Sant' Ilario

by F. Marion Crawford

  CHAPTER XIV.

  On the Saturday afternoon preceding the battle of Mentana, Sant' Ilariowas alone in his own room, trying to pass the weary hours in thecalculation of certain improvements he meditated at Saracinesca. He hadgrown very thin and careworn during the week, and he found it hard todistract his mind even for a moment from the thought of hismisfortunes. Nothing but a strong mental effort in another directioncould any longer fix his attention, and though any kind of work was forthe present distasteful to him, it was at least a temporary relief fromthe contemplation of his misfortunes.

  He could not bring himself to see Corona, though she grew daily worse,and both the physicians and the attendants who were about her lookedgrave. His action in this respect did not proceed from heartlessness,still less from any wish to add to her sufferings; on the contrary, heknew very well that, since he could not speak to her with words offorgiveness, the sight of him would very likely aggravate her state. Hehad no reason to forgive her, for nothing had happened to make herguilt seem more pardonable than before. Had she been well and strong asusual he would have seen her often and would very likely havereproached her again and again most bitterly with what she had done.But she was ill and wholly unable to defend herself; to inflict freshpain at such a time would have been mean and cowardly. He kept away anddid his best not to go mad, though he felt that he could not bear thestrain much longer.

  As the afternoon light faded from his chamber he dropped the pencil andpaper with which he had been working and leaned back in his chair. Hisface was haggard and drawn, and sleepless nights had made dark circlesabout his deep-set eyes, while his face, which was naturally lean, hadgrown suddenly thin and hollow. He was indeed one of the most unhappymen in Rome that day, and so far as he could see his misery had fallenupon him through no fault of his own. It would have been a blessedrelief, could he have accused himself of injustice, or of any misdeedwhich might throw the weight and responsibility of Corona's actionsback upon his own soul. He loved her still so well that he could haveimagined nothing sweeter than to throw himself at her feet and cryaloud that it was he who had sinned and not she. He tortured hisimagination for a means of proving that she might be innocent. But itwas in vain. The chain of circumstantial evidence was complete and nota link was missing, not one point uncertain. He would have given herthe advantage of any doubt which could be thought to exist, but thelonger he thought of it all, the more sure he grew that there was nodoubt whatever.

  He sat quite still until it was nearly dark, and then with a sudden andangry movement quite unlike him, he sprang to his feet and left theroom. Solitude was growing unbearable to him, and though he caredlittle to see any of his associates, the mere presence of other livingbeings would, he thought, be better than nothing. He was about to goout of the house when he met the doctor coming from Corona's apartments.

  "I do not wish to cause you unnecessary pain," said the physician, "butI think it would be better that you should see the princess."

  "Has she asked for me?" inquired Giovanni, gloomily.

  "No. But I think you ought to see her."

  "Is she dying?" Sant' Ilario spoke under his breath, and laid his handon the doctor's arm.

  "Pray be calm, Signor Principe. I did not say that. But I repeat--"

  "Be good enough to say what you mean without repetition," answeredGiovanni almost savagely.

  The physician's face flushed with annoyance, but as Giovanni was such avery high and mighty personage he controlled his anger and replied ascalmly as he could.

  "The princess is not dying. But she is very ill. She may be worsebefore morning. You had better see her now, for she will know you.Later she may not."

  Without waiting for more Giovanni turned on his heel and strode towardshis wife's room. Passing through an outer chamber he saw one of herwomen sitting in a corner and shedding copious tears.

  She looked up and pointed to the door in a helpless fashion. In anothermoment Giovanni was at Corona's bedside.

  He would not have recognised her. Her face was wasted and white, andlooked ghastly by contrast with the masses of her black hair which werespread over the broad pillow. Her colourless lips were parted and alittle drawn, and her breath came faintly. Only her eyes retained theexpression of life, seeming larger and more brilliant than he had everseen them before.

