Orsino looked about him with some curiosity as he entered Del Fence's
abode. He had never expected to find himself the guest of Donna Tullia
and her husband and when he took the robust countess's hand he was
inclined to wish that the whole affair might turn out to be a dream. In
vain he repeated to himself that he was no longer a boy, but a grown
man, of age in the eyes of the law to be responsible for his own
actions, and old enough in fact to take what steps he pleased for the
accomplishment of his own ends. He found no solace in the reflection,
and he could not rid himself of the idea that he had got himself into a
very boyish scrape. It would indeed have been very easy to refuse Del
Ferice's invitation and to write him a note within the hour explaining
vaguely that circumstances beyond his control obliged him to ask another
interview for the discussion of business matters. But it was too late
now. He was exchanging indifferent remarks with Donna Tullia, while Del
Ferice looked on benignantly, and all three waited for Madame
d'Aranjuez.
Five minutes had not elapsed before she came, and her appearance
momentarily dispelled Orsino's annoyance at his own rashness. He had
never before seen her dressed for the evening, and he had not realised
how much to her advantage the change from the ordinary costume, or the
inevitable "tea-garment," to a dinner gown would be. She was assuredly
not over-dressed, for she wore black without colours and her only
ornament was a single string of beautiful pearls which Donna Tullia
believed to be false, but which Orsino accepted as real. Possibly he
knew even more about pearls than the countess, for his mother had many
and wore them often, whereas Donna Tullia preferred diamonds and rubies.
But his eyes did not linger on the necklace, for Maria Consuelo's whole
presence affected him strangely. There was something light-giving and
even dazzling about her which he had not expected, and he understood for
the first time that the language of the newspaper paragraphs was not so
grossly flattering as he had supposed. In spite of the great artistic
defects of feature, which could not long escape an observer of ordinary
taste, it was clear that Maria Consuelo must always be a striking and
central figure in any social assembly, great or small. There had been
moments in Orsino's acquaintance with her, when he had thought her
really beautiful; as she now appeared, one of those moments seemed to
have become permanent. He thought of what he had dared on the preceding
day, his vanity was pleased and his equanimity restored. With a sense of
pride which was very far from being delicate and was by no means well
founded, he watched her as she walked in to dinner before him, leaning
on Del Ferice's arm.
"Beautiful--eh? I see you think so," whispered Donna Tullia in his ear.
The countess treated him at once as an old acquaintance, which put him
at his ease, while it annoyed his conscience.
"Very beautiful," he answered, with a grave nod.
"And so mysterious," whispered the countess again, just as they reached
the door of the dining-room. "She is very fascinating--take care!"
She tapped his arm familiarly with her fan and laughed, as he left her
at her seat.
"What are you two laughing at?" asked Del Ferice, smiling pleasantly as
he surveyed the six oysters he found upon his plate, and considered
which should be left until the last as the crowning tit-bit. He was fond
of good eating, and especially fond of oysters as an introduction to the
feast.
"What we were laughing at? How indiscreet you are, Ugo! You always want
to find out all my little secrets. Consuelo, my dear, do you like
oysters, or do you not? That is the question. You do, I know--a little
lemon and a very little red pepper--I love red, even to adoring
cayenne!"
Orsino glanced at Madame d'Aranjuez, for he was surprised to hear Donna
Tullia call her by her first name. He had not known that the two women
had reached the first halting place of intimacy.
Maria Consuelo smiled rather vaguely as she took the advice in the shape
of lemon juice and pepper. Del Ferice could not interrupt his enjoyment
of the oysters by words, and Orsino waited for an opportunity of saying
something witty.
"I have lately formed the highest opinion of the ancient Romans," said
Donna Tullia, addressing him. "Do you know why?"
Orsino professed his ignorance.
"Ugo tells me that in a recent excavation twenty cartloads of oyster
shells were discovered behind one house. Think of that! Twenty cartloads
to a single house! What a family must have lived there--indeed the
Romans were a great people!"
