When Lamberti reached the Palazzo Farnese at eight o'clock he had all
Guido's receipts for the Princess's money in his pocket. He had
difficulty in getting the lawyer to see him on business so late in the
afternoon, and when he succeeded at last he did not find it easy to
carry matters with a high hand; but he had come prepared to go to any
length, for he was in no gentle humour, and if he could not get the
papers by persuasion, he fully intended to take them by force, though
that might be the end of his career as an officer, and might even bring
him into court for something very like robbery.
The lawyer was obdurate at first. He of course denied all knowledge of
the article in the _Figaro_, but he said that he was the Princess's
legal representative, that the case had been formally placed in his
hands, and that he should use all his professional energy in her
interests.
"After all," said Lamberti at last, "you have nothing but a few informal
bits of writing to base your case upon. They have no legal value."
"They are stamped receipts," answered the lawyer.
"They are not stamped," Lamberti replied.
"They are!"
"They are not!"
"You are giving me the lie, sir," said the lawyer, angrily.
"I say that they are not stamped," retorted Lamberti. "You dare not show
them to me."
The lawyer was human, after all. He opened his safe, in a rage, found
the receipts, and showed one of them to Lamberti triumphantly.
"There!" he cried. "Are they stamped or not? Is the signature written
across the stamp or not?"
Lamberti had the advantage of knowing positively that when Guido had
given the acknowledgments to his aunt, there had been no stamps on them.
He did not know how they had got them now, but he was sure that some
fraud had been committed. It was broad daylight still, and he examined
the signature carefully while the lawyer held the half sheet of note
paper before his eyes. The paper was certainly the Princess's, and the
writing was Guido's beyond doubt. The Princess always used violet ink,
and Guido had written with it. It struck Lamberti suddenly that it had
turned black where the signature crossed the stamp, but had remained
violet everywhere else. Now violet ink sometimes turns black altogether,
but it does not change colour in parts. As he looked nearer, he saw that
the letters formed on the stamp were a little tremulous. Though he had
never heard of such a thing, it now occurred to him that the stamp had
been simply stuck upon the middle of the signature, and that the part of
the latter that had been covered by it had been cleverly forged over it.
"The stamp makes very much less difference in law than you seem to
suppose," said the lawyer, enjoying his triumph.
"It will make a considerable difference in law," answered Lamberti, "if
I prove to you that the stamp was put on over the first writing, and
part of the signature forged upon it. It has not even been done with the
same ink! The one is black and the other is violet. Do you know that
this is forgery, and that you may lose your reputation if you try to
found an action at law upon a forged document?"
The lawyer was now scrutinising the signatures of the notes one by one
in the strong evening light. His anger had disappeared and there were
drops of perspiration on his forehead.
"There is only one way of proving it to you," Lamberti said quietly.
"Moisten one of the stamps and raise it. If the signature runs
underneath it in violet ink, I am right, and the wisest thing you can do
is to hand me those pieces of paper and say nothing more about them. You
can write to Monsieur Leroy that you have done so. I even believe that
he would pay a considerable sum for them."
It was as he said, and the lawyer was soon convinced that he had been
imposed upon, and had narrowly escaped being laughed at as a dupe, or
prosecuted as a party accessory to a fraud. He was glad to be out of the
whole affair so easily. Therefore, when Lamberti reached his friend's
door, he had the receipts in his pocket and he now meant to tell Guido
what had happened, after first giving them back to him. Guido would
laugh at Monsieur Leroy's stupid attempt to hurt him. But some one had
been before Lamberti.
"He is very ill," said the servant, gravely, as he admitted him. "The
doctor is there and has sent for a nurse. I telephoned for him."
Lamberti asked him what had happened, fearing the truth. Guido had felt
a little better in the afternoon and had asked for his letters and
papers. Half an hour later his servant had gone in with his tea and had
found him raving in delirium. That was all, but Lamberti knew what it
meant. Guido did not take the _Figaro_, but some one had sent the
article to him and he had read it. He had brain fever, and Lamberti was
not surprised, for he had suffered as much on that day as would have
killed some men, and might have driven some men mad.
Lamberti did not wish to frighten Cecilia or her mother, but he sent
them word that he would not leave Guido that night, nor till he was
better, and that he had seen the lawyer and had recovered a number of
forged papers.
After that there was nothing to be done but to watch and wait, and hear
the broken phrases that fell from the sick man's lips, now high, now
low, now laughing, now despairing, as if a host of mad spirits were
sporting with his helpless brain and body and mocking each other with
his voice.
