Two years had passed since Marcello had been brought home from the
hospital, very feeble still, but himself again and master of his memory
and thoughts.
In his recollection, however, there was a blank. He had left Aurora
standing in the gap, where the storm swept inland from the sea; then the
light had gone out suddenly, in something violent which he could not
understand, and after that he could remember nothing except that he had
wandered in lonely places, trying to find out which way he was going,
and terrified by the certainty that he had lost all sense of direction;
so he had wandered on by day and night, as in a dark dream, and had at
last fallen asleep, to wake in the wretched garret of the inn on the
Frascati road, with Regina kneeling beside him and moistening his lips
from a glass of water.
He remembered that and other things, which came back to him uncertainly,
like the little incidents of his early childhood, like the first words
he could remember hearing and answering, like the sensation of being on
his mother's knee and resting his head upon her shoulder, like the smell
of the roses and the bitter-orange blossoms in the villa, like the first
sensation of being set upon a pony's back in San Domenico, while
Corbario held him up in the saddle, and tried to make his little hands
hold the bridle. The inn was quite as far away as all that, and but for
Regina he might have forgotten it altogether.
She was "Consalvi's Regina" now; half Rome called her that, and she was
famous. Naples and Florence and Milan had heard of her; she had been
seen at Monte Carlo, and even in Paris and London her name was not
unknown in places where young men congregate to discuss the wicked
world, and where young women meet to compare husbands, over the secret
and sacrificial teapot which represents virtue, or the less sacred
bridge-table which represents vice. Smart young dandies who had never
exchanged a word with her spoke of her familiarly as "Regina "; smarter
and older men, who knew her a little, talked of her as "the Spalletta,"
not without a certain respect; their mothers branded her as "that
creature," and their wives, who envied her, called her "Consalvi's
Regina."
When people remonstrated with Folco Corbario for allowing his stepson
too much liberty, he shook his head gravely and answered that he did
what he could to keep Marcello in the right way, but that the boy's
intellect had been shaken by the terrible accident, and that he had
undoubtedly developed vicious tendencies--probably atavistic, Folco
added. Why did Folco allow him to have so much money? The answer was
that he was of age and the fortune was his. But why had Folco let him
have it before he was twenty-one, ever since he was found and brought
home? He had not had much, was the reply; at least it had not been much
compared with the whole income he now enjoyed one could not bring up the
heir of a great estate like a pauper, could one? So the questioners
desisted from questioning, but they said among themselves that, although
Folco had been an admirable husband and stepfather while his wife had
lived, he had not shown as much good sense after her death as they had
been led to expect. Meanwhile, no one had any right to interfere, and
Marcello did as he pleased.
Children instinctively attach themselves to whichever of their parents
gives them the most liberty. It is sheer nonsense to deny it. Marcello
had loved his mother dearly, but she had always been the one to hinder
him from doing what he wished to do, because she had been excessively
anxious about his bodily health, and over-desirous of bringing him up to
manhood in a state of ideal moral perfection. Folco, on the other hand,
had been associated with all the boy's sports and pleasures, and had
always encouraged him to amuse himself, giving as a reason that there
was no medicine like healthy happiness for a boy of delicate
constitution. Corbario, like Satan, knew the uses of truth, which are
numerous and not all good. Though Marcello would not have acknowledged
it to himself, his stepfather had been nearer to him, and more necessary
to him, than his mother, during several years; and besides, it was less
hard to bear the loss of which he learned when he recovered, because it
had befallen him during that dark and uncertain period of his illness
that now seemed as if it had lasted for years, and whereby everything
that had been before it belonged to a remote past.
Moreover, there was Regina, and there was youth, and there was liberty;
and Corbario was at hand, always ready to encourage and satisfy his
slightest whim, on the plea that a convalescent must be humoured at any
cost, and that there would be time enough to consider what should be
done with Regina after Marcello was completely recovered. After all,
Corbario told him, the girl had saved his life, and it was only right to
be grateful, and she should be amply rewarded for all the trouble she
had taken. It would have been sheer cruelty to have sent her away to the
country; and what was the cost of a quiet lodging for her in Trastevere,
and of a few decent clothes, and of a respectable middle-aged
woman-servant to take care of her? Nothing at all; only a few francs,
and Marcello was so rich! Regina, also, was so very unusually
well-behaved, and so perfectly docile, so long as she was allowed to see
Marcello every day! She did not care for dress at all, and was quite
contented to wear black, with just a touch of some tender colour.
