Padre Bonaventura looked round the room, and then at Castiglione.
‘Shall we be interrupted here?’ he inquired. ‘My errand is very private.’
Castiglione’s bright blue eyes scrutinised the monk’s great head and eagle features. Being tolerably satisfied that the man was a genuine Capuchin and not a disguised thief, he opened the door and called to his orderly.
‘Let no one come in,’ he said, and he came back at once.
The two sat down on straight chairs by a table and looked at each other.
‘I come to you on behalf of a Roman lady,’ the monk began.
‘A lady!’
Castiglione moved and his face hardened at once. He thought he had been mistaken after all, and that his visitor was some scoundrel in disguise, whom he should presently throw downstairs or hand over to the police.
‘I do not know her name,’ continued Padre Bonaventura with perfect calm. ‘She only told me yours yesterday. She has been to confess to me three times since last May. She is in great danger and you must help her.’
A romantic foreigner might have scented some strange mystery of the imaginary Italian life described by English poets. Castiglione, who knew his own country well, only suspected that a fraud was being attempted, with a view to extracting money from him; or else that the monk was the ignoble emissary of some one of the fair and free who live between two worlds and feed the altar of Ashtaroth with human sacrifice.
‘Unless you can be more explicit,’ he said coldly, ‘I shall not listen to any more of this.’
An angry light came into the old Capuchin’s deep-set eyes, for he understood what Castiglione was thinking. But he checked the retort and told the facts quickly.
‘The lady has seven letters written to her by you during last April and May.’
The soldier’s manner changed instantly.
‘Have you come from her to bring them back to me, Father?’ he asked sadly.
‘No. They were stolen by a steward, photographed, and returned. The man has absconded, and he, or his accomplices, demand a hundred and fifty thousand francs; if the money is not paid in four days, the letters will be published here and in Naples.’
‘Not if I am alive,’ said Castiglione, whose face was not good to see just then, though he sat quite quietly in his chair.
Padre Bonaventura was so much pleased with this answer that he actually smiled. It was rather a grim performance of its kind, but it was unmistakably meant to express satisfaction. The Captain had turned out to be the sort of man he had hoped to find.
‘May I say a few words more?’ he asked.
‘Certainly. I must have more details. Does her husband know of this?’
The Capuchin told him the story as he had heard it from Maria’s lips, omitting nothing. He had an extremely good memory. Castiglione noted the names to which the drafts were to be addressed. Padre Bonaventura pointed out that it would be worse than useless to pay the money for reproductions which could be multiplied and used to extort more.
‘Is that all, Father?’ asked Castiglione.
‘I have a word to say, Captain,’ returned the monk, ‘first as one man to another, and then as a priest. So far as the one is concerned we shall agree, for you are evidently a man of honour; as for the rest, I presume your views about priests are those of most young military men.’
‘They are,’ Castiglione admitted.
‘That being the case, we shall probably not agree. But as you, when under orders, would do your duty in your profession, so I must do mine.’
‘That is just. Pray speak freely.’
‘As one man to another, I only have to say what I see you already understand. You wrote those letters to a married woman. She should have burnt them, it is true; but she did not. If she is compromised by the consequences, the fault is ultimately yours. If there is a breath upon her honour, there will be a stain on yours.’
‘You put things plainly, for a priest,’ said Castiglione.
‘In that, I do not speak as a monk, but as a man, Captain.’
‘And very much like a soldier. What you say is true, and I shall act with the conviction that my own honour is in danger.’
‘It is not every man that would do that,’ said the monk thoughtfully. ‘Most of you, in your class, would say that the fault was the lady’s in keeping dangerous letters, not yours in writing them. I come to the second point.’
‘You have something to say from the point of view of religion, I understand,’ said Castiglione gravely. ‘I shall listen with respect, though I may not agree with you.’
‘Thank you. In an affair of this kind an officer may always be placed in such a position as to believe it his duty to fight a duel.’
