As it had become manifestly impossible to keep the secret of the
discovery in the Palazzo Conti any longer, Volterra had behaved with
his accustomed magnanimity. He had not only communicated all the
circumstances to the authorities at once, offering the government the
refusal of the statues, which the law could not oblige him to sell if
he chose to keep them in the palace, but also publicly giving full
credit to the "learned archaeologist and intrepid engineer, Signer
Marino Malipieri, already famous throughout Europe for his recent
discoveries in Carthage." In two or three days the papers were full of
Malipieri's praises. Those that were inclined to differ with the
existing state of things called him a hero, and even a martyr of
liberty, besides a very great man; and those which were staunch to the
monarchy poked mild fun at his early political flights and
congratulated him upon having descended from the skies, after burning
his wings, not only to earth, but to the waters that are under the
earth, returning to the upper air laden with treasures of art which
reflected new glory upon Italy.
All this was very fine, and much of it was undoubtedly true, but it did
not in the least help Malipieri to solve the problem which had
presented itself so suddenly in his life. The roads to happiness and to
reputation rarely lead to the same point of the compass when he who
hopes to attain both has more heart than ambition. It is not given to
many, as it was to Baron Volterra, to lead an admiring, submissive and
highly efficient wife up the broad steps of political power, financial
success and social glory. Neither Caesar nor Bonaparte reached the top
with the wife of his heart, yet Volterra, more moderately endowed,
though with almost equal ambition, bade fair to climb high with the
virtuous helpmeet of his choice on his arm.
Malipieri slept badly and grew thinner during those days. His devotion
to his dying friend had been absurdly quixotic, according to ordinary
standards, but it had never seemed foolish to him, and he had never
regretted it. He had always believed that a man of action and thought
is freer to think and act if he remains unmarried, and it had never
occurred to him that he might fall in love with a young girl, without
whom life would seem empty. He was quixotic, generous and impulsive,
but like many men who do extremely romantic things, he thought himself
quite above sentimentality and entirely master of his heart. Hitherto
the theory had worked very well, because he had never really tried to
practise it. Nothing had seemed easier than not to fall in love with
marriageable young women, and he had grown used to believing that he
never could.
With that brutality to his own feelings of which only a thoroughly
sentimental man is capable, he left the Palazzo Conti on the day
following the adventure, and took rooms in a hotel in the upper part of
the city. Nothing would have induced him to spend a night in his room
since Sabina's head had lain upon his pillow. With Volterra's powerful
help, Masin had been released, though poor Sassi had not returned to
consciousness, and Malipieri learned that the old man had changed his
mind at the last minute, had insisted upon trying to follow Sabina
after all, and had fallen heavily upon his head in trying to get down
into the first chamber; while Masin, behind him, implored him to come
back, or at least to wait for help where he was. The rest needs no
explanation.
Malipieri took a few things with him to the hotel, and left Masin to
collect his papers and books on the following day, instructing him to
send the scanty furniture, linen and household belongings to the
nearest auction rooms, to be sold at once. Masin, none the worse for a
night and day in prison, came back to his functions as if nothing had
happened. He and his master had been in more than one adventure
together. This one was over and he was quite ready for the next.
There was probably not another man in Italy, and there are not many
alive anywhere, who would have done what Malipieri did, out of pure
sentiment and nothing else. To him, it seemed like a natural sacrifice
to his inward honour, to refuse which would have been cowardly. He had
weakly allowed himself to fall in love with a girl whom he could not
possibly marry, and whom he respected as much as he loved. He guessed,
though he tried to deny it, that she was more than half in love with
him, since love sometimes comes by halves. To lie where she had lain,
dreaming of her with his aching eyes open and his blood on fire, would
be a violation of her maiden privacy, morally not much less cowardly in
the spirit than it could have been in the letter, since he could not
marry her.
The world laughs at such refinements of delicate feeling in a man, but
cannot help inwardly respecting them a little, as it respects many
things at which it jeers and rails. Moreover, Malipieri did not care a
fig for the world's opinion, and if he had needed to take a motto he
would have chosen "Si omnes, ego non"; for if there was a circumstance
which always inclined him to do anything especially quixotic, it was
the conviction that other people would probably do the exact opposite.
So Masin took the furniture to an auction room on a cart, and Malipieri
never saw it again.
