Lamberto Lamberti never wasted time, whether he was at sea, doing his
daily duty as an officer, or ashore in Africa, fighting savages, or on
leave, amusing himself in Rome, or Paris, or London. Time was life, and
life was far too good to be squandered in dawdling. In ten minutes after
he had reached his room he was ready to go out again. As he took his hat
and gloves, his eye fell on a note which he had not seen when he had
come in.
He opened it carelessly and found the same formal invitation which Guido
had received at the same time. The Countess Fortiguerra requested the
pleasure of his company at the Villa Palladio between four and six, and
the date was just a fortnight ahead.
Lamberti was a Roman, and though he had only seen the Countess three or
four times in his life, he remembered very well that she had been twice
married, and that her first husband had been a certain Count Palladio,
whose name was vaguely connected in Lamberti's mind with South American
railways, the Suez Canal, and a machine gun that had been tried in the
Italian navy; but it was not a Roman name, and he could not remember any
villa that was called by it. Palladio--it recalled something else,
besides a great architect--something connected with Pallas--but
Lamberti was no great scholar. Guido would know. Guido knew everything
about literature, ancient and modern--or at least Lamberti thought so.
He had kept his cab while he dressed, and in a few minutes the little
horse had toiled up the long hill that leads to Porta Pinciana, and
Lamberti got out at the gate of one of those beautiful villas of which
there are still a few within the walls of Rome. It belonged to a
foreigner of infinite taste, whose love of roses was proverbial. A
legend says that some of them were watered with the most carefully
prepared beef tea from the princely kitchen. The rich man had gone back
to his own country, and the Princess Anatolie had taken the villa and
meant to spend the rest of her life there. She was only seventy years
old, and had made up her mind to live to be a hundred, so that it was
worth while to make permanent arrangements for her comfort.
Lamberti might have driven through the gate and up to the house, but he
was not sure whether the Princess liked to see such plebeian vehicles as
cabs in her grounds. He had a strong suspicion that, in spite of her
royal blood, she had the soul of a snob, and thought much more about
appearances than he did; and as for Monsieur Leroy, he was one of the
most complete specimens of the snob species in the world. Therefore
Lamberti, who now had reasons for wishing to propitiate the dwellers in
the villa, left his cab outside and walked up the steep drive to the
house.
He did not look particularly well in a frock coat and high hat. He was
too muscular, his hair was too red, his neck was too sunburnt, and he
was more accustomed to wearing a uniform or the rough clothes in which
fighting is usually done. The footman looked at him and did not
recognise him.
"Her Highness is not at home," said the man, coolly.
A private carriage was waiting at a little distance from the porch, and
the footman who belonged to it was lounging in the vestibule within.
"Be good enough to ask whether her Highness will see me," said Lamberti.
The fellow looked at him again, and evidently made up his mind that it
would be safer to obey a red-haired gentleman who had such a very
unusual look in his eyes and spoke so quietly, for he disappeared
without making any further objection.
When Lamberti entered the drawing-room, he was aware that the Princess
was established in a high arm-chair near a tea-table, that Monsieur
Leroy was coming towards him, and that an elderly lady in a hat was
seated near the Princess in an attitude which may be described as one of
respectful importance. He was aware of the presence of these three
persons in the room, but he only saw the fourth, a young girl, standing
beside the table with a cup in her hand, and just turning her face
towards him with a look that was like a surprised recognition after not
having seen him for a very long time. He started perceptibly as his eyes
met hers, and he almost uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
He was checked by feeling Monsieur Leroy's toad-like hand in his.
"Her Highness is very glad to see you," said an oily voice in French,
but with a thick and rolling pronunciation that was South American
unless it was Roumanian.
For once Lamberti did not notice the sensual, pink and white face, the
hanging lips, the colourless brown hair, the insolent eyes, the
effeminate figure and dress of the little man he detested, and whose
mere touch was disgusting to him. By a strong effort he went directly up
to the Princess without looking again at the young girl whose presence
had affected him so oddly.
