Giovanni stood back from her, and hung his head. In a moment the force of his passion was checked, and from the supreme verge of unspeakable and rapturous delight, he was cast suddenly into the depths of his own remorse. He stood silent before her, trembling and awestruck.
“You cannot understand me,” she said, “I do not understand myself. But this I know, that you are not what you have seemed to-night — that there is enough manliness and nobility in you to respect a woman, and that you will hereafter prove that I am right. I pray that I may not see you any more; but if I must see you, I will trust you this much — say that I may trust you,” she added, her strong smooth voice sinking in a trembling cadence, half beseeching, and yet wholly commanding.
Saracinesca bent his heavy brows, and was silent for a moment. Then he looked up, and his eyes met hers, and seemed to gather strength from her.
“If you will let me see you sometimes, you may trust me. I would I were as noble and good as you — I am not. I will try to be. Ah, Corona!” he cried suddenly, “forgive me, forgive me! I hardly knew what I said.”
“Hush!” said the Duchessa, gently; “you must not speak like that, nor call me Corona. Perhaps I am wrong to forgive you wholly, but I believe in you. I believe you will understand, and that you will be worthy of the trust I place in you.”
“Indeed, Duchessa, none shall say that they have trusted me in vain,” answered Giovanni very proudly— “neither man nor woman — and, least of all women, you.”
“That is well,” said she, with a faint shadow of a smile. “I would rather see you proud than reckless. See that you remain so — that neither by word nor deed you ever remind me that I have had anything to forgive. It is the only way in which any intercourse between us can be possible after this — this dreadful night.”
Giovanni bowed his head. He was still pale, but he had regained control of himself.
“I solemnly promise that I will not recall it to your memory, and I implore your forgiveness, even though you cannot forget.”
“I cannot forget,” said Corona, almost under her breath. Giovanni’s eyes flashed for a moment. “Shall we go back to the ball-room? I will go home soon.”
As they turned to go, a loud crash, as of broken glass, with the fall of some heavy body, startled them, and made them stand still in the middle of the walk. The noisy concussion was followed by a complete silence. Corona, whose nerves had been severely tried, trembled slightly.
“It is strange,” she said; “they say it always happens.”
There was nothing to be seen. The thick web of plants hid the cause of the noise from view, whatever it might be. Giovanni hesitated a moment, looking about to see how he could get behind the banks of flower-pots. Then he left Corona without a word, and striding to the end of the walk, disappeared into the depths of the conservatory. He had noticed that there was a narrow entrance at the end nearest the fountain, intended probably to admit the gardener for the purpose of watering the plants. Corona could hear his quick steps; she thought she heard a low groan and a voice whispering, — but she might have been mistaken, for the place was large, and her heart was beating fast.
Giovanni had not gone far in the narrow way, which was sufficiently lighted by the soft light of the many candles concealed in various parts of the conservatory, when he came upon the figure of a man sitting, as he had apparently fallen, across the small passage. The fragments of a heavy earthenware vase lay beyond him, with a heap of earth and roots; and the tall india-rubber plant which grew in it had fallen against the sloping glass roof and shattered several panes. As Giovanni came suddenly upon him, the man struggled to rise, and in the dim light Saracinesca recognised Del Ferice. The truth flashed upon him at once. The fellow had been listening, and had probably heard all. Giovanni instantly resolved to conceal the fact from the Duchessa, to whom the knowledge that the painful scene had been overheard would be a bitter mortification. Giovanni could undertake to silence the eavesdropper.
Quick as thought his strong brown hands gripped the throat of Ugo del
Ferice, stifling his breath like a collar of iron.
“Dog!” he whispered fiercely in the wretch’s ear, “if you breathe, I will kill you now! You will find me in my own house in an hour. Be silent now!” Giovanni whispered, with such a terrible grip on the fellow’s throat that his eyeballs seemed starting from his head. Then he turned and went out by the way he had entered, leaving Del Ferice writhing with pain and gasping for breath. As he joined Corona, his face betrayed no emotion — he had been so pale before that he could not turn whiter in his anger — but his eyes gleamed fiercely at the thought of fight. The Duchessa stood where he had left her, still much agitated.
