San Giacinto had signally failed in his attempt to prevent the meeting
between Gouache and Faustina Montevarchi, and had unintentionally
caused trouble of a much more serious nature in another quarter. The
Zouave returned to his lodging late at night, and of course found no
note upon his dressing-table. He did not miss the pin, for he of course
never wore it, and attached no particular value to a thing of such
small worth which he had picked up in the street and which consequently
had no associations for him. He lacked the sense of order in his
belongings, and the pin had lain neglected for weeks among a heap of
useless little trifles, dingy cotillon favours that had been there
since the previous year, stray copper coins, broken pencils, uniform
buttons and such trash, accumulated during many months and totally
unheeded. Had he seen the pin anywhere else he would have recognised
it, but he did not notice its absence. The old woman, Caterina Ranucci,
hugged her money and said nothing about either of the visitors who had
entered the room during the afternoon. The consequence was that Gouache
rose early on the following morning and went towards the church with a
light heart. He did not know certainly that Faustina would come there,
and indeed there were many probabilities against her doing so, but in
the hopefulness of a man thoroughly in love, Gouache looked forward to
seeing her with as much assurance as though the matter had been
arranged and settled between them.
The parish church of Sant' Agostino is a very large building. The
masses succeed each other in rapid succession from seven o'clock in the
morning until midday, and a great crowd of parishioners pass in and out
in an almost constant stream. It was therefore Gouache's intention to
arrive so early as to be sure that Faustina had not yet come, and he
trusted to luck to be there at the right time, for he was obliged to
visit the temporary barrack of his corps before going to the church,
and was also obliged to attend mass at a later hour with his battalion.
On presenting himself at quarters he learned to his surprise that Monte
Rotondo had not surrendered yet, though news of the catastrophe was
expected every moment. The Zouaves were ordered to remain under arms
all day in case of emergency, and it was only through the friendly
assistance of one of his officers that Anastase obtained leave to
absent himself for a couple of hours. He hailed a cab and drove to the
church as fast as he could.
In less than twenty minutes after he had stationed himself at the
entrance, Faustina ascended the steps accompanied by a servant. The
latter was a middle-aged woman with hard features, clad in black, and
wearing a handkerchief thrown loosely over her head after the manner of
maids in those days. She evidently expected nothing, for she looked
straight before her, peering into the church in order to see beforehand
at which chapel there was likely to be a mass immediately. Faustina was
a lovely figure in the midst of the crowd of common people who thronged
the doorway, and whose coarse dark faces threw her ethereal features
into strong relief while she advanced. Gouache felt his heart beat
hard, for he had not seen her for five days since they had parted on
that memorable Tuesday night at the gate of her father's house. Her
eyes met his in a long and loving look, and the colour rose faintly in
her delicate pale cheek. In the press she managed to pass close to him,
and for a moment he succeeded in clasping her small hand in his, her
maid being on the other side. He was about to ask a question when she
whispered a few words and passed on.
"Follow me through the crowd, I will manage it," was what she said.
Gouache obeyed, and kept close behind her. The church was very full and
there was difficulty in getting seats.
"I will wait here," said the young girl to her servant. "Get us chairs
and find out where there is to be a mass. It is of no use for me to go
through the crowd if I may have to come back again."
The hard-featured woman nodded and went away. Several minutes must
elapse before she returned, and Faustina with Gouache behind her moved
across the stream of persons who were going out through the door in the
other aisle. In a moment they found themselves in a comparatively quiet
corner, separated from the main body of the church by the moving
people. Faustina fixed her eyes in the direction whence her woman would
probably return, ready to enter the throng instantly, if necessary.
Even where they now were, so many others were standing and kneeling
that the presence of the Zouave beside Faustina would create no
surprise.
"It is very wrong to meet you in church," said the girl, a little shy,
at first, with that timidity a woman always feels on meeting a man whom
she has last seen on unexpectedly intimate terms.
