In agreeing to the dangerous scheme, Lamberti had yielded to an impulse
founded upon his intuitive knowledge of women, and not at all upon his
inborn love of anything in which there was risk. The danger was for
Cecilia, not for himself, in any case; and it was real, for, if it
should ever be known that she had gone to Guido's rooms, nothing but her
marriage with him would silence the gossips. Society cannot be blamed
for drawing a line somewhere, considering how very far back it sets the
limit.
Lamberti, without reasoning about it, knew that no woman ever does well
what she does not like doing. If he persisted in making Cecilia attempt
to break gradually with Guido, she would soon make mistakes and spoil
everything. That was his conviction. She felt, at present, that if she
could see Guido face to face, she could persuade him to give her up; and
the probability was that she would succeed, or else that she would be
moved by real pity for him and thus become genuinely ready to follow
Lamberti's original advice. The sensible course to follow was,
therefore, to help her in the direction she had chosen.
Early in the morning Lamberti was at his friend's bedside. Guido was
much better now, and there was no risk in taking him to his sitting
room. Lamberti suggested this before saying anything else, and the
doctor came soon afterwards and approved of it. By ten o'clock Guido was
comfortably installed in a long cane chair, amongst his engravings and
pictures, very pale and thin, but cheerful and expectant. As he had no
fever, and was quite calm, Lamberti told him frankly that Cecilia had
something to say to him which no one could say for her, and was coming
herself. He was amazed and delighted at first, and then was angry with
Lamberti for allowing her to come; but, as the latter explained in
detail how her visit was to be managed, his fears subsided, and he
looked at his watch with growing impatience. His man had been sitting up
with him at night since his illness had begun, and was easily persuaded
to go to bed for the day. The other servant, who cooked what Guido
needed, had prepared everything for the day, and had gone out. He always
came back a little after twelve o'clock. At twenty minutes to eleven
Lamberti took the key of the door and went to watch for Cecilia's
coming, and half an hour later he admitted her to the sitting room, shut
the door after her, and left the two together. He went and sat down in
the outer hall, in case any one should ring the bell, which had been
muffled with a bit of soft leather while Guido was ill.
Cecilia stood still a moment, after the door was closed; behind her, and
she lifted her veil to see her way, for there was not much light in the
room. As she caught sight of Guido, a frank smile lighted up her face
for an instant, and then died away in a look of genuine concern and
anxiety. She had not realised how much he could change in so short a
time, in not more than four or five days. She came forward quickly, took
his hand, and bent over him, looking into his face. His eyes widened
with pleasure and his thin fingers lifted hers to his lips.
"You have been very ill," she said, "very, very ill! I had no idea that
it was so bad as this!"
"I am better," he answered gently. "How good of you! How endlessly good
of you to come!"
"Nobody saw me," she said, by way of answer.
She smoothed the old pink damask cushion under his head, and
instinctively looked to see if he had all he needed within reach, before
she thought of sitting down in the chair Lamberti had placed ready for
her.
"Tell me," he said, in a low and somewhat anxious voice, "you did not
mean it? You were out of temper, or you were annoyed by something, or--I
do not know! Something happened that made you write, and you had sent
the letter before you knew what you were doing----"
He broke off, quite sure of her answer. He thought she turned pale,
though the light was not strong and brought the green colour of the
closed blinds into the room.
"Hush!" she exclaimed soothingly, and she sat down beside him, still
holding his hand. "I have come expressly to talk to you about it all,
because letters only make misunderstandings, and there must not be any
more misunderstandings between us two."
"No, never again!" He looked up with love in his hollow eyes, not
suspecting what she meant. "I have forgotten all that was in that
letter, and I wish to forget it. You never wrote that you did not love
me, nor that you loved another man. It is all gone, quite gone, and I
shall never remember it again."
Cecilia sighed and gazed into his face sadly. He looked so ill and weak
that she wondered how she could be cruel enough to tell him the truth,
though she had risked her good name to get a chance of speaking plainly.
