“Signora Principessa,” he said in his usual tone, “those are arguments which may be used with propriety by the persons who will defend the accused before the tribunals—”
Giovanni laughed in his face.
“Do you suppose, seriously, that Donna Faustina will ever be brought to trial?” he asked scornfully. The prefect kept his temper wonderfully well.
“It is my business to suppose so,” he answered. “I am not the law, nor his Eminence either, and it is not for me to weigh the defence or to listen to appeals for mercy. I act upon my own responsibility, and it is for me to judge whether the facts are likely to support me. My reputation depends upon my judgment and upon nothing else. The fate of the accused depends upon a number of considerations with which I have nothing to do. I must tell you plainly that this interview must come to an end, I am very patient. I wish to overlook nothing. Arguments are of no avail. If there is any better evidence to offer against any one else in this house, I am here to take note of it.”
He looked coolly round the circle of listeners. Faustina’s relations shrank back a little under his glance.
“Not being able to find any person here who appears more likely to be guilty, and having found enough to justify me in my course, I intend to remove this young lady at once to the Termini.”
“You shall not!” said Giovanni, placing himself in front of him in a threatening attitude. “If you attempt anything of the sort, I will have you in prison yourself before morning.”
“You do not know what you are saying, Signor Principe. You cannot oppose me. I have an armed force here to obey my orders, and if you attempt forcible opposition I shall be obliged to take you also, very much against my will. Donna Faustina Montevarchi, I have the honour to arrest you. I trust you will make no resistance.”
The semi-comic phrase fell from his lips in the professional tone; in speaking of the arrest as an honour to himself, he was making an attempt to be civil according to his lights. He made a step forward in the direction of the young girl, but Giovanni seized him firmly by the wrist. He made no effort to release himself, however, but stood still.
“Signor Principe, be good enough to let go of my hand.”
“You shall not touch her,” answered Giovanni, not relinquishing his grasp. He was beginning to be dangerous.
“Signor Principe, release me at once!” said the prefect in a commanding tone. “Very well, I will call my men,” he added, producing a small silver whistle with his free hand and putting it to his lips. “If I call them, I shall have to send you to prison for hindering me in the execution of my duty,” he said, fixing his eyes on Giovanni and preparing to sound the call.
Giovanni’s blood was up, and he would not have let the man go. At that moment, however, Faustina broke from Corona’s arms and sprang forward. With one hand she pushed back Sant’ Ilario; with the other she seized the whistle.
“I will go with you!” she cried, speaking to the prefect. “I will go with him!” she repeated, turning to Giovanni. “It is a horrible mistake, but it is useless to oppose him any longer. I will go, I say!” An hysterical chorus of cries from her relations greeted this announcement.
Giovanni made a last effort to prevent her from fulfilling her intention. He was too much excited to see how hopeless the situation really was, and his sense of justice was revolted at the thought of the indignity.
“Donna Faustina, I implore you!” he exclaimed. “I can still prevent this outrage — you must not go. I will find the cardinal and explain the mistake — he will send an order at once.”
“You are mistaken,” answered the prefect. “He will do nothing of the kind. Besides, you cannot leave this house without my permission. The doors are all guarded.”
“But you cannot refuse that request,” objected Corona, who had not spoken during the altercation. “It will not take half an hour for my husband to see his Eminence and get the order—”
“Nevertheless I refuse,” replied the official firmly. “Donna Faustina must go with me at once. You are interfering uselessly and making a useless scandal. My mind is made up.”
“Then I will go with her,” said Corona, pressing the girl to her side and bestowing a contemptuous glance on the cowering figures around her.
By this time her sisters-in-law had fallen into their respective husband’s arms, and it was hard to say whether the men or the women were more hopelessly hysterical. Giovanni relinquished the contest reluctantly, seeing that he was altogether overmatched by the prefect’s soldiers.
“I will go too,” he said. “You cannot object to our taking Donna
Faustina in our carriage.”
“I do not object to that. But male visitors are not allowed inside the Termini prison after dark. The Signora Principessa may spend the night there if it is her pleasure. I will put a gendarme in your carriage to avoid informality.”
“I presume you will accept my promise to conduct Donna Faustina to the place,” observed Giovanni. The prefect hesitated.
“It is informal,” he said at last, “but to oblige you I will do it. You give your word?”
“Yes — since you are able to use force. We act under protest. You will remember that.”
Faustina’s courage did not forsake her at the last moment. She kissed each of her brothers and each of her sisters-in-law as affectionately as though they had offered to bear her company. There were many loud cries and sobs and protestations of devotion, but not one proposed to go with her. The only one who would have been bold enough was Flavia, and even if she had been present she would not have had the heart to perform such an act of unselfishness. Faustina and Corona, Giovanni and the prefect, left the room together.
“I will have you in prison before morning,” said Sant’ Ilario fiercely, in the ear of the official, as they reached the outer hall.
