After that, Elettra, unknown to Veronica, slept in the dressing-room
every night. After her mistress had gone to bed in the inner chamber,
the woman used to lock the outer door softly and then draw a short,
light sofa across it; on this she lay as best she might. The nights were
cold, after the fire had gone out, and she covered herself with a cloak
of Veronica's. In itself, it was no great hardship for a tough woman of
the mountains, as she was. But she slept little, for she feared
something. In the small hours she often thought she heard some one
breathing on the other side of the door, close to the lock, and once she
was quite sure that a single ray of light flashed through the keyhole,
below the half-turned key. Yet this might have been her imagination. And
as for the breathing, there was a large Maltese cat in the house that
sometimes wandered about at night. It might be purring all alone
outside, in the dark, and she might have taken the sound for that of
human breathing. No people are more suspicious and imaginative than
Italians, when they have been warned that there is danger; and this does
not proceed from natural timidity, but from the enormous value they set
upon life itself, as a good possession.
As for what Veronica ate and drank, Elettra was wise, too. She felt sure
that if any attempt were made to poison her, Matilde would manage it
quite alone; and she seriously expected that such an attempt would be
made, after what Don Teodoro had told her. Veronica, like most Italians
in the south, never took any regular breakfast, beyond a cup of coffee,
or tea, or chocolate, with a bit of bread or a biscuit, as soon as she
awoke. It was easy to be sure that such simple things had not been
within Matilde's reach, and it was Elettra's duty to go to the pantry
where coffee was made, and to bring the little tray to Veronica's room.
At night, the young girl had a glass of water and a biscuit set beside
her, when she went to sleep, but she rarely touched either. Elettra now
brought the biscuits herself and kept them in a cupboard in the
dressing-room, and she herself drew the water every night to fill the
glass. So far as any food and drink which came to her room were
concerned, Veronica was perfectly safe. But Elettra could not control
what she ate in the dining-room. She would not communicate her fears to
Veronica, either, for she knew her mistress well; and at the same time
she did not know what or how much Don Teodoro had told her during his
visit. Veronica was perfectly fearless, and was inclined to be
impatient, at any time, when any one insisted upon her taking any
precautions, for any reason whatsoever--even against catching cold. She
was not rash, however, for she had not been brought up in a way to
develop any such tendency. She was naturally courageous, and that was
all. She was unconscious of the quality, for she had not hitherto been
aware of ever being in any real danger.
As for Don Teodoro's warning, she put it down as the result of some
mental shock which had weakened his intelligence. Possibly Bosio's
sudden and terrible death had affected him in that way. At all events,
she was enough of an Italian to know how often in Italy such
extraordinary ideas of fictitious treachery find their way into the
brains of timid people. On the face of it, the whole story seemed to her
utterly absurd and foolish, from the tale of Macomer's ingenious frauds
upon her property, to the supposition that she was in danger of being
murdered for her fortune. Murder was always found out in the end, she
thought, and of course such people as her aunt and uncle, even if they
had any real reason for wishing their niece out of the way, would never
really think of doing anything at once so wicked and so unwise. But the
whole thing was absurd, she repeated to herself, and she found it easy
to put it out of her thoughts.
Meanwhile, the first days after the catastrophe passed in that sad,
unmarked succession of objectless hours by which time moves in a house
where such a death has taken place. It is not the custom among the upper
classes of Italians to attend the funerals of relations and friends. The
servants are sent, in deep mourning, to kneel before the catafalque in
church during the first requiem mass. Occasionally some of the men of a
family are present at the short ceremony in the cemetery. But that is
all. The family, as a rule, leaves the city at once.
