Giovanni came home late in the afternoon and found Corona sitting by
the fire in her boudoir. She had known that he would return before
long, but had not anticipated his coming with any pleasure. When he
entered the room she looked up quietly, without a smile, to assure
herself that it was he and no one else. She said nothing, and he sat
down upon the other side of the fireplace. There was an air of
embarrassment about their meetings, until one or the other had made
some remark which led to a commonplace conversation. On the present
occasion neither seemed inclined to be the first speaker and for some
minutes they sat opposite to each other in silence. Giovanni glanced at
his wife from time to time, and once she turned her head and met his
eyes. Her expression was cold and grave as though she wished him to
understand that she had nothing to say. He thought she had never been
so beautiful before. The firelight, striking her face at an upward
angle, brought out clearly the noble symmetry of her features, the
level brow, the wide, delicate nostrils, the even curve of her lips,
the splendid breadth of her smooth forehead, shaded by her heavy black
hair. She seemed to feel cold, for she sat near the flames, resting one
foot upon the fender, in an attitude that threw into relief the perfect
curves of her figure, as she bent slightly forward, spreading her hands
occasionally to the blaze.
"Corona--" Giovanni stopped suddenly after pronouncing her name, as
though he had changed his mind while in the act of speaking.
"What is it?" she asked indifferently enough.
"Would you like to go away? I have been wondering whether it would not
be better than staying here."
She looked up in some surprise. She had thought of travelling more than
once of late, but it seemed to her that to make a journey together
would be only to increase the difficulties of the situation. There
would be of necessity more intimacy, more daily converse than the life
in Rome forced upon her. She shrank from the idea for the very reason
which made it attractive to her husband.
"No," she answered. "Why should we travel? Besides, with a child so
young--"
"We might leave Orsino at home," suggested Giovanni. He was not
prepared for the look she gave him as she replied.
"I will certainly not consent to that."
"Would you be willing to take him with you, and leave me here? You
could easily find a friend to go with you--even my father. He would
enjoy it immensely."
There was the shortest possible pause before she answered him this
time. It did not escape him, for he expected it.
"No. I will not do that, either. I do not care to go away. Why should
I, and at such a time?"
"I think I will go alone, in that case," said Giovanni quietly, but
watching her face. She made no reply, but looked at him curiously as
though she suspected him of laying a trap for her.
"You say nothing. Is silence consent?"
"I think it would be very unwise."
"You do not answer me. Be frank, Corona. Would you not be glad to be
left alone for a time?"
"Why do you insist?" she asked with a little impatience. "Are you
trying to make me say something that I shall regret?"
"Would you regret it, if it were said? Why not be honest? It would be
an immense relief to you if I went away. I could find an excellent
excuse and nobody would guess that there was anything wrong."
"For that matter--there is nothing wrong. Of course no one would say
anything."
"I know you will think that I have no tact," Giovanni observed with
considerable justice.
Corona could not repress a smile at the remark, which expressed most
exactly what she herself was thinking.
"Frankly--I think it would be better to leave things alone. Do you not
think so, too?"
"How coolly you say that!" exclaimed Giovanni. "It is so easy for
you--so hard for me. I would do anything you asked, and you will not
ask anything, because you would make any sacrifice rather than accept
one from me. Did you ever really love me, Corona? Is it possible that
love can be killed in a day, by a word? I wonder whether there is any
woman alive as cold as you are! Is it anything to you that I should
suffer as I am suffering, every day?"
"You cannot understand--"
"No--that is true. I cannot understand. I was base, cowardly, cruel--I
make no defence. But if I was all that, and more too, it was because I
loved you, because the least suspicion drove me mad, because I could
not reason, loving you as I did, any more than I can reason now. Oh, I
love you too much, too wholly, too foolishly! I will try and change and
be another man--so that I may at least look at you without going mad!"
