time to hold it back, but at last it fell on her hand. Deeply moved,
assailed and overthrown by the formidable little god with whom one
cannot afford to trifle, I put my lips to that lovely hand and greedily
drank that sweet tear, a subtle poison which kindled a flame in my
bosom. I heard the cousin returning, and, rising hurriedly, I said:
"_Addio_, signora, I will obey you blindly, I swear upon my honor; if
your cousin insults me, I will swallow his insults; I will play a
coward's part rather than cause you to shed a second tear."
With that I bowed to the ground and left the room. The cousin did not
seem to me so bellicose as she had depicted him; for he saluted me first
when I passed him. I walked slowly from the house, depressed beyond
words; for I was in love, and I must not return. On becoming sincere, my
love became generous.
I turned several times to catch a glimpse of the signora's velvet dress,
but she had disappeared. As I was passing through the gate of the park,
I saw her in a narrow path which followed the wall on the inside. She
had run, in order to reach that point as soon as I did, and when I spied
her she strove to assume a slow and pensive gait; but she was all out of
breath and her lovely black hair was disarranged by the branches she had
hurriedly thrust aside as she ran through the underbrush. I started to
join her, but she made a sign to indicate that somebody was following
her. I tried to pass through the gate, but I could not make up my mind
to do it. Thereupon, she waved her hand to bid me farewell, accompanying
the gesture with an unutterable glance and smile. At that moment she was
more beautiful than I had ever seen her.
I placed one hand on my heart, the other on my forehead, and hurried
away, mad with joy and love. I had seen the branches moving just behind
the signora; but, there as elsewhere, the cousin arrived too late. I had
disappeared.
I found in my room a letter from Checchina. "I had started to join you,"
she wrote, "and to rest a while from the fatigues of the stage in the
pleasant shade of Cafaggiolo. I was upset at San Giovanni; I have
nothing worse than a few bruises, but my carriage is broken. The
bungling workmen in this village say they must have three days to repair
it. Take your calèche and come and fetch me, unless you wish me to die
of ennui in this muleteers' tavern."
I set out an hour later and reached San Giovanni at daybreak.
"How does it happen that you are alone?" I asked, trying to escape from
her long arms and her sisterly embraces, which had become unendurable to
me since my illness, because of the perfumes with which she saturated
herself beyond all reason, whether because she fancied that she was
imitating the great ladies, or because she loved passionately anything
that appeals to the senses.
"I have had a row with Nasi," she said; "I have left him, and I don't
want to hear any more about him!"
"It can't be very serious," I replied, "as you are on your way to take
up your quarters in his house."
"On the contrary, it is very serious; for I have forbidden him to follow
me."
"And apparently you intended to deprive him of the means of doing so,
when you took his carriage to run away in, and broke it on the road."
"It's his own fault, for I had to keep urging the postilions. Why has he
adopted the bad habit of following me? I would have liked to be killed
by the accident, and have him arrive in time to see me die, and to learn
what it is to thwart a woman like me."
"That is to say, a mad woman. But you will not have the pleasure of
dying for revenge, in the first place, because you are not hurt, and
secondly, because he has not run after you."
"Oh! he probably passed through here last night without suspecting that
I was here, and you must have met him on your way. We will go and join
him at Cafaggiolo."
"He is just crazy enough for that."
"If I were perfectly sure of it, I would like to remain here in hiding a
week, just to worry him and make him think that I have gone to France,
as I threatened to do."
"As you please, my dear: I salute you and leave my carriage at your
service. For my own part, I have little liking for this region and this
inn."
"If you were not a dolt, you would avenge me, Lelio!"
"Thanks! I have not been insulted; nor you either, I fancy."
"Oh! I have been mortally insulted, Lelio!"
"I suppose he refused to give you twenty thousand francs' worth of white
gloves, and insisted on giving you diamonds worth fifty thousand
instead; something like that, no doubt?"
"No, no, Lelio; he wants to marry!"
"Provided that he doesn't want to marry you, that is a most pardonable
desire."
"And the most horrible part of it is that he had an idea that he could
induce me to consent to his marriage and still retain my good graces.
After such an insult, would you believe that he had the audacity to
offer me a million, on condition that I would allow him to marry, and
that I would remain faithful to him!"
