The following afternoon found him still in that enviable condition as
he stood listening to the music on the Pincian Hill. He had it of rumor
that the Fashion of Rome usually took a turn there before it went to
tea, and he had it from the lady herself that Madame de Vaurigard would
be there. Presently she came, reclining in a victoria, the harness of
her horses flashing with gold in the sunshine. She wore a long ermine
stole; her hat was ermine; she carried a muff of the same fur, and
Mellin thought it a perfect finish to the picture that a dark gentleman
of an appearance most distinguished should be sitting beside her. An
Italian noble, surely!
He saw the American at once, nodded to him and waved her hand. The
victoria went on a little way beyond the turn of the drive, drew out of
the line of carriages, and stopped.
“Ah, Monsieur Mellin,” she cried, as he came up, “I am glad! I was so
foolish yesterday I didn' give you the address of my little apartment
an' I forgot to ask you what is your hotel. I tol' you I would come here
for my drive, but still I might have lost you for ever. See what many
people! It is jus' that Fate again.”
She laughed, and looked to the Italian for sympathy in her kindly
merriment. He smiled cordially upon her, then lifted his hat and smiled
as cordially upon Mellin.
“I am so happy to fin' myself in Rome that I forget”--Madame de
Vaurigard went on--“_ever'sing!_ But now I mus' make sure not to lose
you. What is your hotel?”
“Oh, the Magnifique,” Mellin answered carelessly. “I suppose everybody
that one knows stops there. One does stop there, when one is in Rome,
doesn't one?”
“Everybody go' there for tea, and to eat, sometime, but to _stay_--ah,
that is for the American!” she laughed. “That is for you who are all so
abomin-_ab_-ly rich!” She smiled to the Italian again, and both of them
smiled beamingly on Mellin.
“But that isn't always our fault, is it?” said Mellin easily.
“Aha! You mean you are of the new generation, of the yo'ng American' who
come over an' try to spen' these immense fortune'--those _'pile'_--your
father or your gran-father make! I know quite well. Ah?”
“Well,” he hesitated, smiling. “I suppose it does look a little by way
of being like that.”
“Wicked fellow!” She leaned forward and tapped his shoulder chidingly
with two fingers. “I know what you wish the mos' in the worl'--you
wish to get into mischief. That is it! No, sir, I will jus' take you in
han'!”
“When will you take me?” he asked boldly.
At this, the pleasant murmur of laughter--half actual and half
suggested--with which she underlined the conversation, became loud and
clear, as she allowed her vivacious glance to strike straight into his
upturned eyes, and answered:
“As long as a little turn roun' the hill, _now_. Cavaliere Corni--”
To Mellin's surprise and delight the Italian immediately descended from
the victoria without the slightest appearance of irritation; on
the contrary, he was urbane to a fine degree, and, upon Madame de
Vaurigard's formally introducing him to Mellin, saluted the latter with
grave politeness, expressing in good English a hope that they might meet
often. When the American was installed at the Countess' side she spoke
to the driver in Italian, and they began to move slowly along the ilex
avenue, the coachman reining his horses to a walk.
“You speak Italian?” she inquired.
“Oh, not a great deal more than a smattering,” he replied airily--a
truthful answer, inasmuch as a vocabulary consisting simply of _“quanty
costy”_ and _“troppo”_ cannot be seriously considered much more than a
smattering. Fortunately she made no test of his linguistic attainment,
but returned to her former subject.
“Ah, yes, all the worl' to-day know' the new class of American,” she
said--“_your_ class. Many year' ago we have another class which Europe
didn' like. That was when the American was ter-ri-ble! He was the--what
is that you call?--oh, yes; he 'make himself,' you say: that is it. My
frien', he was abominable! He brag'; he talk' through the nose; yes,
and he was niggardly, rich as he was! But you, you yo'ng men of the new
generation, you are gentlemen of the idleness; you are aristocrats, with
polish an' with culture. An' yet you throw your money away--yes, you
throw it to poor Europe as if to a beggar!”
“No, no,” he protested with an indulgent laugh which confessed that the
truth was really “Yes, yes.”
“Your smile betray' you!” she cried triumphantly. “More than jus' bein'
guilty of that fault, I am goin' to tell you of others. You are not the
ole-time--what is it you say?--Ah, yes, the 'goody-goody.' I have
heard my great American frien', Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow, call it the
Sonday-school. Is it not? Yes, you are not the Sonday-school yo'ng men,
you an' your class!”
“No,” he said, bestowing a long glance upon a stout nurse who
was sitting on a bench near the drive and attending to twins in a
perambulator. “No, we're not exactly dissenting parsons.”
“Ah, no!” She shook her head at him prettily. “You are wicked! You are
up into all the mischief! Have I not hear what wild sums you risk at
your game, that poker? You are famous for it.”
“Oh, we play,” he admitted with a reckless laugh, “and I suppose we do
play rather high.”
“High!” she echoed. “_Souzands!_ But that is not all. Ha, ha, ha,
naughty one! Have I not observe' you lookin' at these pretty creature',
the little contadina-girl, an' the poor ladies who have hire' their
carriages for two lire to drive up and down the Pincio in their bes'
dress an' be admire' by the yo'ng American while the music play'? Which
one I wonder, is it on whose wrist you would mos' like to fasten a
bracelet of diamon's? Wicked, I have watch' you look at them--”
“No, no,” he interrupted earnestly. “I have not once looked away from
you, I _could n't_.” Their eyes met, but instantly hers were lowered;
the bright smile with which she had been rallying him faded and there
was a pause during which he felt that she had become very grave. When
she spoke, it was with a little quaver, and the controlled pathos of
her voice was so intense that it evoked a sympathetic catch in his own
throat.
“But, my frien', if it should be that I cannot wish you to look so at
me, or to speak so to me?”
“I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed, almost incoherently. “I didn't mean
to hurt your feelings. I wouldn't do anything you'd think ungentlemanly
for the world!”
Her eyes lifted again to his with what he had no difficulty in
recognizing as a look of perfect trust; but, behind that, he perceived a
darkling sadness.
“I know it is true,” she murmured--“I know. But you see there are time'
when a woman has sorrow--sorrow of one kind--when she mus' be sure that
there is only--only rispec' in the hearts of her frien's.”
With that, the intended revelation was complete, and the young man
understood, as clearly as if she had told him in so many words, that she
was not a widow and that her husband was the cause of her sorrow. His
quickened instinct marvelously divined (or else it was conveyed to him
by some intangible method of hers) that the Count de Vaurigard was a
very bad case, but that she would not divorce him.
“I know,” he answered, profoundly touched. “I understand.”
In silent gratitude she laid her hand for a second upon his sleeve. Then
her face brightened, and she said gayly:
“But we shall not talk of _me!_ Let us see how we can keep you out of
mischief at leas' for a little while. I know very well what you will do
to-night: you will go to Salone Margherita an' sit in a box like all the
wicked Americans--”
“No, indeed, I shall not!”
“Ah, yes, you will!” she laughed. “But until dinner let me keep you from
wickedness. Come to tea jus' wiz me, not at the hotel, but at the little
apartment I have taken, where it is quiet. The music is finish', an' all
those pretty girl' are goin' away, you see. I am not selfish if I take
you from the Pincio now. You will come?”