CHAPTER XXII.
On the following morning all Rome rang with the news that theSaracinesca had lost their title, and that Faustina Montevarchi hadmurdered her father. No one connected the two events, but the shock tothe public mind was so tremendous that almost any incredible tale wouldhave been believed. The story, as it was generally told, set forth thatFaustina had gone mad and had strangled her father in his sleep. Everyone agreed in affirming that he had been found dead with herhandkerchief tied round his neck. It was further stated that the younggirl was no longer in the Palazzo Montevarchi, but had been transferredto the women's prison at the Termini, pending further examination intothe details of the case. The Palazzo Montevarchi was draped in black,and before night funeral hatchments were placed upon the front of theparish church bearing the Montevarchi arms. No one was admitted to thepalace upon any pretext whatever, though it was said that San Giacintoand Flavia had spent the night there. No member of the family had beenseen by any one, and nobody seemed to know exactly whence the variousitems of information had been derived.
Strange to say, every word of what was repeated so freely was true,excepting that part of the tale which accused Faustina of having donethe deed. What had taken place up to the time when Corona and Giovannihad come may be thus briefly told.
Prince Montevarchi had been found dead by the servant who came to bringa lamp to the study, towards evening, when it grew dark. As soon as thealarm was given a scene of indescribable confusion followed, whichlasted until the prefect of police arrived, accompanied by a party ofpolice officials. The handkerchief was examined and identified.Thereupon, in accordance with the Roman practice of that day, theprefect had announced his determination of taking Faustina intocustody. The law took it for granted that the first piece ofcircumstantial evidence which presented itself must be acted upon withthe utmost promptitude. A few questions had shown immediately thatFaustina was the last person who had seen Montevarchi alive. The younggirl exhibited a calmness which surprised every one. She admitted thather father had been angry with her and had struck her, but she deniedall knowledge of his death. It is sufficient to say that she fearlesslytold the truth, so fearlessly as to prejudice even her own family withregard to her. Even the blood on the handkerchief was against her,though she explained that it was her own, and although the bruise onher lip bore out the statement. The prefect was inexorable. Heexplained that Faustina could be taken privately to the Termini, andthat the family might use its influence on the next day to procure herimmediate release, but that his duty compelled him for the present tosecure her person, that he was responsible, that he was only doing hisduty, and so forth and so on.
The consternation of the family may be imagined. The princess brokedown completely under what seemed very like a stroke of paralysis. SanGiacinto and Flavia were not to be found at their house, and as thecarriage had not returned, nobody knew where they were. The wives ofFaustina's brothers shut themselves up in their rooms and gave way tohysterical tears, while the brothers themselves seemed helpless to doanything for their sister.
Seeing herself abandoned by every one Faustina had sent for CoronaSaracinesca. It was the wisest thing she could have done. In a quarterof an hour Corona and her husband entered the room together. Theviolent scene which followed has been already described, in whichGiovanni promised the prefect of police that if he persisted in hisintention of arresting Faustina he should himself be lodged in theCarceri Nuove in twelve hours. But the prefect had got the better ofthe situation, being accompanied by an armed force which Giovanni waspowerless to oppose. All that could be obtained had been that Giovanniand Corona should take Faustina to the Termini in their carriage, andthat Corona should stay with the unfortunate young girl all night ifshe wished to do so. Giovanni could not be admitted.
The prison of the Termini was under the administration of an order ofnuns devoted especially to the care of prisoners. The prefect arrivedin his own carriage simultaneously with the one which conveyed hisprisoner and her friends. As the gate was opened and one of the sistersappeared, he whispered a few words into her ear. She looked grave atfirst, and then, when she saw Faustina's angel face, she shook her headincredulously. The prefect had accomplished his duty, however. Theprison-gates closed after the two ladies, and the sentinel outsideresumed his walk, while the carriages drove away, the one containingthe officer of the law and the other Giovanni, who had himself drivenat once to the Vatican, in spite of the late hour. The great cardinalreceived him but, to his amazement, refused an order of release.
