"Variety, my dear Marcello, variety! There is nothing like it. If I were
you, I would make some change, for your life must be growing monotonous,
and besides, though I have not the least intention of reading you a
lecture, you have really made your doings unnecessarily conspicuous of
late. The Paris chroniclers have talked about you enough for the
present. Don't you think so? Yes, finish the bottle. I always told you
that champagne was good for you."
Marcello filled his glass and sipped the wine before he answered. It had
not gone to his head, but there was colour in his lean cheeks, his eyes
were brighter than usual, and he felt the familiar exhilaration which he
had missed of late.
"I have been drinking milk for ten days," he said with a smile, as he
set down the glass.
"Good in its way, no doubt," Corbario answered genially, "but a little
tiresome. One should often change from simple things to complicated
ones. It is the science of enjoyment. Besides, it is bad for the
digestion to live always on bread and milk."
"I don't live on that altogether," laughed Marcello.
"I mean it metaphorically, my dear boy. There is such a thing as
simplifying one's existence too much. That sometimes ends in getting
stuck. Now you cannot possibly allow yourself to get stuck in your
present position. You know what I mean. Oh, I don't blame you! If I were
your age I should probably do the same thing, especially if I had your
luck. Blame you? No! Not in the least. The cigarettes are there. You've
not given up smoking too? No, that's right. A man without a small vice
is as uninteresting as a woman without a past or a landscape without
shadows. Cigarettes never hurt anybody. Look at me! I used to smoke
fifty a day when I was your age."
Marcello blew a cloud of smoke, stirred his coffee, and leaned back. He
had scarcely heard what Corbario said, but the elder man's careless
chatter had put him at his ease.
"Folco," he said quietly, "I want to ask you a question, and I want you
to answer me seriously. Will you?"
"As well as I can," answered Corbario, instantly changing his tone and
growing earnest.
"Don't be surprised," Marcello said, half apologetically, as if he were
already weakening. "I shall never do anything without your advice. Of
course you know how I feel about all this, that I am leading a
disorderly life, and--well, you understand!"
"Perfectly, my dear boy. I only wish to help you out of it as soon as
possible, if you want to be helped. I'm quite sure that you will pull
through in time. I have always believed in you."
"Thank you. I know you have. Well, I'll ask you my question. You know
well enough that I shall never care for society much, don't you?"
"Society will care for you," answered Folco. "What is the question?"
"I'm coming to it, but I want to explain, or it will not be quite clear.
You see, it is not as if I were a personage in the world."
"What sort of personage? Please explain."
"I mean, if I were the head of a great house, with a great title and
hereditary estate."
"What has that to do with it?" Folco was mystified.
"If I were, it would make a difference, I suppose. But I'm not. I'm
plain Marcello Consalvi, no better than any one else."
"But vastly richer," Folco suggested.
"I wish I were not. I wish I were a poor clerk, working for my living."
"The air of this place is not good for you, my boy." Folco laughed
gaily.
"No, don't laugh! I'm in earnest. If I were a poor man, nobody would
think it at all strange if--" Marcello hesitated.
"If what?"
"If I married Regina," said Marcello rather desperately.
Folco's expression changed instantly.
"Was that the question you were going to ask me?" he inquired.
"Yes."
Marcello grew very red and smoked so fast that he choked himself.
"Is there any earthly reason why you should marry her?" asked Folco very
quietly.
"It would be right," Marcello answered, gaining courage.
"Yes, yes, undoubtedly," Folco hastened to admit. "In principle it would
undoubtedly be right. But it is a very serious matter, my dear boy. It
means your whole life and future. Have you"--he hesitated, with an
affectation of delicacy--"have you said anything to her about it?"
"I used to, at first, but she would not hear of it. You have no idea how
simple she is, and how little she expects anything of the sort. She
always tells me that I am to send her away when I am tired of her, to
throw her away like an old coat, as she says herself. But I could never
do that, you know. Could I?"
