"I am like Dante," said Guido to Lamberti, when he was recovering. "I
have been in Hell, and now I am in Purgatory. But I shall not reach the
earthly Paradise at the top, much less the Heaven beyond."
He smiled sadly and looked at his friend.
"Who knows?" Lamberti asked, by way of answer.
"Beatrice will not lead me further."
Guido closed his eyes, and wondered why he had come back to life, out of
so much suffering, only to be tormented again in the same way, perhaps
when the end really came. His memories of his serious illness were vague
and indistinct, but they were all horrible. He only recalled the
beginning very clearly, how he had glanced through the newspaper article
and had dropped it in sudden and overwhelming despair; and then, how he
had roused himself and had felt in the drawer for his revolver; not
finding it, he had lost consciousness just as he realised that even that
means of escape from life had been taken from him. He remembered having
felt as if something broke in his brain, though he knew that he was not
dying.
After that, fragments of his ravings came back to him with the still
vivid recollection of awful pain, of monstrous darkness, of lurid
lights, of hideous beings glaring and gnashing their jagged teeth at
him, and of a continual discordant noise of voices that had run all
through his delirium like the crying out and moaning of many creatures
in agony. It was no wonder that he compared what he remembered of his
sufferings to hell itself.
And now that he was alive, of what use was life to him? His honour was
cleared, indeed, for Lamberti had taken care of that. Lamberti had
burned the papers before his eyes after telling him how Princess
Anatolie had died, and had read him the paragraph which Baron Goldbirn
had caused to be inserted in the _Figaro_. The Princess was dead, and
Monsieur Leroy would probably never trouble any one again. When he had
squandered what she had left him, he would probably get a living as a
medium in Vienna. Guido knew the secret of the tie that bound him to the
Princess, but was quite sure that the proud old woman had never let him
guess it himself, in spite of her doting affection for him. Those of her
family who knew it would not tell him, of all people, and if Monsieur
Leroy ever begged money of Guido he would not present himself as an
unfortunate cousin.
Guido foresaw no difficulties in the future, but he anticipated no
happiness, and his life stretched before him, colourless, blank, and
idle.
Since his delirium had ceased, he had not once spoken of Cecilia, and
Lamberti began to fear that he would not allude to her for a long time.
That did not make it easier to tell him the story he must hear, and the
time had come when he must hear it, come what might, lest he should ever
think that he had been intentionally kept in ignorance of the truth.
Lamberti was glad when he spoke of Cecilia as a Beatrice who would never
appear to lead him further, and knew at once that the opportunity must
not be lost.
It was the hardest moment in Lamberti's life. It had been far easier to
hide what he felt, so long as he had not guessed that Cecilia loved him,
than it was to speak out now; it had cost him much less to be steadfast
in his silence with her while Guido's illness lasted. To make Guido
understand all, it would be necessary to tell all from the beginning,
even to explaining that what he had taken for mutual aversion at first,
had been an attraction so irresistible that it had frightened Cecilia
and had made Lamberti compare it with a possession of the devil and a
haunting spirit.
The two men were sitting on the brick steps of the miniature Roman
theatre close to the oak which is still called Tasso's, a few yards from
the new road that leads over the Janiculum through what was once the
Villa Corsini. It was shady there, and Rome lay at their feet in the
still afternoon. The waiting carriage was out of sight, and there was no
sound but the rustling of leaves stirred by the summer breeze. It was
nearly the middle of August.
"They are still in Rome," Lamberti said, after a moment's pause, during
which he had decided to speak at last.
"Are they?" asked Guido, coldly.
"Yes. Neither the Countess nor her daughter would go away till you were
well."
"I am well now."
He was painfully thin and his eyes were hollow. The doctor had ordered
mountain air and he was going to stay with one of his relatives in the
Austrian Tyrol as soon as he could bear the journey without too much
fatigue.
"They wish to see you," Lamberti said, glancing sideways at his face.
"I cannot refuse, but I would rather not see them. They ought to
understand that, I think."
