Sabina had been more than two months in Baron Volterra's house, when
she at last received a line from her mother. The short letter was
characteristic and was, after all, what the girl had expected, neither
more nor less. The Princess told her that for the present she must stay
with the "kind friends" who had offered her a home; that everything
would be right before long; that if she needed any advice she had
better send for Sassi, who had always served the family faithfully;
that gowns were going to be short next year, which would be becoming to
Sabina when she "came out," because she had small feet and admirable
ankles; and that the weather was heavenly. The Princess added that she
would send her some pocket-money before long, and that she was trying
to find the best way of sending it.
In spite of her position Sabina smiled at the last sentence. It was so
like her mother to promise what she would never perform, that it amused
her. She sat still for some time with the letter in her hand and then
took it to the Baroness, for she felt that it was time to speak out and
that the interview could not be put off any longer. The Baroness was
writing in her boudoir. She wrote her letters on large sheets of an
especial paper, stamped with her initials, over which appeared a very
minute Italian baron's coronet, with seven points; it was so small that
one might easily have thought that it had nine, like a count's, but it
was undeniably smart and suggested an assured position in the
aristocracy. No one quite remembered why the late King had made
Volterra a baron, but he undoubtedly had done so, and no one disputed
Volterra's right to use the title.
Sabina read her letter aloud, and the Baroness listened attentively,
with a grave expression.
"Your dear mother--" she began in a soothing tone.
"She is not my 'dear mother' at all," said Sabina, interrupting her.
"She is not any more 'dear' to me than I am to her."
"Oh!" exclaimed the Baroness, affecting to be shocked by the girl's
heartlessness.
"If it were not for my 'dear mother,' I should not be a beggar," said
Sabina.
"A beggar! What a word!"
"There is no other, that I know of. I am living on your charity."
"For heaven's sake, do not say such things!" cried the Baroness.
"There is nothing else to say. If you had not taken me in and lodged me
and fed me, I should like to know where I should be now. I am quite
sure that my 'dear mother' would not care, but I cannot help wondering
what is to become of me. Are you surprised?"
"Are you not provided for here?" The question was put in a tone almost
of deprecation.
"Provided for! I am surrounded with every sort of luxury, when I ought
to be working for my living."
"Working!" The Baroness was filled with horror. "You, my dear, the
daughter of a Roman Prince! You, working for your living! You, a Conti!"
Sabina smiled and looked down at her delicate hands.
"I cannot see what my name has to do with it," she said. "It is not
much to be proud of, considering how my relatives behave."
"It is a great name," said the Baroness solemnly and emphatically.
"It was once," Sabina answered, leaning back in the low chair she had
taken, and looking at the ceiling. "My mother and my brother have not
added lustre to it, and I would much rather be called Signorina Emilia
Moscetti and be a governess, than be Sabina Conti and live on charity.
I have no right to what I do not possess and cannot earn."
"My dear child! This is rank socialism! I am afraid you talked too long
with Malipieri the other night."
"There is a man who works, though he has what you call a great name,"
observed Sabina. "I admire that. He was poor, I suppose--perhaps not so
poor as I am--and he made up his mind to earn his living and a
reputation."
"You are quite mistaken," said the Baroness drily.
Sabina looked at her in surprise.
"I thought he was a distinguished architect and engineer," she answered.
"Yes. But he was never poor, and he will be very rich some day."
"Indeed!" Sabina seemed rather disappointed at the information.
There was a little pause, and the Baroness looted at her unfinished
letter as if she wished that Sabina would go away. She had foreseen
that before long the girl would make some protest against her position
as a perpetual guest in the house, but had no clear idea of how to meet
it. Sabina seemed so very decided.
"We have done our best to make you feel at home, like one of the
family," the Baroness said presently, in a rather injured tone.
Sabina did not wish to be one of the family at all, but she knew that
she was under great obligations to her hosts, and she did not wish to
be thought ungrateful.
