The curé of Roquebrune learned in an odd way that his Principino was
gambling; just in the queer roundabout way that secret things become
public on the Riviera.
His housekeeper had a sister. That sister was the wife of a man who kept
cows at Cap Martin, sold milk which the cows gave, and butter which he
said that he made (gaining praise thereby), though it was really
imported at night in carts from Italy.
The daughter was eighteen, and it was her duty to carry milk to the
customers of her father, who did business under the name of Verando,
Emilio. She was a beauty, and her fame spread until people of all
classes made errands to the laiterie of Verando, Emilio, to stare at the
dark-browed girl who was like a splendid Ligurian storm-cloud. When the
twelve white cows of Emilio were occasionally allowed an outing, and
could be seen glimmering among the ancient olive trees, the Storm-cloud
walked with them; early in the morning, when the gray-blue of mountain
and sky was framed like star sapphires in the silver of gnarled trunks
and feathery branches; or else early in the evening, when the moon-dawn
had come. The cows were supposed to chaperon Mademoiselle Nathalie
Verando, who was by blood more Signorina than Mademoiselle; but they
countenanced several flirtations which were observed by the caretaker of
Mirasole, the villa presently to be occupied by Prince Angelo Della
Robbia and his bride.
The caretaker, consumed with jealousy because one of the flirters had
flirted also with her daughter, told everybody that Nathalie Verando had
been kissed in the olive woods. Jim Schuyler's cook was a friend of
Luciola, the curé's housekeeper. When she heard of the incident in the
Verando family, she told Nathalie's aunt that Mrs. Winter, the
chaplain's wife at Monte Carlo, was in need of a parlour maid. The maid
must be pretty, because Mrs. Winter could not bear to have ugly people
about her. They ruined her appetite. This peculiarity was known at
Stellamare, because Mrs. Winter's cousin, Mr. Carleton, was visiting
there. Would it not be wise to put Nathalie into service, at a distance
from Cap Martin, so that everything might be forgotten?
Mrs. Winter, to whom the suggestion was made by her cook (cousin to the
cook at Stellamare), snapped at it eagerly. She had been out walking
with Dick, and they had both seen the beautiful dark Storm-cloud
chaperoned by the white cows, among the olives.
Nathalie became _femme de chambre_ in the apartment of Mrs. Winter. She
was so charmed with her mistress, and with certain hats and blouses that
Rose bestowed upon her, that she did not much miss the flirtations. But,
being a good Catholic, and having been confirmed by the curé of
Roquebrune, her conscience asked itself whether it could be right to
live in a household not only Protestant, but the abode of a priest who
spread heresy. It occurred to her that she would go and put this
question to the curé, her spiritual father; and she was not deterred
from her resolve by the fact that Achille Gonzales had finished his
military service and returned to visit his family. Achille's father was
the Maire of Roquebrune, a peasant landowner of wealth whose pride was
in his son and in their Spanish ancestry, which dated back to the days
of Saracen fighting on the coast.
Achille was a great match; and the white cows had nibbled mint and
clover from his hands before he went away with his regiment to Algeria.
His father was about to make over to him some land adjoining the curé's
garden, and the young man was there planting orange trees on fine days.
Nathalie chose a fine afternoon to ask Mrs. Winter if she might go to
Roquebrune.
The curé, who was broad-minded, set her heart at rest about the possible
iniquity of her service. He said that different religions were all paths
leading up a steep hill, in the same direction, only some were more
roundabout than others. Nathalie need not after all have taken the
trouble to climb the mule track in the afternoon sun; yet she was not
sorry she had come. Seldom had she looked so beautiful as when her aunt
was giving her orange-syrup with water after her talk with the curé, the
oranges being a present to the house from Achille Gonzales. On the
table in the little kitchen stood a silver photograph frame which
Luciola was going to clean, as the salt air had tarnished its
brightness. In the frame was a photograph of Prince Giovanni Della
Robbia as a boy of eighteen; but so little had eleven years changed
Vanno, that Nathalie recognized the picture at once.
"Ah," she exclaimed, "surely that is the handsome, tall young gentleman
who walks over often to look at the Villa Mirasole, near our laiterie:
the brother of the prince who is coming soon to live there."
"Why, yes, it is he," replied her aunt. "He is a friend of our curé's,
and was once his pupil. He is the Prince Giovanni Della Robbia, a very
noble, good young man."
"I am not sure he is so very good," retorted Nathalie, pleased to know
something which her aunt perhaps did not know, about a person of
importance.
Luciola's tiny body quivered with indignation. "Not good! How dare you
say such a thing of our curé's Prince? What can you have to tell of a
great noble in his position--you--a little no-one-at-all?"
