Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Astrardente led his wife from the supper-table through the great rooms, now almost deserted, and past the wide doors of the hall where the cotillon was at its height. They paused a moment and looked in, as Giovanni had done a quarter of an hour earlier. It was a magnificent scene; the lights flashed back from the jewels of fair women, and surged in the dance as starlight upon rippling waves. The air was heavy with the odour of the countless flowers that filled the deep recesses of the windows, and were distributed in hundreds of nosegays for the figures of the cotillon; enchanting strains of waltz music seemed to float down from above and inspire the crowd of men and women with harmonious motion, so that sound was made visible by translation into graceful movement. As Corona looked there was a pause, and the crowd parted, while a huge tiger, the heraldic beast of the Frangipani family, was drawn into the hall by the young prince and Bianca Valdarno. The magnificent skin had been so artfully stuffed as to convey a startling impression of life, and in the creature’s huge jaws hung a great basket filled with tiny tigers, which were to be distributed as badges for the dance by the leaders. A wild burst of applause greeted this novel figure, and every one ran forward to obtain a nearer view.

  “Ah!” exclaimed old Astrardente, “I envy them that invention, my dear; it is perfectly magnificent. You must have a tiger to take home. How fortunate we were to be in time!” He forced his way into the crowd, leaving his wife alone for a moment by the door; and he managed to catch Valdarno, who was distributing the little emblems to right and left. Madame Mayer’s quick eyes had caught sight of Corona and her husband, and from some instinct of curiosity she made towards the Duchessa. She was still angry, as she had never been in her short life, at Giovanni’s rudeness in forgetting her dance, and she longed to inflict some wound upon the beautiful woman who had led him into such forgetfulness. When Astrardente left his wife’s side, Donna Tullia pressed forward with her partner in the general confusion that followed upon the entrance of the tiger, and she managed to pass close to Corona. She looked up suddenly with an air of surprise.

  “What! not dancing, Duchessa?” she asked. “Has your partner gone home?”

  With the look that accompanied the question, it was an insulting speech enough. Had Donna Tullia seen old Astrardente close behind her, she would not have made it. The old dandy was returning in triumph in possession of the little tiger-badge for Corona. He heard the words, and observed with inward pleasure his wife’s calm look of indifference.

  “Madam,” he said, placing himself suddenly in Madame Mayer’s way, “my wife’s partners do not go home while she remains.”

  “Oh, I see,” returned Donna Tullia, flushing quickly; “the Duchessa is dancing the cotillon with you. I beg your pardon — I had forgotten that you still danced.”

  “Indeed it is long since I did myself the honour of asking you for a quadrille, madam,” answered Astrardente with a polite smile; and so saying, he turned and presented the little tiger to his wife with a courtly bow. There was good blood in the old roué.

  Corona was touched by his thoughtfulness in wishing to get her the little keepsake of the dance, and she was still more affected by his ready defence of her. He was indeed sometimes a little ridiculous, with his paint and his artificial smile — he was often petulant and unreasonable in little things; but he was never unkind to her, nor discourteous. In spite of her cold and indifferent stare at Donna Tullia, she had keenly felt the insult, and she was grateful to the old man for taking her part. Knowing what she knew of herself that night, she was deeply sensible to his kindness. She took the little gift, and laid her hand upon his arm.

  “Forgive me,” she said, as they moved away, “if I am ever ungrateful to you. You are so very good to me. I know no one so courteous and kind as you are.”

  Her husband looked at her in delight. He loved her sincerely with all that remained of him. There was something sad in the thought of a man like him finding the only real passion of his life when worn out with age and dissipation. Her little speech raised him to the seventh heaven of joy.