"You have been more than kind," she answered gently, "and I shall never
forget it. You have taken more trouble with me in two or three months
than my mother in all my life. Please do not imagine that I am not
thankful for all you have done."
The words were spoken sincerely, and when Sabina was very much in
earnest there was something at once convincing and touching in her
voice. The Baroness's sallow cheek actually flushed with pleasure, and
she was impelled to leave her seat and kiss Sabina affectionately. She
was restrained by a reasonable doubt as to the consequences of such
demonstrative familiarity, though she would not have hesitated to kiss
the girl's mother under like circumstances.
"It was the least we could do," she said, knowing very well that the
phrase meant nothing.
"Excuse me," Sabina objected, "but there was no reason in the world why
you should do anything at all for me! In the natural course of things I
should either have been sent to the country with my sister-in-law, or
to the convent with Clementina."
"You would have been very unhappy, my dear child."
"I do not know which would have been worse," said Sabina frankly. "They
both hate me, and I hate them."
"Dear me!" exclaimed the Baroness, shocked again, or pretending to be.
"In our family," Sabina answered calmly, "we all hate each other."
"I am sure your sister Clementina is far too religious to feel hatred
for any one."
"You do not know her!" Sabina laughed, and looked at the ceiling. "She
hates 'the wicked' with a mortal hatred!"
"Perhaps you mean that she hates wickedness, my dear," suggested the
Baroness in a moralizing tone.
"Not at all!" laughed the young girl. "She would like to destroy
everybody who is not like her, and she would begin with her own family.
She used to tell me that I was doomed to eternal flames because I loved
my canary better than I loved her. I did. It was quite true. As for my
brother, she said he was wicked, too. I quite believe he is, but she
had a friendly understanding with him, because they used to make Signor
Sassi get money for them both. In the end they got so much that there
was nothing left. Her share all went to convents and extraordinary
charities, and his went heaven knows where!"
"And yours?" asked the Baroness, to see what she would say.
"I suppose it went to them too, like everything else, and to my mother,
who spent a great deal of money. At all events, none of us have
anything now. That is why I want to work."
"It is an honourable impulse, no doubt," the Baroness said, in a tone
of meditative disapproval.
Sabina leaned forward, her chin on her hand.
"You think I am too young," she said. "And I really know nothing,
except bad French and dancing. I cannot even sew, at least, not very
well, and I cannot cook." She laughed. "I once made some very good
toast," she added thoughtfully.
"You must marry," said the Baroness. "You must make a good marriage."
"No one will marry me, because I have no dowry," answered Sabina with
perfect simplicity.
"Some men marry girls who have none. You are very pretty, you know."
"So my mother used to tell me when she was in a good humour. But
Clementina always said I was hideous, that my eyes were like a little
pig's, quite inside my head, and that my hair was grey, like an old
woman's, and that I was as thin as a grasshopper."
"You are very pretty," the Baroness repeated with conviction; "and I am
sure you would make a good wife."
"I am afraid not!" Sabina laughed. "We are none of us good, you know.
Why should I be?"
The Baroness disapproved.
"That is a flippant speech," she said severely.
"I do not feel flippant at all. I am very serious. I wish to earn my
living."
"But you cannot--"
"But I wish to," answered Sabina, as if that settled the question.
"Have you always done what you wished?" asked the Baroness wisely.
"No, never. That is why I mean to begin at once. I am sure I can learn
to be a maid, or to make hats, or feed babies with bottles. Many girls
of eighteen can."
The Baroness shrugged her shoulders in a decidedly plebeian way.
Sabina's talk seemed very silly to her, no doubt, but she felt slightly
foolish herself just then. At close quarters and in the relative
intimacy that had grown up between them, the descendant of all the
Conti had turned out to be very different from what the financier's
wife had expected, and it was not easy to understand her. Sometimes the
girl talked like a woman of the world, and sometimes like a child. Her
character seemed to be a compound of cynicism and simplicity,
indifference and daring, gentleness, hardness and pride, all
wonderfully amalgamated under a perfectly self-possessed manner, and
pervaded by the most undeniable charm. It was no wonder that the poor
Baroness was as puzzled as a hen that has hatched a swan.
