Gouache's wound was by no means dangerous, and when he had somewhat
recovered from the combined effects of loss of blood and excessive
fatigue he did not feel much the worse for having a ball in his
shoulder. Giovanni and the doctor gave him food and a little wine in
the carriage, and long before they reached the gates of the city the
Zouave was well enough to have heard Sant' Ilario's explanation. The
presence of the surgeon, however, made any intimate conversation
difficult.
"I came to find you," said Giovanni in a low voice, "because everything
has been set right in your absence, and I was afraid you might be
killed at Mentana without receiving my apology."
Gouache looked at his companion in some surprise. He knew very well
that Sant' Ilario was not a man to make excuses without some very
extraordinary reasons for such a step. It is a prime law of the code of
honour, however, that an apology duly made must be duly accepted as
putting an end to any quarrel, and Anastase saw at once that Giovanni
had relinquished all intention of fighting.
"I am very glad that everything is explained," answered Gouache. "I
confess that I was surprised beyond measure by the whole affair."
"I regret having entered your rooms without your permission," continued
Giovanni who intended to go to the end of what he had undertaken. "The
pin was my wife's, but the letter was written by another person with a
view to influencing your conduct. I cannot explain here, but you shall
know whatever is necessary when we are alone. Of course, if you still
desire any satisfaction, I am at your service."
"Pray do not suggest such a thing. I have no further feeling of
annoyance in the matter."
Gouache insisted on being taken to his own lodgings, though Sant'
Ilario offered him the hospitality of the Palazzo Saracinesca. By four
o'clock in the morning the ball was extracted and the surgeon took his
leave, recommending sleep and quiet for his patient. Gouache, however,
would not let Giovanni go without hearing the end of the story.
"The facts are very few," said the latter after a moment's hesitation.
"It appears that you had arranged to meet a lady on Sunday morning. A
certain person whom I will not name discovered your intention, and
conceived the idea of preventing the meeting by sending you a note
purporting to come from the lady. As he could get none of her
note-paper he possessed himself of some of my wife's. He pinned the
note on your table with the pin you had chanced to find. I was foolish
enough to enter your room and I recognised the pin and the paper. You
understand the rest."
Gouache laughed merrily.
"I understand that you did me a great service. I met the lady after
all, but if I had received the note I would not have gone, and she
would have waited for me. Do you mind telling me the name of the
individual who tried to play me the trick?"
"If you will excuse my discretion, I would rather not. He knows that
his plan failed. I should not feel justified in telling you his name,
from other motives."
"As you please," said Gouache. "I daresay I shall find him out."
So the interview ended and Giovanni went home to rest at last, almost
as much worn out as Gouache himself. He was surprised at the ease with
which everything had been arranged, but he was satisfied with the
result and felt that a weight had been taken from his mind. He slept
long and soundly and awoke the next morning to hear that Corona was
much better.
The events of Saturday and Sunday had to all appearances smoothed many
difficulties from the lives of those with whom my history is concerned.
Corona and Giovanni were once more united, though the circumstances
that had produced so terrible a breach between them had left a shadow
on their happiness. Gouache had fought his battle and had returned with
a slight wound so that as soon as he could go out he would be able to
renew his visits at the Palazzo Montevarchi and see Faustina without
resorting to any more ingenious stratagems. San Giacinto had failed to
produce the trouble he had planned, but his own prospects were
brilliant enough. His marriage with Flavia was to take place on the
last of the month and the preliminaries were being arranged as quickly
as possible. Flavia herself was delighted with the new dignity she
assumed in the family, and if she was not positively in love with San
Giacinto, was enough attracted by him to look forward with pleasure
upon the prospect of becoming his wife. Old Montevarchi alone seemed
preoccupied and silent, but his melancholy mood was relieved by
occasional moments of anticipated triumph, while he made frequent
visits to the library and seemed to find solace in the conversation of
the librarian, Arnoldo Meschini.