Orsino thought that Donna Tullia herself might pass for a heroine in
future ages, provided that the shells of her victims were deposited
together in a safe place. He laughed politely and hoped that the
conversation might not turn upon archaeology, which was not his strong
point.
"I wonder how long it will be before modern Rome is excavated and the
foreigner of the future pays a franc to visit the ruins of the modern
house of parliament," suggested Maria Consuelo, who had said nothing as
yet.
"At the present rate of progress, I should think about two years would
be enough," answered Donna Tullia. "But Ugo says we are a great nation.
Ask him."
"Ah, my angel, you do not understand those things," said Del Ferice.
"How shall I explain? There is no development without decay of the
useless parts. The snake casts its old skin before it appears with a new
one. And there can be no business without an occasional crisis.
Unbroken fair weather ends in a dead calm. Why do you take such a gloomy
view, Madame?"
"One should never talk of things--only people are amusing," said Donna
Tullia, before Madame d'Aranjuez could answer. "Whom have you seen
to-day, Consuelo? And you, Don Orsino? And you, Ugo? Are we to talk for
ever of oysters, and business and snakes? Come, tell me, all of you,
what everybody has told you. There must be something new. Of course that
poor Carantoni is going to be married again, and the Princess Befana is
dying, as usual, and the same dear old people have run away with each
other, and all that. Of course. I wish things were not always just going
to happen. One would like to hear what is said on the day after the
events which never come off. It would be a novelty."
Donna Tullia loved talk and noise, and gossip above all things, and she
was not quite at her ease. The news that Orsino was to come to dinner
had taken her breath away. Ugo had advised her to be natural, and she
was doing her best to follow his advice.
"As for me," he said, "I have been tormented all day, and have spent but
one pleasant half hour. I was so fortunate as to find Madame d'Aranjuez
at home, but that was enough to indemnify me for many sacrifices."
"I cannot do better than say the same," observed Orsino, though with far
less truth. "I believe I have read through a new novel, but I do not
remember the title and I have forgotten the story."
"How satisfactory!" exclaimed Maria Consuelo, with a little scorn.
"It is the only way to read novels," answered Orsino, "for it leaves
them always new to you, and the same one may be made to last several
weeks."
"I have heard it said that one should fear the man of one book,"
observed Maria Consuelo, looking at him.
"For my part, I am more inclined to fear the woman of many."
"Do you read much, my dear Consuelo?" asked Donna Tullia, laughing.
"Perpetually."
"And is Don Orsino afraid of you?"
"Mortally," answered Orsino. "Madame d'Aranjuez knows everything."
"Is she blue, then?" asked Donna Tullia.
"What shall I say, Madame?" inquired Orsino, turning to Maria Consuelo.
"Is it a compliment to compare you to the sky of Italy?"
"For blueness?"
"No--for brightness and serenity."
"Thanks. That is pretty. I accept."
"And have you nothing for me?" asked Donna Tullia, with an engaging
smile.
The other two looked at Orsino, wondering what he would say in answer to
such a point-blank demand for flattery.
"Juno is still Minerva's ally," he said, falling back upon mythology,
though it struck him that Del Ferice would make a poor Jupiter, with his
fat white face and dull eyes.
"Very good!" laughed Donna Tullia. "A little classic, but I pressed you
hard. You are not easily caught. Talking of clever men," she added with
another meaning glance at Orsino, "I met your friend to-day, Consuelo."
"My friend? Who is he?"
"Spicca, of course. Whom did you think I meant? We always laugh at her,"
she said, turning to Orsino, "because she hates him so. She does not
know him, and has never spoken to him. It is his cadaverous face that
frightens her. One can understand that--we of old Rome, have been used
to him since the deluge. But a stranger is horrified at the first sight
of him. Consuelo positively dreads to meet him in the street. She says
that he makes her dream of all sorts of horrors."
"It is quite true," said Maria Consuelo, with a slight movement of her
beautiful shoulders. "There are people one would rather not see, merely
because they are not good to look at. He is one of them and if I see him
coming I turn away."
