“You speak as though you had some experience.”
“Yes, I have — through an acquaintance of mine.”
“That is the most agreeable way of gaining experience.”
“Yes,” answered Spicca with a ghastly smile. “Perhaps I may tell you the story some day. You may profit by it. It ended rather dramatically — so far as it can be said to have ended at all. But we will not speak of it just now. Here is another dish of poison — do you call that thing a fish, Checco? Ah — yes. I perceive that you are right. The fact is apparent at a great distance. Take it away. We are all mortal, Checco, but we do not like to be reminded of it so very forcibly. Give me a tomato and some vinegar.”
“And the birds, Signore? Do you not want them any more?”
“The birds — yes, I had forgotten. And another flask of wine, Checco.”
“It is not empty yet, Signore,” observed the waiter lifting the rush-covered bottle and shaking it a little.
Spicca silently poured out two glasses and handed him the empty flask. He seemed to be very thirsty. Presently he got his birds. They proved eatable, for quails are to be had all through the summer in Italy, and he began to eat in silence. Orsino watched him with some curiosity wondering whether the quantity of wine he drank would not ultimately produce some effect. As yet, however, none was visible; his cadaverous face was as pale and quiet as ever, and his sunken eyes had their usual expression.
“And how does your business go on, Orsino?” he asked, after a long silence.
Orsino answered him willingly enough and gave him some account of his doings. He grew somewhat enthusiastic as he compared his present busy life with his former idleness.
“I like the way you did it, in spite of everybody’s advice,” said Spicca, kindly. “A man who can jump through the paper ring of Roman prejudice without stumbling must be nimble and have good legs. So nobody gave you a word of encouragement?”
“Only one person, at first. I think you know her — Madame d’Aranjuez. I used to see her often just at that time.”
“Madame d’Aranjuez?” Spicca looked up sharply, pausing with his glass in his hand.
“You know her?”
“Very well indeed,” answered the old man, before he drank. “Tell me, Orsino,” he continued, when he had finished the draught, “are you in love with that lady?”
Orsino was surprised by the directness of the question, but he did not show it.
“Not in the least,” he answered, coolly.
“Then why did you act as though you were?” asked Spicca looking him through and through.
“Do you mean to say that you were watching me all winter?” inquired Orsino, bending his black eyebrows rather angrily.
“Circumstances made it inevitable that I should know of your visits. There was a time when you saw her every day.”
“I do not know what the circumstances, as you call them, were,” answered Orsino. “But I do not like to be watched — even by my father’s old friends.”
“Keep your temper, Orsino,” said Spicca quietly. “Quarrelling is always ridiculous unless somebody is killed, and then it is inconvenient. If you understood the nature of my acquaintance with Maria Consuelo — with Madame d’Aranjuez, you would see that while not meaning to spy upon you in the least, I could not be ignorant of your movements.”
“Your acquaintance must be a very close one,” observed Orsino, far from pacified.
“So close that it has justified me in doing very odd things on her account. You will not accuse me of taking a needless and officious interest in the affairs of others, I think. My own are quite enough for me. It chances that they are intimately connected with the doings of Madame d’Aranjuez, and have been so for a number of years. The fact that I do not desire the connexion to be known does not make it easier for me to act, when I am obliged to act at all. I did not ask an idle question when I asked you if you loved her.”
“I confess that I do not at all understand the situation,” said Orsino.
“No. It is not easy to understand, unless I give you the key to it. And yet you know more already than any one in Rome. I shall be obliged if you will not repeat what you know.”
“You may trust me,” answered Orsino, who saw from Spicca’s manner that the matter was very serious.
“Thank you. I see that you are cured of the idea that I have been frivolously spying upon you for my own amusement.”
Orsino was silent. He thought of what had happened after he had taken leave of Maria Consuelo. The mysterious maid who called herself Maria Consuelo’s nurse, or keeper, had perhaps spoken the truth. It was possible that Spicca was one of the guardians responsible to an unknown person for the insane lady’s safety, and that he was consequently daily informed by the maid of the coming and going of visitors, and of other minor events. On the other hand it seemed odd that Maria Consuelo should be at liberty to go whithersoever she pleased. She could not reasonably be supposed to have a guardian in every city of Europe. The more he thought of this improbability the less he understood the truth.
“I suppose I cannot hope that you will tell me more,” he said.
“I do not see why I should,” answered Spicca, drinking again. “I asked you an indiscreet question and I have given you an explanation which you are kind enough to accept. Let us say no more about it. It is better to avoid unpleasant subjects.”
“I should not call Madame d’Aranjuez an unpleasant subject,” observed Orsino.
“Then why did you suddenly cease to visit her?” asked Spicca.
“For the best of all reasons. Because she repeatedly refused to receive me.” He was less inclined to take offence now than five minutes earlier. “I see that your information was not complete.”
“No. I was not aware of that. She must have had a good reason for not seeing you.”
“Possibly.”
“But you cannot guess what the reason was?”
“Yes — and no. It depends upon her character, which I do not pretend to understand.”
