Sant' Ilario

by F. Marion Crawford

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  Faustina Montevarchi was delighted when her sister was at last marriedand out of the house. The two had always been very good friends, butFaustina felt that she had an enemy in San Giacinto and was relievedwhen he was gone. She had no especial reason for her suspicions, sincehe treated her with the same quiet and amicable politeness which heshowed to the rest of the household; but her perceptions wereextraordinarily true and keen, and she had noticed that he watched herwhenever Gouache was in the room, in a way that made her veryuncomfortable. Moreover, he had succeeded of late in making Flaviaaccompany her to early mass on Sunday mornings on pretence of hiswishing to see Flavia without the inevitable supervision of the oldprincess. The plan was ingenious; for Faustina, instead of meetingGouache, was thus obliged to play chaperon while her sister and SanGiacinto talked to their hearts' content. He was a discreet man,however, and Flavia was ignorant of the fact that Faustina and Anastasehad sometimes met in the same way, and would have met frequently hadthey not been prevented. The young girl was clever enough to see whySan Giacinto acted as he did; she understood that he was an ambitiousman, and that, as he was about to ally himself with her family, hewould naturally disapprove of her attachment to Gouache. Now that hewas gone, she wondered whether he had devised any steps which wouldtake effect after his departure.

  Faustina was quite as much in love as Gouache himself, and spent muchtime in calculating the chances of a favourable issue from thesituation in which she found herself. Life without Anastase wasimpossible, but the probabilities of her becoming his wife in theordinary course of events were very few, as far as she was able tojudge, and she had moments of extreme depression, during which shedespaired of everything. The love of a very young girl may in itself beboth strong and enduring, but it generally has the effect of making herprone to extremes of hope and fear, uncertain of herself, vacillatingin her ideas, and unsteady in the pursuit of the smaller ends of life.Throw two equal weights into the scales of a perfectly adjustedbalance, the arm will swing and move erratically many times before itreturns to its normal position, although there is a potentialequilibrium in the machine which will shortly assert itself in absolutetranquillity.

  Love in a very young person is rarely interesting, unless it isattended by heroic or tragic circumstances. Human life is very like thegame of chess, of which the openings are so limited in number that apractised player knows them all by heart, whereas the subsequent movesare susceptible of infinite variation. Almost all young people passthrough the early stages of existence by some known gambit, which, hasalways a definite influence upon their later lives, but neverdetermines the latter entirely. The game is played between humanity onthe one side and the unforeseen on the other; but that which can reallynot be foretold in some measure rarely presents itself until the firsteffects of love have been felt, a period which, to continue the simile,may be compared in chess to the operation of castling. Then comes thefirst crisis, and the merest tyro knows how much may depend uponwhether he castles on the king's side or on the queen's.

  Now the nature of Faustina's first love was such as to make it probablethat it would end in some uncommon way. There was something fatal inthe suddenness with which her affection had grown and had upset thebalance of her judgment. It is safe to say that not one young girl in amillion would have behaved as she had done on the night of theinsurrection in Rome; not one in a hundred thousand would, in herposition, have fallen in love with Gouache.

