CHAPTER X.

It is Shrove Tuesday. The sorriest jade of the wretchedest _botta_ has

a paper rose stuck behind his ear, though during the hours sacred to

the carnival they are pariahs and outcasts from the Corso. Two-horse

carriages are dressed in garlands and the horses have plumes on their

heads. The Piazza di Spagna is alive with pedlars and hawkers, selling

flowers and little tapers (_moccoli_), and with buyers of every nation

doing their best to cheapen them. Baskets full of violets, roses,

anemones, snowflakes--baskets full of indescribable bunches of

greenery--the ammunition of the mob which have already done duty for

two or three days and are like nothing on earth but the wisps of rushes

with which the boards are rubbed in some parts of Austria. The sellers

of coral and tortoise-shell cry out to you to buy--"_e carnevale_...."

and in the side streets--for misery dares not show its head in the main

thoroughfares to-day--the beggars crowd more closely than ever round

the pedestrian with their perpetual cry: "_muojo di fame_."

The houses on the Corso wear their gay carnival trappings to-day for

the last time. A smart dress flutters on every balcony, several stands

have been erected and all the window-sills are covered, some with

colored chintz and some with gold brocade. All Thursday, Saturday, and

Monday Zinka and Gabrielle had driven unweariedly up and down the Corso

with Count Truyn, flinging flowers at all their acquaintances and at a

good many strangers. To-day, however, they had agreed to look on from

the windows of the Palazzo Vulpini, for the close of the carnival is

apt to be somewhat riotous. Every one who lives on the Corso seizes the

opportunity of paying long owing debts of civility and offers a place

in a window to as many friends as can possibly be squeezed in.

There was a large party at the Vulpinis', for the most part Italians

and relations of the prince's. Madame de Gandry and Mrs. Ferguson had

invited themselves, and Zinka, with Gabrielle Truyn, was to see the

turmoil in the Corso from the balcony of the palazzo. The baroness had

"tic douloureux" which kept her at home,--and which no one regretted.

At six o'clock, before the beginning of the _moccoli_, all the company

were to go to the '_Falcone_,' a well-known and especially Roman

restaurant where they would dine more comfortably and easily than at

home. From thence they were to adjourn to the _Teatro Costanzi_. Prince

Vulpini had drawn up this thoroughly carnival programme for the special

benefit of the Countess Schalingen who had a passion for "local color,"

and who was enchanted. The princess was resigned; local color had no

interest for her and she was somewhat prejudiced against Italian native

dishes and masked festivities of all kinds.

It was three o'clock. Baskets of flowers and whole heaps of sweet

little sugar-plum boxes were ready piled in the windows for ammunition.

The little Vulpinis, who entirely filled the large centre window, and

their shy English governess in her black gown, had just come into

the room, skipping about and pulling each other's hair for sheer

impatience and excitement; and when their governess reproved them for

behaving so roughly "_ma e carnevale_" is thought sufficient excuse;

the company laughed and the English girl said no more. All the party

had assembled. Madame de Gandry and Mrs. Ferguson were both looking

pretty and picturesque; the former had stuck on a fez, and the other a

quaintly-folded handkerchief of oriental stuff, in honor of the

carnival, when eccentricity of costume is admissible and conventional

head-gear are contemned.

From the windows down to the carriages, from the carriages up to the

windows the war was eagerly waged; bunches of flowers, and bonbonnieres

from Spillman's and Nazzari's fly in all directions and scraps of

colored paper fall like snow through the air. Then the blare and pipe

of a military band came up from the Piazza di Venezia and the maskers

crowded in among the carriages. One of the liveliest groups along the

Corso was certainly that where the Vulpini children were grouped, with

Zinka in their midst, she having undertaken the charge of them at their

own earnest entreaty. She and Gabrielle were both laughing with glee,

but at the height of their fun they remembered to pay all sorts of

little civilities to the half-scared English governess and had stuck a

splendid bunch of lilies of the valley in front of her camphor-scented

black silk dress. What especially interested the children was watching

for Norina's carriage, for they not only recognized the prince who was

driving, but knew all his party: Truyn, Siegburg, Sempaly, and as it

passed with its four bays the little Vulpinis jumped with delight and

chirped and piped like a tree full of birds; the gentlemen waved their

hands, smiled, and gallantly aimed bouquets without end at the windows

of the palazzo. But all the finest flowers that day were, beyond a

doubt, aimed at Zinka. The floor all round her was heaped with

snowflakes, and violets, and roses. In her hand she had caught a huge

bunch of roses flung up to her by Sempaly.

"Oh, oh!" cried Madame de Gandry, retiring from the window to rest for

a few minutes and refresh herself with a sip of wine. "Ah,

mademoiselle!" glancing enviously at the mass of blossoms strewn round

Zinka, "you have as many bouquets as a prima donna!" Zinka nodded;

then, contemplating her hat, which she had thrown off in her

excitement, with a whimsical air of regret and pulling the feather

straight she said with a mockery of repentance:

"My poor hat will be glad to rest on Ash Wednesday."

"It is perfect, Marie, really perfect, this Roman carnival--a thing

never to be forgotten!" exclaimed the Countess Schalingen, coming in

from the window. She was a genuine Austrian, always ready to go into

ecstasies of enthusiasm.

"It is horrid," answered the princess impatiently. "Under the new

government it is nothing but an amusement for the strangers and street

boys."

The _Barberi_ have rushed past, and the procession has once more begun

to move on but its interest and excitement are over; the crowd in the

road begins to thin, and Sempaly, Truyn, Norina, Siegburg, and the

general have come in, as agreed, to escort the ladies to the 'Falcone,'

The children have all been kissed and sent off to their dinner at home;

Gabrielle somewhat ill-pleased at not being allowed to go with the

elder party and Truyn himself not liking to part with his little

companion. Zinka wishes to comfort Gabrielle by remaining with the

little ones, but this was not to be heard of.

"Only too many of us would wish to follow your example," whispers

Princess Vulpini, to whom this dinner at a Roman restaurant is

detestable.

They are to go on foot, but they are so long getting ready after this

little delay that the one peaceful half-hour before the _moccoli_ is

lost; by the time they sally into the street the crowd, which had

dispersed, is getting denser every minute. The darkness comes on

rapidly, like a grey curtain let down suddenly from the skies; the

gaudy hangings are being taken in from the windows lest they should

catch fire; the carnival is putting on its ball-dress. Now the first

twinkling tapers are seen here and there, like glow-worms in the dusk,

and are instantly pelted with _mazetti_ and bunches of greenery, mostly

picked up from the pavement "_Fuori! fuori!_" is the monotonous cry on

every side, and presently: "_senza moccolo, vergogna!_"--the death

cries of the carnival.

The Austrian gentlemen find their position anything rather than

pleasant, for it is impossible to protect the ladies effectually

against being jostled and pushed, still less against hearing much rough

jesting. At last they are out of the Corso and have divided in the

narrow streets; some having turned into the Via Maddalena, while others

have crossed the Piazza Capranica to the Piazza della Rotunda; but at

last they are all met after various small adventures at the

'_Falcone_.' The ladies' toilets have suffered a little and Princess

Vulpini looks very unhappy.

The '_Falcone_' is a very unpretending restaurant where the waiters

wear white jackets; the tariff is moderate and the _risotto_

celebrated. Vulpini orders a thoroughly Italian dinner in an upper

room.

Suddenly Truyn exclaims in dismay: "What has become of Zinka and

Sempaly?"

"They have lingered talking on the way," says Madame de Gandry with

pinched lips as she leans back in her chair and pulls off her gloves.

"People always walk slowly when they have so much to say to each

other."

Truyn frowned. "I am afraid they have got entangled in the crowd and

have not been able to make their way out. I have hated this expedition

from the first. I cannot imagine, Marie, what could have put such a

plan into your head...."

"Mine!" says his sister in an undertone and with a meaning glance. But

she says no more. He knows perfectly well that she is as innocent of

the scheme as the angels in heaven.

"Why, what on earth is the matter?" asks Vulpini pouring huge

quantities of grated cheese into his soup, while Mrs. Ferguson

complains that she is dying of hunger, which is singular, considering

the enormous number of bonbons she has eaten in the course of the day.

Madame de Gandry asks for a series of French dishes which the

'_Falcone_' has never heard of Countess Schalingen is loud in her

praises of the Italian cookery and is only sorry that she has no

appetite.

Truyn and the general sat gazing at the door in growing anxiety; Zinka

and Sempaly do not make their appearance--Truyn can hardly conceal his

alarm.

"I certainly cannot understand what you are so uneasy about," says

Madame de Gandry with a perfidious smile; "if Fraeulein Zinka has been

mobbed and hindered Sempaly is in the same predicament and will take

good care of her. If she were with any one less trustworthy, less

competent, with whom she was less intimate ... then I could

understand...." Truyn passes his hand over his grey hair in extreme

perplexity and mutters in his mother tongue: "This woman will be the

death of me!" and then he again blames his sister.

Yet another quarter of an hour; though the waiters are not nimble they

have got to the dessert and still no signs of Sempaly and Zinka.

"I am beginning to feel very anxious," says Marie. "I only hope the

child has not fainted in the crowd."

Madame de Gandry makes a meaning grimace. "It is perhaps the cleverest

thing she could have done," she says. Truyn hears and bites his lip.

The door just now opens and Zinka and Sempaly come in; she calm and

sweet, he dark and scowling.

"Thank God!" cries Truyn.

"What in the world has happened?" asks the princess, while Truyn draws

a chair to the table for Zinka, next to himself. "What has happened?"

repeated Sempaly. "The most obvious thing in the world. We got into the

thick of the mob and could not get through."

"I cannot understand how that should have occurred," says Madame de

Gandry. "We all came through."

"You may perhaps recollect that we were the last of the party,

countess; we had hardly gone twenty yards when the crowd had become

a compact mass, we pressed on, determined to get through at any

cost--alone I could have managed it--but with a lady--suddenly we were

in the thick of a furious squabble--curses, blows, and knives. I cannot

tell you how miserable I was at finding myself out in the street with a

lady--a young girl...."

"Fraeulein Sterzl seems to take it all much more coolly than you do.

Count Sempaly," interposes Madame de Gandry spitefully; "she does not

appear to have been at all terrified by the adventure."

"Fraeulein Zinka was very brave," replied Sempaly.

"Goodness me! what was there to be afraid of;" says Zinka with the

simplicity of childish innocence. "The responsibility was Count

Sempaly's not mine."

The French woman laughs sharply. "We must be moving now," she says, "if

we mean to go to Costanzi's," and there is a clatter of chairs and a

little scene of confusion in which no one can find the right shawl or

wrap for each lady.

But Princess Vulpini makes no attempt to move: "I am going nowhere else

this evening," she says with unwonted determination. "I will not take

Zinka to Constanzi's. I will wait till she has eaten her beef-steak and

then I will take her home. I hope you will all enjoy yourselves."

Zinka eats her beef-steak with the greatest calmness and an

unmistakably good appetite; she is perfectly sweet and docile and

natural; she has no suspicion that her name will to-morrow morning be

in every mouth. Truyn is as pale as death; he has heard Madame de

Gandry's whisper to her friend: "After this he must make her an offer."

PART II.

LENT.

CHAPTER I.

"I am glad to have found you," cried Truyn next morning as he entered

Sempaly's room in the Palazzo di Venezia, and discovered him sipping

his coffee after his late breakfast, with a book in his hand.

"I am delighted that you should for once have taken the trouble to

climb up to me. I must show you my Francia--the dealer who sold it to

me declares it is a Francia. But you look worried. What has brought you

here?"

"I only wanted to know--to ask you whether you will drive out to

Frascati with us to-day?"

"To Frascati!--This afternoon? What an idea!" exclaimed Sempaly; "and

in any case I cannot join you for I am going to the Palatine at three

o'clock with the Sterzls."

"Yes?" said Truyn looking uncommonly grave.

"May I offer you a cup of coffee?" asked Sempaly coolly.