It seemed like bringing a cup of cold water to the lips of a man dying
of thirst, only to take it away again untasted and leave him to his
fate. She pitied him with all her heart, but there was nothing in her
compassion that at all resembled love. It was the purest and most
friendly affection, of the sort that lasts a lifetime and can devote
itself in almost any sacrifice; but it was all quite clear and
comprehensible, without the smallest element of the inexplicable
attraction that is deaf, and dumb, and, above all, blind, and which
proceeds from the deep prime cause and mover of nature, and mates lions
in the wilderness and birds in the air, and men and women among their
fellows, two and two, from generation to generation.
"Guido," said Cecilia, after a long silence, "do you not think that two
people can be very, very fond of each other all their lives, and trust
each other, and like to be together as much as possible, without being
married?"
She spoke quietly and steadily, trying to make her voice sound more
gentle than ever before; but there was no possibility of mistaking her
meaning. His thin hand started and shook under her soothing touch, and
then drew itself away. The light went out of his eyes and the rings of
shadow round them grew visibly darker as he turned his head painfully on
the damask cushion.
"Is that what you have come to say?" he asked, in a groan.
Cecilia leaned back in her chair and folded her hands. She felt as if
she had killed an unresisting, loving creature, as a sacrifice for her
fault.
"God forgive me if I have done wrong," she said, speaking to herself. "I
only mean to do right."
Guido moved his head on his cushion again, as if suffering unbearable
pain, and a sort of harsh laugh answered her words.
"Your God will forgive you," he said bitterly, after a moment. "Man made
God in his own image, and God must needs obey his creator. When you
cannot forgive yourself, you set up an image and ask it to pardon you. I
do not wonder."
The cruel words hurt her in more ways than one, and she drew her breath
between her teeth as if she had struck unawares against something sharp
and was repressing a cry of pain. Then there was silence for a long
time.
"Why do you stay here?" Guido asked, in a low tone, not looking at her.
"You cannot have anything more to say. You have done what you came to
do. Let me be alone."
"Guido!"
She touched his shoulder gently as he lay turned from her, but he moved
and pushed her away.
"It cannot give you pleasure to see me suffer," he said. "Please go
away."
"How can I leave you like this?"
There was despair in her voice, and the sound of tears that would never
come to her eyes. He did not answer. She would not go away without
trying to appease him, and she made a strong effort to collect her
thoughts.
"You are angry with me, of course," she began. "You despise me for not
having known my own mind, but you cannot say anything that I have not
said to myself. I ought to have known long ago. All I can say in
self-defence now is that it is better to have told you the truth before
we were married than to have been obliged to confess it afterwards, or
else to have lied to you all my life if I could not find courage to
speak. It is better, is it not? Oh, say that it is better!"
"It would have been much better if neither of us had ever been born,"
Guido answered.
"I only ask you to say that you would rather be suffering now than have
had me tell you in a year that I was an unfaithful wife at heart. That
is all. Will you not say it? It is all I ask."
"Why should you ask anything of me, even that? The only kindness you can
show me now is to go away."
He would not look at her. His throat was parched, and he put out his
hand to take the tumbler from the little table on the other side of his
long chair. Instantly she rose and tried to help him, but he would not
let her.
"I am not so weak as that," he said coldly. "My hand is steady enough,
thank you."
She sighed and drew back. Perhaps it would be better to leave him, as he
wished that she should, but his words recalled Lamberti's warning; his
hand was steady, he said, and that meant that it was steady enough to
take the pistol from the drawer in the little table and use it. He
believed in nothing, in no future, in no retribution, in no God, and he
was ill, lonely, and in despair through her fault. His friend knew him,
and the danger was real. The conviction flashed through her brain that
if she left him alone he would probably kill himself, and she fancied
him lying there dead, on the red tiles. She fancied, too, Lamberti's
face, when he should come to tell her what had happened, for he would
surely come, and to the end of her life and his he would never forgive
her.
She stood still, wavering and unstrung by her thoughts, looking steadily
down at Guido's head.
"Since you will not go away," he said at last, "answer me one question.
Tell me the name of the man who has come between us."
Cecilia bit her lip and turned her face from the light.