“It is nothing,” said Giovanni, with a forced laugh, as he offered her his arm and led her quickly away. “Imagine. A great vase with one of Frangipani’s favourite plants in it had been badly propped, and had fallen right through the glass, outward.”
“It is strange,” said Corona. “I was almost sure I heard a groan.”
“It was the wind. The glass was broken, and it is a stormy night.”
“That was just the way that window fell in five years ago,” said Corona. “Something always happens here. I think I will go home — let us find my husband.”
No one would have guessed, from Corona’s face, that anything extraordinary had occurred in the half-hour she had spent in the conservatory. She walked calmly by Giovanni’s side, not a trace of excitement on her pale proud face, not a sign of uneasiness in the quiet glance of her splendid eyes. She had conquered, and she knew it, never to be tempted again; she had conquered herself and she had overcome the man beside her. Giovanni glanced at her in wondering admiration.
“You are the bravest woman in the world, as I am the most contemptible of men,” he said suddenly, as they entered the picture-gallery.
“I am not brave,” she answered calmly, “neither are you contemptible, my friend. We have both been very near to our destruction, but it has pleased God to save us.”
“By you,” said Saracinesca, very solemnly. He knew that within six hours he might be lying dead upon some plot of wet grass without the city, and he grew very grave, after the manner of brave men when death is abroad.
“You have saved my soul to-night,” he said earnestly. “Will you give me your blessing and whole forgiveness? Do not laugh at me, nor think me foolish. The blessing of such women as you should make men braver and better.”
The gallery was again deserted. The cotillon had begun, and those who were not dancing were at supper. Corona stood still for one moment by the very chair where they had sat so long.
“I forgive you wholly. I pray that all blessings may be upon you always, in life and in death, for ever.”
Giovanni bowed his head reverently. It seemed as though the woman he so loved was speaking a benediction upon his death, a last in pace which should follow him for all eternity.
“In life and in death, I will honour you truly and serve you faithfully for ever,” he answered. As he raised his head, Corona saw that there were tears in his eyes, and she felt that there were tears in her own.
“Come,” she said, and they passed on in silence.
She found her husband at last in the supper-room. He was leisurely discussing the wing of a chicken and a small glass of claret-and-water, with a gouty ambassador whose wife had insisted upon dancing the cotillon, and who was revenging himself upon a Strasbourg pâté and a bottle of dry champagne.
“Ah, my dear,” said Astrardente, looking up from his modest fare, “you have been dancing? You have come to supper? You are very wise. I have danced a great deal myself, but I have not seen you — the room was so crowded. Here — this small table will hold us all, just a quartet.”
“Thanks — I am not hungry. Will you take me home when you have finished supper? Or are you going to stay? Do not wait, Don Giovanni; I know you are busy in the cotillon. My husband will take care of me. Good night.”
Giovan
ni bowed, and went away, glad to be alone at last. He had to be at home in half an hour according to his engagement, and he had to look about him for a friend. All Rome was at the ball; but the men upon whom he could call for such service as he required, were all dancing. Moreover, he reflected that in such a matter it was necessary to have some one especially trustworthy. It would not do to have the real cause of the duel known, and the choice of a second was a very important matter. He never doubted that Del Ferice would send some one with a challenge at the appointed time. Del Ferice was a scoundrel, doubtless; but he was quick with the foils, and had often appeared as second in affairs of honour.
Giovanni stood by the door of the ball-room, looking at the many familiar faces, and wondering how he could induce any one to leave his partner at that hour, and go home with him. Suddenly he was aware that his father was standing beside him and eyeing him curiously.
“What is the matter, Giovanni?” inquired the old Prince. “Why are you not dancing?”
