The excitement which had reigned in Rome for weeks past was destined to
end almost as suddenly as it had begun. The events which followed the
22d of October have been frequently and accurately described; indeed,
if we consider the small number of the troops engaged and the
promptness with which a very limited body of men succeeded in quelling
what at first appeared to be a formidable revolution, we are surprised
at the amount of attention which has been accorded to the little
campaign. The fact is that although the armies employed on both sides
were insignificant, the questions at stake were enormous, and the real
powers which found themselves confronted at Monte Rotondo and Mentana
were the Kingdom of Italy and the French Empire. Until the ultimatum
was presented to Italy by the French Minister on the 19th of October,
Italy hoped to take possession of Rome on the pretext of restoring
order after allowing it to be subverted by Garibaldi's guerillas. The
military cordon formed by the Italian army to prevent Garibaldi's
crossing the frontier was a mere show. The arrest of the leader
himself, however it was intended by those who ordered it, turned out in
effect to be a mere comedy, as he soon found himself at liberty and no
one again attempted to seize him. When France interfered the scale
turned. She asserted her determination to maintain the Convention of
1864 by force of arms, and Italy was obliged to allow Garibaldi to be
defeated, since she was unable to face the perils of a war with her
powerful neighbour. If a small body of French troops had not entered
Rome on the 30th of the month, the events of 1870 would have occurred
three years earlier, though probably with different results.
It being the object of the general commanding the Pope's forces to
concentrate a body of men with whom to meet Garibaldi, who was now
advancing boldly, the small detachments, of which many had already been
sent to the front, were kept back in Rome in the hope of getting
together something like an army. Gouache's departure was accordingly
delayed from day to day, and it was not until the early morning of the
3d of November that he actually quitted Rome with the whole available
corps of Zouaves. Ten days elapsed, therefore, after the events last
described, during which time he was hourly in expectation of orders to
march. The service had become so arduous within the city that he could
scarcely call a moment his own. It was no time to think of social
duties, and he spent the leisure he had in trying to see Faustina
Montevarchi as often as possible.
This, however, was no easy matter. It was a provoking fact that his
duties kept him busily occupied in the afternoon and evening, and that
the hours he could command fell almost always in the morning. To visit
the Palazzo Montevarchi on any pretext whatever before one o'clock in
the day was out of the question. He had not even the satisfaction of
seeing Faustina drive past him in the Corso when she was out with her
mother and Flavia, since they drove just at the time when he was
occupied. Gouache told himself again and again that the display of
ingenuity was in a measure the natural duty of a man in love, but the
declaration did not help him very much. He was utterly at a loss for an
expedient, and suffered keenly in being deprived of the possibility of
seeing Faustina after having seen her so often and so intimately. A
week earlier he could have borne it better, but now the separation was
intolerable. In time of peace he would have disobeyed orders and thrown
up his service for the day, no matter what the consequences turned out
to be for himself; but at the present moment, when every man was
expected to be at his post, such conduct seemed dishonourable and
cowardly. He submitted in silence, growing daily more careworn, and
losing much of the inexhaustible gaiety which made him a general
favourite with his comrades.
There was but one chance of seeing Faustina, and even that one offered
little probability of an interview. He knew that on Sunday mornings she
sometimes went to church at an early hour with no one but her maid for
a companion. Her mother and Flavia preferred to rise later and attended
another mass. Now it chanced that in the year 1867, the 22d of October,
the date of the insurrection, fell on Tuesday. Five days, therefore,
must elapse before he could see Faustina on a Sunday, and if he failed
to see her then he would have to wait another week.
Unfortunately, Faustina's early expeditions to church were by no means
certain or regular, and it would be necessary to convey a message to
her before the day arrived. This was no easy matter. To send anything
through the post was out of the question, and Gouache knew how hard it
would be to find the means of putting a note into her hands through a
servant. Hour after hour he cudgelled his brains for an expedient
without success, until the idea pursued him and made him nervous. The
time approached rapidly and he had as yet accomplished nothing. The
wildest schemes suggested themselves to him and were rejected as soon
as he thought of them. He met some of his acquaintances during the idle
hours of the morning, and it almost drove him mad to think that almost
any one of them could see Faustina any day he pleased. He did what he
could to obtain leave in the afternoon or evening, but his exertions
were fruitless. He was a man who was trusted, and knew it, and the
disturbed state of affairs made it necessary that every man should do
precisely what was allotted to him, at the risk of causing useless
complications in the effort to concentrate and organise the troops
which was now going forward. At last he actually went to the Palazzo
Montevarchi in the morning and inquired if he could see the princess.