He rose to his feet and went towards the door. But Corona called him
back. The bitterness of his words and the tone in which they were
spoken hurt her, and made her realise for a moment what he was
suffering.
"Giovanni--dear--do not leave me so--I am unhappy, too."
"Are you?" He had come to her side and stood looking down into her eyes.
"Wretchedly unhappy." She turned her face away again. She could not
help it.
"You are unhappy, and yet I can do nothing. Why do you call me back?"
"If I only could, if I only could!" she repeated in a low voice.
There was silence for a few seconds, during which Giovanni could hear
his heart beat loudly and irregularly.
"If I could but move you a little!" he said at last, almost inaudibly.
"If I could do anything, suffer anything for you--"
She shook her head sorrowfully and then, as though afraid that she had
given him pain, she took his hand and pressed it
affectionately--affectionately, not lovingly. It was as cold as ice. He
sighed and once more turned away. Just then the door opened, and old
Pasquale appeared, his face pale with fright.
"Eccellenza, a note, and the man says that Prince Montevarchi has just
been murdered, and that the note is from Donna Faustina, and the police
are in the Palazzo Montevarchi, and that the poor princess is dying,
and--"
Corona had risen quickly with a cry of astonishment. Giovanni had taken
the letter and stood staring at the servant as though he believed that
the man was mad. Then he glanced at the address and saw that it was for
his wife.
"Faustina is accused of the murder!" she exclaimed. "I must go to her
at once. The carriage, Pasquale, instantly!"
"Faustina Montevarchi--killed her own father!" cried Giovanni in the
utmost astonishment.
Corona thrust the note into his hands. It only contained a few words
scrawled in an irregular hand as though written in great emotion.
"Of course it is some horrible mistake," said Corona, "but I must go at
once."
"I will go with you. I may be able to give some help."
Five minutes later, they were descending the stairs. The carriage was
not ready, and leaving orders for it to follow them they went out into
the street and took a passing cab. Under the influence of the
excitement they acted together instinctively. During the short drive
they exchanged but few words, and those only expressive of amazement at
the catastrophe. At the Palazzo Montevarchi everything was already in
confusion, the doors wide open, the servants hurrying aimlessly hither
and thither with frightened faces. They had just been released from the
preliminary examination held by the prefect of police. A party of
gendarmes stood together in the antechamber talking, while one of their
number mounted guard at the door with a drawn sabre, allowing no one to
leave the house. A terrified footman led Giovanni and Corona to the
great drawing-room.
The vast chamber was lighted by a single lamp which stood upon a yellow
marble pier-table, and cast dim shadows on the tapestry of the walls.
The old-fashioned furniture was ranged stiffly around the room as
usual; the air was damp and cold, not being warmed even by the
traditional copper brazier. The voices of the group of persons
collected within the circle of the light sounded hollow, and echoed
strangely in the huge emptiness. Dominant above the rest were heard the
hard tones of the prefect of police.
"I can assure you," he was saying, "that I feel the greatest regret in
being obliged to assert my decision."
Giovanni and Corona came forward, and the rest made way for them. The
prefect stood with his back to the light and to the table, like a man
who is at bay. He was of middle height, very dark, and inclining to
stoutness. His aquiline features and his eyes, round in shape, but half
veiled by heavy lids, gave him something of the appearance of an owl.
When he spoke, his voice was harsh and mechanical, and he always seemed
to be looking just over the head of the person he addressed. He made no
gestures and held himself very straight.
Opposite him stood Faustina Montevarchi, her face luminously pale, her
eyes almost wild in their fixed expression. She held her hands clasped
before her, and her fingers worked nervously. Around her stood her
brothers and their wives, apparently speechless with horror, crowding
together like frightened sheep before the officer of the law. Neither
her mother, nor Flavia, nor San Giacinto accompanied the rest. It would
be impossible to imagine a number of persons more dumb and helpless
with fear.
"Oh Corona, save me!" cried Faustina, throwing herself into her
friend's arms as soon as she saw her face.
