Madame Bernard had not overstated the advantages of the lodging she
occasionally let to foreign ladies who travelled alone and practised
economy, and Angela refused to occupy it till she had satisfied
herself that her old governess's own room was just as large and just
as sunny and just as comfortable.
In the first place, it was much bigger than she had expected, and when
she had spread out all her possessions and put away her clothes, and
had arranged her pretty toilet set and the few books that were quite
her own, she found that she was not at all cramped for space. The
ceiling was not very high, it was true, and there was only one window,
but it was a very wide one, and outside it there was a broad iron
shelf securely fixed, on which four good-sized flower-pots were set
out in the sunshine. It was true that there were no flowers yet, but
the two plants of carnations were full of buds and had been very
carefully tended, a tiny rose-bush promised to bear three or four
blossoms before long, and the pot of basil was beginning to send up
curly green shoots. Opposite the window, and beyond the quiet street,
there was a walled garden, in which there were some orange and
mandarin trees.
Between the two bedrooms there was the sitting-room, which was a
little smaller than either, but quite big enough for two women.
Indeed, Madame Bernard ate her meals there all winter, because the
little dining-room at the back of the house was not so cheerful and
was much colder. An enlarged coloured photograph of the long-deceased
Captain Bernard, in the uniform worn by the French artillery at the
time of the Franco-Prussian War, hung on one of the walls, over an
upright piano; it had a black frame, and was decorated with a wreath
of everlasting daisies tied with a black bow. Underneath the portrait
a tiny holy-water basin of old Tyrolese pewter was fastened to the
wall. This Madame Bernard filled every year at Easter, when the parish
priest came to bless the rooms, and every year she renewed the wreath
on the anniversary of her husband's death; for she was a faithful soul
and practised such little rites with a sort of cheerful satisfaction
that was not exactly devout, but certainly had a religious source.
Captain Bernard had been a dashing fellow and there was no knowing
what his soul might not need in the place his widow vaguely described
as 'beyond' when she spoke of his presumable state, though in the case
of Angela's father, for instance, it was always 'heaven' or
'paradise.' Apparently Madame Bernard had the impression that her
husband's immortal part was undergoing some very necessary cure before
partaking of unmixed bliss.
'Military men have so many temptations, my dear,' she said to Angela,
thinking more of the deceased Captain than of being tactful,--'I mean,'
she said, correcting herself, 'in France.'
Angela was not afraid of temptation for Giovanni; rightly or wrongly,
she trusted that her love would be his shield against the wicked world
and her name his prayer in need, and she smiled at Madame Bernard's
speech. The big old parrot on his perch cocked his head.
'Especially the cavalry and artillery,' the good lady went on to
explain.
'À drrroite--conversion!' roared the parrot in a terrific voice of
command.
Angela jumped in her chair, for it was the first time she had heard
the creature speak in that tone; but Madame Bernard laughed, as if it
pleased her.
'It is absolutely my poor husband's tone,' she said calmly. 'Coco,'
she said, turning to the bellicose bird, 'the Prussians are there!'
'Feu!' yelled the parrot suddenly, dancing with rage on his bar. 'Feu!
'cré nom d'un nom d'un p'tit bon Dieu!'
'Every intonation!' laughed the little Frenchwoman gaily. 'You
understand why I love my Coco!'
But Angela thought there was something grimly horrible in the coming
back of the dead soldier's voice from battles fought long ago.
Giovanni came to see her two days after she had moved, but this time
Madame Bernard did not leave them together very long. She had a lively
sense of her responsibility, now that the young girl was altogether in
her charge, and she felt that the proprieties must be strictly
observed. It must never be thought that Giovanni was free to see
Angela alone whenever he pleased, merely because her people had turned
her out.
He looked distressed, and the young girl at once suspected some new
trouble; and she was not mistaken, for her advice had begun to bear
fruit already, and the inevitable was closing in upon them both.