The sister who admitted Corona and Faustina took the latter's handkindly and looked into her face by the light of the small lantern shecarried.
"It is some dreadful mistake, my child," she said. "But I have nocourse but to obey. You are Donna Faustina Montevarchi?"
"Yes--this is the Princess Sant' Ilario."
"Will you come with me? I will give you the best room we have--it isnot very like a prison."
"This is," said Faustina, shuddering at the sight of the massive stonewalls, quite as much as from the dampness of the night air.
"Courage, dear!" whispered Corona, drawing the girl's slight figureclose to her and arranging the mantle upon her shoulders. But Coronaherself was uneasy as to the result of the ghastly adventure, and shelooked anxiously forward into the darkness beyond the nun's lantern.
At last they found themselves in a small whitewashed chamber, so smallthat it was brightly lighted by the two wicks of a brass oil-lamp onthe table. The nun left them alone, at Corona's request, promising toreturn in the course of an hour. Faustina sat down upon the edge of thelittle bed, and Corona upon a chair beside her. Until now, theunexpected excitement of what had passed during the last three or fourhours had sustained the young girl. Everything that had happened hadseemed to be a part of a dream until she found herself at last in thecell of the Termini prison, abandoned by every one save Corona. Hercourage broke down. She threw herself back upon the pillow and burstinto tears. Corona did not know what to do, but tried to comfort her aswell as she could, wondering inwardly what would have happened had thepoor child been brought to such a place alone.
"What have I done, that such things should happen to me?" criedFaustina at last, sitting up and staring wildly at her friend. Hersmall white hands lay helplessly in her lap and her rich brown hair wasbeginning to be loosened and to fall upon her shoulders.
The tears stood in Corona's eyes. It seemed to her infinitely patheticthat this innocent creature should have been chosen as the victim toexpiate so monstrous a crime.
"It will be all cleared up in the morning," she answered, trying tospeak cheerfully or at least hopefully. "It is an abominable mistake ofthe prefect's. I will not leave you, dear--take heart, we willtalk--the nun will bring you something to eat--the night will soonpass."
"In prison!" exclaimed Faustina, in a tone of horror and despair, notheeding what Corona said.
"Try and fancy it is not--"
"And my father dead!" She seemed suddenly to realise that he was gonefor ever. "Poor papa! poor papa!" she moaned. "Oh, I did not mean to beundutiful--indeed I did not--and I can never tell you so now--"
"You must not reproach yourself, darling," said Corona, trying tosoothe her and to draw the pitiful pale face to her shoulder, while shewound her arm tenderly about the young girl's waist. "Pray for him,Faustina, but do not reproach yourself too much. After all, dear, hewas unkind to you--"
"Oh, do not say that--he is dead!" She lowered her voice almost to awhisper as she spoke, and an expression of awe came over her features."He is dead, Corona. I shall never see him again--oh, why did I notlove him more? I am frightened when I think that he is dead--who didit?"
The question came suddenly, and Faustina started and shuddered. Coronapressed her to her side and smoothed her hair gently. She felt that shemust say something, but she hardly expected that Faustina wouldunderstand reason. She gathered her energy, however, to make the besteffort in her power.
"Listen to me, Faustin
a," she said, in a tone of quiet authority, "andtry and see all this as I see it. It is not right that you shouldreproach yourself, for you have had no share in your father's death,and if you parted in anger it was his fault, not yours. He is dead, andthere is nothing for you to do but to pray that he may rest in peace.You have been accused unjustly of a deed which any one might see youwere physically incapable of doing. You will be released from thisplace to-morrow morning, if not during the night. One thing isabsolutely necessary--you must be calm and quiet, or you will havebrain fever in a few hours. Do not think I am heartless, dear. A worsething might have happened to you. You have been suspected by anignorant man who will pay dearly for his mistake; you might have beensuspected by those you love."
