Toto had done it. In his heart, the thick-headed, practical fellow had
never quite believed in Gigi's ingenious scheme, and the idea of
getting a hundred thousand francs had seemed very visionary. Since Gigi
had got himself locked up it would be more sensible to realize a little
cash for the story from the _Messaggero_, saying nothing about the
carpenter. The only lie he needed to invent was to the effect that he
had been standing near the door of the palace when Sabina had come out.
The porter, being relieved from the order to keep the postern shut
against everybody had been quite willing to gossip with Toto about the
detective's visit, the closed room and Malipieri's refusal to let any
one enter it. As for what had happened in the vaults, Toto could
reconstruct the exact truth much more accurately than Gigi could have
done, even with his help. It was a thrilling story; the newspaper paid
him well for it and printed it with reservations.
There was not a suggestion of offence to Sabina, such as might have
afforded ground for an action against the paper, or against those that
copied the story from it. The writer was careful to extol Malipieri's
heroic courage and strength, and to point out that Sabina had been
half-dead of fatigue and cold, as Toto knew must have been the case. It
was all a justification, and not in the least an accusation. But the
plain, bald fact was proved, that Donna Sabina Conti had spent the
night in the rooms of the now famous Signor Malipieri, no one else
being in the apartment during the whole time. He had saved her life
like a hero, and had acted like a Bayard in all he had done for the
unfortunate young lady. It was an adventure worthy of the middle ages.
It was magnificent. Her family, informed at once by Malipieri, had come
to get her on the following morning. Toto had told the people at the
office of the _Messaggero_, who it was that had represented the
"family," but the little newspaper was far too worldly-wise to mention
Volterra in such a connection. Donna Sabina, the article concluded, was
now with her mother at the Russian Embassy.
The evening papers simply enlarged upon this first story, and in the
same strain. Malipieri was held up to the admiration of the public.
Sabina's name was treated with profound respect, there was not a word
which could be denied with truth, or resented with a show of justice.
And yet, in Italy, and most of all in Rome, it meant ruin to Sabina,
and the reprobation of all decent people upon Malipieri if he did not
immediately marry her.
It was the ambassador himself who informed the Princess of what had
happened, coming himself to the sitting-room as soon as he learned that
she was visible. He stayed with her a long time, and they sent for
Sabina, who was by far the least disturbed of the three. It was all
true, she said, and there was nothing against her in the article.
Masin brought the news to Malipieri with his coffee, and the paper
itself. Malipieri scarcely ever read it, but Masin never failed to, and
his big, healthy face was very grave.
Malipieri felt as if he were going to have brain fever, as his eye ran
along the lines.
"Masin," he said, when he had finished, "did you ever kill a man?"
"No, sir," answered Masin. "You have always believed that I was
innocent, though I had to serve my seven years."
"I did not mean that," said Malipieri.
Then he sat a long time with his untasted coffee at his elbow and the
crumpled little sheet in his hand.
"Of course, sir," Masin said at last, "I owe you everything, and if you
ordered me--"
He paused significantly, but his master did not understand.
"What?" he asked, starting nervously.
"Well, sir, if it were necessary for your safety, that somebody should
be killed, I would risk the galleys for life, sir. What am I, without
you?"
Malipieri laughed a little wildly, and dropped the paper.
"No, my friend," he said presently, "we would risk our lives for each
other, but we are not murderers. Besides, there is nobody to be killed,
unless you will have the goodness to put a bullet through my head."
And he laughed again, in a way that frightened the quiet man beside
him. What drove him almost mad was that he was powerless. He longed to
lay his hands on the editor of the paper, yet there was not a word, not
a suggestion, not an implied allusion for which any man in his senses
could have demanded an apology. It was the plain truth, and nothing
else; except that it was adorned by fragmentary panegyrics of himself,
which made it even more exasperating if that were possible. He had not
only wrecked Sabina's reputation by his quixotic folly; he was to be
praised to the skies for doing it.
