that he had done it, and that the Triple Alliance was a goose which would lay many golden eggs. The believing bulls roared everything away before them, opposition, objections, financial experience, and the vanquished bears hibernated in secret places, sucking their paws and wondering what, in the name of Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, would happen next. Distinguished men wrote pamphlets in the most distinguished language to prove that wealth was a baby capable of being hatched artificially and brought up by hand. Every unmarried swain who could find a bride, married her forthwith; those who could not followed the advice of an illustrious poet and, being over-anxious to take wives, took those of others. Everybody was decorated. It positively rained decorations and hailed grand crosses and enough commanders’ ribbons were reeled out to have hanged half the population. The periodical attempt to revive the defunct carnival in the Corso was made, and the yet unburied corpse of ancient gaiety was taken out and painted, and gorgeously arrayed, and propped up in its seat to be a posthumous terror to its enemies, like the dead Cid. Society danced frantically and did all those things which it ought not to have done–and added a few more, unconsciously imitating Pico della Mirandola.
Even those comparatively few families who, like the Saracinesca, had scornfully declined to dabble in the whirlpool of affairs, did not by any means refuse to dance to the music of success which filled the city with, such enchanting strains. The Princess Befana rose from her deathbed with more than usual vivacity and went to the length of opening her palace on two evenings in two successive weeks, to the intense delight of her gay and youthful heirs, who earnestly hoped that the excitement might kill her at last, and kill her beyond resurrection this time. But they were disappointed. She still dies periodically in winter and blooms out again in spring with the poppies, affording a perpetual and edifying illustration of the changes of the year, or, as some say, of the doctrine of immortality. On one of those memorable occasions she walked through a quadrille with the aged Prince Saracinesca, whereupon Sant’ Ilario slipped his arm round Corona’s waist and waltzed with her down the whole length of the ballroom and back again amidst the applause of his contemporaries and their children. If Orsino had had a wife he would have followed their example. As it was, he looked rather gloomily in the direction of a silent and high-born damsel with whom he was condemned to dance the cotillon at a later hour.
So all went gaily on until Ash Wednesday extinguished the social flame, suddenly and beyond relighting. And still Orsino did not meet Maria Consuelo, and still he hesitated to make another attempt to find her at home. He began to wonder whether he should ever see her again, and as the days went by he almost wished that Donna Tullia would send him a card for her lenten evenings, at which Maria Consuelo regularly assisted as he learned from the papers. After that first invitation to dinner, he had expected that Del Ferice’s wife would make an attempt to draw him into her circle; and, indeed, she would probably have done so had she followed her own instinct instead of submitting to the higher policy dictated by her husband. Orsino waited in vain, not knowing whether to be annoyed at the lack of consideration bestowed upon him, or to admire the tact which assumed that he would never wish to enter the Del Ferice circle.
It is presumably clear that Orsino was not in love with Madame d’Aranjuez, and he himself appreciated the fact with a sense of disappointment. He was amazed at his own coldness and at the indifference with which he had submitted to what amounted to a most abrupt dismissal. He even went so far as to believe that Maria Consuelo had repulsed him designedly in the hope of kindling a more sincere passion. In that case she had been egregiously mistaken, he thought. He felt a curiosity to see her again before she left Rome, but it was nothing more than that. A new and absorbing interest had taken possession of him which at first left little room in his nature for anything else. His days were spent in the laborious study of figures and plans, broken only by occasional short but amusing conversations with Andrea Contini. His evenings were generally passed among a set of people who did not know Maria Consuelo except by sight and who had long ceased to ask him questions about her. Of late, too, he had missed his daily visits to her less and less, until he hardly regretted them at all, nor so much as thought of the possibility of renewing them. He laughed at the idea that his mother should have taken the place of a woman whom he had begun to love, and yet he was conscious that it was so, though he asked himself how long such a condition of things could last. Corona was far too wise to discuss his affairs with his father. He was too like herself for her to misunderstand him, and if she regarded the whole matter as perfectly harmless and as a legitimate subject for general conversation, she yet understood perfectly that having been once rebuffed by Sant’ Ilario, Orsino must wish to be fully successful in his attempt before mentioning it again to the latter. And she felt so strongly in sympathy with her son that his work gradually acquired an intense interest for her, and she would have sacrificed much rather than see it fail. She did not on that account blame Giovanni for his discouraging view when Orsino had consulted him. Giovanni was the passion of her life and was not fallible in his impulses, though his judgment might sometimes be at fault in technical matters for which he cared nothing. But her love for her son was as great and sincere in its own way, and her pride in him was such as to make his success a condition of her future happiness.
One of the greatest novelists of this age begins one of his greatest novels with the remark that “all happy families resemble each other, but that every unhappy family is unhappy in its own especial way.” Generalities are dangerous in proportion as they are witty or striking, or both, and it may be asked whether the great Tolstoi has not fallen a victim to his own extraordinary power of striking and witty generalisations. Does the greatest of all his generalisations, the wide disclaimer of his early opinions expressed in the postscript subsequently attached by him to his _Kreutzer Sonata_, include also the words I have quoted, and which were set up, so to say, as the theme of his _Anna Karjenina_? One may almost hope so. I am no critic, but those words somehow seem to me to mean that only unhappiness can be interesting. It is not pleasant to think of the consequences to which the acceptance of such a statement might lead.
There are no statistics to tell us whether the majority of living men and women are to be considered as happy or unhappy. But it does seem true that whereas a single circumstance can cause very great and lasting unhappiness, felicity is always dependent upon more than one condition and often upon so many as to make the explanation of it a highly difficult and complicated matter.
Corona had assuredly little reason to complain of her lot during the past twenty years, but unruffled and perfect as it had seemed to her she began to see that there were sources of sorrow and satisfaction before her which had not yet poured their bitter or sweet streams into the stately river of her mature life. The new interest which Orsino had created for her became more and more absorbing, and she watched it and tended it, and longed to see it grow to greater proportions. The situation was strange in one way at least. Orsino was working and his mother was helping him to work in the hope of a financial success which neither of them wanted or cared for. Possibly the certainty that failure could entail no serious consequences made the game a more amusing if a less exciting one to play.
“If I lose,” said Orsino to her, “I can only lose the few thousands I invested. If I win, I will give you a string of pearls as a keepsake.”
“If you lose, dear boy,” answered Corona, “it must be because you had not enough to begin with. I will give you as much as you need, and we will try again.”
They laughed happily together. Whatever chanced, things must turn out well. Orsino worked very hard, and Corona was very rich in her own right and could afford to help to any extent she thought necessary. She could, indeed, have taken the part of the bank and advanced him all the money he needed, but it seemed useless to interfere with the existing arrangements.
In Lent the house had reached an important point in its existence. Andrea Contini had completed the Gothic roof and the turret which appeared to him in the first vision of his dream, but to which the defunct baker had made objections on the score of expense. The masons were almost all gone and another set of workmen were busy with finer tools moulding cornices and laying on the snow-white stucco. Within, the joiners and carpenters kept up a ceaseless hammering.
One day Andrea Contini walked into the office after a tour of inspection, with a whole cigar, unlighted and intact, between his teeth. Orsino was well aware from this circumstance that something unusually fortunate had happened or was about to happen, and he rose from his books, as soon as he recognised the fair-weather signal.
“We can sell the house whenever we like,” said the architect, his bright brown eyes sparkling with satisfaction.
“Already!” exclaimed Orsino who, though equally delighted at the prospect of such speedy success, regretted in his heart the damp walls and the constant stir of work which he had learned to like so well.
“Already–yes. One needs luck like ours! The count has sent a man up in a cab to say that an acquaintance of his will come and look at the building to-day between twelve and one with a view to buying. The sooner we look out for some fresh undertaking, the better. What do you say, Don Orsino?”
“It is all your doing, Contini. Without you I should still be standing outside and watching the mattings flapping in the wind, as I did on that never-to-be-forgotten first day.”
“I conceive that a house cannot be built without an architect,” answered Contini, laughing, “and it has always been plain to me that there can be no architects without houses to build. But as for any especial credit to me, I refute the charge indignantly. I except the matter of the turret, which is evidently what has attracted the buyer. I always thought it would. You would never have thought of a turret, would you, Don Orsino?”
“Certainly not, nor of many other things,” answered Orsino, laughing. “But I am sorry to leave the place. I have grown into liking it.”
“What can one do? It is the way of the world–‘lieto ricordo d’un amor che fu,'” sang Contini in the thin but expressive falsetto which seems to be the natural inheritance of men who play upon stringed instruments. He broke off in the middle of a bar and laughed, out of sheer delight at his own good fortune.
In due time the purchaser came, saw and actually bought. He was a problematic personage with a disquieting nose, who spoke few words but examined everything with an air of superior comprehension. He looked keenly at Orsino but seemed to have no idea who he was and put all his questions to Contini.
