Vanno stood without moving for some minutes, when Mary had gone. She had
forbidden him to follow, but it was not her command which held him back.
It was the command laid upon him by himself. In a light merciless as the
crude glare of electricity he saw himself standing stricken, a fool who
had done an unforgivable thing, a clumsy and brutal wretch who had
broken a crystal vase in a sanctuary. For the blinding light showed him
a new image of Mary, even as she had suddenly revealed herself to
Hannaford: a perfectly innocent creature whose ways were strange as a
dryad's way would be strange if transplanted from her forests into the
most sophisticated colony in Europe.
Something in Vanno which knew, because it felt, had always pronounced
her guiltless; but all of him that was modern and worldly had told him
to distrust her. Now he was like a judge who has condemned a prisoner on
circumstantial evidence, to find out the victim's innocence after the
execution.
Standing there on the bridge, the dance-music troubled the current of
his thoughts, rising to the surface of his mind, though he heard it
without listening, like the teasing bubbles of a spring through deep
water. Though he tried, he could not fully analyze his own feelings;
yet he was sharply conscious of those two conflicting sides of his
nature which Angelo saw, and he could almost hear them arguing together.
The part of him that was aristocrat and ascetic excused itself, asking
what he could have done, better than he had done? Had he not broken his
resolve for a good motive and for the girl's sake, not his own? Had he
begged anything of her for himself? Ought she not to have understood
that though he loved her, he could not ask her to be his wife unless or
until she could prove herself worthy--not of him--but of a name and of
traditions honoured in history? Ought she not to have trusted him, and
seen that he was resisting temptation, not yielding to it, when he
implored her to take his help and friendship?
Already Angelo had disappointed their father, by marrying a girl of whom
no one knew anything except her beauty and talent as an artist. Marie
Gaunt had come to Rome to paint the portrait of a fashionable woman; had
been "taken up" by other _mondaines_; and Angelo, meeting her at a
dinner, had fallen in love with and followed her to Dresden, where she
lived and had made her reputation as an artist. In spite of the Duke's
objections they had married; and Vanno, who was his father's favourite,
surely owed some duty to the old man who loved him. At worst, Marie
Gaunt the artist had in no way laid herself open to gossip. According to
what friends had written from Rome, she was more than discreet, demure
as a Puritan maiden, and the elderly chaperon who travelled with her
was a dragon of virtue. With this girl whom Vanno had met at Monte Carlo
it was different. She was not discreet. Whatever else she might be, she
was not Puritan. She was gossiped about on all sides, and gayly fed the
fire of gossip by appearing in startling dresses, by doing startling
things, and picking up extraordinary acquaintances. Even as far away as
Mentone and Nice she was talked about. Two women had started some story
about her travelling to Paris with a French artist; and the man himself,
who had arrived since, had made a fool of himself at the Casino, and
apparently tried to blackmail her. She was said to have given him money.
No love, no matter how great, could justify Prince Giovanni Della Robbia
in making such a girl his wife while uncertain of the truth which
underlay her amazing eccentricities, and the gossip which followed her
everywhere, like a dog that barked at her heels.
This was what one side of him protested anxiously to the other side,
which in turn raged against it and its cold plausibilities. The side
which was all passion and romance and high chivalry lashed its enemy
with contempt, and evil epithets of which the hardest to bear was
"prig." For no man can endure being thought a prig, even by himself.
"You, who said that her soul was meant for yours, and the next moment
distrusted it!" he reproached himself in bitterness. "What a fool--what
a hypocrite! If you've known her since the beginning of things, you
should have known by instinct what she was, down under the surface
frivolities and foolishnesses, mistakes any untaught girl might make."