"No thank you," replied Truyn shortly. He was evidently uneasy, and

began examining the odds and ends at the table to give himself

countenance; by accident he took up the book that Sempaly had been

reading when he came in. It was Charles Lamb's Essays, and on the first

page was written in a large, firm hand: "In friendly remembrance of a

terrible quarrel, Zinka Sterzl."

"The child lost a bet with me not long since," Sempaly explained.

"Another bet is still unsettled and is to be decided to-day at the

Palatine." Truyn shut the book sharply and threw it down; then, setting

his elbows on the table at which they were sitting, and fixing his eyes

keenly on Sempaly's face he said:

"Do you intend to marry Zinka Sterzl?"

Sempaly started, "What do you mean?" he exclaimed; "what are you

dreaming of?" But as Truyn said no more, simply gazing fixedly at him,

he took up an attitude of defiance. He looked Truyn straight in the

face with an angry glare and retorted:

"And suppose I do?"

"Then I can only hope you will have enough resolution to carry out your

intentions," said Truyn, "for to stop half-way in such a case is a

crime."

He drew a deep breath and looked at the ground. But Sempaly's face,

instead of clearing, grew darker; he was prepared for vehement

opposition and his cousin's calm consent, not to say encouragement, put

him in the position of a man who, after straining every muscle to lift

a heavy weight suddenly discovers that it is a piece of painted

pasteboard. It completely threw him off his balance.

"Well, I must say!" he began in a tone of extreme annoyance, "you speak

of it as if it were a no more serious question than the dancing of a

cotillon. In plain terms the thing is impossible. What are we to live

on? I have long since run through all my fortune, if I took what my

brother would regard as so monstrous a step he would cut off all

supplies, and Zinka is not of age. I might to be sure take to selling

dripping to maintain my wife, which would have the additional advantage

that my mother-in-law would cut me in consequence. Or perhaps you would

advise me to let Dame Clotilde Sterzl keep us till Zinka comes into her

money?"

"Well," says Truyn calmly, "if you can take such a reasonable view of

the impossibility of your marriage with Zinka Sterzl, your behavior to

her is perfectly inexplicable."

Truyn was still sitting by the little table on which the pretty coffee

service was set out, while Sempaly, his hands in his pockets, was

walking up and down the room, kicking and shoving the furniture with

all the irritation of a man who knows himself to be in the wrong.

"Upon my soul I cannot make out what you would be at!" he suddenly

exclaimed, standing still and facing his cousin. "Sterzl has never

found any fault with my behavior and it is much more his affair than

yours."

Truyn changed color a little, but did not lose his presence of mind.

"Sterzl, with all his dryness of manner, is an idealist," he said, "who

would fetch the stars from heaven for his sister if he could. He has

never for an instant doubted that your intentions with regard to her

were quite serious."

"That is impossible!" cried Sempaly.

"But it is so," Truyn asserted. "He is too blind to think his sister

beneath any one's notice."

"And he is right!" exclaimed Sempaly, "perfectly right--but the

pressure of circumstances--of position--the duties I have

inherited...."

He had seated himself on the deep inner ledge of one of the windows,

with his elbows on his knees and his chin between his hands, and was

staring thoughtfully at the floor.

"Allow me to ask you," he said, "what induced you to mix yourself up in

the affair?"

"It has weighed on my mind for a long time," said Truyn, "but what

especially moved me to speak of it to-day is the circumstance that last

evening, before you came into the '_Falcone_,' Mesdames De Gandry and

Ferguson allowed themselves to speak in a way which convinced me that

your constant intimacy with Zinka is beginning to do her no good."

"Oh! of course, if you listen to the gossip of every washerwoman,"

Sempaly interrupted angrily. And he muttered a long speech in which the

words: 'Sacred responsibility--due regard for the duties imposed by

Providence,' were freely thrown in. Truyn's handsome face flushed with

contempt and at length he broke into his cousin's harangue, to which

for a few minutes he had listened in silence:

"No swagger nor bluster.... The matter is quiet simple: Do you love

Zinka?" The attache frowned:

"Yes," he said fiercely.

"Then it is only that you have not the courage to face the annoyances

that a marriage with her would involve you in?"

Sempaly was dumb,

"Then, my dear fellow, there is no choice; you must break off the

intimacy, as gently but as immediately as possible."

"That I neither can nor will attempt," cried Sempaly, stamping his

foot.

"If within three days you have not taken the necessary steps to secure

your removal from Rome, I shall feel myself compelled to give Sterzl a

hint--or your brother--whichever you prefer." Truyn spoke quite firmly.

"And now good-bye."

"Good-bye," said Sempaly without moving, and Truyn went to the door;

there he paused and said hesitatingly: "Do not take it amiss, Nicki--I

could do no less. Remember that though the right is a bitter morsel, it

has a good after-taste."

"Poor child, poor sweet little girl!" Truyn murmured to himself as he

descended the grey stone stairs of the Palazzo de Venezia. "Is this a

time to be talking of inherited responsibilities and the duties of

position--now! Good heavens!" He lighted a cigar and then flung it

angrily away. "Good heavens! to have met a girl like Zinka--to have won

her love--and to be free!..."

He hurried out into the street, leaving the gate-porter astonished that

the count, who was usually so courteous, should have taken no notice of

his respectful bow; such a thing had never happened before.

He was a strange man, this grey-haired young Count Truyn; he had grown

up as one of a very happy family and when still quite young he had been

hurried, much against his will, into a marriage with the handsome

Gabrielle Zinsenburg. He had never been able to reconcile himself to

the empty wordliness of his life in her society; she was a heartless,

superficial woman, some few years older than himself, who had staked

everything on her hope of achieving a marriage with him. Within a few

years they had separated, quite amiably, by mutual consent; he had

given her his name and she gave him his child. His life was spoilt. He

had a noble and a loving heart but he might not bestow it on any woman;

he must carry it about in his breast where it grew heavy to bear. His

love for his little girl, devoted as he was to her, was not enough to

live by, and a bitter sense of craving lurked in his spirit. For many

years he had lived a great deal abroad; his mind had expanded and he

had shed several of his purely Austrian prejudices. At home he was

still regarded as a staunch conservative because he always passively

voted on that side; but he was only indifferent, absolutely

indifferent, to all political strife, and smiled alike at the

recklessness of the 'left' and the excitability of the 'right,' while

in his inmost soul he regarded the perfecting of government as mere

labor lost; for he was no optimist, and thought that to heal the woes

of humanity nothing would avail but its thorough regeneration, and that

men have no mind for such regeneration; all they ask is to be allowed

to cry out when they are hurt, and shift their sins on to each other's

shoulders.

It afforded him no satisfaction to cry out. His weary soul found no

rest but in unbounded benevolence, and Sempaly's nature--experimental,

groping his way through life--had seemed to him to-day more odious than

ever.

"How can a man be at once so tender and such a coward?" he asked

himself, "He is the most completely selfish being I ever met with--a

thorough epicurean in sentiment, and has only just heart enough for his

own pleasure and enjoyment."

* * *

The bet outstanding between Zinka and Sempaly was not decided that

afternoon. Sempaly did not go to the Palatine, but excused himself at

the last moment in a little note to Zinka. Truyn's words, though he

would not have admitted it to himself, had made a very deep impression,

and though he fought against it he could no longer avoid looking the

situation in the face. To get himself transferred to some other

capital, to give up all his pleasant idle habits here--the idea was

intolerable! He felt exactly like a man who has been suddenly roused

from a slumber bright with pleasant dreams. He did not want to wake, or

to rub his eyes clear of the vision.

Was everything at an end then? Truyn had, to be sure, suggested an

alternative: if he could but call up sufficient energy it rested only

with himself to turn the sweet dream into a still sweeter and lovelier

reality, and his whole being thrilled with ecstasy as this delightful

possibility flattered his fancy. He was long past the age at which a

man commits some matrimonial folly believing that he can reclaim the

morals of some disrespectable second-rate actress, or that his highest

happiness is to devote his life to his sister's governess who is a

dozen years older than himself; when he contemplated the possibility of

his marrying Zinka Sterzl after all, it was with the certainty that his

feeling for her was not a mere transient madness, but that it had its

roots in the depths of his nature. Every form and kind of enjoyment had

been at his command and he had hated them all. Things in which other

men of his age and position could find excitement and interest roused

his fastidious nature to disgust. Life had long since become to him a

vain and empty show, when he had met Zinka.... Then all the sweetest

spirits of spring had descended fluttering into his vacant heart; a

magical touch had made it a garden of flowers and filled it with fair,

mad dreams of love. All the "sweet sorrow" of life was revealed to him

in a new form ... And now was he to tread the blossoms into dust? "Give

up seeing her--get myself sent away--never! I cannot and I will not do

it," he muttered to himself indignantly as he thought it all over.

"What business is it of Truyn's? What right has he to issue his orders

to me?"

But when he had resolved simply to go on with Zinka as he had begun, to

sun himself as heretofore in her smile, her gentleness, and her beauty,

he was still uncomfortable. He felt that it would not be the same. Till

now his heart had simply been content, now it could speak and ask for

more; to try to satisfy it with this shadow of delight was like

attempting to slake a raging thirst with the dew off a rosebud. He

loved her now--suddenly and madly. Interesting women had hitherto

utterly failed to interest him; they were like brooklets filled by the

rain: the muddiness of the water prevented their shallowness being

immediately perceptible; the storms of life had spoilt their clearness

and purity; Zinka, on the contrary, was like a mountain lake whose

waters are so transparent that near the shore every pebble is visible;

and though, in the middle, the bottom is no longer seen, it is because

they are deep and not because they are turbid, till their crystalline

opacity reflects the sky overhead. And in the depths of that lake, he

thought, lay a treasure which one alone, guided and blest by God, might

hope to find. How he longed to sound it.

She was made for him; never for an instant had he been dull in her

society; she satisfied both his head and his heart; all the bewitching

inconsistency and contradictions of her nature captivated him; he had

said of her that "she was like a little handbook to the study of

women," she was made up of such a variety of characteristics. In the

midst of her childlike moods she had such unexpected depth of thought,

such flashes of wisdom; her wildest vagaries were so original and often

ended so suddenly in wistful reverie; her little selfish caprices were

the converse of such devoted self-sacrifice; her grace was so

spontaneous, her voice so soft and appealing ... Well, but should

he?... No, it must not be. Truyn had said it--he must quit Rome--the

sooner the better.

He took his hat and went out to call on the ambassador and discuss the

matter with him. His excellency was not at home and Sempaly betook

himself to the club, where he lost several games at ecarte--he was

greatly annoyed. Then he went home and sat looking constantly at the

clock as though he were expecting some one; his irritation increased

every minute.

CHAPTER II.

"Bright May--the sweetest month of Spring;

The trees and fields with flowers are strown--

Dear Heart, to thee Life's May I bring;

Take it and keep it for thine own--

Nay--draw the knife!--I will not start,

Pierce if thou wilt, my willing breast.

There thou shalt find my faithful heart

Whose truth in death shall stand confessed."

These words, sung in the Roman dialect to a very simple air, came

quavering out of the open window of the drawing-room of the Sterzls'

palazetto as Sempaly passed by it that evening; he had gone out to pay

some visits, to divert his mind, and though his way did not take him

along the side street in which the palazetto stood, he had not been

able to resist the temptation to make a detour. It was a mild evening

and the tones floated down like an invitation; he recognized Zinka's

voice as she sang one of the melancholy _Stornelli_ in which the

peasants of the Campagna give utterance to their loves. It ceased, and

he was just moving away, when another even sweeter and more piercing

lament broke the warm silence.

"Or shall I die?--Poison itself could have

No terrors if I took it from thy hand.

Thy heart should be my death-bed and my grave."

The passionate words were sung with subdued vehemence to a rather

monotonous tune--like a faded wreath of spring flowers borne along by

some murmuring stream. He turned back, and listened with suspended

breath. The song ended on a long, full note; he felt that he would give

God knows how much to hear the last line once more:

'_La sepoltura mia sara il tuo seno!_....'

