The Villa Madama was probably never inhabited, for it was certainly
never quite finished, and the grand staircase was not rebuilt after
Cardinal Pompeo Colonna set fire to the house. That was in the wild days
when Rome was sacked by the Constable of Bourbon's Spaniards and
Franzperg's Germans, and Pope Clement the Seventh was shut up in the
stronghold of Sant' Angelo; and at nightfall he looked from the windows
of the fortress and saw the flames shoot up on the slope of Monte Mario,
from the beautiful place which Raphael of Urbino had designed for him,
and which Giovanni of Udine had decorated, and he told those who were
with him that Cardinal Colonna was revenging himself for his castles
sacked and burned by the Pope's orders.
That was nearly four hundred years ago, and the great exterior staircase
was never rebuilt; but in order to save that part of the little palace
from ruin unsightly arches were reared up against the once beautiful
wing, and because of Giulio Romano's frescoes and Giovanni of Udine's
marvellous stucco work, the roof has been always kept in good repair.
Moreover, a good deal has been written about the building, some of which
is inaccurate, to say the least; as, for instance, that one may see the
dome of Saint Peter's from the windows, whereas the villa stands halfway
down the slope of the hill on the side which is away from the church,
and looks towards the Sabines and towards Tivoli and Frascati.
Those who have taken the trouble to visit the villa in its half-ruinous
condition, and who have lingered on the grass-grown terraces and at the
noble windows, on spring afternoons, when the sun is behind the hill,
can easily guess what it became when it passed into the ownership of the
Contessina Cecilia Palladio. Her guardian, the excellent Baron Goldbirn,
had bought it for her because it was offered for sale at a low price,
and was an excellent investment as well as a treasure of art; and he had
purposed to coat the brown stone walls with fresh stucco, to erect a
"belvedere" with nice green blinds on the roof, to hang the rooms with
rich magenta damask, to carpet them with Brussels carpets, to furnish
them with gilt furniture, to warm the house with steam heat, and to
light it with electricity.
To his surprise, his ward rejected each of these proposals in detail and
all of them generally, and declared that since the villa was hers she
could deal with it according to her own taste, which, she maintained,
was better than Goldbirn's. The latter answered that as he was
sixty-five years old and Cecilia was only eighteen, this was impossible;
but that under the circumstances he washed his hands of the matter, only
warning her that the Italian law would not allow her to cut down the
trees more than once in nine years.
"As if anything could induce me to cut them down at all!" Cecilia
answered indignantly. "There are few enough as it is!"
"My dear," the Countess had answered with admirable relevancy, "I hope
you are not ungrateful to your guardian."
Cecilia was not ungrateful, but she had her own way, for it was
preordained that she generally should, and it was well for the Villa
Madama that it was so. She only asked her guardian how much he would
allow her to spend on the place, and then, to his amazement and
satisfaction, she only spent half the sum he named. She easily persuaded
a good artist, whom her stepfather had helped at the beginning of his
career, to take charge of the work, and it was carried out with loving
and reverent taste. The wilderness of sloping land became a garden, the
beautiful "court of honour" was so skilfully restored with old stone and
brick that the restoration could hardly be detected, the great exterior
staircase was rebuilt, the close garden on the other side was made a
carpet of flowers; the water that gushed abundantly from a deep spring
in the hillside poured into an old fountain bought from the remains of a
villa in the Campagna, and then, below, filled the vast square basin
that already existed, and thence it was distributed through the lower
grounds. There were roses everywhere, already beginning to climb, and
the scent of a few young orange trees in blossom mingled delicately with
the odour of the flowers. Within the house the floor of the great hall
was paved with plain white tiles, and up to the cornice and between the
marvellous pilasters the bare walls were hung with coarse linen woven in
simple and tasteful patterns and in subdued colours.
The little gods and goddesses and the emblematic figures of the seasons
in the glorious vaults overhead, smiled down upon such a scene as had
not rejoiced the great hall for centuries. The Countess had asked all
Rome to come, with an admirable indifference to political parties and
social discords; and all Rome came, as it sometimes does, in the best of
tempers with itself and with its hostess. Roman society is good to look
at, when it is gathered together in such ways; for mere looks, there is
perhaps nothing better in all Europe, except in England. The French are
more brilliant, no doubt, for their women, and, alas, their men also,
affect a greater variety of dress and ornament than any other people.