He told the story in a few words. It had been decided in the War
Office for some time that a small exploring and surveying expedition
should be sent up the country from the Italian colony at Massowah with
the idea of planning some permanent means of inland communication with
the British possessions. Giovanni's father had seen a chance for him
to distinguish himself and to obtain more rapid promotion, and by
using all the considerable influence he possessed in high quarters he
had got him appointed to be the engineering officer of the party. The
young man had already been two years in Africa, before being appointed
to the Staff, and had done exceptionally good service, which was an
excellent reason for using him again; and chance further favoured the
plan, because the officer who had first been selected for the place,
and who was an older man, was much needed in the War Office, to his
own exceeding disgust. The expedition might be attended with
considerable danger and would certainly be full of adventure, for
there had recently been trouble with the tribes in that very region;
but to send a strong force was out of the question, for political
reasons, though the work to be done was so urgently necessary that it
could not be put off much longer.
Old General Severi sincerely hoped Angela might yet marry his son, and
was convinced that the best thing possible would be to secure for the
latter the first opportunity for quick promotion, instead of allowing
him to leave the army in order to find more lucrative employment. The
expedition would be gone five or six months, perhaps, and there were
many reasons why it would be better to keep the young people apart for
a time. Any one would understand that, he was sure. While Angela was
living obscurely with a former governess, a brilliant young officer of
some distinction, like Giovanni, could not see her regularly without
seriously compromising her. It was the way of the world and could not
be helped, yet if Giovanni stayed in Rome it would be too much to
expect that he should stay away from the little apartment in
Trastevere. So the matter was settled, and when he came to see Angela
that afternoon he had just had an interview with his chief, who had
informed him of his appointment, and at the same time of his promotion
to be captain. The expedition was to leave Italy in a few days, and he
would have barely time to provide himself with what was strictly
necessary for the climate. He explained all this to Angela and Madame
Bernard.
'If you had only let me resign the other day,' he said ruefully, when
he had finished his account, 'nobody could have found fault then! But
now, I must face the laugh of every man I know!'
Angela looked up quickly, in evident surprise.
'Why?' she asked. 'I see nothing to laugh at in such an expedition.'
'I am not going to accept the appointment,' Giovanni answered with
decision. 'I asked for twenty-four hours to consider it, though the
General seemed very much surprised.'
'But you cannot refuse!' Angela cried. 'They will say you are afraid!'
'They may say whatever occurs to them, for I will not go, and I shall
resign at once, as I said I would. My mind is made up.'
'You cannot refuse this,' Angela repeated confidently. 'If you are
obliged to admit that there is some danger in it, though you wish
there were none, because you safely could refuse to go, it must be
very dangerous indeed. Tell me the truth, as far as you know it.'
'It would depend on circumstances----' Giovanni hesitated.
'You have told me that if the Government dared, it would send a large
force to protect the expedition. The larger that force would be, the
greater the danger if there is no protection at all. Is that true, or
not?'
'It is true, in one way, but----'
'There is no condition!' Angela interrupted him energetically. 'It is
enough that it is going to be dangerous in one way, as you say!'
'No one can say that I ever avoided danger before,' he objected.
'They will say many things if you refuse to go. They will shrug their
shoulders and say that you have lost your nerve, perhaps! That is a
favourite expression, and you know how people say it. Or if you make
money soon after you resign, they will say that you preferred a
fortune to risking your life for your country. Or else they will say
that a woman has made a coward of you, and that I am she!'
'Coward!' yelled the parrot in a tone of withering contempt, and the
creature actually spat in disgust.
Giovanni started violently, for he had not noticed the bird in the
room. Then he tried to laugh at his own surprise.
'I do not wonder that you are surprised, Monsieur,' said Madame
Bernard with a pleasant smile. 'Oh, Coco has exactly my poor husband's
voice!'
'I can brave a parrot's opinion,' Giovanni said, attempting to speak
gaily.