Now Zinka was speaking--it vexed him beyond measure that he could not

hear what she was saying. It was maddening ... Good heavens! what a

fool he was to stand fretting outside!

* * *

When he went into the drawing-room to his great surprise he was met by

Sterzl.

"Back so soon?" he exclaimed as he shook hands with him.

"Yes, Arnstein had only two days to spare in Naples," replied Sterzl;

"I was delighted to see him again, but--well, I must be growing very

old, I was so glad to find myself at home again," and he drew his

sister to him and lightly stroked her pretty brown hair. His brotherly

caress added to Sempaly's excitement "No wonder that you like your

home!" he was saying, when the baroness appeared with an evening wrap

on her shoulders, a fan and scent-bottle in her hand, and, as usual,

dying of refinement and airs.

"Not ready yet, Zenaide? Ah, my dear Sempaly, how very sweet of you!"

and she gave him the tips of her fingers.--"We were quite anxious about

you when you so suddenly excused yourself from joining us. Zinka was

afraid you had taken the Roman fever," she said sentimentally.

"Zinka has an imagination that feeds on horrors," said Sterzl smiling.

"I did think that you must have some very urgent reason," said Zinka

hastily and in some confusion.

Sempaly looked into her eyes: "I was doing Ash-Wednesday penance, that

was all," he said in a low voice.

"Well, to complete the mortification come now to Lady Dalrymple's," the

baroness suggested.

"Oh, be merciful! Grant me a dispensation. I should so much enjoy a

quiet evening," cried Sempaly.

"And I too," added Zinka. "I am utterly sick of soirees and routs.

These performances give me the impression of a full-dress review, at

which such and such fashionable regiments are paraded."

"Give us a holiday, mother; remember, it is Ash-Wednesday, and we are

good Catholics," said her son.

"I had some scruples myself, but the Duchess of Otranto is going,"

lisped the baroness.

However, when Sempaly had assured her that the Duchess of Otranto was

by no means a standard authority in Roman society she yielded to the

common desire that they should remain at home, and withdrew to her room

to write some letters before tea.

Most men have senses and nerves only in their brain while women, as is

well known, have them all over the body; in this respect Sempaly was

like a woman. He had senses even in his finger tips--as a Frenchman had

once said, of him: "il avait les sens poete!" (a poet's nerves). The

most trifling external conditions gave him disproportionate pleasure or

pain. The smallest detail of ugliness was enough to spoil his

appreciation of the noblest and grandest work of art; he would not have

felt the beauty of Faust if he had first read it in a shabby or dirty

copy. Now, when the baroness had left the room, there was no detail

that could disturb his enjoyment in being with Zinka.

Sterzl had taken up his newspaper; Zinka, at Sempaly's request, had

seated herself at the piano. She always accompanied herself by heart

and sat with her head bowed a little over the keys and half-shut dreamy

eyes. The sober tone of the room, with its tapestried walls and happy

medley of knick-knacks, broad-leaved plants, Japanese screens, and

comfortable furniture, formed a harmonious background to her slight,

white figure. The light of the one lamp was moderated by its

rose-colored shade; a subdued _mezza-voce_ tone of color prevailed in

the room which was full of the scent of roses and violets, and the

heavy perfume seemed in sympathy with the gloomy sentiment of the

popular love songs. Sempaly's whole nature thrilled with rapturous

suspense, such as few men would perhaps quite understand. At his desire

Zinka sang one after another of the _Stornelli_ ... her voice grew

fuller and deeper ...

"Do not sing too long, Zini, it will tire you," said her brother.

"Only one more--the one I heard from outside," begged Sempaly, and she

sang:

"_La sepoltura mia sara il tuo seno_...."

The words trembled on her lips; her hands slipped off the last notes

into her lap. Sempaly took the warm, soft little hands in his own; a

sort of delightful giddiness mounted to his brain as he touched them.

"Zinka," he said, "tell me, do you feel a little of what your voice

expresses?"

Her eyes met his--and she blinked, as we blink at a strong, bright

light; she shrank back a little, as we shrink from too great and sudden

joy. Her answer was fluttering on her lips when the door opened--the

Italian servant pronounced some perfectly unintelligible gibberish by

way of a name, and in marched--followed by her daughter and their

Polish swain--the Baroness Wolnitzka.

"Oh, thank goodness, I have found you at home!" she exclaimed. "We

counted on finding you at home on Ash-Wednesday. God bless you, Zinka!"

Zinka was petrified. Mamma Sterzl rushed in from an adjoining room at

the sound of those rough tones.

"Charlotte!" was all she could stammer out, "Char--lotte ... you ...

here!"

"Quite a surprise, is it not, Clotilde? Yes, the most unhoped-for

things sometimes happen. We arrived to-day at three o'clock and called

here this afternoon but you were out; so then we decided to try in the

evening. It is rather late, to be sure, and I, for my part, should have

been here long ago, but Slawa insisted on dressing--for such near

relations! Quite absurd ... but I do not like to contradict her, she is

so easily put out--so I waited to dress too."

And the baroness, after embracing her sister and her niece, plumped

down uninvited on a very low chair.

She had dressed with a vengeance: a black lace cap was perched on the

top of her short, grey hair, with lappets that hung down over her ears.

Her massive person was squeezed into a violet satin gown, which she had

evidently out-grown, and a lace scarf picturesquely thrown over her

shoulders was intended to conceal its defects; her lavender-colored

gloves were very short and much too tight, and burst at all the

button-holes. Slawa had a general effect of tricolor, and she wore some

old jewelry that she had bought of a dealer in antiquities at Verona.

She had curled and piled up her hair after the antique and kept her

head constantly turned over her left shoulder, to be as much like the

Apollo as possible, at the same time making a grimace as if she were

being photographed and wished to look bewitching.

Vladimir Matuschowsky's tall, slouching figure was buttoned into a

braided coat; he held a low-crowned hat with tassels in his hand, and

glared at the plain dress-coats of the other two men as though they

were a personal insult.

"Monsieur Vladimir de Matuschowsky," said the baroness introducing him,

"a ... a ... friend of the family." But she said it in French: when the

Baroness Wolnitzka was at all at a loss she commonly spoke French.

Her sister, who by this time had got over her astonishment, now began

to wish to dazzle the new-comers.

"Count Sempaly," she said, presenting the attache; "a friend of our

family ... my sister, the Baroness Wolnitzka. You have no doubt heard

of the famous Slav leader Baron Wolnitzky, who was so conspicuous a

figure in forty-eight."

Sempaly bowed without speaking; Baroness Wolnitzka rose and politely

offered him her hand: "I am delighted to make your acquaintance," she

said. "I have heard a great deal about you; my sister has mentioned you

in all her letters and I am quite _au courant_."

Again Sempaly bowed in silence and then, retiring into the background

while the mistress of the house turned to address Slawa, he said to

Sterzl:

"I will take an opportunity of slipping away--a stranger is always an

intruder at a family meeting," His manner was suddenly cold and stiff

and his tone intolerably arrogant.

Sterzl nodded: "Go by all means," he replied. But Baroness Sterzl

perceiving his purpose exclaimed:

"No, no, my dear Sempaly, you really must not run away--you are not in

the least _de trop_--and a stranger you certainly can never be."

"It would look as though we had frightened you away, and that I will

not imagine," added her sister archly.

So Sempaly stayed; only, perhaps, from the impulse that so often

prompts us to drink a bitter cup to the dregs.

"Pray command yourself a little, Zini," whispered Cecil to his sister.

"The interruption is unpleasant; but you should not show your annoyance

so plainly."

Tea was now brought in; Sterzl devoted himself in an exemplary manner

to his cousin Slawa, so as to give his spoilt little sister as much

liberty as possible. Slawa treated him with the greatest condescension

and kept glancing over her huge Japanese fan at Sempaly, who was

sitting by Zinka on a small sofa, taciturn and ill-pleased, while he

helped her to pour out the tea.

Baroness Wolnitzka gulped down one cup after another, eat up almost all

the tea-cake, and never ceased an endless medley of chatter. The young

Pole sat brooding gloomily, ostentatiously refused all food and spoke

not a word; his arms crossed on his breast he sat the image of the

Dignity of Man on the defensive.

"I am desperately hungry," Madame Wolnitzka confessed. "We are at a

very good hotel--Hotel della Stella, in Via della Pace; we were told of

it by a priest with whom we met on our journey. It is not absolutely

first-class--still, only people of the highest rank frequent it; two

Polish counts dined at the table d'hote and a French marquise;--in her

case I must own I thought I could smell a rat--I suspect she is running

away with her lover from her husband, or from her creditors."

Out of deference to the "highest rank" the baroness had put her hand up

to her mouth on the side nearest to the young people as she made this

edifying communication. "The dinner was very good," she went on,

"capital, and we pay six francs a day for our board."

"Seven," corrected Slawa.

"Six, Slawa."

"Seven, mamma."

And a discussion of the deepest interest to the rest of the party

ensued between the mother and daughter as to this important point.

Slawa remained master of the field; "and with wax-lights and service it

comes to eight," she added triumphantly.

"I let her talk," whispered her mother, again directing her words with

her hand, "she is very peculiar in that way; everything cheap she

thinks must be bad. However, what I was going to say was that, to tell

the truth, I did not get enough to eat at dinner--there were flowers on

the table,"--and she reached herself a slice of plum-cake.

At this moment the door opened to admit Count Siegburg.

"Good evening," he began--"seeing you so brightly lighted up I could

not resist the temptation to come in and see how you were spending your

Ash-Wednesday."

He glanced around at the three strangers and instantly grasped the

situation; but, far from taking the tragical view of it, he at once

determined to get as much fun out of it as possible. After being

introduced he placed himself in a position from which he could command

the whole party, Sempaly included, and converse both with Madame

Wolnitzka and her daughter. He addressed himself first to the latter.

"The name of Wolnitzky is known to fame," he said.

"Yes, my father played a distinguished part in forty-eight," replied

Slawa.

"Siegburg--Siegburg?..." Madame Wolnitzka was meanwhile murmuring to

herself. "Which of the Siegburgs? The Siegburgs of Budow, or of Waldau,

or ...?"

"The Waldau branch," said Baroness Sterzl. "His mother was a Princess

Hag," and she leaned back on her cushions.

"Ah! the Waldau Siegburgs! quite the best Siegburgs!" remarked her

sister in a tone of astonishment.

"Of course," replied Baroness Sterzl with great coolness, as though she

had never in her life spoken to anyone less than "the best Siegburgs."

Madame Wolnitzka arranged her broad face in the most affable wrinkles

she could command, and sat smiling at the young count, watching for an

opportunity of putting in a word. For the present, however, this did

not offer, for her sister addressed her, asking, in a bitter-sweet

voice:

"And what made you decide on coming to Rome?"

"Can you ask? I have wished for years to see Rome, and you wrote so

kindly and so constantly, Clotilde--so at length ..." and here followed

the history of the Bernini. "You remember our Bernini, Clotilde?"

Her sister nodded.

"Well, I had the Apollo, the head only, a copy by Bernini. It is a work

of art that has been in our family for generations," she continued,

turning to Siegburg as she saw that he was listening to her narrative.

"For centuries," added Madame Sterzl.

"I must confess that I could hardly bear to part with it," her sister

went on. "However, I made up my mind to do so when Tulpe, the great

antiquary from Vienna, came one day and bid for it."

Sterzl, to whom the god's wanderings were known, made some allusion to

them in his dry way; on which the Baroness Wolnitzka shuffled herself a

little nearer to Siegburg and addressed herself to him.

"You see, count, it was something like what often happens with a girl:

you drag her about to balls for years, take her from one watering-place

to another, and never get her off your hands; then you settle down

quietly at home and suddenly, when you least expect it, a suitor turns

up. I could hardly bear to see the last of the bust I assure you."

"It must indeed have been a harrowing parting," said Siegburg with much

feeling.

"Terrible!" said the baroness, "and doubly painful because"--and here

she leaned over to whisper in Siegburg's ear--"Slawa is so amazingly

like the Bernini. Does not her likeness to the Apollo strike you?"