In the future of each of these persons there was an element of
uncertainty which most of them disregarded. As Corona recovered,
Giovanni began to think that she would really forget as well as forgive
all he had made her suffer. Gouache on his part entertained the most
sanguine hopes of marrying Faustina. Montevarchi looked forward with
assurance to the success of his plot against the Saracinesca. San
Giacinto and Flavia were engaged, indeed, but were not yet married. And
yet the issue of none of these events was absolutely sure.
The first matter with which we are concerned is the forgery of the
clauses in the documents, which Meschini had undertaken to accomplish
and actually finished in less than three weeks. It was indeed an easy
task for a man so highly skilled in the manufacture of chirograhic
antiquities, but he had found himself unexpectedly balked at the
outset, and the ingenuity he displayed in overcoming the difficulties
he met with is worth recording.
It was necessary in the first place to ascertain whether there was a
copy of the principal deed at the Chancery. He had no trouble in
finding that such a copy existed, and was indeed fully prepared for the
contingency. But when the parchment was produced, his face fell. It was
a smaller sheet than the first and the writing was a little wider, so
that the space at the foot of the first page was considerably less than
in the original. He saw at once that it would be impossible to make the
insertion, even if he could get possession of the document for a time
long enough to execute the work. Moreover, though he was not actually
watched while he read it, he could see that it would be almost
impracticable to use writing materials in the office of the Chancery
without being observed. He was able, however, to take out the original
which he carried with him and to compare it with the copy. Both were by
one hand, and the copy was only distinguished by the seal of the
government office. It was kept, like all such documents, in a dusty
case upon which were written the number and letter of the alphabet by
which it was classified.
Meschini hesitated only a moment, and then decided to substitute the
original for the copy. Should the keeper of the archives chance to look
at the parchment and discover the absence of the seal, Meschini could
easily excuse himself by saying that he had mistaken the two, and
indeed with that one exception they were very much alike. The keeper,
however, noticed nothing and Arnoldo had the satisfaction of seeing him
unsuspiciously return the cardboard case to its place on the shelves.
He went back to his room and set to work.
The longer he looked at the sheet the more clearly he saw that it would
be impossible to make the insertion. There was nothing to be done but
to forge a new document with the added words. He did not like the idea,
though he believed himself fully able to carry it out. There was a
risk, he thought, which he had not meant to undertake; but on the other
hand the reward was great. He put forth all his skill to produce the
imitation and completed it in ten days to his entire satisfaction. He
understood the preparation of seals as well as the rest of his art, and
had no difficulty in making a die which corresponded precisely with the
wax. In the first place he took off the impression carefully with
kneaded bread. From this with a little plaster of Paris he reproduced
the seal, which he very carefully retouched with a fine steel
instrument until it was quite perfect. Over this again he poured melted
lead, thus making a hard die with which he could stamp the wax without
danger of breaking the instrument. Once more he retouched the lead with
a graving tool, using a lens for the work and ultimately turning out an
absolutely accurate copy of the seal used in the Chancery office. He
made experiments as he proceeded, and when he was at last satisfied he
turned to the actual forgery, which was a longer matter and required
greater skill and patience. Nothing was omitted which could make the
fraud complete. The parchment assumed the exact shade under his
marvellous manipulation. The smallest roughness was copied with
faultless precision, and then by many hours of handling and the use of
a little dust collected among the books in the library, he imparted to
the whole the appearance of age which was indispensable. When he had
finished he showed his work to old Montevarchi, but by an inherent love
of duplicity did not tell him that the whole document was forged,
merely pointing to the inserted clause as a masterpiece of imitation.
First, however, he pretended that the copy had actually contained the
inserted words, and the prince found it hard to believe that this was
not the case. Meschini was triumphant.
Again he returned to the Chancery and substituted what he had written
for the first original upon which he had now to make the insertion.