“I understand it well enough. I can guess at the fact. You made love to her, and one fine day, when she saw that you were losing your head, she quietly told her servant to say that she was not at home when you called. Is that it?”
“Possibly. You say you know her well — then you know whether she would act in that way or not.”
“I ought to know. I think she would. She is not like other women — she has not the same blood.”
“Who is she?” asked Orsino, with a sudden hope that he might learn the truth.
“A woman — rather better than the rest — a widow, too, the widow of a man who never was her husband — thank God!”
Spicca slowly refilled and emptied his goblet for the tenth time.
“The rest is a secret,” he added, when he had finished drinking.
The dark, sunken eyes gazed into Orsino’s with an expression so strange and full of a sort of inexplicable horror, as to make the young man think that the deep potations were beginning to produce an effect upon the strong old head. Spicca sat quite still for several minutes after he had spoken, and then leaned back in his cane chair with a deep sigh. Orsino sighed too, in a sort of unconscious sympathy, for even allowing for Spicca’s natural melancholy the secret was evidently an unpleasant one. Orsino tried to turn the conversation, not, however, without a hope of bringing it back unawares to the question which interested him.
“And so you really mean to stay here all summer,” he remarked, lighting a cigarette and looking at the people seated at a table behind Spicca.
Spicca did not answer at first, and when he did his reply had nothing to do with Orsino’s interrogatory observation.
“We never get rid of the things we have done in our lives,” he said, dreamily. “When a man sows seed in a ploughed field some of the grains are picked out by birds, and some never sprout. We are much more perfectly organised than the earth. The actions we sow in our souls all take root, inevitably and fatally — and th
ey all grow to maturity sooner or later.”
Orsino stared at him for a moment.
“You are in a philosophising mood this evening,” he said.
“We are only logic’s pawns,” continued Spicca without heeding the remark. “Or, if you like it better, we are the Devil’s chess pieces in his match against God. We are made to move each in our own way. The one by short irregular steps in every direction, the other in long straight lines between starting point and goal — the one stands still, like the king-piece, and never moves unless he is driven to it, the other jumps unevenly like the knight. It makes no difference. We take a certain number of other pieces, and then we are taken ourselves — always by the adversary — and tossed aside out of the game. But then, it is easy to carry out the simile, because the game itself was founded on the facts of life, by the people who invented it.”
“No doubt,” said Orsino, who was not very much interested.
“Yes. You have only to give the pieces the names of men and women you know, and to call the pawns society — you will see how very like real life chess can be. The king and queen on each side are a married couple. Of course, the object of each queen is to get the other king, and all her friends help her — knights, bishops, rooks and her set of society pawns. Very like real life, is it not? Wait till you are married.”
Spicca smiled grimly and took more wine.
“There at least you have no personal experience,” objected Orsino.
But Spicca only smiled again, and vouchsafed no answer.
“Is Madame d’Aranjuez coming back next winter?” asked the young man.
“Madame d’Aranjuez will probably come back, since she is free to consult her own tastes,” answered Spicca gravely.
“I hope she may be out of danger by that time,” said Orsino quietly. He had resolved upon a bolder attack than he had hitherto made.
“What danger is she in now?” asked Spicca quietly.
“Surely, you must know.”
“I do not understand you. Please speak plainly if you are in earnest.”
“Before she went away I called once more. When I was coming away her maid met me in the corridor of the hotel and told me that Madame d’Aranjuez was not quite sane, and that she, the maid, was in reality her keeper, or nurse — or whatever you please to call her.”
Spicca laughed harshly. No one could remember to have heard him laugh many times.
“Oh — she said that, did she?” He seemed very much amused. “Yes,” he added presently, “I think Madame d’Aranjuez will be quite out of danger before Christmas.”
Orsino was more puzzled than ever. He was almost sure that Spicca did not look upon the maid’s assertion as serious, and in that case, if his interest in Maria Consuelo was friendly, it was incredible that he should seem amused at what was at least a very dangerous piece of spite on the part of a trusted servant.
“Then is there no truth in that woman’s statement?” asked Orsino.
“Madame d’Aranjuez seemed perfectly sane when I last saw her,” answered Spicca indifferently.
“Then what possible interest had the maid in inventing the lie?”
“Ah — what interest? That is quite another matter, as you say. It may not have been her own interest.”
“You think that Madame d’Aranjuez had instructed her?”
“Not necessarily. Some one else may have suggested the idea, subject to the lady’s own consent.”
“And she would have consented? I do not believe that.”
“My dear Orsino, the world is full of such apparently improbable things that it is always rash to disbelieve anything on the first hearing. It is really much less trouble to accept all that one is told without question.”
“Of course, if you tell me positively that she wishes to be thought mad—”
“I never say anything positively, especially about a woman — and least of all about the lady in question, who is undoubtedly eccentric.”
