Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  The old Prince either would not tell what he knew, or had no information to give. The latter theory was improbable. Some one made a remark to that effect.

  “But, Prince,” the man said, “would you second your own son in an affair without knowing the cause of the quarrel?”

  “Sir,” returned the old man, proudly, “my son asked my assistance; I did not sell it to him for his confidence.” People knew the old man’s obstinacy, and had to be satisfied with his short answers, for he was himself as quarrelsome as a Berserker or as one of his own irascible ancestors.

  He met Donna Tullia in the street. She stopped her carriage, and beckoned him to come to her. She looked paler than Saracinesca had ever seen her, and was much excited.

  “How could you let them fight?” were her first words.

  “It could not be helped. The quarrel was too serious. No one would more gladly have prevented it than I; but as my son had so desperately insulted Del Ferice, he was bound to give him satisfaction.”

  “Satisfaction!” cried Donna Tullia. “Do you call it satisfaction to cut a man’s throat? What was the real cause of the quarrel?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Do not tell me that — I do not believe you,” answered Donna Tullia, angrily.

  “I give you my word of honour that I do not know,” returned the Prince.

  “That is different. Will you get in and drive with me for a few minutes?”

  “At your commands.” Saracinesca opened the carriage-door and got in.

  “We shall astonish the world; but I do not care,” said Donna Tullia.

  “Tell me, is Don Giovanni seriously hurt?”

  “No — a couple of scratches that will heal in a week. Del Ferice is very seriously wounded.”

  “I know,” answered Donna Tullia, sadly. “It is dreadful — I am afraid it was my fault.”

  “How so?” asked Saracinesca, quickly. He had not heard the story of the forgotten waltz, and was really ignorant of the original cause of disagreement. He guessed, however, that Donna Tullia was not so much concerned in it as the Duchessa d’Astrardente.

  “Your son was very rude to me,” said Madame Mayer. “Perhaps I ought not to tell you, but it is best you should know. He was engaged to dance with me the last waltz but one before the cotillon. He forgot me, and I found him with that — with a lady — talking quietly.”

  “With whom did you say?” asked Saracinesca, very gravely.

  “With the Astrardente — if you will know,” returned Donna Tullia, her anger at the memory of the insult bringing the blood suddenly to her face.

  “My dear lady,” said the old Prince, “in the name of my son I offer you the humble apologies which he will make in person when he is well enough to ask your forgiveness.”

  “I do not want apologies,” answered Madame Mayer, turning her face away.

  “Nevertheless they shall be offered. But, pardon my curiosity, how did

  Del Ferice come to be concerned in that incident?”

  “He was with me when I found Don Giovanni with the Duchessa. It is very

  simple. I was very angry — I am very angry still; but I would not have had

  Don Giovanni risk his life on my account for anything, nor poor Del

  Ferice either. I am horribly upset about it all.”

  Old Saracinesca wondered whether Donna Tullia’s vanity would suffer if he told her that the duel had not been fought for anything which concerned her. But he reflected that her supposition was very plausible, and that he himself had no evidence. Furthermore, and in spite of his good-natured treatment of Giovanni, he was very angry at the thought that his son had quarrelled about the Duchessa. When Giovanni should be recovered from his wounds he intended to speak his mind to him. But he was sorry for Donna Tullia, for he liked her in spite of her eccentricities, and would have been satisfied to see her married to his son. He was a practical man, and he took a prosaic view of the world. Donna Tullia was rich, and good-looking enough to be called handsome. She had the talent to make herself a sort of centre in her world. She was a little noisy; but noise was fashionable, and there was no harm in her — no one had ever said anything against her. Besides, she was one of the few relations still left to the Saracinesca. The daughter of a cousin of the Prince, she would make a good wife for Giovanni, and would bring sunshine into the house. There was a tinge of vulgarity in her manner; but, like many elderly men of his type, Saracinesca pardoned her this fault in consideration of her noisy good spirits and general good-nature. He was very much annoyed at hearing that his son had offended her so grossly by his forgetfulness; especially it was unfortunate that since she believed herself the cause of the duel, she should have the impression that it had been provoked by Del Ferice to obtain satisfaction for the insult Giovanni had offered her. There would be small chance of making the match contemplated after such an affair.

