Poor Madame Mayer was in great anxiety of mind. She had not a great
amount of pride, but she made up for it by a plentiful endowment of
vanity, in which she suffered acutely. She was a good-natured woman
enough, and by nature she was not vindictive; but she could not help
being jealous, for she was in love. She felt how Giovanni every day
evidently cared less and less for her society, and how, on the other
hand, Del Ferice was quietly assuring his position, so that people
already began to whisper that he had a chance of becoming her husband.
She did not dislike Del Ferice; he was a convenient man of the world,
whom she always found ready to help her when she needed help. But by dint
of making use of him, she was beginning to feel in some way bound to
consider him as an element in her life, and she did not like the
position. The letter he had written her was of the kind a man might
write to the woman he loved; it bordered upon the familiar, even while
the writer expressed himself in terms of exaggerated respect. Perhaps if
Del Ferice had been well, she would have simply taken no notice of what
he had written, and would not even have sent an answer; but she had not
the heart to repulse him altogether in his present condition. There was a
phrase cunningly introduced and ambiguously worded, which seemed to mean
that he had come by his wound in her cause. He spoke of having suffered
and of still suffering so much for her,--did he mean to refer to pain of
body or of mind? It was not certain. Don Giovanni had assured her that
she was in no way concerned in the duel, and he was well known for his
honesty; nevertheless, out of delicacy, he might have desired to conceal
the truth from her. It seemed like him. She longed for an opportunity of
talking with him and eliciting some explanation of his conduct. There
had been a time when he used to visit her, and always spent some time in
her society when they met in the world--now, on the contrary, he seemed
to avoid her whenever he could; and in proportion as she noticed that
his manner cooled, her own jealousy against Corona d'Astrardente
increased in force, until at last it seemed to absorb her love for
Giovanni into itself and turn it into hate.
Love is a passion which, like certain powerful drugs, acts differently
upon each different constitution of temper; love also acts more strongly
when it is unreturned or thwarted than when it is mutual and uneventful.
If two persons love each other truly, and there is no obstacle to their
union, it is probable that, without any violent emotion, their love will
grow and become stronger by imperceptible degrees, without changing in
its natural quality; but if thwarted by untoward circumstances, the
passion, if true, attains suddenly to the dimensions which it would
otherwise need years to reach. It sometimes happens that the nature in
which this unforeseen and abnormal development takes place is unable to
bear the precocious growth; then, losing sight of its identity in the
strange inward confusion of heart and mind which ensues, it is driven to
madness, and, breaking every barrier, either attains its object at a
single bound, or is shivered and ruined in dashing itself against the
impenetrable wall of complete impossibility. But again, in the last case,
when love is wholly unreturned, it dies a natural death of atrophy, when
it has existed in a person of common and average nature; or if the man or
woman so afflicted be proud and of noble instincts, the passion becomes a
kind of religion to the heart--sacred, and worthy to be guarded from the
eyes of the world; or, finally, again, where it finds vanity the dominant
characteristic of the being in whom it has grown, it draws a poisonous
life from the unhealthy soil on which it is fed, and the tender seed of
love shoots and puts forth evil leaves and blossoms, and grows to be a
most venomous tree, which is the tree of hatred.
Donna Tullia was certainly a woman who belonged to the latter class of
individuals. She had qualities which were perhaps good because not bad;
but the mainspring of her being was an inordinate vanity; and it was in
this characteristic that she was most deeply wounded, as she found
herself gradually abandoned by Giovanni Saracinesca. She had been in the
habit of thinking of him as a probable husband; the popular talk had
fostered the idea, and occasional hints, aad smiling questions concerning
him, had made her feel that he could not long hang back. She had been in
the habit of treating him familiarly; and he, tutored by his father to
the belief that she was the best match for him, and reluctantly yielding
to the force of circumstances, which seemed driving him into matrimony,
had suffered himself to be ordered about and made use of with an
indifference which, in Madame Mayer's eyes, had passed for consent. She
had watched with growing fear and jealousy his devotion to the
Astrardente, which all the world had noticed; and at last her anger had
broken out at the affront she had received at the Frangipani ball. But
even then she loved Giovanni in her own vain way. It was not till Corona
was suddenly left a widow, that Donna Tullia began to realise the
hopelessness of her position; and when she found how determinately
Saracinesca avoided her wherever they met, the affection she had hitherto
felt for him turned into a bitter hatred, stronger even than her jealousy
against the Duchessa. There was no scene of explanation between them, no
words passed, no dramatic situation, such as Donna Tullia loved; the
change came in a few days, and was complete. She had not even the
satisfaction of receiving some share of the attention Giovanni would have
bestowed upon Corona if she had been in town. Not only had he grown
utterly indifferent to her; he openly avoided her, and thereby inflicted
upon her vanity the cruellest wound she was capable of feeling.