  Giovanni gazed on her in horror for several seconds. In his imaginationhe had supposed that she would look as when he had seen her last, andthe shock of seeing her as she was, unstrung his nerves. For an instanthe forgot everything that was past in the one strong passion thatdominated him in spite of himself. His arms went round her and amidsthis blinding tears he showered hot kisses on her death-like face. Witha supreme effort, for she was so weak as to be almost powerless, sheclasped her hands about his neck and pressed her to him, or he pressedher. The embrace lasted but a moment and her arms fell again like lead.

  "You know the truth at last, Giovanni," she said, feebly. "You knowthat I am innocent or you would not--"

  He did not know whether her voice failed her from weakness, or whethershe was hesitating. He felt as though she had driven a sharp weaponinto his breast by recalling all that separated them. He drew back alittle, and his face darkened.

  What could he do? She was dying and it would be diabolically cruel toundeceive her. In that moment he would have given his soul to be ableto lie, to put on again the expression that was in his face when he hadkissed her a moment before. But the suffering of which she reminded himwas too great, the sin too enormous, and though he tried bravely hecould not succeed. But he made the effort. He tried to smile, and theattempt was horrible. He spoke, but there was no life in his words.

  "Yes, dear," he said, though the words choked him like hot dust, "Iknow it was all a mistake. How can I ever ask your forgiveness?"

  Corona saw that it was not the truth, and with a despairing cry sheturned away and hid her face in the pillow. Giovanni felt an icy chillof horror descending to his heart. A more terrible moment couldscarcely be imagined. There he stood beside his dying wife, theconviction of her sin burnt in upon his heart, but loving her fiercelystill, willing in that supreme crisis to make her think she wasforgiven, striving to tell the kind lie that nevertheless would not betold, powerless to deceive her who had so horribly betrayed him.

  Once more he bent over her and laid his hand on hers. The touch of herwasted fingers brought the tears to his eyes again, but the moment ofpassion was past. He bent down and would have comforted her had heknown how, but not a word would form itself upon his lips. Her face wasturned away and he could see that she was determined not to look athim. Only now and then a passionate sob shook her and made her tremble,like a thing of little weight shaken by the wind.

  Giovanni could bear it no longer. Once more he kissed her heavy hairand then quickly went out, he knew not whither. When he realised whathe was doing he found himself leaning against a damp wall in thestreet. He pulled himself together and walked away at a brisk pace,trying to find some relief in rapid motion. He never knew how far hewalked that night, haunted by the presence of Corona's deathly face andby the sound of that despairing cry which he had no power to check. Hewent on and on, challenged from time to time by the sentinels to whomhe mechanically showed his pass. Striding up hill and down through thehighways and through the least frequented streets of the city, it wasall the same to him in his misery, and he had no consciousness of whathe saw or heard. At eight o'clock in the evening he was opposite SaintPeter's; at midnight he was standing alone at the desolate cross-roadsbefore Santa Croce in Gerusalemme, beyond the Lateran, and only justwithin the walls. From place to place he wandered, feeling no fatigue,but only a burning fever in his head and an icy chill in his heart.Sometimes he would walk up and down some broad square twenty or thirtytimes; then again he followed a long thoroughfare throughout its wholelength, and retraced his steps without seeing that he passed twicethrough the same street.

  At last he found himself in a great crowd of people. Had he rea
lisedthat it was nearly three o'clock in the morning the presence of such aconcourse would have astonished him. But if he was not actually ill andout of his mind, he was at all events in such a confused state that hedid not even ask himself what was the meaning of the demonstration.

  The tramp of marching troops recalled the thought of Gouache, andsuddenly he understood what was happening. The soldiers were leavingRome to attack the Garibaldians, and he was near one of the gates. Bythe light of flaring torches he recognised at some distance the hideousarchitecture of the Porta Pia. He caught sight of the Zouave uniformunder the glare and pressed forward instinctively, trying to see thefaces of the men. But the crowd was closely packed and he could notobtain a view, try as he might, and the darkness was so thick that thetorches only made the air darker around them.