  “I am the happiest man in all Rome,” he said, assuming his most jaunty walk, and swinging his hat gaily between his thumb and finger. But a current of deep thought was stirring in him as he went down the broad, staircase by his wife’s side. He was thinking what life might have been to him had he found Corona del Carmine — how could he? she was not born then — had he found her, or her counterpart, thirty years ago. He was wondering what conceivable sacrifice there could be which he would not make to regain his youth — even to have his life lived out and behind him, if he could only have looked back to thirty years of marriage with Corona. How differently he would have lived, how very differently he would have thought! how his whole memory would be full of the sweet past, and would be common with her own past life, which, to her too, would be sweet to ponder on! He would have been such a good man — so true to her in all those years! But they were gone, and he had not found her until his foot was on the edge of the grave — until he could hardly count on one year more of a pitiful artificial life, painted, bewigged, stuffed to the semblance of a man by a clever tailor — and she in the bloom of her glory beside him! What he would have given to have old Saracinesca’s strength and fresh vitality — old Saracinesca whom he hated! Yes, with all that hair — it was white, but a little dye would change it. What was a little dye compared with the profound artificiality of his own outer man? How the old fellow’s deep voice rang, loud and clear, from his broad chest! How strong he was, with his firm step, and his broad brown hands, and his fiery black eyes! He hated him for the greenness of his age — he hated him for his stalwart son, another of those long-lived fierce Saracinesca, who seemed destined to outlive time. He himself had no children, no relations, no one to bear his name — he had only a beautiful young wife and much wealth, with just enough strength left to affect a gay walk when he was with her, and to totter unsteadily to his couch when he was alone, worn out with the effort of trying to seem young.

  As they sat in their carriage he thought bitterly of all these things, and never spoke. Corona herself was weary, and glad to be silent. They went up-stairs, and as she took his arm, she gently tried to help him rather than be helped. He noticed it, and made an effort, but he was very tired. He paused upon the landing, and looked at her, and a gentle and sad smile stole over his face, such as Corona had never seen there.

  “Shall we go into your boudoir for ten minutes, my love?” he said; “or will you come into my smoking-room? I would like to smoke a little before going to bed.”

  “You may smoke in my boudoir, of course,” she answered kindly, though she was surprised at the request. It was half-past three o’clock. They went into the softly lighted little room, where the embers of the fire were still glowing upon the hearth. Corona dropped her furs upon a chair, and sat down upon one side of the chimney piece. Astrardente sank wearily into a deep easy-chair opposite her, and having found a cigarette, lighted it, and began to smoke. He seemed in a mood which Corona had never seen. After a short silence he spoke.

  “Corona,” he said, “I love you.” His wife looked up with a gentle smile, and in her determination to be loyal to him she almost forgot that other man who had said those words but two hours before, so differently.

  “Yes,” he said, with a sigh, “you have heard it before — it is not new to you. I think you believe it. You are good, but you do not love me — no, do not interrupt me, my dear; I know what you would say. How should you love me? I am an old man — very old, older than my years.” Again he sighed, more bitterly, as he confessed what he had never owned before. The Duchessa was too much astonished to answer him.

  “Corona,” he said again, “I shall not live much longer.”

  “Ah, do not speak like that,” she cried suddenly. “I trust and pray that you have yet many years to live.” Her husband looked keenly at her.

  “You are so good,” he answered, “that you are really capable of uttering such a prayer, absurd as it would
seem.”

  “Why absurd? It is unkind of you to say it—”

  “No, my dear; I know the world very well. That is all. I suppose it is impossible for me to make you understand how I love you. It must seem incredible to you, in the magnificence of your strength and beautiful youth, that a man like me — an artificial man” — he laughed scornfully— “a creature of paint and dye — let me be honest — a creature with a wig, should be capable of a mad passion. And yet, Corona,” he added, his thin cracked voice trembling with a real emotion, “I do love you — very dearly. There are two things that make my life bitter: the regret that I did not meet you, that you were not born, when I was young; and worse than that, the knowledge that I must leave you very soon — I, the exhausted dandy, the shadow of what I was, tottering to my grave in a last vain effort to be young for your sake — for your sake, Corona dear. Ah, it is contemptible!” he almost moaned.

  Corona hid her eyes in her hand. She was taken off her guard by his strange speech.

