Sant' Ilario walked home from Gouache's lodgings. The cool evening air
refreshed him and helped him to think over what he had before him in
the near future. Indeed the position was terrible enough, and doubly so
to a man of his temperament. He would have faced anything rather than
this, for there was no point in which he was more vulnerable than in
his love for Corona. As he walked her figure rose before him, and her
beauty almost dazzled him when he thought of it. But he could no longer
think of her without bringing up that other being upon whom his
thoughts of vengeance concentrated themselves, until it seemed as
though the mere intention must do its object some bodily harm.
The fall was tremendous in itself and in its effects. It must have been
a great passion indeed which could make such a man demean himself to
bribe an inferior for information against his wife. He himself was so
little able to measure the force by which he was swayed as to believe
that he had extracted the confession from a reluctant accomplice. He
would never have allowed that the sight of the money and the prompting
of his own words could have caused the old woman to invent the
perfectly imaginary story which he had seemed so fully determined to
hear. He did not see that Caterina Ranucci had merely confirmed each
statement he had made himself and had taken his bribe while laughing to
herself at his folly. He was blinded by something which destroys the
mental vision more surely than anger or hatred, or pride, or love
itself.
To some extent he was to be pardoned. The chain of circumstantial
evidence was consecutive and so convincing that many a just person
would have accepted Corona's guilt as the only possible explanation of
what had happened. The discoveries he had just made would alone have
sufficed to set up a case against her, and many an innocent reputation
has been shattered by less substantial proofs. Had he not found a
letter, evidently written in a feigned hand and penned upon his wife's
own writing-paper, fastened upon Gouache's table with her own pin? Had
not the old woman confessed--before he had found the note, too,--that a
lady had been there but a short time before? Did not these facts agree
singularly with Corona's having left him to wait for her during that
interval in the public gardens? Above all, did not this conclusion
explain at once all those things in her conduct which had so much
disturbed him during the past week?
What was this story of Faustina Montevarchi's disappearance? The girl
was probably Corona's innocent accomplice. Corona had left the house at
one o'clock in the morning with Gouache. The porter had not seen any
other woman. The fact that she had entered the Palazzo Montevarchi with
Faustina and without Anastase proved nothing, except that she had met
the young girl somewhere else, it mattered little where. The story that
Faustina had accidentally shut herself into a room in the palace was an
invention, for even Corona admitted the fact. That Faustina's flight,
however, and the other events of the night of the 22d had been arranged
merely in order that Corona and Gouache might walk in the moonlight for
a quarter of an hour, Giovanni did not believe. There was some other
mystery here which was yet unsolved. Meanwhile the facts he had
collected were enough--enough to destroy his happiness at a single
blow. And yet he loved Corona even now, and though his mind was made up
clearly enough concerning Gouache, he knew that he could not part from
the woman he adored. He thought of the grim old fortress at Saracinesca
with its lofty towers and impregnable walls, and when he reflected that
there was but one possible exit from the huge mass of buildings, he
said to himself that Corona would be safe there for ever.
He had the instincts of a fierce and unforgiving race of men, who for
centuries had held the law in their own hands, and were accustomed to
wield it as it seemed good in their own eyes. It was not very long
since the lords of Saracinesca had possessed the right of life and
death over their vassals, [Footnote: Until 1870 the right of life and
death was still held, so far as actual legality was concerned, by the
Dukes of Bracciano, and was attached to the possession of the title,
which had been sold and subsequently bought back by the original
holders of it.] and the hereditary traits of character which had been
fostered by ages of power had not disappeared with the decay of
feudalism. Under the circumstances which seemed imminent, it would not
have been thought unnatural if Giovanni had confined his wife during
the remainder of her days in his castle among the mountains. The idea
may excite surprise among civilised Europeans when it is considered
that the events of which I write occurred as recently as 1867, but it
would certainly have evoked few expressions of astonishment among the
friends of the persons concerned. To Giovanni himself it seemed the
only possible conclusion to what was happening, and the determination
to kill Gouache and imprison Corona for life appeared in his eyes
neither barbarous nor impracticable.