  He listened to the tramp of feet and the ring of steel arms andaccoutrements like a man in an evil dream. Instead of passing quickly,the time now seemed interminable, for he was unable to move, and thefeeling that among those thousands of moving soldiers there was perhapsthat one man for whose blood he thirsted, was intolerable. At last thetramping died away in the distance and the crowd loosened itself andbegan to break up. Giovanni was carried with the stream, and once moreit became indifferent to him whither he went. All at once he was awareof a very tall man who walked beside him, a man so large that he lookedup, sure that the giant could be none but his cousin San Giacinto.

  "Are you here, too?" asked the latter in a friendly voice, as herecognised Giovanni by the light of a lamp, under which they werepassing.

  "I came to see them off," replied Sant' Ilario, coldly. It seemed tohim as though his companion must have followed him.

  "So did I," said San Giacinto. "I heard the news late last night, andonly lay down for an hour or two."

  "What time is it?" asked Giovanni, who supposed it was about midnight.

  "Five o'clock. It will be daylight, or dawn at least, in an hour."

  Giovanni was silent, wondering absently where he had been all night.For some time the two walked on without speaking.

  "You had better come and have coffee with me," said San Giacinto asthey passed through the Piazza Barbarini. "I made my man get up so thatI might have some as soon as I got home."

  Giovanni assented. The presence of some one with whom he could speakmade him realise that he was almost exhausted for want of food. It wasmorning, and he had eaten nothing since the preceding midday, andlittle enough then. In a few minutes they reached San Giacinto'slodging. There was a lamp burning brightly on the table of thesitting-room, and a little fire was smouldering on the hearth. Giovannisank into a chair, worn out with hunger and fatigue, while the servantbrought the coffee and set it on the table.

  "You look tired," remarked San Giacinto. "One lump or two?"

  Giovanni drank the beverage without tasting it, but it revived him, andthe warmth of the room comforted his chilled and tired limbs. He didnot notice that San Giacinto was looking hard at him, wondering indeedwhat could have produced so strange an alteration in his appearance andmanner.

  "How is the princess?" asked the big man in a tone of sympathy as heslowly stirred the sugar in his coffee.

  "Thank you--she is very well," answered Giovanni, mechanically. In hismind the secret which he must conceal was so closely connected withCorona's illness that he almost unconsciously included her state amongthe things of which he would not speak. But San Giacinto looked sharplyat him, wondering what he meant.

  "Indeed? I thought she was very ill."

  "So she is," replied Sant' Ilario, bluntly. "I forgot--I do not knowwhat I was thinking of. I fear she is in a very dangerous condition."

  He was silent again, and sat leaning upon the table absently looking atthe objects that lay before him, an open portfolio and writingmaterials, a bit of sealingwax, a small dictionary, neatly laid inorder upon the dark red cloth. He did not know why he had allowedhimself to be led to the place, but he felt a sense of rest in sittingthere quietly in silence. San Giacinto saw that there was somethingwrong and said nothing, but lighted a black cigar and smokedthoughtfully.

  "You look as though you had been up all night," he remarked after along pause.

  Giovanni did not answer. His eyes did not look up from the redblotting-paper in the open portfolio before him. As he looked down SanGiacinto almost believed he was asleep, and shook the table a little tosee whether his cousin would notice it. Instantly Giovanni laid hishand upon the writing book, to steady it before him. But still he didnot look up.

  "You seem to be interested," said San Giacinto, with a smile, and heblew a cloud of smoke into the air.

  Giovanni was indeed completely absorbed in his studies, and only noddedhis head in answer. After a few minutes more he rose and took theportfolio to a dingy mirror that stood over the chimney-piece of thelodging, and held up the sheet of red blotting-paper before thereflecting surface. Apparently not satisfied with this, he brought thelamp and set it upon the shelf, and then repeated the process.

  "You are an infernal scoundrel," he said in a low voice, that trembledwith wrath, as he turned and faced San Giacinto.

  "What do you mean?" inquired the latter with a calmness that would havestaggered a less angry man.

  Giovanni drew from his pocket-book the note he had found in Gouache'sroom. For a week he had kept it about him. Without paying any furtherattention to San Giacinto he held it in one hand and again placed theblotting-paper in front of the mirror. The impression of the writingcorresponded exactly with the original. As it consisted of but a veryfew words and had been written quickly, almost every stroke had beenreproduced upon the red paper in a reversed facsimile. Giovanni broughtthe two and held them before San Giacinto's eyes. The latter lookedsurprised but did not betray the slightest fear.

