An hour after the Princess had left the house with Paul Muniment,
Madame Grandoni came down to supper, a meal of which she partook, in
gloomy solitude, in the little back parlour. She had pushed away her
plate, and sat motionless, staring at the crumpled cloth, with her
hands folded on the edge of the table, when she became aware that a
gentleman had been ushered into the drawing-room and was standing
before the fire in an attitude of discreet expectancy. At the same
moment the maid-servant approached the old lady, remarking with bated
breath, “The Prince, the Prince, mum! It’s you he ’ave asked for, mum!”
Upon this, Madame Grandoni called out to the visitor from her place,
addressed him as her poor illustrious friend and bade him come and give
her his arm. He obeyed with solemn alacrity, and conducted her into the
front room, near the fire. He helped her to arrange herself in her
arm-chair and to gather her shawl about her; then he seated himself
near her and remained with his dismal eyes bent upon her. After a
moment she said, “Tell me something about Rome. The grass in the Villa
Borghese must already be thick with flowers.”
“I would have brought you some, if I had thought,” he answered. Then he
turned his gaze about the room. “Yes, you may well ask, in such a black
little hole as this. My wife should not live here,” he added.
“Ah, my dear friend, for all that she’s your wife!” the old woman
exclaimed.
The Prince sprang up in sudden, passionate agitation, and then she saw
that the rigid quietness with which he had come into the room and
greeted her was only an effort of his good manners. He was really
trembling with excitement. “It is true—it is true! She _has_ lovers—she
_has_ lovers!” he broke out. “I have seen it with my eyes, and I have
come here to know!”
“I don’t know what you have seen, but your coming here to know will not
have helped you much. Besides, if you have seen, you know for yourself.
At any rate, I have ceased to be able to tell you.”
“You are afraid—you are afraid!” cried the visitor, with a wild
accusatory gesture.
Madame Grandoni looked up at him with slow speculation. “Sit down and
be tranquil, very tranquil. I have ceased to pay attention—I take no
heed.”
“Well, I do, then,” said the Prince, subsiding a little. “Don’t you
know she has gone out to a house, in a horrible quarter, with a man?”
“I think it highly probable, dear Prince.”
“And who is he? That’s what I want to discover.”
“How can I tell you? I haven’t seen him.”
He looked at her a moment, with his distended eyes. “Dear lady, is that
kind to me, when I have counted on you?”
“Oh, I am not kind any more; it’s not a question of that. I am angry—as
angry, almost, as you.”
“Then why don’t you watch her, eh?”
“It’s not with her I am angry. It’s with myself,” said Madame Grandoni,
meditatively.
“For becoming so indifferent, do you mean?”
“On the contrary, for staying in the house.”
“Thank God, you are still here, or I couldn’t have come. But what a
lodging for the Princess!” the visitor exclaimed. “She might at least
live in a manner befitting.”
“Eh, the last time you were in London you thought it was too costly!”
she cried.
He hesitated a moment. “Whatever she does is wrong. Is it because it’s
so bad that you must go?” he went on.
“It is foolish—foolish—foolish,” said Madame Grandoni, slowly,
impressively.
“Foolish, _chè, chè!_ He was in the house nearly an hour, this one.”
“In the house? In what house?”
“Here, where you sit. I saw him go in, and when he came out it was
after a long time, with her.”
“And where were you, meanwhile?”
Again Prince Casamassima hesitated. “I was on the other side of the
street. When they came out I followed them. It was more than an hour
ago.”
“Was it for that you came to London?”
“Ah, what I came for! To put myself in hell!”
“You had better go back to Rome,” said Madame Grandoni.
“Of course I will go back, but if you will tell me who this one is! How
can you be ignorant, dear friend, when he comes freely in and out of
the house where I have to watch, at the door, for a moment that I can
snatch? He was not the same as the other.”
“As the other?”
“Doubtless there are fifty! I mean the little one whom I met in the
other house, that Sunday afternoon.”
“I sit in my room almost always now,” said the old woman. “I only come
down to eat.”