German society is magnificent with military uniforms, Austrians
generally have very perfect taste; and so on, to each its own advantage.
But the Romans have something of their own, a beauty most distinctly
theirs, a sort of distinction that is genuine and unaffected, but which
nevertheless seems to belong to more splendid times than ours. When the
women are beautiful, and they often are, they are like the pictures in
their own galleries; among the men there are heads and faces that remind
one of Lionardo da Vinci, of Caesar Borgia, of Lorenzo de' Medici, of
Guidarello Guidarelli, even of Michelangelo. Romans, at their best, have
about them a grave suavity, or a suave gravity, that is a charm in
itself, with a perfect self-possession which is the very opposite of
arrogance; when they laugh, their mirth is real, though a little
subdued; when they are grave, they do not look dull; when they are in
deep earnest, they are not theatrical.
Those who went to the Fortiguerra garden party never quite forgot the
impression they received. It was one of those events that are remembered
as memorable social successes, and spoken of after many years. It was
unlike anything that had ever been done in Rome before, unlike the
solemn receptions of the chief of the clericals, when the cardinals come
in state and are escorted by torch-bearers from their carriages to the
entrance of the great drawing-room, and back again when they go away;
unlike the supremely magnificent balls in honour of the foreign
sovereigns who occasionally spend a week in Rome, and are amusingly
ready to accept the hospitality of Roman princes; most of all, it was
unlike an ordinary garden party, because the Villa Madama is quite
unlike ordinary villas.
Moreover, every one was pleased that such very rich people should not
attempt to surprise society by vulgar display. There were no state
liveries, there were no ostentatious armorial bearings, there was no
overpowering show of silver and gold, there was no Hungarian band
brought expressly from Vienna, nor any fashionable pianist paid to play
about five thousand notes at about a franc apiece, to the great
annoyance of all the people who preferred conversation to music.
Everything was simple, everything was good, everything was beautiful,
from the entrancing view of Rome beyond the yellow river, and of the
undulating Campagna beyond, with the soft hills in the far distance, to
the lovely flowers in the garden; from the flowers without, to the
stately halls within; from their charming frescoes and exquisite white
traceries, to the lovely girl who was the centre, and the reason, and
the soul of it all.
Her mother received the guests out of doors, in the close garden, and
thirty or forty people were already there when Guido d'Este and Lamberti
arrived; for every one came early, fearing lest the air might be chilly
towards sunset. The Countess introduced the men and the young girls to
her daughter, and presented her to the married women. Presently, when
the garden became too full, the people would go back through the house
and wander away about the grounds, lighting up the shadowed hillside
with colour, and filling the air with the sound of their voices. They
would stray far out, as far as the little grove on the knoll, planted in
old times for the old-fashioned sport of netting birds.
Guido had told Cecilia on the previous evening that his friend had
returned from the country and was coming to the villa, and he had again
seen the very slight contraction of her brows at the mere mention of
Lamberti's name. He wondered whether there were not some connection
between what he took for her dislike of Lamberti, and the latter's
strong disinclination to meet her. Perhaps Lamberti had guessed at a
glance that she would not like him. He would of course keep such an
opinion to himself.
Guido watched Cecilia narrowly from the moment she caught sight of him
with Lamberti--so attentively indeed that he did not even glance at the
latter's face. It was set like a mask, and under the tanned colour any
one could see that the man turned pale.
"You know Cecilia already," said the Countess Fortiguerra, pleasantly.
"I hope the rest of your family are coming?"
"I think they are all coming," Lamberti answered very mechanically.
He had resolutely looked at the Countess until now, but he felt the
daughter's eyes upon him, and he was obliged to meet them, if only for a
single instant. The last time he had met their gaze she had cried aloud
and had fled from him in terror. He would have given much to turn from
her now, without a glance, and mingle with the other guests.
He was perfectly cool and self-possessed, as he afterwards remembered,
but he felt that it was the sort of coolness which always came upon him
in moments of supreme danger. It was familiar to him, for he had been in
many hand-to-hand engagements in wild countries, and he knew that it
would not forsake him; but he missed the thrill of rare delight that
made him love fighting as he loved no sport he had ever tried. This was
more like walking bravely to certain death.
Cecilia was all in white, but her face was whiter than the silk she
wore, and as motionless as marble; and her fixed eyes shone with an
almost dazzling light. Guido saw and wondered. Then he heard Lamberti's
voice, steady, precise, and metallic as the notes of a bell striking the
hour.