He did not hasten his pace as he went towards his home. There was
something fateful in his regular step and marble face as he moved
steadily to the accomplishment of his purpose. The fury which had at
first possessed him, and which, if he had then encountered Gouache,
would certainly have produced a violent outbreak, had subsided and was
lost in the certainty of his dishonour, and in the immensity of the
pain he suffered. Nothing remained to be done but to tell Corona that
he knew all, and to inflict upon her the consequences of her crime
without delay. There was absolutely no hope left that she might prove
herself innocent, and in Giovanni's own breast there was no hope
either, no hope of ever finding again his lost happiness, or of ever
again setting one stone upon another of all that splendid fabric of his
life which he had built up so confidently upon the faith of the woman
he loved.
As he reached the gates of his home he grew if possible paler than
before, till his face was positively ghastly to see, and his eyes
seemed to sink deeper beneath his brows, while their concentrated light
gleamed more fiercely. No one saw him enter, for the porter was in his
lodge, and on reaching the landing of the stairs Giovanni let himself
into the apartments with a latch-key.
Corona was in her dressing-room, a high vaulted chamber, somewhat
sombrely furnished, but made cheerful by a fire that blazed brightly in
the deep old-fashioned chimney-piece. Candles were lighted upon the
dressing-table, and a shaded lamp stood upon a low stand near a lounge
beside the hearth. The princess was clad in a loose wrapper of some
soft cream-coloured material, whose folds fell gracefully to the ground
as she lay upon the couch. She was resting before dressing for dinner,
and the masses of her blue-black hair were loosely coiled upon her head
and held together by a great Spanish comb thrust among the tresses with
a careless grace. She held a book in her slender, olive-tinted hand,
but she was not reading; her head lay back upon the cushions and the
firelight threw her features into strong relief, while her velvet eyes
reflected the flashes of the dancing flames as she watched them. Her
expression was serene and calm. She had forgotten for the moment the
little annoyances of the last few days and was thinking of her
happiness, contrasting the peace of her present life with what she had
suffered during the five years of her marriage with poor old
Astrardente. Could Giovanni have seen her thus his heart might have
been softened. He would have asked himself how it was possible that any
woman guilty of such enormous misdeeds could lie there watching the
fire with a look of such calm innocence upon her face.
But Giovanni did not see her as she was. Even in the extremity of his
anger and suffering his courtesy did not forsake him, and he knocked at
his wife's door before entering the room. Corona moved from her
position, and turned her head to see who was about to enter.
"Come in," she said.
She started when she saw Giovanni's face. Dazzled as she was by the
fire, he looked to her like a dead man. She laid one hand upon the arm
of the couch as though she would rise to meet him. He shut the door
behind him and advanced towards her till only a couple of paces
separated them. She was so much amazed by his looks that she sat quite
still while he fixed his eyes upon her and began to speak.
"You have wrecked my life," he said in a strange, low voice. "I have
come to tell you my decision."
She thought he was raving mad, and, brave as she was, she shrank back a
little upon her seat and turned pale.
"You need not be afraid of me," he continued, as he noticed the
movement. "I am not going to kill you. I am sorry to say I am fool
enough to love you still."
"Giovanni!" cried Corona in an agonised tone. She could find no words,
but sprang to her feet and threw her arms about him, gazing imploringly
into his face. His features did not relax, for he was prepared for any
sort of acting on her part. Without hurting her, but with a strength
few men could have resisted, he forced her back to her seat, and then
retreated a step before he spoke again. She submitted blindly, feeling
that any attempt to thwart him must be utterly useless.
"I know what you have done," he said. "You can have nothing to say. Be
silent and listen to me. You have destroyed the greatest happiness the
world ever knew. You have dishonoured me and mine. You have dragged my
faith in you--God knows how great--into the mire of your infamous life.
And worse than that--I could almost have forgiven that, I am so
base--you have destroyed yourself--"
Corona uttered a wild cry and sank back upon the cushions, pressing her
hands over her ears so that she might not hear the fearful words.
"I will not listen!" she gasped. "You are mad--mad!" Then springing up
once more she again clasped him to her breast, so suddenly that he
could not escape her. "Oh, my poor Giovanni!" she moaned. "What has
happened to you? Have you been hurt? Are you dying? For Heaven's sake
speak like yourself!"
He seized her wrists and held her before him so that she was forced to
hear what he said. Even then his grasp did not hurt her. His hands were
like manacles of steel in which hers could turn though she could not
withdraw them.