After agreeing to the purchase he inquired whether Andrea Contini and Company had any other houses of the same description building and if so where they were situated, adding that he liked the firm’s way of doing things. He stipulated for one or two slight improvements, made an appointment for a meeting with the notaries on the following day and went off with a rather unceremonious nod to the partners. The name he left was that of a well-known capitalist from the south, and Contini was inclined to think he had seen him before, but was not certain.
Within a week the business was concluded, the buyer took over the mortgage as Orsino and Contini had done and paid the difference in cash into the bank, which deducted the amounts due on notes of hand before handing the remainder to the two young men. The buyer also kept back a small part of the purchase money to be paid on taking possession, when the house was to be entirely finished. Andrea Contini and Company had realised a considerable sum of money.
“The question is, what to do next,” said Orsino thoughtfully.
“We had better look about us for something promising,” said his partner. “A corner lot in this same quarter. Corner houses are more interesting to build and people like them to live in because they can see two or three ways at once. Besides, a corner is always a good place for a turret. Let us take a walk–smoking and strolling, we shall find something.”
“A year ago, no doubt,” answered Orsino, who was becoming worldly wise. “A year ago that would have been well enough. But listen to me. That house opposite to ours has been finished some time, yet nobody has bought it. What is the reason?”
“It faces north and not south, as ours does, and it has not a Gothic roof.”
“My dear Contini, I do not mean to say that the Gothic roof has not helped us very much, but it cannot have helped us alone. How about those two houses together at the end of the next block. Balconies, travertine columns, superior doors and windows, spaces for hydraulic lifts and all the rest of it. Yet no one buys. Dry, too, and almost ready to live in, and all the joinery of pitch pine. There is a reason for their ill luck.”
“What do you think it is?” asked Contini, opening his eyes.
“The land on which they are built was not in the hands of Del Ferice’s bank, and the money that built them was not advanced by Del Ferice’s bank, and Del Ferice’s bank has no interest in selling the houses themselves. Therefore they are not sold.”
“But surely there are other banks in Rome, and private individuals–“
“No, I do not believe that there are,” said Orsino with conviction. “My cousin of San Giacinto thinks that the selling days are over, and I fancy he is right, except about Del Ferice, who is cleverer than any of us. We had better not deceive ourselves, Contini. Del Ferice sold our house for us, and unless we keep with him we shall not sell another so easily. His bank has a lot of half-finished houses on its hands secured by mortgages which are worthless until the houses are habitable. Del Ferice wants us to finish those houses for him, in order to recover their value. If we do it, we shall make a profit. If we attempt anything on our own account we shall fail. Am I right or not?”
“What can I say? At all events you are on the safe side. But why has not the count given all this work to some old established firm of his acquaintance?”
“Because he cannot trust any one as he can trust us, and he knows it.”
“Of course I owe the count a great deal for his kindness in introducing me to you. He knew all about me before the baker died, and afterwards I waited for him outside the Chambers one evening and asked him if he could find anything for me to do, but he did not give me much encouragement. I saw you speak to him and get into his carriage–was it not you?”
“Yes–it was I,” answered Orsino, remembering the tall man in an overcoat who had disappeared in the dusk on the evening when he himself had first sought Del Ferice. “Yes, and you see we are both under a sort of obligation to him which is another reason for taking his advice.”
“Obligations are humiliating!” exclaimed Contini impatiently. “We have succeeded in increasing our capital–your capital, Don Orsino–let us strike out for ourselves.”
“I think my reasons are good,” said Orsino quietly. “And as for obligations, let us remember that we are men of business.”
It appears from this that the low-born Andrea Contini and the high and mighty Don Orsino Saracinesca were not very far from exchanging places so far as prejudice was concerned. Contini noticed the fact and smiled.
“After all,” he said, “if you can accept the situation, I ought to accept it, too.”
“It is a matter of business,” said Orsino, returning to his argument. “There is no such thing as obligation where money is borrowed on good security and a large interest is regularly paid.”
It was clear that Orsino was developing commercial instincts. His grandfather would have died of rage on the spot if he could have listened to the young fellow’s cool utterances. But Contini was not pleased and would not abandon his position so easily.
“It is very well for you, Don Orsino,” he said, vainly attempting to light his cigar. “You do not need the money as I do. You take it from Del Ferice because it amuses you to do so, not because you are obliged to accept it. That is the difference. The count knows It too, and knows that he is not conferring a favour but receiving one. You do him an honour in borrowing his money. He lays me under an obligation in lending it.”
“We must get money somewhere,” answered Orsino with indifference. “If not from Del Ferice, then from some other bank. And as for obligations, as you call them, he is not the bank himself, and the bank does not lend its money in order to amuse me or to humiliate you, my friend. But if you insist, I shall say that the convenience is not on one side only. If Del Ferice supports us it is because we serve his interests. If he has done us a good turn, it is a reason why we should do him one, and build his houses rather than those of other people. You talk about my conferring a favour upon him. Where will he find another Andrea Contini and Company to make worthless property valuable for him? In that sense you and I are earning his gratitude, by the simple process of being scrupulously honest. I do not feel in the least humiliated, I assure you.”
“I cannot help it,” replied Contini, biting his cigar savagely. “I have a heart, and it beats with good blood. Do you know that there is blood of Cola di Rienzo in my veins?”
“No. You never told me,” answered Orsino, one of whose forefathers had been concerned in the murder of the tribune, a fact to which he thought it best not to refer at the present moment.
“And the blood of Cola di Rienzo burns under the shame of an obligation!” cried Contini, with a heat hardly warranted by the circumstances. “It is humiliating, it is base, to submit to be the tool of a Del Ferice–we all know who and what Del Ferice was, and how he came by his title of count, and how he got his fortune–a spy, an intriguer! In a good cause? Perhaps. I was not born then, nor you either, Signor Principe, and we do not know what the world was like, when it was quite another world. That is not a reason for serving a spy!”
“Calm yourself, my friend. We are not in Del Ferice’s service.”
“Better to die than that! Better to kill him at once and go to the galleys for a few years! Better to play the fiddle, or pick rags, or beg in the streets than that, Signor Principe. One must respect oneself. You see it yourself. One must be a man, and feel as a man. One must feel those things here, Signor Principe, here in the heart!”
Contini struck his breast with his clenched fist and bit the end of his cigar quite through in his anger. Then he suddenly seized his hat and rushed out of the room.
Orsino was less surprised at the outburst than might have been expected, and did not attach any great weight to his partner’s dramatic rage. But he lit a cigarette and carefully thought over the situation, trying to find out whether there were really any ground for Contini’s first remarks. He was perfectly well aware that as Orsino Saracinesca he would cut his own throat with enthusiasm rather than borrow a louis of Ugo Del Ferice. But as Andrea Contini and Company he was another person, and so Del Ferice was not Count Del Ferice, nor the Onorevole Del Ferice, but simply a director in a bank with which he had business. If the interests of Andrea Contini and Company were identical with those of the bank, there was no reason whatever for interrupting relations both amicable and profitable, merely because one member of the firm claimed to be descended from Cola di Bienzo, a defunct personage in whom Orsino felt no interest whatever. Andrea Contini, considering his social relations, might be on terms of friendship with his hatter, for instance, or might have personal reasons for disliking him. In neither case could the buying of a hat from that individual be looked upon as an obligation conferred or received by either party. This was quite clear, and Orsino was satisfied.
“Business is business,” he said to himself, “and people who introduce personal considerations into a financial transaction will get the worst of the bargain.”
Andrea Contini was apparently of the same opinion, for when he entered the room again at the end of an hour his excitement had quite disappeared.
“If we take another contract from the count,” he said, “is there any reason why we should not take a larger one, if it is to be had? We could manage three or four buildings now that you have become such a good bookkeeper.”
“I am quite of your opinion,” Orsino answered, deciding at once to make no reference to what had gone before.
“The only question is, whether we have capital enough for a margin.”
“Leave that to me.”
Orsino determined to consult his mother, in whose judgment he felt a confidence which he could not explain but which was not misplaced. The fact was simple enough. Corona understood him thoroughly, though her comprehension of his business was more than limited, and she did nothing in reality but encourage his own sober opinion when it happened to be at variance with some enthusiastic inclination which momentarily deluded him. That quiet pushing of a man’s own better reason against his half considered but often headstrong impulses, is after all one of the best and most loving services which a wise woman can render to a man whom she loves, be he husband, son or brother. Many women have no other secret, and indeed there are few more valuable ones, if well used and well kept. But let not graceless man discover that it is used upon him. He will resent being led by his own reason far more than being made the senseless slave of a foolish woman’s wildest caprice. To select the best of himself for his own use is to trample upon his free will. To send him barefoot to Jericho in search of a dried flower is to appeal to his heart. Man is a reasoning animal.
Corona, as was to be expected, was triumphant in Orsino’s first success, and spent as much time in talking over the past and the future with him as she could command during his own hours of liberty. He needed no urging to continue in the same course, but he enjoyed her happiness and delighted in her encouragement.
“Contini wishes to take a large contract,” he said to her, after the interview last described. “I agree with him, in a way. We could certainly manage a larger business.”