Princess Anatolie was gracious enough to give him her hand to kiss; he
bent over it, and his lips touched a few of the cold precious stones in
the rings that loaded her fingers. She had not changed in the year that
had passed since he had seen her, except that her eyes looked smaller
than ever and nearer together. Her hair might or might not be her own,
for it was carefully crimped and arranged upon her forehead; it was not
certain that her excellent teeth were false; there was about her an air
of youth and vitality that was really surprising, and yet it was
impossible not to feel that she might be altogether a marvellous sham,
on the verge of dissolution.
"This is most charming!" she said, in a voice that was not cracked, but
rang false. "I expect my nephew, Guido, at any moment. He is your great
friend, is he not? Yes, I never forget anything. This is my nephew
Guido's great friend," she continued volubly, and turning to the elderly
lady on her right, "Prince Lamberti."
"Don Lamberto Lamberti," said Monsieur Leroy in a low voice, correcting
her. But even this was not quite right.
"I have the good fortune to know the Countess Fortiguerra," said
Lamberti, bowing, as he suddenly recognised her, but very much surprised
that she should be there. "I have just received a very kind invitation
from you," he added, as she gave him her hand.
"I hope you will come," she said quietly. "I knew your mother very well.
We were at the school of the Sacred Heart together."
Lamberti bent his head a little, in acknowledgment of the claim upon him
possessed by one of his mother's school friends.
"I shall do my best to come," he answered.
He felt that the young girl was watching him, and he ventured to look at
her, with a little movement, as if he wished to be introduced. Again he
felt the absolute certainty of having met her before, somewhere, very
long ago--so long ago that she could not have been born then, and he
must have been a small boy. Therefore what he felt was absurd.
"Cecilia," said the Countess, speaking to the girl, "this is Signor
Lamberto Lamberti." "My daughter," she explained, as he bowed, "Cecilia
Palladio."
"Most charming!" cried the Princess, "the son and the daughter of two
old friends."
"Touching," echoed Monsieur Leroy. "Such a picture! There is true
sentiment in it."
Lamberti did not hear, but Cecilia Palladio did, and a straight shadow,
fine as a hair line, appeared for an instant, perpendicular between her
brows, while she looked directly at the man before her. A moment later
Lamberti was seated between her and her mother, and Monsieur Leroy had
resumed the position he had left to welcome the newcomer, sitting on a
very low cushioned stool almost at the Princess's feet.
In formal circumstances, a man who has been long in the army or navy can
usually trust himself not to show astonishment or emotion, and after the
first slight start of surprise, which only Monsieur Leroy had seen,
Lamberti had behaved as if nothing out of the common way had happened to
him. But he had felt as if he were in a dream, while healthily sure that
he was awake; and now that he was more at ease, he began to examine the
cause of his inward disturbance.
It was not only out of the question to suppose that he had ever before
now met Cecilia Palladio, but he was quite certain that he had never
seen any one who was at all like her.
If extinct types of men could be revived now and then, of those which
the world once thought admirable and tried to copy, it would be
interesting to see how many persons of taste would acknowledge any
beauty in them. Cecilia Palladio had been eighteen years old early in
the winter, and in the usual course of things would have made her
appearance in society during the carnival season. The garden party for
which her mother had now sent out invitations was to take the place of
the dance which should have been given in January. Afterwards, when it
was over, and everybody had seen her, some people said that she was
perfectly beautiful, others declared that she was a freak of nature and
would soon be hideous, but, meanwhile, was an interesting study; one
young gentleman, addicted to art, said that her face belonged to the
type seen in the Elgin marbles; a Sicilian lady said that her head was
even more archaic than that, and resembled a fragment from the temples
of Selinunte, preserved in the museum at Palermo; and the Russian
ambassador, who was of unknown age, said that she was the perfect Psyche
of Naples, brought to life, and that he wished he were Eros.
In southern Europe what is called the Greek type of beauty is often
seen, and does not surprise any one. Many people think it cold and
uninteresting. It was a small something in the arch of the brows, it was
a very slight upward turn of the point of the nose, it was the small
irregularity of the broader and less curving upper lip that gave to
Cecilia Palladio's face the force and character that are so utterly
wanting in the faces of the best Greek statues. The Greeks, by the time
they had gained the perfect knowledge of the human body that produced
the Hermes of Olympia, had made a conventional mask of the human face,
and rarely ever tried to give it a little of the daring originality that
stands out in the features of many a crudely archaic statue. The artist
who made the Psyche attempted something of the kind, for the right side
of the face differs from the left, as it generally does in living
people. The right eyebrow is higher and more curved than the left one,
which lends some archness to the expression, but its effect is destroyed
by the tiresome perfection of the simpering mouth.