"I am hurt to death," he said, between his teeth. "I have been to
Gouache's rooms and have brought away your letter--and your pin--the
pin I gave you, Corona. Do you understand now, or must I say more?"
"My letter?" cried Corona in the utmost bewilderment.
"Yes," he answered, releasing her and instantly producing the note and
the gold ornament. "Is that your paper? Is this your pin? Answer me--or
no! they answer for themselves. You need say nothing, for you can have
nothing to say. They are yours and you know it. If they are not enough
there is the woman who let you in, who saw you bring them. What more do
you want?"
As long as Giovanni's accusations had been vague and general, Corona
had remained horrorstruck, believing that some awful and
incomprehensible calamity had befallen her husband and had destroyed
his reason. The moment he produced the proof of what he said, her
presence of mind returned, and she saw at a glance the true horror of
the situation. She never doubted for a moment that she was the victim
of some atrocious plot, but having something to face which she could
understand her great natural courage asserted itself. She was not a
woman to moan and weep helplessly when there was an open danger to be
met.
She took the letter and the pin and examined them by the light, with a
calmness that contrasted oddly with her previous conduct. Giovanni
watched her. He supposed that she had acted surprise until he had
brought forward something more conclusive than words, and that she was
now exercising her ingenuity in order to explain the situation. His lip
curled scornfully, as he fancied he saw the meaning of her actions.
After a few seconds she looked up and held out the two objects towards
him.
"The paper is mine," she said, "but I did not write the letter. The pin
is mine too. I lost it more than a month ago."
"Of course," replied Giovanni, coldly. "I expected that you would say
that. It is very natural. But I do not ask you for any explanations. I
have them already. I will take you to Saracinesca to-morrow morning and
you will have time to explain everything. You will have your whole life
to use, until you die, for no other object. I told you I would not kill
you."
"Is it possible that you are in earnest?" asked Corona, her voice
trembling slightly.
"I am in earnest. Do you think I am a man to jest over such deeds?"
"And do you think I am a woman to do such deeds?"
"Since you have done them--what answer can there be? Not only are you
capable of them. You are the woman who has done them. Do lifeless
things, like these, lie?"
"No. But men do. I believe you, Giovanni. You found these things in
Monsieur Gouache's rooms. You were told I put them there. Whoever told
you so uttered the most infamous falsehood that ever was spoken on
earth. The person who placed them where they were did so in the hope of
ruining me. Can you look back into the past and tell me that you have
any other reason for believing in this foul plot?"
"Reasons?" cried Giovanni, fiercely. "Do you want more reasons? We have
time. I will give you enough to satisfy you that I know all you have
done. Was not this man for ever near you last year, wherever you met,
talking with you in low tones, showing by every movement and gesture
that he distinguished you with his base love? Were you not together in
a corner last Tuesday night just as the insurrection broke out? Did he
not kiss your hand when you both thought no one was looking?"
"He kissed my hand before every one," replied Corona, whose wrath was
slowly gathering as she saw her husband's determination to prove her
guilty.
"There were people in the room," continued Giovanni in a tone of
concentrated anger, "but you thought no one was watching you--I could
see it in your manner and in your eyes. That same night I came home at
one o'clock and you were out. You had gone out alone with that man,
expecting that I would not return so soon--though it was late enough,
too. You were forced to admit that you were with him, because the
porter had seen you and had told me the man was a Zouave."
"I will tell you the story, since you no longer trust me," said Corona,
proudly.
"I have no doubt you will tell me some very ingenious tale which will
explain why, although you left my house alone, with Gouache, you
reached the Palazzo Montevarchi alone with Faustina. But I have not
done. He came here the next day. You treated him with unexampled
rudeness before me. Half an hour later I found you together in the
drawing-room. He was kissing your hand again. You were saying you
forgave him and giving him that favourite benediction of yours, which
you once bestowed upon me under very similar circumstances. Astrardente
was alive and present at that dance in Casa Frangipani. You have me for
a husband now and you have found another man whose heart will beat when
you bless him. It would be almost better to kill you after all."
"Have you finished?" asked Corona, white with anger.
"Yes. That letter and that pin--left while I, poor fool, was waiting
for you this afternoon on the Pincio--those things are my last words.
They close the tale very appropriately. I wish I did not love you so--I
would not wait for your answer."
"Do you dare to say you love me?"
