When Del Ferice was thought sufficiently recovered of his wound to hear
some of the news of the day, which was about three weeks after the duel,
he learned that Astrardente was dead, that the Duchessa had inherited
all his fortune, and that she was on the point of leaving Rome. It would
be hard to say how the information of her approaching departure had got
abroad; it might be merely a clever guess of the gossips, or it might be
the report gleaned from her maid by all the other maids in town. Be that
as it may, when Del Ferice heard it he ground his teeth as he lay upon
his bed, and swore that if it were possible to prevent the Duchessa
d'Astrardente from leaving town he would do it. In his judgment it
would be a dangerous thing to let Corona and Giovanni part, and to allow
Donna Tullia free play in her matrimonial designs. Of course Giovanni
would never marry Madame Mayer, especially as he was now at liberty to
marry the Astrardente; but Madame Mayer herself might become fatally
interested in him, as she already seemed inclined to be, and this would
be bad for Del Ferice's own prospects. It would not do to squander any of
the advantages gained by the death of the old Duca. Giovanni must be
hastened into a marriage with Corona; it would be time enough to think of
revenge upon him afterwards for the ghastly wound that took so long to
heal.
It was a pity that Del Ferice and Donna Tullia were not allies, for if
Madame Mayer hated Corona d'Astrardente, Ugo del Ferice detested Giovanni
with equal virulency, not only because he had been so terribly worsted
by him in the duel his own vile conduct had made inevitable, but because
Donna Tullia loved him and was doing her very best to marry him.
Evidently the best thing to be done was to produce a misunderstanding
between the two; but it would be dangerous to play any tricks with
Giovanni, for he held Del Ferice in his power by his knowledge of that
disagreeable scene behind the plants in the conservatory. Saracinesca was
a great man in society and celebrated for his honesty; people would
believe him rather than Del Ferice, if the story got abroad. This would
not do. The next best thing was to endeavour to draw Giovanni and Corona
together as quickly as possible, to precipitate their engagement, and
thus to clear the field of a dangerous rival. Del Ferice was a very
obstinate and a very intelligent man. He meant more than ever to marry
Donna Tullia himself, and he would not be hindered in the accomplishment
of his object by an insignificant scruple.
He was not allowed to speak much, lest the effort should retard the
healing of his throat; but in the long days and nights, when he lay
silent in his quiet lodging, he had ample time to revolve many schemes in
his brain. At last he no longer needed the care of the Sister of Mercy;
his servant took charge of him, and the surgeon came twice a-day to dress
his wound. He lay in bed one morning watching Temistocle, who moved
noiselessly about the room.
"Temistocle," he said, "you are a youth of intelligence: you must use the
gifts nature has given you."
Temistocle was at that time not more than five-and-twenty years of age.
He had a muddy complexion, a sharp hooked nose, and a cast in one eye
that gave him a singularly unpleasant expression. As his master addressed
him, he stood still and listened with a sort of distorted smile in
acknowledgment of the compliment made him.
"Temistocle, you must find out when the Duchessa d'Astrardente means to
leave Rome, and where she is going. You know somebody in the house?"
"Yes, sir--the under-cook; he stood godfather with me for the baby of a
cousin of mine--the young man who drives Prince Valdarno's private
brougham: a clever fellow, too."
"And this under-cook," said Del Ferice, who was not above entering into
details with his servant--"is he a discreet character?"
"Oh, for that, you may trust him. Only sometimes--" Temistocle grinned,
and made a gesture which signified drinking.
"And when he is drunk?" asked Del Ferice.
"When he is drunk he tells everything; but he never remembers anything he
has been told, or has said. When he is drunk he is a dictionary; but the
first draught of water washes out his memory like a slate."
"Well--give me my purse; it is under my pillow. Go. Here is a _scudo_,
Temistocle. You can make him very drunk for that."
Temistocle hesitated, and looked at the money.
"Another couple of _pauls_ would make it safer," he remarked.
"Well, there they are; but you must make him very drunk indeed. You must
find out all he knows, and you must keep sober yourself."
"Leave that to me. I will make of him a sponge; he shall be squeezed dry,
and sopped again and squeezed again. I will be his confessor."
"If you find out what I want, I will give you--" Del Ferice hesitated; he
did not mean to give too much.
