The Princess Sant' Ilario's early life had been deeply stirred by the
great makers of human character, sorrow and happiness. She had suffered
profoundly, she had borne her trials with a rare courage, and her
reward, if one may call it so, had been very great. She had seen the
world and known it well, and the knowledge had not been forgotten in
the peaceful prosperity of later years. Gifted with a beauty not
equalled, perhaps, in those times, endowed with a strong and passionate
nature under a singularly cold and calm outward manner, she had been
saved from many dangers by the rarest of commonplace qualities, common
sense. She had never passed for an intellectual person, she had never
been very brilliant in conversation, she had even been thought
old-fashioned in her prejudices concerning the books she read. But her
judgment had rarely failed her at critical moments. Once only, she
remembered having committed a great mistake, of which the sudden and
unexpected consequences had almost wrecked her life. But in that case
she had suffered her heart to lead her, an innocent girl's good name had
been at stake, and she had rashly taken a responsibility too heavy for
love itself to bear. Those days were long past now; twenty years
separated Corona, the mother of four tall sons, from the Corona who had
risked all to save poor little Faustina Montevarchi.
But even she knew that a state of such perpetual and unclouded happiness
could hardly last a lifetime, and she had forced herself, almost
laughing at the thought, to look forward to the day when Orsino must
cease to be a boy and must face the world of strong loves and hates
through which most men have to pass, and which all men must have known
in order to be men indeed.
The people whose lives are full of the most romantic incidents, are not
generally, I think, people of romantic disposition. Romance, like power,
will come uncalled for, and those who seek it most, are often those who
find it least. And the reason is simple enough. The man of heart is not
perpetually burrowing in his surroundings for affections upon which his
heart may feed, any more than the very strong man is naturally impelled
to lift every weight he sees or to fight with every man he meets. The
persons whom others call romantic are rarely conscious of being so. They
are generally far too much occupied with the one great thought which
make their strongest, bravest and meanest actions seem perfectly
commonplace to themselves. Corona Del Carmine, who had heroically
sacrificed herself in her earliest girlhood to save her father from ruin
and who a few years later had risked a priceless happiness to shield a
foolish girl, had not in her whole life been conscious of a single
romantic instinct. Brave, devoted, but unimaginative by nature, she had
followed her heart's direction in most worldly matters.
She was amazed to find that she was becoming romantic now, in her dreams
for Orsino's future. All sorts of ideas which she would have laughed at
in her own youth flitted through her brain from morning till night. Her
fancy built up a life for her eldest son, which she knew to be far from
the possibility of realisation, but which had for her a new and strange
attraction.
She planned for him the most unimaginable happiness, of a kind which
would perhaps have hardly satisfied his more modern instincts. She saw a
maiden of indescribable beauty, brought up in unapproachable
perfections, guarded by the all but insuperable jealousy of an ideal
home. Orsino was to love this vision, and none other, from the first
meeting to the term of his natural life, and was to win her in the face
or difficulties such as would have made even Giovanni, the incomparable,
look grave. This radiant creature was also to love Orsino, as a matter
of course, with a love vastly more angelic than human, but not hastily
nor thoughtlessly, lest Orsino should get her too easily and not value
her as he ought. Then she saw the two betrothed, side by side on shady
lawns and moonlit terraces, in a perfectly beautiful intimacy such as
they would certainly never enjoy in the existing conditions of their own
society. But that mattered little. The wooing, the winning and the
marrying of the exquisite girl were to make up Orsino's life, and fifty
or sixty years of idyllic happiness were to be the reward of their
mutual devotion. Had she not spent twenty such years herself? Then why
should not all the rest be possible?
The dreams came and went and she was too sensible not to laugh at them.
That was not the youth of Giovanni, her husband, nor of men who even
faintly resembled him in her estimation. Giovanni had wandered far, had
seen much, and had undoubtedly indulged more than one passing affection,
before he had been thirty years of age and had loved Corona. Giovanni
would laugh too, if she told him of her vision of two young and
beautiful married saints. And his laugh would be more sincere than her
own. Nevertheless, her dreams haunted her, as they have haunted many a
loving mother, ever since Althaea plucked from the flame the burning
brand that measured Meleager's life, and smothered the sparks upon it
and hid it away among her treasures.
