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Sant' Ilario

F. Marion Crawford

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Title: Sant' Ilario

Author: F. Marion Crawford

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SANT' ILARIO

F. MARION CRAWFORD

AUTHOR OF "MR. ISAACS," "DR. CLAUDIUS," "ZOROASTER," "A TALE OF A

LONELY PARISH," ETC.

My Wife

THIS SECOND PART OF "SARACINESCA" IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED

CHAPTER I.

Two years of service in the Zouaves had wrought a change in

Anastase Gouache, the painter. He was still a light man, nervously

built, with small hands and feet, and a delicate face; but

constant exposure to the weather had browned his skin, and a life

of unceasing activity had strengthened his sinews and hardened his

compact frame. The clustering black curls were closely cropped,

too, while the delicate dark moustache had slightly thickened. He

had grown to be a very soldierly young fellow, straight and alert,

quick of hand and eye, inured to that perpetual readiness which is

the first characteristic of the good soldier, whether in peace or

war. The dreamy look that was so often in his face in the days

when he sat upon a high stool painting the portrait of Donna

Tullia Mayer, had given place to an expression of wide-awake

curiosity in the world's doings.

Anastase was an artist by nature and no amount of military service

could crush the chief aspirations of his intelligence. He had not

abandoned work since he had joined the Zouaves, for his hours of

leisure from duty were passed in his studio. But the change in his

outward appearance was connected with a similar development in his

character. He himself sometimes wondered how he could have ever

taken any interest in the half-hearted political fumbling which

Donna Tullia, Ugo Del Ferice, and others of their set used to

dignify by the name of conspiracy. It seemed to him that his ideas

must at that time have been deplorably confused and lamentably

unsettled. He sometimes took out the old sketch of Madame Mayer's

portrait, and setting it upon his easel, tried to realise and

bring back those times when she had sat for him. He could recall

Del Ferice's mock heroics, Donna Tullia's ill-expressed

invectives, and his own half-sarcastic sympathy in the liberal

movement; but the young fellow in an old velveteen jacket who used

ads:

to talk glibly about the guillotine, about stringing-up the

clericals to street-lamps and turning the churches into popular

theatres, was surely not the energetic, sunburnt Zouave who had

been hunting down brigands in the Samnite hills last summer, who

spent three-fourths of his time among soldiers like himself, and

who had pledged his honour to follow the gallant Charette and

defend the Pope as long as he could carry a musket.

There is a sharp dividing line between youth and manhood.

Sometimes we cross it early, and sometimes late, but we do not

know that we are passing from one life to another as we step

across the boundary. The world seems to us the same for a while,

as we knew it yesterday and shall know it to-morrow. Suddenly, we

look back and start with astonishment when we see the past, which

we thought so near, already vanishing in the distance, shapeless,

confused, and estranged from our present selves. Then, we know

that we are men, and acknowledge, with something like a sigh, that

we have put away childish things.

When Gouache put on the gray jacket, the red sash and the yellow

gaiters, he became a man and speedily forgot Donna Tullia and her

errors, and for some time afterwards he did not care to recall

them. When he tried to remember the scenes at the studio in the

Via San Basilio, they seemed very far away. One thing alone

constantly reminded him disagreeably of the past, and that was his

unfortunate failure to catch Del Ferice when the latter had

escaped from Rome in the disguise of a mendicant friar. Anastase

had never been able to understand how he had missed the fugitive.

It had soon become known that Del Ferice had escaped by the very

pass which Gouache was patrolling, and the young Zouave had felt

the bitterest mortification in losing so valuable and so easy a

prey. He often thought of it and promised himself that he would

visit his anger on Del Ferice if he ever got a chance; but Del

Ferice was out of reach of his vengeance, and Donna Tullia Mayer

had not returned to Rome since the previous year. It had been

rumoured of late that she had at last fulfilled the engagement

contracted some time earlier, and had consented to be called the

Contessa Del Ferice; this piece of news, however, was not yet

fully confirmed. Gouache had heard the gossip, and had immediately

made a lively sketch on the back of a half-finished picture,

representing Donna Tullia, in her bridal dress, leaning upon the

arm of Del Ferice, who was arrayed in a capuchin's cowl, and

underneath, with his brush, he scrawled a legend, "Finis coronat

opus."

It was nearly six o'clock in the afternoon of the 23d of

September. The day had been rainy, but the sky had cleared an hour

before sunset, and there was a sweet damp freshness in the air,

very grateful after the long weeks of late summer. Anastase

Gouache had been on duty at the Serristori barracks in the Borgo

Santo Spirito and walked briskly up to the bridge of Sant' Angelo.

There was not much movement in the streets, and the carriages were

few. A couple of officers were lounging at the gate of the castle

and returned Gouache's salute as he passed. In the middle of the

bridge he stopped and looked westward, down the short reach of the

river which caught a lurid reflection of the sunset on its eddying

yellow surface. He mused a moment, thinking more of the details of

his duty at the barracks than of the scene before him. Then he

thought of the first time he had crossed the bridge in his Zouave

uniform, and a faint smile flickered on his brown features. It

happened almost every day that he stopped at the same place, and

as particular spots often become associated with ideas that seem

to belong to them, the same thought almost always recurred to his

mind as he stood there. Then followed the same daily wondering as

to how all these things were to end; whether he should for years

to come wear the red sash and the yellow gaiters, a corporal of

Zouaves, and whether for years he should ask himself every day the

same question. Presently, as the light faded from the houses of

the Borgo, he turned away with an imperceptible shrug of the

shoulders and continued his walk upon the narrow pavement at the

side of the bridge. As he descended the step at the end, to the

level of the square, a small bright object in a crevice of the

stones attracted his attention. He stooped and picked it up.

It was a little gold pin, some two inches long, the head beaten

out and twisted into the shape of the letter C. Gouache examined

it attentively, and saw that it must have been long used, for it

was slightly bent in more than one place as though it had often

been thrust through some thick material. It told no other tale of

its possessor, however, and the young man slipped it into his

pocket and went on his way, idly wondering to whom the thing

belonged. He reflected that if he had been bent on any important

matter he would probably have considered the finding of a bit of

gold as a favourable omen; but he was merely returning to his

lodging as usual, and had no engagement for the evening. Indeed,

he expected no event in his life at that time, and following the

train of his meditation he smiled a little when he thought that he

was not even in love. For a Frenchman, nearly thirty years of age,

the position was an unusual one enough. In Gouache's case it was

especially remarkable. Women liked him, he liked them, and he was

constantly in the society of some of the most beautiful in the

world. Nevertheless, he turned from one to another and found a

like pleasure in the conversation of them all. What delighted him

in the one was not what charmed him most in the next, but the

equilibrium of satisfaction was well maintained between the dark

and the fair, the silent beauty and the pretty woman of

intelligence. There was indeed one whom he thought more noble in

heart and grander in symmetry of form and feature, and stronger in

mind than the rest; but she was immeasurably removed from the

sphere of his possible devotion by her devoted love of her

husband, and he admired her from a distance, even while speaking

with her.

As he passed the Apollo theatre and ascended the Via di Tordinona

the lights were beginning to twinkle in the low doorways, and the

gas-lamps, then a very recent innovation in Rome, shone out one by

one in the distance. The street is narrow, and was full of

traffic, even in the evening. Pedestrians elbowed their way along

in the dusk, every now and then flattening themselves against the

dingy walls to let a cab or a carriage rush past them, not without

real risk of accident. Before the deep, arched gateway of the

Orso, one of the most ancient inns in the world, the empty wine-

carts were getting ready for the return journey by night across

the Campagna, the great bunches of little bells jingling loudly in

the dark as the carters buckled the harness on their horses'

backs.

Just as Gouache reached this place, the darkest and most crowded

through which he had to pass, a tremendous clatter and rattle from

the Via dell' Orso made the hurrying people draw back to the

shelter of the doorsteps and arches. It was clear that a runaway

horse was not far off. One of the carters, the back of whose

waggon was half-way across the opening of the street, made

desperate efforts to make his beast advance and clear the way; but

the frightened animal only backed farther up. A moment later the

runaway charged down past the tail of the lumbering vehicle. The

horse himself just cleared the projecting timbers of the cart, but

the cab he was furiously dragging caught upon them while going at

full speed and was shivered to pieces, throwing the horse heavily

upon the stones, so that he slid along several feet on his head

and knees with the fragments of the broken shafts and the wreck of

the harness about him. The first man to spring from the crowd and

seize the beast's head was Anastase. He did not see that the same

instant a large private carriage, drawn by a pair of powerful

horses, emerged quickly from the Vicolo dei Soldati, the third of

the streets which meet the Via di Tordinona at the Orso. The

driver, who owing to the darkness had not seen the disaster which

had just taken place, did his best to stop in time; but before the

heavy equipage could be brought to a stand Anastase had been

thrown to the ground, between the hoofs of the struggling cab-

horse and the feet of the startled pair of bays. The crowd closed

in as near as was safe, while the confusion and the shouts of the

people and the carters increased every minute.

The coachman of the private carriage threw the reins to the

footman and sprang down to go to the horses' heads.

"You have run over a Zouave!" some one shouted from the crowd.

"Meno male! Thank goodness it was not one of us!" exclaimed

another voice.

"Where is he? Get him out, some of you!" cried the coachman as he

seized the reins close to the bit.

By this time a couple of stout gendarmes and two or three soldiers

of the Antibes legion had made their way to the front and were

dragging away the fallen cab-horse. A tall, thin, elderly

gentleman, of a somewhat sour countenance, descended from the

carriage and stooped over the injured soldier.

"It is only a Zouave, Excellency," said the coachman, with a sort

of sigh of relief.

The tall gentleman lifted Gouache's head a little so that the

light from the carriage-lamp fell upon his face. He was quite

insensible, and there was blood upon his pale forehead and white

cheeks. One of the gendarmes came forward.

"We will take care of him, Signore," he said, touching his three-

cornered hat. "But I must beg to know your revered name," he

added, in the stock Italian phrase. "Capira--I am very sorry--but

they say your horses--"

"Put him into my carriage," answered the elderly gentleman

shortly. "I am the Principe Montevarchi."

"But, Excellency--the Signorina---" protested the coachman. The

prince paid no attention to the objection and helped the gendarme

to deposit Anastase in the interior of the vehicle. Then he gave

the man a silver scudo.

"Send some one to the Serristori barracks to say that a Zouave has

been hurt and is at my house," he said. Therewith he entered the

carriage and ordered the coachman to drive home.

"In heaven's name, what has happened, papa?" asked a young voice

in the darkness, tremulous with excitement.

"My dear child, there has been an accident in the street, and this

young man has been wounded, or killed--"

"Killed! A dead man in the carriage!" cried the young girl in some

terror, and shrinking away into the corner.

"You should really control your nerves, Faustina," replied her

father in austere tones. "If the young man is dead, it is the will

of Heaven. If he is alive we shall soon find it out. Meanwhile I

must beg you to be calm--to be calm, do you understand?"

Donna Faustina Montevarchi made no answer to this parental

injunction, but withdrew as far as she could into the corner of

the back seat, while her father supported the inanimate body of

the Zouave as the carriage swung over the uneven pavement. In a

few minutes they rolled beneath a deep arch and stopped at the

foot of a broad marble staircase.

"Bring him upstairs carefully, and send for a surgeon," said the

prince to the men who came forward. Then he offered his arm to his

daughter to ascend the steps, as though nothing had happened, and

without bestowing another look on the injured soldier.

Donna Faustina was just eighteen years old, and had only quitted

the convent of the Sacro Cuore a month earlier. It might have been

said that she was too young to be beautiful, for she evidently

belonged to that class of women who do not attain their full

development until a later period. Her figure was almost too

slender, her face almost too delicate and ethereal. There was

about her a girlish look, an atmosphere of half-saintly

maidenhood, which was not so much the expression of her real

nature as the effect produced by her being at once very thin and

very fresh. There was indeed nothing particularly angelic about

her warm brown eyes, shaded by unusually long black lashes; and

little wayward locks of chestnut hair, curling from beneath the

small round hat of the period, just before the small pink ears,

softened as with a breath of worldliness the grave outlines of the

serious face. A keen student of women might have seen that the dim

religious halo of convent life which still clung to the young girl

would soon fade and give way to the brilliancy of the woman of the

world. She was not tall, though of fully average height, and

although the dress of that time was ill-adapted to show to

advantage either the figure or the movements, it was evident, as

she stepped lightly from the carriage, that she had a full share

of ease and grace. She possessed that unconscious certainty in

motion which proceeds naturally from the perfect proportion of all

the parts, and which exercises a far greater influence over men

than a faultless profile or a dazzling skin.

Instead of taking her father's arm, Donna Faustina turned and

looked at the face of the wounded Zouave, whom three men had

carefully taken from the carriage and were preparing to carry

upstairs. Poor Gouache was hardly recognisable for the smart

soldier who had crossed the bridge of Sant' Angelo half an hour

earlier. His uniform was all stained with mud, there was blood

upon his pale face, and his limbs hung down, powerless and limp.

But as the young girl looked at him, consciousness returned, and

with it came the sense of acute suffering. He opened his eyes

suddenly, as men often do when they revive after being stunned,

and a short groan escaped from his lips. Then, as he realised that

he was in the presence of a lady, he made an effort as though to

release himself from the hands of those who carried him, and to

stand upon his feet.

"Pardon me, Madame," he began to say, but Faustina checked him by

a gesture.

Meanwhile old Montevarchi had carefully scrutinised the young

man's face, and had recognised him, for they had often met in

society.

"Monsieur Gouache!" he exclaimed in surprise. At the same time he

made the men move on with their burden.

"You know him, papa?" whispered Donna Faustina as they followed

together. "He is a gentleman? I was right?"

"Of course, of course," answered her father. "But really,

Faustina, had you nothing better to do than to go and look into

his face? Imagine, if he had known you! Dear me! If you begin like

this, as soon as you are out of the convent--"

Montevarchi left the rest of the sentence to his daughter's

imagination, merely turning up his eyes a little as though

deprecating the just vengeance of heaven upon his daughter's

misconduct.

"Really, papa--" protested Faustina.

"Yes--really, my daughter--I am much surprised," returned her

incensed parent, still speaking in an undertone lest the injured

man should overhear what was said.

They reached the head of the stairs and the men carried Gouache

rapidly away; not so quickly, however, as to prevent Faustina from

getting another glimpse of his face. His eyes were open and met

hers with an expression of mingled interest and gratitude which

she did not forget. Then he was carried away and she did not see

him again.

The Montevarchi household was conducted upon the patriarchal

principle, once general in Rome, and not quite abandoned even now,

twenty years later than the date of Gouache's accident. The palace

was a huge square building facing upon two streets, in front and

behind, and opening inwards upon two courtyards. Upon the lower

floor were stables, coach-houses, kitchens, and offices

innumerable. Above these there was built a half story, called a

mezzanino--in French, entresol, containing the quarters of the

unmarried sons of the house, of the household chaplain, and of two

or three tutors employed in the education of the Montevarchi

grandchildren. Next above, came the "piano nobile," or state

apartments, comprising the rooms of the prince and princess, the

dining-room, and a vast suite of reception-rooms, each of which

opened into the next in such a manner that only the last was not

necessarily a passage. In the huge hall was the dais and canopy

with the family arms embroidered in colours once gaudy but now

agreeably faded to a softer tone. Above this floor was another,

occupied by the married sons, their wives and children; and high

over all, above the cornice of the palace, were the endless

servants' quarters and the roomy garrets. At a rough estimate the

establishment comprised over a hundred persons, all living under

the absolute and despotic authority of the head of the house, Don

Lotario Montevarchi, Principe Montevarchi, and sole possessor of

forty or fifty other titles. From his will and upon his pleasure

depended every act of every member of his household, from his

eldest son and heir, the Duca di Bellegra, to that of Pietro

Paolo, the under-cook's scullion's boy. There were three sons and

four daughters. Two of the sons were married, to wit, Don Ascanio,

to whom his father had given his second title, and Don Onorato,

who was allowed to call himself Principe di Cantalupo, but who

would have no legal claim to that distinction after his father's

death. Last of the three came Don Carlo, a young fellow of twenty

years, but not yet emancipated from the supervision of his tutor.

Of the daughters, the two eldest, Bianca and Laura, were married

and no longer lived in Rome, the one having been matched with a

Neapolitan and the other with a Florentine. There remained still

at home, therefore, the third, Donna Flavia, and the youngest of

all the family, Donna Faustina. Though Flavia was not yet two and

twenty years of age, her father and mother were already beginning

to despair of marrying her, and dropped frequent hints about the

advisability of making her enter religion, as they called it; that

is to say, they thought she had better take the veil and retire

from the world.

The old princess Montevarchi was English by birth and education,

but thirty-three years of life in Rome had almost obliterated all

traces of her nationality. That all-pervading influence, which so

soon makes Romans of foreigners who marry into Roman families, had

done its work effectually. The Roman nobility, by intermarriage

with the principal families of the rest of Europe, has lost many

Italian characteristics; but its members are more essentially

Romans than the full-blooded Italians of the other classes who

dwell side by side with the aristocracy in Rome.

When Lady Gwendoline Fontenoy married Don Lotario Montevarchi in

the year 1834, she, no doubt, believed that her children would

grow up as English as she herself, and that her husband's house

would not differ materially from an establishment of the same kind

in England. She laughed merrily at the provisions of the marriage

contract, which even went so far as to stipulate that she was to

have at least two dishes of meat at dinner, and an equivalent on

fast-days, a drive every day--the traditional trottata--two new

gowns every year, and a woman to wait upon her. After these and

similar provisions had been agreed upon, her dowry, which was a

large one for those days, was handed over to the keeping of her

father-in-law and she was duly married to Don Lotario, who at once

assumed the title of Duca di Bellegra. The wedding journey

consisted of a fortnight's retirement in the Villa Montevarchi at

Frascati, and at the end of that time the young couple were

installed under the paternal roof in Rome. Before she had been in

her new abode a month the young Duchessa realised the utter

hopelessness of attempting to change the existing system of

patriarchal government under which she found herself living. She

discovered, in the first place, that she would never have five

scudi of her own in her pocket, and that if she needed a

handkerchief or a pair of stockings it was necessary to obtain

from the head of the house not only the permission to buy such

necessaries, but the money with which to pay for them. She

discovered, furthermore, that if she wanted a cup of coffee or

some bread and butter out of hours, those things were charged to

her daily account in the steward's office, as though she had been

in an inn, and were paid for at the end of the year out of the

income arising from her dowry. Her husband's younger brother, who

had no money of his own, could not even get a lemonade in his

father's house without his father's consent.

Moreover, the family life was of such a nature as almost to

preclude all privacy. The young Duchessa and her husband had their

bedroom in the upper story, but Don Lotario's request that his

wife might have a sitting-room of her own was looked upon as an

attempt at a domestic revolution, and the privilege was only

obtained at last through the formidable intervention of the Duke

of Agincourt, the Duchessa's own father. All the family meals,

too, were eaten together in the solemn old dining-hall, hung with

tapestries and dingy with the dust of ages. The order of

precedence was always strictly observed, and though the cooking

was of a strange kind, no plate or dish was ever used which was

not of solid silver, battered indeed, and scratched, and cleaned

only after Italian ideas, but heavy and massive withal. The

Duchessa soon learned that the old Roman houses all used silver

plates from motives of economy, for the simple reason that metal

did not break. But the sensible English woman saw also that

although the most rigid economy was practised in many things,

there was lavish expenditure in many departments of the

establishment. There were magnificent horses in the stables,

gorgeously gilt carriages in the coach-houses, scores of domestics

in bright liveries at every door. The pay of the servants did not,

indeed, exceed the average earnings of a shoe-black in London, but

the coats they wore were exceeding glorious with gold lace.

It was clear from the first that nothing was expected of Don

Lotario's wife but to live peaceably under the patriarchal rule,

making no observations and offering no suggestions. Her husband

told her that he was powerless to introduce any changes, and

added, that since his father and all his ancestors had always

lived in the same way, that way was quite good enough for him.

Indeed, he rather looked forward to the time when he should be

master of the house, having children under him whom he might rule

as absolutely and despotically as he was ruled himself.