His feverish anger turned into a dull pain that was much worse. The
situation looked utterly hopeless. Masin stood still beside him
watching him with profound concern, and presently took the cup of
coffee and held it to his lips. He drank a little, like a sick man,
only half consciously, and drew back, and shook his head. Masin did not
know what to do and waited in mute distress, as a big dog, knowing that
his master is in trouble, looks up into his face and feebly wags his
sympathetic tail, just a little, at long intervals, and then keeps
quite still.
Malipieri gradually recovered his senses enough to think connectedly,
and he tried to remember whether he had ever heard of a situation like
his own. As he was neither a novelist nor a critic, he failed, and
frankly asked himself whether suicide might not be a way out of the
difficulty for Sabina. He was not an unbeliever, and he had always
abhorred and despised the idea of suicide, as most thoroughly healthy
men do when it occurs to them; but if at that time he could have
persuaded himself that his death could undo the harm he had brought
upon Sabina he would not have hesitated a moment. Neither his body nor
his soul could matter much in comparison with her good name. Hell was
full of people who had got there because they had done bad things for
their own advantage; if he went there, it would at least not be for
that. He did not think of hell at all, just then, nor of heaven or of
anything else that was very far off. He only thought of Sabina, and if
he once wished himself dead for his own sake, he drove the cowardly
thought away. As long as he was alive, he could still do something for
her--surely, there must be something that he could do. There must be a
way out, if he could only use his wits and his strength, as he had made
a way out of the vaults, for her to pass through, ten days ago.
There was nothing, or at least he could think of nothing, that could
help her. To try and free himself from the bond he had put upon himself
would be to break a solemn promise given to a dying man whom he had
dearly loved. The woman he had seen that once, to marry her and leave
her, had been worthy of the sacrifice, too, as far as lay in her. He
had given her a small income, enough for her and her little girl to
live on comfortably. She had not only kept within it, but had learned
to support herself, little by little, till she had refused to take the
money that was sent to her. At regular times, she wrote to him, as to a
benefactor, touching and truthful letters, with news of the growing
child. He knew that it was all without affectation of any sort, and
that she had turned out a thoroughly good and honest woman. The little
girl knew that her father was dead, and that her own name was really
and legally Malipieri, beyond a doubt. Her mother kept the copy of her
certificate of birth together with the certificate of marriage. The
Signora Malipieri lived as a widow in Florence and gave lessons in
music and Italian. She had never asked but one thing of Malipieri,
which was that he would never try to see her, nor let her daughter know
that he was alive. It was easy to promise that. He knew that she had
been most faithful to her lover's memory, cherishing the conviction
that in the justice of heaven he was her true husband, as he would have
been indeed had he lived but a few months longer. She was bringing up
her child to be like herself, save for her one fault. Malipieri had
settled a sufficient dowry on the girl, lest anything should happen to
him before she was old enough to marry.
The mere suggestion of divorcing a woman who had acted as she had done
since his friend's death, was horrible to him. It was like receiving a
blow in the face, it was mud upon his honour, it was an insult to his
conscience, it was far worse than merely taking back a gift once given
in a generous impulse. If he had felt himself capable of such baseness
he could never again have looked honest men fairly in the eyes. It
would mean that he must turn upon her, to insult her by accusing her of
something she had never done; he knew nothing of the divorce laws in
foreign countries, except that Italians could obtain divorce by a short
residence and could then come back and marry again under Italian law.
That was all he knew. The Princess had not asked of him a legal
impossibility, but he had felt, when she spoke, that it would be easier
to explain the dogma of papal infallibility to a Chinese pirate than to
make her understand how he felt towards the good woman who had a right
to live under his name and had borne it so honourably for many years.
Sabina would understand. He wished now, with all his heart, that in the
hours they had spent together he had told her the secret which he had
been obliged to confide to her mother. He wondered whether she knew it,
and hoped that she did. She would at least understand his silence now,
she would know why he was not at the Embassy that morning as soon as he
could be received by her mother. She might not forgive him, because she
knew that he loved her, but she would see why he could not divorce in
order to marry her.