Cecilia Palladio was not like a Greek statue, but she looked as if she
had come alive from an age in which the individual ranked above the many
as a model, and in which nothing accidentally unfit for life could
survive and nothing degenerate had begun to be. With the same general
proportion, there was less symmetry in her face than in those of modern
beauties, and there was more light, more feeling, more understanding.
She was very fair, but her eyes were not blue; it would have been hard
to define their colour, and sometimes there seemed to be golden lights
in them. While she was standing, Lamberti had seen that she was almost
as tall as himself, and therefore taller than most women; and she was
slender, and moved like a very perfectly proportioned young wild animal,
continuously, but without haste, till each motion was completed in rest.
Most men and women really move in a succession of very short movements,
entirely interrupted at more or less perceptible intervals. If our sight
were perfect we should see that people walk, for instance, by a series
of jerks so rapid as to be like the vibrations of a humming-bird's
wings. Perhaps this is due to the unconscious exercise of the human will
in every voluntary motion, for a man who moves in his sleep seems to
move continuously like an animal, till he has changed his position and
rests again.
Lamberti made none of these reflections, and did not analyse the face he
could not help watching whenever the chance of conversation allowed him
to look at Cecilia without seeming to stare at her. He only tried to
discover why her face was so familiar to him.
"We have been in Paris all winter," said her mother, in answer to some
question of his.
"They have been in Paris all winter!" cried the Princess. "Think what
that means! The cold, the rain, the solitude! What in the world did you
do with yourselves?"
"Cecilia wished to continue her studies," answered the Countess
Fortiguerra.
"What sort of things have you been learning, Mademoiselle?" asked
Lamberti.
"I followed a course of lectures on philosophy at the Sorbonne, and I
read Nietzsche with a man who had known him," answered the young lady,
as naturally as if she had said that she had been taking lessons on the
piano.
A momentary silence followed, and everybody stared at the girl, except
her mother, who smiled pleasantly and looked from one to the other with
the expression which mothers of prodigies often assume, and which
clearly says: "I did it. Is it not perfectly wonderful?"
Then Monsieur Leroy laughed, in spite of himself.
"Hush, Doudou!" cried the Princess. "You are very rude!"
No one present chanced to know that she always called him Doudou when
she was in a good humour. Cecilia Palladio turned her head quietly,
fixed her eyes on him and laughed, deliberately, long, and very sweetly.
Monsieur Leroy met her gaze for a moment, then looked away and moved
uneasily on his low seat.
"What are you laughing at?" he asked, in a tone of annoyance.
"It seems so funny that you should be called Doudou--at your age,"
answered Cecilia.
"Really--" Monsieur Leroy looked at the Princess as if asking for
protection. She laughed good-humouredly, somewhat to Lamberti's
surprise.
"You are very direct with my friends, my dear," she said to Cecilia,
still smiling. The Countess Fortiguerra, not knowing exactly what to do,
also smiled, but rather foolishly.
"I am very sorry," said Cecilia, with contrition, and looking down. "I
really beg Monsieur Leroy's pardon. I could not help it."
But she had been revenged, for she had made him ridiculous.
"Not at all, not at all," he answered, in a tone that did not promise
forgiveness. Lamberti wondered what sort of man Palladio had been, since
the girl did not at all resemble her mother, who had clearly been pretty
and foolish in her youth, and had only lost her looks as she grew older.
The obliteration of middle age had set in.
There might have been some awkwardness, but it was dispelled by the
appearance of Guido, who came in unannounced at that moment, glancing
quickly at each of the group as he came forward, to see who was there.
"At last!" exclaimed the Princess, with evident satisfaction. "How late
you are, my dear," she said as Guido ceremoniously kissed her hand.