"I saw it at once--as soon as I came in," Siegburg declared without

hesitation.

"Every one says so--well then, you can understand what a sacrifice it

was ... it cuts me to the heart only to think of it. Oh! these great

emotions! Excuse me if I take off my cap ..." and she hastily snatched

off the black lace structure and passing her fingers through her thin

grey hair with the vehemence of a genius she exclaimed: "Merciful God!

How we poor women are ill-used! crushed, fettered ..."

"Yes, a woman's lot is not a happy one;" said Siegburg sympathetically.

"You are quite an original!" exclaimed her sister, giggling rather

uncomfortably--for in good society it is quite understood that when we

are suffering under relations devoid of manners, and whom, if we dared,

we should shut up at once in a mad-house, we may do what we can to

render them harmless by ticketing them with this title--"Quite an

original. Are you still always ready to break a lance for the

emancipation of our sex?"

"No," replied Madame Wolnitzka, "no, my dear Clotilde, I have given

that up. Since I learnt by experience that every woman is ready to set

aside the idea of emancipation as soon as she has a chance of marrying

I have lost my sympathy with the cause."

"The emancipation of women of course can only be interesting to those

who cannot marry," observed Sterzl, who had not long since read an

article on this much ventilated question.

"And as there are undoubtedly more women than men in the world,

legalized polygamy is the only solution of the difficulty," his aunt

asserted.

"Mamma! you really are!..." said Slawa with an angry flare.

"Your views are necessarily petty and narrow," retorted her mother. "If

I were speaking of the subject in a light and frivolous tone I could

understand your indignation; but I am looking at the matter from a

philosophical point of view--you understand me, I am sure, Count

Siegburg."

"Perfectly, my dear madam," Siegburg assured her with grave dignity.

"You look at the question from the point of national and political

economy and from that point of view improprieties have no existence."

Sempaly sat twirling his moustache; Zinka first blushed and then turned

pale, while the mistress of the house patted her sister on the

shoulder, saying with a sharp, awkward laugh: "Quite an original--quite

an original."

But Sterzl, seeing that Siegburg was excessively entertained by the old

woman's absurdities, and was on the point of amusing himself still

further at her expense by laying some fresh trap for her folly, happily

bethought him that the only way to procure silence would be to ask

Slawa to sing. So he begged his cousin to give them some national air.

Siegburg joined in the request, but Slawa tried to excuse herself on a

variety of pretexts: the piano was too low, the room was bad to sing

in, and so forth and so forth ... at last, however, she was persuaded

to sing some patriotic songs in which Matuschowsky accompanied her.

Her tall, Walkure-like figure swayed and trembled with romantic

emotion, and faithful to the traditions of the "_art fremissant_"--the

thrilling school--she held a piece of music fast in both hands for the

sake of effect, though it had not the remotest connection with the song

she was singing. Her mother sat in breathless silence; tears of

admiration ran down her cheeks; like many other mothers, she only

recognized those of Slawa's defects which came into conflict with her

own idiosyncracy and admired everything else. When Slawa had shouted

the last verse of the latest revolutionary ditty, which would have been

prohibited in forty-eight, and Sterzl was still asking himself whether

it was worse to listen to the mother's tongue or the daughter's

singing, Matuschowsky, whose chagrin at the small approval bestowed on

his and Slawa's musical efforts had reached an unendurable pitch,

observed that it was growing late and that the ladies must be needing

rest after all their exertions and fatigues. Madame Wolnitzka hastened

to devour the last slice of tea-cake, brushed the crumbs away from her

purple satin lap on to the carpet, rose slowly, and made her way with

many bows and courtesies towards the door, taking at least half an hour

before she was fairly gone.

When his relatives had at length disappeared Sterzl accompanied the two

gentlemen, who had also bid the ladies good-night, into the hall, and

said good-humoredly to Siegburg:

"You, I fancy, are the only one of the party who has really enjoyed the

evening." Siegburg colored; then looking up frankly at his friend he

said: "You are not offended?"

"Well--perhaps, just a little," replied Sterzl, with a smile, "but I

must admit that the temptation was a strong one."

"And really and truly I am very sorry for you," Siegburg went on, with

that ingenuous want of tact that never lost him a friend. "There is

nothing in the world so odious as to have a posse of disagreeable

relations who suddenly appear and cling on to your coat-tails. I know

it by experience. Last spring, at Vienna, half a dozen old aunts of my

mother's came down upon us from Bukowina like a snow-storm...." Sempaly

meanwhile had buttoned himself into his fur-lined coat and said

nothing.

CHAPTER III.

The three days have gone by in which Truyn had desired his cousin to

make up his mind--three days since the sudden descent of Baroness

Wolnitzka scared away the sweet vision that till then had dwelt in

Sempaly's soul and checked the declaration actually on his lips--but he

has not yet requested to be removed from Rome. Truyn's eye has been

upon him all through these three days, has constantly met his own with

grave questioning, as though to say: "Have you decided?"

No, he had not decided. To a man like Sempaly there is nothing in the

world so difficult as a decision; fate decides for him--he for himself!

Never.

His encounter with the preposterous baroness might silence the avowal

he was on the verge of uttering, but it was not so powerful as to

banish Zinka's image once and for all from his mind. The silly old

woman's chatter he had by this time forgotten; the _Stornelli_ that

Zinka had been singing still rang in his ears. For two days he had had

the resolution to avoid the Palazetto, but he had seen Zinka for a

moment, by accident, yesterday on the Corso. She was in the carriage

with Marie Vulpini--she had on a grey velvet dress and a broad-brimmed

mousquetaire hat that threw a shadow on her forehead and her

golden-brown hair; she held a large bouquet of flowers and was chatting

merrily with the little Vulpinis and Gabrielle Truyn; what pretty merry

ways she had with children! His blood fired in his veins as their eyes

met, and she blushed as she returned his bow. It was the first time she

had blushed at seeing him. All that night he dreamed the wildest

dreams,--and now he was taking a solitary early walk in the spring

sunshine, on the Pincio, lost in thought, but snapping the twigs as he

passed along to vent his irritation. More and more he felt that

marriage with Zinka was a _sine qua non_ of his existence. He had never

in his life denied himself a pleasure, and now....

* * *

The brilliant March sun flooded the Piazza di Spagna, the waters of the

Baracaccia sparkled and danced, reflecting the radiant blue sky,

against which the towers of the Trinita dei Monti stood out sharp and

clear. All over the shallow steps of the church models were lounging in

the regulation peasant costumes, and blind beggars incessantly

muttering their prayers. In front of the Hotel de l'Europe the

cab-drivers were sweetly slumbering under the huge patched umbrellas

stuck up behind their coach-boxes for protection against the sun or

rain. Flower-sellers were squatted on every door-step, and here and

there sat a brown-eyed, snub-nosed white Pomeranian dog. The Piazza was

swarming with tourists, and Beatrice di Cenci gazed with the saddest

eyes in the world out of a photographer's shop at the motley crowd and

bustle.

Siegburg, in happy unconsciousness of coming evil, had just come out of

Law's, the money changer's, and was inhaling with peculiar satisfaction

the delicious pervading scent of hyacinths, when his eye was

accidentally attracted by the fine figure of a young English woman who

passed him in a closely fitting jersey. He was still watching her when

a harsh voice close to him exclaimed:

"Good morning, Count,--what luck!"

He turned round and recognized, under a vast shady hat, the broad, dark

face of the Baroness Wolnitzka. Though the day was splendidly fine she

had on that most undressed of garments, originally meant as a

protection against rain but subsequently adopted to conceal every

conceivable defect of costume, and long since known to the mocking

youth of Paris as a "_cache-misere_,' or--to render it freely--a

slut-cover; and, though the pavement was perfectly dry, under this

waterproof she held up the gown it hid, so high that her wide feet, in

their untidy boots with elastic sides, were plainly displayed.

"Ah, baroness!" he said lifting his hat, "I really did not ..."

"No, you did not recognize me," she said calmly, "that was why I spoke

to you. What luck! But you are in the embassy too?"

"Certainly."

"That is the very thing--I have a request to make then. My daughter is

most anxious to have an audience of His Holiness. Slawa, you must know,

is a fervent Catholic, though, between you and me, it is a mere matter

of fashion. Now I, for my part, take a philosophical view of religious

matters. At the same time I should be very much interested in seeing

the Pope...."

"But the Pope is unfortunately more inaccessible than ever," said

Siegburg, "besides, as I do not belong to the Papal Embassy I cannot, I

regret to say, give you the smallest assistance."

"That is what my nephew says--it is disastrous, positively disastrous,"

At this moment Slawa joined them, emerging from Piale's library, in an

eccentric _directoire_ costume, with a peaked hat and feather, and a

pair of gloves, no longer clean, drawn far up over her elbows.

"Ah, good morning," said she, offering the count her finger tips while

Matuschowsky, who was in attendance, sulkily bowed.

By this time Siegburg, hemmed in on all sides, began to think the

situation unpleasant.

"It is so delightful to meet with a fellow-countryman in a foreign

land...." Slawa began.

"Quite delightful," replied Siegburg, thinking to himself: "How am I to

get out of this?" when suddenly the absurdity of the thing came upon

him afresh, for he heard the baroness once more: "Good morning, Count,

what luck!" and at the same moment she bore down on no less a man than

Sempaly, who had just come down the sunlit steps, and was crossing the

Piazza lost in sullen meditation. "I beg your pardon," he muttered

somewhat startled, "I really did not recognize you," and he gazed

helplessly into the distance as though he looked for a rescue. But the

baroness went on:

"I am so delighted to have met you--I have a particular request to

make: could you not procure me admission to the Farnesina? The Duke di

Ripalda is said to be all powerful...."

"I am sorry to say it is quite im----"

But at this instant a party of foreigners caught Sempaly's eye--two

young ladies with a maid. The two girls, tall and straight as

pine-trees, both remarkably handsome and dressed in neatly-fitting

English linen dresses, were eagerly bargaining with an Italian who had

embroidered cambric trimmings for sale, and they seemed to think it a

delightful adventure to buy something in the street.

"Two charming girls! surely I know them," cried Madame Wolnitzka. "Are

they not the Jatinskys?"

One of the young ladies, looking up, called out: "Nicki, Nicki!" half

across the Piazza, with the frank audacity of people who have grown up

in the belief that the world was created expressly for their use.

"Excuse me," said Sempaly with a bow to the baroness, "my cousins ..."

and without more ado he made his escape.

"How long have you been here? Where are you staying?"

"We arrived this morning--Hotel de Londres--mamma wrote to you at once

to the embassy ... Ah, here is another Austrian!" for Siegburg had

contrived to join them. "Rome is but a suburb of Vienna after all! But

tell me, who on earth were that old fortune-teller and her

extraordinary daughter to whom you were both devoting yourselves so

attentively?"

The Wolnitzky trio had in the meantime moved away. The baroness very

gracious, Slawa very haughty, as became the living representative of

the Apollo Belvedere--past the two handsome girls and down the Via

Condotti. Suddenly Baroness Wolnitzka stopped:

"I quite forgot to ask Count Sempaly to get me an invitation to the

international artists' festival!" she exclaimed, striking her forehead,

and she promptly turned about, evidently intending to repair the

omission; only Matuschowsky's decided interference preserved Sempaly

from her return to the charge.

* * *

The scene is now the Pincio--between five and six in the afternoon, the

hour when the band plays every day on the great terrace, while the

crowd collects to watch the sun set behind St. Peter's. The reflection

of the glow gilds the gravel, glints from the lace on the uniforms and

the brass instruments, and throws golden sparks on the water in the

wide basin behind the bandstand. The black shadows rapidly lengthen on

the grass, and the palmettos, yuccas, and evergreen oaks stand out in

rich, deep tones against the sky that fades from crimson to salmon and

grey. A special set of visitors haunt the shady side of the Pincio; not

the fashionable world: governesses and nurses with their charges, and

priests--priests of every degree: the illustrious Monsignori with their

finely chiselled features, their upright bearing and their elegant

hands; monks, with their bearded faces comfortably framed in their

cowls, and whole regiments of priestlings from the Seminaries in their

uniforms of every hue; lank, lean figures, with sallow, unformed

features.