Such things seem foolish, no doubt, in the measure of fact, in the
glaring light of our day. The thought is none the less noble. The dream
of an untainted love, the vision of unspotted youth and pure maiden, the
glory of unbroken faith kept whole by man and wife in holy wedlock, the
pride of stainless name and stainless race--these things are not less
high because there is a sublimity in the strength of a great sin which
may lie the closer to our sympathy, as the sinning is the nearer to our
weakness.
When old Saracinesca looked up from under his bushy brows and laughed
and said that his grandson was in love, he thought no more of what he
said than if he had remarked that Orsino's beard was growing or that
Giovanni's was turning grey. But Corona's pretty fancies received a
shock from which they never recovered again, and though she did her best
to call them back they lost all their reality from that hour. The plain
fact that at one and twenty years the boy is a man, though a very young
one, was made suddenly clear to her, and she was faced by another fact
still more destructive of her ideals, namely, that a man is not to be
kept from falling in love, when and where he is so inclined, by any
personal influence whatsoever. She knew that well enough, and the
supposition that his first young passion might be for Madame d'Aranjuez
was by no means comforting. Corona immediately felt an interest in that
lady which she had not felt before and which was not altogether
friendly.
It seemed to her necessary in the first place to find out something
definite concerning Maria Consuelo, and this was no easy matter. She
communicated her wish to her husband when they were alone that evening.
"I know nothing about her," answered Giovanni. "And I do not know any
one who does. After all it is of very little importance."
"What if he falls seriously in love with this woman?"
"We will send him round the world. At his age that will cure anything.
When he comes back Madame d'Aranjuez will have retired to the chaos of
the unknown out of which Orsino has evolved her."
"She does not look the kind of woman to disappear at the right moment,"
observed Corona doubtfully.
Giovanni was at that moment supremely comfortable, both in mind and
body. It was late. The old prince had gone to his own quarters, the boys
were in bed, and Orsino was presumably at a party or at the club. Sant'
Ilario was enjoying the delight of spending an hour alone in his wife's
society. They were in Corona's old boudoir, a place full of associations
for them both. He did not want to be mentally disturbed. He said nothing
in answer to his wife's remark. She repeated it in a different form.
"Women like her do not disappear when one does not want them," she said.
"What makes you think so?" inquired Giovanni with a man's irritating
indolence when he does not mean to grasp a disagreeable idea.
"I know it," Corona answered, resting her chin upon her hand and staring
at the fire.
Giovanni surrendered unconditionally.
"You are probably right, dear. You always are about people."
"Well--then you must see the importance of what I say," said Corona
pushing her victory.
"Of course, of course," answered Giovanni, squinting at the flames with
one eye between his outstretched fingers.
"I wish you would wake up!" exclaimed Corona, taking the hand in hers
and drawing it to her. "Orsino is probably making love to Madame
d'Aranjuez at this very moment."
"Then I will imitate him, and make love to you, my dear. I could not be
better occupied, and you know it. You used to say I did it very well."
Corona laughed in her deep, soft voice.
"Orsino is like you. That is what frightens me. He will make love too
well. Be serious, Giovanni. Think of what I am saying."
"Let us dismiss the question then, for the simple reason that there is
absolutely nothing to be done. We cannot turn this good woman out of
Rome, and we cannot lock Orsino up in his room. To tell a boy not to
bestow his affections in a certain quarter is like ramming a charge into
a gun and then expecting that it will not come out by the same way. The
harder you ram it down the more noise it makes--that is all. Encourage
him and he may possibly tire of it. Hinder him and he will become
inconveniently heroic."
"I suppose that is true," said Corona. "Then at least find out who the
woman is," she added, after a pause.
"I will try," Giovanni answered. "I will even go to the length of
spending an hour a day at the club, if that will do any good--and you
know how I detest clubs. But if anything whatever is known of her, it
will be known there."
Giovanni kept his word and expended more energy in attempting to find
out something about Madame d'Aranjuez during the next few days than he
had devoted to anything connected with society for a long time. Nearly
a week elapsed before his efforts met with any success.
He was in the club one afternoon at an early hour, reading the papers,
and not more than three or four other men were present. Among them were
Frangipani and Montevarchi, who was formerly known as Ascanio Bellegra.
