Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “In the first place,” said Giovanni, “at the time she mentions I was in Canada, upon a shooting expedition, with a party of Englishmen. It is easy to prove that, as they are all alive and well now, so far as I have heard. Donna Tullia is clearly out of her mind.”

  “The news of your engagement has driven her mad,” said the old Prince, with a grim laugh. “It is a very interesting and romantic case.”

  Corona blushed a little, and her eyes sought Giovanni’s, but her face was very grave. It was a terrible thing to see a person she had known so long becoming insane, and for the sake of the man she herself so loved. And yet she had not a doubt of Donna Tullia’s madness. It was very sad.

  “I wonder who could have put this idea into her head,” said Giovanni, thoughtfully. “It does not look like a creation of her own brain. I wonder, too, what absurdities she will produce in the way of documents. Of course they must be forged.”

  “She will not bring them,” returned his father, in a tone of certainty. “We shall hear to-morrow that she is raving in the delirium of a brain-fever.”

  “Poor thing!” exclaimed Corona. “It is dreadful to think of it.”

  “It is dreadful to think that she should have caused you all this trouble and annoyance,” said Giovanni, warmly. “You must have had a terrible scene with her before we came. What did she say?”

  “Just what she said to you. Then she began to rail against you; and I sent for you, and told her that unless she could be silent I would lock her up alone until you arrived. So she sat down in that chair, and pretended to read. But it was an immense relief when you came!”

  “You did not once believe what she said might possibly be true?” asked

  Giovanni, with a loving look.

  “I? How could you ever think it!” exclaimed Corona. Then she laughed, and added, “But of course you knew that I would not.”

  “Indeed, yes,” he answered. “It never entered my head.”

  “By-the-bye,” said old Saracinesca, glancing at the Duchessa’s black bonnet and gloved hands, “you must have been just ready to go out when she came — we must not keep you. I suppose that when she said she would bring her proofs to-morrow at this hour, she meant she would bring them here. Shall we come to-morrow then?”

  “Yes — by all means,” she answered. “Come to breakfast at one o’clock. I am alone, you know, for Sister Gabrielle has insisted upon going back to her community. But what does it matter now?”

  “What does it matter?” echoed the Prince. “You are to be married so soon.

  I really think we can do as we please.” He generally did as he pleased.

  The two men left her, and a few minutes later she descended the steps of the palace and entered her carriage, as though nothing had happened.

  Six months had passed since she had given her troth to Giovanni upon the tower of Saracinesca, and she knew that she loved him better now than then. Little had happened of interest in the interval of time, and the days had seemed long. But until after Christmas she had remained at Astrardente, busying herself constantly with the improvements she had already begun, and aided by the counsels of Giovanni. He had taken a cottage of hers in the lower part of her village, and had fitted it up with the few comforts he judged necessary. In this lodging he had generally spent half the week, going daily to the palace upon the hill and remaining for long hours in Corona’s society, studying her plans and visiting with her the works which grew beneath their joint direction. She had grown to know him as she had not known him before, and to understand more fully his manly character. He was a very resolute man, and very much in earnest when he chanced to be doing anything; but the strain of melancholy which he inherited from his mother made him often inclined to a sort of contemplative idleness, during which his mind seemed preoccupied with absorbing thoughts. Many people called his fits of silence an affectation, or part of his system for rendering himself interesting; but Corona soon saw how real was his abstraction, and she saw also that she alone was able to attract his attention and interest him when the fit was upon him. Slowly, by a gradual study of him, she learned what few had ever guessed, namely, that beneath the experienced man of the world, under his modest manner and his gentle ways, there lay a powerful mainspring of ambition, a mine of strength, which would one day exert itself and make itself felt upon his surroundings. He had developed slowly, feeding upon many experiences of the world in many countries, his quick Italian intelligence comprehending often more than it seemed to do, while the quiet dignity he got from his Spanish blood made him appear often very cold. But now and again, when under the influence of some large idea, his tongue was loosed in the charm of Corona’s presence, and he spoke to her, as he had never spoken to any one, of projects and plans which should make the world move. She did not always understand him wholly, but she knew that the man she loved was something more than the world at large believed him to be, and there was a thrill of pride in the thought which delighted her inmost soul. She, too, was ambitious, but her ambition was all for him. She felt that there was little room for common aspirations in his position or in her own. All that high birth, and wealth, and personal consideration could give, they both had abundantly, beyond their utmost wishes; anything they could desire beyond that must lie in a larger sphere of action than mere society, in the world of political power. She herself had had dreams, and entertained them still, of founding some great institution of charity, of doing something for her poorer fellows. But she learned by degrees that Giovanni looked further than to such ordinary means of employing power, and that there was in him a great ambition to bring great forces to bear upon great questions for the accomplishment of great results. The six months of her engagement to him had not only strengthened her love for him, already deep and strong, but had implanted in her an unchanging determination to second him in all his life, to omit nothing in her power which could assist him in the career he should choose for himself, and which she regarded as the ultimate field for his extraordinary powers. It was strange that, while granting him everything else, people had never thought of calling him a man of remarkable intelligence. But no one knew him as Corona knew him; no one suspected that there was in him anything more than the traditional temper of the Saracinesca, with sufficient mind to make him as fair a representative of his race as his father was.