"I hope to see something of you by-and-by, Signorina."
Cecilia's lips moved, but no sound came from them. Then Guido was sure
that they smiled perceptibly, and she bent her head in assent, but so
slightly that her eyes were still fixed on Lamberti's.
Other guests came up at that moment, and the two friends made way for
them.
"Come back through the house," said Guido, in a low voice.
Lamberti followed him into the great hall, and to the left through the
next, where there was no one, and out to a small balcony beyond. Then
both stood still and faced each other, and the silence lasted a few
seconds. Guido spoke first.
"What has there been between you two?" he asked, with something like
sternness in his tone.
"This is the second time in my life that I have spoken to the
Contessina," Lamberti answered. "The first time I ever saw her was at
your aunt's house."
Guido had never doubted the word of Lamberto Lamberti, but he could not
doubt the evidence of his own senses either, and he had watched
Cecilia's face. It seemed utterly impossible that she should look as she
had looked just now, unless there were some very grave matter between
her and Lamberti. All sorts of horrible suspicions clouded Guido's
brain, all sorts of reasons why Lamberti should lie to him, this once,
this only time. Yet he spoke quietly enough.
"It is very strange that two people should behave as you and she do,
when you meet, if you have only met twice. It is past my comprehension."
"It is very strange," Lamberti repeated.
"So strange," said Guido, "that it is very hard to believe. You are
asking a great deal of me."
"I have asked nothing, my friend. You put a question to me,--a
reasonable question, I admit,--and I have answered you with the truth. I
have never touched that young lady's hand, I have only spoken with her
twice in my life, and not alone on either occasion. I did not wish to
come here to-day, but you practically forced me to."
"You did not wish to come, because you knew what would happen," Guido
answered coldly.
"How could I know?"
"That is the question. But you did know, and until you are willing to
explain to me how you knew it----"
He stopped short and looked hard at Lamberti, as if the latter must
understand the rest. His usually gentle and thoughtful face was as hard
and stern as stone. Until lately his friendship for Lamberti had been by
far the strongest and most lasting affection of his life. The thought
that it was to be suddenly broken and ended by an atrocious deception
was hard to bear.
"You mean that if I cannot explain, as you call it, you and I are to be
like strangers. Is that what you mean, Guido? Speak out, man! Let us be
plain."
Guido was silent for a while, leaning over the balcony and looking down,
while Lamberti stood upright and waited for his answer.
"How can I act otherwise?" asked Guido, at last, without looking up.
"You would do the same in my place. So would any man of honour."
"I should try to believe you, whatever you said."
"And if you could not?" Guido enquired almost fiercely.
It was very nearly an insult, but Lamberti answered quietly and firmly.
"Before refusing to believe me, merely on apparent evidence, you can ask
the Contessina herself."
"As if a woman could tell the truth when a man will not!" Guido laughed
harshly.
"You forget that you love her, and that she probably loves you. That
should make a difference."
"What do you wish me to do? Ask her the question you will not answer?"
"The question I have answered," said Lamberti, correcting him. "Yes. Ask
her."
"Your mother was an old friend of her mother's," Guido said, with a new
thought.
"Yes."
"Why is it impossible that you two should have met before now?"
"Because I tell you that we have not. If we had, I should not have any
reason for hiding the fact. It would be much easier to explain, if we
had. But I am not going to argue about the matter, for it is quite
useless. Before you quarrel with me, go and ask the Contessina to
explain, if she will, or can. If she cannot, or if she can and will not,
I shall try to make you understand as much as I do, though that is very
little."
Guido listened without attempting to interrupt. He was not a rash or
violent man, and he valued Lamberti's friendship far too highly to
forfeit it without the most convincing reasons. Unfortunately, what he
had seen would have convinced an even less suspicious man that there was
a secret which his friend shared with Cecilia, and which both had an
object in concealing from him. Lamberti ceased speaking and a long
silence followed, for he had nothing more to say.
At last Guido straightened himself with an evident effort, as if he had
forced himself to decide the matter, but he did not look at Lamberti.
"Very well," he said. "I will speak to her."
Lamberti bent his head, silently acknowledging Guido's sensible
conclusion. Then Guido turned and went away alone. It was long before
Lamberti left the balcony, for he was glad of the solitude and the
chance of quietly thinking over his extraordinary situation.