‘With an absconding steward and a blackmailer?’ Castiglione smiled.
‘No. With the lady’s husband or brother.’
‘Nothing could be more utterly unlikely in this case.’
‘Nevertheless, as a priest, and because I have been the means of inciting you to action, I ask you to give me your word that you will not be led into a duel.’
‘I cannot promise that,’ answered Castiglione. ‘That is a question about which a priest and a soldier cannot possibly agree. Forgive me for saying that you know no more of my profession than I do of yours, Father.’
‘Perhaps. But you may be wrong.’
The old man turned back the left sleeve of his loose and threadbare brown frock. Castiglione started slightly as he looked, for the monk’s arm was gone.
‘I left it at Aspromonte, in the sleeve of a red shirt,’ he said quietly, ‘and I was in orders already. I made submission afterwards. Perhaps a priest and a soldier may yet agree.’
Castiglione held out his hand across the table, and Padre Bonaventura took it frankly.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Captain. ‘I can promise an old soldier what I would never promise a priest. I do not foresee any chance of a duel, but if the possibility of one arises, I will do my very best to avoid it; I will go as far as I can without being a disgrace to the regiment.’
‘Thank you,’ answered the monk. ‘I know that is the most I can expect. As for what you are to do, I cannot advise you, for you know this modern world better than I. The lady will come late this afternoon to hear the result of the step I have taken.’
‘Tell her from me — —’
‘Stop, Captain!’ The monk interrupted him sternly. ‘I will take no word from you to her. Whatever you choose to say, you say to me, and to me only.’
‘Yes — you are right. I repeat what I first said, then. The letters shall not be published while I am alive to hinder it. If there is any risk, it will not be in the way of a duel, so the one promise does not interfere with the other. When the matter is settled, shall I write to you or go and see you?’
‘In no case write,’ answered Padre Bonaventura. ‘My share in this matter ends here, and I need neither hear from you nor see you again. If you do not find a way to make the publication of those letters impossible,’ he concluded, speaking slowly as he rose to his feet, ‘you are not the man I take you for.’
Castiglione smiled at the wholesale directness of the final speech, but only nodded in reply, and accompanied his visitor to the outer door with evident respect. Hearing steps, the orderly dropped the boots and sprang out of his little den.
‘Good-bye, Father, and thank you,’ said Castiglione, shaking his hand warmly.
The trooper could not believe his eyes and ears, and stood open-mouthed, grinning with astonishment. As the door closed, his master saw his face and felt a strong desire to box his ears. But the Captain’s character had changed a good deal of late.
He laid a heavy hand on the young soldier’s shoulder.
‘When you meet him again, salute him,’ he said sternly. ‘That old monk was with Garibaldi, and lost his left arm at Aspromonte.’
‘Yes, sir!’
Thereupon the orderly went back to the boots with a very grave face.
&nb
sp; But Castiglione returned to the sitting-room and did not call his man for half an hour, during which time he dressed himself without the latter’s help, as he often did. It was noon when he went out, and the day was fine. Whatever he had determined to do, he was in no great hurry, for he strolled along at a leisurely pace, enjoying the sunshine and the bright air after the rain. But there was no hesitation as to the direction he meant to take, and he neither slackened his walk nor hastened it till he reached the door of the Marchesa di Parenzo’s pretty house, when it was a quarter-past twelve.
He asked if she were alone, and on being informed that she was, he told the man to inquire whether she could receive him for a few moments. She would guess well enough that only an important matter could bring him at such an hour. He found her in her sitting-room, for the elder boys had not come home from school and the smaller children were already at their dinner. As usual, she wore a wonderfully fitting frock, that looked as if it had just left the hands of a consummate artist, and an exquisite little pin, of a perfectly new design, fastened the tie which was in the fashion for women that winter.
‘I hope you will stay to luncheon,’ she said, as soon as they had shaken hands. ‘Sigismondo is coming, and there will be no one else but the boys.’