With Donna Tullia to hate was to injure, to long for revenge--not of the
kind which is enjoyed in secret, and known only to the person who suffers
and the person who causes the suffering. She did not care for that so
much as she desired some brilliant triumph over her enemies before the
world; some startling instance of poetic justice, which should at one
blow do a mortal injury to Corona d'Astrardente, and bring Giovanni
Saracinesca to her own feet by force, repentant and crushed, to be dealt
with as she saw fit, according to his misdeeds. But she had chosen her
adversaries ill, and her heart misgave her. She had no hold upon them,
for they were very strong people, very powerful, and very much respected
by their fellows. It was not easy to bring them into trouble; it
seemed impossible to humiliate them as she wished to do, and yet her hate
was very strong. She waited and pondered, and in the meanwhile, when she
met Giovanni, she began to treat him with haughty coldness. But Giovanni
smiled, and seemed well satisfied that she should at last give over what
was to him very like a persecution. Her anger grew hotter from its very
impotence. The world saw it, and laughed.
The days of Carnival came and passed, much as they usually pass, in a
whirl of gaiety. Giovanni went everywhere, and showed his grave face; but
he talked little, and of course every one said he was melancholy at the
departure of the Duchessa. Nevertheless he kept up an appearance of
interest in what was done, and as nobody cared to risk asking him
questions, people left him in peace. The hurrying crowd of social life
filled up the place occupied by old Astrardente and the beautiful
Duchessa, and they were soon forgotten, for they had not had many
intimate friends.
On the last night of Carnival, Del Ferice appeared once more. He had not
been able to resist the temptation of getting one glimpse of the world he
loved, before the wet blanket of Lent extinguished the lights of the
ballrooms and the jollity of the dancers. Every one was surprised to see
him, and most people were pleased; he was such a useful man, that he had
often been missed during the time of his illness. He was improved in
appearance; for though he was very pale, he had grown also extremely
thin, and his features had gained delicacy.
When Giovanni saw him, he went up to him, and the two men exchanged a
formal salutation, while every one stood still for a moment to see the
meeting. It was over in a moment, and society gave a little sigh of
relief, as though a weight were removed from its mind. Then Del Ferice
went to Donna Tullia's side. They were soon alone upon a small sofa in a
small room, whither a couple strayed now and then to remain a few minutes
before returning to the ball. A few people passed through, but for more
than an hour they were not disturbed.
"I am very glad to see you," said Donna Tullia; "but I had hoped that the
first time you went out you would have come to my house."
"This is the first time I have been out--you see I should not have found
you at home, since I have found you here."
"Are you entirely recovered? You still look ill."
"I am a little weak--but an hour with you will do me more good than all
the doctors in the world."
"Thanks," said Donna Tullia, with a little laugh. "It was strange to see
you shaking hands with Giovanni Saracinesca just now. I suppose men have
to do that sort of thing."
"You may be sure I would not have done it unless it had been necessary,"
returned Del Ferice, bitterly.
"I should think not. What an arrogant man he is!"
"You no longer like him?" asked Del Fence, innocently.
"Like him! No; I never liked him," replied Donna Tullia, quickly.
"Oh, I thought you did; I used to wonder at it." Ugo grew thoughtful.
"I was always good to him," said Donna Tullia. "But of course I can never
forgive him for what he did at the Frangipani ball."
"No; nor I," answered Del Ferice, readily. "I shall always hate him for
that too."
"I do not say that I exactly hate him."
