When he was alone, Giovanni retraced his steps, and again took up his
position near the entrance to the reception-rooms. He had matter for
reflection in the interview which had just ended; and, having nothing
better to do while he waited for Corona, he thought about what had
happened. He was not altogether pleased at the interest his marriage
excited in high quarters; he hated interference, and he regarded Cardinal
Antonelli's advice in such a matter as an interference of the most
unwarrantable kind. Neither he himself nor his father were men who sought
counsel from without, for independence in action was with them a family
tradition, as independence of thought was in their race a hereditary
quality. To think that if he, Giovanni Saracinesca, chose to marry any
woman whatsoever, any one, no matter how exalted in station, should dare
to express approval or disapproval was a shock to every inborn and
cultivated prejudice in his nature. He had nearly quarrelled with his own
father for seeking to influence his matrimonial projects; it was not
likely that he would suffer Cardinal Antonelli to interfere with them. If
Giovanni had really made up his mind--had firmly determined to ask the
hand of Donna Tullia--it is more than probable that the statesman's
advice would not only have failed signally in preventing the match, but
by the very opposition it would have aroused in Giovanni's heart it would
have had the effect of throwing him into the arms of a party which
already desired his adhesion, and which, under his guidance, might have
become as formidable as it was previously insignificant. But the great
Cardinal was probably well informed, and his words had not fallen upon a
barren soil. Giovanni had vacillated sadly in trying to come to a
decision. His first Quixotic impulse to marry Madame Mayer, in order to
show the world that he cared nothing for Corona d'Astrardente, had proved
itself absurd, even to his impetuous intelligence. The growing antipathy
he felt for Donna Tullia had made his marriage with her appear in the
light of a disagreeable duty, and his rashness in confessing his love for
Corona had so disturbed his previous conceptions that marriage no longer
seemed a duty at all. What had been but a few days before almost a fixed
resolution, had dwindled till it seemed an impracticable and even a
useless scheme. When he had arrived at the Palazzo Frangipani that
evening, he had very nearly forgotten Donna Tullia, and had quite
determined that whatever his father might say he would not give the
promised answer before Easter. By the time the Cardinal had left him, he
had decided that no power on earth should induce him to marry Madame
Mayer. He did not take the trouble of saying to himself that he would
marry no one else.
The Cardinal's words had struck deep, in a deep nature. Giovanni had
given Del Ferice a very fair exposition of the views he believed himself
to hold, on the day when they had walked together after Donna Tullia's
picnic. He believed himself a practical man, loyal to the temporal power
by principle rather than by any sort of enthusiastic devotion; not
desirous of any great change, because any change that might reasonably be
expected would be bad for his own vested interests; not prejudiced for
any policy save that of peace--preferring, indeed, with Cicero, the most
unjust peace to the most just war; tenacious of old customs, and not
particularly inquisitive concerning ideas of progress,--on the whole,
Giovanni thought himself what his father had been in his youth, and more
or less what he hoped his sons, if he ever had any, would be after him.
But there was more in him than all this, and at the first distant sound
of battle he felt the spirit stir within him, for his real nature was
brave and loyal, unselfish and devoted, instinctively sympathizing with
the weak and hating the lukewarm. He had told Del Ferice that he believed
he would fight as a matter of principle: as he leaned against the marble
pillar of the door in the Palazzo Frangipani, he wished the fight had
already begun.
Waiting there, and staring into the moving crowd, he was aware of a young
man with pale and delicate features and black hair, who stood quietly by
his side, and seemed like himself an idle though not uninterested
spectator of the scene. Giovanni glanced once at the young fellow, and
thought he recognised him, and glancing again, he met his earnest look,
and saw that it was Anastase Gouache, the painter. Giovanni knew him
slightly, for Gouache was regarded as a rising celebrity, and, thanks to
Donna Tullia, was invited to most of the great receptions and balls of
that season, though he was not yet anywhere on a footing of intimacy.