"Will you be good enough to explain what has occurred?" said Giovanni,
confronting the prefect sternly. "Do you mean to tell me that you have
accused this innocent child of murdering her father? You are mad, sir!"
"Pardon me, Signor Principe, I am not mad, and no one can regret more
than I what has occurred here," replied the other in loud, metallic
tones. "I will give you the facts in two minutes. Prince Montevarchi
was found dead an hour ago. He had been dead some time. He had been
strangled by means of this pocket handkerchief--observe the stains of
blood--which I hold as part of the evidence. The Signora Donna Faustina
is admitted to be the last person who saw the prince alive. She admits,
furthermore, that a violent scene occurred between her and her father
this afternoon, in the course of which his Excellency struck his
daughter, doubtless in the way of paternal correction--observe the
bruise upon the young lady's mouth. There is also another upon her arm.
It is clear that, being young and vigorous and remarkably well grown,
she opposed violence to violence. She went behind him, for the prince
was found dead in his chair, leaning forward upon the table, and she
succeeded in knotting the handkerchief so firmly as to produce asphyxia
superinduced by strangulation without suspension. All this is very
clear. I have examined every member of the household, and have
reluctantly arrived at the conclusion, most shocking no doubt to these
pacifically disposed persons, that this young lady allowed herself to
be so far carried away by her feelings as to take the life of her
parent. Upon this charge I have no course but to arrest her person, the
case being very clear, and to convey her to a safe place."
Giovanni could scarcely contain his wrath while the prefect made this
long speech, but he was resolved to listen to the account given without
interrupting it. When the man had finished, however, his anger burst
out.
"And do you take nothing into consideration," he cried, "but the fact
that the prince was strangled with that handkerchief, and that there
had been some disagreement between him and his daughter in the course
of the day? Do you mean to say, that you, who ought to be a man of
sense, believe it possible that this delicate child could take a hale
old gentleman by the throat and throttle him to death? It is madness, I
say! It is absurd!"
"It is not absurd," answered the prefect, whose mechanical tone never
changed throughout the conversation. "There is no other explanation for
the facts, and the facts are undeniable. Would you like to see the
body?"
"There are a thousand explanations each ten thousand times as
reasonable as the one you offer. He was probably murdered by a servant
out of spite, or for the sake of robbing him. You are so sure of your
idea that I daresay you did not think of searching the room to see
whether anything had been taken or not."
"You are under a delusion. Everything has been searched. Moreover, it
is quite well known that his deceased Excellency never kept money in
the house. There was consequently nothing to take."
"Then it was done out of spite, by a servant, unless some one got in
through the window."
"No one could get in through the window. It was done out of anger by
this young lady."
"I tell you it was not!" cried Giovanni, growing furious at the man's
obstinacy.
"There is reason to believe that it was," returned the prefect,
perfectly unmoved.
Giovanni stamped his foot upon the floor angrily and turned away.
Faustina had drawn back a little and was leaning upon Corona's arm for
support, while the latter spoke words of comfort in her ear, such words
as she could find at such a time. A timid murmur of approval arose from
the others every time Giovanni spoke, but none of them ventured to say
anything distinctly. Giovanni was disgusted with them all and turned to
the young girl herself.
"Donna Faustina, will you tell me what you know?"
She had seemed exhausted by the struggle she had already endured, but
at Sant' Ilario's question, she straightened herself and came forward
again one or two steps. Giovanni thought her eyes very strange, but she
spoke collectedly and clearly.
"I can only say what I have said before," she answered. "My father sent
for me this afternoon, I should think about three o'clock. He spoke of
my marriage, which he has been contemplating some time. I answered that
I would not marry Prince Frangipani's son, because--" she hesitated.
"Because?"
"Because I love another man," she continued almost defiantly. "A man
who is not a prince but an artist."
A murmur of horror ran round the little group of the girl's relations.