"The grey trousers?" asked Temistocle, with an avaricious light in the
eye which did not wander.
"Yes," answered his master, rather regretfully; "I suppose you must have
the grey trousers at last."
"For those grey trousers I will upset heaven and earth," returned
Temistocle in great glee.
Nothing more was said on that day, but early on the following morning the
man entered and opened the shutters, and removed the little oil-light
that had burned all night. He kept one eye upon his master, who presently
turned slowly and looked inquiringly at him.
"The Duchessa goes to Astrardente in the Sabines on the day after
to-morrow," said Temistocle. "It is quite sure that she goes, because she
has already sent out two pairs of horses, and several boxes of effects,
besides the second housemaid and the butler and two grooms."
"Ah! that is very good. Temistocle, I think I will get up this morning
and sit in the next room."
"And the grey trousers?"
"Take them, and wear them in honour of the most generous master living,"
said Del Ferice, impressively. "It is not every master who gives his
servant a pair of grey trousers. Remember that."
"Heaven bless you, Signor Conte!" exclaimed Temistocle, devoutly.
Del Ferice lost no time. He was terribly weak still, and his wound
was not entirely healed yet; but he set himself resolutely to his
writing-table, and did not rise until he had written two letters. The
first was carefully written in a large round hand, such as is used by
copyists in Italy, resembling the Gothic. It was impossible to connect
the laboriously formed and conventional letters with any particular
person. It was very short, as follows:--
"It may interest you to know that the Duchessa d'Astrardente is going to
her castle in the Sabines on the day after to-morrow."
This laconic epistle Del Ferice carefully directed to Don Giovanni
Saracinesca at his palace, and fastened a stamp upon it; but he concealed
the address from Temistocle. The second letter was longer, and written in
his own small and ornate handwriting. It was to Donna Tullia Mayer.
It ran thus:--
"You would forgive my importuning you with a letter, most charming Donna
Tullia, if you could conceive of my desolation and loneliness. For more
than three weeks I have been entirely deprived of the pleasure, the
exquisite delight, of conversing with her for whom I have suffered. I
still suffer so much. Ah! if my paper were a cloth of gold, and my pen in
moving traced characters of diamond and pearl, yet any words which speak
of you would be ineffectually honoured by such transcription! In the
miserable days and nights I have passed between life and death, it is
your image which has consoled me, the echo of your delicate voice which
has soothed my pain, the remembrance of the last hours I spent with you
which has gilded the feverish dreams of my sickness. You are the
guardian angel of a most unhappy man, Donna Tullia. Do you know it? But
for you I would have wooed death as a comforter. As it is, I have
struggled desperately to keep my grasp upon life, in the hope of once
more seeing your smile and hearing your happy laugh; perhaps--I dare not
expect it--I may receive from you some slight word of sympathy, some
little half-sighed hint that you do not altogether regret having been in
these long weeks the unconscious comforter of my sorrowing spirit and
tormented body. You would hardly know me, could you see me; but saving
for your sweet spiritual presence, which has rescued me from the jaws of
death, you would never have seen me again. Is it presumption in me to
write thus? Have you ever given me a right to speak in these words? I do
not know. I do not care. Man has a right to be grateful. It is the first
and most divine right I possess, to feel and to express my gratitude. For
out of the store of your kindness shown me when I was in the world,
strong and happy in the privilege of your society, I have drawn healing
medicine in my sickness, as tormented souls in purgatory get refreshment
from the prayers of good and kind people who remember them on earth. So,
therefore, if I have said too much, forgive me, forgive the heartfelt
gratitude which prompts me; and believe still in the respectful and
undying devotion of the humblest of your servants, UGO DEL FERICE."
Del Ferice read over what he had written with considerable satisfaction,
and having addressed his letter to Donna Tullia, he lost no time in
despatching Temistocle with it, instructing him to ask if there would be
an answer. As soon as the man was out of the house, Ugo rang for his
landlady, and sent for the porter's little boy, to whom he delivered the
letter to Don Giovanni, to be dropped into the nearest post-box. Then he
lay down, exhausted with his morning's work. In the course of two hours
Temistocle returned from Donna Tullia's house with a little scented
note--too much scented, and the paper just a shade too small. She took no
notice of what he had said in his carefully penned epistle; but merely
told him she was sincerely glad that he was better, and asked him to call
as soon as he could. Ugo was not disappointed; he had expected no
compromising expression of interest in response to his own effusions; and
he was well pleased with the invitation, for it showed that what he had
written had produced the desired result.
