Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “I thought he was never going,” said Giovanni, moodily. He was not in the habit of posing as the rival of any one who happened to be talking to the Duchessa. He had never said anything of the kind before, and Corona experienced a new sensation, not altogether unpleasant. She looked at him in some surprise.

  “Do you not like Del Ferice?” she inquired, gravely.

  “Do you like him yourself?” he asked in reply.

  “What a question! Why should I like or dislike any one?” There was perhaps the smallest shade of bitterness in her voice as she asked the question she had so often asked herself. Why should she like Giovanni Saracinesca, for instance?

  “I do not know what the world would be like if we had no likes and dislikes,” said Giovanni, suddenly. “It would be a poor place; perhaps it is only a poor place at best. I merely wondered whether Del Ferice amused you as he amuses everybody.”

  “Well then, frankly, he has not amused me to-day,” answered Corona, with a smile.

  “Then you are glad he is gone?”

  “I do not regret it.”

  “Duchessa,” said Giovanni, suddenly changing his position, “I am glad he is gone, because I want to ask you a question. Do I know you well enough to ask you a question?”

  “It depends—” Corona felt the blood rise suddenly to her dark forehead. Her hands burned intensely in her gloves. The anticipation of something she had never heard made her heart beat uncontrollably in her breast.

  “It is only about myself,” continued Giovanni, in low tones. He had seen the blush, so rare a sight that there was not another man in Rome who had seen it. He had not time to think what it meant. “It is only about myself,” he went on. “My father wants me to marry; he insists that I should marry Donna Tullia — Madame Mayer.”

  “Well?” asked Corona. She shivered; a moment before, she had been oppressed with the heat. Her monosyllabic question was low and indistinct. She wondered whether Giovanni could hear the beatings of her heart, so slow, so loud they almost deafened her.

  “Simply this. Do you advise me to marry her?”

  “Why do you ask me, of all people?” asked Corona, faintly.

  “I would like to have your advice,” said Giovanni, twisting his brown hands together and fixing his bright eyes upon her face.

  “She is young yet. She is handsome — she is fabulously rich. Why should you not marry her? Would she make you happy?”

  “Happy? Happy with her? No indeed. Do you think life would be bearable with such a woman?”

  “I do not know. Many men would marry her if they could—”

  “Then you think I should?” asked Giovanni. Corona hesitated; she could not understand why she should care, and yet she was conscious that there had been no such struggle in her life since the day she had blindly resolved to sacrifice herself to her father’s wishes in accepting Astrardente. Still there could be no doubt what she should say: how could she advise any one to marry without the prospect of the happiness she had never had?

  “Will you not give me your counsel?” repeated Saracinesca. He had grown very pale, and spoke with such earnestness that Corona hesitated no longer.

  “I would certainly advise you to think no more about it, if you are sure that you cannot be happy with her.”

  Giovanni drew a long breath, the blood returned to his face, and his hands unlocked themselves.

  “I will think no more about it,” he said. “Heaven bless you for your advice, Duchessa!”

  “Heaven grant I have advised you well!” said Corona, almost inaudibly. “How cold this house is! Will you put down my cup of tea? Let us go near the fire; Strillone is going to sing again.”

  “I would like him to sing a ‘Nune dimittis, Domine,’ for me,” murmured

  Giovanni, whose eyes were filled with a strange light.

  Half an hour later Corona d’Astrardente went down the steps of the Embassy wrapped in her furs and preceded by her footman. As she reached the bottom Giovanni Saracinesca came swiftly down and joined her as her carriage drove up out of the dark courtyard. The footman opened the door, but Giovanni put out his hand to help Corona to mount the step. She laid her small gloved fingers upon the sleeve of his overcoat, and as she sprang lightly in she thought his arm trembled.

  “Good night, Duchessa; I am very grateful to you,” he said.

  “Good night; why should you be grateful?” she asked, almost sadly.

  Giovanni did not answer, but stood hat in hand as the great carriage rolled out under the arch. Then he buttoned his greatcoat, and went out alone into the dark and muddy streets. The rain had ceased, but everything was wet, and the broad pavements gleamed under the uncertain light of the flickering gas-lamps.

  CHAPTER III.

  THE PALACE OF the Saracinesca is in an ancient quarter of Rome, far removed from the broad white streets of mushroom dwelling-houses and machine-laid macadam; far from the foreigners’ region, the varnish of the fashionable shops, the whirl of brilliant equipages, and the scream of the newsvendor. The vast irregular buildings are built around three courtyards, and face on all sides upon narrow streets. The first sixteen feet, up to the heavily ironed windows of the lower storey, consist of great blocks of stone, worn at the corners and scored along their length by the battering of ages, by the heavy carts that from time immemorial have found the way too narrow and have ground their iron axles against the massive masonry. Of the three enormous arched gates that give access to the interior from different sides, one is closed by an iron grating, another by huge doors studded with iron bolts, and the third alone is usually open as an entrance. A tall old porter used to stand there in a long livery-coat and a cocked-hat; on holidays he appeared in the traditional garb of the Parisian “Suisse,” magnificent in silk stockings and a heavily laced coat of dark green, leaning upon his tall mace — a constant object of wonder to the small boys of the quarter. He trimmed his white beard in imitation of his master’s — broad and square — and his words were few and to the point.

