People wondered that Giovanni and Corona should have chosen to retire
into the country for their honeymoon, instead of travelling to France and
England, and ending their wedding-trip in Switzerland. The hills were so
very cold at that early season, and besides, they would be utterly alone.
People could not understand why Corona did not take advantage of the
termination of her widowhood to mix at once with the world, and indemnify
herself for the year of mourning by a year of unusual gaiety. But there
were many, on the other hand, who loudly applauded the action, which, it
was maintained, showed a wise spirit of economy, and contrasted very
favourably with the extravagance recently exhibited by young couples who
in reality had far more cause to be careful of their money. Those who
held this view belonged to the old, patriarchal class, the still
flourishing remnant of the last generation, who prided themselves upon
good management, good morals, and ascetic living; the class of people in
whose marriage-contracts it was stipulated that the wife was to have meat
twice a-day, excepting on fast days, a drive--the _trottata_, as it used
to be called--daily, and two new gowns every year. Even in our times,
when most of that generation are dead, these clauses are often
introduced; in the first half of the century they were universal. A
little earlier it used to be stipulated that the "meat" was not to be
copra, goat's-flesh, which was considered to be food fit only for
servants. But the patriarchal generation were a fine old class in spite
of their economy, and they loudly aplauded Giovanni's conduct.
No one, however, understood that the solitude of Saracinesca was really
the greatest luxury the newly-married couple could desire. They wanted to
be left alone, and they got their wish. No one had known of the
preparations Giovanni had made for his wife's reception, and had any
idea of the changes in the castle reached the ears of the aforesaid
patriarchs, they would probably have changed their minds in regard to
Giovanni's economy. The Saracinesca were not ostentatious, but they spent
their money royally in their own quiet way, and the interior of the old
stronghold had undergone a complete transformation, while the ancient
grey stones of the outer walls and towers frowned as gloomily as ever
upon the valley. Vast halls had been decorated and furnished in a style
suited to the antiquity of the fortress, small sunny rooms had been
fitted up with the more refined luxury which was beginning to be
appreciated in Italy twenty years ago. A great conservatory had been
built out upon the southern battlement. The aqueduct had been completed
successfully, and fountains now played in the courts. The old-fashioned
fireplaces had been again put into use, and huge logs burned upon huge
fire-dogs in the halls, shedding a ruddy glow upon the trophies of old
armour, the polished floors, and the heavy curtains. Quantities of
magnificent tapestry, some of which had been produced when Corona first
visited the castle, were now hung upon the stairs and in the corridors.
The great _baldacchino_, the canopy which Roman princes are privileged to
display in their antechambers, was draped above the quartered arms of
Saracinesca and Astrardente, and the same armorial bearings appeared in
rich stained glass in the window of the grand staircase. The solidity and
rare strength of the ancient stronghold seemed to grow even more imposing
under the decorations and improvements of a later age, and for the first
time Giovanni felt that justice had been done to the splendour of his
ancestral home.
Here he and his dark bride dwelt in perfect unity and happiness, in the
midst of their own lands, surrounded by their own people, and wholly
devoted to each other. But though much of the day was passed in that
unceasing conversation and exchange of ideas which seem to belong
exclusively to happily-wedded man and wife, the hours were not wholly
idle. Daily the two mounted their horses and rode along the level stretch
towards Aquaviva till they came to the turning from which Corona had
first caught sight of Saracinesca. Here a broad road was already broken
out; the construction was so far advanced that two miles at least were
already serviceable, the gentle grade winding backwards and forwards,
crossing and recrossing the old bridle-path as it descended to the valley
below; and now from the furthest point completed Corona could distinguish
in the dim distance the great square palace of Astrardente crowning the
hills above the town. Thither the two rode daily, pushing on the work,
consulting with the engineer they employed, and often looking forward
to the day when for the first time their carriage should roll smoothly
down from Saracinesca to Astrardente without making the vast detour which
the old road followed as it skirted the mountain. There was an
inexpressible pleasure in watching the growth of the work they had so
long contemplated, in speculating on the advantages they would obtain by
so uniting their respective villages, and in feeling that, being at last
one, they were working together for the good of their people. For the men
who did the work were without exception their own peasants, who were
unemployed during the winter time, and who, but for the timely occupation
provided for them, would have spent the cold months in that state of
half-starved torpor peculiar to the indigent agricultural labourer when
he has nothing to do--at that bitter season when father and mother and
shivering little ones watch wistfully the ever-dwindling sack of maize,
as day by day two or three handfuls are ground between the stones of the
hand-mill and kneaded into a thick unwholesome dough, the only food of
the poorer peasants in the winter. But now every man who could handle
pickaxe and bore, and sledge-hammer and spade, was out upon the road from
dawn to dark, and every Saturday night each man took home a silver scudo
in his pocket; and where people are sober and do not drink their wages, a
silver scudo goes a long way further than nothing. Yet many a lean and
swarthy fellow there would have felt that he was cheated if besides his
money he had not carried home daily the remembrance of that tall dark
lady's face and kindly eyes and encouraging voice, and they used to watch
for the coming of the "_gran principessa_" as anxiously as they expected
the coming of the steward with the money-bags on a Saturday evening.
