Faustina Montevarchi was delighted when her sister was at last married
and out of the house. The two had always been very good friends, but
Faustina felt that she had an enemy in San Giacinto and was relieved
when he was gone. She had no especial reason for her suspicions, since
he treated her with the same quiet and amicable politeness which he
showed to the rest of the household; but her perceptions were
extraordinarily true and keen, and she had noticed that he watched her
whenever Gouache was in the room, in a way that made her very
uncomfortable. Moreover, he had succeeded of late in making Flavia
accompany her to early mass on Sunday mornings on pretence of his
wishing to see Flavia without the inevitable supervision of the old
princess. The plan was ingenious; for Faustina, instead of meeting
Gouache, was thus obliged to play chaperon while her sister and San
Giacinto talked to their hearts' content. He was a discreet man,
however, and Flavia was ignorant of the fact that Faustina and Anastase
had sometimes met in the same way, and would have met frequently had
they not been prevented. The young girl was clever enough to see why
San Giacinto acted as he did; she understood that he was an ambitious
man, and that, as he was about to ally himself with her family, he
would naturally disapprove of her attachment to Gouache. Now that he
was gone, she wondered whether he had devised any steps which would
take effect after his departure.
Faustina was quite as much in love as Gouache himself, and spent much
time in calculating the chances of a favourable issue from the
situation in which she found herself. Life without Anastase was
impossible, but the probabilities of her becoming his wife in the
ordinary course of events were very few, as far as she was able to
judge, and she had moments of extreme depression, during which she
despaired of everything. The love of a very young girl may in itself be
both strong and enduring, but it generally has the effect of making her
prone to extremes of hope and fear, uncertain of herself, vacillating
in her ideas, and unsteady in the pursuit of the smaller ends of life.
Throw two equal weights into the scales of a perfectly adjusted
balance, the arm will swing and move erratically many times before it
returns to its normal position, although there is a potential
equilibrium in the machine which will shortly assert itself in absolute
tranquillity.
Love in a very young person is rarely interesting, unless it is
attended by heroic or tragic circumstances. Human life is very like the
game of chess, of which the openings are so limited in number that a
practised player knows them all by heart, whereas the subsequent moves
are susceptible of infinite variation. Almost all young people pass
through the early stages of existence by some known gambit, which, has
always a definite influence upon their later lives, but never
determines the latter entirely. The game is played between humanity on
the one side and the unforeseen on the other; but that which can really
not be foretold in some measure rarely presents itself until the first
effects of love have been felt, a period which, to continue the simile,
may be compared in chess to the operation of castling. Then comes the
first crisis, and the merest tyro knows how much may depend upon
whether he castles on the king's side or on the queen's.
Now the nature of Faustina's first love was such as to make it probable
that it would end in some uncommon way. There was something fatal in
the suddenness with which her affection had grown and had upset the
balance of her judgment. It is safe to say that not one young girl in a
million would have behaved as she had done on the night of the
insurrection in Rome; not one in a hundred thousand would, in her
position, have fallen in love with Gouache.
The position of the professional artist and of the professional man of
letters in modern European society is ill defined. As a man who has
been brought up in a palace would undoubtedly betray his breeding
sooner or later if transported to live amongst a gang of thieves, so a
man who has grown to years of discretion in the atmosphere of studios
or in the queer company from which most literary men have sprung, will
inevitably, at one time or another, offend the susceptibilities of that
portion of humanity which calls itself society. It is impossible that
it should be otherwise. Among a set of people whose profession it is to
do always, and in all things, precisely what their neighbours do, the
man who makes his living by doing what other people cannot do, must
always be a marked figure. Look at modern society. It cannot toil nor
spin; it can hardly put together ten words in a grammatical sequence.
But it can clothe itself. The man of letters can both toil and write
good English, but his taste in tailoring frequently leaves much to be
desired. If he would put himself in the hands of Poole, and hold his
tongue, he might almost pass for a member of society. But he must needs
talk, and his speech bewrayeth him for a Galilean. There are wits in
society, both many and keen, who can say something original, cutting
and neatly turned, upon almost any subject, with an easy superiority
which makes the hair of the learned man stand erect upon his head. The
chief characteristic of him who lives by his brains is, that he is not
only able to talk consecutively upon some subject, but that he actually
does so, which, in society, is accounted a monstrous crime against
manners. Let him write what he wants to say, and print it; society will
either not understand him at all, or will read his works with a
dictionary in the secrecy of its own chamber. But if he will hold his
tongue in public, society will give him a cup of tea and treat him
almost like a human being for the sake of being said to patronise
letters. Any one who likes society's tea may drink his fill of it in
consideration of wearing a good coat and keeping his wits to himself,
but he will not succeed in marrying any of society's sisters, cousins
or aunts without a severe struggle.