Marcello blushed again, hardly knowing why. Corbario seemed deeply
interested.
"She must be a very unusual sort of girl," he observed thoughtfully.
"There are not many like her, I fancy."
"There is nobody like her," Marcello answered with conviction. "That is
why I want to marry her. I owe it to her. You must admit that. I owe her
my life, for I certainly should have died if she had not taken care of
me. And then, there is the rest. She has given me all she has, and that
is herself, and she asks nothing in return. She is very proud, too. I
tried to make her accept a string of pearls in Paris, just because I
thought they would be becoming to her, but she absolutely refused."
"Really? I suppose you gave the pearls back to the jeweller?"
"No, I kept them. Perhaps I shall get her to wear them some day."
Folco smiled.
"You may just as well encourage her simple tastes," he said. "Women
always end by learning how to spend money, unless it is their own."
Having delivered himself of this piece of wisdom Folco chose a cigar,
nipped off the end of it neatly with a gold cutter, lit it and snuffed
the rich smoke up his nose in a deliberate manner.
"Regina is a very remarkable woman," he said at last. "If she had been
well educated, she would make an admirable wife; and she loves you
devotedly, Marcello. Now, the real question is--at least, it seems to me
so--you don't mind my talking to you just as I would to myself, do you?
Very well. If I were in your position, I should ask myself, as a man of
honour, whether I really loved her as much as she loved me, or whether I
had only been taken off my feet by her beauty. Don't misunderstand me,
my boy! I should feel that if I were not quite sure of that, I ought not
to marry her, because it would be much worse for her in the end than if
we parted. Have you ever asked yourself that question, Marcello?"
"Yes, I have."
Marcello spoke in a low voice, and bent his head, as if he were not
sure of the answer. Corbario, satisfied with the immediate effect of his
satanic speech, waited a moment, sighed, looked down at his cigar, and
then went on in gentle tones.
"That is so often the way," he said. "A man marries a woman out of a
sense of duty, and then makes her miserably unhappy, quite in spite of
himself. Of course, in such a case as yours, you feel that you owe a
woman amends--you cannot call it compensation, as if it were a matter of
law! She has given everything, and you have given nothing. You owe her
happiness, if you can bestow it upon her, don't you?"
"Indeed I do!" assented Marcello.
"Yes. The question is, whether the way to make her happy is to marry
her, when you have a reasonable doubt as to whether you can be a good
husband to her. That is the real problem, it seems to me. Do you love
her enough to give up the life to which you were born, and for which you
were educated? You would have to do that, you know. Our friends--your
dear mother's friends, my boy--would never receive her, least of all
after what has happened."
"I know it."
"You would have to wander about Europe, or live in San Domenico, for you
could not bear to live in Rome, meeting women who would not bow to your
wife. I know you. You could not possibly bear it."
"I should think not!"
"No. Therefore, since you have the doubt, since you are not absolutely
sure of yourself, I think the only thing to do is to find out what you
really feel, before taking an irreparable step."
"Yes," said Marcello, who had fallen into the trap laid for him. "I know
that. But how am I to make sure of myself?"
"There is only one way," Folco answered. "I know it is not easy, and if
I were not sure that you are perfectly sincere I should be afraid to
propose it to you."
"What is it? Tell me. You are the only friend I have in the world,
Folco, and I want to do what is right. God knows, I am in earnest! There
are moments when I cannot imagine living without Regina--it seemed hard
to leave her this morning, even for these few hours, and I long to be
back at Pontresina already! Yet you know how fond I am of you, and how I
like to be with you, for we have always been more like brothers than
anything else."
"Indeed we have!" Folco assented fervently. "You were saying that there
were moments--yes?"
"Sometimes she jars upon me dreadfully," Marcello said in a low voice,
as if he were ashamed of owning it. "Then I want to get away."