There was no difficulty here, and yet he hesitated before beginning. It
seemed to him safer after all to forge the whole of the second as he
had done the first. A slip of the pen, an unlucky drop of ink might mar
the work and excite suspicion, whereas if he made a mistake upon a
fresh sheet of parchment he could always begin again. There was only
one danger. The Saracinesca might have made some private mark upon the
original which should elude even his microscopic examination. He spent
nearly a day in examining the sheet with a lens but could discover
nothing. Being satisfied of the safety of the proceeding he executed
the forgery with the same care he had bestowed upon the first, and
showed it to his employer. The latter could scarcely believe his eyes,
and was very far from imagining that the two originals were intact and
carefully locked up in Meschini's room. The prince took the document
and studied its contents again during many hours before he finally
decided to return it to old Saracinesca.
It was a moment of intense excitement. He hesitated whether he should
take the manuscripts back himself or send them by a messenger. Had he
been sure of controlling himself, he would have gone in person, but he
knew that if Saracinesca should chance to look over the writing when
they were together, it would be almost impossible to conceal emotion
under such a trial of nerve. What he really hoped was that the prince
would think no more of the matter, and put away the parcel without
examining the contents.
Montevarchi pondered long over the course he should pursue, his eyes
gleaming now and then with a wild triumph, and then growing dull and
glassy at the horrible thought of discovery. Then again the
consciousness that he was committing a great crime overcame him, and he
twisted his fingers nervously. He had embarked upon the undertaking,
however, and he fully believed that it would be impossible to draw back
even had he wished to do so. The insertions were made and could not be
erased. It is possible that at one moment, had Montevarchi known the
truth, he would have drawn back; but it is equally sure that if he had
done so he would sooner or later have regretted it, and would have done
all in his power to recover lost ground and to perpetrate the fraud.
The dominant passion for money, when it is on the point of being
satisfied, is one of the strongest incentives to evil deeds, and in the
present case the stake was enormous. He would not let it slip through
his fingers. He rejoiced that the thing was done and that the millions
of the Saracinesca were already foredoomed to be his.
It is doubtful whether he was able to form a clear conception of what
would take place after the trial was over and the property awarded to
his son-in-law. It was perhaps enough for his ambition that his
daughter should be Princess Saracinesca, and he did not doubt his power
to control some part of the fortune. San Giacinto, who was wholly
innocent in the matter, would, he thought, be deeply grateful for
having been told of his position, and would show his gratitude in a
befitting manner. Moreover, Montevarchi's avarice was on a grand scale,
and it was not so much the possession of more money for himself that he
coveted, as the aggrandisement of his children and grandchildren. The
patriarchal system often produces this result. He would scarcely have
known what to do with a greater fortune than he possessed, but he
looked forward with a wild delight to seeing his descendants masters of
so much wealth. The fact that he could not hope to enjoy his
satisfaction very long did not detract from its reality or magnitude.
The miser is generally long-lived, and does not begin to anticipate
death until the catastrophe is near at hand. Even then it is a
compensation to him to feel that the heirs of his body are to be made
glorious by what he has accumulated, and his only fear is that they
will squander what he has spent his strength in amassing. He educates
his children to be thrifty and rejoices when they spend no money,
readily believing them to be as careful as himself, and seldom
reflecting that, if he furnished them with the means, their true
disposition might turn out to be very different. It is so intensely
painful to him to think of wealth being wasted that he cultivates the
belief in the thriftiness of those who must profit by his death. If he
has been born to worldly state as well as to a great inheritance, he
extends the desire of accumulation to the fortunes of his relations and
descendants, and shows a laudable anxiety that they should possess all
that he can get for them, provided it is quite impossible that he
should get it for himself. The powers of the world have been to a great
extent built up on this principle, and it is a maxim in many a great
family that there is no economy like enriching one's relatives to the
third and fourth generation.
