Sant' Ilario

by F. Marion Crawford

  CHAPTER X.

  Sant' Ilario walked home from Gouache's lodgings. The cool evening airrefreshed him and helped him to think over what he had before him inthe near future. Indeed the position was terrible enough, and doubly soto a man of his temperament. He would have faced anything rather thanthis, for there was no point in which he was more vulnerable than inhis love for Corona. As he walked her figure rose before him, and herbeauty almost dazzled him when he thought of it. But he could no longerthink of her without bringing up that other being upon whom histhoughts of vengeance concentrated themselves, until it seemed asthough the mere intention must do its object some bodily harm.

  The fall was tremendous in itself and in its effects. It must have beena great passion indeed which could make such a man demean himself tobribe an inferior for information against his wife. He himself was solittle able to measure the force by which he was swayed as to believethat he had extracted the confession from a reluctant accomplice. Hewould never have allowed that the sight of the money and the promptingof his own words could have caused the old woman to invent theperfectly imaginary story which he had seemed so fully determined tohear. He did not see that Caterina Ranucci had merely confirmed eachstatement he had made himself and had taken his bribe while laughing toherself at his folly. He was blinded by something which destroys themental vision more surely than anger or hatred, or pride, or loveitself.

  To some extent he was to be pardoned. The chain of circumstantialevidence was consecutive and so convincing that many a just personwould have accepted Corona's guilt as the only possible explanation ofwhat had happened. The discoveries he had just made would alone havesufficed to set up a case against her, and many an innocent reputationhas been shattered by less substantial proofs. Had he not found aletter, evidently written in a feigned hand and penned upon his wife'sown writing-paper, fastened upon Gouache's table with her own pin? Hadnot the old woman confessed--before he had found the note, too,--that alady had been there but a short time before? Did not these facts agreesingularly with Corona's having left him to wait for her during thatinterval in the public gardens? Above all, did not this conclusionexplain at once all those things in her conduct which had so muchdisturbed him during the past week?

  What was this story of Faustina Montevarchi's disappearance? The girlwas probably Corona's innocent accomplice. Corona had left the house atone o'clock in the morning with Gouache. The porter had not seen anyother woman. The fact that she had entered the Palazzo Montevarchi withFaustina and without Anastase proved nothing, except that she had metthe young girl somewhere else, it mattered little where. The story thatFaustina had accidentally shut herself into a room in the palace was aninvention, for even Corona admitted the fact. That Faustina's flight,however, and the other events of the night of the 22d had been arrangedmerely in order that Corona and Gouache might walk in the moonlight fora quarter of an hour, Giovanni did not believe. There was some othermystery here which was yet unsolved. Meanwhile the facts he hadcollected were enough--enough to destroy his happiness at a singleblow. And yet he loved Corona even now, and though his mind was made upclearly enough concerning Gouache, he knew that he could not part fromthe woman he adored. He thought of the grim old fortress at Saracinescawith its lofty towers and impregnable walls, and when he reflected thatthere was but one possible exit from the huge mass of buildings, hesaid to himself that Corona would be safe there for ever.

  He had the instincts of a fierce and unforgiving race of men, who forcenturies had held the law in their own hands, and were accustomed towield it as it seemed good in their own eyes. It was not very longsince the lords of Saracinesca had possessed the right of life anddeath over their vassals, [Footnote: Until 1870 the right of life anddeath was still held, so far as actual legality was concerned, by theDukes of Bracciano, and was attached to the possession of the title,which had been sold and subsequently bought back by the originalholders of it.] and the hereditary traits of character which had beenfostered by ages of power had not disappeared with the decay offeudalism. Under the circumstances which seemed imminent, it would nothave been thought unnatural if Giovanni had confined his wife duringthe remainder of her days in his castle among the mountains. The ideamay excite surprise among civilised Europeans when it is consideredthat the events of which I write occurred as recently as 1867, but itwould certainly have evoked few expressions of astonishment among thefriends of the persons concerned. To Giovanni himself it seemed theonly possible conclusion to what was happening, and the determinationto kill Gouache and imprison Corona for life appeared in his eyesneither barbarous nor impracticable.