Meanwhile Guido found it no easy matter to approach Cecilia at all, and
it looked as if it would be quite impossible to speak with her alone. He
went back through the great hall where people were beginning to gather
about the tea-table, and he stood in the vast door that opens upon the
close garden. Cecilia was still standing beside her mother, but they
were surrounded by a group of people who all seemed to be trying to talk
to them at once. The garden was crowded, and it would be impossible for
Guido to get near them without talking his way, so to say, through
countless acquaintances. By this time, however, most of the guests had
arrived, and those who were in the inner garden would soon begin to go
out to the grounds.
Cecilia was no longer pale; on the contrary, she had more colour than
usual, and delicate though the slight flush in her cheeks was, it looked
a little feverish to Guido. As he began to make his way forward he tried
to catch her eye, but he thought she purposely avoided an exchange of
glances. At last he was beside her, and to his surprise she looked at
him quite naturally, and answered him without embarrassment.
"You must be tired," he said. "Will you not sit down for a little
while?"
"I should like to," she answered, smiling.
Then she looked at her mother, and seemed to hesitate.
"May I go and sit down?" she asked, in a low voice. "I am so tired!"
"Of course, child!" answered the Countess, cheerfully. "Signor d'Este
will take you to the seat over there by the fountain. I hardly think
that any one else will come now."
Guido and Cecilia moved away, and the Countess smiled affectionately at
their backs. Some one said that they were a very well-matched pair, and
another asked if it were true that Signor d'Este would inherit the
Princess Anatolie's fortune at her death. A third observed that she
would never die; and a fourth, who was going to dine with her that
evening, said that she was a very charming woman; whereupon everybody
laughed a little, and the Countess changed the subject.
Cecilia was really tired, and gave a little sigh of satisfaction as she
sat down and leaned back. Guido looked at her and hesitated.
"I must have shaken hands with at least two hundred people," she said,
"and I am sure I have spoken to as many more!"
"Do you like it?" Guido asked, by way of gaining time.
"What an idle question!" laughed Cecilia.
"I had another to ask you," he answered gravely. "Not an idle one."
She looked at him quickly, wondering whether he was going to ask her to
be his wife, and wondering, too, what she should answer if he did. For
some days past she had understood that what they called their compact of
friendship was becoming a mere comedy on his side, if not on hers, and
that he loved her with all his heart, though he had not told her so.
"It is rather an odd question," he continued, as she said nothing. "You
have not formally given me any right to ask it, and yet I feel that I
have the right, all the same."
"Friendship gives rights, and takes them," Cecilia answered
thoughtfully.
"Exactly. That is what I feel about it. That is why I think I may ask
you something that may seem strange. At all events, I cannot go on
living in doubt about the answer."
"Is it as important as that?" asked the young girl.
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"Wait a moment. Let these people pass. How in the world did you succeed
in getting so many roses to grow in such a short time?"
"You must ask the gardener," Cecilia answered, in order to say something
while a young couple passed before the bench, evidently very much
absorbed in each other's conversation.
Guido bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and not looking at
her, but turning his face a little, so that he could speak in a very low
tone with an outward appearance of carelessness. It was very hard to put
the question, after all, now that he was so near her, and felt her
thrilling presence.
"Our agreement is a failure," he began. "At all events, it is one on my
side. I really did not think it would turn out as it has."
She said nothing, and he knew that she did not move, and was looking at
the people in the distance. He knew, also, that she understood him and
had expected something of the sort. That made it a little easier to go
on.
"That is the reason why I am going to ask you this question. What has
there ever been between you and Lamberti? Why do you turn deathly pale
when you meet him, and why does he try to avoid you?"
He heard her move now, and he slowly turned his face till he could see
hers. The colour in her cheeks had deepened a little, and there was an
angry light in her eyes which he had never seen there. But she said not
a word in answer.
"Do you love him?" Guido asked in a very low tone, and his voice
trembled slightly.
"No!" The word came with sharp energy.
"How long have you known him?" Guido enquired.
"Since I have known you. I met him first on the same day. I have not
spoken with him since. I tried to-day, I could not."
"Why not?"
"Do not ask me. I cannot tell you."
"Are you speaking the truth?" Guido asked, suddenly meeting her eyes.
She drew back with a quick movement, deeply offended and angry at the
brutal question.
"How dare you doubt what I tell you!" She seemed about to rise.
"I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I really beg your pardon. It is
all so strange. I hardly knew what I was saying. Please forgive me!"