An hour passed, and two hours, and still he sat in his chair, while
Masin came and went softly, as if his master were ill. Then reporters
sent up cards, with urgently polite requests to be received, and he had
to give orders that he was not to be disturbed on any account. He would
see no one, he would answer no questions, until he had made up his mind
what to do.
At last he rose, shook himself, walked twice up and down the room and
then spoke to Masin.
"I am going out," he said. "I shall be back in an hour."
He had seen that there was at least one thing which he must do at once,
and after stopping short, stunned to stupor by what had happened, his
life began to move on again. It was manifestly his duty to see the
Princess again, and he knew that she would receive him, for she would
think that he had changed his mind after all, and meant to free
himself. He must see her and say something, he knew not what, to
convince her that he was acting honourably.
He was shown to her sitting-room, as if he were expected. It was not
long since the ambassador had left her and her daughter had gone back
to her room, and she was in a humour in which he had not seen her
before, as he guessed when he saw her face. Her wonderful complexion
was paler than usual, her brows were drawn together, her eyes were
angry, there was nothing languid or careless in her attitude, and she
held her head high.
"I expected you," she said. "I sent word that you were to come up at
once."
She did not even put out her hand, but there was a chair opposite her
and she nodded towards it. He sat down, feeling that a struggle was
before him.
"The ambassador has just been here," she said. "He brought the
newspaper with him, and I have read the article. I suppose you have
seen it."
Malipieri bent his head, but kept his eyes upon her.
"I have told the ambassador that Sabina is engaged to marry you," she
said calmly.
Malipieri started and sat upright in his chair. If he had known her
better, he might have guessed that what she said was untrue, as yet;
but she had made the statement with magnificent assurance.
"Your engagement will be announced in the papers this evening," she
continued. "Shall you deny it?"
She looked at him steadily, and he returned her gaze, but for a long
time he could not answer. She had him at a terrible advantage.
"I shall not deny it publicly," he said at last. "That would be an
injury to your daughter."
"Shall you deny it at all?" She was conscious of her strong position,
and meant to hold it.
"I shall write to the lady who is living under my name, and I shall
tell her the circumstances, and that I am obliged to allow the
announcement to be made by you."
"Give me your word that you will not deny your engagement to any one
else. You know that I have a right to require that. My daughter knows
that you are married."
Malipieri hesitated only a moment.
"I give you my word," he said.
She rose at once and went towards one of the doors, without looking at
him. He wondered whether she meant to dismiss him rudely, and stood
looking after her. She stopped a moment, with her hand on the knob of
the lock, and glanced back.
"I will call Sabina," she said, and she was gone.
He stood still and waited, and two or three minutes passed before
Sabina entered. She glanced at him, smiled rather gravely, and looked
round the room as she came forward, as if expecting to see some one
else.
"Where is my mother?" she asked, holding out her hand.
"She said she was going to call you," Malipieri answered.
"So she did, and she told me she was coming back to you, because I was
not quite ready."
"She did not come back."
"She means us to be alone," Sabina said, and suddenly she took both his
hands and pressed them a little, shaking them up and down, almost
childishly. "I am so glad!" she cried. "I was longing to see you!"
Even then, Malipieri could not help smiling, and for a moment he forgot
all his troubles. When they sat down, side by side, upon a little sofa,
the Princess was already telling the ambassador that Malipieri had come
and that they were engaged to be married. She had carried the situation
by a master stroke.
"She has told you all about me," Malipieri said, turning his face to
Sabina. "You know what my life is. Has she told you everything?"
"Yes," Sabina answered softly, but not meeting his look, "everything.
But I want to hear it from you. Will you tell me? Will it hurt you to
tell me about what you did for your friend? You know my mother is not
always very accurate in telling a story. I shall understand why you did
it."
He had known that she would, and he told her the story, a little less
baldly than he had told her mother, yet leaving out such details as she
need not hear. He hesitated a little, once or twice.
"I understand," she repeated, watching him with innocent eyes. "She
felt just as if they were really married, and he could not bear to die,
feeling that she would be without protection, and that other men would
all want to marry her, because she was beautiful. And her father and
mother were angry because she loved him so much."
