“Of course there is no need of mentioning you, unless you wish to have a share in the exposure of this abominable wickedness.”
“I am satisfied with my share,” replied Del Ferice, with a quiet smile.
“It is not an important one,” returned Donna Tullia, nervously.
“It is the lion’s share,” he answered. “Most adorable of women, you have not, I am sure, forgotten the terms of our agreement — terms so dear to me, that every word of them is engraven for ever upon the tablet of my heart.”
Madame Mayer started slightly. She had not realised that her promise to marry Ugo was now due — she did not believe that he would press it; he had exacted it to frighten her, and besides, she had so persuaded herself that he would approve of her conduct, that she had not felt as though she were betraying his secret.
“You will not — you cannot hold me to that; you approve of telling the Astrardente, on the whole, — it is the same as though I had consulted you—”
“Pardon me, my dear lady; you did not consult me,” answered Del Ferice, soothingly. He sat near her by the fire, his hat upon his knee, no longer watching her, but gazing contemplatively at the burning logs. There was a delicacy about his pale face since the wound he had received a year before which was rather attractive: from having been a little inclined to stoutness, he had grown slender and more graceful, partly because his health had really been affected by his illness, and partly because he had determined never again to risk being too fat.
“I tried to consult you,” objected Donna Tullia. “It is the same thing.”
“It is not the same thing to me,” he answered, “although you have not involved me in the affair. I would have most distinctly advised you to say nothing about it at present. You have acted rashly, have put yourself in a most painful situation; and you have broken your promise to me — a very solemn promise, Donna Tullia, sworn upon the memory of your mother and upon a holy relic. One cannot make light of such promises as that.”
“You made me give it in order to frighten me. The Church does not bind us to oaths sworn under compulsion,” she argued.
“Excuse me; there was no compulsion whatever. You wanted to know my secret, and for the sake of knowing it you bound yourself. That is not compulsion. I cannot compel you. I could not think of presuming to compel you to marry me now. But I can say to you that I am devotedly attached to you, that to marry you is the aim and object of my life, and if you refuse, I will tell you that you are doing a great wrong, repudiating a solemn contract—”
“If I refuse — well — but you would give me the papers?” asked Donna Tullia, who was beginning to tremble for the result of the interview. She had a vague suspicion that, for the sake of obtaining them, she would even be willing to promise to marry Del Ferice. It would be very wrong, perhaps; but it would be for the sake of accomplishing good, by preventing Corona from falling into the trap — Corona, whom she hated! Still, it would be a generous act to save her. The minds of women like Madame Mayer are apt to be a little tortuous when they find themselves hemmed in between their own jealousies, hatreds, and personal interests.
“If you refused — no; if you refused, I am afraid I could not give you the papers,” replied Del Ferice, musing as he gazed at the fire. “I love you too much to lose that chance of winning you, even for the sake of saving the Duchessa d’Astrardente from her fate. Why do you refuse? why do you bargain?” he asked, suddenly turning towards her. “Does all my devotion count for nothing — all my love, all my years of patient waiting? Oh, you cannot be so cruel as to snatch the cup from my very lips! It is not for the sake of these miserable documents: what is it to me whether Don Giovanni appears as the criminal in a case of bigamy — whether he is ruined now, as by his evil deeds he will be hereafter, or whether he goes on unharmed and unthwarted upon his career of wickedness? He is nothing to me, nor his pale-faced bride either. It is for you that I care, for you that I will do anything, bad or good, to win you that I would risk my life and my soul. Can you not see it? Have I not been faithful for very long? Take pity on me — forget this whole business, forget that you have promised anything, forget all except that I am here at your feet, a miserable man, unless you speak the word, and turn all my wretchedness into joy!”