In the course of years the Duchessa absorbed the traditions of her

new home, so that they became part of her, and as everything went

on unchanged from year to year she acquired unchanging habits

which corresponded with her surroundings. Then, when at last the

old prince and princess were laid side by side in the vault of the

family chapel and she was princess in her turn, she changed

nothing, but let everything go on in the same groove, educating

her children and managing them, as her husband had been educated

and as she herself had been managed by the old couple. Her husband

grew more and more like his father, punctilious, rigid; a strict

observant in religious matters, a pedant in little things,

prejudiced against all change; too satisfied to desire

improvement, too scrupulously conscientious to permit any

retrogression from established rule, a model of the immutability

of an ancient aristocracy, a living paradigm of what always had

been and a stubborn barrier against all that might be.

Such was the home to which Donna Faustina Montevarchi returned to

live after spending eight years in the convent of the Sacro Cuore.

During that time she had acquired the French language, a slight

knowledge of music, a very limited acquaintance with the history

of her own country, a ready memory for prayers and litanies--and

her manners. Manners among the Italians are called education. What

we mean by the latter word, namely, the learning acquired, is

called, more precisely, instruction. An educated person means a

person who has acquired the art of politeness. An instructed

person means some one who has learnt rather more than the average

of what is generally learnt by the class of people to whom he

belongs. Donna Faustina was extremely well educated, according to

Roman ideas, but her instruction was not, and was not intended to

be, any better than that imparted to the young girls with whom she

was to associate in the world.

As far as her character was concerned, she herself knew very

little of it, and would probably have found herself very much

embarrassed if called upon to explain what character meant. She

was new and the world was very old. The nuns had told her that she

must never care for the world, which was a very sinful place, full

of thorns, ditches, pitfalls and sinners, besides the devil and

his angels. Her sister Flavia, on the contrary, assured her that

the world was very agreeable, when mamma happened to go to sleep

in a corner during a ball; that all men were deceivers, but that

when a man danced well it made no difference whether he were a

deceiver or not, since he danced with his legs and not with his

conscience; that there was no happiness equal to a good cotillon,

and that there were a number of these in every season; and,

finally, that provided one did not spoil one's complexion one

might do anything, so long as mamma was not looking.

To Donna Faustina, these views, held by the nuns on the one hand

and by Flavia on the other, seemed very conflicting. She would

not, indeed, have hesitated in choosing, even if she had been

permitted any choice; for it was clear that, since she had seen

the convent side of the question, it would be very interesting to

see the other. But, having been told so much about sinners, she

was on the look-out for them, and looked forward to making the

acquaintance of one of them with a pardonable excitement.

Doubtless she would hate a sinner if she saw one, as the nuns had

taught her, although the sinner of her imagination was not a very

repulsive personage. Flavia probably knew a great many, and Flavia

said that society was very amusing. Faustina wished that the

autumn months would pass a little more quickly, so that the

carnival season might begin.

Prince Montevarchi, for his part, intended his youngest daughter

to be a model of prim propriety. He attributed to Flavia's

frivolity of behaviour the difficulty he experienced in finding

her a husband, and he had no intention of exposing himself to a

second failure in the case of Faustina. She should marry in her

first season, and if she chose to be gay after that, the

responsibility thereof might fall upon her husband, or her father-

in-law, or upon whomsoever it should most concern; he himself

would have fulfilled his duty so soon as the nuptial benediction

was pronounced. He knew the fortune and reputation of every

marriageable young man in society, and was therefore eminently

fitted for the task he undertook. To tell the truth, Faustina

herself expected to be married before Easter, for it was eminently

fitting that a young girl should lose no time in such matters. But

she meant to choose a man after her own heart, if she found one;

at all events, she would not submit too readily to the paternal

choice nor appear satisfied with the first tolerable suitor who

should be presented to her.

Under these circumstances it seemed probable that Donna Faustina's

first season, which had begun with the unexpected adventure at the

corner of the old Orso, would not come to a close without some

passage of arms between herself and her father, even though the

ultimate conclusion should lead to the steps of the altar.

The men carried the wounded Zouave away to a distant room, and

Faustina entered the main apartments by the side of the old

prince. She sighed a little as she went.

"I hope the poor man will get well!" she exclaimed.

"Do not disturb your mind about the young man," answered her

father. "He will be attended by the proper persons, and the doctor

will bleed him and the will of Heaven will be done. It is not the

duty of a well-conducted young woman to be thinking of such

things, and you may dismiss the subject at once."

"Yes, papa," said Faustina submissively. But in spite of the

dutiful tone of voice in which she spoke, the dim light of the

tall lamps in the antechambers showed a strange expression of

mingled amusement and contrariety in the girl's ethereal face.

CHAPTER II.

"You know Gouache?" asked old Prince Saracinesca, in a tone which

implied that he had news to tell. He looked from his daughter-in-

law to his son as he put the question, and then went on with his

breakfast.

"Very well," answered Giovanni. "What about him?"

"He was knocked down by a carriage last night. The carriage

belonged to Montevarchi, and Gouache is at his house, in danger of

his life."

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Corona in ready sympathy. "I am so sorry!

I am very fond of Gouache."

Giovanni Saracinesca, known to the world since his marriage as

Prince of Sant' Ilario, glanced quickly at his wife, so quickly

that neither she nor the old gentleman noticed the fact.

The three persons sat at their midday breakfast in the dining-room

of the Palazzo Saracinesca. After much planning and many

discussions the young couple had determined to take up their abode

with Giovanni's father. There were several reasons which had led

them to this decision, but the two chief ones were that they were

both devotedly attached to the old man; and secondly, that such a

proceeding was strictly fitting and in accordance with the customs

of Romans. It was true that Corona, while her old husband, the

Duca d'Astrardente, was alive, had grown used to having an

establishment exclusively her own, and both the Saracinesca had at

first feared that she would be unwilling to live in her father-in-

law's house. Then, too, there was the Astrardente palace, which,

could not lie shut up and allowed to go to ruin; but this matter

was compromised advantageously by Corona's letting it to an

American millionaire who wished to spend the winter in Rome. The

rent paid was large, and Corona never could have too much money

for her improvements out at Astrardente. Old Saracinesca wished

that the tenant might have been at least a diplomatist, and cursed

the American by his gods, but Giovanni said that his wife had

shown good sense in getting as much as she could for the palace.

"We shall not need it till Orsino grows up--unless you marry

again," said Sant' Ilario to his father, with a laugh.

Now, Orsino was Giovanni's son and heir, aged, at the time of this

tale, six months and a few days. In spite of his extreme youth,

however, Orsino played a great and important part in the doings of

the Saracinesca household. In the first place, he was the heir,

and the old prince had been found sitting by his cradle with an

expression never seen in his face since Giovanni had been a baby.

Secondly, Orsino was a very fine child, swarthy of skin, and hard

as a tiger cub, yet having already his mother's eyes, large, coal-

black and bright, but deep and soft withal. Thirdly, Orsino had a

will of his own, admirably seconded by an enormous lung power. Hot

that he cried, when he wanted anything. His baby eyes had not yet

been seen to shed tears. He merely shouted, loud and long, and

thumped the sides of his cradle with his little clenched fists, or

struck out straight at anybody who chanced to be within reach.

Corona rejoiced in the child, and used to say that he was like his

grandfather, his father and his mother all put together. The old

prince thought that if this were true the boy would do very well;

Corona was the most beautiful dark woman of her time; he himself

was a sturdy, tough old man, though his hair and beard were white

as snow, and Giovanni was his father's ideal of what a man of his

race should be. The arrival of the baby Orsino had been an

additional argument in favour of living together, for the child's

grandfather could not have been separated from him even by the

quarter of a mile which lay between the two palaces.

And so it came to pass that they all dwelt under the same roof,

and were sitting together at breakfast on the morning of the 24th

of September, when the old prince told them of the accident which

had happened to Gouache.

"How did you hear the news?" asked Giovanni.

"Montevarchi told me this morning. He was very much disturbed at

the idea of having an interesting young man in his house, with

Plavia and Faustina at home." Old Saracinesca smiled grimly.

"Why should that trouble him?" inquired Corona.

"He has the ancient ideas," replied her father-in-law.

"After all--Flavia--"

"Yes Flavia, after all--"

"I shall be curious to see how the other one turns out," remarked

Giovanni. "There seems to be a certain unanimity in our opinion of

Flavia. However, I daresay it is mere gossip, and Casa Montevarchi

is not a gay place for a girl of her age."

"Not gay? How do you know?" asked the old prince. "Does the girl

want Carnival to last till All Souls'? Did you ever dine there,

Giovannino?"

"No--nor any one else who is not a member of the most Excellent

Casa Montevarchi."

"Then how do you know whether it is gay or not?"

"You should hear Ascanio Bellegra describe their life," retorted

Giovanni.

"And I suppose you describe your life to him, in exchange?" Prince

Saracinesca was beginning to lose his temper, as he invariably did

whenever he could induce his son to argue any question with him.

"I suppose you deplore each other's miserable condition. I tell

you what I think, Giovanni. You had better go and live in Corona's

house if you are not happy here."

"It is let," replied Giovanni with imperturbable calm, but his

wife bit her lip to control her rising laughter.

"You might travel," growled the old gentleman.

"But I am very happy here."

"Then what do you mean by talking like that about Casa

Montevarchi?"

"I fail to see the connection between the two ideas," observed

Giovanni.

"You live in precisely the same circumstances as Ascanio Bellegra.

I think the connection is clear enough. If his life is sad, so is

yours." "For downright good logic commend me to my beloved

father!" cried Giovanni, breaking into a laugh at last.

"A laughing-stock for my children! I have come to this!" exclaimed

his father gruffly. But his features relaxed into a good-humoured

smile, that was pleasant to see upon his strong dark face.

"But, really, I am very sorry to hear this of poor Gouache," said

Corona at last, returning to the original subject of their

conversation. "I hope it is nothing really dangerous."

"It is always dangerous to be run over by a carriage," answered

Giovanni. "I will go and see him, if they will let me in."

At this juncture Orsino was brought in by his nurse, a splendid

creature from Saracinesca, with bright blue eyes and hair as fair

as any Goth's, a contrast to the swarthy child she carried in her

arms. Immediately the daily ovation began, and each of the three

persons began to worship the baby in an especial way. There was no

more conversation, after that, for some time. The youngest of the

Saracinesca absorbed the attention of the family. Whether he

clenched his little fists, or opened his small fat fingers,

whether he laughed and crowed at his grandfather's attempts to

amuse him, or struck his nurse's rosy cheeks with his chubby

hands, the result was always applause and merriment from those who

looked on. The scene recalled Joseph's dream, in which the sheaves

of his brethren bowed down to his sheaf.

After a while, however, Orsino grew sleepy and had to be taken

away. Then the little party broke up and separated. The old prince

went to his rooms to read and doze for an hour. Corona was called

away to see one of the numberless dressmakers whose shadows darken

the beginning of a season in town, and Giovanni took his hat and

went out.

In those days young men of society had very little to do. The

other day a German diplomatist was heard to say that Italian

gentlemen seemed to do nothing but smoke, spit, and criticise.

Twenty years ago their manners might have been described less

coarsely, but there was even more truth in the gist of the saying.

Not only they did nothing. There was nothing for them to do. They

floated about in a peaceful millpool, whose placid surface

reflected nothing but their own idle selves, little guessing that

the dam whereby their mimic sea was confined, would shortly break

with a thundering crash and empty them all into the stream of real

life that flowed below. For the few who disliked idleness there

was no occupation but literature, and literature, to the Roman

mind of 1867, and in the Roman meaning of the word, was

scholarship. The introduction to a literary career was supposed to

be obtained only by a profound study of the classics, with a view

to avoiding everything classical, both in language and ideas,

except Cicero, the apostle of the ancient Roman Philistines; and

the tendency to clothe stale truisms and feeble sentiments in

high-sounding language is still found in Italian prose and is

indirectly traceable to the same source. As for the literature of

the country since the Latins, it consisted, and still consists, in

the works of the four poets, Dante, Tasso, Ariosto, and Petrarch.

Leopardi is more read now than then, but is too unhealthily

melancholy to be read long by any one. There used to be Roman

princes who spent years in committing to memory the verses of

those four poets, just as the young Brahman of to-day learns to

recite the Rig Veda. That was called the pursuit of literature.

The Saracinesca were thought very original and different from

other men, because they gave some attention to their estates. It

seemed very like business to try and improve the possessions one

had inherited or acquired by marriage, and business was

degradation. Nevertheless, the Saracinesca were strong enough to

laugh at other people's scruples, and did what seemed best in

their own eyes without troubling themselves to ask what the world

thought. But the care of such matters was not enough to occupy

Giovanni all day. He had much time on his hands, for he was an

active man, who slept little and rarely needed rest. Formerly he

had been used to disappear from Rome periodically, making long

journeys, generally ending in shooting expeditions in some half-

explored country. That was in the days before his marriage, and

his wanderings had assuredly done him no harm. He had seen much of

the world not usually seen by men of his class and prejudices, and

the acquaintance he had thus got with things and people was a

source of great satisfaction to him. But the time had come to give

up all this. He was now not only married and settled in his own

home, but moreover he loved his wife with his whole heart, and

these facts were serious obstacles against roughing it in Norway,

Canada, or Transylvania. To travel with Corona and little Orsino

seemed a very different matter from travelling with Corona alone.

Then there was his father's growing affection for the child, which

had to be taken into account in all things. The four had become

inseparable, old Saracinesca, Giovanni, Corona, and the baby.

Now Giovanni did not regret his old liberty. He knew that he was

far happier than he had ever been in his life before. But there

were days when the time hung heavily on his hands and his restless

nature craved some kind of action which should bring with it a

generous excitement. This was precisely what he could not find

during the months spent in Rome, and so it fell out that he did

very much what most young men of his birth found quite sufficient

as an employment; he spent a deal of time in strolling where

others strolled, in lounging at the club, and in making visits

which filled the hours between sunset and dinner. To him this life

was new, and not altogether tasteful; but his friends did not fail

to say that Giovanni had been civilised by his marriage with the

Astrardente, and was much less reserved than he had formerly been.

When Corona went to see the dressmaker, Giovanni very naturally

took his hat and went out of the house. The September day was warm

and bright, and in such weather it was a satisfaction merely to

pace the old Roman streets in the autumn sun. It was too early to

meet any of his acquaintance, and too soon in the season for any

regular visiting. He did not know what to do, but allowed himself

to enjoy the sunshine and the sweet air. Presently, the sight of a

couple of Zouaves, talking together at the corner of a street,

recalled to his mind the accident which had happened to Gouache.

It would be kind to go and see the poor fellow, or, at least, to

ask after him. He had known him for some time and had gradually

learned to like him, as most people did who met the gifted artist

day after day throughout the gaiety of the winter.

At the Palazzo Montevarchi Giovanni learned that the princess had

just finished breakfast. He could hardly ask for Gouache without

making a short visit in the drawing-room, and he accordingly

submitted, regretting after all that he had come. The old princess

bored him, he did not know Faustina, who was just out of the

convent, and Flavia, who amused many people, did not amuse him in

the least. He inwardly rejoiced that he was married, and that his

visit could not be interpreted as a preliminary step towards

asking for Flavia's hand.

The princess looked up with an expression of inquiry in her

prominent blue eyes, as Sant' Ilario entered. She was stout,

florid, and not well dressed. Her yellow hair, already half gray,

for she was more than fifty years old, was of the unruly kind, and

had never looked neat even in her best days. Her bright, clear

complexion saved her, however, as it saves hundreds of middle-aged

Englishwomen, from that look of peculiar untidiness which belongs

to dark-skinned persons who take no trouble about their appearance

or personal adornment. In spite of thirty-three years of residence

in Rome, she spoke Italian with a foreign accent, though otherwise

correctly enough. But she was nevertheless a great lady, and no

one would have thought of doubting the fact. Fat, awkwardly

dressed, of no imposing stature, with unmanageable hair and

prominent teeth, she was not a person to be laughed at. She had

what many a beautiful woman lacks and envies--natural dignity of

character and manner, combined with a self-possession which is not

always found in exalted personages. That repose of manner which is

commonly believed to be the heirloom of noble birth is seen quite

as often in the low-born adventurer, who regards it as part of his

stock-in-trade; and there are many women, and men too, whose

position might be expected to place them beyond the reach of what

we call shyness, but who nevertheless suffer daily agonies of

social timidity and would rather face alone a charge of cavalry

than make a new acquaintance. The Princess Montevarchi was made of

braver stuff, however, and if her daughters had not inherited all

her unaffected dignity they had at least received their fair share

of self-possession. When Sant' Ilario entered, these two young

ladies, Donna Flavia and Donna Faustina, were seated one on each

side of their mother. The princess extended her hand, the two

daughters held theirs demurely crossed upon their knees. Faustina

looked at the carpet, as she had been taught to do in the convent.

Flavia looked up boldly at Giovanni, knowing by experience that

her mother could not see her while greeting the visitor. Sant'

Ilario muttered some sort of civil inquiry, bowed to the two young

ladies and sat down.

"How is Monsieur Gouache?" he asked, going straight to the point.

He had seen the look of surprise on the princess's face as he

entered, and thought it best to explain himself at once.

"Ah, you have heard? Poor man! He is badly hurt, I fear. Would you

like to see him?"

"Presently, if I may," answered Giovanni. "We are all fond of

Gouache. How did the accident happen?"

"Faustina ran over him," said Flavia, fixing her dark eyes on

Giovanni and allowing her pretty face to assume an expression of

sympathy--for the sufferer. "Faustina and papa," she added.

"Flavia! How can you say such things!" exclaimed the princess, who

spent a great part of her life in repressing her daughter's manner

of speech.

"Well, mamma--it was the carriage of course. But papa and Faustina

were in it. It is the same thing."

Giovanni looked at Faustina, but her thin fresh face expressed

nothing, nor did she show any intention of commenting on her

sister's explanation. It was the first time he had seen her near

enough to notice her, and his attention was arrested by something

in her looks which surprised and interested him. It was something

almost impossible to describe, and yet so really present that it

struck Sant' Ilario at once, and found a place in his memory. In

the superstitions of the far north, as in the half material

spiritualism of Polynesia, that look has a meaning and an

interpretation. With us, the interpretation is lost, but the

instinctive persuasion that the thing itself is not wholly

meaningless remains ineradicable. We say, with a smile at our own

credulity, "That man looks as though he had a story," or, "That

woman looks as though something odd might happen to her." It is an

expression in the eyes, a delicate shade in the features, which

speak of many things which we do not understand; things which, if

they exist at all, we feel must be inevitable, fatal, and beyond

human control. Giovanni looked and was surprised, but Faustina

said nothing.

"It was very good of the prince to bring him here," remarked Sant'

Ilario.

"It was very unlike papa," exclaimed Flavia, before her mother

could answer. "But very kind, of course, as you say," she added,

with a little smile. Flavia had a habit of making rather startling

remarks, and of then adding something in explanation or comment,

before her hearers had recovered breath. The addition did not

always mend matters very much.

"Do not interrupt me, Flavia," said her mother, severely.

"I beg your pardon, were you speaking, mamma?" asked the young

girl, innocently.

Giovanni was not amused by Flavia's manners, and waited calmly for

the princess to speak.

"Indeed," said she, "there was nothing else to be done. As we had

run over the poor man--"

"The carriage--" suggested Flavia. But her mother took no notice

of her.

"The least we could do, of course, was to bring him here. My

husband would not have allowed him to be taken to the hospital."

Flavia again fixed her eyes on Giovanni with a look of sympathy,

which, however, did not convey any very profound belief in her

father's charitable intentions.

"I quite understand," said Giovanni. "And how has he been since

you brought him here? Is he in any danger?"

"You shall see him at once," answered the princess, who rose and

rang the bell, and then, as the servant's footsteps were heard

outside, crossed the room to meet him at the door.

"Mamma likes to run about," said Flavia, sweetly, in explanation.

Giovanni had risen and made as though he would have been of some

assistance.

The action was characteristic of the Princess Montevarchi. An

Italian woman would neither have rung the bell herself, nor have

committed such an imprudence as to turn her back upon her two

daughters when there was a man in the room. But she was English,

and a whole lifetime spent among Italians could not extinguish her

activity; so she went to the door herself. Faustina's deep eyes

followed her mother as though she were interested to know the news

of Gouache.