Corbario made it all very easy, and saw to everything, and he seemed to
know just how such things were arranged. He was so fortunate as to find
a little house that had a quiet garden with an entrance on another
street, all in very good condition because it had lately been used by a
famous foreign painter who preferred to live in Trastevere, away from
the interruptions and distractions of the growing city; and by a very
simple transaction the house became the property of the minor, Marcello
Consalvi, to do with as he thought fit. This was much more convenient
than paying rent to a tiresome landlord who might at any time turn his
tenant out. Corbario thought of everything. Twice a week a gardener
came, early in the morning, and soon the garden was really pretty; and
the respectable woman-servant watered the flowers every evening just
before sunset. There was a comfortable Calcutta chair for Marcello in a
shady corner, the very first time he came there, and Regina had learned
how to make tea for him; for the respectable woman-servant knew how to
do all sorts of things belonging to civilised life. She was so intensely
respectable and quiet that Marcello was almost afraid of her, until it
occurred to him that as she took so much trouble, he ought to give her a
present of money; and when he had done this twice, he somehow became
aware that she was his devoted slave--middle-aged and excessively
respectable. Folco was really a very good judge of character, Marcello
thought, since he could at once pick out such a person from the great
horde of the unemployed.
Her name was Settimia, and it was wonderful to see how she quietly
transformed Regina into a civilised creature, who must attract attention
by her beauty and carriage, but who might have belonged to a
middle-class Roman family so far as manners and dress were concerned. It
is true that the girl possessed by nature the innate dignity of the
Roman peasant, with such a figure and such grace as any aristocrat might
have envied, and that she spoke with the Roman accent which almost all
other Italians admire; but though her manners had a certain repose, they
were often of an extremely unexpected nature, and she had an
astonishingly simple way of calling things by their names which
sometimes disconcerted Marcello and sometimes amused him. Settimia
civilised her, almost without letting her know it, for she was quick to
learn, like all naturally clever people who have had no education, and
she was imitative, as all womanly women are when they are obliged to
adapt themselves quickly to new surroundings. She was stimulated, too,
by the wish to appear well before Marcello, lest he should ever be
ashamed of her. That was all. She never had the least illusion about
herself, nor any hope of raising herself to his social level. She was
far too much the real peasant girl for that, the descendant of thirty or
more generations of serfs, the offspring of men and women who had felt
that they belonged body and soul to the feudal lord of the land on which
they were born, and had never been disturbed by tempting dreams of
liberty, equality, fraternity, and the violent destruction of ladies and
gentlemen.
So she lived, and so she learned many things of Settimia, and looked
upon herself as the absolute property of the man she loved and had
saved; and she was perfectly happy, if not perfectly good.
"When I am of age," Marcello used to say, "I shall buy a beautiful
little palace near the Tiber, and you shall live in it."
"Why?" she always asked. "Are we not happy here? Is it not cool in
summer, and sunny in winter? Have we not all we want? When you marry,
your wife will live in the splendid villa on the Janiculum, and when you
are tired of her, you will come and see Regina here. I hope you will
always be tired of her. Then I shall be happy."
Marcello would laugh a little, and then he would look grave and
thoughtful, for he had not forgotten Aurora, and sometimes wondered what
she was doing, as a young man does who is losing his hold upon himself,
and on the things in which he has always believed. He who has never
lived through such times and outlived them, knows neither the world nor
himself.
Marcello wondered whether Aurora would ever meet Regina face to face,
and what would happen if he were called upon to choose between the two.
He would choose Regina, he said to himself, when he was going down the
steep way from the villa to the little house, eager for her touch, her
voice, her breath, and feeling in his pocket the key that opened the
garden gate. But when the hours had passed, and he slowly walked up the
road under the great plane-trees, in the cool of the late evening,
glancing at the distant lights of Rome beyond the Tiber, and dimly
conscious that something was still unsatisfied, then he hesitated and he
remembered his boyish love, and fancied that if he met Aurora in the way
they would stand still, each finding the other in the other's eyes, and
silently kiss, as they had kissed long ago. Yet, with the thought, he
felt shame, and he blushed, alone there under the plane-trees.
But Aurora had never come back to Rome, and the small apartment that
overlooked the Forum of Trajan had other tenants. It was strange that
the Contessa and her daughter should not have returned, and sometimes
Marcello felt a great longing to see them. He said "them" to himself at
such times, but he knew what he meant.
So time went on. Corbario said that he himself must really go to San
Domenico, to look after the Calabrian property, but added that it would
be quite useless for Marcello to go with him. Marcello could stay in
Rome and amuse himself as he pleased, or he might make a little journey
to the north, to Switzerland, to the Tyrol--there were so many places.