"I know, I told him so to-day," continued Donna Tullia cheerfully. "We
are old friends, but we do not often meet nowadays. Just fancy! It was
in that little antiquary's shop in the Monte Brianzo--the first on the
left as you go, he has good things--and I saw a bit of embroidery in the
window that took my fancy, so I stopped the carriage and went in. Who
should be there but Spicca, hat and all, looking like old Father Time.
He was bargaining for something--a wretched old bit of
brass--bargaining, my dear! For a few sous! One may be poor, but one has
no right to be mean--I thought he would have got the miserable
antiquary's skin."
"Antiquaries can generally take care of themselves," observed Orsino
incredulously.
"Oh, I daresay--but it looks so badly, you know. That is all I mean.
When he saw me he stopped wrangling and we talked a little, while I had
the embroidery wrapped up. I will show it to you after dinner. It is
sixteenth century, Ugo says--a piece of a chasuble--exquisite flowers on
claret-coloured satin, a perfect gem, so rare now that everything is
imitated. However, that is not the point. It was Spicca. I was
forgetting my story. He said the usual things, you know--that he had
heard that I was very gay this year, but that it seemed to agree with
me, and so on. And I asked him why he never came to see me, and as an
inducement I told him of our great beauty here--that is you, Consuelo,
so please look delighted instead of frowning--and I told him that she
ought to hear him talk, because his face had frightened her so that she
ran away when she saw him coming towards her in the street. You see, if
one flatters his cleverness he does not mind being called ugly--or at
least I thought not, until to-day. But to my consternation he seemed
angry, and he asked me almost savagely if it were true that the
Countess d'Aranjuez--that is what he called you, my dear--really tried
to avoid him in the street. Then I laughed and said I was only joking,
and he began to bargain again for the little brass frame and I went
away. When I last heard his voice he was insisting upon seventy-five
centimes, and the antiquary was jeering at him and asking a franc and a
half. I wonder which got the better of the fight in the end. I will ask
him the next time I see him."
Del Ferice supported his wife with a laugh at her story, but it was not
very genuine. He had unpleasant recollections of Spicca in earlier days,
and his name recalled events which Ugo would willingly have forgotten.
Orsino smiled politely, but resented the way in which Donna Tullia spoke
of his father's old friend. As for Maria Consuelo, she was a little
pale, and looked tired. But the countess was irrepressible, for she
feared lest Orsino should go away and think her dull.
"Of course we all really like Spicca," she said. "Every one does."
"I do, for my part," said Orsino gravely. "I have a great respect for
him, for his own sake, and he is one of my father's oldest friends."
Maria Consuelo looked at him very suddenly, as though she were surprised
by what he said. She did not remember to have heard him mention the
melancholy old duellist. She seemed about to say something, but changed
her mind.
"Yes," said Ugo, turning the subject, "he is one of the old tribe that
is dying out. What types there were in those days, and how those who are
alive have changed! Do you remember, Tullia? But of course you cannot,
my angel, it was far before your time."
One of Ugo's favourite methods of pleasing his wife was to assert that
she was too young to remember people who had indeed played a part as
lately as after the death of her first husband. It always soothed her.
"I remember them all," he continued. "Old Montevarchi, and Frangipani,
and poor Casalverde--and a score of others."
He had been on the point of mentioning old Astrardente, too, but checked
himself.
"Then there were the young ones, who are in middle age now," he went on,
"such as Valdarno and the Montevarchi whom you know, as different from
their former selves as you can well imagine. Society was different too."
Del Ferice spoke thoughtfully and slowly, as though wishing that some
one would interrupt him or take up the subject, for he felt that his
wife's long story about Spicca and the antiquary had not been a success,
and his instinct told him that Spicca had better not be mentioned again,
since he was a friend of Orsino's and since his name seemed to exert a
depressing influence on Maria Consuelo. Orsino came to the rescue and
began to talk of current social topics in a way which showed that he was
not so profoundly prejudiced by traditional ideas as Del Ferice had
expected. The momentary chill wore off quickly enough, and when the
dinner ended Donna Tullia was sure that it had been a success. They all
returned to the drawing-room and then Del Ferice, without any remark,
led Orsino away to smoke with him in a distant apartment.
