Nothing happened during the next week; nothing, that is to say,
which can be chronicled as an event. But the determination which
Maria had formed after her chance meeting with Castiglione gained
strength continually. She went to confession at last, and it was a
bitter satisfaction to be told that she was in mortal sin because
she had whispered those few loving words in the weakness of an
instant; she was reminded that if the mere wish to kill was almost
as bad as the intention, and that the intention was murder and
nothing else, it followed that the most passing wish to be united
with any man but her husband was a betrayal of her marriage vow
only a little less grave than the worst. She replied that she knew
it was. She was warned that she must uproot from her heart every
memory of the man she had loved, if she hoped to be forgiven. She
bowed her head and answered that she wished with all her soul to do
so, and was trying with all her might to succeed.
She had gone once more to the terrible old Capuchin, because she
knew what he would say, and wished to hear him say it. Though the
name of Padre Bonaventura was known to her and to many, he did not
know her and had never seen her face; it was before God that she
accused herself and abased herself, and promised to do better, and
most earnestly prayed for help. The monk remembered her without
knowing who she was, and before he pronounced the absolution she
implored, he said what he believed it his duty to say. It was a
short, harsh homily on the abominable wickedness of the rich and
great, who were so much better taught and so much more carefully
brought up than the poor and the ignorant, and therefore so much
the more responsible for their thoughts and actions. The sin of
the noble lady was a thousand times greater than the fault of the
unlettered hill-woman. Why should a lady of Rome expect to be
forgiven more easily than a peasant?
To this also Maria bent her head, and said she came to confession
as a sinful woman, with no thought of her own station in life;
and at last the Capuchin was satisfied. While she was kneeling in
the quiet church just afterwards, he came out of his box and went
away, and she watched him, remembering how he had stalked away, in
righteous indignation, with his grim old head in the air, after
she had come to him the first time. But now he walked quietly and
slowly, looking down; and before he disappeared he knelt before the
altar a few moments. She knew that he was praying for her, as a
good confessor does for each penitent, and she was humbly grateful.
Even in her inmost consciousness she did not think critically of
what he had said, nor find fault with his scant knowledge of great
ladies’ hearts.
She did not think she had ‘risen higher’ now. Her attempt to
rise by the purification of her earthly love had been a wretched
failure. Henceforth she would dream no dreams of that sort: not
once, in years to come, would she willingly dwell on thoughts of
Baldassare del Castiglione.
It was half-past five o’clock when she reached her home again,
and on the way another resolution had formed itself, on which she
acted at once. She determined to tell her husband everything that
had happened before he had come back. Her reason was a practical
one, strong enough to warrant the risk she was about to take;
for she now distrusted the man Schmidt, who might at any moment
turn against her and use the knowledge he had obtained, and ruin
Montalto’s life by placing her in an utterly false light. It was
only natural that the steward should hate her, since she had caught
him in the chapel, and before long he would try to get rid of her.
Yet she was thinking less of herself now than of Montalto.
She sent for her husband’s valet, and told him to beg the Count to
come to her as soon as he returned.
An hour later he entered the boudoir, looking rather pale and
tired, as she thought. Her resolution wavered for a moment, but
soon returned when she remembered the man who had stolen her
secret, and who might so terribly misrepresent it. That thought had
hindered her from burning the letters as soon as they were again in
her possession, and she had put them away in her jewel-case.
She made Montalto sit down near the small fire, and, to his
surprise, she locked the door that led into the ball-room before
she seated herself beside him.
‘We might be interrupted,’ she said, in explanation.
‘What is the matter, my dear?’ her husband asked.
‘I have something to tell you,’ she answered. ‘You must be patient
with me, Diego. You must try to understand, though it will be hard.
I thought I was doing right, but after a long time I am quite sure
that it was wrong.’
‘My dear Maria,’ Montalto said, ‘if your intention was good, you
did nothing wrong. You only made a mistake.’
‘Thank you.’ She was grateful for the trite words, because she knew
that he meant them. ‘When you came home,’ she continued after a
short time, ‘I told you that I had seen Baldassare, and that we had
parted for ever. You said we need not speak of him again.’
‘Yes.’ Montalto’s face became very grave as he nodded and looked at
the fire.
‘What I told you was true,’ she went on. ‘The last time we met, we
agreed never to see each other again if we could avoid it. That
was quite true. But it gave you a wrong impression. You may have
thought that after you had gone away to live in Spain we had only
met that once.’
Montalto looked at her with a startled expression, but she met his
eyes quietly and honestly.
‘No, Diego,’ she said at once, ‘I did nothing that I thought wrong
or felt ashamed of.’
He turned to the fire with a sigh of relief, but did not speak.