"I will try," Cecilia answered. "But I think I would rather go back now.
We cannot talk here."
She rose to her feet, but Guido tried to detain her, remaining seated
and looking up.
"Please, please stay a little longer!" he pleaded.
"No."
"You are still angry with me?"
"No. But I cannot talk to you yet. If you do not come with me, I shall
go back alone."
There was nothing to be done. He rose and walked by her side in silence.
The garden was almost empty now, and the Countess herself had gone in to
get a cup of tea.
"The roses are really marvellous," Guido remarked in a set tone, as they
came to the door.
Suddenly they were face to face with Lamberti, who was coming out, hat
in hand. He had waited for his opportunity, watching them from a
distance, and Guido knew it instinctively. He was quite cool and
collected, and smiled pleasantly as he spoke to Cecilia.
"May I not have the pleasure of talking with you a little, Signorina?"
he asked.
Guido could not help looking anxiously at the young girl.
"Certainly," she answered, without hesitation. "You will find my mother
near the tea table, Signor d'Este," she added, to Guido. "It is really
time that I should make your friend's acquaintance!"
He was as much amazed at her self-possession now as he had been at her
evident disturbance before. He drew back as Cecilia turned away from him
after speaking, and he stood looking after the pair a few seconds before
he went in. At that moment he would have gladly strangled the man who
had so long been his best friend. He had never guessed that he could
wish to kill any one.
Lamberti did not make vague remarks about the roses as Guido had done,
on the mere chance that some one might hear him, and indeed there was
now hardly anybody to hear. As for Cecilia, her anger against Guido had
sustained her at first, but she could not have talked unconcernedly now,
as she walked beside Lamberti, waiting for him to speak. She felt just
then that she would have walked on and on, whithersoever he chose to
lead her, and until it pleased him to stop.
"D'Este asked me this afternoon how long I had known you," he said, at
last. "I said that I had spoken with you twice, once at the Princess's,
and once to-day. Was that right?"
"Yes. Did he believe you?"
"No."
"He did not believe me either."
"And of course he asked you what there was between us," said Lamberti.
"Yes. I said that I could not tell him. What did you say?"
"The same thing."
There was a pause, and both realised that they were talking as if they
had known each other for years, and that they understood each other
almost without words. At the end of the walk they turned towards one
another, and their eyes met.
"Why did you run away from me?" Lamberti asked.
"I was frightened. I was frightened to-day when you spoke to me. Why did
you go to the Forum that morning?"
"I had dreamt something strange about you. It happened just where I
found you."
"I dreamt the same dream, the same night. That is, I think it must have
been the same."
She turned her face away, blushing red.
He saw, and understood.
"Yes," he said. "What am I to tell d'Este?" he asked, after a short
pause.
"Nothing!" said Cecilia quickly, and the subsiding blush rose again.
"Besides," she continued, speaking rapidly in her embarrassment, "he
would not believe us, whatever we told him, and it is of no use to let
him know----" she stopped suddenly.
"Has he no right to know?"
"No. At least--no--I think not. I do not mean----"
They were standing still, facing each other. In another moment she would
be telling Lamberti what she had never told Guido about her feelings
towards him. On a sudden she turned away with a sort of desperate
movement, clasping her hands and looking over the low wall.
"Oh, what is it all?" she cried, in great distress. "I am in the dream
again, talking as if I had known you all my life! What must you think of
me?"
Lamberti stood beside her, resting his hands upon the wall.
"It is exactly what I feel," he said quietly.
"Then you dream, too?" she asked.
"Every night--of you."
"We are both dreaming now! I am sure of it. I shall wake up in the dark
and hear the door shut softly, though I always lock it now."
"The door? Do you hear that, too?" asked Lamberti. "But I am wide awake
when I hear it."
"So am I! Sometimes I can manage to turn up the electric light before
the sound has quite stopped. Are we both mad? What is it? In the name of
Heaven, what is it all?"
"I wish I knew. Whatever it is, if you and I meet often, it is quite
impossible that we should talk like ordinary acquaintances. Yes, I
thought I was going mad, and this morning I went to a great doctor and
told him everything. He seemed to think it was all a set of
coincidences. He advised me to see you and ask you why you ran away that
day, and he thought that if we talked about it, I might perhaps not
dream again."
"You are not mad, you are not mad!" Cecilia repeated the words in a low
voice, almost mechanically.
Then there was silence, and presently she turned from the wall and began
to walk back along the wide path that passed by the central fountain.