  No one was ever at home in the Palazzo Saracinesca in those days; there were no ladies in the house; it was a man’s establishment, and there was something severely masculine in the air of the gloomy courtyards surrounded by dark archways, where not a single plant or bit of colour relieved the ancient stone. The pavement was clean and well kept, a new flagstone here and there showing that some care was bestowed upon maintaining it in good repair; but for any decoration there was to be found in the courts, the place might have been a fortress, as indeed it once was. The owners, father and son, lived in their ancestral home in a sort of solemn magnificence that savoured of feudal times. Giovanni was the only son of five-and-twenty years of wedlock. His mother had been older than his father, and had now been dead some time. She had been a stern dark woman, and had lent no feminine touch of grace to the palace while she lived in it, her melancholic temper rather rejoicing in the sepulchral gloom that hung over the house. The Saracinesca had always been a manly race, preferring strength to beauty, and the reality of power to the amenities of comfort.

  Giovanni walked home from the afternoon reception at the Embassy. His temper seemed to crave the bleak wet air of the cold streets, and he did not hurry himself. He intended to dine at home that evening, and he anticipated some kind of disagreement with his father. The two men were too much alike not to be congenial, but too combative by nature to care for eternal peace. On the present occasion it was likely that there would be a struggle, for Giovanni had made up his mind not to marry Madame Mayer, and his father was equally determined that he should marry her at once: both were singularly strong men, singularly tenacious of their opinions.

  At precisely seven o’clock father and son entered from different doors the small sitting-room in which they generally met, and they had no sooner entered than dinner was announced. Two words might suffice for the description of old Prince Saracinesca — he was an elder edition of his son. Sixty years of life had not bent his strong frame nor dimmed the brilliancy of hi
s eyes, but his hair and beard were snowy white. He was broader in the shoulder and deeper in the chest than Giovanni, but of the same height, and well proportioned still, with little tendency to stoutness. He was to all appearance precisely what his son would be at his age — keen and vigorous, the stern lines of his face grown deeper, and his very dark eyes and complexion made more noticeable by the dazzling whiteness of his hair and broad square beard — the same type in a different stage of development.

  The dinner was served with a certain old-fashioned magnificence which has grown rare in Rome. There was old plate and old china upon the table, old cut glass of the diamond pattern, and an old butler who moved noiselessly about in the performance of the functions he had exercised in the same room for forty years, and which his father had exercised there before him. Prince Saracinesca and Don Giovanni sat on opposite sides of the round table, now and then exchanging a few words.

  “I was caught in the rain this afternoon,” remarked the Prince.

  “I hope you will not have a cold,” replied his son, civilly. “Why do you walk in such weather?”

  “And you — why do you walk?” retorted his father. “Are you less likely to take cold than I am? I walk because I have always walked.”

  “That is an excellent reason. I walk because I do not keep a carriage.”

  “Why do not you keep one if you wish to?” asked the Prince.

  “I will do as you wish. I will buy an equipage to-morrow, lest I should again walk in the rain and catch cold. Where did you see me on foot?”

  “In the Orso, half an hour ago. Why do you talk about my wishes in that absurd way?”

  “Since you say it is absurd, I will not do so,” said Giovanni, quietly.

  “You are always contradicting me,” said the Prince. “Some wine,

  Pasquale.”

  “Contradicting you?” repeated Giovanni. “Nothing could be further from my intentions.”

  The old Prince slowly sipped a glass of wine before he answered.

  “Why do not you set up an establishment for yourself and live like a gentleman?” he asked at length. “You are rich — why do you go about on foot and dine in cafés?”

  “Do I ever dine at a café when you are dining alone?”

  “You have got used to living in restaurants in Paris,” retorted his father. “It is a bad habit. What was the use of your mother leaving you a fortune, unless you will live in a proper fashion?”

  “I understand you very well,” answered Giovanni, his dark eyes beginning to gleam. “You know all that is a pretence. I am the most home-staying man of your acquaintance. It is a mere pretence. You are going to talk about my marriage again.”

  “And has any one a more natural right to insist upon your marriage than I have?” asked the elder man, hotly. “Leave the wine on the table, Pasquale — and the fruit — here. Give Don Giovanni his cheese. I will ring for the coffee — leave us.” The butler and the footman left the room. “Has any one a more natural right, I ask?” repeated the Prince when they were alone.

  “No one but myself, I should say,” answered Giovanni, bitterly.

  “Yourself — yourself indeed! What have you to say about it? This a family matter. Would you have Saracinesca sold, to be distributed piecemeal among a herd of dogs of starving relations you never heard of, merely because you are such a vagabond, such a Bohemian, such a break-neck, crazy good-for-nothing, that you will not take the trouble to accept one of all the women who rush into your arms?”

  “Your affectionate manner of speaking of your relatives is only surpassed by your good taste in describing the probabilities of my marriage,” remarked Giovanni, scornfully.

  “And you say you never contradict me!” exclaimed the Prince, angrily.