"I hope he is better," she said, quietly.

"Of course," echoed Flavia, "So do I. But mamma amuses me so much!

She is always in a hurry."

Faustina made no answer, but she looked at Sant' Ilario, as though

she wondered what he thought of her sister. He returned her gaze,

trying to explain to himself the strange attraction of her

expression, watching her critically as he would have watched any

new person or sight. She did not blush nor avoid his bold eyes, as

he would have expected had he realised that he was staring at her.

A few minutes later Giovanni found himself in a narrow, high room,

lighted by one window, which showed the enormous thickness of the

walls in the deep embrasure. The vaulted ceiling was painted in

fresco with a representation of Apollo in the act of drawing his

bow, arrayed for the time being in his quiver, while his other

garments, of yellow and blue, floated everywhere save over his

body. The floor of the room was of red bricks, which had once been

waxed, and the furniture was scanty, massive and very old.

Anastase Gouache lay in one corner in a queer-looking bed covered

with a yellow damask quilt the worse for a century or two of wear,

upon which faded embroideries showed the Montevarchi arms

surmounted by a cardinal's hat. Upon a chair beside the patient

lay the little heap of small belongings he had carried in his

pocket when hurt, his watch and purse, his cigarettes, his

handkerchief and a few other trifles, among which, half concealed

by the rest, was the gold pin he had picked up by the bridge on

the previous evening. There was a mingled smell of dampness and of

stale tobacco in the comfortless room, for the windows were

closely shut, in spite of the bright sunshine that flooded the

opposite side of the street.

Gouache lay on his back, his head tied up in a bandage and

supported by a white pillow, which somehow conveyed the impression

of one of those marble cushions upon which in old-fashioned

monuments the effigies of the dead are made to lean in eternal

prayer, if not in eternal ease. He moved impatiently as the door

opened, and then recognising Giovanni, he hailed him in a voice

much more lively and sonorous than might have been expected.

"You, prince!" he cried, in evident delight. "What saint has

brought you?"

"I heard of your accident, and so I came to see if I could do

anything for you. How are you?"

"As you see," replied Gouache. "In a hospitable tomb, with my head

tied up like an imperfectly-resurrected Lazarus. For the rest

there is nothing the matter with me, except that they have taken

away my clothes, which is something of an obstacle to my leaving

the house at once. I feel as if I had been in a revolution and had

found myself on the wrong side of the barricade--nothing worse

than that."

"You are in good spirits, at all events. But are you not seriously

hurt?"

"Oh, nothing--a broken collar-bone somewhere, I believe, and some

part of my head gone--I am not quite sure which, and a bad

headache, and nothing to eat, and a general sensation as though

somebody had made an ineffectual effort to turn me into a

sausage."

"What does the doctor say?"

"Nothing. He is a man of action. He bled me because I had not the

strength to strangle him, and poured decoctions of boiled grass

down my throat because I could not speak. He has fantastic ideas

about the human body."

"But you will have to stay here several days," said Giovanni,

considerably amused by Gouache's view of his own case.

"Several days! Not even several hours, if I can help it."

"Things do not go so quickly in Rome. You must be patient."

"In order to starve, when there is food as near as the Corso?"

inquired the artist. "To be butchered by a Roman phlebotomist, and

drenched with infusions of hay by the Principessa Montevarchi,

when I might be devising means of being presented to her daughter?

What do you take me for? I suppose the young lady with the divine

eyes is her daughter, is she not?"

"You mean Donna Faustina, I suppose. Yes. She is the youngest,

just out of the Sacro Cuore. She was in the drawing-room when I

called just now. How did you see her?"

"Last night, as they brought me upstairs, I was lucky enough to

wake up just as she was looking at me. What eyes! I can think of

nothing else. Seriously, can you not help me to get out of here?"

"So that you may fall in love with Donna Faustina as soon as

possible, I suppose," answered Giovanni with a laugh. "It seems to

me that there is but one thing to do, if you are really strong

enough. Send for your clothes, get up, go into the drawing-room

and thank the princess for her hospitality."

"That is easily said. Nothing is done in this house without the

written permission of the old prince, unless I am much mistaken.

Besides, there is no bell. I might as well be under arrest in the

guard-room of the barracks. Presently the doctor will come and

bleed me again and the princess will send me some more boiled

grass. I am not very fat, as it is, but another day of this diet

will make me diaphanous--I shall cast no shadow. A nice thing, to

be caught without a shadow on parade!"

"I will see what I can do," said Giovanni, rising. "Probably, the

best thing would be to send your military surgeon. He will not be

so tender as the other leech, but he will get you away at once. My

wife wished me to say that she sympathised, and hoped you might

soon be well."

"My homage and best thanks to the princess," answered Gouache,

with a slight change of tone, presumably to be referred to his

sense of courtesy in speaking of the absent lady.

So Giovanni went away, promising to send the surgeon at once. The

latter soon arrived, saw Gouache, and was easily persuaded to

order him home without further delay. The artist-soldier would not

leave the house without thanking his hostess. His uniform had been

cleansed from the stains it had got in the accident, and his left

arm was in a sling. The wound on his head was more of a bruise

than a cut, and was concealed by his thick black hair. Considering

the circumstances he presented a very good appearance. The

princess received him in the drawing-room, and Flavia and Faustina

were with her, but all three were now dressed to go out, so that

the interview was necessarily a short one.

Gouache made a little speech of thanks and tried to forget the

decoction of mallows he had swallowed, fearing lest the

recollection should impart a tone of insincerity to his expression

of gratitude. He succeeded very well, and afterwards attributed

the fact to Donna Faustina's brown eyes, which were not cast down

as they had been when Sant' Ilario had called, but appeared on the

contrary to contemplate the new visitor with singular interest.

"I am sure my husband will not approve of your going so soon,"

said the princess in somewhat anxious tones. It was almost the

first time she had ever known any step of importance to be taken

in her house without her husband's express authority.

"Madame," answered Gouache, glancing from Donna Faustina to his

hostess, "I am in despair at having thus unwillingly trespassed

upon your hospitality, although I need not tell you that I would

gladly prolong so charming an experience, provided I were not

confined to solitude in a distant chamber. However, since our

regimental surgeon pronounces me fit to go home, I have no choice

but to obey orders. Believe me, Madame, I am deeply grateful to

yourself as well as to the Principe Montevarchi for your manifold

kindnesses, and shall cherish a remembrance of your goodness so

long as I live."

With these words Gouache bowed as though he would be gone and

stood waiting for the princess's last word. But before her mother

could speak, Faustina's voice was heard.

"I cannot tell you how dreadfully we feel--papa and I--at having

been the cause of such a horrible accident! Is there nothing we

can do to make you forget it?"

The princess stared at her daughter in the utmost astonishment at

her forwardness. She would not have been surprised if Flavia had

been guilty of such imprudence, but that Faustina should thus

boldly address a young man who had not spoken to her, was such a

shock to her belief in the girl's manners that she did not recover

for several seconds. Anastase appreciated the situation, for as he

answered, he looked steadily at the mother, although his words

were plainly addressed to the brown-eyed beauty.

"Mademoiselle is too kind. She exaggerates. And yet, since she has

put the question, I will say that I should forget my broken bones

very soon if I might be permitted to paint Mademoiselle's

portrait. I am a painter," he added, in modest explanation.

"Yes," said the princess, "I know. But, really--this is a matter

which would require great consideration--and my husband's

consent--and, for the present---"

She paused significantly, intending to convey a polite refusal,

but Gouache completed the sentence.

"For the present, until my bones are mended, we will not speak of

it. When I am well again I will do myself the honour of asking the

prince's consent myself."

Flavia leaned towards her mother and whispered into her ear. The

words were quite audible, and the girl's dark eyes turned to

Gouache with a wicked laugh in them while she was speaking.

"Oh, mamma, if you tell papa it is for nothing he will be quite

delighted!"

Gouache's lip trembled as he suppressed a smile, and the elderly

princess's florid cheeks flushed with annoyance.

"For the present," she said, holding out her hand rather coldly,

"we will not speak of it. Pray let us know of your speedy

recovery, Monsieur Gouache."

As the artist took his leave he glanced once more at Donna

Faustina. Her face was pale and her eyes flashed angrily. She,

too, had heard Flavia's stage whisper and was even more annoyed

than her mother. Gouache went his way toward his lodging in the

company of the surgeon, pondering on the inscrutable mysteries of

the Roman household of which he had been vouchsafed a glimpse. He

was in pain from his head and shoulder, but insisted that the walk

would do him good and refused the cab which his companion had

brought. A broken collar-bone is not a dangerous matter, but it

can be very troublesome for a while, and the artist was glad to

get back to his lodgings and to find himself comfortably installed

in an easy chair with something to eat before him, of a more

substantial nature than the Principessa Montevarchi's infusions of

camomile and mallows.

CHAPTER III.

While Giovanni was at the Palazzo Montevarchi, and while Corona

was busy with her dressmakers, Prince Saracinesca was dozing over

the Osservatore Romano in his study. To tell the truth the paper

was less dull than usual, for there was war and rumour of war in

its columns. Garibaldi had raised a force of volunteers and was in

the neighbourhood of Arezzo, beginning to skirmish with the

outlying posts of the pontifical army along the frontier. The old

gentleman did not know, of course, that on that very day the

Italian Government was issuing its proclamation against the great

agitator, and possibly if he had been aware of the incident it

would not have produced any very strong impression upon his

convictions. Garibaldi was a fact, and Saracinesca did not believe

that any proclamations would interfere with his march unless

backed by some more tangible force. Even had he known that the

guerilla general had been arrested at Sinalunga and put in

confinement as soon as the proclamation had appeared, the prince

would have foreseen clearly enough that the prisoner's escape

would be only a question of a few days, since there were manifold

evidences that an understanding existed between Ratazzi and

Garibaldi of much the same nature as that which in 1860 had been

maintained between Garibaldi and Cavour during the advance upon

Naples. The Italian Government kept men under arms to be ready to

take advantage of any successes obtained by the Garibaldian

volunteers, and at the same time to suppress the republican

tendencies of the latter, which broke out afresh with every new

advance, and disappeared, as by magic, under the depressing

influence of a forced retreat.

The prince knew all these things, and had reflected upon them so

often that they no longer afforded enough interest to keep him

awake. The warm September sun streamed into the study and fell

upon the paper as it slowly slipped over the old gentleman's

knees, while his head sank lower and lower on his breast. The old

enamelled clock upon the chimney-piece ticked more loudly, as

clocks seem to do when people are asleep and they are left to

their own devices, and a few belated flies chased each other in

the sunbeams.

The silence was broken by the entrance of a servant, who would

have withdrawn again when he saw that his master was napping, had

not the latter stirred and raised his head before the man had time

to get away. Then the fellow came forward with an apology and

presented a visiting-card. The prince stared at the bit of

pasteboard, rubbed his eyes, stared again, and then laid it upon

the table beside him, his eyes still resting on the name, which

seemed so much to surprise him. Then he told the footman to

introduce the visitor, and a few moments later a very tall man

entered the room, hat in hand, and advanced slowly towards him

with the air of a person who has a perfect right to present

himself but wishes to give his host time to recognise him.

The prince remembered the newcomer very well. The closely-buttoned

frock-coat showed the man's imposing figure to greater advantage

than the dress in which Saracinesca had last seen him, but there

was no mistaking the personality. There was the same lean but

massive face, broadened by the high cheekbones and the prominent

square jaw; there were the same piercing black eyes, set near

together under eyebrows that met in the midst of the forehead, the

same thin and cruel lips, and the same strongly-marked nose, set

broadly on at the nostrils, though pointed and keen. Had the

prince had any doubts as to his visitor's identity they would have

been dispelled by the man's great height and immense breadth of

shoulder, which would have made it hard indeed for him to disguise

himself had he wished to do so. But though very much surprised,

Saracinesca had no doubts whatever. The only points that were new

to him in the figure before him were the outward manner and

appearance, and the dress of a gentleman.

"I trust I am not disturbing you, prince?" The words were spoken

in a deep, clear voice, and with a notable southern accent.

"Not at all. I confess I am astonished at seeing you in Rome. Is

there anything I can do for you? I shall always be grateful to you

for having been alive to testify to the falsehood of that

accusation made against my son. Pray sit down. How is your

Signora? And the children? All well, I hope?"

"My wife is dead," returned the other, and the grave tones of his

bass voice lent solemnity to the simple statement.

"I am sincerely sorry--" began the prince, but his visitor

interrupted him.

"The children are well. They are in Aquila for the present. I have

come to establish myself in Rome, and my first visit is naturally

to yourself, since I have the advantage of being your cousin."

"Naturally," ejaculated Saracinesca, though his face expressed

considerable surprise.

"Do not imagine that I am going to impose myself upon you as a

poor relation," continued the other with a faint smile. "Fortune

has been kind to me since we met, perhaps as a compensation for

the loss I suffered in the death of my poor wife. I have a

sufficient independence and can hold my own."

"I never supposed--"

"You might naturally have supposed that I had come to solicit your

favour, though it is not the case. When we parted I was an

innkeeper in Aquila. I have no cause to be ashamed of my past

profession. I only wish to let you know that it is altogether

past, and that I intend to resume the position which my great-

grandfather foolishly forfeited. As you are the present head of

the family I judged that it was my duty to inform you of the fact

immediately."

"By all means. I imagined this must be the case from your card.

You are entirely in your rights, and I shall take great pleasure

in informing every one of the fact. You are the Marchese di San

Giacinto, and the inn at Aquila no longer exists."

"As these things must be done, once and for always, I have brought

my papers to Rome," answered the Marchese. "They are at your

disposal, for you certainly have a right to see them, if you like.

I will recall to your memory the facts of our history, in case you

have forgotten them."

"I know the story well enough," said Saracinesca. "Our great-

grandfathers were brothers. Yours went to live in Naples. His son

grew up and joined the French against the King. His lands were

forfeited, he married and died in obscurity, leaving your father,

his only son. Your father died young and you again are his only

son. You married the Signora Felice--"

"Baldi," said the Marchese, nodding in confirmation of the various

statements.

"The Signora Felice Baldi, by whom you have two children--"

"Boys."

"Two boys. And the Signora Marchesa, I grieve to hear, is dead. Is

that accurate?"

"Perfectly. There is one circumstance, connected with our great-

grandfathers, which you have not mentioned, but which I am sure

you remember."

"What is that?" asked the prince, fixing his keen eyes on his

companion's face.

"It is only this," replied San Giacinto, calmly. "My great-

grandfather was two years older than yours. You know he never

meant to marry, and resigned the title to his younger brother, who

had children already. He took a wife in his old age, and my

grandfather was the son born to him. That is why you are so much

older than I, though we are of the same generation in the order of

descent."

"Yes," assented the prince. "That accounts for it. Will you

smoke?"

Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto, looked curiously

at his cousin as he took the proffered cigar. There was something

abrupt in the answer which attracted his attention and roused his

quick suspicions. He wondered whether that former exchange of

titles, and consequent exchange of positions were an unpleasant

subject of conversation to the prince. But the latter, as though

anticipating such a doubt in his companion's mind, at once

returned to the question with the boldness which was natural to

him.

"There was a friendly agreement," he said, striking a match and

offering it to the Marchese. "I have all the documents, and have

studied them with interest. It might amuse you to see them, some

day."

"I should like to see them, indeed," answered San Giacinto. "They

must be very curious. As I was saying, I am going to establish

myself in Rome. It seems strange to me to be playing the

gentleman--it must seem even more odd to you."

"It would be truer to say that you have been playing the

innkeeper," observed the prince, courteously. "No one would

suspect it," he added, glancing at his companion's correct attire.

"I have an adaptable nature," said the Marchese, calmly. "Besides,

I have always looked forward to again taking my place in the

world. I have acquired a little instruction--not much, you will

say, but it is sufficient as the times go; and as for education,

it is the same for every one, innkeeper or prince. One takes off

one's hat, one speaks quietly, one says what is agreeable to

hear--is it not enough?"

"Quite enough," replied the prince. He was tempted to smile at his

cousin's definition of manners, though he could see that the man

was quite able to maintain his position. "Quite enough, indeed,

and as for instruction, I am afraid most of us have forgotten our

Latin. You need have no anxiety on that score. But, tell me, how

comes it that, having been bred in the south, you prefer to

establish yourself in Rome rather than in Naples? They say that

you Neapolitans do not like us."

"I am a Roman by descent, and I wish to become one in fact,"

returned the Marchese. "Besides," he added, in a peculiarly grave

tone of voice, "I do not like the new order of things. Indeed, I

have but one favour to ask of you, and that is a great one."

"Anything in my power--"

"To present me to the Holy Father as one who desires to become his

faithful subject. Could you do so, do you think, without any great

inconvenience?"

"Eh! I shall be delighted! Magari!" answered the prince, heartily.

"To tell the truth, I was afraid you meant to keep your Italian

convictions, and that, in Rome, would be against you, especially

in these stormy days. But if you will join us heart and soul you

will be received with open arms. I shall take great pleasure in

seeing you make the acquaintance of my son and his wife. Come and

dine this evening."

"Thank you," said the Marchese. "I will not fail."

After a few more words San Giacinto took his leave, and the prince

could not but admire the way in which this man, who had been

brought up among peasants, or at best among the small farmers of

an outlying district, assumed at once an air of perfect equality

while allowing just so much of respect to appear in his manner as

might properly be shown by a younger member to the head of a great

house. When he was gone Saracinesca rang the bell.

"Pasquale," he said, addressing the old butler who answered the

summons, "that gentleman who is just gone is my cousin, Don

Giovanni Saracinesca, who is called Marchese di San Giacinto. He

will dine here this evening. You will call him Eccellenza, and

treat him as a member of the family. Go and ask the princess if

she will receive me."

Pasquale opened his mental eyes very wide as he bowed and left the

room. He had never heard of this other Saracinesca, and the

appearance of a new member of the family upon the scene, who must,

from his appearance, have been in existence between thirty and

forty years, struck him as astonishing in the extreme; for the old

servant had been bred up in the house from a boy and imagined

himself master of all the secrets connected with the Saracinesca

household.

He was, indeed, scarcely less surprised than his master who,

although he had been aware for some time past that Giovanni

Saracinesca existed and was his cousin, had never anticipated the

event of his coming to Rome, and had expected still less that the

innkeeper would ever assume the title to which he had a right and

play the part of a gentleman, as he himself had expressed it.

There was a strange mixture of boldness and foresight in the way

the old prince had received his new relation. He knew the strength

of his own position in society, and that the introduction of a

humble cousin could not possibly do him harm. At the worst, people

might laugh a little among themselves and remark that the Marchese

must be a nuisance to the Saracinesca. On the other hand, the

prince was struck from the first with the air of self-possession

which he discerned in San Giacinto, and foresaw that the man would

very probably play a part in Roman life. He was a man who might be

disliked, but who could not be despised; and since his claims to

consideration were undeniably genuine, it seemed wiser to accept

him from the first as a member of the family and unhesitatingly to

treat him as such. After all, he demanded nothing to which he had

not a clear right from the moment he announced his intention of

taking his place in the world, and it was certainly far wiser to

receive him cordially at once, than to draw back from

acknowledging the relationship because he had been brought up in

another sphere.

This was the substance of what Prince Saracinesca communicated to

his daughter-in-law a few minutes later. She listened patiently to

all he had to say, only asking a question now and then in order to

understand more clearly what had happened. She was curious to see

the man whose name had once been so strangely confounded with her

husband's by the machinations of the Conte Del Ferice and Donna

Tullia Mayer, and she frankly confessed her curiosity and her

satisfaction at the prospect of meeting San Giacinto that evening.

While she was talking with the prince, Giovanni unexpectedly

returned from his walk. He had turned homewards as soon as he had

sent the military surgeon to Gouache. "Well, Giovannino," cried

the old gentleman, "the prodigal innkeeper has returned to the

bosom of the family."

"What innkeeper?"

"Your worthy namesake, and cousin, Giovanni Saracinesca, formerly

of Aquila."

"Does Madame Mayer want to prove that it is he who has married

Corona?" inquired Sant 'Ilario with a laugh.