“No doubt,” Corona answered thoughtfully, for she saw that there was some objection to the scheme in his own mind.
“I have learned a great deal,” he continued, “and we have much more, capital than we had. Besides, I suppose you would lend me a few thousands if we needed them, would you not, mother?”
“Certainly, my dear. You shall not be hampered by want of money.”
“And then, it is possible that we might make something like a fortune in a short time. It would be a great satisfaction. But then, too–” He stopped.
“What then?” asked Corona, smiling.
“Things may turn out differently. Though I have been successful this time, I am much more inclined to believe that San Giacinto was right than I was before I began. All this movement does not rest on a solid basis.”
A financier of thirty years’ standing could not have made the statement more impressively, and Orsino was conscious that he was assuming an elderly tone. He laughed the next moment.
“That is a stock phrase, mother,” he continued. “But it means something. Everything is not what it should be. If the demand were as great as people say it is, there would not be half a dozen houses–better houses than ours–unsold in our street. That is why I am afraid of a big contract. I might lose all my money and some of yours.”
“It would not be of much consequence if you did,” answered Corona. “But of course you will be guided by your own judgment, which, is much better than mine. One must risk something, of course, but there is no use in going into danger.”
“Nevertheless, I should enjoy a big venture immensely.”
“There is no reason why you should not try one, when the moment comes, my dear. I suppose that a few months will decide whether there is to be a crisis or not. In the meantime you might take something moderate, neither so small as the last, nor so large as you would like. You will get more experience, risk less and be better prepared for a crash if it comes, or to take advantage of anything favourable if business grows safer.”
Orsino was silent for a moment.
“You are very wise, mother,” he said. “I will take your advice.”
Corona had indeed acted as wisely as she could. The only flaw in her reasoning was her assertion that a few months would decide the fate of Roman affairs. If it were possible to predict a crisis even within a few months, speculation would be a less precarious business than it is.
Orsino and his mother might have talked longer and perhaps to better purpose, but they were interrupted by the entrance of a servant, bearing a note. Corona instinctively put out her hand to receive it.
“For Don Orsino,” said the man, stopping before him.
Orsino took the letter, looked at it and turned it over.
“I think it is from Madame d’Aranjuez,” he remarked, without emotion. “May I read it?”
“There is no answer, Eccellenza,” said the servant, whose curiosity was satisfied.
“Read it, of course,” said Corona, looking at him.
She was surprised that Madame d’Aranjuez should write to him, but she was still more astonished to see the indifference with which he opened the missive. She had imagined that he was more or less in love with Maria Consuelo.
“I fancy it is the other way,” she thought. “The woman wants to marry him. I might have suspected it.”
Orsino read the note, and tossed it into the fire without volunteering any information.
“I will take your advice, mother,” he said, continuing the former conversation, as though nothing had happened.
But the subject seemed to be exhausted, and before long Orsino made an excuse to his mother and went out.
CHAPTER XV.
There was nothing in the note burnt by Orsino which he might not have shown to his mother, since he had already told her the name of the writer. It contained the simple statement that Maria Consuelo was about to leave Rome, and expressed the hope that she might see Orsino before her departure as she had a small request to make of him, in the nature of a commission. She hoped he would forgive her for putting him to so much inconvenience.
Though he betrayed no emotion in reading the few lines, he was in reality annoyed by them, and he wished that he might be prevented from obeying the summons. Maria Consuelo had virtually dropped the acquaintance, and had refused repeatedly and in a marked way to receive him. And now, at the last moment, when she needed something of him, she chose to recall him by a direct invitation. There was nothing to be done but to yield, and it was characteristic of Orsino that, having submitted to necessity, he did not put off the inevitable moment, but went to her at once.
The days were longer now than they had been during the time when he had visited her every day, and the lamp was not yet on the table when Orsino entered the small sitting-room. Maria Consuelo was standing by the window, looking out into the street, and her right hand rested against the pane while her fingers tapped it softly but impatiently. She turned quickly as he entered, but the light was behind her and he could hardly see her face. She came towards him and held out her hand.
“It is very kind of you to have come so soon,” she said, as she took her old accustomed place by the table.
Nothing was changed, excepting that the two or three new books at her elbow were not the same ones which had been there two months earlier. In one of them was thrust the silver paper-cutter with the jewelled handle, which Orsino had never missed. He wondered whether there were any reason for the unvarying sameness of these details.
“Of course I came,” he said. “And as there was time to-day, I came at once.”
He spoke rather coldly, still resenting her former behaviour and expecting that she would immediately say what she wanted of him. He would promise to execute the commission, whatever it might be, and after ten minutes of conversation he would take his leave. There was a short pause, during which he looked at her. She did not seem well. Her face was pale and her eyes were deep with shadows. Even her auburn hair had lost something of its gloss. Yet she did not look older than before, a fact which proved her to be even younger than Orsino had imagined. Saving the look of fatigue and suffering in her face, Maria Consuelo had changed less than Orsino during the winter, and she realised the fact at a glance. A determined purpose, hard work, the constant exertion of energy and will, and possibly, too, the giving up to a great extent of gambling and strong drinks, had told in Orsino’s face and manner as a course of training tells upon a lazy athlete. The bold black eyes had a more quiet glance, the well-marked features had acquired strength and repose, the lean jaw was firmer and seemed more square. Even physically, Orsino had improved, though the change was undefinable. Young as he was, something of the power of mature manhood was already coming over his youth.
“You must have thought me very–rude,” said Maria Consuelo, breaking the silence and speaking with a slight hesitation which Orsino had never noticed before.
“It is not for me to complain, Madame,” he answered. “You had every right–“
He stopped short, for he was reluctant to admit that she had been justified in her behaviour towards him.
“Thanks,” she said, with an attempt to laugh. “It is pleasant to find magnanimous people now and then. I do not want you to think that I was capricious. That is all.”
“I certainly do not think that. You were most consistent. I called three times and always got the same answer.”
He fancied that he heard her sigh, but she tried to laugh again.
“I am not imaginative,” she answered. “I daresay you found that out long go. You have much more imagination than I.”
“It is possible, Madame–but you have not cared to develop it.”
“What do you mean?”
“What does it matter? Do you remember what you said when I bade you good-night at the window of your carriage after Del Ferice’s dinner? You said that you were not angry with me. I was foolish enough to imagine that you were in earnest. I came again and again, but you would not see me. You did not encourage my illusion.”
“Because I would not receive you? How do you know what happened to me? How can you judge of my life? By your own? There is a vast difference.”
“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed Orsino almost impatiently. “I know what you are going to say. It will be flattering to me of course. The unattached young man is dangerous to the reputation. The foreign lady is travelling alone. There is the foundation of a vaudeville in that!”
“If you must be unjust, at least do not be brutal,” said Maria Consuelo in a low voice, and she turned her face away from him.
“I am evidently placed in the world to offend you, Madame. Will you believe that I am sorry for it, though I only dimly comprehend my fault? What did I say? That you were wise in breaking off my visits, because you are alone here, and because I am young, unmarried and unfortunately a little conspicuous in my native city. Is it brutal to suggest that a young and beautiful woman has a right not to be compromised? Can we not talk freely for half an hour, as we used to talk, and then say good-bye and part good friends until you come to Rome again?”
“I wish we could!” There was an accent of sincerity in the tone which pleased Orsino.
“Then begin by forgiving me all my sins, and put them down to ignorance, want of tact, the inexperience of youth or a naturally weak understanding. But do not call me brutal on such slight provocation.”
“We shall never agree for a long time,” answered Maria Consuelo thoughtfully.
“Why not?”
“Because, as I told you, there is too great a difference between our lives. Do not answer me as you did before, for I am right. I began by admitting that I was rude. If that is not enough I will say more–I will even ask you to forgive me–can I do more?”
She spoke so earnestly that Orsino was surprised and almost touched. Her manner now was even less comprehensible than her repeated refusals to see him had been.
“You have done far too much already,” he said gravely. “It is mine to ask your forgiveness for much that I have done and said. I only wish that I understood you better.”
“I am glad you do not,” replied Maria Consuelo, with a sigh which this time was not to be mistaken. “There is a sadness which it is better not to understand,” she added softly.
“Unless one can help to drive it away.” He, too, spoke gently, his voice being attracted to the pitch and tone of hers.
“You cannot do that–and if you could, you would not.”
“Who can tell?”
The charm which he had formerly felt so keenly in her presence but which he had of late so completely forgotten, was beginning to return and he submitted to it with a sense of satisfaction which he had not anticipated. Though the twilight was coming on, his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness in the room and he saw every change in her pale, expressive face. She leaned back in her chair with eyes half closed.
“I like to think that you would, if you knew how,” she said presently.
“Do you not know that I would?”
She glanced quickly at him, and then, instead of answering, rose from her seat and called to her maid through one of the doors, telling her to bring the lamp. She sat down again, but being conscious that they were liable to interruption, neither of the two spoke. Maria Consuelo’s fingers played with the silver knife, drawing it out of the book in which it lay and pushing it back again. At last she took it up and looked closely at the jewelled monogram on the handle.