"We can smoke again, when we go back," he said. "My wife does not mind
and Madame d'Aranjuez likes it. But it is an excuse to be alone together
for a little while, and besides, my doctor makes me lie down for a
quarter of an hour after dinner. You will excuse me?"
Del Ferice extended himself upon a leathern lounge, and Orsino sat down
in a deep easy-chair.
"I was so sorry not to be able to come away with you to-day," said
Orsino. "The truth is, Madame d'Aranjuez wanted some information and I
was just going to explain that I would stay a little longer, when you
asked us both to dinner. You must have thought me very forgetful."
"Not at all, not at all," answered Del Ferice. "Indeed, I quite supposed
that you were coming with me, when it struck me that this would be a
much more pleasant place for talking. I cannot imagine why I had not
thought of it before--but I have so many details to think of."
Not much could be said for the veracity of either of the statements
which the two men were pleased to make to each other, but Orsino had the
small advantage of being nearer to the letter, if not to the spirit of
the truth. Each, however, was satisfied with the other's tact.
"And so, Don Orsino," continued Del Ferice after a short pause, "you
wish to try a little operation in business. Yes. Very good. You have, as
we said yesterday, a sum of money ample for a beginning. You have the
necessary courage and intelligence. You need a practical assistant,
however, and it is indispensable that the point selected for the first
venture should be one promising speedy profit. Is that it?"
"Precisely."
"Very good, very good. I think I can offer you both the land and the
partner, and almost guarantee your success, if you will be guided by
me."
"I have come to you for advice," said Orsino. "I will follow it
gratefully. As for the success of the undertaking, I will assume the
responsibility."
"Yes. That is better. After all, everything is uncertain in such
matters, and you would not like to feel that you were under an
obligation to me. On the other hand, as I told you, I am selfish and
cautious. I would rather not appear in the transaction."
If any doubt as to Del Ferice's honesty of purpose crossed Orsino's mind
at that moment, it was fully compensated by the fact that he himself
distinctly preferred not to be openly associated with the banker.
"I quite agree with you," he said.
"Very well. Now for business. Do you know that it is sometimes more
profitable to take over a half-finished building, than to begin a new
one? Often, I assure you, for the returns are quicker and you get a
great deal at half price. Now, the man whom I recommend to you is a
practical architect, and was employed by a certain baker to build a
tenement building in one of the new quarters. The baker dies, the house
is unfinished, the heirs wish to sell it as it is--there are at least a
dozen of them--and meanwhile the work is stopped. My advice is this. Buy
this house, go into partnership with the unemployed architect, agreeing
to give him a share of the profits, finish the building and sell it as
soon as it is habitable. In six months you will get a handsome return."
"That sounds very tempting," answered Orsino, "but it would need more
capital than I have."
"Not at all, not at all. It is a mere question of taking over a mortgage
and paying stamp duty."
"And how about the difference in ready money, which ought to go to the
present owners?"
"I see that you are already beginning to understand the principles of
business," said Del Ferice, with an encouraging smile. "But in this case
the owners are glad to get rid of the house on any terms by which they
lose nothing, for they are in mortal fear of being ruined by it, as they
probably will be if they hold on to it."
"Then why should I not lose, if I take it?"
"That is just the difference. The heirs are a number of incapable
persons of the lower class, who do not understand these matters. If they
attempted to go on they would soon find themselves entangled in the
greatest difficulties. They would sink where you will almost certainly
swim."
Orsino was silent for a moment. There was something despicable, to his
thinking, in profiting by the loss of a wretched baker's heirs.
"It seems to me," he said presently, "that if I succeed in this, I ought
to give a share of the profits to the present owners."
Not a muscle of Del Ferice's face moved, but his dull eyes looked
curiously at Orsino's young face.
