CHAPTER VIII
The Diva shows her Cards
"Ah, Signor Marchese," she said, with a sweet, but somewhat sad, smile,extending to him a long, white, slender, nervous-looking, ungloved hand,but not otherwise moving from her position. "Ah, Signor Marchese, then Iam not to be disappointed this evening? I was beginning almost to fearthat the fates were against me."
He advanced to the head of the sofa and took her hand, and held itawhile, while he continued to stand there looking down from behind hershoulder on the beautiful form as it lay there beneath his gaze--on theparting of the rich golden hair; on the snowy forehead; on the stillwhiter neck; on the gentle heaving of the bosom beneath its light veilof scarlet silk; on the tapering waist; on the exquisitely-formed feetpeeping in their black satin bottines from beneath the extremity of herdress! It was all perfect: and the Marchese held the soft warm hand thatserved as a conductor to the stream of magnetic poison that seemed toflood his whole being as he gazed.
For an instant all the room seemed to swim round with him. The bloodrushed to his brow. He shut his eyes, and a nervous crispation causedthe fingers of his hands to close themselves with such force, that thegrasp of that which held her little palm hurt her.
"Ah, my hand! you hurt my hand!" she said. "You don't know how yousqueezed it, you are so strong. You don't know the quantity of force youput out!"
"Pardon--a thousand pardons, Signora! I am such a clumsy clown! Have Ireally hurt you, Bianca?"
"Not to the death, Signor," she said, with a charming smile, and holdingup to him the injured member, shaking it as she let it dangle from theslender wrist. "But see! it is really all blushing red from the ardourof your hand's embrace!"
"Poor little hand!--indeed, it is!" said the Marchese, taking it gentlyand tenderly between both of his; then, suddenly throwing himself on hisknees by the side of the sofa, while he still held it, he said, "And howcan the great cruel hand that did the harm make fit amends?"
"Ah, Signor Marchese, it might find the way to do that, if it were sodisposed. It would not be so far to seek. But you are seeking in thewrong direction," she continued, drawing herself back from him on thesofa, as he, leaning forward against it, had brought himself so near toher, that the back of the hand in which he held hers touched her waist."You are seeking amiss. It is not so that any remedy can be found;and--pray rise, Signor, and take your usual chair. This must not be,--Iam sure you would not willingly give me pain, Marchese, and you arepaining me. Pray leave the sofa."
She had drawn herself back away from him as far as the breadth of thesofa would allow, yet without withdrawing her hand from him; and shelooked at him certainly more in sorrow than in anger,--looked into hisface earnestly with grave, sad eyes, and heaved a long sigh as he, afterpressing the hurt hand to his lips, rose from his knees and took thechair she had pointed to.
"Pain you, Bianca?" he said, as he sat down; "why should I pain you? Youdo me no more than justice when you say that I would not do sowillingly; but have you thought how much pain you inflict on me by thuskeeping me at a distance from you? I think you must know that. Is thereaught to offend you in anything that I have done, or said, or hoped, orwished?"
"I think, Signor Marchese," she said, dropping her large eyes beneaththeir long fringes, and looking adorably lovely as she did so, "I amafraid that what you have wished is--what some might deem offensive to alady."
And as she spoke she looked out furtively from behind her eyelashes.
"Bianca, is that reasonable?" he said, in a tone of remonstrance."Diamine, let us talk common sense; we are not children. Have you alwaysfound such wishes as mine offensive in others?"
"Yes, always--always offensive, always cruel," she said, with extremeenergy; "but--can you not understand, Signor Marchese,--can you notconceive that what from one man passes and makes no mark, and leaves nosting, may from another--What cared I what all the empty-headed youngfops who came in my way could say or do; they were nothing to me. But--Idid not expect pain from the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare. I--Ithought--I hoped--I--I flattered myself--fool, idiot fool that I havebeen!" she exclaimed, bursting into violent sobs, and hiding her facewith her hands.