"A million! the devil! that is at least the fortieth million I have
known of you refusing, my poor Checchina. The millions you have spurned
would be enough to keep the whole royal family!"
"You are always joking, Lelio. The day will come when you will see that,
if I had chosen, I might have been a queen like some other women. Are
Napoleon's sisters any more beautiful than I am? Have they more talent,
more wit, more spirit? Ah! how well I could manage a kingdom!"
"Almost as well as you could keep books by double entry in a business
house. Upon my word! you have put on your wrapper wrong side before, and
you are wiping tears from your lovely eyes with one of your silk
stockings. Put aside these ambitious dreams for a moment, dress
yourself, and let us be off."
As we returned to the villa at Cafaggiolo, by dint of allowing my
travelling companion to give a free rein to her heroic declamations, her
digressions and her boasting, I succeeded, not without difficulty, in
finding out that honest Nasi had been fascinated at a ball by a lovely
young person, and had asked her hand in marriage; that he had gone to
Checchina to inform her of his determination; that, as she had adopted
the expedient of fainting and going into convulsions, he had been so
dismayed by the violence of her despair, that he had begged her to
consent to a middle course and to remain his mistress in spite of his
marriage. Thereupon Checchina, seeing that he was weakening, had
haughtily refused to share her lover's heart and purse. She had ordered
post-horses, and had signed, or pretended to sign, an engagement with
the Opera at Paris. The easy-going Nasi had been unable to endure the
thought of giving up a woman whom he was not sure that he had ceased to
adore, for a woman whom he was not sure that he had begun to adore. He
had begged the singer's forgiveness; he had retracted his offer of
marriage, and had ceased his attentions to the illustrious beauty, whose
name Checchina did not know. Checchina had allowed herself to be
prevailed upon; but she had learned indirectly, on the day following
this great sacrifice, that Nasi was entitled to no great credit
therefor, inasmuch as, between the scene of frenzied despair and the
reconciliation, his offer of marriage had been rejected, and he had been
cast aside in favor of a happy rival. Checchina, wounded to the quick,
had left Naples, leaving a withering letter for the count, in which she
declared that she would never see him again; and, taking the road to
France--for all roads lead to Paris as well as to Rome--she hastened to
Cafaggiolo to wait until her lover should come in pursuit of her, and
place his body across her path to prevent her from proceeding farther
with a vengeance of which she was beginning to be a little weary.
All this was not mere vulgar and avaricious scheming on Checchina's
part. She loved opulence, it is true, and could not do without it; but
she had such implicit faith in her destiny, and was naturally so
audacious, that she constantly risked the good fortune of one day for
that of the morrow. She passed the Rubicon every morning, confident of
finding on the other bank a more flourishing realm than the one she left
behind. Thus there was nothing base and low-minded in this feminine
trickery, because there was in it no element of fear. She did not play
at grief; she made neither false promises nor hypocritical prayers. In
her moments of vexation she had genuine paroxysms of nervous excitement.
Why were her lovers so credulous as to mistake the vehemence of her
anger for the result of profound grief resisted by pride? Is it not our
own fault when we are duped by our own vanity?
Moreover, even if Checchina did play a bit at tragedy in her boudoir, in
order to preserve her empire, she had an ample excuse in the absolute
sincerity of her conduct. I have never known a woman more fearlessly
frank, more faithful to lovers who were faithful to her, more reckless
in her admissions when she revenged herself in kind, more incapable of
recovering her power by means of a falsehood. To be sure her love was
not strong enough for that, and no man seemed to her to be worth the
trouble of putting constraint upon herself and of humiliating herself in
her own eyes by prolonged dissembling. I have often thought that women
are very foolish to demand so much frankness when we are so far from
appreciating the merit of fidelity, I have often learned by my own
experience that one must have more passion to carry out a falsehood,
than courage to tell the truth. It is so easy to be sincere with persons
one does not love! It is so pleasant to be sincere with those whom one
has ceased to love!