"No, though I suppose he is a candidate for marriage. I never was

more surprised in my life. His wife is dead. He is rich, or says

he is. He has his card printed in full, 'Giovanni Saracinesca,

Marchese di San Giacinto,' in the most correct manner. He wears an

excellent coat, and announces his intention of being presented to

the Pope and introduced to Roman society."

Sant' Ilario stared incredulously at his father, and then looked

inquiringly at his wife as though to ask if it were not all a

jest. When he was assured that the facts were true he looked grave

and slowly stroked his pointed black beard, a gesture which was

very unusual with him, and always accompanied the deepest

meditation.

"There is nothing to be done but to receive him into the family,"

he said at last. "But I do not wholly believe in his good

intentions. We shall see. I shall be glad to make his

acquaintance."

"He is coming to dinner."

The conversation continued for some time and the arrival of San

Giacinto was discussed in all its bearings. Corona took a very

practical view of the question, and said that it was certainly

best to treat him well, thereby relieving her father-in-law of a

considerable anxiety. He had indeed feared lest she should resent

the introduction of a man who might reasonably be supposed to have

retained a certain coarseness of manner from his early

surroundings, and he knew that her consent was all-important in

such a case, since she was virtually the mistress of the house.

But Corona regarded the matter in much the same light as the old

gentleman himself, feeling that nothing of such a nature could

possibly injure the imposing position of her husband's family, and

taking it for granted that no one who had good blood in his veins

could ever behave outrageously. Of all the three, Sant' Ilario was

the most silent and thoughtful, for he feared certain consequences

from the arrival of this new relation which did not present

themselves to the minds of the others, and was resolved to be

cautious accordingly, even while appearing to receive San Giacinto

with all due cordiality. Later in the day he was alone with his

father for a few minutes.

"Do you like this fellow?" he asked, abruptly.

"No," answered the prince.

"Neither do I, though I have not seen him."

"We shall see," was the old gentleman's answer.

The evening came, and at the appointed hour San Giacinto was

announced. Both Corona and her husband were surprised at his

imposing appearance, as well as at the dignity and self-possession

he displayed. His southern accent was not more noticeable than

that of many Neapolitan gentlemen, and his conversation, if

neither very brilliant nor very fluent, was not devoid of

interest. He talked of the agricultural condition of the new

Italy, and old Saracinesca and his son were both interested in the

subject. They noticed, too, that during dinner no word escaped him

which could give any clue to his former occupation or position,

though afterwards, when the servants were not present, he alluded

more than once with a frank smile to his experiences as an

innkeeper. On the whole, he seemed modest and reserved, yet

perfectly self-possessed and conscious of his right to be where he

was.

Such conduct on the part of such a man did not appear so

surprising to the Saracinesca household, as it would have seemed

to foreigners. San Giacinto had said that he had an adaptable

character, and that adaptability is one of the most noticeable

features of the Italian race. It is not necessary to discuss the

causes of this peculiarity. They would be incomprehensible to the

foreigner at large, who never has any real understanding of

Italians. I do not hesitate to say that, without a single

exception, every foreigner, poet or prose-writer, who has treated

of these people has more or less grossly misunderstood them. That

is a sweeping statement, when it is considered that few men of the

highest genius in our century have not at one time or another set

down upon paper their several estimates of the Italian race. The

requisite for accurately describing people, however, is not

genius, but knowledge of the subject. The poet commonly sees

himself in others, and the modern writer upon Italy is apt to

believe that he can see others in himself. The reflection of an

Italian upon the mental retina of the foreigner is as deceptive as

his own outward image is when seen upon the polished surface of a

concave mirror; and indeed the character studies of many great

men, when the subject is taken from a race not their own, remind

one very forcibly of what may be seen by contemplating oneself in

the bowl of a bright silver spoon. To understand Italians a man

must have been born and bred among them; and even then the harder,

fiercer instinct, which dwells in northern blood, may deceive the

student and lead him far astray. The Italian is an exceedingly

simple creature, and is apt to share the opinion of the ostrich,

who ducks his head and believes his whole body is hidden.

Foreigners use strong language concerning the Italian lie; but

this only proves how extremely transparent the deception is. It is

indeed a singular fact, but one which may often be observed, that

two Italians who lie systematically will frequently believe each

other, to their own ruin, with a childlike faith rarely found

north of the Alps. This seems to me to prove that their dishonesty

has outgrown their indolent intelligence; and indeed they deceive

themselves nearly as often as they succeed in deceiving their

neighbours. In a country where a lie easily finds credence, lying

is not likely to be elevated to the rank of a fine art. I have

often wondered how such men as Cesare Borgia succeeded in

entrapping their enemies by snares which a modern northerner would

detect from the first and laugh to scorn as mere child's play.

There is an extraordinary readiness in Italians to fit themselves

and their lives to circumstances whenever they can save themselves

trouble by doing so. Their constitutions are convenient to this

end, for they are temperate in most things and do not easily fall

into habits which they cannot change at will. The desire to avoid

trouble makes them the most courteous among nations; and they are

singularly obliging to strangers when, by conferring an

obligation, they are able to make an acquaintance who will help

them to pass an idle hour in agreeable conversation. They are

equally surprised, whether a stranger suspects them of making

advances for the sake of extracting money from him, or expresses

resentment at having been fraudulently induced to part with any

cash. The beggar in the street howls like a madman if you refuse

an alms, and calls you an idiot to his fellow-mendicant if you

give him five centimes. The servant says in his heart that his

foreign employer is a fool, and sheds tears of rage and

mortification when his shallow devices for petty cheating are

discovered. And yet the servant, the beggar, the shopkeeper, and

the gentleman, are obliging sometimes almost to philanthropy, and

are ever ready to make themselves agreeable.

The Marchese di San Giacinto differed from his relations, the

Saracinesca princes, in that he was a full-blooded Italian, and

not the result of a cosmopolitan race-fusion, like so many of the

Roman nobles. He had not the Roman traditions, but, on the other

hand, he had his full share of the national characteristics,

together with something individual which lifted him above the

common herd in point of intelligence and in strength. He was a

noticeable man; all the more so because, with many pleasant

qualities, his countrymen rarely possess that physical and mental

combination of size, energy, and reserve, which inspires the sort

of respect enjoyed by imposing personages.

As he sat talking with the family after dinner on the evening of

his first introduction to the household what passed in his mind

and in the minds of his hosts can be easily stated.

Sant' Ilario, whose ideas were more clear upon most subjects than

those of his father or his wife, said to himself that he did not

like the man; that he suspected him, and believed he had some

hidden intention in coming to Rome; that it would be wise to watch

him perpetually and to question everything he did; but that he was

undeniably a relation, possessing every right to consideration,

and entitled to be treated with a certain familiarity; that,

finally and on the whole, he was a nuisance, to be borne with a

good grace and a sufficient show of cordiality.

San Giacinto, for his part, was deeply engaged in maintaining the

exact standard of manners which he knew to be necessary for the

occasion, and his thoughts concerning his relatives were not yet

altogether defined. It was his intention to take his place among

them, and he was doing his best to accomplish this object as

speedily and quietly as possible. He had not supposed that princes

and princesses were in any way different from other human beings

except by the accidents of wealth and social position. Master of

these two requisites there was no reason why he should not feel as

much at home with the Saracinesca as he had felt in the society of

the mayor and municipal council of Aquila, who possessed those

qualifications also, though in a less degree. The Saracinesca

probably thought about most questions very much as he himself did,

or if there were any difference in their mode of thinking it was

due to Roman prejudice and tradition rather than to any

peculiarity inherent in the organisation of the members of the

higher aristocracy. If he should find himself in any dilemma owing

to his ignorance of social details he would not hesitate to apply

to the prince for information, since it was by no means his fault

if he had been brought up an innkeeper and was now to be a

nobleman. His immediate object was to place himself among his

equals, and his next purpose was to marry again, in his new rank,

a woman of good position and fortune. Of this matter he intended

to speak to the prince in due time, when he should have secured

the first requisite to his marriage by establishing himself firmly

in society. He meant to apply to the prince, ostensibly as to the

head of the family, thereby showing a deference to that dignity,

which he supposed would be pleasing to the old gentleman; but he

had not forgotten in his calculations the pride which old

Saracinesca must naturally feel in his race, and which would

probably induce him to take very great pains in finding a suitable

wife for San Giacinto rather than permit the latter to contract a

discreditable alliance.

San Giacinto left the house at half-past nine o'clock, under the

pretext of another engagement, for he did not mean to weary his

relations with too much of his company in the first instance. When

he was gone the three looked at each other in silence for some

moments.

"He has surprisingly good manners, for an innkeeper," said Corona

at last. "No one will ever suspect his former life. But I do not

like him."

"Nor I," said the prince.

"He wants something," said Sant' Ilario. "And he will probably get

it," he added, after a short pause. "He has a determined face."

CHAPTER IV.

Anastase Gouache recovered rapidly from his injuries, but not so

quickly as he wished. There was trouble in the air, and many of

his comrades were already gone to the frontier where the

skirmishing with the irregular volunteers of Garibaldi's guerilla

force had now begun in earnest. To be confined to the city at such

a time was inexpressibly irksome to the gallant young Frenchman,

who had a genuine love of fighting in him, and longed for the

first sensation of danger and the first shower of whistling

bullets. But his inactivity was inevitable, and he was obliged to

submit with the best grace he could, hoping only that all might

not be over before he was well enough to tramp out and see some

service with his companions-in-arms.

The situation was indeed urgent. The first article of the famous

convention between France and Italy, ratified in September, 1864,

read as follows:--

"Italy engages not to attack the actual territory of the Holy

Father, and to prevent, even by force, all attack coming from

outside against such territory."

Relying upon the observance of this chief clause, France had

conscientiously executed the condition imposed by the second

article, which provided that all French troops should be withdrawn

from the States of the Church. The promise of Italy to prevent

invasion by force applied to Garibaldi and his volunteers.

Accordingly, on the 24th of September, 1867, the Italian

Government issued a proclamation against the band and its

proceedings, and arrested Garibaldi at Sinalunga, in the

neighbourhood of Arezzo. This was the only force employed, and it

may be believed that the Italian Government firmly expected that

the volunteers would disperse as soon as they found themselves

without a leader; and had proper measures been taken for keeping

the general in custody this would in all probability have followed

very shortly, as his sons, who were left at large, did not possess

any of their father's qualifications for leadership. Garibaldi,

however, escaped eighteen days later, and again joined his band,

which had meanwhile been defeated by the Pope's troops in a few

small engagements, and had gained one or two equally insignificant

advantages over the latter. As soon as it was known that Garibaldi

was again at large, a simultaneous movement began, the numerous

Garibaldian emissaries who had arrived in Rome stirring up an

attempt at insurrection within the city, while Garibaldi himself

made a bold dash and seized Monte Rotondo, another force at the

same time striking at Sutbiaco, which, by a strange ignorance of

the mountains, Garibaldi appears to have believed to be the

southern key to the Campagna. In consequence of the protestations

of the French minister to the court of Italy, and perhaps, too, in

consequence of the approach of a large body of French troops by

sea, the Italian Government again issued a proclamation against

Garibaldi, who, however, remained in his strong position at Monte

Rotondo. Finally, on the 30th of October, the day on which the

French troops re-entered Rome, the Italians made a show of

interfering in the Pope's favour, General Menatiea authorising the

Italian forces to enter the Papal States in order to maintain

order. They did not, however, do more than make a short advance,

and no active measures were taken, but Garibaldi was routed on the

3d and 4th of November by the Papal forces, and his band being

dispersed the incident was at an end. But for the armed

intervention of France the result would have been that which

actually came about in 1870, when, the same Convention being still

valid, the French were prevented by their own disasters from

sending a force to the assistance of the Pope.

It is not yet time to discuss the question of the annexation of

the States of the Church to the kingdom of Italy. It is sufficient

to have shown that the movement of 1867 took place without any

actual violation of the letter of the Convention. The spirit in

which the Italian Government acted might be criticised at length.

It is sufficient however to notice that the Italian Government

was, as it still is, a parliamentary one; and to add that

parliamentary government, in general, exhibits its weakest side in

the emergency of war, as its greatest advantages are best

appreciated in times of peace. In the Italian Parliament of that

day, as in that of the present time, there was a preponderance of

representatives who considered Rome to be the natural capital of

the country, and who were as ready to trample upon treaties for

the accomplishment of what they believed a righteous end, as most

parliaments have everywhere shown themselves in similar

circumstances. That majority differed widely, indeed, in opinion

from Garibaldi and Mazzini, but they conceived that they had a

right to take full advantage of any revolution the latter chanced

to bring about, and that it was their duty to their country to

direct the stream of disorder into channel which should lead to

the aggrandisement of Italy, by making use of Italy's standing

army. The defenders of the Papal States found themselves face to

face, not with any organised and disciplined force, but with a

horde of brutal ruffians and half-grown lads, desperate in that

delight of unbridled license which has such attractions for the

mob in all countries; and all alike, Zouaves, native troops and

Frenchmen, were incensed to the highest degree by the conduct of

their enemies. It would be absurd to make the Italian Government

responsible for the atrocious defiling of churches, the pillage

and the shocking crimes of all sorts, which marked the advance or

retreat of the Garibaldians; but it is equally absurd to deny that

a majority of the Italians regarded these doings as a means to a

very desirable end, and, if they had not been hindered by the

French, would have marched a couple of army corps in excellent

order to the gates of Rome through the channel opened by a mob of

lawless insurgents.

Anastase Gouache was disgusted with his state of forced inaction

as he paced the crowded pavement of the Corso every afternoon for

three weeks after his accident, smoking endless cigarettes, and

cursing the fate which kept him an invalid at home when his

fellow-soldiers were enjoying themselves amidst the smell of

gunpowder and the adventures of frontier skirmishing. It was

indeed bad luck, he thought, to have worn the uniform during

nearly two years of perfect health and then to be disabled just

when the fighting began. He had one consolation, however, in the

midst of his annoyance, and he made the most of it. He had been

fascinated by Donna Faustina Montevarchi's brown eyes, and for

lack of any other interest upon which to expend his energy he had

so well employed his time that he was now very seriously in love

with that young lady. Among her numerous attractions was one which

had a powerful influence on the young artist, namely, the fact

that she was, according to all human calculations, absolutely

beyond his reach. Nothing had more charm for Gouache, as for many

gifted and energetic young men, than that which it must require a

desperate effort to get, if it could be got at all. Frenchmen, as

well as Italians, consider marriage so much in the light of a mere

contract which must be settled between notaries and ratified by

parental assent, that to love a young girl seems to them like an

episode out of a fairy tale, enchantingly novel and altogether

delightful. To us, who consider love as a usual if not an

absolutely necessary preliminary to marriage, this point of view

is hardly conceivable; but it is enough to tell a Frenchman that

you have married your wife because you loved her, and not because

your parents or your circumstances arranged the match for you, to

hear him utter the loudest exclamations of genuine surprise and

admiration, declaring that his ideal of happiness, which he

considers of course as quite unattainable, would be to marry the

woman of his affections. The immediate result of a state in which

that sort of bliss is considered to be generally beyond the grasp

of humanity has been to produce the moral peculiarities of the

French novel, of the French play, and of the French household, as

it is usually exhibited in books and on the stage.

The artist-Zouave was made of determined stuff. It was not for

nothing that he had won the great prize which brought him to the

Academy in Rome, nor was it out of mere romantic idleness that he

had thrown over the feeble conspiracies of Madame Mayer and her

set in order to wear a uniform. He had profound convictions,

though he was not troubled with any great number of them. Each new

one which took hold of him marked an epoch in his young life, and

generally proved tenacious in proportion as he had formerly

regarded it as absurd; and it was a proof of the sound balance of

his mind that the three or four real convictions which he had

accumulated during his short life were in no way contradictory to

each other. On the contrary, each one seemed closely bound up with

the rest, and appeared to bring a fresh energy to that direct

action which, with Anastase, was the only possible result of any

belief whatsoever.

There was therefore a goodly store of logic in his madness, and

though, like Childe Harold, he had sighed to many, and at present

loved but one, yet he was determined, if it were possible, that

this loved one should be his; seeing that to sigh for anything,

and not to take it if it could be taken, was the part of a boy and

not of a strong man. Moreover, although the social difficulties

which lay in his way were an obstacle which would have seemed

insurmountable to many, there were two considerations which gave

Anastase some hope of ultimate success. In the first place Donna

Faustina herself was not indifferent; and, secondly, Anastase was

no longer the humble student who had come to Rome some years

earlier with nothing but his pension in his pocket and his talent

in his fingers. He was certainly not of ancient lineage, but since

he had attained that position which enabled him to be received as

an equal in the great world, and had by his skill accumulated a

portion of that filthy lucre which is the platform whereon society

moves and has its exclusive being, he had the advantage of talking

to Donna Faustina, wherever he met her, in spite of her father's

sixty-four quarterings. Nor did those meetings take place only

under the auspices of so much heraldry and blazon, as will

presently appear.

At that period of the year, and especially during such a time of

disturbance, there was no such thing as gaiety possible in Rome.

People met quietly in little knots at each other's houses and

talked over the state of the country, or walked and drove as usual

in the villas and on the Pincio. When society cannot be gay it is

very much inclined to grow confidential, to pull a long face, and

to say things which, if uttered above a whisper, would be

considered extremely shocking, but which, being communicated,

augmented, criticised, and passed about quickly without much

noise, are considered exceedingly interesting. When every one is

supposed to be talking of politics it is very easy for every one

to talk scandal, and to construct neighbourly biography of an

imaginary character which shall presently become a part of

contemporary history. On the whole, society would almost as gladly

do this as dance. In those days of which I am speaking, therefore,

there were many places where two or three, and sometimes as many

as ten, were gathered together in council, ostensibly for the

purpose of devising means whereby the Holy Father might overcome

his enemies, though they were very often engaged in criticising

the indecent haste exhibited by their best friends in yielding to

the wiles of Satan.

There were several of these rallying points, among which may be

chiefly noticed the Palazzo Valdarno, the Palazzo Saracinesca, and

the Palazzo Montevarchi. In the first of these three it may be

observed in passing that there was a division of opinion, the old

people being the most rigid of conservatives, while the children

declared as loudly as they dared that they were for Victor

Emmanuel and United Italy. The Saracinesca, on the other hand,

were firmly united and determined to stand by the existing order

of things. Lastly, the Montevarchi all took their opinions from

the head of the house, and knew very well that they would submit

like sheep to be led whichever way was most agreeable to the old

prince. The friends who frequented those various gatherings were

of course careful to say whatever was most sure to please their

hosts, and after the set speeches were made most of them fell to

their usual occupation of talking about each other.

Gouache was an old friend of the Saracinesca, and came whenever he

pleased; since his accident, too, he had become better acquainted

with the Montevarchi, and was always a welcome guest, as he

generally brought the latest news of the fighting, as well as the

last accounts from France, which he easily got through his

friendship with the young attaches of his embassy. It is not

surprising therefore that he should have found so many

opportunities of meeting Donna Faustina, especially as Corona di

Sant' Ilario had taken a great fancy to the young girl and invited

her constantly to the house.

On the very first occasion when Gouache called upon the Princess

Montevarchi in order to express again his thanks for the kindness

he had received, he found the room half full of people. Faustina

was sitting alone, turning over the pages of a book, and no one

seemed to pay any attention to her. After the usual speeches to

the hostess Gouache sat down beside her. She raised her brown

eyes, recognised him, and smiled faintly.

"What a wonderful contrast you are enjoying, Donna Faustina," said

the Zouave.

"How so? I confess it seems monotonous enough."

"I mean that it is a great change for you, from the choir of the

Sacro Cuore, from the peace of a convent, to this atmosphere of

war."

"Yes; I wish I were back again."

"You do not like what you have seen of the world, Mademoiselle? It

is very natural. If the world were always like this its attraction

would not be dangerous. It is the pomps and vanities that are

delightful."

"I wish they would begin then," answered Donna Faustina with more

natural frankness than is generally found in young girls of her

education.

"But were you not taught by the good sisters that those things are

of the devil?" asked Gouache with a smile.

"Of course. But Flavia says they are very nice."

Gouache imagined that Flavia ought to know, but he thought fit to

conceal his conviction.