"Then it is true," Guido said, after a silence. "There is a man whom you
really love, a man whom you would really marry and to whom you could
really be faithful."
"Yes. It is true. Everything I wrote you is true."
"Who is he?"
She was silent again.
"Do you hope that I shall ever forgive you for what you have done to
me?"
"Yes. I pray heaven that you may!"
"Leave heaven out of the question. You have turned my life into
something like what you call hell. Do I know the man you love?"
"Yes," Cecilia answered, after a moment's hesitation.
"Do I often meet him? Have I met him often since you have loved him?"
She said nothing, but stood still with bent head and clasped hands.
"Why do you not answer me?" he asked sternly.
"You must never know his name," she said, in a low voice.
"Have I no right to know who has ruined my life?"
"I have. Blame me. Visit it on me."
He laughed, not harshly now, but gently and sarcastically.
"You women are fond of offering yourselves as expiatory victims for your
own sins, for you know very well that we shall not hurt you! After all,
you cannot help yourself if you have fallen in love with some one else.
I suppose I ought to be sorry for you. I probably shall be, when I know
who he is!"
He laughed again, already despising the man she had preferred in his
stead. His words had cut her, but she said nothing, for she was in dread
lest the slightest word should betray the truth.
"You say that I know him," Guido continued, his cheeks beginning to
flush feverishly, "and you would not answer me when I asked you if I had
often met him since you have loved him. That means that I have, of
course. You were too honest to lie, and too much frightened to tell the
truth. I meet him often. Then he is one of a score of men whom I know
better than all the others. There are not many men whom I meet often. It
cannot be very hard to find out which of them it is."
Cecilia turned her face away, resting one hand on the back of the chair,
and a deep blush rose in her cheeks. But she spoke steadily.
"You can never find out," she said. "He does not love me. He does not
guess that I love him. But I will not answer any more questions, for you
must not know who he is."
"Why not? Do you think I shall quarrel with him and make him fight a
duel with me?"
"Perhaps."
"That is absurd," Guido answered quietly. "I do not value my life much,
I believe, but I have not the least inclination to risk it in such a
ridiculous way. The man has injured me without knowing it. You have
taken from me the one thing I treasured and you are keeping it for him;
but he does not want it, he does not even know that it is his, he is not
responsible for your caprices."
"Not caprice, Guido! Do not call it that!"
"I do. Forgive me for being frank. Say that I am ill, if you please, as
an excuse for me. I call such things by their right name, caprices. If
you are going to be subject to them all your life, you had better go
into a convent before you throw away your good name."
"I have not deserved that!"
She turned upon him now, with flashing eyes. He had raised himself upon
one elbow and was looking at her with cool contempt.
"You have deserved that and more," he answered, "and if you insist upon
staying here you must hear what I choose to say. I advised you to go
away, but you would not. I have no apology to make for telling you the
truth, but you are free to go. Lamberti is in the hall and will see you
to your carriage."
There was something royal in his anger and in his look now, which she
could not help respecting, in spite of his words. She had thought that
he would behave very differently; she had looked for some passionate
outburst, perhaps for some unmanly weakness, excusable since he was so
ill, and more in accordance with his outwardly gentle character. She had
thought that because he had made his friend speak to her for him he
lacked energy to speak for himself. But now that the moment had come, he
showed himself as manly and determined as ever Lamberti could be, and
she could not help respecting him for it. Doubtless Lamberti had always
known what was in his friend's nature, below the indolent surface.
Perhaps he was like his father, the old king. But Cecilia was proud,
too.
"If I have stayed too long," she said, facing him, "it was because I
came here at some risk to confess my fault, and hoped for your
forgiveness. I shall always hope for it, as long as we both live, but I
shall not ask for it again. I had thought that you would accept my
devoted friendship instead of what I cannot give you and never gave you,
though I believed that I did. But you will not take what I offer. We had
better part on that rather than risk being enemies. You have already
said one thing which you will regret and which I shall always remember.
Good-bye."
She held out her hand frankly, and he took it and kept it a moment,
while their eyes met, and he spoke more gently.
"I said too much. I am sorry. I shall forgive you when I do not love you
any more. Good-bye."