“Dear lady, it would be better if you would sit here,” the Prince
remarked.
“Better for whom?”
“I mean that if you did not withdraw yourself you could at least answer
my questions.”
“Ah, but I have not the slightest desire to answer them,” Madame
Grandoni replied. “You must remember that I am not here as your spy.”
“No,” said the Prince, in a tone of extreme and simple melancholy. “If
you had given me more information I should not have been obliged to
come here myself. I arrived in London only this morning, and this
evening I spent two hours walking up and down opposite the house, like
a groom waiting for his master to come back from a ride. I wanted a
personal impression. It was so that I saw him come in. He is not a
gentleman—not even like some of the strange ones here.”
“I think he is Scotch,” remarked Madame Grandoni.
“Ah, then, you _have_ seen him?”
“No, but I have heard him. He speaks very loud—the floors of this house
are not built as we build in Italy—and his voice is the same that I
have heard in the people of that country. Besides, she has told me—some
things. He is a chemist’s assistant.”
“A chemist’s assistant? _Santo Dio!_ And the other one, a year ago—more
than a year ago—was a bookbinder.”
“Oh, the bookbinder!” murmured Madame Grandoni.
“And does she associate with no people of good? Has she no other
society?”
“For me to tell you more, Prince, you must wait till I am free,” said
the old lady.
“How do you mean, free?”
“I must choose. I must either go away—and then I can tell you what I
have seen—or if I stay here I must hold my tongue.”
“But if you go away you will have seen nothing,” the Prince objected.
“Ah, plenty as it is—more than I ever expected to!”
The Prince clasped his hands together in tremulous suppliance; but at
the same time he smiled, as if to conciliate, to corrupt. “Dearest
friend, you torment my curiosity. If you will tell me this, I will
never ask you anything more. Where did they go? For the love of God,
what is that house?”
“I know nothing of their houses,” she returned, with an impatient
shrug.
“Then there are others—there are many?” She made no answer, but sat
brooding, with her chin in her protrusive kerchief. Her visitor
presently continued, in a soft, earnest tone, with his beautiful
Italian distinctness, as if his lips cut and carved the sound, while
his fine fingers quivered into quick, emphasising gestures, “The street
is small and black, but it is like all the streets. It has no
importance; it is at the end of an endless imbroglio. They drove for
twenty minutes; then they stopped their cab and got out. They went
together on foot some minutes more. There were many turns; they seemed
to know them well. For me it was very difficult—of course I also got
out; I had to stay so far behind—close against the houses. Chiffinch
Street, N.E.—that was the name,” the Prince continued, pronouncing the
word with difficulty; “and the house is number 32—I looked at that
after they went in. It’s a very bad house—worse than this; but it has
no sign of a chemist, and there are no shops in the street. They rang
the bell—only once, though they waited a long time; it seemed to me, at
least, that they did not touch it again. It was several minutes before
the door was opened; and that was a bad time for me, because as they
stood there they looked up and down. Fortunately you know the air of
this place! I saw no light in the house—not even after they went in.
Who let them enter I couldn’t tell. I waited nearly half an hour, to
see how long they would stay and what they would do on coming out;
then, at last, my impatience brought me here, for to know she was
absent made me hope I might see you. While I was there two persons went
in—two men, together, smoking, who looked like _artisti_ (I didn’t see
them near), but no one came out. I could see they took their cigars—and
you can fancy what tobacco!—into the presence of the Princess.
Formerly,” pursued Madame Grandoni’s visitor, with a touching attempt
at a jocular treatment of this point, “she never tolerated
smoking—never mine, at least. The street is very quiet—very few people
pass. Now what is the house? Is it where that man lives?” he asked,
almost in a whisper.
He had been encouraged by her consenting, in spite of her first
protests, to listen to him—he could see she _was_ listening; and he was
still more encouraged when, after a moment, she answered his question
by a question of her own: “Did you cross the river to go there? I know
that he lives over the water.”
