Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “For me?” said Donna Tullia. “What would you do for me?” She smiled sweetly, willing to use all her persuasion to extract his secret.

  “I could prevent Don Giovanni from marrying the Astrardente, as he intends to do,” he answered, looking straight at his companion.

  “How in the world could you do that?” she asked, in great surprise.

  “That, my dear friend, is my secret, as I said before. I cannot reveal it to you at present.”

  “You are as dark as the Holy Office,” said Donna Tullia, a little impatiently. “What possible harm could it do if you told me?”

  “What possible good either?” asked Del Ferice, in reply. “You could not use it as I could. You would gain no advantage by knowing it. Of course,” he added, with a laugh, “if we entered into the alliance we were jesting about, it would be different.”

  “You will not tell me unless I promise to marry you?”

  “Frankly, no,” he answered, still laughing.

  It exasperated Donna Tullia beyond measure to feel that he was in possession of what she so coveted, and to feel that he was bargaining, half in earnest, for her life in exchange for his secret. She was almost tempted for one moment to assent, to say she would marry him, so great was her curiosity; it would be easy to break her promise, and laugh at him afterwards. But she was not a bad woman, as women of her class are considered. She had suffered a great disappointment, and her resentment was in proportion to her vanity. But she was not prepared to give a false promise for the sake of vengeance; she was only bad enough to imagine such bad faith possible.

  “But you said you never seriously thought I could accept such an engagement,” she objected, not knowing what to say.

  “I did,” replied Del Ferice. “I might have added that I never seriously contemplated parting with my secret.”

  “There is nothing to be got from you,” said Donna Tullia, in a tone of disappointment. “I think that when you have nearly driven me mad with curiosity, you might really tell me something.”

  “Ah no, dear lady,” answered her companion. “You may ask anything of me but that — anything. You may ask that too, if you will sign the treaty I propose.”

  “You will drive me into marrying you out of sheer curiosity,” said Donna

  Tullia, with an impatient laugh.

  “I wish that were possible. I wish I could see my way to telling you as it is, for the thing is so curious that it would have the most intense interest for you. But it is quite out of the question.”

  “You should never have told me anything about it,” replied Madame Mayer.

  “Well, I will think about it,” said Del Ferice at last, as though suddenly resolving to make a sacrifice. “I will look over some papers I have, and I will think about it. I promise you that if I feel that I can conscientiously tell you something of the matter, you may be sure that I will.”

  Donna Tullia’s manner changed again, from impatience to persuasion. The sudden hope he held out to her was delicious to contemplate. She could not realise that Del Ferice, having once thoroughly interested her, could play upon her moods as on the keys of an instrument. If she had been less anxious that the story he told should be true, she might have suspected that he was practising upon her credulity. But she seized the idea of obtaining some secret influence over the life of Giovanni, and it completely carried her away.

  “You must tell me — I am sure you will,” she said, letting her kindest glance rest upon her companion. “Come and dine with me, — do you fast? No — nor I. Come on Friday — will you?”

  “I shall be delighted,” answered Del Ferice, with a quiet smile of triumph.

  “I will have the old lady, of course, so you cannot tell me at dinner; but she will go to sleep soon afterwards — she always does. Come at seven. Besides, she is deaf, you know.”

  The old lady in question was the aged Countess whom Donna Tullia affected as a companion in her solitary magnificence.

  “And now, will you take me back to the ball-room? I have an idea that a partner is looking for me.”

  Del Ferice left her dancing, and went home in his little coupé. He was desperately fatigued, for he was still very weak, and he feared lest his imprudence in going out so soon might bring on a relapse from his convalescence. Nevertheless, before he went to bed he dismissed Temistocle, and opened a shabby-looking black box which stood upon his writing-table. It was bound with iron, and was fastened by a patent lock which had frequently defied Temistocle’s ingenuity. From this repository he took a great number of papers, which were all neatly filed away and marked in the owner’s small and ornamented handwriting. Beneath many packages of letters he found what he sought for, a long envelope containing several folded documents.