  He did not hasten his pace as he went towards his home. There wassomething fateful in his regular step and marble face as he movedsteadily to the accomplishment of his purpose. The fury which had atfirst possessed him, and which, if he had then encountered Gouache,would certainly have produced a violent outbreak, had subsided and waslost in the certainty of his dishonour, and in the immensity of thepain he suffered. Nothing remained to be done but to tell Corona thathe knew all, and to inflict upon her the consequences of her crimewithout delay. There was absolutely no hope left that she might proveherself innocent, and in Giovanni's own breast there was no hopeeither, no hope of ever finding again his lost happiness, or of everagain setting one stone upon another of all that splendid fabric of hislife which he had built up so confidently upon the faith of the womanhe loved.

  As he reached the gates of his home he grew if possible paler thanbefore, till his face was positively ghastly to see, and his eyesseemed to sink deeper beneath his brows, while their concentrated lightgleamed more fiercely. No one saw him enter, for the porter was in hislodge, and on reaching the landing of the stairs Giovanni let himselfinto the apartments with a latch-key.

  Corona was in her dressing-room, a high vaulted chamber, somewhatsombrely furnished, but made cheerful by a fire that blazed brightly inthe deep old-fashioned chimney-piece. Candles were lighted upon thedressing-table, and a shaded lamp stood upon a low stand near a loungebeside the hearth. The princess was clad in a loose wrapper of somesoft cream-coloured material, whose folds fell gracefully to the groundas she lay upon the couch. She was resting before dressing for dinner,and the masses of her blue-black hair were loosely coiled upon her headand held together by a great Spanish comb thrust among the tresses witha careless grace. She held a book in her slender, olive-tinted hand,but she was not reading; her head lay back upon the cushions and thefirelight threw her features into strong relief, while her velvet eyesreflected the flashes of the dancing flames as she watched them. Herexpression was serene and calm. She had forgotten for the moment thelittle annoyances of the last few days and was thinking of herhappiness, contrasting the peace of her present life with what she hadsuffered during the five years of her marriage with poor oldAstrardente. Could Giovanni have seen her thus his heart might havebeen softened. He would have asked himself how it was possible that anywoman guilty of such enormous misdeeds could lie there watching thefire with a look of such calm innocence upon her face.

  But Giovanni did not see her as she was. Even in the extremity of hisanger and suffering his courtesy did not forsake him, and he knocked athis wife's door before entering the room. Corona moved from herposition, and turned her head to see who was about to enter.

  "Come in," she said.

  She started when she saw Giovanni's face. Dazzled as she was by thefire, he looked to her like a dead man. She laid one hand upon the armof the couch as though she would rise to meet him. He shut the doorbehind him and advanced towards her till only a couple of pacesseparated them. She was so much amazed by his looks that she sat quitestill while he fixed his eyes upon her and began to speak.

  "You have wrecked my life," he said in a strange, low voice. "I havecome to tell you my decision."

  She thought he was raving mad, and, brave as she was, she shrank back alittle upon her seat and turned pale.

  "You need not be afraid of me," he continued, as he noticed themovement. "I am n
ot going to kill you. I am sorry to say I am foolenough to love you still."

  "Giovanni!" cried Corona in an agonised tone. She could find no words,but sprang to her feet and threw her arms about him, gazing imploringlyinto his face. His features did not relax, for he was prepared for anysort of acting on her part. Without hurting her, but with a strengthfew men could have resisted, he forced her back to her seat, and thenretreated a step before he spoke again. She submitted blindly, feelingthat any attempt to thwart him must be utterly useless.

