Oh, he went on so easily to his betrayal, not knowing the
United-Statesians and their sentiment, as I did.
"We had the same mother," I continued, as quietly as I could. "Twenty
years after this young--this somewhat young--Prince was born she
divorced his father, Caravacioli, and married a poor poet, whose bust
you can see on the Pincian in Rome, though he died in the cheapest hotel
in Sienna when my true brother and I were children. This young Prince
would have nothing to do with my mother after her second marriage and--"
"Marriage!" Antonio laughed pleasantly again. He was admirable. "This is
an old tale which the hastiness of our American friend has forced us to
rehearse. The marriage was never recognized by the Vatican, and there
was not twenty years--"
"Antonio, it is the age which troubles you, after all!" I said, and
laughed heartily, loudly, and a long time, in the most good-natured way,
not to be undone as an actor.
"Twenty years," I repeated. "But what of it? Some of the best men in the
world use dyes and false--"
At this his temper went away from him suddenly and completely. I had
struck the right point indeed!
"You cammorrista!" he cried, and became only himself, his hands
gesturing and flying, all his pleasant manner gone. "Why should we
listen one second more to such a fisherman! The very seiners of the bay
who sell dried sea-horses to the tourists are better gentlemen than you.
You can shrug your shoulders! I saw you in Paris, though you thought I
did not! Oh, I saw you well! Ah! At the Cafe de la Paiz!"
At this I cried out suddenly. The sting and surprise of it were more
than I could bear. In my shame I would even have tried to drown his
voice with babblings but after this one cry I could not speak for a
while. He went on triumphantly:
"This rascal, my dear ladies, who has persuaded you to ask him to
dinner, this camel who claims to be my excellent brother, he, for a few
francs, in Paris, shaved his head and showed it for a week to the people
with an advertisement painted upon it of the worst ballet in Paris. This
is the gentleman with whom you ask Caravacioli to dine!"
It was beyond my expectation, so astonishing and so cruel that I could
only look at him for a moment or two. I felt as one who dreams himself
falling forever. Then I stepped forward and spoke, in thickness of
voice, being unable to lift my head:
"Again it is true what he says. I was that man of the painted head. I
had my true brother's little daughters to care for. They were at the
convent, and I owed for them. It was also partly for myself, because I
was hungry. I could find not any other way, and so--but that is all."