‘You are very kind, but I can only stay a few minutes,’ Castiglione answered, wondering how many of the women he knew would take the trouble to look their best merely for their husbands and their children. ‘I came to ask a question which may seem strange to you. Can you tell me anything about that steward of Montalto’s who has absconded?’
Giuliana’s quiet eyes examined his face attentively. The question was certainly not one to which she could object; but though she had always felt inclined to like him, she had always disapproved of him, and she had distrusted his intentions towards Maria since he had returned to Rome. To the womanly woman he appealed as a particularly manly man; to the virtuous matron, far above the faintest breath of gossip, he represented the wicked and heartless tempter, going about to destroy.
‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘I heard something about Orlando Schmidt yesterday. Teresa Crescenzi has a story, as usual. She says that he played in some place where there is a roulette and lost a great deal of money.’
‘Oh! That is interesting, if it is true. I wonder how she found it out.’
‘I have forgotten. I daresay she did not tell us. Sigismondo will remember the whole story, if you will only wait till he comes in.’
‘I’m sorry, but I cannot stay. Perhaps I had better go and ask Donna Teresa herself. Are you sure she did not tell you where the gambling den was?’
‘I think she mentioned Via Belsiana,’ answered the Marchesa, making an effort of memory. ‘For my part, I did not know that such places existed in Rome.’
‘At all events you have put me on the right track. Thank you very much, and good-bye.’
His visit had not lasted five minutes. He hailed a cab and drove to Teresa Crescenzi’s door, and asked to see her.
She also was very smartly dressed, but with less taste than the Marchesa. She was alone and was smoking a cigarette when Castiglione entered the little drawing-room of her apartment.
‘Do stay to luncheon,’ she cried, shaking hands effusively. ‘De Maurienne is coming, and there will be no one else! You know him, of course.’
‘Yes, I know de Maurienne,’ answered Castiglione, judging that the invitation was only meant to forestall any surprise on his part if the Frenchman appeared; ‘but I cannot stay to-day, thank you. I have come to you for some information, because you always know the truth about everything that happens, and when you are in a good humour you tell it.’
‘I am in a good humour,’ she laughed, and blew smoke towards him.
‘Where is that gambling den at which Montalto’s steward lost money before he decamped the other day?’
Again Teresa laughed and blew another little cloud at him.
‘Why do you ask me that?’
‘Perhaps I might be thinking of risking a little money at roulette myself,’ suggested Castiglione.
‘No,’ answered Teresa thoughtfully. ‘You are not that sort of man. Besides,’ she added with another laugh, ‘if you were, I would not be accessory to leading innocence astray. You must give some better reason. Are you playing detective for amusement? Are you trying to catch Orlando Schmidt?’
‘Oh, no!’ Castiglione spoke with perfect sincerity, and laughed in his turn.
‘What will you do for me if I tell you?’ inquired Teresa playfully.
‘Anything in reason, and honourable.’
‘Oh! You think I may be unreasonable and dishonourable!’
‘A woman’s idea of honour is not always the same as a man’s, you know!’
‘I should think not!’ cried Teresa fervently.
‘You see!’
‘You are a good swordsman, are you not, Balduccio?’
‘Fair. Why do you ask?’
‘Perhaps, if you would agree to fight a little duel for me — only if it were necessary — I might tell you what you are so anxious to know!’
‘At my age, and in my regiment, we do not fight duels except for very grave reasons,’ answered Castiglione.
‘Only a little innocent encounter,’ laughed Teresa. ‘Just to scratch a man’s hand or arm! What is that for a brave man and a good swordsman like you? Besides, I have made up my mind. I was only joking at first, but since you do not like the idea, I refuse to tell you what you wish to know. I have stated my condition, and you won’t accept it. I believe you’re afraid!’
‘Really!’ exclaimed Castiglione, beginning to be seriously annoyed.