The sun, long out of sight behind the hill, was sinking now, the thin
violet mist had begun to rise from the Campagna far to south and east,
and the mountains had taken the first tinge of evening purple. From the
ilex woods above the house, the voice of a nightingale rang out in a
long and delicious trill. The garden was deserted, and now and then the
sound of women's laughter rippled out through the high, open door.
"We must meet soon," Lamberti said, as they reached the fountain.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should say it. She
stopped and looked at him, and recognised every feature of the face she
had seen in her dreams almost ever since she could remember dreaming.
Her fear was all gone now, and she was sure that it would never come
back. Had she not heard him say those very words, "We must meet soon,"
hundreds and hundreds of times, just as he had said them long ago--ever
so long ago--in a language that she could not remember when she was
awake? And had they not always met soon?
"I shall see you to-night," she answered, almost unconsciously.
"Tell me," he said, looking into the clear water in the fountain, "does
your dreaming make you restless and nervous? Does it wear on you?"
"Oh no! I have always dreamt a great deal all my life. I rest just as
well."
"Yes--but those were ordinary dreams. I mean----"
"No, they were always the same. They were always about you. I almost
screamed when I recognised you at the Princess's that afternoon."
"I had never dreamt of your face," said Lamberti, "but I was sure I had
seen you before."
They looked down into the moving water, and the music of its fall made
it harmonious with the distant song of the nightingale. Lamberti tried
to think connectedly, and could not. It was as if he were under a spell.
Questions rose to his lips, but he could not speak the words, he could
not put them together in the right way. Once, at sea, on the training
ship, he had fallen from the foreyard, and though the fall was broken by
the gear and he had not been injured, he had been badly stunned, and for
more than an hour he had lost all sense of direction, of what was
forward and what was aft, so that at one moment the vessel seemed to be
sailing backwards, and then forwards, and then sideways. He felt
something like that now, and he knew intuitively that Cecilia felt it
also. Amazingly absurd thoughts passed through his mind. Was to-morrow
going to be yesterday? Would what was coming be just what was long past?
Or was there no past, no future, nothing but all time present at once?
He was not moved by Cecilia's presence in the same way that Guido was.
Guido was merely in love with her; very much in love, no doubt, but that
was all. She was to him, first, the being of all others with whom he was
most in sympathy, the only being whom he understood, and who, he was
sure, understood him, the only being without whom life would be
unendurable. And, secondly, she was the one and only creature in the
world created to be his natural mate, and when he was near her he was
aware of nature's mysterious forces, and felt the thrill of them
continually.
Lamberti experienced nothing of that sort at present. He was overwhelmed
and carried away out of the region of normal thought and volition
towards something which he somehow knew was at hand, which he was sure
he had reached before, but which he could not distinctly remember.
Between it and him in the past there was a wall of darkness; between him
and it in the future there was a veil not yet lifted, but on which his
dreams already cast strange and beautiful shadows.
"I used to see things in the water," Cecilia said softly, "things that
were going to happen. That was long, long ago."
"I remember," said Lamberti, quite naturally. "You told me once----"
He stopped. It was gone back behind the wall of darkness. When he had
begun to speak, quite unconsciously, he had known what it was that
Cecilia had told him, but he had forgotten it all now. He passed his
hand over his forehead, and suddenly everything changed, and he came
back out of an immeasurable distance to real life.
"I shall be going away in a few days," he said. "May I see you before I
go?"
"Certainly. Come and see us about three o'clock. We are always at home
then."
"Thank you."
They turned from the fountain while they spoke, and walked slowly
towards the house.
"Does your mother know about your dreaming?" Lamberti asked.
"No. No one knows. And you?"
"I have told that doctor. No one else. I wonder whether it will go on
when I am far away."
"I wonder, too. Where are you going?"
"I do not know yet. Perhaps to China again. I shall get my orders in a
few days."
They reached the threshold of the door. Lamberti had been looking for
Guido's face amongst the people he could see as he came up, but Guido
was gone.
"Good-bye," said Cecilia, softly.
"Good night," Lamberti answered, almost in a whisper. "God bless you."
He afterwards thought it strange that he should have said that, but at
the time it seemed quite natural, and Cecilia was not at all surprised.
She smiled and bent her graceful head. Then she joined her mother, and
Lamberti disappeared.
"My dear," said the Countess, "you remember Monsieur Leroy? You met him
at Princess Anatolie's," she added, in a stage whisper.
