THE JOURNEY TO ROME
It was about ten o'clock--or, it may be, nearer half-past ten--the same
night when two inhabitants of the village received very genuine, yet
far from unpleasant, shocks of surprise.
The first was the parish priest. He was returning from a visit to the
bedside of a sick peasant and making his way along the straggling
street towards his own modest dwelling, which stood near the inn, when
he met a tall stranger of most dilapidated appearance, whose clothes
were creased and dirty, and whose head was encircled by a stained and
grimy handkerchief. He wore no hat; his face was disfigured with
blotches of an ugly colour and, maybe, an uglier significance; his
trousers were most atrociously rent and tattered; he walked with a
limp, and shivered in the cold night air. This unpromising-looking
person approached the priest and addressed him with an elaborate
courtesy oddly out of keeping with his scarecrow-like appearance, but
with words appropriate enough to the figure that he cut.
"Reverend father," said he, "pardon the liberty I take, but may I beg
of your Reverence's great kindness--"
"It 's no use begging of me," interrupted the priest hurriedly, for he
was rather alarmed. "In the first place, I have nothing; in the
second, mendicancy is forbidden by the regulations of the commune."
The wayfarer stared at the priest, looked down at his own apparel, and
then burst into a laugh.
"Begging forbidden, eh?" he exclaimed. "Then the poor must need
voluntary aid!" He thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out two
French five-franc pieces. "For the poor, father," he said, pressing
them into the priest's hand. "For myself, I was merely about to ask
you the time of night." And before the astonished priest could make
any movement the stranger passed on his way, humming a soft, and
sentimental tune.
"He was certainly mad, but he undoubtedly gave me ten francs," said the
priest to his friend the innkeeper, the next day.
"I wish," growled the innkeeper, "that somebody would give me some
money to pay for what those two runaway rogues who lodged here had of
me, their baggage is worth no more than half what they 've cost me, and
I 'll lay odds I never clap eyes on them again."
And in this suspicion the innkeeper proved, in the issue, to be
absolutely right, about the value of the luggage there is, however,
more room for doubt.
The second person who suffered a surprise was no less a man than the
Count of Fieramondi himself. But how this came about needs a little
more explanation.
In that very room through whose doorway Captain Dieppe had first beheld
the lady whom he now worshipped with a devotion as ardent as it was
unhappy, there were now two ladies engaged in conversation. One sat in
an arm-chair, nursing the yellow cat of which mention has been made
earlier in this history; the other walked up and down with every
appearance of weariness, trouble, and distress on her handsome face.
"Oh, the Bishop was just as bad as the banker," she cried fretfully,
"and the banker was just as silly as the Bishop. The Bishop said that,
although he might have considered the question of giving me absolution
from a vow which I had been practically compelled to take, he could
hold out no prospect of my getting it beforehand for taking a vow which
I took with no other intention than that of breaking it."
"I told you he 'd say that before you went," observed the lady in the
arm-chair, who seemed to be treating the situation with a coolness in
strong contrast to her companion's agitation.
"And the banker said that although, if I had actually spent fifty
thousand lire more than I possessed, he would have done his best to see
how he could extricate me from the trouble, he certainly would not help
me to get fifty thousand for the express purpose of throwing them away."
"I thought the banker would say that," remarked the other lady,
caressing the cat.
"And they both advised me to take my husband's opinion on the matter.
My husband's opinion!" Her tone was bitter and tragic indeed. "I
suppose they 're right," she said, flinging herself dejectedly into a
chair. "I must tell Andrea everything. Oh, and he 'll forgive me!"
"Well, I should think it's rather nice being forgiven."
"Oh, no, not by Andrea!" The faintest smile flitted for an instant
across her face. "Oh, no, Andrea does n't forgive like that. His
forgiveness is very--well, horribly biblical, you know. Oh, I 'd
better not have gone to Rome at all!"
"I never saw any good in your going to Rome, you know."
"Yes, I must tell him everything. Because Paul de Roustache is sure to
come and--"
"He 's come already," observed the second lady, calmly.
"What? Come?"
The other lady set down the cat, rose to her feet, took out of her
pocket a gold ring and a gold locket, walked over to her companion, and
held them out to her. "These are yours, are n't they?" she inquired,
and broke into a merry laugh. The sight brought nothing but an
astonished stare and a breathless ejaculation--
"Lucia!"
