That night Giovanni insisted on going out. His wounds no longer pained
him, he said; there was no danger whatever, and he was tired of staying
at home. But he would dine with his father as usual. He loved his
father's company, and when the two omitted to quarrel over trifles they
were very congenial. To tell the truth, the differences between them
arose generally from the petulant quickness of the Prince; for in his son
his own irascible character was joined with the melancholy gravity which
Giovanni inherited from his mother, and in virtue of which, being
taciturn, he was sometimes thought long-suffering.
As usual, they sat opposite each other, and the ancient butler Pasquale
served them. As the man deposited Giovanni's soup before him, he spoke. A
certain liberty was always granted to Pasquale; Italian servants are
members of the family, even in princely houses. Never assuming that
confidence implies familiarity, they enjoy the one without ever
approaching the latter. Nevertheless it was very rarely that Pasquale
spoke to his masters when they were at table.
"I beg your Excellencies' pardon--" he began, as he put down the
soup-plate.
"Well, Pasquale?" asked old Saracinesca, looking sharply at the old
servant from under his heavy brows.
"Have your Excellencies heard the news?"
"What news? No," returned the Prince.
"The Duca d'Astrardente--"
"Well, what of him?"
"Is dead."
"Dead!" repeated Giovanni in a loud voice, that echoed to the vaulted
roof of the dining-room.
"It is not true," said old Saracinesca; "I saw him in the street this
morning."
"Nevertheless, your Excellency," replied Pasquale, "it is quite true. The
gates of the palace were already draped with black before the Ave Maria
this evening; and the porter, who is a nephew of mine, had _crêpe_ upon
his hat and arm. He told me that the Duca fell down dead of a stroke in
the Signora Duchessa's room at half-past twelve to-day."
"Is that all you could learn?" asked the Prince.
"Except that the Signora Duchessa was overcome with grief," returned the
servant, gravely.
"I should think so--her husband dead of an apoplexy! It is natural," said
the Prince, looking at Giovanni. The latter was silent, and tried to eat
as though, nothing had happened--inwardly endeavouring not to rejoice too
madly at the terrible catastrophe. In his effort to control his features,
the blood rushed to his forehead, and his hand trembled violently. His
father saw it, but made no remark.
"Poor Astrardente!" he said. "He was not so bad as people thought him."
"No," replied Giovanni, with a great effort; "he was a very good man."
"I should hardly say that," returned his father, with a grim smile of
amusement. "I do not think that by the greatest stretch of indulgence he
could be called good."
"And why not?" asked the younger man, sharply snatching at any possible
discussion in order to conceal his embarrassment.
"Why not, indeed! Why, because he had a goodly share of original sin, to
which he added others of his own originating but having an equal claim to
originality."
"I say I think he was a very good man," repeated Giovanni, maintaining
his point with an air of conviction.
"If that is your conception of goodness, it is no wonder that you have
not attained to sanctity," said the old man, with a sneer.
"It pleases you to be witty," answered his son. "Astrardente did not
gamble; he had no vices of late. He was kind to his wife."
"No vices--no. He did not steal like a fraudulent bank-clerk, nor try to
do murder like Del Ferice. He did not deceive his wife, nor starve her to
death. He had therefore no vices. He was a good man."
"Let us leave poor Del Ferice alone," said Giovanni.
"I suppose you will pity him now," replied the Prince, sarcastically.
"You will talk differently if he dies and you have to leave the country
at a moment's notice, like Spicca this morning."
"I should be very sorry if Del Ferice died. I should never recover from
it. I am not a professional duellist like Spicca. And yet Casalverde
deserved his death. I can quite understand that Del Ferice might in the
excitement of the moment have lunged at me after the halt was cried, but
I cannot understand how Casalverde could be so infamous as not to cross
his sword when he himself called. It looked very much like a preconcerted
arrangement. Casalverde deserved to die, for the safety of society.
I should think that Rome had had enough of duelling for a while."
"Yes; but after all, Casalverde did not count for much. I am not sure I
ever saw the fellow before in my life. And I suppose Del Ferice will
recover. There was a story this morning that he was dead; but I went and
inquired myself, and found that he was better. People are much shocked
at this second duel. Well, it could not be helped. Poor old Astrardente!
So we shall never see his wig again at every ball and theatre and
supper-party! There was a man who enjoyed his life to the very end!"
"I should not call it enjoyment to be built up every day by one's valet,
like a card-house, merely to tumble to pieces again when the pins are
taken out," said Giovanni.
"You do not seem so enthusiastic in his defence as you were a few minutes
ago," said the Prince, with a smile.