"Yes--though there is no other man alive who would dare so much, who
would dare to love such a woman as you are--for very shame."
"And I tell you," answered Corona in ringing tones, "that, although I
can prove to you that every word you say against me is an abominable
calumny, so that you shall see how basely you have insulted an innocent
woman, yet I shall never love you again--never, never. A man who can
believe such things, who can speak such things, is worthy of no woman's
love and shall not have mine. And yet you shall hear me tell the truth,
that you may know what you have done. You say I have wrecked your life
and destroyed your happiness. You have done it for yourself. As there
is a God in Heaven--"
"Do not blaspheme," said Giovanni, contemptuously. "I will hear your
story."
"Before God, this thing is a lie!" cried Corona, standing at her full
height, her eyes flashing with just indignation. Then lowering her
voice, she continued speaking rapidly but distinctly. "Gouache loves
Faustina, and she loves him. When he left this house that night she
followed him out into the street. She reached the Serristori barracks
and was stunned by the explosion. Gouache found her there many hours
later. When you saw us together a little earlier he was telling me he
loved her. He is a man of honour. He saw that the only way to save her
good name was to bring her here and let me take her home. He sent me a
word by the porter, while she waited in the shadow. I ran down and
found her there. We purposely prevented the porter from seeing her. I
took her to her father's house, and sent Gouache away, for I was angry
with him. I believed he had led an innocent girl into following
him--that it was a pre-arranged meeting and that she had gone not
realising that there was a revolution. I invented the story of her
having lost herself here, in order to shield her. The next day Gouache
came. I would not speak to him and went to my room. The servants told
me he was gone, but as I was coming back to you I met him. He stopped
me and made me believe what is quite true, for Faustina has
acknowledged it. She followed him of her own accord, and he had no idea
that she was not safe at home. I forgave him. He said he was going to
the frontier and asked me to give him a blessing. It was a foolish
idea, perhaps, but I did as he wished. If you had come forward like a
man instead of listening we would have told you all. But you suspected
me even then. I do not know who told you that I had been to his lodging
to-day. The carriage was stopped by a crowd in the Tritone, and I
reached the Pincio after you had gone. As for the pin, I lost it a
month ago. Gouache may have found it, or it may have been picked up and
sold, and he may have chanced to buy it. I never wrote the letter. The
paper was either taken from this house or was got from the stationer
who stamps it for us. Faustina may have taken it--she may have been
here when I was out--it is not her handwriting. I believe it is an
abominable plot. But it is as transparent as water. Take the pin and
wear it. See Gouache when you have it. He will ask you where you got
it, for he has not the slightest idea that it is mine. Are you
satisfied? I have told you all. Do you see what you have done, in
suspecting me, in accusing me, in treating me like the last of women? I
have done. What have you to say?"
"That you have told a very improbable story," replied Giovanni. "You
have sunk lower than before, for you have cast a slur upon an innocent
girl in order to shield yourself. I would not have believed you capable
of that. You can no more prove your innocence than you can prove that
this poor child was mad enough to follow Gouache into the street last
Tuesday night. I have listened to you patiently. I have but one thing
more to do and then there will be nothing left for me but patience. You
will send for your servants, and order your effects to be packed for
the journey to Saracinesca. If it suits your convenience we will start
at eleven o'clock, as I shall be occupied until then. I advise you not
to see my father."
Corona stood quite still while he spoke. She could not realise that he
paid no attention whatever to her story, save to despise her the more
for having implicated Faustina. It was inconceivable to her that all
the circumstances should not now be as clear to him as they were to
herself. From the state of absolute innocence she could not transfer
herself in a moment to the comprehension of all he had suffered, all he
had thought, and all he had recalled before accusing her. Even had that
been possible, her story seemed to her to give a perfectly satisfactory
explanation of all his suspicions. She was wounded, indeed, so deeply
that she knew she could never recover herself entirely, but it did not
strike her as possible that all she had said should produce no effect
at all. And yet she knew his look and his ways, and recognised in the
tone of his voice the expression of a determination which it would be
hard indeed to change. He still believed her guilty, and he was going
to take her away to the dismal loneliness of the mountains for an
indefinite time, perhaps for ever. She had not a relation in the world
to whom she could appeal. Her mother had died in her infancy; her
father, for whom she sacrificed herself in marrying the rich old Duke
of Astrardente, was dead long ago. She could turn to no one, unless it
were to Prince Saracinesca himself--and Giovanni warned her not to go
to his father. She stood for some moments looking fixedly at him as
though trying to read his thoughts, and he returned her gaze with
unflinching sternness. The position was desperate. In a few hours she
would be where there would be no possibility of defence or argument,
and she knew the man's character well enough to be sure that where
proof failed entreaty would be worse than useless. At last she came
near to him and almost gently laid her hand upon his arm.
