Sant' Ilario

by F. Marion Crawford

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  Sant' Ilario had guessed rightly that the place of safety and secrecyto which he was to be conveyed was no other than the Holy Office, orprison of the Inquisition. He was familiar with the interior of thebuilding, and knew that it contained none of the horrors generallyattributed to it, so that, on the whole, he was well satisfied with thecardinal's choice. The cell to which he was conveyed after dark was alarge room on the second story, comfortably furnished and bearing nosign of its use but the ornamented iron grating that filled the window.The walls were not thicker than those of most Roman palaces, and thechamber was dry and airy, and sufficiently warmed by a huge brazier ofcoals. It was clear from the way in which he was treated that thecardinal relied upon his honour more than upon any use of force inorder to keep him in custody. A silent individual in a black coat hadbrought him in a carriage to the great entrance, whence a man ofsimilar discretion and of like appearance had conducted him to hiscell. This person returned soon afterwards, bringing a sufficient mealof fish and vegetables--it was Friday--decently cooked and almostluxuriously served. An hour later the man came back to carry away whatwas left. He asked whether the prisoner needed anything else for thenight.

  "I would like to know," said Giovanni, "whether any of my friends willbe allowed to see me, if I ask it."

  "I am directed to say that any request or complaint you have to makewill be transmitted to his Eminence by a special messenger," answeredthe man. "Anything," he added in explanation, "beyond what concernsyour personal comfort. In this respect I am at liberty to give youwhatever you desire, within reason."

  "Thank you. I will endeavour to be reasonable," replied Giovanni. "I ammuch obliged to you."

  The man left the room and closed the door softly, so softly that theprisoner wondered whether he had turned the key. On examining thepanels he saw, however, that they were smooth and not broken by anylatch or keyhole. The spring was on the outside, and there was no meanswhatever of opening the door from within.

  Giovanni wondered why a special messenger was to be employed to carryany request he made directly to the cardinal. The direction could nothave been given idly, nor was it without some especial reason that hewas at once told of it. Assuredly his Eminence was not expecting theprince to repent of his bargain and to send word that he wished to bereleased. The idea was absurd. The great man might suppose, however,that Giovanni would desire to send some communication to his wife, whowould naturally be anxious about his absence. Against this contingency,however, Sant' Ilario had provided by means of the note he haddespatched to her. Several days would elapse before she began to expecthim, so that he had plenty of time to reflect upon his future course.Meanwhile he resolved to ask for nothing. Indeed, he had norequirements. He had money in his pockets and could send the attendantto buy any linen he needed without getting it from his home.

  He was in a state of mind in which nothing could have pleased himbetter than solitary imprisonment. He felt at once a sense of rest anda freedom from all responsibility that soothed his nerves and calmedhis thoughts. For many days he had lived in a condition bordering onmadness. Every interview with Corona was a disappointment, and broughtwith it a new suffering. Much as he would have dreaded the idea ofbeing separated from her for any length of time, the temporaryimpossibility of seeing her was now a relief, of which he realised theimportance more and more as the hours succeeded each other. There aretimes when nothing but a forcible break in the current of our lives canrestore the mind to its normal balance. Such a break, painful as it maybe at first, brings with it the long lost power of rest. Instead offeeling the despair we expect, we are amazed at our own indifference,which again is succeeded by a renewed capacity for judging facts asthey are, and by a new energy to mould our lives upon a better plan.

  Giovanni neither reflected upon his position nor brooded over theprobable result of his actions. On the contrary, he went to bed andslept soundly, like a strong man tired out with bodily exertion. Heslept so long that his attendant at last woke him, entering and openingthe window. The morning was fine, and the sun streamed in through theiron grating. Giovanni looked about him, and realised where he was. Hefelt calm and strong, and was inclined to laugh at the idea that hisrashness would have any dangerous consequences. Corona doubtless wasalready awake too, and supposed that he was in the country shootingwild boar, or otherwise amusing himself. Instead of that he was inprison. There was no denying the fact, after all, but it was strangethat he should not care to be at liberty. He had heard of the moralsufferings of men who are kept in confinement. No matter how well theyare treated they grow nervous and careworn and haggard, wearingthemselves out in a perpetual longing for freedom. Giovanni, on thecontrary, as he looked round the bright, airy room, felt that he mightinhabit it for a year without once caring to go out into the world. Afew books to read, the means of writing if he pleased--he needednothing else. To be alone was happiness enough.