He slipped from his seat and knelt upon one knee before her, clasping one of her hands passionately between both his own. The scene was well planned and well executed; his voice had a ring of emotion that sounded pleasantly in Donna Tullia’s ears, and his hands trembled with excitement. She did not repulse him, being a vain woman and willing to believe in the reality of the passion so well simulated. Perhaps, too, it was not wholly put on, for she was a handsome, dashing woman, in the prime of youth, and Del Ferice was a man who had always been susceptible to charms of that kind. Donna Tullia hesitated, wondering what more he could say. But he, on his part, knew the danger of trusting too much to eloquence when not backed by a greater strength than his, and he pressed her for an answer.
“Be generous — trust me,” he cried. “Believe that your happiness is everything to me; believe that I will take no unfair advantage of a hasty promise. Tell me that, of your own free will, you will be my wife, and command me anything, that I may prove my devotion. It is so true, so honest, — Tullia, I adore you, I live only for you! Speak the word, and make me the happiest of men!”
He really looked handsome as he knelt before her, and she felt the light, nervous pressure of his hand at every word he spoke. After all, what did it matter? She might accept him, and then — well, if she did not like the idea, she could throw him over. It would only cost her a violent scene, and a few moments of discomfort. Meanwhile she would get the papers.
“But you would give me the papers, would you not, and leave me to decide whether — Really, Del Ferice,” she said, interrupting herself with a nervous laugh, “this is very absurd.”
“I implore you not to speak of the papers — it is not absurd. It may seem so to you, but it is life or death to me: death if you refuse me — life if you will speak the word and be mine!”
Donna Tullia made up her mind. He would evidently not give her what she wanted, except in return for a promise of marriage. She had grown used to him, almost fond of him, in the last year.
“Well, I do not know whether I am right,” she said, “but I am really very fond of you; and if you will do all I say—”
“Everything, my dear lady; everything in the world I will do, if you will make me so supremely happy,” cried Del Ferice, ardently.
“Then — yes; I will marry you. Only get up and sit upon your chair like a reasonable being. No; you really must be reasonable, or you must go away.” Ugo was madly kissing her hands. He was really a good actor, if it was all acting. She could not but be moved by his pale delicate face and passionate words. With a quick movement he sprang to his feet and stood before her, clasping his hands together and gazing into her face.
“Oh, I am the happiest man alive to-day!” he exclaimed, and the sense of triumph that he felt lent energy to his voice.
“Do sit down,” said Donna Tullia, gaily, “and let us talk it all over. In the first place, what am I to do first?”
Del Ferice found it convenient to let his excitement subside, and as a preliminary he walked twice the length of the room.
“It is so hard to be calm!” he exclaimed; but nevertheless he presently sat down in his former seat, and seemed to collect his faculties with wonderful ease.
“What is to be done first?” asked Donna Tullia again.
“In the first place,” answered Del Ferice, “here are those precious papers. As they are notary’s copies themselves, and not the originals, it is of no importance whether Don Giovanni tears them up or not. It is easy to get others if he does. I have noted down all the names and dates. I wish we had some information about Felice Baldi. It is very unfortunate that we have not, but it would perhaps take a month to find her.”
“I must act at once,” said Donna Tullia, firml
y; for she remembered old
Saracinesca’s threats, and was in a hurry.
“Of course. These documents speak for themselves. They bear the address of the notary who made the copies in Aquila. If the Saracinesca choose, they can themselves go there and see the originals.”
“Could they not destroy those too?” asked Donna Tullia, nervously.
“No; they can only see one at a time, and the person who will show them will watch them. Besides, it is easy to write to the curate of the church of San Bernardino to be on his guard. We will do that in any case. The matter is perfectly plain. Your best course is to meet the Astrardente to-morrow at the appointed time, and simply present these papers for inspection. No one can deny their authenticity, for they bear the Government stamp and the notary’s seal, as you see, here and here. If they ask you, as they certainly will, how you came by them, you can afford to answer, that, since you have them, it is not necessary to know whence they came; that they may go and verify the originals; and that in warning them of the fact, you have fulfilled a duty to society, and have done a service to the Astrardente, if not to Giovanni Saracinesca. You have them in your power, and you can afford to take the high hand in the matter. They must believe the evidence of their senses; and they must either allow that Giovanni’s first wife is alive, or they must account for her death, and prove it. There is no denial possible in the face of these proofs.”