The porter replied that she was not visible, and that the prince had
gone out. There was nothing to be done, and he turned to go away.
Suddenly he stopped as he stood under the deep arch, facing the blank
wall on the opposite side of the street. That same wall was broad and
smooth and dark in colour. He only looked at it a moment, and then to
excuse his hesitation in the eyes of the porter, he took out a
cigarette, and lit it before going out. As he passed through the Piazza
Colonna a few minutes later he went into a shop and bought two large
tubes of paint with a broad brush. That night, when he was relieved
from duty, he went back to the Palazzo Montevarchi. It was very late,
and the streets were deserted. He stood before the great closed doors
of the palace and then walked straight across the street to the blank
wall with his paint and brush in his hands.
On the following morning when the Montevarchi porter opened the gates
his eyes were rejoiced by some most extraordinary specimens of
calligraphy executed upon the dark stones with red paint of a glaringly
vivid hue. The letters A. G. were drawn at least four feet high in the
centre, and were repeated in every size at irregular intervals for some
distance above, below, and on each side. The words "Domenica," Sunday,
and "Messa," mass, were scrawled everywhere in capitals, in roundhand,
large and small. Then to give the whole the air of having been designed
by a street-boy, there were other words, such as "Viva Pio IX.," "Viva
il Papa Re," and across these, in a different manner, and in green
paint, "Viva Garibaldi," "Morte a Antonelli," and similar revolutionary
sentiments. The whole, however, was so disposed that Gouache's initials
and the two important words stood out in bold relief from the rest, and
could not fail to attract the eye.
Of the many people who came and went that day through the great gate of
the Palazzo Montevarchi two only attached any importance to the glaring
scrawls on the opposite wall. One of these was Faustina herself, who
saw and understood. The other was San Giacinto, who stared at the
letters for several seconds, and then smiled faintly as he entered the
palace. He, too, knew what the signs meant, and remarked to himself
that Gouache was an enterprising youth, but that, in the interest of
the whole tribe of Montevarchi, it would be well to put a stop to his
love-making as soon as possible. It was now Saturday afternoon and
there was no time to be lost.
San Giacinto made a short visit, and, on leaving, went immediately to
the Palazzo Saracinesca. He knew that at four o'clock Corona would
probably not yet be at home. This turned out to be the case, and having
announced his intention of waiting for her return he was ushered into
the sitting-room. As soon as the servant was gone he went to Corona's
writing-table and took from it a couple of sheets of her paper and two
of her envelopes. These latter were stamped with a coronet and her
initials. He folded the paper carefully and put the four bits into his
pocket-book. He waited ten minutes, but no one came. Then he left the
house, telling the servant to say that he had called and would return
presently. In a few minutes he was at his lodgings, where he proceeded
to write the following note. He had taken two sheets in case the first
proved a failure:--
"I have understood, but alas! I cannot come. Oh, my beloved! when shall
we meet again? It seems years since Tuesday night--and yet I am so
watched that I can do nothing. Some one suspects something. I am sure
of it. A TRUSTY PERSON will bring you this. I love you always--do not
doubt it, though I cannot meet you to-morrow."
San Giacinto, who had received a tolerable education and had
conscientiously made the best of it, prided himself upon his
handwriting. It was small, clear, and delicate, like that of many
strong, quiet men, whose nerves do not run away with their fingers. On
the present occasion he took pains to make it even more careful than
usual, and the result was that it looked not unlike the "copperplate"
handwriting a girl would learn at the convent, though an expert would
probably have declared it disguised. It had been necessary, in order to
deceive Gouache, to write the note on the paper generally used by women
of society. As he could not get any of Faustina's own, it seemed the
next best thing to take Corona's, since Corona was her most intimate
friend.