Don Giovanni Saracinesca received the anonymous note late in the evening.
He had, of course, together with his father, deposited cards of
condolence at the Palazzo Astrardente, and he had been alone to inquire
if the Duchessa would receive him. The porter had answered that, for
the present, there were standing orders to admit no one; and as Giovanni
could boast of no especial intimacy, and had no valid excuse to give, he
was obliged to be satisfied. He had patiently waited in the Villa
Borghese and by the band-stand on the Pincio, taking it for granted that
sooner or later Corona's carriage would appear; but when at last he had
seen her brougham, she had driven rapidly past him, thickly veiled, and
he did not think she had even noticed him. He would have written to her,
but he was still unable to hold a pen; and he reflected that, after all,
it would have been a hideous farce for him to offer condolences and
sympathy, however much he might desire to hide from himself his secret
satisfaction at her husband's death. Too proud to think of obtaining
information through such base channels as Del Ferice was willing to use,
he was wholly ignorant of Corona's intentions; and it was a brilliant
proof of Ugo's astuteness that he had rightly judged Giovanni's position
with regard to her, and justly estimated the value of the news conveyed
by his anonymous note.
Saracinesca read the scrap of writing, and tossed it angrily into the
fire. He hated underhand dealings, and scorned himself for the interest
the note excited in him, wondering who could find advantage in informing
him of the Duchessa's movements. But the note took effect, nevertheless,
although he was ashamed of it, and all night he pondered upon what it
told him. The next day, at three o'clock, he went out alone, and walked
rapidly towards the Palazzo Astrardente. He was unable to bear the
suspense any longer; the thought that Corona was going away, apparently
to shut herself up in the solitude of the ancient fortress, for any
unknown number of months, and that he might not see her until the autumn,
was intolerable. He knew that by the mere use of his name he could at
least make sure that she should know he was at her door, and he
determined to make the attempt. He waited a long time, pacing slowly the
broad flagstones beneath the arch of the palace, while the porter
himself went up with his card and message. The fellow had hesitated, but
Don Giovanni Saracinesca was not a man to be refused by a servant. At
last the porter returned, and, bowing to the ground, said that the
Signora Duchessa would receive him.
In five minutes he was waiting alone in the great drawing-room. It had
cost Corona a struggle to allow him to be admitted. She hesitated long,
for it seemed like a positive wrong to her husband's memory, but the
woman in her yielded at last; she was going away on the following
morning, and she could not refuse to see him for once. She hesitated
again as she laid her hand upon the latch of the door, knowing that he
was in the room beyond; then at last she entered.
Her face was very pale and very grave. Her simple gown of close-fitting
black set off her height and figure, and flowed softly in harmony with
her stately movements as she advanced towards Giovanni, who stood almost
awestruck in the middle of the room. He could not realise that this dark
sad princess was the same woman to whom less than a month ago he had
spoken such passionate words, whom he had madly tried to take into his
arms. Proud as he was, it seemed presumptuous in him to think of love in
connection with so royal a woman; and yet he knew that he loved her
better and more truly than he had done a month before. She held out her
hand to him, and he raised it to his lips. Then they both sat down in
silence.
"I had despaired of ever seeing you again," said Giovanni at last,
speaking in a subdued voice. "I had wished for some opportunity of
telling you how sincerely I sympathise with you in your great loss." It
was a very formal speech, such as men make in such situations. It might
have been better, but he was not eloquent; even his rough old father had
a better command of language on ordinary occasions, though Giovanni could
speak well enough when he was roused. But he felt constrained in the
presence of the woman he adored. Corona herself hardly knew how to
answer.
"You are very kind," she said, simply.
"I wish it were possible to be of any service to you," he answered. "I
need not tell you that both my father and myself would hold it an honour
to assist you in any way." He mentioned his father from a feeling of
delicacy; he did not wish to put himself forward.
"You are very kind," repeated Corona, gravely. "I have not had any
annoyance. I have an excellent man of business."
There was a moment's pause. Then she seemed to understand that he was
embarrassed, and spoke again.
"I am glad to see that you are recovered," she said.