"That sort of thing is not commonly done in business," he said quietly,
after a short pause. "As a rule, men who busy themselves with affairs do
so in the hope of growing rich, but I can quite understand that where
business is a mere pastime, as it is to be in your case, a man of
generous instincts may devote the proceeds to charity."
"It looks more like justice than charity to me," observed Orsino.
"Call it what you will, but succeed first and consider the uses of your
success afterwards. That is not my affair. The baker's heirs are not
especially deserving people, I believe. In fact they are said to have
hastened his death in the hope of inheriting his wealth and are
disappointed to find that they have got nothing. If you wish to be
philanthropic you might wait until you have cleared a large sum and then
give it to a school or a hospital."
"That is true," said Orsino. "In the meantime it is important to begin."
"We can begin to-morrow, if you please. You will find me at the bank at
mid-day. I will send for the architect and the notary and we can manage
everything in forty-eight hours. Before the week is out you can be at
work."
"So soon as that?"
"Certainly. Sooner, by hurrying matters a little."
"As soon as possible then. And I will go to the bank at twelve o'clock
to-morrow. A thousand thanks for all your good offices, my dear count."
"It is a pleasure, I assure you."
Orsino was so much pleased with Del Ferice's quick and business-like way
of arranging matters that he began to look upon him as a model to
imitate, so far as executive ability was concerned. It was odd enough
that any one of his name should feel anything like admiration for Ugo,
but friendship and hatred are only the opposite points at which the
social pendulum pauses before it swings backward, and they who live long
may see many oscillations.
The two men went back to the drawing-room where Donna Tullia and Maria
Consuelo were discussing the complicated views of the almighty
dressmaker. Orsino knew that there was little chance of his speaking a
word alone with Madame d'Aranjuez and resigned himself to the effort of
helping the general conversation. Fortunately the time to be got over in
this way was not long, as all four had engagements in the evening. Maria
Consuelo rose at half-past ten, but Orsino determined to wait five
minutes longer, or at least to make a show of meaning to do so. But
Donna Tullia put out her hand as though she expected him to take his
leave at the same time. She was going to a ball and wanted at least an
hour in which to screw her magnificence up to the dancing pitch.
The consequence was that Orsino found himself helping Maria Consuelo
into the modest hired conveyance which awaited her at the gate. He hoped
that she would offer him a seat for a short distance, but he was
disappointed.
"May I come to-morrow?" he asked, as he closed the door of the carriage.
The night was not cold and the window was down.
"Please tell the coachman to take me to the Via Nazionale," she said
quickly.
"What number?"
"Never mind--he knows--I have forgotten. Good-night."
She tried to draw up the window, but Orsino held his hand on it.
"May I come to-morrow?" he asked again.
"No."
"Are you angry with me still?"
"No."
"Then why--"
"Let me shut the window. Take your hand away."
Her voice was very imperative in the dark. Orsino relinquished his hold
on the frame, and the pane ran up suddenly into its place with a
rattling noise. There was obviously nothing more to be said.
"Via Nazionale. The Signora says you know the house," he called to the
driver.
The man looked surprised, shrugged his shoulders after the manner of
livery stable coachmen and drove slowly off in the direction indicated.
Orsino stood looking after the carriage and a few seconds later he saw
that the man drew rein and bent down to the front window as though
asking for orders. Orsino thought he heard Maria Consuelo's voice,
answering the question, but he could not distinguish what she said, and
the brougham drove on at once without taking a new direction.
He was curious to know whither she was going, and the idea of following
her suggested itself but he instantly dismissed it, partly because it
seemed unworthy and partly, perhaps, because he was on foot, and no cab
was passing within hail.