The maid entered, set the shaded lamp upon the table and glanced sharply at Orsino. He could not help noticing the look. In a moment she was gone, and the door closed behind her. Maria Consuelo looked over her shoulder to see that it had not been left ajar.
“She is a very extraordinary person, that elderly maid of mine,” she said.
“So I should imagine from her face.”
“Yes. She looked at you as she passed and I saw that you noticed it. She is my protector. I never have travelled without her and she watches over me–as a cat watches a mouse.”
The little laugh that accompanied the words was not one of satisfaction, and the shade of annoyance did not escape Orsino.
“I suppose she is one of those people to whose ways one submits because one cannot live without them,” he observed.
“Yes. That is it. That is exactly it,” repeated Maria Consuelo. “And she is very strongly attached to me,” she added after an instant’s hesitation. “I do not think she will ever leave me. In fact we are attached to each other.”
She laughed again as though amused by her own way of stating the relation, and drew the paper-cutter through her hand two or three times. Orsino’s eyes were oddly fascinated by the flash of the jewels.
“I would like to know the history of that knife,” he said, almost thoughtlessly.
Maria Consuelo started and looked at him, paler even than before. The question seemed to be a very unexpected one.
“Why?” she asked quickly.
“I always see it on the table or in your hand,” answered Orsino. “It is associated with you–I think of it when I think of you. I always fancy that it has a story.”
“You are right. It was given to me by a person who loved me.”
“I see–I was indiscreet.”
“No–you do not see, my friend. If you did you–you would understand many things, and perhaps it is better that you should not know them.”
“Your sadness? Should I understand that, too?”
“No. Not that.”
A slight colour rose in her face, and she stretched out her hand to arrange the shade of the lamp, with a gesture long familiar to him.
“We shall end by misunderstanding each other,” she continued in a harder tone. “Perhaps it will be my fault. I wish you knew much more about me than you do, but without the necessity of telling you the story. But that is impossible. This paper-cutter–for instance, could tell the tale better than I, for it made people see things which I did not see.”
“After it was yours?”
“Yes. After it was mine.”
“It pleases you to be very mysterious,” said Orsino with a smile.
“Oh no! It does not please me at all,” she answered, turning her face away again. “And least of all with you–my friend.”
“Why least with me?”
“Because you are the first to misunderstand. You cannot help it. I do not blame you.”
“If you would let me be your friend, as you call me, it would be better for us both.”
He spoke as he had assuredly not meant to speak when he had entered the room, and with a feeling that surprised himself far more than his hearer. Maria Consuelo turned sharply upon him.
“Have you acted like a friend towards me?” she asked.
“I have tried to,” he answered, with more presence of mind than truth.
Her tawny eyes suddenly lightened.
“That is not true. Be truthful! How have you acted, how have you spoken with me? Are you ashamed to answer?”
Orsino raised his head rather haughtily, and met her glance, wondering whether any man had ever been forced into such a strange position before. But though her eyes were bright, their look was neither cold nor defiant.
“You know the answer,” he said. “I spoke and acted as though I loved you, Madame, but since you dismissed me so very summarily, I do not see why you wish me to say so.”
“And you, Don Orsino, have you ever been loved–loved in earnest–by any woman?”
“That is a very strange question, Madame.”
“I am discreet. You may answer it safely.”
“I have no doubt of that.”
“But you will not? No–that is your right. But it would be kind of you–I should be grateful if you would tell me–has any woman ever loved you dearly?”
Orsino laughed, almost in spite of himself. He had little false pride.
“It is humiliating, Madame. But since you ask the question and require a categorical answer, I will make my confession. I have never been loved. But you will observe, as an extenuating circumstance, that I am young. I do not give up all hope.”
“No–you need not,” said Maria Consuelo in a low voice, and again she moved the shade of the lamp.
Though Orsino was by no means fatuous, he must have been blind if he had not seen by this time that Madame d’Aranjuez was doing her best to make him speak as he had formerly spoken to her, and to force him into a declaration of love. He saw it, indeed, and wondered; but although he felt her charm upon him, from time to time, he resolved that nothing should induce him to relax even so far as he had done already more than once during the interview. She had placed him in a foolish position once before, and he would not expose himself to being made ridiculous again, in her eyes or his. He could not discover what intention she had in trying to lead him back to her, but he attributed it to her vanity. She regretted, perhaps, having rebuked him so soon, or perhaps she had imagined that he would have made further and more determined efforts to see her. Possibly, too, she really wished to ask a service of him, and wished to assure herself that she could depend upon him by previously extracting an avowal of his devotion. It was clear that one of the two had mistaken the other’s character or mood, though it was impossible to say which was the one deceived.
The silence which followed lasted some time, and threatened to become awkward. Maria Consuelo could not or would not speak and Orsino did not know what to say. He thought of inquiring what the commission might be with which, according to her note, she had wished to entrust him. But an instant’s reflection told him that the question would be tactless. If she had invented the idea as an excuse for seeing him, to mention it would be to force her hand, as card-players say, and he had no intention of doing that. Even if she really had something to ask of him, he had no right to change the subject so suddenly. He bethought him of a better question.
“You wrote me that you were going away,” he said quietly. “But you will come back next winter, will you not, Madame?”
“I do not know,” she answered, vaguely. Then she started a little, as though understanding his words. “What am I saying!” she exclaimed. “Of course I shall come back.”
“Have you been drinking from the Trevi fountain by moonlight, like those mad English?” he asked, with a smile.
“It is not necessary. I know that I shall come back–if I am alive.”
“How you say that! You are as strong as I–“
“Stronger, perhaps. But then–who knows! The weak ones sometimes last the longest.”
Orsino thought she was growing very sentimental, though as he looked at her he was struck again by the look of suffering in her eyes. Whatever weakness she felt was visible there, there was nothing in the full, firm little hand, in the strong and easy pose of the head, in the softly coloured ear half hidden by her hair, that could suggest a coming danger to her splendid health.
“Let us take it for granted that you will come back to us,” said Orsino cheerfully.
“Very well, we will take it for granted. What then?”
The question was so sudden and direct that Orsino fancied there ought to be an evident answer to it.
“What then?” he repeated, after a moment’s hesitation. “I suppose you will live in these same rooms again, and with your permission, a certain Orsino Saracinesca will visit you from time to time, and be rude, and be sent away into exile for his sins. And Madame d’Aranjuez will go a great deal to Madame Del Ferice’s and to other ultra-White houses, which will prevent the said Orsino from meeting her in society. She will also be more beautiful than ever, and the daily papers will describe a certain number of gowns which she will bring with her from Paris, or Vienna, or London, or whatever great capital is the chosen official residence of her great dressmaker. And the world will not otherwise change very materially in the course of eight months.”
Orsino laughed lightly, not at his own speech, which he had constructed rather clumsily under the spur of necessity, but in the hope that she would laugh, too, and begin to talk more carelessly. But Maria Consuelo was evidently not inclined for anything but the most serious view of the world, past, present and future.
“Yes,” she answered gravely. “I daresay you are right. One comes, one shows one’s clothes, and one goes away again–and that is all. It would be very much the same if one did not come. It is a great mistake to think oneself necessary to any one. Only things are necessary–food, money and something to talk about.”
“You might add friends to the list,” said Orsino, who was afraid of being called brutal again if he did not make some mild remonstrance to such a sweeping assertion.
“Friends are included under the head of ‘something to talk about,'” answered Maria Consuelo.
“That is an encouraging view.”
“Like all views one gets by experience.”
“You grow more and more bitter.”
“Does the world grow sweeter as one grows older?”
“Neither you nor I have lived long enough to know,” answered Orsino.
“Facts make life long–not years.”
“So long as they leave no sign of age, what does it matter?”
“I do not care for that sort of flattery.”
“Because it is not flattery at all. You know the truth too well. I am not ingenious enough to flatter you, Madame. Perfection is not flattered when it is called perfect.”
“It is at all events impossible to exaggerate better than you can,” answered Maria Consuelo, laughing at last at the overwhelming compliment. “Where did you learn that?”
“At your feet, Madame. The contemplation of great masterpieces enlarges the intelligence and deepens the power of expression.”
“And I am a masterpiece–of what? Of art? Of caprice? Of consistency?”
“Of nature,” answered Orsino promptly.
Again Maria Consuelo laughed a little, at the mere quickness of the answer. Orsino was delighted with himself, for he fancied he was leading her rapidly away from the dangerous ground upon which she had been trying to force him. But her next words showed him that he had not yet succeeded.
“Who will make me laugh during all these months!” she exclaimed with a little sadness.
Orsino thought she was strangely obstinate, and wondered what she would say next.
“Dear me, Madame,” he said, “if you are so kind as to laugh at my poor wit, you will not have to seek far to find some one to amuse you better!”
He knew how to put on an expression of perfect simplicity when he pleased, and Maria Consuelo looked at him, trying to be sure whether he were in earnest or not. But his face baffled her.