Anastase Gouache did not quite understand this. He sometimes found
himself amidst a group of people who were freely discussing some person
unknown to him. On such occasions he held his peace, innocently
supposing that his ignorance was without any importance whatsoever,
among a set of men and women with whom not to know every detail
concerning every one else is to be little better than an outcast.
"Now do tell me all about the Snooks and Montmorency divorce," says
Lady Smyth-Tompkins with a sweetly engaging smile, as she holds out her
hand.
"I did not know there was such a case--I don't know the people," you
answer.
"Oh! I thought, of course, you knew all about it," Lady Smyth-Tompkins
replies, and her features turn to stone as she realises that you do not
know everybody, and leaves you to your own reflections.
O Thackeray, snobissme maxime! How well you knew them!
There are no snobs among the Latin races, but there is a worse animal,
the sycophant, descended directly from the dinner-tables of ancient
Rome. In old-fashioned houses there are often several of them, headed
invariably by the "giornale ambulante," the walking newspaper, whose
business it is to pick up items of news during the day in order to
detail them to the family in the evening. There is a certain old
princess who sits every evening with her needlework at the head of a
long table in the dismal drawing-room of a gigantic palace. On each
side of the board are seated the old parasites, the family doctor, the
family chaplain, the family lawyer, the family librarian, the
peripatetic news-sheet and the rest.
"I have been out to-day," says her excellency.
"Oh! Ah! Dear me! In this weather! Hear what the princess says! The
princess has been out!" The chorus comes up the table, all the answers
reaching her ears at once.
"And I saw, as I drove by, the new monument! What a ridiculous thing it
is."
"Ho! ho! ho! Hah! hah! hah! Dear me! What a monument! What fine taste
the princess has! Hear what the princess thinks of the monument!"
"If you will believe it, the bronze horse has a crooked leg." "He! he!
he! Hi! hi! hi! Dear me! A crooked leg! How the princess understands
horses! The princess saw that he had a crooked leg!"
And so on, for a couple of hours, in the cold, dimly-lighted room until
her excellency has had enough of it and rises to go to bed, when the
parasites all scuttle away and quarrel with each other in the street as
they walk home. Night after night, to decades of years, the old lady
recounts the little journal of her day to the admiring listeners, whose
chorus of approval is performed daily with the same unvarying
regularity. The times are changing now; the prince is not so easily
amused, and the sycophant has accordingly acquired the art of amusing,
but there still survive some wonderful monuments of the old school.
Anastase Gouache was a man of great talent and of rising fame, but like
other men of his stamp he preferred to believe that he was received on
a friendly footing for his own sake rather than on account of his
reputation. In his own eyes, he was, as a man, as good as those with
whom he associated, and had as much right to make love to Faustina
Montevarchi as the young Frangipani, for whom her father destined her.
Faustina, on her part, was too young to appreciate the real strength of
the prejudices by which she was surrounded. She could not understand
that, although the man she loved was a gentleman, young, good-looking,
successful, and not without prospects of acquiring a fortune, he was
yet wholly ineligible as a husband. Had she seen this ever so clearly
it might have made but little difference in her feelings; but she did
not see it, and the disparaging remarks about Anastase, which she
occasionally heard in her own family, seemed to her utterly unjust as
well as quite unfounded. The result was that the two young people were
preparing for themselves one of those terrible disappointments of which
the consequences are sometimes felt during a score of years. Both,
however, were too much in love to bear suspense very long without doing
something to precipitate the course of events, and whenever they had
the chance they talked the matter over and built wonderful castles in
the air.
About a fortnight after the marriage of San Giacinto they were seated
together in a room full of people, late in the afternoon. They had been
talking for some time upon indifferent subjects. When two persons meet
who are very much in love with each other, and waste their time in
discussing topics of little importance, it may be safely predicted that
something unusual is about to occur.
"I cannot endure this suspense any longer," said Gouache at last.
"Nor I," answered Faustina.
"It is of no use to wait any more. Either your father will consent or
he will not. I will ask him and know the worst."
"And if it is the worst--what then?" The young girl turned her eyes
towards Anastase with a frightened look.
"Then we must manage without his consent."
"How is that possible?"
"It must be possible," replied Gouache. "If you love me it shall be
possible. It is only a question of a little courage and good-will. But,
after all, your father may consent. Why should he not?"
"Because--" she hesitated a little.
"Because I am not a Roman prince, you mean." Anastase glanced quickly
at her.
"No. He wants me to marry Frangipani."