He was offended by what seemed very like an intrusion on the privacy of
a suffering that was still keen. Why could they not leave him alone?
"They would not have gone away in any case till you recovered," Lamberti
answered, "but the Contessina would not have the bad taste to wish for a
meeting just now, unless there were a reason which you do not know, and
which I must explain to you, cost what it may."
Guido looked at Lamberti in surprise and then laughed a little
scornfully.
"Is she going to be married?" he asked.
"Perhaps."
"Already!"
His tone was sad, and pitying, and slightly contemptuous. His lips
closed after the single word and he drew his eyelids together, as he
looked steadily out over the deep city towards the hills to eastward.
"Then it was true that she cared for another man," he said, in a low
voice.
"Yes. It was quite true."
"She wrote me in that letter that he did not know it."
"That was true also."
"And that he was not in the least in love with her."
"She thought so."
"But she was mistaken, you mean to say. He loved her, but did not show
it."
"Precisely. He loved her, but he was careful not to show it because he
understood that her mother and the Princess wished to marry her to you,
and because he happened to know that you were in earnest."
"That was decent of him, at all events," Guido said wearily. "Some men
would have behaved differently."
"I daresay," Lamberti answered.
"Is he a man I know?"
"Yes. You know him very well."
"And now she has asked you to tell me his name. I suppose that is why
you begin this conversation. You are trying to break it gently to me."
He smiled contemptuously.
"Yes!"
The word was spoken as if it cost an effort. Lamberti held his stout
stick with both hands over his crossed knee and leaned back, so that it
bent a little with the strain.
"My dear fellow," said Guido, with a little impatience, "it seems to me
that you need not take so much trouble to spare my feelings! If you do
not tell me who the man is, some one else will."
"No one else can," Lamberti answered, with emphasis.
"Why not? I would rather speak of her with you, if I must speak of her
at all, of course. But some obliging person is sure to tell me, or write
to me about it, as soon as the engagement is announced. 'My dear d'Este,
do you remember that girl you were engaged to last spring?' And so on.
Remember her!"
"There is no engagement," Lamberti said. "No one will write to you about
it, and no one knows who the man is, except the Contessina and the man
himself."
"And you," corrected Guido. "You may as well keep the secret, so far as
I am concerned. I have no curiosity about it. There will be time enough
to tell me when the engagement is announced."
"I do not think that there can be any engagement until you know."
"Oh, this is absurd! The Contessina was frank. She did not love me, she
told me so, and we agreed that our engagement should end. What possible
claim have I to know whom she wishes to marry now?"
"You have the strongest claim that any man can have, though not on her.
The man is your friend."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Guido, becoming impatient. "A dozen men I like
might be called friends of mine, I suppose, but you know very well that
you are the only intimate friend I have."
"Yes, I know."
"Well? I can hardly fancy that you mean yourself, can I?"
Lamberti did not move, but as Guido looked at him for an answer, he saw
that he could not speak just then, and that he was clenching his teeth.
Guido stared at him a moment and then started.
"Lamberti!" he cried sharply.
Lamberti slowly turned his head and gazed into Guido's eyes without
speaking. Then they both looked out at the distant hills in silence for
a long time.
"The Contessina was very loyal to you, Guido," Lamberti said at last, in
a low tone. "She could not tell you that it was I, and I did not know
it."
Again there was a silence for a time.
"When did you know it?" Guido asked slowly.
"After she had been to see you. It was my fault, then."
"What was your fault?"
"When we went downstairs, I thought I should never see her again, and I
never meant to. How could I know what she felt? She never betrayed
herself by a glance or a tone of her voice. I loved her with all my
heart, and when you had both told me that everything was quite over
between you, I wanted her to know that I did. Was that disloyal to you,
since you had definitely given up the hope of marrying her, and since I
did not expect to see her again for years and thought she was quite
indifferent?"
"No," Guido answered, after a moment's thought. "But you should have
told me at once."
