumstances of which he knew nothing. Ay, but
if they were harmless, why should she implore him to ask no questions?
Because the honour of some one else was concerned, of course. But was
he, Giovanni Saracinesca, not to be trusted with the keeping of that
other person's honour as well as Corona herself? Had they ever had
secrets from each other? Would it not have been simpler for her to
trust him with the story, if she was innocent, than to be silent and
ask him to trust her motives? Far simpler, of course. And then, if only
a third person's feelings were at stake, what necessity had there been
for such a sentimental parting? She had given Gouache a blessing very
like the one she had given Giovanni. Worst of all, were not the
circumstances the same, the very same?
Giovanni remembered the Frangipani ball. At that time Corona was
married to Astrardente, who had died a few days afterwards. Giovanni
had that night told Corona that he loved her, in very passionate terms.
She had silenced him, and he had behaved like a gentleman, for he had
asked her pardon for what he had done. She had forgiven him, and to
show that she bore no malice had spoken a kind of benediction--a prayer
that all might be well with him. He knew now that she had loved him
even then when she repelled him.
And now that she was married to Giovanni, another had come, and had
talked with her, and exchanged words in a low tone even as he himself
had once done. And she had treated this man roughly before her husband,
and presently afterwards had allowed him to kiss her hand and had sent
him away saying that she forgave him--just as she had formerly forgiven
Giovanni--and praying that all blessings might go with him. Why was it
not possible that she loved this man, too? Because she was so grandly
beautiful, and dark and calm, and had such a noble fearlessness in her
eyes? Other women had been beautiful and had deceived wiser men than
Giovanni, and had fallen. Beauty was no argument for the defence, nor
brave eyes, nor the magnificent dignity of movement and speech--nor
words either, for that matter.
Suspense was agony, and yet a twofold horror seemed the only issue, the
one inevitable, the other possible. First, to accuse this woman whom he
loved so dearly, and then, perhaps, to hear her deny the charge boldly
and yet refuse all explanation. Once more Giovanni rose from his deep
chair and paced his room with regular strides, though he scarcely saw
the carpet under his feet, nor realised any longer where he was. At
last he stopped and laughed. The sound was strange and false, as when a
man tries to be merry who feels no mirth.
He was making a desperate effort to shake off this nightmare that beset
him, to say to himself that he was but a fool, and that there was no
cause for all this suffering which he was inflicting on his heart, nor
for all these questions he had been asking of his intelligence. It was
surely not true! He would laugh now, would laugh heartily within the
next half hour with Corona herself, at the mere thought of supposing
that she could love Gouache, Gouache, a painter! Gouache, a Zouave!
Gouache, a contemptibly good-natured, harmless little foreigner!--and
Corona del Carmine, Duchessa d'Astrardente, Principessa di Sant'
Ilario, mother of all the Saracinesca yet to come! It was better to
laugh, truly, at such an absurd juxtaposition of ideas, of
personalities, of high and low. And Giovanni laughed, but the sound,
was very harsh and died away without rousing one honest echo in the
vaulted room.
Had Corona seen his face at that moment, or had she guessed what was
passing in his mind, she would have sacrificed Faustina's secret ten
times over rather than let Giovanni suffer a moment longer as he was
suffering now. But Corona had no idea that he could put such a
construction upon her doings. He had shown her nothing of what he felt,
except perhaps a slight annoyance at not being put in possession of the
secret. It was natural, she thought, that he should be a little out of
temper, but as she saw no way of remedying the trouble except by
exposing to him the innocent girl whom she had undertaken to protect,
she held her peace and trusted that her husband's displeasure would
soon be past. Had there been more time for reflection on the previous
evening, in the interval between her learning from the porter that
Giovanni knew of her absence, and her being confronted with Giovanni
himself, she might have resolved to act differently; but having once
made up her mind that he ought not to know the truth for the present,
opposition only strengthened her determination. There was nothing wrong
in the course she was pursuing, or her conscience would have spoken and
bidden her speak out. Her nature was too like Giovanni's own, proud,
reserved, and outwardly cold, to yield any point easily. It was her
instinct, like his, to be silent rather than to speak, and to weigh
considerations before acting upon them. This very similarity of temper
in the two rendered it certain that if they were ever opposed to each
other the struggle would be a serious one. They were both too strong to
lead a life of petty quarrelling; if they ceased to live in perfect
harmony they were only too sure to come to open hostility. There is
nothing which will wound pride and raise anger so inevitably as finding
unexpected but determined opposition in those who very closely resemble
ourselves. In such a case a man cannot fall back upon the comfortable
alternative of despising his enemy, since he has an intimate conviction
that it would be paramount to despising himself; and if he is led into
a pitched battle he will find his foe possessed of weapons which are
exactly like his own.
Giovanni and Corona were very evenly matched, as nearly resembling each
other as is possible for a man and a woman. Corona was outwardly a
little the colder, Giovanni a little the more resentful of the two.
Corona had learned during the years of her marriage with Astrardente to
wear a mask of serene indifference, and the assumed habit had at last
become in some degree a part of her nature. Giovanni, whose first
impulses had originally been quicker than they now were, had learned
the power of waiting by constant intercourse with his father, whose
fiery temper seemed to snatch at trifles for the mere pleasure of
tearing them to pieces, and did injustice to the generous heart he
concealed under his rough exterior.
Under these circumstances it was not probable that Sant' Ilario would
make any exhibition of his jealousy for some time to come. As he paced
the floor of his room, the bitterness of his situation slowly sank from
the surface, leaving his face calm and almost serene. He forced himself
to look at the facts again and again, trying bravely to be impartial
and to survey them as though he were the judge and not the plaintiff.
He admitted at last that there was undoubtedly abundant matter for
jealousy, but Corona still stood protected as it were by the love he
bore her, a love which even her guilt would be unable to destroy. His
love indeed, must outlast everything, all evil, all disgrace, and he
knew it. He thought of that Latin poet who, writing to his mistress,
said in the bitterness of his heart that though she were to become the
best woman in the world he could never again respect her, but that he
could not cease to love her, were she guilty of all crimes. He knew
that if the worst turned out true that must be his case, and perhaps
for the first time in his life he understood all the humanity of
Catullus, and saw how a man might love even what he despised.
Happily matters had not yet come to that. He knew that he might be
deceived, and that circumstantial evidence was not always to be
trusted. Even while his heart grew cold with the strongest and most
deadly passion of which man is capable, with jealousy which is cruel as
the grave, the nobility of his nature rose up and made him see that his
duty was to believe Corona innocent until she were proved unfaithful.
The effort to quench the flame was great, though fruitless, but the
determination to cover it and hide it from every one, even from Corona
herself, appealed to all that was brave and manly in his strong
character. When at last he once more sat down, his face betrayed no
emotion, his eyes were quiet, his hands did not tremble. He took up a
book and forced his attention upon the pages for nearly an hour without
interruption. Then he dressed himself, and went and sat at table with
his father and his wife as though nothing had occurred to disturb his
equanimity.
Corona supposed that he had recovered from his annoyance at not being
admitted to share the secret for which she was unconsciously
sacrificing so much. She had expected this result and was more than
usually cheerful. Once old Saracinesca mentioned Gouache, but both
Corona and Giovanni hastened to change the subject. This time, however,
Giovanni did not look at his wife when the name was pronounced. Those
days were over now.