Saracinesca looked thoughtfully at Don Paolo, the old curate.
“Has this man any papers to prove the truth of this very singular story?” he inquired at last.
“Altro! That was all his grandfather left — a heap of parchments. They seem to be in order — he showed them to me when I married him.”
“Why does he make no claim to have the attainder of his grandfather reversed?”
The curate shrugged his shoulders and spread out the palms of his hands, smiling incredulously.
“The lands, he says, have fallen into the hands of certain patriots. There is no chance of getting them back. It is of little use to be a Marchese without property. What he possesses is a modest competence; it is wealth, even, in his present position. For a nobleman it would be nothing. Besides, he is half a peasant by blood and tradition.”
“He is not the only nobleman in that position,” laughed Saracinesca. “But are you aware—”
He stopped short. He was going to say that if he himself and his son both died, the innkeeper of Aquila would become Prince Saracinesca. The idea shocked him, and he kept it to himself.
“After all,” he continued, “the man is of my blood by direct descent. I would like to see him.”
“Nothing easier. If you will come with me, I will present him to your
Excellency,” said the priest. “Do you still wish to see the documents?”
“It is useless. The mystery is solved. Let us go and see this new-found relation of mine.”
Don Paolo wrapped his cloak around him, and ushering his guest from the room, led the way down-stairs. He carried a bit of wax taper, which he held low to the steps, frequently stopping and warning the Prince to be careful. It was night when they went out. The air was sharp and cold, and Saracinesca buttoned his greatcoat to his throat as he strode by the side of the old priest. The two walked on in silence for ten minutes, keeping straight down the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. At last the curate stopped before a clean, new house, from the windows of which the bright light streamed into the street. Don Paolo motioned to the Prince to enter, and followed him in. A man in a white apron, with his arms full of plates, who was probably servant, butler, boots, and factotum to the establishment, came out of the dining-room, which was to the left of the entrance, and which, to judge by the noise, seemed to be full of people. He looked at the curate, and then at the Prince.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Don Paolo mio,” he said, supposing the priest had brought a customer— “very sorry; there is not a bed in the house.”
“That is no matter, Giacchino,” answered the curate. “We want to see Sor
Giovanni for a moment.” The man disappeared, and a moment later Sor
Giovanni himself came down the passage.
“Favorisca, dear Don Paolo, come in.” And he bowed to the Prince as he opened the door which led into a small sitting-room reserved for the innkeeper’s family.
When they had entered, Saracinesca looked at his son’s namesake. He saw before him a man whose face and figure he long remembered with an instinctive dislike. Giovanni the innkeeper was of a powerful build. Two generations of peasant blood had given renewed strength to the old race. He was large, with large bones, vast breadth of shoulder, and massive joints; lean withal, and brown of face, his high cheek-bones making his cheeks look hollow; clean shaved, his hair straight and black and neatly combed; piercing black eyes near together, the heavy eyebrows joining together in the midst of his forehead; thin and cruel lips, now parted in a smile and showing a formidable set of short, white, even teeth; a prominent square jaw, and a broad, strong nose, rather unnaturally pointed, — altogether a striking face, one that would be noticed in a crowd for its strength, but strangely cunning in expression, and not without ferocity. Years afterwards Saracinesca remembered his first meeting with Giovanni the innkeeper, and did not wonder that his first impulse had been to dislike the man. At present, however, he looked at him with considerable curiosity, and if he disliked him at first sight, he told himself that it was beneath him to show antipathy for an innkeeper.
“Sor Giovanni,” said the curate, “this gentleman is desirous of making your acquaintance.”
Giovanni, whose manners were above his station, bowed politely, and looked inquiringly at his visitor.
“Signor Saracinesca,” said the Prince, “I am Leone Saracinesca of Rome. I have just heard of your existence. We have long believed your family to be extinct — I am delighted to find it still represented, and by one who seems likely to perpetuate the name.”
The innkeeper fixed his piercing eyes on the speaker’s face, and looked long before he answered.
“So you are Prince Saracinesca,” he said, gravely.
“And you are the Marchese di San Giacinto,” said the Prince, in the same tone, holding out his hand frankly.
“Pardon me, — I am Giovanni Saracinesca, the innkeeper of Aquila,” returned the other. But he took the Prince’s hand. Then they all sat down.
“As you please,” said the Prince. “The title is none the less yours. If you had signed yourself with it when you married, you would have saved me a vast deal of trouble; but on the other hand, I should not have been so fortunate as to meet you.”
“I do not understand,” said Giovanni.
The Prince told his story in as few words as possible.
“Amazing! extraordinary! what a chance!” ejaculated the curate, nodding his old head from time to time while the Prince spoke, as though he had not heard it all before. The innkeeper said nothing until old Saracinesca had finished.
“I see how it was managed,” he said at last. “When that gentleman was making inquiries, I was away. I had taken my wife back to Salerno, and my wife’s father had not yet established himself in Aquila. Signor Del — what is his name?”
“Del Ferice.”