He let her hand fall and looked away.
"Thank you," she said.
She left his side and went towards the door, her head a little bent. As
she laid her hand upon the handle, and looked back at Guido once again,
it turned in her fingers and was drawn quickly away from them. She
started and turned her head to see who was there.
Lamberti stood before her, and immediately pushed her back into the room
and shut the door, visibly disturbed.
"This way!" he said quickly, in an undertone.
He led her swiftly to another door, which he opened for her and closed
as soon as she had passed.
"Wait for me there!" he said, as she went in.
"What is the matter?" asked Guido rather faintly, when he realised what
his friend had done.
"Her mother is in the hall," Lamberti said. "Do not be startled, she
knows nothing. She insists on seeing for herself how you are. She says
her daughter begged her to come."
"Tell her I am too ill to see her, please, and thank her very much. It
is all over, Lamberti, we have parted."
A dark flush rose in Lamberti's face.
"You must see the Countess," he said hurriedly. "I am sorry, but unless
she comes here, her daughter cannot get out without being seen. We
cannot leave her in your room. I will not do it, for your man may wake
up and go there. There is no time to be lost either!"
"Bring the Countess in," said Guido, with an effort, and moving uneasily
on his couch.
He felt that nothing was spared him. In the few seconds that elapsed, he
tried to decide what he should say to the Countess, and how he could
account for knowing that Cecilia had now definitely broken off the
engagement. Before he had come to any conclusion the Countess was
ushered in, rosy and smiling, but a little timid at finding herself in a
young bachelor's quarters.
Meanwhile, Cecilia was in Guido's bedroom. An older woman might have
suspected some ignoble treachery, but her perfect innocence protected
her from all fear. Lamberti would not have brought her there in such a
hurry unless there had been some absolute necessity for getting her out
of sight at once. Undoubtedly some visitor had come who could not be
turned away. Perhaps it was the doctor. Moreover, she was too much
disturbed by what had taken place to pay much attention to what was,
after all, a detail.
She looked about her and saw that there was another door by which
Lamberti would presently enter to let her out. There was the great bed
with the coverlet of old arras displaying the royal arms, and beside it
stood a small table of mahogany inlaid with brass. It had tall and
slender legs that ended below in little brass lions' paws, and it had a
single drawer.
Without hesitation she went and opened it. Lamberti had been right.
There was the revolver, a silver-mounted weapon with an ivory handle,
much more for ornament than use, but quite effective enough for the
purpose to which Guido might put it. Beside it lay a little pile of
notes in their envelopes, and she involuntarily recognised her own
handwriting. He had kept all she had written to him within his reach
while he had been ill, and the thought pained her. The revolver was a
very light one, made with only five chambers. She took it and examined
it when she had shut the drawer again, and she saw that it was fully
loaded. Old Fortiguerra had taught her to use firearms a little, and she
knew how to load and unload them. She slipped the cartridges out quickly
and tied them together in her handkerchief, and then dropped them into
her parasol and the revolver after them.
She went to the tall mirror in the door of the wardrobe and began to
arrange her veil, expecting Lamberti every moment. She had hardly
finished when he entered and beckoned to her. She caught up her parasol
by the middle so as to hold its contents safely, and in a few seconds
she was outside the front door of the apartment. Lamberti drew a breath
of relief.
"Take those!" she said quickly, producing the pistol and the cartridges.
"He must not have them."
Lamberti took the weapon and put it into his pocket, and held the
parasol, while she untied the handkerchief and gave him the contents.
Both began to go downstairs.
"I had better tell you who came," Lamberti said, as they went. "You will
be surprised. It was your mother."
"My mother!" Cecilia stopped short on the step she had reached. "I did
not think she meant to come!"
She went on, and Lamberti kept by her side.
"You can seem surprised when she tells you," he said. "You have
definitely broken your engagement, then? Guido had time to tell me so."
"Yes, I could not lie to him. It was very hard, but I am glad it is all
over, though he is very angry now."
They reached the last landing before the court without meeting any one,
and she paused again. He wondered what expression was on her face while
she spoke, for he could scarcely see the outline of her features through
the veil.