Sabina had behaved perfectly, so far; the Baroness admitted this, and
it had added considerably to her growing social importance to be
regarded as the girl's temporary guardian. Even royalty had expressed
its approval of her conduct and its appreciation of her generosity, and
it was one of the Baroness's chief ambitions to be noticed by royalty.
She had shown a good deal of tact, too, for she was woman enough to
guess what the girl must feel, and how hard it must be to accept so
much without any prospect of being able to make a return. So far,
however, matters had gone very well, and she had really begun to look
forward to the glory of presenting Sabina in society during the
following winter, and of steering her to a rich marriage, penniless
though she was.
But this morning she had received a new impression which disturbed her.
It was not that she attached much importance to Sabina's wild talk
about working for a living, for that was absurd, on the face of it; but
there was something daring in the tone, something in the little
careless laugh which made her feel that the delicate girl might be
capable of doing very unexpected and dangerous things. The sudden
conviction came upon her that Sabina was of the kind that run away and
make love matches, and otherwise break through social conventions in a
manner quite irreparable. And if Sabina did anything of that sort, the
Baroness would not only lose all the glory she had gained, but would of
course be severely blamed by Roman society, which would be an awful
calamity if it did not amount to a social fall. She alone knew how hard
she had worked to build up her position, and she guessed how easily an
accident might destroy it. Her husband had his politics and his finance
to interest him, but what would be left to his wife if she once lost
her hold upon the aristocracy? Even the smile of royalty would not make
up for that, and royalty would certainly not smile if Sabina, being in
her charge, did anything very startlingly unconventional.
Sabina was quite conscious that the Baroness did not understand;
indeed, she had not really expected to be understood, and when she saw
the shrug of the shoulders that answered her last speech she rose
quietly and went to the window. The blinds were drawn together, for it
was now late in May, but she could see down to the street, and as she
looked she started a little.
"There is Signor Malipieri!" she cried, and it was clear that she was
glad.
The Baroness uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
Yes, Sabina was quite sure. He had just driven up to the door in a cab.
Now he was paying the cabman, too, instead of making him wait. The
Baroness glanced at the showy little clock set in turquoises, which
stood on her writing-table, and she put away her unfinished letter.
"We will ask him to stay to luncheon," she said, in a decided tone.
After sending up to ask if he would be received, Malipieri entered the
room with an apology. He said that he had hoped to find the Baron in,
and had been told that he might come at any moment. The Baroness
thereupon asked the visitor to stay to luncheon, and Malipieri
accepted, and sat down.
It had always amused Sabina to watch how the Baroness's manner changed
when any one appeared whom she did not know very well. Her mouth
assumed a stereotyped smile, she held her head a little forward and on
one side, and she spoke in quite another tone. But just now Sabina did
not notice these things. She was renewing her impression of Malipieri,
whom she had only seen once and in evening dress. She liked him even
better now, she thought, and it would have pleased her to look at him
longer.
Their eyes met in a glance as he told the Baroness that he had come to
see Volterra on a matter of business. He did not explain what the
business was, and at once began to talk of other things, as if to
escape possible questions. Sabina thought he was paler than before, or
less sunburnt, perhaps; at all events, the contrast between his very
white forehead and his bronzed face was less strong. She could see his
eyes more distinctly, too, than she had seen them in the evening, and
she liked their expression better, for he did not look at all bored
now. She liked his voice, too, for the slight harshness that seemed
always ready to command. She liked the man altogether, and was
conscious of the fact, and wished she could talk with him again, as she
had talked that evening on the sofa in the corner, without fear of
interruption.