"I could not go away without seeing you," replied Gouache, his eyes
intent on her face. "And I knew you would understand my signs, though
no one else would. You have made me very happy, Faustina. It would have
been agony to march away without seeing your face again--you do not
know what these days have been without you! Do you realise that we used
to meet almost every afternoon? Did they tell you why I could not come?
I told every one I met, in hopes you might hear. Did you? Do you
understand?"
Faustina nodded her graceful head, and glanced quickly at his face.
Then she looked down, tapping the pavement gently with her parasol. The
colour came and went in her cheeks.
"Do you really love me?" she asked in a low voice.
"I think, my darling, that no one ever loved as I love. I would that I
might be given time to tell you what my love is, and that you might
have patience to hear. What are words, unless one can say all one
would? What is it, if I tell you that I love you with all my heart, and
soul and thoughts? Do not other men say as much and forget that they
have spoken? I would find a way of saying it that should make you
believe in spite of yourself--"
"In spite of myself?" interrupted Faustina, with a bright smile while
her brown eyes rested lovingly on his for an instant. "You need not
that," she added simply, "for I love you, too."
Nothing but the sanctity of the place prevented Anastase from taking
her in his arms then and there. There was something so exquisite in her
simplicity and earnestness that he found himself speechless before her
for a moment. It was something that intoxicated his spirit more than
his senses, for it was utterly new to him and appealed to his own loyal
and innocent nature as it could not have appealed to a baser man.
"Ah Faustina!" he said at last, "God made you when he made the violets,
on a spring morning in Paradise!"
Faustina blushed again, faintly as the sea at dawn.
"Must you go away?" she asked.
"You would not have me desert at such a moment?"
"Would it be deserting--quite? Would it be dishonourable?"
"It would be cowardly. I should never dare to look you in the face
again."
"I suppose it would be wrong," she answered with a bitter little sigh.
"I will come back very soon, dearest. The time will be short."
"So long--so long! How can you say it will be short? If you do not come
soon you will find me dead--I cannot bear it many days more."
"I will write to you."
"How can you write? Your letters would be seen. Oh no! It is
impossible!"
"I will write to your friend--to the Princess Sant' Ilario. She will
give you the letters. She is safe, is she not?"
"Oh, how happy I shall be! It will be almost like seeing you--no, not
that! But so much better than nothing. But you do not go at once?"
"It may be to-day, to-morrow, at any time. But you shall know of it. Ah
Faustina! my own one--"
"Hush! There is my maid. Quick, behind the pillar. I will meet her.
Good-bye--good-bye--Oh! not good-bye--some other word--"
"God keep you, my beloved, and make it not 'good-bye'!"
With one furtive touch of the hand, one long last look, they separated,
Faustina to mingle in the crowd, Gouache to follow at a long distance
until he saw her kneeling at her chair before one of the side altars of
the church. Then he stationed himself where he could see her, and
watched through the half hour during which the low mass lasted. He did
not know when he should see her again, and indeed it was as likely as
not that they should not meet on this side of eternity. Many a gallant
young fellow marched out in those days and was picked off by a bullet
from a red-shirted volunteer. Gouache, indeed, did not believe that his
life was to be cut short so suddenly, and built castles in the air with
that careless delight in the future which a man feels who is not at all
afraid. But such accidents happened often, and though he might be more
lucky than another, it was just as possible that an ounce of lead
should put an end to his soldiering, his painting and his courtship
within another week. The mere thought was so horrible that his bright
nature refused to harbour it, and he gazed on Faustina Montevarchi as
she knelt at her devotions, wondering, indeed, what strange chances
fate had in store for them both, but never once doubting that she
should one day be his. He waited until she passed him in the crowd, and
gave him one more look before going away. Then, when he had seen her
disappear at the turning of the street, he sprang into his cab and was
driven back to the barracks where he must remain on duty all day.