There was also a certain young foreigner, a diplomatist, who, like Sant'
Ilario, was reading a paper, most probably in search of an idea for the
next visit on his list.
Giovanni suddenly came upon a description of a dinner and reception
given by Del Ferice and his wife. The paragraph was written in the usual
florid style with a fine generosity in the distribution of titles to
unknown persons.
"The centre of all attraction," said the reporter, "was a most beautiful
Spanish princess, Donna Maria Consuelo d'A----z d'A----a, in whose
mysterious eyes are reflected the divine fires of a thousand triumphs,
and who was gracefully attired in olive green brocade--"
"Oh! Is that it?" said Sant' Ilario aloud, and in the peculiar tone
always used by a man who makes a discovery in a daily paper.
"What is it?" inquired Frangipani and Montevarchi in the same breath.
The young diplomatist looked up with an air of interrogation.
Sant' Ilario read the paragraph aloud. All three listened as though the
fate of empires depended on the facts reported.
"Just like the newspapers!" exclaimed Frangipani. "There probably is no
such person. Is there, Ascanio?"
Montevarchi had always been a weak fellow, and was reported to be at
present very deep in the building speculations of the day. But there was
one point upon which he justly prided himself. He was a superior
authority on genealogy. It was his passion and no one ever disputed his
knowledge or decision. He stroked his fair beard, looked out of the
window, winked his pale blue eyes once or twice and then gave his
verdict.
"There is no such person," he said gravely.
"I beg your pardon, prince," said the young diplomatist, "I have met
her. She exists."
"My dear friend," answered Montevarchi, "I do not doubt the existence of
the woman, as such, and I would certainly not think of disagreeing with
you, even if I had the slightest ground for doing so, which, I hasten to
say, I have not. Nor, of course, if she is a friend of yours, would I
like to say more on the subject. But I have taken some little interest
in genealogy and I have a modest library--about two thousand volumes,
only--consisting solely of works on the subject, all of which I have
read and many of which I have carefully annotated. I need not say that
they are all at your disposal if you should desire to make any
researches."
Montevarchi had much of his murdered father's manner, without the old
man's strength. The young secretary of embassy was rather startled at
the idea of searching through two thousand volumes in pursuit of Madame
d'Aranjuez's identity. Sant' Ilario laughed.
"I only mean that I have met the lady," said the young man. "Of course
you are right. I have no idea who she may really be. I have heard odd
stories about her."
"Oh--have you?" asked Sant' Ilario with renewed interest.
"Yes, very odd." He paused and looked round the room to assure himself
that no one else was present. "There are two distinct stories about her.
The first is this. They say that she is a South American prima donna,
who sang only a few months, at Rio de Janeiro and then at Buenos Ayres.
An Italian who had gone out there and made a fortune married her from
the stage. In coming to Europe, he unfortunately fell overboard and she
inherited all his money. People say that she was the only person who
witnessed the accident. The man's name was Aragno. She twisted it once
and made Aranjuez of it, and she turned it again and discovered that it
spelled Aragona. That is the first story. It sounds well at all events."
"Very," said Sant' Ilario, with a laugh.
"A profoundly interesting page in genealogy, if she happens to marry
somebody," observed Montevarchi, mentally noting all the facts.
"What is the other story?" asked Frangipani.
"The other story is much less concise and detailed. According to this
version, she is the daughter of a certain royal personage and of a
Polish countess. There is always a Polish countess in those stories! She
was never married. The royal personage has had her educated in a convent
and has sent her out into the wide world with a pretty fancy name of his
own invention, plentifully supplied with money and regular documents
referring to her union with the imaginary Aranjuez, and protected by a
sort of body-guard of mutes and duennas who never appear in public. She
is of course to make a great match for herself, and has come to Rome to
do it. That is also a pretty tale."
"More interesting than the other," said Montevarchi. "These side lights
of genealogy, these stray rivulets of royal races, if I may so
poetically call them, possess an absorbing interest for the student. I
will make a note of it."
"Of course, I do not vouch for the truth of a single word in either
story," observed the young man. "Of the two the first is the less
improbable. I have met her and talked to her and she is certainly not
less than five and twenty years old. She may be more. In any case she is
too old to have been just let out of a convent."
"Perhaps she has been loose for some years," observed Sant' Ilario,
speaking of her as though she were a dangerous wild animal.