  The position of the professional artist and of the professional man ofletters in modern European society is ill defined. As a man who hasbeen brought up in a palace would undoubtedly betray his breedingsooner or later if transported to live amongst a gang of thieves, so aman who has grown to years of discretion in the atmosphere of studiosor in the queer company from which most literary men have sprung, willinevitably, at one time or another, offend the susceptibilities of thatportion of humanity which calls itself society. It is impossible thatit should be otherwise. Among a set of people whose profession it is todo always, and in all things, precisely what their neighbours do, theman who makes his living by doing what other people cannot do, mustalways be a marked figure. Look at modern society. It cannot toil norspin; it can hardly put together ten words in a grammatical sequence.But it can clothe itself. The man of letters can both toil and writegood English, but his taste in tailoring frequently leaves much to bedesired. If he would put himself in the hands of Poole, and hold histongue, he might almost pass for a member of society. But he must needstalk, and his speech bewrayeth him for a Galilean. There are wits insociety, both many and keen, who can say something original, cuttingand neatly turned, upon almost any subject, with an easy superioritywhich makes the hair of the learned man stand erect upon his head. Thechief characteristic of him who lives by his brains is, that he is notonly able to talk consecutively upon some subject, but that he actuallydoes so, which, in society, is accounted a monstrous crime againstmanners. Let him write what he wants to say, and print it; society willeither not understand him at all, or will read his works with adictionary in the secrecy of its own chamber. But if he will hold histongue in public, society will give him a cup of tea and treat himalmost like a human being for the sake of being said to patroniseletters. Any one who likes society's tea may drink his fill of it inconsideration of wearing a good coat and keeping his wits to himself,but he will not succeed in marrying any of society's sisters, cousinsor aunts without a severe struggle.

  Anastase Gouache did not quite understand this. He sometimes foundhimself amidst a group of people who were freely discussing some personunknown to him. On such occasions he held his peace, innocentlysupposing that his ignorance was without any importance whatsoever,among a set of men and women with whom not to know every detailconcerning every one else is to be little better than an outcast.

  "Now do tell me all about the Snooks and Montmorency divorce," saysLady Smyth-Tompkins with a sweetly engaging smile, as she holds out herhand.

  "I did not know there was such a case--I don't know the people," youanswer.

  "Oh! I thought, of course, you knew all about it," Lady Smyth-Tompkinsreplies, and her features turn to stone as she realises that you do notknow everybody, and leaves you to your own reflections.

  O Thackeray, snobissme maxime! How well you knew them!

  There are no snobs among the Latin races, but there is a worse animal,the sycophant, descended directly from the dinner-tables of ancientRome. In old-fashioned houses there are often several of them, headedinvariably by the "giornale ambulante," the walking newspaper, whosebusiness it is to pick up items of news during the day in order todetail them to the family in the evening. There is a certain oldprincess who sits every evening with her needlework at the head of along table in the dismal drawing-room of a gigantic palace. On eachside of the board are seated the old parasites, the family doctor, thefamily chaplain, the family lawyer, the family librarian, theperipatetic news-sheet and the rest.

  "I have been out to-day," says her excellency.

  "Oh! Ah! Dear me! In this weather! Hear what the princess says! Theprincess has been out!" The chorus comes up the table, all the answersreaching her ears at once.

  "And I saw, as I drove by, the new monument! What a ridiculous thing itis."

  "Ho! ho! ho! Hah! hah! hah! Dear me! What a monument! What fine tastethe princess has! Hear what the princess thinks of the monument!"

  "If you will believe it, the bronze horse has a crooked leg." "He! he!he! Hi! hi! hi! Dear me! A crooked leg! How the princess understandshorses! The princess saw that he had a crooked leg!"

  And so on, for a couple of hours, in the cold, dimly-lighted room untilher excellency has had enough of it and rises to go to bed, when theparasites all scuttle away and quarrel with each other in the street asthey walk home. Night after night, to decades of years, the old ladyrecounts the little journal of her day to the admiring listeners, whosechorus of approval is performed daily with the same unvaryingregularity. The times are changing
now; the prince is not so easilyamused, and the sycophant has accordingly acquired the art of amusing,but there still survive some wonderful monuments of the old school.