So it went on, hour after hour, and all the next day, till his strength
seemed almost spent. Lamberti listened, because he could not help it
when he was in the room, and again and again Cecilia's name rang out,
and the first passionate words of speeches that ran into incoherent
sounds and were drowned in a groan.
Lamberti had nursed men who were ill and had seen them die in several
ways, but he had never taken care of one who was very near to him. It
was bad enough, but it was worse to know that he had an unwilling share
in causing his friend's suffering, and to feel that if Guido lived he
must some day be told that Lamberti had taken his place. It was
strangest of all to hear the name of the woman he loved so constantly on
another's lips. When the two men talked of her she had always been "the
Contessina," while she had been "Cecilia" in the hearts of both.
There was something in the thought of not having told Guido all before
the delirium seized him, that still offended Lamberti's scrupulous
loyalty. It would be almost horrible if Guido should die without knowing
the truth. Somehow, his consent still seemed needful to Lamberti's love,
and it seemed so to Cecilia, too, and there was no denying that he was
now in danger of his life. If he was to die, there would probably be a
lucid hour before death, but what right would his best friend have to
embitter those final moments for one who would certainly go out of this
world with no hope of the next? Yet, when he was gone at last, would it
be no slur on the memory of such true friendship to do what would have
hurt him, if he could have known of it? Lamberti was not sure. Like some
strong men of rough temperament, he had hidden delicacies of feeling
that many a girl would have thought foolish and exaggerated, and they
were the more sensitive because they were so secret, and he never
suffered outward things to come in contact with them, nor spoke of them,
even to Guido.
Some people said that Guido was Quixotic, and he was certainly the
personification of honour. If the papers Lamberti had safe in his pocket
had come into Guido's possession as they had come into Lamberti's own,
Guido would have sent them back to Princess Anatolie, quite sure that
she had a right to them, whether they were partly forged or not, because
he had originally given them to her and nothing could induce him to take
them back. The reason why Guido's illness had turned into brain fever
was simply that he believed his honourable reputation among men to have
been gravely damaged by an article in a newspaper. Honour was his god,
his religion, and his rule of life; it was all he had beyond the
material world, and it was sacred. He had not that something else,
simple but undefinable, and as sensitive as an uncovered nerve, that lay
under his friend's rougher character and sturdier heart. Nature would
never have chosen him to be one instrument in that mysterious harmony of
two sleeping beings which had linked Cecilia and Lamberti in their
dreams. It was not the melancholy and intellectual Cassius who trembled
before Caesar's ghost at Philippi; it was rough Brutus, the believer in
himself and the man of action.
The illness ran its course. While it continued Lamberti went every other
day to the Palazzo Massimo and told the two ladies of Guido's state. He
and Cecilia looked at each other silently, but she never showed that she
wished to be alone with him, and he made no attempt to see her except in
her mother's presence. Both felt that Guido was dying, and knew that
they had some share in his sufferings. As soon as the Countess learned
that the danger was real she gave up all thought of leaving Rome, and
there was no discussion about it between her and her daughter. She was
worldly and often foolish, but she was not unkind, and she had grown
really fond of Guido since the spring. So they waited for the turn of
the illness, or for its sudden end, and the days dragged on painfully.
Lamberti was as lean as a man trained for a race, and the cords stood
out on his throat when he spoke, but nothing seemed to tire him. The
good Countess lost her fresh colour and grew listless, but she
complained only of the heat and the solitude of Rome in summer, and if
she felt any impatience she never showed it. Cecilia was as slender and
pale as one of the lilies of the Annunciation, but her eyes were full of
light. In the early morning she often used to go with her maid to the
distant church of Santa Croce, and late in the afternoons she went for
long drives with her mother in the Campagna. Twice Lamberti came to
luncheon, and the three were silent and subdued when they were together.
Then the news came that Princess Anatolie had died suddenly at her place
in Styria, and one of the secretaries of the Austrian embassy, who was
obliged to stay in town, came to the Palazzo Massimo the same afternoon
and told the Countess some details of the old lady's death. There was
certainly something mysterious about it, but no one regretted her
translation to a better world, though it put a number of high and mighty
persons into mourning for a little while.