Separated from these only by a leafy screen the beauty and fashion of

Rome drive up and down--the residents in handsome private carriages,

the foreigners in hired vehicles of varying degrees of respectability,

or even in the humble, one-horse, hackney cab. The crowd grows denser

every minute as the stream of Roman rank and wealth swells along the

Via Borghese, across the Piazza del Popolo, and up the hill. On the top

of the Pincio the carriages come to a stand-still; gentlemen on foot

gather round them, bowing and smiling, the ladies talk across from one

victoria to another--all sorts of trivial small-talk, unintelligible to

the uninitiated. Up from the gardens which line the road from the Via

Margutta, comes a fragrance of budding and growing spring; down below

lies Rome, and lording it grandly over the labyrinthine mass of houses

and ruins, solemn and severe, its crown touched by the last rays of the

vanished sun, stands St Peter's.

Countess Ilsenbergh's carriage was drawn up side by side with that of

Princess Vulpini; the newly-arrived party of the Jatinskys was divided

between them; the countess mother reclining indolently with a gracious

smile on her lips by the side of Countess Ilsenbergh, while the

princess had undertaken to chaperon the young ladies. On the front

seat, by his cousin Eugenie--Nini they called her--sat Sempaly.

Siegburg was leaning over the carriage door, talking all sorts of

nonsense, and relating all the gossip of Rome that was fit for maiden

ears to the two new-comers; they, infinitely amused, laughed till their

simple merriment infected even Sempaly, who had taken the seat coveted

of all the golden youth of Rome--the seat next his beautiful cousin--in

a very gloomy and taciturn humor.

Presently there was an evident sensation among the public; every one

was looking in the same direction.

"What is happening?" asked Polyxena, the elder of the two Jatinska

girls.

"It must be the Dorias' new drag, or the King," said Princess Vulpini,

screwing up her short-sighted eyes. "No," said Siegburg, looking back,

"neither. It is Baroness Wolnitzka!"

And in fact, Madame Sterzl's pretty landau, which she had placed at the

disposal of her sister for the afternoon, was coming up the road, in it

the Wolnitzkas, mother and daughter, both in their finest array. Slawa

was leaning back, elegantly languid, while her mother stood up in the

carriage and surveyed the world of Rome through an opera-glass. From

time to time, either to rest, or because she suddenly lost her balance,

she sat down; and then she filled up her time by examining every detail

of the trimming and lining of the landau. It was this singular

demeanor, combined with her very conspicuous person, that attracted so

much attention to the Sterzls' vehicle--an attention which both mother

and daughter, of course ascribed to Slawa's extraordinary resemblance

to the Belvedere Apollo.

"Baroness Wolnitzka! the wonderful old woman we saw with you yesterday

in the Piazza di Spagna?" cried Polyxena.

"Yes."

"Only think, Nicki," she went on to Sempaly, "mamma knows her?"

"Who is it that I know?" asked her mother from the other carriage.

"Baroness Wolnitzka, mamma; do you see her--out there?"

"Heaven preserve me!" exclaimed the countess fervently. "I do not feel

secure of my life when I am near her. She fell upon me to-day in the

Villa Wolkonsky."

"How on earth do you happen to know the old woman, aunt?" asked Sempaly

irritably.

"Oh! my husband had some political connection with hers," the countess

explained. "She is not to be borne, she stuck to me like a leech for

half an hour."

"Your conversation must have been very interesting," said Siegburg.

"It did not interest me," replied the countess rather sharply. "She

told me how much her journey had cost her, what she pays a day for

carriage-hire, and that when she was young she had singing-lessons of

Cicimara. And she chattered endlessly about her sister Sterzl who is

living here 'in the first style and knows absolutely none but the creme

de la creme'--you laugh!..."

"Well, mamma, you must confess that the association of such a name as

Sterzl with the cream of society is irresistibly funny," cried

Polyxena.

"It was anything rather than funny to me," said the countess ruefully.

"By the way, though, she did tell me one thing--that her niece Zenaide

Sterzl ... Well, what is there to laugh at now?"

"Zenaide Sterzl! the name is a poem in itself," cried Polyxena; "it is

as though an English woman were named Belinda Brown, or a French girl

called Roxalane Dubois."

"Well, it seems from what the old woman told me that the fair Zenaide

is about to relinquish the graceless name of Sterzl for one of the

noblest names in Austria--that is the old idiot's story. It has not yet

been made public, so she could not tell me the bridegroom's name, but

Zenaide is as good as betrothed to a young count--an attache to the

Austrian embassy. Who on earth can it be?--You ought to know!"

"Ah, ah! Is it you?" said Polyxena turning to Siegburg. But Siegburg

shook his head, stroking his yellow moustache to conceal a malicious

smile as he watched Sempaly's conspicuous annoyance. "Or is it you,

Nicki?" the young countess went on--"I congratulate you on marrying

into such a delightful family!"

But such a marked effect of embarrassment was produced by her speech

that she was suddenly silent.

"I know nothing of it," said Sempaly with a gloomy scowl. "That old

chatterbox's imagination is positively stupendous."

The play of light on the gold lace of the uniforms and the brass

instruments is fast fading away and the sheen of the glossy-leaved

evergreens is almost extinct. "_Gran dio morir si giovane!_" is the

tune the band is playing. The sun is down, the day is dead, night

shrouds the scene; the only color left is a dull glow behind St.

Peter's like a dying fire.

"At the Ellis' this evening," Siegburg calls out to the ladies as he

lifts his hat and turns away. The carriages make their way down the

hill, past the Villa Medici, back into Rome, and their steady roar is

like that of a torrent rushing to join the sea.

CHAPTER IV.

Mr. and Lady Julia Ellis--she was an earl's daughter--English people of

enormous wealth and amazing condescension, had for many years spent the

winters in Rome. In former times the lady's eccentricities had given

rise to much discussion; now she was an old lady with white hair, fine

regular features and much too fat arms. Like all English women of her

day she appeared in a low gown on all occasions of full dress, and was

fond of decking her head with a pink feather. Her husband was younger

than she was and had a handsome, thoroughly English face, with a short

beard and very picturesque curly white hair. His profile was rather

like that of Mendelssohn, a fact of which he was exceedingly proud.

Besides this he was proud of two other things: of his wife, who had

been admired in her youth by King George IV. and of a very old

umbrella, because Felix Mendelssohn had once borrowed it. He had a

weakness for performing on the concertina and had musical evenings once

a week.

It happened that on the occasion when the Jatinskys first went to one

of these parties Tulpin the Russian genius whose great work had served

as the introduction to the Ilsenbergh tableaux, was elaborating a new

opera to a French libretto on a national Russian story. He was, of

course, one of those Russians who combine a passionate devotion to the

national Slav cause with a fervent wish to be mistaken for born

Parisians wherever they appear. The piano groaned under his hands,

while sundry favorite phrases from _Orphee aux Enfers_ and other

well-known works were heard above the rolling sea of tremolos. From

time to time the performer threw in a word to elucidate the situation:

"The czar speaks...." "The bojar speaks...." "The peasant speaks...."

"The sighing of the wind in the Caucasus...." "The foaming of the

torrent...." While Mr. Ellis, who believed implicitly in the opera, was

heard murmuring: "Splendid! ... magnificent! The opera must be worked

out--it must not remain unperformed!"

"Worked out!" sighed Tulpin with melancholy irony. "That is no concern

of mine. We--we have the ideas, the working out we leave to--to--to

others, in short. You must remember that I cannot read a note of

music--literally, not a note," he repeated with intense and visible

satisfaction, and he flung off a few stumbling arpeggios, while Mr.

Ellis cried: "Astonishing!" and compared him with Mendelssohn, which

Tulpin, who believed only in the music of the future, took very much

amiss. A _Grand Prix de Musique_, from the French academy of arts at

the Villa Medici, who had been waiting more than an hour to perform his

"Arab symphony," muttered to himself: "Good heavens! leave music to us,

and let us be thankful that we are not great folks!"

At last Lady Julia took pity on her guests and invited them to go to

take tea; every one was only too glad to accept, and in a few minutes

the music room was almost empty. Madame Tulpin, out of devotion, the

Grand Prix out of spite, and Mr. Ellis out of duty were all that

remained within hearing. In the adjoining room every one had burst into

conversation over their tea; still, a certain gloom prevailed.

Melancholy seemed to have fallen upon the party like an epidemic, and

the subject that was most eagerly discussed was the easiest mode of

suicide.

Tulpin rattled and thumped on; suddenly he stopped--the Jatinskys had

come in, and their advent was such a godsend that even the genius

abandoned the piano in their honor. They all three were smiling in the

most friendly--it might almost be said the most reassuring manner; for

Countess Ilsenbergh had not failed to impress upon them the very mixed

character of Roman society, and, feeling their own superiority, they

were able to cover their self-consciousness with the most engaging

amiability. The two younger ladies were surrounded--besieged--and the

strange thing was that the women paid them even greater homage than

the men. Everything about them was admired: their small feet, their

finely-cut profiles, their incredibly slender waists, the color of

their hair, the artistic simplicity of their dresses--and bets were

laid as to whether these were the production of Fanet or of Worth. But

now there was the little commotion in the next room that is caused by

the arrival of some very popular person. Zinka, without her mother,

under her brother's escort only, came in and gave her slim hand with an

affectionate greeting to the lady of the house.

"You are an incorrigible truant, you always come too late;" said Lady

Julia in loving reproach.

"Like repentance and the police," said Zinka merrily; and then Lady

Julia introduced her to Countess Jatinska.

"But you must help me with the tea; you know I always reckon on you for

that," Lady Julia went on. "Give your charming countrywomen some, will

you?"

Polyxena and Nini were sitting a yard or two off, surrounded by

all the young men of Rome; Zinka was going towards them with her

winning grace of manner when Sempaly happened to come up, and found

himself so unexpectedly face to face with her that he had no

alternative but to shake hands, and he could not avoid saying a few

words. Of course--like any other man in his place--he made precisely

the most unlucky speech he could possibly have hit upon:

"We have not met for some time."

She looked him in the face but of half-shut eyes, with her head

slightly thrown back, and replied, with very becoming defiance:

"You have carried out the penance you began on Ash-Wednesday!"

"Perhaps," and he could not help smiling.

She shrugged her shoulders: "I had intended to break off our

friendship," she went on, "but now that I see the cause of your

faithlessness,"--and she glanced at the handsome young countesses--"I

quite understand it. Will you at any rate do me the favor of

introducing me to the ladies?"

"Fraeulein Sterzl--" said Sempaly; but hardly had he uttered the words

when a scarcely suppressed smile curled Polyxena's lip. Zinka saw the

smile, and she saw too that Sempaly's manner instantly changed; he put

on an artificial expression of intolerable condescension.

Zinka turned very pale, her eyes flashed indignantly as she hastily

returned the young Austrians' bow and at once went back to her post.

Sterzl, who was talking to Truyn in a recess and saw the little scene

from a distance, frowned darkly. Sempaly meanwhile seated himself on a

stool by his cousins and with his back to the tea-table where Zinka was

busying herself.

"So this is the far-famed Zinka Sterzl!" exclaimed Polyxena: "She does

credit to your taste, Nicki. But she allows herself to speak to you in

a very extraordinary manner; it is really rather too much!" Sempaly

made no reply. "She treats you already as if you were her own

property."

"But Xena," said Nini, trying to moderate her sister's irony, "at least

do not speak so loud." In a few minutes Mr. Ellis came to announce that

Monsieur B. was about to play his 'Arab symphony,' and the company

moved back into the drawing-room.

The evening had other treats in store; when Monsieur B. had done his

place was taken by a young Belgian count who devoted all his spare time

to the composition of funeral marches, who could also play songs and

ballads, such as are usually confined to the streets of Florence or the

_cafes chantants_ of Paris, arranged for the piano, and who gave a duet

between a cock and hen with so much feeling and effect that all the

audience applauded heartily, especially the Jatinskys to whom this

style of thing was quite a novelty. Then Mrs. Ferguson sang her French

couplets, Mr. Ellis played an adagio by Beethoven on the concertina,

and then Zinka was asked to sing.