“You are too modest,” she said.
“Do you think it is a defect? Shall I cultivate a little more assurance of manner?” he asked, very innocently.
“Not to-day. Your first attempt might lead you into extremes.”
“There is not the slightest fear of that, Madame,” he answered with some emphasis.
She coloured a little and her closed lips smiled in a way he had often noticed before. He congratulated himself upon these signs of approaching ill-temper, which promised an escape from his difficulty. To take leave of her suddenly was to abandon the field, and that he would not do. She had determined to force him into a confession of devotion, and he was equally determined not to satisfy her. He had tried to lead her off her track with frivolous talk and had failed. He would try and irritate her instead, but without incurring the charge of rudeness. Why she was making such an attack upon him, was beyond his understanding, but he resented it, and made up his mind neither to fly nor yield. If he had been a hundredth part as cynical as he liked to fancy himself, he would have acted very differently. But he was young enough to have been wounded by his former dismissal, though he hardly knew it, and to seek almost instinctively to revenge his wrongs. He did not find it easy. He would not have believed that such a woman as Maria Consuelo could so far forget her pride as to go begging for a declaration of love.
“I suppose you will take Gouache’s portrait away with you,” he observed, changing the subject with a directness which he fancied would increase her annoyance.
“What makes you think so?” she asked, rather drily.
“I thought it a natural question.”
“I cannot imagine what I should do with it. I shall leave it with him.”
“You will let him send it to the Salon in Paris, of course?”
“If he likes. You seem interested in the fate of the picture.”
“A little. I wondered why you did not have it here, as it has been finished so long.”
“Instead of that hideous mirror, you mean? There would be less variety. I should always see myself in the same dress.”
“No–on the opposite wall. You might compare truth with fiction in that way.”
“To the advantage of Gouache’s fiction, you would say. You were more complimentary a little while ago.”
“You imagine more rudeness than even I am capable of inventing.”
“That is saying much. Why did you change the subject just now?”
“Because I saw that you were annoyed at something. Besides, we were talking about myself, if I remember rightly.”
“Have you never heard that a man should always talk to a woman about himself or herself?”
“No. I never heard that. Shall we talk of you, then, Madame?”
“Do you care to talk of me?” asked Maria Consuelo.
Another direct attack, Orsino thought.
“I would rather hear you talk of yourself,” he answered without the least hesitation.
“If I were to tell you my thoughts about myself at the present moment, they would surprise you very much.”
“Agreeably or disagreeably?”
“I do not know. Are you vain?”
“As a peacock!” replied Orsino quickly.
“Ah–then what I am thinking would not interest you.”
“Why not?”
“Because if it is not flattering it would wound you, and if it is flattering it would disappoint you–by falling short of your ideal of yourself.”
“Yet I confess that I would like to know what you think of me, though I would much rather hear what you think of yourself.”
“On one condition, I will tell you.”
“What is that?”
“That you will give me your word to give me your own opinion of me afterwards.”
“The adjectives are ready, Madame, I give you my word.”
“You give it so easily! How can I believe you?”
“It is so easy to give in such a case, when one has nothing disagreeable to say.”
“Then you think me agreeable?”
“Eminently!”
“And charming?”
“Perfectly!”
“And beautiful?”
“How can you doubt it?”
“And in all other respects exactly like all the women in society to whom you repeat the same commonplaces every day of your life?”
The feint had been dexterous and the thrust was sudden, straight and unexpected.
“Madame!” exclaimed Orsino in the deprecatory tone of a man taken by surprise.
“You see–you have nothing to say!” She laughed a little bitterly.
“You take too much for granted,” he said, recovering himself. “You suppose that because I agree with you upon one point after another, I agree with you in the conclusion. You do not even wait to hear my answer, and you tell me that I am checkmated when I have a dozen moves from which to choose. Besides, you have directly infringed the conditions. You have fired before the signal and an arbitration would go against you. You have done fifty things contrary to agreement, and you accuse me of being dumb in my own defence. There is not much justice in that. You promise to tell me a certain secret on condition that I will tell you another. Then, without saying a word on your own part you stone me with quick questions and cry victory because I protest. You begin before I have had so much as–“
“For heaven’s sake stop!” cried Maria Consuelo, interrupting a speech which threatened to go on for twenty minutes. “You talk of chess, duelling and stoning to death, in one sentence–I am utterly confused! You upset all my ideas!”
“Considering how you have disturbed mine, it is a fair revenge. And since we both admit that we have disturbed that balance upon which alone depends all possibility of conversation, I think that I can do nothing more graceful–pardon me, nothing less ungraceful–than wish you a pleasant journey, which I do with all my heart, Madame.”
Thereupon Orsino rose and took his hat.
“Sit down. Do not go yet,” said Maria Consuelo, growing a shade paler, and speaking with an evident effort.
“Ah–true!” exclaimed Orsino. “We were forgetting the little commission you spoke of in your note. I am entirely at your service.”
Maria Consuelo looked at him quickly and her lips trembled.
“Never mind that,” she said unsteadily. “I will not trouble you. But I do not want you to go away as–as you were going. I feel as though we had been quarrelling. Perhaps we have. But let us say we are good friends–if we only say it.”
Orsino was touched and disturbed. Her face was very white and her hand trembled visibly as she held it out. He took it in his own without hesitation.
“If you care for my friendship, you shall have no better friend in the world than I,” he said, simply and naturally.
“Thank you–good-bye. I shall leave to-morrow.”
The words were almost broken, as though she were losing control of her voice. As he closed the door behind him, the sound of a wild and passionate sob came to him through the panel. He stood still, listening and hesitating. The truth which would have long been clear to an older or a vainer man, flashed upon him suddenly. She loved him very much, and he no longer cared for her. That was the reason why she had behaved so strangely, throwing her pride and dignity to the winds in her desperate attempt to get from him a single kind and affectionate word–from him, who had poured into her ear so many words of love but two months earlier, and from whom to draw a bare admission of friendship to-day she had almost shed tears.
To go back into the room would be madness; since he did not love her, it would almost be an insult. He bent his head and walked slowly down the corridor. He had not gone far, when he was confronted by a small dark figure that stopped the way. He recognised Maria Consuelo’s elderly maid.
“I beg your pardon, Signore Principe,” said the little black-eyed woman. “You will allow me to say a few words? I thank you, Eccellenza. It is about my Signora, in there, of whom I have charge.”
“Of whom, you have charge?” repeated Orsino, not understanding her.
“Yes–precisely. Of course, I am only her maid. You understand that. But I have charge of her though she does not know it. The poor Signora has had terrible trouble during the last few years, and at times–you understand? She is a little–yes–here.” She tapped her forehead. “She is better now. But in my position I sometimes think it wiser to warn some friend of hers–in strict confidence. It sometimes saves some little unnecessary complication, and I was ordered to do so by the doctors we last consulted in Paris. You will forgive me, Eccellenza, I am sure.”
Orsino stared at the woman for some seconds in blank astonishment. She smiled in a placid, self-confident way.
“You mean that Madame d’Aranjuez is–mentally deranged, and that you are her keeper? It is a little hard to believe, I confess.”
“Would you like to see my certificates, Signor Principe? Or the written directions of the doctors? I am sure you are discreet.”
“I have no right to see anything of the kind,” answered Orsino coldly. “Of course, if you are acting under instructions it is no concern of mine.”
He would have gone forward, but she suddenly produced a small bit of note-paper, neatly folded, and offered it to him.
“I thought you might like to know where we are until we return,” she said, continuing to speak in a very low voice. “It is the address.”
Orsino made an impatient gesture. He was on the point of refusing the information which he had not taken the trouble to ask of Maria Consuelo herself. But he changed his mind and felt in his pocket for something to give the woman. It seemed the easiest and simplest way of getting rid of her. The only note he had, chanced to be one of greater value than necessary.
“A thousand thanks, Eccellenza!” whispered the maid, overcome by what she took for an intentional piece of generosity.
Orsino left the hotel as quickly as he could.
“For improbable situations, commend me to the nineteenth century and the society in which we live!” he said to himself as he emerged into the street.
CHAPTER XVI.
