by Grant Allen
In the shabby little salon everything was as neat as neat could be when Mr. Lionel entered to salute his charmer. A bouquet — presented that day by another admirer — stood upon the table by the sofa in the corner, where Mme. Ceriolo herself lay in the half-light, her lamp just judiciously shaded from above, and the folds of her becoming soft-colored tea-gown arranged around her plump figure with the most studied carelessness. As Lionel approached Mme. Ceriolo held out both her hands in welcome, without rising from her seat or discomposing her dress.
“How nice of you to come so soon!” she cried, pressing either fat palm with dexterously adjusted pressure. “So long since we’ve met! And I thought of you at Florence, even among those delicious Fra Angelicos, and Lippis, and Andreas, and Della Robbias, I often longed to be back in England, among all my friends. For, after all, I love England best. I sometimes say to her, with all thy virtues — thy Philistine, obtrusive, hypocritical virtues — England, with all thy virtues, I love thee still!”
Mr. Lionel was charmed. What wit! what playfulness! He sat down and talked, with a vague idea of being a thorough man of the world, about Florence and Italy, and all Mme. Ceriolo had seen and done since he last set eyes on her, till he half imagined himself as cosmopolitan as she was. Indeed, he had once run across (when business was slack) for a fortnight to Paris, and made acquaintance with the Continent in the cafés chantants of the Champs Elysées in that seductive metropolis, so that he almost felt competent to discuss the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace, or to enlarge upon St. Mark’s and Milan Cathedral, with as much glib readiness as Mme. Ceriolo herself could do. As for madame, she humored him to the very top of his bent.
“Ah, what a pity it is, Mr. Solomons,” she exclaimed at last, gazing across at him with a look which was intended to convey the ill-concealed admiration of a simple but all too-trusting heart; “what a pity it is that you, with your high instincts and aspirations — you who would so much enjoy and appreciate all these lovely things, should be condemned to pass all your youth — your golden youth — in moiling and toiling after the pursuit of wealth in that dreadful City!”
“Well, the City aint so bad, after all,” Mr. Lionel answered deprecatingly, but with a self-satisfied smirk. “There’s lots of fun, too, to be had in the City, I can tell you.”
“That’s true,” Mme. Ceriolo answered, beaming upon him angelically; “oh, so very true — for you who say it. Of course, when one’s young, everywhere has its delights. Why, I love even this dear old dingy London. At our age, naturally, the universe at large ought to be full of interest for us. But, still, I often think to myself, what a terrible thing it is — how badly this world we live in is organized! It’s the old who have all the world’s money in their hands. It’s the young who want it, and who ought to have it.”
“Just my notion to a T,” Mr. Lionel answered briskly, gazing at the enchantress with open eyes. “That’s exactly what I stick at. Where’s the good of the tin, I always say, to a lot of helpless and hopeless old mumbling cripples?”
“Quite so,” Mme. Ceriolo continued, watching his face closely. “What a capital principle it would be, now, if nature made all of us drop off satisfied at sixty or thereabouts, like leeches when they’re full, and leave all our hoarded wealth to be used and enjoyed by those who have still the spirit to enjoy it!”
“Instead of which,” Mr. Lionel put in with a prompt air of acquiescence, “one’s relations always go living and living on, on purpose to spite one, till eighty-five or ninety!”
“Keeping the young people out of their own so long!” Mme. Ceriolo echoed, to pursue the pregnant train of thought uninterrupted. “Yes, that’s just where it is. It’s a natural injustice. Now, when I was out over there in Florence, for example, I thought to myself — I can’t tell you how often — (forgive me if I confess it) suppose only Lionel Solomons could be here with me too — you’ll pardon me, won’t you, for thinking of you to myself as Lionel Solomons? — how much more he’d enjoy this delightful, charming Italian life, with its freedom and its unconventionality, its sunshine and its carnival, than the dreary, dismal, foggy world of London!”
“No, did you really though!” Lionel cried, openmouthed. “I’m sure that was awfully good and kind of you, madame!”