  He spread out the papers and read them carefully over.

  “It is a very singular thing,” he said to himself; “but there can be no doubt about it. There it is.”

  He folded the papers again, returned them to their envelope, and replaced the latter deep among the letters in his box. He then locked it, attached the key to a chain he wore about his neck, and went to bed, worn out with fatigue.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  DEL FERICE HAD purposely excited Donna Tullia’s curiosity, and he meant before long to tell more than he had vouchsafed in his first confidence. But he himself trembled before the magnitude of what he had suddenly thought of doing, for the fear of Giovanni was in his heart. The temptation to boast to Donna Tullia that he had the means of preventing Giovanni from marrying was too strong; but when it had come to telling her what those means were, prudence had restrained him. He desired that if the scheme were put into execution it might be by some one else; for, extraordinary as it was, he was not absolutely certain of its success. He was not sure of Donna Tullia’s discretion, either, until by a judicious withholding of the secret he had given her a sufficient idea of its importance. But on mature reflection he came to the conclusion that, even if she possessed the information he was able to give, she would not dare to mention it, nor even to hint at it.

  The grey light of Ash-Wednesday morning broke over Rome, and stole through the windows of Giovanni Saracinesca’s bedroom. Giovanni had not slept much, but his restlessness was due rather to his gladness at having performed the last of his social duties than to any disturbance of mind. All night he lay planning what he should do, — how he might reach his place in the mountains by a circuitous route, leaving the general impression that he was abroad — and how, when at last he had got to Saracinesca unobserved, he would revel in the solitude and in the thought of being within half a day’s journey of Corona d’Astrardente. He was willing to take a great deal of trouble, for he did not wish people to know his whereabouts; he would not have it said that he had gone into the country to be near Corona and to see her every day, as would certainly be said if his real movements were discovered. Accordingly, he fulfilled his programme to the letter. He left Rome on the afternoon of Ash-Wednesday for Florence; there he visited several acquaintances who, he knew, would write to their friends in Rome of his appearance; from Florence he went to Paris, and gave out that he was going upon a shooting expedition in the Arctic regions, as soon as the weather was warm enough. As he was well known for a sportsman and a traveller, this statement created no suspicion; and when he finally left Paris, the newspapers and the gossips all said he had gone to Copenhagen on his way to the far north. In due time the statement reached Rome, and it was supposed that society had lost sight of Giovanni Saracinesca for at least eight months. It was thought that he had acted with great delicacy in absenting himself; he would thus allow the first months of Corona’s mourning to pass before formally presenting himself to society as her suitor. Considering the peculiar circumstances of the case, there would be nothing improper, from a social point of view, in his marrying Corona at the expiration of a year after her husband’s death. Of course he would marry her; there was no doubt of that — he had been in love with her so long, and now she was both free and ric
h. No one suspected that Giovanni, instead of being in Scandinavia, was quietly established at Saracinesca, a day’s journey from Rome, busying himself with the management of the estate, and momentarily satisfied in feeling himself so near the woman he loved.

  Donna Tullia could hardly wait until the day when Del Ferice was coming to dinner: she was several times on the point of writing a note to ask him to come at once. But she wisely refrained, guessing that the more she pressed him the more difficulties he would make. At last he came, looking pale and worn — interesting, as Donna Tullia would have expressed it. The old Countess talked a great deal during dinner; but as she was too deaf to hear more than a quarter of what was said by the others, the conversation was not interesting. When the meal was over, she established herself in a comfortable chair in the little sitting-room, and took a book. After a few minutes, Donna Tullia suggested to Del Ferice that they should go into the drawing-room. She had received some new waltz-music from Vienna which she wanted to look over, and Ugo might help her. She was not a musician, but was fond of a cheerful noise, and played upon the piano with the average skill of a well-educated young woman of the world. Of course the doors were left open between the drawing-room and the boudoir, where the Countess dozed over her book and presently fell asleep.

