The death of Maddalena d’Ascoli produced a complete change in the lives
of her father and her uncle. After the first shock of the bereavement
was over, Luca Lomi declared that it would be impossible for him to work
in his studio again--for some time to come at least--after the death of
the beloved daughter, with whom every corner of it was now so sadly and
closely associated. He accordingly accepted an engagement to assist in
restoring several newly discovered works of ancient sculpture at Naples,
and set forth for that city, leaving the care of his work-rooms at Pisa
entirely to his brother.
On the master-sculptor’s departure, Father Rocco caused the statues
and busts to be carefully enveloped in linen cloths, locked the studio
doors, and, to the astonishment of all who knew of his former industry
and dexterity as a sculptor, never approached the place again. His
clerical duties he performed with the same assiduity as ever; but he
went out less than had been his custom hitherto to the houses of his
friends. His most regular visits were to the Ascoli Palace, to inquire
at the porter’s lodge after the health of Maddalena’s child, who was
always reported to be thriving admirably under the care of the best
nurses that could be found in Pisa. As for any communications with his
polite little friend from Florence, they had ceased months ago. The
information--speedily conveyed to him--that Nanina was in the service
of one of the most respectable ladies in the city seemed to relieve any
anxieties which he might otherwise have felt on her account. He made
no attempt to justify himself to her; and only required that his
over-courteous little visitor of former days should let him know
whenever the girl might happen to leave her new situation.
The admirers of Father Rocco, seeing the alteration in his life, and the
increased quietness of his manner, said that, as he was growing older,
he was getting more and more above the things of this world. His enemies
(for even Father Rocco had them) did not scruple to assert that the
change in him was decidedly for the worse, and that he belonged to
the order of men who are most to be distrusted when they become most
subdued. The priest himself paid no attention either to his eulogists or
his depreciators. Nothing disturbed the regularity and discipline of his
daily habits; and vigilant Scandal, though she sought often to surprise
him, sought always in vain.
Such was Father Rocco’s life from the period of his niece’s death to
Fabio’s return to Pisa.
As a matter of course, the priest was one of the first to call at the
palace and welcome the young nobleman back. What passed between them at
this interview never was precisely known; but it was surmised readily
enough that some misunderstanding had taken place, for Father Rocco did
not repeat his visit. He made no complaints of Fabio, but simply stated
that he had said something, intended for the young man’s good, which had
not been received in a right spirit; and that he thought it desirable
to avoid the painful chance of any further collision by not presenting
himself at the palace again for some little time. People were rather
amazed at this. They would have been still more surprised if the subject
of the masked ball had not just then occupied all their attention, and
prevented their noticing it, by another strange event in connection
with the priest. Father Rocco, some weeks after the cessation of his
intercourse with Fabio, returned one morning to his old way of life as a
sculptor, and opened the long-closed doors of his brother’s studio.
Luca Lomi’s former workmen, discovering this, applied to him immediately
for employment; but were informed that their services would not be
needed. Visitors called at the studio, but were always sent away again
by the disappointing announcement that there was nothing new to show
them. So the days passed on until Nanina left her situation and returned
to Pisa. This circumstance was duly reported to Father Rocco by his
correspondent at Florence; but, whether he was too much occupied among
the statues, or whether it was one result of his cautious resolution
never to expose himself unnecessarily to so much as the breath of
detraction, he made no attempt to see Nanina, or even to justify himself
toward her by writing her a letter. All his mornings continued to be
spent alone in the studio, and all his afternoons to be occupied by
his clerical duties, until the day before the masked ball at the Melani
Palace.
Early on that day he covered over the statues, and locked the doors of
the work-rooms once more; then returned to his own lodgings, and did
not go out again. One or two of his friends who wanted to see him were
informed that he was not well enough to be able to receive them. If they
had penetrated into his little study, and had seen him, they would have
been easily satisfied that this was no mere excuse. They would have
noticed that his face was startlingly pale, and that the ordinary
composure of his manner was singularly disturbed.
Toward evening this restlessness increased, and his old housekeeper, on
pressing him to take some nourishment, was astonished to hear him answer
her sharply and irritably, for the first time since she had been in his
service. A little later her surprise was increased by his sending her
with a note to the Ascoli Palace, and by the quick return of an answer,
brought ceremoniously by one of Fabio’s servants. “It is long since
he has had any communication with that quarter. Are they going to be
friends again?” thought the housekeeper as she took the answer upstairs
to her master.
“I feel better to-night,” he said as he read it; “well enough indeed to
venture out. If any one inquires for me, tell them that I am gone to the
Ascoli Palace.” Saying this, he walked to the door; then returned, and
trying the lock of his cabinet, satisfied himself that it was properly
secured; then went out.
He found Fabio in one of the large drawing-rooms of the palace, walking
irritably backward and forward, with several little notes crumpled
together in his hands, and a plain black domino dress for the masquerade
of the ensuing night spread out on one of the tables.
