COUNTESS STENO
A woman less courageous than the Countess, less capable of looking a
situation in the face and of advancing to it, such an evening would have
marked the prelude to one of those nights of insomnia when the mind
exhausts in advance all the agonies of probable danger. Countess Steno
did not know what weakness and fear were.
A creature of energy and of action, who felt herself to be above all
danger, she attached no meaning to the word uneasiness. So she slept,
on the night which followed that soiree, a sleep as profound,
as refreshing, as if Gorka had never returned with vengeance in his
heart, with threats in his eyes. Toward ten o'clock the following
morning, she was in the tiny salon, or rather, the office adjoining her
bedroom, examining several accounts brought by one of her men of
business. Rising at seven o'clock, according to her custom, she had
taken the cold bath in which, in summer as well as winter, she daily
quickened her blood. She had breakfasted, 'a l'anglaise', following the
rule to which she claimed to owe the preservation of her digestion, upon
eggs, cold meat, and tea. She had made her complicated toilette, had
visited her daughter to ascertain how she had slept, had written five
letters, for her cosmopolitan salon compelled her to carry on an immense
correspondence, which radiated between Cairo and New York,
St. Petersburg and Bombay, taking in Munich, London, and Madeira,
and she was as faithful in friendship as she was inconstant in love.
Her large handwriting, so elegant in its composition, had covered pages
and pages before she said: "I have a rendezvous at eleven o'clock with
Maitland. Ardea will be here at ten to talk of his marriage. I have
accounts from Finoli to examine. I hope that Gorka will not come, too,
this morning.".... Persons in whom the feeling of love is very complete,
but very physical, are thus. They give themselves and take themselves
back altogether. The Countess experienced no more pity than fear in
thinking of her betrayed lover. She had determined to say to him, "I no
longer love you," frankly, openly, and to offer him his choice between a
final rupture or a firm friendship.
The only annoyance depended upon the word of explanation, which she
desired to see postponed until afternoon, when she would be free,
an annoyance which, however, did not prevent her from examining with her
usual accuracy the additions and multiplications of her intendant,
who stood near her with a face such as Bonifagio gave to his Pharisees.
He managed the seven hundred hectares of Piove, near Padua, Madame
Steno's favorite estate. She had increased the revenue from it tenfold,
by the draining of a sterile and often malignant lagoon, which, situated
a metre below the water-level, had proved of surprising fertility; and
she calculated the probable operations for weeks in advance with the
detailed and precise knowledge of rural cultivation which is the
characteristic of the Italian aristocracy and the permanent cause of its
vitality.
"Then you estimate the gain from the silkworms at about fifty kilos of
cocoons to an ounce?"
"Yes, Excellency," replied the intendant.
"One hundred ounces of yellow; one hundred times fifty makes five
thousand," resumed the Countess. "At four francs fifty?"
"Perhaps five, Excellency," said the intendant.
"Let us say twenty-two thousand five hundred," said the Countess, "and as
much for the Japanese.... That will bring us in our outlay for
building."
"Yes, Excellency. And about the wine?"
"I am of the opinion, after what you have told me of the vineyard, that
you should sell as quickly as possible to Kauffmann's agent all that
remains of the last crop, but not at less than six francs. You know it
is necessary that our casks be emptied and cleaned after the month of
August.... If we were to fail this time, for the first year that we
manufacture our wine with the new machine, it would be too bad."
"Yes, Excellency. And the horses?"
"I think that is an opportunity we should not let escape. My advice is
that you take the express to Florence to-day at two o'clock. You will
reach Verona to-morrow morning. You will conclude the bargain. The
horses will be sent to Piove the same evening....
We have finished just in time," she continued, arranging the intendant's
papers. She put them herself in their envelope, which she gave him.
She had an extremely delicate sense of hearing, and she knew that the
door of the antechamber opened. It seemed that the administrator took
away in his portfolio all the preoccupation of this extraordinary woman.
For, after concluding that dry conversation, or rather that monologue,
she had her clearest and brightest smile with which to receive the new
arrival, who was, fortunately, Prince d'Ardea. She said to the servant:
"I wish to speak with the Prince. If any one asks for me, do not admit
him and do not send any one hither. Bring me the card." Then, turning
toward the young man, "Well, Simpaticone," it was the nickname she gave
him, "how did you finish your evening?"
"You would not believe me," replied Peppino Ardea, laughing; "I, who no
longer have anything, not even my bed. I went to the club and I
played.... For the first time in my life I won."
He was so gay in relating his childish prank, he jested so merrily about
his ruin, that the Countess looked at him in surprise, as he had looked
at her on entering.... We understand ourselves so little, and we know so
little about our own singularities of character, that each one was
surprised at finding the other so calm. Ardea could not comprehend that
Madame Steno should not be at least uneasy about Gorka's return and the
consequences which might result therefrom. She, on the other hand,
admired the strange youth who, in his misfortune, could find such
joviality at his command. He had evidently expended as much care upon
his toilette as if he had not to take some immediate steps to assure his
future, and his waistcoat, the color of his shirt, his cravat, his yellow
shoes, the flower in his buttonhole, all united to make of him an amiable
and incorrigibly frivolous dandy. She felt the need which strong
characters have in the presence of weak ones; that of acting for the
youth, of aiding him in spite of himself, and she attacked at once the
question of marriage with Fanny Hafner. With her usual common-sense,
and with her instinct of arranging everything, Madame Steno perceived in
the union so many advantages for every one that she was in haste to
conclude it as quickly as if it involved a personal affair.
