“Speak to me — call me by the little name!” sobbed the Princess, and her tears wet her hands and the table.
Monsieur Leroy began to repeat the alphabet. From time to time a rap stopped him at a letter, and then he began over again. In this way the rapping spelt out the word “Mamette.”
“She says ‘Mamette,’” said Monsieur Leroy, in a puzzled tone. “Does that mean anything?”
But the Princess burst into passionate weeping. It was the name she had asked for, the child’s own pet name for her, its mother; it was the last word the poor little dying lips had tried to form. Never since that moment had the heart-broken woman spoken it, never since the fourth year before Monsieur Leroy had been born.
He looked at her, for he seemed to have preserved his self-control, and he saw that if matters went much further the poor sobbing woman would reach a state which might be dangerous. He withdrew his hands from the table and waited.
“She is gone, but she will come again now, whenever you call her,” he said gently.
“No, do not go!” cried the Princess, clutching at the smooth wood frantically. “Come back, come back and speak to me once more!”
“She is gone, for to-night,” said Monsieur Leroy, in the same gentle tone. “I am very much exhausted.”
He pressed his handkerchief to his forehead and to his temples, again and again, while the Princess moaned, her cheek upon the table, as she had once let it rest upon the breast of her dead child.
Monsieur Leroy rose cautiously, fearing to disturb her. He was trembling now, as men sometimes do who have escaped alive from a great danger. He steadied himself by the back of the arm-chair, behind which the candle was burning steadily. With an effort, he stooped and took up the candlestick and set it on the table. Then he looked at his watch and saw that it was past eleven o’clock.
CHAPTER VII
IT WAS SOME time since Guido had seen Lamberti, but the latter had written him a line to say that he was going with a party of men to stop in an old country house near the seashore, not far from Cività Vecchia. The quail were very abundant in May that year, and Lamberti was a good shot. He had left home suddenly on the morning after telling Guido the story of his adventure in the Forum. Guido had at first been mildly surprised that his friend should not have spoken of his intention on that evening; but some one had told him that the party had been made up at the club, late at night, which accounted for everything.
Guido was soon too much occupied to miss the daily companionship, and was glad to be alone, when he could not be with Cecilia. He no longer concealed from himself that he was very much in love with her, and that, compared with this fact, nothing in his previous life had been of any importance whatever. Even the circumstances of his position with regard to his aunt sank into insignificance. She might do what she pleased, she might try to ruin him, she might persecute him to the extreme limit of her ingenuity, she might invent calumnies intended to disgrace him; he was confident of victory and sure of himself.
One of the first unmistakable signs of genuine love is the certainty of doing the impossible. An hour before meeting Cecilia, Guido had been reduced to the deepest despondency, and had talked gravely of ending a life that was not worth living. A fortnight had passed, and he defied his aunt, Monsieur Leroy, the whole world, an adverse fate, and the powers of evil. They might do their worst, now, for he was full of strength, and ten times more alive than he had ever been before.
It was true that he could not see the smallest change in Cecilia’s manner towards him since the memorable evening on which she had laughingly agreed to take advantage of what was thrust upon them both. Her colour did not change by the least shade of a blush when she met him; there was not the slightest quivering of the delicate eyelids, there was nothing but the most friendly frankness in the steady look of welcome. But she liked him very much, and was at no pains to conceal it. She liked him better than any one she had ever met in her short life, except her step-father, and she told Guido so with charming unconcern. As he could not be jealous of the dead ambassador, he was not at all discouraged by the comparison. Sometimes he was rather flattered by it, and he could not but feel that he had already acquired a position from which any future suitor would find it hard to dislodge him.
The Countess Fortiguerra looked on with wondering satisfaction. Her daughter had not led her to believe that she would readily accept what must soon be looked upon by society as an engagement, and what would certainly be one before long. When Guido went to see his aunt, she received him with expansive expressions of affection.
He noticed a change in the Princess, which he could only explain by the satisfaction he supposed she felt in his conduct. There were times when her artificial face softened with a look of genuine feeling, especially when she was silent and inattentive. Guido knew her well enough, he thought, to impute these signs to her inward contentment at the prospect of his marriage, from which she was sure of extracting notable financial advantage. But in this he was not just, though he judged from long experience. Monsieur Leroy alone knew the secret, and he kept his own counsel.
An inquisitive friend asked the Countess Fortiguerra boldly whether she intended to announce the engagement of her daughter at the garden party.
“No,” she answered, without hesitation, “that would be premature.”
She was careful, in a way, to do nothing irrevocable — never to take Guido into her carriage, not to ask him to dinner when there were other guests, not to leave him alone with Cecilia when there was a possibility of such a thing being noticed by the servants, except by the discreet Petersen, who could be trusted, and who strongly approved of Guido from the first. But when it was quite safe, the Countess used to go and sit in a little boudoir adjoining the drawing-room, leaving the doors open, of course, and occupying herself with her correspondence; and Guido and Cecilia talked without restraint.