Gouache had told San Giacinto that he was engaged every afternoon, in
hopes that he would in turn chance to mention the fact to Faustina. It
was therefore pretty certain that Anastase would not be at home between
four and five o'clock. San Giacinto drove to the Zouave's lodgings and
asked for him. If he chanced to be in, the note could be given to his
old landlady. He was out, however, and San Giacinto asked to be allowed
to enter the room on the pretext of writing a word for his friend. The
landlady was a dull old creature, who had been warming herself with a
pot of coals when San Giacinto rang. In answer to his request she
resumed her occupation and pointed to the door of the Zouave's
apartment.
San Giacinto entered, and looked about him for a conspicuous place in
which to put the letter he had prepared. He preferred not to trust to
the memory of the woman, who might forget to deliver it until the next
day, especially if Gouache came home late that night, as was very
likely. The table of the small sitting-room was littered with letters
and papers, books and drawings, so that an object placed in the midst
of such disorder would not be likely to attract Gouache's attention.
The door beyond was open, and showed a toilet-table in the adjoining
chamber, which was indeed the bedroom. San Giacinto went in, and taking
the note from his pocket, laid it on an old-fashioned pincushion before
the glass. The thing slipped, however, and in order to fasten it firmly
he thrust a gold pin that lay on the table through the letter and
pinned it to the cushion in a conspicuous position. Then he went out
and returned to the Palazzo Saracinesca as he had promised to do.
In doing all this he had no intention of injuring either Gouache or
Faustina. He perceived clearly enough that their love affair could not
come to any good termination, and as his interests were now very
closely bound up with those of the Montevarchi, it seemed wisest to
break off the affair by any means in his power, without complicating
matters by speaking to Gouache or to Faustina's father or mother. He
knew enough of human nature to understand that Gouache would be annoyed
at losing the chance of a meeting, and he promised himself to watch the
two so carefully as to be able to prevent other clandestine interviews
during the next few days. If he could once sow the seeds of a quarrel
between the two, he fancied it would be easy to break up the relations.
Nothing makes a woman so angry as to wait for a man who has promised to
meet her, and if he fails to come altogether her anger will probably be
very serious. In the present case he supposed that Faustina would go to
the church, but that Gouache, being warned that he was not to come,
would not think of keeping the tryst. The scheme, if not profound, was
at least likely to produce a good deal of trouble between the lovers.
San Giacinto returned to the Palazzo Saracinesca, but he found only the
old prince at home, though he prolonged his visit in the hope of seeing
Corona or Sant' Ilario.
"By the bye," he said, as he and his companion sat together in the
prince's study, "I remember that you were so good as to say that you
would let me see those family papers some day. They must be very
interesting and I would be glad to avail myself of your offer."
"Certainly," replied Saracinesca "They are in the Archives in a room of
the library. It is rather late now. Do you mind waiting till to-morrow?"
"Not in the least, or as long as you like. To tell the truth, I would
like to show them to my future father-in-law, who loves archaeology. I
was talking about them with him yesterday. After all, however, I
suppose the duplicates are at the Cancelleria, and we can see them
there."
"I do not know," said the prince, carelessly, "I never took the trouble
to inquire. There is probably some register of them, or something to
prove that they are in existence."
"There must be, of course. Things of that importance would not be
allowed to go unregistered, unless people were very indifferent in
those days."
"It is possible that there are no duplicates. It may be that there is
only an official notice of the deed giving the heads of the agreement.
You see it was a friendly arrangement, and there was supposed to be no
probability whatever that your great-grandfather would ever marry. The
papers I have are all in order and legally valid, but there may have
been some carelessness about registering them. I cannot be sure. Indeed
it is thirty years at least since I looked at the originals."
"If you would have them taken out some time before I am married, I
should be glad to see them, but there is no hurry. So all this riot and
revolution has meant something after all," added San Giacinto to change
the subject "Garibaldi has taken Monte Rotondo, I hear to-day."
"Yes, and if the French are not quick, we shall have the diversion of a
siege," replied Saracinesca rather scornfully. "That same taking of
Monte Rotondo was one of those gallant deeds for which Garibaldi is so
justly famous. He has six thousand men, and there were only three
hundred and fifty soldiers inside. Twenty to one, or thereabouts."
It is unnecessary to detail the remainder of the conversation.