"We should have heard of her," objected the other. "She has the sort of
personality which is noticed anywhere and which makes itself felt."
"Then you incline to the belief that she dropped the Signor Aragno
quietly overboard in the neighbourhood of the equator?"
"The real story may be quite different from either of those I have told
you."
"And she is a friend of poor old Donna Tullia!" exclaimed Montevarchi
regretfully. "I am sorry for that. For the sake of her history I could
almost have gone to the length of making her acquaintance."
"How the Del Ferice would rave if she could hear you call her poor old
Donna Tullia," observed Frangipani. "I remember how she danced at the
ball when I came of age!"
"That was a long time ago, Filippo," said Montevarchi thoughtfully, "a
very long time ago. We were all young once, Filippo--but Donna Tullia is
really only fit to fill a glass case in a museum of natural history
now."
The remark was not original, and had been in circulation some time. But
the three men laughed a little and Montevarchi was much pleased by their
appreciation. He and Frangipani began to talk together, and Sant' Ilario
took up his paper again. When the young diplomatist laid his own aside
and went out, Giovanni followed him, and they left the club together.
"Have you any reason to believe that there is anything irregular about
this Madame d'Aranjuez?" asked Sant' Ilario.
"No. Stories of that kind are generally inventions. She has not been
presented at Court--but that means nothing here. And there is a doubt
about her nationality--but no one has asked her directly about it."
"May I ask who told you the stories?"
The young man's face immediately lost all expression.
"Really--I have quite forgotten," he said. "People have been talking
about her."
Sant' Ilario justly concluded that his companion's informant was a lady,
and probably one in whom the diplomatist was interested. Discretion is
so rare that it can easily be traced to its causes. Giovanni left the
young man and walked away in the opposite direction, inwardly meditating
a piece of diplomacy quite foreign to his nature. He said to himself
that he would watch the man in the world and that it would be easy to
guess who the lady in question was. It would have been clear to any one
but himself that he was not likely to learn anything worth knowing, by
his present mode of procedure.
"Gouache," he said, entering the artist's studio a quarter of an hour
later, "do you know anything about Madame d'Aranjuez?"
"That is all I know," Gouache answered, pointing to Maria Consuelo's
portrait which stood finished upon an easel before him, set in an old
frame. He had been touching it when Giovanni entered. "That is all I
know, and I do not know that thoroughly. I wish I did. She is a
wonderful subject."
Sant' Ilario gazed at the picture in silence.
"Are her eyes really like these?" he asked at length.
"Much finer."
"And her mouth?"
"Much larger," answered Gouache with a smile.
"She is bad," said Giovanni with conviction, and he thought of the
Signor Aragno.
"Women are never bad," observed Gouache with a thoughtful air. "Some are
less angelic than others. You need only tell them all so to assure
yourself of the fact."
"I daresay. What is this person? French, Spanish--South American?"
"I have not the least idea. She is not French, at all events."
"Excuse me--does your wife know her?"
Gouache glanced quickly at his visitor's face.
"No."
Gouache was a singularly kind man, and he did his best perhaps for
reasons of his own, to convey nothing by the monosyllable beyond the
simple negation of a fact. But the effort was not altogether successful.
There was an almost imperceptible shade of surprise in the tone which
did not escape Giovanni. On the other hand it was perfectly clear to
Gouache that Sant' Ilario's interest in the matter was connected with
Orsino.
"I cannot find any one who knows anything definite," said Giovanni after
a pause.
"Have you tried Spicca?" asked the artist, examining his work
critically.
"No. Why Spicca?"
"He always knows everything," answered Gouache vaguely. "By the way,
Saracinesca, do you not think there might be a little more light just
over the left eye?"
"How should I know?"
"You ought to know. What is the use of having been brought up under the
very noses of original portraits, all painted by the best masters and
doubtless ordered by your ancestors at a very considerable expense--if
you do not know?"
Giovanni laughed.
"My dear old friend," he said good-humouredly, "have you known us nearly
five and twenty years without discovering that it is our peculiar
privilege to be ignorant without reproach?"
Gouache laughed in his turn.
"You do not often make sharp remarks--but when you do!"