Gouache was proud, and would perhaps have stood aloof altogether rather
than be treated as one of the herd who are asked "with everybody," as
the phrase goes; but he was of an observing turn of mind, and it amused
him immensely to stand unnoticed, following the movements of society's
planets, comets, and satellites, and studying the many types of the
cosmopolitan Roman world.
"Good evening, Monsieur Gouache," said Giovanni.
"Good evening, prince," replied the artist, with a somewhat formal
bow--after which both men relapsed into silence, and continued to watch
the crowd.
"And what do you think of our Roman world?" asked Giovanni, presently.
"I cannot compare it to any other world," answered Gouache, simply. "I
never went into society till I came to Rome. I think it is at once
brilliant and sedate--it has a magnificent air of historical antiquity,
and it is a little paradoxical."
"Where is the paradox?" inquired Giovanni.
"'Es-tu libre? Les lois sont-elles respectées?
Crains-tu de voir ton champ pillé par le voisin?
Le maître a-t-il son toit, et l'ouvrier son pain?'"
A smile flickered over the young artist's face as he quoted Musset's
lines in answer to Giovanni's question. Giovanni himself laughed, and
looked at Anastase with somewhat increased interest.
"Do you mean that we are revelling under the sword of Damocles--dancing
on the eve of our execution?"
"Not precisely. A delicate flavour of uncertainty about to-morrow gives
zest to the appetite of to-day. It is impossible that such a large
society should be wholly unconscious of its own imminent danger--and yet
these men and women go about to-night as if they were Romans of old,
rulers of the world, only less sure of themselves than of the stability
of their empire."
"Why not?" asked Giovanni, glancing curiously at the pale young man
beside him. "In answer to your quotation, I can say that I am as free as
I care to be; that the laws are sufficiently respected; that no one has
hitherto thought it worth while to plunder my acres; that I have a modest
roof of my own; and that, as far as I am aware, there are no workmen
starving in the streets at present. You are answered, it seems to me,
Monsieur Gouache."
"Is that really your belief?" asked the artist, quietly.
"Yes. As for my freedom, I am as free as air; no one thinks of hindering
my movements. As for the laws, they are made for good citizens, and good
citizens will respect them; if bad citizens do not, that is their loss.
My acres are safe, possibly because they are not worth taking, though
they yield me a modest competence sufficient for my needs and for the
needs of those who cultivate them for me."
"And yet there is a great deal of talk in Rome about misery and injustice
and oppression--"
"There will be a great deal more talk about those evils, with much better
cause, if people who think like you succeed in bringing about a
revolution, Monsieur Gouache," answered Giovanni, coldly.
"If many people think like you, prince, a revolution is not to be thought
of. As for me I am a foreigner and I see what I can, and listen to what I
hear."
"A revolution is not to be thought of. It was tried here and failed. If
we are overcome by a great power from without, we shall have no choice
but to yield, if any of us survive--for we would fight. But we have
nothing to fear from within."
"Perhaps not," returned Gouache, thoughtfully. "I hear such opposite
opinions that I hardly know what to think."
"I hear that you are to paint Cardinal Antonelli's portrait," said
Giovanni. "Perhaps his Eminence will help you to decide."
"Yes; they say he is the cleverest man in Europe."
"In that opinion they--whoever they may be--are mistaken," replied
Giovanni. "But he is a man of immense intellect, nevertheless."
"I am not sure whether I will paint his portrait after all," said
Gouache.
"You do not wish to be persuaded?"
"No. My own ideas please me very well for the present. I would not
exchange them for those of any one else."
"May I ask what those ideas are?" inquired Giovanni, with a show of
interest.
"I am a republican," answered Gouache, quietly. "I am also a good
Catholic."
"Then you are yourself much more paradoxical than the whole of our Roman
society put together," answered Giovanni, with a dry laugh.
"Perhaps. There comes the most beautiful woman in the world."