  There was more than mere love and devotion in the complete security she felt when she saw him attacked by Donna Tullia; there was already the certainty that he was born to be above small things, and to create a sphere of his own in which he would move as other men could not.

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  WHEN DONNA TULLIA quitted the Palazzo Astrardente her head swam. She had utterly failed to do what she had expected; and from being the accuser, she felt that she was suddenly thrust into the position of the accused. Instead of inspiring terror in Corona, and causing Giovanni the terrible humiliation she had supposed he would feel at the exposure of his previous marriage, she had been coldly told that she was mad, and that her pretended proofs were forgeries. Though she herself felt no doubt whatever concerning the authenticity of the documents, it was very disappointing to find that the first mention of them produced no startling effect upon any one, least of all upon Giovanni himself. The man, she thought, was a most accomplished villain; since he was capable of showing such hardened indifference to her accusation, he was capable also of thwarting her in her demonstration of their truth — and she trembled at the thought of what she saw. Old Saracinesca was not a man to be trifled with, nor his son either: they were powerful, and would be revenged for the insult. But in the meanwhile she had promised to produce her proofs; and when she regained enough composure to consider the matter from all its points, she came to the conclusion that after all her game was not lost, seeing that attested documents are evidence not easily refuted, even by powerful men like Leone and Giovanni Saracinesca. She gradually convinced herself that their indifference was a pretence, and that they were accomplices in the matter, th
eir object being to gain Corona with all her fortune for Giovanni’s wife. But, at the same time, Donna Tullia felt in the depths of her heart a misgiving: she was clever enough to recognise, even in spite of herself, the difference between a liar and an honest man.

  She must get possession of these papers — and immediately too; there must be no delay in showing them to Corona, and in convincing her that this was no mere fable, but an assertion founded upon very substantial evidence. Del Ferice was suddenly gone to Naples: obviously the only way to get at the papers was to bribe his servant to deliver them up. Ugo had once or twice mentioned Temistocle to her, and she judged from the few words he had let fall that the fellow was a scoundrel, who would sell his soul for money. Madame Mayer drove home, and put on the only dark-coloured gown she possessed, wound a thick veil about her head, provided herself with a number of bank-notes, which she thrust between the palm of her hand and her glove, left the house on foot, and took a cab. There was nothing to be done but to go herself, for she could trust no one. Her heart beat fast as she ascended the narrow stone steps of Del Ferice’s lodging, and stopped upon the landing before the small green door, whereon she read his name. She pulled the bell, and Temistocle appeared in his shirt-sleeves.

  “Does Count Del Ferice live here?” asked Donna Tullia, peering over the man’s shoulder into the dark and narrow passage within.

  “He lives here, but he is gone to Naples,” answered Temistocle, promptly.

  “When will he be back?” she inquired. The man raised his shoulders to his ears, and spread out the palms of his hands to signify that he did not know. Donna Tullia hesitated. She had never attempted to bribe anybody in her life, and hardly knew how to go about it. She thought that the sight of the money might produce an impression, and she withdrew a bank-note from the hollow of her hand, spreading it out between her fingers. Temistocle eyed it greedily.

  “There are twenty-five scudi,” she said. “If you will help me to find a piece of paper in your master’s room, you shall have them.”

  Temistocle drew himself up with an air of mock pride. Madame Mayer looked at him.

  “Impossible, signora,” he said. Then she drew out another. Temistocle eyed the glove curiously to see if it contained more.

  “Signora,” he repeated, “it is impossible. My master would kill me. I cannot think of it.” But his tone seemed to yield a little. Donna Tullia found another bank-note; there were now seventy-five scudi in her hand. She thought she saw Temistocle tremble with excitement. But still he hesitated.

  “Signora, my conscience,” he said, in a low voice of protestation.

  “Come,” said Madame Mayer, impatiently, “there is another — there are a hundred scudi — that is all I have got,” she added, turning down her empty glove.

  Suddenly Temistocle put out his hand and grasped the bank-notes eagerly. But instead of retiring to allow her to enter, he pushed roughly past her.

  “You may go in,” he said in a hoarse whisper, and turning quickly, fled precipitately down the narrow steps, in his shirt-sleeves as he was. Madame Mayer stood for a moment looking after him in surprise, even when he had already disappeared.

  Then she turned and entered the door rather timidly; but before she had gone two steps in the dark passage, she uttered a cry of horror. Del Ferice stood in her way, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, a curious expression upon his pale face, which from its whiteness was clearly distinguishable in the gloom. Temistocle had cheated her, had lied in telling her that his master was absent, had taken her bribe and had fled. He would easily find an excuse for having allowed her to enter; and with his quick valet’s instinct, he guessed that she would not confess to Del Ferice that she had bribed him. Ugo came forward a step and instantly recognised Madame Mayer.