The two ladies drew their chairs close together, and a long
conversation ensued, Lucia being the chief narrator, while her
companion, whom she addressed from time to time as Emilia, did little
more than listen and throw in exclamations of wonder, surprise, or
delight.
"How splendidly you kept the secret!" she cried once. And again, "How
lucky that he should be here!" And again, "I thought he looked quite
charming." And once again, "But, goodness, what a state the poor man
must be in! How could you help telling him, Lucia?"
"I had promised," said Lucia, solemnly, "and I keep my promises,
Emilia."
"And that man has positively gone?" sighed Emilia, taking no notice of
a rather challenging emphasis which Lucia had laid on her last remark.
"Yes, gone for good--I 'm sure of it. And you need n't tell Andrea
anything. Just take all the vows he asks you to! But he won't now;
you see he wants a reconciliation as much as you do."
"I shall insist on taking at least one vow," said Emilia, with a
virtuous air. She stopped and started. "But what in the world am I to
say about you, my dear?" she asked.
"Say I 've just come back from Rome, of course," responded Lucia.
"If he should find out--"
"It 's very unlikely, and at the worst you must take another vow,
Emilia. But Andrea 'll never suspect the truth unless--"
"Unless what?"
"Unless Captain Dieppe lets it out, you know."
"It would be better if Captain Dieppe did n't come back, I think,"
observed Emilia, thoughtfully.
"Well, of all the ungrateful women!" cried Lucia, indignantly. But
Emilia sprang up and kissed her, and began pressing her with all sorts
of questions, or rather with all sorts of ways of putting one question,
which made her blush very much, and to which she seemed unable, or
unwilling, to give any definite reply. At last Emilia abandoned the
attempt to extract an admission, and observed with a sigh of
satisfaction:
"I think I 'd better see Andrea and forgive him."
"You 'll change your frock first, won't you, dear?" cried Lucia. It
was certainly not desirable that Emilia should present herself to the
Count in the garments she was then wearing.
"Yes, of course. Will you come with me to Andrea?"
"No. Send for me, presently--as soon as it occurs to you that I 've
just come back from Rome, you know, and should be so happy to hear of
your reconciliation."
Half an hour later,--for the change of costume had to be radical, since
there is all the difference in the world between a travelling-dress and
an easy, negligent, yet elegant, toilette suggestive of home and the
fireside, and certainly not of wanderings,--the Count of Fieramondi got
his shock of surprise in the shape of an inquiry whether he were at
leisure to receive a visit from the Countess.
Yet his surprise, great as it was at a result at once so prosperous and
so speedy, did not prevent him from drawing the obvious inference. His
thoughts had already been occupied with Captain Dieppe. It was now
half-past ten; he had waited an hour for dinner, and then eaten it
alone in some disquietude; as time went on he became seriously uneasy,
and had considered the despatch of a search expedition. If his friend
did not return in half an hour, he had declared, he himself would go
and look for him; and he had requested that he should be informed the
moment the Captain put in an appearance. But, alas! what is
friendship--even friendship reinforced by gratitude--beside love? As
the poets have often remarked, in language not here to be attained, its
power is insignificant, and its claims go to the wall. On fire with
the emotions excited by the Countess's message, the Count forgot both
Dieppe and all that he owed to Dieppe's intercession; the matter went
clean out of his head for the moment. He leapt up, pushed away the
poem on which he had been trying to concentrate his mind, and cried
eagerly:
"I 'm at the Countess's disposal. I 'll wait on her at once."
"The Countess is already on her way here," was the servant's answer.
The first transports of joy are perhaps better left in a sacred
privacy. Indeed the Count was not for much explanation, or for many
words. What need was there? The Countess acquiesced in his view with
remarkable alacrity; the fewer words there were, and especially,
perhaps, the fewer explanations, the easier and more gracious was her
part. She had thought the matter over, there in the solitude to which
her Andrea's cruelty had condemned her: and, yes, she would take the
oath--in fact any number of oaths--to hold no further communication
whatever with Paul de Roustache.
"Ah, your very offer is a reproach to me," said the Count, softly. "I
told you that now I ask no oath, that your promise was enough, that--"
"You told me?" exclaimed the Countess, with some appearance of surprise.
"Why, yes. At least I begged Dieppe to tell you in my name. Did n't
he?"
For a moment the Countess paused, engaged in rapid calculations, then
she said sweetly:
"Oh, yes, of course! But it's not the same as hearing it from your own
lips, Andrea."
"Where did you see him?" asked the Count. "Did he pass the barricade?