  Anastase Gouache was a man of great talent and of rising fame, but likeother men of his stamp he preferred to believe that he was received ona friendly footing for his own sake rather than on account of hisreputation. In his own eyes, he was, as a man, as good as those withwhom he associated, and had as much right to make love to FaustinaMontevarchi as the young Frangipani, for whom her father destined her.Faustina, on her part, was too young to appreciate the real strength ofthe prejudices by which she was surrounded. She could not understandthat, although the man she loved was a gentleman, young, good-looking,successful, and not without prospects of acquiring a fortune, he wasyet wholly ineligible as a husband. Had she seen this ever so clearlyit might have made but little difference in her feelings; but she didnot see it, and the disparaging remarks about Anastase, which sheoccasionally heard in her own family, seemed to her utterly unjust aswell as quite unfounded. The result was that the two young people werepreparing for themselves one of those terrible disappointments of whichthe consequences are sometimes felt during a score of years. Both,however, were too much in love to bear suspense very long without doingsomething to precipitate the course of events, and whenever they hadthe chance they talked the matter over and built wonderful castles inthe air.

  About a fortnight after the marriage of San Giacinto they were seatedtogether in a room full of people, late in the afternoon. They had beentalking for some time upon indifferent subjects. When two persons meetwho are very much in love with each other, and waste their time indiscussing topics of little importance, it may be safely predicted thatsomething unusual is about to occur.

  "I cannot endure this suspense any longer," said Gouache at last.

  "Nor I," answered Faustina.

  "It is of no use to wait any more. Either your father will consent orhe will not. I will ask him and know the worst."

  "And if it is the worst--what then?" The young girl turned her eyestowards Anastase with a frightened look.

  "Then we must manage without his consent."

  "How is that possible?"

  "It must be possible," replied Gouache. "If you love me it shall bepossible. It is only a question of a little courage and good-will. But,after all, your father may consent. Why should he not?"

  "Because--" she hesitated a little.

  "Because I am not a Roman prince, you mean." Anastase glanced quicklyat her.

  "No. He wants me to marry Frangipani."

  "Why did you never tell me that?"

  "I did not know it when we last met. My mother told me of it lastnight."

  "Is the match settled?" asked Gouache. He was very pale.

  "I think it has been spoken of," answered Faustina in a low voice. Sheshivered a little and pressed her hands together. There was a shortsilence, during which Anastase did not take his eyes from her, whileshe looked down, avoiding his look.

  "Then there is no time to be lost," said Gouache at last. "I will go toyour father to-morrow morning."

  "Oh--don't, don't!" cried Faustina, suddenly, with an expression ofintense anxiety.

  "Why not?" The artist seemed very much surprised.

  "You do not know him! You do not know what he will say to you! You willbe angry and lose your temper--he will be cruel and will insult you,and you will resent it--then I shall never see you again. You do notknow--"

  "This is something new," said Gouache. "How can you be sure that hewill receive me so badly? Have your people talked about me? After all,I am an honest man, and though I live by my profession I am not poor.It is true, I am not such a match for you as Frangipani. Tell me, dothey abuse me at your house?"

  "No--what can they say, except that you are an artist? That is notabuse, nor calumny."

  "It depends upon how it is said. I suppose it is San Giacinto who saysit." Gouache's face darkened.

  "San Giacinto has guessed the truth," answered Faustina, shaking herhead. "He knows that we love each other, and just now he is verypowerful with my father. It will be worse if he wins the suit and isPrince Saracinesca."

  "Then that is another reason for acting at once. Faustina--you followedme once--will you not go with me, away, out of this cursed city? I willask for you first. I will behave honourably. But if he will notconsent, what is there left for us to do? Can we live apart? Can youmarry Frangipani? Have not many people done before what we think ofdoing? Is it wrong? Heaven knows, I make no pretence to sanctity. But Iwould not have you do anything--what shall I say? Anything against yourconscience." There was a shade of bitterness in the laugh thataccompanied the last words.

  "You do not know what things he will say," repeated Faustina, indespairing tones.

  "This is absurd," said Gouache. "I can bear anything he can say wellenough. He is an old man and I am a young one, and have no intention oftaking offence. He may say what he pleases, call me a villain, abrigand--that is your favourite Italian expression--a thief, a liar,anything he pleases. I will not be angry. There shall be no violence.But I cannot endure this state of things any longer. I must try myluck."