Giovanni left the studio very soon, and went in search of Spicca. It was
no easy matter to find the peripatetic cynic on a winter's afternoon,
but Gouache's remark had seemed to mean something, and Sant' Ilario saw
a faint glimmer of hope in the distance. He knew Spicca's habits very
well, and was aware that when the sun was low he would certainly turn
into one of the many houses where he was intimate, and spend an hour
over a cup of tea. The difficulty lay in ascertaining which particular
fireside he would select on that afternoon. Giovanni hastily sketched a
route for himself and asked the porter at each of his friends' houses if
Spicca had entered. Fortune favoured him at last. Spicca was drinking
his tea with the Marchesa di San Giacinto.
Giovanni paused a moment before the gateway of the palace in which San
Giacinto had inhabited a large hired apartment for many years. He did
not see much of his cousin, now, on account of differences in political
opinion, and he had no reason whatever for calling on Flavia, especially
as formal New Year's visits had lately been exchanged. However, as San
Giacinto was now a leading authority on questions of landed property in
the city, it struck him that he could pretend a desire to see Flavia's
husband, and make that an excuse for staying a long time, if necessary,
in order to wait for him.
He found Flavia and Spicca alone together, with a small tea-table
between them. The air was heavy with the smoke of cigarettes, which
clung to the oriental curtains and hung in clouds about the rare palms
and plants. Everything in the San Giacinto house was large, comfortable
and unostentatious. There was not a chair to be seen which might not
have held the giant's frame. San Giacinto was a wonderful judge of what
was good. If he paid twice as much as Montevarchi for a horse, the horse
turned out to be capable of four times the work. If he bought a picture
at a sale, it was discovered to be by some good master and other people
wondered why they had lost courage in the bidding for a trifle of a
hundred francs. Nothing ever turned out badly with him, but no success
had the power to shake his solid prudence. No one knew how rich he was,
but those who had watched him understood that he would never let the
world guess at half his fortune. He was a giant in all ways and he had
shown what he could do when he had dominated Flavia during the first
year of their marriage. She had at first been proud of him, but about
the time when she would have wearied of another man, she discovered that
she feared him in a way she certainly did not fear the devil. Yet lie
had never spoken a harsh, word to her in his life. But there was
something positively appalling to her in his enormous strength, rarely
exhibited and never without good reason, but always quietly present, as
the outline of a vast mountain reflected in a placid lake. Then she
discovered to her great surprise that he really loved her, which she had
not expected, and at the end of three years he became aware that she
loved him, which was still more astonishing. As usual, his investment
had turned out well.
At the time of which I am speaking Flavia was a slight, graceful woman
of forty years or thereabouts, retaining much of the brilliant
prettiness which served her for beauty, and conspicuous always for her
extremely bright eyes. She was of the type of women who live to a great
age.
She had not expected to see Sant' Ilario, and as she gave her hand, she
looked up at him with an air of inquiry. It would have been like him to
say that he had come to see her husband and not herself, for he had no
tact with persons whom he did not especially like. There are such people
in the world.
"Will you give me a cup of tea, Flavia?" he asked, as he sat down, after
shaking hands with Spicca.
"Have you at last heard that your cousin's tea is good?" inquired the
latter, who was surprised by Giovanni's coming.
"I am afraid it is cold," said Flavia, looking into the teapot, as
though she could discover the temperature by inspection.
"It is no matter," answered Giovanni absently.
He was wondering how he could lead the conversation to the discussion of
Madame d'Aranjuez.
"You belong to the swallowers," observed Spicca, lighting a fresh
cigarette. "You swallow something, no matter what, and you are
satisfied."
"It is the simplest way--one is never disappointed."
"It is a pity one cannot swallow people in the same way," said Flavia
with a laugh.
"Most people do," answered Spicca viciously.
"Were you at the Jubilee on the first day?" asked Giovanni, addressing
Flavia.
"Of course I was--and you spoke to me."
"That is true. By the bye, I saw that excellent Donna Tullia there. I
wonder whose ticket she had."
"She had the Princess Befana's," answered Spicca, who knew everything.
"The old lady happened to be dying--she always dies at the beginning of
the season--it used to be for economy, but it has become a habit--and so
Del Ferice bought her card of her servant for his wife."
"Who was the lady who sat with her?" asked Giovanni, delighted with his
own skill.
