Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Faustina opened her eyes and sighed, nestled her head softly on his breast, sighing again, in the happy consciousness that he was safe, and then at last she sat up and looked him in the face.

  “I was so sure you were killed,” said she, in her soft voice.

  “My darling!” he exclaimed, pressing her to his side.

  “Are you not glad to be alive?” she asked. “For my sake, at least! You do not know what I have suffered.”

  Again he held her close to him, in silence, forgetting all the unheard-of difficulties of his situation in the happiness of holding her in his arms. His silence, indeed, was more eloquent than any words could have been. “My beloved!” he said at last, “how could you run such risks for me? Do you think I am worthy of so much love? And yet, if loving you can make me worthy of you, I am the most deserving man that ever lived — and I live only for you. But for you I might as well be buried under our feet here with my poor comrades. But tell me, Faustina, were you not afraid to come? How long have you been here? It is very late — it is almost morning.”

  “Is it? What does it matter, since you are safe? You ask how I came? Did I not tell you I would follow you? Why did you run on without me? I ran here very quickly, and just as I saw the gates of the barracks there was a terrible noise and I was thrown down, I cannot tell how. Soon I got to my feet and crept under a doorway. I suppose I must have fainted, for I thought you were killed. I saw a soldier before me, just when it happened, and he must have been struck. I took him for you. When I came to myself there were so many people in the street that I could not move from where I was. Then they went away, and I came here while the workmen tried to move the stones, and I watched them and begged them to go on, but they would not, and I had nothing to give them, so they went away too, and I knew that I should have to wait until to-morrow to find you — for I would have waited — no one should have dragged me away — ah! my darling — my beloved! What does anything matter now that you are safe!”

  For fully half an hour they sat talking in this wise, both knowing that the situation could not last, but neither willing to speak the word which must end it. Gouache, indeed, was in a twofold difficulty. Not only was he wholly at a loss for a means of introducing Faustina into her father’s house unobserved at such an hour; he was in command of the men stationed in the neighbourhood, and to leave his post under any circumstances whatever would be a very grave breach of duty. He could neither allow Faustina to return alone, nor could he accompany her. He could not send one of his men for a friend to help him, since to take any one into his confidence was to ruin the girl’s reputation in the eyes of all Rome. To find a cab at that time of night was almost out of the question. The position seemed desperate. Faustina, too, was a mere child, and it was impossible to explain to her the social consequences of her being discovered with him.

  “I think, perhaps,” said she after a happy silence, and in rather a timid voice— “I think, perhaps, you had better take me home now. They will be anxious, you know,” she added, as though fearing that he should suspect her of wishing to leave him.

  “Yes, I must take you home,” answered Gouache, somewhat absently. To her his tone sounded cold.

  “Are you angry, because I want to go?” asked the young girl, looking lovingly into his face.

  “Angry? No indeed, darling! I ought to have taken you home at once — but I was too happy to think of it. Of course your people must be terribly anxious, and the question is how to manage your entrance. Can you get into the house unseen? Is there any way? Any small door that is open?”

  “We can wake the porter,” said Faustina, simply. “He will let us in.”

  “It would not do. How can I go to your father and tell him that I found you here? Besides, the porter knows me.”

  “Well, if he does, what does it matter?”

  “He would talk about it to other servants, and all Rome would know it to-morrow. You must go home with a woman, and to do that we must find some one you know. It would be a terrible injury to you to have such a story repeated abroad.”

  “Why?”

  To this innocent question Gouache did not find a ready answer. He smiled quietly and pressed her to his side more closely.

  “The world is a very bad place, dearest. I am a man and know it. You must trust me to do what is best. Will you?”

  “How can you ask? I will always trust you.”

  “Then I will tell you what we will do. You must go home with the

  Princess Sant’ Ilario.”

  “With Corona? But—”

  “She knows that I love you, and she is the only woman in Rome whom I would trust. Do not be surprised. She asked me if it was true, and I said it was. I am on duty here, and you must wait for me while I make the rounds of my sentries — it will not take five minutes. Then I will take you to the Palazzo Saracinesca. I shall not be missed here for an hour.”

  “I will do whatever you wish,” said Faustina. “Perhaps that is best.

  But I am afraid everybody will be asleep. Is it not very late?”

  “I will wake them up if they are sleeping.”

  He left her to make his round and soon assured himself that his men were not napping. Then before he returned he stopped at the corner of a street and by the feeble moonlight scratched a few words on a leaf from his notebook.

  “Madame,” he wrote, “I have found Donna Faustina Montevarchi, who had lost her way. It is absolutely necessary that you should accompany her to her father’s house. You are the only person whom I can trust. I am at your gate. Bring something in the way of a cloak to disguise her with.”

  He signed his initials and folded the paper, slipping it into his pocket where he could readily find it. Then he went back to the place where Faustina was waiting. He helped her out of the ruins, and passing through a side street so as to avoid the sentinels, they made their way rapidly to the bridge. The sentry challenged Gouache who gave the word at once and was allowed to pass on with his charge. In less than a quarter of an hour they were at the Palazzo Saracinesca. Gouache made Faustina stand in the shadow of a doorway on the opposite side of the street and advanced to the great doors. A ray of light which passed through the crack of a shutter behind the heavy iron grating on one side of the arch showed that the porter was up. Anastase drew his bayonet from his side and tapped with its point against the high window.