  "Wait a little longer," answered Faustina, in an imploring tone. "Waituntil the suit is decided."

  "In order to let San Giacinto get even more influence than he has now?It would be a mistake--you almost said so yourself a moment ago.Besides, the suit may for years."

  "It will not last a fortnight."

  "Poor Sant' Ilario!" exclaimed Gouache. "Does everybody know about it?"

  "I suppose so. But nobody speaks of it. We all feel dreadfully aboutit, except my father and San Giacinto and Flavia."

  "If he is in a good humour this is the very time to go to him."

  "Please, please do not insist!" Faustina was evidently very much inearnest. With the instinct of a very young woman, she clung to the halfhappiness of the present which was so much greater than anything shehad known before in her life. But Gouache would not be satisfied.

  "I must know the worst," he said again, as they parted.

  "But this is so much, better than the worst," answered Faustina, sadly.

  "Who risks nothing, wins nothing," retorted the young man with a brightsmile.

  In spite of his hopefulness, however, he had received a severe shock onhearing the news of the intended match with young Frangipani. He hadcertainly never expected to find himself the rival of such a suitor,and his sense of possibility, if man may be said to possess such afaculty, was staggered by the idea. He suddenly awakened to a trueunderstanding of his position in Roman society, and when hecontemplated his discovery in all its bearings, his nerve almostforsook him. When he remembered his childhood, his youth, and thecircumstances in which he had lived up to a recent time, he found ithard to realise that he was trying to marry such a girl, in spite ofher family and in opposition to such a man as was now brought forwardas a match for her. It was not in his nature, however, to bediscouraged in the face of difficulties. He was like a brave man whohas received a stunning blow, but who continues to fight until he hasgradually regained his position. Gouache could no more haverelinquished Faustina than he could have abandoned a half-finishedpicture in which he believed, any more than he had given up the attemptto break away the stones at the Vigna Santucci after he had receivedthe bullet in his shoulder. He had acquired his position in life byindomitable perseverance and hopefulness, and those qualities would notnow fail him, in one of the most critical situations through which hehad ever passed. In spite of Faustina's warning and, to some extent, inspite of his own better judgment, he determined to face the old princeat once and to ask him boldly for his daughter.

  He had spoken confidently to Faustina of being married against the willof her father, but when he thought over this alternative he recollecteda fact he had almost completely forgotten in considering hismatrimonial projects. He was a soldier and had enlisted in the Zouavesfor a term of years. It was true that by using the influence
hepossessed he might hope to be released from his engagement, but such acourse was most repugnant to him. Before Mentana it would have beenwholly impossible, for it would have seemed cowardly. Now that he haddistinguished himself and had been wounded in the cause, the thingmight be done without dishonour, but it would involve a species ofself-abasement to which he was not prepared to submit. On the otherhand, to wait until his term of service should have expired was to risklosing Faustina altogether. He knew that she loved him, but he wasexperienced enough to know that a young girl is not always able to bearthe pressure exercised upon her when marriage is concerned. In Rome,and especially at that time, it was in the power of parents to use themost despotic means for subduing the will of their children. There waseven a law by which a disobedient son or daughter could be imprisonedfor a considerable length of time, provided that the father could provethat his child had rebelled against his just will. Though Gouache wasnot aware of this, the fact that a similar institution existed in hisown country made him suspect that it was to be found in Rome also.Supposing that Montevarchi refused to accept him for a son-in-law, andthat Faustina, on the other hand, refused to marry young Frangipani, itwas only too probable that she might be locked up--in a luxuriouslyfurnished cell of course--to reflect upon the error of her ways. It wasby no means certain that in the face of such humiliation and sufferingFaustina would continue her resistance; indeed, she could hardly beblamed if she yielded in the end. Gouache believed in the sincerity ofher love because the case was his own; had he heard of it in the lifeof another man he would have laughed at the idea that a girl ofeighteen could be capable of a serious passion.