Corona sighed, and her voice trembled with the last words. To her,Faustina was suffering far more from the shock to her sensibilitiesthan from any real grief. She knew that she had not loved her father,but the horror of his murder and the fright at being held accountablefor it were almost enough to drive her mad. And yet she could not besuffering what Corona had suffered in being suspected by Giovanni, shehad not that to lose which Corona had lost, the dominating passion ofher life had not been suddenly burnt out in the agony of an hour, shewas only the victim of a mistake which could have no consequences,which would leave no trace behind. But Faustina shivered and turnedpaler still at Corona's words.
"By those I love? Ah no! Not by him--by them!" The blood rushed to herwhite face, and her hand fell on her friend's shoulder.
Corona heard and knew that the girl was thinking of Anastase. Shewondered vaguely whether the hot-headed soldier artist had learned thenews and what he would do when he found that Faustina was lodged in aprison.
"And yet--perhaps--oh no! It is impossible!" Her sweet, low voice brokeagain, and was lost in passionate sobbing.
For a long time Corona could do nothing to calm her. The tears might bea relief to the girl's overwrought faculties, but they were mostdistressing to hear and see.
"Do you love him very much, dear?" asked Corona, when the paroxysmbegan to subside.
"I would die for him, and he would die for me," answered Faustinasimply, but a happy smile shone through her grief that told plainly howmuch dearer to her was he who was left than he who was dead.
"Tell me about him," said Corona softly. "He is a friend of mine--"
"Indeed he is! You do not know how he worships you. I think that nextto me in the world--but then, of course, he could not loveyou--besides, you are married."
Corona could not help smiling, and yet there was a sting in the words,of which Faustina could not dream. Why could not Giovanni have takenthis child's straight-forward, simple view, which declared such a thingimpossible--because Corona was married. What a wealth of innocentbelief in goodness was contained in that idea! The princess began todiscover a strange fascination in finding out what Faustina felt forthis man, whom she, Corona, had been suspected of loving. What could itbe like to love such a man? He was good-looking, clever, brave, eveninteresting, perhaps; but to love him--Corona suddenly felt thatinterest in the analysis of his character which is roused in us when weare all at once brought into the confidence of some one who can tell byexperience what we should have felt with regard to a third person, whohas come very near to our lives, if he or she had really become a partof our existence. Faustina's present pain and sense of dangermomentarily disappeared as she was drawn into talking of what absorbedher whole nature, and Corona saw that by leading the conversation inthat direction she might hope to occupy the girl's thoughts.
Faustina seemed to forget her misfortunes in speaking of Gouache, andCorona listened, and encouraged her to go on. The strong woman who hadsuffered so much saw gradually unfolded before her a series ofpictures, constituting a whole that was new to her. She comprehendedfor the first time in her life the nature of an innocent girl's love,and there was something in what she learned that softened her andbrought the moisture into her dark eyes. She looked at the delicateyoung creature beside her, seated upon the rough bed, her angelicloveliness standing out against the cold background of the whitewashedwall. The outline seemed almost vaporous, as though melting into thetransparency of the quiet air; the gentle brown eyes were at once fullof suffering and full of love; the soft, thick hair fell in disorderupon her shoulders, in that exquisite disorder that belongs tobeautiful things in nature when they are set free and fall into theposition which is essentially their own; her white fingers, refined andexpressive, held Corona's slender olive hand, pressing it and moving asthey touched it, with every word she spoke. Corona almost felt thatsome spiritual, half divine being had glided down from another world totell her of an angel's love.
The elder woman thought of her own life and compared it with what shesaw. Sold to a decrepit old husband who had worshipped her in strange,pathetic fashion of his own, she had spent five years in submitting toan affection she loathed, enduring it to the very end, and sacrificingevery instinct of her nature in the performance of her duty. Liberatedat last, she had given herself up to her love for Giovanni, in apassion of the strong kind that never comes in early youth. She askedherself what had become of that passion, and whether it could ever berevived. In any case it was something wholly different from the love ofwhich Faustina was speaking. She had fought against it when it came,with all her might; being gone, it had left her cold and indifferent toall she could still command, incapable of even pretending to love. Ithad passed through her life as a whirlwind through a deep forest, andits track was like a scar. What Faustina knew, she could never haveknown, the sudden growth within her of something beautiful againstwhich there was no need to struggle, the whole-hearted devotion fromthe first, the joy of a love that had risen suddenly like the dawn of afair day, the unspeakable happiness of loving intensely in perfectinnocence of the world, of giving her whole soul at once and for ever,unconscious that there could be anything else to give.