It was long before Orsino saw Maria Consuelo again, but the circumstances of his last meeting with her constantly recurred to his mind during the following months. It is one of the chief characteristics of Rome that it seems to be one of the most central cities in Europe during the winter, whereas in the summer months it appears to be immensely remote from the rest of the civilised world. From having been the prey of the inexpressible foreigner in his shooting season, it suddenly becomes, and remains during about five months, the happy hunting ground of the silent flea, the buzzing fly and the insinuating mosquito. The streets are, indeed, still full of people, and long lines of carriages may be seen towards sunset in the Villa Borghesa and in the narrow Corso. Rome and the Romans are not easily parted as London and London society, for instance. May comes–the queen of the months in the south. June follows. Southern blood rejoices in the first strong sunshine. July trudges in at the gates, sweating under the cloudless sky, heavy, slow of foot, oppressed by the breath of the coming dog-star. Still the nights are cool. Still, towards sunset, the refreshing breeze sweeps up from the sea and fills the streets. Then behind closely fastened blinds, the glass windows are opened and the weary hand drops the fan at last. Then men and women array themselves in the garments of civilisation and sally forth, in carriages, on foot, and in trams, according to the degrees of social importance which provide that in old countries the middle term shall be made to suffer for the priceless treasure of a respectability which is a little higher than the tram and financially not quite equal to the cab. Then, at that magic touch of the west wind the house-fly retires to his own peculiar Inferno, wherever that may be, the mosquito and the gnat pause in their work of darkness and blood to concert fresh and more bloodthirsty deeds, and even the joyous and wicked flea tires of the war dance and lays down his weary head to snatch a hard-earned nap. July drags on, and terrible August treads the burning streets bleaching the very dust up on the pavement, scourging the broad campagna with fiery lashes of heat. Then the white-hot sky reddens in the evening when it cools, as the white iron does when it is taken from the forge. Then at last, all those who can escape from the condemned city flee for their lives to the hills, while those who must face the torment of the sun and the poison of the air turn pale in their sufferings, feebly curse their fate and then grow listless, weak and irresponsible as over-driven galley slaves, indifferent to everything, work, rest, blows, food, sleep and the hope of release. The sky darkens suddenly. There is a sort of horror in the stifling air. People do not talk much, and if they do are apt to quarrel and sometimes to kill one another without warning. The plash of the fountains has a dull sound like the pouring out of molten lead. The horses’ hoofs strike visible sparks out of the grey stones in broad daylight. Many houses are shut, and one fancies that there must be a dead man in each whom no one will bury. A few great drops of rain make ink-stains on the pavement at noon, and there is an exasperating, half-sulphurous smell abroad. Late in the afternoon they fall again. An evil wind comes in hot blasts from all quarters at once–then a low roar like an earthquake and presently a crash that jars upon the overwrought nerves–great and plashing drops again, a sharp short flash–then crash upon crash, deluge upon deluge, and the worst is over. Summer has received its first mortal wound. But its death is more fatal than its life. The noontide heat is fierce and drinks up the moisture of the rain and the fetid dust with it. The fever-wraith rises in the damp, cool night, far out in the campagna, and steals up to the walls of the city, and over them and under them and into the houses. If there are any yet left in Rome who can by any possibility take themselves out of it, they are not long in going. Till that moment, there has been only suffering to be borne; now, there is danger of something worse. Now, indeed, the city becomes a desert inhabited by white-faced ghosts. Now, if it be a year of cholera, the dead carts rattle through the streets all night on their way to the gate of Saint Lawrence, and the workmen count their numbers when they meet at dawn. But the bad days are not many, if only there be rain enough, for a little is worse than none. The nights lengthen and the September gales sweep away the poison-mists with kindly strength. Body and soul revive, as the ripe grapes appear in their vine-covered baskets at the street corners. Rich October is coming, the month in which the small citizens of Rome take their wives and the children to the near towns, to Marino, to Froscati, to Albano and Aricia, to eat late fruits and drink new must, with songs and laughter, and small miseries and great delights such as are remembered a whole year. The first clear breeze out of the north shakes down the dying leaves and brightens the blue air. The brown campagna turns green again, and the heart of the poor lame cab-horse is lifted up. The huge porter of the palace lays aside his linen coat and his pipe, and opens wide the great gates; for the masters are coming back, from their castles and country places, from the sea and from the mountains, from north and south, from the magic shore of Sorrento, and from distant French bathing places, some with brides or husbands, some with rosy Roman babies making their first trumphal entrance into Rome–and some, again, returning companionless to the home they had left in companionship. The great and complicated machinery of social life is set in order and repaired for the winter; the lost or damaged pieces in the engine are carefully replaced with new ones which will do as well or better, the joints and bearings are lubricated, the whistle of the first invitation is heard, there is some puffing and a little creaking at first, and then the big wheels begin to go slowly round, solemnly and regularly as ever, while all the little wheels run as fast as they can and set fire to their axles in the attempt to keep up the speed, and are finally jammed and caught up and smashed, as little wheels are sure to be when they try to act like big ones. But unless something happens to one of the very biggest the machine does not stop until the end of the season, when it is taken to pieces again for repairs.
That is the brief history of a Roman year, of which the main points are very much like those of its predecessor and successor. The framework is the same, but the decorations change, slowly, surely and not, perhaps, advantageously, as the younger generation crowds into the place of the older–as young acquaintances take the place of old friends, as faces strange to us hide faces we have loved.
Orsino Saracinesca, in his new character as a contractor and a man of business, knew that he must either spend the greater part of the summer in town, or leave his affairs in the hands of Andrea Contini. The latter course was repugnant to him, partly because he still felt a beginner’s interest in his first success, and partly because he had a shrewd suspicion that Contini, if left to himself in the hot weather, might be tempted to devote more time to music than to architecture. The business, too, was now on a much larger scale than before, though Orsino had taken his mother’s advice in not at once going so far as he might have gone. It needed all his own restless energy, all Contini’s practical talents, and perhaps more of Del Ferice’s influence than either of them suspected, to keep it going on the road to success.
In July Orsino’s people made ready to go up to Saracinesca. The old prince, to every one’s surprise, declared his intention of going to England, and roughly refused to be accompanied by any one of the family. He wanted to find out some old friends, he said, and desired the satisfaction of spending a couple of months in peace, which was quite impossible at home, owing to Giovanni’s outrageous temper and Orsino’s craze for business. He thereupon embraced them all affectionately, indulged in a hearty laugh and departed in a special carriage with his own servants.
Giovanni objected to Orsino’s staying in Rome during the great heat. Though Orsino had not as yet entered into any explanation with his father, but the latter understood well enough that the business had turned out better than had been expected and began to feel an interest in its further success, for his son’s sake. He saw the boy developing into a man by a process which he would naturally have supposed to be the worst possible one, judging from his own point of view. But he could not find fault with the result. There was no disputing the mental superiority of the Orsino of July over the Orsino of the preceding January. Whatever the sensation which Giovanni experienced as he contemplated the growing change, it was not one of anxiety nor of disappointment. But he had a Roman’s well-founded prejudice against spending August and September in town. His objections gave rise to some discussion, in which Corona joined.
Orsino enlarged upon the necessity of attending in person to the execution of his contracts. Giovanni suggested that he should find some trustworthy person to take his place. Corona was in favour of a compromise. It would be easy, she said, for Orsino to spend two or three days of every week in Rome and the remainder in the country with his father and mother. They were all three quite right according to their own views, and they all three knew it. Moreover they were all three very obstinate people. The consequence was that Orsino, who was in possession, so to say, since the other two were trying to make him change his mind, got the best of the argument, and won his first pitched battle. Not that there was any apparent hostility, or that any of the three spoke hotly or loudly. They were none of them like old Saracinesca, whose feats of argumentation were vehement, eccentric and fiery as his own nature. They talked with apparent calm through a long summer’s afternoon, and the vanquished retired with a fairly good grace, leaving Orsino master of the field. But on that occasion Giovanni Saracinesca first formed the opinion that his son was a match for him, and that it would be wise in future to ascertain the chances of success before incurring the risk of a humiliating defeat.
Giovanni and his wife went out together and talked over the matter as their carriage swept round the great avenues of Villa Borghesa.
“There is no question of the fact that Orsino is growing up–is grown up already,” said Sant’ Ilario, glancing at Corona’s calm, dark face.
She smiled with a certain pride, as she heard the words.
“Yes,” she answered, “he is a man. It is a mistake to treat him as a boy any longer.”
“Do you think it is this sudden interest in business that has changed him so?”
“Of course–what else?”
“Madame d’Aranjuez, for instance,” Giovanni suggested.
“I do not believe she ever had the least influence over him. The flirtation seems to have died a natural death. I confess, I hoped it might end in that way, and I am glad if it has. And I am very glad that Orsino is succeeding so well. Do you know, dear? I am glad, because you did not believe it possible that he should.”
“No, I did not. And now that I begin to understand it, he does not like to talk to me about his affairs. I suppose that is only natural. Tell me–has he really made money? Or have you been giving him money to lose, in order that he may buy experience.”
“He has succeeded alone,” said Corona proudly. “I would give him whatever he needed, but he needs nothing. He is immensely clever and immensely energetic. How could he fail?”
“You seem to admire our firstborn, my dear,” observed Giovanni with a smile.
“To tell the truth, I do. I have no doubt that he does all sorts of things which he ought not to do, and of which I know nothing. You did the same at his age, and I shall be quite satisfied if he turns out like you. I would not like to have a lady-like son with white hands and delicate sensibilities, and hypocritical affectations of exaggerated morality. I think I should be capable of trying to make such a boy bad, if it only made him manly–though I daresay that would be very wrong.”