The marriage was earnestly desired by the Baron, who had spoken of it to
her for months. It suited Fanny, who would be converted to Catholicism
with the consent of her father. It suited the Prince, who at one stroke
would be freed from his embarrassment. Finally, it suited the name of
Castagna. Although Peppino was its only representative at that time,
and as, by an old family tradition, he bore a title different from the
patronymic title of Pope Urban VII, the sale of the celebrated palace had
called forth a scandal to which it was essential to put an end. The
Countess had forgotten that she had assisted, without a protestation,
in that sale. Had she not known through Hafner that he had bought at a
low price an enormous heap of the Prince's bills of exchange? Did she
not know the Baron well enough to be sure that M. Noe Ancona, the
implacable creditor who sold the palace, was only the catspaw of this
terrible friend? In a fit of ill-humor at the Baron, had she not herself
accused him in Alba's presence of this very simple plan, to bring Ardea
to a final catastrophe in order to offer him salvation in the form of the
union with Fanny, and to execute at the same time an excellent operation?
For, once freed from the mortgages which burdened them, the Prince's
lands and buildings would regain their true value, and the imprudent
speculator would find himself again as rich, perhaps richer.
"Come," said Madame Steno to the Prince, after a moment's silence and
without any preamble, "it is now time to talk business. You dined by the
side of my little friend yesterday; you had the entire evening in which
to study her. Answer me frankly, would she not make the prettiest little
Roman princess who could kneel in her wedding-gown at the tomb of the
apostles? Can you not see her in her white gown, under her veil,
alighting at the staircase of Saint Peter's from the carriage with the
superb horses which her father has given her? Close your eyes and see
her in your thoughts. Would she not be pretty? Would she not?"
"Very pretty," replied Ardea, smiling at the tempting vision Madame
Steno had conjured up, "but she is not fair. And you know, to me, a
woman who is not fair--ah, Countess! What a pity that in Venice, five
years ago, on a certain evening--do you remember?"
"How much like you that is!" interrupted she, laughing her deep, clear
laugh. "You came to see me this morning to talk to me of a marriage,
unhoped for with your reputation of gamester, of supper-giver,
of 'mauvais sujet'; of a marriage which fulfils conditions most
improbable, so perfect are they--beauty, youth, intelligence, fortune,
and even, if I have read my little friend aright, the beginning of an
interest, of a very deep interest. And, for a little, you would make a
declaration to me. Come, come!" and she extended to him for a kiss her
beautiful hand, on which gleamed large emeralds. "You are forgiven. But
answer--yes or no. Shall I make the proposal? If it is yes, I will go
to the Palace Savorelli at two o'clock. I will speak to my friend
Hafner. He will speak to his daughter, and it will not depend upon me
if you have not their reply this evening or to-morrow morning. Is it
yes? Is it no?"
"This evening? To-morrow?" exclaimed the Prince, shaking his head with
a most comical gesture. "I can not decide like that. It is an ambush!
I come to talk, to consult you."
"And on what?" asked Madame Steno, with a vivacity almost impatient.
"Can I tell you anything you do not already know? In twenty-four hours,
in forty-eight, in six months, what difference will there be, I pray you?
We must look at things as they are, however. To-morrow, the day after,
the following days, will you be less embarrassed?"
"No," said the Prince, "but--"
"There is no but," she resumed, allowing him to say no more than she had
allowed her intendant. The despotism natural to puissant personalities
scorned to be disguised in her, when there were practical decisions in
which she was to take part. "The only serious objection you made to me
when I spoke to you of this marriage six months ago was that Fanny was
not a Catholic. I know today that she has only to be asked to be
converted. So do not let us speak of that."
"No," said the Prince, "but--"
"As for Hafner," continued the Countess, "you will say he is my friend
and that I am partial, but that partiality even is an opinion. He is
precisely the father-in-law you need. Do not shake your head. He will
repair all that needs repairing in your fortune. You have been robbed,
my poor Peppino. You told me so yourself.... Become the Baron's son-in-
law, and you will have news of your robbers. I know.... There is the
Baron's origin and the suit of ten years ago with all the 'pettogolezzi'
to which it gave rise. All that has not the common meaning. The Baron
began life in a small way. He was from a family of Jewish origin--you
see, I do not deceive you--but converted two generations back, so that
the story of his change of religion since his stay in Italy is a calumny,
like the rest. He had a suit in which he was acquitted. You would not
require more than the law, would you?"
"No, but--"
"For what are you waiting, then?" concluded Madame Steno. "That it may
be too late? How about your lands?"
"Ah! let me breathe, let me fan myself," said Ardea, who, indeed, took
one of the Countess's fans from the desk. "I, who have never known in
the morning what I would do in the evening, I, who have always lived
according to my pleasure, you ask me to take in five minutes the
resolution to bind myself forever!"
"I ask you to decide what you wish to do," returned the Countess. "It is
very amusing to travel at one's pleasure. But when it is a question of
arranging one's life, this childishness is too absurd. I know of only
one way: to see one's aim and to march directly to it. Yours is very
clear--to get out of this dilemma. The way is not less clear; it is
marriage with a girl who has five millions dowry. Yes or no, will you
have her?.... Ah," said she, suddenly interrupting herself, "I shall not
have a moment to myself this morning, and I have an appointment at eleven
o'clock!".... She looked at the timepiece on her table, which indicated
twenty-five minutes past ten. She had heard the door open. The footman
was already before her and presented to her a card upon a salver. She
took the card, looked at it, frowned, glanced again at the clock, seemed
to hesitate, then: "Let him wait in the small salon, and say that I will
be there immediately," said she, and turning again toward Ardea: "You
think you have escaped. You have not. I do not give you permission to
go before I return. I shall return in fifteen minutes. Would you like
some newspapers? There are some. Books? There are some. Tobacco?