This simple reflection will explain why it was impossible for me to love
Checchina for long, and also why it was impossible for me not to esteem
her always, despite her insolent outbreaks and her immeasurable
ambition. I soon found out that she was a detestable mistress and an
excellent friend; and then, too, there was a sort of poetic charm in
that adventuress-like energy, in that disregard for wealth inspired by
the very love of wealth, in that incredible conceit, always crowned by
even more incredible success. She was forever comparing herself
favorably to Napoleon's sisters, and making herself out the equal of
Napoleon himself. That was amusing and not too ridiculous. In her own
sphere she was as bold and as fortunate as the great conqueror. She
never had for lovers any but young, handsome, rich and honorable men;
and I do not believe that a single one of them ever complained of her
after leaving or losing her; for in reality she had a great and noble
heart. She could always atone for a thousand foolish and mischievous
exploits by one decisive display of strength of character and kindness
of heart. In a word, she was brave, both morally and physically, and
people of that temperament are always good for something, wherever they
may be and whatever they may do.
"My poor child," I said to her as we drove along, "you will be nicely
caught if Nasi takes you at your word and lets you start for France."
"There's no danger of that," she said with a smile, forgetting that she
had just told me that she would not for anything in the world allow
herself to be softened by his submission.
"But suppose that does happen, what will you do? You have nothing in the
world, and you are not in the habit of keeping the gifts of your lovers
when you part. That is what makes me esteem you a little bit, despite
all your faults. Come, tell me, what is going to become of you?"
"I shall be very sorry," she replied; "yes, really, Lelio, I shall
regret it; for Nasi is an excellent fellow, he has a big heart. I will
bet that I shall weep for--I don't know how long! But after all, one
either has a destiny or one hasn't. If it is God's will that I go to
France, it would seem to be because I am likely to have no more luck in
Italy. If I am parted from that dear, affectionate lover of mine, I have
no doubt that it is because a more devoted and more courageous man is
waiting yonder for me, to marry me, and prove to the world that love is
superior to all prejudices. Mark my words, Lelio, I shall be a princess,
perhaps a queen. An old fortune-teller of Malamocco predicted it in my
horoscope when I was only four years old, and I have always believed it:
a proof that it must be so!"
"A conclusive proof," I rejoined, "an unanswerable argument! Queen of
Barataria, I salute you!"
"What is Barataria? Is it Cimarosa's new opera?"
"No, it is the name of the star that presides over your destiny."
We arrived at Cafaggiolo and did not find Nasi there.
"Your star is waning, fortune is abandoning you," I said to the girl
from Chioggia.
She bit her lips and replied at once, with a smile:
"There is always a mist on the lagoons before sunrise. In any event we
must keep up our strength and so be prepared for the blows of destiny."
As she spoke, she took her seat at the table and ate almost the whole of
a pope's eye stuffed with truffles; after which she slept twelve hours
without a break, passed three hours at her toilet, and sparkled with wit
and nonsense until evening. Nasi did not appear.
For my own part, amid the merriment and animation which that excellent
girl had brought into my solitude, I was absorbed by the memory of my
adventure at the Grimani villa, and tortured by the longing to see my
fair patrician once more. But how was I to do it? I cudgelled my brain
to no purpose to invent some means which would not compromise her. When
I left her I had sworn to do nothing imprudent. As I reviewed in my mind
my impressions of those last moments, when she had appeared in such an
artless and touching aspect, I felt that I could not act inconsiderately
with respect to her without forfeiting my own esteem. I dared not make
inquiries concerning her friends, still less concerning her domestic
arrangements. I had refrained from making acquaintances in the
neighborhood, and now I almost regretted that I had done so; for I might
have learned by accident what I dared not ask directly. The servant who
waited upon me was a Neapolitan who had come with me, and, like myself,
had never been in that region before. The gardener was stupid and deaf.
An old care-taker, in charge of the villa since Nasi's childhood, might
perhaps have enlightened me; but I was afraid to question her, for she
was inquisitive and loquacious. She was much disturbed to know where I
went; and, during the three days that I had failed to bring her any game
or to give an account of my rambles, she was so wrought up that I
trembled lest she should discover my romance. The bare mention of a name
might put her on the track. So I was very careful not to pronounce it. I
did not wish to go to Florence; I was too well known there; if I showed
my face there, I was certain to be overwhelmed with visits. The
unhealthy and misanthropical frame of mind which had caused me to seek
the solitude of Cafaggiolo, had led me likewise to conceal my name and
profession from the very servants in the house as well as from the
neighbors. It was necessary now for me to guard my _incognito_ more
closely than ever; for I supposed that the count would soon arrive, and
that his fancy for marriage would lead him to desire to bury in mystery
Checchina's presence in his house.