The Storm-cloud lowered. "There are those as important as your Prince
who do not think me a 'little no-one-at-all.' The grand folk who come to
Cap Martin to call upon our lady the Empress Eugenie tell each other
about me; English dukes and duchesses they are, and Spanish grandees,
and high nobility from all over the world, who visit the Cap to do her
reverence. They make one excuse or another to have a look at your
'little no-one-at-all.' And a famous American artist has sketched me, in
the olive woods. He would not let me run home even for five minutes to
change into my best dress, nor would he permit that I put away my milk
cans: that was my one regret! As for your Prince, he passed, taking a
short cut to the villa, while I posed. Do you think he went on without
looking? No; he stopped and spoke with the artist."
"Then that was because they were acquaintances," snapped Luciola.
"It is true they knew each other. But it was not for the _beaux yeux_ of
the big red-bearded artist that the Prince stopped. It was to look at my
face in the sketch-book. There were other faces there, too, and on the
page next to mine the profile of a most lovely lady, all blond like an
angel, whose name the Prince knew, for he and the artist talked of her,
and called her Miss Grant. I have heard much conversation about her
since then, at Madame Winter's, at tea-time in the afternoon when I
bring in the tray and give cakes to visitors. They all, especially
Madame's cousin, speak of Miss Grant, and she is celebrated for her
beauty as well as for her gambling: yet your Prince looked as much at my
picture as at hers, quite as much; and the artist could have taken no
more pains with me if I had been a queen. So you see what other people
think. And as it happens, I _do_ know a great deal about this Prince."
"Nothing against him, then, I am sure," persisted Luciola, though
somewhat impressed. "Monsieur le Curé loves him, which alone proves that
he is good."
"Does Monsieur le Curé consider it good to gamble at Monte Carlo?"
inquired Nathalie, with assumed meekness.
"Of course not. Prince Giovanni would not stoop to such a pursuit."
"Oh, would he not? That is all you know of the world, here on your
mountain, dear aunt. Me, I hear everything that goes on, though I live
in the house of a cleric. Madame's cousin knows well your Prince, who,
it is true, did not gamble at first, and seemed to scorn the Casino, so
I heard from Monsieur Carleton while I poured the tea. But for some
reason he has taken to play, the Prince. He is always in the Casino. He
has refused to live in the villa at Cap Martin with his brother and
sister-in-law, who have now arrived, because he hates to be too far from
the Casino, though perhaps they may not know why. Monsieur Carleton has
told Madame that not once have they been inside its doors, or shown
themselves at any Monte Carlo restaurant. Oh, your Prince is a wild
gambler, aunt, and loses much money, which is a silly way of amusing
one's self, in my opinion. And that is why I say he is not so good as
you and Monsieur le Curé think him, you who are so innocent."
"I do not believe one word of your foolish gossip," was the only
satisfaction Nathalie got from Luciola. But when the girl had gone, the
little old woman was in such haste to retell the tale to the curé, that
she did not even throw a glance at Nathalie. If she had, she might have
seen the Storm-cloud brightening when, quite by accident, she was met by
Achille Gonzales within a few yards of the curé's door.
Old as she was, Luciola had an excellent memory for anything that
interested her, though she was capable of forgetting what was best
forgotten in a household, such as the breaking of a dish, or the reason
why the cat had been left out of doors all night in the rain. She
repeated what she had heard from her niece, almost word for word,
wandering a little sometimes from the straight path of the narrative
into side tracks, such as the anecdote of the artist who took as much
pains with Nathalie's portrait as with that of the great beauty, Miss
Grant, who was always gambling at the Casino, the place where wicked
people said that Prince Giovanni played. No exciting detail did Luciola
neglect.
The curé listened to the end, without interrupting, greatly to the
housekeeper's disappointment, as she had made her narrative piquant in
the hope of tempting her master to ask questions. But he showed no
emotion of any kind, and only remarked at last that Luciola was quite
right not to believe gossip about the Prince, or indeed evil of any one.
Nevertheless her story left him reflective. He thought it not impossible
that Vanno was gambling; and if it were the case, several things would
be explainable. It was many days since the Prince had come to
Roquebrune, although the curé had done what he did not wish to do, in
order to please his one-time pupil.
Vanno was well aware that it was not the curé's affair to call upon
strangers out of his own parish, except by special request. To call
uninvited upon a person in Monaco might seem to the curé and abbé of San
Carlo like an intrusion: and to present himself at a hotel, inquiring
for a young lady whom he did not even know to be a Catholic, had been an
ordeal. This, for the Principino's sake, he had done not once but twice,
as Vanno knew. And in truth the Prince had seemed too preoccupied with
disappointment because Miss Grant was not at home to express much
gratitude when the curé told him of the two calls.