"Why did you never tell me that?"
"I did not know it when we last met. My mother told me of it last
night."
"Is the match settled?" asked Gouache. He was very pale.
"I think it has been spoken of," answered Faustina in a low voice. She
shivered a little and pressed her hands together. There was a short
silence, during which Anastase did not take his eyes from her, while
she looked down, avoiding his look.
"Then there is no time to be lost," said Gouache at last. "I will go to
your father to-morrow morning."
"Oh--don't, don't!" cried Faustina, suddenly, with an expression of
intense anxiety.
"Why not?" The artist seemed very much surprised.
"You do not know him! You do not know what he will say to you! You will
be angry and lose your temper--he will be cruel and will insult you,
and you will resent it--then I shall never see you again. You do not
know--"
"This is something new," said Gouache. "How can you be sure that he
will receive me so badly? Have your people talked about me? After all,
I am an honest man, and though I live by my profession I am not poor.
It is true, I am not such a match for you as Frangipani. Tell me, do
they abuse me at your house?"
"No--what can they say, except that you are an artist? That is not
abuse, nor calumny."
"It depends upon how it is said. I suppose it is San Giacinto who says
it." Gouache's face darkened.
"San Giacinto has guessed the truth," answered Faustina, shaking her
head. "He knows that we love each other, and just now he is very
powerful with my father. It will be worse if he wins the suit and is
Prince Saracinesca."
"Then that is another reason for acting at once. Faustina--you followed
me once--will you not go with me, away, out of this cursed city? I will
ask for you first. I will behave honourably. But if he will not
consent, what is there left for us to do? Can we live apart? Can you
marry Frangipani? Have not many people done before what we think of
doing? Is it wrong? Heaven knows, I make no pretence to sanctity. But I
would not have you do anything--what shall I say? Anything against your
conscience." There was a shade of bitterness in the laugh that
accompanied the last words.
"You do not know what things he will say," repeated Faustina, in
despairing tones.
"This is absurd," said Gouache. "I can bear anything he can say well
enough. He is an old man and I am a young one, and have no intention of
taking offence. He may say what he pleases, call me a villain, a
brigand--that is your favourite Italian expression--a thief, a liar,
anything he pleases. I will not be angry. There shall be no violence.
But I cannot endure this state of things any longer. I must try my
luck."
"Wait a little longer," answered Faustina, in an imploring tone. "Wait
until the suit is decided."
"In order to let San Giacinto get even more influence than he has now?
It would be a mistake--you almost said so yourself a moment ago.
Besides, the suit may for years."
"It will not last a fortnight."
"Poor Sant' Ilario!" exclaimed Gouache. "Does everybody know about it?"
"I suppose so. But nobody speaks of it. We all feel dreadfully about
it, except my father and San Giacinto and Flavia."
"If he is in a good humour this is the very time to go to him."
"Please, please do not insist!" Faustina was evidently very much in
earnest. With the instinct of a very young woman, she clung to the half
happiness of the present which was so much greater than anything she
had known before in her life. But Gouache would not be satisfied.
"I must know the worst," he said again, as they parted.
"But this is so much, better than the worst," answered Faustina, sadly.
"Who risks nothing, wins nothing," retorted the young man with a bright
smile.
In spite of his hopefulness, however, he had received a severe shock on
hearing the news of the intended match with young Frangipani. He had
certainly never expected to find himself the rival of such a suitor,
and his sense of possibility, if man may be said to possess such a
faculty, was staggered by the idea. He suddenly awakened to a true
understanding of his position in Roman society, and when he
contemplated his discovery in all its bearings, his nerve almost
forsook him. When he remembered his childhood, his youth, and the
circumstances in which he had lived up to a recent time, he found it
hard to realise that he was trying to marry such a girl, in spite of
her family and in opposition to such a man as was now brought forward
as a match for her. It was not in his nature, however, to be
discouraged in the face of difficulties. He was like a brave man who
has received a stunning blow, but who continues to fight until he has
gradually regained his position. Gouache could no more have
relinquished Faustina than he could have abandoned a half-finished
picture in which he believed, any more than he had given up the attempt
to break away the stones at the Vigna Santucci after he had received
the bullet in his shoulder. He had acquired his position in life by
indomitable perseverance and hopefulness, and those qualities would not
now fail him, in one of the most critical situations through which he
had ever passed. In spite of Faustina's warning and, to some extent, in
spite of his own better judgment, he determined to face the old prince
at once and to ask him boldly for his daughter.