This box is filled with cigars.... In a quarter of an hour I shall be
here and I will have your reply. I wish it, do you hear? I wish it"....
And on the threshold with another smile, using that time a term of patois
common in Northern Italy and which is only a corruption of 'schiavo' or
servant: 'Ciao Simpaticone.'
"What a woman!" said Peppino Ardea, when the door was closed upon the
Countess. "Yes, what a pity that five years ago in Venice I was not
free! Who knows? If I had dared, when she took me to my hotel in her
gondola. She was about to leave San Giobbe. She had not yet accepted
Boleslas. She would have advised--have directed me. I should have
speculated on the Bourse, as she did, with Hafner's counsel. But not in
the quality of son-in-law. I should not have been obliged to marry. And
she would not now have such bad tobacco.".... He was on the point of
lighting one of the Virginian cigarettes, a present from Maitland. He
threw it away, making a grimace with his air of a spoiled child, at the
risk of scorching the rug which lay upon the marble floor; and he passed
into the antechamber in order to fetch his own case in the pocket of the
light overcoat he had prudently taken on coming out after eight o'clock.
As he lighted one of the cigarettes in that case, filled with so-called
Egyptian tobacco, mixed with opium and saltpetre, which he preferred to
the tobacco of the American, he mechanically glanced at the card which
the servant had left on going from the room-the card of the unknown
visitor for whom Madame Steno had left him.
Ardea read upon it, with astonishment, these words:
Count Boleslas Gorka.
"She is better than I thought her," said he, on reentering the deserted
office. "She had no need to bid me not to go. I think I should wait to
see her return from that conversation."
It was indeed Boleslas whom the Countess found in the salon, which she
had chosen as the room the most convenient for the stormy explanation
she anticipated. It was isolated at the end of the hall, and was like
a pendant to the terrace. It formed, with the dining-room, the entire
ground-floor, or, rather, the entresol of the house. Madame Steno's
apartments, as well as the other small salon in which Peppino was, were
on the first floor, together with the rooms set apart for the Contessina
and her German governess, Fraulein Weber, for the time being on a
journey.
The Countess had not been mistaken. At the first glance exchanged on the
preceding day with Gorka, she had divined that he knew all. She would
have suspected it, nevertheless, since Hafner had told her the few words
indiscreetly uttered by Dorsenne on the clandestine return of the Pole to
Rome. She had not at that time been mistaken in Boleslas's intentions,
and she had no sooner looked in his face than she felt herself to be in
peril. When a man has been the lover of a woman as that man had been
hers, with the vibrating communion of a voluptuousness unbroken for two
years, that woman maintains a sort of physiological, quasi-animal
instinct. A gesture, the accent of a word, a sigh, a blush, a pallor,
are signs for her that her intuition interprets with infallible
certainty. How and why is that instinct accompanied by absolute oblivion
of former caresses? It is a particular case of that insoluble and
melancholy problem of the birth and death of love. Madame Steno had no
taste for reflection of that order. Like all vigorous and simple
creatures, she acknowledged and accepted it. As on the previous day,
she became aware that the presence of her former lover no longer touched
in her being the chord which had rendered her so weak to him during
twenty-five months, so indulgent to his slightest caprices. It left her
as cold as the marble of the bas-relief by Mino da Fiesole fitted into
the wall just above the high chair upon which he leaned.
Boleslas, notwithstanding the paroxysm of lucid fury which he suffered at
that moment, and which rendered him capable of the worst violence, had on
his part a knowledge of the complete insensibility in which his presence
left her. He had seen her so often, in the course of their long liaison,
arrive at their morning rendezvous at that hour, in similar toilettes,
so fresh, so supple, so youthful in her maturity, so eager for kisses,
tender and ardent. She had now in her blue eyes, in her smile, in her
entire person, some thing at once so gracious and so inaccessible, which
gives to an abandoned lover the mad longing to strike, to murder, a woman
who smiles at him with such a smile. At the same time she was so
beautiful in the morning light, subdued by the lowered blinds, that she
inspired him with an equal desire to clasp her in his arms whether she
would or no. He had recognized, when she entered the room, the aroma of
a preparation which she had used in her bath, and that trifle alone had
aroused his passion far more than when the servant told him Madame Steno
was engaged, and he wondered whether she was not alone with Maitland.
Those impassioned, but suppressed, feelings trembled in the accent of the
very simple phrase with which he greeted her. At certain moments, words
are nothing; it is the tone in which they are uttered. And to the
Countess that of the young man was terrible.
"I am disturbing you?" he asked, bowing and barely touching with the
tips of his fingers the hand she had extended to him on entering.
"Excuse me, I thought you alone. Will you be pleased to name another
time for the conversation which I take the liberty of demanding?"
"No, no," she replied, not permitting him to finish his sentence. "I was
with Peppino Ardea, who will await me," said she, gently. "Moreover, you
know I am in all things for the immediate. When one has something to
say, it should be said, one, two, three?.... First, there is not much to
say, and then it is better said.... There is nothing that will sooner
render difficult easy explanations and embroil the best of friends than
delay and maintaining silence."
"I am very happy to find you in such a mind," replied Boleslas, with a
sarcasm which distorted his handsome face into a smile of atrocious
hatred. The good-nature displayed by her cut him to the heart, and he
continued, already less self-possessed: "It is indeed an explanation
which I think I have the right to ask of you, and which I have come to
claim."