  "Do you mean to tell me that you did not write this note?" askedGiovanni, savagely.

  "Of course I wrote it," replied the other coolly.

  Giovanni's teeth chattered with rage. He dropped the portfolio and theletter and seized his cousin by the throat, burying his fingers in thetough flesh with the ferocity of a wild animal. He was very strong andactive and had fallen upon his adversary unawares, so that he had anadditional advantage. But for all that he was no match for his cousin'sgiant strength. San Giacinto sprang to his feet and his great handstook hold of Giovanni's arms above the elbow, lifting him from theground and shaking him in the air as easily as a cat worries a mouse.Then he thrust him into his chair again and stood holding him so thathe could not move.

  "I do not want to hurt you," he said, "but I do not like to be attackedin this way. If you try it again I will break some of your bones."

  Giovanni was so much astonished at finding himself so easilyovermatched that he was silent for a moment. The ex-innkeeperrelinquished his hold and picked up his cigar, which had fallen in thestruggle.

  "I do not propose to wrestle with you for a match," said Giovanni atlast. "You are stronger than I, but there are other weapons than thoseof brute strength. I repeat that you are an infernal scoundrel."

  "You may repeat it as often as you please," replied San Giacinto, whohad recovered his composure with, marvellous rapidity. "It does nothurt me at all."

  "Then you are a contemptible coward," cried Giovanni, hotly.

  "That is not true," said the other. "I never ran away in my life.Perhaps I have not much reason to avoid a fight," he added, lookingdown at his huge limbs with a smile.

  Giovanni did not know what to do. He had never had a quarrel with a manwho was able to break his neck, but who would not fight like agentleman. He grew calmer, and could have laughed at the situation hadit been brought about by any other cause.

  "Look here, cousin," said San Giacinto, suddenly and in a familiartone, "I am as good a gentleman as you, though I have kept an inn. Ifit is the custom here to play with swords and such toys I will take afew lessons and we will have it out. But I confess that I would like toknow why you are so outrageously angry. How did you come by thatletter?
It was never meant for you, nor for any of yours. I pinned itupon Gouache's dressing-table with a pin I found there. I took thepaper from your wife's table a week ago yesterday. If you want to knowall about it I will tell you."

  "And whom did you intend for the author of the letter? Whom but mywife?"

  "Your wife!" cried San Giacinto in genuine astonishment. "You are outof your mind. Gouache was to meet Faustina Montevarchi on Sundaymorning at a church, and I invented the note to prevent the meeting,and put it on his table during the previous afternoon. I am going tomarry Donna Flavia, and I do not mean to allow a beggarly Zouave tomake love to my future sister-in-law. Since you took the note they musthave met after all. I wish you had left it alone."

  Giovanni sank into a chair before the table and buried his face in hishands. San Giacinto stood looking at him in silence, beginning tocomprehend what had happened, and really distressed that hiscomparatively harmless stratagem should have caused so much trouble. Helooked at things from a lower point of view than Giovanni, but he was avery human man, after all. It was hard for him to believe that hiscousin could have really suspected Corona of loving Gouache; butGiovanni's behaviour left no other explanation. On the other hand, hefelt that whatever might be thought of his own part in the affair, itwas Giovanni's own fault that things had turned out as they had, seeingthat he had been guilty of a very serious indiscretion in enteringGouache's rooms unbidden and in reading what was meant for the Zouave.

  Giovanni rose and his face was pale again, but the expression hadutterly changed in the course of a few seconds. He suffered horribly,but with a pain more easy to bear than that which had tortured himduring the past week. Corona was innocent, and he knew it. Every wordshe had spoken a week ago, when he had accused her, rang again in hisears, and as though by magic the truth of her statement was now asclear as the day. He could never forgive himself for having doubtedher. He did not know whether he could ever atone for the agony he musthave caused her. But it was a thousand times better that he should livelong years of bitter self-reproach, than that the woman he so lovedshould have fallen. He forgot San Giacinto and the petty scheme whichhad brought about such dire consequences. He forgot his anger of amoment ago in the supreme joy of knowing that Corona had not sinned,and in the bitter contrition for having so terribly wronged her. If hefelt anything towards San Giacinto it was gratitude, but he stoodspeechless under his great emotion, not even thinking what he shouldsay.