He had spoken confidently to Faustina of being married against the will
of her father, but when he thought over this alternative he recollected
a fact he had almost completely forgotten in considering his
matrimonial projects. He was a soldier and had enlisted in the Zouaves
for a term of years. It was true that by using the influence he
possessed he might hope to be released from his engagement, but such a
course was most repugnant to him. Before Mentana it would have been
wholly impossible, for it would have seemed cowardly. Now that he had
distinguished himself and had been wounded in the cause, the thing
might be done without dishonour, but it would involve a species of
self-abasement to which he was not prepared to submit. On the other
hand, to wait until his term of service should have expired was to risk
losing Faustina altogether. He knew that she loved him, but he was
experienced enough to know that a young girl is not always able to bear
the pressure exercised upon her when marriage is concerned. In Rome,
and especially at that time, it was in the power of parents to use the
most despotic means for subduing the will of their children. There was
even a law by which a disobedient son or daughter could be imprisoned
for a considerable length of time, provided that the father could prove
that his child had rebelled against his just will. Though Gouache was
not aware of this, the fact that a similar institution existed in his
own country made him suspect that it was to be found in Rome also.
Supposing that Montevarchi refused to accept him for a son-in-law, and
that Faustina, on the other hand, refused to marry young Frangipani, it
was only too probable that she might be locked up--in a luxuriously
furnished cell of course--to reflect upon the error of her ways. It was
by no means certain that in the face of such humiliation and suffering
Faustina would continue her resistance; indeed, she could hardly be
blamed if she yielded in the end. Gouache believed in the sincerity of
her love because the case was his own; had he heard of it in the life
of another man he would have laughed at the idea that a girl of
eighteen could be capable of a serious passion.
It is not necessary, however, to enter into an analysis of the motives
and feelings of either Faustina or Anastase. Their connection with the
history of the Saracinesca arose from what they did, and not from the
thoughts which prompted their actions. It is sufficient to say that
Gouache conceived the mad idea of asking Montevarchi's consent to his
marriage and to explain the immediate consequences of the step he took.
Matters were rapidly approaching a climax. San Giacinto had seen the
lawyers at Frascati, and he had brought his wife back to Rome very soon
in order to be on the spot while the case was being prepared. The men
of the law declared that the matter was a very simple one and that no
court could withhold its decision a single day after seeing the
documents which constituted the claim. The only point about which any
argument could arise related to the identity of San Giacinto himself,
and no difficulty was found in establishing substantial proof that he
was Giovanni Saracinesca and not an impostor. His father and
grandfather had jealously kept all the records of themselves which were
necessary, from the marriage certificate of the original Don Leone, who
had signed the deed, to the register of San Giacinto's own birth.
Copies were obtained, properly drawn up and certified, of the parish
books and of the few government documents which were officially
preserved in the kingdom of Naples before 1860, and the lawyers
declared themselves ready to open the case. Up to this time the
strictest secrecy was preserved, at the request of San Giacinto
himself. He said that in such an important matter he wished nothing to
transpire until he was ready to act; more especially as the Saracinesca
themselves could not be ignorant of the true state of the case and had
no right to receive notice of the action beforehand. As Corona had
foreseen, San Giacinto intended to obtain the decision by means of a
perfectly legal trial, and was honestly ready to court enquiry into the
rights he was about to assert. When the moment came and all was ready,
he went to the Palazzo Saracinesca and asked for the prince, who
received him in the same room in which the two had met when the
ex-innkeeper had made his appearance in Rome nearly three months
earlier. As San Giacinto entered he felt that he had not wasted his
time during that short interval.
"I have come to talk with you upon a business which must be unpleasant
to you," he began. "Unfortunately it cannot be avoided. I beg you to
believe that it is my wish to act loyally and fairly."
"I hope so," said Saracinesca, bending his bushy gray eyebrows and
fixing his keen old eyes upon his visitor.
"You need not doubt it," replied San Giacinto rather proudly. "You are
doubtless acquainted with the nature of the deed by which our
great-grandfathers agreed to transfer the titles and property to the
younger of the two. When we first spoke of the matter I was not aware
of the existence of a saving clause. I cannot suppose you ignorant of
it. That clause provided that if Leone Saracinesca married and had a
lawful heir, the deed should be null and void. He did marry, as you
know. I am his direct descendant, and have children of my own by my
first marriage. I cannot therefore allow the clause in question to
remain in abeyance any longer. With all due respect to you, I am
obliged to tell you quite frankly that, in law, I am Prince
Saracinesca."
Having thus stated his position as plainly as possible, San Giacinto
folded his great hands upon his knee and leaned against the back of his
chair. Saracinesca looked as though he were about to make some hasty
answer, but he controlled his intention and rose to his feet. After
walking twice up and down the room, he came and stood in front of his
cousin.
