She had heard footsteps outside the door. A moment after, Count Helion came in and fixed his black glance on his wife and Cosmo. He did not open his lips and remained ominously by the door for a time. The strain of the silence was made sinister by the stiff bearing of the man, the immobility of the carven brown face, crossed by the inky-black moustache in harsh contrast with the powdered head. He might have been a sergeant come at the stroke of the hour to tell those two people that the firing squad was waiting for them outside the door. Madame de Montevesso broke the dumb spell.
“I did my best to entertain Mr. Latham, but we had given you up. He was just going.”
She glanced serenely at Cosmo, whom the sweetness of her tone, her easy self-possession before that barrack’ room figure, stung to the heart. At that moment no words could have expressed the intensity of his hatred for the Count de Montevesso, at whom he was looking with a smile of the utmost banality. The latter moved forward stiffly.
“Your father hopes you will see him for a moment presently,” he said to his wife. “He has not gone to bed yet.”
“Then I will go to him at once.”
Madame de Montevesso extended her hand to Cosmo, who raised the tips of her fingers to his lips ceremoniously.
“I will see Mr. Latham out,” said the Count, bowing to his wife, who went out of the room without looking at him. Cosmo, following her with his eyes, forgot Count Helion’s existence. He forgot it so thoroughly that it was with a perceptible start that he perceived the Count’s eyes fixed on him in an odd way. “He will never look at ease anywhere,” thought Cosmo scornfully. A great part of his hatred had evaporated. “I suppose he means to be pilot. I wonder how he looked on the back of an elephant.”
“It was very good of you to wait so long for my return,” said Count Helion. “I have been detained by an absurd discussion arising out of probably false reports.”
“The time passed quickly,” said truthful Cosmo; but, before the black weary glance of the other, hastened to add with assumed care, “We talked of old times.”
“Old times,” repeated Count Helion without any particular aocent. “My wife is very young yet, though she must be older than you are. Isn’t she older? “
Cosmo said curtly that he really did not know. Wlien they were running about as children together she was the tallest of the three.
“And now,” took up the inexpressive voice of Count de Montevesso, “without her high heels she would be a little shorter than you. As you stood together you looked to me exactly the same height. And so you renewed the memories of your youth. They must have been delightful.”
“They were no doubt more delightful for me than they could have been for Mme. la Comtesse,” said Cosmo, making a motion towards taking leave.
“A moment. Let me have the honour to see you out.” Count Helion walked round the room blowing out the candles in three candelabras in succession and taking up the fourth in his hand.
“Why take this trouble?” protested Cosmo. “I know my way.”
“Every light has been extinguished in the reception rooms; or at least ought to have been. I detest waste of all kinds. It is perhaps because I have made my own fortune, and by God’s favour it is so considerable in its power for good that it requires the most careful management. It is perhaps a peculiar point of view, but I have explained it to Mme. de Montevesso.”
“She must have been interested,” muttered Cosmo between his teeth, following across the room and round the screen the possessor of these immensely important riches, who, candelabra in hand, preceded him by a pace or two and threw open the door behind the screen. Cosmo, crossing in the wake of Count Helion the room of the evening reception, saw dimly the disarranged furniture about the mantelpiece, the armchair in which Lady William had sat, the great sofa in which little Countess Bubna had been shyly ensconced, the card table with the chairs pushed back and all the cards in a heap in the middle. The swaying flames of the candles, leaping from one long strip of mirror to another, pre- ceded him into the next salon where all the furniture stood ranged expectantly against the walls. The next two salons were exactly alike except for the colour of the hangings and the size of the pictures on the walls. As to their subjects, Cosmo could not make them out.