The struggle in Montevarchi's mind was so insignificant and lasted so
short a time, that it might be disregarded altogether, were it not
almost universally true that the human mind hesitates at the moment of
committing a crime. That moment of hesitation has prevented millions of
frightful deeds, and has betrayed thousands of carefully plotted
conspiracies whose success seemed assured, and it is amazing to think
what an influence has been exerted upon the destinies of the human race
by the instinctive fear of crossing the narrow boundary between right
and wrong. The time occupied in such reflection is often only
infinitesimal. It has been called the psychological moment, and if the
definition means that it is the instant during which the soul suggests,
it is a true one. It is then that our natural repulsion for evil
asserts itself; it is then that the consequences of what we are about
to do rise clearly before us as in a mirror; it is then that our
courage is suddenly strengthened to do the right, or deserts us and
leaves us mere instruments for the accomplishment of the wrong. If
humanity had not an element of good in it, there would be no hesitation
in the perpetration of crime, any more than a wild beast pauses before
destroying a weaker creature. Perhaps there is no clearer proof of the
existence of a divine soul in man, than his intuitive reluctance to do
what in the lower animals would be most natural. Circumstances,
education, the accidents of life, all tend to make this psychologic
moment habitually shorter or longer. The suspense created in the
conscience, during which the intelligence is uncertain how to act, may
last a week or a second, a year or a quarter of an hour; but it is a
stage through which all must pass, both the professional criminal and
the just man who is perhaps tempted to commit a crime but once during
his life.
Old Lotario Montevarchi had never been guilty of any misdeed subject to
the provisions of the penal code; but he had done most things in his
love of money which were not criminal only because the law had not
foreseen the tortuous peculiarities of his mind. Even now he persuaded
himself that the end was a righteous one, and that his course was
morally justifiable. He had that power of deceiving himself which
characterises the accomplished hypocrite, and he easily built up for
San Giacinto a whole edifice of sympathy which seemed in his own view
very real and moral. He reflected with satisfaction upon the probable
feelings of the old Leone Saracinesca, when, after relinquishing his
birthright, he found himself married and the father of a son. How the
poor man must have cursed his folly and longed for some means of
undoing the deed! It was but common justice after all--it was but
common justice, and it was a mere accident of fate that Leone's
great-grandson, who was now to be reinstated in all the glories of his
princely possessions, was also to marry Flavia Montevarchi.
The prospect was too alluring and the suspense lasted but a moment,
though he believed that he spent much time in considering the
situation. The thoughts that really occupied him were not of a nature
to hinder the accomplishment of his plan, and he was not at all
surprised with himself when he finally tied up the packet and rang for
a messenger. Detection was impossible, for by Meschini's skilful
management, the original and the official copy corresponded exactly and
were such marvellous forgeries as to defy discovery. When it is
considered that the greatest scientists and specialists in Europe have
recently disagreed concerning documents which are undoubtedly of modern
manufacture, and which were produced by just such men as Arnoldo
Meschini, it need not appear surprising that the latter should
successfully impose upon a court of law. The circumstances of the
Saracinesca family history, too, lent an air of probability to the
alleged facts. The poverty and temporary disappearance of Leone's
descendants explained why they had not attempted to recover their
rights. Nay, more, since Leone had died when his son was an infant, and
since there was no copy of the document among his papers, it was more
than probable that the child on growing up had never known the nature
of the deed, and would not have been likely to suspect what was now put
forward as the truth, unless his attention were called to it by some
person possessed of the necessary knowledge.
The papers were returned to Prince Saracinesca in the afternoon with a
polite note of thanks. It will be remembered that the prince had not
read the documents, as he had meant to do, in consequence of the
trouble between Giovanni and Corona which had made him forget his
intention. He had not looked over them since he had been a young man
and the recollection of their contents was far from clear. Having
always supposed the collateral branch of his family to be extinct, it
was only natural that he should have bestowed very little thought upon
the ancient deeds which he believed to have been drawn up in due form
and made perfectly legal.
When he came home towards evening, he found the sealed packet upon his
table, and having opened it, was about to return the papers to their
place in the archives. It chanced that he had a letter to write,
however, and he pushed the documents aside before taking them to the
library. While he was writing, Giovanni entered the room.