“Ah, no, it was not in that part. I tried to ask the cabman who brought
me back to explain to me what it is called; but I couldn’t make him
understand. They have heavy minds,” the Prince declared. Then he
pursued, drawing a little closer to his hostess: “But what were they
doing there? Why did she go with him?”
“They are plotting. There!” said Madame Grandoni.
“You mean a secret society, a band of revolutionists and murderers?
_Capisco bene_—that is not new to me. But perhaps they only pretend
it’s for that,” added the Prince.
“Only pretend? Why should they pretend? That is not Christina’s way.”
“There are other possibilities,” the Prince observed.
“Oh, of course, when your wife goes away with strange men, in the dark,
to far-away houses, you can think anything you like, and I have nothing
to say to your thoughts. I have my own, but they are my own affair, and
I shall not undertake to defend Christina, for she is indefensible.
When she does the things she does, she provokes, she invites, the worst
construction; there let it rest, save for this one remark, which I will
content myself with making: if she were a licentious woman she would
not behave as she does now, she would not expose herself to
irresistible interpretations; the appearance of everything would be
good and proper. I simply tell you what I believe. If I believed that
what she is doing concerned you alone, I should say nothing about it—at
least sitting here. But it concerns others, it concerns every one, so I
will open my mouth at last. She has gone to that house to break up
society.”
“To break it up, yes, as she has wanted before?”
“Oh, more than before! She is very much entangled. She has relations
with people who are watched by the police. She has not told me, but I
have perceived it by simply living with her.”
Prince Casamassima stared. “And is _she_ watched by the police?”
“I can’t tell you; it is very possible—except that the police here is
not like that of other countries.”
“It is more stupid,” said the Prince. He gazed at Madame Grandoni with
a flush of shame on his face. “Will she bring us to _that_ scandal? It
would be the worst of all.”
“There is one chance—the chance that she will get tired of it,” the old
lady remarked. “Only the scandal may come before that.”
“Dear friend, she is the devil,” said the Prince, solemnly.
“No, she is not the devil, because she wishes to do good.”
“What good did she ever wish to do to me?” the Italian demanded, with
glowing eyes.
Madame Grandoni shook her head very sadly. “You can do no good, of any
kind, to each other. Each on your own side, you must be quiet.”
“How can I be quiet when I hear of such infamies?” Prince Casamassima
got up, in his violence, and, in a tone which caused his companion to
burst into a short, incongruous laugh as soon as she heard the words,
exclaimed, “She shall _not_ break up society!”
“No, she will bore herself before the trick is played. Make up your
mind to that.”
“That is what I expected to find—that the caprice was over. She has
passed through so many follies.”
“Give her time—give her time,” replied Madame Grandoni.
“Time to drag my name into an assize-court? Those people are robbers,
incendiaries, murderers!”
“You can say nothing to me about them that I haven’t said to her.”
“And how does she defend herself?”
“Defend herself? Did you ever hear Christina do that?” Madame Grandoni
asked. “The only thing she says to me is, ‘Don’t be afraid; I promise
you by all that’s sacred that you shan’t suffer.’ She speaks as if she
had it all in her hands. That is very well. No doubt I’m a selfish old
woman, but, after all, one has a heart for others.”
“And so have I, I think I may pretend,” said the Prince. “You tell me
to give her time, and it is certain that she will take it, whether I
give it or not. But I can at least stop giving her money. By heaven,
it’s my duty, as an honest man.”
“She tells me that as it is you don’t give her much.”
“Much, dear lady? It depends on what you call so. It’s enough to make
all these scoundrels flock around her.”
“They are not all scoundrels, any more than she is. That is the strange
part of it,” said the old woman, with a weary sigh.
“But this fellow, the chemist—to-night—what do you call him?”
“She has spoken to me of him as a most estimable young man.”
“But she thinks it’s estimable to blow us all up,” the Prince returned.
“Doesn’t _he_ take her money?”
“I don’t know what he takes. But there are some things—heaven forbid
one should forget them! The misery of London is something fearful.”
“_Che vuole?_ There is misery everywhere,” returned the Prince. “It is
the will of God. _Ci vuol’ pazienza!_ And in this country does no one
give alms?”