"Giovanni," she said, quietly, "I have loved you very tenderly and very
truly. I swear to you upon our child that I am wholly innocent. Will
you not believe me?"
"No," he answered, and the little word fell from his lips like the blow
of a steel hammer. His eyes did not flinch; his features did not change.
"Will you not ask some one who knows whether I have not spoken the
truth? Will you not let me write--or write yourself to those two, and
ask them to come here and tell you their story? It is much to ask of
them, but it is life or death to me and they will not refuse. Will you
not do it?"
"No, I will not."
"Then do what you will with me, and may God forgive you, for I cannot."
Corona turned from him and crossed the room. There was a cushioned
stool there, over which hung a beautiful crucifix. Corona knelt down,
as though not heeding her husband's presence, and buried her face in
her hands.
Giovanni stood motionless in the middle of the room. His eyes had
followed his wife's movements and he watched her in silence for a short
time. Convinced, as he was, of her guilt, he believed she was acting a
part, and that her kneeling down was merely intended to produce a
theatrical effect. The accent of truth in her words made no impression
whatever upon him, and her actions seemed to him too graceful to be
natural, too dignified for a woman who was not trying all the time to
make the best of her appearance. The story she had told coincided too
precisely, if possible, with the doings of which he had accused her,
while it failed in his judgment to explain the motives of what she had
done. He said to himself that he, in her place, would have told
everything on that first occasion when she had come home and had found
him waiting for her. He forgot, or did not realise, that she had been
taken unawares, when she expected to find time to consider her course,
and had been forced to make up her mind suddenly. Almost any other
woman would have told the whole adventure at once; any woman less
wholly innocent of harm would have seen the risk she incurred by asking
her husband's indulgence for her silence. He was persuaded that she had
played upon his confidence in her and had reckoned upon his belief in
her sincerity in order to be bold with half the truth. Suspicion and
jealousy had made him so ingenious that he imputed to her a tortuous
policy of deception, of which she was altogether incapable.
Corona did not kneel long. She had no intention of making use of the
appearance of prayer in order to affect Giovanni's decision, nor in
order to induce him to leave her alone. He would, indeed, have quitted
the room had she remained upon her knees a few moments longer, but when
she rose and faced him once more he was still standing as she had left
him, his eyes fixed upon her and his arms folded upon his breast. He
thought she was going to renew her defence, but he was mistaken. She
came and stood before him, so that a little distance separated him from
her, and she spoke calmly, in her deep, musical voice.
"You have made up your mind, then. Is that your last word?"
"It is."
"Then I will say what I have to say. It shall not be much, but we shall
not often talk together in future. You will remember some day what I
tell you. I am an innocent and defenceless woman. I have no relation to
whom I can appeal. You have forbidden me to write to those who could
prove me guiltless. For the sake of our child--for the sake of the love
I have borne you--I will make no attempt at resistance. The world shall
not know that you have even doubted me, the mother of your son, the
woman who has loved you. The time will come when you will ask my
forgiveness for your deeds. I tell you frankly that I shall never be
capable of forgiving you, nor of speaking a kind word to you again.
This is neither a threat nor a warning, though it may perhaps be the
means of sparing you some disappointment. I only ask two things of your
courtesy--that you will inform me of what you mean to do with our
child, and that you will then be good enough to leave me alone for a
little while."