  Donna Tullia sat at the grand piano, and made Del Ferice sit beside her.

  She struck a few chords, and played a fragment of dance-music.

  “Of course you have heard that Don Giovanni is gone?” she asked, carelessly. “I suppose he is gone to Saracinesca; they say there is a very good road between that and Astrardente.”

  “I should think he would have more decency than to pursue the Duchessa in the first month of her mourning,” answered Del Ferice, resting one arm upon the piano, and supporting his pale face with his hand as he watched Donna Tullia’s fingers move upon the keys.

  “Why? He does not care what people say — why should he? He will marry her when the year is out. Why should he care?”

  “He can never marry her unless I choose to allow it,” said Del Ferice, quietly.

  “So you told me the other night,” returned Donna Tullia. “But you will allow him, of course. Besides, you could not stop it, after all. I do not believe that you could.” She leaned far back in her chair, her hands resting upon the keys without striking them, and she looked at Del Ferice with a sweet smile. There was a moment’s pause.

  “I have decided to tell you something,” he said at last, “upon one condition.”

  “Why make conditions?” asked Donna Tullia, trying to conceal her excitement.

  “Only one, that of secrecy. Will you promise never to mention what I am going to tell you without previously consulting me? I do not mean a common promise; I mean it to be an oath.” He spoke very earnestly. “This is a very serious matter. We are playing with fire and with life and death. You must give me some guarantee that you will be secret.”

  His manner impressed Donna Tullia; she had never seen him so much in earnest in her life.

  “I will promise in any way you please,” she said.

  “Then say this,” he answered. “Say, ‘I swear and solemnly bind myself that I will faithfully keep the secret about to be committed to me; and that if I fail to keep it I will atone by immediately marrying Ugo del Ferice—’”

  “That is absurd!” cried Donna Tullia, starting back from him. He did not heed her.

  “‘And I take to witness of this oath the blessed memory of my mother, the hope of the salvation of my soul, and this relic of the True Cross.’” He pointed to the locket she wore at her neck, which she had often told him contained the relic he mentioned.

  “It is impossible!” she cried again. “I cannot swear so solemnly about such a matter. I cannot promise to marry you.”

  “Then it is because you cannot promise to keep my secret,” he answered calmly. He knew her very well, and he believed that she would not break such an oath as he had dictated, under any circumstances. He did not choose to risk anything by her indiscretion. Donna Tullia hesitated, seeing that he was firm. She was tortured with curiosity beyond all endurance.

  “I am only promising to marry you in case I reveal the secret?” she asked. He bowed assent. “So that I am really only promising to be silent? Well, I cannot understand why it should be solemn; but if you wish it so, I will do it. What are the words?”

  He repeated them slowly, and she followed him. He watched her at every word, to be sure she overlooked nothing.

  “I, Tullia Mayer, swear and solemnly bind myself that I will faithfully keep the secret about to be committed to me; and that if I fail to keep it, I will atone by immediately marrying Ugo del Ferice” — her voice trembled nervously: “and I take to witness of this oath the blessed memory of my mother, the hope of the salvation of my soul, and this relic of the True Cross.” At the last words she took the locket in her fingers.

  “You understand that you have promised to marry me if you reveal my secret? You fully understand that?” asked Del Ferice.

  “I understand it,” she answered hurriedly, as though ashamed of what she had done. “And now, the secret,” she added eagerly, feeling that she had undergone a certain humiliation for the sake of what she so much coveted.

  “Don Giovanni cannot marry the Duchessa d’Astrardente, because” — he paused a moment to give full weight to his statement— “because Don Giovanni Saracinesca is married already.”

  “What!” cried Donna Tullia, starting from her chair in amazement at the astounding news.

  “It is quite true,” said Del Ferice, with a quiet smile. “Calm yourself; it is quite true. I know what you are thinking of — all Rome thought he was going to marry you.”

