‘My cousin — her father was my mother’s cousin — is a very ingenious woman,’ concluded Casalmaggiore with a smile, and pocketing his notes again. ‘I am sorry to say that I have known her to exhibit her ingenuity in even more surprising ways than this.’
‘She told me that Castiglione had accused her of meeting me in an equivocal place,’ said de Maurienne.
‘No doubt. We are rather afraid of her in Rome, and very much so in the family.’
‘What is her object in all this?’
‘I hope I do not offend you by saying that my good cousin has determined to marry you,’ answered Casalmaggiore, still smiling faintly. ‘I should not expect you to share her enthusiasm on that point. It would not be precisely tactful of me to ask if I am right, but I shall be so free as to take it for granted. That being the case, you cannot fail to see that if she led you into a duel on her account, she would thereby be forcing you to compromise her to such an extent that many persons would think you ought to marry her as a matter of honour. If a man even distantly related to her, such as I myself, for instance, took up a quarrel for her, there would be at least the excuse of relationship, but there is not the shadow of a reason why you should do such a thing, even if there were any cause! That is all I have to say. I repeat that I am at your disposal, if I have said anything to offend you.’
Monsieur de Maurienne was perfectly brave, and though he was no duellist, and not even a good fencer, he would have faced the first swordsman in Europe without turning a hair; it is therefore no aspersion on his courage to say that he was afraid to marry Teresa Crescenzi, though he thought her very pretty and amusing, if a little vivid. The point explained by the Colonel had not escaped him either, and he had spent a very unpleasant afternoon.
He considered the matter for a few moments before he spoke.
‘You have done me a great service,’ he said. ‘I have known Castiglione several months, and, without any disrespect to Donna Teresa, I must say that I was not fully persuaded of the exactness of what she told me. I thought your cousin’s manner a little strained — let us put it in that way.’
‘It is impossible to speak of a lady with greater consideration,’ said Casalmaggiore.
‘But I was placed in a difficult position, and very suddenly. Such things happen now and then. Perhaps, in the same situation, you yourself, or Castiglione, would have acted as hastily as I did.’
‘Quite so. Even more hastily, perhaps.’
The Colonel was thinking that under the circumstances he would have told Donna Teresa exactly what he thought of her, taking advantage of relationship to be extremely plain.
‘Castiglione,’ continued de Maurienne, ‘behaved in the most honourable and forbearing way. I take great pleasure in saying that I sincerely regret the offensive expressions I used, and that I entertain the highest respect for him. Will you permit me? I will write him a short note, by your kindness.’
‘Thank you. It will be much appreciated.’
A quarter of an hour later Castiglione’s orderly received another shock to his nerves. When he answered the bell and saw his colonel on the landing, resplendent in a perfectly new uniform, the trooper flattened himself at attention against the open door with such precision and violence that the back of his head struck the panel with a crack like a pistol shot, his eyes almost started out of his head, and he was completely speechless.
The Captain was in his sitting-room, poring over a new German book on the functions of cavalry in war, and a well-worn dictionary lay at his elbow. He started to his feet in surprise.
‘I think you will find this satisfactory,’ said Casalmaggiore, handing him de Maurienne’s note and sitting down.
Castiglione read the contents quickly, still standing.
‘What in the world did you tell him?’ he asked in amazement.
‘The truth,’ answered the Colonel, suppressing a slight yawn, for the whole affair had bored him excessively. ‘It is amazing what miracles the truth will perform where everything else fails! If Teresa could only realise that, she would simplify her existence. As you have not gone to bed, in spite of my advice, come and dine with me. I’ve got another idea about that mare, and I should like to talk it over with you. I think it will succeed.’
Castiglione laughed a little.
‘I will come with pleasure,’ he said. ‘What is the new idea? I thought you developed the subject pretty fully this afternoon.’
‘This has occurred to me since,’ answered Casalmaggiore gravely. He was silent for a moment, pursuing his favourite scheme. ‘Castiglione,’ he said, rising suddenly and looking at his watch, ‘if you ever let Teresa guess that I have interfered with her plans, I’ll court-martial you!’
‘Never fear!’ The Captain laughed again.
‘As for leave, I’m glad you would not take your two days. There is a general strike again, and we shall certainly have some patrol work to do, if nothing worse. After you had left me I got another message from headquarters.’
CHAPTER XXIII
TWO DAYS LATER Montalto informed Maria after luncheon that he had an appointment with the Chief of Police at three o’clock, and had decided to lay the whole matter before him and to leave it altogether in his hands. It had taken Montalto almost a week to reach this final decision, and Maria had devoutly hoped that he would never act at all. She thought it would be like him to put off doing anything till he convinced himself that the blackmailer’s letter had been an idle threat, never to be put into execution; but she was mistaken in this, for Montalto never left quite undone what he believed that it was his duty to do, and in the present case, though he had been so slow, he was really in much greater apprehension of a scandal than Maria understood.
The people who are the hardest to live with are often those who speak the truth, and nothing but the truth, but not the whole truth. It is never possible to be sure what they are hiding from us out of prudence or shyness, prudishness or delicacy; it is the most difficult thing in the world to find out precisely what they know and what they do not know, without putting direct questions which would be little short of insulting.