“Every one, I believe. But it appears that it is not enough.”
The Prince said nothing for a moment; this statement of Madame
Grandoni’s seemed to present difficulties. The solution, however, soon
suggested itself; it was expressed in the inquiry, “What will you have
in a country which has not the true faith?”
“Ah, the true faith is a great thing; but there is suffering even in
countries that have it.”
“_Evidentemente_. But it helps suffering to be borne, and, later, it
makes it up; whereas here—!” said the old lady’s visitor, with a
melancholy smile. “If I may speak of myself, it is to me, in my
circumstances, a support.”
“That is good,” said Madame Grandoni.
He stood before her, resting his eyes for a moment on the floor. “And
the famous Cholto—Godfrey Gerald—does he come no more?”
“I haven’t seen him for months, and know nothing about him.”
“He doesn’t like the chemists and the bookbinders, eh?” asked the
Prince.
“Ah, it was he who first brought them—to gratify your wife.”
“If they have turned him out, then, that is very well. Now, if only
some one could turn _them_ out!”
“_Aspetta, aspetta!_” said the old woman.
“That is very good advice, but to follow it isn’t amusing.” Then the
Prince added, “You alluded, just now, as to something particular, to
_quel giovane_, the young artisan whom I met in the other house. Is he
also estimable, or has he paid the penalty of his crimes?”
“He has paid the penalty, but I don’t know of what. I have nothing bad
to tell you of him, except that I think his star is on the wane.”
“_Poverino!_” the Prince exclaimed.
“That is exactly the manner in which I addressed him the first time I
saw him. I didn’t know how it would happen, but I felt that it would
happen somehow. It has happened through his changing his opinions. He
has now the same idea as you—that _ci vuol’ pazienza_.”
The Prince listened with the same expression of wounded eagerness, the
same parted lips and excited eyes, to every added fact that dropped
from Madame Grandoni’s lips. “That, at least, is more honest. Then _he_
doesn’t go to Chiffinch Street?”
“I don’t know about Chiffinch Street; but it would be my impression
that he doesn’t go anywhere that Christina and the other one—the
Scotchman—go together. But these are delicate matters,” the old woman
pursued.
They seemed much to interest her interlocutor. “Do you mean that the
Scotchman is—what shall I call it?—his successor?”
For a moment Madame Grandoni made no reply. “I think that this case is
different. But I don’t understand; it was the other, the little one,
that helped her to know the Scotchman.”
“And now they have quarrelled—about my wife? It is all tremendously
edifying!” the Prince exclaimed.
“I can’t tell you, and shouldn’t have attempted it, only that Assunta
talks to me.”
“I wish she would talk to me,” said the Prince, wistfully.
“Ah, my friend, if Christina were to find you getting at her servants!”
“How could it be worse for me than it is now? However, I don’t know why
I speak as if I cared, for I don’t care any more. I have given her up.
It is finished.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Madame Grandoni, gravely.
“You yourself made the distinction, perfectly. So long as she
endeavoured only to injure _me_, and in my private capacity, I could
condone, I could wait, I could hope. But since she has so recklessly
thrown herself into the most criminal undertakings, since she lifts her
hand with a determined purpose, as you tell me, against the most sacred
institutions—it is too much; ah, yes, it is too much! She may go her
way; she is no wife of mine. Not another penny of mine shall go into
her pocket, and into that of the wretches who prey upon her, who have
corrupted her.”
“Dear Prince, I think you are right. And yet I am sorry!” sighed the
old woman, extending her hand for assistance to rise from her chair.
“If she becomes really poor, it will be much more difficult for me to
leave her. _This_ is not poverty, and not even a good imitation of it,
as she would like it to be. But what will be said of me if having
remained with her through so much of her splendour, I turn away from
her the moment she begins to want?”
“Dear lady, do you ask that to make me relent?” the Prince inquired,
after an hesitation.
“Not in the least; for whatever is said and whatever you do, there is
nothing for me in decency, at present, but to pack my trunk. Judge, by
the way I have tattled.”