The prefect made no reply, but raised his shoulders almost imperceptibly and smiled for the first time, as he pointed silently to the gendarmes. The latter formed into an even rank and tramped down the stairs after the four persons whom they accompanied. In a few minutes the whole party were on their way to the Termini, Faustina with her friends in Sant’ Ilario’s carriage, the prefect in his little brougham, the soldiers on their horses, trotting steadily along in a close squad.
Faustina sat leaning her head upon Corona’s shoulder, while Giovanni looked out of the window into the dark streets, his rage boiling within him, and all the hotter because he was powerless to change the course of events. From time to time he uttered savage ejaculations which promised ill for the prefect’s future peace, either in this world or in the next, but the sound of the wheels rolling upon the uneven paving-stones prevented his voice from reaching the two women.
“Dear child,” said Corona, “do not be frightened. You shall be free to-night or in the morning — I will not leave you.”
Faustina was silent, but pressed her friend’s hand again and again, as though she understood. She herself was overcome by a strange wonderment which made her almost incapable of appreciating what happened to her. She felt very much as she had felt once before, on the night of the insurrection, when she had found herself lying upon the pavement before the half-ruined barracks, stunned by the explosion, unable for a time to collect her senses, supported only by her physical elasticity, which was yet too young to be destroyed by any moral shock.
CHAPTER XXII.
ON THE FOLLOWING morning all Rome rang with the news that the Saracinesca had lost their title, and that Faustina Montevarchi had murdered her father. No one connected the two events, but the shock to the public mind was so tremendous that almost any incredible tale would have been believed. The story, as it was generally told, set forth that Faustina had gone mad and had strangled her father in his sleep. Every one agreed in affirming that he had been found dead with her handkerchief tied round his neck. It was further stated that the young girl was no longer in the Palazzo Montevarchi, but had been transferred to the women’s prison at the Termini, pendin
g further examination into the details of the case. The Palazzo Montevarchi was draped in black, and before night funeral hatchments were placed upon the front of the parish church bearing the Montevarchi arms. No one was admitted to the palace upon any pretext whatever, though it was said that San Giacinto and Flavia had spent the night there. No member of the family had been seen by any one, and nobody seemed to know exactly whence the various items of information had been derived.
Strange to say, every word of what was repeated so freely was true, excepting that part of the tale which accused Faustina of having done the deed. What had taken place up to the time when Corona and Giovanni had come may be thus briefly told.
Prince Montevarchi had been found dead by the servant who came to bring a lamp to the study, towards evening, when it grew dark. As soon as the alarm was given a scene of indescribable confusion followed, which lasted until the prefect of police arrived, accompanied by a party of police officials. The handkerchief was examined and identified. Thereupon, in accordance with the Roman practice of that day, the prefect had announced his determination of taking Faustina into custody. The law took it for granted that the first piece of circumstantial evidence which presented itself must be acted upon with the utmost promptitude. A few questions had shown immediately that Faustina was the last person who had seen Montevarchi alive. The young girl exhibited a calmness which surprised every one. She admitted that her father had been angry with her and had struck her, but she denied all knowledge of his death. It is sufficient to say that she fearlessly told the truth, so fearlessly as to prejudice even her own family with regard to her. Even the blood on the handkerchief was against her, though she explained that it was her own, and although the bruise on her lip bore out the statement. The prefect was inexorable. He explained that Faustina could be taken privately to the Termini, and that the family might use its influence on the next day to procure her immediate release, but that his duty compelled him for the present to secure her person, that he was responsible, that he was only doing his duty, and so forth and so on.
The consternation of the family may be imagined. The princess broke down completely under what seemed very like a stroke of paralysis. San Giacinto and Flavia were not to be found at their house, and as the carriage had not returned, nobody knew where they were. The wives of Faustina’s brothers shut themselves up in their rooms and gave way to hysterical tears, while the brothers themselves seemed helpless to do anything for their sister.
Seeing herself abandoned by every one Faustina had sent for Corona Saracinesca. It was the wisest thing she could have done. In a quarter of an hour Corona and her husband entered the room together. The violent scene which followed has been already described, in which Giovanni promised the prefect of police that if he persisted in his intention of arresting Faustina he should himself be lodged in the Carceri Nuove in twelve hours. But the prefect had got the better of the situation, being accompanied by an armed force which Giovanni was powerless to oppose. All that could be obtained had been that Giovanni and Corona should take Faustina to the Termini in their carriage, and that Corona should stay with the unfortunate young girl all night if she wished to do so. Giovanni could not be admitted.
The prison of the Termini was under the administration of an order of nuns devoted especially to the care of prisoners. The prefect arrived in his own carriage simultaneously with the one which conveyed his prisoner and her friends. As the gate was opened and one of the sisters appeared, he whispered a few words into her ear. She looked grave at first, and then, when she saw Faustina’s angel face, she shook her head incredulously. The prefect had accomplished his duty, however. The prison-gates closed after the two ladies, and the sentinel outside resumed his walk, while the carriages drove away, the one containing the officer of the law and the other Giovanni, who had himself driven at once to the Vatican, in spite of the late hour. The great cardinal received him but, to his amazement, refused an order of release.