"Yes," Malipieri answered, smiling, "that was it. They loved each other
dearly."
"It was splendid of you," she said. "I never dreamt that any man would
do such a thing."
"It cannot be undone." He was at least free to say that much, sadly.
There was a pause, and they looked away from each other. At last Sabina
laid her hand lightly upon his for a moment, though she did not turn
her face to him.
"I should not like you so much, if you wished to undo it," she said.
"Thank you," he answered, withdrawing the hand she released when she
had finished speaking, and folding it upon his other. "I should love
you less, if you did not understand me so well."
"It is more than understanding. It is much more."
He remembered how he had taken her slender body in his arms to warm her
when she had been almost dead of the cold and dampness, and a mad
impulse was in him to press her to him now, as he had done then, and to
feel her small fair head lay itself upon his shoulder peacefully, as it
surely would. He sat upright and pressed one hand upon the other rather
harder than before.
"You believe it, do you not?" she asked. "Why is your face so hard?"
"Because I am bound hand and foot, like a man who is carried to
execution."
"But we can always love each other just the same," Sabina said, and her
voice was warm and soft.
"Yes, always, and that will not make it easier to live without you," he
answered rather harshly.
"You need not," she said, after an instant's pause.
He turned suddenly, startled, not understanding, wondering what she
could mean. She met his eyes quite quietly, and he saw how deep and
steady hers were, and the light in them.
"You need not live without me unless you please," she said.
"But I must, since I cannot marry you, and you understand that I could
not be divorced--"
"My mother has just told me that no decent man will marry me, because
all the world knows that I stayed at the palace that night. She must be
right, for she could have no object in saying it if it were not true,
could she? Then what does it matter how any one talks about me now? I
will go with you. We cannot marry, but we shall always be together."
Malipieri's face expressed his amazement.
"But it is impossible!" he cried. "You cannot do that! You do not know
what you are saying!"
"Oh, yes, I do! That poor, kind old Sassi has left me all he had, and I
can go where I please. I will go with you. Would you rather have me
shut up in a convent to die? That is what my mother will try to do with
me, and she will tell people that I was 'mad, poor girl'! Do you think
I do not know her? She wants this little sum of money that I am to
have, too, as if she and the others had not spent all I should have
had. Do you think I am bound to obey my mother, if she takes me to the
convent door, and tells me that I am to stay there for the rest of my
life?"
The gentle voice was clear and strong and indignant now. Malipieri
twisted his fingers one upon another, and sat with his head bent low.
He knew that she had no clear idea of what she was saying when she
proposed to join her existence with his. Her maiden thoughts could find
no harm in it.
"You do not know what your mother said to me, before you came in," he
answered. "She told me that she would announce our engagement at once,
and made me give my word that I would not deny it to any one but my
legal wife."
"You gave your word?" Sabina asked quickly, not at all displeased.
"What could I do?"
"Nothing else! I am glad you did, for we can see each other as much as
we like now. But how shall we manage it in the end, since we cannot
marry?"
"Break the imaginary engagement, I suppose," Malipieri answered
gloomily. "I see nothing else to be done."
"But then my mother says that no decent man will marry me. It will be
just the same, all over again. It was very clever of her; she is trying
to force you to do what she wants. In the meantime you can come and see
me every day--that is the best part of it. Besides, she will leave us
alone together here, for hours, because she thinks that the more you
fall in love with me the more you will wish to get a divorce. Oh, she
is a very clever woman! You do not know her as I do!"
Malipieri marvelled at the amazing combination of girlish innocence and
keen insight into her mother's worldly and cynical character, which
Sabina had shown during the last few minutes. There never yet was a man
in love with girl or woman who did not find in her something he had
never dreamt of before.
"She is clever," he assented gravely, "but she cannot make me break
that promise, even for your sake. I cannot help looking forward and
thinking what the end must be."