“If you will stay on, she shall have everything.” The Prince spoke in a
very low tone, with a manner that betrayed the shame he felt at his
attempt at bribery.
Madame Grandoni gave him an astonished glance and moved away from him.
“What does that mean? I thought you didn’t care.”
I know not what explanation of his inconsequence her companion would
have given her if at that moment the door of the room had not been
pushed open to permit the entrance of Hyacinth Robinson. He stopped
short on perceiving that Madame Grandoni had a visitor, but before he
had time to say anything the old lady addressed him with a certain
curtness: “Ah, you don’t fall well; the Princess isn’t at home.”
“That was mentioned to me, but I ventured to come in to see you, as I
have done before,” Hyacinth replied. Then he added, as if he were
retreating, “I beg many pardons. I was not told that you were not
alone.”
“My visitor is going, but I am going too,” said Madame Grandoni. “I
must take myself to my room—I am all falling to pieces. Therefore
kindly excuse me.”
Hyacinth had had time to recognise the Prince, and this nobleman paid
him the same compliment, as was proved by his asking of Madame
Grandoni, in a rapid aside, in Italian, “Isn’t it the bookbinder?”
“_Sicuro_,” said the old lady; while Hyacinth, murmuring a regret that
he should find her indisposed, turned back to the door.
“One moment—one moment, I pray!” the Prince interposed, raising his
hand persuasively and looking at him with an unexpected, exaggerated
smile. “Please introduce me to the gentleman,” he added, in English, to
Madame Grandoni.
She manifested no surprise at the request—she had none left,
apparently, for anything—but pronounced the name of Prince Casamassima,
and then added, for Hyacinth’s benefit, “He knows who you are.”
“Will you permit me to keep you a very little minute?” the Prince
continued, addressing the other visitor; after which he remarked to
Madame Grandoni, “I will speak with him a little. It is perhaps not
necessary that we should incommode you, if you do not wish to stay.”
She had for a moment, as she tossed off a satirical little laugh, a
return of her ancient drollery: “Remember that if you talk long she may
come back! Yes, yes, I will go upstairs. _Felicissima notte, signori!_”
She took her way to the door, which Hyacinth, considerably bewildered,
held open for her.
The reasons for which Prince Casamassima wished to converse with him
were mysterious; nevertheless, he was about to close the door behind
Madame Grandoni, as a sign that he was at the service of her companion.
At this moment the latter extended again a courteous, remonstrant hand.
“After all, as my visit is finished and as yours comes to nothing,
might we not go out?”
“Certainly, I will go with you,” said Hyacinth. He spoke with an
instinctive stiffness, in spite of the Prince’s queer affability, and
in spite also of the fact that he felt sorry for the nobleman, to whose
countenance Madame Grandoni’s last injunction, uttered in English, had
brought a deep and painful blush. It is needless to go into the
question of what Hyacinth, face to face with an aggrieved husband, may
have had on his conscience, but he assumed, naturally enough, that the
situation might be grave, though indeed the Prince’s manner was, for
the moment, incongruously conciliatory. Hyacinth invited his new
acquaintance to pass, and in a minute they were in the street together.
“Do you go here—do you go there?” the Prince inquired, as they stood a
moment before the house. “If you will permit, I will take the same
direction.” On Hyacinth’s answering that it was indifferent to him the
Prince said, turning to the right, “Well, then, here, but slowly, if
that pleases you, and only a little way.” His English was far from
perfect, but his errors were mainly errors of pronunciation, and
Hyacinth was struck with his effort to express himself very distinctly,
so that in intercourse with a little representative of the British
populace his foreignness should not put him at a disadvantage. Quick as
he was to perceive and appreciate, Hyacinth noted how a certain quality
of breeding that was in his companion enabled him to compass that
coolness, and he mentally applauded his success in a difficult feat.