Donna Tullia drew a long breath, for the case seemed perfectly clear; and the anticipation of her triumph already atoned for the sacrifice she had made.
“You are a wonderful man, Del Ferice!” she exclaimed. “I do not know whether I am wise in promising to marry you, but I have the greatest admiration for your intellect.”
Del Ferice glanced at her and smiled. Then he made as though he would return the papers to his pocket. She sprang towards him, and seized him by the wrist.
“Do not be afraid!” she cried, “I will keep my promise.”
“Solemnly?” he asked, still smiling, and holding the envelope firmly in his hand.
“Solemnly,” she answered; and then added, with a quick laugh, “but you are so abominably clever, that I believe you could make me marry you against my will.”
“Never!” said Del Ferice, earnestly; “I love you far too much.” He had wonderfully clear instincts. “And now,” he continued, “we have settled that matter; when shall the happy day be?”
“Oh, there is time enough to think of that,” answered Donna Tullia, with a blush that might have passed for the result of a coy shyness, but which was in reality caused by a certain annoyance at being pressed.
“No,” objected Del Ferice, “we must announce our engagement at once.
There is no reason for delay — to-day is better than to-morrow.”
“To-day?” repeated Donna Tullia, in some alarm.
“Why not? Why not, my dear lady, since you and I are both in earnest?”
“I think it would be much better to let this affair pass first.”
“On the contrary,” he argued, “from the moment we are publicly engaged I become your natural protector. If any one offers you any insult in this matter, I shall then have an acknowledged right to avenge you — a right I dearly covet. Do you think I would dread to meet Don Giovanni again? He wounded me, it is true, but he has the marks of my sword upon his body also. Give me at once the privilege of appearing as your champion, and you will not regret it. But if you delay doing so, all sorts of circumstances may arise, all sorts of unpleasantness — who could protect you? Of course, even in that case I would; but you know the tongues of the gossips in Rome — it would do you harm instead of good.”
“That is true, and you are very brave and very kind. But it seems almost too soon,” objected Donna Tullia, who, however, was fast learning to yield to his judgment.
“Those things cannot be done too soon. It gives us liberty, and it gives the world satisfaction; it protects you, and it will be an inestimable pleasure to me. Why delay the inevitable? Let us appear at once as engaged to be married, and you put a sword in my hand to defend you and to enforce your position in this unfortunate affair with the Astrardente.”
“Well, you may announce it if you please,” she answered, reluctantly.
“Thank you, my dear lady,” said Del Ferice. “And here are the papers. Make the best use of them you can — any use that you make of them will be good, I know. How could it be otherwise?”
Donna Tullia’s fingers closed upon the large envelope with a grasping grip, as though she would never relinquish that for which she had paid so dear a price. She had, indeed, at one time almost despaired of getting possession of them, and she had passed a terrible hour, besides having abased herself to the fruitless bribery she had practised upon Temistocle. But she had gained her end, even at the expense of permitting Del Ferice to publish her engagement to marry him. She felt that she could break it off if she decided at last that the union was too distasteful to her; but she foresaw that, from the point of worldly ambition, she would be no great loser by marrying a man of such cunning wit, who possessed such weapons against his enemies, and who, on the whole, as she believed, entirely sympathised with her view of life. She recognised that her chances of making a great match were diminishing rapidly; she could not tell precisely why, but she felt, to her mortification, that she had not made a good use of her rich widowhood: people did not respect her much, and as this touched her vanity, she was susceptible to their lack of deference. She had done no harm, but she knew that every one thought her an irresponsible woman, and the thrifty Romans feared her extravagance, though some of them perhaps courted her fortune: many had admired her, and had to some extent expressed their devotion, but no scion of all the great families had asked her to be his wife. The nearest approach to a proposal had been the doubtful attention she had received from Giovanni Saracinesca during the time when his headstrong father had almost persuaded him to marry her, and she thought of her disappointed hopes with much bitterness. To destroy Giovanni by the revelations she now proposed to make, to marry Del Ferice, and then to develop her position by means of the large fortune she had inherited from her first husband, seemed on the whole a wise plan. Del Ferice’s title was not much, to be sure, but, on the other hand, he was intimate with every one she knew, and for a few thousand scudi she could buy some small estate with a good title attached to it. She would then change her mode of life, and assume the pose of a social power, which as a young widow she could not do. It was not so bad, after all, especially if she could celebrate the first day of her engagement by destroying the reputation of Giovanni Saracinesca, root and branch, and dealing a blow at Corona’s happiness from which it would not recover.