  "I know what you have done," he said. "You can have nothing to say. Besilent and listen to me. You have destroyed the greatest happiness theworld ever knew. You have dishonoured me and mine. You have dragged myfaith in you--God knows how great--into the mire of your infamous life.And worse than that--I could almost have forgiven that, I am sobase--you have destroyed yourself--"

  Corona uttered a wild cry and sank back upon the cushions, pressing herhands over her ears so that she might not hear the fearful words.

  "I will not listen!" she gasped. "You are mad--mad!" Then springing uponce more she again clasped him to her breast, so suddenly that hecould not escape her. "Oh, my poor Giovanni!" she moaned. "What hashappened to you? Have you been hurt? Are you dying? For Heaven's sakespeak like yourself!"

  He seized her wrists and held her before him so that she was forced tohear what he said. Even then his grasp did not hurt her. His hands werelike manacles of steel in which hers could turn though she could notwithdraw them.

  "I am hurt to death," he said, between his teeth. "I have been toGouache's rooms and have brought away your letter--and your pin--thepin I gave you, Corona. Do you understand now, or must I say more?"

  "My letter?" cried Corona in the utmost bewilderment.

  "Yes," he answered, releasing her and instantly producing the note andthe gold ornament. "Is that your paper? Is this your pin? Answer me--orno! they answer for themselves. You need say nothing, for you can havenothing to say. They are yours and you know it. If they are not enoughthere is the woman who let you in, who saw you bring them. What more doyou want?"

  As long as Giovanni's accusations had been vague and general, Coronahad remained horrorstruck, believing that some awful andincomprehensible calamity had befallen her husband and had destroyedhis reason. The moment he produced the proof of what he said, herpresence of mind returned, and she saw at a glance the true horror ofthe situation. She never doubted for a moment that she was the victimof some atrocious plot, but having something to face which she couldunderstand her great natural courage asserted itself. She was not awoman to moan and weep helplessly when there was an open danger to bemet.

  She took the letter and the pin and examined them by the light, with acalmness that contrasted oddly with her previous conduct. Giovanniwatched her. He supposed that she had acted surprise until he hadbrought forward something more conclusive than words, and that she wasnow exercising her ingenuity in order to explain the situation. His lipcurled scornfully, as he fancied he saw the meaning of her actions.After a few seconds she looked up and held out the two objects towardshim.

  "The paper is mine," she said, "but I did not write the letter. The pinis mine too. I lost it more than a month ago."

  "Of course," replied Giovanni, coldly. "I expected that you would saythat. It is very natural. But I do not ask you for any explanations. Ihave them already. I will take you to Saracinesca to-morrow morning andyou will have time to explain everything. You will have your whole lifeto use, until you die, for no other object. I told you I would not killyou."

  "Is it possible that you are in earnest?" asked Corona, her voicetrembling slightly.

  "I am in earnest. Do you think I am a man to jest over such deeds?"

  "And do you think I am a woman to do such deeds?"

  "Since you have done them--what answer can there be? Not only are youcapable of them. You are the woman who has done them. Do lifelessthings, like these, lie?"

  "No. But men do. I believe you, Giovanni. You found these things inMonsieur Gouache's rooms. You were told I put them there. Whoever toldyou so uttered the most infamous falsehood that ever was spoken onearth. The person who placed them where they were did so in the hope ofruining me. Can you look back into the past and tell me that you haveany other reason for believing in this foul plot?"

  "Reasons?" cried Giovanni, fiercely. "Do you want more reasons? We havetime. I will give you enough to satisfy you that I know all you havedone. Was not this man for ever near you last year, wherever you met,talking with you in low tones, showing by every movement and gesturethat he distinguished you with his base love? Were you not together ina corner last Tuesday night just as the insurrection broke out? Did henot kiss your hand when you both thought no one was looking?"

  "He kissed my hand before every one," replied Corona, whose wrath wasslowly gathering as she saw her husband's determination to prove herguilty.