Settimia would take care of Regina, and perhaps Regina herself had
better make a little trip for a change. Yes, Settimia had travelled a
good deal; she even knew enough French to travel in a foreign country,
if necessary. Corbario said that he did not know where she had learned
French, but he was quite sure she knew it tolerably well. Regina would
be safe under her care, in some quiet place where the air would do her
good.
Thereupon Corbario went off to the south, leaving Marcello plentifully
supplied with money and promising to write to him. They parted
affectionately.
"If you wish to go away," Corbario said, as he was leaving, "it might be
as well to leave your next address, so that you may get letters. But
please don't fancy that I want to know everything you do, my dear boy.
You are quite old enough to take care of yourself, and quite sensible
enough, too. The only thing you had better avoid for a few years is
marriage!"
Folco laughed softly as he delivered this piece of advice, and lit a
cigar. Then he looked critically at Marcello.
"You are still very pale," he observed thoughtfully. "You have not got
back all your strength yet. Drink plenty of champagne at luncheon and
dinner. There is nothing like it when a man is run down. And don't sit
up all night smoking cigarettes more than three times a week!"
He laughed again as he shook hands and got into the carriage, and
Marcello was glad when he was gone, though he was so fond of him. It was
a bore to be told that he was not strong, because it certainly was true,
and, besides, even Folco was sometimes a little in the way.
In a week Marcello and Regina were in Venice; a month later they were in
Paris. The invaluable Settimia knew her way about, and spoke French with
a fluency that amazed Marcello; she even taught Regina a few of those
phrases which are particularly useful at a dressmaker's and quite
incomprehensible anywhere else. Marcello told her to see that Regina was
perfectly dressed, and Settimia carried out his instructions with taste
and wisdom. Regina had arrived in Paris with one box of modest
dimensions; she left with four more, of a size that made the railway
porters stagger.
One day Marcello brought home a string of pearls in his pocket, and
tried to fasten it round her throat; but she would not let him do it.
She was angry.
"Keep those things for your wife!" she said, with flashing eyes and
standing back from him. "I will wear the clothes you buy for me, because
you like me to be pretty and I don't want you to be ashamed of me. But I
will not take jewels, for jewels are money, just as gold is! You can buy
a wife with that stuff, not a woman who loves you!"
Her brows were level and stern, her face grew whiter as she spoke, and
Marcello was suddenly aware, for the first time in his life, that he did
not understand women. That knowledge comes sooner or later to almost
every man, but many are spared it until they are much older than he was.
"I did not mean to offend you," he said, in a rather injured tone, as he
slipped the pearls into his pocket.
"Of course not," she answered. "But you do not understand. If I thought
you did, I would go back to the inn and never see you again. I should
die, but it would not matter, for I should still respect myself!"
"I only wished to please you," said Marcello apologetically.
"You wish to please me? Love me! That is what I want. Love me as much as
you can, it will always be less than I love you, and as long as you can,
it will always be less long than I shall love you, for that will be
always. And when you are tired of me, tell me so, heart of my heart, and
I will go away, for that is better than to hang like a chain on a young
man's neck. I will go away, and God will forgive me, for to love you is
all I know."
His kisses closed her flashing eyes, and her lips parted in a faint,
expectant smile, that was not disappointed.
So time passed, and Marcello heard occasionally from Corbario, and wrote
to him once or twice, when he needed money. Folco never alluded to
Regina, and Marcello wondered whether he guessed that she had left Rome.
He was never quite sure how much Folco knew of his life, and Folco was
careful never to ask questions.
But the existence Marcello was leading was not calculated to restore his
strength, which had never been great, even before his illness. Though
Regina did not understand the language, she grew very fond of the
theatre, for Marcello translated and explained everything; and it was
such a pleasure to give her pleasure, that he forgot the stifling air
and the late hours. Moreover, he met in Paris a couple of acquaintances
a little older than himself, who were only too glad to see something of
the beautiful Regina, so that there were often supper-parties after the
play, and trips in motorcars in the morning, horse races in the
afternoon, and all manner of amusements, with a general tendency to look
upon sleep as a disease to be avoided and the wish to rest as a foolish
weakness. It was true that Marcello never coughed, but he was very thin,
and his delicate face had grown perfectly colourless, though he
followed Corbario's advice and drank a good deal of champagne, not to
mention other less harmless things, because the quick stimulant was as
pleasant as a nap and did not involve such a waste of time.