The Marchese was startled and utterly taken aback for a minute or two.He was genuinely at a loss to interpret the cause or the meaning of thelady's emotion. His puzzled embarrassment did not, however, prevent himfrom seeing that she looked, if possible, more fascinatingly beautifulin her grief and her tears than he had ever before seen her. And, again,despite what she had said, he knelt down by the side of the sofa, andgently removing her hands from before her face, murmured in herear,--"Bianca, what is it--what is moving you so? Don't you know thatyou are dear to me;--that I would--Don't you know that I would doanything to be agreeable to you rather than give you any sorrow or pain?What is there within my power that I would not do? Bianca,--let me tellyou--let me speak the truth--I cannot keep it in my own heart anylonger--I love you! You have come to be all that I care for in theworld. Bianca, do you hear me? For your love I would sacrificeall,--everything in the world; I die without it; I must have it--I must!You have been loved before; but never as I love you--never, never! And,Bianca, I--I--Bianca, you are my first love--my only love. Never, till Isaw you, did I care to look on a woman for a second time; I never feltlove. But, when I saw you--the first time--the first hour--Bianca, Imust have your love or die; I thirst--I hunger for it. Since I haveknown you all my nature is changed; all my old life is flat andunmeaning, and without interest to me. I care for none of the things Iused to care for; all--all has melted and slipped away from me, andnothing remains but one great devouring rage and passion--my love foryou!"
He had spoken like a torrent, which, for a long time dammed up, at lastbecomes too powerful for restraint, and bursts forth, overthrowing allobstacles with its headlong flood.
Bianca turned her face away from him towards the back of the sofa; butshe slowly, and with an uncertain intermittent movement, drew his handover to her lips, and pressed it against them.
A light came into the Marchese Lamberto's eyes;--a gleam almost, onewould have said, rather fierce than fond, as he felt the pressure of herlips; and a shock as from an electric spark ran through all his body,making him quiver from head to heel.
"Bianca, Bianca! You are mine--you are mine!" he cried, pantingly, withhis mouth close to her ear, and encircling her waist, as he spoke, withthe hand which she had relinquished after she had kissed it in themanner that had been described.
But she sprang away from him, pushing him from her, by putting her flathand against his forehead, with her face still turned towards the backof the sofa, away from him.
"No, no, no!" she cried, violently; "it cannot be, not so--not so! Icannot--I cannot!"
"Bianca," he cried, starting to his feet as if he had been stung; "whatdoes this mean? What am I to understand? What is it you wish? You knowmy position. I tell you that there is no sacrifice that I am not willingto make. I am rich; name what you would wish."
"Spare me--spare me, I deserve all; but spare me! I deserve to suffer,but not at your band," she cried, in words interrupted by her sobs.
"Spare you what, Bianca? In truth, I do not understand you," said theMarchese, genuinely mystified.
"Do you not understand?" she said, turning round on the sofa, so as toface him, and looking into his face with those great appealing eyessuffused with tears; "do you not understand? Can you not comprehend? Awoman would understand, I think; but I suppose men feel these thingsdifferently."
"Upon my honour, Bianca, I do not know what you mean. Every word I havespoken to you has been spoken from the very depth of my heart. I amready to--"
"Hush, hush, Marchese! No more of that; I could not bear it," she said,with a great sigh that seemed as if it would burst her bosom; "it isvery--very painful to me; but I must endeavour to bring your heart tounderstand me,--it must be your heart, Lamber--your heart, SignorMarchese; for one does not arrive at the understanding of such thingswith the head. See, now, I
will put myself in the place I deserve tooccupy--in the dust at your feet! You may trample on me, if you will. Isay I have deserved the shame and the misery I am now suffering. Ideserve them because I have no right to resent the--the--the proposalswhich you--wish to make to me. I have suffered much from calumny andevil tongues--much from unhappy circumstances and evil surroundings. Yetit may be that I-have--more right to--resent--what--I have heard fromyou than you imagine. But let that pass. You know--or think youknow--that I have accepted from others that which I have said I cannotaccept from you; and you cannot imagine why this should be so. Oh,Marchese, does your heart lend you no aid to the understanding of it?What were those men,--those empty creatures whose gold could not repaythe disgust occasioned by their presence, what were they to me? Did theylove--pretend even to love--me? Did I love them? Love! Alas, alas, alas!Ah, Marchese, a poor girl exposed to the world, as I have been from mycradle upwards, has to suffer much that might well move the pity of agenerous heart; but it is nothing--nothing--nothing to the tragedy ofthe misery, the shame, the remorse that comes upon her when at last theday shall come that her heart speaks and shows to her the awfulchasm--the immeasurable gulf that separates such--I cannot,Lamber--pardon, I don't know what I am saying; I cannot go on--I cannotput it into words! Do not you--cannot you understand the difference?"