"You have every reason. It appears to me that since my illness we have
another idea in common, another bond of sympathy." Del Ferice spoke
almost tenderly; but he laughed immediately afterwards, as though not
wishing his words to be interpreted too seriously. Donna Tullia smiled
too; she was inclined to be very kind to him.
"You are very quick to jump at conclusions," she said, playing with her
red fan and looking down.
"It is always easy to reach that pleasant conclusion--that you and I are
in sympathy," he answered, with a tender glance, "even in regard to
hating the same person. The bond would be close indeed, if it depended on
the opposite of hate. And yet I sometimes think it does. Are you not the
best friend I have in the world?"
"I do not know,--I am a good friend to you," she answered.
"Indeed you are; but do you not think it would be possible to cement our
friendship even more closely yet?"
Donna Tullia looked up sharply; she had no idea of allowing him to
propose to marry her. His face, however, was grave--unlike his usual
expression when he meant to be tender, and which she knew very well.
"I do not know," she said, with a light laugh. "How do you mean?"
"If I could do you some great service--if I could by any means satisfy
what is now your chief desire in life--would not that help to cement our
friendship, as I said?"
"Perhaps," she answered, thoughtfully. "But then you do not know--you
cannot guess even--what I most wish at this moment."
"I think I could," said Del Ferice, fixing his eyes upon her. "I am sure
I could, but I will not. I should risk offending you."
"No; I will not be angry. You may guess if you please." Donna Tullia in
her turn looked, fixedly at her companion. They seemed trying to read
each other's thoughts.
"Very well," said Ugo at last, "I will tell you. You would like to see
the Astrardente dead and Giovanni Saracinesca profoundly humiliated."
Donna Tullia started. But indeed there was nothing strange in her
companion's knowledge of her feelings. Many people, being asked what she
felt, would very likely have said the same, for the world had seen her
discomfiture and had laughed at it.
"You are a very singular man," she said, uneasily.
"In other words," replied Del Ferice, calmly, "I am perfectly right in my
surmises. I see it in your face. Of course," he added, with a laugh, "it
is mere jest. But the thing is quite possible. If I fulfilled your desire
of just and poetic vengeance, what would you give me?"
Donna Tullia laughed in her turn, to conceal the extreme interest she
felt in what he said.
"Whatever you like," she said. But even while the laugh was on her lips
her eyes sought his uneasily.
"Would you marry me, for instance, as the enchanted princess in the fairy
story marries the prince who frees her from the spell?" He seemed
immensely amused at the idea.
"Why not?" she laughed.
"It would be the only just recompense," he answered. "See how impossible
the thing appears. And yet a few pounds of dynamite would blow up the
Great Pyramid. Giovanni Saracinesca is not so strong as he looks."
"Oh, I would not have him hurt!" exclaimed Donna Tullia in alarm.
"I do not mean physically, nor morally, but socially."
"How?"
"That is my secret," returned Del Ferice, quietly.
"It sounds as though you were pretending to know more than you really
do," she answered.
"No; it is the plain truth," said Del Ferice, quietly. "If you were in
earnest I might be willing to tell you what the secret is, but for a mere
jest I cannot. It is far too serious a matter."
His tone convinced Donna Tullia that he really possessed some weapon
which he could use against Don Giovanni if he pleased. She wondered only
why, if it were true, he did not use it, seeing that he must hate
Saracinesca with all his heart. Del Ferice knew so much about people, so
many strange and forgotten stories, he had so accurate a memory and so
acute an intelligence, that it was by no means impossible that he was in
possession of some secret connected with the Saracinesca. They were,
or were thought to be, wild, unruly men, both father and son; there were
endless stories about them both; and there was nothing more likely than
that, in his numerous absences from home, Giovanni had at one time or
another figured in some romantic affair, which he would be sorry to have
had generally known. Del Ferice was wise enough to keep his own counsel;
but now that his hatred was thoroughly roused, he might very likely make
use of the knowledge he possessed. Donna Tullia's curiosity was excited
to its highest pitch, and at the same time she had pleasant visions of
the possible humiliation of the man by whom she felt herself so ill-used.
It would be worth while making the sacrifice in order to learn Del
Fence's secret.
"This need not be a mere jest," she said, after a moment's silence.