'Will you brave mine?' Angela asked.
'You certainly do not think I am afraid to go,' he answered, 'for you
know why I mean to refuse. My first duty is to you. As I am placed, it
would be cowardly to be afraid to face public opinion in doing that
duty, and to keep you waiting six months or a year longer than
necessary, when I have promised to provide means for us to marry
within a year. That would deserve to be called cowardice!'
'Sale Prussien! 'cré nom d'une pipe!' yelled Coco in a tone of
disgust.
'Really!' exclaimed Giovanni, with some annoyance. 'Does the thing
take me for an hereditary enemy, Madame?'
Madame Bernard rose with a little laugh and went to the parrot's
perch, holding out her hand.
'Come, Coco!' she said, coaxing him. 'It is peace now, and we can go
home to Paris again.'
'Paris' meant her bedroom in bird language; it also meant being bribed
to be quiet with good things, and Coco strutted from his perch to her
finger.
'Marche!' he commanded in a sharp tone, and as she moved he began to
whistle the Marseillaise with great spirit.
She marched off, laughing and keeping step to the tune till she
disappeared into her room, shutting the door behind her. As it closed
Giovanni caught Angela's left hand and drew it to him. She laid her
right on his, quietly and affectionately.
'Am I never to see you alone?' he asked, almost in a whisper.
'When you come to say good-bye before starting,' Angela answered. 'I
will ask her to leave us quite alone then. But now it will only be for
a minute or two.'
Thereupon, with the most natural movement in the world, she lifted her
hands, brought his face close to hers and kissed him, drew back a
little, looked gravely into his astonished eyes for some seconds, and
then kissed him again.
'I love you much more than you love me,' she said with great
seriousness. 'I am sure of it.'
It was all very different from what he had expected. He had vaguely
fancied that for a long time every kiss would have to be won from her
by a little struggle, and that every admission of her love would be
the reward of his own eloquence; instead, she took the lead herself
with a simplicity that touched him more than anything else could have
done.
'You see!' she cried, with the intonation of a laugh not far away. 'I
took you by surprise, because I am right about it! What have you to
say?'
He said nothing, but his lips hurt hers a little in the silence. She
shivered slightly, for she had not yet dreamed that a kiss could hurt
and yet be too short. The sound of Madame Bernard's voice came from
the next room, still talking to the parrot. Angela laid her hand on
Giovanni's gold-laced sleeve and nestled beside him, with her head in
the hollow of his shoulder.
'I have always wanted to do this,' she said in a drowsy little voice,
as if she wished she could go to sleep where she was. 'It is my place.
When you are away in Africa, at night, under the stars, you will dream
that I am just here, resting in my very own place.'
She felt his warm breath in her hair as he answered.
'I will not go; I will not leave you.'
'But you must,' she said, quickly straightening herself and looking
into his face. 'I should not love you as I do, if I could bear to
think of your staying here, to let men laugh at you, as you say they
would!'
'It is not like resigning on the day after war is declared!' he
retorted, trying to speak lightly.
'It is!' she cried, with a sort of eager anxiety in her voice. 'There
is only a difference in the degree--and perhaps it is worse! If there
were war, you would be one man in a hundred thousand, but now you will
be one in ten or twenty, or as many as are to go. Think what it would
be if you were the only man in Italy, the one, single, only officer
who could certainly accomplish something very dangerous to help your
country--and if you refused to do it!'
'There are hundreds of better men than I for the work,' objected
Giovanni.
'I doubt it. Are there hundreds of engineer officers on the General
Staff?'
'No, but there are plenty----'
'A score, perhaps, and you have been chosen, no matter why, and there
is danger, and there is a great thing to be done, perhaps a great
good, which in the end will save the lives, or help the lives, of many
Italians! And you want to refuse to do it--for what? For a woman, for a
girl you love! Do you think she will love you the more, or less, for
keeping out of danger, if she is a true Italian as she thinks you are?
