In spite of his haste to settle all that remained to be settled with
regard to the restitution of the property to San Giacinto, Saracinesca
found it impossible to wind up the affair in a week as he had intended.
It was a very complicated matter to separate from his present fortune
that part of it which his cousin would have inherited from his
great-grandfather. A great deal of wealth had come into the family
since that time by successive marriages, and the management of the
original estate had not been kept separate from the administration of
the dowries which had from time to time been absorbed into it. The
Saracinesca, however, were orderly people, and the books had been kept
for generations with that astonishing precision of detail which is
found in the great Roman houses, and which surpasses, perhaps, anything
analogous which is to be found in modern business. By dint of
perseverance and by employing a great number of persons in making the
calculations, the notaries had succeeded in preparing a tolerably
satisfactory schedule in the course of a fortnight, which both the
principal parties agreed to accept as final. The day fixed for the
meeting and liquidation of the accounts was a Saturday, a fortnight and
two days after the murder of Prince Montevarchi. A question arose
concerning the place of meeting.
Saracinesca proposed that San Giacinto and the notaries should come to
the Palazzo Saracinesca. He was ready to brave out the situation to the
end, to face his fate until it held nothing more in store for him, even
to handing over the inventory of all that was no longer his in the
house where he had been born. His boundless courage and almost brutal
frankness would doubtless have supported him to the last, even through
such a trial to his feelings, but San Giacinto refused to agree to the
proposal. He repeatedly stated that he wished the old prince to inhabit
the palace through his lifetime, and that he should even make every
effort to induce him to retain the title. Both of these offers were
rejected courteously, but firmly. In the matter of holding the decisive
meeting in the palace, however, San Giacinto made a determined stand.
He would not on any account appear in the light of the conqueror coming
to take possession of the spoil. His wife had no share in this generous
sentiment. She would have liked to enjoy her triumph to the full, for
she was exceedingly ambitious, and was, moreover, not very fond of the
Saracinesca. As she expressed it, she felt when she was with any of
them, from the old prince to Corona, that they must be thinking all the
time that she was a very foolish young person. San Giacinto's action
was therefore spontaneous, and if it needs explanation it may be
ascribed to an inherited magnanimity, to a certain dignity which had
distinguished him even as a young man from the low class in which he
had grown up. He was, indeed, by no means a type of the perfect
nobleman; his conduct in the affair between Faustina and Gouache had
shown that. He acted according to his lights, and was not ashamed to do
things which his cousin Giovanni would have called mean. But he was
manly, for all that, and if he owed some of his dignity to great
stature and to his indomitable will, it was also in a measure the
outward sign of a good heart and of an innate sense of justice. There
had as yet been nothing dishonest in his dealings since he had come to
Rome. He had acquired a fortune which enabled him to take the position
that was lawfully his. He liked Flavia, and had bargained for her with
her father, afterwards scrupulously fulfilling the terms of the
contract. He had not represented himself to be what he was not, and he
had taken no unfair advantage of any one for his own advancement. In
the matter of the suit he was the dupe of old Montevarchi, so far as
the deeds were concerned, but he was perfectly aware that he actually
represented the elder branch of his family. It is hard to imagine how
any man in his position could have done less than he did, and now that
it had come to a final settlement he was really anxious to cause his
vanquished relations as little humiliation as possible. To go to their
house was like playing the part of a bailiff. To allow them to come to
his dwelling suggested the journey to Canossa. The Palazzo Montevarchi
was neutral ground, and he proposed that the formalities should be
fulfilled there. Saracinesca consented readily enough and the day was
fixed.
The notaries arrived at ten o'clock in the morning, accompanied by
clerks who were laden with books, inventories and rolls of manuscript.
The study had been selected for the meeting, both on account of its
seclusion from the rest of the house and because it contained an
immense table which would serve for the voluminous documents, all of
which must be examined and verified. San Giacinto himself awaited the
arrival of the Saracinesca in the great reception-room. He had sent his
wife away, for he was in reality by no means so calm as he appeared to
be, and her constant talk disturbed him. He paced the long room with
regular steps, his head erect, his hands behind him, stopping from time
to time to listen for the footsteps of those he expected. It was the
great day of his life. Before night, he was to be Prince Saracinesca.