The Countess had enough womanly and instinctive wisdom not to ask questions of her daughter at this stage, but on the day before the long-expected garden party she spoke to Guido alone, in a little set speech which she had prepared with more conscientiousness than diplomatic skill.
“You have seen,” she said, “that I am always glad to receive you here, and that I often leave you and Cecilia together in the drawing-room. Dear Signor d’Este, I am sure you will understand me if I ask you to — to — to tell me something.”
She had meant to end the sentence differently, rounding it off with “your intentions with regard to my daughter”; but that sounded like something in a letter, so she tried to make it more vague. But Guido understood, which is not surprising.
“You have been very kind to me,” he said simply. “I love your daughter sincerely, and if she will consent to marry me I shall do my best to make her happy. But, so far, I have no reason to think that she will accept me. Besides, whether you know it already or not, I must tell you that I am a poor man. I have no fortune whatever, though I receive an allowance by my father’s will, which is enough for a bachelor. It will cease at my death. Your daughter could make a very much more brilliant marriage.”
The good Countess had listened in silence. The Princess, for reasons of her own, had explained Guido’s position with considerable minuteness, if not with scrupulous accuracy.
“Cecilia is rich enough to marry whom she pleases,” the Countess answered. “Even without considering her inclinations, your social position would make up for your want of fortune.”
“My social position is not very exalted,” Guido answered, smiling at her frankness. “I am plain ‘Signor d’Este,’ without any title whatsoever, or without the least prospect of one.”
“But your royal blood—” protested the Countess.
“I am more proud of the fact that my mother was an honest woman,” replied Guido, quietly.
“Yes — oh — of course!” The Countess was a little abashed. “But you know what I mean,” she added, by way of making matters clear. “And as for your fortune — I would say,
your allowance, and all that — it really does not matter. It is natural that you should have made debts, too. All young men do, I believe.”
“No,” said Guido. “I have not a debt in the world.”
“Really?”
The single word sounded more like an exclamation of extreme surprise than like an interrogation, and the Countess, who was incapable of concealment, stared at Guido for a moment in undisguised astonishment.
“Why are you so much surprised?” he asked, with evident amusement. “My allowance is fifty thousand francs a year. That is not wealth, but it is quite enough for me.”
“Yes. I should think so. That is — of course, it is not much — is it? I never know anything about money, you know! Baron Goldbirn manages everything for us.”
“I suppose,” Guido said, looking at her curiously, “that some one must have told you that I had made debts.”
“Yes — yes! Some one did tell me so.”
“Whoever said it was quite mistaken. I can easily satisfy you on that point, for I am a very orderly person. I used to play high when I was twenty-one, but I got tired of it, and I do not care for cards any longer.”
“It is very strange, all the same!” The Countess was still wondering, though she believed him. “How people lie!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, admirably, and most of the time,” Guido answered, with a little laugh.
There was a short pause. He also was wondering who could have maligned him. No doubt it must have been some designing mother who had a son to marry.
“Forgive me,” he said at last. “I have told you exactly what my position is. Have you, on your side, any reason to think that your daughter will consent?”
“Oh, I am sure she will!” answered the Countess, promptly.
Guido repressed a movement, and for an instant the colour rose faintly in his face, then sank away.
“Quite sure?” he asked, controlling his voice.
“I mean, in the end, you know. She will marry you in the end. I am convinced of it. But I think I had better not ask her just yet.”
There were matters in regard to which she was distinctly afraid of her daughter.
“May I?” Guido enquired. “Will you let me ask her to marry me, when I think that the time has come?”
“Certainly! That is—” The Countess believed that she ought to hesitate. “After all, we have only known you a fortnight. That is not long. Is it?”
“No. But, on the other hand, you had never seen me when you and my aunt agreed that your daughter and I should be married.”
“How did you know that we had talked about it?”
“It was rather evident,” Guido answered, with a smile.
The artlessness which is often a charm in a young girl looks terribly like foolishness if it lasts till a woman is forty. Yet in old age it may seem charming again, as if second childhood brought with it a second innocence.
Guido was an Italian only by his mother, and from his father he inherited the profoundly complicated character of races that had ruled the world for a thousand years or more, and not always either wisely or justly. Under his indifference and quiet dislike of all action, as well as of most emotions, he had always felt the conflicting instincts towards good and evil, and the contempt of consequences bordering on folly, if not upon real insanity, which had brought about the decline and fall of his father’s kingdom. The perfect simplicity of the real Italian character when in a state of equilibrium always amused him, and often pleased him, and he had a genuine admiration for the splendidly violent contrasts which it develops when roused by passion. He could read it like an open book, and predict what it would do in almost any circumstances.