Monsieur Leroy bowed, and Cecilia nodded. She had forgotten his
existence, and now remembered that she had not liked him, and that she
had said something sharp to him. He spoke first.
"The Princess wished me to tell you how very sorry she is that she
cannot be here this afternoon. She has one of her attacks."
"I am very sorry," Cecilia answered. "Pray tell her how sorry I am."
"Thank you. But I daresay Guido brought you the same message."
"Who is Guido?" asked Cecilia, raising her eyebrows a little.
"Guido d'Este. I thought you knew. You are surprised that I should call
him by his Christian name? You see, I have known him ever since he was
quite a boy. To all intents and purposes, he was brought up by the
Princess."
"And you are often at the house, I suppose."
"I live there," explained Monsieur Leroy. "To change the subject, my
dear young lady, I have an apology to make, which I hope you will
accept."
Cecilia did not like to be called any one's "dear young lady," and her
manner froze instantly.
"I cannot imagine why you should apologise to me," she said coldly.
"I was rude to you the other day, about your courses of philosophy, or
something of that sort. Was not that it?"
"Indeed, I had quite forgotten," Cecilia answered, with truth. "It did
not matter in the least what you thought of my reading Nietzsche, I
assure you."
Monsieur Leroy reddened and laughed awkwardly, for he was particularly
anxious to win her good grace.
"I am not very clever, you know," he said humbly. "You must forgive me."
"Oh certainly," replied Cecilia. "Your explanation is more than
adequate. In my mind, the matter had already explained itself. Will you
have some tea?"
"No, thank you. My nerves are rather troublesome. If I take tea in the
afternoon I cannot sleep at night. I met Guido going away as I came. He
was enthusiastic!"
"In what way?"
"About the villa, and the house, and the flowers, and about you." He
lowered his voice to a confidential tone as he spoke the last words.
"About me?" Cecilia was somewhat surprised.
"Oh yes! He was overcome by your perfection--like every one else. How
could it be otherwise? It is true that Guido has always been very
impressionable."
"I should not have thought it," Cecilia said, wishing that the man would
go away.
But he would not, and, to make matters worse, nobody would come and
oblige him to move. It was plain to the meanest mind that since Cecilia
was to marry Princess Anatolie's nephew, the extraordinary person whom
the Princess called her secretary must not be disturbed when he was
talking to Cecilia, since he might be the bearer of some important
message. Besides, a good many people were afraid of him, in a vague way,
as a rather spiteful gossip who had more influence than he should have
had.
"Yes," he continued, in an apologetic tone, "Guido is always falling in
love, poor boy. Of course, it is not to be wondered at. A king's son,
and handsome as he is, and so very clever, too--all the pretty ladies
fall in love with him at once, and he naturally falls in love with them.
You see how simple it is. He has more opportunities than are good for
him!"
The disagreeable little man giggled, and his loose pink and white cheeks
shook unpleasantly. Cecilia thought him horribly vulgar and familiar,
and she inwardly wondered how the Princess Anatolie could even tolerate
him, not to speak of treating him affectionately and calling him
"Doudou."
"I supposed that you counted yourself among Signor d'Este's friends,"
said the young girl, frigidly.
"I do, I do! Have I said anything unfriendly? I merely said that all the
women fell in love with him."
"You said a good deal more than that."
"At all events, I wish I were he," said Monsieur Leroy. "And if that is
not paying him a compliment I do not know what you would call it. He is
handsome, clever, generous, everything!"
"And faithless, according to you."
"No, no! Not faithless; only fickle, very fickle."
"It is the same thing," said the young girl, scornfully.
She did not believe Monsieur Leroy in the least, but she wondered what
his object could be in speaking against Guido, and whether he were
really silly, as he often seemed, or malicious, as she suspected, or
possibly both at the same time, since the combination is not uncommon.
What he was telling her, if she believed it, was certainly not of a
nature to hasten her marriage with Guido; and yet it was the Princess
who had first suggested the match, and it could hardly be supposed that
Monsieur Leroy would attempt to oppose his protectress.