Why is it that our Italy, which no one thought much of a few years
ago, is coming to the front in so many ways now? It was not by staying
at home for women's sake that our sailors have got nearer the North
Pole than all the others who have tried! It is not by avoiding danger
that our officers are learning to astonish everybody with their
riding----'
'That is different,' objected Giovanni. 'It is one thing to do daring
things----'
'Yes,' interrupted Angela, not letting him speak, 'it is the one and
only thing, when it is good daring and can bring good, and helps the
world to see that Italy is not dead yet, in spite of all that has been
said and written against us and our unity. No, no, I say! Go, do your
duty, do and dare, wherever and howsoever your country needs you, and
I will wait for you, and be glad to wait for that one reason, which is
the best of all. If you love me half as dearly as I love you, go back
at once and tell your chief that you are ready, and are proud to be
used wherever you can be of any use! And if there is danger to be
faced, think that you are to face it for my sake as well as for
Italy's, and not in spite of me, for I would ten thousand times rather
that you should die in doing your duty--ever so obscurely--than stay
here to be called a coward in order that we may be rich when we
marry!'
Giovanni listened, more and more surprised at her energy and quick
flow of words, but glad at heart that she was urging him to do what
was right and honourable.
'It was for you that I meant to stay,' he said. 'Hard as it is to
leave you, it would have been harder to refuse the appointment. I will
go.'
A little silence followed, and Madame Bernard, no longer hearing their
voices, and having said everything she had to say to her parrot,
judged that it was time for her to come back and play chaperon again.
She was careful to make a good deal of noise with the latch before she
opened the door.
'Well, Monsieur,' she asked, on the threshold, 'has Donna Angela
persuaded you that she is right? I heard her making a great speech!'
'She is a firebrand,' laughed Giovanni, 'and a good patriot as well!
She ought to be in Parliament.'
'You are a feminist, I perceive,' answered Madame Bernard. 'But Joan
of Arc would be in the Chambers if she could come back to this world.
The people would elect her, she would present herself in the tribune,
and she would say, "Aha, messieurs! Here I am! We shall talk, you and
I." And our little Donna Angela is a sort of Joan of Arc. People do
not know it, but I do, for I have often heard her make beautiful
speeches, as if she were inspired!'
'It takes no inspiration to see what is right,' Angela said, shaking
her head. 'The only difficulty is to do it!'
'Even that is easy when you lead,' Giovanni answered thoughtfully, and
without the least intention of flattering her.
He had seen a side of her character of which he had not even suspected
the existence, and there was something about it so large and imposing
that he was secretly a little ashamed of feeling less strong than she
seemed. In two successive meetings he had come to her with his own
mind made up, but in a few moments she had talked him over to her
point of view without the least apparent difficulty, and had sent him
away fully determined to do the very opposite of that which he had
previously decided to do. It was a strange experience for a young man
of great energy and distinctly exceptional intelligence, and he did
not understand it.