"It was nothing," answered Giovanni, with a glance at his right arm,
which was still confined in a bandage of black silk, but was no longer in
a sling.
"It was very wrong of you," returned Corona, looking seriously into his
eyes. "I do not know why you fought, but it was wrong; it is a great
sin."
Giovanni smiled a little.
"We all have to sin sometimes," he said. "Would you have me stand quietly
and see an abominable piece of baseness, and not lift a hand to punish
the offender?"
"People who do base things always come to a bad end," answered the
Duchessa.
"Perhaps. But we poor sinners are impatient to see justice done at once.
I am sorry to have done anything you consider wrong," he added, with a
shade of bitterness. "Will you permit me to change the subject? Are
you thinking of remaining in Rome, or do you mean to go away?"
"I am going up to Astrardente to-morrow," answered Corona, readily. "I
want to be alone and in the country."
Giovanni showed no surprise: his anonymous information had been accurate;
Del Ferice had not parted with the grey trousers in vain.
"I suppose you are right," he said. "But at this time of year I should
think the mountains would be very cold."
"The castle is comfortable. It has been recently fitted up, and there are
many warm rooms in it. I am fond of the old place, and I need to be alone
for a long time."
Giovanni thought the conversation was becoming oppressive. He thought of
what had passed between them at their last meeting in the conservatory of
the Palazzo Frangipani.
"I shall myself pass the summer in Saracinesca," he said, suddenly. "You
know it is not very far. May I hope that I may sometimes be permitted to
see you?"
Corona had certainly had no thought of seeing Giovanni when she had
determined to go to Astrardente; she had not been there often, and had
not realised that it was within reach of the Saracinesca estate. She
started slightly.
"Is it so near?" she asked.
"Half a day's ride over the hills," replied Giovanni.
"I did not know. Of course, if you come, you will not be denied
hospitality."
"But you would rather not see me?" asked Saracinesca, in a tone of
disappointment. He had hoped for something more encouraging. Corona
answered courageously.
"I would rather not see you. Do not think me unkind," she added, her
voice softening a little. "Why need there be any explanations? Do not try
to see me. I wish you well; I wish you more--all happiness--but do not
try to see me."
Giovanni's face grew grave and pale. He was disappointed, even
humiliated; but something told him that it was not coldness which
prompted her request.
"Your commands are my laws," he answered.
"I would rather that instead of regarding what I ask you as a command,
you should feel that it ought to be the natural prompting of your own
heart," replied Corona, somewhat coldly.
"Forgive me if my heart dictates what my obedience to you must
effectually forbid," said Giovanni. "I beseech you to be satisfied that
what you ask I will perform--blindly."
"Not blindly--you know all my reasons."
"There is that between you and me which annihilates reason," answered
Giovanni, his voice trembling a little.
"There is that in my position which should command your respect," said
Corona. She feared he was going too far, and yet this time she knew she
had not said too much, and that in bidding him avoid her, she was only
doing what was strictly necessary for her peace. "I am a widow," she
continued, very gravely; "I am a woman, and I am alone. My only
protection lies in the courtesy I have a right to expect from men like
you. You have expressed your sympathy; show it then by cheerfully
fulfilling my request. I do not speak in riddles, but very plainly. You
recall to me a moment of great pain, and your presence, the mere fact of
my receiving you, seems a disloyalty to the memory of my husband. I have
given you no reason to believe that I ever took a greater interest in you
than such as I might take in a friend. I hourly pray that this--this too
great interest you show in me, may pass quickly, and leave you what you
were before. You see I do not speak darkly, and I do not mean to speak
unkindly. Do not answer me, I beseech you, but take this as my last word.
Forget me if you can--"
"I cannot," said Giovanni, deeply moved.
"Try. If you cannot, God help you! but I am sure that if you try
faithfully, you will succeed. And now you must go," she said, in gentler
tones. "You should not have come--I should not have let you see me. But
it is best so. I am grateful for the sympathy you have expressed. I do
not doubt that you will do as I have asked you, and as you have promised.
Good-bye."
Corona rose to her feet, her hands folded before her. Giovanni had no
choice. She let her eyes rest upon him, not unkindly, but she did not
extend her hand. He stood one moment in hesitation, then bowed and left
the room without a word. Corona stood still, and her eyes followed his
retreating figure until at the door he turned once more and bent his head
and then was gone. Then she fell back into her chair and gazed listlessly
at the wall opposite.