  It is not necessary, however, to enter into an analysis of the motivesand feelings of either Faustina or Anastase. Their connection with thehistory of the Saracinesca arose from what they did, and not from thethoughts which prompted their actions. It is sufficient to say thatGouache conceived the mad idea of asking Montevarchi's consent to hismarriage and to explain the immediate consequences of the step he took.

  Matters were rapidly approaching a climax. San Giacinto had seen thelawyers at Frascati, and he had brought his wife back to Rome very soonin order to be on the spot while the case was being prepared. The menof the law declared that the matter was a very simple one and that nocourt could withhold its decision a single day after seeing thedocuments which constituted the claim. The only point about which anyargument could arise related to the identity of San Giacinto himself,and no difficulty was found in establishing substantial proof that hewas Giovanni Saracinesca and not an impostor. His father andgrandfather had jealously kept all the records of themselves which werenecessary, from the marriage certificate of the original Don Leone, whohad signed the deed, to the register of San Giacinto's own birth.Copies were obtained, properly drawn up and certified, of the parishbooks and of the few government documents which were officiallypreserved in the kingdom of Naples before 1860, and the lawyersdeclared themselves ready to open the case. Up to this time thestrictest secrecy was preserved, at the request of San Giacintohimself. He said that in such an important matter he wished nothing totranspire until he was ready to act; more especially as the Saracinescathemselves could not be ignorant of the true state of the case and hadno right to receive notice of the action beforehand. As Corona hadforeseen, San Giacinto intended to obtain the decision by means of aperfectly legal trial, and was honestly ready to court enquiry into therights he was about to assert. When the moment came and all was ready,he went to the Palazzo Saracinesca and asked for the prince, whoreceived him in the same room in which the two had met when theex-innkeeper had made his appearance in Rome nearly three monthsearlier. As San Giacinto entered he felt that he had not wasted histime during that short interval.

  "I have come to talk with you upon a business which must be unpleasantto you," he began. "Unfortunately it cannot be avoided. I beg you tobelieve that it is my wish to act loyally and fairly."

  "I hope so," said Saracinesca, bending his bushy gray eyebrows andfixing his keen old eyes upon his visitor.

  "You need not doubt it," replied San Giacinto rather proudly. "You aredoubtless acquainted with the nature of the deed by which ourgreat-grandfathers agreed to transfer the titles and property to theyounger of the two. When we first spoke of the matter I was not awareof the existence of a saving clause. I cannot suppose you ignorant ofit. That clause provided that if Leone Saracinesca married and had alawful heir, the deed should be null and void. He did marry, as youknow. I am his direct descendant, and have children of my own by myfirst marriage. I cannot therefore allow the clause in question toremain in abeyance any longer. With all due respect to you, I amobliged to tell you quite frankly that, in law, I am PrinceSaracinesca."

  Having thus stated his position as plainly as possible, San Giacintofolded his great hands upon his knee and leaned against the back of hischair. Saracinesca looked as though he were about to make some hastyanswer, but he controlled his intention and rose to his feet. Afterwalking twice up and down the room, he came and stood in front of hiscousin.

  "Let us be plain in what we say," he began. "I give you my word that,until Montevarchi sent back those papers the other day, I did not knowwhat they contained. I had not read them for thirty years, and at thattime the clause escaped me. I do not remember to have noticed it. Thismay have been due to the fact that I had never heard that Leone had anyliving descendants, and should therefore have attached no importance tothe words if I had seen them."

  "I believe you," said San Giacinto, calmly. The old man's eyes flashed.

  "I always take it for granted that I am believed," he answered. "Willyou give me your word that you are what you assert yourself to be,Giovanni Saracinesca, the great-grandson and lawful heir of Leone?"

  "Certainly. I pledge my honour that I am; and I, too, expect to bebelieved by you."