Giovanni was so much disturbed at the surprising news that he hardly knew
what he said. He made a desperate attempt to be sensible.
"It appears to me that moral goodness and personal appearance are two
things," he said, oracularly. The Prince burst into a loud laugh.
"Most people would say that! Eat your dinner, Giovanni, and do not talk
such arrant nonsense."
"Why is it nonsense? Because you do not agree with me?"
"Because you are too much excited to talk sensibly," said his father. "Do
you think I cannot see it?"
Giovanni was silent for a time. He was angry at his father for detecting
the cause of his vagueness, but he supposed there was no help for it. At
last Pasquale left the room. Old Saracinesca gave a sigh of relief.
"And now, Giovannino," he said familiarly, "what have you got to say for
yourself?"
"I?" asked his son, in some surprise.
"You! What are you going to do?"
"I will stay at home," said Giovanni, shortly.
"That is not the question. You are wise to stay at home, because you
ought to get yourself healed of that scratch. Giovanni, the Astrardente
is now a widow."
"Seeing that her husband is dead--of course. There is vast ingenuity in
your deduction," returned the younger man, eyeing his father
suspiciously.
"Do not be an idiot, Giovannino. I mean, that as she is a widow, I have
no objection to your marrying her."
"Good God, sir!" cried Giovanni, "what do you mean?"
"What I say. She is the most beautiful woman in Rome. She is one of the
best women I know. She will have a sufficient jointure. Marry her. You
will never be happy with a silly little girl just out of a convent You
are not that sort of man. The Astrardente is not three-and-twenty, but
she has had five years of the world, and she has stood the test well. I
shall be proud to call her my daughter."
In his excitement Giovanni sprang from his seat, and rushing to his
father's side, threw his arms round his neck and embraced him. He had
never done such a thing in his life. Then he remained standing, and grew
suddenly thoughtful.
"It is heartless of us to talk in this way," he said. "The poor man is
not buried yet."
"My dear boy," said the old Prince, "Astrardente is dead. He hated me,
and was beginning to hate you, I fancy. We were neither of us his
friends, at any rate. We do not rejoice at his death; we merely regard it
in the light of an event which modifies our immediate future. He is dead,
and his wife is free. So long as he was alive, the fact of your loving
her was exceedingly unfortunate: it was injuring you and doing a wrong to
her. Now, on the contrary, the greatest good fortune that can happen to
you both is that you should marry each other."
"That is true," returned Giovanni. In the suddenness of the news, it had
not struck him that his father would ever look favourably upon the match,
although the immediate possibility of the marriage had burst upon him as
a great light suddenly rising in a thick darkness. But his nature, as
strong as his father's, was a little more delicate, a shade less rough;
and even in the midst of his great joy, it struck him as heartless to be
discussing the chances of marrying a woman whose husband was not yet
buried. No such scruple disturbed the geniality of the old Prince. He was
an honest and straightforward man--a man easily possessed by a single
idea--and he was capable of profound affections. He had loved his Spanish
wife strongly in his own fashion, and she had loved him, but there was no
one left to him now but his son, whom he delighted in, and he regarded
the rest of the world merely as pawns to be moved into position for the
honour and glory of the Saracinesca. He thought no more of a man's life
than of the end of a cigar, smoked out and fit to be thrown away.
Astrardente had been nothing to him but an obstacle. It had not struck
him that he could ever be removed; but since it had pleased Providence
to take him out of the way, there was no earthly reason for mourning his
death. All men must die--it was better that death should come to those
who stood in the way of their fellow-creatures.
"I am not at all sure that she will consent," said Giovanni, beginning to
walk up and down the room.
"Bah!" ejaculated his father. "You are the best match in Italy. Why
should any woman refuse you?"
"I am not so sure. She is not like other women. Let us not talk of it
now. It will not be possible to do anything for a year, I suppose. A year
is a long time. Meanwhile I will go to that poor man's funeral."
"Of course. So will I."
And they both went, and found themselves in a vast crowd of
acquaintances. No one had believed that Astrardente could ever die, that
the day would ever come when society should know his place no more; and
with one consent everybody sent their carriages to the funeral, and went
themselves a day or two later to the great requiem Mass in the parish
church. There was nothing to be seen but the great black catafalque, with
Corona's household of servants in deep mourning liveries kneeling behind
it. Relations she had none, and the dead man was the last of his race--
she was utterly alone.
"She need not have made it so terribly impressive," said Madame Mayer
to Valdarno when the Mass was over. Madame Mayer paused beside the
holy-water basin, and dipping one gloved finger, she presented it to
Valdarno with an engaging smile. Both crossed themselves.
"She need not have got it up so terribly impressively, after all," she
repeated.