"I would die for him, and he would die for me," Faustina had said,knowing that her words were true. Corona would die for Giovanni now, nodoubt, but not because she loved him any longer. She would sacrificeherself for what had been, for the memory of it, for the bitterness ofhaving lost it and of feeling that it could not return. That was astate very different from Faustina's; it was pain, not happiness,despair, not joy, emptiness, not fulness. Her eyes grew sad, and shesighed bitterly as though oppressed by a burden from which she couldnot escape. Faustina's future seemed to her to be like a beautifulvision among the clouds of sunrise, her own like the reflection of amournful scene in a dark pool of stagnant water. The sorrow of her liferose in her eyes, until the young girl saw it and suddenly ceasedspeaking. It was like a reproach to her, for her young nature hadalready begun to forget its trouble in the sweetness of its own dream.Corona understood the sudden silence, and her expression changed, forshe felt that if she dwelt upon what was nearest to her heart she couldgive but poor consolation.
"You are sad," said Faustina. "It is not for me--what is it?"
"No. It is not for you, dear child."
Corona looked at the young girl for a moment and tried to smile. Thenshe rose from the chair and turned away, pretending to trim the brassoil-lamp with the little metal snuffers that hung from it by a chain.The tears blinded her. She rested her hands upon the table and bent herhead. Faustina watched her in surprise, then slipped from her place onthe bed and stood beside her, looking up tenderly into the sad darkeyes from which the crystal drops welled up and trickled down, fallingupon the rough deal boards.
"What is it, dear?" asked the young girl. "Will you not tell me!"
Corona turned and threw her arms round her, pressing her to her breast,almost passionately. Faustina did not understand what was happening.
"I never saw you cry before!" she exclaimed in innocent astonishment,as she tried to brush away the tears from her friend's face.
"Ah Faustina! There are worse things in the world than you aresuffering, child!"
Then she made a great effort and overcame
the emotion that had takenpossession of her. She was ashamed to have played such a part when shehad come to the place to give comfort to another.
"It is nothing," she said, after a moment's pause. "I think I amnervous--at least, I am very foolish to let myself cry when I ought tobe taking care of you."
A long silence followed, which was broken at last by the nun, whoentered the room, bringing such poor food as the place afforded. Sherepeated her assurance that Faustina's arrest was the result of amistake, and that she would be certainly liberated in the morning.Then, seeing that the two friends appeared to be preoccupied, she badethem good-night and went away.
It was the longest night Corona remembered to have ever passed. For along time they talked a little, and at length Faustina fell asleep,exhausted by all she had suffered, while Corona sat beside her,watching her regular breathing and envying her ability to rest. Sheherself could not close her eyes, though she could not explain herwakefulness. At last she lay down upon the other bed and tried toforget herself. After many hours she lost consciousness for a time, andthen awoke suddenly, half stifled by the sickening smell of the lampwhich had gone out, filling the narrow room with the odour of burningoil. It was quite dark, and the profound silence was broken only by thesound of Faustina's evenly-drawn breath. The poor child was too wearyto be roused by the fumes that had disturbed Corona's rest. But Coronarose and groped her way to the window, which she opened as noiselesslyas she could. Heavy iron bars were built into the wall upon theoutside, and she grasped the cold iron with a sense of relief as shelooked out at the quiet stars, and tried to distinguish the treeswhich, as she knew, were planted on the other side of the desolategrass-grown square, along the old wall that stood there, at that time,like a fortification between the Termini and the distant city. Belowthe window the sentry tramped slowly up and down in his beat, his stepsalone breaking the intense stillness of the winter night. Coronarealised that she was in a prison. There was something in thediscomfort which was not repugnant to her, as she held the grating inher fingers and let the cold air blow upon her face.