As for Regina, the life suited her, at least for a while, and her beauty
was refined rather than marred by a little bodily weariness. The
splendid blush of pleasure rarely rose in her cheeks now, but the clear
pallor of her matchless complexion was quite as lovely. The constitution
of a healthy Roman peasant girl does not break down easily under a
course of pleasure and amusement, and it might never have occurred to
Regina that Marcello was almost exhausted already, if her eyes had not
been opened to his condition by some one else.
They were leaving the ThÈ‚tre FranÁais one evening, intending to go home
on foot as the night was fine and warm. They had seen _Hernani_, and
Regina had naturally found it hard to understand the story, even with
Marcello's explanations; the more so as he himself had never seen the
play before, and had come to the theatre quite sure that it must be
easily comprehensible from the opera founded on it, which he had heard.
Regina's arm was passed through his, and as they made their way through
the crowd, under the not very brilliant lights in the portico, Marcello
was doing his best to make the plot of the piece clear, and Regina was
looking earnestly into his face, trying to follow what he said. Suddenly
he heard an Italian voice very near to him, calling him by name, in a
tone of surprise.
"Marcello!"
He started, straightened himself, turned his head, and faced the
Contessa dell' Armi. Close beside her was Aurora, leaning forward a
little, with an expression of cold curiosity; she had already seen
Regina, who did not withdraw her hand from Marcello's arm.
"You here?" he cried, recovering himself quickly.
As he spoke, the Contessa realised the situation, and at the same moment
Marcello met Aurora's eyes. Regina felt his arm drop by his side, as if
he were disowning her in the presence of these two smart women who were
friends of his. She forgave him, for she was strangely humble in some
ways, but she hated them forthwith.
The Contessa, who was a woman of the world, nodded quietly and smiled as
if she had seen nothing, but she at once began to steer her daughter in
a divergent direction.
"You are looking very ill," she said, turning her head back as she moved
away. "Come and see us."
"Where?" asked Marcello, making half a step to follow, and looking at
the back of Aurora's head and at the pretty hat she wore.
The Contessa named a quiet hotel in the Rue Saint HonorÈ, and was gone
in the crowd. Marcello stood quite still for a moment, staring after the
two. Then he felt Regina's hand slipping through his arm.
"Come," she said softly, and she led him away to the left.
He did not speak for a long time. They turned under the arches into the
Palais Royal, and followed the long portico in silence, out to the Rue
Vivienne and the narrow Rue des Petits Champs. Still Marcello did not
speak, and without a word they reached the Avenue de l'OpÈra. The light
was very bright there, and Regina looked long at Marcello's face, and
saw how white it was.
"She said you were looking very ill," said she, in a voice that shook a
little.
"Nonsense!" cried Marcello, rousing himself. "Shall we have supper at
Henry's or at the CafÈ de Paris? We are near both."
"We will go home," Regina answered. "I do not want any supper to-night."
They reached their hotel. Regina tossed her hat upon a chair in the
sitting-room and drew Marcello to the light, holding him before her, and
scrutinising his face with extraordinary intensity. Suddenly her hands
dropped from his shoulders.
"She was right; you are ill. Who is this lady that knows your face
better than I?"
She asked the question in a tone of bitterness and self-reproach.
"The Contessa dell' Armi," Marcello answered, with a shade of
reluctance.
"And the girl?" asked Regina, in a flash of intuition.
"Her daughter Aurora." He turned away, lit a cigarette, and rang the
bell.
Regina bit her lip until it hurt her, for she remembered how often he
had pronounced that name in his delirium, many months ago. She could
not speak for a moment. A waiter came in answer to the bell, and
Marcello ordered something, and then sat down. Regina went to her room
and did not return until the servant had come back and was gone again,
leaving a tray on the table.
"What is the matter?" asked Marcello in surprise, as he caught sight of
her face.
She sat down at a little distance, her eyes fixed on him.
"I am a very wicked woman," she said, in a dull voice.
"You?" Marcello laughed and filled the glasses.
"I am letting you kill yourself to amuse me," Regina said. "I am a very,
very wicked woman. But you shall not do it any more. We will go away at
once."
"I am perfectly well," Marcello answered, holding out a glass to her;
but she would not take it.
"I do not want wine to-night," she said. "It is good when one has a
light heart, but my heart is as heavy as a stone. What am I good for?
Kill me. It will be better. Then you will live."
"I should have died without you long ago. You saved my life."
"To take it again! To let you consume yourself, so that I may see the
world! What do I care for the world, if you are not well? Let us go away
quickly."
"Next week, if you like."
"No! To-morrow!"
"Without waiting to hear Melba?"
"Yes--to-morrow!"
"Or Sarah Bernhardt in Sardou's new play?"
"To-morrow! To-morrow morning, early! What is anything compared with
your getting well?"