"You mean Donna Flavia, your sister, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes."

"I suppose you are very fond of her, are you not? It must be very

pleasant to have a sister so nearly of one's own age in the

world."

"She is much older than I, but I think we shall be very good

friends."

"Your family must be almost as much strangers to you as the rest

of the world," observed Gouache. "Of course you have only seen

them occasionally for a long time past. You are fond of reading, I

see."

He made this remark to change the subject, and glanced at the book

the young girl still held in her hand.

"It is a new book," she said, opening the volume at the title-

page. "It is Manon Lescaut. Flavia has read it--it is by the Abbe

Prevost. Do you know him?"

Gouache did not know whether to laugh or to look grave.

"Did your mother give it to you?" he asked.

"No, but she says that as it is by an abbe, she supposes it must

be very moral. It is true that it has not the imprimatur, but

being by a priest it cannot possibly be on the Index."

"I do not know," replied Gouache, "Prevost was certainly in holy

orders, but I do not know him, as he died rather more than a

hundred years ago. You see the book is not new."

"Oh!" exclaimed Donna Faustina, "I thought it was. Why do you

laugh? Am I very ignorant not to know all about it?"

"No, indeed. Only, you will pardon me, Mademoiselle, if I offer a

suggestion. You see I am French and know a little about these

matters. You will permit me?"

Faustina opened her brown eyes very wide, and nodded gravely.

"If I were you, I would not read that book yet. You are too

young."

"You seem to forget that I am eighteen years old, Monsieur

Gouache."

"No, not at all. But five and twenty is a better age to read such

books. Believe me," he added seriously, "that story is not meant

for you."

Faustina looked at him for a few seconds and then laid the volume

on the table, pushing it away from her with a puzzled air. Gouache

was inwardly much amused at the idea of finding himself the moral

preceptor of a young girl he scarcely knew, in the house of her

parents, who passed for the most strait-laced of their kind. A

feeling of deep resentment against Flavia, however, began to rise

beneath his first sensation of surprise.

"What are books for?" asked Donna Faustina, with a little sigh.

"The good ones are dreadfully dull, and it is wrong to read the

amusing ones--until one is married. I wonder why?"

Gouache did not find any immediate answer and might have been

seriously embarrassed had not Giovanni Sant' Ilario come up just

then. Gouache rose to relinquish his seat to the newcomer, and as

he passed before the table deftly turned over the book with his

finger so that the title should not be visible. It jarred

disagreeably on his sensibilities to think that Giovanni might see

a copy of Manon Lescaut lying by the elbow of Donna Faustina

Montevarchi. Sant' Ilario did not see the action and probably

would not have noticed it if he had.

Anastase pondered all that afternoon and part of the next morning

over his short conversation, and the only conclusion at which he

arrived was that Faustina was the most fascinating girl he had

ever met. When he compared the result produced in his mind with

his accurate recollection of what had passed between them, he

laughed at his haste and called himself a fool for yielding to

such nonsensical ideas. The conversation of a young girl, he

argued, could only be amusing for a short time. He wondered what

he should say at their next meeting, since all such talk,

according to his notions, must inevitably consist of commonplaces.

And yet at the end of a quarter of an hour of such meditation he

found that he was constructing an interview which was anything but

dull, at least in his own anticipatory opinion.

Meanwhile the first ten days of October passed in comparative

quiet. The news of Garibaldi's arrest produced temporary lull in

the excitement felt in Rome, although the real struggle was yet to

come. People observed to each other that strange faces were to be

seen in the streets, but as no one could enter without a proper

passport, very little anxiety gained the public mind.

Gouache saw Faustina very often during the month that followed his

accident. Such good fortune would have been impossible under any

other circumstances, but, as has been explained, there were

numerous little social confabulations on foot, for people were

drawn together by a vague sense of common danger, and the frequent

meetings of the handsome Zouave with the youngest of the

Montevarchi passed unnoticed in the general stir. The old princess

indeed often saw the two together, but partly owing to her English

breeding, and partly because Gouache was not in the least eligible

or possible as a husband for her daughter, she attached no

importance to the acquaintance. The news that Garibaldi was again

at large caused great excitement, and every day brought fresh news

of small engagements along the frontier. Gouache was not yet quite

recovered, though he felt as strong as ever, and applied every day

for leave to go to the front. At last, on the 22d of October, the

surgeon pronounced him to be completely recovered, and Anastase

was ordered to leave the city on the following morning at

daybreak.

As he mounted the sombre staircase of the Palazzo Saracinesca on

the afternoon previous to his departure, the predominant feeling

in his breast was great satisfaction and joy at being on the eve

of seeing active service, and he himself was surprised at the

sharp pang he suffered in the anticipation of bidding farewell to

his friends. He knew what friend it was whom he dreaded to leave,

and how bitter that parting would be, for which three weeks

earlier he could have summoned a neat speech expressing just so

much of feeling as should be calculated to raise an interest in

the hearer, and prompted by just so much delicate regret as should

impart a savour of romance to his march on the next day. It was

different now.

Donna Faustina was in the room, as he had reason to expect, but it

was several minutes before Anastase could summon the determination

necessary to go to her side. She was standing near the piano,

which faced outwards towards the body of the room, but was

screened by a semicircular arrangement of plants, a novel idea

lately introduced by Corona, who was weary of the stiff old-

fashioned way of setting all the furniture against the wall.

Faustina was standing at this point therefore, when Gouache made

towards her, having done homage to Corona and to the other ladies

in the room. His attention was arrested for a moment by the sight

of San Giacinto's gigantic figure. The cousin of the house was

standing before Mavia Montevarchi, bending slightly towards her

and talking in low tones. His magnificent proportions made him by

far the most noticeable person in the room, and it is no wonder

that Gouache paused and looked at him, mentally observing that the

two would make a fine couple.

As he stood still he became aware that Corona herself was at his

side. He glanced at her with something of inquiry in his eyes, and

was about to speak when she made him a sign to follow her. They

sat down together in a deserted corner at the opposite end of the

room.

"I have something to say to you, Monsieur Gouache," she said, in a

low voice, as she settled herself against the cushions. "I do not

know that I have any right to speak, except that of a good

friend--and of a woman."

"I am at your orders, princess."

"No, I have no orders to give you. I have only a suggestion to

make. I have watched you often during the last month. My advice

begins with a question. Do you love her?"

Gouache's first instinct was to express the annoyance he felt at

this interrogation. He moved quickly and glanced sharply at

Corona's velvet eyes. Before the words that were on his lips could

be spoken he remembered all the secret reverence and respect he

had felt for this woman since he had first known her, he

remembered how he had always regarded her as a sort of goddess, a

superior being, at once woman and angel, placed far beyond the

reach of mortals like himself. His irritation vanished as quickly

as it had arisen. But Corona had seen it.

"Are you angry?" she asked.

"If you knew how I worship you, you would know that I am not,"

answered Gouache with a strange simplicity.

For an instant the princess's deep eyes flashed and a dark blush

mounted through her olive skin. She drew back, rather proudly. A

delicate, gentle smile played round the soldier's mouth.

"Perhaps it is your turn to be angry, Madame," he said, quietly.

"But you need not be. I would say it to your husband, as I would

say it to you in his presence. I worship you. You are the most

beautiful woman in the world, the most nobly good. Everybody knows

it, why should I not say it? I wish I were a little child, and

that you were my mother. Are you angry still?"

Corona was silent, and her eyes grew soft again as she looked

kindly at the man beside her. She did not understand him, but she

knew that he meant to express something which was not bad. Gouache

waited for her to speak.

"It was not for that I asked you to come with me," she said at

last.

"I am glad I said it," replied Gouache. "I am going away to-

morrow, and it might never have been said. You asked me if I loved

her. I trust you. I say, yes, I do. I am going to say good-bye

this afternoon."

"I am sorry you love her. Is it serious?"

"Absolutely, on my part. Why are you sorry? Is there anything

unnatural in it?"

"No, on the contrary, it is too natural. Our lives are unnatural.

You cannot marry her. It seems brutal to tell you so, but you must

know it already."

"There was once a little boy in Paris, Madame, who did not have

enough to eat every day, nor enough clothes when the north wind

blew. But he had a good heart. His name was Anastase Gouache."

"My dear friend," said Corona, kindly, "the atmosphere of Casa

Montevarchi is colder than the north wind. A man may overcome

almost anything more easily than the old-fashioned prejudices of a

Roman prince."

"You do not forbid me to try?"

"Would the prohibition make any difference?"

"I am not sure." Gouache paused and looked long at the princess.

"No," he said at last, "I am afraid not."

"In that case I can only say one thing. You are a man of honour.

Do your best not to make her uselessly unhappy. Win her if you

can, by any fair means. But she has a heart, and I am very fond of

the child. If any harm comes to her I shall hold you responsible.

If you love her, think what it would be should she love you and be

married to another man."

A shade of sadness darkened Corona's brow, as she remembered those

terrible months of her own life. Gouache knew what she meant and

was silent for a few moments.

"I trust you," said she, at last. "And since you are going to-

morrow, God bless you. You are going in a good cause."

She held out her hand as she rose to leave him, and he bent over

it and touched it with his lips, as he would have kissed the hand

of his mother. Then, skirting the little assembly of people,

Anastase went back towards the piano, in search of Donna Faustina.

He found her alone, as young girls are generally to be found in

Roman drawing-rooms, unless there are two of them present to sit

together.

"What have you been talking about with the princess?" asked Donna

Faustina when Gouache was seated beside her.

"Could you see from here?" asked Gouache instead of answering. "I

thought the plants would have hindered you."

"I saw you kiss her hand when you got up, and so I supposed that

the conversation had been serious."

"Less serious than ours must be," replied Anastase, sadly. "I was

saying good-bye to her, and now--"

"Good-bye? Why--?" Faustina checked herself and looked away to

hide her pallor. She felt cold, and a slight shiver passed over

her slender figure.

"I am going to the front to-morrow morning."

There was a long silence, during which the two looked at each

other from time to time, neither finding courage to speak. Since

Gouache had been in the room it had grown dark, and as yet but one

lamp had been brought. The young man's eyes sought those he loved

in the dusk, and as his hand stole out it met another, a tender,

nervous hand, trembling with emotion. They did not heed what was

passing near them.

As though their silence were contagious, the conversation died

away, and there was a general lull, such as sometimes falls upon

an assemblage of people who have been talking for some time. Then,

through the deep windows there came up a sound of distant uproar,

mingled with occasional sharp detonations, few indeed, but the

more noticeable for their rarity. Suddenly the door of the

drawing-room burst open, and a servant's voice was heard speaking

in a loud key, the coarse accents and terrified tone contrasting

strangely with the sounds generally heard in such a place.

"Excellency! Excellency! The revolution! Garibaldi is at the

gates! The Italians are coming! Madonna! Madonna! The revolution,

Eccellenza mia!"

The man was mad with fear. Every one spoke at once. Some laughed,

thinking the man crazy. Others, who had heard the distant noise

from the streets, drew back and looked nervously towards the door.

Then Sant' Ilario's clear, strong voice, rang like a clarion

through the room.

"Bar the gates. Shut the blinds all over the house--it is of no

use to let them break good windows. Don't stand there shivering

like a fool. It is only a mob."

Before he had finished speaking, San Giacinto was calmly bolting

the blinds of the drawing-room windows, fastening each one as

steadily and securely as he had been wont to put up the shutters

of his inn at Aquila in the old days.

In the dusky corner by the piano Gouache and Faustina were

overlooked in the general confusion. There was no time for

reflection, for at the first words of the servant Anastase knew

that he must go instantly to his post. Faustina's little hand was

still clasped in his, as they both sprang to their feet. Then with

a sudden movement he clasped her in his arms and kissed her

passionately.

"Good-bye--my beloved!"

The girl's arms were twined closely about him, and her eyes looked

up to his with a wild entreaty.

"You are safe here, my darling--good-bye!"

"Where are you going?"

"To the Serristori barracks. God keep you safe till I come back--

good-bye!"

"I will go with you," said Faustina, with a strange look of

determination in her angelic face.

Gouache smiled, even then, at the mad thought which presented

itself to the girl's mind. Once more he kissed her, and then, she

knew not how, he was gone. Other persons had come near them,

shutting the windows rapidly, one after the other, in anticipation

of danger from without. With instinctive modesty Faustina withdrew

her arms from the young man's neck and shrank back. In that moment

he disappeared in the crowd.

Faustina stared wildly about her for a few seconds, confused and

stunned by the suddenness of what had passed, above all by the

thought that the man she loved was gone from her side to meet his

death. Then without hesitation she left the room. No one hindered

her, for the Saracinesca men were gone to see to the defences of

the house, and Corona was already by the cradle of her child. No

one noticed the slight figure as it slipped through the door and

was gone in the darkness of the unlighted halls. All was confusion

and noise and flashing of passing lights as the servants hurried

about, trying to obey orders in spite of their terror. Faustina

glided like a shadow down the vast staircase, slipped through one

of the gates just as the bewildered porter was about to close it,

and in a moment was out in the midst of the multitude that

thronged the dim streets--a mere child and alone, facing a

revolution in the dark.

CHAPTER V.

Gouache made his way as fast as he could to the bridge of Sant'

Angelo, but his progress was constantly impeded by moving crowds--

bodies of men, women, and children rushing frantically together at

the corners of the streets and then surging onward in the

direction of the resultant produced by their combined forces in

the shock. There was loud and incoherent screaming of women and

shouting of men, out of which occasionally a few words could be

distinguished, more often "Viva Pio Nono!" or "Viva la

Repubblica!" than anything else. The scene of confusion baffled

description. A company of infantry was filing out of the castle of

Sant' Angelo on to the bridge, where it was met by a dense

multitude of people coming from the opposite direction. A squadron

of mounted gendarmes came up from the Borgo Nuovo at the same

moment, and half a dozen cabs were jammed in between the opposing

masses of the soldiers and the people. The officer at the head of

the column of foot-soldiers loudly urged the crowd to make way,

and the latter, consisting chiefly of peaceable but terrified

citizens, attempted to draw back, while the weight of those behind

pushed them on. Gouache, who was in the front of the throng, was

allowed to enter the file of infantry, in virtue of his uniform,

and attempted to get through and make his way to the opposite

bank. But with the best efforts he soon found himself unable to

move, the soldiers being wedged together as tightly as the people.

Presently the crowd in the piazza seemed to give way and the

column began to advance again, bearing Gouache backwards in the

direction he had come. He managed to get to the parapet, however,

by edging sideways through the packed ranks.

"Give me your shoulder, comrade!" he shouted to the man next to

him. The fellow braced himself, and in an instant the agile Zouave

was on the narrow parapet, running along as nimbly as a cat, and

winding himself past the huge statues at every half-dozen steps.

He jumped down at the other end and ran for the Borgo Santo

Spirito at the top of his speed. The broad space was almost

deserted and in three minutes he was before the gates of the

barracks, which were situated on the right-hand side of the

street, just beyond the College of the Penitentiaries and opposite

the church of San Spirito in Sassia.

Meanwhile Donna Faustina Montevarchi was alone in the streets. In

desperate emergencies young and nervously-organised people most

commonly act in accordance with the dictates of the predominant

passion by which they are influenced. Very generally that passion

is terror, but when it is not, it is almost impossible to

calculate the consequences which may follow. When the whole being

is dominated by love and by the greatest anxiety for the safety of

the person loved, the weakest woman will do deeds which might make

a brave man blush for his courage. This was precisely Faustina's

case.

If any man says that he understands women he is convicted of folly

by his own speech, seeing that they are altogether

incomprehensible. Of men, it may be sufficient for general

purposes to say with David that they are all liars, even though we

allow that they may be all curable of the vice of falsehood. Of

women, however, there is no general statement which is true. The

one is brave to heroism, the next cowardly in a degree

fantastically comic. The one is honest, the other faithless; the

one contemptible in her narrowness of soul, the next supremely

noble in broad truth as the angels in heaven; the one trustful,

the other suspicious; this one gentle as a dove, that one grasping

and venomous as a strong serpent. The hearts of women are as the

streets of a great town--some broad and straight and clean; some

dim and narrow and winding; or as the edifices and buildings of

that same city, wherein there are holy temples, at which men

worship in calm and peace, and dens where men gamble away the

souls given them by God against the living death they call

pleasure, which is doled out to them by the devil; in which there

are quiet dwellings, and noisy places of public gathering, fair

palaces and loathsome charnel-houses, where the dead are heaped

together, even as our dead sins lie ghastly and unburied in that

dark chamber of the soul, whose gates open of their own selves and

shall not be sealed while there is life in us to suffer. Dost thou

boast that thou knowest the heart of woman? Go to, thou more than

fool! The heart of woman containeth all things, good and evil; and

knowest thou then all that is?

Donna Faustina was no angel. She had not that lofty calmness which

we attribute to the angelic character. She was very young, utterly

inexperienced and ignorant of the world. The idea which over-

towers all other ideas was the first which had taken hold upon

her, and under its strength she was like a flower before the wind.

She was not naturally of the heroic type either, as Corona

d'Astrardente had been, and perhaps was still, capable of

sacrifice for the ideal of duty, able to suffer torment rather

than debase herself by yielding, strong to stem the torrent of a

great passion until she had the right to abandon herself to its

mighty flood. Faustina was a younger and a gentler woman, not

knowing what she did from the moment her heart began to dictate

her actions, willing, above all, to take the suggestion of her

soul as a command, and, because she knew no evil, rejoicing in an

abandonment which might well have terrified one who knew the

world.

She already loved Anastase intensely. Under the circumstances of

his farewell, the startling effect of the announcement of a

revolution, the necessity under which, as a soldier, he found

himself of leaving her instantly in order to face a real danger,

with his first kiss warm upon her lips, and with the frightful

conviction that if he left her it might be the last--under all the

emotions brought about by these things, half mad with love and

anxiety, it was not altogether wonderful that she acted as she

did. She could not have explained it, for the impulse was so

instinctive that she did not comprehend it, and the deed followed

so quickly upon the thought that there was no time for reflection.

She fled from the room and from the palace, out into the street,

wholly unconscious of danger, like a creature in a dream.

The crowd which had impeded Gouache's progress was already

thinning when Faustina reached the pavement. She was born and bred

in Rome, and as a child, before the convent days, had been taken

to walk many a time in the neighbourhood of Saint Peter's. She

knew well enough where the Serristori barracks were situated, and

turned at once towards Sant' Angelo. There were still many people

about, most of them either hurrying in the direction whence the

departing uproar still proceeded, or running homewards to get out

of danger. Few noticed her, and for some time no one hindered her

progress, though it was a strange sight to see a fair young girl,

dressed in the fashion of the time which so completely

distinguished her from Roman women of lower station, running at

breathless speed through the dusky streets.

Suddenly she lost her way. Coming down the Via de' Coronari she

turned too soon to the right and found herself in the confusing

byways which form a small labyrinth around the church of San

Salvatore in Lauro. She had entered a blind alley on the left when

she ran against two men, who unexpectedly emerged from one of

those underground wine-shops which are numerous in that

neighbourhood. They were talking in low and earnest tones, and one

of them staggered backward as the young girl rushed upon him in

the dark. Instinctively the man grasped her and held her tightly

by the arms.

"Where are you running to, my beauty?" he asked, as she struggled

to get away.

"Oh, let me go! let me go!" she cried in agonised tones, twisting

her slender wrists in his firm grip. The other man stood by,

watching the scene.

"Better let her go, Peppino," he said. "Don't you see she is a

lady?"

"A lady, eh?" echoed the other. "Where are you going to, with that

angel's face?"

"To the Serristori barrack," answered Faustina, still struggling

with all her might.

At this announcement both men laughed loudly and glanced quickly

at each other. They seemed to think the answer a very good joke.

"If that is all, you may go, and the devil accompany you. What say

you, Gaetano?" Then they laughed again.

"Take that chain and brooch as a ricordo--just for a souvenir,"

said Gaetano, who then himself tore off the ornaments while the

other held Faustina's hands.

"You are a pretty girl indeed!" he cried, looking at her pale face

in the light of the filthy little red lamp that hung over the low

door of the wine-shop. "I never kissed a lady in my life."