It was nearly twelve o'clock when Corona arrived, old Astrardente
sauntering jauntily by her side, his face arranged with more than usual
care, and his glossy wig curled cunningly to represent nature. He was
said to possess a number of wigs of different lengths, which he wore in
rotation, thus sustaining the impression that his hair was cut from time
to time. In his eye a single eyeglass was adjusted, and as he walked he
swung his hat delicately in his tightly gloved fingers. He wore the
plainest of collars and the simplest of gold studs; no chain dangled
showily from his waistcoat-pocket, and his small feet were encased in
little patent-leather shoes. But for his painted face, he might have
passed for the very incarnation of fashionable simplicity. But his face
betrayed him.
As for Corona, she was dazzlingly beautiful. Not that any colour or
material she wore could greatly enhance her beauty, for all who saw her
on that memorable night remembered the wonderful light in her face, and
the strange look in her splendid eyes; but the thick soft fall of the
white velvet made as it were a pedestal for her loveliness, and the
Astrardente jewels that clasped her waist and throat and crowned her
black hair, collected the radiance of the many candles, and made the
light cling to her and follow her as she walked. Giovanni saw her enter,
and his whole adoration came upon him as a madness upon a sick man in a
fever, so that he would have sprung forward to meet her, and fallen at
her feet and worshipped her, had he not suddenly felt that he was watched
by more than one of the many who paused to see her go by. He moved from
his place and waited near the door where she would have to pass, and for
a moment his heart stood still.
He hardly knew how it was. He found himself speaking to her. He asked her
for a dance, he asked boldly for the cotillon--he never knew how he had
dared; she assented, let her eyes rest upon him for one moment with an
indescribable expression, then grew very calm and cold, and passed on.
It was all over in an instant. Giovanni moved back to his place as she
went by, and stood still like a man stunned. It was well that there were
yet nearly two hours before the preliminary dancing would be over; he
needed some time to collect himself. The air seemed full of strange
voices, and he watched the moving faces as in a dream, unable to
concentrate his attention upon anything he saw.
"He looks as though he had a stroke of paralysis," said a woman's voice
near him. It did not strike him, in his strange bewilderment, that it was
Donna Tullia who had spoken, still less that she was speaking of him
almost to him.
"Something very like it, I should say," answered Del Ferice's oily voice.
"He has probably been ill since you saw him. Saracinesca is an unhealthy
place."
Giovanni turned sharply round.
"Yes; we were speaking of you, Don Giovanni," said Donna Tullia, with
some scorn. "Does it strike you that you were exceedingly rude in not
letting me know that you were going out of town when you had promised to
dance with me at the Valdarno ball?" She curled her small lip and showed
her sharp white teeth. Giovanni was a man of the world, however, and was
equal to the occasion.
"I apologise most humbly," he said. "It was indeed very rude; but in the
urgency of the case, I forgot all other engagements. I really beg your
pardon. Will you honour me with a dance this evening?"
"I have every dance engaged," answered Madame Mayer, coldly staring at
him.
"I am very sorry," said Giovanni, inwardly thanking heaven for his good
fortune, and wishing she would go away.
"Wait a moment," said Donna Tullia, judging that she had produced the
desired effect upon him. "Let me look. I believe I have one waltz left.
Let me see. Yes, the one before the last--you can have it if you like."
"Thank you," murmured Giovanni, greatly annoyed. "I will remember."
Madame Mayer laid her hand upon Del Ferice's arm, and moved away. She was
a vain woman, and being in love with Saracinesca after her own fashion,
could not understand that he should be wholly indifferent to her. She
thought that in telling him she had no dances she had given him a little
wholesome punishment, and that in giving one after all she had conferred
a favour upon him. She also believed that she had annoyed Del Ferice,
which, always amused her. But Del Ferice was more than a match for her,
with his quiet ways and smooth tongue.
