“Giovanni,” she said, quietly, “I have loved you very tenderly and very truly. I swear to you upon our child that I am wholly innocent. Will you not believe me?”
“No,” he answered, and the little word fell from his lips like the blow of a steel hammer. His eyes did not flinch; his features did not change.
“Will you not ask some one who knows whether I have not spoken the truth? Will you not let me write — or write yourself to those two, and ask them to come here and tell you their story? It is much to ask of them, but it is life or death to me and they will not refuse. Will you not do it?”
“No, I will not.”
“Then do what you will with me, and may God forgive you, for I cannot.”
Corona turned from him and crossed the room. There was a cushioned stool there, over which hung a beautiful crucifix. Corona knelt down, as though not heeding her husband’s presence, and buried her face in her hands.
Giovanni stood motionless in the middle of the room. His eyes had followed his wife’s movements and he watched her in silence for a short time. Convinced, as he was, of her guilt, he believed she was acting a part, and that her kneeling down was merely intended to produce a theatrical effect. The accent of truth in her words made no impression whatever upon him, and her actions seemed to him too graceful to be natural, too dignified for a woman who was not trying all the time to make the best of her appearance. The story she had told coincided too precisely, if possible, with the doings of which he had accused her, while it failed in his judgment to explain the motives of what she had done. He said to himself that he, in her place, would have told everything on that first occasion when she had come home and had found him waiting for her. He forgot, or did not realise, that she had been taken unawares, when she expected to find time to consider her course, and had been forced to make up her mind suddenly. Almost any other woman would have told the whole adventure at once; any woman less wholly innocent of harm would have seen the risk she incurred by asking her husband’s indulgence for her silence. He was persuaded that she had played upon his confidence in her and had reckoned upon his belief in her sincerity in order to be bold with half the truth. Suspicion and jealousy had made him so ingenious that he imputed to her a tortuous policy of deception, of which she was altogether incapable.
Corona did not kneel long. She had no intention of making use of the appearance of prayer in order to affect Giovanni’s decision, nor in order to induce him to leave her alone. He would, indeed, have quitted the room had she remained upon her knees a few moments longer, but when she rose and faced him once more he was still standing as she had left him, his eyes fixed upon her and his arms folded upon his breast. He thought she was going to renew her defence, but he was mistaken. She came and stood before him, so that a little distance separated him from her, and she spoke calmly, in her deep, musical voice.
“You have made up your mind, then. Is that your last word?”
“It is.”
“Then I will say what I have to say. It shall not be much, but we shall not often talk together in future. You will remember some day what I tell you. I am an innocent and defenceless woman. I have no relation to whom I can appeal. You have forbidden me to write to those who could prove me guiltless. For the sake of our child — for the sake of the love I have borne you — I will make no attempt at resistance. The world shall not know that you have even doubted me, the mother of your son, the woman who has loved you. The time will come when you will ask my forgiveness for your deeds. I tell you frankly that I shall never be capable of forgiving you, nor of speaking a kind word to you again. This is neither a threat nor a warning, though it may perhaps be the means of sparing you some disappointment. I only ask two things of your courtesy — that you will inform me of what you mean to do with our child, and that you will then be good enough to leave me alone for a little while.”
An evil thought crossed Giovanni’s mind. He knew how Corona would suffer if she were not allowed either to see little Orsino or to know what became of him while she was living her solitary life of confinement in the mountains. The diabolical cruelty of the idea fascinated him for a moment, and he looked coldly into her eyes as though he did not mean to answer her. In spite of his new jealousy, however, he was not capable of inflicting this last blow. As he looked at her beautiful white face and serious eyes, he wavered. He loved her still and would have loved her, had the proofs against her been tenfold more convincing than they were. With him his love was a passion apart and by itself. It had been strengthened and made beautiful by the devotion and tenderness and faith which had grown up with it, and had surrounded it as with a wall. But though all these things were swept away the passion itself remained, fierce, indomitable and soul-stirring in its power. It stood alone, like the impregnable keep of a war-worn fortress, beneath whose shadow the outworks and ramparts have been razed to the ground, and whose own lofty walls are battered and dinted by engines of war, shorn of all beauty and of all its stately surroundings, but stern and unshaken yet, grim, massive and solitary.
For an instant Giovanni wavered, unable to struggle against that mysterious power which still governed him and forced him to acknowledge its influence. The effort of resisting the temptation to be abominably cruel carried him back from his main purpose, and produced a sudden revulsion of feeling wholly incomprehensible to himself.