Ah, we 'll soon have that down, won't we?"
"Oh, yes, Andrea; do let 's have it down, because--"
"But where did you and Dieppe have your talk?"
"Oh--oh--down by the river, Andrea."
"He found you there?"
"Yes, he found me there, and--and talked to me."
"And gave you back the ring?" inquired the Count, tenderly.
The Countess took it from her pocket and handed it to her husband. "I
'd rather you 'd put it on yourself," she said.
The Count took her hand in his and placed the ring on her finger. It
fitted very well, indeed. There could be no doubt that it was made for
the hand on which it now rested. The Count kissed it as he set it
there.
At last, however, he found time to remember the obligations he was
under to his friend.
"But where can our dear Dieppe be?" he cried. "We owe so much to him."
"Yes, we do owe a lot to him," murmured the Countess. "But, Andrea--"
"Indeed, my darling, we must n't forget him. I must--"
"No, we must n't forget him. Oh, no, we won't. But, Andrea, I--I 've
got another piece of news for you." The Countess spoke with a little
timidity, as if she were trying delicate ground, and were not quite
sure of her footing.
"More news? What an eventful night!"
He took his wife's hand. Away went all thoughts of poor Dieppe again.
"Yes, it's so lucky, happening just to-night. Lucia has come back! An
hour ago!"
"Lucia come back!" exclaimed the Count, gladly. "That's good news,
indeed."
"It 'll delight her so much to find us--to find us like this again,
Andrea."
"Yes, yes, we must send for her. Is she in her room? And where has
she come from?"
"Rome," answered the Countess, again in a rather nervous way.
"Rome!" cried the Count in surprise. "What took her to Rome?"
"She does n't like to be asked much about it," began the Countess, with
a prudent air.
"I 'm sure I don't want to pry into her affairs, but--"
"No, I knew you would n't want to do that, Andrea."
"Still, my dear, it 's really a little odd. She left only four days
ago. Now she 's back, and--"
The Count broke off, looking rather distressed. Such proceedings,
accompanied by such mystery, were not, to his mind, quite the proper
thing for a young and unmarried lady.
"I won't ask her any questions," he went on, "but I suppose she 's told
you, Emilia?"
"Oh, yes, she 's told me," said the Countess, hastily.
"And am I to be excluded from your confidence?"
The Countess put her arms round his neck.
"Well, you know, Andrea," said she, "you do sometimes scoff at
religion--well, I mean you talk rather lightly sometimes, you know."
"Oh, she went on a religious errand, did she?"
"Yes," the Countess answered in a more confident tone. "She
particularly wanted to consult the Bishop of Mesopotamia. She believes
in him very much. Oh, so do I. I do believe, Andrea, that if you knew
the Bishop of--"
"My dear, I don't want to know the Bishop of Mesopotamia; but Lucia is
perfectly at liberty to consult him as much as she pleases. I don't
see any need for mystery."
"No, neither do I," murmured the Countess. "But dear Lucia is--is so
sensitive, you know."
"I remember seeing him about Rome very well. I must ask Lucia whether
he still wears that--"
"Really, the less you question Lucia about her journey the better, dear
Andrea," said the Countess, in a tone which was very affectionate, but
also marked by much decision. And there can be no doubt she spoke the
truth, from her own point of view, at least. "Would n't it be kind to
send for her now?" she added. In fact the Countess found this
interview, so gratifying and delightful in its main aspect, rather
difficult in certain minor ways, and Lucia would be a convenient ally.
It was much better, too, that they should talk about one another in one
another's presence. That is always more straightforward; and, in this
case, it would minimise the chances of a misunderstanding in the
future. For instance, if Lucia showed ignorance about the Bishop of
Mesopotamia--! "Do let's send for Lucia," the Countess said again,
coaxingly; and the Count, after a playful show of unwillingness to end
their tete-a-tete, at last consented.
But here was another difficulty--Lucia could not be found. The right
wing was searched without result; she was nowhere. On the chance,
unlikely indeed but possible, that she had taken advantage of the new
state of things, they searched the left wing too--with an equal absence
of result. Lucia was nowhere in the house; so it was reported. The
Count was very much surprised.
"Can she have gone out at this time of night?" he cried.
The Countess was not much surprised. She well understood how Lucia
might have gone out a little way--far enough, say, to look for Captain
Dieppe, and make him aware of how matters stood. But she did not
suggest this explanation to her husband; explanations are to be avoided
when they themselves require too much explaining.