While the press was ringing his praises, and he himself was preparing a
carefully written paper on the two statues, while the public was
pouring into the gate of the Palazzo Conti to see them, and Volterra
was driving a hard bargain with the government for their sale, he lived
in a state of anxiety and nervousness impossible to describe. He was
haunted by the fear that some one might find out where Sabina had been
on the night after she had left Volterra's house, and the mere thought
of such a possibility was real torment, worse than the knowledge that
he could never marry her, and that without her his life did not seem
worth living. Whatever happened to Sabina would be the result of his
folly in taking her to the vaults. He might recover from any wound he
had himself received, but to see the good name of the innocent girl he
loved utterly ruined and dragged through the mud of newspaper scandal
would be a good deal worse than being flayed alive. It was horrible to
think of it, and yet he could not keep it out of his thoughts. There
had been too many people about the palace on the morning when Sabina
had left it with the Baroness. Especially, there had been that
carpenter, of whom no one had thought till it was too late. If Gigi had
recognized Sabina, that would be Malipieri's fault too, for Volterra
had not known that the man had been employed about the house for years.
A week passed, and nothing happened. He had neither seen Sabina nor
heard of her from any one. He was besieged by journalists, artists, men
of letters and men of learning, and the municipal authorities had
declared their intention of giving a banquet in his honour and
Volterra's, to celebrate the safe removal of the two statues from the
vault in which they had lain so long. He, who hated noisy feasting and
speech-making above all things, could not refuse the public invitation.
All sorts of people came to see him, in connection with the whole
affair, and he was at last obliged to shut himself in during several
hours of the day, in order to work at his dissertation. Masin alone was
free to reach him in case of any urgent necessity.
One morning, while he was writing, surrounded by books, drawings and
papers, Masin came and stood silently at his elbow, waiting till it
should please him to look up. Malipieri carefully finished the sentence
he had begun, and laid down his pen. Then Masin spoke.
"There is a lady downstairs, sir, who says that you will certainly
receive her upon very important business. She would not give her name,
but told the porter to try and get me to hand you this note."
Malipieri sighed wearily and opened the note without even glancing at
the address. He knew that Sabina would not write to him, and no one
else interested him in the least. But he looked at the signature before
reading the lines, and his expression changed. The dowager Princess
Conti wrote a few words to say that she must see him at once and was
waiting. That was all, but his heart sank. He sent Masin to show her
the way, and sat resting his forehead in his hand until she appeared.
She entered and stood before him, softly magnificent as a sunset in
spring; looking as even a very stout woman of fifty can, if she has a
matchless complexion, perfect teeth, splendid eyes, faultless taste, a
wonderful dressmaker and a maid who does not hate her.
Malipieri vaguely wondered how Sabina could be her daughter, drew an
armchair into place for her, and sat down again by his writing-table.
The windows were open and the blinds were drawn together to keep out
the glare, for it was a hot day. A vague and delicious suggestion of
Florentine orris-root spread through the warm air as the Princess sat
down. Malipieri watched her face, but her expression showed no signs of
any inward disturbance.
"Are you sure that nobody will interrupt us?" she asked, as Masin went
out and shut the door.
"Quite sure. What can I do to serve you?"
"I have had this disgusting letter."
She produced a small, coarse envelope from the pale mauve pocket-book
she carried in her hand, and held it out to Malipieri, who took it and
read it carefully. It was not quite easy for him to understand, as Gigi
wrote in the Roman dialect without any particular punctuation, and
using capitals whenever it occurred to him, except at the beginning of
a sentence. To Malipieri, as a Venetian, it was at first sight about as
easy as a chorus of Aeschylus looks to an average pass-man.
As the sense became clear to him, his eyelids contracted and his face
was drawn as if he were in bodily pain.
"When did you get this?" he asked, folding the letter and putting it
back into the envelope.
"Five or six days ago, I think. I am not sure of the date, but it does
not matter. It says the money must be paid in ten days, does it not?
Yes--something like that. I know there is some time left. I have come
to you because I have tried everything else."
"Everything else?" cried Malipieri, in sudden anxiety. "What in the
world have you tried?"
"I sent for Volterra the day after I got this."
"Oh!" Malipieri was somewhat relieved. "What did he advise you to do?
To employ a detective?"