  “I am sincerely sorry,” said the Prince, stroking his white beard and trying to get a sight of his companion’s face, which she obstinately turned away from him. “Perhaps it is better not to think too much of the matter until the exact circumstances are known. Some one is sure to tell the story one of these days.”

  “How coldly you speak of it! One would think it had happened in Peru, instead of here, this very morning.”

  Saracinesca was at his wits’ end. He wanted to smooth the matter over, or at least to soften the unfavourable impression against Giovanni. He had not the remotest idea how to do it. He was not a very diplomatic man.

  “No, no; you misunderstand me. I am not cold. I quite appreciate your situation. You are very justly annoyed.”

  “Of course I am,” said Donna Tullia impatiently. She was beginning to regret that she had made him get into her carriage.

  “Precisely; of course you are. Now, so soon as Giovanni is quite recovered, I will send him to explain his conduct to you if he can, or to—”

  “Explain it? How can he explain it? I do not want you to send him, if he will not come of his own accord. Why should I?”

  “Well, well, as you please, my dear cousin,” said old Saracinesca, smiling to cover his perplexity. “I am not a good ambassador; but you know I am a good friend, and I really want to do something to restore Giovanni to your graces.”

  “That will be difficult,” answered Donna Tullia, although she knew very well that she would receive Giovanni kindly enough when she had once had an opportunity of speaking her mind to him.

  “Do not be hard-hearted,” urged the Prince. “I am sure he is very penitent.”

  “Then let him say so.”

  “That is exactly what I ask.”

  “Is it? Oh, very well. If he chooses to call I will receive him, since you desire it. Where shall I put you down?”

  “Anywhere, thank you. Here, if you wish — at the corner. Good-bye. Do not be too hard on the boy.”

  “We shall see,” answered Donna Tullia, unwilling to show too much indulgence. The old Prince bowed, and walked away into the gloom of the dusky streets.

  “That is over,” he muttered to himself. “I wonder how the Astrardente takes it.” He would have liked to see her; but he recognized that, as he so very rarely called upon her, it would seem strange to choose such a time for his visit. It would not do — it would be hardly decent, seeing that he believed her to be the cause of the catastrophe. His steps, however, led him almost unconsciously in the direction of the Astrardente palace; he found himself in front of the arched entrance almost before he knew where he was. The temptation to see Corona was more than he could resist. He asked the porter if the Duchessa was at home, and on being answered in the affirmative, he boldly entered and ascended the marble staircase — boldly, but with an odd sensation, like that of a schoolboy who is getting himself into trouble.

  Corona had just come home, and was sitting by the fire in her great drawing-room, alone, with a book in her hand, which she was not reading. She rarely remained in the reception-rooms; but to-day she had rather capr
iciously taken a fancy to the broad solitude of the place, and had accordingly installed herself there. She was very much surprised when the doors were suddenly opened wide and the servant announced Prince Saracinesca. For a moment she thought it must be Giovanni, for his father rarely entered her house, and when the old man’s stalwart figure advanced towards her, she dropped her book in astonishment, and rose from her deep chair to meet him. She was very pale, and there were dark rings under her eyes that spoke of pain and want of sleep. She was so utterly different from Donna Tullia, whom he had just left, that the Prince was almost awed by her stateliness, and felt more than ever like a boy in a bad scrape. Corona bowed rather coldly, but extended her hand, which the old gentleman raised to his lips respectfully, in the manner of the old school.

  “I trust you are not exhausted after the ball?” he began, not knowing what to say.

  “Not in the least. We did not stay late,” replied Corona, secretly wondering why he had come.

  “It was really magnificent,” he answered. “There has been no such ball for years. Very unfortunate that it should have terminated in such an unpleasant way,” he added, making a bold dash at the subject of which he wished to speak.