  “Oh, do not speak like that — do not!” she cried. “You make me very unhappy. Do I reproach you? Do I ever make you feel that you are — older than I? I will lead a new life; you shall never think of it again. You are too kind — too good for me.”

  “No one ever said I was too good before,” replied the old man with a shade of sadness. “I am glad the one person who finds me good, should be the only one for whose sake I ever cultivated goodness. I could have been different, Corona, if I had had you for my wife for thirty years, instead of five. But it is too late now. Before long I shall be dead, and you will be free.”

  “What makes you say such things to me?” asked Corona. “Can you think I am so vile, so ungrateful, so unloving, as to wish your death?”

  “Not unloving; no, my dear child. But not loving, either. I do not ask impossibilities. You will mourn for me a while — my poor soul will rest in peace if you feel one moment of real regret for me, for your old husband, before you take another. Do not cry, Corona, dearest; it is the way of the world. We waste our youth in scoffing at reality, and in the unrealness of our old age the present no longer avails us much. You know me, perhaps you despise me. You would not have scorned me when I was young — oh, how young I was! how strong and vain of my youth, thirty years ago!”

  “Indeed, indeed, no such thought ever crossed my mind. I give you all I have,” cried Corona, in great distress; “I will give you more — I will devote my whole life to you—”

  “You do, my dear. I am sensible of it,” said Astrardente, quietly. “You cannot do more, if you will; you cannot make me young again, nor take away the bitterness of death — of a death that leaves you behind.”

  Corona leaned forward, staring into the dying embers of the fire, one hand supporting her chin. The tears stood in her eyes and on her cheeks. The old dandy in his genuine misery had excited her compassion.

  “I would mourn you long,” she said. “You may have wasted your life; you say so. I would love you more if I could, God knows. You have always been to me a courteous gentleman and a faithful husband.”

  The old man rose with difficulty from his deep chair, and came and stood by her, and took the hand that lay idle on her knees. She looked up at him.

  “If I thought my blessing were worth anything, I would bless you for what you say. But I would not have you waste your youth. Youth is that which, being wasted, is like water poured out upon the ground. You must marry again, and marry soon — do not start. You will inherit all my fortune; you will have my title. It must descend to your children. It has come to an unworthy end in me; it must be revived in you.”

  “How can you think of it? Are you ill?” asked Corona kindly, pressing gently his thin hand in hers. “Why do you dwell on the idea of death to-night?”

  “I am ill; yes, past all cure, my dear,” said the old man, gently raising her hand to his lips, and kissing it.

  “What do you mean?” asked Corona, suddenly rising to her feet and laying her hand affectionately upon his shoulder. “Why have you never told me?”

  “Why should I tell you — except that it is near, and you must be prepared? Why should I burden you with anxiety? But you were so gentle and kind to-night, upon the stairs,” he said, with some hesitation, “that I thought perhaps it would be a relief to you to know — to know that it is not for long.”

  There was something so gentle in his tone, so infinitely pathetic in his thought that possibly he might lighten the burden his wife bore so bravely, there was something at last so human in the loving regret with which he spoke, that Corona forgot all his foolish ways, his wig and his false teeth and his petty vanities, and letting her head fall upon his shoulder, burst into passionate tears.

  “Oh no, no!” she sobbed. “It must be a long time yet; you must not die!”

  “It may be a year, not more,” he said gently. “God bless you for those tears, Corona — the tears you have shed for me. Good night, my dearest.”