Instead of being annoyed, Orsino felt his curiosity growing, and made a rash vow to find out the truth at any price. It was inconceivable, he thought, that Spicca should still have perfect control of his faculties, considering the extent of his potations. The second flask was growing light, and Orsino himself had not taken more than two or three glasses. Now a Chianti flask never holds less than two quarts. Moreover Spicca was generally a very moderate man. He would assuredly not resist the confusing effects of the wine much longer and he would probably become confidential.
But Orsino had mistaken his man. Spicca’s nerves, overwrought by some unknown disturbance in his affairs, were in that state in which far stronger stimulants than Tuscan wine have little or no effect upon the brain. Orsino looked at him and wondered, as many had wondered already, what sort of life the man had led, outside and beyond the social existence which every one could see. Few men had been dreaded like the famous duellist, who had played with the best swordsmen in Europe as a cat plays with a mouse. And yet he had been respected, as well as feared. There had been that sort of fatality in his quarrels which had saved him from the imputation of having sought them. He had never been a gambler, as reputed duellists often are. He had never refused to stand second for another man out of personal dislike or prejudice. No one had ever asked his help in vain, high or low, rich or poor, in a reasonably good cause. His acts of kindness came to light accidentally after many years. Yet most people fancied that he hated mankind, with that sort of generous detestation which never stoops to take a mean advantage. In his duels he had always shown the utmost consideration for his adversary and the utmost indifference to his own interest when conditions had to be made. Above all, he had never killed a man by accident. That is a crime which society does not forgive. But he had not failed, either, when he had meant to kill. His speech was often bitter, but never spiteful, and, having nothing to fear, he was a very truthful man. He was also reticent, however, and no one could boast of knowing the story which every one agreed in saying had so deeply influenced his life. He had often been absent from Rome for long periods, and had been heard of as residing in more than one European capital. He had always been supposed to be rich, but during the last three years it had become clear to his friends that he was poor. That is all, roughly speaking, which was known of John Nepomucene, Count Spicca, by the society in which he had spent more than half his life.
Orsino, watching the pale and melancholy face, compared himself with his companion, and wondered whether any imaginable series of events could turn him into such a man at the same age. Yet he admired Spicca, besides respecting him. Boy-like, he envied the great duellist his reputation, his unerring skill, his unfaltering nerve; he even envied him the fear he inspired in those whom he did not like. He thought less highly of his sayings now, perhaps, than when he had first been old enough to understand them. The youthful affectation of cynicism had agreed well with the old man’s genuine bitterness, but the pride of growing manhood was inclined to put away childish things and had not yet suffered so as to understand real suffering. Six months had wrought a change in Orsino, and so far the change was for the better. He had been fortunate in finding success at the first attempt, and his passing passion for Maria Consuelo had left little trace beyond a certain wondering regret that it had not been greater, and beyond the recollection of her sad face at their parting and of the sobs he had overheard. Though he could only give those tears one meaning, he realised less and less as the months passed that they had been shed for him.
That Maria Consuelo should often be in his thoughts was no proof that he still loved her in the smallest degree. There had been enough odd circumstances about their acquaintance to rouse any ordinary man’s interest, and just at present Spicca’s strange hints and half confidences had excited an almost unbearable curiosity in his hearer. But Spicca did not seem inclined to satisfy it any further.
One or two points, at least, were made clear. Maria Consuelo was not insane, as the maid had pretended. Her marriage with the deceased Aranjuez had
been a marriage only in name, if it had even amounted to that. Finally, it was evident that she stood in some very near relation to Spicca and that neither she nor he wished the fact to be known. To all appearance they had carefully avoided meeting during the preceding winter, and no one in society was aware that they were even acquainted. Orsino recalled more than one occasion when each had been mentioned in the presence of the other. He had a good memory and he remembered that a scarcely perceptible change had taken place in the manner or conversation of the one who heard the other’s name. It even seemed to him that at such moments Maria Consuelo had shown an infinitesimal resentment, whereas Spicca had faintly exhibited something more like impatience. If this were true, it argued that Spicca was more friendly to Maria Consuelo than she was to him. Yet on this particular evening Spicca had spoken somewhat bitterly of her — but then, Spicca was always bitter. His last remark was to the effect that she was eccentric. After a long silence, during which Orsino hoped that his friend would say something more, he took up the point.
“I wish I knew what you meant by eccentric,” he said. “I had the advantage of seeing Madame d’Aranjuez frequently, and I did not notice any eccentricity about her.”
“Ah — perhaps you are not observant. Or perhaps, as you say, we do not mean the same thing.”
“That is why I would like to hear your definition,” observed Orsino.
“The world is mad on the subject of definitions,” answered Spicca. “It is more blessed to define than to be defined. It is a pleasant thing to say to one’s enemy, ‘Sir, you are a scoundrel.’ But when your enemy says the same thing to you, you kill him without hesitation or regret — which proves, I suppose, that you are not pleased with his definition of you. You see definition, after all, is a matter of taste. So, as our tastes might not agree, I would rather not define anything this evening. I believe I have finished that flask. Let us take our coffee. We can define that beforehand, for we know by daily experience how diabolically bad it is.”
Orsino saw that Spicca meant to lead the conversation away in another direction.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 557