"Thank you again," she said. "We may not meet for a long time, for my
mother and I shall go away at once, and I suppose we shall not come back
next winter." She spoke rather bitterly now. "My reputation is damaged,
I fancy, because I have refused to marry a man I do not love!"
"I will take care of your reputation," Lamberti answered, as if he were
saying the most natural thing in the world.
"It is hardly your place to do that," Cecilia answered, much surprised.
"It may not be my right," Lamberti said, "as people consider those
things. But it is my place, as Guido's friend and yours, as the only man
alive who is devoted to you both."
"I am more grateful than I can tell you. But please let people say what
they like of me, and do not take my defence. You, of all the men I know,
must not."
"Why not I, of all men? I, of all men, will."
She was standing with her back to the wall on the landing, and he was
facing her now. His face looked a little more set and determined than
usual, and he was rather pale, and he stood sturdily still before her.
She could see his face through her veil, though he could hardly
distinguish hers. He felt for a moment as if he were talking to a sort
of lay figure that represented her and could not answer him.
"I, of all men, will take care that no one says a word against you," he
said, as she was silent.
"But why? Why you?"
"You have definitely given up all idea of marrying Guido? Absolutely?
For ever? You are sure, in your own conscience, that he has no sort of
claim on you left, and that he knows it?"
"Yes, yes! But----"
"Then," he said, not heeding her, "as you and I may not meet again for a
long time, and as it cannot do you the least harm to know it, and as you
will have no right to feel that I shall be lacking in respect to you, if
I say it, I am going to give myself the satisfaction of telling you
something I have taken great pains to hide since we first met."
"What is it?" asked Cecilia, nervously.
"It is a very simple matter, and one that will not interest you much."
He paused one moment, and fixed his eyes on the brown veil, where he
knew that hers were.
"I love you."
Cecilia started violently, and put out one hand against the wall behind
her.
"Do not be frightened, Contessina," he said gently. "Many men will say
that to you before you are old. But none of them will mean it more truly
than I. Shall we go? Your mother may not stay long with Guido."
He moved, expecting her to go on, but she leaned against the wall where
she stood, and she stared at his face through her veil. For an instant
she thought she was going to faint, for her heart stopped beating and
the blood left her head. She did not know whether it was happiness, or
surprise, or fear that paralysed her, when his simple words revealed the
vastness of the mistake in which she had lived, and the immensity of joy
she had missed by so little. She pressed her hand flat against the wall
beside her, sure that if she moved it she must fall.
"Have I offended you, Signorina?" Lamberti asked, and the low tones
shook a little.
She could not speak yet, but his voice seemed to steady her, and her
heart beat again. As if she were making a great effort her hand slowly
left the wall, and she stretched it out towards him, silently asking for
his. He did not understand, but he took it and held it quietly, coming a
little nearer to her.
"You have forgiven me," he said. "Thank you. You are kind. Good-bye."
But then her fingers closed on his with almost frantic pressure.
"No, no!" she cried. "Not yet! One moment more!"
Still he did not understand, but he felt the blood rising and singing in
his heart like the tide when it is almost high. A strange expectation
filled him, as of a great change in his whole being that must come in
the most fearful pain, or else in a happiness almost unbearable,
something swelling, bursting, overwhelming, and enormous beyond
imagination.
She did not know that she was drawing him nearer to her, she would have
blushed scarlet at the thought; he did not know that his feet moved,
that he was quite close to her, that she was clutching his hand and
pressing it upon her own heart. They did not see what they were doing.
They were standing together by a marble pillar in the Vestals' House.
They were out in the firmament beyond worlds, not seeing, not hearing,
not touching, but knowing and one in knowledge.
The veil touched his cheek and lightly pressed against it. It was the
Vestal's veil. He had felt it in dreams, between his face and hers. Then
the world broke into visible light, and he heard her whisper in his ear.
"That was my secret. You know it now."
A distant footfall echoed from far up the stone staircase. Once more as
she heard it she pressed his hand to her heart with all her might, and
he, with his left round her neck, drew her veiled face against his and
held it there an instant in simple pressure, not trying to kiss her.