An evil thought crossed Giovanni's mind. He knew how Corona would
suffer if she were not allowed either to see little Orsino or to know
what became of him while she was living her solitary life of
confinement in the mountains. The diabolical cruelty of the idea
fascinated him for a moment, and he looked coldly into her eyes as
though he did not mean to answer her. In spite of his new jealousy,
however, he was not capable of inflicting this last blow. As he looked
at her beautiful white face and serious eyes, he wavered. He loved her
still and would have loved her, had the proofs against her been tenfold
more convincing than they were. With him his love was a passion apart
and by itself. It had been strengthened and made beautiful by the
devotion and tenderness and faith which had grown up with it, and had
surrounded it as with a wall. But though all these things were swept
away the passion itself remained, fierce, indomitable and soul-stirring
in its power. It stood alone, like the impregnable keep of a war-worn
fortress, beneath whose shadow the outworks and ramparts have been
razed to the ground, and whose own lofty walls are battered and dinted
by engines of war, shorn of all beauty and of all its stately
surroundings, but stern and unshaken yet, grim, massive and solitary.
For an instant Giovanni wavered, unable to struggle against that
mysterious power which still governed him and forced him to acknowledge
its influence. The effort of resisting the temptation to be abominably
cruel carried him back from his main purpose, and produced a sudden
revulsion of feeling wholly incomprehensible to himself.
"Corona!" he cried, in a voice breaking with emotion. He threw out his
arms wildly and sprang towards her. She thrust him back with a strength
of which he would not have believed her capable. Bitter words rose to
her lips, but she forced them back and was silent, though her eyes
blazed with an anger she had never felt before. For some time neither
spoke. Corona stood erect and watchful, one hand resting upon the back
of a chair. Giovanni walked to the end of the room, and then came back
and looked steadily into her face. Several seconds elapsed before he
could speak, and his face was very white.
"You may keep the child," he said at last, in an unsteady tone. Then
without another word he left the room and softly closed the door behind
him.
When Corona was alone she remained standing as he had last seen her,
her gaze fixed on the heavy curtains through which he had disappeared.
Gradually her face grew rigid, and the expression vanished from her
deep eyes, till they looked dull and glassy. She tottered, lost her
hold upon the chair and fell to the floor with an inarticulate groan.
There she lay, white, beautiful and motionless as a marble statue,
mercifully unconscious, for a space, of all she had to suffer.
Giovanni went from his wife's presence to his father's study. The
prince sat at his writing-table, a heap of dusty parchments and papers
piled before him. He was untying the rotten strings with which they
were fastened, peering through his glasses at the headings written
across the various documents. He did not unfold them, but laid them
carefully in order upon the table. When San Giacinto had gone away, the
old gentleman had nothing to do for an hour or more before dinner. He
had accordingly opened a solid old closet in the library which served
as a sort of muniment room for the family archives, and had withdrawn a
certain box in which he knew that the deeds concerning the cession of
title were to be found. He did not intend to look them over this
evening, but was merely arranging them for examination on the morrow.
He looked up as Giovanni entered, and started from his chair when he
saw his son's face.
"Good heavens! Giovannino! what has happened?" he cried, in great
anxiety.
"I came to tell you that Corona and I are going to Saracinesca
to-morrow," answered Sant' Ilario, in a low voice.
"What? At this time of year? Besides, you cannot get there. The road is
full of Garibaldians and soldiers. It is not safe to leave the city!
Are you ill? What is the matter?"
"Oh--nothing especial," replied Giovanni with an attempt to assume an
indifferent tone "We think the mountain air will be good for my wife,
that is all. I do not think we shall really have much difficulty in
getting there. Half of this war is mere talk."
"And the other half consists largely of stray bullets," observed the
prince, eyeing his son suspiciously from under his shaggy brows. "You
will allow me to say, Giovanni, that for thoughtless folly you have
rarely had your equal in the world."
"I believe you are right," returned the younger man bitterly.
"Nevertheless I mean to undertake this journey."
"And does Corona consent to it? Why are you so pale? I believe you are
ill?"
"Yes--she consents. We shall take the child."
"Orsino? You are certainly out of your mind. It is bad enough to take a
delicate woman--"
"Corona is far from delicate. She is very strong and able to bear
anything."
"Don't interrupt me. I tell you she is a woman, and so of course she
must be delicate. Can you not understand common sense? As for the boy,
he is my grandson, and if you are not old enough to know how to take
care of him, I am. He shall not go. I will not permit it. You are
talking nonsense. Go and dress for dinner, or send for the doctor--in
short, behave like a human being! I will go and see Corona myself."
The old gentleman's hasty temper was already up, and he strode to the
door. Giovanni laid his hand somewhat heavily upon his father's arm.
"Excuse me," he said, "Corona cannot see you now. She is dressing."
