It was some time since Guido had seen Lamberti, but the latter had
written him a line to say that he was going with a party of men to stop
in an old country house near the seashore, not far from Civita Vecchia.
The quail were very abundant in May that year, and Lamberti was a good
shot. He had left home suddenly on the morning after telling Guido the
story of his adventure in the Forum. Guido had at first been mildly
surprised that his friend should not have spoken of his intention on
that evening; but some one had told him that the party had been made up
at the club, late at night, which accounted for everything.
Guido was soon too much occupied to miss the daily companionship, and
was glad to be alone, when he could not be with Cecilia. He no longer
concealed from himself that he was very much in love with her, and that,
compared with this fact, nothing in his previous life had been of any
importance whatever. Even the circumstances of his position with regard
to his aunt sank into insignificance. She might do what she pleased, she
might try to ruin him, she might persecute him to the extreme limit of
her ingenuity, she might invent calumnies intended to disgrace him; he
was confident of victory and sure of himself.
One of the first unmistakable signs of genuine love is the certainty of
doing the impossible. An hour before meeting Cecilia, Guido had been
reduced to the deepest despondency, and had talked gravely of ending a
life that was not worth living. A fortnight had passed, and he defied
his aunt, Monsieur Leroy, the whole world, an adverse fate, and the
powers of evil. They might do their worst, now, for he was full of
strength, and ten times more alive than he had ever been before.
It was true that he could not see the smallest change in Cecilia's
manner towards him since the memorable evening on which she had
laughingly agreed to take advantage of what was thrust upon them both.
Her colour did not change by the least shade of a blush when she met
him; there was not the slightest quivering of the delicate eyelids,
there was nothing but the most friendly frankness in the steady look of
welcome. But she liked him very much, and was at no pains to conceal it.
She liked him better than any one she had ever met in her short life,
except her stepfather, and she told Guido so with charming unconcern.
As he could not be jealous of the dead ambassador, he was not at all
discouraged by the comparison. Sometimes he was rather flattered by it,
and he could not but feel that he had already acquired a position from
which any future suitor would find it hard to dislodge him.
The Countess Fortiguerra looked on with wondering satisfaction. Her
daughter had not led her to believe that she would readily accept what
must soon be looked upon by society as an engagement, and what would
certainly be one before long. When Guido went to see his aunt, she
received him with expansive expressions of affection.
He noticed a change in the Princess, which he could only explain by the
satisfaction he supposed she felt in his conduct. There were times when
her artificial face softened with a look of genuine feeling, especially
when she was silent and inattentive. Guido knew her well enough, he
thought, to impute these signs to her inward contentment at the prospect
of his marriage, from which she was sure of extracting notable financial
advantage. But in this he was not just, though he judged from long
experience. Monsieur Leroy alone knew the secret, and he kept his own
counsel.
An inquisitive friend asked the Countess Fortiguerra boldly whether she
intended to announce the engagement of her daughter at the garden party.
"No," she answered, without hesitation, "that would be premature."
She was careful, in a way, to do nothing irrevocable--never to take
Guido into her carriage, not to ask him to dinner when there were other
guests, not to leave him alone with Cecilia when there was a possibility
of such a thing being noticed by the servants, except by the discreet
Petersen, who could be trusted, and who strongly approved of Guido from
the first. But when it was quite safe, the Countess used to go and sit
in a little boudoir adjoining the drawing-room, leaving the doors open,
of course, and occupying herself with her correspondence; and Guido and
Cecilia talked without restraint.
The Countess had enough womanly and instinctive wisdom not to ask
questions of her daughter at this stage, but on the day before the
long-expected garden party she spoke to Guido alone, in a little set
speech which she had prepared with more conscientiousness than
diplomatic skill.
"You have seen," she said, "that I am always glad to receive you here,
and that I often leave you and Cecilia together in the drawing-room.
Dear Signor d'Este, I am sure you will understand me if I ask you
to--to--to tell me something."
She had meant to end the sentence differently, rounding it off with
"your intentions with regard to my daughter"; but that sounded like
something in a letter, so she tried to make it more vague. But Guido
understood, which is not surprising.