Not a single lackey was to be seen in the anteroom of white walls and red benches; but Cosmo was surprised at the presence of a peasant-like woman, who must have been sitting there in the dark for some time. The light of the candelabra fell on the gnarled hands lying in her lap. The edge of a dark shawl shaded her features with the exception of her ancient chin. She never stirred. Count Helion, disregarding her as though she had been invisible, put down the candelabra on a little table and wished Cosmo good-night with a formal bow. At the same time he expressed harshly the hope of seeing Cosmo often during his stay in Genoa. Then with an unexpected attempt to soften his tone he muttered something about his wife — ”the friend of your childhood.”
The allusions exasperated Cosmo. The more he saw of the grown woman, the less connection she seemed to have with the early Adele. The contrast was too strong. He felt tempted to tell M. de Montevesso that he by no means cherished that old memory. The nearest he came to it was the statement that he had the privilege to hear much of Madame de Montevesso in Paris. M. de Montevesso, contemplating now the dark peasantlike figure huddled up on the crimson seat against a white wall, hastened to turn towards Cosmo the black weariness of his eyes.
“Mme. de Montevesso has led a very retired life during the Empire. Her conduct was marked by the greatest circumspection. But she is a person of rank.
God knows what gossip you may have heard. The world is censorious.”
Brusquely Cosmo stepped out into the outer gallery. Listening to M. de Montevesso was no pleasure. The Count accompanied him as far as the head of the great staircase and stayed to watch his descent with a face that expressed no more than the face of a soldier on parade, till, all at once, his eyes started to roll about wildly as if looking for some object he could snatch up and throw down the stairs at Cosmo’s head. But this lasted only for a moment. He reentered the anteroom quietly and busied himself in closing and locking the door with care. After doing this he approached the figure on the bench and stood over it silently. vn
The old woman pushed back her shawl and raised her wrinkled soft face without much expression to say:
“The child has been calling for you for the last hour or more.”
Helion de Montevesso walked all the length of the anteroom and back again; then stood over the old woman as before.
“You know what she is,” she began directly the Count had stopped. “She won’t give us any rest. When she was little one could always give her a beating but now there is no doing anything with her. You had better come and see for yourself.”
“Very unruly?” asked the Count de Montevesso.
“She is sixteen,” said the old woman crisply, getting up and moving towards the stairs leading to the upper floor. A stick that had been lying concealed in the folds of her dress was now in her hand. She ascended the stairs more nimbly than her appearance would have led one to expect, and the Count de Montevesso followed her down a long corridor, where at last the shuffle of her slippers and the tapping of her stick ceased in front of a closed door. A profound silence reigned in this remote part of the old palace which the enormous vanity of the upstart had hired for the entertainment of his wife and his father-in-law in the face of the restored monarchies of Europe. The old peasant woman turned to the stiff figure which, holding the candelabra and in its laced coat, recalled a gorgeous lackey.
“We have put her to bed,” she said, “but as to holding her down in it, that was another matter. Maria is strong but she got weary of it at last. We had to send for Father Paul. Shameless as she is she would not attempt to get out of her bed in her nightdress before a priest. The Father promised to stay till we could fetch you to her, so I came down, but I dared not go further than the anteroom. A valet told me you had
still a guest with you, so I sent him away and sat down to wait. The wretch to revenge himself on me put out the lights before he went.”
“He shall be flung out to-morrow,” said M. de Montevesso in a low tone.
“I hope I have done nothing wrong, Helion.”
“No,” said M. de Montevesso in the same subdued tone. He lent his ear to catch some slight sound on the other side of the door. But the stillness behind it was like the stillness of a sick room to which people listen with apprehension. The old woman laid her hand lightly on the sleeve of the gorgeous coat. “You are a great man ...”
“I am,” said Count Helion without exultation.
The old woman, dragged out at the age of seventy from the depths of her native valley by the irresistible will of the great man, tried to find utterance for a few simple thoughts. Old age with its blunted feelings had alone preserved her from utter bewilderment at the sudden change; but she was overpowered by its greatness. She lived inside that palace as if enchanted into a state of resignation. Ever since she had arrived in Genoa, which was just five weeks ago, she had kept to the upper floor. Only the extreme necessity of the case had induced her to come so far downstairs as the white anteroom. She was conscious of not having neglected her duty.