"To claim, my dear?" said the Countess, looking him fixedly in the face
without lowering her proud eyes, in which those imperative words had
kindled a flame.
If she had been admirable the preceding evening in facing as she had done
the return of her discarded lover, on coming direct from the tete-a-tete
with her new one, perhaps, at that moment, she was doubly so, when she
did not have her group of intimate friends to support her. She was not
sure that the madman who confronted her was not armed, and she believed
him perfectly capable of killing her, while she could not defend herself.
But a part had to be played sooner or later, and she played it without
flinching. She had not spoken an untruth in saying to Peppino Ardea:
"I know only one way: to see one's aim and to march directly to it." She
wanted a definitive rupture with Boleslas. Why should she hesitate as to
the means?
She was silent, seeking for words. He continued:
"Will you permit me to go back three months, although that is, it seems,
a long space of time for a woman's memory? I do not know whether you
recall our last meeting? Pardon, I meant to say the last but one, since
we met last night. Do you concede that the manner in which we parted
then did not presage the manner in which we met?"
"I concede it," said the Countess, with a gleam of angry pride in her
eyes, "although I do not very much like your style of expression. It is
the second time you have addressed me as an accuser, and if you assume
that attitude it will be useless to continue."
"Catherine!".... That cry of the young man, whose anger was increasing,
decided her whom he thus addressed to precipitate the issue of a
conversation in which each reply was to be a fresh burst of rancor.
"Well?" she inquired, crossing her arms in a manner so imperious that
he paused in his menace, and she continued: "Listen, Boleslas, we have
talked ten minutes without saying anything, because neither of us has the
courage to put the question such as we know and feel it to be. Instead
of writing to me, as you did, letters which rendered replies impossible
to me; instead of returning to Rome and hiding yourself like a
malefactor; instead of coming to my home last night with that threatening
face; instead of approaching me this morning with the solemnity of a
judge, why did you not question me simply, frankly, as one who knows that
I have loved him very, very much?.... Having been lovers, is that a
reason for detesting each other when we cease those relations?"
"'When we cease those relations!'" replied Gorka. "So you no longer love
me? Ah, I knew it; I guessed it after the first week of that fatal
absence! But to think that you should tell it to me some day like that,
in that calm voice which is a horrible blasphemy for our entire past.
No, I do not believe it. I do not yet believe it. Ah, it is too
infamous."
"Why?" interrupted the Countess, raising her head with still more
haughtiness.... "There is only one thing infamous in love, and that is
a falsehood. Ah, I know it. You men are not accustomed to meeting true
women, who have the respect, the religion of their sentiment. I have
that respect; I practise that religion. I repeat that I loved you a
great deal, Boleslas. I did not hide it from you formerly. I was as
loyal to you as truth itself. I have the consciousness of being so
still, in offering you, as I do, a firm friendship, the friendship of man
for man, who only asks to prove to you the sincerity of his devotion."
"I, a friendship with you, I--I--I?" exclaimed Boleslas. "Have I had
enough patience in listening to you as I have listened? I heard you lie
to me and scented the lie in the same breath. Why do you not ask me as
well to form a friendship for him with whom you have replaced me? Ah, so
you think I am blind, and you fancy I did not see that Maitland near you,
and that I did not know at the first glance what part he was playing in
your life? You did not think I might have good reasons for returning as
I did? You did not know that one does not dally with one whom one loves
as I love you?.... It is not true.... You have not been loyal to me,
since you took this man for a lover while you were still my mistress.
You had not the right, no, no, no, you had not the right!.... And what
a man!.... If it had been Ardea, Dorsenne, no matter whom, that I might
not blush for you.... But that brute, that idiot, who has nothing in his
favor, neither good looks, birth, elegance, mind nor talent, for he has
none--he has nothing but his neck and shoulders of a bull.... It is as
if you had deceived me with a lackey.... No..... it is too terrible....
Ah, Catherine, swear to me that it is not true. Tell me that you no
longer love me, I will submit, I will go away, I will accept all,
provided that you swear to me you do not love that man--swear, swear!"...
he added, grasping her hands with such violence that she uttered a slight
exclamation, and, disengaging herself, said to him:
"Cease; you pain me. You are mad, Gorka; that can be your sole
excuse.... I have nothing to swear to you. What I feel, what I think,
what I do no longer concerns you after what I have told you.... Believe
what it pleases you to believe.... But," and the irritation of an
enamored woman, wounded in the man she adores, possessed her, "you shall
not speak twice of one of my friends as you have just spoken. You have
deeply offended me, and I will not pardon you. In place of the
friendship I offered you so honestly, we will have no further connections
excepting those of society. That is what you desired.... Try not to
render them impossible to yourself. Be correct at least in form.
Remember you have a wife, I have a daughter, and that we owe it to them
to spare them the knowledge of this unhappy rupture.... God is my
witness, I wished to have it otherwise."
"My wife! Your daughter!" cried Boleslas with bitterness. "This is
indeed the hour to remember them and to put them between you and my just
vengeance! They never troubled you formerly, the two poor creatures,
when you began to win my love?.... It was convenient for you that they
should be friends! And I lent myself to it!.... I accepted such
baseness--that to-day you might take shelter behind the two innocents!...
No, it shall not be.... you shall not escape me thus. Since it is the
only point on which I can strike you, I will strike you there. I hold
you by that means, do you hear, and I will keep you. Either you dismiss
that man, or I will no longer respect anything. My wife shall know all!
Her! So much the better! For some time I have been stifled by my
lies.... Your daughter, too, shall know all. She shall judge you now as
she would judge you one day."
