Such a thought could have no real hold upon Maria, and she put it
away angrily, as unworthy and ungenerous, even in an extremity
which might have excused her for suspecting some innocent person.
It was much more likely, she soon told herself, that she had been
robbed by some servant in the house, who would sooner or later
attempt to blackmail her by threatening to show the letters to
her husband. As for knowing even approximately when the theft had
taken place, that was impossible. She had opened the writing-case
for the last time in May, and nearly eight months had now elapsed.
It was one of the objects she had formerly always locked up in a
closet in Via San Martino when she left Rome for the summer. This
year she had put it into the deep drawer of her new writing-table,
which had an English patent lock, and she had taken the key with
her to the country; but she knew that patent locks always had two
keys when they were new, and it occurred to her now that she had
never seen the second. Since she had been in Rome again she had
not even locked the drawer, and had felt safe in carrying only the
key of the desk itself. It was impossible to say when it had been
opened, and she realised at once how useless it was to waste time
and thought in trying to detect the thief.
He would reveal himself when he wanted the money. She felt sure
that money only had been his object in stealing the letters, for
she could not imagine that any one should have done it for mere
hatred of her.
The question was whether the thief would demand his price from her
or from Montalto. Most probably he would write first to her, for he
would know that she had some independent fortune. She would give
anything he asked, even if he asked for all she had.
But, on the other hand, he might go directly to her husband. The
thought appalled her; the catastrophe might happen at any moment;
it had perhaps happened already, that very day, since she had seen
Montalto, and she would see the change in his face when they met
at dinner; afterwards, when they were alone, he would bring his
accusation against her, and it would be a more bitter one than the
first had been, long ago. Her shame would be greater, too, before
the world when he left her the second time and for ever, and the
final ruin of his life would be upon her soul.
She wished she had told him everything when she had spoken of her
meeting with Castiglione; but she had judged it wiser not to say
more, for she had felt innocent of all evil then, and the knowledge
that many letters had been exchanged would have sorely disturbed
her husband’s peace. He would have answered her that she should
have written him all the truth before he came home. If she had
only done that, he might never have returned to claim her. Yet
this thought was evil, too, now that she had said those words to
Castiglione in the lift, and she must kill the memory of her lover
in her heart if she had the least respect left for herself, or for
her husband’s honour, or for God’s right.
Even now it would be better to throw herself upon Montalto’s
mercy and confess the truth before the thief wrote to him. She
would rather tell it all, against herself, than let him learn it
suddenly, brutally, from the vile letter in which the blackmailer
would make his demand. It would be easier for Montalto too. At
least he would be warned; at least, if he chose to cast her off
again, she would have given him the weapon, the right, and the
opportunity. Yes, it would be better so.
The brave thought took possession of her quickly. She believed
she saw the right course before her, in the clear light of a good
inspiration. Perhaps Montalto had come home already, though it
was only six o’clock and he rarely came in before seven. She now
recollected that Giuliana Parenzo and Monsignor Saracinesca were
coming to dinner. When her husband told her that he had asked Don
Ippolito to dine, she generally telephoned to Giuliana to come
if she could. The two men often engaged in endless discussions
about the relations of Church and State, during the evening; the
layman believed in the dream of restoring the temporal power of the
Pope, the churchman did not, and had a patriotic affection for his
country and a belief in its future, which made Montalto tremble
for his salvation. At first Maria had derived some amusement from
this anomalous situation, but when she had occasionally ventured
to put in a word for the new order of things, Montalto had been
visibly displeased. After that she had resorted to the device of
asking Giuliana, with whom she could talk quietly at one end of
the drawing-room while her husband and his friend carried on their
unending argument at the other. Incidentally, she often wondered
how such a broad-minded man as Don Ippolito could be so sincerely
attached to such a prejudiced one as Montalto.
To-night she would have to wait till the Canon and the Marchesa
were gone before she could speak to her husband. It would be very
unwise to tell him her story before dinner, though she felt an
intense desire to unburden herself of it at once. She wondered
how she should get through the evening, from eight o’clock till
half-past ten or eleven, without betraying her distress; but to her
own surprise she found herself growing calmer and cooler than she
could have thought it possible for her to be. She was in something
more than trouble; she was in danger from an unknown and dastardly
hand, and she was naturally brave enough to be calmer at such a
moment than under the strain of any purely mental suffering.
She was conscious of impatience more than of fear or want of
strength, for she was going to do the only thing that was brave and
right and truthful, and after that such consequences might come as
must.
She put the empty desk away in the drawer, and after a moment’s
hesitation she unlocked the door of the passage that led to the
chapel, opening it with one hand as she moved the key to turn up
the electric light; she entered, shut the door after her, and went
forwards, absorbed in her thoughts.