‘Oh, no! It is of no use to argue! That or nothing! Either you are afraid, or you are not! I call you a coward!’
She turned away to throw the end of her cigarette into the fireplace. Castiglione moved and saw Monsieur de Maurienne, who had entered unannounced in time to hear the last words. Teresa had seen him, too.
‘I fear I am intruding, Madame,’ he said stiffly, and he bowed a little to them both.
He was a middle-sized and slightly built man of thirty-five, with somewhat intellectual features; he had soft brown hair and moustaches and he wore glasses. What he said was warranted by the tone of mingled irritation and contempt, in which Teresa had spoken, even more than by the words, since some women think themselves privileged to insult men. But Teresa held out her hand to him.
‘Intruding? My dear friend, what an idea! You have come just at the right moment! Balduccio said something to me which I shall certainly not repeat, and I told him he was a coward. That is all. It is of no consequence!’
De Maurienne looked at Castiglione for some explanation, and evidently expecting one, but the officer was going away without giving one, which was probably his best course.
‘That is what it means to be an unprotected woman!’ cried Teresa, in a tone that announced approaching tears.
‘What do you mean, Donna Teresa?’ asked Castiglione sternly, turning back as he spoke.
‘What right have you to come and say such insulting things to me? In my own house, with no one to defend me!’ She was sobbing now, though there was a marked deficiency of tears. ‘Go!’ she almost screamed. ‘Go, I say! Never speak to me again!’
‘I can only believe you are quite mad,’ said Castiglione coldly.
Thereupon he bowed and went out. He had left the apartment and was slowly descending the marble stairs when he heard quick footsteps behind him. He stopped, looked up, and saw de Maurienne coming down; he knew what that meant, and waited.
‘This cannot end here, sir,’ said the Frenchman.
‘It must,’ returned Castiglione with great emphasis. ‘I see that you wish to call me to account, but I assure you that nothing will induce me to fight about such a matter.’
‘Nothing, sir?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Then I have the honour to suggest that the lady had some ground for the assertion she made, sir.�
� The Frenchman spoke quietly and coolly.
Castiglione’s blue eyes blazed and his throat grew very red above the line of his military collar. By a tremendous effort of will he controlled his hands.
‘You are mistaken, sir,’ he said in a rather thick tone.
‘In any case I am at your disposal,’ returned de Maurienne with contempt. ‘I shall be at home after five o’clock and shall not go out again. Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’
Castiglione breathed more freely in the street. The whole affair was utterly incomprehensible to him, for he was not clever enough to guess that Teresa Crescenzi had long nourished the hope of making Monsieur de Maurienne fight a duel for her as the surest means of forcing him to marry her afterwards, and that Castiglione’s unexpected appearance and the turn the interview had taken had afforded her the very opportunity she desired. After he had left the room it had been the affair of an instant to tell de Maurienne that the officer had brutally insulted her by a coarse allusion to her intimacy with de Maurienne himself.
As Castiglione walked down the street, his eyes still on fire and his neck still very red, he asked himself how far he was bound to keep his word to Padre Bonaventura. After all, no one would ever connect a quarrel between him and de Maurienne in Teresa Crescenzi’s drawing-room with Maria Montalto. Yet, in plain fact, the quarrel was the result of the very first step he had taken on Maria’s behalf. He must either fight or leave the regiment, unless de Maurienne would retract his words.
The work of the last half-hour had not been very successful, but he had got a clue from Giuliana Parenzo which was better than nothing at all, for he had already made up his mind as to the course Schmidt must have taken when he found himself in difficulties.
He soon recovered his self-possession, and presently he strolled into the officers’ club. It was almost deserted at that hour, for there was then no regular kitchen connected with it. He went straight to the writing-room, meaning to write a note to his colonel, for he knew that in such a case it would be best to lay the matter before him and a council of officers at once, and, in spite of his great anxiety for Maria, it was absolutely necessary to give precedence to the affair of honour. The reputation of the regiment was at stake.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1154