"It is much better to enjoy the present," Sabina answered. "We can be
together every day. You will write to your--no, she is not your wife,
and I will not call her so! She would not be really your wife if she
could, for she made you promise never to go and see her. That was nice
of her, for of course she knew that if she saw you often, she must end
by falling in love with you. Any woman would; you know it perfectly
well. You need not shake your head at me, like that. You will write to
her, and explain, and she will understand, and then we will let things
go on as long as they can till something else happens."
"What can possibly happen?"
"Something always happens. Things never go on very long without a
change, do they? I am sure, everything in my life has changed half a
dozen times in the last fortnight."
"In mine, too," Malipieri answered.
"And if things get worse, and if worse comes to worst," Sabina
answered, "I have told you what I mean to do. I shall come to you,
wherever you are, and you will have to let me stay, no matter what
people choose to say. That is, if you still care for me!"
She laughed softly and happily, and not in the least recklessly, though
she was talking of throwing the world and all connection with it to the
winds. The immediate future looked bright to her, since they were to
meet every day, and after that, "something" would happen. If nothing
did, and they had to face trouble again, they would meet it bravely.
That was all any one could do in life. She had found happiness too
suddenly after an unhappy childhood, to dream of letting it go, cost
what it might to keep it.
But she saw how grave he looked and the hopeless expression in his
loving eyes, as he turned them to her.
"Why are you sad?" she asked, smiling, and laying her hand on his. "We
can be happy in the present. We love each other, and can meet often.
You have made a great discovery and are much more famous than you were
a few days ago. A newspaper has told our story, it is true, but there
was not a word against either of us in it, for I made them let me read
it myself. And now people will say that we are engaged to be married,
and that we got into a foolish scrape and were nearly killed together,
and that we are a very romantic couple, like lovers in a book! Every
girl I know wishes she were in my place, I am sure, and half the men in
Rome wish that they could have saved some girl's life as you did mine.
What is there so very dreadful in all that? What is there to cry
about--dear?"
Half in banter, half in earnest, she spoke to him as if he were a child
compared with her, and leaned affectionately towards him; and the last
word, the word neither of them had spoken yet, came so softly and
sweetly to him on her breath, that he caught his own, and turned a
little pale; and the barriers broke all at once, and he kissed her.
Then he got hold upon himself again, and gently pushed her a little
further from him, while he put his other hand to his throat and closed
his eyes.
"Forgive me," he said, in a thick voice. "I could not help it."
"What is there to forgive? We are not betraying any one. You are not
breaking a promise to any other woman. What harm is there? You did not
give your friend your word that you would never love any one, did you?
How could you? How could you know?"
"I could not know," he answered in a low voice. "But I should not have
kissed you."
He knew that she could not understand the point of honour that was so
clear to him.
"Let me think for you, sometimes," she said.
Her voice was as low as his, but dreamily passionate, and the strange
young magic vibrated in it, which perfect innocence wields with a
destroying strength not even guessed at by itself.
The door opened and the Princess entered the room in a leisurely
fashion, wreathed in smiles. She had successfully done what it would be
very hard for Malipieri to undo. He rose.
"Have you told Sabina what I said?" she enquired.
"Yes."
She turned to the girl, who was leaning back in the corner of the sofa.
"Of course you agree, my child?" she said, with a question in her
voice, though with no intonation of doubt as to the answer.
"Certainly," Sabina answered, with perfect self-possession. "I think it
was by far the most sensible we could do. Signor Malipieri will come to
see us, as if he and I were really engaged."
"Yes," assented the Princess. "You cannot go on calling him Signor
Malipieri when we are together in the family, my dear. What is your
Christian name?" she asked, turning to him.
"Marino."
"I did not know," Sabina said, with truth, and looking at him, as if
she had found something new to like in him. "Is he to call me Sabina,
mother?"
"Naturally. Well, my dear Marino--"
Malipieri started visibly. The Princess explained.
"I shall call you so, too. It looks better before people, you know. You
must leave a card for the ambassador, at the porter's, when you go
downstairs, He is going to ask you to dinner, with a lot of our
relations, to announce the engagement. I have arranged it all
beautifully--he is so kind!"