As he spoke he advanced to her with a manner so cruel that she recoiled.
A few more moments and the man would have carried out his threat.
He was about to strike her, to break objects around him, to call forth
a terrible scandal. She had the presence of mind of an audacity more
courageous still. An electric bell was near at hand. She pressed it,
while Gorka said to her, with a scornful laugh, "That was the only
affront left you to offer me--to summon your servants to defend you."
"You are mistaken," she replied. "I am not afraid. I repeat you are
mad, and I simply wish to prove it to you by recalling you to the reality
of your situation.... Bid Mademoiselle Alba come down," said she to the
footman whom her ring had summoned. That phrase was the drop of cold
water which suddenly broke the furious jet of vapor. She had found the
only means of putting an end to the terrible scene. For, notwithstanding
his menace, she knew that Maud's husband always recoiled before the young
girl, the friend of his wife, of whose delicacy and sensibility he was
aware.
Gorka was capable of the most dangerous and most cruel deeds, in an
excess of passion augmented by vanity.
He had in him a chivalrous element which would paralyze his frenzy before
Alba. As for the immorality of that combination of defence which
involved her daughter in her rupture with a vindictive lover, the
Countess did not think of that. She often said: "She is my comrade, she
is my friend.".... And she thought so. To lean upon her in that
critical moment was only natural to her. In the tempest of indignation
which shook Gorka, the sudden appeal to innocent Alba appeared to him the
last degree of cynicism. During the short space of time which elapsed
between the departure of the footman and the arrival of the young girl,
he only uttered these words, repeating them as he paced the floor, while
his former mistress defied him with her bold gaze:
"I scorn you, I scorn you; ah, how I scorn you!" Then, when he heard the
door open: "We will resume our conversation, Madame."
"When you wish," replied Countess Steno, and to her daughter, who
entered, she said: "You know the carriage is to come at ten minutes to
eleven, and it is now the quarter. Are you ready?"
"You can see," replied the young girl, displaying her pearl-gray gloves,
which she was just buttoning, while on her head a large hat of black
tulle made a dark and transparent aureole around her fair head. Her
delicate bust was displayed to advantage in the corsage Maitland had
chosen for her portrait, a sort of cuirass of a dark-blue material,
finished at the neck and wrists with bands of velvet of a darker shade.
The fine lines of cuffs and a collar gave to that pure face a grace of
youth younger than her age.
She had evidently come at her mother's call, with the haste and the smile
of that age. Then, to see Gorka's expression and the feverish brilliance
of the Countess's eyes had given her what she called, in an odd but very
appropriate way, the sensation of "a needle in the heart," of a sharp,
fine point, which entered her breast to the left. She had slept a sleep
so profound, after the soiree of the day before, on which she had thought
she perceived in her mother's attitude between the Polish count and the
American painter a proof of certain innocence.
She admired her mother so much, she thought her so intelligent, so
beautiful, so good, that to doubt her was a thought not to be borne!
There were times when she doubted her. A terrible conversation about the
Countess, overheard in a ballroom, a conversation between two men, who
did not know Alba to be behind them, had formed the principal part of the
doubt, which, by turns, had increased and diminished, which had abandoned
and tortured her, according to the signs, as little decisive as Madame
Steno's tranquillity of the preceding day or her confusion that morning.
It was only an impression, very rapid, instantaneous, the prick of a
needle, which merely leaves after it a drop of blood, and yet she had a
smile with which to say to Boleslas:
"How did Maud rest? How is she this morning? And my little friend Luc?"
"They are very well," replied Gorka. The last stage of his fury,
suddenly arrested by the presence of the young girl, was manifested, but
only to the Countess, by the simple phrase to which his eyes and his
voice lent an extreme bitterness: "I found them as I left them.... Ah!
They love me dearly.... I leave you to Peppino, Countess," added he,
walking toward the door. "Mademoiselle, I will bear your love to Maud."
....He had regained all the courtesy which a long line of savage 'grands
seigneurs', but 'grands seigneurs' nevertheless, had instilled in him.
If his bow to Madame Steno was very ceremonious, he put a special grace
in the low bow with which he took leave of the Contessina. It was merely
a trifle, but the Countess was keen enough to perceive it. She was
touched by it, she whom despair, fury, and threats had found so
impassive. For an instant she was vaguely humiliated by the success
which she had gained over the man whom she would, voluntarily, five
minutes before, have had cast out of doors by her servants. She was
silent, oblivious even of her daughter's presence, until the latter
recalled her to herself by saying:
"Shall I put on my veil and fetch my parasol?"
"You can join me in the office, whither I am going to talk with Ardea,"
replied her mother; adding, "I shall perhaps have some news to tell you
in the carriage which will give you pleasure!".... She had again her
bright smile, and she did not mistrust while she resumed her conversation
with Peppino that poor Alba, on reentering her chamber, wiped from her
pale cheeks two large tears, and that she opened, to re-read it, the
infamous anonymous letter received the day before. She knew by heart all
the perfidious phrases. Must it not have been that the mind which had
composed them was blinded by vengeance to such a degree that it had no
scruples about laying before the innocent child a denunciation which ran
thus:
"A true friend of Mademoiselle Steno warns her that she is
compromised, more than a marriageable young girl should be, in
playing, with regard to M. Maitland the role she has already played
with regard to M. Goyka. There are conditions of blindness so
voluntary that they become complicity."