As he descended he was surprised to see Sant' Ilario standing upon the
pavement, very pale, and apparently in a bad humour, his overcoat
buttoned to his throat, and his hands thrust in the pockets. There was
no one in the street, but the sentinel at the doorway, and Giovanni
walked quickly up to Gouache as the latter fumbled for the change to
pay his driver. Anastase smiled and made a short military salute. Sant'
Ilario bowed stiffly and did not extend his hand.
"I tried to find you last night," he said coldly. "You were out. Will
you favour me with five minutes' conversation?"
"Willingly," answered the other, looking instinctively at his watch, to
be sure that he had time to spare.
Sant' Ilario walked a few yards up the street, before speaking, Gouache
keeping close to his side. Then both stopped, and Giovanni turned
sharply round and faced his enemy.
"It is unnecessary to enter into any explanations, Monsieur Gouache,"
he said. "This is a matter which can only end in one way. I presume you
will see the propriety of inventing a pretext which may explain our
meeting before the world."
Gouache stared at Sant' Ilario in the utmost amazement. When they had
last met they had parted on the most friendly terms. He did not
understand a word of what his companion was saying.
"Excuse me, prince," he said at length. "I have not the least idea what
you mean. As far as I am concerned this meeting is quite accidental. I
came here on duty."
Sant' Ilario was somewhat taken aback by the Zouave's polite
astonishment. He seemed even more angry than surprised, however; and
his black eyebrows bent together fiercely.
"Let us waste no words," he said imperiously. "If I had found you last
night, the affair might have been over by this time."
"What affair?" asked Gouache, more and more mystified.
"You are amazingly slow of comprehension, Monsieur Gouache," observed
Giovanni. "To be plain, I desire to have an opportunity of killing you.
Do you understand me now?"
"Perfectly," returned the soldier, raising his brows, and then breaking
into a laugh of genuine amusement. "You are quite welcome to as many
opportunities as you like, though I confess it would interest me to
know the reason of your good intentions towards me."
If Gouache had behaved as Giovanni had expected he would, the latter
would have repeated his request that a pretext should be found which
should explain the duel to the world. But there was such extraordinary
assurance in the Zouave's manner that Sant' Ilario suddenly became
exasperated with him and lost his temper, a misfortune which very
rarely happened to him.
"Monsieur Gouache," he said angrily, "I took the liberty of visiting
your lodgings yesterday afternoon, and I found this letter, fastened
with this pin upon your table. I presume you will not think any further
explanation necessary."
Gouache stared at the objects which Sant' Ilario held out to him and
drew back stiffly. It was his turn to be outraged at the insult.
"Sir," he said, "I understand that you acted in the most impertinent
manner in entering my room and taking what did not belong to you. I
understand nothing else. I found that pin on the Ponte Sant' Angelo a
month ago, and it was, I believe, upon my table yesterday. As for the
letter I know nothing about it. Yes, if you insist, I will read it."
There was a pause during which Gouache ran his eyes over the few lines
written on the notepaper, while Giovanni watched him very pale and
wrathful.
"The pin is my wife's, and the note is written on her paper and
addressed to you, though in a feigned hand. Do you deny that both came
from her, were brought by her in person, for yourself?"
"I deny it utterly and categorically," answered Gouache. "Though I will
assuredly demand satisfaction of you for entering my rooms without my
permission, I give you my word of honour that I could receive no such
letter from the princess, your wife. The thing is monstrously
iniquitous, and you have been grossly deceived into injuring the good
name of a woman as innocent as an angel. Since the pin is the property
of the princess, pray return it to her with my compliments, and say
that I found it on the bridge of Sant' Angelo. I can remember the very
date. It was a quarter of an hour before I was run over by Prince
Montevarchi's carriage. It was therefore on the 23d of September. As
for the rest, do me the favour to tell me where my friends can find
yours in an hour."
"At my house. But allow me to add that I do not believe a word of what
you say."