  “Who is there?” asked the porter, thrusting his head out.

  “Is the Principe di Sant’ Ilario still awake?” asked Gouache.

  “He is not at home. Heaven knows where he is. What do you want? The princess is sitting up to wait for the prince.”

  “That will do as well,” replied Anastase. “I am sent with this note from the Vatican. It needs an immediate answer. Be good enough to say that I was ordered to wait.”

  The explanation satisfied the porter, to whom the sight of a Zouave was just then more agreeable than usual. He put his arm out through the grating and took the paper.

  “It does not look as though it came from the Vatican,” he remarked doubtfully, as he turned the scrap to the light of his lamp.

  “The cardinal is waiting — make haste!” said Gouache. It struck him that even if the man could read a little, which was not improbable, the initials A. G., being those of Cardinal Antonelli in reversed order would be enough to frighten the fellow and make him move quickly. This, indeed was precisely what occurred.

  In five minutes the small door in the gate was opened and Gouache saw Corona’s tall figure step out into the street. She hesitated a moment when she saw the Zouave alone, and then closed the door with a snap behind her. Gouache bowed quickly and gave her his arm.

  “Let us be quick,” he said, “or the porter will see us. Donna Faustina is under that doorway. You know how grateful I am — there is no time to say it.”

  Corona said nothing but hastened to Faustina’s side. The latter put her arms about her friend’s neck and kissed her. The princess threw a wide cloak over the young gi
rl’s shoulders and drew the hood over her head.

  “Let us be quick,” said Corona, repeating Gouache’s words. They walked quickly away in silence, and no one spoke until they leached the Palazzo Montevarchi. Explanations were impossible, and every one was too much absorbed by the danger of the situation to speak of anything else. When they were a few steps from the gate Corona stopped.

  “You may leave us here,” she said coldly, addressing Gouache.

  “But, princess, I will see you home,” protested the latter, somewhat surprised by her tone.

  “No — I will take a servant back with me. Will you be good enough to leave us?” she asked almost haughtily, as Gouache still lingered.

  He had no choice but to obey her commands, though for some time he could not explain to himself the cause of the princess’s behaviour.

  “Goodnight, Madame. Good-night, Mademoiselle,” he said, quietly. Then with a low bow he turned away and disappeared in the darkness. In five minutes he had reached the bridge, running at the top of his speed, and he regained his post without his absence having been observed.

  When the two women were alone, Corona laid her hand upon Faustina’s shoulder and looked down into the girl’s face.

  “Faustina, my child,” she said, “how could you be led into such a wild scrape?”

  “Why did you treat him so unkindly?” asked the young girl with flashing eyes. “It was cruel and unkind—”

  “Because he deserved it,” answered Corona, with rising anger. “How could he dare — from my house — a mere child like you—”

  “I do not know what you imagine,” said Faustina in a tone of deep resentment. “I followed him to the Serristori barracks, and I fainted when they were blown up. He found me and brought me to you, because he said I could not go back to my father’s house with him. If I love him what is that to you?”

  “It is a great deal to me that he should have got you into this trouble.”

  “He did not. If it is trouble, I got myself into it. Do you love him yourself that you are so angry?”

  “I!” cried Corona in amazement at the girl’s audacity. “Poor Gouache!” she added with a half-scornful, half-pitying laugh. “Come, child! Let us go in. We cannot stand here all night talking. I will tell your mother that you lost your way in our house and were found asleep in a distant room. The lock was jammed, and you could not get out.”

  “I think I will simply tell the truth,” answered Faustina.

  “You will do nothing of the kind,” said Corona, sternly. “Do you know what would happen? You would be shut up in a convent by your father for several years, and the world would say that I had favoured your meetings with Monsieur Gouache. This is no trifling matter. You need say nothing. I will give the whole explanation myself, and take the responsibility of the falsehood upon my own shoulders.”

  “I promised him to do as he bid me,” replied Faustina. “I suppose he would have me follow your advice, and so I will. Are you still angry, Corona?”

  “I will try not to be, if you will be sensible.”

  They knocked at the gate and were soon admitted. The whole household was on foot, though it was past one o’clock. It is unnecessary to describe the emotions of Faustina’s relations, nor their gratitude to Corona, whose explanation they accepted at once, with a delight which may easily be imagined.

  “But your porter said he had seen her leave your house,” said the Princess Montevarchi, recollecting the detail and anxious to have it explained.

  “He was mistaken, in his fright,” returned Corona, calmly. “It was only my maid, who ran out to see what was the matter and returned soon afterwards.”

  There was nothing more to be said. The old prince and Ascanio Bellegra walked home with Corona, who refused to wait until a carriage could be got ready, on the ground that her husband might have returned from the search and might be anxious at her absence. She left her escort at her door and mounted the steps alone. As she was going up the porter came running after her.