“Corona!” he cried, in a voice breaking with emotion. He threw out his arms wildly and sprang towards her. She thrust him back with a strength of which he would not have believed her capable. Bitter words rose to her lips, but she forced them back and was silent, though her eyes blazed with an anger she had never felt before. For some time neither spoke. Corona stood erect and watchful, one hand resting upon the back of a chair. Giovanni walked to the end of the room, and then came back and looked steadily into her face. Several seconds elapsed before he could speak, and his face was very white.
“You may keep the child,” he said at last, in an unsteady tone. Then without another word he left the room and softly closed the door behind him.
When Corona was alone she remained standing as he had last seen her, her gaze fixed on the heavy curtains through which he had disappeared. Gradually her face grew rigid, and the expression vanished from her deep eyes, till they looked dull and glassy. She tottered, lost her hold upon the chair and fell to the floor with an inarticulate groan. There she lay, white, beautiful and motionless as a marble statue, mercifully unconscious, for a space, of all she had to suffer.
Giovanni went from his wife’s presence to his father’s study. The prince sat at his writing-table, a heap of dusty parchments and papers piled before him. He was untying the rotten strings with which they were fastened, peering through his glasses at the headings written across the various documents. He did not unfold them, but laid them carefully in order upon the table. When San Giacinto had gone away, the old gentleman had nothing to do for an hour or more before dinner. He had accordingly opened a solid old closet in the library which served as a sort of muniment room for the family archives, and had withdrawn a certain box in which he knew that the deeds concerning the cession of title were to be found. He did not intend to look them over this evening, but was merely arranging them for examination on the morrow. He looked up as Giovanni entered, and started from his chair when he saw his son’s face.
“Good heavens! Giovannino! what has happened?” he cried, in great anxiety.
“I came to tell you that Corona and I are going to Saracinesca to-morrow,” answered Sant’ Ilario, in a low voice.
“What? At this time of year? Besides, you cannot get there. The road is full of Garibaldians and soldiers. It is not safe to leave the city! Are you ill? What is the matter?”
“Oh — nothing especial,” replied Giovanni with an attempt to assume an indifferent tone “We think the mountain air will be good for my wife, that is all. I do not think we shall really have much difficulty in getting there. Half of this war is mere talk.”
�
��And the other half consists largely of stray bullets,” observed the prince, eyeing his son suspiciously from under his shaggy brows. “You will allow me to say, Giovanni, that for thoughtless folly you have rarely had your equal in the world.”
“I believe you are right,” returned the younger man bitterly.
“Nevertheless I mean to undertake this journey.”
“And does Corona consent to it? Why are you so pale? I believe you are ill?”
“Yes — she consents. We shall take the child.”
“Orsino? You are certainly out of your mind. It is bad enough to take a delicate woman—”
“Corona is far from delicate. She is very strong and able to bear anything.”
“Don’t interrupt me. I tell you she is a woman, and so of course she must be delicate. Can you not understand common sense? As for the boy, he is my grandson, and if you are not old enough to know how to take care of him, I am. He shall not go. I will not permit it. You are talking nonsense. Go and dress for dinner, or send for the doctor — in short, behave like a human being! I will go and see Corona myself.”
The old gentleman’s hasty temper was already up, and he strode to the door. Giovanni laid his hand somewhat heavily upon his father’s arm.
“Excuse me,” he said, “Corona cannot see you now. She is dressing.”
“I will talk to her through the door. I will wait in her boudoir till she can see me.”
“I do not think she will see you this evening. She will be busy in getting ready for the journey.”
“She will dine with us, I suppose?”
“I scarcely know — I am not sure.”
Old Saracinesca suddenly turned upon his son. His gray hair bristled on his head, and his black eyes flashed. With a quick movement he seized Giovanni’s arms and held him before him as in a vice.
“Look here!” he cried savagely. “I will not be made a fool of by a boy. Something has happened which you are afraid to tell me. Answer me. I mean to know!”
“You will not know from me,” replied Sant’ Ilario, keeping his temper as he generally did in the face of a struggle. “You will know nothing, because there is nothing to know.” Saracinesca laughed.
“Then there can be no possible objection to my seeing Corona,” he said, dropping his hold and again going towards the door. Once more Giovanni stopped him.
“You cannot see her now,” he said in determined tones.
“Then tell me what all this trouble is about,” retorted his father.
But Giovanni did not speak. Had he been cooler he would not have sought the interview so soon, but he had forgotten that the old prince would certainly want to know the reason of the sudden journey.
“Do you mean to tell me or not?”
“The fact is,” replied Giovanni desperately, “we have consulted the doctor — Corona is not really well — he advises us to go to the mountains—”
“Giovanni,” broke in the old man roughly, “you never lied to me, but you are lying now. There has been trouble between you two, though I cannot imagine what has caused it.”