Orsino was very much puzzled. During the dinner she had behaved with her
usual cordiality but as soon as they were alone she spoke and acted as
she had done in the afternoon. Orsino turned away and walked across the
deserted square. He was greatly disturbed, for he felt a sense of
humiliation and disappointment quite new to him. Young as he was, he had
been accustomed already to a degree of consideration very different from
that which Maria Consuelo thought fit to bestow, and it was certainly
the first time in his life that a door--even the door of a carriage--had
been shut in his face without ceremony. What would have been an
unpardonable insult, coming from a man, was at least an indignity when
it came from a woman. As Orsino walked along, his wrath rose, and he
wondered why he had not been angry at once.
"Very well," he said to himself. "She says she does not want me. I will
take her at her word and I will not go to see her any more. We shall see
what happens. She will find out that I am not a child, as she was good
enough to call me to-day, and that I am not in the habit of having
windows put up in my face. I have much more serious business on hand
than making love to Madame d'Aranjuez."
The more he reflected upon the situation, the more angry he grew, and
when he reached the door of the club he was in a humour to quarrel with
everything and everybody. Fortunately, at that early hour, the place was
in the sole possession of half a dozen old gentlemen whose conversation
diverted his thoughts though it was the very reverse of edifying.
Between the stories they told and the considerable number of cigarettes
he smoked while listening to them he was almost restored to his normal
frame of mind by midnight, when four or five of his usual companions
straggled in and proposed baccarat. After his recent successes he could
not well refuse to play, so he sat down rather reluctantly with the
rest. Oddly enough he did not lose, though he won but little.
"Lucky at play, unlucky in love," laughed one of the men carelessly.
"What do you mean?" asked Orsino, turning sharply upon the speaker.
"Mean? Nothing," answered the latter in great surprise. "What is the
matter with you, Orsino? Cannot one quote a common proverb?"
"Oh--if you meant nothing, let us go on," Orsino answered gloomily.
As he took up the cards again, he heard a sigh behind him and turning
round saw that Spicca was standing at his shoulder. He was shocked by
the melancholy count's face, though he was used to meeting him almost
every day. The haggard and cadaverous features, the sunken and careworn
eyes, contrasted almost horribly with the freshness and gaiety of
Orsino's companions, and the brilliant light in the room threw the
man's deadly pallor into strong relief.
"Will you play, Count?" asked Orsino, making room for him.
"Thanks--no. I never play nowadays," answered Spicca quietly.
He turned and left the room. With all his apparent weakness his step was
not unsteady, though it was slower than in the old days.
"He sighed in that way because we did not quarrel," said the man whose
quoted proverb had annoyed Orsino.
"I am ready and anxious to quarrel with everybody to-night," answered
Orsino. "Let us play baccarat--that is much better."
Spicca left the club alone and walked slowly homewards to his small
lodging in the Via della Croce. A few dying embers smouldered in the
little fireplace which warmed his sitting-room. He stirred them slowly,
took a stick of wood from the wicker basket, hesitated a moment, and
then put it back again instead of burning it. The night was not cold and
wood was very dear. He sat down under the light of the old lamp which
stood upon the mantelpiece, and drew a long breath. But presently,
putting his hand into the pocket of his overcoat in search of his
cigarette case, he drew out something else which he had almost
forgotten, a small something wrapped in coarse paper. He undid it and
looked at the little frame of chiselled brass which Donna Tullia had
found him buying in the afternoon, turning it over and over, absently,
as though thinking of something else.
Then he fumbled in his pockets again and found a photograph which he had
also bought in the course of the day--the photograph of Gouache's latest
portrait, obtained in a contraband fashion and with some difficulty from
the photographer.
Without hesitation Spicca took a pocket-knife and began to cut the head
out, with that extraordinary neatness and precision which characterised
him when he used any sharp instrument. The head just fitted the frame.
He fastened it in with drops of sealing-wax and carefully burned the
rest of the picture in the embers.
The face of Maria Consuelo smiled at him in the lamplight, as he turned
it in different ways so as to find the best aspect of it. Then he hung
it on a nail above the mantelpiece just under a pair of crossed foils.
"That man Gouache is a very clever fellow," he said aloud. "Between
them, he and nature have made a good likeness."
He sat down again and it was a long time before he made up his mind to
take away the lamp and go to bed.