  "There were people in the room," continued Giovanni in a tone ofconcentrated anger, "but you thought no one was watching you--I couldsee it in your manner and in your eyes. That same night I came home atone o'clock and you were out. You had gone out alone with that man,expecting that I would not return so soon--though it was late enough,too. You were forced to admit that you were with him, because theporter had seen you and had told me the man was a Zouave."

  "I will tell you the story, since you no longer trust me," said Corona,proudly.

  "I have no doubt you will tell me some very ingenious tale which willexplain why, although you left my house alone, with Gouache, youreached the Palazzo Montevarchi alone with Faustina. But I have notdone. He came here the next day. You treated him with unexampledrudeness before me. Half an hour later I found you together in thedrawing-room. He was kissing your hand again. You were saying youforgave him and giving him that favourite benediction of yours, whichyou once bestowed upon me under very similar circumstances. Astrardentewas alive and present at that dance in Casa Frangipani. You have me fora husband now and you have found another man whose heart will beat whenyou bless him. It would be almost better to kill you after all."

  "Have you finished?" asked Corona, white with anger.

  "Yes. That letter and that pin--left while I, poor fool, was waitingfor you this afternoon on the Pincio--those things are my last words.They close the tale very appropriately. I wish I did not love you so--Iwould not wait for your answer."

  "Do you dare to say you love me?"

  "Yes--though there is no other man alive who would dare so much, whowould dare to love such a woman as you are--for very shame."

  "And I tell you," answered Corona in ringing tones, "that, although Ican prove to you that every word you say against me is an abominablecalumny, so that you shall see how basely you have insulted an innocentwoman, yet I shall never love you again--never, never. A man who canbelieve such things, who can speak such things, is worthy of no woman'slove and shall not have mine. And yet you shall hear me tell the truth,that you may know what you have done. You say I have wrecked your lifeand destroyed your happiness. You have done it for yourself. As thereis a God in Heaven--"

  "Do not blaspheme," said Giovanni, contemptuously. "I will hear yourstory."

  "Before God, this thing is a lie!" cried Corona, standing at her fullheight, her eyes flashing with just indignation. Then lowering hervoice, she continued speaking rapidly but distinctly. "Gouache lovesFaustina, and she loves him. When he left this house that night shefollowed him out into the street. She reached the Serristori barracksand was stunned by the explosion. Gouache found her there many hourslater. When you saw us together a little earlier he was telling me heloved her. He is a man of honour. He saw that the only way to save hergood name was to bring her here and let me take her home. He sent me aword by the porter, while she waited in the shadow. I ran down andfound her there. We purposely prevented the porter from seeing her. Itook her to her father's house, and sent Gouache away, for I was angrywith him. I believed he had led an innocent girl into followinghim--that it was a p
re-arranged meeting and that she had gone notrealising that there was a revolution. I invented the story of herhaving lost herself here, in order to shield her. The next day Gouachecame. I would not speak to him and went to my room. The servants toldme he was gone, but as I was coming back to you I met him. He stoppedme and made me believe what is quite true, for Faustina hasacknowledged it. She followed him of her own accord, and he had no ideathat she was not safe at home. I forgave him. He said he was going tothe frontier and asked me to give him a blessing. It was a foolishidea, perhaps, but I did as he wished. If you had come forward like aman instead of listening we would have told you all. But you suspectedme even then. I do not know who told you that I had been to his lodgingto-day. The carriage was stopped by a crowd in the Tritone, and Ireached the Pincio after you had gone. As for the pin, I lost it amonth ago. Gouache may have found it, or it may have been picked up andsold, and he may have chanced to buy it. I never wrote the letter. Thepaper was either taken from this house or was got from the stationerwho stamps it for us. Faustina may have taken it--she may have beenhere when I was out--it is not her handwriting. I believe it is anabominable plot. But it is as transparent as water. Take the pin andwear it. See Gouache when you have it. He will ask you where you gotit, for he has not the slightest idea that it is mine. Are yousatisfied? I have told you all. Do you see what you have done, insuspecting me, in accusing me, in treating me like the last of women? Ihave done. What have you to say?"