Often, too, the wives and daughters of the rough workers would bring the
men their dinners at noonday, rather than let them carry away their food
with them in the morning, just for the sake of catching a sight of
Corona, and of her broad-shouldered manly husband. And the men worked
with a right good will, for the story had gone abroad that for years to
come there would be no lack of work for willing hands.
So the days sped, and were not interrupted by any incident for several
weeks. One day Gouache, the artist Zouave, called at the castle. He had
been quartered at Subiaco with a part of his company, but had not been
sent on at once to Saracinesca as he had expected. Now, however, he had
arrived with a small detachment of half-a-dozen men, with instructions to
watch the pass. There was nothing extraordinary in his being sent in that
direction, for Saracinesca was very near the frontier, and lay on one of
the direct routes to the Serra di Sant' Antonio, which was the shortest
hill-route into the kingdom of Naples; the country around was thought to
be particularly liable to disturbance, and though no one had seen a
brigand there for some years, the mountain-paths were supposed to be
infested with robbers. As a matter of fact there was a great deal of
smuggling carried on through the pass, and from time to time some
political refugee found his way across the frontier at that point.
Gouache was received very well by Giovanni, and rather coldly by Corona,
who knew him but slightly.
"I congratulate you," said Giovanni, noticing the stripes on the young
man's sleeves; "I see that you have risen in grade."
"Yes. I hold an important command of six men. I spend much time in
studying the strategy of Condé and Napoleon. By the bye, I am here on a
very important mission."
"Indeed!"
"I suppose you give yourselves the luxury of never reading the papers in
this delightful retreat. The day before yesterday the Cardinal attempted
to arrest our friend Del Ferice--have you heard that?"
"No--what--has he escaped?" asked Giovanni and Corona in a breath. But
their tones were different. Giovanni had anticipated the news, and was
disgusted at the idea that the fellow had got off. Corona was merely
surprised.
"Yes. Heaven knows how--he has escaped. I am here to cut him off if he
tries to get to the Serra di Sant' Antonio."
Giovanni laughed.
"He will scarcely try to come this way--under the very walls of my
house," he said.
"He may do anything. He is a slippery fellow." Gouache proceeded to tell
all he knew of the circumstances.
"That is very strange," said Corona, thoughtfully. Then after a pause,
she added, "We are going to visit our road, Monsieur Gouache. Will you
not come with us? My husband will give you a horse."
Gouache was charmed. He preferred talking to Giovanni and looking at
Corona's face to returning to his six Zouaves, or patrolling the hills in
search of Del Ferice. In a few minutes the three were mounted, and riding
slowly along the level stretch towards the works. As they entered the new
road Giovanni and Corona unconsciously fell into conversation, as usual,
about what they were doing, and forgot their visitor. Gouache dropped
behind, watching the pair and admiring them with true artistic
appreciation. He had a Parisian's love of luxury and perfect appointments
as well as an artist's love of beauty, and his eyes rested with
unmitigated pleasure on the riders and their horses, losing no detail of
their dress, their simple English accoutrements, their firm seats and
graceful carriage. But at a turn of the grade the two riders suddenly
slipped from his field of vision, and his attention was attracted to the
marvellous beauty of the landscape, as looking down the valley towards
Astrardente he saw range on range of purple hills rising in a deep
perspective, crowned with jagged rocks or sharply defined brown villages,
ruddy in the lowering sun. He stopped his horse and sat motionless,
drinking in the loveliness before him. So it is that accidents in nature
make accidents in the lives of men.
But Giovanni and Corona rode slowly down the gentle incline, hardly
noticing that Gouache had stopped behind, and talking of the work. As
they again turned a curve of the grade Corona, who was on the inside,
looked up and caught sight of Gouache's motionless figure at the opposite
extremity of the gradient they had just descended. Giovanni looked
straight before him, and was aware of a pale-faced Capuchin friar who
with downcast eyes was toiling up the road, seemingly exhausted; a
particularly weather-stained and dilapidated friar even for those wild
mountains.