That was impossible, and she listened to what he said. It was merely
the small talk of a man of the world who knows that he is expected to
say something not altogether dull, and takes pains to be agreeable, but
Sabina felt all through it a sort of sympathy which she missed very
much in the Volterra household, the certainty of fellowship which
people who have been brought up in similar surroundings feel when they
meet in an atmosphere not their own.
A few minutes after he had come, a servant opened the door and said
that the Baron wished to speak to the Baroness at the telephone. She
rose, hesitated a moment and went out, leaving the two young people
together.
"I have seen Sassi," said Malipieri in a low voice, as soon as the door
was shut.
"Yes," answered Sabina, with a little interrogation.
She was very much surprised to hear a slight tremor in her own voice as
she uttered the one word.
"I like him very much," Malipieri continued. "He is a good friend to
you. He said that if anything of importance happened he would come and
see you."
"I shall be glad," Sabina said.
"Something is happening, which may bring him. Be sure to see him alone,
when he comes."
"Yes, but what is it? What can possibly happen that can make a
difference?"
Malipieri glanced at the door, fearing that the Baroness might enter
suddenly.
"Can you keep a secret?" he asked quickly.
"Of course! Tell me!" She leaned forward with eager interest, expecting
his next words.
"Did you ever hear that something very valuable is said to be hidden
somewhere under the palace?"
Sabina's face fell and the eagerness faded from her eyes instantly. She
had often heard the story from her nurses when she had been a little
girl, and she did not believe a word of it, any more than she believed
that the marble statue of Cardinal Conti in the library really came
down from its pedestal on the eve of All Souls' and walked through the
state apartments, or the myth about the armour of Francesco Conti, of
which the nurses used to tell her that on the anniversary of the night
of his murder his eyes could be seen through the bars of the helmet,
glowing with the infernal fire. As for any hidden treasure, she was
quite positive that if it existed her brother and sister would have got
at it long ago. Malipieri sank in her estimation as soon as he
mentioned it. He was only a Venetian, of course, and could not be
expected to know much about Rome, but he must be very weak-minded if he
could be imposed upon by such nonsense. Her delicate lip curled with a
little contempt.
"Is that the great secret?" she asked. "I thought you were in earnest."
"The Senator is," observed Malipieri drily.
"If the old gentleman has made you believe that he is, he must have
some very deep scheme. He does not like to seem foolish."
Malipieri did not answer at once, but he betrayed no annoyance. In the
short silence, he could hear the Baroness's powerful voice yelling at
the telephone. It ceased suddenly, and he guessed that she was coming
back.
"If I find anything, I wish you to see it before any one else does," he
said quickly.
"That would be very amusing!" Sabina laughed incredulously, just as the
door opened.
The Baroness heard the light laughter, and stood still with her hand on
the latch, as if she had forgotten something. She was not a woman of
sudden intuitions nor much given to acting on impulses, and when a new
idea crossed her mind she almost always paused to think it over, no
matter what she chanced to be doing. It was as if she had accidentally
run against something which stunned her a little.
"What is it?" asked Sabina, very naturally.
The Baroness beckoned silently to her, and she rose.
"Only one moment, Signor Malipieri," said the Baroness, apologizing for
leaving him alone.
When she and Sabina were out of the room, she shut the door and went on
a few paces before speaking.
"My husband has telephoned that he cannot leave the Senate," she said.
"Well?" Sabina did not understand.
"But Malipieri has come expressly to see him."
"He can see him at the Senate," suggested Sabina.
"But I have asked Malipieri to stay to luncheon. If I tell him that my
husband is not coming, perhaps he will not stay after all."
"Perhaps not," echoed Sabina with great calmness.
"You do not seem to care," said the Baroness.
"Why should I?"
"I thought you liked him. I thought it would amuse you if he lunched
with us."
Sabina looked at her with some curiosity.
"Did you tell the Baron that Signor Malipieri is here?" she asked
carelessly.
"No," answered the Baroness, looking away. "As my husband said he could
not come to luncheon, it seemed useless."