“No doubt,” said Giovanni. “But we shall not be placed in any such position by Orsino, my dear. You remember that little affair last year, in England? It was very nearly a scandal. But then–the English are easily led into temptation and very easily scandalised afterwards. Orsino will not err in the direction of hypocritical morality. But that is not the question. I wish to know, from you since he does not confide in me, how far he is really succeeding.”
Corona gave her husband a remarkably clear statement of Orsino’s affairs, without exaggeration so far as the facts were concerned, but not without highly favourable comment. She did not attempt to conceal her triumph, now that success had been in a measure attained, and she did not hesitate to tell Giovanni that he ought to have encouraged and supported the boy from the first.
Giovanni listened with very great interest, and bore her affectionate reproaches with equanimity. He felt in his heart that he had done right, and he somehow still believed that things were not in reality all that they seemed to be. There was something in Orsino’s immediate success against odds apparently heavy, which disturbed his judgment. He had not, it was true, any personal experience of the building speculations in the city, nor of financial transactions in general, as at present understood, and he had recently heard of cases in which individuals had succeeded beyond their own wildest expectations. There was, perhaps, no reason why Orsino should not do as well as other people, or even better, in spite of his extreme youth. Andrea Contini was probably a man of superior talent, well able to have directed the whole affair alone, if other circumstances had been favourable to him, and there was on the whole nothing to prove that the two young men had received more than their fair share of assistance or accommodation from the bank. But Giovanni knew well enough that Del Ferice was the most influential personage in the bank in question, and the mere suggestion of his name lent to the whole affair a suspicious quality which disturbed Orsino’s father. In spite of all reasonable reflexions there was an air of unnatural good fortune in the case which he did not like, and he had enough experience of Del Ferice’s tortuous character to distrust his intentions. He would have preferred to see his son lose money through Ugo rather than that Orsino should owe the latter the smallest thanks. The fact that he had not spoken with the man for over twenty years did not increase the confidence he felt in him. In that time Del Ferice had developed into a very important personage, having much greater power to do harm than he had possessed in former days, and it was not to be supposed that he had forgotten old wounds or given up all hope of avenging them. Del Ferice was not very subject to that sort of forgetfulness.
When Corona had finished speaking, Giovanni was silent for a few moments.
“Is it not splendid?” Corona asked enthusiastically. “Why do you not say anything? One would think that you were not pleased.”
“On the contrary, as far as Orsino is concerned, I am delighted. But I do not trust Del Ferice.”
“Del Ferice is far too clever a man to ruin Orsino,” answered Corona.
“Exactly. That is the trouble. That is what makes me feel that though Orsino has worked hard and shown extraordinary intelligence–and deserves credit for that–yet he would not have succeeded in the same way if he had dealt with any other bank. Del Ferice has helped him. Possibly Orsino knows that, as well as we do, but he certainly does not know what part Del Ferice played in our lives, Corona. If he did, he would not accept his help.”
In her turn Corona was silent and a look of disappointment came into her face. She remembered a certain afternoon in the mountains when she had entreated Giovanni to let Del Ferice escape, and Giovanni had yielded reluctantly and had given the fugitive a guide to take him to the frontier. She wondered whether the generous impulse of that day was to bear evil fruit at last.
“Orsino knows nothing about it at all,” she said at last. “We kept the secret of Del Ferice’s escape very carefully–for there were good reasons to be careful in those days. Orsino only knows that you once fought a duel with the man and wounded him.”
“I think it is time that he knew more.”
“Of what use can it be to tell him those old stories?” asked Corona. “And after all, I do not believe that Del Ferice has done so much. If you could have followed Orsino’s work, day by day and week by week, as I have, you would see how much is really due to his energy. Any other banker would have done as much as he. Besides, it is in Del Ferice’s own interest–“
“That is the trouble,” interrupted Giovanni. “It is bad enough that he should help Orsino. It is much worse that he should help him in order to make use of him. If, as you say, any other bank would do as much, then let him go to another bank. If he owes Del Ferice money at the present moment, we will pay it for him.”
“You forget that he has bought the buildings he is now finishing, from Del Ferice, on a mortgage.”
Giovanni laughed a little.
“How you have learned to talk about mortgages and deeds and all sorts of business!” he exclaimed. “But what you say is not an objection. We can pay off these mortgages, I suppose, and take the risk ourselves.”
“Of course we could do that,” Corona answered, thoughtfully. “But I really think you exaggerate the whole affair. For the time being, Del Ferice is not a man, but a banker. His personal character and former doings do not enter into the matter.”
“I think they do,” said Giovanni, still unconvinced.
“At all events, do not make trouble now, dear,” said Corona in earnest tones. “Let the present contract be executed and finished, and then speak to Orsino before he makes another. Whatever Del Ferice may have done, you can see for yourself that Orsino is developing in a way we had not expected, and is becoming a serious, energetic man. Do not step in now, and check the growth of what is good. You will regret it as much as I shall. When he has finished these buildings he will have enough experience to make a new departure.”
“I hate the idea of receiving a favour from Del Ferice, or of laying him under an obligation. I think I will go to him myself.”
“To Del Ferice?” Corona started and looked round at Giovanni as she sat. She had a sudden vision of new trouble.
“Yes. Why not? I will go to him and tell him that I would rather wind up my son’s business with him, as our former relations were not of a nature to make transactions of mutual profit either fitting or even permissible between any of our family and Ugo Del Ferice.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Giovanni, do not do that.”
“And why not?” He was surprised at her evident distress.
“For my sake, then–do not quarrel with Del Ferice–it was different then, in the old days. I could not bear it now–” she stopped, and her lower lip trembled a little.
“Do you love me better than you did then, Corona?”
“So much better–I cannot tell you.”
She touched his hand with hers and her dark eyes were a little veiled as they met his. Both were silent for a moment.
“I have no intention of quarrelling with Del Ferice, dear,” said Giovanni, gently.
His face had grown a shade paler as she spoke. The power of her hand and voice to move him, had not diminished in all the years of peaceful happiness that had passed so quickly.
“I do not mean any such thing,” he said again. “But I mean this. I will not have it said that Del Ferice has made a fortune for Orsino, nor that Orsino has helped Del Ferice’s interests. I see no way but to interfere myself. I can do it without the suspicion of a quarrel.”
“It will be a great mistake, Giovanni. Wait till there is a new contract.”
“I will think of it, before doing anything definite.”
Corona well knew that she should get no greater concession than this. The point of honour had been touched in Giovanni’s sensibilities and his character was stubborn and determined where his old prejudices were concerned. She loved him very dearly, and this very obstinacy of his pleased her. But she fancied that trouble of some sort was imminent. She understood her son’s nature, too, and dreaded lest he should be forced into opposing his father.
It struck her that she might herself act as intermediary. She could certainly obtain concessions from Orsino which Giovanni could not hope to extract by force or stratagem. But the wisdom of her own proposal in the matter seemed unassailable. The business now in hand should be allowed to run its natural course before anything was done to break off the relations between Orsino and Del Ferice.
In the evening she found an opportunity of speaking with Orsino in private. She repeated to him the details of her conversation with Giovanni during the drive in the afternoon.
“My dear mother,” answered Orsino, “I do not trust Del Ferice any more than you and my father trust him. You talk of things which he did years ago, but you do not tell me what those things were. So far as I understand, it all happened before you were married. My father and he quarrelled about something, and I suppose there was a lady concerned in the matter. Unless you were the lady in question, and unless what he did was in the nature of an insult to you, I cannot see how the matter concerns me. They fought and it ended there, as affairs of honour do. If it touched you, then tell me so, and I will break with Del Ferice to-morrow morning.”
Corona was silent, for Orsino’s speech was very plain, and if she answered it all, the answer must be the truth. There could be no escape from that. And the truth would be very hard to tell. At that time she had been still the wife of old Astrardente, and Del Ferice’s offence had been that he had purposely concealed himself in the conservatory of the Frangipan’s palace in order to overhear what Giovanni Saracinesca was about to say to another man’s wife. The fact that on that memorable night she had bravely resisted a very great temptation did not affect the difficulty of the present case in any way. She asked herself rather whether Del Ferice’s eavesdropping would appear to Orsino to be in the nature of an insult to her, to use his own words, and she had no doubt but that it would seem so. At the same time she would find hard to explain to her son why Del Ferice suspected that there was to be anything said to her worth overhearing, seeing that she bore at that time the name of another man then still living. How could Orsino understand all that had gone before? Even now, though she knew that she had acted well, she humbly believed that she might have done much better. How would her son judge her? She was silent, waiting for him to speak again.
“That would be the only conceivable reason for my breaking with Del Ferice,” said Orsino. “We only have business relations, and I do not go to his house. I went once. I saw no reason for telling you so at the time, and I have not been there again. It was at the beginning of the whole affair. Outside of the bank, we are the merest acquaintances. But I repeat what I said. If he ever did anything which makes it dishonourable for me to accept even ordinary business services from him, let me know it. I have some right to hear the truth.”