‘He came to Rome a month or more before your mother died,’ she
continued. ‘I had not seen him since--since that time--you
know--long before you first went to your mother. We met by
accident. They had persuaded me to take one of the booths at
Kermess in the Villa, and he appeared quite unexpectedly. You
believe me, don’t you, Diego?’
Montalto turned to her and spoke very slowly.
‘I shall believe every word you tell me. You never told me an
untruth in your life.’
‘No, never. But I thank you for trusting me now. It is not every
man that would. After he came back’--she was careful not to mention
Castiglione’s name after the first time--‘I saw him again and
again; I thought I hated him, Diego, but I loved him still.’
It was hard to say, but perhaps it was harder to hear. Yet her
husband had never known how she had deceived herself into believing
that she hated Castiglione, and he did not turn upon her as she had
expected. His head sank a little, but he was still watching the
burning logs.
‘Do you love him now?’ he asked with an effort.
‘I have promised on my knees and before God to tear every thought
of him from my heart.’
There was no mistaking her tone.
‘That is enough,’ he answered. ‘No one can ask more than that of
you.’
A short silence followed.
‘Is that all, my dear?’ he asked presently in a kind tone.
‘No. There is more, and it will be harder to understand, perhaps,
though it will be easier to say. I found him greatly changed after
all those years; changed for the better, I mean. Then I let myself
believe that we could love each other innocently for the rest of
our lives, and do no wrong, not even to you.’
‘Not even to me.’ There was a sudden bitterness in Montalto’s voice
as he repeated the words.
‘I did not think you loved me still, Diego. You had not forgiven me
then. I felt that my only duty to you was to bear your name without
more reproach, and I did that. There was not a word breathed
against me in those years. You know how I lived, and I had no
secret; what the world knew was all there was to be known. But when
he came back I began to dream of something innocent--that seemed
possible.’
The last sentence choked her a little. Montalto turned to her.
‘Do you regret your dream now? Do you wish it back?’ he asked
sorrowfully.
‘No!’ she said with sudden vehemence. ‘It was not right, it was
wrong! It was not innocent, it was a temptation! It is gone. I will
never think of it again, nor of him, if God will help me to forget.’
‘I am trying to help you, too, Maria.’
The words cut her to the quick. He meant them so truly, he spoke
them so humbly, he loved her so dearly; yet she felt her flesh
creep at his touch and shrank under his least caress, do what she
could.
‘I know you are, Diego,’ she managed to say, and then she collected
her strength to tell what was left. ‘It lasted a month or six weeks
altogether,’ she said, going on quickly. ‘He had exchanged into
another regiment in order not to be quartered in Rome. He was in
Milan then, and he was here on a short leave. He applied to be
allowed to come back to the Piedmont Lancers. While he was in Milan
we wrote to each other. We promised to be faithful and innocent;
we told each other that we would love as spirits love, and meet in
heaven. Then your mother died, and you wrote me that first long
letter, and I answered it; and on the same day I wrote to him and
told him he must not come to Rome, that we must never see each
other again because you were going to take me back. But it was too
late, the matter had been settled already, and he had to come.’
‘Of course,’ said Montalto, in a dull tone, when she paused.
‘I sent for him then. That was the last time, the time I told you
of. He came, and we said good-bye.’
A long pause followed, and Montalto did not move.
‘Is that all you wished to tell me?’ he asked at length.
‘I let him kiss my cheek twice,’ Maria said, very low.
This time her husband turned towards her quickly, and she saw how
very pale he was.
‘Was that when you parted?’
‘No! Oh, no! It was in those first few days when he was here on
leave.’
Montalto seemed relieved, and his face softened; he was still
looking at her, but he did not speak.
‘Can you forgive me that?’ she asked.
‘You meant no harm,’ he said. ‘You were not thinking of doing
any wrong, you were only dreaming of an impossible good. There is
nothing to forgive.’
‘Ah, how good you are to me! How very, very good!’
‘It is only justice, and I love you. How can I be unjust to you
when I see how hard you are trying to do right?’
‘You are one of the best men that ever lived,’ said Maria, and
for a few seconds she covered her face with her hands. ‘Only tell
me,’ she continued presently, looking up, ‘you know all my story
now--have I hurt you very much?’
‘A little, my dear, but it is over already. Think of what I should
have felt if you had not told me these things, and if some enemy,
who knew, had told them as an enemy might!’
He, who was often so dull, seemed to have divined her inmost
intention. She rose from her seat.
‘What is it?’ he asked, moving to stand up.
‘Wait a moment!’
She went into her dressing-room and returned almost instantly,
bringing a large envelope. He was seated again and she stood
between him and the fireplace, facing him.
‘He wrote me seven letters,’ she said. ‘Here they are. I give them
into your hands. Read them, and you will understand better.’
He took the envelope and held it a moment, looking up to her face
with a gentle smile.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said. ‘I do not need any proofs in order
to believe you.’