Sabina understood now, and smiled. This was the direct consequence of
the talk which had preceded Malipieri's coming; the Baroness had at
once conceived the idea of marrying her to Malipieri.
"What shall we do?" asked the Baroness.
"Whatever you think best," answered Sabina, with sudden meekness. "I
think you ought at least to tell Signor Malipieri that the Baron is not
coming. He may be in a hurry, you know. He may be wasting time."
The Baroness smiled incredulously.
"My dear," she said, "if he had been so very anxious to see my husband,
he would have gone to the Senate first. It is near the palace."
She said no more, but led the way back to the morning room, while
Sabina reflected upon the possible truth of the last suggestion, and
wondered whether Malipieri had really made his visit for the sake of
exchanging a few words with her rather than in order to see Volterra.
The Baroness spoke to him as she opened the door.
"My husband has not come yet," she said. "We will not wait for him."
She rang the bell to order luncheon, and Malipieri glanced at Sabina's
face, wondering what the Baroness had said to her, for it was not
reasonable to suppose that the two had left the room in order to
consult in secret upon the question of waiting for Volterra. But Sabina
did not meet his look, and her pale young face was impenetrably calm,
for she was thinking about what she had just discovered. She was as
certain that she knew what had passed in the Baroness's thoughts, as if
the latter had spoken aloud. The knowledge, for it amounted to that,
momentarily chased away the recollection of what Malipieri had said.
It was rather amusing to be looked upon as marriageable, and to a man
she already knew. Her mother had often talked to her with cynical
frankness, telling her that she was to make the best match that could
be obtained for her, naming numbers of young men she had never seen and
assuring her that likes and dislikes had nothing to do with matrimony.
They came afterwards, the Princess said, and it generally pleased
Providence to send a mild form of aversion as the permanent condition
of the bond. But Sabina had never believed her mother, who had cheated
her when she was a child, as many foolish and heartless women do,
promising rewards which were never given, and excursions which were
always put off and little joys which always turned to sorrows less
little by far.
Moreover, her sister Clementina had told her that there was only one
way to treat the world, and that was to leave it with the contempt it
deserved; and she had heard her brother tell his wife in one of his
miserable fits of weakly brutal anger that marriage was hell, and
nothing else; to which the young princess had coldly replied that he
was only where he deserved to be. Sabina had not been brought up with
the traditional pious and proper views about matrimony, and if she did
not think even worse of it, the merit was due to her own nature, in
which there was much good and hardly any real evil.
But she could not escape from a little inherited and acquired cynicism
either, and while Malipieri chatted quietly during luncheon, an
explanation of the whole matter occurred to her which was not pleasant
to contemplate. The story about the treasure might or might not be
true, but he believed in it, and so did Volterra. The Baron was
therefore employing him to discover the prize. But Malipieri showed
plainly that he wished her to possess it, if it were ever found, and
perhaps he meant it to be her dowry, in which case it would come into
his own hands if he could marry her. This was ingenious, if it was
nothing else, and though Sabina felt that there was something mean
about it, she resented the idea that he should expect her to think him
a model of generosity when she hardly knew him.
She was therefore very quiet, and looked at him rather coldly when he
spoke to her, but the Baroness put this down to her admirably correct
manners, and was already beginning to consider how she could approach
Malipieri on the subject of his marrying Sabina. She was quite in
ignorance of the business which had brought him and her husband
together, as Sabina now knew from many remarks she remembered. Volterra
was accustomed to tell his wife what he had been doing when the matter
was settled, and she had long ago given up trying to make him talk of
his affairs when he chose to be silent.
On the whole, so far as Sabina was concerned, the circumstances were
not at first very favourable to the Baroness's newly formed plan on
this occasion, though she did not know it. On the other hand, Malipieri
discovered before luncheon was over, that Sabina interested him very
much, that she was much prettier than he had realized at his first
meeting with her, and that he had unconsciously thought about her a
good deal in the interval.