He stayed barely half-an-hour, for Madame Bernard showed no
disposition to leave the room again, and he felt the difficulty of
keeping up an indifferent conversation in her presence, as well as the
impossibility of talking freely to Angela of what was uppermost in her
thoughts and his own. It was true that the governess knew all about
it, and there are excellent women of that sort whose presence does not
always hinder lovers from discussing their future; but either Madame
Bernard was not one of these by nature, or else the two felt the
difference of her nationality too much. The French are perhaps the
only civilised nation whom no people of other nations can thoroughly
understand, and who, with very few individual exceptions, do not
understand any people but themselves. They have a way of looking at
life which surprises and sometimes amuses men of all other
nationalities; they take some matters very seriously which seem of
trivial consequence to us, but they are witty at the expense of
certain simple feelings and impulses which we gravely regard as
fundamentally important, if not sacred. They can be really and truly
heroic, to the point of risking life and limb and happiness, about
questions at which we snap our fingers, but they can be almost
insolently practical, in the sense of feeling no emotion while keenly
discerning their own interest, in situations where our tempers or our
prejudices would rouse us to recklessness. In their own estimation
they are always right, and so are we in ours, no doubt; but whereas
they consider themselves the Chosen People and us the Gentiles, or
compare themselves with us as the Greeks compared themselves with the
Barbarians, we, on our side, do not look down upon their art and
literature as they undoubtedly do on ours, and a good many of us are
rather too ready to accept them as something more than our equals in
both. When I say 'we,' I do not mean only English-speaking people, but
other Europeans also. I have overheard Frenchmen discussing all sorts
of things in trains, on steamers, in picture-galleries, in libraries,
in the streets, from Tiflis to London and from London to the Pacific,
but I have never yet heard Frenchmen admit among themselves that a
modern work of art, or book, or play was really first-rate, if it was
not French. There is something monumental in their conviction of their
own superiority, and I sincerely believe it has had much to do with
their success, as a nation, in the arts of peace as well as in war. A
man who is honestly convinced that he is better than his opponent is
not easily put down in peaceful competition, and will risk his life in
action with a gallantry and daring that command the admiration of all
brave men; and it is a singular fact that German soldiers did not call
Frenchmen cowards after the great war, whereas it was a very common
thing to hear Frenchmen inveigh against 'those dirty, cowardly
Prussians' who had got the better of them. Men who can take such a
point of view as that must be utterly unlike other people.
This little digression should explain why Angela and Madame Bernard
never quite understood each other, in spite of the elder woman's
almost motherly love for the girl and the latter's devoted gratitude.
They talked about Giovanni when he was gone, of course, but neither
said all she thought about him, because she feared that the other
would think a little differently. The cheerful Frenchwoman had gone
through life with the belief that it is better, on the whole, to make
oneself comfortable in this world, if it can be managed on honest
principles, than to worry oneself about heroics, and in the calm
recesses of her practical little soul she was sure that, in Angela's
place, she would have told Giovanni to resign as soon as possible and
find some pleasant and well-paid occupation for his married life. All
Angela's talk about a man's duty to his country would be very well in
time of war, when there was glory to be got; but it was nonsense in
ordinary times, where one man would do as well as another, to risk his
life in a small expedition, and when it was distinctly advisable not
to be that one. But she knew also that she had better not try to
explain this to Angela, who was evidently a little mad on the point,
most probably because she was an Italian. For Italians, Germans,
Spaniards, Englishmen, and Americans were all completely insane; there
was some little hope for Austrians and a good deal for Russians, in
Madame Bernard's opinion, but there was none for the rest, though they
might be very nice people. The safest thing was to humour them. She
had given lessons in Roman families that were half Austrian and even
half Russian, for the Romans have always been very cosmopolitan in
their marriages, but Angela was quite Italian on both sides, and so
was Giovanni. It was therefore pretty certain that they would behave
like lunatics, sooner or later, the good lady thought; and they
apparently were beginning already.
It is needless to dwell long on what followed, since what has been
narrated so far is only the introduction to Angela's story and the
exposition of the circumstances which determined her subsequent life.
As in most cases, it happened in hers that the greatest events were
the direct consequences of one very small beginning. If she had not
urged Giovanni to wait some time before leaving the army, he would not
have been obliged to remain in the service almost as a matter of
honour, yet it had seemed very sensible to advise him to do nothing in
a hurry. Everything else followed logically upon that first step.
It was the inevitable, and it was therefore already in nature tragic,
before active tragedy took the stage. Yet Angela did not feel its
presence, nor any presentiment of the future, when she bade Giovanni
farewell ten days after he had first been to see her in Madame
Bernard's apartment.
What she felt was just the common pain of parting that has been the
lot of loving men and women since the beginning; it is not the less
sharp because almost every one has felt it, but it is as useless to
describe it as it would be to write a chapter about a bad toothache, a
sick headache, or an attack of gout. Angela was a brave girl and set
herself the task of bearing it quietly because it was a natural and
healthy consequence of loving dearly. It was not like the wrench of
saying good-bye to a lover on his way to meet almost certain death.