“And then I thought to myself,” Mme. Ceriolo went on, closing her eyes ecstatically— “one afternoon in the Casino, when the sun was shining, and the band was playing, and a crowd of young Italian noblemen were pressing round our carriage — Countess Spinelli-Feroni’s carriage, you know, where Fede and I were sitting and chatting with them — it came upon me suddenly, as I looked around and missed you — how happy dear Lionel Solomons would be in a world like this, if only—” She broke off and paused significantly.
“If only what?” Mr. Lionel asked with an ogle of delight.
“If only that rich uncle of his, old Cento-Cento down yonder at Hillborough, were to do his duty like a man and pop off the hooks at once, now there’s no further need or use in the world any longer for him.”
“Old what?” Mr. Lionel inquired, not catching the name exactly.
“Old Cento-Cento,” Mme. Ceriolo answered, with a beaming smile. “That’s what I always call your respected uncle in Italian to myself. A hundred per cent, it means, you know, in English. I usually think of him in my own mind as old Cento-Cento.”
Mr. Lionel hardly knew whether to be annoyed or not. “He don’t ask any more than other people do for the same accommodation,” he answered half-grumpily.
“No, doesn’t he, though?” Mme. Ceriolo replied, with the infantile smile of a simple marble cherub. “Well, I’m sorry for that; for I thought he was laying by a nice round sum for somebody else to enjoy hereafter. And for somebody else’s sake, I think I could forgive even rank usury to old Cento-Cento! He might behave like a perfect Shylock, if he liked, provided only it redounded in the end to somebody else’s benefit.”
Mr. Lionel’s face relaxed once more. “Well, there’s something in that,” he answered, mollified.
“Something in that!” the enchantress echoed with a little start of surprise; “why, there’s a great deal in that! There’s everything in that — Lionel.” She paused a moment as she let the name glide half-reluctantly off her tongue. “For your sake,” she went on, letting her eyelashes fall with a drooping languor, expressive of feminine reserve and timidity, “I almost fancy I could forgive him anything — except his perversity in living forever. How old is he now, Lionel?”
“Sixty-something,” the younger Mr. Solomons answered ruefully.
“And he may go on living to all eternity!” Mme. Ceriolo cried, excited. “When I say to ‘all eternity,’ I mean for twenty years — at our age, a perfectly endless period! O Lionel, think how much enjoyment you might get out of that old man’s money, if only — if only my plan for dropping off at sixty had met with the approbation of the authorities of the universe!”
“It’s very good of you to interest yourself so much in my happiness,” Mr. Lionel said, melting, and gazing at her fondly.
“Whatever interests you, interests me, Lionel,” Mme. Ceriolo answered truthfully. For she meant to make what was his, hers. And she gazed back at him, languishing.
Flesh and blood could stand it no longer. Mr. Lionel was composed of those familiar human histological elements. Leaning over the daughter of Tyrolese aristocracy, he seized Mme. Ceriolo’s hand, which half resisted, half yielded, in his own. In a fervor of young love even Mr. Lionel could be genuinely carried away by the tender passion — he lifted it to his lips. The countess, in distress, permitted him to impress upon it one burning kiss. Then she snatched it away, tremulously, like one who feels conscious of having allowed her feelings to get the better of her judgment in a moment of weakness. “No, no,” she exclaimed, faintly. “Not that! Not that, Lionel.”
“And why not?” Mr. Lionel asked, bending over her, all eagerness.
“Because,” the countess in distress answered, with a deep-drawn sigh, “
I am too, too weak. It can never be. I can never, never burden you.”
Mr. Lionel had hardly before reflected with seriousness whether he desired to be burdened with Mme. Ceriolo as a partner for life or not; but thus suddenly put upon his mettle, he forgot to reason with himself as to the wisdom of his course; he forgot to pause for committee of supply; he forgot to debate the pros and cons of the state of matrimony; he retained sense enough merely to pour forth his full soul in unpremeditated strains of passionate pleading, as conceived in the East-Central postal district. He flung himself, figuratively, at Mme. Ceriolo’s feet. He laid his heart and hand at Mme. Ceriolo’s footstool. He groveled in the dust before Mme. Ceriolo’s throne. He begged Mme. Ceriolo at all risks and hazards to make him the happiest of mankind at once and forever.