Montalto was such a man. His power of keeping his own counsel without telling an untruth was amazing; and his own counsel was not always wise. It was this characteristic of his which had twice suggested to Maria, in moments of despair, that he had come back to revenge himself upon her by systematically torturing her to death. Mediocrity is never so exasperating as when it affects to be inscrutable.
‘I have not thought it best to talk much with you about the letters, my dear,’ Montalto said. ‘In such cases it is the man’s business to act.’
Maria smiled faintly. She foresaw much useless trouble if he carried out the intention he had been so long in formulating, though she knew nothing of the ways of the police. For two whole days she had lived in the certainty that she was safe, and the thought that the whole story was to be told again, to a stranger and by her husband, was very disturbing. On the other hand it seemed all but impossible to show Montalto the blackmailer’s confession, written in Castiglione’s handwriting, and signed by him as a witness.
‘Perhaps,’ she suggested, ‘since it is already so near the eighth day, we had better wait until they write a second time, as the letter said they would.’
Montalto looked at her in surprise, and paused in the act of reconstructing one of his Havana cigarettes.
‘Why, my dear?’ he asked. ‘You yourself urged me to act, before I had time to form an opinion, and you seemed distressed because I took a day or two to think it over; and now you suddenly advise me not to act at all. This is very strange. I do not understand you.’
He waited for her to answer him, and he saw that she hesitated.
‘You must have some very good reason for changing your mind so unexpectedly,’ he said, in a discontented tone, and resumed the rolling of his cigarette.
Maria felt the difficulty of the situation, for which she was not in the least prepared; she had been very
sure that he would not do anything in the matter, because she hoped that he would not.
‘Also,’ he continued, ‘why do you speak of more than one person?’
‘More than one?’
‘You said: until “they” write a second time. What reason have you to suppose that any one is concerned in this but Schmidt?’
She had been thinking of the wording of the paper, of Blosse and his ‘accomplices.’
‘The letter mentioned two other names,’ she said.
‘I have no doubt that Schmidt goes by twenty,’ returned her husband testily. ‘You know very well that Pozzi and Pizzuti both stand for Schmidt!’
He lighted his cigarette, and smoked in silence for some moments.
‘I cannot understand why you have changed your mind,’ he repeated at last. ‘You must have some reason.’
Maria attempted a little diplomacy.
‘Don’t you think a second letter, if it should come, might give a better clue for the police to work on, or might — what do they call it? — strengthen the evidence against Schmidt?’
‘There is evidence enough already to send him to penal servitude, if we can catch him,’ answered Montalto. ‘I really cannot see what more is needed!’
‘Except that — to catch him,’ suggested Maria. ‘I really think that another letter — —’
‘Absurd!’ Montalto was seriously annoyed with her by this time. ‘Something has happened to make you change your mind. Am I right or not?’
Maria turned a little pale and bit her lip. But she would not tell an untruth.
‘Yes, something has happened,’ she answered.
‘What?’ The single word was pronounced with a good deal of sharpness.
Maria turned to him.
‘I would rather not tell you,’ she said gently. ‘It is quite useless for you to go to the police, for the letters will not be published.’
She spoke in a tone of perfect certainty that surprised him.
‘You seem very sure,’ he said.
‘I am quite sure.’
‘And you object to telling me why you are. Very strange!’
‘I don’t “object,” Diego. I only say I would rather not. I ask you not to question me.’
‘My dear,’ answered Montalto, ‘only reflect upon what you are saying. In the first place, you are a woman, and you may be mistaken.’
‘I am not. I assure you I am not.’
If she had been less anxious to pacify him she would have asked if men never made mistakes.
‘I confess I should like to judge of that, considering that the honour of my name is at stake,’ said her husband.
‘Your name is safe, and mine too. Please, please don’t ask me to tell you!’
‘Maria, there is some mystery about all this, and I cannot consent to let it go on. It must be cleared up. It is my duty to ask what you have done to stop the publication of those letters.’
She made a last appeal.
‘You have forgiven me so much, Diego. You have trusted me so much! I only ask you to trust me now — there is nothing to forgive!’
‘You may as well say at once that you have sent a cheque to that scoundrel,’ said Montalto angrily. ‘You have thrown it away. He still has the photographs, and as soon as he wants more money he will threaten us again. I warned you not to do that!’
Maria hoped desperately that if she remained silent he would continue in this belief. But the obstinacy of an over-conscientious person who has a ‘duty’ to perform is appalling.
‘Have you sent the money?’ he asked severely, as soon as he was sure that she did not mean to say anything in reply.
‘No.’
‘Then you are ashamed of what you have done. There is no other explanation of your silence, my dear. You yourself must see that.’
He said ‘my dear’ in a tone that exasperated her.
‘No,’ she cried vehemently, ‘I have done nothing to be ashamed of! You must find some other explanation of my silence, if you insist on having one!’