  He ate his breakfast slowly, and sat down in an old-fashioned chair tosmoke a cigarette and bask in the sunshine while it lasted. It was notmuch like prison, and he did not feel like a man arrested for murder.He was conscious for a long time of nothing but a vague, peacefulcontentment. He had given a list of things to be bought, including acouple of novels, to the man who waited upon him, and after a few hourseverything was brought. The day passed tranquilly, and when he went tobed he smiled as he blew out the candle, partly at himself and partlyat his situation.

  "My friends will not say that I am absolutely lacking in originality,"he reflected as he went to sleep.

  On the morrow he read less and thought more. In the first place hewondered how long he should be left without any communication from theoutside world. He wondered whether any steps had been taken towardsbringing him to a trial, or whether the cardinal really knew that hewas innocent, and was merely making him act out the comedy he hadhimself invented and begun. He was not impatient, but he was curious toknow the truth. It was now the third day since he had seen Corona, andhe had not prepared her for a long absence. If he heard nothing duringthe next twenty-four hours it would be better to take some measures forrelieving her anxiety, if she felt any. The latter reflection, whichpresented itself suddenly, startled him a little. Was it possible thatshe would allow a week to slip by without expecting to hear from him orasking herself where he was? That was out of the question. He admittedthe impossibility of such indifference, almost in spite of himself. Hewas willing, perhaps, to think her utterly heartless rather than acceptthe belief in an affection which went no farther than to hope that hemight be safe; but his vanity or his intuition, it matters little whichof the two, told him that Corona felt more than that. And yet she didnot love him. He sat for many hours, motionless in his chair, trying toconstruct the future out of the past, an effort of imagination in whichhe failed signally. The peace of his solitude was less satisfactory tohim than at first, and he began to suspect that before very long hemight even wish to return to the world. Possibly Corona might come tosee him. The cardinal would perhaps think it best to tell her what hadhappened. How would he tell it? Would he let her know all? The lightfaded from the room, and the attendant brought his evening meal and settwo candles upon the table.

  Hitherto it could not be said that he had suffered. On the contrary,his character had regained its tone after weeks of depression. Anotherday was ended, and he went to rest, but he slept less soundly thanbefore, and on the following morning he awoke early. The monotony ofthe existence struck him all at once in its reality. The fourth daywould be like the third, and, for all he knew, hundreds to come wouldbe like the fourth if it pleased his Eminence to keep him a prisoner.Corona would certainly never suspect that he was shut up in the HolyOffice, and if she did, she might not be able to come to him. Even ifshe came, what could he say to her? That he had committed a piece ofoutrageous folly because he was annoyed at her disbelief in him or ather coldness. He had probably made himself ridiculous for the firsttime in his life. The thought was the reverse of consoling. Nor di
d itcontribute to his peace of mind to know that if he had made himself alaughing-stock, the cardinal, who dreaded ridicule, would certainlyrefuse to play a part in his comedy, and would act with all the rigoursuitable to so grave a situation. He might even bring his prisoner totrial. Giovanni would submit to that, rather than be laughed at, butthe alternative now seemed an appalling one. In his disgust of life onthat memorable morning he had cared nothing what became of him, and hadbeen in a state which precluded all just appreciation of the future.His enforced solitude had restored his faculties. He desired nothingless than to be tried for murder, because he had taken a short cut tosatisfy his wife's caprice. But that caprice had for its object theliberty of poor Faustina Montevarchi. At all events, if he had madehimself ridiculous, the ultimate purpose of his folly had been good,and had been accomplished.

  All through the afternoon he paced his room, alternately in a state ofprofound dissatisfaction with himself, and in a condition of anxiouscuriosity about coming events. He scarcely touched his food or noticedthe attendant who entered half a dozen times to perform his variousoffices. Again the night closed in, and once more he lay down to sleep,dreading the morning, and hoping to lose himself in dreams. The fourthday was like the third, indeed, as far as his surroundings wereconcerned, but he had not foreseen that he would be a prey to suchgnawing anxiety as he suffered, still less, perhaps, that he shouldgrow almost desperate for a sight of Corona. He was not a man who madeany exhibition of his feelings even when he was alone. But the man whoserved him noticed that when he entered Giovanni was never reading, ashe had always been doing at first. He was either walking rapidly up anddown or sitting idly in the big chair by the window. His face was quietand pale, even solemn at times. The attendant was doubtless accustomedto sudden changes of mood in his prisoners, for he appeared to take nonotice of the alteration in Giovanni's manner.