The moments that precede a great triumph are very painful, especially
if a man has looked forward to the event for a long time. No matter how
sure he is of the result, something tells him that it is uncertain. A
question may arise, he cannot guess whence, by which all may be
changed. He repeats to himself a hundred times that failure is
impossible, but he is not at rest. The uncertainty of all things, even
of his own life, appears very clearly before his eyes. His heart beats
fast and slow from one minute to another. At the very instant when he
is dreaming of the future, the possibility of disappointment breaks in
upon his thoughts. He cannot explain it, but he longs to be beyond the
decisive hour. In San Giacinto's existence, the steps from obscurity to
importance and fortune had, of late, been so rapidly ascended that he
was almost giddy with success. For the first time since he had left his
old home in Aquila, he felt as though he had been changed from his own
self to some other person.
At last the door opened, and Saracinesca, Giovanni, and Corona entered
the room. San Giacinto was surprised to see Giovanni's wife on an
occasion when the men alone of the family were concerned, but she
explained that she had come to spend the morning with Faustina, and
would wait till everything was finished. The meeting was not a cordial
one, though both parties regarded it as inevitable. If Saracinesca felt
any personal resentment against San Giacinto he knew that it was
unreasonable and he had not the bad taste to show it. He was silent,
but courteous in his manner. Giovanni, strange to say, seemed wholly
indifferent to what was about to take place.
"I hope," said San Giacinto, when all four were seated, "that you will
consent to consider this as a mere formality. I have said as much
through my lawyers, but I wish to repeat it myself in better words than
they used."
"Pardon me," answered Saracinesca, "if I suggest that we should not
discuss that matter. We are sensible of your generosity in making such
offers, but we do not consider it possible to accept them."
"I must ask your indulgence if I do not act upon your suggestion,"
returned San Giacinto. "Even if there is no discussion I cannot consent
to proceed to business until I have explained what I mean. If the suit
has been settled justly by the courts, it has not been decided with
perfect justice as regards its consequences. I do not deny, and I
understand that you do not expect me to act otherwise, that it has been
my intention to secure for myself and for my children the property and
the personal position abandoned by my ancestor. I have obtained what I
wanted and what was my right, and I have to thank you for the
magnanimity you have displayed in not attempting to contest a claim
against which you might have brought many arguments, if not much
evidence. The affair having been legally settled, it is for us to make
whatever use of it seems better in our own eyes. To deprive you of your
name and of the house in which you were born and bred, would be to
offer you an indignity such as I never contemplated."
"You cannot be said to deprive us of what is not ours, by any
interpretation of the word with which I am acquainted," said
Saracinesca in a tone which showed that he was determined to receive
nothing.
"I am a poor grammarian," answered San Giacinto gravely, and without
the slightest affectation of humility. "I was brought up a farmer, and
was only an innkeeper until lately. I cannot discuss with you the
subtle meanings of words. To my mind it is I who am taking from you
that which, if not really yours, you have hitherto had every right to
own and to make use of. I do not attempt to explain my thought. I only
say that I will neither take your name nor live in your house while you
are alive. I propose a compromise which I hope you will be willing to
accept."
"I fear that will be impossible. My mind is made up."
"I propose," continued San Giacinto, "that you remain Prince
Saracinesca, that you keep Saracinesca itself, and the palace here in
Rome during your lifetime, which I trust may be a long one. After your
death everything returns to us. My cousin Giovanni and the Princess
Sant' Ilario--"
"You may call me Corona, if you please," said the princess suddenly.
Her eyes were fixed on his face, and she was smiling.
Both Saracinesca and Giovanni looked at her in surprise. It seemed
strange to them that she should choose such a moment for admitting San
Giacinto to a familiarity he had never before enjoyed. But for some
time she had felt a growing respect for the ex-innkeeper, which was
quickened by his present generosity. San Giacinto's swarthy face grew a
shade darker as the blood mounted to his lean cheeks. Corona had given
him one of the first sensations of genuine pleasure he had ever
experienced in his rough life.
"Thank you," he said simply. "You two, I was going to say, have palaces
of your own and cannot have such close associations with the old places
as one who has owned them during so many years. You," he continued,
turning to the old prince, "will, I hope, accept an arrangement which
cannot affect your dignity and which will give me the greatest
satisfaction."
"I am very much obliged to you," answered Saracinesca promptly. "You
are very generous, but I cannot take what you offer."
"If you feel that you would be taking anything from me, look at it from
a different point of view. You would be conferring a favour instead of
accepting one. Consider my position, when I have taken your place. It
will not be a pleasant one. The world will abuse me roundly, and will
say I have behaved abominably towards you. Do you fancy that I shall be
received as a substitute for the Prince Saracinesca your friends have
known so long? Do you suppose that the vicissitudes of my life are
unknown, and that no one will laugh behind my back and point at me as
the new, upstart prince? Few people know me in Rome, and if I have any
friends besides you, I have not been made aware of the fact. Pray
consider that in doing what I ask, you would be saving me from very
unpleasant social consequences."