Those words, enigmatical to any one else, but to the Contessina horribly
clear, had been, like the letters of which Boleslas had told Dorsenne,
cut from a journal and pasted on a sheet of paper. How had Alba trembled
on reading that note for the first time, with an emotion increased by the
horror of feeling hovering over her and her mother a hatred so
relentless! Later in the day how much had the words exchanged with
Dorsenne comforted her, and how reassured had she been by the Countess's
imperturbability on the entrance of Boleslas Gorka! Fragile peace, which
had vanished when she saw her mother and the husband of her best friend
face to face, with traces in their eyes, in their gestures, upon their
countenances, of an angry scene! The thought "Why were they thus! What
had they said?" again occurred to her to sadden her. Suddenly she
crushed in her hand with violence the anonymous letter, which gave a
concrete form to her sorrow and her suspicion, and, lighting a taper, she
held it to the paper, which the flames soon reduced to ashes. She ran
her fingers through the debris until there was very little left, and
then, opening the window, she cast it to the winds.
She looked at her glove after doing this--her glove, a few moments
before, of so delicate a gray, now stained by the smoky dust. It was
symbolical of the stain which the letter, even when destroyed, had left
upon her mind. The gloves, too, inspired her with horror. She hastily
drew them off, and, when she descended to rejoin Madame Steno, it was not
any more possible to perceive on those hands, freshly gloved, the traces
of that tragical childishness, than it was possible to discern, beneath
the large veil which she had tied over her hat, the traces of tears.
She found the mother for whom she was suffering so much, wearing, too,
a large sun-hat, but a white one with a white veil, beneath which could
be seen her fair hair, her sparkling blue eyes and pink-and-white
complexion; her form was enveloped in a gown of a material and cut more
youthful than her daughter's, while, radiant with delight, she said to
Peppino Ardea:
"Well, I congratulate you on having made up your mind. The step shall be
taken to-day, and you will be grateful to me all your life!"
"Yet," replied the young man, "I understand myself. I shall regret my
decision all the afternoon. It is true," he added, philosophically,
"that I should regret it just as much if I had not made it."
"You have guessed that we were talking of Fanny's marriage," said Madame
Steno to her daughter several minutes later, when they were seated side
by side, like two sisters, in the victoria which was bearing them toward
Maitland's studio.
"Then," asked the Contessina, "you think it will be arranged?"
"It is arranged," gayly replied Madame Steno. "I am commissioned to make
the proposition.... How happy all three will be!.... Hafner has aimed
at it this long time! I remember how, in 1880, after his suit, he came
to see me in Venice--you and Fanny played on the balcony of the palace--
he questioned me about the Quirinal, the Vatican and society.... Then he
concluded, pointing to his daughter, 'I shall make a Roman princess of
the little one!"
The 'dogaresse' was so delighted at the thought of the success of her
negotiations, so delighted, too, to go, as she was going, to Maitland's
studio, behind her two English cobs, which trotted so briskly, that she
did not see on the sidewalk Boleslas Gorka, who watched her pass.
Alba was so troubled by that fresh proof of her mother's lack of
conscience that she did not notice Maud's husband either. Baron Hafner's
and Prince d'Ardea's manner toward Fanny had inspired her the day before
with a dolorous analogy between the atmosphere of falsehood in which that
poor girl lived and the atmosphere in which she at times thought she
herself lived. That analogy again possessed her, and she again felt the
"needle in the heart" as she recalled what she had heard before from the
Countess of the intrigue by which Baron Justus Hafner had, indeed,
ensnared his future son-in-law. She was overcome by infinite sadness,
and she lapsed into one of her usual silent moods, while the Countess
related to her Peppino's indecision. What cared she for Boleslas's anger
at that moment? What could he do to her? Gorka was fully aware of her
utter carelessness of the scene which had taken place between them, as
soon as he saw the victoria pass. For some time he remained standing,
watching the large white and black hats disappear down the Rue du Vingt
Septembre.
This thought took possession of him at once. Madame Steno and her
daughter were going to Maitland's atelier.... He had no sooner conceived
that bitter suspicion than he felt the necessity of proving it at once.
He entered a passing cab, just as Ardea, having left the Villa, Steno
after him, sauntered up, saying:
"Where are you going? May I go with you that we may have a few moments'
conversation?"
"Impossible," replied Gorka. "I have a very urgent appointment, but in
an hour I shall perhaps have occasion to ask a service of you. Where
shall I find you?"
"At home," said Peppino, "lunching."
"Very well," replied Boleslas, and, raising himself, he whispered in the
cabman's ear, in a voice too low for his friend to hear what he said:
"Ten francs for you if in five minutes you drive me to the corner of the
Rue Napoleon III and the Place de la Victor-Emmanuel."
The man gathered up his reins, and, by some sleight-of-hand, the jaded
horse which drew the botte was suddenly transformed into a fine Roman
steed, the botte itself into a light carriage as swift as the Tuscan
carrozzelle, and the whole disappeared in a cross street, while Peppino
said to himself:
"There is a fine fellow who would do so much better to remain with his
friend Ardea than to go whither he is going. This affair will end in a
duel. If I had not to liquidate that folly," and he pointed out with the
end of his cane a placard relative to the sale of his own palace, "I
would amuse myself by taking Caterina from both of them. But those
little amusements must wait until after my marriage."
As we have seen, the cunning Prince had not been mistaken as to the
course taken by the cab Gorka had hailed. It was indeed into the
neighborhood of the atelier occupied by Maitland that the discarded lover
hastened, but not to the atelier. The madman wished to prove to himself
that the exhibition of his despair had availed him nothing, and that,
scarcely rid of him, Madame Steno had repaired to the other. What would
it avail him to know it and what would the evidence prove? Had the
Countess concealed those sittings--those convenient sittings--as the
jealous lover had told Dorsenne? The very thought of them caused the
blood to flow in his veins much more feverishly than did the thoughts of
the other meetings. For those he could still doubt, notwithstanding the
anonymous letters, notwithstanding the tete-a-tete on the terrace,
notwithstanding the insolent "Linco," whom she had addressed thus before
him, while of the long intimacies of the studio he was certain. They
maddened him, and, at the same time, by that strange contradiction which
is characteristic of all jealousy, he hungered and thirsted to prove
them.