  It seemed as though the day would never end. To a man of his activestrength to walk about a room is not exercise; it hardly seems likemotion at all, and yet Giovanni found it harder and harder to sit stillas the hours wore on. After an interval of comparative peace, his lovefor Corona had overwhelmed him again, and with tenfold force. To beshut up in a cell without the possibility of seeing her, was torturesuch as he had never dreamt of in his whole life. By a strangerevulsion of feeling it appeared to him that by taking her so suddenlyat her word he had again done her an injustice. The process ofreasoning by which he arrived at this conclusion was not clear tohimself, and probably could not be made intelligible to any one else.He had assuredly sacrificed himself unhesitatingly, and at first theaction had given him pleasure. But this was destroyed by the thought ofthe possible consequences. He asked whether he had the right to satisfyher imperative demand for Faustina's freedom by doing that which mightpossibly cause her annoyance, even though it should bring no seriousinjury to any one. The time passed very slowly, and towards evening hebegan to feel as he had felt before he had taken the fatal step whichhad placed him beyond Corona's reach, restless, miserable, desperate.At last it was night, and he was sitting before his solitary meal,eating hardly anything, staring half unconsciously at the closed windowopposite.

  The door opened softly, but he did not look round, supposing the personentering to be the attendant. Suddenly, there was the rustle of awoman's dress in the room, and at the same moment the door was shut. Hesprang to his feet, stood still a moment, and then uttered a cry ofsurprise. Corona stood beside him, very pale, looking into his eyes.She had worn a thick veil, and on coming in had thrown it back upon herhead--the veils of those days were long and heavy, and fell about thehead and neck like a drapery.

  "Corona!" Giovanni cried, stretching out his hands towards her.Something in her face prevented him from throwing his arms round her,something not like her usual coldness and reproachful look that kepthim back.

  "Giovanni--was it kind to leave me so?" she asked, without moving fromher place.

  The question corresponded so closely with his own feelings that he hadanticipated it, though he had no answer ready. She knew all, and washurt by what he had done. What could he say? The reasons that had senthim so boldly into danger no longer seemed even sufficient for anexcuse. The happiness he had anticipated in seeing her had vanishedalmost before it had made itself felt. His first emotion was bitteranger against the cardinal. No one else could have told her, for no oneelse knew what he had done nor where he was. Giovanni thought, and withreason, that the great man might have spared his wife such a blow.

  "I believed I was doing what was best when I did it," he answered,scarcely knowing what to say.

  "Was it best to leave me without a word, except a message of excuse forothers?"

  "For you--was it not better? For me--what does it matter? Should I behappier anywhere else?"

  "Have I driven you from your home, Giovanni?" asked Corona, with astrange look in her dark eyes. Her voice trembled.

  "No, not you," he answered, turning away and beginning to walk up anddown by the force of the habit he had acquired during the last two orthree days. "Not you," he repeated more than once in a bitter tone.

  Corona sank down upon the chair he had left, and buried her face in herhands, as though overcome by a great and sudden grief. Giovanni stoppedbefore her and looked at her, not clearly understanding what waspassing in her mind.

  "Why are you so sorry?" he asked. "Has a separation of a few dayschanged you? Are you sorry for me?"

  "Why did you come here?" she exclaimed, instead of answering hisquestion. "Why here, of all places?"

  "I had no choice. The cardinal decided the matter for me."

  "The cardinal? Why do you confide in him? You never did before. I maybe wrong, but I do not trust him, kind as he has always been. If youwanted advice, you might have gone to Padre Filippo--"

  "Advice? I do not understand you, Corona."

  "Did you not go to the cardinal and tell him that you were very unhappyand wanted to make a retreat in some quiet place where nobody couldfind you? And did he not advise you to come here, promising to keepyour secret, and authorising you to stay as long as you pleased? Thatis what he told me."

  "He told you that?" cried Giovanni in great astonishment.

  "Yes--that and nothing more. He came to see me late this afternoon. Hesaid that he feared lest I should be anxious about your long absence,and that he thought himself justified in telling me where you were andin giving me a pass, in case I wanted to see you. Besides, if it is notall as he says, how did you come here?"

  "You do not know the truth? You do not know what I did? You do notguess why I am in the Holy Office?"

  "I know only what he told me," answered Corona, surprised by Giovanni'squestions.

  But Giovanni gave no immediate explanation. He paced the floor in astate of excitement in which she had never seen him, clasping andunclasping his fingers nervously, and uttering short, incoherentexclamations. As she watched him a sensation of fear crept over her,but she did not ask him any question. He stopped suddenly again.

  "You do not know that I am in prison?"

  "In prison!" She rose with a sharp cry and seized his hands in hers.