"What am I to sing? You know the extent of my collection," she said

with rather forced brightness to Mr. Ellis.

"Oh! a Stornello. We beg for a Stornello," said Siegburg following her

to the piano--"_vieni maggio, vieni primavera_," and Lady Julia

seconded the request.

Zinka laid her hands on the keys and began. Her voice sounded through

the room a little husky at first, but very sweet, like the note of a

forest bird.

Never before had she sat down to sing without bringing _him_ to her

side, even from the remotest corner of the room, at the very first

notes; and now, involuntarily, she looked up to meet his gaze--but he

was sitting by Polyxena, on a small sofa, in a very familiar attitude,

leaning back, holding one foot on the other knee, and laughing at

something that she was whispering to him. Zinka lost her self-command

and was suddenly paralyzed with self-consciousness. She could not sing

that song before him. Her voice broke; she forgot the accompaniment;

felt about the notes, struck two or three wrong chords and at length

rose with an awkward laugh:

"I cannot remember anything this evening!" she stammered.

Polyxena had some spiteful comment to make, of course, and Sempaly grew

angry; he was on the point of rising to go to Zinka and console her for

her failure, but before he could quite make up his mind to move, Nini

had risen. In spite of her shyness she made her way straight across the

room to Zinka and said something kind to her. Sempaly stayed where he

was; but as they were leaving, he put on Nini's cloak for her, and said

in a low tone: "Nini, you are a good fellow!" and he kissed her hand.

* * *

Sempaly's attentions had made Zinka the fashion; his sudden

discontinuance, not merely of attentions, but of any but the barest

civilities, of course, made her the laughing-stock of all their circle.

The capital caricature that Sempaly had drawn of Sterzl and his sister

that evening at the Vulpinis' was remembered once more; Madame de

Gandry, to whom Sempaly had been very civil till he had neglected her

for Zinka, showed the sketch to all her acquaintance, with a plentiful

seasoning of spiteful insinuations. Every one was ready to laugh at the

"little adventuress" who had come to Rome to bid for a prince's coronet

and who had been obliged to submit to such condign humiliation.

The leaders of foreign society vied with each other in doing honor to

the Jatinskys. Madame de Gandry set the example by giving a party at

which Ristori was engaged to recite; Sterzl was of course, invited; his

mother and sister were left out. It was the first time since Zinka's

appearance at the Ilsenberghs' that she had been omitted from any

entertainment, however select. Many ladies of the international circle

followed Madame de Gandry's lead, wishing like her to make a parade

before the Austrians of their own exclusiveness, and at the same time

to be revenged on Zinka for many a saucy speech she had ventured to

make when she was still one of the initiated--of the sacred inner

circle. The Italian society of Rome did not of course trouble itself

about all these trumpery subtleties, and behaved to Zinka with the same

superficial politeness as before.

She, for her part, took no more note of their amenities than she did of

the pin-pricks from the other side. If her feelings had not been so

deeply engaged by Sempaly she would no doubt have taken all these petty

social humiliations very hardly; but her anguish of soul had dulled her

shallower feelings. There is a form of suffering which deadens the

senses and which mockery cannot touch. It was all the same to her

whether she was invited or not--she could not bear to go anywhere. The

idea of meeting Sempaly with his cousins was as terrible as death

itself. She was an altered creature. A shy, scared smile was always on

her lips, like the ghost of departed joys, her movements had lost all

their elasticity, and her gait was more than ever like that of an angel

whose wings have been clipped.

Baroness Sterzl, of course, still drove out regularly on the Corso, and

made the most praiseworthy attempts to keep up a bowing acquaintance

with her former friends, and as often as she could she went out in the

evening--alone. There was some consolation too in the proud

consciousness of having quarrelled with Madame de Gandry and being on

visiting terms with all the Roman duchesses. The only thing that caused

her any serious discomfort was her sister Wolnitzka's persistent and

indiscreet catechism as to the state of affairs between Zinka and

Sempaly. She herself, out of mere idle bragging, had told Charlotte the

first day of her arrival in Rome that Zinka's engagement was not yet

made public.

Her aunt's coarse remarks and hints were fast driving Zinka crazy when

Siegburg fortunately--perhaps intentionally, out of compassion for

her--so frightened the mother and daughter, one evening when he met

them at the palazetto, by his account of the Roman fever that they were

panic-stricken, and fled the very next morning to Naples.

The member of the family who was most keenly alive to the change in

their social relations, oddly enough, was Cecil. He had been wont to

feel himself superior to these silly class-jealousies, and at the same

time had a reasonable and manly dignity of his own that had preserved

him from that morbid petulance which sometimes stands in arms against

all friendly advances from men who, after all, cannot help the fact of

their superior birth. Democratic touchiness is a disease to which, in

the old-world countries where hereditary rank is still a living fact,

every man who is not a toady is liable--from Werther downwards--when

fate brings him into contact with aristocratic circles. Sterzl had

moved in them so long that he was acclimatized; or rather, it had

attacked him late in life, and, as is always the case when grown-up men

take infantine complaints, with aggravated severity. He attributed all

his sister's misery, not to his own want of caution and Sempaly's

weakness of character, but to the tyranny of social prejudice; and he

turned against society with vindictive contempt, making himself

perfectly intolerable wherever he went. Being a well-bred man,

accustomed all his life to the graces of politeness, he could not

become absolutely ill-mannered--but as ill-mannered as he could be he

certainly was: assertive, irritable, always on the defensive, he was

constantly involved in some argument or dispute.

Even at home he was not the same; his pride was deeply nettled by

Zinka's total inability to hide her suffering, while he felt it

humiliating to be able to do nothing to comfort her. At first, in the

hope of diverting her thoughts, he would bring her tickets for concerts

or the theatre, and give her a thousand costly trinkets, old treasures

of porcelain, carved ivory, and curiosities of art, such as she had

once loved. She used to rejoice over these pretty trifles--now she

smiled as a sick man smiles at some dainty he no longer has any

appetite for. He could see how sincerely she tried to be delighted, but

the tears were in her eyes all the while.

This drove Sterzl to desperation. At first he religiously avoided

mentioning Sempaly in her presence, but as days and weeks passed and

she brought no change in her crushed melancholy, he waxed impatient. He

took it into his head that it would be well to open Zinka's eyes with

regard to Sempaly. Sterzl himself was energetic, always looking to the

future; he had it out with his disappointments and got rid of them,

however hard he might have been hit. He had always let things roll if

they would not stand, and then set to work to begin again. His great

point in life was to see things as they were. Truth was his divinity,

and he could not understand that to a creature constituted like Zinka,

illusion was indispensable; that she still laid no blame on Sempaly,

but only on the alteration in his circumstances--on her own

unworthiness--on anything and everything but himself; that it was a

necessity of her nature to be able still to love him, even though she

knew that he was lost to her forever. His austere nature could not

enter into Zinka's soft and impressible susceptibility.

So when he took to speaking slightingly or contemptuously of Sempaly on

every possible opportunity she never answered him, but listened in

silence, looking at him with frightened, astonished eyes and a pale

face, like a martyr to whom her tormentors try to prove that there is

no God. The result of Cecil's well-meant but injudicious proceedings

was a temporary coolness between himself and his sister--a coolness

which, on his part, lay only on the surface, but which froze her spirit

to its depths, and all this naturally tended to add fuel to Sterzl's

detestation of Sempaly. The two men were in daily intercourse, and now

in a state of constant friction. Sterzl would make biting remarks over

the smallest negligence or oversight of which Sempaly might be guilty,

and was bitterly sarcastic as to the incompetence of a young connection

of the Sempalys who had not long since been attached to the embassy.

"To be sure," he ended by declaring, "in Austria it is a matter of far

greater importance that an attache should be a man of family than that

he should know how to spell." To such depths of clumsy rudeness could

he descend.

Sempaly, without losing his supercilious good humor, would only smile,

or answer in his most piping tones:

"You are very right; the view we take of privilege is quite

extraordinary. We should form ourselves on the model of the French

corps diplomatique; do not you think so?" For, a few days previously,

the Figaro had published a satirical article on the presentation of a

plebeian representative of the republic at some foreign court.

Well, Sempaly might have retorted in a much haughtier key--but the

lighter his irony the more it exasperated Sterzl.

CHAPTER V.

Countess Jatinska spent almost the whole of her stay in Rome on her

sofa. When she was asked what she thought of Rome she replied that she

found it very fatiguing; when the same question was put to her

daughters they, on the contrary, declared themselves enchanted. Sempaly

knew full well that in all Rome there was nothing they liked better

than their ne'er-do-weel cousin. He displayed for their benefit all his

most amiable graces; criticised or admired their dresses, touched up

their coiffure with his own light hand, faithfully reported to them all

their conquests, and made them presents of cigarettes and of trinkets

from Castellani's.

When there was nothing else to be done he was ready to attend them--of

course, under the charge of some older lady--to see galleries and

churches, Polyxena had a way, that was highly characteristic, of

rushing past the greatest works with her nose in the air and laughing

as she repeated some imbecile remark that she had overheard, or pointed

out some eccentricity of tourist costume. Nini took art more seriously,

looked carefully at everything by the catalogue, and even kept a diary.

Xena was commonly thought the handsomer and the more brilliant of the

sisters, and Sempaly apparently devoted himself chiefly to her, but he

decidedly liked Nini best. The hours that he did not spend with his

cousins he passed at the club, where he gambled away large sums.

Meanwhile, he was looking very ill and complained of a return of old

Roman fever.

And what did the world say to his behavior? The phlegmatic Italians did

not trouble themselves about the matter; Madame de Gandry and Mrs.

Ferguson laughed over it; Siegburg pronounced it disgraceful, and

Ilsenbergh called it bad taste to say the least. That he ought to have

arranged to leave Rome everybody agreed. Princess Vulpini held long and

lamentable conferences with General von Klinger--reproaching herself

bitterly for not having seen the position of affairs long ago--but she

had never attached any importance to Sempaly's marked attentions,

having had no eyes for anything but Siegburg's devotion to Zinka, and

she had taken a quite motherly interest in what she regarded as a good

match for both.

Truyn was perfectly furious with Sempaly. All that he was to Zinka

during these weeks can only be divined by those who have passed through

such a time of grief and humiliation, with the consciousness of having

a high-souled and tender friend in the back-ground. He was the only

person who never aggravated her wound. He had the gentle touch, the

delicate skill, which the best man or woman can only acquire through

the ordeal of an aching heart. He came every afternoon with his little

girl to take Zinka for a walk, for he knew that the regular drive on

the Corso could only bring her added pain; and while the baroness, with

outspread skirts, drove in the wake of fashion up to the Villa Borghese

and the Pincio, these three--with the general, not unfrequently, for a

fourth--would wander through silent and deserted cloisters or take long

walks across the Campagna. Not once did Truyn bring a secret tear to

her eye; if some accidental remark or association brought the hot color

to her thin cheek he could always turn the subject so as to spare her.

One sultry afternoon, late in spring, Truyn and his two daughters--as

he was wont to call Zinka and Gabrielle--with the soldier-artist were

sauntering home, after a long walk, through the sombre and picturesque

streets that surround the Pantheon. The neighborhood is humble and

wretched, but over a garden wall rose a mulberry tree in whose green

branches a blackbird was singing, and a few red geraniums blazed behind

rusty window-bars, bright specks in the monotonous brown; above the

roofs bent the deep blue sky; the air was heavy and hot, and full of

obscure smells of gutters and stale vegetables. Somewhere, in an

upstairs room, a woman sang a love-song of melancholy longing. Suddenly

the blackbird and the woman ceased singing at the same time; a dismal

howl and groan echoed through the street, and a mass of black shadows

darkened the scene. Zinka, who had lately become excessively nervous,

started and shuddered.