  “If this is an instance, I can safely say so. Comment is not contradiction.”

  “Do you mean to say you have not repeatedly refused to marry?” inquired old Saracinesca.

  “That would be untrue. I have refused, I do refuse, and I will refuse, just so long as it pleases me.”

  “That is definite, at all events. You will go on refusing until you have broken your silly neck in imitating Englishmen, and then — good night Saracinesca! The last of the family will have come to a noble end!”

  “If the only use of my existence is to become the father of heirs to your titles, I do not care to enjoy them myself.”

  “You will not enjoy them till my death, at all events. Did you ever reflect that I might marry again?”

  “If you please to do so, do not hesitate on my account. Madame Mayer will accept you as soon as me. Marry by all means, and may you have a numerous progeny; and may they all marry in their turn, the day they are twenty. I wish you joy.”

  “You are intolerable, Giovanni. I should think you would have more respect for Donna Tullia—”

  “Than to call her Madame Mayer,” interrupted Giovanni.

  “Than to suggest that she cares for nothing but a title and a fortune—”

  “You showed much respect to her a moment ago, when you suggested that she was ready to rush into my arms.”

  “I! I never said such a thing. I said that any woman—”

  “Including Madame Mayer, of course,” interrupted Giovanni again.

  “Can you not let me speak?” roared the Prince. Giovanni shrugged his shoulders a little, poured out a glass of wine, and helped himself to cheese, but said nothing. Seeing that his son said nothing, old Saracinesca was silent too; he was so angry that he had lost the thread of his ideas. Perhaps Giovanni regretted the quarrelsome tone he had taken, for he presently spoke to his father in a more conciliatory tone.

  “Let us be just,” he said. “I will listen to you, and I shall be glad if you will listen to me. In the first place, when I think of marriage I represent something to myself by the term—”

  “I hope so,” growled the old man.

  “I look upon marriage as an important step in a man’s life. I am not so old as to make my marriage an immediate necessity, nor so young as to be able wholly to disregard it. I do not desire to be hurried; for when I make up my mind, I intend to make a choice which, if it does not ensure happiness, will at least ensure peace. I do not wish to marry Madame Mayer. She is young, handsome, rich—”

  “Very,” ejaculated the Prince.

  “Very. I also am young and rich, if not handsome.”

  “Certainly not handsome,” said his father, who was nursing his wrath, and meanwhile spoke calmly. “You are the image of me.”

  “I am proud of the likeness,” said Giovanni, gravely. “But to return to

  Madame Mayer. She is a widow—”

  “Is that her fault?” inquired his father irrelevantly, his anger rising again.

  “I trust not,” said Giovanni, with a smile. “I trust she did not murder old Mayer. Nevertheless she is a widow. That is a strong objection. Have any of my ancestors married widows?”

  “You show your ignorance at every turn,” said the old Prince, with a scornful laugh. “Leone Saracinesca married the widow of the Elector of Limburger-Stinkenstein in 1581.”

  “It is probably the German blood in our veins which gives you your taste for argument,” remarked Giovanni. “Because three hundred years ago an ancestor married a widow, I am to marry one now. Wait — do not be angry — there are other reasons why I do not care for Madame Mayer. She is too gay for me — too fond of the world.”

  The Prince burst into aloud ironical laugh. His white hair and beard bristled about his dark face, and he showed all his teeth, strong and white still.

  “That is magnificent!” he cried; “it is superb, splendid, a piece of unpurchasable humour! Giovanni Saracinesca has found a woman who is too gay for him! Heaven be praised! We know his taste at last. We will give him a nun, a miracle of all the virtues, a little girl out of a convent, vowed to a life of sacrifice and self-renunciation. That will please him — he will be a model happy husband.”

  “I do not understand this extraor
dinary outburst,” answered Giovanni, with cold scorn. “Your mirth is amazing, but I fail to understand its source.”

  His father ceased laughing, and looked at him curiously, his heavy brows bending with the intenseness of his gaze. Giovanni returned the look, and it seemed as though those two strong angry men were fencing across the table with their fiery glances. The son was the first to speak.

  “Do you mean to imply that I am not the kind of man to be allowed to marry a young girl?” he asked, not taking his eyes from his father.

  “Look you, boy,” returned the Prince, “I will have no more nonsense. I insist upon this match, as I have told you before. It is the most suitable one that I can find for you; and instead of being grateful, you turn upon me and refuse to do your duty. Donna Tullia is twenty-three years of age. She is brilliant, rich. There is nothing against her. She is a distant cousin—”

  “One of the flock of vultures you so tenderly referred to,” remarked

  Giovanni.

  “Silence!” cried old Saracinesca, striking his heavy hand upon the table so that the glasses shook together. “I will be heard; and what is more, I will be obeyed. Donna Tullia is a relation. The union of two such fortunes will be of immense advantage to your children. There is everything in favour of the match — nothing against it. You shall marry her a month from to-day. I will give you the title of Sant’ Ilario, with the estate outright into the bargain, and the palace in the Corso to live in, if you do not care to live here.”

  “And if I refuse?” asked Giovanni, choking down his anger.

  “If you refuse, you shall leave my house a month from to-day,” said the