He alighted from his cab at the corner he had named to his cabman, and
from which point he could watch the Rue Leopardi, in which was his
rival's house. It was a large structure in the Moorish style, built by
the celebrated Spanish artist, Juan Santigosa, who had been obliged to
sell all five years before--house, studio, horses, completed paintings,
sketches begun--in order to pay immense losses at gaming. Florent
Chapron had at the time bought the sort of counterfeit Alhambra, a
portion of which he rented to his brother-in-law. During the few moments
that he stood at the corner, Boleslas Gorka recalled having visited that
house the previous year, while taking, in the company of Madame Steno,
Alba, Maud, and Hafner, one of those walks of which fashionable women are
so fond in Rome as well as in Paris. An irrational instinct had rendered
the painter and his paintings antipathetic to him at their first meeting.
Had he had sufficient cause? Suddenly, on leaning forward in such a
manner as to see without being seen, he perceived a victoria which
entered the Rue Leopardi, and in that victoria the black hat of
Mademoiselle Steno and the light one of her mother. In two minutes more
the elegant carriage drew up at the Moorish structure, which gleamed
among the other buildings in that street, for the most part unfinished,
with a sort of insolent, sumptuousness.
The two ladies alighted and disappeared through the door, which closed
upon them, while the coachman started up his horses at the pace of
animals which are returning to their stable. He checked them that they
might not become overheated, and the fine cobs trembled impatiently in
their harnesses. Evidently the Countess and Alba were in the studio for
a long sitting. What had Boleslas learned that he did not already know?
Was he not ridiculous, standing upon the sidewalk of the square in the
centre of which rose the ruin of an antique reservoir, called, for a
reason more than doubtful, the trophy of Marius. With one glance the
young man took in this scene--the empty victoria turning in the opposite
direction, the large square, the ruin, the row of high houses, his cab.
He appeared to himself so absurd for being there to spy out that of which
he was only too sure, that he burst into a nervous laugh and reentered
his cab, giving his own address to the cabman: Palazzetto Doria, Place de
Venise. The cab that time started off leisurely, for the man
comprehended that the mad desire to arrive hastily no longer possessed
his fare. By a sudden metamorphosis, the swift Roman steed became a
common nag, and the vehicle a heavy machine which rumbled along the
streets. Boleslas yielded to depression, the inevitable reaction of an
excess of violence such as he had just experienced. His composure could
not last. The studio, in which was Madame Steno, began to take a clear
form in the jealous lover's mind in proportion as he drove farther from
it. In his thoughts he saw his former mistress walking about in the
framework of tapestry, armor, studies begun, as he had frequently seen
her walking in his smoking-room, with the smile upon her lips of an
amorous woman, touching the objects among which her lover lives. He saw
impassive Alba, who served as chaperon in the new intrigue of her
mother's with the same naivete she had formerly employed in shielding
their liaison. He saw Maitland with his indifferent glance of the day
before, the glance of a preferred lover, so sure of his triumph that he
did not even feel jealous of the former lover.
The absolute tranquillity of one who replaces us in an unfaithful
mistress's affections augments our fury still more if we have the
misfortune to be placed in a position similar to Gorka's. In a moment
his rival's evocation became to him impossible to bear. He was very near
his own home, for he was just at that admirable square encumbered with
the debris of basilica, the Forum of Trajan, which the statue of St.
Peter at the summit of the column overlooks. Around the base of the
sculptured marble, legends attest the triumph of the humble Galilean
fisherman who landed at the port of the Tiber 1800 years ago, unknown,
persecuted, a beggar. What a symbol and what counsel to say with the
apostle: "Whither shall we go, Lord? Thou alone hast the words of
eternal life!"
But Gorka was neither a Montfanon nor a Dorsenne to hear within his heart
or his mind the echo of such precepts. He was a man of passion and of
action, who only saw his passion and his actions in the position in which
fortune threw him. A fresh access of fury recalled to him Maitland's
attitude of the preceding day. This time he would no longer control
himself. He violently pulled the surprised coachman's sleeve, and called
out to him the address of the Rue Leopardi in so imperative a tone that
the horse began again to trot as he had done before, and the cab to go
quickly through the labyrinth of streets. A wave of tragical desire
rolled into the young man's heart. No, he would not bear that affront.
He was too bitterly wounded in the most sensitive chords of his being, in
his love as well as his pride. Both struggled within him, and another
instinct as well, urging him to the mad step he was about to take. The
ancient blood of the Palatines, with regard to which Dorsenne always
jested, boiled in his veins. If the Poles have furnished many heroes for
dramas and modern romances, they have remained, through their faults, so
dearly atoned for, the race the most chivalrously, the most madly brave
in Europe. When men of so intemperate and so complex an excitability are
touched to a certain depth, they think of a duel as naturally as the
descendants of a line of suicides think of killing themselves.