"Is it a Roman custom to insult a man who has agreed to fight with
you?" inquired Gouache. "We are more polite in France. We salute our
adversaries before beginning the combat."
Therewith the Zouave saluted Giovanni courteously and turned on his
heel, leaving the latter in an even worse humour than he had found him.
Gouache was too much surprised at the interview to reason connectedly
about the causes which had led to it, and accepted the duel with Sant'
Ilario blindly, because he could not avoid it, and because whatever
offence he himself had unwittingly given he had in turn been insulted
by Giovanni in a way which left him no alternative but that of a resort
to arms. His adversary had admitted, had indeed boasted, of having
entered Gouache's rooms, and of having taken thence the letter and the
pin. This alone constituted an injury for which reparation was
necessary, but not content with this, Sant' Ilario had given him the
lie direct. Matters were so confused that it was hard to tell which was
the injured party; but since the prince had undoubtedly furnished a
pretext more than sufficient, the soldier had seized the opportunity of
proposing to send his friends to demand satisfaction. It was clear,
however, that the duel could not take place at once, since Gouache was
under arms, and it was imperatively necessary that he should have
permission to risk his life in a private quarrel at such a time. It was
also certain that his superiors would not allow anything of the kind at
present, and Gouache for his part was glad of the fact. He preferred to
be killed before the enemy rather than in a duel for which there was no
adequate explanation, except that a man who had been outrageously
deceived by a person or persons unknown had chosen to attack him for a
thing he had never done. He had not the slightest intention of avoiding
the encounter, but he preferred to see some active service in a cause
to which he was devoted before being run through the body by one who
was his enemy only by mistake. Giovanni's reputation as a swordsman
made it probable that the issue would be unfavourable to Gouache, and
the latter, with the simple fearlessness that belonged to his
character, meant if possible to have a chance of distinguishing himself
before being killed.
Half an hour later, a couple of officers of Zouaves called upon Sant'
Ilario, and found his representatives waiting for them. Giovanni had
had the good fortune to find Count Spicca at home. That melancholy
gentleman had been his second in an affair with Ugo del Ferice nearly
three years earlier and had subsequently killed one of the latter's
seconds in consequence of his dishonourable behaviour in the field. He
had been absent in consequence until a few weeks before the present
time, when matters had been arranged, and he had found himself free to
return unmolested. It had been remarked at the club that something
would happen before he had been in Rome many days. He was a very tall
and cadaverous man, exceedingly prone to take offence, and exceedingly
skilful in exacting the precise amount of blood which he considered a
fair return for an injury. He had never been known to kill a man by
accident, but had rarely failed to take his adversary's life when he
had determined to do so. Spicca had brought another friend, whom it is
unnecessary to describe. The interview was short and conclusive.
The two officers had instructions to demand a serious duel, and Spicca
and his companion had been told to make the conditions even more
dangerous if they could do so. On the other hand, the officers
explained that as Rome was in a state of siege, and Garibaldi almost at
the gates, the encounter could not take place until the crisis was
past. They undertook to appear for Gouache in case he chanced to be
shot in an engagement. Spicca, who did not know the real cause of the
duel, and was indeed somewhat surprised to learn that Giovanni had
quarrelled with a Zouave, made no attempt to force an immediate
meeting, but begged leave to retire and consult with his principal, an
informality which was of course agreed to by the other side. In five
minutes he returned, stating that he accepted the provisions proposed,
and that he should expect twenty-four hours' notice when Gouache should
be ready. The four gentlemen drew up the necessary "protocol," and
parted on friendly terms after a few minutes' conversation, in which
various proposals were made in regard to the ground.
Spicca alone remained behind, and he immediately went to Giovanni,
carrying a copy of the protocol, on which the ink was still wet.
"Here it is," he said sadly, as he entered the room, holding up the
paper in his hand. "These revolutions are very annoying! There is no
end to the inconvenience they cause."