"I am very sorry," he said. "I was out when your note came. But I should
have come in any case."
"You know the Countess Fortiguerra, of course," said the Princess.
"Certainly," answered Guido, who had not recognised the lady at all, and
was glad to be told who she was, and that he knew her.
Lamberti watched him closely, for he understood every shade of his
friend's expression and manner. Guido shook hands with a pleasant smile,
and then glanced at Cecilia.
"My nephew, Guido d'Este," said the Princess, introducing him.
Cecilia looked at him quietly, and bent her head in acknowledgment of
the introduction.
"My daughter," murmured the Countess Fortiguerra, with satisfaction.
"Mademoiselle Palladio and her mother have just come back from Paris,"
explained Monsieur Leroy officiously, as Guido nodded to him.
Guido caught the name, and was glad of the information it conveyed, and
he sat down between the young girl and her mother. Lamberti was now
almost sure that his friend was not especially struck by Cecilia's face;
but she looked at him with some interest, which was not at all to be
wondered at, considering his looks, his romantic name, and his
half-royal birth. For the first time Lamberti envied him a little, and
was ashamed of it.
Barely an hour earlier he had wished that he could make Guido more like
himself, and now he wished that he were more like Guido.
"The Countess has been kind enough to ask me to her garden party," Guido
said, looking at his aunt, for he instinctively connected the latter's
anxiety to see him with the invitation.
So did Lamberti, and it flashed upon him that this meeting was the first
step in an attempt to marry his friend to Cecilia Palladio. The girl was
probably an heiress, and Guido's aunt saw a possibility of recovering
through her the money she had lost in speculations.
This explanation did not occur to Guido, simply because he was bored and
was already thinking of an excuse for getting away after staying as
short a time as possible.
"I hope you will come," said Cecilia, rather unexpectedly.
"Of course he will," the Princess answered for him, in an encouraging
tone.
"The villa is really very pretty," continued the young girl.
"Let me see," said Guido, who liked her voice as soon as she spoke, "the
Villa Palladio--I do not quite remember where it is."
"It used to be the Villa Madama," explained Monsieur Leroy. "I have
always wondered who the 'Madama' was, after whom it was called. It seems
such a foolish name."
The Princess looked displeased, and bit her lip a little.
"I think," said Guido, as if suggesting a possibility, rather than
stating a fact, "that she was a daughter of the Emperor Charles the
Fifth, who was Duchess of Parma."
"Of course, of course!" cried Monsieur Leroy, eagerly assenting, "I had
forgotten!"
"My daughter's guardians bought it for her not long ago," explained the
Countess Fortiguerra, "with my approval, and we have of course changed
the name."
"Naturally," said Guido, gravely, but looking at Lamberti, who almost
smiled under his red beard. "And you approved of the change,
Mademoiselle," Guido added, turning to Cecilia, and with an
interrogation in his voice.
"Not at all," she answered, with sudden coldness. "It was Goldbirn--"
"Yes," said the Countess, weakly, "it was Baron Goldbirn who insisted
upon it, in spite of us."
"Goldbirn--Goldbirn," repeated the Princess vaguely. "The name has a
familiar sound."
"Your Highness has a current account with them in Vienna," observed
Monsieur Leroy.
"Yes, yes, certainly. Doudou acts as my secretary sometimes, you know."
The information seemed necessary, as Monsieur Leroy's position had been
far from clear.
"Baron Goldbirn was associated with Cecilia's father in some railways in
South America," said the Countess, "and is her principal guardian. He
will always continue to manage her fortune for her, I hope."
Clearly, Cecilia was an heiress, and was to marry Guido d'Este as soon
as the matter could be arranged. That was the Princess's plan. Lamberti
thought that it remained to be seen whether Guido would agree to the
match.
"Has Baron Goldbirn made many--improvements--in the Villa Madama?"
enquired Guido, hesitating a little, perhaps intentionally.
"Oh no!" Cecilia answered. "He lets me do as I please about such
things."
"And what has been your pleasure?" asked Guido, with a beginning of
interest, as well as for the sake of hearing her young voice, which
contrasted pleasantly with her mother's satisfied purring and the
Princess's disagreeable tone.