  "That you have told a very improbable story," replied Giovanni. "Youhave sunk lower than before, for you have cast a slur upon an innocentgirl in order to shield yourself. I would not have believed you capableof that. You can no more prove your innocence than you can prove thatthis poor child was mad enough to follow Gouache into the street lastTuesday night. I have listened to you patiently. I have but one thingmore to do and then there will be nothing left for me but patience. Youwill send for your servants, and order your effects to be packed forthe journey to Saracinesca. If it suits your convenience we will startat eleven o'clock, as I shall be occupied until then. I advise you notto see my father."

  Corona stood quite still while he spoke. She could not realise that hepaid no attention whatever to her story, save to despise her the morefor having implicated Faustina. It was inconceivable to her that allthe circumstances should not now be as clear to him as they were toherself. From the state of absolute innocence she could not transferherself in a moment to the comprehension of all he had suffered, all hehad thought, and all he had recalled before accusing her. Even had thatbeen possible, her story seemed to her to give a perfectly satisfactoryexplanation of all his suspicions. She was wounded, indeed, so deeplythat she knew she could never recover herself entirely, but it did notstrike her as possible that all she had said should produce no effectat all. And yet she knew his look and his ways, and recognised in thetone of his voice the expression of a determination which it would behard indeed to change. He still believed her guilty, and he was goingto take her away to the dismal loneliness of the mountains for anindefinite time, perhaps for ever. She had not a relation in the worldto whom she could appeal. Her mother had died in her infancy; herfather, for whom she sacrificed herself in marrying the rich old Dukeof Astrardente, was dead long ago. She could turn to no one, unless itwere to Prince Saracinesca himself--and Giovanni warned her not to goto his father. She stood for some moments looking fixedly at him asthough trying to read his thoughts, and he returned her gaze withunflinching sternness. The position was desperate. In a few hours shewould be where there would be no possibility of defence or argument,and she knew the man's character well enough to be sure that whereproof failed entreaty would be worse than useless. At last she camenear to him and almost gently laid her hand upon his arm.

  "Giovanni," she said, quietly, "I have loved you very tenderly and verytruly. I swear to you upon our child that I am wholly innocent. Willyou not believe me?"

  "No," he answered, and the little word fell from his lips like the blowof 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 thetruth? Will you not let me write--or write yourself to those two, andask them to come here and tell you their story? It is much to ask ofthem, but it is life or death to me and they will not refuse. Will younot 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 cushionedstool there, over which hung a beautiful crucifix. Corona knelt down,as though not heeding her husband's presence, and buried her face inher hands.

  Giovanni stood motionless in the middle of the room. His eyes hadfollowed his wife's movements and he watched her in silence for a shorttime. Convinced, as he was, of her guilt, he believed she was acting apart, and that her kneeling down was merely intended to produce atheatrical effect. The accent of truth in her words made no impressionwhatever upon him, and her actions seemed to him too graceful to benatural, too dignified for a woman who was not trying all the time tomake the best of her appearance. The story she had told coincided tooprecisely, if possible, with the doings of which he had accused her,while it failed in his judgment to explain the motives of what she haddone. He said to himself that he, in her place, would have toldeverything on that first occasion when she had come home and had foundhim waiting for her. He forgot, or did not realise, that she had beentaken unawares, when she expected to find time to consider her course,and had been forced to make up her mind suddenly. Almost any otherwoman would have told the whole adventure at once; any woman lesswholly innocent of harm would have seen the risk she incurred by askingher husband's indulgence for her silence. He was persuaded that she hadplayed upon his confidence in her and had reckoned upon his belief inher sincerity in order to be bold with half the truth. Suspicion andjealousy had made him so ingenious that he imputed to her a tortuouspolicy of deception, of which she was altogether incapable.