"I should be doing so at the cost of my self-respect," replied the old
man firmly. "Whatever the consequences are to you, the means of bearing
them will be in your hands. You will have no lack of friends to-morrow,
or at least of amiable persons anxious to call themselves by that name.
They will multiply this very night, like mushrooms, and will come about
you freshly shaved and smiling to-morrow morning."
"I am afraid you do not understand me," said San Giacinto. "I can
leave you the title and yet take one which will serve as well. You would
call yourself Prince Saracinesca and I should be Saracinesca di San
Giacinto. As for the palace and the place in the mountains, they are so
insignificant as compared with the rest that it could not hurt your
self-respect to live in them. Can you not persuade your father?" He
turned to Giovanni who had not spoken yet.
"You are very good to make the proposal," he answered. "I cannot say
more than that. I agree with my father."
A silence followed which lasted several minutes. Corona looked from one
to the other of the three men, wondering how the matter would end. She
understood both parties better than they understood each other. She
sympathised with the refusal of her husband and his father. To accept
such an offer would put them in a position of obligation towards San
Giacinto which she knew they could never endure, and which would be
galling to herself. On the other hand she felt sorry for their cousin,
who was evidently trying to do what he felt was right and generous, and
was disappointed that his advances should be repelled. He was very much
in earnest, or he would not have gone so far as to suggest that it
would be a favour to him if they took what he offered. He was so
simple, and yet so dignified withal, that she could not help liking
him. It was not clear to her, however, that she could mend matters by
interfering, nor by offering advice to the one or sympathy to the other.
Saracinesca himself was the first to break the silence. It seemed to
him that everything had been said, and that nothing now remained but to
fulfil the requisite formalities.
"Shall we proceed to business?" he inquired, as though ignoring all the
previous conversation. "I believe we have a great deal to do, and the
time is passing."
San Giacinto made no reply, but rose gravely and made a gesture
signifying that he would show the way to the study. Saracinesca made a
show of refusing to go out first, then yielded and went on. San
Giacinto waited at the door for Corona and Giovanni. "I will join you
in a moment--I know the way," said the latter, remaining behind with
his wife.
When they were alone he led her towards one of the windows, as though
to be doubly sure that no one could hear what he was about to say. Then
he stood still and looked into her eyes.
"Would you like us to accept such a favour from him?" he asked. "Tell
me the truth."
"No," answered Corona without the least hesitation. "But I am sorry for
San Giacinto. I think he is really trying to do right, and to be
generous. He was hurt by your father's answer."
"If I thought it would give you pleasure to feel that we could go to
Saracinesca, I would try and make my father change his mind."
"Would you?" She knew very well what a sacrifice it would be to his
pride.
"Yes, dear. I would do it for you."
"Giovanni--how good you are!"
"No--I am not good. I love you. That is all. Shall I try?"
"Never! I am sorry for San Giacinto--but I could no more live in the
old house, or in Saracinesca, than you could. Do I not feel all that
you feel, and more?"
"All?"
"All."
They stood hand in hand looking out of the window, and there were tears
in the eyes of both. The grasp of their fingers tightened slowly as
though they were drawn together by an irresistible force. Slowly they
turned their faces towards each other, and presently their lips met in
one of those kisses that are never forgotten. Then Giovanni left her
where she was. All had been said; both knew that they desired nothing
more in this world, and that henceforth they were all to each other. It
was as though a good angel had set a heavenly seal upon the reunion of
their hearts.
Corona did not leave the room immediately, but remained a few moments
leaning against the heavy frame of the window. Her queenly figure
drooped a little, and she pressed one hand to her side. Her dark face
was bent down, and the tears that had of old come so rarely made silver
lines upon her olive cheeks. There was not one drop of bitterness in
that overflowing of her soul's transcendent joy, in that happiness
which was so great and perfect that it seemed almost unbearable.
And she had reason to be glad. In the midst of a calamity which would
have absorbed the whole nature of many men, Giovanni had not one
thought that was not for her. Giovanni, who had once doubted her, who
had said such things to her as she dared not remember--Giovanni,
suffering under a blow to his pride, that was worse almost than total
ruin, had but one wish, to make another sacrifice for her. That false
past, of which she hated to think, was gone like an evil dream before
the morning sun, that true past, which was her whole life, was made
present again. The love that had been so bruised and crushed that she
had thought it dead had sprung up again from its deep, strong roots,
grander and nobler than before. The certainty that it was real was
overwhelming, and drowned all her senses in a trance of light.