"I will talk to her through the door. I will wait in her boudoir till
she can see me."
"I do not think she will see you this evening. She will be busy in
getting ready for the journey."
"She will dine with us, I suppose?"
"I scarcely know--I am not sure."
Old Saracinesca suddenly turned upon his son. His gray hair bristled on
his head, and his black eyes flashed. With a quick movement he seized
Giovanni's arms and held him before him as in a vice.
"Look here!" he cried savagely. "I will not be made a fool of by a boy.
Something has happened which you are afraid to tell me. Answer me. I
mean to know!"
"You will not know from me," replied Sant' Ilario, keeping his temper
as he generally did in the face of a struggle. "You will know nothing,
because there is nothing to know." Saracinesca laughed.
"Then there can be no possible objection to my seeing Corona," he said,
dropping his hold and again going towards the door. Once more Giovanni
stopped him.
"You cannot see her now," he said in determined tones.
"Then tell me what all this trouble is about," retorted his father.
But Giovanni did not speak. Had he been cooler he would not have sought
the interview so soon, but he had forgotten that the old prince would
certainly want to know the reason of the sudden journey.
"Do you mean to tell me or not?"
"The fact is," replied Giovanni desperately, "we have consulted the
doctor--Corona is not really well--he advises us to go to the
mountains--"
"Giovanni," broke in the old man roughly, "you never lied to me, but
you are lying now. There has been trouble between you two, though I
cannot imagine what has caused it."
"Pray do not ask me, then. I am doing what I think best--what you would
think best if you knew all. I came to tell you that we were going, and
I did not suppose you would have anything to say. Since you do not like
the idea--well, I am sorry--but I entreat you not to ask questions. Let
us go in peace."
Saracinesca looked fixedly at his son for some minutes. Then the anger
faded from his face, and his expression grew very grave. He loved
Giovanni exceedingly, and he loved Corona for his sake more than for
her own, though he admired her and delighted in her conversation. It
was certain that if there were a quarrel between husband and wife, and
if Giovanni had the smallest show of right on his side, the old man's
sympathies would be with him.
Giovanni's sense of honour, on the other hand, prevented him from
telling his father what had happened. He did not choose that even his
nearest relation should think of Corona as he thought himself, and he
would have taken any step to conceal her guilt. Unfortunately for his
purpose he was a very truthful man, and had no experience of lying, so
that his father detected him at once. Moreover, his pale face and
agitated manner told plainly enough that something very serious had
occurred, and so soon as the old prince had convinced himself of this
his goodwill was enlisted on the side of his son.
"Giovannino," he said at last very gently, "I do not want to pry into
your secrets nor to ask you questions which you do not care to answer.
I do not believe you are capable of having committed any serious folly
which your wife could really resent. If you should be unfaithful to
her, I would disown you. If, on the other hand, she has deceived you, I
will do all in my power to help you."
Perhaps Giovanni's face betrayed something of the truth at these words.
He turned away and leaned against the chimney-piece.
"I cannot tell you--I cannot tell you," he repeated. "I think I am
doing what is best. That is all I can say. You may know some day,
though I trust not. Let us go away without explanations."
"My dear boy," replied the old man, coming up to him and laying his
hand on his shoulder, "you must do as you think best. Go to Saracinesca
if you will, and if you can. If not, go somewhere else. Take heart.
Things are not always as black as they look."
Giovanni straightened himself as though by an effort, and grasped his
father's broad, brown hand.
"Thank you," he said. "Good-bye. I will come down and see you in a few
days. Good-bye!"
His voice trembled and he hurriedly left the room. The prince stood
still a moment and then threw himself into a deep chair, staring at the
lamp and biting his gray moustache savagely, as though to hide some
almost uncontrollable emotion. There was a slight moisture in his eyes
as they looked steadily at the bright lamp.
The papers and parchments lay unheeded on the table, and he did not
touch them again that night. He was thinking, not of his lonely old age
nor of the dishonour brought upon his house, but of the boy he had
loved as his own soul for more than thirty years, and of a swarthy
little child that lay asleep in a distant room, the warm blood tinging
its olive cheeks and its little clinched hands thrown back above its
head.
For Corona he had no thought but hatred. He had guessed Giovanni's
secret too well, and his heart was hardened against the woman who had
brought shame and suffering upon his son.