The sister who admitted Corona and Faustina took the latter’s hand kindly and looked into her face by the light of the small lantern she carried.
“It is some dreadful mistake, my child,” she said. “But I have no course but to obey. You are Donna Faustina Montevarchi?”
“Yes — this is the Princess Sant’ Ilario.”
“Will you come with me? I will give you the best room we have — it is not very like a prison.”
“This is,” said Faustina, shuddering at the sight of the massive stone walls, quite as much as from the dampness of the night air.
“Courage, dear!” whispered Corona, drawing the girl’s slight figure close to her and arranging the mantle upon her shoulders. But Corona herself was uneasy as to the result of the ghastly adventure, and she looked anxiously forward into the darkness beyond the nun’s lantern.
At last they found themselves in a small whitewashed chamber, so small that it was brightly lighted by the two wicks of a brass oil-lamp on the table. The nun left them alone, at Corona’s request, promising to return in the course of an hour. Faustina sat down upon the edge of the little bed, and Corona upon a chair beside her. Until now, the unexpected excitement of what had passed during the last three or four hours had sustained the young girl. Everything that had happened had seemed to be a part of a dream until she found herself at last in the cell of the Termini prison, abandoned by every one save Corona. Her courage broke down. She threw herself back upon the pillow and burst into tears. Corona did not know what to do, but tried to comfort her as well as she could, wondering inwardly what would have happened had the poor child been brought to such a place alone.
“What have I done, that such things should happen to me?” cried Faustina at last, sitting up and staring wildly at her friend. Her small white hands lay helplessly in her lap and her rich brown hair was beginning to be loosened and to fall upon her shoulders.
The tears stood in Corona’s eyes. It seemed to her infinitely pathetic that this innocent creature should have been chosen as the victim to expiate so monstrous a crime.
“It will be all cleared up in the morning,” she answered, trying to speak cheerfully or at least hopefully. “It is an abominable mistake of the prefect’s. I will not leave you, dear — take heart, we will talk — the nun will bring you something to eat — the night will soon pass.”
“In prison!” exclaimed Faustina, in a tone of horror and despair, not heeding what Corona said.
“Try and fancy it is not—”
“And my father dead!” She seemed suddenly to realise that he was gone for ever. “Poor papa! poor papa!” she moaned. “Oh, I did not mean to be undutiful — indeed I did not — and I can never tell you so now—”
“You must not reproach yourself, darling,” said Corona, trying to soothe her and to draw the pitiful pale face to her shoulder, while she wound her arm tenderly about the young girl’s waist. “Pray for him, Faustina, but do not reproach yourself too much. After all, dear, he was unkind to you—”
“Oh, do not say that — he is dead!” She lowered her voice almost to a whisper as she spoke, and an expression of awe came over her features. “He is dead, Corona. I shall never see him again — oh, why did I not love him more? I am frightened when I think that he is dead — who did it?”
The question came suddenly, and Faustina started and shuddered. Corona pressed her to her side and smoothed her hair gently. She felt that she must say something, but she hardly expected that Faustina would understand reason. She gathered her energy, however, to make the best effort in her power.
“Listen to me, Faustina,” she said, in a tone of quiet authority, “and try and see all this as I see it. It is not right that you should reproach yourself, for you have had no share in your father’s death, and if you parted in anger it was his fault, not yours. He is dead, and there is nothing for you to do but to pray that he may rest in peace. You have been accused unjustly of a deed which any one might see you were physically incapable of doing. You will be released from this place to-
morrow morning, if not during the night. One thing is absolutely necessary — you must be calm and quiet, or you will have brain fever in a few hours. Do not think I am heartless, dear. A worse thing might have happened to you. You have been suspected by an ignorant man who will pay dearly for his mistake; you might have been suspected by those you love.”
Corona sighed, and her voice trembled with the last words. To her, Faustina was suffering far more from the shock to her sensibilities than from any real grief. She knew that she had not loved her father, but the horror of his murder and the fright at being held accountable for it were almost enough to drive her mad. And yet she could not be suffering what Corona had suffered in being suspected by Giovanni, she had not that to lose which Corona had lost, the dominating passion of her life had not been suddenly burnt out in the agony of an hour, she was only the victim of a mistake which could have no consequences, which would leave no trace behind. But Faustina shivered and turned paler still at Corona’s words.
“By those I love? Ah no! Not by him — by them!” The blood rushed to her white face, and her hand fell on her friend’s shoulder.
Corona heard and knew that the girl was thinking of Anastase. She wondered vaguely whether the hot-headed soldier artist had learned the news and what he would do when he found that Faustina was lodged in a prison.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 401