  There was something in the tone of the answer that struck a sympatheticchord in Saracinesca's nature. San Giacinto had risen to his feet, andthere was something in the huge, lean strength of him, in the bold lookof his eyes, in the ring of his deep voice, that inspired respect.Rough he was, and not over refined or carefully trained in the ways ofthe world, cruel perhaps, and overbearing too; but he was every inch aSaracinesca, and the old man felt it.

  "I believe you," answered the prince. "You may take possession when youplease. I am Don Leone, and you are the head of the house."

  He made a gesture full of dignity, as though resigning then and therehis name and the house in which he lived, to him who was lawfullyentitled to both. The action was magnificent and worthy of the man.There was a superb disregard of consequences in his readiness to giveup everything rather than keep for a moment what was not his, whichaffected San Giacinto strangely. In justice to the latter it must beremembered that he had not the faintest idea that he was the instrumentof a gigantic fraud from which he was to derive the chief advantage. Heinstinctively bowed in acknowledgment of his cousin's generous conduct.

  "I shall not take advantage of your magnanimity," he said, "until thelaw has sanctioned my doing so."

  "As you please," answered the other. "I have nothing to conceal fromthe law, but I am prejudiced against lawyers. Do as you think best. Afamily council can settle the matter as well as the courts."

  "Your confidence in me is generous and noble. I prefer, however, thatthe tribunal should examine the matter."

  "As you please," repeated Saracinesca. There was no reason forprolonging an interview which could not be agreeable to either party.The old man remained standing. "No opposition will be made to thesuit," he said. "You will simply produce your papers in proper form,and I will declare myself satisfied." He held out his hand.

  "I trust you will bear me no ill-will," said San Giacinto ratherawkwardly.

  "For taking what is yours and not mine? Not in the least. Good-evening."

  San Giacinto left the room. When he was gone, Saracinesca stood stillfor a moment, and then sank into a chair. His strong nature hadsustained him through the meeting
and would sustain him to the end, buthe was terribly shaken, and felt a strange sensation of numbness in theback of his head, which was quite new to him. For some minutes he satstill as though dazed and only half conscious. Then he rose again,shook himself as though to get rid of a bad dream and rang the bell. Hesent for Giovanni, who appeared immediately.

  "San Giacinto has been here," he said quickly. "He is the man. You hadbetter tell your wife, as she will want to collect her things before weleave the house."

  Giovanni was staggered by his father's impetuosity. He had realisedthat the danger existed, but it had always seemed indefinitely farremoved.

  "I suppose there will be some legal proceedings before everything issettled," he said with more calmness than he felt.

  "What is that to us? We must go, sooner or later."

  "And if the courts do not decide in his favour, what then?"

  "There is no doubt about it," answered the prince, pacing the room ashis excitement returned. "You and I are nobody. We had better go andlive in an inn. That man is honest. I hate him, but he is honest. Whydo you stand there staring at me? Were you not the first to say that ifwe are impostors we should give up everything of our own free-will? Andnow you seem to think that I will fight the suit! That is your logic!That is all the consistency you have acquired in your travels! Go andtell your wife that you are nobody, that I am nobody! Go and tell herto give you a title, a name for men to call you by! Go into the marketand see whether you can find a name for your father! Go and hire ahouse for us to live in, when that Neapolitan devil has brought FlaviaMontevarchi to live in the palace where your mother died, where youwere born--poor Giovanni! Not that I pity you any more than I pitymyself. Why should I? You are young and have done this house the honourto spend most of your life out of it. But after all--poor Giovanni!"

  Saracinesca seized his son's hand and looked into his eyes. The youngman's face was perfectly calm, almost serene in its expression ofindifference to misfortune. His whole soul was preoccupied by greaterand nobler emotions than any which could be caused by worldly loss. Hehad been with Corona again, had talked with her and had seen that lookin her face which he had learned to dread more than he had ever dreadedanything in his life. What was life itself without that which her eyesrefused?