"It is nothing--only a funeral," Truyn explained, taking off his hat.

That was all--a Roman funeral, grim but picturesque--a long procession

of mysteriously-shrouded figures, only able to see through two slits in

the sack-like cowls that covered their heads, ropes round their waists,

and torches or mystical banners in their hands--banners with the

emblems of death. These were followed by a troop of barefooted friars,

and last came the bier covered with a bright yellow pall, carried by

four more of the shrouded figures, who bent under its weight as they

shuffled along. The ruddy flare and the black smoke wreaths, the

groan-like chant, the uncanny glitter of the men's eyes out of the

formless hoods--ghastly, ghostly, and exhaling a savor of mouldiness

and incense, like the resurrection of a fragment of the middle

ages--the procession defiled through the narrow street. Zinka,

half-fainting, clung to Truyn; Gabrielle, whose childish nerves were

less shocked, watched them with intense curiosity and began to question

a woman who stood near her in the crowd that had collected, in her

fluent, bungling Italian:

"Who is it they are burying?" she asked at length.

"A woman," was the answer.

"Was she young?"

"_Si_."

"And what did she die of? of fever?"

"No," said the Roman shrugging her shoulders; and then she added, in

the slow musical drawl of the Roman peasant:

"_Di passione_."

The procession had passed, the chanting had died away; the blackbird

was singing lustily once more; they went on their way--Truyn first,

with Zinka hanging wearily on to his arm, behind them Gabrielle and the

general.

"_Passione!_ is that a Roman illness?" she asked with her insatiable

inquisitiveness.

"No, it occurs in most parts of the world," said the general drily.

"But only among poor people, I suppose?" said the child.

"No, it is known to the better classes too, but it is not called by the

same name," said the old man with some bitterness, more to himself than

to Gabrielle.

"Then it is wrong--a shameful thing to die of?" she asked with wide,

astonished eyes.

Suddenly the general perceived that Zinka was listening; her head

drooped as she heard the child's heedless catechism. He, under the

circumstances, would have felt paralyzed--he would not have known what

to say to the poor crushed soul; but not so Truyn. He turned to his

companion and said something in a low tone. What, the general could not

hear, but it must have been something kind and helpful--something

which, without any direct reference to the past, conveyed his

unalterable respect and regard, for she answered him almost brightly.

Then he went on talking of trifles, remembering little incidents of his

boyhood, characteristic anecdotes of his parents, and such small

matters as may divert a sick and weary spirit, till, when they parted

at the door of the palazetto, Zinka was smiling. "That he has the

brains of a genius I will not say, but he has genius of heart, I dare

swear!" thought the soldier.

Truyn had gone out riding with her two or three times across the

Campagna, and she had enjoyed it; but one day they met Sempaly,

galloping with his two handsome cousins over the anemone-strewn sward.

From that day she made excuses for avoiding the Campagna--as though she

thus avoided the chance, almost the certainty, of meeting him and them.

Why then did she remain in Rome at all? Sterzl would not hear of her

quitting it, because he thought that the world of Rome would regard it

as a flight after defeat. His mother too, on different grounds, set her

face against any such abridgment of their stay in Rome. Had she not

taken the palazetto till the fifteenth of May?

And did Zinka, in fact, wish to go? She often spoke of longing to be at

home again, but whenever their departure was seriously discussed it

gave her a shock. She dreaded meeting him--and longed for it all

the same. And in the evening when a few old friends dropped in to

call--Truyn every evening and Siegburg very frequently--Truyn noticed

that every time there was a ring she sat with her eyes fixed in eager

expectation on the door. She still cherished a sort of hope--a broken,

moribund hope that was in fact no more than unrest--the vitality of

suffering.

PART III.

EASTER.

CHAPTER I.

Passion-week in Rome, and in all the glory and glow of an Italian

spring. The glinting radiance brightens even the mystical gloom of St.

Peter's, sparkles for an instant on the holy-water in the basins,

wanders from the heads of the gigantic cherubs and the colossal

statues down to the inlaid pavement, with the cold sheen of sunlight

on polished marble. The hours glide on--the long solemn hours of

Holy-Thursday in Rome; the last gleam of daylight has faded away, the

vast cathedral is filled with almost palpable twilight and its

magnificence seems shrouded in a transparent veil of crape. The stone

walls look dim and distant, the fane seems built of shadows, and sacred

mystery falls as it were from heaven, deeper and more solemn as the

minutes slip by, to sanctify the spot.

In the papal chapel Zinka is kneeling with Truyn and Gabrielle, her

eyes fixed on her hands which are convulsively clasped, and praying

with the passion of a youthful nature whose yearning has found no

foothold on earth and seeks a home in heaven. On both sides sit the

prelates and dignitaries of the church in their carved stalls,

inquisitive and prayerless foreigners crowd at their feet. The tragedy

of the passion is being recited in a monotonous, inconclusive chant

that dies away in the dim corners of the chapel.

The last of the twelve tapers on the altar is extinguished....

"_Miserere mei_" the choristers cry with terrible emphasis; and then,

awful but most sweet, beginning as a mere breath and rising to a mighty

wail of grief, comes a voice like the utterance of the anguish of the

God of Love over the misery from which He can never release mankind.

And before the majesty of that divine and selfless sorrow human sorrow

bows in silence.

Zinka bends her head.--It is ended, the last sound has died away in a

sob, the crowd rises to follow the procession which, with a cardinal at

the head, wends its way through the church.

Truyn and the two girls quit the chapel; behind them the steps of the

priests and choristers, drowned in their own echoes, sound like the

rustling of angelic wings; the brooding, melancholy peacefulness has

lulled Zinka's heart to rest; for the first time for many weeks she has

forgotten....

"Most interesting, but the bass was hoarse!"

It was Polyxena Jatinsky who pronounced this summary criticism of the

solemn ceremonial, close to Zinka. Zinka looked round; Sempaly with his

aunt and cousins were at her side. They had attended the service in

reserved places in the choir. Involuntarily yielding to an impulse of

pain Zinka pressed forward, but Gabrielle had flown to join them; then

she was obliged to stay and talk. The Jatinskys were perfectly

friendly, Polyxena giving her her hand--Sempaly alone held aloof. On

going out the air struck' chill, almost cold, on Zinka's face and she

shivered. A well-known voice close behind her said rather brusquely:

"You are too lightly dressed and there is fever in the air. Put this

round you," and Sempaly threw over her shoulders a scarf that he was

carrying for one of the ladies.

"Thank you, I am not cold; these ladies will want the scarf," said

Zinka hastily and repellently.

Polyxena said nothing; perhaps she may have thought it strange that in

his anxiety for this little stranger, her cousin should forget to

consider that one of them might take cold. But Nini exclaimed: "No, no,

Fraeulein Sterzl: we are well wrapped up."

At this juncture Truyn's servant, who had been seeking them among the

crowd, told them where the carriage was waiting.

While Zinka, wrapped in Nini's China-crape shawl, is borne along

between the splashing fountains, across the bridge of St. Angelo, and

through the empty, ill-lighted streets to the palazetto, all her pulses

are dancing and throbbing--and the stars in the sky overhead seem

unnaturally bright. It is the resurrection of her pain and with it of

the lovely mocking vision of the joys she has lost. Good God! how

vividly she remembers them all--how keenly!--the long dreamy afternoons

on the Palatine, the delicious hours in the Corsini garden--under the

plane-trees by the fountain, where he talked about Erzburg while the

perfume of violets and lilies fanned her with their intoxicating

breath; the sound of his voice--the touch of his light, thin hand, his

smile--his way of saying particular words, of looking at her in

particular moments....

She is walking with him once more in the Vatican, in rapt enjoyment of

the beauty of the statues; the Belvedere fountain trickled and splashed

in dreamy monotony; golden sunbeams fleck the pavement like footmarks

left by the Gods before they mounted their pedestals; there is a

mysterious rustle and whisper in the lofty corridors as of far, far

distant ghostly voices,--and then, suddenly, she is in front of Sant'

Onofrio's; the air is thick with a pale mist. At her feet, veiled in

the thin haze, indistinct and mirage-like, the very ghost of departed

splendor, lies Rome--the vast reliquary of the world; Rome, on whose

monuments and ruins every conceivable crime and every imaginable virtue

have set their stamp; where the tragedies of antiquity cry out to the

Sacrifice on Calvary.

They had stood together a long time looking down on it; then she had

lost a little bunch of violets which she had been wearing and as she

turned round to seek them she had perceived that he had picked them up

and was holding them to his lips. Their eyes had met....

Yes! he had loved her! he loved her still--he must--she knew it. She

told herself that, impulsive and excitable as he was, the merest trifle

would suffice to bring him back to her; but whether it was worth while

to long so desperately for a man who could be turned by the slightest

breath--that she did not ask herself.

And through all the torturing whirl of these memories, above the

clatter of the horses' hoofs and the rattle of the wheels over the

wretched pavement, she heard the cry "_miserere mei_." But her thoughts

turned no more to the God sacrificed for Man--the strongest angels'

wings cannot bear us quite to heaven so long as our heart dwells on

earth.

"Good-night," she said, kissing Gabrielle as the carriage drew up at

the door of the palazetto.

"Will you let me have Nini's scarf for Gabrielle?" said Truyn. "I am

afraid my little companion may catch cold."

"Oh! of course," cried Zinka, and she wrapped the child carefully in

the shawl and kissed her again; "when shall I learn to think of anyone

but myself?" she added vexed with herself.

* * *

Easter-Monday. All the bells in the churches of Rome are once more

wagging their brazen tongues after their week of dumb mourning, and

images of the Resurrection in every conceivable form--sugar, wax,

soap--decorate all the shop windows.

Baroness Wolnitzka had returned fresher, gayer and more enterprising

than ever from her visit to Naples, where she not only had had herself

photographed in a lyric attitude leaning on a pillar in the ruins of

Pompeii, but, in spite of her huge size which was very much against her

taking such excursions, she had with the help of two guides and a

remarkably vigorous mule, reached the top of Vesuvius. Thanks, too, to

a cardinal's nephew with whom she had scraped acquaintance on her

journey, with a view to making him useful, she had succeeded in

obtaining--not indeed a private audience of the pope--but leave to

attend a private mass--and receive the communion, in company with three

hundred other orthodox souls, from his sacred hand.

This morning she had been to the palazetto to take leave of her

sister--to ask once more after Sempaly--to give a full and particular

account of the service at the Vatican--and to deliver a discourse on

the philosophical value of the mass. Slawa, whose orthodoxy had been

fanned to bigotry, and who on Easter eve had duly climbed the _santa

scala_ on her knees, had supplemented her mother's narrative with a

variety of interesting details:

"It was most exclusive, quite our own set, and few families of the

Polish colony--I wore my black satin dress beaded with jet and I heard

a gentleman behind me say: 'That is the only woman whose veil is put on

with any taste.'"

Sterzl had kept out of the way during their visit; Zinka had smiled

amiably but had not attended: Baroness Clotilde had plied her sister

with questions. Then the Wolnitzkas had left to go to the consecration

of a bishop--also by invitation from the cardinal's nephew--the ladies

were to be admitted to the sacristy and be presented with flowers and

refreshments.

It was about six o'clock in the evening when General von Klinger was

shown into the drawing-room of the palazetto. The room was not so

pretty as it used to be; the furniture was all set out squarely against

the walls by the symmetrical taste of the servants, and the flower

vases that were always so gracefully arranged now never held anything

but bunches of magnolias or violets; Zinka no longer cared to arrange

them.

"I am so glad you happen to have come to-day," she cried as he came in.

The brilliancy of her eyes and the redness of her lips showed that she

was already suffering from that terrible spring fever which makes havoc

with young creatures in the warm days of April and May. She was sitting

by her brother on a low red sofa, as she had so often sat with Sempaly;

the baroness was lounging in an arm-chair fanning herself; there was a

sort of triumphant solemnity in her manner. Even Cecil, too, was

evidently in some excitement though his air was just as frank and

natural as ever.