"I do understand, Bianca mia; povera anima sofferente--I do understand.Do you imagine that I would judge you harshly--severely? I know too wellall that you would say; I know the difficulties, the impossibilities ofyour position. Do you think that I cannot make allowances for all thefatalities attending on such a combination of circumstances? And, trustme, the difference between what has been, and what I so earnestly hopemay be now, is greater,--I feel it to be greater, not less than you canfeel it to be. Truly there is nothing in common between theall-devouring passion which consumes me, and--such love-vows as you havespoken of. Do I not understand the difference. And remember, Bianca,dearest, that the protection I offer you would be the means of placingyou out of the reach,--far out of the reach of any such disgusts,--suchsuffering for the future."
Bianca let her head fall on her bosom, and covered her face with herhands, and remained silent for some moments. Then, lifting her faceslowly, and shaking her head, she sighed deeply as she looked with awistful earnest glance into his eyes; she said,--"You are good,--youare,--very good and kind to me; perhaps it might have been better for myhappiness if you had been less so. But bear with me yet a little, SignorMarchese. Sit down there,--there where I can see your face,"--pointing,as she spoke, to a spot exactly in face of the sofa,--"and let me see ifI can explain myself to you. It is difficult; it is very difficult. Awoman, as I said, would understand it at once; but men--are sodifferent. You have told me, Signor Marchese, that you love me; that younever loved before; that I am the first woman who has ever moved yourheart. Eh, bene, Signor Marchese! If I, having heard thoseprotestations, were to confess that--that it was with me even as withyou,"--she dropped her eyes and sighed as she made theconfession;--"that I, too--that you have taught me now for the firsttime what it is to love,--though I might speak it less eloquently thanyou have done, the words would be equally true,--equally true, Signor,"she repeated, slowly nodding her head. "And when I have confessed thatit is so," she continued, speaking more rapidly, "can you wonder--canyou not understand that it is impossible to me--that it would be ahorror unspeakable to--to renew with the object of a true love--thefirst--the first, as God sees my heart--the degradation that has leftnothing but bitterness and humiliation behind it? Shall the name ofLamberto di Castelmare be written in my memory in the hateful list ofthose who have been to me the occasion of remorse, of self-condemnation,of bitterness immeasurable? Never, never, never! Come what may thereshall be one pure place in my heart; one unsoiled spot in my life; oneever-dear remembrance unlinked with sorrow and with shame; one memorywhich, however sad, shall not be humiliating."
She put her handkerchief to her eyes as she ceased speaking, andappeared to be entirely overcome by her emotion.
The Marchese rose from his chair in a state of hardly less agitation. Hewalked across the room;--returned to the sofa, and seemed for a momentas if he were going to take her hand; then turned away, and stood on thehearth-rug with his back to the fire. He was much moved, puzzled,pained, disappointed,--goaded and lashed more violently than ever by thefuries of passion; more than ever wishing that he had never seen thebeautiful creature lying there before him, and more than ever writhingin mind under the consciousness that to give her up was beyond hispower.
At length he again stepped up to the side of the sofa and took her hand.
She started; and plucked it from him.