"It is done," she said at last. "I hope it is well done and wisely."
Indeed it had been a hard thing to say; but it was better to say it at
once than to regret an ill-timed indulgence when it should be too late.
And yet it had cost her less to send him away definitely than it had
cost her to resist his passionate appeal a month ago. She seemed to have
gained strength from her sorrows. So he was gone! She gave a sigh of
relief, which was instantly followed by a sharp throb of pain, so sudden
that she hardly understood it.
Her preparations were all made. She had at the last moment realised that
it was not fitting for her, at her age, to travel alone, nor to live
wholly alone in her widowhood. She had revolved the matter in her mind,
and had decided that there was no woman of her acquaintance whom she
could ask even for a short time to stay with her. She had no friends, no
relations, none to turn to in such a need. It was not that she cared for
company in her solitude; it was merely a question of propriety. To
overcome the difficulty, she obtained permission to take with her one of
the sisters of a charitable order of nuns, a lady in middle life, but
broken down and in ill health from her untiring labours. The thing was
easily managed; and the next morning, on leaving the palace, she stopped
at the gate of the community and found Sister Gabrielle waiting with her
modest box. The nun entered the huge travelling carriage, and the two
ladies set out for Astrardente.
It was the first day of Carnival, and a memorably sad one for Giovanni
Saracinesca. He would have been capable of leaving Rome at once, but that
he had promised Corona not to attempt to see her. He would have gone to
Saracinesca for the mere sake of being nearer to her, had he not
reflected that he would be encouraging all manner of gossip by so doing.
But he determined that so soon as Lent began, he would declare his
intention of leaving the city for a year. No one ever went to
Saracinesca, and by making a circuit he could reach the ancestral
castle without creating suspicion. He might even go to Paris for a few
days, and have it supposed that he was wandering about Europe, for he
could trust his own servants implicitly; they were not of the type who
would drink wine at a tavern with Temistocle or any of his class.
The old Prince came into his son's room in the morning and found him
disconsolately looking over his guns, for the sake of an occupation.
"Well, Giovanni," he said, "you have time to reflect upon your future
conduct. What! are you going upon a shooting expedition?"
"I wish I could. I wish I could find anything to do," answered Giovanni,
laying down the breech-loader and looking out of the window. "The world
is turned inside out like a beggar's pocket, and there is nothing in it."
"So the Astrardente is gone," remarked the Prince.
"Yes; gone to live within twenty miles of Saracinesca," replied Giovanni,
with an angry intonation.
"Do not go there yet," said his father. "Leave her alone a while. Women
become frantic in solitude."
"Do you think I am an idiot?" exclaimed Giovanni. "Of course I shall stay
where I am till Carnival is over." He was not in a good humour.
"Why are you so petulant?" retorted the old man. "I merely gave you my
advice."
"Well, I am going to follow it. It is good. When Carnival is over I will
go away, and perhaps get to Saracinesca by a roundabout way, so that no
one will know where I am. Will you not come too?"
"I daresay," answered the Prince, who was always pleased when his son
expressed a desire for his company. "I wish we lived in the good old
times."
"Why?"
"We would make small scruple of besieging Astrardente and carrying off
the Duchessa for you, my boy," said the Prince, grimly.
Giovanni laughed. Perhaps the same idea had crossed his mind. He was not
quite sure whether it was respectful to Corona to think of carrying her
off in the way his father suggested; but there was a curious flavour of
possibility in the suggestion, coming as it did from a man whose
grandfather might have done such a thing, and whose great-grandfather was
said to have done it. So strong are the instincts of barbaric domination
in races where the traditions of violence exist in an unbroken chain,
that both father and son smiled at the idea as if it were quite natural,
although Giovanni had only the previous day promised that he would not
even attempt to see Corona d'Astrardente without her permission. He did
not tell his father of his promise, however, for his more delicate
instinct made him sure that though he had acted rightly, his father would
laugh at his scruples, and tell him that women liked to be wooed roughly.
Meanwhile Giovanni felt that Rome had become for him a vast solitude, and
the smile soon faded from his face at the thought that he must go out
into the world, and for Corona's sake act as though nothing had happened.