She glanced at them scornfully.
"I am not ashamed of it," she said. "But I would not tell you unless it
were necessary--to make you understand how angry he was. I forgot--he
had called my mother, and she was there. He sent her away. Then he came
back and struck me! I put my handkerchief to my mouth because it bled.
He snatched it away and threw it on the floor. He took me by the
arm--he was standing--I wrenched myself out of his hands and ran away,
because I was afraid of him. I did not see him again. Beyond this I
know nothing."
Giovanni was struck by the concise way in which Faustina told her
story. It was true that she had told it for the second time, but, while
believing entirely in her innocence, he saw that her manner might
easily have made a bad impression upon the prefect. When she had done,
she stood still a moment. Then her hands dropped by her sides and she
shrank back again to Corona who put her arm round the girl's waist and
supported her.
"I must say that my sister's tale seems clearly true," said the feeble
voice of Ascanio Bellegra. His thin, fair beard seemed to tremble as he
moved his lips.
"Seems!" cried Corona indignantly. "It is true! How can any one be so
mad as to doubt it?"
"I do not deny its truth," said the prefect, speaking in the air. "I
only say that the appearances are such as to oblige me to take steps--"
"If you lay a hand on her--" began Giovanni.
"Do not threaten me," interrupted the other calmly. "My men are
outside."
Giovanni had advanced towards him with a menacing gesture. Immediately
Faustina's sisters-in-law began to whimper and cry with fright, while
her brothers made undecided movements as though wishing to part the two
angry men, but afraid to come within arm's length of either.
"Giovanni!" exclaimed Corona. "Do not be violent--it is of no use. Hear
me," she added, turning towards the prefect, and at the same time
making a gesture that seemed to shield Faustina.
"I am at your service, Signora Principessa, but my time is valuable."
"Hear me--I will not detain you long. You are doing a very rash and
dangerous thing in trying to arrest Donna Faustina, a thing you may
repent of. You are no doubt acting as you believe right, but your heart
must tell you that you are wrong. Look at her face. She is a delicate
child. Has she the features of a murderess? She is brave against you,
because you represent a horrible idea against which her whole nature
revolts, but can you believe that she has the courage to do such a
deed, the bad heart to will it, or the power to carry it out? Think of
what took place. Her father sent for her suddenly. He insisted roughly
on a marriage she detests. What woman would not put out her whole
strength to resist such tyranny? What woman would submit quietly to be
matched with a man she loathes? She said, 'I will not.' She even told
her father and mother, together, that she loved another man. Her mother
left the room, her mother, the only one from whom she might have
expected support. She was alone with her father, and he was angry. Was
he an enfeebled invalid, confined to his chair, broken with years,
incapable of an effort? Ask his children. We all knew him well. He was
not very old, he was tall, erect, even strong for his years. He was
angry, beside himself with disappointment. He rises from his chair, he
seizes her by the arm, he strikes her in the face with his other hand.
You say that he struck her when he was seated. It is impossible--could
she not have drawn back, avoiding the blow? Would the blow itself have
had such force? No. He was on his feet, a tall, angry man, holding her
by one arm. Is it conceivable that she, a frail child, could have had
the physical strength to force him back to his seat, to hold him there
while she tied that handkerchief round his neck, to resist and suppress
his struggles until he was dead? Do you think such a man would die
easily? Do you think that to send him out of the world it would be
enough to put your fingers to his throat--such little fingers as
these?" she held up Faustina's passive hand in her own, before their
eyes. "A man does not die in an instant by strangling. He struggles, he
strikes desperate blows, he turns to the right and the left, twisting
himself with all his might. Could this child have held him? I ask it of
your common sense. I ask of your heart whether a creature that God has
made so fair, so beautiful, so innocent, could do such terrible work.