Difficult he judged it because it seemed to him that the purpose for
which the Prince wished to speak to him was one which must require a
deal of explanation, and it was a sign of training to explain
adequately, in a foreign tongue, especially if one were agitated, to a
person in a social position very different from one’s own. Hyacinth
knew what the Prince’s estimate of _his_ importance must be (he could
have no illusions as to the character of the people his wife received);
but while he heard him carefully put one word after the other he was
able to smile to himself at his needless precautions. Hyacinth
reflected that at a pinch he could have encountered him in his own
tongue; during his stay at Venice he had picked up an Italian
vocabulary. “With Madame Grandoni I spoke of you,” the Prince
announced, dispassionately, as they walked along. “She told me a thing
that interested me,” he added; “that is why I walk with you.” Hyacinth
said nothing, deeming that better by silence than in any other fashion
he held himself at the disposal of his interlocutor. “She told me you
have changed—you have no more the same opinions.”
“The same opinions?”
“About the arrangement of society. You desire no more the assassination
of the rich.”
“I never desired any such thing!” said Hyacinth, indignantly.
“Oh, if you have changed, you can confess,” the Prince rejoined, in an
encouraging tone. “It is very good for some people to be rich. It would
not be right for all to be poor.”
“It would be pleasant if all could be rich,” Hyacinth suggested.
“Yes, but not by stealing and shooting.”
“No, not by stealing and shooting. I never desired that.”
“Ah, no doubt she was mistaken. But to-day you think we must have
patience,” the Prince went on, as if he hoped very much that Hyacinth
would allow this valuable conviction to be attributed to him. “That is
also my view.”
“Oh, yes, we must have patience,” said Hyacinth, who was now smiling to
himself in the dark.
They had by this time reached the end of the little Crescent, where the
Prince paused under the street-lamp. He considered Hyacinth’s
countenance for a moment by its help, and then he pronounced, “If I am
not mistaken, you know very well the Princess.”
Hyacinth hesitated a moment. “She has been very kind to me.”
“She is my wife—perhaps you know.”
Again Hyacinth hesitated, but after a moment he replied, “She has told
me that she is married.” As soon as he had spoken these words he
thought them idiotic.
“You mean you would not know if she had not told you, I suppose.
Evidently, there is nothing to show it. You can think if that is
agreeable to me.”
“Oh, I can’t think, I can’t judge,” said Hyacinth.
“You are right—that is impossible.” The Prince stood before his
companion, and in the pale gaslight the latter saw more of his face. It
had an unnatural expression, a look of wasted anxiety; the eyes seemed
to glitter, and Hyacinth conceived the unfortunate nobleman to be
feverish and ill. He continued in a moment: “Of course you think it
strange—my conversation. I want you to tell me something.”
“I am afraid you are very unwell,” said Hyacinth.
“Yes, I am unwell; but I shall be better if you will tell me. It is
because you have come back to good ideas—that is why I ask you.”
A sense that the situation of the Princess’s husband was really
pitiful, that at any rate he suffered and was helpless, that he was a
gentleman and even a person who would never have done any great harm—a
perception of these appealing truths came into Hyacinth’s heart, and
stirred there a desire to be kind to him, to render him any service
that, in reason, he might ask. It appeared to Hyacinth that he must be
pretty sick to ask any service at all, but that was his own affair. “If
you would like me to see you safely home, I will do that,” our young
man remarked; and even while he spoke he was struck with the oddity of
his being already on such friendly terms with a person whom he had
hitherto supposed to be the worst enemy of the rarest of women. He
found himself unable to consider the Prince with resentment.
This personage acknowledged the civility of his offer with a slight
inclination of his high slimness. “I am very much obliged to you, but I
will not go home. I will not go home till I know this—to what house she
has gone. Will you tell me that?”
“To what house?” Hyacinth repeated.
“She has gone with a person whom you know. Madame Grandoni told me
that. He is a Scotch chemist.”
“A Scotch chemist?” Hyacinth stared.
“I saw them myself—two hours, three hours, ago. Listen, listen; I will
be very clear,” said the Prince, laying his forefinger on the other
hand with an explanatory gesture. “He came to that house—this one,
where we have been, I mean—and stayed there a long time. I was here in
the street—I have passed my day in the street! They came out together,
and I watched them, I followed them.”