As has been seen, the prince had been very angry with his son for
having allowed himself to doubt Corona, and though several days had
elapsed since the matter had been explained, the old man's wrath had
not wholly subsided. He still felt considerable resentment against
Giovanni, and his intercourse with the latter had not yet regained its
former cordiality. As Sant' Ilario entered the room, Saracinesca looked
up with an expression which showed clearly that the interruption was
unwelcome.
"Do I disturb you?" asked Giovanni, noticing the look.
"Do you want anything?"
"No--nothing especial."
Saracinesca's eye fell upon the pile of manuscripts that lay on the
table. It struck him that Giovanni might occupy himself by looking them
over, while he himself finished the letter he had begun.
"There are those deeds relating to San Giacinto," he said, "you might
look through them before they are put away. Montevarchi borrowed them
for a day or two and has just sent them back."
Giovanni took the bundle and established himself in a comfortable chair
beside a low stand, where the light of a lamp fell upon the pages as he
turned them. He made no remark, but began to examine the documents, one
by one, running his eye rapidly along the lines, as he read on
mechanically, not half comprehending the sense of the words. He was
preoccupied by thoughts of Corona and of what had lately happened, so
that he found it hard to fix his attention. The prince's pen scratched
and spattered on the paper, and irritated Giovanni, for the old
gentleman wrote a heavy, nervous handwriting, and lost his temper
twenty times in five minutes, mentally cursing the ink, the paper and
the pen, and wishing he could write like a shopman or a clerk.
Giovanni's attention was arrested by the parchment on which the
principal deed was executed, and he began to read the agreement with
more care than he had bestowed upon the other papers. He understood
Latin well enough, but the crabbed characters puzzled him from time to
time. He read the last words on the first page without thinking very
much of what they meant.
".... Eo tamen pacto, quod si praedicto Domino Leoni ex legitimo
matrimonio heres nasceretur, instrumentum hoc nullum, vanum atque plane
invalidum fiat."
Giovanni smiled at the quaint law Latin, and then read the sentence
over again. His face grew grave as he realised the tremendous import of
those few words. Again and again he translated the phrase, trying to
extract from it some other meaning than that which was so unpleasantly
clear. No other construction, however, could be put upon what was
written, and for some minutes Giovanni sat staring at the fire,
bewildered and almost terrified by his discovery.
"Have you ever read those papers?" he asked at last, in a voice that
made his father drop his pen and look up.
"Not for thirty years."
"Then you had better read them at once. San Giacinto is Prince
Saracinesca and you and I are nobody."
Saracinesca uttered a fierce oath and sprang from his chair.
"What do you mean?" he asked, seizing Giovanni's arm violently with one
hand and taking the parchment with the other.
"Read for yourself. There--at the foot of the page, from 'eo tamen
pacto.' It is plain enough. It says, 'On the understanding that if an
heir be born to the aforesaid Don Leone, in lawful wedlock, the present
instrument shall be wholly null, void and inefficacious.' An heir was
born, and San Giacinto is that heir's grandson. You may tear up the
document. It is not worth the parchment it is written upon, nor are we
either."
"You are mad, Giovannino!" exclaimed the prince, hoarsely, "that is not
the meaning of the words. You have forgotten your Latin."
"I will get you a dictionary--or a lawyer--whichever you prefer."
"You are not in earnest, my boy. Look here--eo tamen pacto--that means
'by this agreement'--does it not? I am not so rusty as you seem to
think."
"It means 'on this understanding, however.' Go on. Quod si, that
if--praedicto Domino Leoni, to the aforesaid Don Leone--ex legitimo
matrimonio, from a lawful marriage--heres nasceretur, an heir should be
born--hoc instrumentum, this deed--shall be null, worthless and
invalid. You cannot get any other sense out of it. I have tried for a
quarter of an hour. You and I are beggars. Saracinesca, Torleone,
Barda, and all the rest belong to San Giacinto, the direct descendant
of your great-grandfather's elder brother. You are simple Don Leone,
and I am plain Don Giovanni. That is what it means."