"Let us be plain in what we say," he began. "I give you my word that,
until Montevarchi sent back those papers the other day, I did not know
what they contained. I had not read them for thirty years, and at that
time the clause escaped me. I do not remember to have noticed it. This
may have been due to the fact that I had never heard that Leone had any
living descendants, and should therefore have attached no importance to
the words if I had seen them."
"I believe you," said San Giacinto, calmly. The old man's eyes flashed.
"I always take it for granted that I am believed," he answered. "Will
you give me your word that you are what you assert yourself to be,
Giovanni Saracinesca, the great-grandson and lawful heir of Leone?"
"Certainly. I pledge my honour that I am; and I, too, expect to be
believed by you."
There was something in the tone of the answer that struck a sympathetic
chord in Saracinesca's nature. San Giacinto had risen to his feet, and
there was something in the huge, lean strength of him, in the bold look
of his eyes, in the ring of his deep voice, that inspired respect.
Rough he was, and not over refined or carefully trained in the ways of
the world, cruel perhaps, and overbearing too; but he was every inch a
Saracinesca, and the old man felt it.
"I believe you," answered the prince. "You may take possession when you
please. I am Don Leone, and you are the head of the house."
He made a gesture full of dignity, as though resigning then and there
his name and the house in which he lived, to him who was lawfully
entitled to both. The action was magnificent and worthy of the man.
There was a superb disregard of consequences in his readiness to give
up everything rather than keep for a moment what was not his, which
affected San Giacinto strangely. In justice to the latter it must be
remembered that he had not the faintest idea that he was the instrument
of a gigantic fraud from which he was to derive the chief advantage. He
instinctively bowed in acknowledgment of his cousin's generous conduct.
"I shall not take advantage of your magnanimity," he said, "until the
law has sanctioned my doing so."
"As you please," answered the other. "I have nothing to conceal from
the law, but I am prejudiced against lawyers. Do as you think best. A
family council can settle the matter as well as the courts."
"Your confidence in me is generous and noble. I prefer, however, that
the tribunal should examine the matter."
"As you please," repeated Saracinesca. There was no reason for
prolonging an interview which could not be agreeable to either party.
The old man remained standing. "No opposition will be made to the
suit," he said. "You will simply produce your papers in proper form,
and I will declare myself satisfied." He held out his hand.
"I trust you will bear me no ill-will," said San Giacinto rather
awkwardly.
"For taking what is yours and not mine? Not in the least. Good-evening."
San Giacinto left the room. When he was gone, Saracinesca stood still
for a moment, and then sank into a chair. His strong nature had
sustained him through the meeting and would sustain him to the end, but
he was terribly shaken, and felt a strange sensation of numbness in the
back of his head, which was quite new to him. For some minutes he sat
still as though dazed and only half conscious. Then he rose again,
shook himself as though to get rid of a bad dream and rang the bell. He
sent for Giovanni, who appeared immediately.
"San Giacinto has been here," he said quickly. "He is the man. You had
better tell your wife, as she will want to collect her things before we
leave the house."
Giovanni was staggered by his father's impetuosity. He had realised
that the danger existed, but it had always seemed indefinitely far
removed.
"I suppose there will be some legal proceedings before everything is
settled," he said with more calmness than he felt.
"What is that to us? We must go, sooner or later."
"And if the courts do not decide in his favour, what then?"
"There is no doubt about it," answered the prince, pacing the room as
his excitement returned. "You and I are nobody. We had better go and
live in an inn. That man is honest. I hate him, but he is honest. Why
do you stand there staring at me? Were you not the first to say that if
we are impostors we should give up everything of our own free-will? And
now you seem to think that I will fight the suit! That is your logic!
That is all the consistency you have acquired in your travels! Go and
tell your wife that you are nobody, that I am nobody! Go and tell her
to give you a title, a name for men to call you by! Go into the market
and see whether you can find a name for your father! Go and hire a
house for us to live in, when that Neapolitan devil has brought Flavia
Montevarchi to live in the palace where your mother died, where you
were born--poor Giovanni! Not that I pity you any more than I pity
myself. Why should I? You are young and have done this house the honour
to spend most of your life out of it. But after all--poor Giovanni!"
Saracinesca seized his son's hand and looked into his eyes. The young
man's face was perfectly calm, almost serene in its expression of
indifference to misfortune. His whole soul was preoccupied by greater
and nobler emotions than any which could be caused by worldly loss. He
had been with Corona again, had talked with her and had seen that look
in her face which he had learned to dread more than he had ever dreaded
anything in his life. What was life itself without that which her eyes
refused?