They went into the ball-room together and danced a few minutes. When the
music ceased, Ugo excused himself on the plea that he was engaged for the
quadrille that followed. He at once set out in search of the Duchessa
d'Astrardente, and did not lose sight of her again. She did not dance
before the cotillon, she said; and she sat down in a high chair in the
picture-gallery, while three or four men, among whom was Valdarno, sat
and stood near her, doing their best to amuse her. Others came, and some
went away, but Corona did not move, and sat amongst her little court,
glad to have the time pass in any way until the cotillon. When Del Ferice
had ascertained her position, he went about his business, which was
manifold--dancing frequently, and making a point of speaking to every one
in the room. At the end of an hour, he joined the group of men around the
Duchessa and took part in the conversation.
It was an easy matter to make the talk turn upon Giovanni Saracinesca.
Every one was more or less curious about the journey he had made, and
especially about the cause of his absence. Each of the men had something
to say, and each, knowing the popular report that Giovanni was in love
with Corona, said his say with as much wit as he could command. Corona
herself was interested, for she alone understood his sudden absence, and
was anxious to hear the common opinion concerning it.
The theories advanced were various. Some said he had been quarrelling
with the local authorities of Saracinesca, who interfered with his
developments and improvements upon the estate, and they gave laughable
portraits of the village sages with whom he had been engaged. Others
said he had only stopped there a day, and had been in Naples. One said he
had been boar-hunting; another, that the Saracinesca woods had been
infested by a band of robbers, who were terrorising the country.
"And what do you say, Del Ferice?" asked Corona, seeing a cunning smile
upon the man's pale fat face.
"It is very simple," said Ugo; "it is a very simple matter indeed. If the
Duchessa will permit me, I will call him, and we will ask him directly
what he has been doing. There he stands with old Cantalorgano at the
other end of the room. Public curiosity demands to be satisfied. May I
call him, Duchessa?"
"By no means," said Corona, quickly. But before she had spoken, Valdarno,
who was always sanguine and impulsive, had rapidly crossed the gallery
and was already speaking to Giovanni. The latter bowed his head as though
obeying an order, and came quietly back with the young man who had called
him. The crowd of men parted before him as he advanced to the Duchessa's
chair, and stood waiting in some surprise.
"What are your commands, Duchessa?" he asked, in somewhat formal tones.
"Valdarno is too quick," answered Corona, who was greatly annoyed. "Some
one suggested calling you to settle a dispute, and he went before I could
stop him. I fear it is very impertinent of us."
"I am entirely at your service," said Giovanni, who was delighted at
having been called, and had found time to recover from his first
excitement on seeing her. "What is the question?"
"We were all talking about you," said Valdarno.
"We were wondering where you had been," said another.
"They said you had gone boar-hunting."
"Or to Naples."
"Or even to Paris." Three or four spoke in one breath.
"I am exceedingly flattered at the interest you all show in me," said
Giovanni, quietly. "There is very little to tell. I have been in
Saracinesca upon a matter of business, spending my days in the woods with
my steward, and my nights in keeping away the cold and the ghosts. I
would have invited you all to join the festivity, had I known how much
you were interested. The beef up there is monstrously tough, and the rats
are abominably noisy, but the mountain air is said to be very healthy."
Most of the men present felt that they had not only behaved foolishly,
but had spoiled the little circle around the Duchessa by introducing a
man who had the power to interest her, whereas they could only afford her
a little amusement. Valdarno was still standing, and his chair beside
Corona was vacant. Giovanni calmly installed himself upon it, and began
to talk as though nothing had happened.
"You are not dancing, Duchessa," he remarked. "I suppose you have been in
the ball-room?"
"Yes--but I am rather tired this evening. I will wait."
"You were here at the last great ball, before the old prince died, were
you not?" asked Giovanni, remembering that he had first seen her on that
occasion.
"Yes," she answered; "and I remember that we danced together; and the
accident to the window, and the story of the ghost."
So they fell into conversation, and though one or two of the men ventured
an ineffectual remark, the little circle dropped away, and Giovanni was
left alone by the side of the Duchessa. The distant opening strains of a
waltz came floating down the gallery, but neither of the two heard, nor
cared.