Just then there was a general move to go away, and the conversation was
interrupted, much to Cecilia's satisfaction. There was a great stir in
the wide hall, for though many people had slipped away without
disturbing the Countess by taking leave, there were many of her nearer
friends who wished to say a word to her before going, just to tell her
that they had enjoyed themselves vastly, that Cecilia was a model of
beauty and good behaviour, and of everything charming, and that the
villa was the most delightful place they had ever seen. By these means
they conveyed the impression that they would all accept any future
invitation which the Countess might send them, and they audibly
congratulated one another upon her having at last established herself in
Rome, adding that Cecilia was a great acquisition to society. More than
that it was manifestly impossible to say in a few well-chosen words.
Even in a language as rich as Italian, the number of approving
adjectives is limited, and each can only have one superlative. The
Countess Fortiguerra's guests distributed these useful words amongst
them and exhausted the supply.
"It has been a great success, my dear," said the Countess, when she and
her daughter were left alone in the hall. "Did you see the Duchess of
Pallacorda's hat?"
"No, mother. At least, I did not notice it." Cecilia was nibbling a
cake, thoughtfully.
"My dear!" cried the Countess. "It was the most wonderful thing you ever
saw. She was in terror lest it should come too late. Monsieur Leroy knew
all about it."
"I cannot bear that man," Cecilia said, still nibbling, for she was
hungry.
"I cannot say that I like him, either. But the Duchess's new hat----"
Cecilia heard her voice, but was too much occupied with her own thoughts
to listen attentively, while the good Countess criticised the hat in
question, admired its beauties, corrected its defects, put it a little
further back on the Duchess's pretty head, and, indeed, did everything
with it which every woman can do, in imagination, with every imaginary
hat. Finally, she asked Cecilia if she should not like to have one
exactly like it.
"No, thank you. Not now, at all events. Mother dear," and she looked
affectionately at the Countess, "what a deal of trouble you have taken
to make it all beautiful for me to-day. I am so grateful!"
She kissed her mother on both cheeks just as she had always done when
she was pleased, ever since she had been a child, and suddenly the elder
woman's eyes glistened.
"It is a pleasure to do anything for you, darling," she said. "I have
only you in the world," she added quietly, after a little pause, "but I
sometimes think I have more than all the other women."
Then Cecilia laid her head on her mother's shoulder for a moment, and
gently patted her cheek, and they both felt very happy.
They drove home in the warm dusk, and when they reached the high road
down by the Tiber they looked up and saw moving lights through the great
open windows of the villa, and on the terrace, and in the gardens, like
fireflies. For the servants were bringing in the chairs and putting
things in order. The nightingale was singing again, far up in the woods,
but Cecilia could hear the song distinctly as the carriage swept along.
Now the Countess was kind and true, and loved her daughter devotedly,
but she would not have been a woman if she had not wished to know what
Guido had said to Cecilia that afternoon; and before they had entered
Porta Angelica she asked what she considered a leading question, in her
own peculiar contradictory way.
"Of course, I am not going to ask you anything, my dear," she began,
"but did Signor d'Este say anything especial to you when you went off
together?"
Cecilia remembered how they had driven home from the Princess's a
fortnight earlier, almost at the same hour, and how her mother had then
first spoken of Guido d'Este. The young girl asked herself in the moment
she took before answering, whether she were any nearer to the thought of
marrying him than she had been after that first short meeting.
"He loves me, mother," she answered softly. "He has made me understand
that he does, without quite saying so. I like him very much. That is our
position now. I would rather not talk about it much, but you have a
right to know."
"Yes, dear. But what I mean is--I mean, what I meant was--he has not
asked you to marry him, has he?"
"No. I am not sure that he will, now."
"Yes, he will. He asked me yesterday evening if he might, and of course
I gave him my permission."
It was a relief to have told Cecilia this, for concealment was
intolerable to the Countess.
"I see," Cecilia answered.
"Yes, of course you do. But when he does ask you, what shall you say,
dear? He is sure to ask you to-morrow, and I really want to know what I
am to expect. Surely, by this time you must have made up your mind."
"I have only known him a fortnight, mother. That is not a long time when
one is to decide about one's whole life, is it?"
"No. Well--it seems to me that a fortnight--you see, it is so
important!"
"Precisely," Cecilia answered. "It is very important. That is why I do
not mean to do anything in a hurry. Either you must tell Signor d'Este
to wait a little while before he asks me, or else, when he does, I must
beg him to wait some time for his answer."
"But it seems to me, if you like him so much, that is quite enough."
"Why are you in such a hurry, mother?" asked Cecilia, with a smile.
"Because I am sure you will be perfectly happy if you marry him,"
answered the Countess, with much conviction.