"Good evening, general, what hot, trying weather!" drawled the

baroness. "It is an extraordinary event to find us all at home together

at this hour but we all have a sacred horror of the mob in the streets

on a holiday afternoon."

"Oh, mamma!" interrupted Zinka, "it is not only the crowd--we wanted to

enjoy our good fortune together; did not we, Cecil?"

He nodded and stroked her hair. "Yes, little Zini."

"Only think. Uncle Klinger--you knew, of course, that Cecil's book on

Persia had attracted a great deal of attention--but that is not all. He

has been appointed _Charge d'affaires_ at Constantinople."

The general offered his congratulations and shook hands warmly with the

young man.

"I could wish for nothing more exactly to my mind," said Cecil. "There

is always something to do there; a man always has a chance of making

his mark and getting on." He was sincerely and frankly satisfied and

affected no indifference to the distinction he had earned.

"In five years we shall see you ambassador," exclaimed the general,

with the happy exaggeration that is irresistible on such occasions.

"We do not go quite so fast as that," laughed Sterzl. "However, I hope

to rise in due time. Will not you be proud of me, Butterfly, when I am

'your excellency!'"

"I am proud of you already," said Zinka, "and you know how vain I am,

and how much I value such things!"

It was the first time for some weeks that the general had seen the two

so happy together and it rejoiced his heart.

"And the climate is good," Sterzl went on, "one of the best in Europe;

the foreign colony is friendly and pleasant. You will enjoy studying

oriental manners from a bird's-eye view, Zini; and the change of air

will do you good?"

"You will take me too?" she said turning pale.

"Why, of course. The bay of Constantinople is lovely and we can often

sail out on it; then, in the autumn, if I have time, we will make an

excursion in Greece. You will be quite a travelled person." He put his

finger under her chin and looked with tender anxiety into her thin

face; every trace of color had suddenly faded from it, and the light

that her brother's success had kindled in her eyes had died out.

"It will be very nice--" she said wearily; "delightful--thank you,

Cecil--you are always so kind ... when are we to start?"

"You might get off in about a week; the sea-voyage will not over-tire

you, and you can stop to rest at Athens. In the hot season we can go up

to the hills--" then suddenly he glanced sharply in her face and his

whole expression changed; he added roughly, with a scowl: "but you need

not come unless you like--stay here if you choose--I do not want to

force you."

At this instant the maid appeared to announce the arrival of a case

from the railway.

"The new ball-dresses!" cried the baroness in great excitement. "I am

thankful they have come in time. I was quite in despair for fear I

should not have my new gown in time for the ball at the Brancaleone's.

It would have seemed so uncourteous to the princess.... Now let us see

what Fanet has hit upon that is new...." And she rustled out of the

room.

Zinka sat still, with a frozen smile, looking like a criminal to whom

the day of execution had just been announced, and uneasily twisting her

fingers.

"Of course, I like it, Cecil ... how can you think ... and on Wednesday

week we can start--Wednesday will be best ... now I must go and see

what my new dress is like ... do not laugh at me uncle; I must make

myself look as nice as I can for my last appearance." And she hurried

off; but on her way she stumbled against a table and a book fell to the

ground. She stopped, picked the book up, turned over the leaves and

laid it down; then, as if she wished to make up to her brother for some

unkindness, she went back to Cecil and put her hand on his shoulder.

"I do really thank you very much," she said, "and I am glad--really and

truly glad, and very proud of you...."

He looked up in her face and their eyes met--his lips quivered with

rage--the rage of a lofty, generous, and masterful nature at finding

itself incapable of making a woman dear to it happy.

Zinka shrank into herself "My ball-dress!" she faintly exclaimed, and

she slipped out of the room.

For a few minutes the two men were silent. Presently the general spoke:

"Zinka is going to the Brancaleones' to-morrow?"

"Yes," replied Sterzl; "at least, she has promised to go. Whether she

will change her mind at the last moment and stay at home, of course I

cannot foresee."

"But she really seems to care about it this time," said the general.

"At least she took an interest in her dress."

"Her dress!... she did not even know what she was talking about. She

fled that we might not see her tears...." Sterzl broke out, losing all

his self-control. Then he looked sternly at his friend as though he

thought he had betrayed a secret But the old man's sad face reassured

him. "It is of no use to try to act before you," he went on; "you are

not blind--you must see how wretched she is--it is all over, general,

she is utterly broken...." He started to his feet and after pacing the

room two or three times stood still and with a helpless wave of the

hands and a desperate shrug, he exclaimed: "There is nothing to be

done--nothing!" Then he sat down again and buried his face in his

hands.

Von Klinger cleared his throat, paused for a word and could find

nothing better to say than: "In time--things will mend; you must have

patience."

"Patience!" echoed Sterzl with an indescribable accent.

"Patience!--yes, if I could only hope that things would mend. At first

it provoked me that she should let everybody see ... know ... I thought

she might have more spirit and self-command. But now.--Good heavens!

she does all she can and it is killing her ... that is not her fault.

If only she were resentful--but she never complains; she is always

content with everything, she never even contradicts my mother now. And

then, what is worst of all, I hear her at night--her room is over

mine--walking up and down, very softly as if she were afraid of waking

anyone--up and down for hours; and often I hear her sobbing--she never

sheds a tear by day!..." he sighed. "And then--if it were for a man who

was worth it all!" he went on. "But that blue-eyed, boneless,

good-for-nothing simpleton!... I ought never to have allowed her to

step out of her own sphere--I ought never to have allowed them to

become intimate! I knew he was not worthy of her, even when, as I

believed--but you will laugh at my simplicity perhaps--he condescended

to be in earnest.--You cannot imagine what it is now to have to

meet him every day,--to hear him ask every day: 'how are you all at

home?'--I feel ready to choke ... I could crush him under foot like a

worm!... and I am bound to be civil. I may not even tell him that he

has insulted me."

The baroness here came back.

"Lovely!" she exclaimed, with her affected giggle, "quite perfect!

Zinka has never had a dress that suited her so well."

"That is well!" said Sterzl vaguely, "where is she?"

"She is gone to lie down; she has a bad headache," minced the baroness.

"The young girls of the present day have no stamina. Why, at her age

I...."

The general was not in the mood to listen to her sentimental

reminiscences and he took his leave. In the hall he once more wrung

Cecil's hand: "Fortune has favored you," he said; "you have a splendid

career before you, and in her new and pleasant home Zinka will

forget.--I congratulate you on your new start in life."

Aye--his new start in life!

CHAPTER II.

The Brancaleone Palace, on the slope of the Quirinal, is one of the

finest in Rome, and particularly famous for its gardens, laid out in

terraces down the side of the hill, with the lower rooms of the palazzo

opening on to the uppermost level. The dancing was in a large, almost

square, room adjoining a long vaulted corridor full of old pictures

relieved here and there by the cold severity of an antique marble

statue. It was lighted by marvellous chandeliers of Venetian glass that

hung from the ceiling. At the end of the corridor two steps led down

into an anteroom, dividing it from a smaller sanctuary where the gems

of the Brancaleone collection were displayed--mixed up, unfortunately,

with several modern monstrosities--and from this room a door opened

into the garden.

Zinka arrived late. A transient and feverish expectancy lent her

pinched features the brilliancy they had lost while her timid reserve

gave her even more charm than her former innocent self-confidence, and

her dress was certainly wonderfully becoming. Nor had she lost all her

old popularity, for she was soon surrounded by a little crowd of Roman

'swells;' one or two even of the Jatinskas' admirers deserted to Zinka.

Truyn was not present; the cold his little girl had caught at St.

Peter's had developed into a serious illness, and he could not leave

her.

Zinka, with her gliding grace, her small head held a little high, and

her softened glance, was still pretty to watch as she danced, and

attracted general attention. The music, the splendor of the

entertainment, the consciousness of looking well put her into unwonted

spirits. She sent a searching glance round the room--no, he was not

there. Sterzl stood talking with the general, delighted with her little

triumph and charming appearance; then he was congratulated by several

men of distinction on his recent promotion. He thanked them with

characteristic simplicity and sincerity--the evening was a success for

him too. Not long after midnight he left to attend to pressing

business--matters were in a very unsettled state--and went to the

embassy.

Within a short time Sempaly came in. He had spent the previous night,

as was very generally known, at cards--this was a new form of

dissipation for him--he had lost a great deal of money, and he looked

worn and out of spirits. He did not care for dancing and came so late

to ask his handsome cousins for the cotillon that they were both

engaged--a result to which he was so manifestly indifferent that Nini

actually wiped away a secret tear. He was now standing with his fingers

in his waistcoat pockets and his glass in his eye, exchanging

impertinent comments with a number of other young men, on the figure of

this woman or that girl, and trying to imagine himself in the position

of the fabulous savage who found himself for the first time in a

civilized ball-room.

Suddenly he was silent--something had arrested his attention.

The band was playing a waltz at that time very popular: "_Stringi mi_,"

by Tosti. The room was very hot; it was the moment when the curls of

the young ladies begin to straighten, and their movements--at first a

little prim--begin to gain in freedom; when there is an electrical

tension in the air suggestive of possible storms and the most

indifferent looker-on is aware of an obscure excitement. Crespigny and

Zinka spun past him--Zinka pale and cool in the midst of the emotional

stir around her. She was not living in the present--she was in a dream.

Suddenly Crespigny, who was not a good dancer, stumbled against another

couple, caught his foot in a lady's train and fell with his partner.

Sempaly pushed his way through the dancers with blind force and was the

first to help Zinka to her feet. Without thinking for a moment of

the hundred eyes that were fixed upon him he leaned over the young

girl--her power over him had risen from the dead. She, bewildered by

her fall, did not perhaps at first see who it was that had helped her

to rise; she clung to his arm with half-shut eyes; then, as he

whispered a few sympathizing words, she looked up, started, colored,

and shrank from him.

"A very unpleasant accident," said some of the ladies.

Sempaly had taken possession of Zinka's slender hand and drew it with

gentle insistence through his arm; then he led her out of the heated

ball-room into the adjoining gallery.

* * *

The accident for which she had besieged Heaven with prayers had

happened--the accident which threw him once more in her way. His old

passion was awake again; she saw it--she could read it in his eyes. She

summoned up all her self-command to conceal her happiness--not so much

out of deliberate calculation as from genuine timidity and womanly

pride. He talked--saying all sorts of eager, sympathetic things--she

asked only the coldest and simplest questions. He had fetched her a

wrap and with the white shawl thrown around her he led her from one

room to another among the fan-palms and creamy yellow statues. Now and

then she spoke to some acquaintance whom they met wandering like

themselves, but these were fewer and fewer. The supper-room was thrown

open and every one was gone to the buffet.

Zinka's coldness, for which he was not at all prepared, provoked

Sempaly greatly. He felt with sudden conviction that there could be no

joy on earth to compare with that of once holding her in his arms and

kissing her--devouring her with kisses. This image took entire

possession of him and beyond the possible fulfilment of that dream he

did not look. That joy must be his at any cost, if the whole world were

to crumble at his feet.

"Zinka," he said in a low tone, "Zinka--Lent is over--Easter is come."

"Yes? what do you mean?" she said coldly, almost sternly.

"I mean," he said, and he looked her straight in the face, "that I have

fasted and that now I will feast, and be happy."

They were in a small room--a sort of raised recess divided from the

ball-room by a row of pillars; they were alone.

A joy so acute as to be almost pain came over Zinka. It blinded and

stunned her; she did not speak, she did not smile, she did not even

look up at him; she could not have stirred even if she had wished

it--she was paralyzed. He thought she would not hear him.

"Zinka," he urged, "can you not forgive me for having jingled the

fool's cap for six weeks till I could not hear the music of the

spheres? Can you not forgive me--for the sake of the misery I

have endured? I can bear it no longer--I confess and yield

unconditionally--I cannot live without you...."

Zinka was not strong enough to bear such emotion; the terrible tension

to which for the last quarter of an hour her pride had compelled her

gave way; she tottered, put out her hands, and was falling. He put his

arm round her and with the other hand pushed open a glass door that led

into the garden.