Saracinesca went off into loud abuse of Garibaldi, confounding the
whole Italian Government with him and devoting all to one common
destination, while San Giacinto reserved his judgment, believing that
there was probably a wide difference between the real intentions of the
guerilla general and of his lawful sovereign, Victor Emmanuel the
Second, King of Italy. At last the two men were informed that Corona
had returned. They left the study and found her in the sitting-room.
"Where is Giovanni?" she asked as soon as they entered. She was
standing before the fireplace dressed as she had come in.
"I have no idea where he is," replied Saracinesca. "I suppose he is at
the club, or making visits somewhere. He has turned into a very orderly
boy since you married him." The old man laughed a little.
"I have missed him," said Corona, taking no notice of her
father-in-law's remark. "I was to have picked him up on the Pincio, and
when I got there he was gone. I am so afraid he will think I forgot all
about it, for I must have been late. You see, I was delayed by a crowd
in the Tritone--there is always a crowd there."
Corona seemed less calm than usual. The fact was, that since the affair
which had caused her husband so much annoyance, some small part of
which she had perceived, she had been trying to make up to him for his
disappointment in not knowing her secret, by being with him more than
usual, and by exerting herself to please him in every way. They did not
usually meet during the afternoon, as he generally went out on foot,
while she drove, but to-day they had agreed that she should come to the
Pincio and take him for a short drive and bring him home. The plan was
part of her fixed intention to be more than usually thoughtful where he
was concerned, and the idea that she had kept him waiting and that he
had gone away caused her more regret than would have been natural in
the ordinary course of events.
In order to explain what now took place, it is necessary to return to
Giovanni himself who, as Corona had said, had waited for his wife near
the band-stand on the Pincio for some time, until growing weary, he had
walked away and left the gardens.
Though he manfully concealed what he felt, the passion that had been
sown in his heart had grown apace and in a few days had assumed
dominating proportions. He suspected everything and everybody while
determined to appear indifferent. Even Corona's efforts to please him,
which of late had grown so apparent, caused him suspicion. He asked
himself why her manner should have changed, as it undoubtedly had
during the last few days. She had always been a good and loving wife to
him, and he was well pleased with her gravity and her dignified way of
showing her affection. Why should she suddenly think it needful to
become so very solicitous for his welfare and happiness during every
moment of his life? It was not like her to come into his study early in
the morning and to ask what he meant to do during the day. It was a new
thing that she should constantly propose to walk with him, to drive
with him, to read aloud to him, to make herself not only a part of his
heart but a part of his occupations. Had the change come gradually, he
would not have distrusted her motives. He liked his wife's company and
conversation, but as they each had things to do which could not
conveniently be done together, he had made up his mind to the existence
which was good enough for his companions in society. Other men did not
think of spending the afternoon in their wives' carriages, leaving
cards or making visits, or driving round and round the Villa Borghese
and the Pincio. To do so was to be ridiculous in the extreme, and
besides, though he liked to be with Corona, he detested visiting, and
hated of all things to stop a dozen times in the course of a drive in
order to send a footman upstairs with cards. He preferred to walk or to
lounge in the club or to stay at home and study the problems of his
improvements for Saracinesca. Corona's manner irritated him therefore,
and made him think more than ever of the subject which he would have
done better to abandon from the first.
Nevertheless, he would not show that he was wearied by his wife's
attention, still less that he believed her behaviour to be prompted by
a desire to deceive him. He was uniformly courteous and gentle,
acquiescing in her little plans whenever he could do so, and expressing
a suitable degree of regret when he was prevented from joining her by
some previous engagement. But the image of the French Zouave was ever
present with him. He could not get rid of Gouache's dark, delicate
features, even in his dreams; the sound of the man's pleasant voice and
of his fluent conversation was constantly in his ears, and he could not
look at Corona without fancying how she would look if Anastase were
beside her whispering tender speeches.