"That is as you please," returned Del Ferice, seriously. "If you are
willing to do your part, you may be sure that I will do mine."
"You cannot think I really meant what I said just now," replied Donna
Tullia. "It would be madness."
"Why? Am I halt, am I lame, am I blind? Am I repulsively ugly? Am I a
pauper, that I should care for your money? Have I not loved you--yes,
loved you long and faithfully? Am I too old? Is there anything in the
nature of things why I should not aspire to be your husband?"
It was strange. He spoke calmly, as though enumerating the advantages of
a friend. Donna Tullia looked at him for a moment, and then laughed
outright.
"No," she said; "all that is very true. You may aspire, as you call it.
The question is, whether I shall aspire too. Of course, if we happened to
agree in aspiring, we could be married to-morrow."
"Precisely," answered Del Ferice, perfectly unmoved. "I am not proposing
to marry you. I am arguing the case. There is this in the case which is
perhaps outside the argument--this, that I am devotedly attached to you.
The case is the stronger for that. I was only trying to demonstrate that
the idea of our being married is not so unutterably absurd. You
laughingly said you would marry me if I could accomplish something which
would please you very much. I laughed also; but now I seriously repeat my
proposition, because I am convinced that although at first sight it may
appear extremely humourous, on a closer inspection it will be found
exceedingly practical. In union is strength."
Donna Tullia was silent for a moment, and her face grew grave. There was
reason in what he said. She did not care for him--she had never thought
of marrying him; but she recognised the justice of what he said. It was
clear that a man of his social position, received everywhere and intimate
with all her associates, might think of marrying her. He looked
positively handsome since he was wounded; he was accomplished and
intelligent; he had sufficient means of support to prevent him from
being suspected of marrying solely for money, and he had calmly stated
that he loved her. Perhaps he did. It was flattering to Donna Tullia's
vanity to believe him, and his acts had certainly not belied his words.
He was by far the most thoughtful of all her admirers, and he affected to
treat her always with a certain respect which she had never succeeded in
obtaining from Valdarno and the rest. A woman who likes to be noisy, but
is conscious of being a little vulgar, is always flattered when a man
behaves towards her with profound reverence. It will even sometimes cure
her of her vulgarity. Donna Tullia reflected seriously upon what Del
Ferice had said.
"I never had such a proposition made to me in my life," she said. "Of
course you cannot think I regard it as a possible one, even now. You
cannot think I am so base as to sell myself for the sake of revenging an
insult once offered me. If I am to regard this as a proposal of marriage,
I must decline it with thanks. If it is merely a proposition for an
alliance, I think the terms of the treaty are unequal."
Del Ferice smiled.
"I knew you well enough to know what your answer would be," he said. "I
never insulted you by dreaming that you would accept such a proposition.
But as a subject for speculation it is very pleasant. It is delightful
to me to think of being your husband; it is equally delightful to you to
think of the humiliation of an enemy. I took the liberty of uniting the
two thoughts in one dream--a dream of unspeakable bliss for myself."
Donna Tullia's gay humour returned.
"You have certainly amused me very well for a quarter of an hour with
your dreams," she answered. "I wish you would tell me what you know of
Don Giovanni. It must be very interesting if it can really seriously
influence his life."
"I cannot tell you. The secret is too valuable."
"But if the thing you know has such power, why do you not use it
yourself? You must hate him far more than I do."
"I doubt that," answered Del Ferice, with a cunning smile. "I do not use
it, I do not choose to strike the blow, because I do not care enough for
retribution merely on my own account. I do not pretend to generosity, but
I am not interested enough in him to harm him, though I dislike him
exceedingly. We had a temporary settlement of our difficulties the other
day, and we were both wounded. Poor Casalverde lost his head and did a
foolish thing, and that cold-blooded villain Spicca killed him in
consequence. It seems to me that there has been enough blood spilled in
our quarrel. I am prepared to leave him alone so far as I am concerned.
But for you it would be different. I could do something worse than kill
him if I chose."
"For me?" said Donna Tullia. "What would you do for me?" She smiled
sweetly, willing to use all her persuasion to extract his secret.