  Corona did not kneel long. She had no intention of making use of theappearance of prayer in order to affect Giovanni's decision, nor inorder to induce him to leave her alone. He would, indeed, have quittedthe room had she remained upon her knees a few moments longer, but whenshe rose and faced him once more he was still standing as she had lefthim, his eyes fixed upon her and his arms folded upon his breast. Hethought she was going to renew her defence, but he was mistaken. Shecame and stood before him, so that a little distance separated him fromher, 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 shallnot often talk together in future. You will remember some day what Itell you. I am an innocent and defenceless woman. I have no relation towhom I can appeal. You have forbidden me to write to those who couldprove me guiltless. For the sake of our child--for the sake of the loveI have borne you--I will make no attempt at resistance. The world shallnot know that you have even doubted me, the mother of your son, thewoman who has loved you. The time will come when you will ask myforgiveness for your deeds. I tell you frankly that I shall never becapable 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 themeans of sparing you some disappointment. I only ask two things of yourcourtesy--that you will inform me of what you mean to do with ourchild, and that you will then be good enough to leave me alone for alittle while."

  An evil thought crossed Giovanni's mind. He knew how Corona wouldsuffer if she were not allowed either to see little Orsino or to knowwhat became of him while she was living her solitary life ofconfinement in the mountains. The diabolical cruelty of the ideafascinated him for a moment, and he looked coldly into her eyes asthough 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 lookedat her beautiful white face and serious eyes, he
wavered. He loved herstill and would have loved her, had the proofs against her been tenfoldmore convincing than they were. With him his love was a passion apartand by itself. It had been strengthened and made beautiful by thedevotion and tenderness and faith which had grown up with it, and hadsurrounded it as with a wall. But though all these things were sweptaway the passion itself remained, fierce, indomitable and soul-stirringin its power. It stood alone, like the impregnable keep of a war-wornfortress, beneath whose shadow the outworks and ramparts have beenrazed to the ground, and whose own lofty walls are battered and dintedby engines of war, shorn of all beauty and of all its statelysurroundings, but stern and unshaken yet, grim, massive and solitary.

  For an instant Giovanni wavered, unable to struggle against thatmysterious power which still governed him and forced him to acknowledgeits influence. The effort of resisting the temptation to be abominablycruel carried him back from his main purpose, and produced a suddenrevulsion of feeling wholly incomprehensible to himself.

  "Corona!" he cried, in a voice breaking with emotion. He threw out hisarms wildly and sprang towards her. She thrust him back with a strengthof which he would not have believed her capable. Bitter words rose toher lips, but she forced them back and was silent, though her eyesblazed with an anger she had never felt before. For some time neitherspoke. Corona stood erect and watchful, one hand resting upon the backof a chair. Giovanni walked to the end of the room, and then came backand looked steadily into her face. Several seconds elapsed before hecould speak, and his face was very white.

  "You may keep the child," he said at last, in an unsteady tone. Thenwithout another word he left the room and softly closed the door behindhim.

  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 herdeep eyes, till they looked dull and glassy. She tottered, lost herhold 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. Theprince sat at his writing-table, a heap of dusty parchments and paperspiled before him. He was untying the rotten strings with which theywere fastened, peering through his glasses at the headings writtenacross the various documents. He did not unfold them, but laid themcarefully in order upon the table. When San Giacinto had gone away, theold gentleman had nothing to do for an hour or more before dinner. Hehad accordingly opened a solid old closet in the library which servedas a sort of muniment room for the family archives, and had withdrawn acertain box in which he knew that the deeds concerning the cession oftitle were to be found. He did not intend to look them over thisevening, but was merely arranging them for examination on the morrow.He looked up as Giovanni entered, and started from his chair when hesaw his son's face.