Veronica wondered why her aunt and uncle did not propose to go to the
country. Macomer had a pretty place in the hills near Caserta, and
though it was winter the climate there was very pleasant. She did not
know that the house was already dismantled, in anticipation of the
probable foreclosure of a mortgage. Besides, in his desperate position,
Gregorio would have feared to leave Naples for a day. As for making a
journey to some other city, he was positively reduced to the point of
having no ready money with which to go. Lamberto Squarci, the notary,
positively refused to advance anything, and it was quite certain that no
one else would. For Squarci, who was a wise villain in his way, and had
aided and abetted Macomer's frauds in order to enrich himself, had only
given his assistance so long as he was quite sure that he was acting as
the paid agent of Veronica's guardian. The responsibility was then
entirely theirs, and he merely obeyed their directions in preparing any
necessary legal documents. But as soon as the guardianship had expired,
he knew that in order to be of use in helping Macomer to rob his ward,
he should be obliged to artificially construct the instruments needed,
in such a way as to appear legal to the world. In such business, forgery
could not be far off. The man had himself to think of as well as mere
money, and at the point where the smallest illegality of action on his
part would have begun, he stopped short, and refused to do anything
whatever, leaving Macomer to grapple with his creditors as best he
might, and to take care of himself if he could. It was now the middle of
December, and the guardianship had expired, legally speaking, in the
previous month of March, when Macomer's debts had already reached a very
high figure. Macomer, after that, had presumed upon his authority and
position to draw Veronica's income for his own purposes. That was easy,
as the revenues accrued almost entirely from the great landed estates,
of which the various stewards were in the habit of sending the rents,
when collected, directly to Macomer. It was clear that unless Veronica
herself protested, and until the authorities should discover that she
was being cheated, these men would naturally continue to send the rents
to the order of Gregorio Macomer.
Feeling that he was near the end of his chances, he had desperately
attempted to improve his position by using as much of the year's income
as he could extract from the stewards, in a final speculation. This had
failed. He had not been able to pay the interest on his mortgages, and
the ready money was all gone. A disastrous financial crisis had
supervened, which had made itself felt throughout the country, and the
banks which held the mortgages had given notice that they would
foreclose some of them, and not renew the others. If Gregorio Macomer
could have laid hands, no matter how, on any sum of money worth
mentioning, he would have fled, under an assumed name, to the Argentine
Republic, the usual refuge of Italians in difficulties. But he had
exhausted all he could touch, had gambled, and had lost it. If he fled
now, it must be as a penniless emigrant. As he had no taste for such
adventures, at his age, there was but one chance for him, and that lay
in somehow getting control of Veronica's fortune before the end of the
month. As for getting any more of the income, in time to be of any use
in staving off the tidal wave of ruin that rose against him, there was
no chance of that. The farmers all over the country paid their quarter's
rents on the first of January, or should do so, but there was often
difficulty in collecting, and the money would not really get to
Macomer's hands much before February. By that time all would be over;
and it was not the idea of bankruptcy which frightened Gregorio; it was
the certainty that a declaration of bankruptcy must lead to, and
involve, a minute examination into his past transactions which had led
to it.
Matilde knew all the truth, as has been shown. What she suffered in
remaining in Naples, in going and coming through the familiar rooms, in
spending her evenings in that room, of all others, in which she had last
seen Bosio alive, no one knew. She went about silently, and her face
grew daily paler and thinner. In her behaviour she was subdued and
silent, though she treated Veronica with greater consideration than
before. They had never spoken together of the possible reasons for
Bosio's death, but it had been publicly stated that he had been insane,
and Matilde, to all appearances, accepted the explanation as sufficient.
It was made the more reasonable by the evident fact that Gregorio's mind
was unsettled, and that he himself was in imminent danger of going mad.
That, at least, was the impression produced upon the household.
As the days went by, the gloom deepened in the Palazzo Macomer, and when
the three met at their meals, or sat together for a short time in the
evening, the silence was rarely broken.
At first, it was congenial to Veronica; for if her grief was not
passionate nor destined to be everlasting, her sorrow was profoundly
sincere. It was the companionship of Bosio that she missed most keenly
and constantly, through the long, empty hours.
No one who called was received during those first days. It chanced that
Cardinal Campodonico had gone to Rome to attend one of the consistories
for the creation of new cardinals, which are often held shortly before
Christmas. Had he been in Naples, he would of course have been admitted.
He wrote to Gregorio, and to Veronica, short, stiff, but sincere,
letters of condolence. He was a man of a large heart, which was terribly
tempered by a very narrow understanding; generous, rather than
charitable; sincere, more than expansive; tenacious, not sanguine; keen
beyond measure in ecclesiastical affairs, devoted to a cause, but
unresponsive to the touch and contact of humanity; hot in strife, but
cold in affection.
Society came to the door of the palace and deposited cards, with a
pencilled abbreviation for a phrase of condolence, the very shortest
shorthand of sympathy. Veronica looked through them. All the Della Spina
people had come. She found also Taquisara's plain cards,--'Sigismondo
Taquisara,'--without so much as a title, and in the corner were the
usual two letters in pencil, strong and clear, but just the same as
those on all the others. Somehow, she knew that she had looked through
them all, in order to find his and Gianluca's. The letters on the
latter's bit of pasteboard were in a feminine hand--probably his
mother's. Veronica's lip curled a little scornfully, but then she looked
suddenly grave--perhaps he had been too ill to come himself, and if so,
she was sorry for him and would not laugh at him. As for Taquisara, he
was so unlike other men, that she had unconsciously expected something
different to be visible on his card.
