THE DOOR OF FRA PANDOLE
THEY followed Donna Beatrice and Tarsis across the figured expanse
of pavement, down the grand staircase and through the portico to the
gardens. Beyond the yellow wall at the backward limit they could see
the red roofs of Via Cappuccini--humble abodes of workmen partly
screened by the trees. All about them nature had opened her poetry
book. Plants in the great urns were dappled with snowy fairness, the
maples showed richly green, the magnolias were unfolding their eager
beauty, and the air was rapturous with the voices of birds. When they
had looked upon the row of swishing tails in the stable and surveyed
the store of motor cars Donna Beatrice remarked to Tarsis, she and he
standing apart from the others:
“I perceive that your wife cannot escape happiness. You are giving her
all that mortal heart can wish.”
“I am following your advice,” he said, with a smile that his companion
did not see was cunning--“striving to win her gratitude, you perceive.
But I fear there is no short road to her affection.”
“My friend,” Donna Beatrice announced, impressively, “you are nearer to
it than you believe.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because it is inevitable,” she answered, positively. “Besides, I have
never seen our Hera in happier mood.”
“Still, it may be studied,” Tarsis suggested, out of his deeper
knowledge.
“Oh, no: it is genuine; depend upon that. Listen to her laughter.
Has it not the true ring? Indeed, Antonio, I confess astonishment at
your wonderful progress. For an hour I have been aching to offer my
felicitations.”
Tarsis bowed his acknowledgment, but with an air of slight incertitude.
“I fear,” he observed, “that your felicitations, in their kindly
eagerness, come a trifle early.”
“Not a minute, I am sure,” Donna Beatrice insisted.
“Of course, I shall succeed in the end,” he said, with cold assurance.
“In the end? Oh, bravo!” she exclaimed, in a pretty effort of
raillery. “This modesty! It is most amusing! Why, the end is already
attained. Let me tell you something: At this moment your wife is
exceedingly fond of you.”
“Do you know this?” he asked, a covetous gleam in his eye.
“As well as I know that you are her husband.”
“Has she told you so?”
“Yes.”
“Ha! What did she say?”
“She has not spoken by word of mouth. Ah, no. A woman has other ways
of revealing such a secret. Take the word of a woman of experience who
knows how to look into the heart of her sex.”
“Have you looked into my wife’s heart?”
“Yes.”
“And did you see there, for example, Mario Forza?”
Donna Beatrice emitted a low, gurgling titter. “Oh, my dear friend! How
little you understand womankind.”
“Did you hear what she said before the picture of Heribert?”
“Every syllable.”
“Couldn’t you see that it was Forza talking?”
She gave him a depreciatory glance. “How interesting! That one so
keen in all else should be in an affair like this so--so--well, so
short-sighted! To be sure, the Forza fever lingers,” she explained,
“but it is merely running its course.”
“Perhaps you are right,” he said, his self-love overcoming doubt.
“Right? Let us reflect. She realises what a narrow escape she had from
that sickness. Still, a woman does not surrender too easily. Our Hera
is no fool. How can she, in the light of reason--in any light--prefer
Mario Forza to Antonio Tarsis? The idea is absurd.”
* * * * *
At dinner Hera, queenly in a gown that effected the complement of her
own beautiful coloring, was gracious, kindly, captivating. Like an
actress who had played a rôle many times, she was settling into her
part. To the land of self-conceit where Tarsis dwelt the voice of this
human heart did not penetrate; he heard only its delusive echo. Even
the clear admonition she had sounded at Paris failed to weigh now
against his self-exaltation and the false notion that Donna Beatrice
had planted in his mind. Thus it fell out that when Don Riccardo
and his sister had taken themselves away he said to her, while they
lingered at the window, looking upon the lights of the Corso:
“It affords me infinite pleasure, my wife, to see you so happy.”
“All the worldly means are at hand,” she responded, in the manner of
one conceding a point, “and I should be lacking in a sense of values if
I were not content. You can do no more, Antonio.”
“It is all paltry enough,” he declared, in a sudden burst of feeling,
“when I reflect that it is done for you. There is nothing that I would
not do for your sake.”
With the words he caught up her hand and kissed it fervidly. She did
not turn her eyes from the window or withdraw her hand; for a moment he
stood holding it, looking into her averted face, like one who had asked
a question and was awaiting the answer.
“The dinner was delightful,” she said, at length, moving from him.
“There is much to do to-morrow, and I shall retire early. You have
your occupations, no doubt. For your many kindnesses I thank you.”
She disengaged her hand and wished him good-night, all with an
admirable effect of significance, tempered by well-bred dignity:
but the peasant cunning that was in his blood asserted itself. Even
while she spoke he bowed again and again, with an insinuating air of
comprehension, and instead of returning her good-night he offered an
“Au revoir, eh?” to which Hera gave no response.
He followed her with his eyes, foolishly believing that she might pause
at the threshold and look back. When she had passed from the room and
he could see her no longer, but heard still the quick rustle of silk,
he moved to another point of view, and watched her retreating figure
until it disappeared at a door, where a maid waited, far down the
mirrored passage. It was the entrance to that regal chamber whither
he had conducted her a few hours before and proclaimed with plebeian
delight--on the authority of Donna Beatrice--that it was a part of the
private suite occupied by many dukes and duchesses of her house and in
times yet older by the rulers of Milan, for the Barbiondi had given
the free city seven of its lords. The couch was modern, but its tester
and rich hanging of tapestries, though new from the loom, retained the
genius of the past in pattern and phase of colour. And yonder the lord
was wont to repose, in a chamber likewise beautiful, set apart by a
mid-room, and beyond this a door of mahogany, embellished with Madonnas
and saints and cherubs, carved for the glory of God by Fra Pandole,
famed for his pictures in wood.
Presently the reflection of Tarsis passed from one to another of the
corridor mirrors and he entered the bed-chamber of the Barbiondi lords.
He found his valet there, busy yet with his task of unpacking and
putting in order. When the man had helped him into his dressing-gown
and gone his way, Tarsis turned low the light and threw himself on a
settle so placed as to hold in view the corridor through his half-open
door. There he watched and waited, puffing a cigarette.
From Via Cappuccini came the familiar sounds of a conscript’s
_festa_--some newly-drafted soldier and his comrades celebrating a
long-dreaded event in wine-born merriment.
“Long live the army! Long live the King! Long live the people!”
A minute more and Tarsis’s vigil ended. He saw Hera’s maid pass in
the corridor on her way to the servants’ quarters. Then he arose
and approached the door of Fra Pandole. It was closed, but his
interpretations of the past hour made him blindly confident that it
would yield to the turning of the knob. He was on the point of turning
it when he heard the sharp click of a key in the lock, then the sound
of receding footsteps.
In the sudden impulse of his rage he threw himself against the door,
crying, “Open, open! I am your husband! It is my right!”
But the door did not swing, and from the other side came no answer.
With a Sicilian malediction on his lips, Tarsis moved away to the
window to stand in the cool of the night air. The new conscript and his
comrades, passing below, sent up a fresh gust of tipsy laughter.