‘Your conduct is so extraordinary,’ Montalto replied, in an offended tone, ‘that I can only account for it in one way. Instead of trusting to me, you have allowed some one else to help you, and you are ashamed to tell me who the person is.’
‘I am not ashamed!’ Maria drew herself up now, and her dark eyes gleamed a little. ‘But I will not tell you!’
‘There is only one name you would be ashamed to let me hear in this matter. If you persist in your silence I shall know that you have been helped by Castiglione.’
Montalto’s eyes were a little bloodshot, and fixed themselves on hers. She did not hesitate any longer.
‘I never lied to you, and I am not ashamed of the truth,’ she answered proudly. ‘Baldassare del Castiglione has helped me.’
Until she had actually told him so, in plain words, Montalto had wished not to believe what he had guessed. His face had been changing slowly, and now she saw once more, after many years, the look it had worn when he had first accused her, and she had bowed her head. When he spoke again she remembered the tone she had not heard since then.
‘As you are not ashamed to say so, I suppose you will not mind telling me what he did.’
‘You shall see for yourself.’
She left the drawing-room, and he sat quite still during the few seconds that elapsed; quite still, staring at the seat that she had left. For he loved her. When she came back she stood before him. He took the paper from her hand and read it with difficulty, though he had known the handwriting well enough in old times. He read it all, to the name of the regiment after Castiglione’s signature. Then he handed back the paper.
‘I have been mad,’ he said slowly and almost mechanically.
She misunderstood him.
‘You see that I was right,’ she said. ‘Your honour is safe.’
His face changed in a way that frightened her. She thought he was choking. An instant later he sprang to his feet and left her side, pressing both his hands to his ears like a man raving. His voice rang out with a mad laugh.
‘My honour!’
Maria laid one hand on the back of the chair he had left, to steady herself, for the shock of understanding him was more than she could bear. Scarcely knowing that her lips moved she called him back.
‘Diego! Diego! Hear me!’
‘Hear you? Have I not heard?’ He turned upon her like a madman. ‘Have I not heard and remembered every word you have spoken, those eight months and more? How you would tear the memory of that man from your heart? How you called God to witness that you would forget him? How you and he took an oath never to meet again? Have I not heard you, and forgiven, and believed, and trusted, and loved you like the miserable fool I am? And you ask me to hear you again? Oh, never, never! You have promised and you have lied to me, you have called God to witness and you have blasphemed, you have asked for trust and you have betrayed me with that man — and now you tell me he has saved my honour. My honour! My honour!’
Maria closed her eyes and grasped the chair. But she would not bend her head to the storm as she had bowed it long ago.
‘I am innocent. I have done none of these things.’
She could find no other words, and he would not have listened to more, for he was beside himself and began to rave again, while she stood straight and white beside the chair. Sometimes his voice was thick, as his fury choked him, sometimes it was shrill and wild, when his rage found vent. But each time, as he paused, exhausted, to draw breath, her words came to him calm and clear in the moment’s stillness.
‘I am innocent.’
His madness subsided by slow degrees, and then changed all at once, and he was again in the mood she remembered so well. He came and stood still two paces from her, his eyes all bloodshot but his face white.
‘How dare you say you are innocent?’ he asked.
She held out the envelope in which Castiglione’s writing had come to her.
‘It is addressed to my confessor,
who gave it to me,’ she said.
He came nearer and steadied his eyes to read the name, for his sight was not very good.
‘Do you think such a trick as that can deceive me?’ he asked with cold scorn.
‘Send for him,’ said Maria. ‘Your carriage is at the door, for you were going out. Go and bring him here, for he will come.’
Montalto looked at her with a strange expression.
‘Go to the Capuchins,’ she said calmly. ‘Ask for Padre Bonaventura, and bring him back in the carriage. He will not refuse you.’
‘Padre Bonaventura? Old Padre Bonaventura?’ He repeated the name in a dazed tone, for he knew it well, as many Romans did.
‘Bring him here,’ Maria said. ‘He will tell you that it was he who went to Baldassare del Castiglione and asked his help and received this paper from him on the evening of the same day. He will tell you, too, that at the very moment when it was placed in his hands I came for the answer, and we met, face to face, and looked at each other; but we did not speak, and Castiglione went away at once. Giuliana Parenzo was with me, and was waiting for me inside the door; she saw him go out a moment after we had come. Will you believe her? If you still think I am not telling the truth, will you believe my confessor?’
While she was speaking she looked at him with calm and clear eyes in the serenity of perfect innocence. And all at once he broke down and cried aloud with a wail of agony.
‘Maria! What have I done?’
Then he was at her feet, his arms round her body, his face buried against her, sobbing like a woman, as she had never sobbed, rocking himself to and fro like a child, as he had rocked himself when he had first come back to her, kissing her skirt frantically. And his unmanly tears ran down upon the grey cloth.
She felt a little sick as she bent and tried to soothe him, forcing herself to lay kind hands upon his head, and then gently endeavouring to lift him to his feet, while he clasped her and implored her forgiveness in broken words. But she was very brave. He must not guess what she felt, nor feel that the hand that smoothed his hair grew cold from sheer loathing of what it touched.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 1157