Not since the third day before Christmas had Vanno come to Roquebrune,
nor had he written his old friend; and certainly the curé had wondered,
for now the new year was more than a week old; and always the weather
had been of that brilliance the peasant women consider necessary after
Noël for the washing of the Christ child's clothes by the Sainte Vierge,
His mother. There had been no such excuse as rain to prevent a visit;
but at last the curé guessed at a reason which might have kept Vanno
from wishing to see him.
On New Year's Day--the great fête--the priest had called in the
afternoon on Prince and Princess Della Robbia, at the Villa Mirasole,
knowing that their arrival had been delayed until the night before.
Vanno, who had lunched with them, had already gone; and it was no news
to the curé that the younger brother was not living at Cap Martin.
Angelo referred to this change of plan, saying laughingly that no doubt
the foolish boy feared to interrupt a tête-à-tête. Nonsense this, of
course; for the honeymoon had extended itself over months, and the
Princess was anxious to see as much as possible of her new
brother-in-law. Angelo, too, particularly wished Vanno to love Marie as
a sister, and report well of her to the Duke, whose favourite he was. It
was no secret that Vanno could do what he liked with his father,
although no other soul was permitted to take liberties with the Duke.
Nothing had been left unsaid which might assure Vanno of his welcome,
yet he insisted on remaining at some Monte Carlo hotel, only coming over
to lunch or dinner, though Angelo quite understood that his brother had
promised to live with him.
The curé, soothing the elder and defending the younger gayly, thought in
his heart that he knew better than Angelo why Vanno clung to Monte
Carlo. He supposed Miss Grant to be the attraction, but this was the
Principino's affair, and the curé kept the secret. Miss Grant's name was
not mentioned. Evidently Prince and Princess Della Robbia had not heard
of her.
Vanno's infatuation for the girl did not seem a light thing to the curé,
and he thought of it anxiously, hoping and sometimes believing that the
young man would be strong enough to hold himself aloof, unless Miss
Grant should show herself worthy of a noble, not a degrading, love. The
priest had kept his promise in going to see her; but until this rumour
of Vanno's gambling reached him he had not been able to regret his
failure. The responsibility of judging and truthfully reporting his
opinion of a young woman had weighed heavily upon his spirits. Supposing
the curé had said to himself that he saw Miss Grant and thought nothing
but good of her? The Principino might on the strength of his report be
reckless enough to propose marriage. A good and beautiful girl might
still be an unsuitable match for a son of the Duke of Rienzi; and on the
priest's head would, in a sense, lie the blame if she became the wife of
Prince Vanno. Altogether, the curé had been inclined to think that the
saints had perhaps had a hand in sending him twice to call when Miss
Grant was not visible. Now, however, he took himself to task. He had
been careless. He had considered his own selfish feelings too much in
this matter. If the Principino had taken to gambling (a vice he had once
sneered at as a refuge for the destitute in intellect) there must have
been some extraordinary incentive. The curé was sure of this; and
granting it without mental argument, he set himself to the task of
deduction.
"One would say I flattered myself by thinking that I had been born a
detective!" he remarked aloud to his favourite rose-bush, when Luciola
had emptied her news-bag for him, in the garden. "Me, a detective?
Heaven forbid! Yet at the same time, if I have brain-power to be of
service to my Principino, the saints give me wit to use it."
Then he thought very hard, sitting in his arbour, on the wooden seat
which gave a view over the whole coast, with its mountains whose feet
were promontories. Half amused, half alarmed lest the pretence were sin,
he tried to put himself in Vanno's place; and so doing it was borne in
upon his mind that something of importance must have happened between
the Prince and Miss Grant. She had been gambling all the while, though
Vanno had not at first gambled: but if they had met--if there had been a
scene which had driven the Prince to desperation--might that not explain
the change? Had she definitely proved herself unworthy, or had Vanno
openly done her some injustice, which had wrought bitterness for both?
In any case, the curé decided that he had been mistaken in the designs
of Providence for himself. After all, perhaps it had been meant for him
to meet Miss Grant, and he had been indifferent, had turned a deaf ear
to the voice which bade him try again and yet again.
He resolved to call upon the girl, not only once more, but many times if
necessary, and when there was something to report, he would have an
excuse to go and see Vanno.
All this, indirectly through Nathalie Verando's walks with the white
cows, in the olive woods of Cap Martin, and more directly through the
tarnishing of a silver frame on an old photograph.