"Exactly. You want to get away, not to leave her, but to be alone for a
few hours, or a few days. That would be the very best thing you could
do--to separate for a little while. You would very soon find out whether
you could live without her or not; and believe me, if you feel that you
can live without her, that means that you could not live with her for
your whole life."
"I should go back to her in twenty-four hours. I am sure I should."
"Perhaps you would, if you went, say, from here to Paris alone, with
nothing to distract your attention. But suppose that you and I should go
together, to some place where we should meet our friends, all amusing
themselves, where you could talk to other women, and meet men of your
own age, and lead the life people expect you to lead, just for a few
weeks. You know that society will be only too glad to see something of
you, whenever you choose to go near it. You are what is called a good
match, and all the mothers with marriageable daughters would run after
you."
"Disgusting!" exclaimed Marcello, with contempt.
"No doubt, but it would be a wholesome change and a good test. When a
young girl is determined to be a nun, she is generally made to spend a
year in society, in order to make acquaintance with what she intends to
give up. I don't see much difference between that and your case. Before
you say good-bye for ever to your own world, find out what it is like.
At the same time, you will settle for ever any doubts you have about
really loving Regina."
"Perhaps you are right. It would only be for a few days."
"And besides," Folco continued, "if you have not yet found it dull at
Pontresina, you certainly will before long. There is no reason why you
should lead the life of an invalid, for you are quite strong now."
"Oh, quite. I always tell Regina so, but she insists that I am too thin,
and it amuses her to take care of me."
"Naturally. That is how you first made acquaintance. A woman who has
once taken care of a man she loves wants him to be ever afterwards an
invalid, for ever getting better! A man gets tired of that in time. It
was a great pity you left Paris just when I came, for there are many
things we could have enjoyed together there."
"I daresay," Marcello answered, not paying much attention to the other's
words.
"Take my advice, my dear boy," said Folco. "Come away with me for a few
days. I will wait here till you are quite ready, for of course you
cannot be sure of getting off at once. You will have to prepare Regina
for this."
"Of course. I am not sure that it is possible at all."
Folco laughed gaily.
"Anything is possible that you really wish to do," he said.
"Regina may insist upon coming with me."
"Nonsense. Women always submit in the end, and they never die of it.
Assert yourself, Marcello! Be a man! You cannot be ordered about like a
child by any woman, not even if she has saved your life, not even if
she loves you to distraction. You have a right to a will of your own."
"I know. And yet--oh, I wish I knew what I ought to do!"
"Think over all I have said, and you will see that I am right," said
Folco, rising from the table. "And if you take my advice, you will be
doing what is fair and honest by Regina as well as by yourself. Your own
conscience must tell you that."
Poor Marcello was not very sure what had become of his own conscience
during the past year, and Folco's arguments swayed him as he groped for
something definite to follow, and found nothing but what Corbario chose
to thrust into his hand.
As they stood by the table, a servant brought a note on a little salver,
holding it out to them as if he were not sure which of them was to
receive it. Both glanced at the address; it was for Corbario, who took
it quickly and put it into his pocket; but Marcello had recognised the
handwriting--that rather cramped feminine hand of a woman who has seen
better days, in which Settimia kept accounts for Regina. The latter
insisted that an account should be kept of the money which Marcello gave
her, and that he should see it from time to time. At the first moment,
being absorbed with other matters, and inwardly much engaged in the
pursuit of his own conscience, which eluded him at every turn like a
figure in a dream, he paid no attention to what he had seen; but the
writing had impressed itself on his memory.
They had been lunching in Folco's sitting-room, and Corbario made an
excuse to go into his bedroom for a moment, saying that he wanted
certain cigars that his man had put away. Marcello stood at the window
gazing down the broad valley. Scarcely a minute elapsed before Folco
came back with a handful of Havanas which he dropped on a writing-table.
"By the bye," he said carelessly, "there is another reason why you may
not care to stay long in Pontresina. The Contessa and Aurora are there."
"Are they?" Marcello turned sharply as he asked the question.