"O dear, no! Nothing so simple and natural. That man is an utter brute,
and I am sorry I left Sabina so long with his wife. She would have been
much better in the convent with her sister. I am afraid that is where
she will end, poor child, and it will be all your fault, though you
never meant any harm. You do not think you could divorce and marry her,
do you?"
Malipieri stared at her a moment, and then bit his lip to check the
answer. He had no right to resent whatever she chose to say to him, for
he was responsible for all the trouble and for Sabina's good name.
"There is no divorce law in Italy," he answered, controlling himself.
"Why do you say that Volterra is an utter brute? What did he advise you
to do?"
"He offered to silence the creature who wrote this letter if I would
make a bargain with him. He said he would pay the money, if I would
give Sabina to his second son, who is a cavalry officer in Turin, and
whom none of us has ever seen."
Malipieri's lips moved, but he said nothing that could be heard. A vein
that ran down the middle of his forehead was swollen, and there was a
bad look in his eyes.
"I would rather see the child dead than married to one of those
disgusting people," the Princess said. "Did you ever hear of such
impertinence?"
"You let her live with them for more than two months," observed
Malipieri.
"I know I did. It was simply impossible to think of anything better in
the confusion, and as they offered to take charge of her, I consented.
Yes, it was foolish, but I did not suppose that they would let her go
off in a cab with that old dotard and stay out all night."
Malipieri felt as if she were driving a blunt nail into his head.
"Poor Sassil" he said. "He was buried yesterday."
"Was he? I am not in the least sorry for him. He always made trouble,
and this was the worst of all Sabina almost cried because I would not
let her go and see him at the hospital. You know, he never spoke after
he was taken there--he did not feel anything."
Malipieri wondered whether the Princess, in another sense, had ever
felt anything, a touch of real pity, or real love, for any human being.
He did not remember to have ever met a woman who had struck him as so
utterly heartless; and yet he could not forget the look that had come
into her face, and the simple word she had spoken, when he had told her
his story.
"I understand that you refused Volterra's proposal," he said, returning
to the present trouble. "Do you mean to say that he declined to help
you unless you would accept it?"
"Oh, no! He only said that as I was not disposed to accept what would
make it so much easier, he would have to think it over. I have not seen
him since."
"But you understand what he had planned, do you not?" Malipieri asked.
"It is very simple."
"It is not so clear to me. I am not at all clever, you know." The
Princess laughed carelessly. "He must have a very good reason for
offering to pay a hundred thousand francs in order that his son may
marry Sabina, who has not a penny. I confess, if it were not an
impertinence, it would look like a foolish caprice. I suppose he thinks
it would be socially advantageous."
Her lip curled and showed her even white teeth.
"His wife is a snob," Malipieri answered, "but Volterra does not care
for anything but power and money, except perhaps for the sort of
reputation he has, which helps him to get both." "Then of what possible
use could it be to him to marry his son to Sabina, and to throw all
that money away for the sake of getting her?"
Malipieri hesitated, not sure whether it would be wise to tell her all
he thought.
"In the first place," he said slowly, "I do not believe he would really
pay the blackmail, or if he did, he would catch the man, get the money
back, and have him sent to penal servitude. He is very clever, and in
his position he can have whatever help he asks from the government,
especially in a just cause, as that would be. Perhaps he thinks that he
has guessed who the man is."
"Have you any idea?" asked the Princess, glancing down at the dirty
little letter she still held.
"In the second place," Malipieri continued, without heeding the
question, "I am almost sure that when you were in difficulties, two or
three months ago, he got the better of you, as he gets the better of
every one. With the value of these statues, he has probably pocketed a
couple of million francs by the transaction."
"The wretch!" exclaimed the Princess. "I wish you were my lawyer! You
have such a clear way of putting things."
Even then Malipieri smiled.
"I have always believed what I have just told you," he answered. "That
was the reason why I hoped that Donna Sabina might yet recover what she
should have had from the estate. Volterra is sure that if you can take
proper steps, you will recover a large sum, and that is why he is so
anxious to marry his son to your daughter. He thinks the match would
settle the whole affair."
"The idiot! As if I did not need the money myself!"
Again Malipieri smiled.
"But you will not get it," he answered. "You will certainly not get it
if Volterra is interested in the matter, for it will all go to your
daughter. Your other two children have had their share of their
father's estate, and that of the daughters should have amounted to at
least two millions each. But Donna Sabina has never had a penny.