"Gouache is studying geography," remarked Corona.
"Another of those Capuccini!" exclaimed Giovanni, instinctively feeling
in his pocket for coppers. Then with a sudden movement he seized his
wife's arm. She was close to him as they rode slowly along side by side.
"Good God! Corona," he cried, "it is Del Ferice!" Corona looked quickly
at the monk. His cowl was raised enough to show his features; but she
would, perhaps, not have recognised his smooth shaven face had Giovanni
not called her attention to it.
Del Ferice had recognised them too, and, horror-struck, he paused,
trembling and uncertain what to do. He had taken the wrong turn from the
main road below; unaccustomed to the dialect of the hills, he had
misunderstood the peasant who had told him especially not to take the
bridle-path if he wished to avoid Saracinesca. He stopped, hesitated, and
then, pulling his cowl over his face, walked steadily on. Giovanni
glanced up and saw that Gouache was slowly descending the road, still
absorbed in contemplating the landscape.
"Let him take his chance," muttered Saracinesca. "What should I care?"
"No--no! Save him, Giovanni,--he looks so miserable," cried Corona, with
ready sympathy. She was pale with excitement.
Giovanni looked at her one moment and hesitated, but her pleading eyes
were not to be refused.
"Then gallop back, darling. Tell Gouache it is cold in the
valley--anything. Make him go back with you--I will save him since you
wish it."
Corona wheeled her horse without a word and cantered up the hill again.
The monk had continued his slow walk, and was now almost at Giovanni's
saddle-bow. The latter drew rein, staring hard at the pale features
under the cowl.
"If you go on you are lost," he said, in low distinct tones. "The Zouaves
are waiting for you. Stop, I say!" he exclaimed, as the monk attempted to
pass on. Leaping to the ground Giovanni seized his arm and held him
tightly. Then Del Ferice broke down.
"You will not give me up--for the love of Christ!" he whined. "Oh, if you
have any pity--let me go--I never meant to harm you--"
"Look here," said Giovanni. "I would just as soon give you up to the Holy
Office as not; but my wife asked me to save you--"
"God bless her! Oh, the saints bless her! God render her kindness!"
blubbered Del Ferice, who, between fear and exhaustion, was by this time
half idiotic.
"Silence!" said Giovanni, sternly. "You may thank her if you ever have a
chance. Come with me quietly. I will send one of the workmen round the
hill with you. You must sleep at Trevi, and then get over the Serra as
best you can." He ran his arm through the bridle of his horse and walked
by his enemy's side.
"You will not give me up," moaned the wretched man. "For the love of
heaven do not betray me--I have come so far--I am so tired."
"The wolves may make a meal of you, for all I care," returned Giovanni.
"I will not. I give you my word that I will send you safely on, if you
will stop this whining and behave like a man."
At that moment Del Ferice was past taking offence, but for many a year
afterwards the rough words rankled in his heart. Giovanni was brutal for
once; he longed to wring the fellow's neck, or to give him up to Gouache
and the Zouaves. The tones of Ugo's voice reminded him of injuries not so
old as to be yet forgotten. But he smothered his wrath and strode on,
having promised his wife to save the wretch, much against his will. It
was a quarter of an hour before they reached the works, the longest
quarter of an hour Del Ferice remembered in his whole life. Neither spoke
a word. Giovanni hailed a sturdy-looking fellow who was breaking stones
by the roadside.
"Get up, Carluccio," he said. "This good monk has lost his way. You must
take him round the mountain, above Ponza to Arcinazzo, and show him the
road to Trevi. It is a long way, but the road is good enough after
Ponza--it is shorter than to go round by Saracinesca, and the good friar
is in a hurry."
Carluccio started up with alacrity. He greatly preferred roaming about
the hills to breaking stones, provided he was paid for it. He picked up
his torn jacket and threw it over one shoulder, setting his battered hat
jauntily on his thick black curls.
"Give us a benediction, _padre mio_, and let us be off--_non è mica un
passo_--it is a good walk to Trevi."