He was surprised, and at the same instant it flashed upon him that Folco
had just received the information from Settimia in the note that had
been brought.
"Yes," Folco answered with a smile. "And Pontresina is such a small
place that you can hardly help meeting them. I thought I might as well
tell you."
"Thank you. Yes, it would be awkward, and unpleasant for them."
"Precisely. The Contessa wrote me that she and Aurora had come upon you
two unexpectedly in leaving a theatre, and that she had felt very
uncomfortable."
"Oh! I suppose she suggested that I should mend my ways?"
"As a matter of fact, she did." Corbario smiled. "You know what a very
proper person she is!"
"She is quite right," answered Marcello gravely.
"It certainly cannot have been pleasant for her, on account of Aurora."
Folco looked at him thoughtfully, for his tone had suddenly changed.
"If you don't mind," Folco said, "I think I will drive up with you and
call on them this afternoon. You can drop me at their hotel, and I shall
find my way back alone."
"Certainly."
"Are you sure you don't mind?" Folco affected to speak anxiously.
"Why should I?"
"You see," Folco said, without heeding the question, "they let me know
that they were there, and as we are such old friends it would be strange
if I did not go to see them."
"Of course it would," answered Marcello in an absent tone.
He already connected Folco's knowledge of the Contessa's arrival in
Pontresina so closely with Settimia's note that Folco's last statement
had taken him by surprise, and a multitude of confused questions
presented themselves to his mind. If Settimia had not written about the
Contessa, why had she written at all? How did she know where Corbario
was stopping in Saint Moritz? Was she in the habit of writing to him?
Corbario had found her for Regina; was Settimia helping Corbario to
exercise a sort of paternal vigilance over him? Somehow Marcello did not
like that idea at all. So far as he knew, Folco had always been
singularly frank with him, and had never deceived him in the smallest
thing, even "for his own good." Marcello could only attribute good
motives to him, but the mere idea of being watched was excessively
disagreeable. He wondered whether Settimia had influenced Regina to get
him away from Paris, acting under directions from Corbario. Was Regina
deceiving him too, "for his own good"? If there is anything a man cannot
bear from those he loves best, it is that they should take counsel
together secretly to direct him "for his own good."
Marcello tried to put the thought out of his mind; but it had dawned
upon him for the first time that Folco could tell even a pious
falsehood. Yet he had no proof whatever that he had guessed right; it
was a sudden impression and nothing more. He was much more silent during
the rest of the afternoon as he drove up to Pontresina with Folco, and
it seemed to him that he had at last touched something definite; which
was strange enough, considering that it was all a matter of guess-work
and doubt.
And now fate awoke again and did one of those little things that decide
men's lives. If Folco and Marcello had stopped at the door of the
Contessa's hotel two minutes earlier, or thirty seconds later, than they
did, they would not have chanced upon the Contessa and Aurora just
coming in from a walk. But fate brought the four together precisely at
that moment. As the carriage stopped, the two ladies had come from the
opposite direction and were on the door-step.
"What a surprise!" exclaimed the Contessa, giving her hand graciously
to Folco and then to Marcello.
The latter had got hold of a thread. Since the Contessa was surprised to
see Folco, she could not possibly have already let him know that she was
in Pontresina.
"I came as soon as I knew that you were here," said Corbario quickly.
Marcello heard the words, though he was at that moment shaking hands
with Aurora, and their eyes had met. She was perfectly calm and
collected, none the worse for her adventure in the morning, and
considerably the wiser.
"Will you come in?" asked the Contessa, leading the way, as if expecting
both men to follow.
Corbario went at once. Marcello hesitated, and flushed a little, and
Aurora seemed to be waiting for him.
"Shall I come, too?" he asked.
"Just as you please," she answered. "My mother will think it strange if
you don't."
Marcello bent his head, and the two followed the others towards the
stairs at a little distance.
"Did your mother send word to Folco that you were here?" asked Marcello
quickly, in a low tone.