He rose then and tried to pass her, to reach the fire, evidently
meaning to burn the letters at once.
The tears came suddenly to her eyes without overflowing, as they
did sometimes when she was much moved by a generous word or deed,
but she caught at his arm as he was in the act of tossing the
letters into the flames. The envelope left his hand but fell short
and lay on the polished tiles of the hearth. Maria stooped and
picked it up.
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘you must not burn them yet. I know you
trust me now, but there is that other possibility. Some enemy of
yours or mine may say that we wrote to each other. You must be able
to answer that you have the real letters in your keeping.’
‘That is true,’ said Montalto, and he took the envelope back from
her. ‘I will seal it and put it away.’
He went to her writing-table, and she followed him to light the
little taper in its silver stand and to place the sealing wax
before him when he had sat down. He melted it slowly and spread a
broad patch upon the overlapping point of the envelope, working
the wax neatly round and round till it stiffened, and then putting
on more with a little flame, and working it over till the patch
softened again.
‘Your seal is not ready,’ said Maria, glancing at the ring on his
finger. ‘The wax will get cold.’
He said nothing, but when he was ready he took her own seal,
which lay beside the taper-stand, and pressed it upon the wax.
When he lifted it, there was a clear impression of Maria’s simple
monogram, the doubled letter that began both her names, encircled
by a little belt, on which were engraved the words ‘Risurgi e
Vinci’--meaning ‘Rise again and overcome.’ They are from the
_Paradiso_ of Dante.
Once more her eyes grew dim with gratitude, for she knew what he
meant by using her seal; there was not to be even the possibility
of a doubt in her mind that he might ever open the packet.
He took her pen and wrote on the back, in his stiff and formal
handwriting.
‘In case of my death, to be given to my wife at once.’
‘Then you will burn it, my dear,’ he said, showing her what he had
written.
As she stood beside him her hand pressed hard upon his thin
shoulder, for she was very much touched. He looked up, smiling,
slipped the sealed envelope into his pocket and rose.
‘That is done,’ he said, ‘and we need never think of it again.’
‘You know what I feel,’ she answered softly. ‘I cannot say it.’
They went back to the fireplace and stood side by side gazing at
the flames. He linked his arm through hers without looking at her,
and she did not shrink from his touch, for she was thinking only of
his kindness then. He pressed her arm to his side and then withdrew
his own and looked at his watch.
‘I must be going,’ he said.
‘Stay a little longer,’ said she, and it was the first time she had
ever made such a request.
‘I wish I could. But there is a lawyer waiting for me, and I must
see him before dinner.’
‘A lawyer? Is anything wrong? You looked a little tired when you
came in. Has anything happened?’
‘Yes, my dear, and I wish your judgment were as good as your
heart!’ He smiled.
‘My judgment? What do you mean?’
‘Schmidt disappeared four days ago, and we cannot find any trace of
him.’
Maria was profoundly surprised.
‘Has he taken money?’ she asked after a moment.
‘That is the question. So far we cannot find anything wrong with
his books nor at the bank. But then he is so very “intelligent,”
you know!’
He laughed a little as he reminded his wife of their conversation
at Montalto. It was evident that he did not anticipate any heavy
loss.
‘He was always a modest young man,’ he continued. ‘I hope he has
not taken more than a modest sum!’
He laughed again, at his own little joke, as slow people do, and
Maria laughed too, though rather nervously.
‘I should be very sorry if the mistake I made about him caused you
any annoyance,’ she said.
‘Chiefly the trouble of finding a good man to take his place,’
Montalto said. ‘The lawyer is waiting, my dear.’
He laid his hands on her shoulders before going away and looked
into her eyes. She knew he was going to kiss her, and on any other
day she might have smiled and turned away to hide the intense
repugnance she felt for him. But that was impossible now; she
must not even let her lids droop, as if she did not wish to meet
his gaze frankly. Many months ago, Ippolito Saracinesca had told
her that in this world it is not enough to do right, but one must
also be seen to be doing right. If her eyes had wavered just then,
if she had shrunk from her husband’s kiss, there was just one
possibility that a doubt of her truth might sooner or later creep
out of some hiding-place in his memory to accuse her.
But Maria was a woman, and women have quick ways which we do not
anticipate. Instead of waiting, with her eyes in his, for him to
bend down and kiss her, she put up her hands suddenly to draw
his face to hers, and kissed him heartily on both cheeks; to his
infinite delight, and not, we may hope, to the detriment of her
truthfulness, her recent resolution, or her good faith in any way.
For no one can be held responsible for a physical aversion. Many
persons really suffer if a cat is in the room, and almost faint if
the creature accidentally brushes against them. If any of them read
these lines, they will understand, for that is what Maria felt for
the man who was her husband, and who loved her almost to folly.