The lonely girl spent as much of her time as possible in reading. But it
was very gloomy. It rained, too, for days together, which made it worse.
Bianca Corleone came to see her, and they sat a long time together, but
neither referred to Gianluca, and very little was said about poor Bosio.
It was impossible to talk freely, so soon after his death, and Veronica
was not inclined to tell even her intimate friend of what had happened
on that last night. It had something of a sacred character for her, and
she said prayers nightly before the poor man's photograph, sometimes
with tears.
Now and then Veronica felt so utterly desolate that she made Elettra
come and sit in her dressing-room and sew, merely to feel that there was
something human and alive near her. She enticed the Maltese cat to live
in her rooms as much as possible, for its animal company. She did not
talk with her maid, but it was less lonely to have her sitting there, by
the window.
She supposed that before long the first black cloud of mourning would
lighten a little over the house, and she had been taught at the convent
to be patient under difficulties and troubles. The memory of that
teaching was still near, and in her genuine sorrow, with the youthfully
fervent religious thoughts thereby re-enlivened, she was ready to bear
such burdens and make such sacrifices as might come into her way, with
the assured belief that they were especially sent from heaven for the
improvement of her soul, by the restraint and mortification of her very
innocent worldly desires.
It could hardly have been otherwise. She had not yet loved Bosio, but
her affection had been sincere and of long growth. On the last day of
his life he had become her betrothed husband, and for one hour all her
future living, as woman, wife, and mother, had been bound up with his,
to have being only with him--to disappear in black darkness with his
tragic death, as though he had taken all motherhood and wifehood and
womanhood of hers to the grave forever. As for what Don Teodoro had said
of his having loved Matilde, she believed that less than all the rest,
if possible; and the fact that the priest had said it proved beyond all
doubt to her that he was out of his mind. Beyond that, it had not
prejudiced her against him, for there was a certain noble loftiness in
her character which could largely forgive an unmeant wrong.
In her great loneliness, in that dismal household, the reality of faith,
hope, and charity as the body, mind, and spirit of the truest life, took
hold upon her thoughts, as the mere words and emblems of religion had
not done in her first girlhood. She read for the first time the
Imitation of Christ and some of the meditations of Saint Bernard. The
true young soul, suddenly and tragically severed from the anticipation
of womanly happiness, turned gladly to visions of saintly joy--simply
and without affectation of form or show--purely and without earthly
regret--humbly and without touch of taint from spiritual pride. She had
no burden to cast from her conscience, and she sought neither confessor
nor director for the guidance of her thinking or doing. Straight and
undoubting, her thoughts went heavenwards, to lay before God's feet the
sad, sweet offering of her own sorrow.
Without, in those dark winter days, storm drove storm over the ancient,
evil city, rain followed rain, and gloom changed watches with darkness
by day and night for one whole week, while the moon waned from the last
quarter to the new. And within, Matilde Macomer went about the house,
when she left her room at all, like a great, pale-faced, black shadow of
something terrible, passing words. And in the library, Gregorio's stony
features were bent all day over papers and documents and books of
accounts, seeking refuge from sure ruin, while now and then his face
was twisted into a curiously vacant grimace, and his maniac laugh
cracked and reverberated through the lonely, vaulted chamber. He often
sat there by himself until late into the night, for the end of the year
was at hand, with all the destruction that a date can mean when a man is
ruined.
It was a big, long room, with old bookcases ranged by the walls, not
more than five feet high, and closed by doors of brass wire netting
lined with dark green cotton. A polished table took up most of the
length between the door which led to the hall at the one end, and the
single high window at the other. There was no fireplace, and the count
had the place warmed by means of a big brass brazier filled with wood
coals. At night, he had two large lamps with green glass shades.
Matilde sometimes came in and sat with him during the evening. She
looked at him, and wished he were dead. But she was drawn there by the
power which brings together two persons menaced by a common danger, in
the hope that something may suddenly change, and turn peril into safety.
He sat at one end of the table with his papers, and she took the place
opposite to him, the lamp being a little on one side, so that they could
see each other. They were a gloomy couple, in their black clothes, under
the green light, with harassed, mask-like faces.
One night, Matilde came in very late. She trod softly on the polished
floor, wearing felt slippers.