"When I came upstairs the Countess was still there, and you were quite
worn out. I put you to bed, meaning to tell you that same evening, after
you had rested. When I came back you had brain fever, and did not know
me. So I have had to wait until to-day."
"And you have seen each other constantly while I have been ill, of
course," said Guido, with some bitterness. "It was natural, I suppose."
"Since that day when we spoke on the staircase we have only been alone
together once, for a moment. I asked her then if I should tell her
mother, and she said 'Not yet.' Excepting that, we have never exchanged
a word that you and her mother might not have heard, nor a glance that
you might not have seen. We both knew that we were waiting for you to
get well, and we have waited."
Guido looked at him with a sort of wonder.
"That was like you," he said quietly.
"You understand, now," Lamberti continued. "You and I met her on the
same day at your aunt's, and when I saw her, I felt as if I had always
known her and loved her. No one can explain such things. Then by a
strange coincidence we dreamt the same dream, on the same night."
"Was it she whom you met in the Forum, and who ran away from you?" asked
Guido, in astonishment.
"Yes. That is the reason why we always avoided each other, and why I
would not go to their house till you almost forced me to. We had never
spoken alone together till the garden party. It was then that we found
out that our dreams were alike, and after that I kept away from her more
than ever, but I dreamt of her every night."
"So that was your secret, that afternoon!"
"Yes. We had dreamt of each other and we had met in the Forum in the
place we had dreamt of, and she ran away without speaking to me. That
was the whole secret. She was afraid of me, and I loved her, and was
beginning to know it. I thought there was something wrong with my head
and went to see a doctor. He talked to me about telepathy, but seemed
inclined to consider that it might possibly be a mere train of
coincidences. I think I have told you everything."
For a long time they sat side by side in silence, each thinking his own
thoughts.
"Is there anything you do not understand?" Lamberti asked at last.
"No," Guido answered thoughtfully. "I understand it all. It was rather a
shock at first, but I am glad you have told me. Perhaps I do not quite
understand why she wishes to see me."
"We both wish to be sure that you bear us no ill-will. I am sure she
does, and I know that I do."
There was a pause again.
"Do you think I am that kind of friend?" Guido asked, with a little
sadness. "After what you have done, too?"
"I am afraid my mere existence has broken up your life, after all,"
Lamberti answered.
"You must not think that. Please do not, my friend. There is only one
thing that could hurt me now that it is all over."
"What is that?"
"I am not afraid that it will happen. You are not the kind of man to
break her heart."
"No," Lamberti answered very quietly. "I am not."
"It was only a dream for me, after all," Guido said, after a little
while. "You have the reality. She used to talk of three great questions,
and I remember them now as if I heard her asking them: 'What can I know?
What is it my duty to do? What may I hope?' Those were the three."
"And the answers?"
"Nothing, nothing, nothing. Those are my answers. Unless----"
He stopped.
"Unless--what?" Lamberti asked.
Guido smiled a little.
"Unless there is really something beyond it all, something essentially
true, something absolute by nature."
Lamberti had never known his friend to admit such a possibility even
under a condition.
"At all events," Guido added, "our friendship is true and absolute.
Shall we go home? I feel a little tired."
Lamberti helped him to the carriage and drew the light cover over his
knees before getting in himself. Then they drove down towards the city,
by the long and beautiful drive, past the Acqua Paola and San Pietro in
Montorio.
"You must go and see her this evening," Guido said gently, as they came
near the Palazzo Farnese. "Will you tell her something from me? Tell
her, please, that it would be a little hard for me to talk with her now,
but that she must not think I am not glad that she is going to marry my
best friend."
"Thank you. I will say that." Lamberti's voice was less steady than
Guido's.
"And tell her that I will write to her from the Tyrol."
"Yes."
It was over. The two men knew that their faithful friendship was
unshaken still, and that they should meet on the morrow and trust each
other more than ever. But on this evening it was better that each should
go his own way, the one to his solitude and his thoughts, the other to
the happiest hour of his life.