"I got the best artist I could find to restore the whole place as nearly
as possible to what it was meant to be. I am satisfied with the result.
So is my mother," she added, with an evident afterthought.
"My daughter is very artistic," the Countess explained.
Cecilia looked at Guido, and a faint smile illuminated her face for a
moment. Guido bent his head almost imperceptibly, as if to say that he
knew what she meant, and it seemed to Lamberti that the two already
understood each other. He rose to go, moved by an impulse he could not
resist. Guido looked at him in surprise, for he had expected his friend
to wait for him.
"Must you go already?" asked the Princess, in a colourless tone that did
not invite Lamberti to stay. "But I suppose you are very busy when you
are in Rome. Good-bye."
As he took his leave, his eyes met Cecilia's. It might have been only
his imagination, after all, but he felt sure that her whole expression
changed instantly to a look of deep and sincere understanding, even of
profound sympathy.
"I hope you will come to the villa," she said gravely, and she seemed to
wait for his answer.
"Thank you. I shall be there."
There was a short silence, as Monsieur Leroy went with him to the door
at the other end of the long room, but Cecilia did not watch him; she
seemed to be interested in a large portrait that hung opposite the
nearest window, and which was suddenly lighted up by the glow of the
sunset. It represented a young king, standing on a step, in coronation
robes, with a vast ermine mantle spreading behind him and to one side,
and an uncomfortable-looking crown on his head; a sceptre lay on a
highly polished table at his elbow, beside an open arch, through which
the domes and spires of a city were visible. There was no particular
reason why he should be standing there, apparently alone, and in a
distinctly theatrical attitude, and the portrait was not a good picture;
but Cecilia looked at it steadily till she heard the door shut, after
Lamberti had gone out.
"Your friend is not a very gay person," observed the Princess. "Is he
always so silent?"
"Yes," Guido answered. "He is not very talkative."
"Do you like silent people?" enquired Cecilia.
"I like a woman who can talk, and a man who can hold his tongue,"
replied Guido readily.
Cecilia looked at him and smiled carelessly. The Princess rose slowly,
but she was so short, and her arm-chair was so high, that she seemed to
walk away from it without being any taller than when she had been
sitting, rather than really to get up.
"Shall we go into the garden?" she suggested. "It is not too cold.
Doudou, my cloak!"
Monsieur Leroy brought a pretty confusion of mouse-coloured silk and
lace, disentangled it skilfully, and held it up behind the Princess's
shoulders. It looked like a big butterfly as he spread it in the air,
and it had ribands that hung down to the floor.
When she had put it on, the Princess led the way to a long window, which
Leroy opened, and leaning lightly on the Countess Fortiguerra's arm, she
went out into the evening light. She evidently meant to give the young
people a chance of talking together by themselves, for as soon as they
were outside she sent Monsieur Leroy away.
"My dear Doudou!" she cried, as if suddenly remembering something, "we
have quite forgotten those invitations for to-morrow! Should you mind
writing them now, so that they can be sent before dinner?"
Monsieur Leroy disappeared with an alacrity which suggested that the
plan had been arranged beforehand.
"Take Mademoiselle Palladio round the garden, Guido," said the Princess.
"We will walk a little before the house till you come back. It is drier
here."
Guido must have been dull indeed if he had not at last understood why he
had been made to come, and what was expected of him. He was annoyed, and
raised his eyebrows a little.
"Will you come, Mademoiselle?" he asked coldly.
"Yes," answered Cecilia in a constrained tone, for she understood as
well as Guido himself.
Her mother was often afraid of her, and had not dared to tell her that
the whole object of their visit was that she should see Guido and be
seen by him. She thought that the Princess was really pushing matters
too hastily, considering the time-honoured traditions of Latin
etiquette, which forbid that young people should be left alone together
for a moment, even when engaged to be married. But the Countess had
great faith in the correctness of anything which such a very high-born
person as the Princess Anatolie chose to suggest, and as the latter held
her by the arm with affectionate condescension, she could not possibly
run after her daughter.
The two moved away in silence towards the flower garden, and soon
disappeared round the corner of the house.
"The roses are pretty," said Guido, apologetically. "My aunt likes
people to see them."