  “Donna Tullia!” he cried, “what are you doing? You must not be seen here.”

  A less clever man than Ugo would have pretended to be overjoyed at her coming. Del Fence’s fine instincts told him that for whatever cause she had come — and he guessed the cause well enough — he would get a firmer hold upon her consideration by appearing to be shocked at her imprudence. Donna Tullia was nearly fainting with fright, and stood leaning against the wall of the passage.

  “I thought — I — I must see you at once,” she stammered.

  “Not here,” he answered, quickly. “Go home at once; I will join you in five minutes. It will ruin you to have it known that you have been here.”

  Madame Mayer took courage at his tone.

  “You must bring them — those papers,” she said, hurriedly. “Something dreadful has happened. Promise me to come at once!”

  “I will come at once, my dear lady,” he said, gently pushing her towards the door. “I cannot even go down-stairs with you — forgive me. You have your carriage of course?”

  “I have a cab,” replied Donna Tullia, faintly, submitting to be put out of the door. He seized her hand and kissed it passionately, or with a magnificent semblance of passion. With a startled look, Donna Tullia turned and went rapidly down the steps. Del Ferice smiled softly to himself when she was gone, and went in again to exchange his dressing-gown for a coat. He had her in his power at last. He had guessed that she would betray the secret — that after the engagement became known, she would not be able to refrain from communicating it to Corona d’Astrardente; and so soon as he heard the news, he had shut himself up in his lodging, pretending a sudden journey to Naples, determined not to set foot out of the house until he heard that Donna Tullia had committed herself. He knew that when she had once spoken she would make a desperate attempt to obtain the papers, for he knew that such an assertion as hers would need to be immediately proved, at the risk of her position in society. His plot had succeeded so far. His only anxiety was to know whether she had mentioned his name in connection with the subject, but he guessed, from his knowledge of her character, that she would not do so: she would respect her oath enough to conceal his name, even while breaking her promise; she would enjoy taking the sole credit of the discovery upon herself, and she would shun an avowal which would prove her to have discussed with any one else the means of preventing the marriage, because it would be a confession of jealousy, and consequently of personal interest in Don Giovanni. Del Ferice was a very clever fellow.

  He put on his coat, and in five minutes was seated in a cab on his way to Donna Tullia’s house, with a large envelope full of papers in his pocket. He found her as she had left him, her face still wrapped in a veil, walking up and down her drawing-room in great excitement. He advanced and saluted her courteously, maintaining a dignified gravity of bearing which he judged fitting for the occasion.

  “And now, my dear lady,” he said, gently, “will you tell me exactly what you have done?”

  “This morning,” answered Madame Mayer, in a stifled voice, “I heard of the Astrardente’s engagement to Don Giovanni. It seemed such a terrible thing!”

  “Terrible, indeed,” said Del Ferice, solemnly.

  “I sent for you at once, to know what to do: they said you were gone to Naples. I thought, of course, that you would approve if you were here, because we ought to prevent such a dreadful crime — of course.” She waited for some sign of assent, but Del Ferice’s pale face expressed nothing but a sort of grave reproach.

  “And then,” she continued, “as I could not find you, I thought it was best to act at once, and so I went to see the Astrardente, feeling that you would entirely support me. There was a terrific scene. She sent for the two Saracinesca, and I — waited till they came, because I was determined to see justice done. I am sure I was right, — was I not?”

  “What did they say?” asked Del Ferice, quietly watching her face.

  “If you will believe it, that monster of villany, Don Giovanni, was as cold as stone, and denied the whole matter from beginning to end; but his father was very angry. Of course they demanded the proofs. I never saw anything like the brazen assurance of Don Giovanni.”

  “Did you mention me?�
�� inquired Del Ferice.

  “No, I had not seen you: of course I did not want to implicate you. I said I would show them the papers to-morrow at the same hour.”

  “And then you came to see me,” said Del Ferice. “That was very rash. You might have seriously compromised yourself. I would have come if you had sent for me.”

  “But they said you had gone to Naples. Your servant,” continued Donna

  Tullia, blushing scarlet at the remembrance of her interview with

  Temistocle,— “your servant assured me in person that you had gone to

  Naples—”

  “I see,” replied Del Ferice, quietly. He did not wish to press her to a confession of having tried to get the papers in his absence. His object was to put her at her ease.

  “My dear lady,” he continued, gently, “you have done an exceedingly rash thing; but I will support you in every way, by putting the documents in your possession at once. It is unfortunate that you should have acted so suddenly, for we do not know what has become of this Felice Baldi, nor have we any immediate means of finding out. It might have taken weeks to find her. Why were you so rash? You could have waited till I returned, and we could have discussed the matter carefully, and decided whether it were really wise to make use of my information.”

  “You do not doubt that I did right?” asked Donna Tullia, turning a little pale.

  “I think you acted precipitately in speaking without consulting me. All may yet be well. But in the first place, as you did not ask my opinion, you will see the propriety of not mentioning my name, since you have not done so already. It can do no good, for the papers speak for themselves, and whatever value they may have is inherent in them. Do you see?”