  "Do not be frightened, dear," he said in an altered tone. "I amperfectly innocent. After all, you know it is a prison."

  "Ah, Giovanni!" she exclaimed reproachfully, "how could you say such adreadful thing, even in jest?" She had dropped his hands again, anddrew back a step as she spoke.

  "It is not a jest. It is earnest. Do not start. I will tell you justwhat happened. It is best, after all. When I left you at the Termini, Isaw that you had set your heart on liberating poor Faustina. I couldnot find any way of accomplishing what you desired, and I saw that youthought I was not doing my best for her freedom. I went directly to thecardinal and gave myself up in her place."

  "As a hostage--a surety?" asked Corona, breathlessly.

  "No. He would not have accepted that, for he was prejudiced againsther. I gave myself up as the murderer."

  He spoke quite calmly, as tho
ugh he had been narrating a commonplaceoccurrence. For an instant she stood before him, dumb andhorror-struck. Then with a great heart-broken cry she threw her armsround him and clasped him passionately to her breast.

  "My beloved! My beloved!"

  For some moments she held him so closely that he could neither move norsee her face, but the beating of his heart told him that a great changehad in that instant come over his life. The cry had come from her soul,irresistibly, spontaneously. There was an accent in the two words sherepeated which he had never hoped to hear again. He had expected thatshe would reproach him for his madness. Instead of that, his folly hadawakened the love that was not dead, though it had been so desperatelywounded.

  Presently she drew back a little and looked into his eyes, a fiercedeep light burning in her own.

  "I love you," she said, almost under her breath.

  A wonderful smile passed over his face, illuminating the dark, sternlines of it like a ray of heavenly light. Then the dusky eyelids slowlyclosed, as though by their own weight, his head fell back, and his lipsturned white. She felt the burden of his body in her arms, and but forher strength he would have fallen to the floor. She reeled on her feet,holding him still, and sank down until she knelt and his head rested onher knee. Her heart stood still as she listened for the sound of hisfaint breathing. Had his unconsciousness lasted longer she would havefainted herself. But in a moment his eyes opened again with anexpression such as she had seen in them once or twice before, but in aless degree.

  "Corona--it is too much!" he said softly, almost dreamily. Then hisstrength returned in an instant, like a strong steel bow that has beenbent almost to breaking. He scarcely knew how it was that the positionwas changed so that he was standing on his feet and clasping her as shehad clasped him. Her tears were flowing FAST, but there was more joy inthem than pain.

  "How could you do it?" she asked at length, looking up. "And oh,Giovanni! what will be the end of it? Will not something dreadfulhappen?"

  "What does anything matter now, darling?"

  At last they sat down together, hand in hand, as of old. It was asthough the last two months had been suddenly blotted out. As Giovannisaid, nothing could matter now. And yet the situation was far fromclear. Giovanni understood well enough that the cardinal had wished toleave him the option of telling his wife what had occurred, and, if hechose to do so, of telling her in his own language. He was grateful forthe tact the statesman had displayed, a tact which seemed also to showGiovanni the cardinal's views of the case. He had declared that he wasdesperate. The cardinal had concluded that he was unhappy. He had saidthat he did not care what became of him. The cardinal had supposed thathe would be glad to be alone, or at all events that it would be goodfor him to have a certain amount of solitude. If his position were inany way dangerous, the great man would surely not have thought ofsending Corona to his prisoner as he had done. He would have preparedher himself against any shock. And yet he was undeniably in prison,with no immediate prospect of liberty.

  "You cannot stay here any longer," said Corona when they were at lastable to talk of the immediate future.

  "I do not see how I am to get out," Giovanni answered, with a smile.

  "I will go to the cardinal--"

  "It is of no use. He probably guesses the truth, but he is not willingto be made ridiculous by me or by any one. He will keep me here untilthere can be a trial, or until he finds the real culprit. He isobstinate. I know him."

  "It is impossible that he should think of such a thing!" exclaimedCorona indignantly.

  "I am afraid it is very possible. But, of course, it is only a matterof time--a few days at the utmost. If worst comes to worst I can demandan inquiry, I suppose, though I do not see how I can proclaim my owninnocence without hurting Faustina. She was liberated because I putmyself in her place--it is rather complicated."

  "Tell me, Giovanni," said Corona, "what did you say to the cardinal?You did not really say that you murdered Montevarchi?"

  "No. I said I gave myself up as the murderer, and I explained how Imight have done the deed. I did more, I pledged my honour that Faustinawas innocent."

  "But you were not sure of it yourself--"

  "Since you had told me it was true, I believed it," he answered simply.