"It's very fine now," said she, looking out of the window. "Perhaps
she's just gone for a turn on the road."
"What for?" asked the Count, spreading out his hands in some
bewilderment.
The Countess, in an extremity, once more invoked the aid of the Bishop
of Mesopotamia.
"Perhaps, dear," she said gently, "to think it over--to reflect in
quiet on what she has learnt and been advised." And she added, as an
artistic touch, "To think it over under the stars, dear Andrea."
The Count, betraying a trifle of impatience, turned to the servant.
"Run down the road," he commanded, "and see if the Countess Lucia is
anywhere about." He returned to his wife's side. "One good thing
about it is that we can have our talk out," said he.
"Yes, but let 's leave the horrid past and talk about the future,"
urged the Countess, with affection--and no doubt with wisdom also.
The servant, who in obedience to the Count's order ran down the road
towards the village, did not see the Countess Lucia. That lady,
mistrusting the explicitness of her hurried note, had stolen out into
the garden, and was now standing hidden in the shadow of the barricade,
straining her eyes down the hill towards the river and the
stepping-stones. There lay the shortest way for the Captain to
return--and of course, she had reasoned, he would come the shortest
way. She did not, however, allow for the Captain's pardonable
reluctance to get wet a third time that night. He did not know the
habits of the river, and he distrusted the stepping-stones. After his
experience he was all for a bridge. Moreover he did not hurry back to
the Castle; he had much to think over, and no inviting prospect lured
him home on the wings of hope. What hope was there? What hope of
happiness either for himself or for the lady whom he loved? If he
yielded to his love, he wronged her--her and his own honour. If he
resisted, he must renounce her--aye, and leave her, not to a loving
husband, but to one who deceived her most grossly and most cruelly, in
a way which made her own venial errors seem as nothing in the Captain's
partial, pitying eyes. In the distress of these thoughts he forgot his
victories: how he had disposed of Paul de Roustache, how he had
defeated M. Guillaume, how his precious papers were safe, and even how
the Countess was freed from all her fears. It was her misery he
thought of now, not her fears. For she loved him. And in his inmost
heart he knew that he must leave her.
Yes; in the recesses of his heart he knew what true love for her and a
true regard for his own honour alike demanded. But he did not mean
that, because he saw this and was resolved to act on it, the Count
should escape castigation. Before he went, before he left behind him
what was dearest in life, and again took his way alone, unfriended,
solitary (penniless too, if he had happened to remember this), he would
speak his mind to the Count, first in stinging reproaches, later in the
appeal that friendship may make to honour; and at the last he would
demand from the Count, as the recompense for his own services, an utter
renunciation and abandonment of the lady who had dropped the locket by
the ford, of her whom the driver had carried to the door of the house
which the Countess of Fieramondi honoured with her gracious presence.
In drawing a contrast between the Countess and this shameless woman the
last remembrance of the Countess's peccadilloes faded from his
indignant mind. He quickened his pace a little, as a man does when he
has reached a final decision. He crossed the bridge, ascended the hill
on which the Castle stood, and came opposite to the little gate which
the Count himself had opened to him on that first happy--or
unhappy--night on which he had become an inmate of the house.
Even as he came to it, it opened, and the Count's servant ran out. In
a moment he saw Dieppe and called to him loudly and gladly.
"Sir, sir, my master is most anxious about you. He feared for your
safety."
"I 'm safe enough," answered Dieppe, in a gloomy tone.
"He begs your immediate presence, sir. He is in the dining-room."
Dieppe braced himself to the task before him.
"I will follow you," he said; and passing the gate he allowed the
servant to precede him into the house. "Now for what I must say!" he
thought, as he was conducted towards the dining-room.
The servant had been ordered to let the Count know the moment that
Captain Dieppe returned. How obey these orders more to the letter than
by ushering the Captain himself directly into the Count's presence? He
threw open the door, announcing--
"Captain Dieppe!" and then withdrawing with dexterous quickness.
Captain Dieppe had expected nothing good. The reality was worse than
his imagining The Count sat on a sofa, and by him, with her arms round
his neck, was the lady whom Dieppe had escorted across the ford on the
road from Sasellano. The Captain stood still just within the doorway,
frowning heavily. Sadly he remembered the Countess's letter. Alas, it
was plain enough that she had not come in time!
Just at this moment the servant, having seen nothing of Countess Lucia
on the road, decided, as a last resort, to search the garden for her
Ladyship.