All the time, he submitted with a good grace to do whatever she
proposed, and on this afternoon he found himself waiting for her beside
the band-stand. At first he watched the passing carriages indifferently
enough, supposing that his own liveries would presently loom up in the
long line of high-seated coachmen and lacqueys, and having no especial
desire to see them. His position when in Corona's company grew every
day more difficult, and he thought as he stood by the stone pillar at
the corner that he would on the whole be glad if she did not come. He
was egregiously mistaken in himself, however. As the minutes passed he
grew uneasy, and watched the advancing carriages with a feverish
anxiety, saying to himself that every one must bring Corona, and
actually growing pale with emotion as each vehicle turned the distant
corner and came into view. The time seemed interminable after he had
once yielded to the excitement, and before another quarter of an hour
had elapsed, Sant' Ilario turned angrily away and left the Pincio by
the stairs that descend near the band-stand towards the winding drive
by which the Piazza del Popolo is reached.
It is not easy for a person who is calm to comprehend the workings of a
brain over excited with a strong passion. To a man who has lost the
sober use of his faculties in the belief that he has been foully
betrayed, every circumstance, every insignificant accident, seems a
link in the chain of evidence. A week earlier Giovanni would have
thought himself mad if the mere idea had suggested itself to him that
Corona loved Gouache. To-day he believed that she had purposely sent
him to wait upon the Pincio, in order that she might be sure of seeing
Gouache without fear of interruption. The conviction thrust itself upon
him with overwhelming force. He fancied himself the dupe of a common
imposition, he saw his magnificent love and trust made the sport of a
vulgar trick. The blood mounted to his dark face and as he descended
the steps a red mist seemed to be spread between his eyes and all
surrounding objects. Though he walked firmly and mechanically, saluting
his acquaintances as he passed, he was unconscious of his actions, and
moved like a man under the influence of a superior force. Jealousy is
that one of all the passions which is most sure to break out suddenly
into deeds of violence when long restrained.
Giovanni scarcely knew how he reached the Corso nor how it was that he
found himself ascending the dusky staircase which led to Gouache's
lodgings. It was less than a quarter of an hour since San Giacinto had
been there, and the old woman still held her pot of coals in her hand
as she opened the door. As she had pointed to the door when San
Giacinto had come, so she now directed Giovanni in the same way. But
Giovanni, on hearing that Anastase was out, began to ask questions.
"Has any one been here?" he inquired.
"Eh! There was a gentleman a quarter of an hour ago," replied the woman.
"Has any lady been here?"
"A lady? Macche!" The old creature laughed. "What should ladies do
here?"
Giovanni thought he detected some hesitation in the tone. He was in the
mood to fancy himself deceived by every one.
"Are you fond of money?" he asked, brutally.
"Eh! I am an old woman. What would you have? Am I crazy that I should
not like money? But Signor Gouache is a very good gentleman. He pays
well, thank Heaven!"
"What does he pay you for?"
"What for? For his lodging--for his coffee. Bacchus! What should he pay
me for? Strange question in truth. Do I keep a shop? I keep lodgings.
But perhaps you like the place? It is a fine situation--just in the
Corso and only one flight of stairs, a beautiful position for the
Carnival. Of course, if you are inclined to pay more than Signor
Gouache, I do not say but what---"
"I do not want your lodgings, my good woman," returned Giovanni in
gentler tones. "I want to know who comes to see your lodger."
"Who should come? His friends of course. Who else?"
"A lady, perhaps," said Giovanni in a thick voice. It hurt him to say
it, and the words almost stuck in his throat. "Perhaps a lady comes
sometimes," he repeated, pulling out some loose bank notes.
The old woman's filmy eyes suddenly twinkled in the gloom. The sound of
the crisp pieces of paper was delightful to her ear.
"Well," she said after a moment's hesitation, "if a beautiful lady does
come here, that is the Signore's affair. It is none of my business."
Giovanni thrust the notes into her palm, which was already wide open to
receive them. His heart beat wildly.
"She is beautiful, you say?"
"Oh! As beautiful as you please!" chuckled the hag.
"Is she dark?"
"Of course," replied the woman. There was no mistaking the tone in
which the question was asked, for Giovanni was no longer able to
conceal anything that he felt.
"And tall, I suppose? Yes. And she was here a quarter of an hour ago,
you say? Speak out!" he cried, advancing a step towards the old
creature. "If you lie to me, I will kill you! She was here--do not deny
it."
"Yes--yes," answered the woman, cowering back in some terror. "Per
carita! Don't murder me--I tell you the truth."