"Not that I know. Why?"
"It is no matter. I wanted to be sure. Thank you."
They went upstairs side by side, not even glancing at each other, much
more anxious to seem perfectly indifferent than to realise what they
felt now that they had met at last.
Marcello stayed ten minutes in the small sitting-room, talking as well
as he could. He had no wish to be alone with Aurora or her mother, and
since the visit had been pressed upon him he was glad that Folco was
present. But he got away as soon as he could, leaving Corbario to his
own devices. The Contessa gave him her hand quietly, as if she had not
expected him to stay, and she did not ask him to come again. Aurora
merely nodded to him, and he saw that just as he went out she left the
room by another door, after glancing at him once more with apparent
coldness.
He walked quickly through the village until he came near to his own
hotel, and then his pace slackened by degrees. He knew that he had felt
a strong emotion in seeing Aurora again, and he was already wishing that
he had not come away so soon. The room had been small, and it had been
uncomfortable to be there, feeling himself judged and condemned by the
Contessa and distrusted by Aurora; but he had been in an atmosphere that
recalled all his youth, with people whose mere presence together brought
back the memory of his dead mother as nothing else had done since his
illness. He was just in that state of mind in which he would have broken
away and freed himself within the hour, at any cost, if he had been
involved in a common intrigue.
At the same time he had become convinced that Folco had deceived him,
for some reason or other which he could not guess, and the knowledge was
the first serious disillusionment of his life. The deception had been
small, and perhaps intended in some mysterious way to be "for his own
good"; but it had been a distinct deception and no better than a lie. He
was sure of that.
He went upstairs slowly and Regina met him at the door of their rooms,
and took his hat and stick without a word, for she saw that something
had happened, and she felt suddenly cold. He was quite unlike himself.
The careless look was gone from his face, his young lips were tightly
closed, and he looked straight before him, quite unconscious that his
manner was hurting her desperately.
"Has Settimia been out to-day?" he asked, looking at her quickly.
"I don't know," she answered, surprised. "I went for a long walk this
morning. She probably went out into the village. I cannot tell. Why do
you ask?"
"I wish to know whether she sent a note to Saint Moritz by a messenger.
Can you find out, without asking her a direct question? I am very
anxious to know."
"I will try, but it will not be easy," said Regina, watching him.
She had made up her mind that the blow was coming, and that Marcello was
only putting off the moment when she must be told that he meant to leave
her. She was very quiet, and waited for him to speak again, for she was
too proud to ask him questions. His inquiry about Settimia was in some
way connected with what was to come. He sat down by the table, and
drummed upon it absently with his fingers for a moment. Then he looked
up suddenly and met her eyes; his look of troubled preoccupation faded
all at once, and he smiled and held out one hand to draw her nearer.
"Forgive me," he said. "All sorts of things have happened to-day. I have
been annoyed."
She came and bent over him, turning his face up to hers with her hands,
very gently. His eyes lightened slowly, and his lips parted a little.
"You are not tired of Regina yet," she said.
"No!" he laughed. "But you were right," he added, almost immediately.
"I knew I was," she answered, but not as she had expected to say the
words when she had seen him come in.
She dared not hope to keep him always, but she had not lost him yet, and
that was enough for the moment. The weight had fallen from her heart,
and the pain was gone.
"Was it what I thought?" she asked softly. "Does your stepfather wish to
separate us?"
"For a little while," Marcello answered. "He says we ought to part for a
few weeks, so that I may find out whether I love you enough to marry
you!"
"And he almost persuaded you that he was right," said Regina. "Is that
what happened?"
"That--and something else."
"Will you tell me, heart of my heart?"
In the falling twilight he told her all that had passed through his
mind, from the moment when he had seen Settimia's handwriting on the
note. Then Regina's lips moved.
"He shall pay!" she was saying under her breath. "He shall pay!"
"What are you saying?" Marcello asked.
"An Ave Maria," she answered. "It is almost dark."