"Good God!" cried the old man in extreme horror. "If you should be
right--"
"I am right," replied Giovanni, very pale.
With wild eyes and trembling hands the prince spread the document upon
the table and read it over again. He turned it and went on to the end,
his excitement bringing back in the moment such scholarship as he had
once possessed and making every sentence as clear as the day.
"Not even San Giacinto--not even a title!" he exclaimed desperately. He
fell back in his chair, crushed by the tremendous blow that had fallen
so unexpectedly upon him in his old age.
"Not even San Giacinto," repeated Giovanni, stupidly. His presence of
mind began to forsake him, too, and he sank down, burying his face in
his hands. As in a dream he saw his cousin installed in the very chair
where his father now sat, master of the house in which he, Giovanni,
had been born, like his father before him, master of the fortresses and
castles, the fair villas and the broad lands, the palaces and the
millions to which Giovanni had thought himself heir, lord over the
wealth and inheritances of his race, dignified by countless titles and
by all the consideration that falls to the lot of the great in this
world.
For a long time neither spoke, for both were equally overwhelmed by the
magnitude of the disaster that hung over their heads. They looked
furtively at each other, and each saw that his companion was white to
the lips. The old man was the first to break the silence.
"At all events, San Giacinto does not know how the deed stands," he
said.
"It will make it all the harder to tell him," replied Giovanni.
"To tell him? You would not be so mad--"
"Do you think it would be honourable," asked the younger man, "for us
to remain in possession of what clearly does not belong to us? I will
not do it."
"We have been in possession for more than a century."
"That is no reason why we should continue to steal another man's
money," said Giovanni. "We are men. Let us act like men. It is bitter.
It is horrible. But we have no other course. After all, Corona has
Astrardente. She will give you a home. She is rich."
"Me? Why do you say me? Us both."
"I will work for my living," said Giovanni, quietly. "I am young. I
will not live on my wife."
"It is absurd!" exclaimed the prince. "It is Quixotic. San Giacinto has
plenty of money without ruining us. Even if he finds it out I will
fight the case to the end. I am master here, as my father and my
father's father were before me, and I will not give up what is mine
without a struggle. Besides, who assures us that he is really what he
represents himself to be? What proves that he is really the descendant
of that same Leone?"
"For that matter," answered Giovanni, "he will have to produce very
positive proofs, valid in law, to show that he is really the man. I
will give up everything to the lawful heir, but I will certainly not
turn beggar to please an adventurer. But I say that, if San Giacinto
represents the elder branch of our house, we have no right here. If I
were sure of it I would not sleep another night under this roof."
The old man could not withhold his admiration. There was something
supremely noble and generous about Giovanni's readiness to sacrifice
everything for justice which made his old heart beat with a strange
pride. If he was reluctant to renounce his rights it was after all more
on Giovanni's account, and for the sake of Corona and little Orsino. He
himself was an old man and had lived most of his life out already.
"You have your mother's heart, Giovannino," he said simply, but there
was a slight moisture in his eyes, which few emotions had ever had the
power to bring there.
"It is not a question of heart," replied Giovanni. "We cannot keep what
does not belong to us."
"We will let the law decide what we can keep. Do you realise what it
would be like, what a position we should occupy if we were suddenly
declared beggars? We should be absolute paupers. We do not own a foot
of land, a handful of money that does not come under the provisions of
that accursed clause."
"Wait a minute," exclaimed Giovanni, suddenly recollecting that he
possessed something of his own, a fact he had wholly forgotten in the
excitement of his discovery. "We shall not be wholly without resources.
It does not follow from this deed that we must give to San Giacinto any
of the property our branch of the family has acquired by marriage, from
your great grandfather's time to this. It must be very considerable. To
begin with me, my fortune came from my mother. Then there was your
mother, and your father's mother, and so on. San Giacinto has no claim
to anything not originally the property of the old Leone who made this
deed."