Whatever is recovered from Volterra will go to her, not to you."
"It would be the same thing," observed the Princess carelessly.
"Not exactly," Malipieri said, "for the court will appoint legal
guardians, and the money will be paid to her intact when she comes of
age. In other words, if she marries Volterra's son, the little fortune
will return to Volterra's family. But of course, if you consented to
the marriage, he would compromise for the money, before the suit was
brought, by settling the two millions upon his daughter-in-law, and if
he offered to do that, as he would, no respectable lawyer in the world
would undertake to carry on the suit, because Volterra would have acted
in strict justice. Do you see?"
"Yes. It is very disappointing, but I suppose you are right."
"I know I am, except about the exact sum involved. I am an architect by
profession, I know something of Volterra's affairs and I do not think I
am very far wrong. Very good. But Volterra has accidentally got hold of
a terrible weapon against you, in the shape of this blackmailer's
letter."
"Then you advise me to accept his offer after all?"
"He knows that you must, unless you can find something better. You are
in his power."
"But why should I, if I am to get nothing by it?" asked the Princess
absent-mindedly.
"There is Donna Sabina's good name at stake," Malipieri answered, with
a little sternness.
"I had forgotten. Of course! How stupid of me!" For a moment Malipieri
knew that he should like to box her ears, woman though she was; then he
felt a sort of pity for her, such as one feels for half-witted
creatures that cannot help themselves nor control their instincts.
"Then I must accept, and let Sabina marry that man," she said, after a
moment's silence. "Tell me frankly, is that what you think I ought to
do?"
"If Donna Sabina wishes to marry him, it will be a safe solution,"
Malipieri answered steadily.
"My dear man, she is in love with you!" cried the Princess in one of
her sudden fits of frankness. "She told me so the other day in so many
words, when she was so angry because I would not let her go to see poor
old Sassi die. She said that you and he and her schoolmistress were the
only human beings who had ever been good to her, or for whom she had
ever cared, You may just as well know it, since you cannot marry her!"
In a calmer moment, Malipieri might have doubted the logic of the last
statement; but at the present moment he was not very calm, and he
turned a pencil nervously in his fingers, standing it alternately on
its point and its blunt end, upon the blotting-paper beside him, and
looking at the marks it made.
"How can she possibly wish to marry that Volterra creature?" asked the
Princess, by way of conclusion. "She will have to, that is all, whether
she likes it or not. After all, nobody seems to care much, nowadays,"
she added in a tone of reflection. "It is only the idea I always heard
that Volterra kept a pawnshop in Florence, and then became a dealer in
bric-a-brac, and afterwards a banker, and all sorts of things. But it
may not be true, and after all, it is only prejudice. A banker may be a
very respectable person, you know."
"Certainly," assented Malipieri, wishing that he could feel able to
smile at her absurd talk, as a sick man wishes that he could feel
hungry when he sees a dish he likes very much, and only feels the worse
for the mere thought of touching food.
"Nothing but prejudice," the Princess repeated. "I daresay he was never
really a pawnbroker and is quite respectable. By the bye, do you think
he wrote this letter himself? It would be just like him."
"No," Malipieri answered. "I am sure he did not. Volterra never did
anything in his life which could not at least be defended in law. The
letter is genuine."
"Then there is some one who knows, besides ourselves and Volterra and
his wife?"
"Yes. I am sure of it."
"You are so clever. You must be able to find out who it is."
"I will try. But I am sure of one thing. Even if the money is not paid
on the day, the story will not be published at once. The man will try
again and again to get money from you. There is plenty of time."
"Unless it is a piece of servants' vengeance," the Princess said. "Our
servants were always making trouble before we left the palace, I could
never understand why. If it is that, we shall never be safe. Will you
come and see me, if you think of any plan?"
She rose to go.
"I will go to the Embassy to-morrow afternoon, between three and four."
"Thanks. Do you know? I really cannot help liking you, though I think
you are behaving abominably. I am sure you could get a divorce in
Switzerland."
"We will not talk about that," Malipieri answered, a little harshly.
When she was gone, he called Masin, and then, instead of explaining
what he wanted, he threw himself into an armchair and sat in silence
for nearly half an hour. Masin was used to his master's ways and did
not speak, but occupied himself in noiselessly dusting the mantelpiece
at least a hundred times over.