With that he grasped her delicate chin in his foul hand and bent

down, bringing his grimy face close to hers. But this was too

much. Though Faustina had hitherto fought with all her natural

strength against the ruffians, there was a reserved force, almost

superhuman, in her slight frame, which was suddenly roused by the

threatened outrage. With a piercing shriek she sprang backwards

and dashed herself free, sending the two blackguards reeling into

the darkness. Then, like a flash she was gone. By chance she took

the right turning and in a moment more found herself in the Via di

Tordinona, just opposite the entrance of the Apollo theatre. The

torn white handbills on the wall, and the projecting shed over the

doors told her where she was.

By this time the soldiers who had intercepted Gouache's passage

across the bridge, as well as the dense crowd, had disappeared,

and Faustina ran like the wind along the pavement it had taken the

soldier so long to traverse. Like a flitting bird she sped over

the broad space beyond and up the Borgo Nuovo, past the long low

hospital, wherein the sick and dying lay in their silence, tended

by the patient Sisters of Mercy, while all was in excitement

without. The young girl ran past the corner. A Zouave was running

before her towards the gate of the barrack where a sentinel stood

motionless under the lamp, his gray hood drawn over his head and

his rifle erect by his shoulder.

At that instant a terrific explosion rent the air, followed a

moment later by the dull crash of falling fragments of masonry,

and then by a long thundering, rumbling sound, dreadful to hear,

which lasted several minutes, as the ruins continued to fall in,

heaps upon heaps, sending immense clouds of thick dust up into the

night air. Then all was still.

The little piazza before San Spirito in Sassia was half filled

with masses of stone and brickwork and crumbling mortar. A young

girl lay motionless upon her face at the corner of the hospital,

her white hands stretched out towards the man who lay dead but a

few feet before her, crushed under a great irregular mound of

stones and rubbish. Beneath the central heap where the barracks

had stood lay the bodies of the poor Zouaves, deep buried in wreck

of the main building, the greater part of which had fallen across

the side street that passes between the Penitenzieri and the

Serristori. All was still for many minutes, while the soft light

streamed from the high windows of the hospital and faintly

illuminated some portion of the hideous scene.

Very slowly a few stragglers came in sight, then more, and then by

degrees a great dark crowd of awestruck people were collected

together and stood afar off, fearing to come near, lest the ruins

should still continue falling. Presently the door of the hospital

opened and a party of men in gray blouses, headed by three or four

gentlemen in black coats--one indeed was in his shirt sleeves--

emerged into the silent street and went straight towards the scene

of the disaster. They carried lanterns and a couple of stretchers

such as are used for bearing the wounded. It chanced that the

straight line they followed from the door did not lead them to

where the girl was lying, and it was not until after a long and

nearly fruitless search that they turned back. Two soldiers only,

and both dead, could they find to bring back. The rest were buried

far beneath, and it would be the work of many hours to extricate

the bodies, even with a large force of men.

As the little procession turned sadly back, they found that the

crowd had advanced cautiously forward and now filled the street.

In the foremost rank a little circle stood about a dark object

that lay on the ground, curious, but too timid to touch it.

"Signor Professore," said one man in a low voice, "there is a dead

woman."

The physicians came forward and bent over the body. One of them

shook his head, as the bright light of the lantern fell on her

face while he raised the girl from the ground.

"She is a lady," said one of the others in a low voice.

The men brought a stretcher and lifted the girl's body gently from

the ground, scarcely daring to touch her, and gazing anxiously but

yet in wonder at the white face.

When she was laid upon the coarse canvas there was a moment's

pause. The crowd pressed closely about the hospital men, and the

yellow light of the lanterns was reflected on many strange faces,

all bent eagerly forward and down to get a last sight of the dead

girl's features.

"Andiamo," said one of the physicians in a quiet sad voice. The

bearers took up the dead Zouaves again, the procession of death

entered the gates of the hospital, and the heavy doors closed

behind like the portals of a tomb.

The crowd closed again and pressed forward to the ruins. A few

gendarmes had come up, and very soon a party of labourers was at

work clearing away the lighter rubbish under the lurid glare of

pitch torches stuck into the crevices and cracks of the rent

walls. The devilish deed was done, but by a providential accident

its consequences had been less awful than might have been

anticipated. Only one-third of the mine had actually exploded, and

only thirty Zouaves were at the time within the building.

"Did you see her face, Gaetano?" asked a rough fellow of his

companion. They stood together in a dark corner a little aloof

from the throng of people.

"No, but it must have been she. I am glad I have not that sin on

my soul."

"You are a fool, Gaetano. What is a girl to a couple of hundred

soldiers? Besides, if you had held her tight she would not have

got here in time to be killed."

"Eh--but a girl! The other vagabonds at least, we have despatched

in a good cause. Viva la liberta!"

"Hush! There are the gendarmes! This way!"

So they disappeared into the darkness whence they had come.

It was not only in the Borgo Nuovo that there was confusion and

consternation. The first signal for the outbreak had been given in

the Piazza Colonna, where bombs had been exploded. Attacks were

made upon the prisons by bands of those sinister-looking, unknown

men, who for several days had been noticed in various parts of the

city. A compact mob invaded the capitol, armed with better weapons

than mobs generally find ready to their hands. At the Porta San

Paolo, which was rightly judged to be one of the weakest points of

the city, a furious attack was made from without by a band of

Garibaldians who had crept up near the walls in various disguises

during the last two days. More than one of the barracks within the

city were assaulted simultaneously, and for a short time companies

of men paraded the streets, shouting their cries of "Viva

Garibaldi, Viva la liberta!" A few cried "Viva Vittorio!" and

"Viva l'Italia!" But a calm observer--and there were many such in

Rome that night--could easily see that the demonstration was

rather in favour of an anarchic republic than of the Italian

monarchy. On the whole, the population showed no sympathy with the

insurrection. It is enough to say that this tiny revolution broke

out at dusk and was entirely quelled before nine o'clock of the

same evening. The attempts made were bold and desperate in many

cases, but were supported by a small body of men only, the

populace taking no active part in what was done. Had a real

sympathy existed between the lower classes of Romans and the

Garibaldians the result could not have been doubtful, for the

vigour and energy displayed by the rioters would inevitably have

attracted any similarly disposed crowd to join in a fray, when the

weight of a few hundreds more would have turned the scale at any

point. There was not a French soldier in the city at the time, and

of the Zouaves and native troops a very large part were employed

upon the frontier. Rome was saved and restored to order by a

handful of soldiers, who were obliged to act at many points

simultaneously, and the insignificance of the original movement

may be determined from this fact.

It is true that of the two infernal schemes, plotted at once to

destroy the troops in a body and to strike terror into the

inhabitants, one failed in part and the other altogether. If the

whole of the gunpowder which Giuseppe Monti and Gaetano Tognetti

had placed in the mine under the Serristori barracks had exploded,

instead of only one-third of the quantity, a considerable part of

the Borgo Nuovo would have been destroyed; and even the disaster

which actually occurred would have killed many hundreds of Zouaves

if these had chanced to be indoors at the time. But it is

impossible to calculate the damage and loss of life which would

have been recorded had the castle of Sant' Angelo and the adjacent

fortifications been blown into the air. A huge mine had been laid

and arranged for firing in the vaults of one of the bastions, but

the plot was betrayed at the very last moment by one of the

conspirators. I may add that these men, who were tried, and

condemned only to penal servitude, were liberated in 1870, three

years later, by the Italian Government, on the ground that they

were merely political prisoners. The attempt in which they had

been engaged would, however, even in time of declared war, have

been regarded as a crime against the law of nations.

Rome was immediately declared under a state of siege, and patrols

of troops began to parade the streets, sending all stragglers whom

they met to their homes, on the admirable principle that it is the

duty of every man who finds himself in a riotous crowd to leave it

instantly unless he can do something towards restoring order.

Persons who found themselves in other people's houses, however,

had some difficulty in at once returning to their own, and as it

has been seen that the disturbance began precisely at the time

selected by society for holding its confabulations, there were

many who found themselves in that awkward situation.

As the sounds in the street subsided, the excitement in the

drawing-room at the Palazzo Saracinesca diminished likewise.

Several of those present announced their intention of departing at

once, but to this the old prince made serious objections. The city

was not safe, he said. Carriages might be stopped at any moment,

and even if that did not occur, all sorts of accidents might arise

from the horses shying at the noises, or running over people in

the crowds. He had his own views, and as he was in his own house

it was not easy to dispute them.

"The gates are shut," he said, with a cheerful laugh, "and none of

you can get out at present. As it is nearly dinner-time you must

all dine with me. It will not be a banquet, but I can give you

something to eat. I hope nobody is gone already."

Every one, at these words, looked at everybody else, as though to

see whether any one were missing.

"I saw Monsieur Gouache go out," said Flavia Montevarchi.

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed the princess, her mother. "I hope nothing

will happen to him!" She paused a moment and looked anxiously

round the room. "Good Heavens!" she cried suddenly, "where is

Faustina?"

"She must have gone out of the room with my wife," said Sant'

Ilario, quietly. "I will go and see."

The princess thought this explanation perfectly natural and waited

till he should return. He did not come back, however, so soon as

might have been expected. He found his wife just leaving the

nursery. Her first impulse had been to go to the child, and having

satisfied herself that he had not been carried off by a band of

Garibaldians but was sound asleep in his cradle, she was about to

rejoin her guests.

"Where is Faustina Montevarchi?" asked Giovanni, as though it were

the most natural question in the world.

"Faustina?" repeated Corona. "In the drawing-room, to be sure. I

have not seen her."

"She is not there," said Sant' Ilario, in a more anxious tone. "I

thought she had come here with you."

"She must be with the rest. You have overlooked her in the crowd.

Come back with me and see your son--he does not seem to mind

revolution in the least!"

Giovanni, who had no real doubt but that Faustina was in the

house, entered the nursery with his wife, and they stood together

by the child's cradle.

"Is he not beautiful?" exclaimed Corona, passing her arm

affectionately through her husband's, and leaning her cheek on his

shoulder.

"He is a fine baby," replied Giovanni, his voice expressing more

satisfaction than his words. "He will look like my father when he

grows up."

"I would rather he should look like you," said Corona.

"If he could look like you, dear, there would be some use in

wishing."

Then they both gazed for some seconds at the swarthy little boy,

who lay on his pillows, his arms thrown back above his head and

his two little fists tightly clenched. The rich blood softly

coloured the child's dark cheeks, and the black lashes, already

long, like his mother's, gave a singularly expressive look to the

small face.

Giovanni tenderly kissed his wife and then they softly left the

room. As soon as they were outside Sant' Ilario's thoughts

returned to Faustina.

"She was certainly not in the drawing-room," he said, "I am quite

sure. It was her mother who asked for her and everybody heard the

question. I dare not go back without her."

They stopped together in the corridor, looking at each other with

grave faces.

"This is very serious," said Corona. "We must search the house.

Send the men. I will tell the women. We will meet at the head of

the stairs."

Five minutes later, Giovanni returned in pursuit of his wife.

"She has left the house," he said, breathlessly. "The porter saw

her go out."

"Good Heavens! Why did he not stop her?" cried Corona.

"Because he is a fool!" answered Sant' Ilario, very pale in his

anxiety. "She must have lost her head and gone home. I will tell

her mother."

When it was known in the drawing-room that Donna Faustina

Montevarchi had left the palace alone and on foot every one was

horrorstruck. The princess turned as white as death, though she

was usually very red in the face. She was a brave woman, however,

and did not waste words.

"I must go home at once," said she. "Please order my carriage and

have the gates opened."

Giovanni obeyed silently, and a few minutes later the princess was

descending the stairs, accompanied by Flavia, who was silent, a

phenomenon seldom to be recorded in connection with that vivacious

young lady. Giovanni went also, and his cousin, San Giacinto.

"If you will permit me, princess, I will go with you," said the

latter as they all reached the carriage. "I may be of some use."

Just as they rolled out of the deep archway, the explosion of the

barracks rent the air, the tremendous crash thundering and echoing

through the city. The panes of the carriage-windows rattled as

though they would break, and all Rome was silent while one might

count a score. Then the horses plunged wildly in the traces and

the vehicle struck heavily against one of the stone pillars which

stood before the entrance of the palace. The four persons inside

could hear the coachman shouting.

"Drive on!" cried San Giacinto, thrusting his head out of the

window.

"Eccellenza--" began the man in a tone of expostulation.

"Drive on!" shouted San Giacinto, in a voice that made the fellow

obey in spite of his terror. He had never heard such a voice

before, so deep, so strong and so savage.

They reached the Palazzo Montevarchi without encountering any

serious obstacle. In a few minutes they were convinced that Donna

Faustina had not been heard of there, and a council was held upon

the stairs. Whilst they were deliberating, Prince Montevarchi came

out, and with him his eldest son, Bellegra, a handsome man about

thirty years old, with blue eyes and a perfectly smooth fair

beard. He was more calm than his father, who spoke excitedly, with

many gesticulations.

"You have lost Faustina!" cried the old man in wild tones. "You

have lost Faustina! And in such times as these! Why do you stand

there? Oh, my daughter! my daughter! I have so often told you to

be careful, Guendalina--move, in the name of God--the child is

lost, lost, I tell you! Have you no heart? no feeling? Are you a

mother? Signori miei, I am desperate!"

And indeed he seemed to be, as he stood wringing his hands,

stamping his feet, and vociferating incoherently, while the tears

began to flow down his cheeks.

"We are going in search of your daughter," said Sant' Ilario.

"Pray calm yourself. She will certainly be found."

"Perhaps I had better go too," suggested Ascanio Bellegra, rather

timidly. But his father threw his arms round him and held him

tightly.

"Do you think I will lose another child?" he cried. "No, no, no--

figlio mio--you shall never go out into the midst of a

revolution."

Sant' Ilario looked on gravely, though he inwardly despised the

poor old man for his weakness. San Giacinto stood against the

wall, waiting, with, a grim smile of amusement on his face. He was

measuring Ascanio Bellegra with his eye and thought he would not

care for his assistance. The princess looked scornfully at her

husband and son.

"We are losing time," said Sant' Ilario at last to his cousin. "I

promise you to bring you your daughter," he added gravely, turning

to the princess. Then the two went away together, leaving Prince

Montevarchi still lamenting himself to his wife and son. Flavia

had taken no part in the conversation, having entered the hall and

gone to her room at once.

The cousins left the palace together and walked a little way down

the street, before either spoke. Then Sant' Ilario stopped short.

"Does it strike you that we have undertaken rather a difficult

mission?" he asked.

"A very difficult one," answered San Giacinto.

"Rome is not the largest city in the world, but I have not the

slightest idea where to look for that child. She certainly left

our house. She certainly has not returned to her own. Between the

two, practically, there lies the whole of Rome. I think the best

thing to do, will be to go to the police, if any of them can be

found."

"Or to the Zouaves," said San Giacinto.

"Why to the Zouaves? I do not understand you."

"You are all so accustomed to being princes that you do not watch

each, other. I have done nothing but watch, you all the time. That

young lady is in love with Monsieur Gouache."

"Really!" exclaimed Sant' Ilario, to whom the idea was as novel

and incredible as it could have been to old Montevarchi himself,

"really, you must be mistaken. The thing is impossible."

"Not at all. That young man took Donna Faustina's hand and held it

for some time there by the piano while I was shutting the windows

in your drawing-room." San Giacinto did not tell all he had seen.

"What?" cried Sant' Ilario. "You are mad--it is impossible!"

"On the contrary, I saw it. A moment later Gouache left the room.

Donna Faustina must have gone just after him. It is my opinion

that she followed him."

Before Sant' Ilario could answer, a small patrol of foot-gendarmes

came up, and peremptorily ordered the two gentlemen to go home.

Sant' Ilario addressed the corporal in charge. He stated his name

and that of his cousin.

"A lady has been lost," he then said. "She is Donna Faustina

Montevarchi--a young lady, very fair and beautiful. She left the

Palazzo Saracinesca alone and on foot half an hour ago and has not

been heard of. Be good enough to inform the police you meet of

this fact and to say that a large reward will be paid to any one

who brings her to her father's house--to this palace here."

After a few more words the patrol passed on, leaving the two

cousins to their own devices. Sant' Ilario was utterly annoyed at

the view just presented to him, and could not believe the thing

true, though he had no other explanation to offer.

"It is of no use to stand here doing nothing," said San Giacinto

rather impatiently. "There is another crowd coming, too, and we

shall be delayed again. I think we had better separate. I will go

one way, and you take the other."

"Where will you go?" asked Sant' Ilario. "You do not know your way

about---"

"As she may be anywhere, we may find her anywhere, so that it is

of no importance whether I know the names of the streets or not.

You had best think of all the houses to which she might have gone,

among her friends. You know them better than I do. I will beat up

all the streets between here and your house. When I am tired I

will go to your palace."

"I am afraid you will not find her," replied Sant' Ilario. "But we

must try for the sake of her poor mother."

"It is a question of luck," said the other, and they separated at

once.

San Giacinto turned in the direction of the crowd which was

pouring into the street at some distance farther on. As he

approached, he heard the name "Serristori" spoken frequently in

the hum of voices.

"What about the Serristori?" he asked of the first he met.

"Have you not heard?" cried the fellow. "It is blown up with

gunpowder! There are at least a thousand dead. Half the Borgo

Nuovo is destroyed, and they say that the Vatican will go next---"

The man would have run on for any length of time, but San Giacinto

had heard enough and dived into the first byway he found,

intending to escape the throng and make straight for the barracks.

He had to ask his way several times, and it was fully a quarter of

an hour before he reached the bridge. Thence he easily found the

scene of the disaster, and came up to the hospital of Santo

Spirito just after the gates had closed behind the bearers of the

dead. He mixed with the crowd and asked questions, learning very

soon that the first search, made by the people from the hospital,

had only brought to light the bodies of two Zouaves and one woman.

"And I did not see her," said the man who was speaking, "but they

say she was a lady and beautiful as an angel," "Rubbish!"

exclaimed another. "She was a little sewing woman who lived in the

Borgo Vecchio. And I know it is true because her innamorato was

one of the dead Zouaves they picked up."

"I don't believe there was any woman at all," said a third. "What

should a woman be doing at the barracks?"

"She was killed outside," observed the first speaker, a timid old

man. "At least, I was told so, but I did not see her."

"It was a woman bringing a baby to put into the Rota," [Footnote:

The Rota was a revolving box in which foundlings were formerly

placed. The box turned round and the infant was taken inside and

cared for. It stands at the gate of the Santo Spirito Hospital,

and is still visible, though no longer in use.] cried a shrill-

voiced washerwoman. "She got the child in and was running away,

when the place blew up, and the devil carried her off. And serve

her right, for throwing away her baby, poor little thing!"

In the light of these various opinions, most of which supported

the story that some woman had been carried into the hospital, San

Giacinto determined to find out the truth, and boldly rang the

bell. A panel was opened in the door, and the porter looked out at

the surging crowd.

"What do you want?" he inquired roughly, on seeing that admittance

had not been asked for a sick or wounded person.

"I want to speak with the surgeon in charge," replied San

Giacinto.

"He is busy," said the man rather doubtfully. "Who are you?"

"A friend of one of the persons just killed."

"They are dead. You had better wait till morning and come again,"

suggested the porter.

"But I want to be sure that it is my friend who is dead."

"Then why do you not give your name? Perhaps you are a

Garibaldian. Why should I open?"

"I will tell the surgeon my name, if you will call him. There is

something for yourself. Tell him I am a Roman prince and must see

him for a moment."

"I will see if he will come," said the man, shutting the panel in

San Giacinto's face. His footsteps echoed along the pavement of

the wide hall within. It was long before he came back, and San

Giacinto had leisure to reflect upon the situation.

He had very little doubt but that the dead woman was no other than

Donna Faustina. By a rare chance, or rather in obedience to an

irresistible instinct, he had found the object of his search in

half an hour, while his cousin was fruitlessly inquiring for the

missing girl in the opposite direction. He had been led to the

conclusion that she had followed Gouache by what he had seen in

the Saracinesca's drawing-room, and by a process of reasoning too

simple to suggest itself to an ordinary member of Roman society.