Corona hesitated, and laid the case again before her own conscience, and tried to imagine herself in her son’s position. It was hard to reach a conclusion. There was no doubt but that when she had learned the truth, long after the event, she had felt that she had been insulted and justly avenged. If she said nothing now, Orsino would suspect something and would assuredly go to his father, from whom he would get a view of the case not conspicuous for its moderation. And Giovanni would undoubtedly tell his son the details of what had followed, how Del Ferice had attempted to hinder the marriage when it was at last possible, and all the rest of the story. At the same time, she felt that so far as her personal sensibilities were concerned, she had not the least objection to the continuance of a mere business relation between Orsino and Del Ferice. She was more forgiving than Giovanni.
“I will tell you this much, my dear boy,” she said, at last. “That old quarrel did concern me and no one else. Your father feels more strongly about it than I do, because he fought for me and not for himself. You trust me, Orsino. You know that I would rather see you dead than doing anything dishonourable. Very well. Do not ask any more questions, and do not go to your father about it. Del Ferice has only advanced you money, in a business way, on good security and at a high interest. So far as I can judge of the point of honour involved, what happened long ago need not prevent your doing what you are doing now. Possibly, when you have finished the present contract, you may think it wiser to apply to some other bank, or to work on your own account with my money.”
Corona believed that she had found the best way out of the difficulty, and Orsino seemed satisfied, for he nodded thoughtfully and said nothing. The day had been filled with argument and discussion about his determination to stay in town, and he was weary of the perpetual question and answer. He knew his mother well, and was willing to take her advice for the present. She, on her part, told Giovanni what she had done, and he consented to consider the matter a little longer before interfering. He disliked even the idea of a business relation extremely, but he feared that there was more behind the appearances of commercial fairness than either he or Orsino himself could understand. The better Orsino succeeded, the less his father was pleased, and his suspicions were not unfounded. He knew from San Giacinto that success was becoming uncommon, and he knew that all Orsino’s industry and energy could not have sufficed to counterbalance his inexperience. Andrea Contini, too, had been recommended by Del Ferice, and was presumably Del Ferice’s man.
On the following day Giovanni and Corona with the three younger boys went up to Saracinesca leaving Orsino alone in the great palace, to his own considerable satisfaction. He was well pleased with himself and especially at having carried his point. At his age, and with his constitution, the heat was a matter of supreme indifference to him, and he looked forward with delight to a summer of uninterrupted work in the not uncongenial society of Andrea Contini. As for the work itself, it was beginning to have a sort of fascination for him as he understood it better. The love of building, the passion for stone and brick and mortar, is inherent in some natures, and is capable of growing into a mania little short of actual insanity. Orsino began to ask himself seriously whether it were too late to study architecture as a profession and in the meanwhile he learned more of it in practice from Contini than he could have acquired in twice the time at any polytechnic school in Europe.
He liked Contini himself more and more as the days went by. Hitherto he had been much inclined to judge his own countrymen from his own class. He was beginning to see that he had understood little or nothing of the real Italian nature when uninfluenced by foreign blood. The study interested and pleased him. Only one unpleasant memory occasionally disturbed his peace of mind. When he thought of his last meeting with Maria Consuelo he hated himself for the part he had played, though he was quite unable to account logically, upon his assumed principles, for the severity of his self-condemnation.
CHAPTER XVII.
Orsino necessarily led a monotonous life, though, his occupation was an absorbing one. Very early in the morning he was with Contini where the building was going on. He then passed the hot hours of the day in the office, which, as before, had been established in one of the unfinished houses. Towards evening, he went down into the city to his home, refreshed himself after his long day’s work, and then walked or drove until half past eight, when he went to dinner in the garden of a great restaurant in the Corso. Here he met a few acquaintances who, like himself, had reasons for staying in town after their families had left. He always sat at the same small table, at which there was barely room for two persons, for he preferred to be alone, and he rarely asked a passing friend to sit down with him.
On a certain hot evening in the beginning of August he had just taken his seat, and was trying to make up his mind whether he were hungry enough to eat anything or whether it would not be less trouble to drink a glass of iced coffee and go away, when he was aware of a lank shadow cast across the white cloth by the glaring electric light. He looked up and saw Spicca standing there, apparently uncertain where to sit down for the place was fuller than usual. He liked the melancholy old man and spoke to him, offering to share his table.
Spicca hesitated a moment and then accepted the invitation. He deposited his hat upon a chair beside him and leaned back, evidently exhausted either in mind or body, if not in both.
“I am very much obliged to you, my dear Orsino,” he said. “There is an abominable crowd here, which means an unusual number of people to avoid–just as many as I know, in fact, excepting yourself.”
“I am glad you do not wish to avoid me, too,” observed Orsino, by way of saying something.
“You are a less evil–so I choose you in preference to the greater,” Spicca answered. But there was a not unkindly look in his sunken eyes as he spoke.
He tipped the great flask of Chianti that hung in its swinging plated cradle in the middle of the table, and filled two glasses.
“Since all that is good has been abolished, let us drink to the least of evils,” he said, “in other words, to each other.”
“To the absence of friends,” answered Orsino, touching the wine with his lips.
Spicca emptied his glass slowly and then looked at him.
“I like that toast,” he said. “To the absence of friends. I daresay you have heard of Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. Do they still teach the dear old tale in these modern schools? No. But you have heard it–very well. You will remember that if they had not allowed the serpent to scrape acquaintance with them, on pretence of a friendly interest in their intellectual development, Adam and Eve would still be inventing names for the angelic little wild beasts who were too well-behaved to eat them. They would still be in paradise. Moreover Orsino Saracinesca and John Nepomucene Spicca would not be in daily danger of poisoning in this vile cookshop. Summary ejection from Eden was the first consequence of friendship, and its results are similar to this day. What nauseous mess are we to swallow to-night? Have you looked at the card?”
Orsino laughed a little. He foresaw that Spicca would not be dull company on this particular evening. Something unusually disagreeable had probably happened to him during the day. After long and melancholy hesitation he ordered something which he believed he could eat, and Orsino followed his example.
“Are all your people out of town?” Spicca asked, after a pause.
“Yes. I am alone.”
“And what in the world is the attraction here? Why do you stay? I do not wish to be indiscreet, and I was never afflicted with curiosity. But cases of mental alienation grow more common every day, and as an old friend of your father’s I cannot overlook symptoms of madness in you. A really sane person avoids Rome in August.”
“It strikes me that I might say the same to you,” answered Orsino. “I am kept here by business. You have not even that excuse.”
“How do you know?” asked Spicca, sharply. “Business has two main elements–credit and debit. The one means the absence of the other. I leave it to your lively intelligence to decide which of the two means Rome in August, and which means Trouville or St. Moritz.”
“I had not thought of it in that light.”
“No? I daresay not. I constantly think of it.”
“There are other places, nearer than St. Moritz,” suggested Orsino. “Why not go to Sorrento?”
“There was such a place once–but my friends have found it out. Nevertheless, I might go there. It is better to suffer friendship in the spirit than fever in the body. But I have a reason for staying here just at present–a very good one.”
“Without indiscretion–?”
“No, certainly not without considerable indiscretion. Take some more wine. When intoxication is bliss it is folly to be sober, as the proverb says. I cannot get tipsy, but you may, and that will be almost as amusing. The main object of drinking wine is that one person should make confidences for the other to laugh at–the one enjoys it quite as much as the other.”
“I would rather be the other,” said Orsino with a laugh.
“In all cases in life it is better to be the other person,” observed Spicca, thoughtfully, though the remark lacked precision.
“You mean the patient and not the agent, I suppose?”
“No. I mean the spectator. The spectator is a well fed, indifferent personage who laughs at the play and goes home to supper–perdition upon him and his kind! He is the abomination of desolation in a front stall, looking on while better men cut one another’s throats. He is a fat man with a pink complexion and small eyes, and when he has watched other people’s troubles long enough, he retires to his comfortable vault in the family chapel in the Campo Varano, which is decorated with coloured tiles, embellished with a modern altar piece and adorned with a bust of himself by a good sculptor. Even in death, he is still the spectator, grinning through the window of his sanctuary at the rows of nameless graves outside. He is happy and self-satisfied still–even in marble. It is worth living to be such a man.”
“It is not an exciting life,” remarked Orsino.
“No. That is the beauty of it. Look at me. I have never succeeded in imitating that well-to-do, thoroughly worthy villain. I began too late. Take warning, Orsino. You are young. Grow fat and look on–then you will die happy. All the philosophy of life is there. Farinaceous food, money and a wife. That is the recipe. Since you have money you can purchase the gruel and the affections. Waste no time in making the investment.”
“I never heard you advocate marriage before. You seem to have changed your mind, of late.”
“Not in the least. I distinguish between being married and taking a wife, that is all.”
“Rather a fine distinction.”
“The only difference between a prisoner and his gaoler is that they are on opposite sides of the same wall. Take some more wine. We will drink to the man on the outside.”
“May you never be inside,” said Orsino.
Spicca emptied his glass and looked at him, as he set it down again.
“May you never know what it is to have been inside,” he said.
“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!”