"They are magnificent," answered Cecilia, without enthusiasm, and after
a suitable interval.
They went on, along a narrow gravel path, and though there was really
room enough for Guido to walk by her side, he pretended that there was
not, and followed her. She was very graceful, and he would not have
thought of denying it. He even looked at her as she went before him, and
he noticed the fact; but after he had taken cognisance of it, he was
quite as indifferent as before. He no longer thought her voice pleasant,
in his resentment at finding that a trap had been laid for him.
"You see, there are a good many kinds of roses," he observed, because it
would have been rude to say nothing at all. "They are not all in flower
yet."
"It is only the beginning of May," the young girl answered, without
interest.
They came to the broader walk on the other side of the plot of roses,
and Guido had to walk by her side again.
"I like your friend," she said suddenly.
"I am very glad," Guido replied, unbending at once and quietly looking
at her now. "People do not always like him at first sight."
"No, I understand that. He has the look in his eyes that men get who
have killed."
"Has he?" Guido seemed surprised. "Yes, he killed several men in Africa,
when he was alone against many, and they meant to murder him. He is
brave. Make him tell you about it, if you can induce him to talk."
"Is that so very hard?" Cecilia laughed. "Is he really more silent than
you?"
"Nobody ever called me silent," answered Guido, smiling. "I suppose you
thought so--stopped.
"Because I did not know how to begin, and because you would not. Is that
what you were going to say?"
"It is very near the truth," Guido admitted, very much amused.
"I do not blame you," said Cecilia. "How could you suppose that a mere
girl like me could possibly have anything to say--a child that has not
even been to her first party?"
"Perhaps I was afraid that the mere child might talk about philosophy
and Nietzsche," suggested Guido.
"And that would be dreadful, of course! Why? Is there any reason why a
girl should not study such things? If there is, tell me. No one ever
tells me what I ought to do."
"It is quite unnecessary, I have no doubt," Guido answered promptly, and
smiling again.
"You mean quite useless, because I should not do it?"
"Why should I be supposed to know that you are spoiled--if you are?
Besides, you must not take up a man every time he makes you a silly
compliment."
"Ah, now you are telling me what I ought to do! I like that better.
Thank you!" Guido was amused.
"Are you really grateful?" he asked, laughing a little. "Do you always
speak the truth?"
"Yes! Do you?" She asked the question sharply, as if she meant to
surprise him.
"I never lied to a man in my life," Guido answered.
"But you have to women?"
"I suppose so," said Guido, considerably diverted. "Most of us do, in
moments of enthusiasm."
"Really! And--are you often--enthusiastic?"
"No. Very rarely. Besides, I do not know whether it is worse in a man to
tell fibs to please a woman, than it is in a woman to disbelieve what an
honest man tells her on his word. Which is the least wrong, do you
think?"
"But since you admit that most men do not tell the truth to women----"
"I said, on one's word of honour. There is a difference."
"In theory," said Cecilia.
"Are there theories about lying?" asked Guido.
"Oh yes," answered the young girl, without hesitation. "There is
Puffendorf's, for instance, in his book on the Law of Nature and
Nations----"
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Guido.
"Certainly. He makes out that there is a sort of unwritten agreement
amongst all men that words shall be used in a definite sense which
others can understand. That sounds sensible. And then, Saint Augustin,
and La Placette, and Noodt----"
"My dear young lady, you have led me quite out of my depth! What do
those good people say?"
"That all lying is absolutely wrong in itself, whether it harms anybody
or not."
"And what do you think about it? That would be much more interesting to
know."
"I told you, I always tell the truth," Cecilia answered demurely.
"Oh yes, of course! I had forgotten."
"And you do not believe it," laughed the young girl. "It is time to go
back to the house."
"If you will stay a little longer, I will believe everything you tell
me."
"No, it is late," answered Cecilia, her manner suddenly changing as the
laugh died out of her voice.
She walked on quickly, and he kept behind her.
"I shall certainly go to your garden party," said Guido.
"Shall you?"
She spoke in a tone of such utter indifference that Guido stared at her
in surprise. A moment later they had rejoined her mother and the
Princess.