Then those two separated and went down the remaining steps in silence,
side by side, and very demurely, as if nothing had happened. The
Countess's brougham was in the courtyard, and the porter, just going
into his lodge under the archway, touched his big-visored cap to
Lamberti and glanced at Cecilia carelessly as they went out. Petersen
was sitting in an open cab in the blazing sun, under a large white
parasol lined with green cotton, and her mistress was seated beside her
before she had time to rise. Cecilia had quickly turned up her veil over
the brim of her hat as soon as she had passed the porter's lodge, for he
knew her face and she did not wish him to see her go out with Lamberti.
"Thank you," she said in a matter-of-fact tone as Lamberti stood hat in
hand in the sun by the step of the cab. "Palazzo Massimo," she called
out to the coach-man.
She nodded to Lamberti indifferently, and the cab drove quickly away to
the right, rattling over the white paving-stones of the Piazza Farnese
in the direction of San Carlo a Catinari.
"Did you see your mother?" Petersen asked. "She stopped the carriage and
called me when she saw me, and she said she was going to ask after
Signor d'Este. I said you had gone up to the embassy."
"No," Cecilia answered, "I did not see her. We shall be at home before
she is."
She did not speak again on the way. Petersen was too near-sighted and
unsuspicious to see that she surreptitiously loosened the brown veil
from her hat, got it down beside her on the other side, and rolled it up
into a ball with one hand. Somehow, when she reached her own door, it
was inside the parasol, just where the revolver had been half an hour
earlier.
Lamberti put on his straw hat and glanced indifferently at the departing
cab as he turned away, quite sure that Cecilia would not look round. He
went back into the palace, feeling for a cigar in his outer breast
pocket. His hands felt numb with cold under the scorching sun, and he
knew that he was taking pains to look indifferent and to move as if
nothing extraordinary had happened to him; for in a few minutes he would
be face to face with Guido d'Este and the Countess Fortiguerra. He lit
his cigar under the archway, and blew a cloud of smoke before him as he
turned into the staircase; but on the first landing he stopped, just
where he had stood with Cecilia. He paused, his cigar between his teeth,
his legs a little apart as if he were on deck in a sea-way, and his
hands behind him. He looked curiously at the wall where she had leaned
against it, and he smoked vigorously. At last he took out a small pocket
knife and with the point of the blade scratched a little cross on the
hard surface, looked at it, touched it again and was satisfied, returned
the knife to his pocket, and went quietly upstairs. Most seafaring men
do absurdly sentimental things sometimes. Lamberti's expression had
neither softened nor changed while he was scratching the mark, and when
he went on his way he looked precisely as he did when he was going up
the steps of the Ministry to attend a meeting of the Commission. He had
good nerves, as he had told the specialist whom he had consulted in the
spring.
But he would have given much not to meet Guido for a day or two, though
he did not in the least mind meeting the Countess. Cecilia could keep a
secret as well as he himself, almost too well, and there was not the
slightest danger that her mother should guess the truth from the
behaviour of either of them, even when together. Nor would Guido guess
it for that matter; that was not what Lamberti was thinking of just
then.
He felt that chance, or fate, had made him the instrument of a sort of
betrayal for which he was not responsible, and as he had never been in
such a position in his life, even by accident, it was almost as bad at
first as if he had intentionally taken Cecilia from his friend. He had
always been instinctively sure that she would love him some day, but
when he had at last spoken he had really not had the least idea that she
already loved him. He had acted on an impulse as soon as he was quite
sure that she would never marry Guido; perhaps, if he could have
analysed his feelings, as Guido could have done, he would have found
that he really meant to shock her a little, or frighten her by the
point-blank statement that he loved her, in the hope of widening the
distance which he supposed to exist between them, and thereby making it
much more improbable that she should ever care for him.