"Elettra sleeps in her dressing-room," she said in a low voice.
Macomer looked up, and the twitching of his face began instantly, as
though he were going to laugh. Matilde brought the palm of her hand down
sharply upon the bare table, fixing her eyes upon him.
"Stop that!" she cried in a tone of command. "It is very well for the
servants. You are learning to do it very well. It is of no use with me."
He looked at her steadily for a moment. Then he laughed, but naturally
and low.
"I might have known that you would find me out," he said. "But it is
becoming a habit. It may serve us in the end. How do you know that the
woman sleeps in Veronica's dressing-room?"
"I was wandering about, just now," answered Matilde, looking away from
him. "I saw the door of Elettra's room ajar. I pushed it open and looked
in, and I saw that her bed was not disturbed. Then I stood outside the
door of Veronica's dressing-room, and listened. Something moved once,
and I was sure that I heard breathing."
Gregorio watched her gravely while she was speaking, but in the silence
that followed, his small eyes wandered uneasily.
"The girl is lonely," he said at last. "She makes Elettra sleep in the
room next to hers, because she is nervous."
Matilde seemed to be thinking over what she had said. Some time passed
before she answered, and then it was by a vague question.
"Well?"
Again they looked at each other.
"That is certainly bad," said Macomer, thoughtfully. "What are we to do?
Speak to her about it? You can say that you found Elettra's door open,
at this hour."
"It would do no good," answered Matilde. "We could not prevent her from
having her maid there, if she wishes it."
"After all," observed Macomer, absently, "it is only a woman."
"Only a woman?" Matilde's lip curled. "I am only a woman."
Macomer nodded slowly, as though realizing what that meant, but he said
nothing in answer. With his hands under the table he slipped low down in
his chair, his head bent forward upon his breast, in deep thought.
"Can you not suggest anything?" asked Matilde, at last, gazing at him
somewhat scornfully. "After all, this is your fault. You have dragged me
into this ruin with you."
"I know, I know," he repeated in a low voice. "But we cannot do it
now--with that woman there."
"No. It is impossible now." Matilde's tones sank to a whisper.
She looked down at her strong hands that had grown thinner during the
past days, but were strong still. Gregorio waited a few moments and then
roused himself and bent over his papers again.
"You cannot see any way out of it, can you?" asked his wife at last. "Is
there no possibility of keeping afloat until things go better?"
"No," answered Macomer, not looking up. "There is nothing to go better.
You know it all. There is only that one way. Failing that, I must go
mad. One can recover from madness, you know."
"Yes," said Matilde, thoughtfully. "But it is a very difficult thing to
do well. They have expert doctors, who know the real thing from the
imitation."
Gregorio looked up suddenly.
"She could not go mad, could she?" he asked, a quiver of cunning
intelligence making his stony mask quiver. "Are there not things--is
there not something--you know--something that produces that? What is all
this talk, nowadays, about hypnotic suggestion?"
"Fairy tales!" exclaimed Matilde, incredulously. "The other is sure.
This is no time for experiments. There are thirteen days left in this
year. If we are to do it at all, we must do it quickly."
"I do not like the idea of the pillow," said Macomer, speaking very low
again.
Matilde's shoulders moved uneasily, as though she were chilly, but her
face did not change.
"It is of no use to talk of such things," she answered. "Besides," she
added, "you are dull. Only remember that you have just thirteen days
more, after to-day."
"Remember!" his voice told all his terror of the limit.
Then Matilde did not speak again. She rested her elbows on the table,
and her chin upon her hands, staring at him as though she did not see
him, evidently in deep thought. He bent over his papers, but was aware
that her eyes were on him. He glanced up nervously.
"Please do not look at me in that way. You make me nervous," he said.
With a scornful half-laugh she rose from her seat.
"Good night," she said indifferently, and in her soft felt slippers she
noiselessly went away.
She had not come in the expectation of help from her husband in
anything that was to be done. But besides the bond of fear by which they
were drawn together, there was the feeling that his presence, especially
in that room, brought before her vividly the necessity for action.
Under such pressure, an idea might come to her which would be worth
having. It had come to-night, but it was of a nature which made it wiser
not to tell Gregorio about it. Such things, being complicated and
delicate, and difficult of execution, were best kept to herself, at
least until her plans were matured and ready. But this time, she
believed that she had at last what she wanted. The scheme flashed upon
her all at once, complete and feasible, and perfectly safe, but she
resolved to think it over for twenty-four hours before finally deciding
to adopt it.