  "Good heavens! Giovannino! what has happened?" he cried, in greatanxiety.

  "I came to tell you that Corona and I are going to Saracinescato-morrow," answered Sant' Ilario, in a low voice.

  "What? At this time of year? Besides, you cannot get there. The road isfull 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 anindifferent 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 ingetting there. Half of this war is mere talk."

  "And the other half consists largely of stray bullets," observed theprince, eyeing his son suspiciously from under his shaggy brows. "Youwill allow me to say, Giovanni, that for thoughtless folly you haverarely 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 areill?"

  "Yes--she consents. We shall take the child."

  "Orsino? You are certainly out of your mind. It is bad enough to take adelicate woman--"

  "Corona is far from delicate. She is very strong and able to bearanything."

  "Don't interrupt me. I tell you she is a woman, and so of course shemust 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 takecare of him, I am. He shall not go. I will not permit it. You aretalking nonsense. Go and dress for dinner, or send for the doctor--inshort, 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 thedoor. 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 tillshe can see me."

  "I do not think she will see you this evening. She will be busy ingetting 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 onhis head, and his black eyes flashed. With a quick movement he seizedGiovanni'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. Imean to know!"

  "You will not know from me," replied Sant' Ilario, keeping his temperas 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 Giovannistopped 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 soughtthe interview so soon, but he had forgotten that the old prince wouldcertainly 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 thedoctor--Corona is not really well--he advises us to go to themountains--"

  "Giovanni," broke in the old man roughly, "you never lied to me, butyou are lying now. There has been trouble between you two, though Icannot imagine what has caused it."

  "Pray do not ask me, then. I am doing what I think best--what you wouldthink best if you knew all. I came to tell you that we were going, andI did not suppose you would have anything to say. Since you do not likethe idea--well, I am sorry--but I entreat you not to ask questions. Letus go in peace."

  Saracinesca looked fixedly at his son for some minutes. Then the angerfaded from his face, and his expression grew very grave. He lovedGiovanni exceedingly, and he loved Corona for his sake more than forher own, though he admired her and delighted in her conversation. Itwas certain that if there were a quarrel between husband and wife, andif Giovanni had the smallest show of right on his side, the old man'ssympathies would be with him.

  Giovanni's sense of honour, on the other hand, prevented him fromtelling his father what had happened. He did not choose that even hisnearest relation should think of Corona as he thought himself, and hewould have taken any step to conceal her guilt. Unfortunately for hispurpose he was a very truthful man, and had no experience of lying, sothat his father detected him at once. Moreover, his pale face andagitated manner told plainly enough that something very serious hadoccurred, and so soon as the old prince had convinced himself of thishis goodwill was enlisted on the side of his son.

  "Giovannino," he said at last very gently, "I do not want to pry intoyour 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 follywhich your wife could really resent. If you should be unfaithful toher, I would d
isown you. If, on the other hand, she has deceived you, Iwill 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 amdoing 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 hishand on his shoulder, "you must do as you think best. Go to Saracinescaif 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 hisfather's broad, brown hand.

  "Thank you," he said. "Good-bye. I will come down and see you in a fewdays. Good-bye!"

  His voice trembled and he hurriedly left the room. The prince stoodstill a moment and then threw himself into a deep chair, staring at thelamp and biting his gray moustache savagely, as though to hide somealmost uncontrollable emotion. There was a slight moisture in his eyesas they looked steadily at the bright lamp.

  The papers and parchments lay unheeded on the table, and he did nottouch them again that night. He was thinking, not of his lonely old agenor of the dishonour brought upon his house, but of the boy he hadloved as his own soul for more than thirty years, and of a swarthylittle child that lay asleep in a distant room, the warm blood tingingits olive cheeks and its little clinched hands thrown back above itshead.

  For Corona he had no thought but hatred. He had guessed Giovanni'ssecret too well, and his heart was hardened against the woman who hadbrought shame and suffering upon his son.