“The fact is—” began Giovanni, and then stopped suddenly. An idea struck him. He went close to his father, and spoke in a low voice.
“The fact is, that I have just taken a man by the throat and otherwise insulted him, by calling him a dog. The fellow seemed annoyed, and so I told him he might send to our house in an hour for an explanation. I cannot find a friend, because everybody is dancing this abominable cotillon. Perhaps you can help me,” he added, looking at his father rather doubtfully. To his surprise and considerable relief the old Prince burst into a hearty laugh.
“Of course,” he cried. “What do you take me for? Do you think I would desert my boy in a fight? Go and call my carriage, and wait for me while I pick up somebody for a witness; we can talk on the way home.”
The old Prince had been a duellist in his day, and he would no more have thought of advising his son not to fight than of refusing a challenge himself. He was, moreover, exceedingly bored at the ball, and not in the least sleepy. The prospect of an exciting night was novel and delightful. He knew Giovanni’s extraordinary skill, and feared nothing for him. He knew everybody in the ball-room was engaged, and he went straight to the supper-table, expecting to find some one there. Astrardente, the Duchessa, and the gouty ambassador were still together, as Giovanni had left them a moment before. The Prince did not like Astrardente, but he knew the ambassador very well. He called him aside, with an apology to the Duchessa.
“I want a young man immediately,” said old Saracinesca, stroking his white beard with his broad brown hand. “Can you tell of any one who is not dancing?”
“There is Astrardente,” answered his Excellency, with an ironical smile.
“A duel?” he asked.
Saracinesca nodded.
“I am too old,” said the diplomatist, thoughtfully; “but it would be infinitely amusing. I cannot give you one of my secretaries either. It always makes such a scandal. Oh, there goes the very man! Catch him before it is too late!”
Old Saracinesca glanced in the direction the ambassador indicated, and darted away. He was as active as a boy, in spite of his sixty years.
“Eh!” he cried. “Hi! you! Come here! Spicca! Stop! Excuse me — I am in a great hurry!”
Count Spicca, whom he thus addressed, paused and looked round through his single eyeglass in some surprise. He was an immensely tall and cadaverous-looking man, with a black beard and searching grey eyes.
“I really beg your pardon,” said the Prince hurriedly, in a low voice, as he came up, “but I am in a great hurry — an affair of honour — will you be witness? My carriage is at the door.”
“With pleasure,” said Count Spicca, quietly; and without further comment he accompanied the Prince to the outer hall. Giovanni was waiting, and the Prince’s footman stood at the head of the stairs. In three minutes the father and son and the melancholy Spicca were seated in the carriage, on their way to the Palazzo Saracinesca.
“Now then, Giovannino,” said the Prince, as he lit a cigarette in the darkness, “tell us all about it.”
“There is not much to tell,” said Giovanni. “If the challenge arrives, there is nothing to be done but to fight. I took him by the throat and nearly strangled him.”
“Whom?” asked Spicca, mournfully.
“Oh! it is Del Ferice,” answered Giovanni, who had forgotten that he had not mentioned the name of his probable antagonist. The Prince laughed.
“Del Ferice! Who would have thought it? He is a dead man. What was it all about?”
“That is unnecessary to say here,” said Giovanni, quietly. “He insulted me grossly. I half-strangled him, and told him he was a dog. I suppose he will fight.”
“Ah yes; he will probably fight,” repeated Spicca, thoughtfully. “What are your weapons, Don Giovanni?”
“Anything he likes.”
“But the choice is yours if he challenges,” returned the Count.
“As you please. Arrange all that — foils, swords, or pistols.”
“You do not seem to take much interest in this affair,” remarked Spicca, sadly.
“He is best with foils,” said the old Prince.
“Foils or pistols, of course,” said the Count. “Swords are child’s play.”
Satisfied that his seconds meant business, Giovanni sank back in his corner of the carriage, and was silent.