"I suppose it could not be helped," answered Giovanni, gloomily.
"No. I believe I have not the reputation of wasting time in these
matters. You must try and amuse yourself as best you can until the day
comes. It is a pity you have not some other affair in the meanwhile,
just to make the time pass pleasantly. It would keep your hand in, too.
But then you have the pleasures of anticipation."
Giovanni laughed hoarsely, Spicca took a foil from the wall and played
with it, looking along the thin blade, then setting the point on the
carpet and bending the weapon to see whether it would spring back
properly. Giovanni's eyes followed his movements, watching the slender
steel, and then glancing at Spicca's long arms, his nervous fingers and
peculiar grip.
"How do you manage to kill your man whenever you choose?" asked Sant'
Ilario, half idly, half in curiosity.
"It is perfectly simple, at least with foils," replied the other,
making passes in the air. "Now, if you will take a foil, I will promise
to run you through any part of your body within three minutes. You may
make a chalked mark on the precise spot. If I miss by a hair's-breadth
I will let you lunge at me without guarding."
"Thank you," said Giovanni; "I do not care to be run through this
morning, but I confess I would like to know how you do it. Could not
you touch the spot without thrusting home?"
"Certainly, if you do not mind a scratch on the shoulder or the arm. I
will try and not draw blood. Come on--so--in guard--wait a minute!
Where will you be hit? That is rather important."
Giovanni, who was in a desperate humour and cared little what he did,
rather relished the idea of a bout which savoured of reality. There was
a billiard-table in the adjoining room, and he fetched a piece of chalk
at once.
"Here," said he, making a small white spot upon his coat on the outside
of his right shoulder.
"Very well," observed Spicca. "Now, do not rush in or I may hurt you."
"Am I to thrust, too?" asked Giovanni.
"If you like. You cannot touch me if you do."
"We shall see," answered Sant' Ilario, nettled at Spicca's poor opinion
of his skill. "In guard!"
They fell into position and began play. Giovanni immediately tried his
special method of disarming his adversary, which he had scarcely ever
known to fail. He forgot, however, that Spicca had seen him practise
this piece of strategy with success upon Del Ferice. The melancholy
duellist had spent weeks in studying the trick, and had completely
mastered it. To Giovanni's surprise the Count's hand turned as easily
as a ball in a socket, avoiding the pressure, while his point scarcely
deviated from the straight line. Giovanni, angry at his failure, made a
quick feint and a thrust, lunging to his full reach. Spicca parried as
easily and carelessly as though the prince had been a mere beginner,
and allowed the latter to recover himself before he replied. A full two
seconds after Sant' Ilario had resumed his guard, Spicca's foil ran
over his with a speed that defied parrying, and he felt a short sharp
prick in his right shoulder. Spicca sprang back and lowered his weapon.
"I think that is the spot," he said coolly, and then came forward and
examined Giovanni's coat. The point had penetrated the chalked mark in
the centre, inflicting a wound not more than a quarter of an inch deep
in the muscle of the shoulder.
"Observe," he continued, "that it was a simple tierce, without a feint
or any trick whatever."
On realising his absolute inferiority to such a master of the art,
Giovanni broke into a hearty laugh at his own discomfiture. So long as
he had supposed that some sort of equality existed between them he had
been angry at being outdone; but when he saw with what ease Spicca had
accomplished his purpose, his admiration for the skill displayed made
him forget his annoyance.
"How in the world did you do it?" he said. "I thought I could parry a
simple tierce, even though I might not be a match for you!"
"Many people have thought the same, my friend. There are two or three
elements in my process, one of which is my long reach. Another is the
knack of thrusting very quickly, which is partly natural, and partly
the result of practice. My trick consists in the way I hold my foil.