Del Ferice hesitated. He hardly knew what to do or say, and even if he
had wished to speak he was scarcely able to control his voice. Giovanni
cut the situation short by turning on his heel and mounting his horse. A
moment later he was cantering up the road again, to the considerable
astonishment of the labourers, who were accustomed to see him spend at
least half an hour in examining the work done. But Giovanni was in no
humour to talk about roads. He had spent a horrible quarter of an hour,
between his desire to see Del Ferice punished and the promise he had
given his wife to save him. He felt so little sure of himself that he
never once looked back, lest he should be tempted to send a second man to
stop the fugitive and deliver him up to justice. He ground his teeth
together, and his heart was full of bitter curses as he rode up the hill,
hardly daring to reflect upon what he had done. That, in the eyes of the
law, he had wittingly helped a traitor to escape, troubled his conscience
little. His instinct bade him destroy Del Ferice by giving him up, and he
would have saved himself a vast deal of trouble if he had followed his
impulse. But the impulse really arose from a deep-rooted desire for
revenge, which, having resisted, he regretted bitterly--very much as
Shakespeare's murderer complained to his companion that the devil was at
his elbow bidding him not murder the duke. Giovanni spared his enemy
solely to please his wife, and half-a-dozen words from her had produced a
result which no consideration of mercy or pity could have brought about.
Corona and Gouache had halted at the top of the road to wait for him. By
an imperceptible nod, Giovanni informed his wife that Del Ferice was
safe.
"I am sorry to have cut short our ride," he said, coldly. "My wife found
it chilly in the valley."
Anastase looked curiously at Giovanni's pale face, and wondered whether
anything was wrong. Corona herself seemed strangely agitated.
"Yes," answered Gouache, with his gentle smile; "the mountain air is
still cold."
So the three rode silently back to the castle, and at the gate Gouache
dismounted and left them, politely declining a rather cold invitation to
come in. Giovanni and Corona went silently up the staircase together, and
on into a small apartment which in that cold season they had set apart as
a sitting-room. When they were alone, Corona laid her hands upon
Giovanni's shoulders and gazed long into his angry eyes. Then she threw
her arms round his neck and drew him to her.
"My beloved," she cried, proudly, "you are all I thought--and more too."
"Do not say that," answered Giovanni. "I would not have lifted a finger
to save that hound, but for you."
"Ah, but you did it, dear, all the same," she said, and kissed him.
On the following evening, without any warning, old Saracinesca arrived,
and was warmly greeted. After dinner Giovanni told him the story of Del
Ferice's escape. Thereupon the old gentleman flew into a towering rage,
swearing and cursing in a most characteristic manner, but finally
declaring that to arrest spies was the work of spies, and that Giovanni
had behaved like a gentleman, as of course he could not help doing,
seeing that he was his own son.
* * * * *
And so the curtain falls upon the first act. Giovanni and Corona are
happily married. Del Ferice is safe across the frontier among his friends
in Naples, and Donna Tullia is waiting still for news of him, in the last
days of Lent, in the year 1866. To carry on the tale from this point
would be to enter upon a new series of events more interesting, perhaps,
than those herein detailed, and of like importance in the history of the
Saracinesca family, but forming by their very nature a distinct
narrative--a second act to the drama, if it may be so called. I am
content if in the foregoing pages I have so far acquainted the reader
with those characters which hereafter will play more important parts, as
to enable him to comprehend the story of their subsequent lives, and in
some measure to judge of their future by their past, regarding them as
acquaintances, if not sympathetic, yet worthy of some attention.
Especially I ask for indulgence in matters political. I am not writing
the history of political events, but the history of a Roman family during
times of great uncertainty and agitation. If any one says that I have set
up Del Ferice as a type of the Italian Liberal party, carefully
constructing a villain in order to batter him to pieces with the
artillery of poetic justice, I answer that I have done nothing of the
kind. Del Ferice is indeed a type, but a type of a depraved class which
very unjustly represented the Liberal party in Rome before 1870, and
which, among those who witnessed its proceedings, drew upon the great
political body which demanded the unity of Italy an opprobrium that body
was very far from deserving. The honest and upright Liberals were waiting
in 1866. What they did, they did from their own country, and they did it
boldly. To no man of intelligence need I say that Del Ferice had no more
affinity with Massimo D'Azeglio, with the great Cavour, with Cavour's
great enemy Giuseppe Mazzini, or with Garibaldi, than the jackal has with
the lion. Del Ferice represented the scum which remained after the
revolution of 1848 had subsided. He was one of those men who were used
and despised by their betters, and in using whom Cavour himself was
provoked into writing "Se noi facessimo per noi quel che faciamo per
l'Italia, saremmo gran bricconi"--if we did for ourselves what we do for
Italy, we should be great blackguards. And that there were honourable
and just men outside of Rome will sufficiently appear in the sequel to
this veracious tale.
THE END.