She told herself, and Giovanni told her, that in all probability he
was not going to encounter any danger worse than may chance in a day's
hunting over a rough country or in a steeple-chase, and that the risk
was certainly far less than that of fighting a duel in Italy, where
duelling is not a farce as it is in some countries. He would come back
within a few months, with considerable credit and the certainty of
promotion; it was a hundred to one that he would, so that this was
merely a common parting, to be borne without complaint. He thought so
himself, and they consoled each other by making plans for their
married life, which would be so much nearer when he came home.
Madame Bernard left them alone for an hour in the sitting-room and
then came in to say good-bye to Giovanni herself, bringing Coco
perched upon her wrist, but silent and well-behaved. Angela was pale,
and perhaps her deep mourning made her look paler than she was, but
her face was as quiet and collected as Giovanni's. He took leave of
the governess almost affectionately.
'Take care of her, Madame,' he said, 'and write me some news of her
now and then through the War Office. It may reach me, or it may not!'
He kissed Angela's hand, looked into her eyes silently for a moment,
and went out.
'Marche! 'cré nom d'un nom!' screamed the parrot after him, as if he
were going too slowly.
But this time Angela could not speak of him with her friend just after
he was gone, and when Madame Bernard tried to talk of other things
with the idea of diverting her attention, she went and shut herself up
in her own room. It was distracting to know that he was still in Rome,
and that until nearly midnight, when the train left for Naples, it
would be possible to see him once more. If she had insisted, Madame
Bernard would have consented to go with her in a cab to find him. It
was hard to resist, as she sat by the window, listening to the distant
sound of wheels in the street; it was the first great temptation she
had ever felt in her life, and as she faced it she was surprised at
its strength. But she would not yield. In her own gentle womanliness
she found something she recognised but could not account for; was it
possible that she had some strength of character, after all? Could it
be that she inherited a little of that rigid will that had made her
father so like her idea of a Puritan? He had always told her that she
was weak, that she would be easily influenced by her surroundings,
that her only hope must be to obtain Divine aid for her feeble,
feminine nature. She had believed him, because he had taught her that
she must, even in the smallest things, and this was a great one.
But now something cruelly strong was tearing at her, to make her go into
the next room and beg Madame Bernard to help her find Giovanni, if only
that she might see his face and hear his voice and say good-bye just
once more. She laid her hands on the window-sill as if she would hold
herself down in her chair, and she refused to move; not because it
looked foolish, for that would not have mattered, but because she chose
not to yield. Perhaps she was too proud to give way, and pride, they
told her, was always a sin, but that did not matter either. There was an
unexpected satisfaction in finding one thin strand of steel among the
pliant threads of her untried young will.
Besides, she would have much to bear, and if she did not begin at
once, she would never grow used to the burden. That was another reason
for not following her instinct, and a very good one.
To help herself, she began to say one of those prayers of which she
knew so many by heart. To her surprise, it disturbed her instead of
strengthening her determination, and while her lips were moving she
felt an almost overwhelming impulse to do what she was determined not
to do at any cost. The sensation startled her, and in a moment she
felt that tide of darkness rising to drown her which had almost
overwhelmed her while she was kneeling beside her dead father. Her
hand pressed the stone window-sill in terror of the awful presence.