Two days passed with no word from Nasi, who might have enlightened me;
and I had not ventured to take a step out-of-doors. Checchina had a
heavy cold and considerable pain, as a result of the mishaps of her
journey. It may well be that, as she did not quite know what course to
adopt with me, and as she preferred not to seem to be waiting for her
faithless lover, after swearing that she would not wait for him, she was
not sorry to have a valid excuse for remaining at Cafaggiolo.
One morning, finding that I could not stand it any longer, for that
signorina of fifteen with her little white hands and great black eyes
was always in my head, I took my game-bag, called my dog, and started
out to hunt, forgetting nothing but my rifle. In vain did I prowl about
the Grimani villa; I did not see a living being, I did not hear a human
sound. All the gates of the park were locked, and I noticed that on the
main avenue, at the end of which one could catch a glimpse of the
house-front, some large trees had been felled and their dense foliage
completely intercepted the view. Had that barricade been erected with
premeditation? Was it an act of revenge on the cousin's part? Was it a
precaution taken by the aunt? Was it a mischievous exploit of my heroine
herself? "If I thought that!" I said to myself. But I did not think it.
I much preferred to suppose that she was lamenting over my absence and
her own captivity, and I formed innumerable plans to set her free, each
more absurd than the last.
On returning to Cafaggiolo, I found in Checchina's bedroom a pretty
village maiden whom I at once recognized as La Grimani's foster sister.
"Here's a lovely child who refuses to give her message to anybody but
you, Lelio," said Checchina, who had seated her unceremoniously on the
side of her bed. "I have taken her under my protection because old
Catalina insisted on sending her away with an insolent answer. But I saw
by her modest manner that she is a good girl, and I haven't asked her
any injudicious questions. Isn't that true, my pretty brunette? Come,
don't be shamefaced, but go into the salon with Signor Lelio. I am not
inquisitive, I tell you; I have something else to do besides annoy my
friends."
"Come, my dear child," I said to the soubrette, "and have no fear; you
have only honorable people to deal with here."
The poor girl stood in the middle of the floor, bewildered, and in such
distress that it made one's heart ache. Although she had had the courage
to conceal the object of her visit up to that time, she took from her
pocket, in her confusion, and half revealed a note which she instantly
thrust out of sight again, distracted between her fears for her own
honor and for her mistress's.
"Oh dear!" she said at last in a trembling voice, "suppose the signora
should think that I came here with any evil intention!"
"My poor child, I think nothing at all," replied kind-hearted Checchina,
opening a book and reading it with eye-glasses, although her sight was
excellent; for she thought that it was good form to have weak eyes.
"The signora is so kind and received me with so much confidence,"
continued the girl.
"Your appearance must inspire confidence in everybody," replied the
singer, "and if I am kind to you, it is because you deserve it. Come,
come; I am not inquisitive, I tell you; say what you have to say to
Signor Lelio, it will not vex me in the slightest degree. Come, take her
away, Lelio! Poor child! she thinks she is ruined. Nonsense, my dear,
actors are just as honorable as other people, be sure of that."
The girl made a low courtesy and followed me into the salon. Her heart
was beating as if it would break the lacings of her green velvet waist,
and her cheeks were as scarlet as her skirt. She hastily took the letter
from her pocket and, after handing it to me, stepped back, she was so
afraid that I would be as rude to her as I was before. I reassured her
by the tranquillity of my demeanor, and asked her if she had anything
more to say to me.
"I am to wait for the answer," she replied, with an air of the most
profound distress.
"Very well," said I, "go and wait in the signora's apartment."
And I escorted her back to Checchina.
"This excellent girl," I explained, "wishes to enter the services of a
lady in Florence whom I know very well, and she has come to me for a
letter of recommendation. Will you allow her to stay with you while I go
and write it?"