For the first time in his life, he felt something of its directness in himself, moving to a definite aim through the maze of useless complications, hesitations, and turns and returns of thought with which he was familiar in his own character. He smiled at the idea that he might end by resembling Lamberti, with whom to think was to feel, and to feel was to act. Were there two selves in him, of which the one was in love, and the other was not? That was an amusing theory, and a fortnight ago it would have been pleasant to sit in his room at night, among his Dürers, his Rembrandts, and his pictures, with an old book on his knee, dreaming about his two conflicting individualities. But somehow dreaming had lost its charm of late. He thought only of one question, and asked only one of the future. Was Cecilia Palladio’s friendship about to turn into anything that could be called love, or not? His intention warned him that if the change had come she herself was not conscious of it. He was authorised to ask her, now that the Countess had spoken — formally authorised, but he was quite sure that if he had believed that she already loved him, he would not have waited for any such permission. His father’s blood resented the restraint of all ordinary conventions, and in the most profound inaction he had always morally and inwardly reserved the right to do what he pleased, if he should ever care to do anything at all.
He was just going to dress for dinner that evening when Lamberti came in, a little more sunburned than usual, but thinner, and very restless in his manner. Guido explained that he was going to dine with the Countess Fortiguerra. He offered to telephone for permission to bring Lamberti with him.
“Do you know them well enough for that already?” Lamberti asked.
“Yes. I have seen them a great deal since you left. Shall I ask?”
“No, thank you. I shall dine at home with my people.”
“Shall you go to the garden party to-morrow?”
“No.”
Guido looked at him curiously, and he immediately turned away, unlike himself.
“Have you had any more strange dreams since I saw you?” Guido asked.
“Yes.”
Lamberti did not turn round again, but looked attentively at an etching on the table, so that Guido could not see his face. His monosyllabic answers were nervous and sharp. It was clear that he was under some kind of strain that was becoming intolerable, but of which he did not care to speak.
“How is it going?” he asked suddenly.
“I think everything is going well,” answered Guido, who knew what he meant, though neither of them had spoken to the other of Cecilia, except in the most casual way, since they had both met her.
“So you are going to marry an heiress after all,” said Lamberti, with something like a laugh.
“I love her,” Guido replied. “I cannot help the fact that she is rich.”
“It does no harm.”
“Perhaps not, but I wish she had no more than I. If she had nothing at all, I should be just as anxious to marry her.”
“You do not suppose that I doubt that, do you?” Lamberti asked quickly.
“No. But you spoke at first as if you were reproaching me for changing my mind.”
“Did I? I am sorry. I did not mean it in that way. I was only thinking that fate generally makes us do just what we do not intend. There is something diabolically ingenious about destiny. It lies in wait for you, it seems to leave everything to your own choice, it makes you think that you are a perfectly free agent, and then, without the least warning, it springs at you from behind a tree, knocks you down, tramples the breath out of you, and drags you off by the heels straight to the very thing you have sworn to avoid. Man a free agent? Nonsense! There is no such thing as free will.”
“What in the world has happened to you?” Guido asked, by way of answer. “Is anything wrong?”
“Everything is wrong. Good night. You ought to be dressing for dinner.”
“Come with me.”
“To dine with people whom I hardly know, and who have not asked me? Besides, I told you that I meant to dine at home.”
“At least, promise me that you will go with me to-morrow to the Villa Madama.”
“No.”
“Look here, Lamberti,” said Guido, changing his tone, “you and I have known each other since we were boys, and I do not believe there exist two men who are better
friends. I am not sure that the Contessina Palladio will marry me, but her mother wishes it, and heaven knows that I do. They are both perfectly well aware that you are my most intimate friend. If you absolutely refuse to go near them they can only suppose that you have something against them. They have already asked me if they are never to see you. Now, what will it cost you to be decently civil to a lady who may be my wife next year, and to her mother, who was your mother’s friend long ago? You need not stay half an hour at the villa unless you please. But go with me. Let them see you with me. If I really marry, do you suppose I am going to have any one but you for my best man?”
Lamberti listened to this long speech without attempting to interrupt Guido. Then he was silent for a few moments.
“If you put it in that light,” he said, rising to go, “I cannot refuse. What time shall you start? I will come here for you.”
“Thank you,” said Guido. “I should like to get there early. At four o’clock, I should say. I suppose we ought not to leave here later than half-past three.”
“Very well. I shall be here in plenty of time. Good night.”
When Guido pressed his hand, it was icy cold.
CHAPTER VIII
ON THE FOLLOWING morning Lamberti went out early, and before nine o’clock he was in the private study of a famous physician, who was a specialist for diseases of the nerves. Lamberti had never seen him and had not asked for an appointment, for the simple reason that his visit was spontaneous and unpremeditated. He had spent a wretched night, and it suddenly struck him that he might be ill. As he had never been ill in his life except from two or three wounds got in fight, he had been slow to admit that anything could be wrong with his physical condition. But it was possible. The strongest men sometimes fell ill unaccountably. A good doctor would see the truth at a glance.
The specialist was a young man, squarely built, with a fresh complexion, smooth brown hair, and a well-trimmed chestnut beard. At first sight, no one would have noticed anything remarkable in his appearance, except, perhaps, that he had unusually bright blue eyes, which had a fixed look when he spoke earnestly.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1022