It is familiar to those few who have knowingly or unwittingly tried to
penetrate the darkness to the light beyond. It has been called the
Guardian, the Dweller on the Threshold, the Wall, the Destroyer, the
Giant Despair. Many have turned back from it as from death itself,
some have gone raving mad in fighting their way through it, some have
actually died in it, of failure of the heart from fright. Some come
upon it unawares in their reasoning, some in the hour of profound
meditation; some know by long experience where it is and keep away
from it; some are able to pass through it with unshaken mind and
unbroken nerves. Scarcely one in a million even guesses that it
exists; of those who do, ninety-nine in a hundred turn from it in
horror; of the remaining score of those who face it in a whole
generation of men, more than half perish in mind or body; the last
ten, perhaps, win through, and these are they that have understood the
writing over the temple door, the great 'Know thyself,' the precept of
the Delphic Oracle and of all mystics before Trophonios and since.
Angela's lips ceased moving, and very soon she was herself again,
quietly sitting there and wondering what had frightened her so badly,
and whether there might not be something wrong with her heart, because
she remembered how it had beat twice quickly in succession and then
had seemed to stand still while she could have counted ten, quite
slowly.
What she called her temptation left her at peace till she knew that
Giovanni's train had started. In imagination she could hear the engine's
whistle, the hissing of the steam from the purge-cocks at starting, the
quickening thunder of the high-pressure exhaust, the clanking noise as
the slowly moving train passed over the old-fashioned turn-tables, and
the long retreating rumble as the express gathered speed and ran out of
sight.
Then it was over, for good and all; Giovanni was gone beyond the
possibility of seeing him again and the strain relaxed. Angela put out
her light, and when she fell asleep a quarter of an hour later, drops
she did not even feel were slowly trickling from her lids to the
pillow; for there are women who do not easily cry when they are awake,
but when they are sleeping their tired eyes shed the pent-up tears and
are refreshed by them.
Angela was not left alone with Madame Bernard as much as she had
expected after the first few days, nor even as much as she might have
wished. The feeling against the Princess Chiaromonte was strong, and
as soon as it became known that Angela had found a safe refuge with
her former governess, she received several invitations from more or
less distant connections to spend some time with them in the country
during the coming summer. At the present juncture, in the height of
the season, it was natural that no one should want a forlorn young
girl in deep mourning to make a town visit. She would have been a
killjoy and a wet blanket in any house, that was clear, and nothing
could be more thoroughly respectable and proper than that she should
spend the first weeks under Madame Bernard's roof and protection.
Some of Angela's friends of her own age came to see her by and by and
offered to take her to drive in their mothers' carriages or motor
cars, but she would not go, and though she thanked them with grateful
words for thinking of her, most of them thought, and told each other,
that she had not been very glad to see them and would rather be left
alone. They supposed that she was still too much overcome to wish for
their society, and as young people who drop out of the world after
being in it a very short time are soon forgotten, they troubled
themselves very little about her. If she ever chose to come out of her
solitude, they said, she would be welcome again, but since she wished
to be left to herself it was very convenient to humour her, because
the Princess Chiaromonte had as good as declared that there were
'excellent reasons' for her own apparently heartless conduct. No one
knew what that meant, but when she spoke in that way it was more
blessed to accept her statement than to get her enmity by doubting it.
The Chiaromonte family were at liberty to settle their own affairs as
seemed best in their own eyes, and as the law could not interfere, no
one else felt inclined to do so. Angela had no near relations on her
mother's side to protect her or take her in.
Six weeks passed away without incident after Giovanni had left, and
she had received three letters from him--one from Naples, written
before going on board the steamer, one from Port Said, and one from
Massowah after his arrival there. The expedition was to start in three
days, he said; it had been waiting for him and the officer who was to
take the command, and who had gone with him.
A short time after receiving this last letter Angela was reading the
news from an evening paper to Madame Bernard, translating the
paragraphs offhand into French, by force of habit, because her old
governess had often made her do it for practice.
Suddenly her eyes became fixed, the colour left her face, and she
dropped the newspaper with a short, loud cry, falling back in her
chair at the same moment.
Madame Bernard snatched up the sheet and glanced at the place where
the girl had last been reading.
The expedition had fallen in with hostile natives a week after
starting and had been massacred to a man. The names of the dead were
given, and Giovanni's was the second on the list.