Joyous Ardea, with his Italian keenness, had seen at a glance the end to
which Gorka's nature would lead him. The betrayed lover required a duel
to enable him to bear the treason. He might wound, he might, perhaps,
kill his rival, and his passion would be satisfied, or else he would risk
being killed himself, and the courage he would display braving death
would suffice to raise him in his own estimation. A mad thought
possessed him and caused him to hasten toward the Rue Leopardi, to
provoke his rival suddenly and before Madame Steno! Ah, what pleasure it
would give him to see her tremble, for she surely would tremble when she
saw him enter the studio! But he would be correct, as she had so
insolently asked him to be. He would go, so to speak, to see Alba's
portrait. He would dissemble, then he would be better able to find a
pretext for an argument. It is so easy to find one in the simplest
conversation, and from an argument a quarrel is soon born. He would
speak in such a manner that Maitland would have to answer him. The rest
would follow. But would Alba Steno be present? Ha, so much the better!
He would be so much more at ease, if the altercation arose before her,
to deceive his own wife as to the veritable reason of the duel. Ah, he
would have his dispute at any price, and from the moment that the seconds
had exchanged visits the American's fate would be decided. He knew how
to render it impossible for the fellow to remain longer in Rome. The
young man was greatly wrought up by the romance of the provocation and
the duel.
"How it refreshes the blood to be avenged upon two fools," said he to
himself, descending from his cab and inquiring at the door of the Moorish
house.
"Monsieur Maitland?" he asked the footman, who at one blow dissipated
his excitement by replying with this simple phrase, the only one of which
he had not thought in his frenzy:
"Monsieur is not at home."
"He will be at home to me," replied Boleslas. "I have an appointment
with Madame and Mademoiselle Steno, who are awaiting me."
"Monsieur's orders are strict," replied the servant.
Accustomed, as are all servants entrusted with the defence of an artist's
work, to a certain rigor of orders, he yet hesitated, in the face of the
untruth which Gorka had invented on the spur of the moment, and he was
about to yield to his importunity when some one appeared on the staircase
of the hall. That some one was none other than Florent Chapron. Chance
decreed that the latter should send for a carriage in which to go to
lunch, and that the carriage should be late. At the sound of wheels
stopping at the door, he looked out of one of the windows of his
apartment, which faced the street. He saw Gorka alight. Such a visit,
at such an hour, with the persons who were in the atelier, seemed to him
so dangerous that he ran downstairs immediately. He took up his hat and
his cane, to justify his presence in the hall by the very natural excuse
that he was going out. He reached the middle of the staircase just in
time to stop the servant, who had decided to "go and see," and, bowing to
Boleslas with more formality than usual:
"My brother-in-law is not there, Monsieur," said he; and he added,
turning to the footman, in order to dispose of him in case an altercation
should arise between the importunate visitor and himself, "Nero, fetch me
a handkerchief from my room. I have forgotten mine."
"That order could not be meant for me, Monsieur," insisted Boleslas.
"Monsieur Maitland has made an appointment with me, with Madame Steno,
in order to show us Alba's portrait."
"It is no order," replied Florent. "I repeat to you that my brother-in-
law has gone out. The studio is closed, and it is impossible for me to
undertake to open it to show you the picture, since I have not the key.
As for Madame and Mademoiselle Steno, they have not been here for several
days; the sittings have been interrupted."
"What is still more extraordinary, Monsieur," replied the other, "is that
I saw them with my own eyes, five minutes ago, enter this house and I,
too, saw their carriage drive away.".... He felt his anger increase and
direct itself altogether against the watch-dog so suddenly raised upon
the threshold of his rival's house.
Florent, on his part, had begun to lose patience. He had within him the
violent irritability of the negro blood, which he did not acknowledge,
but which slightly tinted his complexion. The manner of Madame Steno's
former lover seemed to him so outrageous that he replied very dryly, as
he opened the door, in order to oblige the caller to leave:
"You are mistaken,--Monsieur, that is all."
"You are aware, Monsieur," replied Boleslas, "of the fact that you just
addressed me in a tone which is not the one which I have a right to
expect from you.... When one charges one's self with a certain business,
it is at least necessary to introduce a little form."
"And I, Monsieur," replied Chapron, "would be very much obliged to you if,
when you address me, you would not do so in enigmas. I do not know what
you mean by 'a certain business,' but I know that it is unbefitting a
gentleman to act as you have acted at the door of a house which is not
yours and for reasons that I can not comprehend."
"You will comprehend them very soon, Monsieur," said Boleslas, beside
himself, "and you have not constituted yourself your brother's slave
without motives."
He had no sooner uttered that sentence than Florent, incapable any longer
of controlling himself, raised his cane with a menacing gesture, which
the Polish Count arrested just in time, by seizing it in his right hand.
It was the work of a second, and the two men were again face to face,
both pale with anger, ready to collar one another rudely, when the sound
of a door closing above their heads recalled to them their dignity. The
servant descended the stairs. It was Chapron who first regained his
self-possession, and he said to Boleslas, in a voice too low to be heard
by any one but him:
"No scandal, Monsieur, eh? I shall have the honor of sending two of my
friends to you."
"It is I, Monsieur," replied Gorka, "who will send you two. You shall
answer to me for your manner, I assure you."
"Ha! Whatsoever you like," said the other. "I accept all your
conditions in advance.... But one thing I ask of you," he added, "that
no names be mentioned. There would be too many persons involved. Let it
appear that we had an argument on the street, that we disagreed, and that
I threatened you."
"So be it," said Boleslas, after a pause. "You have my word. There is a
man," said he to himself five minutes later, when again rolling through
the streets in his cab, after giving the cabman the address of the Palais
Castagna. "Yes, there is a man.... He was very insolent just now, and I
lacked composure. I am too nervous. I should be sorry to injure the
boy. But, patience, the other will lose nothing by waiting."