  “Very. You did a bad morning’s work,” said the Duchessa, severely. “I wonder that you should speak of it.”

  “No one speaks of anything else,” returned the Prince, apologetically.

  “Besides, I do not see what was to be done.”

  “You should have stopped it,” answered Corona, her dark eyes gleaming with righteous indignation. “You should have prevented it at any price, if not in the name of religion, which forbids it as a crime, at least in the name of decency — as being Don Giovanni’s father.”

  “You speak strong words, Duchessa,” said the Prince, evidently annoyed at her tone.

  “If I speak strongly, it is because I think you acted shamefully in permitting this disgraceful butchery.”

  Saracinesca suddenly lost his temper, as he frequently did.

  “Madam,” he said, “it is certainly not for you to accuse me of crime, lack of decency, and what you are pleased to call disgraceful butchery, seeing who was the probable cause of the honourable encounter which you characterise in such tasteful language.”

  “Honourable indeed!” said Corona, very scornfully. “Let that pass. Who, pray, is more to blame than you? Who is the probable cause?”

  “Need I tell you?” asked the old man, fixing his flashing eyes upon her.

  “What do you mean?” inquired Corona, turning white, and her voice trembling between her anger and her emotion.

  “I may be wrong,” said the Prince, “but I believe I am right. I believe the duel was fought on your account.”

  “On my account!” repeated Corona, half rising from her chair in her indignation. Then she sank back again, and added, very coldly, “If you have come here to insult me, Prince, I will send for my husband.”

  “I beg your pardon, Duchessa,” said old Saracinesca. “It is very far from my intention to insult you.”

  “And who has told you this abominable lie?” asked Corona, still very angry.

  “No one, upon my word.”

  “Then how dare you—”

  “Because I have reason to believe that you are the only woman alive for whom my son would engage in a quarrel.”

  “It is impossible,” cried Corona. “I will never believe that Don Giovanni could—” She checked herself.

  “Don Giovanni Saracinesca is a gentleman, madam,” said the old Prince, proudly. “He keeps his own counsel. I have come by the information without any evidence of it from his lips.”

  “Then I am at a loss to understand you,” returned the Duchessa. “I must beg you either to explain your extraordinary language, or else to leave me.”

  Corona d’Astrardente was a match for any man when she was angry. But old Saracinesca, though no diplomatist, was a formidable adversary, from his boldness and determination to discover the truth at any price.

  “It is precisely because, at the risk of offending you, I desired an explanation, that I have intruded myself upon you to-day,” he answered. “Will you permit me one question before I leave you?”

  “Provided it is not an insulting one, I will answer it,” replied Corona.

  “Do you know anything of the circumstances which led to this morning’s encounter?”

  “Certainly not,” Corona answered, hotly. “I assure you most solemnly,” she continued in calmer tones, “that I am wholly ignorant of it. I suppose you have a right to be told that.”

  “I, on my part, assure you, upon my word, that I know no more than you yourself, excepting this: on some provocation, concerning which he will not speak, my son seized Del Ferice by the throat and used strong words to him. No one witnessed the scene. Del Ferice sent the challenge. My son could find no one to act for him and applied to me, as was quite right that he should. There was no apology possible — Giovanni had to give the man satisfaction. You know as much as I know now.”

  “That does not help me to understand why you accuse me of having caused the quarrel,” said Corona. “What have I to do with Del Ferice, poor man?”

  “This — any one can see that you are as indifferent to my son as to any other man. Every one knows that the Duchessa d’Astrardente is above suspicion.”

  Corona raised her head proudly and stared at Saracinesca.

  “But, on the other hand, every one knows that my son loves you madly — can you yourself deny it?”

  “Who dares to say it?” asked Corona, her anger rising afresh.

  “Who sees, dares. Can you deny it?”

  “You have no right to repeat such hearsay tales to me,” answered Corona. But the blush rose to her pale dark cheeks, and she suddenly dropped her eyes.