  He let her sink upon her chair, and his hand rested for one moment upon her raven hair. Then with a last remnant of energy he quickly left the room.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  SUCH AFFAIRS AS the encounter between Giovanni and Del Ferice were very rare in Rome. There were many duels fought; but, as a general rule, they were not very serious, and the first slight wound decided the matter in hand to the satisfaction of both parties. But here there had been a fight for life and death. One of the combatants had received two such wounds as would have been sufficient to terminate an ordinary meeting, and the other was lying at death’s door stabbed through the throat. Society was frantic with excitement. Giovanni was visited by scores of acquaintances, whom he allowed to be admitted, and he talked with them cheerfully, in order to have it thoroughly known that he was not badly hurt. Del Ferice’s lodging was besieged by the same young gentlemen of leisure, who went directly from one to the other, anxious to get all the news in their power. But Del Ferice’s door was guarded jealously from intruders by his faithful Neapolitan servant — a fellow who knew more about his master than all the rest of Rome together, but who had such a dazzlingly brilliant talent for lying as to make him a safe repository for any secret committed to his keeping. On the present occasion, however, he had small use for duplicity. He sat all day long by the open door, for he had removed the bell-handle, lest the ringing should disturb his master. He had a basket into which he dropped the cards of the visitors who called, answering each inquiry with the same unchanging words:

  “He is very ill, the signorino. Do not make any noise.”

  “Where is he hurt?” the visitor would ask. Whereupon Temistocle pointed to his throat.

  “Will he live?” was the next question; to which the man answered by raising his shoulders to his ears, elevating his eyebrows, and at the same time shutting his eyes, while he spread out the palms of his hands over his basket of cards — whereby he meant to signify that he did not know, but doubted greatly. It being impossible to extract any further information from him, the visitor had nothing left but to leave his card and turn away. Within, the wounded man was watched by a Sister of Mercy. The surgeon had pronounced his recovery probable if he had proper care: the wound was a dangerous one, but not likely to prove mortal unless the patient died of the fever or of exhaustion.

  The young gentlemen of leisure who thus obtained the news of the two duellists, lost no time in carrying it from house to house. Giovanni himself sent twice in the course of the day to inquire after his antagonist, and received by his servant the answer which was given to everybody. By the time the early winter night was descending upon Rome, there were two perfectly well-authenticated stories circulated in regard to the cause of the quarrel — neither of which, of course, contained a grain of truth. In the first place, it was confidently asserted by one party, represented by Valdarno and his set, that Giovanni had taken offence at Del Ferice for having proposed to call him to be examined before the Duchessa d’Astrardente in regard to his absence from town: that this was a palpab
le excuse for picking a quarrel, because it was well known that Saracinesca loved the Astrardente, and that Del Ferice was always in his way.

  “Giovanni is a rough fellow,” remarked Valdarno, “and will not stand any opposition, so he took the first opportunity of getting the man out of the way. Do you see? The old story — jealous of the wrong man. Can one be jealous of Del Ferice? Bah!”

  “And who would have been the right man to attack?” was asked.

  “Her husband, of course,” returned Valdarno with a sneer. “That angel of beauty has the ineffably eccentric idea that she loves that old transparency, that old magic-lantern slide of a man!”

  On the other hand, there was a party of people who affirmed, as beyond all doubt, that the duel had been brought about by Giovanni’s forgetting his dance with Donna Tullia. Del Ferice was naturally willing to put himself forward in her defence, reckoning on the favour he would gain in her eyes. He had spoken sharply to Giovanni about it, and told him he had behaved in an ungentlemanly manner — whereupon Giovanni had answered that it was none of his business; an altercation had ensued in a remote room in the Frangipani palace, and Giovanni had lost his temper and taken Del Ferice by the throat, and otherwise greatly insulted him. The result had been the duel in which Del Ferice had been nearly killed. There was a show of truth about this story, and it was told in such a manner as to make Del Ferice appear as the injured party. Indeed, whichever tale were true, there was no doubt that the two men had disliked each other for a long time, and that they were both looking out for the opportunity of an open disagreement.

  Old Saracinesca appeared in the afternoon, and was surrounded by eager questioners of all sorts. The fact of his having served his own son in the capacity of second excited general astonishment. Such a thing had not been heard of in the annals of Roman society, and many ancient wisdom-mongers severely censured the course he had pursued. Could anything be more abominably unnatural? Was it possible to conceive of the hard-heartedness of a man who could stand quietly and see his son risk his life? Disgraceful!