Look here. I do not grasp the hilt with all my fingers as you do. The
whole art of fencing lies in the use of the thumb and forefinger. I lay
my forefinger straight in the direction of the blade. Of course I
cannot do it with a basket or a bell hilt, but no one ever objects to
common foils. It is dangerous--yes--I might hurt my finger, but then, I
am too quick. You ask the advantage? It is very simple. You and I and
every one are accustomed from childhood to point with the forefinger at
things we see. The accuracy with which we point is much more surprising
than you imagine. We instinctively aim the forefinger at the object to
a hair's-breadth of exactness. I only make my point follow my
forefinger. The important thing, then, is to grasp the hilt very
firmly, and yet leave the wrist limber. I shoot in the same way with a
revolver, and pull the trigger with my middle finger. I scarcely ever
miss. You might amuse yourself by trying these things while you are
waiting for Gouache. They will make the time pass pleasantly."
Spicca, whose main pleasure in life was in the use of weapons, could
not conceive of any more thoroughly delightful occupation.
"I will try it," said Giovanni, rubbing his shoulder a little, for the
scratch irritated him. "It is very interesting. I hope that fellow will
not go and have himself killed by the Garibaldians before I get a
chance at him."
"You are absolutely determined to kill him, then?" Spicca's voice,
which had grown animated during his exposition of his method, now sank
again to its habitually melancholy tone.
Giovanni only shrugged his shoulders at the question, as though any
answer were needless. He hung the foil he had used in its place on the
wall, and began to smoke.
"You will not have another bout?" inquired the Count, putting away his
weapon also, and taking his hat to go.
"Thanks--not to-day. We shall meet soon, I hope. I am very grateful for
your good offices, Spicca. I would ask you to stay to breakfast, but I
do not want my father to know of this affair. He would suspect
something if he saw you here."
"Yes," returned the other quietly, "people generally do. I am rather
like a public executioner in that respect. My visits often precede a
catastrophe. What would you have? I am a lonely man."
"You, who have so many friends!" exclaimed Giovanni.
"Bah! It is time to be off," said Spicca, and shaking his friend's hand
hastily he left the room.
Giovanni stood for several minutes after he had gone, wondering with a
vague curiosity what this man's history had been, as many had wondered
before. There was a fatal savour of death about Spicca which everybody
felt who came near him. He was dreaded, as one of the worst-tempered
men and one of the most remarkable swordsmen in Europe. He was always
consulted in affairs of honour, and his intimate acquaintance with the
code, his austere integrity, and his vast experience, made him
invaluable in such matters. But he was not known to have any intimate
friends among men or women. He neither gambled nor made love to other
men's wives, nor did any of those things which too easily lead to
encounters of arms; and yet, in his cold and melancholy way he was
constantly quarrelling and fighting and killing his man, till it was a
wonder that the police would tolerate him in any European capital. It
was rumoured that he had a strange history, and that his life had been
embittered in his early youth by some tragic circumstance, but no one
could say what that occurrence had been nor where it had taken place.
He felt an odd sympathy for Giovanni, and his reference to his
loneliness in his parting speech was unique, and set his friend to
wondering about him.
Giovanni's mind was now as much at rest as was possible, under
conditions which obliged him to postpone his vengeance for an
indefinite period. He had passed a sleepless night after his efforts to
find Gouache and had risen early in the morning to be sure of catching
him. He had not seen his father since their interview of the previous
evening, and had hoped not to see him again till the moment of leaving
for Saracinesca. The old man had understood him, and that was all that
was necessary for the present. He suspected that his father would not
seek an interview any more than he did himself. But an obstacle had
presented itself in the way of his departure which he had not expected,
and which irritated him beyond measure. Corona was ill. He did not know
whether her ailment were serious or not, but it was evident that he
could not force her to leave her bed and accompany him to the country,
so long as the doctor declared that she could not be moved. When Spicca
was gone, he did not know what to do with himself. He would not go and
see his wife, for any meeting must be most unpleasant. He had nerved
himself to conduct her to the mountains, and had expected that the long
drive would be passed in a disagreeable silence. So long as Corona was
well and strong, he could have succeeded well enough in treating her as
he believed that she deserved. Now that she was ill, he felt how
impossible it would be for him to take good care of her without seeming
to relent, even if he did not relent in earnest; and on the other hand
his really noble nature would have prevented him from being harsh in
his manner to her while she was suffering.