“I was just going to write to you,” said the young man, abruptly, “when
I received your letter. You offer me a renewal of our friendship, and
I accept the offer. I have no doubt those references of yours, when we
last met, to the subject of second marriages were well meant, but they
irritated me; and, speaking under that irritation, I said words that I
had better not have spoken. If I pained you, I am sorry for it. Wait!
pardon me for one moment. I have not quite done yet. It seems that
you are by no means the only person in Pisa to whom the question of my
possibly marrying again appears to have presented itself. Ever since it
was known that I intended to renew my intercourse with society at
the ball to-morrow night, I have been persecuted by anonymous
letters--infamous letters, written from some motive which it is
impossible for me to understand. I want your advice on the best means
of discovering the writers; and I have also a very important question to
ask you. But read one of the letters first yourself; any one will do as
a sample of the rest.”
Fixing his eyes searchingly on the priest, he handed him one of the
notes. Still a little paler than usual, Father Rocco sat down by the
nearest lamp, and shading his eyes, read these lines:
“COUNT FABIO---It is the common talk of Pisa that you are likely, as
a young man left with a motherless child, to marry again. Your having
accepted an invitation to the Melani Palace gives a color of truth to
this report. Widowers who are true to the departed do not go among all
the handsomest single women in a city at a masked ball. Reconsider your
determination, and remain at home. I know you, and I knew your wife, and
I say to you solemnly, avoid temptation, for you must never marry again.
Neglect my advice and you will repent it to the end of your life. I have
reasons for what I say--serious, fatal reasons, which I cannot divulge.
If you would let your wife lie easy in her grave, if you would avoid a
terrible warning, go not to the masked ball!”
“I ask you, and I ask any man, if that is not infamous?” exclaimed
Fabio, passionately, as the priest handed him back the letter. “An
attempt to work on my fears through the memory of my poor dead wife! An
insolent assumption that I want to marry again, when I myself have not
even so much as thought of the subject at all! What is the secret object
of this letter, and of the rest here that resemble it? Whose interest is
it to keep me away from the ball? What is the meaning of such a phrase
as, ‘If you would let your wife lie easy in her grave’? Have you no
advice to give me--no plan to propose for discovering the vile hand
that traced these lines? Speak to me! Why, in Heaven’s name, don’t you
speak?”
The priest leaned his head on his hand, and, turning his face from the
light as if it dazzled his eyes, replied in his lowest and quietest
tones:
“I cannot speak till I have had time to think. The mystery of that
letter is not to be solved in a moment. There are things in it that are
enough to perplex and amaze any man!”
“What things?”
“It is impossible for me to go into details--at least at the present
moment.”
“You speak with a strange air of secrecy. Have you nothing definite to
say--no advice to give me?”
“I should advise you not to go to the ball.”
“You would! Why?”
“If I gave you my reasons, I am afraid I should only be irritating you
to no purpose.”
“Father Rocco, neither your words nor your manner satisfy me. You speak
in riddles; and you sit there in the dark with your face hidden from
me--”
The priest instantly started up and turned his face to the light.
“I recommend you to control your temper, and to treat me with common
courtesy,” he said, in his quietest, firmest tones, looking at Fabio
steadily while he spoke.
“We will not prolong this interview,” said the young man, calming
himself by an evident effort. “I have one question to ask you, and then
no more to say.”
The priest bowed his head, in token that he was ready to listen. He
still stood up, calm, pale, and firm, in the full light of the lamp.
“It is just possible,” continued Fabio, “that these letters may refer to
some incautious words which my late wife might have spoken. I ask you
as her spiritual director, and as a near relation who enjoyed her
confidence, if you ever heard her express a wish, in the event of my
surviving her, that I should abstain from marrying again?”
“Did she never express such a wish to you?”
“Never. But why do you evade my question by asking me another?”
“It is impossible for me to reply to your question.”
“For what reason?”
“Because it is impossible for me to give answers which must refer,
whether they are affirmative or negative, to what I have heard in
confession.”
“We have spoken enough,” said Fabio, turning angrily from the priest. “I
expected you to help me in clearing up these mysteries, and you do your
best to thicken them. What your motives are, what your conduct means, it
is impossible for me to know, but I say to you, what I would say in far
other terms, if they were here, to the villains who have written these
letters--no menaces, no mysteries, no conspiracies, will prevent me from
being at the ball to-morrow. I can listen to persuasion, but I scorn
threats. There lies my dress for the masquerade; no power on earth shall
prevent me from wearing it to-morrow night!” He pointed, as he spoke, to
the black domino and half-mask lying on the table.
“No power on _earth!_” repeated Father Rocco, with a smile, and an
emphasis on the last word. “Superstitious still, Count Fabio! Do you
suspect the powers of the other world of interfering with mortals at
masquerades?”
Fabio started, and, turning from the table, fixed his eyes intently on
the priest’s face.
“You suggested just now that we had better not prolong this interview,”
said Father Rocco, still smiling. “I think you were right; if we part at
once, we may still part friends. You have had my advice not to go to
the ball, and you decline following it. I have nothing more to say.
Good-night.”
Before Fabio could utter the angry rejoinder that rose to his lips, the
door of the room had opened and closed again, and the priest was gone.