With a sudden movement Giovanni turned on his heel and entered
Gouache's sitting-room. It was now almost dark in the house and he
struck a match and lighted a candle that stood on the stable. The glare
illuminated his swarthy features and fiery eyes, and the veins stood
out on his forehead and temples like strained and twisted cords. He
looked about him in every direction, examining the table, strewn with
papers and books, the floor, the furniture, expecting every moment to
find something which should prove that Corona had been there. Seeing
nothing, he entered the bedroom beyond. It was a small chamber and he
had scarcely passed through the door when he found himself before the
toilet-table. The note San Giacinto had left was there pinned upon the
little cushion with the gold pin, as he had placed it.
Giovanni stared wildly at the thing for several seconds and his face
grew deadly white. There was no evidence lacking now, for the pin was
Corona's own. It was a simple enough object, made of plain gold, the
head being twisted into the shape of the letter C, but there was no
mistaking its identity, for Giovanni had designed it himself. Corona
used it for fastening her veil.
As the blood sank from his head to his heart Giovanni grew very calm.
He set the candle upon the toilet-table and took the note, after
putting the pin in his pocket. The handwriting seemed to be feigned,
and his lip curled scornfully as he looked at it and then, turning it
over, saw that the envelope was one of Corona's own. It seemed to him a
pitiable piece of folly in her to distort her writing when there was
such abundant proof on all sides to convict her. Without the slightest
hesitation he opened the letter and read it, bending down and holding
it near the candle. One perusal was enough. He smiled curiously as he
read the words, "I am so watched that I can do nothing. Some one
suspects something." His attention was arrested by the statement that a
trusty person--the words were underlined--would bring the note. The
meaning of the emphasis was explained by the pin; the trusty person was
herself, who, perhaps by an afterthought, had left the bit of gold as a
parting gift in case Gouache marched before they met again.
Giovanni glanced once more round the room, half expecting to find some
other convicting piece of evidence. Then he hesitated, holding the
candle in one hand and the note in the other. He thought of staying
where he was and waiting for Gouache, but the idea did not seem
feasible. Nothing which implied waiting could have satisfied him at
that moment, and after a few seconds he thrust the note into his pocket
and went out. His hand was on the outer door, when he remembered the
old woman who sat crouching over her pan of coals, scarcely able to
believe her good luck, and longing for Giovanni's departure in order
that she might count the crisp notes again. She dared not indulge
herself in that pleasure while he was present, lest he should repent of
his generosity and take back a part of them, for she had seen how he
had taken them from his pocket and saw that he had no idea how much he
had given.
"You will say nothing of my coming," said Giovanni, fixing his eyes
upon her.
"I, Signore? Do not be afraid! Money is better than words."
"Very good," he answered. "Perhaps you will get twice as much the next
time I want to know the truth."
"God bless you!" chuckled the wrinkled creature. He went out, and the
little bell that was fastened to the door tinkled as the latch sprang
back into its place. Then the woman counted the price of blood, which
had so unexpectedly fallen into her hands. The bank-notes were many and
broad, and crisp and new, for Giovanni had not reckoned the cost. It
was long since old Caterina Ranucci had seen so much money, and she had
certainly never had so much of her own.
"Qualche innamorato!" she muttered to herself as she smoothed the notes
one by one and gloated over them and built castles in the air under the
light of her little oil lamp. "It is some fellow in love. Heaven pardon
me if I have done wrong! He seemed so anxious to know that the woman
had been here--why should I not content him? Poveretto! He must be
rich. I will always tell him what he wants to know. Heaven bring him
often and bless him."
Then she rocked herself backwards and forwards, hugging her pot of
coals and crooning the words of an ancient Roman ditty--
"Io vorrei che nella luna
Ci s'andasse in carrettella
Per vedere la piu bella
Delle donne di la su!"
What does the old song mean? Who knows whether it ever meant anything?
"I wish one might drive in a little cart to the moon, to see the most
beautiful of the women up there!" Caterina Ranucci somehow felt as
though she could express her feelings in no better way than by singing
the queer words to herself in her cracked old voice. Possibly she
thought that the neighbours would not suspect her good fortune if they
heard her favourite song.