“I did beat her faithfully/’ she declared with the calmness of old age and conscious rectitude. The lips of M. de Montevesso twitched slightly. “I did really, though often feeling too weary to raise my arm. Then I would throw a shawl over my head and go in the rain to speak to Father Paul. He had taught her to read and write. He is full of charity. He would shrug his shoulders and tell me to put my trust in God. It was all very well for him to talk like that. True that on your account I was the greatest person for miles around. I had the first place everywhere. But now that you made us come out here just because of your fancy to turn the child into a Contessa, all my poor senses leave my old body. For, you know, if I did beat her, being entrusted with your authority, everybody else in the village waited on a turn of her finger. She was full of pride and wilfulness then. Now since you have introduced her amongst all these grandissimi signori of whom she had only heard as one hears of angels in heaven, she seems to have lost her head with the excess of pride and obstinacy. What is one to do? The other day on account of something I said she fastened her ten fingers into my gray hair. . . .” She threw her shawl off and raised her creased eyelids. . . . “This gray hair, on the oldest head of your family, Helion. If it hadn’t been for Maria she would have left me a corpse on the floor.” The mild bearing of the old woman had a dignity of its own, but at this point it broke down and she became agitated.
“Many a time I sat up in my bed thinking half the night. I am an old woman. I can read the signs. This is a matter for priests. When I was a big girl in our village they had to exorcise a comely youth, a herdsman. I am not fit to talk of such matters. But you, Helion, could say a word or two to Father Paul.
He would know what to do ... or get the Bishop . .”
“Amazing superstition,” Count Helion exclaimed in a rasping growl. “The days of priests and devils are gone,” he went on angrily, but paused as if struck with a sudden doubt or a new idea. The old woman shook her head slightly. In the depths of her native valley all the days were alike in their hopes and fears as far back as she could remember. She did not know how she had offended her brother and emitted a sigh of resignation.
“What’s the trouble now?” Count Helion asked brusquely.
The old woman shrugged her shoulders expressively. Count Helion insisted. “There must be some cause.”
“The cause, as I am a sinner, can be no other but that young signore that came out with you and to whom you bowed so low. I didn’t know you had to bow to anybody unless perhaps to the King who has come back lately. But then a king is anointed with holy oils! I couldn’t believe my eyes. What kind of prince was that? “ She waited, screwing her eyes up at Count Helion, who looked down at her inscrutably and at last condescended to say:
“That was an Englishman.”
She moaned with astonishment and alarm. A heretic! She thought no heretic could be good-looking. Didn’t they have their wickedness written on their faces?
“No,” said Count Helion. “No man has that, and no woman, either.”
Again he paused to think. “Let us go in now,” he added.
The big room (all the rooms in that Palazzo were big unless they happened to be mere dark and airless cupboards), which they entered as quietly as if a sick per son had been lying in there at the point of death, contained amongst its gilt furniture also a few wooden stools and a dark walnut table brought down from the farmhouse for the convenience of its rustic occupants. A priest sitting in a gorgeous armchair held to the light of a common brass oil lamp an open book, the shadow of which darkened a whole corner of the vast space between the high walls decorated with rare marbles, long mirrors, and heavy hangings. A few small pieces of washing were hung out to dry on a string stretched from a window latch to the back of a chair. A common brazier stood in the fireplace and, near it, a gaunt, bony woman dressed in black with a white handkerchief on her head was stirring something in a little earthen pot. Ranged at the foot of a dais bearing a magnificent but dismantled couch of state were two small wooden bedsteads, on one of which lay the girl whom Cosmo knew only as “Clelia, my husband’s niece,” with a hand under her cheek. The other cheek was much flushed; a tangle of loose black hair covered the pillow. Whether from respect for the priest or from mere exhaustion she was keeping perfectly still under her bedclothes pulled up to her very neck so that only her head remained uncovered.