"That is true," replied the prince, more hopefully. "It is not so bad
as it looked. You must be right about that point."
"Unless the courts decide that San Giacinto is entitled to compensation
and interest, because four generations have been kept out of the
property."
Both men looked grave. The suggestion was unpleasant. Such judgments
had been given before and might be given again.
"We had better send for our lawyer," said the prince, at last. "The
sooner we know the real value of that bit of parchment the better it
will be for us. I cannot bear the suspense of waiting a day to know the
truth. Imagine that the very chair I am sitting upon may belong to San
Giacinto. I never liked the fellow, from the day when I first found him
in his inn at Aquila."
"It is not his fault," answered Giovanni, quietly. "This is a perfectly
simple matter. We did not know what these papers were. Even if we had
known, we should have laughed at them until we discovered that we had a
cousin. After all we shall not starve, and what is a title? The Pope
will give you another when he knows what has happened. I would as soon
be plain Don Giovanni as Prince of Sant' Ilario."
"For that matter, you can call yourself Astrardente."
"I would rather not," said Giovanni, with something like a laugh. "But
I must tell Corona this news."
"Wait till she is herself again. It might disturb her too much."
"You do not know her!" Giovanni laughed heartily this time. "If you
think she cares for such things, you are very much mistaken in her
character. She will bear the misfortune better than any of us. Courage,
padre mio! Things are never so black as they look at first."
"I hope not, my boy, I hope not! Go and tell your wife, if you think it
best. I would rather be alone."
Giovanni left the room, and Saracinesca was alone. He sank back once
more in his chair and folded his strong brown hands together upon the
edge of the table before him. In spite of all Giovanni could say, the
old man felt keenly the horror of his position. Only those who, having
been brought up in immense wealth and accustomed from childhood to the
pomp and circumstance of a very great position, are suddenly deprived
of everything, can understand what he felt.
He was neither avaricious nor given to vanity. He had not wasted his
fortune, though he had spent magnificently a princely income. He had
not that small affection for greatness which, strange to say, is often
found in the very great. But his position was part of himself, so that
he could no more imagine himself plain Don Leone Saracinesca, than he
could conceive himself boasting of his ancient titles. And yet it was
quite plain to him that he must either cease to be a prince altogether,
or accept a new title as a charity from his sovereign. As for his
fortune, it was only too plain that the greater part of it had never
been his.
To a man of his temperament the sensation of finding himself a mere
impostor was intolerable. His first impulse had of course been to fight
the case, and had the attack upon his position come from San Giacinto,
he would probably have done so. But his own son had discovered the
truth and had put the matter clearly before him, in such a light as to
make an appeal to his honour. He had no choice but to submit. He could
not allow himself to be outdone in common honesty by the boy he loved,
nor could he have been guilty of deliberate injustice, for his own
advantage, after he had been convinced that he had no right to his
possessions. He belonged to a race of men who had frequently committed
great crimes and done atrocious deeds, notorious in history, from
motives of personal ambition, for the love of women or out of hatred
for men, but who had never had the reputation of loving money or of
stooping to dishonour for its sake. As soon as he was persuaded that
everything belonged to San Giacinto, he felt that he must resign all in
favour of the latter.
One doubt alone remained to be solved. It was not absolutely certain
that San Giacinto was the man he represented himself to be. It was
quite possible that he should have gained possession of the papers he
held, by some means known only to himself; such things are often sold
as curiosities, and as the last of the older branch of whom there was
any record preserved in Rome had died in obscurity, it was conceivable
that the ex-innkeeper might have found or bought the documents he had
left, in order to call himself Marchese di San Giacinto. Saracinesca
did not go so far as to believe that the latter had any knowledge
whatsoever of the main deed which was about to cause so much trouble,
unless he had seen it in the hands of Montevarchi, in which case he
could not be blamed if he brought a suit for the recovery of so much
wealth.