The woman who could do such things would bear the sign of her badness
in her face, and the fear of what she had done in her soul. She would
tremble, she would have tried to escape, she would hesitate in her
story, she would contradict herself, break down, attempt to shed false
tears, act as only a woman who has committed a first great crime could
act. And this child stands here, submitted to this fearful ordeal,
defended by none, but defending herself with the whole innocence of her
nature, the glory of truth in her eyes, the self-conscious courage of a
stainless life in her heart. Is this assumed? Is this put on? You have
seen murderers--it is your office to see them--did you ever see one
like her? Do you not know the outward tokens of guilt when they are
before your eyes? You would do a thing that is monstrous in absurdity,
monstrous in cruelty, revolting to reason, outrageous to every instinct
of human nature. Search, inquire, ask questions, arrest whom you will,
but leave this child in peace; this child, with her angel face, her
fearless eyes, her guiltless heart!"
Encouraged by Corona's determined manner as well as by the good sense
of her arguments, the timid flock of relations expressed their approval
audibly. Giovanni looked at his wife in some surprise; for he had never
heard her make so long a speech before, and had not suspected her of
the ability she displayed. He was proud of her in that moment and moved
nearer to her, as though ready to support every word she had uttered.
The prefect alone stood unmoved by her eloquence. He was accustomed in
his profession to hear far more passionate appeals to his
sensibilities, and he was moreover a man who, being obliged generally
to act quickly, had acquired the habit of acting upon the first impulse
of his intelligence. For a moment his heavy lids were raised a little,
either in astonishment or in admiration, but no other feature of his
face betrayed that he was touched.
"Signora Principessa," he said in his usual tone, "those are arguments
which may be used with propriety by the persons who will defend the
accused before the tribunals--"
Giovanni laughed in his face.
"Do you suppose, seriously, that Donna Faustina will ever be brought to
trial?" he asked scornfully. The prefect kept his temper wonderfully
well.
"It is my business to suppose so," he answered. "I am not the law, nor
his Eminence either, and it is not for me to weigh the defence or to
listen to appeals for mercy. I act upon my own responsibility, and it
is for me to judge whether the facts are likely to support me. My
reputation depends upon my judgment and upon nothing else. The fate of
the accused depends upon a number of considerations with which I have
nothing to do. I must tell you plainly that this interview must come to
an end, I am very patient. I wish to overlook nothing. Arguments are of
no avail. If there is any better evidence to offer against any one else
in this house, I am here to take note of it."
He looked coolly round the circle of listeners. Faustina's relations
shrank back a little under his glance.
"Not being able to find any person here who appears more likely to be
guilty, and having found enough to justify me in my course, I intend to
remove this young lady at once to the Termini."
"You shall not!" said Giovanni, placing himself in front of him in a
threatening attitude. "If you attempt anything of the sort, I will have
you in prison yourself before morning."
"You do not know what you are saying, Signor Principe. You cannot
oppose me. I have an armed force here to obey my orders, and if you
attempt forcible opposition I shall be obliged to take you also, very
much against my will. Donna Faustina Montevarchi, I have the honour to
arrest you. I trust you will make no resistance."
The semi-comic phrase fell from his lips in the professional tone; in
speaking of the arrest as an honour to himself, he was making an
attempt to be civil according to his lights. He made a step forward in
the direction of the young girl, but Giovanni seized him firmly by the
wrist. He made no effort to release himself, however, but stood still.
"Signor Principe, be good enough to let go of my hand."
"You shall not touch her," answered Giovanni, not relinquishing his
grasp. He was beginning to be dangerous.
"Signor Principe, release me at once!" said the prefect in a commanding
tone. "Very well, I will call my men," he added, producing a small
silver whistle with his free hand and putting it to his lips. "If I
call them, I shall have to send you to prison for hindering me in the
execution of my duty," he said, fixing his eyes on Giovanni and
preparing to sound the call.
Giovanni's blood was up, and he would not have let the man go. At that
moment, however, Faustina broke from Corona's arms and sprang forward.