  Donna Tullia was overcome by the strangeness of the situation. She hid her face in her hands for a moment as she leaned forward over the piano. Then she suddenly looked up.

  “What a hideous piece of villany!” she exclaimed, in a stifled voice. Then slowly recovering from the first shock of the intelligence, she looked at Del Ferice; she was almost as pale as he. “What proof have you?” she asked.

  “I have the attested copy of the banns published by the priest who married them. That is evidence. Moreover, the real book of banns exists, and Giovanni’s name is upon the parish register. I have also a copy of the certificate of the civil marriage, which is signed by Giovanni himself.”

  “Tell me more,” said Donna Tullia, eagerly. “How did you find it?”

  “It is very simple,” answered Del Ferice. “You may go and see for yourself, if you do not mind making a short journey. Last summer I was wandering a little for my health’s sake, as I often do, and I chanced to be in the town of Aquila — you know, the capital of Abruzzi. One day I happened to go into the sacristy of one of the parish churches to see some pictures which are hung there. There had been a marriage service performed, and as the sacristan moved about explaining the pictures, he laid his hand upon an open book which looked like a register of some kind. I idly asked him what it was, and he showed it to me; it was amusing to look at the names of the people, and I turned over the leaves curiously. Suddenly my attention was arrested by a name I knew— ‘Giovanni Saracinesca,’ written clearly across the page, and below it, ‘Felice Baldi,’ — the woman he had married. The date of the marriage was the 19th of June 1863. You remember, perhaps, that in that summer, in fact during the whole of that year, Don Giovanni was supposed to be absent upon his famous shooting expedition in Canada, about which he talks so much. It appears, then, that two years ago, instead of being in America, he was living in Aquila, married to Felice Baldi — probably some pretty peasant girl. I started at the sight of the names. I got permission to have an attested copy of it made by a notary. I found the priest who had married them, but he could not remember the couple. The man, he said, was dark, he was sure; the woman, he thought, had been fair. He married so many people in a year. These were not natives of Aquila; they had apparently come there from the country — perhaps had
met. The banns — yes, he had the book of banns; he had also the register of marriages from which he sometimes issued certified extracts. He was a good old man, and seemed ready to oblige me; but his memory was very defective. He allowed me to take notary’s copies of the banns and the entry in the list, as well as of the register. Then I went to the office of the Stato Civile. You know that people do not sign the register in the church themselves; the names are written down by the priest. I wanted to see the signatures, and the book of civil marriages was shown to me. The handwriting was Giovanni’s, I am sure — larger, and a little less firm, but distinguishable at a glance. I took the copies for curiosity, and never said anything about it, but I have kept them. That is the history. Do you see how serious a matter it is?”

  “Indeed, yes,” answered Donna Tullia, who had listened with intense interest to the story. “But what could have induced him to marry that woman?”

  “One of those amiable eccentricities peculiar to his family,” replied Del Ferice, shrugging his shoulders. “The interesting thing would be to discover what became of Felice Baldi — Donna Felice Saracinesca, as I suppose she has a right to be called.”

  “Let us find her — Giovanni’s wife,” exclaimed Donna Tullia, eagerly.

  “Where can she be?”

  “Who knows?” ejaculated Del Ferice. “I would be curious to see her. The name of her native village is given, and the names of her parents. Giovanni described himself in the paper as ‘of Naples, a landholder,’ and omitted somehow the details of his parentage. Nothing could be more vague; everybody is a landholder, from the wretched peasant who cultivates one acre to their high-and-mightinesses the Princes of Saracinesca. Perhaps by going to the village mentioned some information might be obtained. He probably left her sufficiently provided for, and, departing on pretence of a day’s journey, never returned. He is a perfectly unscrupulous man, and thinks no more of this mad scrape than of shooting a chamois in the Tyrol. He knows she can never find him — never guessed who he really was.”