"I daresay she will miss him at first," returned Valdarno, who was a
kind-hearted fellow enough, and was very far from realising how much he
had contributed to the sudden death of the old dandy. "She is a strange
woman. I believe she had grown fond of him."
"Oh, I know all that," said Donna Tullia, as they left the church.
"Yes," answered her companion, with a significant smile, "I presume you
do." Donna Tullia laughed harshly as she got into her carriage.
"You are detestable, Valdarno--you always misunderstand me. Are you going
to the ball to-night?"
"Of course. May I have the pleasure of the cotillon?"
"If you are very good--if you will go and ask the news of Del Ferice."
"I sent this morning. He is quite out of danger, they believe."
"Is he? Oh, I am very glad--I felt so very badly, you know. Ah, Don
Giovanni, are you recovered?" she asked coldly, as Saracinesca approached
the other side of the carriage. Valdarno retired to a distance, and
pretended to be buttoning his greatcoat; he wanted to see what would
happen.
"Thank you, yes; I was not much hurt. This is the first time I have been
out, and I am glad to find an opportunity of speaking to you. Let me say
again how profoundly I regret my forgetfulness at the ball the other
night--"
Donna Tullia was a clever woman, and though she had been very angry at
the time, she was in love with Giovanni. She therefore looked at him
suddenly with a gentle smile, and just for one moment her fingers touched
his hand as it rested upon the side of the carriage.
"Do you think it was kind?" she asked, in a low voice.
"It was abominable. I shall never forgive myself," answered Giovanni.
"I will forgive you," answered Donna Tullia, softly. She really loved
him. It was the best thing in her nature, but it was more than balanced
by the jealousy she had conceived for the Duchessa d'Astrardente.
"Was it on that account that you quarrelled with poor Del Ferice?" she
asked, after a moment's pause. "I have feared it--"
"Certainly not," answered Giovanni, quickly. "Pray set your mind at rest.
Del Ferice or any other man would have been quite justified in calling me
out for it--but it was not for that. It was not on account of you."
It would have been hard to say whether Donna Tullia's face expressed more
clearly her surprise or her disappointment at the intelligence. Perhaps
she had both really believed herself the cause of the duel, and had
been flattered at the thought that men would fight for her.
"Oh, I am very glad--it is a great relief," she said, rather coldly. "Are
you going to the ball to-night?"
"No; I cannot dance. My right arm is bound up in a sling, as you see."
"I am sorry you are not coming. Good-bye, then."
"Good-bye; I am very grateful for your forgiveness." Giovanni bowed low,
and Donna Tullia's brilliant equipage dashed away.
Giovanni was well satisfied at having made his peace so easily, but he
nevertheless apprehended danger from Donna Tullia.
The next thing which interested Roman society was Astrardente's will,
but no one was much surprised when the terms of it were known. As there
were no relations, everything was left to his wife. The palace in Rome,
the town and castle in the Sabines, the broad lands in the low
hill-country towards Ceprano, and what surprised even the family lawyer,
a goodly sum in solid English securities,--a splendid fortune in all,
according to Roman ideas. Astrardente abhorred the name of money in his
conversation--it had been one of his affectations; but he had an
excellent understanding of business, and was exceedingly methodical in
the management of his affairs. The inheritance, the lawer thought, might
be estimated at three millions of scudi.
"Is all this wealth mine, then?" asked Corona, when the solicitor had
explained the situation.
"All, Signora Duchessa. You are enormously rich."
Enormously rich! And alone in the world. Corona asked herself if she was
the same woman, the same Corona del Carmine who five years before had
suffered in the old convent the humiliation of having no pocket-money,
whose wedding-gown had been provided from the proceeds of a little sale
of the last relics of her father's once splendid collection of old china
and pictures. She had never thought of money since she had been married;
her husband was generous, but methodical; she never bought anything
without consulting him, and the bills all went through his hands. Now and
then she had rather timidly asked for a small sum for some charity; she
had lacked nothing that money could buy, but she never remembered to have
had more than a hundred francs in her purse. Astrardente had once offered
to give her an allowance, and had seemed pleased that she refused it. He
liked to manage things himself, being a man of detail.
And now she was enormously rich, and alone. It was a strange sensation.
She felt it to be so new that she innocently said so to the lawyer.
"What shall I do with it all?"
"Signora Duchessa," returned the old man, "with regard to money the
question is, not what to do with it, but how to do without it. You are
very young, Signora Duchessa."
"I shall be twenty-three in August," said Corona, simply.
"Precisely. I would beg to be allowed to observe that by the terms of the
will, and by the laws of this country, you are not the dowager-duchess,
but you are in your own right and person the sole and only feudal
mistress and holder of the title."