What disturbed him most was the thought of the consequences of his

discovery, and he resolved to conceal the girl's name and his own

if possible. If she were indeed dead, it would be wiser to convey

her body to her father's house privately; if she were still alive,

secrecy was doubly necessary. In either case it would be utterly

impossible to account to the world for the fact that Faustina

Montevarchi had been alone in the Borgo Nuovo at such an hour; and

San Giacinto had a lively interest in preserving the good

reputation of Casa Montevarchi, since he had been meditating for

some time past a union with Donna Flavia.

At last the panel opened again, and when the porter had satisfied

himself that the gentleman was still without, a little door in the

heavy gate was cautiously unfastened and San Giacinto went in,

bending nearly double to pass under the low entrance. In the great

vestibule he was immediately confronted by the surgeon in charge,

who was in his shirt sleeves, but had thrown his coat over his

shoulders and held it together at the neck to protect himself from

the night air. San Giacinto begged him to retire out of hearing of

the porter, and the two walked away together.

"There was a lady killed just now by the explosion, was there

not?" inquired San Giacinto.

"She is not dead," replied the surgeon. "Do you know her?"

"I think so. Had she anything about her to prove her identity?"

"The letter M embroidered on her handkerchief. That is all I know.

She has not been here a quarter of an hour. I thought she was dead

myself, when we took her up."

"She was not under the ruins?"

"No. She was struck by some small stone, I fancy. The two Zouaves

were half buried, and are quite dead."

"May I see them? I know many in the corps. They might be

acquaintances."

"Certainly. They are close by in the mortuary chamber, unless they

have been put in the chapel."

The two men entered the grim place, which was dimly lighted by a

lantern hanging overhead. It is unnecessary to dwell upon the

ghastly details. San Giacinto bent down curiously and looked at

the dead men's faces. He knew neither of them, and told the

surgeon so.

"Will you allow me to see the lady?" he asked.

"Pardon me, if I ask a question," said the surgeon, who was a man

of middle age, with a red beard and keen grey eyes. "To whom have

I the advantage of speaking?"

"Signor Professore," replied San Giacinto, "I must tell you that

if this is the lady I suppose your patient to be, the honour of

one of the greatest families in Rome is concerned, and it is

important that strict secrecy should be preserved."

"The porter told me that you were a Roman prince," returned the

surgeon rather bluntly. "But you speak like a southerner."

"I was brought up in Naples. As I was saying, secrecy is very

important, and I can assure you that you will earn the gratitude

of many by assisting me."

"Do you wish to take this lady away at once?"

"Heaven forbid! Her mother and sister shall come for her in half

an hour."

The surgeon thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood staring

for a moment or two at the bodies of the Zouaves.

"I cannot do it," he said, suddenly looking up at San. Giacinto.

"I am master here, and I am responsible. The secret is

professional, of course. If I knew you, even by sight, I should

not hesitate. As it is, I must ask your name."

San Giacinto did not hesitate long, as the surgeon was evidently

master of the situation. He took a card from his case and silently

handed it to the doctor. The latter took it and read the name,

"Don Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto." His face

betrayed no emotion, but the belief flashed through his mind that

there was no such person in existence. He was one of the leading

men in his profession, and knew Prince Saracinesca and Sant'

Ilario, but he had never heard of this other Don Giovanni. He knew

also that the city was in a state of revolution and that many

suspicious persons were likely to gain access to public buildings

on false pretences.

"Very well," he said quietly. "You are not afraid of dead men, I

see. Be good enough to wait a moment here--no one will see you,

and you will not be recognised. I will go and see that there is

nobody in the way, and you shall have a sight of the young lady."

His companion nodded in assent and the surgeon went out through

the narrow door. San Giacinto was surprised to hear the heavy key

turned in the lock and withdrawn, but immediately accounted for

the fact on the theory that the surgeon wished to prevent any one

from finding his visitor lest the secret should be divulged. He

was not a nervous man, and had no especial horror of being left

alone in a mortuary chamber for a few minutes. He looked about

him, and saw that the room was high and vaulted. One window alone

gave air, and this was ten feet from the floor and heavily ironed.

He reflected with a smile that if it pleased the surgeon to leave

him there he could not possibly get out. Neither his size nor his

phenomenal strength could assist him in the least. There was no

furniture in the place. Half a dozen slabs of slate for the bodies

were built against the wall, solid and immovable, and the door was

of the heaviest oak, thickly studded with huge iron nails. If the

dead men had been living prisoners their place of confinement

could not have been more strongly contrived.

San Giacinto waited a quarter of an hour, and at last, as the

surgeon did not return, he sat down upon one of the marble slabs

and, being very hungry, consoled himself by lighting a cigar,

while he meditated upon the surest means of conveying Donna

Faustina to her father's house. At last he began to wonder how

long he was to wait.

"I should not wonder," he said to himself, "if that long-eared

professor had taken me for a revolutionist."

He was not far wrong, indeed. The surgeon had despatched a

messenger for a couple of gendarmes and had gone about his

business in the hospital, knowing very well that it would take

some time to find the police while the riot lasted, and

congratulating himself upon having caught a prisoner who, if not a

revolutionist, was at all events an impostor, since he had a card

printed with a false name.

CHAPTER VI.

The improvised banquet at the Palazzo Saracinesca was not a merry

one, but the probable dangers to the city and the disappearance of

Faustina Montevarchi furnished matter for plenty of conversation.

The majority inclined to the belief that the girl had lost her

head and had run home, but as neither Sant' Ilario nor his cousin

returned, there was much speculation. The prince said he believed

that they had found Faustina at her father's house and had stayed

to dinner, whereupon some malicious person remarked that it needed

a revolution in Rome to produce hospitality in such a quarter.

Dinner was nearly ended when Pasquale, the butler, whispered to

the prince that a gendarme wanted to speak with him on very

important business.

"Bring him here," answered old Saracinesca, aloud. "There is a

gendarme outside," he added, addressing his guests, "he will tell

us all the news. Shall we have him here?"

Every one assented enthusiastically to the proposition, for most

of those present were anxious about their houses, not knowing what

had taken place during the last two hours. The man was ushered in,

and stood at a distance holding his three-cornered hat in his

hand, and looking rather sheepish and uncomfortable.

"Well?" asked the prince. "What is the matter? We all wish to hear

the news."

"Excellency," began the soldier, "I must ask many pardons for

appearing thus---" Indeed his uniform was more or less disarranged

and he looked pale and fatigued.

"Never mind your appearance. Speak up," answered old Saracinesca

in encouraging tones.

"Excellency," said the man, "I must apologise, but there is a

gentleman who calls himself Don Giovanni, of your revered name---"

"I know there is. He is my son. What about him?"

"He is not the Senior Principe di Sant' Ilario, Excellency--he

calls himself by another name--Marchese di--di--here is his card,

Excellency."

"My cousin, San Giacinto, then. What about him, I say?"

"Your Excellency has a cousin---" stammered the gendarme.

"Well? Is it against the law to have cousins?" cried the prince.

"What is the matter with my cousin?"

"Dio mio!" exclaimed the soldier in great agitation. "What a

combination! Your Excellency's cousin is in the mortuary chamber

at Santo Spirito!"

"Is he dead?" asked Saracinesca in a lower voice, but starting

from his chair.

"No," cried the man, "questo e il male! That is the trouble! He is

alive and very well!"

"Then what the devil is he doing in the mortuary chamber?" roared

the prince.

"Excellency, I beseech your pardon, I had nothing to do with

locking up the Signor Marchese. It was the surgeon, Excellency,

who took him for a Garibaldian. He shall be liberated at once---"

"I should think so!" answered Saracinesca, savagely. "And what

business have your asses of surgeons with gentlemen? My hat,

Pasquale. And how on earth came my cousin to be in Santo Spirito?"

"Excellency, I know nothing, but I had to do my duty."

"And if you know nothing how the devil do you expect to do your

duty! I will have you and the surgeon and the whole of Santo

Spirito and all the patients, in the Carceri Nuove, safe in prison

before morning! My hat, Pasquale, I say!"

Some confusion followed, during which the gendarme, who was

anxious to escape all responsibility in the matter of San

Giacinto's confinement, left the room and descended the grand

staircase three steps at a time. Mounting his horse he galloped

back through the now deserted streets to the hospital.

Within two minutes after his arrival San Giacinto heard the bolt

of the heavy lock run back in the socket and the surgeon entered

the mortuary chamber. San Giacinto had nearly finished his cigar

and was growing impatient, but the doctor made many apologies for

his long absence.

"An unexpected relapse in a dangerous case, Signor Marchese," he

said in explanation. "What would you have? We doctors are at the

mercy of nature! Pray forgive my neglect, but I could send no one,

as you did not wish to be seen. I locked the door, so that nobody

might find you here. Pray come with me, and you shall see the

young lady at once."

"By all means," replied San Giacinto. "Dead men are poor company,

and I am in a hurry"

The surgeon led the way to the accident ward and introduced his

companion to a small clean room in which a shaded lamp was

burning. A Sister of Mercy stood by the white bed, upon which lay

a young girl, stretched out at her full length.

"You are too late," said the nun very quietly. "She is dead, poor

child."

San Giacinto uttered a deep exclamation of horror and was at the

bedside even before the surgeon. He lifted the fair young creature

in his arms and stared at the cold face, holding it to the light.

Then with a loud cry of astonishment he laid down his burden.

"It is not she, Signor Professore," he said. "I must apologise for

the trouble I have given you. Pray accept my best thanks. There is

a resemblance, but it is not she"

The doctor was somewhat relieved to find himself freed from the

responsibility which, as San Giacinto had told him, involved the

honour of one of the greatest families in Rome. Before speaking,

he satisfied himself that the young woman was really dead.

"Death often makes faces look alike which have no resemblance to

each other in life," he remarked as he turned away. Then they both

left the room, followed at a little distance by the sister who was

going to summon the bearers to carry away her late charge.

As the two men descended the steps, the sound of loud voices in

altercation reached their ears, and as they emerged into the

vestibule, they saw old Prince Saracinesca flourishing his stick

in dangerous proximity to the head of the porter. The latter had

retreated until he stood with his back against the wall.

"I will have none of this lying," shouted the irate nobleman. "The

Marchese is here--the gendarme told me he was in the mortuary

chamber--if he is not produced at once I will break your rascally

neck---" The man was protesting as fast and as loud as his

assailant threatened him.

"Eh! My good cousin!" cried San Giacinto, whose unmistakable voice

at once made the prince desist from his attack and turn round. "Do

not kill the fellow! I am alive and well, as you see."

A short explanation ensued, during which the surgeon was obliged

to admit that as San Giacinto had no means of proving any identity

he, the doctor in charge, had thought it best to send for the

police, in view of the unquiet state of the city.

"But what brought you here?" asked old Saracinesca, who was

puzzled to account for his cousin's presence in the hospital.

San Giacinto had satisfied his curiosity and did not care a pin

for the annoyance to which he had been subjected. He was anxious,

too, to get away, and having half guessed the surgeon's suspicions

was not at all surprised by the revelation concerning the

gendarme.

"Allow me to thank you again," he said politely, turning to the

doctor. "I have no doubt you acted quite rightly. Let us go," he

added, addressing the prince.

The porter received a coin as consolation money for the abuse he

had sustained, and the two cousins found themselves in the street.

Saracinesca again asked for an explanation.

"Very simple," replied San Giacinto. "Donna Faustina was not at

her father's house, so your son and I separated to continue our

search. Chancing to find myself here--for I do not know my way

about the city--I learnt the news of the explosion, and was told

that two Zouaves had been found dead and had been taken into the

hospital. Fearing lest one of them might have been Gouache, I

succeeded in getting in, when I was locked up with the dead

bodies, as you have heard. Gouache, by the bye, was not one of

them."

"It is outrageous---" began Saracinesca, but his companion did not

allow him to proceed.

"It is no matter," he said, quickly. "The important thing is to

find Donna Faustina. I suppose you have no news of her."

"None. Giovanni had not come home when the gendarme appeared."

"Then we must continue the search as best we can," said San

Giacinto. Thereupon they both got into the prince's cab and drove

away.

It was nearly midnight when a small detachment of Zouaves crossed

the bridge of Sant' Angelo. There had been some sharp fighting at

the Porta San Paolo, at the other extremity of Rome, and the men

were weary. But rest was not to be expected that night, and the

tired soldiers were led back to do sentry duty in the

neighbourhood of their quarters. The officer halted the little

body in the broad space beyond.

"Monsieur Gouache," said the lieutenant, "you will take a

corporal's guard and maintain order in the neighbourhood of the

barracks--if there is anything left of them," he added with a

mournful laugh.

Gouache stepped forward and half a dozen men formed themselves

behind him. The officer was a good friend of his.

"I suppose you have not dined any more than I, Monsieur Gouache?"

"Not I, mon lieutenant. It is no matter."

"Pick up something to eat if you can, at such an hour. I will see

that you are relieved before morning. Shoulder arms! March!"

So Anastase Gouache trudged away down the Borgo Nuovo with his men

at his heels. Among the number there was the son of a French duke,

an English gentleman whose forefathers had marched with the

Conqueror as their descendant now marched behind the Parisian

artist, a young Swiss doctor of law, a couple of red-headed Irish

peasants, and two or three others. When they reached the scene of

the late catastrophe the place was deserted. The men who had been

set to work at clearing away the rubbish had soon found what a

hopeless task they had undertaken; and the news having soon spread

that only the regimental musicians were in the barracks at the

time, and that these few had been in all probability in the lower

story of the building, where the band-room was situated, all

attempts at finding the bodies were abandoned until the next day.

Gouache and many others had escaped death almost miraculously, for

five minutes had not elapsed after they had started at the double-

quick for the Porta San Paolo, when the building was blown up. The

news had of course been brought to them while they were repulsing

the attack upon the gate, but it was not until many hours

afterwards that a small detachment could safely be spared to

return to their devastated quarters. Gouache himself had been just

in time to join his comrades, and with them had seen most of the

fighting. He now placed his men at proper distances along the

street, and found leisure to reflect upon what had occurred. He

was hungry and thirsty, and grimy with gunpowder, but there was

evidently no prospect of getting any refreshment. The night, too,

was growing cold, and he found it necessary to walk briskly about

to keep himself warm. At first he tramped backwards and forwards,

some fifty paces each way, but growing weary of the monotonous

exercise, he began to scramble about among the heaps of ruins. His

quick imagination called up the scene as it must have looked at

the moment of the explosion, and then reverted with a sharp pang

to the thought of his poor comrades-in-arms who lay crushed to

death many feet below the stones on which he trod.

Suddenly, as he leaned against a huge block, absorbed in his

thoughts, the low wailing of a woman's voice reached his ears. The

sound proceeded apparently from no great distance, but the tone

was very soft and low. Gradually, as he listened, he thought he

distinguished words, but such words as he had not expected to

hear, though they expressed his own feeling well enough.

"Requiem eternam dona eis!"

It was quite distinct, and the accents sounded strangely familiar.

He held his breath and strained every faculty to catch the sounds.

"Requiem sempiternam--sempiternam--sempiternam!" The despairing

tones trembled at the third repetition, and then the voice broke

into passionate sobbing.

Anastase did not wait for more. At first he had half believed that

what he heard was due to his imagination, but the sudden weeping

left no doubt that it was real. Cautiously he made his way amongst

the ruins, until he stopped short in amazement not unmingled with

horror.

In an angle where a part of the walls was still standing, a woman

was on her knees, her hands stretched wildly out before her, her

darkly-clad figure faintly revealed by the beams of the waning

moon. The covering had fallen back from her head upon her

shoulders, and the struggling rays fell upon her beautiful

features, marking their angelic outline with delicate light. Still

Anastase remained motionless, scarcely believing his eyes, and yet

knowing that lovely face too well not to believe. It was Donna

Faustina Montevarchi who knelt there at midnight, alone, repeating

the solemn words from the mass for the dead; it was for him that

she wept, and he knew it.

Standing there upon the common grave of his comrades, a wild joy

filled the young man's heart, a joy such as must be felt to be

known, for it passes the power of earthly words to tell it. In

that dim and ghastly place the sun seemed suddenly to shine as at

noonday in a fair country; the crumbling masonry and blocks of

broken stone grew more lovely than the loveliest flowers, and from

the dark figure of that lonely heart-broken woman the man who

loved her saw a radiance proceeding which overflowed and made

bright at once his eyes and his heart. In the intensity of his

emotion, the hand which lay upon the fallen stone contracted

suddenly and broke off a fragment of the loosened mortar.

At the slight noise, Faustina turned her head. Her eyes were wide

and wild, and as she started to her feet she uttered a short,

sharp cry, and staggered backward against the wall. In a moment

Anastase was at her side, supporting her and looking into her

face.

"Faustina!"

During a few seconds she gazed horrorstruck and silent upon him,

stiffening herself and holding her face away from his. It was as

though his ghost had risen out of the earth and embraced her. Then

the wild look shivered like a mask and vanished, her features

softened and the colour rose to her cheeks for an instant. Very

slowly she drew him towards her, her eyes fixed on his; their lips

met in a long, sweet kiss--then her strength forsook her and she

swooned away in his arms.

Gouache supported her tenderly until she sat leaning against the

wall, and then knelt down by her side. He did not know what to do,

and had he known, it would have availed him little. His instinct

told him that she would presently recover consciousness and his

emotions had so wholly overcome him that he could only look at her

lovely face as her head rested upon his arm. But while he waited a

great fear began to steal into his heart. He asked himself how

Faustina had come to such a place, and how her coming was to be

accounted for. It was long past midnight, now, and he guessed what

trouble and anxiety there would be in her father's house until she

was found. He represented to himself in quick succession the

scenes which would follow his appearance at the Palazzo

Montevarchi with the youngest daughter of the family in his arms--

or in a cab, and he confessed to himself that never lover had been

in such straits.

Faustina opened her eyes and sighed, nestled her head softly on

his breast, sighing again, in the happy consciousness that he was

safe, and then at last she sat up and looked him in the face.

"I was so sure you were killed," said she, in her soft voice.

"My darling!" he exclaimed, pressing her to his side.

"Are you not glad to be alive?" she asked. "For my sake, at least!

You do not know what I have suffered."

Again he held her close to him, in silence, forgetting all the

unheard-of difficulties of his situation in the happiness of

holding her in his arms. His silence, indeed, was more eloquent

than any words could have been. "My beloved!" he said at last,

"how could you run such risks for me? Do you think I am worthy of

so much love? And yet, if loving you can make me worthy of you, I

am the most deserving man that ever lived--and I live only for

you. But for you I might as well be buried under our feet here

with my poor comrades. But tell me, Faustina, were you not afraid

to come? How long have you been here? It is very late--it is

almost morning."

"Is it? What does it matter, since you are safe? You ask how I

came? Did I not tell you I would follow you? Why did you run on

without me? I ran here very quickly, and just as I saw the gates

of the barracks there was a terrible noise and I was thrown down,

I cannot tell how. Soon I got to my feet and crept under a

doorway. I suppose I must have fainted, for I thought you were

killed. I saw a soldier before me, just when it happened, and he

must have been struck. I took him for you. When I came to myself

there were so many people in the street that I could not move from

where I was. Then they went away, and I came here while the

workmen tried to move the stones, and I watched them and begged

them to go on, but they would not, and I had nothing to give them,

so they went away too, and I knew that I should have to wait until

to-morrow to find you--for I would have waited--no one should have

dragged me away--ah! my darling--my beloved! What does anything

matter now that you are safe!"

For fully half an hour they sat talking in this wise, both knowing

that the situation could not last, but neither willing to speak

the word which must end it. Gouache, indeed, was in a twofold

difficulty. Not only was he wholly at a loss for a means of

introducing Faustina into her father's house unobserved at such an

hour; he was in command of the men stationed in the neighbourhood,

and to leave his post under any circumstances whatever would be a

very grave breach of duty. He could neither allow Faustina to

return alone, nor could he accompany her. He could not send one of

his men for a friend to help him, since to take any one into his

confidence was to ruin the girl's reputation in the eyes of all

Rome. To find a cab at that time of night was almost out of the

question. The position seemed desperate. Faustina, too, was a mere

child, and it was impossible to explain to her the social

consequences of her being discovered with him.

"I think, perhaps," said she after a happy silence, and in rather

a timid voice--"I think, perhaps, you had better take me home now.