  "If you doubt the truth of my explanation," said San Giacinto, "go tothe Palazzo Montevarchi. Opposite the entrance you will see some queerthings painted on the wall. There are Gouache's initials scrawled ahundred times, and the words 'Sunday' and 'Mass' very conspicuous. Asimple way, too, would be to ask him whether he did not actually meetFaustina last Sunday morning. When a man advertises his meetings withhis lady-love on the walls of the city, no one can be blamed forreading the advertisement."

  He laughed at the conceit and at his own astuteness; but Giovanniscarcely heeded him or his words.

  "Good-bye," said the latter, holding out his hand.

  "You do not want to fight any more, then?" asked San Giacinto.

  "Not unless you do. Good-bye."

  Without another word he left the room and descended into the street.The cold gray dawn was over everything and the air was raw and chilly.There is nothing more dismal than early dawn in a drizzling rain when aman has been up all night, but Giovanni was unconscious of anydiscomfort, and there were wings under his feet as he hastened homewardalong the slippery pavements.

  The pallor in his face had given way to a slight flush that gave colourand animation to his cheeks, and though his eyes were bright theirexpression was more natural than it had been for many days. He was inone of the strangest humours which can have sway over thatunconsciously humorous animal, man. In the midst of the deepestself-abasement his heart was overflowing with joy. The combination ofsorrow and happiness is a rare one, not found every day, but thecondition of experiencing both at the same time and in the highestdegree is very possible.

  Giovanni, indeed, could not feel otherwise than he did. Had hesuspected Corona and accused her on grounds wholly frivolous anduntenable, in the unreasoning outbreak of a foolish jealousy, he couldnot have been so persuaded of her guilt as to feel the keenest joy onfinding her innocent. In that case his remorse would have outweighedhis satisfaction. Had he, on the other hand, suspected her withoutmaking the accusation, he would have been happy on discovering hismistake, but could have felt little or no remorse. As it was, he hadaccused her upon evidence which most tribunals would have thoughtsufficient for a conviction, and on seeing all doubt cleared away herealised with terrible force the extent of the pain he had inflicted.While he had still believed that she had fallen, he had still so lovedher as to wish that he could take the burden of her guilt upon his ownshoulders. Now that her innocence was proved beyond all doubt, he hadno thought but to ask her forgiveness.

  He let himself in with a latch-key and ran up the dim stairs. A secondkey opened the polished door into the dark vestibule, and in a momentmore he was in the ante-chamber of Corona's apartment. Two or threewomen, pale with watching, were standing round a table, upon whichsomething was heating over a spirit lamp. Giovanni stopped and spoke tothem.

  "How is she?" he asked, his voice unsteady with anxiety.

  The women shook their heads, and one of them began to cry. They lovedtheir mistress dearly and had little hope of her recovery. They hadbeen amazed, too, at Giovanni's apparent indifference during the wholeweek, and seemed surprised when he went towards the door. One motionedto him to make no noise. He turned the latch very gently and advancedinto the darkened chamber.

  Corona was lying as he had seen her on the previous evening, and thereseemed to be little or no change in her state. Her eyes were closed andher breathing was scarcely perceptible. A nurse was nodding in a chairnear the night light and looked up as Giovanni entered. He pointed tothe door and she went out. All was so exactly as it had been twelvehours earlier that he could hardly realise the immense change that hadtaken place in his own heart during the interval. He stood looking athis wife, scarcely breathing for fear of disturbing her and yet wishingthat she might wake to hear what he had to say. But she did not movenor show any signs of consciousness. Her delicate, thin hand lay uponthe coverlet. He stooped down very slowly and cautiously, and kissedthe wasted fingers. Then he drew back quickly and noiselessly as thoughhe had done something wrong. He thought she must be asleep, and satdown in the chair the nurse had vacated. The stillness was profound.The little night light burned steadily without flickering and castqueer long shadows from the floor upwards over the huge tapestries uponthe wall. The quaint figures of heroes and saints, that had seen many aSaracinesca born and many a one die in the ancient vaulted room, seemedto take the expressions of old friends watching over the sufferingwoman. A faint odour like that of ether pervaded the still air, anodour Giovanni never forgot during his life. Everything was sointensely quiet that he almost thought he could hear the ticking of hiswatch in his pocket.