"You ought to know!" exclaimed Flavia. "We all saw Orsino take her out.
That is the famous, the incomparable Madame d'Aranjuez--the most
beautiful of Spanish princesses according to to-day's paper. I daresay
you have seen the account of the Del Ferice party. She is no more
Spanish than Alexander the Great. Is she, Spicca?"
"No, she is not Spanish," answered the latter.
"Then what in the world is she?" asked Giovanni impatiently.
"How should I know? Of course it is very disagreeable for you." It was
Flavia who spoke.
"Disagreeable? How?"
"Why, about Orsino of course. Everybody says he is devoted to her."
"I wish everybody would mind his and her business," said Giovanni
sharply. "Because a boy makes the acquaintance of a stranger at a
studio--"
"Oh--it was at a studio? I did not know that."
"Yes, at Gouache's--I fancied your sister might have told you that,"
said Giovanni, growing more and more irritable, and yet not daring to
change the subject, lest he should lose some valuable information.
"Because Orsino makes her acquaintance accidentally, every one must say
that he is in love with her."
Flavia laughed.
"My dear Giovanni," she answered. "Let us be frank. I used never to
tell the truth under any circumstances, when I was a girl, but
Giovanni--my Giovanni--did not like that. Do you know what he did? He
used to cut off a hundred francs of my allowance for every fib I
told--laughing at me all the time. At the end of the first quarter I
positively had not a pair of shoes, and all my gloves had been cleaned
twice. He used to keep all the fines in a special pocket-book--if you
knew how hard I tried to steal it! But I could not. Then, of course, I
reformed. There was nothing else to be done--that or rags--fancy! And do
you know? I have grown quite used to being truthful. Besides, it is so
original, that I pose with it."
Flavia paused, laughed a little, and puffed at her cigarette.
"You do not often come to see me, Giovanni," she said, "and since you
are here I am going to tell you the truth about your visit. You are
beside yourself with rage at Orsino's new fancy, and you want to find
out all about this Madame d'Aranjuez. So you came here, because we are
Whites and you saw that she had been at the Del Ferice party, and you
know that we know them--and the rest is sung by the organ, as we say
when high mass is over. Is that the truth, or not?"
"Approximately," said Giovanni, smiling in spite of himself.
"Does Corona cut your allowance when you tell fibs?" asked Flavia. "No?
Then why say that it is only approximately true?"
"I have my reasons. And you can tell me nothing?"
"Nothing. I believe Spicca knows all about her. But he will not tell
what he knows."
Spicca made no answer to this, and Giovanni determined to outstay him,
or rather, to stay until he rose to go and then go with him. It was
tedious work for he was not a man who could talk against time on all
occasions. But he struggled bravely and Spicca at last got up from his
deep chair. They went out together, and stopped as though by common
consent upon the brilliantly lighted landing of the first floor.
"Seriously, Spicca," said Giovanni, "I am afraid Orsino is falling in
love with this pretty stranger. If you can tell me anything about her,
please do so."
Spicca stared at the wall, hesitated a moment, and then looked straight
into his companion's eyes.
"Have you any reason to suppose that I, and I especially, know anything
about this lady?" he asked.
"No--except that you know everything."
"That is a fable." Spicca turned from him and began to descend the
stairs.
Giovanni followed and laid a hand upon his arm.
"You will not do me this service?" he asked earnestly.
Again Spicca stopped and looked at him.
"You and I are very old friends, Giovanni," he said slowly. "I am older
than you, but we have stood by each other very often--in places more
slippery than these marble steps. Do not let us quarrel now, old friend.
When I tell you that my omniscience exists only in the vivid
imaginations of people whose tea I like, believe me, and if you wish to
do me a kindness--for the sake of old times--do not help to spread the
idea that I know everything."
The melancholy Spicca had never been given to talking about friendship
or its mutual obligations. Indeed, Giovanni could not remember having
ever heard him speak as he had just spoken. It was perfectly clear that
he knew something very definite about Maria Consuelo, and he probably
had no intention of deceiving Giovanni in that respect. But Spicca also
knew his man, and he knew that his appeal for Giovanni's silence would
not be vain.
"Very well," said Sant' Ilario.
They exchanged a few indifferent words before parting, and then Giovanni
walked slowly homeward, pondering on the things he had heard that day.