"Yes, yes, to be sure!" replied Checchina, motioning her to sit down,
and smiling at her with an amiable and patronizing air. This sweetness
and simplicity of manner toward persons of her former station in life
were among the Chioggian's excellent qualities. While she mimicked the
affectations of the great lady, she retained the brusque and ingenuous
kindliness of the fisherman's child. Her manners, though often
ridiculous, were always affable; and if she did enjoy lying in state
under a satin coverlet trimmed with lace, for the benefit of that poor
village girl, she found none the less, in her heart and on her lips,
affectionate words to encourage her in her humility.
The signora's letter was in these words:
"Three days without coming again! Either you have little wit, or you
have little desire to see me again. Is it for me to find a way of
continuing our friendly relations? If you have not tried to find one,
you are a fool; if you have tried and failed, you are what you accuse me
of being. To prove that I am neither _haughty_ nor _stupid_, I write to
make an appointment with you. To-morrow, Sunday, morning I shall be at
eight o'clock mass, at _Santa Maria del Sasso_, Florence. My aunt is
ill; only Lila, my foster sister, will accompany me. If the footman or
coachman notice you or question you, give them money; they are rascals.
_Addio_, until to-morrow."
To reply, to promise, to swear, to express my thanks, and to hand to
Lila the most bombastic of love-letters, was an affair of a few moments
only. But when I attempted to slip a gold piece into the messenger's
hand, I was checked by a glance instinct with melancholy dignity. From
pure devotion to her mistress she had yielded to her caprice; but it was
evident that her conscience reproached her for that weakness, and that
to offer to pay her for it would have been to punish and mortify her
cruelly. At that moment I reproached myself bitterly for the kiss I had
ventured to steal from her, in order to pique her mistress, and I tried
to atone for my fault by escorting her to the end of the garden with as
much respect and courtesy as I could have shown to any great lady.
I was very nervous all the rest of the day. Checchina noticed my
preoccupation.
"Come, Lelio," she said, toward the close of the supper which we ate
together on a pretty little terrace shaded by grape-vines and jasmine;
"I see that you are worried about something; why not open your heart to
me? Did I ever betray a secret? Am I not worthy of your confidence? Have
I deserved to have you withdraw it from me?"
"No, my dear Checchina," I replied, "I appreciate your discretion"--and
it is certain that she would have kept Brutus's secrets as well as ever
Portia did;--"but," I added, "even if all my secrets belong to you,
there are others----"
"I know what you are going to say," she exclaimed. "That there are
others which don't belong to you alone, and which you have no right to
betray; but if I guess them in spite of you, ought you to carry your
scruples so far as to deny, all to no purpose, what I know as well as
you do? You know, my friend, I understand that pretty girl's call
perfectly well; I saw her hand in her pocket, and before she had said
good-morning to me, I knew that she had brought a letter. The timid and
distressed air of that poor Iris"--Checchina had been very fond of
mythological references ever since she had spelled out Tasso's _Aminta_
and Guarini's _Adone_--"told me plainly enough that there was a genuine
romance behind it, a great lady afraid of public opinion, or a young
damsel risking her future union with some worthy citizen. One thing is
certain, that you have made one of those conquests of which you men are
so proud, because they are supposed to be difficult and require a lot of
mystery. You see that I have guessed the secret, don't you?"
I answered with a smile.
"I won't ask you any more questions," she continued; "I know that you
are not likely to confide the person's name, nor her rank, nor her place
of abode to me; indeed, those things don't interest me. But I may ask
you whether you are in raptures or in despair, and you must tell me if I
can be of any use to you."
"If I need you, I will tell you so," I replied; "and as for telling you
whether I am in raptures or in despair, I can assure you that I am in
neither as yet."
"Very good! very good! beware of one no less than of the other; for, in
either case, there's no occasion for such great excitement."
"What do you know about it?"
"My dear Lelio," she replied in a sententious tone, "let us suppose that
you are in raptures. What is one yielding woman more or less in the life
of a man of the stage: of the stage, where the women are so beautiful
and so sparkling with wit? Do you propose to lose your head over a
conquest in aristocratic society? Vanity! mere vanity! Society women are
as inferior to us in every respect as vanity is to glory."
"That is true modesty, and I congratulate you," I replied; "but might we
not give the aphorism another turn, and say that it is vanity, not love,
which brings society men to the feet of actresses?"