After all, she thought, her life would seem much the same in such aplace, in a convent, perhaps, where she could be alone all day, allnight, for ever. She could not be more unhappy behind those bars thanshe had often been in the magnificent palaces in which her existencehad been chiefly passed. Nothing gave her pleasure, nothing interestedher, nothing had the power to distract her mind from the aching miserythat beset it. She said to herself a hundred times a day that suchapathy was unworthy of her, and she blamed herself when she found thateven the loss of the great Saracinesca suit left her indifferent. Shedid no good to herself and none to any one else, so far as she couldsee, unless it were good to allow Giovanni to love her, now that she nolonger felt a thrill of pleasure at his coming nor at the sound of hisvoice. At least she had been honest. She could say that, for she hadnot deceived him. She had forgiven him, but was it her fault if he haddestroyed that which he now most desired? Was it her fault thatforgiveness did not mean love? Her suffering was not the selfish painof wounded vanity, for Giovanni's despair would have healed such awound by showing her the strength of his passion. There was noresentment in her heart, either, for she longed to love him. But eventhe habit of loving was gone, broken away and forgotten in the sharpagony of an hour. She had done her best to bring it back, she had triedto repeat phrases that had once come from her heart with the convictionof great joy, each time they had been spoken. But the words were deadand meant nothing, or if they had a meaning they told her of the changein herself. She was willing to argue against it, to say again and againthat she had no right to be so changed, that there had been enough tomake any man suspicious, that she would have despised him had heoverlooked such convincing evidence. Could a man love truly and nothave some jealousy in his nature? Could a man have such overwhelmingproof given him of guilt in the woman he adored and yet show nothing,any more than if she had been a stranger? But the argument was notsatisfactory, nor conclusive. If human ills could be healed by the useof logic, there would long since have been no unhappiness left in theworld. Is there anything easier than to deceive one's self when onewishes to be deceived? Nothing, surely, provided that the inner realityof ourselves which we call our hearts consents to the deception. But ifit will not consent, then there is no help in all the logic that hasbeen lavished upon the philosophy of a dozen ages.
Her slender fingers tightened upon the freezing bars, and once more, inthe silent night, her tears flowed down as she looked up at the starsthrough the prison window. The new condition of her life sought anexpression she had hitherto considered as weak and despicable, andagainst which she struggled even now. There was no relief in weeping,it brought her no sense of rest, no respite from the dull consciousnessof her situation; and yet she could not restrain the drops that fell sofast upon her hands. She suffered always, without any intermittence, aspeople do who have little imagination, with few but strong passions anda constant nature. There are men and women whose active fancy is ableto lend a romantic beauty to misfortune, which gives some pleasure evento themselves, or who can obtain some satisfaction, if they are poets,by expressing their pain in grand or tender language. There are othersto whom sorrow is but a reality, for which all expression seemsinadequate.
Corona was such a woman, too strong to suffer little, too unimaginativeto suffer poetically. There are those who might say that sheexaggerated the gravity of the position, that, since Giovanni hadalways been faithful to her, had acknowledged his error and repented ofit so sincerely, there was no reason why she should not love him asbefore. The answer is very simple. The highest kind of love not onlyimplies the highest trust in the person loved, but demands it inreturn; the two conditions are as necessary to each other as body andsoul, so that if one is removed from the other, the whole love dies.Our relations with our fellow-creatures are reciprocal in effect,whatever morality may require in theory, from the commonest intercoursebetween mere acquaintances to the bond between man and wife. An honestman will always hesitate to believe another unless he himself isbelieved. Humanity gives little, on the whole, unless it expects areturn; still less will men continue to give when their gifts have beendenounced to them as false, no matter what apology is offered after themistake has been discovered. Corona was very human, and being outwardlycold, she was inwardly more sensitive to suspicion than very expansivewomen can ever be. With women who express very readily what they feel,the expression often assumes such importance as to deceive them intobelieving their passions to be stronger than they are. Corona had givenall, love, devotion, faithfulness, and yet, because appearances hadbeen against her, Giovanni had doubted her. He had cut the plant downat the very root, and she had nothing more to give.