“We had better have the meeting in my villa,” said his father. “If it rains, they can fight indoors. I will send for the surgeon at once.”
In a few moments they reached the Palazzo Saracinesca. The Prince left word at the porter’s lodge that any gentlemen who arrived were to be admitted, and all three went up-stairs. It was half-past two o’clock.
As they entered the apartments, they heard a carriage drive under the great archway below.
“Go to your rooms, Giovanni,” said the old Prince. “These fellows are punctual. I will call you when they are gone. I suppose you mean business seriously?”
“I care nothing about him. I will give him any satisfaction he pleases,” answered Giovanni. “It is very kind of you to undertake the matter — I am very grateful.”
“I would not leave it to anybody else,” muttered the old Prince, as he hurried away to meet Del Fence’s seconds.
Giovanni entered his own rooms, and went straight to his writing-table. He took a pen and a sheet of paper and began writing. His face was very grave, but his hand was steady. For more than an hour he wrote without pausing. Then his father entered the room.
“Well?” said Giovanni, looking up.
“It is all settled,” said the old gentleman, seriously. “I was afraid they might make some objection to me as a second. You know there is an old clause about near relations acting in such cases. But they declared that they considered my co-operation an honour — so that is all right. You must do your best, my boy. This rascal means to hurt you if he can. Seven o’clock is the time. We must leave here at half-past six. You can sleep two hours and a half. I will sit up and call you. Spicca has gone home to change his clothes, and is coming back immediately. Now lie down. I will see to your foils—”
“Is it foils, then?” asked Giovanni, quietly.
“Yes. They made no objection. You had better lie down.”
“I will. Father, if anything should happen to me — it may, you know — you will find my keys in this drawer, and this letter, which I beg you will read. It is to yourself.”
“Nonsense, my dear boy! Nothing will happen to you — you will just run him through the arm and come home to breakfast.”
The old Prince spoke in his rough cheerful way; but his voice trembled, and he turned aside to hide two great tears that had fallen upon his dark cheeks and were losing themselves in his white beard.
CHAPTER XII.
GIOVANNI SLEPT SOUNDLY for two hours. He was very tired with the many emotions of the night, and the arrangements for the meeting being completed, it seemed as though work were over and the pressure removed. It is said that men will sleep for hour
s when the trial is over and the sentence of death has been passed; and though it was more likely that Del Ferice would be killed than that Giovanni would be hurt, the latter felt not unlike a man who has been tried for his life. He had suffered in a couple of hours almost every emotion of which he was capable — his love for Corona, long controlled and choked down, had broken bounds at last, and found expression for itself; he had in a moment suffered the severest humiliation and the most sincere sorrow at her reproaches; he had known the fear of seeing her no more, and the sweetness of pardon from her own lips; he had found himself on a sudden in a frenzy of righteous wrath against Del Ferice, and a moment later he had been forced to hide his anger under a calm face; and at last, when the night was far spent, he had received the assurance that in less than four hours he would have ample opportunity for taking vengeance upon the cowardly eavesdropper who had so foully got possession of the one secret he held dear. Worn out with all he had suffered, and calm in the expectation of the morning’s struggle, Giovanni lay down upon his bed and slept.
Del Ferice, on the contrary, was very wakeful. He had an unpleasant sensation about his throat as though he had been hanged, and cut down before he was dead; and he suffered the unutterable mortification of knowing that, after a long and successful social career, he had been detected by his worst enemy in a piece of disgraceful villany. In the first place, Giovanni might kill him. Del Ferice was a very good fencer, but Saracinesca was stronger and more active; there was certainly considerable danger in the duel. On the other hand, if he survived, Giovanni had him in his power for the rest of his life, and there was no escape possible. He had been caught listening — caught in a flagrantly dishonest trick — and he well knew that if the matter had been brought before a jury of honour, he would have been declared incompetent to claim any satisfaction.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 205