Before she was half-way down the long straight part of the passage,
after the corner, the lights went out. She stood still in momentary
surprise and then turned back. The electric light had been put in
by a German company, and the keys were little flat levers that were
kept in place by a spring. Maria thought she had perhaps not pushed
the one at the boudoir door quite far enough to set it, and that
it had sprung back of itself and cut off the current. She retraced
her steps, following the smooth varnished wall with her hand till
she reached the familiar corner, and then her own door. She pushed
the lever both ways but no light came, so she concluded that an
accident had happened to the wires just when she was half-way
through the passage.
There were no candles in the room, but she lit a wax taper she
used for sealing notes. It was a long and thick one, rolled on
itself and fitted into an old silver stand with a handle like a
candlestick, and it gave a very fair light. She threw the match
into the fire, entered the passage again, and made her way towards
the chapel. She went in and set the taper-stand on the marble floor
beside her as she knelt down in the place which was always hers.
Three small silver lamps, fed with pure olive oil and hanging from
the arch over the altar, shed a feeble light which was considerably
strengthened by that from the taper. The ugly barocco angels and
stucco work cast queer shadows above the altar and the walls, but
Maria did not even glance at them and bent her head down over her
clasped hands. The chapel had often been her refuge and her place
of peace, since she had first come there long before dawn in the
night that followed her husband’s return.
As she knelt there now in the silence and gloom she was thinking,
rather than trying to say any prayer; she was going over in
her mind the things she must say to be quite truthful. She was
recalling the words she had once said to Castiglione, the two
innocent kisses she had received from him, the promises both had
given and both had kept until to-day; and in the presence of the
mortal danger that was hanging over her now, she felt that the
whispered words of love she had spoken that afternoon were perhaps
but a small matter compared with it; a sin that concerned her own
soul only, to be confessed, repented of, and forgiven in time,
whereas the main great matters were her husband’s honour and the
happiness she had tried so hard to give him in all ways.
If only she could make him see the truth as she had seen it, he
would understand and still forgive; and her fortune could buy back
the evidence of what had been no real betrayal of his honour. If
only she could tell her true story as she knew it, that would be
the result.
She started as she knelt, and looked round in the dimness, with the
sudden conviction that she was not alone. Her hearing and sight
were very keen, but she was not aware of having heard any sound or
seen any moving shadow in the chapel. The certainty had come upon
her all at once, instinctively, she knew not how.
There was nothing to be seen, but she listened intently with
bent head. A moment later she looked up again, for she had heard
something. Some one was breathing not far from her, and it was that
soft and regular sound that had warned her before she was aware
that she heard it.
Her first impulse was to rise and search the chapel with her taper,
but it occurred to her that Montalto might have come there to say
his prayers, and might be kneeling somewhere out of sight, behind
one of the pillars that supported the arch. He had perhaps heard
her enter, and had not wished to disturb her by betraying his
presence. In his slow way he was very thoughtful for her. She would
go away now, and not let him know that she had heard him breathing.
But perhaps, again, if he were really present, there could be no
better time or place for telling him her story and appealing to his
kindness. Her impatience to do that turned the scale.
‘Diego, are you here?’ she asked softly.
There was no answer, but the breathing ceased for a moment and then
the unseen person drew a longer breath. Maria felt a little thrill
that was not fear; it was more like resentment. She took the taper
from the floor and rose to her feet.
‘Who is here?’ she asked in a louder tone.
Still there was no answer. Perhaps, after all, it was only a cat
that had slipped in when the chapel was being swept, and had gone
to sleep. Maria moved towards the altar, shading the light from her
eyes with her hand and peering over it into the gloom. She spoke as
she walked.
‘I hear you breathing. Show yourself, whoever you are! Come forward
at once!’
She spoke authoritatively and coolly, though at that very moment
something told her that the intruder might be a thief who had come
to steal the famous relic of the Cross that was preserved under
the altar. She looked first to the right and then to the left, and
there, flattened against the wall in the shadow of the pilaster,
she saw the figure of a man. Without hesitating a moment she went
straight towards him. When he understood that he was caught he came
forward at last, and the light of the taper showed her the face of
Orlando Schmidt, the steward.
Maria stopped two paces from him.
‘What are you doing here at this hour?’ she asked sternly.
She had never before seen him pale; he was white round the lips now.
‘I beg your Excellency’s pardon,’ he said with a glibness that did
not at all agree with his looks, ‘I came to see about some work
that is to be done, and when you entered I hid myself in order not
to disturb your Excellency’s devotions.’
The Countess held the small light higher and scrutinised his face
thoughtfully.
‘You are not telling the truth,’ she said with great calmness.
‘What were you doing here?’
‘What I have told you, Signora Contessa,’ he answered stubbornly.
‘There is no work to be done here,’ returned Maria, her tone
growing hard and clear. ‘The Count and I have talked of the chapel
recently. If you do not at once tell me what brings you here, with
no light at this hour, I shall go to the door and call.’
The chapel opened into the ante-chamber, of which the door was
generally open to the outer hall, where a footman was always
stationed.
‘Your Excellency is quite welcome,’ said Schmidt, and his coolness
almost convinced Maria that he had told the truth.
Yet his face was very white and his eyes showed his inward fear.