Hyacinth had listened with wonder, and even with suspense; the Prince’s
manner gave an air of such importance, such mystery, to what he had to
relate. But at this he broke out: “This is not my business—I can’t hear
it! _I_ don’t watch, _I_ don’t follow.”
The Prince stared a moment, in surprise; then he rejoined, more quickly
than he had spoken yet, “But they went to a house where they conspire,
where they prepare horrible acts. How can you like that?”
“How do you know it, sir?” Hyacinth inquired, gravely.
“It is Madame Grandoni who has told me.”
“Why, then, do you ask me?”
“Because I am not sure, I don’t think she knows. I want to know more,
to be sure of what is done in that house. Does she go there only for
the revolution,” the Prince demanded, “or does she go there to be alone
with him?”
“With _him?_” The Prince’s tone and his excited eyes infused a kind of
vividness into the suggestion.
“With the tall man—the chemist. They got into a hansom together; the
house is far away, in the lost quarters.”
Hyacinth drew himself together. “I know nothing about the matter, and I
don’t care. If that is all you wish to ask me, we had better separate.”
The Prince’s face elongated; it seemed to grow paler. “Then it is not
true that you hate those abominations!”
Hyacinth hesitated a moment. “How can you know about my opinions? How
can they interest you?”
The Prince looked at him with sick eyes; he raised his arms a moment, a
certain distance, and then let them drop at his sides. “I hoped you
would help me.”
“When we are in trouble we can’t help each other much!” our young man
exclaimed. But this austere reflection was lost upon the Prince, who at
the moment Hyacinth spoke had already turned to look in the direction
from which they had proceeded, the other end of the Crescent, his
attention apparently being called thither by the sound of a rapid
hansom. The place was still and empty, and the wheels of this vehicle
reverberated. The Prince peered at it through the darkness, and in an
instant he cried, under his breath, excitedly, “They have come
back—they have come back! Now you can see—yes, the two!” The hansom had
slackened pace and pulled up; the house before which it stopped was
clearly the house the two men had lately quitted. Hyacinth felt his arm
seized by the Prince, who, hastily, by a strong effort, drew him
forward several yards. At this moment a part of the agitation that
possessed the unhappy Italian seemed to pass into his own blood; a wave
of anxiety rushed through him—anxiety as to the relations of the two
persons who had descended from the cab; he had, in short, for several
instants, a very exact revelation of the state of feeling of a jealous
husband. If he had been told, half an hour before, that he was capable
of surreptitious peepings, in the interest of such jealousy, he would
have resented the insult; yet he allowed himself to be checked by his
companion just at the nearest point at which they might safely consider
the proceedings of the couple who alighted. It was in fact the
Princess, accompanied by Paul Muniment. Hyacinth noticed that the
latter paid the cabman, who immediately drove away, from his own
pocket. He stood with the Princess for some minutes at the door of the
house—minutes during which Hyacinth felt his heart beat insanely,
ignobly, he couldn’t tell why.
“What does he say? what does _she_ say?” hissed the Prince; and when he
demanded, the next moment, “Will he go in again, or will he go away?”
our sensitive youth felt that a voice was given to his own most eager
thought. The pair were talking together, with rapid sequences, and as
the door had not yet been opened it was clear that, to prolong the
conversation on the steps, the Princess delayed to ring. “It will make
three, four, hours he has been with her,” moaned the Prince.
“He may be with her fifty hours!” Hyacinth answered, with a laugh,
turning away, ashamed of himself.
“He has gone in—_sangue di Dio!_” cried the Prince, catching his
companion again by the arm and making him look. All that Hyacinth saw
was the door just closing; the Princess and Muniment were on the other
side of it. “Is _that_ for the revolution?” the trembling nobleman
panted. But Hyacinth made no answer; he only gazed at the closed door
an instant, and then, disengaging himself, walked straight away,
leaving the Italian, in the darkness, to direct a great helpless,
futile shake of his stick at the indifferent house.