Faustina Montevarchi entered the drawing-room softly, then, seeing no
one, she advanced till she came all at once upon Corona in the
embrasure of the window. The princess started slightly when she saw
that she was not alone.
"Corona!" exclaimed the young girl. "Are you crying? What is it?"
"Oh, Faustina! I am so happy!" It was a relief to be able to say it to
some one.
"Happy?" repeated Faustina in surprise. "But there are tears in your
eyes, on your cheeks--"
"You cannot understand--I do not wonder--how should you? And besides, I
cannot tell you what it is."
"I wish I were you," answered her friend sadly. "I wish I were happy!"
"What is it, child?" asked Corona kindly. Then she led Faustina to a
stiff old sofa at one end of the vast room and they sat down together.
"What is it?" she repeated, drawing the girl affectionately to her side.
"You know what it is, dear. No one can help me. Oh, Corona! we love
each other so very much!"
"I know--I know it is very real. But you must have a little patience,
darling. Love will win in the end. Just now, too--" She did not finish
the sentence, but she had touched a sensitive spot in Faustina's
conscience.
"That is the worst of it," was the answer. "I am so miserable, because
I know he never would have allowed it, and now--I am ashamed to tell
you, it is so heartless!" She hid her face on her friend's shoulder.
"You will never be heartless, my dear Faustina," said Corona. "What you
think, is not your fault, dear. Love is master of the world and of us
all."
"But my love is not like yours, Corona. Perhaps yours was once like
mine. But you are married--you are happy. You were saying so just now."
"Yes, dear. I am very, very happy, because I love very, very dearly.
You will be as happy as I am some day."
"Ah, that may be--but--I am dreadfully wicked, Corona!"
"You, child? You do not know what it is to think anything bad!"
"But I do. I am so much ashamed of it that I can hardly tell you--only
I tell you everything, because you are my friend. Corona--it is
horrible--it seems easier, more possible--now that he is gone--oh! I am
so glad I have told you!" Faustina began to sob passionately, as though
she were repenting of some fearful crime.
"Is that all, darling?" asked Corona, smiling at the girl's innocence,
and pressing her head tenderly to her own breast. "Is that what makes
you so unhappy?"
"Yes--is it not--very, very dreadful?" A fresh shower of tears
accompanied the question.
"Perhaps I am very bad, too," said Corona. "But I do not call that
wickedness."
"Oh no! You are good. I wish I were like you!"
"No, do not wish that. But, I confess, it seems to me natural that you
should think as you do, because it is really true. Your father,
Faustina, may have been mistaken about your future. If--if he had
lived, you might perhaps have made him change his mind. At all events,
you can hope that he now sees more clearly, that he understands how
terrible it is for a woman to be married to a man she does not
love--when she is sure that she loves another."
"Yes--you told me. Do you remember? It was the other day, after Flavia
had been saying such dreadful things. But I know it already. Every
woman must know it."
There was a short pause, during which Corona wondered whether she were
the same person she had been ten days earlier, when she had delivered
that passionate warning. Faustina sat quite still, looking up into the
princess's face. She was comforted and reassured and the tears had
ceased to flow.
"There is something else," she said at last. "I want to tell you
everything, for I can tell no one else. I cannot keep it to myself
either. He has written to me, Corona. Was it very wrong to read his
letter?" This time she smiled a little and blushed.
"I do not think it was very wrong," answered her friend with a soft
laugh. She was so happy that she would have laughed at anything.
"Shall I show you his letter?" asked the young girl shyly. At the same
time her hand disappeared into the pocket of her black gown, and
immediately afterwards brought out a folded piece of paper which looked
as though it had been read several times.
Corona did not think it necessary to express her assent in words.
Faustina opened the note, which contained the following words, written
in Gouache's delicate French handwriting--
"MADEMOISELLE--When you have read these lines, you will understand my
object in writing them, for you understand me, and you know that all I
do has but one object. A few days ago it was still possible for us to
meet frequently. The terrible affliction which has fallen upon you, and
in which none can feel deeper or more sincere sympathy than I, has put
it out of your power and out of mine to join hands and weep over the
present, to look into each other's eyes and read there the golden
legend of a future happiness. To meet as we have met, alone in the
crowded church--no! we cannot do it. For you, at such a time, it would
seem like a disrespect to your father's memory. For myself, I should
deem it dishonourable, I should appear base in my own eyes. Did I not
go to him and put to him the great question? Was I not repulsed--I do
not say with insult, but with astonishment--at my presumption? Shall I
then seem to take advantage of his death--of his sudden and horrible
death--to press forward a suit which he is no longer able to oppose? I
feel that it would be wrong. Though I cannot express myself as I would,
I know that you understand me, for you think as I do. How could it be
otherwise? Are we not one indivisible soul, we two? Yes, you will
understand me. Yes, you will know that it is right. I go therefore, I
leave Rome immediately. I cannot inhabit the same city and not see you.