Until he had been convinced that a duel with Gouache was for the
present impossible, his anger had supported him, and had made the time
pass quickly throughout the sleepless night and through the events of
the morning. Now that he was alone, with nothing to do but to meditate
upon the situation, his savage humour forsook him and the magnitude of
his misfortune oppressed him and nearly drove him mad. He went over the
whole train of evidence again and again, and as often as he reviewed
what had occurred, his conviction grew deeper and stronger, and he
acknowledged that he had been deceived as man was never deceived
before. He realised the boundless faith he had given to this woman who
had betrayed him; he recollected the many proofs she had given him of
her love; he drew upon the store of his past happiness and tortured
himself with visions of what could never be again; he called up in
fancy Corona's face when he had led her to the altar and the very look
in her eyes was again upon him; he remembered that day more than two
years ago when, upon the highest tower of Saracinesca, he had asked her
to be his wife, and he knew not whether he desired to burn the memory
of that first embrace from his heart, or to dwell upon the sweet
recollection of that moment and suffer the wound of to-day to rankle
more hotly by the horror of the comparison. When he thought of what she
had been, it seemed impossible that she could have fallen; when he saw
what she had become he could not believe that she had ever been
innocent. A baser man than Giovanni would have suffered more in his
personal vanity, seeing that his idol had been degraded for a mere
soldier of fortune--or for a clever artist--whichever Gouache called
himself, and such a husband would have forgiven her more easily had she
forsaken him for one of his own standing and rank. But Giovanni was far
above and beyond the thought of comparing his enemy with himself. He
was wounded in what he had held most sacred, which was his heart, and
in what had grown to be the mainspring of his existence, his trust in
the woman he loved. Those who readily believe are little troubled if
one of their many little faiths be shaken; but men who believe in a few
things, with the whole strength of their being, are hurt mortally when
that on which they build their loyalty is shattered and overturned.
Giovanni was a just man, and was rarely carried away by appearances;
least of all could he have shown any such weakness when the yielding to
it involved the destruction of all that he cared for in life. But the
evidence was overwhelming, and no man could be blamed for accepting it.
There was no link wanting in the chain, and the denials made by Corona
and Anastase could not have influenced any man in his senses. What
could a woman do but deny all? What was there for Gouache but to swear
that the accusation was untrue? Would not any other man or woman have
done as much? There was no denying it. The only person who remained
unquestioned was Faustina Montevarchi. Either she was the innocent girl
she appeared to be or not. If she were, how could Giovanni explain to
her that she had been duped, and made an instrument in the hands of
Gouache and Corona? She would not know what he meant. Even if she
admitted that she loved Gouache, was it not clear that he had deceived
her too, for the sake of making an accomplice of one who was constantly
with Corona? Her love for the soldier could not explain the things that
had passed between Anastase and Giovanni's wife, which Giovanni had
seen with his own eyes. It could not account for the whisperings, the
furtive meeting and tender words of which he had been a witness in his
own house. It could not do away with the letter and the pin. But if
Faustina were not innocent of assisting the two, she would deny
everything, even as they had done.
As he thought of all these matters and followed the cruelly logical
train of reasoning forced upon him by the facts, a great darkness
descended upon Giovanni's heart, and he knew that his happiness was
gone from him for ever. Henceforth nothing remained but to watch his
wife jealously, and suffer his ills with the best heart he could. The
very fact that he loved her still, with a passion that defied all
things, added a terrible bitterness to what he had to bear, for it made
him despise himself as none would have dared to despise him.