This Vanno, who was all man and not prince, said that no punishment
could be too severe for one who doubts where he loves. He saw himself
justly punished now, by learning Mary's truth through her noble
indignation. Because he had waited for this proof he acknowledged that
he had sinned beyond most women's pardon; yet he meant to win hers. He
cared more for her than before, and determined that he would never give
her up; yet all the while that other, worldly Vanno, who was prince as
well as man, held stiffly back. How could one whose small knowledge of
women good and bad came mostly through hearsay be sure of a woman?
His one boyish venture in love he saw now had been in shallow water; but
it had not tended to strengthen his faith in the innate nobility of
women. On the contrary, it had shown him that a woman who seemed sweet
and loving could be hard and calculating, even mercenary. Innocence
being a charming pose, why should it not be adopted by the cleverest
actresses, professional sirens, specialists in enchantment, who wished
to be admired by all men, even men for whom they cared nothing? How
could he tell even now that this girl was not a clever actress who
judged him well and planned to lead him on?
So he asked himself questions, and answered in rage, only to begin
again, fiercely breaking down one set of arguments and building up
another.
It was the arrival of Dodo Wardropp with Dom Ferdinand on the bridge
which drove him away and out of himself sufficiently to bid his host and
hostess good-night.
When the motor launch had taken him ashore, the impulse was very strong
in him to go up to Roquebrune and tell the curé what had happened. He
knew that his friend kept a light burning all night in a window, and he
could see it, as Mary had seen it, sending out its message for any who
needed help. Yet what good could come of talking to one who had never
met the girl? Fate had kept the two apart, for some reason, and Vanno
could but consult his own heart. Its counsel was to write to Mary,
explaining all those things that she had not let him explain in words.
This matter of explanation seemed easier than it proved. Letter after
letter had to be torn up before Vanno was able to express on paper
anything at all which she might understand, which might soften her to
forgiveness. Even then he was dissatisfied; but something had to stand,
something had to go. "Write me at least one line," he ended, "if only to
say that you know I did not mean to insult you, in the way you thought
when you left me."
Mary was still "Miss M. Grant" to him, and so he addressed his letter.
Dawn had put the stars to sleep when he sealed the envelope, and he had
to wait for a reasonable hour before sending to her room; but he did not
go to bed, or try to sleep.
"Christmas!" he said to himself, aloud. "The day of peace on earth and
good will toward men. If she remembers, can she refuse to forgive me?"
At half-past eight he thought it might be taken for granted that she was
awake. "Don't ask for an answer," he told the young waiter to whom he
gave his sealed envelope, and the lace scarf which Mary had left in his
hands. "Say only that you're not sure whether there is an answer or not,
and you will wait to see."
Vanno had hoped the servant might be away a long time, as delay would
mean that Mary was taking time to think, and writing a reply. But in
less than ten minutes the man was at the door again.
"The lady was in, and when I gave her the scarf and letter, asked me who
had sent them," was the report. "I told her it was his Highness the
Roman Prince, staying in the hotel. Then she said, 'This scarf is mine,
but the letter must have been sent by mistake, as I do not know his
Highness.' So I have brought it back, as the lady desired. I hope I have
done right?"
"Quite right, thank you," Vanno returned mechanically, and took his own
letter. His ears tingled as though Mary's little fingers had boxed them.
If she had but known, she was more than revenged upon him for the snub
which had clouded her first dinner in the restaurant of the Hôtel de
Paris.
For a moment Vanno was intensely angry, because she had dared to
humiliate him in the eyes of a servant; but by and by, when his ears
stopped tingling, he told himself that he deserved even this. He
respected her all the more, and no longer feared that she might be a
clever actress trying to lead him on. A woman who wished to attract a
man would not use so sharp a weapon.
Still, Vanno had no thought of giving up. If she would not read his
explanation she must hear it, and justify him in one way, even if she
would not forgive. He hoped to see her at luncheon time, but she did not
come into the restaurant. Again, at dinner she was absent. A merry
little Christmas party of four sat at her table: an English duke and
duchess, a great Russian dancer, a general of world-wide fame.