“Del Ferice, exactly. He thought we had disappeared, and were not likely to come back. Or else he is a fool.”
“He is not a fool,” said Saracinesca. “He thought he was safe. It is all very clear now. Well, Signor Marchese, or Signor Saracinesca, I am very glad to have made your acquaintance. You have cleared up a very important question by returning to Aquila. It will always give me the greatest pleasure to serve you in any way I can.”
“A thousand thanks. Anything I can do for you during your stay—”
“You are very kind. I will hire horses and return to Terni to-night. My business in Rome is urgent. There is some suspense there in my absence.”
“You will drink a glass before going?” asked Giovanni; and without waiting for an answer, he strode from the room.
“And what does your Excellency think of your relation?” asked the curate, when he was alone with the Prince.
“A terrible-looking fellow! But—” The Prince made a face and a gesture indicating a question in regard to the innkeeper’s character.
“Oh, do not be afraid,” answered the priest. “He is the most honest man alive.”
“Of course,” returned the Prince, politely, “you have had many occasions of ascertaining that.”
Giovanni, the innkeeper, returned with a bottle of wine and three glasses, which he placed upon the table, and proceeded to fill.
“By the by,” said the Prince, “in the excitement I forgot to inquire for your Signora. She is well, I hope?”
“Thank you — she is very well,” replied Giovanni, shortly.
“A boy, I have no doubt?”
“A splendid boy,” answered the curate. “Sor Giovanni has a little girl, too. He is a very happy man.”
“Your health,” said the innkeeper, holding up his glass to the light.
“And yours,” returned the Prince.
“And of all the Saracinesca family,” said the curate, sipping his wine slowly. He rarely got a glass of old Lacrima, and he enjoyed it thoroughly.
“And now,” said the Prince, “I must be off. Many thanks for your hospitality. I shall always remember with pleasure the day whe
n I met an unknown relation.”
“The Albergo di Napoli will not forget that Prince Saracinesca has been its guest,” replied Giovanni politely, a smile upon his thin lips. He shook hands with both his guests, and ushered them out to the door with a courteous bow. Before they had gone twenty yards in the street, the Prince looked back and caught a last glimpse of Giovanni’s towering figure, standing upon the steps with the bright light falling upon it from within. He remembered that impression long.
At the door of his own inn he took leave of the good curate with many expressions of thanks, and with many invitations to the Palazzo Saracinesca, in case the old man ever visited Home.
“I have never seen Rome, your Excellency,” answered the priest, rather sadly. “I am an old man — I shall never see it now.”
So they parted, and the Prince had a solitary supper of pigeons and salad in the great dusky hall of the Locanda del Sole, while his horses were being got ready for the long night-journey.
The meeting and the whole clearing up of the curious difficulty had produced a profound impression upon the old Prince. He had not the slightest doubt but that the story of the curate was perfectly accurate. It was all so very probable, too. In the wild times between 1806 and 1815 the last of the Neapolitan branch of the Saracinesca had disappeared, and the rich and powerful Roman princes of the name had been quite willing to believe the Marchesi di San Giacinto extinct. They had not even troubled themselves to claim the title, for they possessed more than fifty of their own, and there was no chance of recovering the San Giacinto estate, already mortgaged, and more than half squandered at the time of the confiscation. That the rough soldier of fortune should have hidden himself in his native country after the return of Ferdinand, his lawful king, against whom he had fought, was natural enough; as it was also natural that, with his rough nature, he should accommodate himself to a peasant’s life, and marry a peasant’s only daughter, with her broad acres of orange and olive and vine land; for peasants in the far south were often rich, and their daughters were generally beautiful — a very different race from the starved tenants of the Roman Campagna.
The Prince decided that the story was perfectly true, and he reflected somewhat bitterly that unless his son had heirs after him, this herculean innkeeper of Aquila was the lawful successor to his own title, and to all the Saracinesca lands. He determined that Giovanni’s marriage should not be delayed another day, and with his usual impetuosity he hastened back to Rome, hardly remembering that he had spent the previous night and all that day upon the road, and that he had another twenty-four hours of travel before him.
At dawn his carriage stopped at a little town not far from the papal frontier. Just as the vehicle was starting, a large man, muffled in a huge cloak, from the folds of which protruded the long brown barrel of a rifle, put his head into the window. The Prince started and grasped his revolver, which lay beside him on the seat.
“Good morning, Prince,” said the man. “I hope you have slept well.”
“Sor Giovanni!” exclaimed the old gentleman. “Where did you drop from?”
“The roads are not very safe,” returned the innkeeper. “So I thought it best to accompany you. Good-bye — buon viaggio!”
Before the Prince could answer, the carriage rolled off, the horses springing forward at a gallop. Saracinesca put his head out of the window, but his namesake had disappeared, and he rolled on towards Terni, wondering at the innkeeper’s anxiety for his safety.
CHAPTER XXX.
EVEN OLD SARACINESCA’S iron strength was in need of rest when, at the end of forty-eight hours, he again entered his son’s rooms, and threw himself upon the great divan.