‘Take care,’ Maria said. ‘The Count has told me how he forgave you
once. I do not wish to ruin you, but unless you tell the truth I
shall call some one. You have either taken the relic from under the
altar or you came here to take it.’
‘You are mistaken, Signora Contessa,’ the man answered obstinately;
‘the relic is in its place. You may see for yourself.’
‘Then give me the keys, for you have them in your pocket.’
‘I have not, Excellency,’
‘I do not believe you.’
Maria held the light so that she could see him while she moved
quickly towards the large door.
‘I am going to call the servants,’ she said, ‘and they shall search
your pockets.’
Schmidt attempted to smile.
‘Your Excellency cannot be in earnest,’ he managed to say, but his
teeth were chattering and he was perfectly livid.
The Countess laid her hand on the lock. It could be opened from
within by a handle, but required a latch-key to open it from the
other side. She watched Schmidt steadily and began to turn the
knob. He looked round in a scared way, as if hoping to see some
means of escape, and her fingers slowly turned the handle of the
door. At the last second he broke down.
‘For God’s sake, Excellency!’ he cried, in utmost fear. ‘I have
taken nothing! I swear it on the altar, on the Sacrament----’
‘Do not blaspheme,’ said the Countess quietly, and she let the
latch spring softly back into its place. ‘If you had not something
about you which you have stolen, you would not be so frightened at
the idea of being searched.’
‘It is the disgrace before the servants----’
‘That is absurd. If nothing is found on you, the blame will fall
on me. You must make up your mind instantly whether you will throw
yourself on my mercy and show me what you have taken, or whether
the men shall search you.’
Her hand moved to the lock again, and Schmidt read in her face that
her patience was exhausted. A southern Italian would have become
dramatic at this point, and would probably have fallen on his
knees, tearing his hair and shedding real tears. But Schmidt was
from the north, and practically an Austrian. He was a thief, he saw
that he was caught, and he made the best of the situation at once.
‘Then I appeal to your Excellency’s generosity,’ he said quietly.
‘I have not touched the relic, and what I took some time ago I had
come to restore when you found me here.’
He produced from his pocket a square package, done up in a clean
sheet of white paper, without string. He handed it to her.
‘You will find here seven letters from the Conte del Castiglione,’
he said, ‘and one from his Excellency. I took them from your
writing-case three weeks ago, and I was going to put them back this
evening while you were at dinner. I heard you coming and I could
not go out by the ante-chamber without being seen. So I cut the
wire of the light and hid myself.’
Maria’s hand had closed upon the precious packet while he spoke.
‘You?’ she cried at last. She was almost speechless with amazement.
‘You took them?’
‘Yes, Signora Contessa, and I give them back and implore your
pardon.’
‘Why did you take them if it was not to extract money from me?’
Maria asked, recovering her presence of mind quickly.
In the storm of her distress she felt as if a wave had lifted her
up and had set her high on the shore, and at the first moment she
was more amazed at the man’s audacity than angry at what he had
done.
‘Signora Contessa,’ he said, ‘the story the Count told you is
true; since he forgave me, there is nothing I will not do for him,
his interest, and his honour. I did your Excellency the great
injustice of suspecting that you still corresponded with the
Signor Conte del Castiglione. I have read the letters and I have
observed the dates. I was wrong. If you think it wise to disturb my
master’s peace by telling him what I have done, I must submit and
bear his displeasure. He will turn me out for having dared to play
detective and spy upon the Signora Contessa in his own house, for
his confidence in you is absolute. Will your Excellency verify the
contents of the package? I will hold the taper, if you will allow
me.’
Maria felt as if she were in a dream, half good, half evil. She
opened the packet while Schmidt held the light, and she quickly
made sure that none of the letters were missing and that each was
complete; that was soon done, for Castiglione had rarely filled
more than one sheet in writing to her.
She laid them all together again and took the taper-stand from
the steward without a word. It was all a dream. If he had been
a villain, he might have had her fortune for what he was freely
giving back to her; but he had nothing. He had not even begged her
not to tell her husband what had happened. It was incomprehensible
beyond all explanation; but one fact remained: she had recovered
the letters of which the loss had nearly driven her mad, within an
hour of finding that they had been stolen. That was the main thing,
and nothing else mattered much for a while.
‘You have a singular way of serving your master,’ she said, as she
reached the door of the passage; ‘but since you have appealed to
my generosity, I shall say nothing to the Count.’
‘I am most grateful to your Excellency.’
He opened the door and held it back while she passed in, and when
he had shut it after her he heard the bolt pushed into its slot.
Then at last he smiled, for though a bolt is generally considered
to be a solid fastening for the inside of a door, this one could
easily be moved from without by an unobtrusive little brass button,
no bigger than a pea, that moved along a slit narrow enough to pass
unnoticed.
Schmidt waited in the chapel two hours. When he knew that the
family was at dinner, he opened the passage door noiselessly and
twisted together the ends of the wire he had cut. He had been badly
frightened, but things had ended well enough; better for him than
for the Countess, he thought.