  “Excellency,” he said in low tones, “the Signor Principe came back while you were gone, and I told him that you had received a note from the Vatican and had gone away with the Zouave who brought it. I hope I did right—”

  “Of course you did,” replied Corona. She was a calm woman and not easily thrown off her guard, but as she made her answer she was conscious of an unpleasant sensation wholly new to her. She had never done anything concerning which she had reason to ask herself what Giovanni would think of it. For the first time since her marriage with him she knew that she had something to conceal. How, indeed, was it possible to tell him the story of Faustina’s wild doings? Giovanni was a man who knew the world, and had no great belief in its virtues. To tell him what had occurred would be to do Faustina an irreparable injury in his eyes. He would believe his wife, no doubt, but he would tell her that Faustina had deceived her. She cared little what he might think of Gouache, for she herself was incensed against him, believing that he must certainly have used some persuasion to induce Faustina to follow him, mad as the idea seemed.

  Corona had little time for reflection, however. She could not stand upon the stairs, and as soon as she entered the house she must meet her husband. She made up her mind hurriedly to do what in most cases is extremely dangerous. Giovanni was in her boudoir, pale and anxious. He had forgotten that he had not dined that evening and was smoking a cigarette with short sharp puffs.

  “Thank God!” he cried, as his wife entered the room. “Where have you been, my darling?”

  “Giovanni,” said Corona, gravely, laying her two hands on his shoulders, “you know you can trust me — do you not?”

  “As I trust Heaven,” he answered, tenderly.

  “You must trust me now, then,” said she. “I cannot tell you where I have been. I will tell you some day, you have my solemn promise. Faustina Montevarchi is with her mother. I took her back, and told them she had followed me from the room, had lost her way in the house, and had accidentally fastened a door which she could not open. You must support the story. You need only say that I told you so, because you were out at the time. I will not lie to you, so I tell you that I invented the story.”

  Sant’ Ilario was silent for a few minutes, during which he looked steadily into his wife’s eyes, which met his without flinching.

  “You shall do as you please, Corona,” he said at last, returning the cigarette to his lips and still looking at her. “Will you answer me one question?”

  “If I can without explaining.”

  “That Zouave who brought the message from the Vatican — was he Gouache?”

  Corona turned her eyes away, annoyed at the demand. To refuse to answer was tantamount to admitting the truth, and she would not lie to her husband.

  “It was Gouache,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation.

  “I thought so,” answered Sant’ Ilario in a low voice. He moved away, throwing his cigarette into the fireplace. “Very well,” he continued, “I will remember to tell the story as you told it to me, and I am sure you will tell me the truth some day.”

  “Of course,” said Corona. “And I thank you, Giovanni, with my whole heart! There is no one like you, dear.”

  She sat down in a chair beside him as he stood, and taking his hand she pressed it to her lips. She knew well enough what a strange thing she had asked, and she was indeed grateful to him. He stooped down and kissed her forehead.

  “I will always trust you,” he said, softly. “Tell me, dear one, has this matter given you pain? Is it a secret that will trouble you?”

  “Not now,” she answered, frankly.

  Giovanni was in earnest when he promised to trust his wife. He knew, better than any living man, how well worthy she was of his utmost confidence, and he meant what he said. It must be confessed that the situation was a trying one to a man of his temper, and the depth of his love for Corona can be judged from the readiness with which he consented to her concealing anything from him. Every circumstance
connected with what had happened that evening was strange, and the conclusion, instead of elucidating the mystery, only made it more mysterious still. His cousin’s point-blank declaration that Faustina and Gouache were in love was startling to all his ideas and prejudices. He had seen Gouache kiss Corona’s hand in a corner of the drawing-room, a proceeding which he did not wholly approve, though it was common enough. Then Gouache and Faustina had disappeared. Then Faustina had been found, and to facilitate the finding it had been necessary that Corona and Gouache should leave the palace together at one o’clock in the morning. Finally, Corona had appealed to his confidence in her and had taken advantage of it to refuse any present explanation whatever of her proceedings. Corona was a very noble and true woman, and he had promised to trust her. How far he kept his word will appear hereafter.

  CHAPTER VII.

  WHEN SAN GIACINTO heard Corona’s explanation of Faustina’s disappearance, he said nothing. He did not believe the story in the least, but if every one was satisfied there was no reason why he should not be satisfied also. Though he saw well enough that the tale was a pure invention, and that there was something behind it which was not to be known, the result was, on the whole, exactly what he desired. He received the thanks of the Montevarchi household for his fruitless exertions with a smile of gratification, and congratulated the princess upon the happy issue of the adventure. He made no present attempt to ascertain the real truth by asking questions which would have been hard to answer, for he was delighted that the incident should be explained away and forgotten at once. Donna Faustina’s disappearance was of course freely discussed and variously commented, but the general verdict of the world was contrary to San Giacinto’s private conclusions. People said that the account given by the family must be true, since it was absurd to suppose that a child just out of the convent could be either so foolish or so courageous as to go out alone at such a moment. No other hypothesis was in the least tenable, and the demonstration offered must be accepted as giving the only solution of the problem. San Giacinto told no one that he thought differently.