  Corona stirred at last, and slowly opening her eyes, turned themgradually till they met her husband's gaze. At the first movement shemade he had risen to his feet and now stood close beside her.

  "Did you kiss my hand--or did I dream it?" she asked faintly.

  "Yes, darling." He could not at once find words to say what he wanted.

  "Why did you?"

  Giovanni fell on his knees by the bedside and took her hand in both hisown.

  "Corona, Corona--forgive me!" The cry came from his heart, and wasuttered with an accent of despair that there was no mistaking. Sheknew, faint and scarcely conscious though she was, that he was notattempting to deceive her this time. But he could say no more. Many astrong man would in that moment have sobbed aloud and shed tears, butGiovanni was not as other men. Under great emotion all expression washard for him, and the spontaneity of tears would have contradicted hisnature.

  Corona wondered what had happened
, and lay quite still, looking at hisbent head and feeling the trembling touch of his hands on hers. Forseveral seconds the stillness was almost as profound as it had beenbefore. Then Giovanni spoke out slowly and earnestly.

  "My beloved wife," he said, looking up into her face, "I know all thetruth now. I know what I have done. I know what you have suffered.Forgive me if you can. I will give my whole life to deserve yourpardon."

  For an instant all Corona's beauty returned to her face as she heardhis words. Her eyes shone softly, the colour mounted to her palecheeks, and she breathed one happy sigh of relief and gladness. Herfingers contracted and closed round his with a tender pressure.

  "It is true," she said, scarcely audibly. "You are not trying todeceive me in order to keep me alive?"

  "It is true, darling," he answered. "San Giacinto wrote the letter. Itwas not even meant to seem to come from you. Oh, Corona--can you everforgive me?"

  She turned so as to see him better, and looked long into his eyes. Thecolour slowly faded again from her face, and her expression changed,growing suddenly sad.

  "I will forgive you. I will try to forget it all, Giovanni. You shouldhave believed me, for I have never lied to you. It will be long beforeI am strong again, and I shall have much time to think of it."

  Giovanni rose to his feet, still clasping her hand. Something told himthat she was not a woman who could either forgive or forget such aninjury, and her tone was colder than he had hoped. The expiation hadbegun and he was already suffering the punishment of his unbelief. Hebore the pain bravely. What right had he to expect that she wouldsuddenly become as she had been before? She had been, and still was,dangerously ill, and her illness had been caused by his treatment ofher. It would be long before their relations could be again what theyhad once been, and it was not for him to complain. She might have senthim away in anger; he would not have thought her too unkind. But whenhe remembered her love, he trembled at the thought of living withoutit. His voice was very gentle as he answered her, after a short pause.

  "You shall live to forget it all, Corona. I will make you forget it. Iwill undo what I have done."

  "Can you, Giovanni? Is there no blood upon your hands?" She knew herhusband well, and could hardly believe that he had refrained fromtaking vengeance upon Gouache.

  "There is none, thank God," replied Giovanni. "But for a happy accidentI should have killed the man a week ago. It was all arranged."

  "You must tell him that you have been mistaken," said Corona simply.

  "Yes, I will."

  "Thank you. That is right."

  "It is the least I can do."

  Giovanni felt that words were of very little use, and even had hewished to say more he would not have known how to speak. There was thatbetween them which was too deep for all expression, and he knew thathenceforth he could only hope to bring back Corona's love by his ownactions. Besides, in her present state, he guessed that it would bewiser to leave her, than to prolong the interview.

  "I will go now," he said. "You must rest, darling, and be quite wellto-morrow."