"Where is the lady who usually sits opposite?" he asked of his waiter,
draining his voice of all expression. "Is she away for Christmas?"
"She is away altogether," answered the waiter. "She left before
luncheon."
"Left altogether--left before luncheon!" Vanno echoed, almost stupidly,
forgetting to appear indifferent.
"I believe she is still in Monte Carlo," the man went on, delighted to
give information. "I do not know where, but I can no doubt find out for
your Highness."
"No, thanks, I won't trouble you," Vanno replied hurriedly. He would not
learn her whereabouts from a servant, but would find out for himself.
Where could she be? To whom could she have gone? The uncertainty was
unbearable. If it were true that she was still in Monte Carlo, she
would probably be in the Casino this evening. Vanno had not gone there
often, after the first night or two, for he hated to see Mary in the
Rooms alone, playing a game which attracted crowds, and caused people of
all sorts to talk about her. Now, however, he finished his dinner
quickly, and went immediately to the Casino.
It was just nine o'clock, and though it was Christmas the crowd was as
great as ever, even greater than he had seen it before. Vanno walked
through the Salle Schmidt, where Mary usually played, stopping at each
table long enough to make sure that she was not there. Then he passed on
into the newer rooms lit by those hanging lights which Mary had thought
like diamond necklaces of giantesses. The three life-size figures of the
eccentric yet decorative picture, nicknamed "The Disgraces," seemed to
follow him mockingly with langorous eyes, whispering to each other,
"Here comes a fool who does not understand women."
Mary was not playing at any of the tables in these rooms; but there was
hope still. The Sporting Club had now opened for the season, and it was
more fashionable at night even than the Casino. Vanno had walked through
once or twice, after midnight when the Casino had shut, and found there
a scene of great beauty and animation: the prettiest women in Monte
Carlo, wearing wonderful dresses and jewels, and famous men of nearly
all the countries of the world, princes and politicians, great soldiers
and grave judges, and even one or two travelling kings. It was very
likely that Miss Grant would have gone on to the Sporting Club, after
dinner with friends on Christmas Day.
He went across the road and a little down the hill, where the white
clubhouse owned by the Casino blazed with light. But as he reached it,
Dick Carleton dashed through the door, began running down the steps, and
almost cannoned into him.
"Beg pardon, Prince," he exclaimed. "I've just been told that a friend
of mine's losing like the dickens, in the _Cercle Privé_, and I'm going
to dart across and take out my subscription. I've never done it yet. But
it will be worth the hundred francs to stop her, if I can."
"Is it Miss Grant?" Vanno did not deliberately put the question, but
heard himself asking it.
"Why, yes it is," Carleton admitted. "Have you been in--have you seen
her?"
"No. But I felt somehow that you were speaking of Miss Grant."
"I thought you scarcely knew her," Dick caught him up, jealously.
"You are right. I--scarcely know her. But one has intuitions sometimes.
I must have had one then. So--she is losing? I heard she had wonderful
luck."
"She has had, up till now. Seemed as if she couldn't lose. Christmas
night, too! Isn't it a shame?" And Dick was off, hatless, in evening
dress without an overcoat. Vanno stood still in front of the Sporting
Club for a moment, watching the slim boyish figure go striding up the
hill. A liveried porter, seeing the Prince at the foot of the steps,
obsequiously opened the door, but Vanno made a sign that he did not wish
to enter. As soon as Dick had disappeared, Vanno followed him.
As he went seldom to the Casino, he had not taken a subscription to the
newest rooms, or _Cercle Privé_, where the price of admission is a
hundred francs. These rooms are for ardent gamblers who dislike playing
in a crowd, and Vanno, who had not felt inclined to play at all,
scarcely remembered their existence. Now he bought a ticket, however,
and having written his name upon it, followed Carleton at a little
distance, to a door at the far end of the trente et quarante rooms. His
heart was beating heavily, for in a few minutes he would perhaps know to
whom Mary had gone when she left the Hôtel de Paris.