"And your new summer costume that Doucet has not finished? How about
that?"
Marcello laughed gaily and emptied his glass. But Regina rose and knelt
down beside him, laying her hands on his.
"We must go to-morrow," she said. "You shall say where, for you know
what countries are near Paris, and where there are hills, and trees, and
waterfalls, and birds that sing, where the earth smells sweet when it
rains, and it is quiet when the sun is high. We will go there, but you
know where it is, and how far."
"I have no doubt Settimia knows," laughed Marcello. "She knows
everything."
But Regina's face was grave, and she shook her head slowly.
"What is the use of laughing?" she asked. "You cannot deceive me, you
know you cannot! I deceived myself and was blind, but my eyes are open
now, and I can only see the truth. Do you love me, Marcello?"
His eyes looked tired a moment ago, even when he laughed, but the light
came into them now. He breathed a little faster and bent forward to kiss
her. She could feel the rising pulse in his thin hands. But she leaned
back as she knelt, and pressed her lips together tightly.
"Not that," she said, after they had both been motionless ten seconds.
"I don't mean that! Love is not all kisses. There is more. There are
tears, but there is more too. There is pain, there is doubting, there is
jealousy, and more than that! There is avarice also, for a woman who
loves is a miser, counting her treasure when others sleep. And she would
kill any one who robbed her, and that is murder. Yet there is more,
there are all the mortal sins in love, and even then there is worse. For
there is this. She will not count her own soul for him she loves, no,
not if the saints in Paradise came down weeping and begging her to think
of her salvation. And that is a great sin, I suppose."
Marcello looked at her, thinking that she was beautiful, and he said
nothing.
"But perhaps a man cannot love like that," she added presently. "So what
is the use of my asking you whether you love me? You love Aurora too, I
daresay! Such as your man's love is, and of its kind, you have enough
for two!"
Marcello smiled.
"I do not love Aurora now," he said.
"But you have, for you talked to her in your fever, and perhaps you will
again, or perhaps you wish to marry her. How can I tell what you think?
She is prettier than I, for she has fair hair. I knew she had. I hate
fair women, but they are prettier than we dark things ever are. All men
think so. What does it matter? It was I that saved your life when you
were dying, and the people meant you to die. I shall always have that
satisfaction, even when you are tired of me."
"Say never, then!"
"Never? Yes, if I let you stay here, you will not have time to be tired
of me, for you will grow thinner and whiter, and one day you will be
breathing, and not breathing, and breathing a little again, and then not
breathing at all, and you will be lying dead with your head on my arm. I
can see how it will be, for I thought more than once that you were dead,
just like that, when you had the fever. No! If I let that happen you
will never be tired of me while you are alive, and when you are dead
Aurora cannot have you. Perhaps that would be better. I would almost
rather have it so."
"Then why should we go away?" asked Marcello, smiling a little.
"Because to let you die would be a great sin, much worse than losing my
soul for you, or killing some one to keep you. Don't you see that?"
"Why would it be worse?"
"I do not know, but I am sure it would. Perhaps because it would be
losing your soul instead of mine. Who knows? It is not in the catechism.
The catechism has nothing about love, and I never learned anything else.
But I know things that I never learned. Every woman does. How? The heart
says them, and they are true. Where shall we go to-morrow?"
"Do you really want to leave Paris?"
To impress upon him that she was in earnest Regina squeezed his hands
together in hers with such energy that she really hurt him.
"What else have I been saying for half an hour?" she asked impatiently.
"Do you think I am playing a comedy?" She laughed. "Remember that I
have carried you up and down stairs in my arms," she added, "and I could
do it again!"
"If you insist on going away, I will walk," Marcello answered with a
laugh.
She laughed too, as she rose to her feet. He put out his hand to fill
his glass again, but she stopped him.
"No," she said, "the wine keeps you awake, and makes you think you are
stronger than you are. You shall sleep to-night, and to-morrow we will
go. I am so glad it is settled!"
She could do what she would with him, and so it turned out that Marcello
left Paris without going to see the Contessa and Aurora; and when he was
fairly away he felt that it was a relief not to be able to see them,
since it would have been his duty to do so if he had stayed another day.
Maddalena dell' Armi had not believed that he would come, but she
stopped at home that afternoon on the bare possibility. Aurora made up
her mind that if he came she would shut herself up in her own room. She
expected that he would certainly call before the evening, and was
strangely disappointed because he did not.
"Who was that lady with him last night?" she asked of her mother.
"I do not know that--lady," answered the Contessa, with a very slight
hesitation before pronouncing the last word.
But they had both heard of Regina already.