And while such things were being said and done in the lonely night, and
deeply pondered through the long, silent days, Veronica came and went
peacefully, with sad but not unhappy eyes, her thoughts fixed upon the
new path by which her single sorrow was to lead her up to the eternity
of all celestial joys.
In those days she determined to lead a holy life, in the memory of the
dead betrothed, and perhaps in the thought that by the outpouring of
much good around her, she might yet obtain mercy for the soul of one
self-slain. She meant not to cut herself off from all mankind, devoting
her maidenhood to heaven and her body to the servitude of slow
suffering, whereby some say that the spirit may be saved most
certainly--in the hard rule of daily dying, and daily rising again one
day nearer to death. That was not what she meant to do; that depth of
godly dreaming was too cold and still a depth for her. There must be
motion and life in her means of grace, since she had the power to make
others move and live. Marriage, wifehood, motherhood, should not be for
her, she said; but there was all the rest. There were the many
hundreds--the thousands, indeed, had she known it--of men and women and
poor children, toiling against the impossible with hands that had long
learned to labour in vain, save for the bare bread of life. To them all,
in many quarters of the land, she would be a mother, to help them, to
feed them, and to heal them; to work for them and their welfare, as they
had worked and toiled for the greatness of her dim, great ancestors,
repaying to humanity, in one lifetime, what humanity had been forced to
give them through many generations.
She would lead a holy life, for she would pray continually, when there
was nothing else that she could do. When she could not be thinking out
some good thing for her people, she would meditate upon higher things
for the good of her own soul. But first and foremost should be the
doing, the helping, the giving of life to the far spent, and of hope to
the helpless.
There in that room, where she dwelt continually in those days, she made
no vow, she registered no resolution, she imposed no one self upon
another self within her to thrust out evil and implant good. She had no
need of that. It was all as simply natural as the growth of a flower,
effortless, rising heavenward by its own instinct life.
In one thing only she made a determination of her will. She decided that
with the new year she would at last take over her fortune and estates
into her own management. Until she did that, she could not know what she
had, nor where she should begin her good work. That was absolutely
necessary, and of course, thought she, it presented no difficulty at
all. Possibly her own indolence about it, and her distaste for going
into the question of money and accounts, was a fault with which she
should have reproached herself, because she might have begun to do good
sooner, had she chosen. But she did not think of that. She would begin
with the new year.
As though a good destiny had anticipated her desire, the first call for
her help came suddenly, on the day after the last recorded conversation
between Gregorio and Matilde.
It was still early in the morning when Elettra brought her a letter,
bearing the postmark of the city, and addressed in one of those small,
clear handwritings which seem naturally to belong to scholars and
students. It was from Don Teodoro, and Veronica read it while she drank
her tea and Elettra was making a fire in the next room.
The old priest did not refer to the strange story he had told her ten
days earlier. But he recalled her question concerning the people at Muro
and their condition. They were indeed desperately poor, he said, and the
winter was a hard one in the mountains. There were many sick, and there
was no hospital,--not so much as a room in which a dying beggar might
lie out of the cold. It was a very pitiful tale, told carefully and
accurately. And at the end the good man humbly begged that the most
Excellent Princess would deign to allow his stipend to be paid in
advance, in order that he might do something to help his poor.
Veronica read the letter twice, and judged it. Then she determined to do
something at once, for she knew that the man had written the truth. She
should have liked to send for him, and talk with him of what should be
done; but she could not forget the things he had said about Bosio, and
for that reason she did not wish to see him again--at least, not yet.
His mind was unbalanced about that matter; but charity was a different
thing.
His address in Naples was in the letter. She wrote a note in answer,
begging him to tell her how much money he should need to hire a vacant
house, since there was no time to build one, and to fit it decently with
what he thought necessary, in order that it might serve as a refuge and
hospital for the very poor. She sent Elettra with the letter.
It was raining again, and by good fortune Don Teodoro was at home,
though it was still before noon. While the maid waited, he wrote his
answer. His thanks were heartfelt on behalf of his parish, but shortly
expressed. He said that in order to do what Veronica proposed so
generously, at least two thousand francs would be necessary. He briefly
explained why the charity would need what he looked upon as a large sum,
and he begged pardon for being so frank.
Again Veronica read the letter carefully over, and she put it into the
desk. Half an hour later she went to luncheon. The meal was as silent
and gloomy as usual, and scarcely half a dozen words were said.