And being human after all, he meant it all as he said it; he meant every word, without deduction or discount. She was a devilish fine woman, and she intoxicated him with her presence.
But Mme. Ceriolo, with difficulty preserving her womanly dignity, and trembling all over with profound regret, reluctantly declined the proffered anatomical specimens. His heart and hand she must perforce deny herself. “Oh, no,” she answered, “Lionel, dear Lionel, it can never be. Weak as I am, for your sake I must steel myself. What have I to offer you in return for your love? Nothing but the bare shadow of a noble name — an empty title — a useless coronet. I won’t burden any further your youth, that ought to be so free — while the uncle lives. If old Cento-Cento were to be gathered to his fathers now — or were to see his way to making you a proper allowance — perhaps — in time — But as it is, impossible! I won’t even wait for you: I won’t let you wait for me. Let us both be free —
I, at least, will never make any use of my freedom!”
Mr. Lionel rose and paced the salon. “You won’t have long to wait!” he exclaimed, strange thoughts surging within him. “Marie — may I call you Marie? — oh, thank you: I swear it.”
Mme. Ceriolo dropped back upon her cushions in admirable alarm. “O Lionel,” she cried, all aghast at his boldness, “whatever you do, whatever you mean — for my sake be prudent.”
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE PLAN PROGRESSES.
WHEN Lionel Solomons left the Hôtel de l’Univers that evening, at a very late hour, Mme. Ceriolo lay back on her cushions with a smiling face and laughed low to herself. “Booked!” she murmured under her breath, much amused. “Distinctly booked! I’ve only got to play him carefully now, and my fish is landed!” For Mme. Ceriolo was not such a purist in her metaphors as many distinguished critics would wish us all to be. She thought in the natural terms of everyday humanity, not in the forced language pedants would fain impose upon us. They would have insisted upon it that she must have said to herself “hooked!” not “booked!” in order to guard against a mixture of metaphors. Only, unfortunately, as a matter of fact, being human, she didn’t.
But Mr. Lionel went home much perturbed in soul. He had let himself in for Mme. Ceriolo in real earnest now, and he must face the difficulty he had himself created in his own path through life. Money must be found somehow; money, money, money, if possible, by fair means; but if those failed, then otherwise.
Not that Mr. Lionel repented of his choice. She was a devilish fine woman and a real countess. Her notepaper was stamped with an indubitable coronet. She knew the world, and could open the way for him into society he had never as yet even dreamed of attempting. She could help him to take down that prig Gascoyne, who sadly wanted taking down a peg or two. Nothing could be nicer — if only it were practicable. But there came the rub. If only it were practicable!
And the next three weeks were wholly spent by Mr. Lionel Solomons in trying to think how he could make it all possible.
During those few weeks he saw much, it need hardly be said, of Mme. Ceriolo. The countess in distress, having once decided upon her course of action, had no intention of letting the grass grow under her feet. Her plan was to strike while the iron was hot. The fish must be landed without delay. So she devoted her by no means inconsiderable talents to the congenial task of gently suggesting to Lionel Solomons her preconceived solution of her own created problem.
She didn’t let Lionel see she was suggesting it, of course. Oh, dear no; madame was far too clever and too cautious for that. To propose, however remotely, that he should do anything dishonorable for her own dear sake would be inartistic and disenchanting. The countess in distress played her cards more cleverly. She only made him feel, by obscure innuendoes, and ingenious half-hints, how admirable a thing it would be in the abstract if the money that lay in Mr. Solomons’ safe could be transferred without difficulty to the bottom of his nephew’s waistcoat pocket. Mme. Ceriolo had no intention, indeed, of mixing up her own unsullied name with any doubtful transactions in the matter of the proposed readjustment of securities. She avoided all appearance of evil with religious avoidance. During a longer course of life than she cared to admit even to her own looking-glass she had carefully kept outside the law courts of her country. She hadn’t the slightest idea of entering them now. If swindling must be done, let others swindle; ’twas hers to batten innocently on the booty of the swindled. Her cue was to urge on Mr. Lionel by vague suggestions that suggested nothing — to let him think he was planning the whole thing himself, when, in reality, he was going blindfolded whither his charmer led him.