At the entrance of the Count the priest closed his book and stood up, but the woman by the mantelpiece went on stirring her pot. Count Helion returned a “Bonsoir, AbbS” to the priest’s silent bow, put down the candelabra on a console, and walked straight to the bedstead. The other three people, the gaunt woman still with her pot in her hand, approached it too but kept their distance.
The girl Clelia remained perfectly still under the downward thoughtful gaze of Count Helion. In that face half buried in the pillow one eye glittered full of tears. She refused to make the slightest sound in reply to Count Helion’s questions, orders, and remonstrances. Even his coaxings, addressed to her in the same low, harsh tone, were received in obstinate silence. Whenever he paused he could hear at his back the old woman whispering to the priest. At last even that stopped. Count Helion resisted the temptation to grab all that hair on the pillow and pull the child out of bed by it. He waited a little longer and then said in his harsh tone:
“I thought you loved*me.”
For the first time there was a movement under the blanket. But that was all. Count Helion turned his back on the bed and met three pairs of eyes fixed on him with different expressions. He avoided meeting any of them. “Perhaps if you were to leave us alone,” he said.
They obeyed in silence, but at the last moment he called the priest back and took him aside to a distant part of the room where the brass oil lamp stood on the walnut-wood table. The full physiognomy of Father Paul Carpi with its thin eyebrows and pouting mouth was overspread by a self-conscious professional placidity that seemed ready to see or hear anything without surprise. Count de Montevesso was always impressed by it. “Abbe,” he said brusquely, “you know that my sister thinks that the child is possessed. I suppose she means by a devil.”
He looked with impatience at the priest, who remained silent, and burst out in a subdued voice:
“I believe you people are hoping now to bring him back into the world again, that old friend of yours.” He waited for a moment. “Sit down, Abbe.”
Father Carpi sank into the armchair with some dignity while Count Helion snatched a three-legged stool and planted himself on it on the other side of the table. “Now, wouldn’t you?”
Something not bitter, not mocking, but as if dis- illusioned seemed to touch the lips of Father Carpi at the very moment he opened them to say quietly:
> “Only as a witness to the reign of God.”
“ Which of course would be your reign. Never mind, a man like me can be master under any reign.” He jerked his head slightly towards the bed. “Now what sort of devil would it be in that child?”
The deprecatory gesture of Father Carpi did not detract from his dignity. “I should call it dumb myself,” continued Count Helion. “We will leave it alone for a time. What hurts me often is the difficulty of getting at your thoughts, Abbe. Haven’t I been a good enough friend to you?” To this, too, Father Carpi answered by a deferential gesture and deprecatory murmur. Count Helion had restored the church, rebuilt the presbytery, and had behaved generally with great munificence. Father Carpi, sprung from shop-keeping stock in the town of Novi, had lived through times difficult for the clergy. He had been contented to exist. Now, at the age of forty or more, the downfall of the Empire, which seemed to carry with it the ruin of the impious forces of the Revolution, had awakened in him the first stirrings of ambition. Its immediate object was the chaplaincy to the Count ide Montevesso’s various charitable foundations.
There was a man, one of the great of this world, whom, without understanding him in any deeper sense or ever trying to judge his nature, he could see plainly enough to be unhappy. And that was a great point. For the unhappy are more amenable to obscure influences, religious and others. But Father Carpi was too intelligent to intrude upon the griefs of that man with the mysterious past either religious consolation or secular advice. For a long time now he had watched and waited, keeping his thoughts so secret that they seemed even hidden from himself. To the outbreaks of that rough, arrogant, contemptuous, and oppressive temper he could oppose only the gravity of his sacerdotal character as Adele did her lofty serenity, that detachment, both scornful and inaccessible, which seemed to place her on another plane.
Father Carpi had never been before confronted so directly by the difficulties of his position as at that very moment and on the occasion of that intolerable and hopeless girl. To gain time he smiled, a slight, noncommittal smile.
Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) Page 504