  "Yes. I can rest now."

  She said nothing about seeing him again. With a humility almostpathetic in such a man, he bent down and touched her hand with hislips. Then he would have gone away, but she held his fingers and lookedlong into his eyes.

  "I am sorry for you, dear," she said, and paused, not taking her eyesfrom his. "Kiss me," she added at last, with a faint smile.

  A moment later, he was gone. She gazed long at the door through whichhe had left the room, and her expression changed more than once,softening and hardening again as the thoughts chased each other throughher tired brain. At last she closed her eyes, and presently fell into apeaceful sleep.

  Giovanni waited in his room until his father was awake and then went totell him what had happened. The old gentleman looked weary and sad, buthis keen sight noticed the change in his son's manner.

  "You look better," he said.

  "I have been undeceived," answered Giovanni. "I have been mistaken,misled by the most extraordinary set of circumstances I have ever heardof."

  Saracinesca's eyes suddenly gleamed angrily and his white beardbristled round his face.

  "You have made a fool of yourself," he growled. "You have made yourwife ill and yourself miserable in a fit of vulgar jealousy. And nowyou have been telling her so."

  "Exactly. I have been telling her so."

  "You are an idiot, Giovanni. I always knew it."

  "I have only just found it out," answered the younger man.

  "Then you are amazingly slow at discovery. Why do you stand therestaring at me? Do you expect any sympathy? You will not get it. Go andsay a litany outside your wife's door. You have made me spend the mosthorrible week I ever remember, just because you are not good enough forher. How could you ever dare to suspect that woman? Go away. I shallstrangle you if you stay here!"

  "That consideration would not have much weight," replied Giovanni. "Iknow how mad I have been, much better than you can tell me. And yet, Idoubt whether any one was ever so strangely mistaken before."

  "With your intelligence the wonder is that you are not always mistaken.Upon my soul, the more I think of it, the more I am amazed at yourfolly. You acted like a creature in the theatre. With your long faceand your mystery and your stage despair, you even made a fool of me. Atall events, I shall know what to expect the next time it happens. Ihope Corona will have the sense to make you do penance."

  To tell the truth Giovanni had not expected any better treatment fromhis father than he actually received, and he was not in a humour toresent reproaches which he knew to be well deserved. He had onlyintended to tell the prince the result of what had occurred, and herelaxed nothing of his determination, even though he might havepersuaded the old gentleman that the accumulated evidence hadundoubtedly justified his doubts. With a short salutation he left theroom and went out, hoping that Gouache had not accompanied theexpedition to Mentana, improbable as that seemed.

  He was, of course, disappointed, for while he was making inquiriesGouache was actually on the way to the battle with his corps, as hasbeen already seen. Giovanni spent most of the day in the house,constantly inquiring after Corona, and trying to occupy his mind inreading, though with little success. The idea that Gouache might bekilled without having learned the truth began to take possession of himand caused him an annoyance he could not explain. It was not that hefelt any very profound remorse for having wronged the man. His naturewas not so sensitive as that. It was rather, perhaps, because heregarded the explanation with Anastase as a part of what he owedCorona, that he was so anxious to meet him alive. Partly, too, hisanxiety arose from his restlessness and from the desire for action ofsome sort in which to forget all he had suffered, and all he was stillsuffering.

  Towards evening he went out and heard news of the engagement. It wasalready known that the enemy had fallen back upon Mentana, and no onedoubted the ultimate result of the day's fighting. People were alreadybeginning to talk of going out to take assistance to the wounded. Theidea struck Giovanni as plausible and he determined to act upon it atonce. He took a surgeon and several men with him, and drove out acrossthe Campagna to the scene of the battle.

  As has been told, he found Gouache at last, after a long and difficultsearch. The ground was so broken and divided by ditches, walls andtrees, that some of the wounded were not found until the middle of thenext day. Unless Giovanni had undertaken the search Anastase might haveescaped notice for a long time, and it was no wonder if he expressedastonishment on waking up to find himself comfortably installed inSaracinesca's carriage, tended by the man who a few days earlier hadwanted to take his life.