"Am I?"
"Certainly, with all the privileges thereto attached. It may be--I beg
pardon for being so bold as to suggest it--it may be that in years to
come, when time has soothed your sorrow, you may wish, you may consent,
to renew the marriage tie."
"I doubt it--but the thing is possible," said Corona, quietly.
"In that case, and should you prefer to contract a marriage of
inclination, you will have no difficulty in conferring your title upon
your husband, with any reservations you please. Your children will then
inherit from you, and become in their turn Dukes of Astrardente. This I
conceive to have been the purpose and spirit of the late Duke's will. The
estate, magnificent as it is, will not be too large for the foundation of
a new race. If you desire any distinctive title, you can call yourself
Duchessa del Carmine d'Astrardente--it would sound very well," remarked
the lawyer, contemplating the beautiful woman before him.
"It is of little importance what I call myself," said Corona. "At present
I shall certainly make no change. It is very unlikely that I shall ever
marry."
"I trust, Signora Duchessa, that in any case you will always command my
most humble services."
With this protestation of fidelity the lawyer left the Palazzo
Astrardente, and Corona remained in her boudoir in meditation of what it
would be like to be the feudal mistress of a great title and estate. She
was very sad, but she was growing used to her solitude. Her liberty was
strange to her, but little by little she was beginning to enjoy it. At
first she had missed the constant care of the poor man who for five years
had been her companion; she had missed his presence and the burden of
thinking for him at every turn of the day. But it was not for long. Her
memory of him was kind and tender, and for months after his death the
occasional sight of some object associated with him brought the tears to
her eyes. She often wished he could walk into the room in his old way,
and begin talking of the thousand and one bits of town gossip that
interested him. But the first feeling of desolation soon passed, for he
had not been more than a companion; she could analyse every memory she
had of him to its source and reason. There was not in her that passionate
unformulated yearning for him that comes upon a loving heart when its
fellow is taken away, and which alone is a proof that love has been real
and true. She soon grew accustomed to his absence.
To marry again--every one would say she would be right--to marry and to
be the mother of children, of brave sons and noble girls,--ah yes! that
was a new thought, a wonderful thought, one of many that were
wonderful.
Then, again, her strong nature suddenly rose in a new sense of strength,
and she paced the room slowly with a strange expression of sternness upon
her beautiful features.
"I am a power in the world," she said to herself, almost starting at the
truth of the thought, and yet taking delight in it. "I am what men call
rich and powerful; I have money, estates, castles, and palaces; I am
young, I am strong. What shall I do with it all?"
As she walked, she dreamed of raising some great institution of charity;
she knew not for what precise object, but there was room enough for
charity in Rome. The great Torlonia had built churches, and hospitals,
and asylums. She would do likewise; she would make for herself an
interest in doing good, a satisfaction in the exercise of her power to
combat evil. It would be magnificent to feel that she had done it
herself, alone and unaided; that she had built the walls from the
foundation and the corner-stone to the eaves; that she had entered
herself into the study of each detail, and herself peopled the great
institution with such as needed most help in the world--with little
children, perhaps. She would visit them every day, and herself provide
for their wants and care for their sufferings. She would give the place
her husband's name, and the good she would accomplish with his earthly
portion might perhaps profit his soul. She would go to Padre Filippo and
ask his advice. He would know what was best to be done, for he knew more
of the misery in Rome than any one, and had a greater mind to relieve it.
She had seen him since her husband's death, but she had not yet conceived
this scheme.
And Giovanni--she thought of him too; but the habit of putting him out of
her heart was strong. She dimly fancied that in the far future a day
might come when she would be justified in thinking of him if she so
pleased; but for the present, her loyalty to her dead husband seemed more
than ever a sacred duty. She would not permit herself to think of
Giovanni, even though, from a general point of view, she might
contemplate the possibility of a second marriage. She would go to Padre
Filippo and talk over everything with him; he would advise her well.
Then a wild longing seized her to leave Rome for a while, to breathe the
air of the country, to get away from the scene of all her troubles, of
all the terrible emotions that had swept over her life in the last three
weeks, to be alone in the hills or by the sea. It seemed dreadful to be
tied to her great house in the city, in her mourning, shut off suddenly
from the world, and bound down by the chain of conventionality to a fixed
method of existence. She would give anything to go away. Why not? She
suddenly realised what was so hard to understand, that she was free to go
where she pleased--if only, by accident, she could chance to meet
Giovanni Saracinesca before she left. No--the thought was unworthy. She
would leave town at once--surely she could have nothing to say to
Giovanni--she would leave to-morrow morning.