But I cannot quit the Zouaves in this time of danger. I am therefore
going to Viterbo, whither I am sent through the friendly assistance of
one of our officers. There I shall stay until time has soothed your
grief and restored your mother to health. To her we will turn when the
moment has arrived. She will not be insensible to our tears and
entreaties. Until then good-bye--ah! the word is less terrible than it
looks, for our souls will be always together. I leave you but for a
short space--no! I leave your sweet eyes, your angel's face, your dear
hands that I adore, but yourself I do not leave. I bear you with me in
a heart that loves you--God knows how tenderly."
Corona read the letter carefully to the end. To her older appreciation
of the world, such a letter appeared at first to be the forerunner of a
definite break, but a little reflection made her change her mind. What
he said was clearly true, and corresponded closely with Faustina's own
view of the case. The most serious obstacle to the union of the lovers
had been removed by Prince Montevarchi's death, and it was
inconceivable that Gouache should have ceased to care for Faustina at
the very moment when a chance of his marrying her had presented itself.
Besides, Corona knew Gouache well, and was not mistaken in her estimate
of his character. He was honourable to Quixotism, and perfectly capable
of refusing to take what looked like an unfair advantage. Considering
Faustina's strange nature, her amazing readiness to yield to first
impulses, and her touching innocence of evil, it would have been an
easy matter for the man she loved to draw her into a runaway match. She
would have followed him as readily to the ends of the earth as she had
followed him to the Serristori barracks. Gouache was not a boy, and
probably understood her peculiarities as well as any one. In going away
for the present he was undoubtedly acting with the greatest delicacy,
for his departure showed at once all the respect he felt for Faustina,
and all that devotion to an ideal honour which was the foundation of
his being. Though his epistle was not a model of literary style it
contained certain phrases that came from the heart. Corona understood
why Faustina was pleased with it, and why instead of shedding useless
tears over his absence, she had shown such willingness to let her
friend read Gouache's own explanation of his departure. She folded the
sheet of paper again and gave it back to the young girl.
"I am glad he wrote that letter," she said after a moment's pause. "I
always believed in him, and now--well, I think, he is almost worthy of
you, Faustina."
Faustina threw her arms around Corona's neck, and kissed her again and
again.
"I am so glad you know how good he is!" she cried. "I could not be
happy unless you liked him, and you do."
All through the morning the two friends sat together in the great
drawing-room talking, as such women can talk to each other, with
infinite grace about matters not worth recording, or if they spoke of
things of greater importance, repeating the substance of what they had
said before, finding at each repetition some new comment to make, some
new point upon which to agree, after the manner of people who are very
fond of each other. The hours slipped by, and they were unconscious of
the lapse of time. The great clocks of the neighbouring church towers
tolled eleven, twelve, and one o'clock, and yet they had more to say,
and did not even notice the loud ringing of the hundred bells. The day
was clear, and the bright sunlight streamed in through the high
windows, telling the hour with a more fateful precision than the clocks
outside. All was peace and happiness and sweet intercourse, as the two
women sat there undisturbed through the long morning. They talked, and
laughed, and held their hands clasped together, unconscious of the rest
of the world. No sound penetrated from the rest of the house to the
quiet, sunlit hall, which to Faustina's mind had never looked so
cheerful before since she could remember it. And yet within the walls
of the huge old palace strange things were passing, things which it was
well that neither of them should see.
Before describing the events which close this part of my story, it is
as well to say that Faustina has made her last appearance for the
present. From the point of view which would have been taken by most of
her acquaintances, her marriage with Gouache was a highly improbable
event. If any one desires an apology for being left in uncertainty as
to her fate, I can only answer that I am writing the history of the
Saracinesca and not of any one else. There are certain stages in that
history which are natural halting-places for the historian himself, and
for his readers if he have any; and it is impossible to make the lives
of a number of people coincide so far as to wind them up together, and
yet be sure that they will run down at the same moment like the clocks
of his Majesty Charles the Fifth. If it were, the world would be a very
different place.