"It is strange," Giovanni said. "They say it has always happened, since
the memory of man. No one has ever seen anything, but whenever there is a
great ball, there is a crash of broken glass some time in the course of
the evening. Nobody could ever explain why that window fell in, five
years ago--five years ago this month,--this very day, I believe," he
continued suddenly, in the act of recollection. "Yes--the nineteenth of
January, I remember very well--it was my mother's birthday."
"It is not so extraordinary," said Corona, "for it chances to be the
name-day of the present prince. That was probably the reason why it was
chosen this year." She spoke a little nervously, as though still ill at
ease.
"But it is very strange," said Giovanni, in a low voice. "It is strange
that we should have met here the first time, and that we should not have
met here since, until--to-day."
He looked towards her as he spoke, and their eyes met and lingered in
each other's gaze. Suddenly the blood mounted to Corona's cheeks, her
eyelids drooped, she leaned back in her seat and was silent.
Far off, at the entrance to the ball-room, Del Ferice found Donna Tullia
alone. She was very angry. The dance for which she was engaged to
Giovanni Saracinesca had begun, and was already half over, and still he
did not come. Her pink face was unusually flushed, and there was a
disagreeable look in her blue eyes.
"Ah!--I see Don Giovanni has again forgotten his engagement," said Ugo,
in smooth tones. He well knew that he himself had brought about the
omission, but none could have guessed it from his manner. "May I have the
honour of a turn before your cavalier arrives?" he asked.
"No," said Donna Tullia, angrily. "Give me your arm. We will go and find
him." She almost hissed the words through her closed teeth.
She hardly knew that Del Ferice was leading her as they moved towards the
picture-gallery, passing through the crowded rooms that lay between. She
never spoke; but her movement was impetuous, and she resented being
delayed by the hosts of men and women who filled the way. As they entered
the long apartment, where the portraits of the Frangipani lined the walls
from end to end, Del Ferice uttered a well-feigned exclamation.
"Oh, there he is!" he cried. "Do you see him?--his back is turned--he is
alone with the Astrardente."
"Come," said Donna Tullia, shortly. Del Ferice would have preferred to
have let her go alone, and to have witnessed from a distance the scene he
had brought about. But he could not refuse to accompany Madame Mayer.
Neither Corona, who was facing the pair, but was talking with Giovanni,
nor Giovanni himself, who was turned away from them, noticed their
approach until they came and stood still beside them. Saracinesca looked
up and started. The Duchessa d'Astrardente raised her black eyebrows in
surprise.
"Our dance!" exclaimed Giovanni, in considerable agitation. "It is the
one after this--"
"On the contrary," said Donna Tullia, in tones trembling with rage, "it
is already over. It is the most unparalleled insolence!"
Giovanni was profoundly disgusted at himself and Donna Tullia. He cared
not so much for the humiliation itself, which was bad enough, as for the
annoyance the scene caused Corona, who looked from one to the other in
angry astonishment, but of course could have nothing to say.
"I can only assure you that I thought--"
"You need not assure me!" cried Donna Tullia, losing all self-control.
"There is no excuse, nor pardon--it is the second time. Do not insult me
further, by inventing untruths for your apology."
"Nevertheless--" began Giovanni, who was sincerely sorry for his great
rudeness, and would gladly have attempted to explain his conduct, seeing
that Donna Tullia was so justly angry.
"There is no nevertheless!" she interrupted. "You may stay where you
are," she added, with a scornful glance at the Duchessa d'Astrardente.
Then she laid her hand upon Del Ferice's arm, and swept angrily past, so
that the train of her red silk gown brushed sharply against Corona's soft
white velvet.
Giovanni remained standing a moment, with a puzzled expression upon his
face.
"How could you do anything so rude?" asked Corona, very gravely. "She
will never forgive you, and she will be quite right."
"I do not know how I forgot," he answered, seating himself again. "It is
dreadful--unpardonable--but perhaps the consequences will be good."