"Go, Signor Marchese--go, and leave me. It would perhaps be better sofor both of us. I am not used to show to anybody the very inmost secretsof my heart, as I have been doing to you,--I know not why. Forget what Ihave said. Go, and forget me;--forget the poor comedian to whom yourgoodness, your nobleness, and--your love--seemed for a passing minute toopen a blessed glimpse of a heaven upon earth; but never--never againpropose to me to associate the name of Lamberto di Castelmare with namesthat I would--oh, so fain--forget!"
Still the Marchese had not realized the nature of the position or seenthe only outlet from the cul-de-sac into which he had been driven. Itinvolved too monstrous an impossibility to seem to him to be an outletat all. What was the real meaning of all this? Then suddenly anin-rushing suspicion flashed across his mind like a blasting lightningbrand, bringing with it a sharp pang, as of a dagger stab in the heart.What was the meaning of all these protestations of admiration andaffection, coupled with a denial of all that his passion drove him therein search of? Did it perchance mean that this woman, so terrible in thepower of her beauty, so dangerously irresistible, would fain have theprotection which his position could give her, the supplies which mightbe drawn from his purse, while her love--such love as he wanted fromher--would be given to a younger rival?
Suddenly he asked her, "When was the Marchese Ludovico here last?"
"The Marchese Ludovico?" said Bianca, carelessly; "oh, he is often here.When last? Let me see: he was here this morning. As good and noble agentleman as any in Italy he is, too. He is worthy to bear your name,Marchese, though it is only a poor girl like me that says it."
"He seems to have won your good will, anyhow," said the Marchese,frowning heavily. "What answer, I wonder, would he get if he were tospeak to you as I spoke just now?"
"He would never speak so, Signor Marchese; he would know that, whatevermight have been the case in past years, alas! it would be useless orworse to speak so now. I do not say, indeed, that--I have a sincereregard for the Marchese Ludovico. This much you may be very sure of,Marchese, that the feelings which you have surprised me into confessingwould make it quite impossible for me to listen to any such words fromthe Marchese Ludovico. But, if ever the Marchese Ludovico were to sayany word in my ear,--it would not be," continued Bianca, dropping hervoice and speaking as if more to herself than to him--"it would not beto offer me what his uncle was offering me just now."
And now it flashed upon the Marchese for the first time what the realdrift of Bianca's words and conduct had been. She wanted to be Marchesadi Castelmare. And the meaning of her last words, with their reticencesand their half-uttered expressions spoken out at length might, hethought, be read thus: If you, Marchese Lamberto, do not make meMarchesa di Castelmare, your nephew will be ready enough to do so. Thescandal, the wrong done to the family name, the chatter of all thetongues in Ravenna will be none the less. The matter would be, indeed,worse instead of better. For it would involve the grave injury thatwould be done to the Lady Violante, and the destruction of all the hopesbuilt upon that alliance. All this seemed to be revealed to him as by alightning flash. But the pang of jealousy, which had stung his heart,still remained the foremost and most prominent occupation of his mind.
"If you imagine, Bianca," he said after a while, "that my nephew would,or could, however much he might w
ish to do so, make any other kind ofproposal to you, you are labouring under a delusion. I speak in allsincerity of heart."
"And I have spoken to you, God knows, with all sincerity, SignorMarchese. I have spoken as I have never before spoken to any humanbeing. I have opened my heart to you to the very bottom of it. But theeffort of doing so has been a painful one. It has terribly overset me; Ifeel like a wrung-out rag; and would fain rest. You will not be offendedif I ask you to leave me now. It is getting late, too; and I expect myfather home every instant. Good-night, Signor Marchese. Forgive me if Ihave said aught that I should not have said; if I have in any wayoffended you. I think you know how far the wish to do so is from myheart. Good-night."
"Good-night, Bianca," said the Marchese, taking the hand she held out tohim, and retaining it in his own for some instants, despite hisintention of specially abstaining from any demonstration of thekind--"Good-night, Bianca. We shall meet to-morrow morning."
"Yes, on business," said Bianca, looking up into his face with a sadsmile. "Signor Ercole said he should be here at midday."
And then the Marchese left her, and, carefully shunning the morefrequented parts of the city, returned to his own home.
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