Faustina moved in her sleep. Corona softly closed the window and oncemore lay down to rest. The hours seemed endless as she listened for thebells. At last the little room grew gray and she could distinguish thefurniture in the gloom. Then all at once the door opened, and the nunentered, bearing her little lantern and peering over it to try and seewhether the occupants of the chamber were awake. In the shadow behindher Corona could distinguish the figure of a man.
"The prince is here," said the sister in a low voice, as she saw thatCorona's eyes were open. The latter glanced at Faustina, whosechildlike sleep was not interrupted. She slipped from the bed and wentout into the corridor.
The nun would have led the two down to the parlour, but Corona wouldnot go so far from Faustina. At their request she opened an empty cella few steps farther on, and left Giovanni and his wife alone in thegray dawn. Corona looked eagerly into his eyes for some news concerningthe young girl. He took her hand and kissed it.
"My darling--that you should have spent the night in such a place asthis!" he exclaimed.
"Never mind me. Is Faustina at liberty? Did you see the cardinal?"
"I saw him." Giovanni shook his head.
"And do you mean to say that he would not give the order at once?"
"No
thing would induce him to give it. The prefect got there before me,and I was kept waiting half an hour while they talked the matter over.The cardinal declared to me that he knew there had been an enmitybetween Faustina and her father concerning her love for Gouache--"
"Her love for Gouache!" repeated Corona slowly, looking into his eyes.She could not help it. Giovanni turned pale and looked away as hecontinued.
"Yes, and he said that the evidence was very strong, since no one hadbeen known to enter the house, and the servants were clearlyinnocent--not one of them betrayed the slightest embarrassment."
"In other words, he believes that Faustina actually did it?"
"It looks like it," said Giovanni in a low voice.
"Giovanni!" she seized his arm. "Do you believe it, too?"
"I will believe whatever you tell me."
"She is as innocent as I!" cried Corona, her eyes blazing withindignation. Giovanni understood more from the words than she meant toconvey.
"Will you never forgive?" he asked sadly.
"I did not mean that--I meant Faustina. Giovanni--you must get her awayfrom here. You can, if you will."
"I will do much for you," he answered quietly.
"It is not for me. It is for an unfortunate child who is the victim ofa horrible mistake. I have comforted her by promising that she shouldbe free this morning. She will go mad if she is kept here."
"Whatever I do, I do for you, and I will do nothing for any one else.For you or for no one, but I must know that it is really for you."
Corona understood and turned away. It was broad daylight now, as shelooked through the grating of the window, watching the people whopassed, without seeing them.
"What is Faustina Montevarchi to me, compared with your love?" Giovanniasked.
Something in the tone of his voice made her look at him. She saw theintensity of his feeling in his eyes, and she wondered that he shouldtry to tempt her to love him with, such an insignificant bribe--withthe hope of liberating the young girl. She did not understand that hewas growing desperate. Had she known what was in his mind she mighthave made a supreme effort to deceive herself into the belief that hewas still to her what he had been so long. But she did not know.
"For the sake of her innocence, Giovanni!" she exclaimed. "Can you leta child like that suffer so? I am sure, if you really would you couldmanage it, with your influence. Do you not see that I am suffering too,for the girl's sake?"
"Will you say that it is for your sake?"
"For my sake--if you will," she cried almost impatiently.
"For your sake, then," he answered. "Remember that it is for you,Corona."
Before she could answer, he had left the room, without another word,without so much as touching her hand. Corona gazed sadly at the opendoor, and then returned to Faustina.
An hour later the nun entered the cell, with a bright smile on her face.
"Your carriage is waiting for you--for you both," she said, addressingthe princess. "Donna Faustina is free to return to her mother."
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