Nor was it part of her design, either, to commit herself unreservedly to Mr. Lionel for any lengthened period. She saw in him a considerable temporary convenience, whose pickings might even be judiciously applied to the more secure capture of Armitage, or some other equally eligible person, in the remoter future. Funds were necessary for the further prosecution of the campaign of life; Mr. Lionel might well consider himself flattered in being selected as the instrument for supplying the sinews of war for the time being to so distinguished a strategist.
So Mme. Ceriolo contrived to spread her net wide, and to entangle her young admirer artfully within its cunning coils.
It was a Sunday in autumn — that next succeeding autumn — and madame lolled once more upon those accustomed cushions. To loll suited the Ceriolo figure; it suggested most amply the native voluptuousness of the Ceriolo charms.
“Zébie,” Mme. Ceriolo called out to her faithful attendant, “put away those flowers into my bedroom, will you? They are the Armitage’s, and the Armitage must be sternly ignored. Set the ugly little Jew’s bouquet here by my side. And listen, imbecile; don’t go grinning like that. I expect the little Jew himself to drop in this afternoon. Entends-tu donc, stupide? The ugly little Jew, I tell you, is coming. Show him up at once, the minute he arrives, and for the rest, whoever comes, ‘Madame ne reçoit pas aujourd’hui;’ now, do you hear me, image?”
“Oui, Madame,” Eusébie answered with imperturbable good humor. “Though I should think madame ought almost to have cleared out the little Jew by this time.”
“Zébie,” madame answered with a not unflattered smile, “you meddle too much. You positively presume. I shall have to speak of your conduct, I fear, to the patron. You are of an impertinence — oh, of an impertinence! What is it to you why I receive this gentleman? His attentions are strictly pour le bon motif. Were it otherwise—” Madame leaned back on her cushions and composed her face with profound gravity into the severest imitation of the stern British matron. “Go, Zébie,” she continued. “This levity surprises me. Besides, I rather think I hear — on sonne. Go down and bring him up. It’s the ugly little Jew — I know his footstep.”
“Lionel!” Mme. Ceriolo was exclaiming a moment later, her left hand pressed unobtrusively about the region of her heart, to still its beating, and her right hand extended with effusion to greet him. “I hardly expected you would come to-day! A pleasure unexpected is doubly pleasant. Sit down, dear heart” — in German this last—” let me take a good look at you now. So delighted to see you!”
Mr. Lionel sat down, and twirled his hat. His charmer gazed at him, bu
t he hardly heeded her. He talked for some minutes with a preoccupied air. Mme. Ceriolo didn’t fail to note that some more important subject than the weather and the theater, on both which he touched in passing with light lips, engrossed his soul. But she waited patiently. She let him go on, and went on herself, as becomes young love, with these minor matters.
“And so Mignonette was good?” she said, throwing volumes into her glance. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to go with you myself. That box was a temptation. But I think, you know — so long as nothing definite can be arranged between us,” and she sighed gently, “it’s best I shouldn’t be seen with you too much in public. A woman, and especially a woman qui court le monde toute seule, can’t be too careful, you see, to avoid being talked about. If only for your sake, Lionel, I can’t be too careful.”
Mr. Lionel twirled his hat more violently than ever.
“Well, that’s just what I’ve come to talk to you about, Marie,” he said with some awkwardness — though he called her plain Marie quite naturally now. “‘So long as nothing definite can be arranged between us,’ you say. Well, there it is, you see; I want to put things at last upon a definite basis. The question is, are you or are you not prepared to trust yourself implicitly to my keeping?”
The countess in distress started with a well-designed start.
“O Lionel,” she cried, like a girl of sixteen, “do you really, really, really mean it?”