  "Thank you, dear--"

  "No. Do not thank me for it. I could not help myself. I knew that youwere sure--are you sure of something else, Corona? Are you as certainas you were of that?"

  "How can you ask? But you are right--you have the right to doubt me.You will not, though, will you? Hear me, dear, while I tell you thewhole story."

  She slipped from her chair and knelt before him, as though she were tomake a confession. Then she took his hands and looked up lovingly intohis face. The truth rose in her eyes.

  "Forgive me, Giovanni. Yes, you have much to forgive. I did not knowmyself. When you doubted me, I felt as though I had nothing left inlife, as though you would never again believe in me. I thought I didnot love you. I was wrong. It was only my miserable vanity that waswounded, and that hurt me so. I felt that my love was dead, that youyourself were dead and that another man had taken your place. Ah, Icould have helped it! Had I known you better, dear, had I been lessmistaken in myself, all would have been different. But I wasfoolish--no, I was unhappy. Everything was dark and dreadful. Oh, mydarling, I thought I could tell what I felt--I cannot! Forgive me, onlyforgive me, and love me as you did long ago. I will never leave you,not if you stay here for ever, only let me love you as I will!"

  "It is not for me to forgive, sweetheart," said Giovanni, bending downand kissing her sweet dark hair. "It is for you--"

  "But I would so much rather think it my fault, dear," she answered,drawing his face down to hers. It was a very womanly impulse that madeher take the blame upon herself.

  "You must not think anything so unreasonable, Corona. I brought all theharm that came, from the first moment."

  He would have gone on to accuse himself, obstinate and manlike,recapitulating the whole series of events. But she would not let him.Once more she sat beside him and held his hand in hers. They talkedincoherently and it is not to be wondered at if they arrived at no verydefinite conclusion after a very long conversation. They were stillsitting together when the attendant entered and presented Giovanni witha large sealed letter, bearing the Apostolic arms, and addressed merelyto the number of Giovanni's cell.

  "There is an answer," said the man, and then left the room.

  "It is probably the notice of the trial, or something of the kind,"observed Giovanni, suddenly growing very grave as he broke the seal. Hewished it might have come at any other time than the present. Coronaheld her breath and watched his face while he read the lines writtenupon one of the two papers he took from the envelope. Suddenly thecolour came to his cheeks and his eyes brightened with a look ofhappiness and surprise.

  "I am free!" he cried, as he finished. "Free if I will sign this paper!Of course I will! I will sign anything he likes."

  The envelope contained a note from the cardinal, in his own hand, tothe effect that suspicion had fallen upon another person and thatGiovanni was at liberty to return to his home if he would sign theaccompanying document. The latter was very short, and set forth thatGiovanni Saracinesca bound himself upon his word to appear in the trialof the murderer of Prince Montevarchi, if called upon to do so, and notto leave Rome until the matter was finally concluded and set at rest.

  He took the pen that lay on the table and signed his name in a broadfirm hand, a fact the more notable because Corona was leaning over hisshoulder, watching the characters as he traced them. He folded thepaper and placed it in the open envelope which accompanied it. Thecardinal was a man of details. He thought it possible that the documentmight be returned open for lack of the means to seal it. He did notchoose that his secrets should become the property of the people aboutthe Holy Office. It was a specimen of his forethought in small thingswhich might have an influence upon great ones.

  When Gi
ovanni had finished, he rose and stood beside Corona. Eachlooked into the other's eyes and for a moment neither saw very clearly.They said little more, however, until the attendant entered again.

  "You are at liberty," he said briefly, and without a word began to puttogether the few small things that belonged to his late prisoner.

  Half an hour later Giovanni was seated at dinner at his father's table.The old gentleman greeted him with a half-savage growl of satisfaction.

  "The prodigal has returned to get a meal while there is one to be had,"he remarked. "I thought you had gone to Paris to leave the agreeablesettlement of our affairs to Corona and me. Where the devil have youbeen?"

  "I have been indulging in the luxury of a retreat in a religioushouse," answered Giovanni with perfect truth.

  Corona glanced at him and both laughed happily, as they had not laughedfor many days and weeks. Saracinesca looked incredulously across thetable at his son.

  "You chose a singular moment for your devotional exercises," he said."Where will piety hide herself next, I wonder? As long as Corona issatisfied, I am. It is her business."

  "I am perfectly satisfied, I assure you," said Corona, whose black eyeswere full of light. Giovanni raised his glass, looked at her and smiledlovingly. Then he emptied it to the last drop and set it down without aword.

  "Some secret, I suppose," said the old gentleman gruffly.