"You have been very kind to me," he said simply. "I love your daughter
sincerely, and if she will consent to marry me I shall do my best to
make her happy. But, so far, I have no reason to think that she will
accept me. Besides, whether you know it already or not, I must tell you
that I am a poor man. I have no fortune whatever, though I receive an
allowance by my father's will, which is enough for a bachelor. It will
cease at my death. Your daughter could make a very much more brilliant
marriage."
The good Countess had listened in silence. The Princess, for reasons of
her own, had explained Guido's position with considerable minuteness, if
not with scrupulous accuracy.
"Cecilia is rich enough to marry whom she pleases," the Countess
answered. "Even without considering her inclinations, your social
position would make up for your want of fortune."
"My social position is not very exalted," Guido answered, smiling at her
frankness. "I am plain 'Signor d'Este,' without any title whatsoever, or
without the least prospect of one."
"But your royal blood----" protested the Countess.
"I am more proud of the fact that my mother was an honest woman,"
replied Guido, quietly.
"Yes--oh--of course!" The Countess was a little abashed. "But you know
what I mean," she added, by way of making matters clear. "And as for
your fortune--I would say, your allowance, and all that--it really does
not matter. It is natural that you should have made debts, too. All
young men do, I believe."
"No," said Guido. "I have not a debt in the world."
"Really?"
The single word sounded more like an exclamation of extreme surprise
than like an interrogation, and the Countess, who was incapable of
concealment, stared at Guido for a moment in undisguised astonishment.
"Why are you so much surprised?" he asked, with evident amusement. "My
allowance is fifty thousand francs a year. That is not wealth, but it is
quite enough for me."
"Yes. I should think so. That is--of course, it is not much--is it? I
never know anything about money, you know! Baron Goldbirn manages
everything for us."
"I suppose," Guido said, looking at her curiously, "that some one must
have told you that I had made debts."
"Yes--yes! Some one did tell me so."
"Whoever said it was quite mistaken. I can easily satisfy you on that
point, for I am a very orderly person. I used to play high when I was
twenty-one, but I got tired of it, and I do not care for cards any
longer."
"It is very strange, all the same!" The Countess was still wondering,
though she believed him. "How people lie!" she exclaimed.
"Oh, admirably, and most of the time," Guido answered, with a little
laugh.
There was a short pause. He also was wondering who could have maligned
him. No doubt it must have been some designing mother who had a son to
marry.
"Forgive me," he said at last. "I have told you exactly what my position
is. Have you, on your side, any reason to think that your daughter will
consent?"
"Oh, I am sure she will!" answered the Countess, promptly.
Guido repressed a movement, and for an instant the colour rose faintly
in his face, then sank away.
"Quite sure?" he asked, controlling his voice.
"I mean, in the end, you know. She will marry you in the end. I am
convinced of it. But I think I had better not ask her just yet."
There were matters in regard to which she was distinctly afraid of her
daughter.
"May I?" Guido enquired. "Will you let me ask her to marry me, when I
think that the time has come?"
"Certainly! That is----" The Countess believed that she ought to hesitate.
"After all, we have only known you a fortnight. That is not long. Is
it?"
"No. But, on the other hand, you had never seen me when you and my aunt
agreed that your daughter and I should be married."
"How did you know that we had talked about it?"
"It was rather evident," Guido answered, with a smile.
The artlessness which is often a charm in a young girl looks terribly
like foolishness if it lasts till a woman is forty. Yet in old age it
may seem charming again, as if second childhood brought with it a second
innocence.
Guido was an Italian only by his mother, and from his father he
inherited the profoundly complicated character of races that had ruled
the world for a thousand years or more, and not always either wisely or
justly. Under his indifference and quiet dislike of all action, as well
as of most emotions, he had always felt the conflicting instincts
towards good and evil, and the contempt of consequences bordering on
folly, if not upon real insanity, which had brought about the decline
and fall of his father's kingdom. The perfect simplicity of the real
Italian character when in a state of equilibrium always amused him, and
often pleased him, and he had a genuine admiration for the splendidly
violent contrasts which it develops when roused by passion. He could
read it like an open book, and predict what it would do in almost any
circumstances.