As for Del Ferice, he regarded his triumph as complete. He cared little what became of Giovanni — whether he was able to refute the evidence brought against him or not. There had been nothing in the matter which was dishonest, and properly made out marriage-certificates are not easy things to annul. Giovanni might swim or sink — it was nothing to Ugo del Ferice, now that he had gained the great object of his life, and was at liberty to publish his engagement to Donna Tullia Mayer. He lost no time in telling his friends the good news, and before the evening was over a hundred people had congratulated him. Donna Tullia, too, appeared in more than usually gay attire, and smilingly received the expressions of good wishes which were showered upon her. She was not inclined to question the sincerity of those who spoke, for in her present mood the stimulus of a little popular noise was soothing to her nerves, which had been badly strained by the excitement of the day. When she closed her eyes she had evil visions of Temistocle retreating at full speed down the stairs with his unearned bribe, or of Del Ferice’s calm, pale face, as he had sat in her house that afternoon grasping the precious documents in his hand until she promised to pay the price he asked, which was herself. But she smiled at each new congratulation readily enough, and said in her heart that she would yet become a great power in society, and make
her house the centre of all attractions. And meanwhile she pondered on the title she should buy for her husband: she came of high blood herself, and she knew how such dignities as a “principe” or a “duca” were regarded when bought. There was nothing for it but to find some snug little marquisate— “marchese” sounded very well, though one could not be called “eccellenza” by one’s servants; still, as the daughter of a prince, she might manage even that. “Marchese” — yes, that would do. What a pity there were only four “canopy” marquises— “marchesi del baldacchino” — in Rome with the rank of princes! That was exactly the combination of dignities Donna Tullia required for her husband. But once a “marchese,” if she was very charitable, and did something in the way of a public work, the Holy Father might condescend to make Del Ferice a “duca” in the ordinary course as a step in the nobility. Donna Tullia dreamed many things that night, and she afterwards accomplished most of them, to the surprise of everybody, and, if the truth were told, to her own considerable astonishment.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
“GIOVANNI, YOU ARE the victim of some outrageous plot,” said old Saracinesca, entering his son’s room on the following morning. “I have thought it all out in the night, and I am convinced of it.”
Giovanni was extended upon a sofa, with a book in his hand and a cigar between his lips. He looked up quietly from his reading.
“I am not the victim yet, nor ever will be,” he answered; “but it is evident that there is something at the bottom of this besides Madame Mayer’s imagination. I will find out.”
“What pleases me especially,” remarked the old Prince, “is the wonderful originality of the idea. It would have been commonplace to make out that you had poisoned half-a-dozen wives, and buried their bodies in the vaults of Saracinesca; it would have been banal to say that you were not yourself, but some one else; or to assert that you were a revolutionary agent in disguise, and that the real Giovanni had been murdered by you, who had taken his place without my discovering it, — very commonplace all that. But to say that you actually have a living wife, and to try to prove it by documents, is an idea worthy of a great mind. It takes one’s breath away.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 227