“How is Corona?” was his first question.
“She is very anxious about you,” returned Giovanni, who was himself considerably disturbed.
“We will go and set her mind at rest as soon as I have had something to eat,” said his father.
“It is all right, then? It was just as I said — a namesake?”
“Precisely. Only the namesake happens to be a cousin — the last of the San Giacinto, who keeps an inn in Aquila. I saw him, and shook hands with him.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Giovanni. “They are all extinct—”
“There has been a resurrection,” returned the Prince. He told the whole story of his journey, graphically and quickly.
“That is a very extraordinary tale,” remarked Giovanni, thoughtfully.
“So, if I die without children the innkeeper will be prince.”
“Precisely. And now, Giovanni, you must be married next week.”
“As soon as you please — to-morrow if you like.”
“What shall we do with Del Ferice?” asked the old prince.
“Ask him to the wedding,” answered Giovanni, magnanimously.
“The wedding will have to be a very quiet one, I suppose,” remarked his father, thoughtfully. “The year is hardly over—”
“The more quiet the better, provided it is done quickly. Of course we must consult Corona at once.”
“Do you suppose I am going to fix the wedding-day without consulting her?” asked the old man. “For heaven’s sake order dinner, and let us be quick about it.”
The Prince was evidently in a hurry, and moreover, he was tired and very hungry. An hour later, as both the men sat over the coffee in the dining-room, his mood was mellower. A dinner at home has a wonderful effect upon the temper of a man who has travelled and fared badly for eight-and-forty hours.
“Giovannino,” said old Saracinesca, “have you any idea what the Cardinal thinks of your marriage?”
“No; and I do not care,” answered the younger man. “He once advised me not to marry Donna Tullia. He has not seen me often since then.”
“I have an idea that it will please him immensely,” said the Prince.
“It would be very much the same if it displeased him.”
“Very much the same. Have you seen Corona to-day?”
“Yes — of course,” answered Giovanni.
“What is the use of my going with you this evening?” asked his father, suddenly. “I should think you could manage your own affairs without my help.”
“I thought that as you have taken so much trouble, you would enjoy telling her the story yourself.”
“Do you think I am a vain fool, sir, to be amused by a woman’s praise?
Nonsense! Go yourself.”
“By all means,” answered Giovanni. He was used to his father’s habit of being quarrelsome over trifles, and he was much too happy to take any notice of it now.
“You are tired,” he continued. “I am sure you have a right to be. You must want to go to bed.”
“To bed indeed!” growled the old man. “Tired! You think I am good for nothing; I know you do. You look upon me as a doting old cripple. I tell you, boy, I can—”
“For heaven’s sake, padre mio, do precisely as you are inclined. I never said—”
“Never said what? Why are you always quarrelling with me?” roared his father, who had not lost his temper for two days, and missed his favourite exercise.
“What day shall we fix upon?” asked Giovanni, unmoved.
“Day! Any day. What do I care? Oh! — well, since you speak of it, you might say a week from Sunday. To-day is Friday. But I do not care in the least.”
“Very well — if Corona can get ready.”
“She shall be ready — she must be ready!” answered the old gentleman, in a tone of conviction. “Why should she not be ready, I would like to know?”
“No reason whatever,” said Giovanni, with unusual mildness.
“Of course not. There is never any reason in anything you say, you unreasonable boy.”
“Never, of course.” Giovanni rose to go, biting his lips to keep down a laugh.
“What the devil do you mean by always agreeing with me, you impertinent scapegrace? And you are laughing, too — laughing at me, sir, as I live! Upon my word!”
> Giovanni turned his back and lighted a cigar. Then, without looking round, he walked towards the door.
“Giovannino,” called the Prince.
“Well?”
“I feel better now. I wanted to abuse somebody. Look here — wait a moment.” He rose quickly, and left the room.
Giovanni sat down and smoked rather impatiently, looking at his watch from time to time. In five minutes his father returned, bringing in his hand an old red morocco case.
“Give it to her with my compliments, my boy,” he said. “They are some of your mother’s diamonds — just a few of them. She shall have the rest on the wedding-day.”
“Thank you,” said Giovanni, and pressed his father’s hand.
“And give her my love, and say I will call to-morrow at two o’clock,” added the Prince, now perfectly serene.
With the diamonds under his arm, Giovanni went out. The sky was clear and frosty, and the stars shone brightly, high up between the tall houses of the narrow street. Giovanni had not ordered a carriage, and seeing how fine the night was, he decided to walk to his destination. It was not eight o’clock, and Corona would have scarcely finished dinner at that hour. He walked slowly. As he emerged into the Piazza di Venezia some one overtook him.
“Good evening, Prince.” Giovanni turned, and recognised Anastase Gouache, the Zouave.
“Ah, Gouache — how are you?”
“I am going to pay you a visit,” answered the Frenchman.
“I am very sorry — I have just left home,” returned Giovanni, in some surprise.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 230