  “Can you deny it, Duchessa?” asked the Prince a third time, insisting roughly.

  “Since you are so certain, why need you care for my denial?” inquired

  Corona.

  “Duchessa, you must forgive me,” answered Saracinesca, his tone suddenly softening. “I am rough, probably rude; but I love my son dearly. I cannot bear to see him running into a dangerous and hopeless passion, from which he may issue only to find himself grown suddenly old and bitter, disappointed and miserable for the rest of his life. I believe you to be a very good woman; I cannot look at you and doubt the truth of anything you tell me. If he loves you, you have influence over him. If you have influence, use it for his good; use it to break down this mad love of his, to show him his own folly — to save him, in short, from his fate. Do you understand me? Do I ask too much?”

  Corona understood well enough — far too well. She knew the whole extent of Giovanni’s love for her, and, what old Saracinesca never guessed, the strength of her own love for him, for the sake of which she would do all that a woman could do. There was a long pause after the old Prince had spoken. He waited patiently for an answer.

  “I understand you — yes,” she said at last. “If you are right in your surmises, I should have some influence over your son. If I can advise him, and he will take my advice, I will give him the best counsel I can. You have placed me in a very embarrassing position, and you have shown little courtesy in the way you have spoken to me; but I will try to do as you request me, if the opportunity offers, for the sake of — of turning what is very bad into something which may at last be good.”

  “Thank you, thank you, Duchessa!” cried the Prince. “I will never forget—”

  “Do not thank me,” said Corona, coldly. “I am not in a mood to appreciate your gratitude. There is too much blood of those honest gentlemen upon your hands.”

  “Pardon me, Duchessa, I wish there were on my hands and head the blood of that gentleman you call honest — the gentleman who twice tried to murder my son this morning, and twice nearly succeeded.”

  “What!” cried Corona, in sudden terror.

  “That fellow thrust at Giovanni once to kill him while they were halting
and his sword was hanging lowered in his hand; and once again he threw himself upon his knee and tried to stab him in the body — which is a dastardly trick not permitted in any country. Even in duelling, such things are called murder; and it is their right name.”

  Corona was very pale. Giovanni’s danger had been suddenly brought before her in a very vivid light, and she was horror-struck at the thought of it.

  “Is — is Don Giovanni very badly wounded?” she asked.

  “No, thank heaven; he will be wall in a week. But either one of those attempts might have killed him; and he would have died, I think — pardon me, no insult this time — I think, on your account. Do you see why for him I dread this attachment to you, which leads him to risk his life at every turn for a word about you? Do you see why I implore you to take the matter into your serious consideration, and to use your influence to bring him to his senses?”

  “I see; but in this question of the duel you have no proof that I was concerned.”

  “No, — no proof, perhaps. I will not weary you with surmises; but even if it was not for you this time, you see that it might have been.”

  “Perhaps,” said Corona, very sadly.

  “I have to thank you, even if you will not listen to me,” said the

  Prince, rising. “You have understood me. It was all I asked. Good night.”

  “Good night,” answered Corona, who did not move from her seat nor extend her hand this time. She was too much agitated to think of formalities. Saracinesca bowed low and left the room.

  It was characteristic of him that he had come to see the Duchessa not knowing what he should say, and that he had blurted out the whole truth, and then lost his temper in support of it. He was a hasty man, of noble instincts, but always inclined rather to cut a knot than to unloose it — to do by force what another man would do by skill — angry at opposition, and yet craving it by his combative nature.

  His first impulse on leaving Corona was to go to Giovanni and tell him what he had done; but he reflected as he went home that his son was ill with his wounds, and that it would be bad for him to be angry, as of course he would be if he were told of his father’s doings. Moreover, as old Saracinesca thought more seriously of the matter, he wisely concluded that it would be better not to speak of the visit; and when he entered the room where Giovanni was lying on his couch with a novel and a cigarette, he had determined to conceal the whole matter.