For the first time in his life, he felt something of its directness in
himself, moving to a definite aim through the maze of useless
complications, hesitations, and turns and returns of thought with which
he was familiar in his own character. He smiled at the idea that he
might end by resembling Lamberti, with whom to think was to feel, and to
feel was to act. Were there two selves in him, of which the one was in
love, and the other was not? That was an amusing theory, and a fortnight
ago it would have been pleasant to sit in his room at night, among his
Duerers, his Rembrandts, and his pictures, with an old book on his knee,
dreaming about his two conflicting individualities. But somehow dreaming
had lost its charm of late. He thought only of one question, and asked
only one of the future. Was Cecilia Palladio's friendship about to turn
into anything that could be called love, or not? His intention warned
him that if the change had come she herself was not conscious of it. He
was authorised to ask her, now that the Countess had spoken--formally
authorised, but he was quite sure that if he had believed that she
already loved him, he would not have waited for any such permission. His
father's blood resented the restraint of all ordinary conventions, and
in the most profound inaction he had always morally and inwardly
reserved the right to do what he pleased, if he should ever care to do
anything at all.
He was just going to dress for dinner that evening when Lamberti came
in, a little more sunburned than usual, but thinner, and very restless
in his manner. Guido explained that he was going to dine with the
Countess Fortiguerra. He offered to telephone for permission to bring
Lamberti with him.
"Do you know them well enough for that already?" Lamberti asked.
"Yes. I have seen them a great deal since you left. Shall I ask?"
"No, thank you. I shall dine at home with my people."
"Shall you go to the garden party to-morrow?"
"No."
Guido looked at him curiously, and he immediately turned away, unlike
himself.
"Have you had any more strange dreams since I saw you?" Guido asked.
"Yes."
Lamberti did not turn round again, but looked attentively at an etching
on the table, so that Guido could not see his face. His monosyllabic
answers were nervous and sharp. It was clear that he was under some kind
of strain that was becoming intolerable, but of which he did not care to
speak.
"How is it going?" he asked suddenly.
"I think everything is going well," answered Guido, who knew what he
meant, though neither of them had spoken to the other of Cecilia, except
in the most casual way, since they had both met her.
"So you are going to marry an heiress after all," said Lamberti, with
something like a laugh.
"I love her," Guido replied. "I cannot help the fact that she is rich."
"It does no harm."
"Perhaps not, but I wish she had no more than I. If she had nothing at
all, I should be just as anxious to marry her."
"You do not suppose that I doubt that, do you?" Lamberti asked quickly.
"No. But you spoke at first as if you were reproaching me for changing
my mind."
"Did I? I am sorry. I did not mean it in that way. I was only thinking
that fate generally makes us do just what we do not intend. There is
something diabolically ingenious about destiny. It lies in wait for you,
it seems to leave everything to your own choice, it makes you think that
you are a perfectly free agent, and then, without the least warning, it
springs at you from behind a tree, knocks you down, tramples the breath
out of you, and drags you off by the heels straight to the very thing
you have sworn to avoid. Man a free agent? Nonsense! There is no such
thing as free will."
"What in the world has happened to you?" Guido asked, by way of answer.
"Is anything wrong?"
"Everything is wrong. Good night. You ought to be dressing for dinner."
"Come with me."
"To dine with people whom I hardly know, and who have not asked me?
Besides, I told you that I meant to dine at home."
"At least, promise me that you will go with me to-morrow to the Villa
Madama."
"No."
"Look here, Lamberti," said Guido, changing his tone, "you and I have
known each other since we were boys, and I do not believe there exist
two men who are better friends. I am not sure that the Contessina
Palladio will marry me, but her mother wishes it, and heaven knows that
I do. They are both perfectly well aware that you are my most intimate
friend. If you absolutely refuse to go near them they can only suppose
that you have something against them. They have already asked me if they
are never to see you. Now, what will it cost you to be decently civil to
a lady who may be my wife next year, and to her mother, who was your
mother's friend long ago? You need not stay half an hour at the villa
unless you please. But go with me. Let them see you with me. If I really
marry, do you suppose I am going to have any one but you for my best
man?"
Lamberti listened to this long speech without attempting to interrupt
Guido. Then he was silent for a few moments.
"If you put it in that light," he said, rising to go, "I cannot refuse.
What time shall you start? I will come here for you."
"Thank you," said Guido. "I should like to get there early. At four
o'clock, I should say. I suppose we ought not to leave here later than
half-past three."
"Very well. I shall be here in plenty of time. Good night."
When Guido pressed his hand, it was icy cold.