With one hand she pushed back Sant' Ilario; with the other she seized
the whistle.
"I will go with you!" she cried, speaking to the prefect. "I will go
with him!" she repeated, turning to Giovanni. "It is a horrible
mistake, but it is useless to oppose him any longer. I will go, I say!"
An hysterical chorus of cries from her relations greeted this
announcement.
Giovanni made a last effort to prevent her from fulfilling her
intention. He was too much excited to see how hopeless the situation
really was, and his sense of justice was revolted at the thought of the
indignity.
"Donna Faustina, I implore you!" he exclaimed. "I can still prevent
this outrage--you must not go. I will find the cardinal and explain the
mistake--he will send an order at once."
"You are mistaken," answered the prefect. "He will do nothing of the
kind. Besides, you cannot leave this house without my permission. The
doors are all guarded."
"But you cannot refuse that request," objected Corona, who had not
spoken during the altercation. "It will not take half an hour for my
husband to see his Eminence and get the order--"
"Nevertheless I refuse," replied the official firmly. "Donna Faustina
must go with me at once. You are interfering uselessly and making a
useless scandal. My mind is made up."
"Then I will go with her," said Corona, pressing the girl to her side
and bestowing a contemptuous glance on the cowering figures around her.
By this time her sisters-in-law had fallen into their respective
husband's arms, and it was hard to say whether the men or the women
were more hopelessly hysterical. Giovanni relinquished the contest
reluctantly, seeing that he was altogether overmatched by the prefect's
soldiers.
"I will go too," he said. "You cannot object to our taking Donna
Faustina in our carriage."
"I do not object to that. But male visitors are not allowed inside the
Termini prison after dark. The Signora Principessa may spend the night
there if it is her pleasure. I will put a gendarme in your carriage to
avoid informality."
"I presume you will accept my promise to conduct Donna Faustina to the
place," observed Giovanni. The prefect hesitated.
"It is informal," he said at last, "but to oblige you I will do it. You
give your word?"
"Yes--since you are able to use force. We act under protest. You will
remember that."
Faustina's courage did not forsake her at the last moment. She kissed
each of her brothers and each of her sisters-in-law as affectionately
as though they had offered to bear her company. There were many loud
cries and sobs and protestations of devotion, but not one proposed to
go with her. The only one who would have been bold enough was Flavia,
and even if she had been present she would not have had the heart to
perform such an act of unselfishness. Faustina and Corona, Giovanni and
the prefect, left the room together.
"I will have you in prison before morning," said Sant' Ilario fiercely,
in the ear of the official, as they reached the outer hall.
The prefect made no reply, but raised his shoulders almost
imperceptibly and smiled for the first time, as he pointed silently to
the gendarmes. The latter formed into an even rank and tramped down the
stairs after the four persons whom they accompanied. In a few minutes
the whole party were on their way to the Termini, Faustina with her
friends in Sant' Ilario's carriage, the prefect in his little brougham,
the soldiers on their horses, trotting steadily along in a close squad.
Faustina sat leaning her head upon Corona's shoulder, while Giovanni
looked out of the window into the dark streets, his rage boiling within
him, and all the hotter because he was powerless to change the course
of events. From time to time he uttered savage ejaculations which
promised ill for the prefect's future peace, either in this world or in
the next, but the sound of the wheels rolling upon the uneven
paving-stones prevented his voice from reaching the two women.
"Dear child," said Corona, "do not be frightened. You shall be free
to-night or in the morning--I will not leave you."
Faustina was silent, but pressed her friend's hand again and again, as
though she understood. She herself was overcome by a strange wonderment
which made her almost incapable of appreciating what happened to her.
She felt very much as she had felt once before, on the night of the
insurrection, when she had found herself lying upon the pavement before
the half-ruined barracks, stunned by the explosion, unable for a time
to collect her senses, supported only by her physical elasticity, which
was yet too young to be destroyed by any moral shock.