Even now he did not see how he could ever marry her and remain Guido's
friend. He was far too sensible to tell Guido the truth and appeal to
his generosity, for the best man living is not inclined to be generous
when he has just been jilted, least of all to the man to whom he owes
his discomfiture. In the course of time Guido might grow more
indifferent. That was the most that could be hoped. Nevertheless, from
the instant in which Lamberti had realised the truth, coming back to his
senses out of a whirlwind of delight, he had known that he meant to have
the woman he loved for himself, since she loved him already, and that he
would count nothing that chanced to stand in his way, neither his
friend, nor his career, nor his own family, nor neck nor life, either,
if any such improbable risk should present itself. He was very glad that
he had waited till he was quite sure that she was free, for he knew very
well that if the moment had come too soon he should have felt the same
reckless desire to win her, though he would have exiled himself to a
desert island in the Pacific Ocean rather than yield to it.
And more than that. He, who had a rough and strong belief in God, in an
ever living soul within him, and in everlasting happiness and suffering
hereafter, he, who called suicide the most dastardly and execrable crime
against self that it lies in the power of a believing man to commit,
would have shot himself without hesitation rather than steal the love of
his only friend's wedded wife, content to give his body to instant
destruction, and his soul to eternal hell--if that were the only way not
to be a traitor. God might forgive him or not; salvation or damnation
would matter little compared with escaping such a monstrous evil.
He did not think these things. They were instinctive with him and sure
as fate, like all the impulses of violent temperaments; just as certain
as that if a man should give him the lie he would have struck him in the
face before he had realised that he had even raised his hand. Guido
d'Este, as brave in a different way, but hating any violent action,
would never strike a man at all if he could possibly help it, though he
would probably not miss him at the first shot the next morning.
A quarter of an hour had not elapsed since Lamberti had left the
Countess and Guido together when he let himself in again with his
latch-key. He went at once to the bedroom, walking slowly and
scrutinising the floor as he went along. He had heard of tragedies
brought about by a hairpin, a glove, or a pocket handkerchief, dropped
or forgotten in places where they ought not to be. He looked everywhere
in the passage and in Guido's room, but Cecilia had not dropped
anything. Then he examined his beard in the glass, with an absurd
exaggeration of caution. Her loose brown veil had touched his cheek, a
single silk thread of it clinging to his beard might tell a tale. He was
a man who had more than once lived among savages and knew how slight a
trace might lead to a broad trail. Then he got a chair and set it
against the side of the tall wardrobe. Standing on it he got hold of the
cornice with his hands, drew himself up till he could see over it,
remained suspended by one hand and, with the other, laid the revolver
and the cartridges on the top. Guido would never find them there.
The Countess's unnecessary shyness had disappeared as soon as she saw
how ill Guido looked. His head was aching terribly now, and he had a
little fever again, but he raised himself as well as he could to greet
her, and smiled courteously as she held out her hand.
"This is very kind of you, my dear lady," he managed to say, but his own
voice sounded far off.
"I was really so anxious about you!" the Countess said, with a little
laugh. "And--and about it all, you know. Now tell me how you really
are!"
Guido said that he had felt better in the morning, but now had a bad
headache. She sympathised with him and suggested bathing his temples
with Eau de Cologne, which seemed simple. She always did it herself when
she had a headache, she said. The best was the Forty-Seven Eleven kind.
But of course he knew that.
He felt that he should probably go mad if she stayed five minutes
longer, but his courteous manner did not change, though her face seemed
to be jumping up and down at every throb he felt in his head. She was
very kind, he repeated. He had some Eau de Cologne of that very sort. He
never used any other. This sounded in his own ears so absurdly like the
advertisements of patent soap that he smiled in his pain.
Yes, she repeated, it was quite the best; and she seemed a little
embarrassed, as if she wanted to say something else but could not make
up her mind to speak. Could she do anything to make him more
comfortable? She could go away, but he could not tell her so. He thanked
her. Lamberti and his man had taken most excellent care of him. Why did
he not have a nurse? There were the Sisters of Charity, and the French
sisters who wore dark blue and were very good; she could not remember
the name of the order, but she knew where they lived. Should she send
him one? He thanked her again, and the room turned itself upside down
before his eyes and then whirled back again at the next throb. Still he
tried to smile.