"I could prevent Don Giovanni from marrying the Astrardente, as he
intends to do," he answered, looking straight at his companion.
"How in the world could you do that?" she asked, in great surprise.
"That, my dear friend, is my secret, as I said before. I cannot reveal it
to you at present."
"You are as dark as the Holy Office," said Donna Tullia, a little
impatiently. "What possible harm could it do if you told me?"
"What possible good either?" asked Del Ferice, in reply. "You could not
use it as I could. You would gain no advantage by knowing it. Of course,"
he added, with a laugh, "if we entered into the alliance we were jesting
about, it would be different."
"You will not tell me unless I promise to marry you?"
"Frankly, no," he answered, still laughing.
It exasperated Donna Tullia beyond measure to feel that he was in
possession of what she so coveted, and to feel that he was bargaining,
half in earnest, for her life in exchange for his secret. She was almost
tempted for one moment to assent, to say she would marry him, so great
was her curiosity; it would be easy to break her promise, and laugh at
him afterwards. But she was not a bad woman, as women of her class are
considered. She had suffered a great disappointment, and her resentment
was in proportion to her vanity. But she was not prepared to give a false
promise for the sake of vengeance; she was only bad enough to imagine
such bad faith possible.
"But you said you never seriously thought I could accept such an
engagement," she objected, not knowing what to say.
"I did," replied Del Ferice. "I might have added that I never seriously
contemplated parting with my secret."
"There is nothing to be got from you," said Donna Tullia, in a tone of
disappointment. "I think that when you have nearly driven me mad with
curiosity, you might really tell me something."
"Ah no, dear lady," answered her companion. "You may ask anything of me
but that--anything. You may ask that too, if you will sign the treaty I
propose."
"You will drive me into marrying you out of sheer curiosity," said Donna
Tullia, with an impatient laugh.
"I wish that were possible. I wish I could see my way to telling you as
it is, for the thing is so curious that it would have the most intense
interest for you. But it is quite out of the question."
"You should never have told me anything about it," replied Madame Mayer.
"Well, I will think about it," said Del Ferice at last, as though
suddenly resolving to make a sacrifice. "I will look over some papers I
have, and I will think about it. I promise you that if I feel that I can
conscientiously tell you something of the matter, you may be sure that
I will."
Donna Tullia's manner changed again, from impatience to persuasion. The
sudden hope he held out to her was delicious to contemplate. She could
not realise that Del Ferice, having once thoroughly interested her, could
play upon her moods as on the keys of an instrument. If she had been less
anxious that the story he told should be true, she might have suspected
that he was practising upon her credulity. But she seized the idea of
obtaining some secret influence over the life of Giovanni, and it
completely carried her away.
"You must tell me--I am sure you will," she said, letting her kindest
glance rest upon her companion. "Come and dine with me,--do you fast?
No--nor I. Come on Friday--will you?"
"I shall be delighted," answered Del Ferice, with a quiet smile of
triumph.
"I will have the old lady, of course, so you cannot tell me at dinner;
but she will go to sleep soon afterwards--she always does. Come at seven.
Besides, she is deaf, you know."
The old lady in question was the aged Countess whom Donna Tullia affected
as a companion in her solitary magnificence.
"And now, will you take me back to the ball-room? I have an idea that a
partner is looking for me."
Del Ferice left her dancing, and went home in his little coupé. He was
desperately fatigued, for he was still very weak, and he feared lest his
imprudence in going out so soon might bring on a relapse from his
convalescence. Nevertheless, before he went to bed he dismissed
Temistocle, and opened a shabby-looking black box which stood upon his
writing-table. It was bound with iron, and was fastened by a patent lock
which had frequently defied Temistocle's ingenuity. From this repository
he took a great number of papers, which were all neatly filed away and
marked in the owner's small and ornamented handwriting. Beneath many
packages of letters he found what he sought for, a long envelope
containing several folded documents.
He spread out the papers and read them carefully over.
"It is a very singular thing," he said to himself; "but there can be no
doubt about it. There it is."
He folded the papers again, returned them to their envelope, and replaced
the latter deep among the letters in his box. He then locked it, attached
the key to a chain he wore about his neck, and went to bed, worn out
with fatigue.