“Pray do not ask me, then. I am doing what I think best — what you would think best if you knew all. I came to tell you that we were going, and I did not suppose you would have anything to say. Since you do not like the idea — well, I am sorry — but I entreat you not to ask questions. Let us go in peace.”
Saracinesca looked fixedly at his son for some minutes. Then the anger faded from his face, and his expression grew very grave. He loved Giovanni exceedingly, and he loved Corona for his sake more than for her own, though he admired her and delighted in her conversation. It was certain that if there were a quarrel between husband and wife, and if Giovanni had the smallest show of right on his side, the old man’s sympathies would be with him.
Giovanni’s sense of honour, on the other hand, prevented him from telling his father what had happened. He did not choose that even his nearest relation should think of Corona as he thought himself, and he would have taken any step to conceal her guilt. Unfortunately for his purpose he was a very truthful man, and had no experience of lying, so that his father detected him at once. Moreover, his pale face and agitated manner told plainly enough that something very serious had occurred, and so soon as the old prince had convinced himself of this his goodwill was enlisted on the side of his son.
“Giovannino,” he said at last very gently, “I do not want to pry into your secrets nor to ask you questions which you do not care to answer. I do not believe you are capable of having committed any serious folly which your wife could really resent. If you should be unfaithful to her, I would disown you. If, on the other hand, she has deceived you, I will do all in my power to help you.”
Perhaps Giovanni’s face betrayed something of the truth at these words.
He turned away and leaned against the chimney-piece.
“I cannot tell you — I cannot tell you,” he repeated. “I think I am doing what is best. That is all I can say. You may know some day, though I trust not. Let us go away without explanations.”
“My dear boy,” replied the old man, coming up to him and laying his hand on his shoulder, “you must do as you think best. Go to Saracinesca if you will, and if you can. If not, go somewhere else. Take heart. Things are not always as black as they look.”
Giovanni straightened himself as though by an effort, and grasped his father’s broad, brown hand.
“Thank you,” he said. “Good-bye. I will come down and see you in a few days. Good-bye!”
His voice trembled and he hurriedly left the room. The prince stood still a moment and then threw himself into a deep chair, staring at the lamp and biting his gray moustache savagely, as though to hide some almost uncontrollable emotion. There was a slight moisture in his eyes as they looked steadily at the bright lamp.
The papers and parchments lay unheeded on the table, and he did not touch them again that night. He was thinking, not of his lonely old age nor of the dishonour brought upon his house, but of the boy he had loved as his own soul for more than thirty years, and of a swarthy little child that lay asleep in a distant room, the warm blood tinging its olive cheeks and its little clinched hands thrown back above its head.
For Corona he had no thought but hatred. He had guessed Giovanni’s secret too well, and his heart was hardened against the woman who had brought shame and suffering upon his son.
CHAPTER XI.
SAN GIACINTO HAD signally failed in his attempt to prevent the meeting between Gouache and Faustina Montevarchi, and had unintentionally caused trouble of a much more serious nature in another quarter. The Zouave returned to his lodging late at night, and of course found no note upon his dressing-table. He did not miss the pin, for he of course never wore it, and attached no particular value to a thing of such small worth which he had picked up in the street and which consequently had no associations for him. He lacked the sense of order in his belongings, and the pin had lain neglected for weeks among a heap of useless little trifles, dingy cotillon favours that had been there since the previous year, stray copper coins, broken pencils, uniform buttons and such trash, accumulated during many months and totally unheeded. Had he seen the pin anywhere else he would have recognised it, but he did not notice its absence. The old woman, Caterina Ranucci, hugged her money and said nothing about either of the visitors who had entered the room during the afternoon. The consequence was that Gouache rose early on the following morning and went towards the church with a light heart. He did not know certainly that Faustina would come there, and indeed there were many probabilities against her doing so, but in the hopefulness of a man thoroughly in love, Gouache looked forward to seeing her with as much assurance as though the matter had been arranged and settled between them.
The parish church of Sant’ Agostino is a very large building. The masses succeed each other in rapid succession from seven o’clock in the morning until midday, and a great crowd of parishioners pass in and out in an almost constant stream. It was
therefore Gouache’s intention to arrive so early as to be sure that Faustina had not yet come, and he trusted to luck to be there at the right time, for he was obliged to visit the temporary barrack of his corps before going to the church, and was also obliged to attend mass at a later hour with his battalion. On presenting himself at quarters he learned to his surprise that Monte Rotondo had not surrendered yet, though news of the catastrophe was expected every moment. The Zouaves were ordered to remain under arms all day in case of emergency, and it was only through the friendly assistance of one of his officers that Anastase obtained leave to absent himself for a couple of hours. He hailed a cab and drove to the church as fast as he could.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 383