She died in the drawing-room after dinner, almost with her coffee cup in
her hand. It was the heart, of course, said the young secretary. Two or
three of her relations were staying in the house, and one of them was
the man who had been at her dinner-party given for the engaged couple,
and who resembled Guido but was older. The Countess remembered his name
very well. It had leaked out that he was exceedingly angry at the
article in the _Figaro_ and had said one or two sharp things to the
Princess, when Monsieur Leroy had come in unexpectedly, though the
Princess had sent him away for a few days. No one knew exactly what
followed, but Monsieur Leroy was an insolent person and the Princess's
cousin was not patient of impertinence nor of anything like an attack on
Guido d'Este. It was said that Monsieur Leroy had left the room hastily
and that the other had followed him at once, in a very bad temper, and
that the Princess, who thought Monsieur Leroy was going to be badly
hurt, if not killed, had died of fright, without uttering a word or a
cry. She had always been unaccountably attached to Monsieur Leroy. The
secretary glanced at Cecilia, asked for another cup of tea, and
discreetly changed the subject, fearing that he had already said a
little too much.
"I believe Guido may recover, now that she is dead," Lamberti said, when
he heard the story.
The change in Guido's state came one night about eleven o'clock, when
Lamberti and the French nun were standing beside the bed, looking into
his face and wondering whether he would open his eyes before he died. He
had been lying motionless for many hours, turned a little on one side,
and his breathing was very faint. There seemed to be hardly any life
left in the wasted body.
"I think he will die about midnight," Lamberti whispered to the nurse.
The good nun, who thought so too, bent down and spoke gently close to
the sick man's ear. She could not bear to let him go out of life without
a Christian word, though Lamberti had told her again and again that his
friend believed in nothing beyond death.
"You are dying," she said, softly and clearly. "Think of God! Try to
think of God, Signor d'Este!"
That was all she could find to say, for she was a simple soul and not
eloquent; but perhaps it might do some good. She knelt down then, by the
bedside.
"Look!" cried Lamberti in a low voice, bending forwards.
Guido had opened his eyes, and they were wide and grave.
"Thank you," he said, after a few seconds, faintly but distinctly. "You
are very kind. But I am not going to die."
The quiet eyes closed, and the mystery of life went on in silence. That
was all he had to say. The nun knelt down again and folded her hands,
but in less than a minute she rose and busied herself noiselessly,
preparing something in a glass. It would be the last time that anything
would pass his lips, she thought, and it might be quite useless to give
it to him, but it must be ready. Many and many a time she had heard the
dying declare quietly that they were out of danger. Lamberti stood
motionless by the bedside, thinking much the same things and feeling as
if his own heart were slowly turning into lead.
He stood there a long time, convinced that it was useless to send for
the doctor, who always came about midnight, for Guido would probably be
dead before he came. He would stop breathing presently, and that would
be the end. The lids would open a little, but the eyes would not see,
there would be a little white froth on the parted lips, and that would
be the end. Guido would know the great secret then.
But the breathing did not cease, and the eyes did not open again; on the
contrary, at the end of half an hour Lamberti was almost sure that the
lids were more tightly closed than before, and that the breath came and
went with a fuller sound. In ten minutes more he was sure that the sick
man was peacefully sleeping, and not likely to die that night. He turned
away with a deep sigh of relief.
The doctor came soon after midnight. He would not disturb Guido; he
looked at him a long time and listened to his breathing, and nodded with
evident satisfaction.
"You may begin to hope now," he said quietly to Lamberti, not even
whispering, for he knew how deep such sleep was sure to be. "He may not
wake before to-morrow afternoon. Do not be anxious. I will come early in
the morning."
"Very well," answered Lamberti. "By the bye, a near relation of his has
died suddenly while he has been delirious. Shall I tell him if he wakes
quite conscious?"
"If it will give him great satisfaction to know of his relative's death,
tell him of it by all means," answered the doctor, his quiet eye
twinkling a little, for he had often heard of the Princess Anatolie, and
knew that she was dead.
"I do not think the news will cause him pain," said Lamberti, with
perfect gravity.
The doctor gave the nurse a few directions and went away, evidently
convinced that Guido was out of all immediate danger. Then Lamberti
rested at last, for the nun slept in the daytime and was fresh for the
night's watching. He stretched himself upon Guido's long chair in the
drawing-room, leaving the door open, and one light burning, so that the
nurse could call him at once. He had earned his rest, and as he shut his
eyes his only wish was that he could have let Cecilia know of the change
before he went to sleep. A moment later he was sitting beside her on the
bench in the Villa Madama, by the fountain, telling her that Guido was
safe at last.
When he awoke the sun had risen an hour.