She coughed a little and looked at her perfectly fitting gloves, wishing
that he would ask after Cecilia. If he had been suffering less he would
have known that he was expected to do so, but it was all he could do
just then to keep his face from twitching.
Then she suddenly said that she had something on her mind to say to him,
but that, of course, as he was so very ill, she would not say it now,
but as soon as he was quite well they would have a long talk together.
Guido was a man more nervous than sanguine, and probably more phlegmatic
than either, and his nervous strength asserted itself now, just when he
began to believe that he was on the verge of delirium. He felt suddenly
much quieter and the pain in his head diminished, or he noticed it less.
He said that he was quite able to talk now, and wished to know at once
what she had to say to him.
She needed no second invitation to pour out her heart about Cecilia, and
in a long string of involved and often disjointed sentences she told him
just what she felt. Cecilia had done her best to love him, after having
really believed that she did love him, but it was of no use, and it was
much better that Guido should know the truth now, than find it out by
degrees. Cecilia was dreadfully sorry to have made such a mistake, and
both Cecilia and she herself would always be the best friends he had in
the world; but the engagement had better be broken off at once, and of
course, as it would injure Cecilia if everything were known, it would be
very generous of him to let it be thought that it had been broken by
mutual agreement, and without any quarrel. She stopped at last, rather
frightened at having said so much, but quite sure that she had done
right, and believing that she knew the whole truth and had told it all.
She waited for his answer in some trepidation.
"My dear lady," he said at last, "I am very glad you have been so frank.
Ever since your daughter wrote me that letter I have felt that it must
end in this way. As she does not wish to marry me, I quite agree that
our engagement should end at once, so that the agreement is really
mutual and friendly, and I shall say so."
"How good you are!" cried the Countess, delighted.
"There is only one thing I ask of you," Guido said, after pressing his
right hand upon his forehead in an attempt to stop the throbbing that
now began again. "I do not think I am asking too much, considering what
has happened, and I promise not to make any use of what you tell me."
"You have a right to ask us anything," the Countess answered,
contritely.
"Who is the man that has taken my place?"
The Countess stared at him blankly a moment, and her mouth opened a
little.
"What man?" she asked, evidently not understanding him.
"I naturally supposed that your daughter felt a strong inclination for
some one else," Guido said.
"Oh dear, no!" cried the Countess. "You are quite mistaken!"
"I beg your pardon, then. Pray forget what I said."
He saw that she was speaking the truth, as far as she knew it, and he
had long ago discovered that she was quite unable to conceal anything
not of the most vital importance. She repeated her assurance several
times, and then began to review the whole situation, till Guido was in
torment again.
At last the door opened and Lamberti entered. He saw at a glance how
Guido was suffering, and came to his side.
"I am afraid he is not so well to-day," he said. "He looks very tired.
If he could sleep more, he would get well sooner."
The Countess rose at once, and became repentant for having stayed too
long.
"I could not help telling him everything," she explained, looking at
Lamberti. "And as for Cecilia being in love with some one else," she
added, looking down into Guido's face and taking his hand, "you must put
that out of your head at once! As if I should not know it! It is
perfectly absurd!"
Lamberti stared fixedly at the top of her hat while she bent down.
"Of course," Guido said, summoning his strength to bid her good-bye
courteously, and to show some gratitude for her visit. "I am sorry I
spoke of it. Thank you very much for coming to see me, and for being so
frank."
In a sense he was glad she had come, for her coming had solved the
difficulty in which he had been placed. He sank back exhausted and
suffering as she left the room, and was hardly aware that Lamberti came
back soon afterwards and sat down beside him. Before long his friend
carried him back to his bed, for he seemed unable to walk.
Lamberti stayed with him till he fell asleep under the influence of a
soporific medicine, and then called the man-servant. He told him he had
taken the revolver from the drawer, because his master was not to be
married after all, and might do something foolish, and ought to be
watched continually, and he said that he would come back and stay
through the night. The man had been in his own service, and could be
trusted now that he had slept.
Lamberti left the Palazzo Farnese and walked slowly homeward in the
white glare, smoking steadily all the way, and looking straight before
him.