Afterwards the three came back to the yellow drawing-room for their
coffee. When the servant was gone, Veronica, stirring the sugar in her
cup, turned to her uncle.
"Will you please give me three thousand francs, Uncle Gregorio?" she
asked quietly. "I want it this afternoon, if you please."
Gregorio Macomer grew slowly white to the tips of his ears. Matilde
sipped her coffee, and turned her back to the light.
"Three thousand francs!" repeated Macomer, slowly recovering a little
self-control. "My dear child! What can you want of so much money?".
"Is it so very much?" asked Veronica, innocently surprised. "You have
told me that I have more than eight hundred thousand a year. It is for
charity. The people at Muro have no hospital. I shall be glad if you
will give it to me before four o'clock; I wish to send it at once."
Macomer had barely a thousand francs in the house, and he knew that
there was not a man of business in Naples who would have lent him half
the little sum for which Veronica was asking.
"I shall certainly not give you money for any such absurd purpose," said
Gregorio, with sudden, assumed sternness.
Veronica raised her eyes in quiet astonishment, offended, but not
disconcerted.
"Really, Uncle Gregorio," she said, "as I am of age and mistress of
whatever is mine, I think I have a right to my little charities.
Besides, you know, it is not giving, since you are no longer my guardian
in reality. It is merely a case of sending to the bank for the money, if
you have not got it in the house. I should like it before four o'clock,
if you please, Uncle Gregorio."
In his terror the man lost his temper.
"I shall certainly not let you have it," he answered, with cold
irritation. "It is absurd!"
If Veronica had wanted the money to spend it on herself, she might have
waited until he was cool again, in the evening, before insisting. But
her blood rose, for she felt that it was for her poor people, starving,
sick, frozen, shelterless, in distant Muro. She knew perfectly well
what her rights were, and she asserted them then and there with a calm
young dignity of purpose which terrified Gregorio more and more.
"This is very strange," she said. "I do not wish to say disagreeable
things, Uncle Gregorio; we should both regret them. But you know that I
am entitled to spend all my income as I please, and I must really beg
you to get me this money at once. It is for a good purpose. The case is
urgent. I am the proper judge of whether it is needed or not, and I have
decided that I will give it. There is nothing more to be said."
"Except that I entirely refuse to listen to such words from my ward!"
answered Gregorio, angrily.
"I appeal to you, Aunt Matilde," said Veronica, setting down her coffee
cup upon the table and turning to the countess.
But Matilde knew well enough that her husband could not get the money.
She shook her head gravely and said nothing.
By this time Veronica was thoroughly determined to have her way.
"Very well," she answered calmly. "I shall telegraph to the cardinal. I
understand that he is in Rome."
Gregorio turned away, and he felt that his knees were shaking under him.
He knew well enough what the result would be if the cardinal's
suspicions were aroused. Matilde saw the danger and interfered.
"I think you are pushing such a small matter to the verge of a quarrel,
Gregorio," she said sweetly. "Since Veronica insists, you must give her
the money. After all, it is hers, as she says."
Macomer turned and stared at his wife in amazement.
"I am going out at once," she continued. "If you like, I will go to the
bank and get the money for you. Yes, dear," she added, turning to
Veronica, "I shall be back before four o'clock, and you shall have it in
plenty of time. Did you say four thousand or five thousand?"
"Only three," answered the young girl, rapidly pacified. "Three
thousand, if you please. Thank you very much, Aunt Matilde! A woman
always understands a woman in questions of charity. One wishes to act at
once. Thank you."
And in order to end an unpleasant situation, she nodded and left the
room. Husband and wife waited a moment after the door was closed. Then
Matilde, before Gregorio could speak, went and opened it suddenly and
looked out, but there was no one there.
"She would not listen at the door!" exclaimed Gregorio, with some
contempt for his wife's caution.
"She? No! But I distrust that woman she has."
"And how do you propose to get this money?" asked the count.
"Have I no diamonds?" inquired Matilde. "She would have ruined us. Order
the carriage, and I will go to a jeweller at once."
"Yes," said Macomer. "You are very wise. I thought there was going to be
trouble. It was clever of you to restore her confidence by offering her
more. But--" he lowered his voice--"something must be done at once."
"Yes," answered Matilde, looking behind her. "It shall be done at once."
He went out half an hour later, and before four o'clock Veronica
despatched Elettra to Don Teodoro with three thousand francs in bank
notes. But the diamonds which Matilde had left at the jeweller's were
worth far more than that, and she had got more than that for them.