They will be anxious, you know," she added, as though fearing that

he should suspect her of wishing to leave him.

"Yes, I must take you home," answered Gouache, somewhat absently.

To her his tone sounded cold.

"Are you angry, because I want to go?" asked the young girl,

looking lovingly into his face.

"Angry? No indeed, darling! I ought to have taken you home at

once--but I was too happy to think of it. Of course your people

must be terribly anxious, and the question is how to manage your

entrance. Can you get into the house unseen? Is there any way? Any

small door that is open?"

"We can wake the porter," said Faustina, simply. "He will let us

in."

"It would not do. How can I go to your father and tell him that I

found you here? Besides, the porter knows me."

"Well, if he does, what does it matter?"

"He would talk about it to other servants, and all Rome would know

it to-morrow. You must go home with a woman, and to do that we

must find some one you know. It would be a terrible injury to you

to have such a story repeated abroad."

"Why?"

To this innocent question Gouache did not find a ready answer. He

smiled quietly and pressed her to his side more closely.

"The world is a very bad place, dearest. I am a man and know it.

You must trust me to do what is best. Will you?"

"How can you ask? I will always trust you."

"Then I will tell you what we will do. You must go home with the

Princess Sant' Ilario."

"With Corona? But--"

"She knows that I love you, and she is the only woman in Rome whom

I would trust. Do not be surprised. She asked me if it was true,

and I said it was. I am on duty here, and you must wait for me

while I make the rounds of my sentries--it will not take five

minutes. Then I will take you to the Palazzo Saracinesca. I shall

not be missed here for an hour."

"I will do whatever you wish," said Faustina. "Perhaps that is

best. But I am afraid everybody will be asleep. Is it not very

late?"

"I will wake them up if they are sleeping."

He left her to make his round and soon assured himself that his

men were not napping. Then before he returned he stopped at the

corner of a street and by the feeble moonlight scratched a few

words on a leaf from his notebook.

"Madame," he wrote, "I have found Donna Faustina Montevarchi, who

had lost her way. It is absolutely necessary that you should

accompany her to her father's house. You are the only person whom

I can trust. I am at your gate. Bring something in the way of a

cloak to disguise her with."

He signed his initials and folded the paper, slipping it into his

pocket where he could readily find it. Then he went back to the

place where Faustina was waiting. He helped her out of the ruins,

and passing through a side street so as to avoid the sentinels,

they made their way rapidly to the bridge. The sentry challenged

Gouache who gave the word at once and was allowed to pass on with

his charge. In less than a quarter of an hour they were at the

Palazzo Saracinesca. Gouache made Faustina stand in the shadow of

a doorway on the opposite side of the street and advanced to the

great doors. A ray of light which passed through the crack of a

shutter behind the heavy iron grating on one side of the arch

showed that the porter was up. Anastase drew his bayonet from his

side and tapped with its point against the high window.

"Who is there?" asked the porter, thrusting his head out.

"Is the Principe di Sant' Ilario still awake?" asked Gouache.

"He is not at home. Heaven knows where he is. What do you want?

The princess is sitting up to wait for the prince."

"That will do as well," replied Anastase. "I am sent with this

note from the Vatican. It needs an immediate answer. Be good

enough to say that I was ordered to wait."

The explanation satisfied the porter, to whom the sight of a

Zouave was just then more agreeable than usual. He put his arm out

through the grating and took the paper.

"It does not look as though it came from the Vatican," he remarked

doubtfully, as he turned the scrap to the light of his lamp.

"The cardinal is waiting--make haste!" said Gouache. It struck him

that even if the man could read a little, which was not

improbable, the initials A. G., being those of Cardinal Antonelli

in reversed order would be enough to frighten the fellow and make

him move quickly. This, indeed was precisely what occurred.

In five minutes the small door in the gate was opened and Gouache

saw Corona's tall figure step out into the street. She hesitated a

moment when she saw the Zouave alone, and then closed the door

with a snap behind her. Gouache bowed quickly and gave her his

arm.

"Let us be quick," he said, "or the porter will see us. Donna

Faustina is under that doorway. You know how grateful I am--there

is no time to say it."

Corona said nothing but hastened to Faustina's side. The latter

put her arms about her friend's neck and kissed her. The princess

threw a wide cloak over the young girl's shoulders and drew the

hood over her head.

"Let us be quick," said Corona, repeating Gouache's words. They

walked quickly away in silence, and no one spoke until they

leached the Palazzo Montevarchi. Explanations were impossible, and

every one was too much absorbed by the danger of the situation to

speak of anything else. When they were a few steps from the gate

Corona stopped.

"You may leave us here," she said coldly, addressing Gouache.

"But, princess, I will see you home," protested the latter,

somewhat surprised by her tone.

"No--I will take a servant back with me. Will you be good enough

to leave us?" she asked almost haughtily, as Gouache still

lingered.

He had no choice but to obey her commands, though for some time he

could not explain to himself the cause of the princess's

behaviour.

"Goodnight, Madame. Good-night, Mademoiselle," he said, quietly.

Then with a low bow he turned away and disappeared in the

darkness. In five minutes he had reached the bridge, running at

the top of his speed, and he regained his post without his absence

having been observed.

When the two women were alone, Corona laid her hand upon

Faustina's shoulder and looked down into the girl's face.

"Faustina, my child," she said, "how could you be led into such a

wild scrape?"

"Why did you treat him so unkindly?" asked the young girl with

flashing eyes. "It was cruel and unkind--"

"Because he deserved it," answered Corona, with rising anger. "How

could he dare--from my house--a mere child like you---"

"I do not know what you imagine," said Faustina in a tone of deep

resentment. "I followed him to the Serristori barracks, and I

fainted when they were blown up. He found me and brought me to

you, because he said I could not go back to my father's house with

him. If I love him what is that to you?"

"It is a great deal to me that he should have got you into this

trouble."

"He did not. If it is trouble, I got myself into it. Do you love

him yourself that you are so angry?"

"I!" cried Corona in amazement at the girl's audacity. "Poor

Gouache!" she added with a half-scornful, half-pitying laugh.

"Come, child! Let us go in. We cannot stand here all night

talking. I will tell your mother that you lost your way in our

house and were found asleep in a distant room. The lock was

jammed, and you could not get out."

"I think I will simply tell the truth," answered Faustina.

"You will do nothing of the kind," said Corona, sternly. "Do you

know what would happen? You would be shut up in a convent by your

father for several years, and the world would say that I had

favoured your meetings with Monsieur Gouache. This is no trifling

matter. You need say nothing. I will give the whole explanation

myself, and take the responsibility of the falsehood upon my own

shoulders."

"I promised him to do as he bid me," replied Faustina. "I suppose

he would have me follow your advice, and so I will. Are you still

angry, Corona?"

"I will try not to be, if you will be sensible."

They knocked at the gate and were soon admitted. The whole

household was on foot, though it was past one o'clock. It is

unnecessary to describe the emotions of Faustina's relations, nor

their gratitude to Corona, whose explanation they accepted at

once, with a delight which may easily be imagined.

"But your porter said he had seen her leave your house," said the

Princess Montevarchi, recollecting the detail and anxious to have

it explained.

"He was mistaken, in his fright," returned Corona, calmly. "It was

only my maid, who ran out to see what was the matter and returned

soon afterwards."

There was nothing more to be said. The old prince and Ascanio

Bellegra walked home with Corona, who refused to wait until a

carriage could be got ready, on the ground that her husband might

have returned from the search and might be anxious at her absence.

She left her escort at her door and mounted the steps alone. As

she was going up the porter came running after her.

"Excellency," he said in low tones, "the Signor Principe came back

while you were gone, and I told him that you had received a note

from the Vatican and had gone away with the Zouave who brought it.

I hope I did right---"

"Of course you did," replied Corona. She was a calm woman and not

easily thrown off her guard, but as she made her answer she was

conscious of an unpleasant sensation wholly new to her. She had

never done anything concerning which she had reason to ask herself

what Giovanni would think of it. For the first time since her

marriage with him she knew that she had something to conceal. How,

indeed, was it possible to tell him the story of Faustina's wild

doings? Giovanni was a man who knew the world, and had no great

belief in its virtues. To tell him what had occurred would be to

do Faustina an irreparable injury in his eyes. He would believe

his wife, no doubt, but he would tell her that Faustina had

deceived her. She cared little what he might think of Gouache, for

she herself was incensed against him, believing that he must

certainly have used some persuasion to induce Faustina to follow

him, mad as the idea seemed.

Corona had little time for reflection, however. She could not

stand upon the stairs, and as soon as she entered the house she

must meet her husband. She made up her mind hurriedly to do what

in most cases is extremely dangerous. Giovanni was in her boudoir,

pale and anxious. He had forgotten that he had not dined that

evening and was smoking a cigarette with short sharp puffs.

"Thank God!" he cried, as his wife entered the room. "Where have

you been, my darling?"

"Giovanni," said Corona, gravely, laying her two hands on his

shoulders, "you know you can trust me--do you not?"

"As I trust Heaven," he answered, tenderly.

"You must trust me now, then," said she. "I cannot tell you where

I have been. I will tell you some day, you have my solemn promise.

Faustina Montevarchi is with her mother. I took her back, and told

them she had followed me from the room, had lost her way in the

house, and had accidentally fastened a door which she could not

open. You must support the story. You need only say that I told

you so, because you were out at the time. I will not lie to you,

so I tell you that I invented the story."

Sant' Ilario was silent for a few minutes, during which he looked

steadily into his wife's eyes, which met his without flinching.

"You shall do as you please, Corona," he said at last, returning

the cigarette to his lips and still looking at her. "Will you

answer me one question?"

"If I can without explaining."

"That Zouave who brought the message from the Vatican--was he

Gouache?"

Corona turned her eyes away, annoyed at the demand. To refuse to

answer was tantamount to admitting the truth, and she would not

lie to her husband.

"It was Gouache," she said, after a moment's hesitation.

"I thought so," answered Sant' Ilario in a low voice. He moved

away, throwing his cigarette into the fireplace. "Very well," he

continued, "I will remember to tell the story as you told it to

me, and I am sure you will tell me the truth some day."

"Of course," said Corona. "And I thank you, Giovanni, with my

whole heart! There is no one like you, dear."

She sat down in a chair beside him as he stood, and taking his

hand she pressed it to her lips. She knew well enough what a

strange thing she had asked, and she was indeed grateful to him.

He stooped down and kissed her forehead.

"I will always trust you," he said, softly. "Tell me, dear one,

has this matter given you pain? Is it a secret that will trouble

you?"

"Not now," she answered, frankly.

Giovanni was in earnest when he promised to trust his wife. He

knew, better than any living man, how well worthy she was of his

utmost confidence, and he meant what he said. It must be confessed

that the situation was a trying one to a man of his temper, and

the depth of his love for Corona can be judged from the readiness

with which he consented to her concealing anything from him. Every

circumstance connected with what had happened that evening was

strange, and the conclusion, instead of elucidating the mystery,

only made it more mysterious still. His cousin's point-blank

declaration that Faustina and Gouache were in love was startling

to all his ideas and prejudices. He had seen Gouache kiss Corona's

hand in a corner of the drawing-room, a proceeding which he did

not wholly approve, though it was common enough. Then Gouache and

Faustina had disappeared. Then Faustina had been found, and to

facilitate the finding it had been necessary that Corona and

Gouache should leave the palace together at one o'clock in the

morning. Finally, Corona had appealed to his confidence in her and

had taken advantage of it to refuse any present explanation

whatever of her proceedings. Corona was a very noble and true

woman, and he had promised to trust her. How far he kept his word

will appear hereafter.

CHAPTER VII.

When San Giacinto heard Corona's explanation of Faustina's

disappearance, he said nothing. He did not believe the story in

the least, but if every one was satisfied there was no reason why

he should not be satisfied also. Though he saw well enough that

the tale was a pure invention, and that there was something behind

it which was not to be known, the result was, on the whole,

exactly what he desired. He received the thanks of the Montevarchi

household for his fruitless exertions with a smile of

gratification, and congratulated the princess upon the happy issue

of the adventure. He made no present attempt to ascertain the real

truth by asking questions which would have been hard to answer,

for he was delighted that the incident should be explained away

and forgotten at once. Donna Faustina's disappearance was of

course freely discussed and variously commented, but the general

verdict of the world was contrary to San Giacinto's private

conclusions. People said that the account given by the family must

be true, since it was absurd to suppose that a child just out of

the convent could be either so foolish or so courageous as to go

out alone at such a moment. No other hypothesis was in the least

tenable, and the demonstration offered must be accepted as giving

the only solution of the problem. San Giacinto told no one that he

thought differently.

It was before all things his intention to establish himself firmly

in Roman society, and his natural tact told him that the best way

to accomplish this was to offend no one, and to endorse without

question the opinion of the majority. Moreover, as a part of his

plan for assuring his position consisted in marrying Faustina's

sister, his interest lay manifestly in protecting the good name of

her family by every means in his power. He knew that old

Montevarchi passed for being one of the most rigid amongst the

stiff company of the strait-laced, and that the prince was as

careful of the conduct of his children, as his father had formerly

been in regard to his own doings. Ascanio Bellegra was the result

of this home education, and already bid fair to follow in his

parent's footsteps. Christian virtues are certainly not

incompatible with manliness, but the practice of them as

maintained by Prince Montevarchi had made his son Ascanio a

colourless creature, rather non-bad than good, clothed in a

garment of righteousness that fitted him only because his harmless

soul had no salient bosses of goodness, any more than it was

disfigured by any reprehensible depressions capable of harbouring

evil.

There is a class of men in certain states of society who are

manly, but not masculine. There is nothing paradoxical in the

statement, nor is it a mere play upon the meanings of words. There

are men of all ages, young, middle-aged, and old, who possess many

estimable virtues, who show physical courage wherever it is

necessary, who are honourable, strong, industrious, and tenacious

of purpose, but who undeniably lack something which belongs to the

ideal man, and which, for want of a better word, we call the

masculine element. When we shall have microscopes so large and

powerful that a human being shall be as transparent under the

concentrated light of the lenses as the tiniest insect when placed

in one of our modern instruments, then, perhaps, the scientist of

the future may discover the causes of this difference. I believe,

however, that it does not depend upon the fact of one man having a

few ounces more of blood in his veins than another. The fact lies

deeper hidden than that, and may puzzle the psychologist as well

as the professor of anthropology. For us it exists, and we cannot

explain it, but must content ourselves with comparing the

phenomena which proceed from these differences of organisation. At

the present day the society of the English-speaking races seems to

favour the growth of the creature who is only manly but not

masculine, whereas outside the pale of that strange little family

which calls itself "society" the masculinity of man is more

striking than among other races. Not long ago a French journalist

said that many of the peculiarities of the English-speaking

peoples proceeded from the omnipresence of the young girl, who

reads every novel that appears, goes to every theatre, and

regulates the tone of conversation and literature by her never-

absent innocence. Cynics, if there are still representatives of a

school which has grown ridiculous, may believe this if they

please; the fact remains that it is precisely the most masculine

class of men who show the strongest predilection for the society

of the most refined women, and who on the whole show the greatest

respect for all women in general. The masculine man prefers the

company of the other sex by natural attraction, and would perhaps

rather fight with other men, or at least strive to outdo them in

the struggle for notoriety, power, or fame, than spend his time in

friendly conversation with them, no matter how interesting the

topic selected. This point of view may be regarded as uncivilised,

but it may be pointed out that it is only in the most civilised

countries that the society of women is accessible to all men of

their own social position. No one familiar with Eastern countries

will pretend that Orientals shut up their women because they enjoy

their company so much as to be unwilling to share the privilege

with their friends.

San Giacinto was pre-eminently a masculine man, as indeed were all

the Saracinesca, in a greater or less degree. He understood women

instinctively, and, with a very limited experience of the world,

knew well enough the strength of their influence. It was

characteristic of him that he had determined to marry almost as

soon as he had got a footing in Roman society. He saw clearly that

if he could unite himself with a powerful family he could exercise

a directing power over the women which must ultimately give him

all that he needed. Through his cousins he had very soon made the

acquaintance of the Montevarchi household, and seeing that there

were two marriageable daughters, he profited by the introduction.

He would have preferred Faustina, perhaps, but he foresaw that he

should find fewer difficulties in obtaining her sister for his

wife. The old prince and princess were in despair at seeing her

still unmarried, and it was clear that they were not likely to

find a better match for her than the Marchese di San Giacinto. He,

on his part, knew that his past occupation was a disadvantage to

him in the eyes of the world, although he was the undoubted and

acknowledged cousin of the Saracinesca, and the only man of the

family besides old Leone and his son Sant' Ilario. His two boys,

also, were a drawback, since his second wife's children could not

inherit the whole of the property he expected to leave. But his

position was good, and Flavia was not generally considered to be

likely to marry, so that he had good hopes of winning her.

It was clear to him from the first that there must be some reason

why she had not married, and the somewhat disparaging remarks

concerning her which he heard from time to time excited his

curiosity. As he had always intended to consult the head of his

family upon the matter he now determined to do so at once. He was

not willing, indeed, to let matters go any further until he had

ascertained the truth concerning her, and he was sure that Prince

Saracinesca would tell him everything at the first mention of a

proposal to marry her. The old gentleman had too much pride to

allow his cousin to make an unfitting match. Accordingly, on the

day following the events last narrated San Giacinto called after

breakfast and found the prince, as usual, alone in his study. He

was not dozing, however, for the accounts of the last night's

doings in the Osservatore Romano were very interesting.

"I suppose you have heard all about Montevarchi's daughter?" asked

Saracinesca, laying his paper aside and giving his hand to San

Giacinto.

"Yes, and I am delighted at the conclusion of the adventure,

especially as I have something to ask you about another member of

the family."

"I hope Flavia has not disappeared now," remarked the prince.

"I trust not," answered San Giacinto with a laugh. "I was going to

ask you whether I should have your approval if I proposed to marry

her."

"This is a very sudden announcement," said Saracinesca with some

surprise. "I must think about it. I appreciate your friendly

disposition vastly, my dear cousin, in asking my opinion, and I

will give the matter my best consideration."

"I shall be very grateful," replied the younger man, gravely. "In

my position I feel bound to consult you. I should do so in any

case for the mere benefit of your advice, which is very needful to

one who, like myself, is but a novice in the ways of Rome."

Saracinesca looked keenly at his cousin, as though expecting to

discover some touch of irony in his tone or expression. He

remembered the fierce altercations he had engaged in with Giovanni

when he had wished the latter to marry Tullia Mayer, and was

astonished to find San Giacinto, over whom he had no real

authority at all, so docile and anxious for his counsel.

"I suppose you would like to know something about her fortune," he

said at last. "Montevarchi is rich, but miserly. He could give her

anything he liked."

"Of course it is important to know what he would like to give,"

replied San Giacinto with a smile.

"Of course. Very well. There are two daughters already married.

They each had a hundred thousand scudi. It is not so bad, after

all, when you think what a large family he has--but he could have

given more. As for Flavia, he might do something generous for the

sake of---"

The old gentleman was going to say, for the sake of getting rid of

her, and perhaps his cousin thought as much. The prince checked

himself, however, and ended his sentence rather awkwardly.

"For the sake of getting such a fine fellow for a husband," he

said.

"Why is she not already married?" inquired San Giacinto with a

very slight inclination of his head, as an acknowledgment of the

flattering speech whereby the prince had helped himself out of his

difficulty.

"Who knows!" ejaculated the latter enigmatically.

"Is there any story about her? Was she ever engaged to be married?

It is rather strange when one thinks of it, for she is a handsome

girl. Pray be quite frank--I have taken no steps in the matter."

"The fact is that I do not know. She is not like other girls, and

as she gives her father and mother some trouble in society, I

suppose that young men's fathers have been afraid to ask for her.

No. I can assure you that there is no story connected with her.

She has a way of stating disagreeable truths that terrifies

Montevarchi. She was delicate as a child and was brought up at

home, so of course she has no manners."

"I should have thought she should have better manners for that,"

remarked San Giacinto. The prince stared at him in surprise.

"We do not think so here," he answered after a moment's pause. "On

the whole, I should say that for a hundred and twenty thousand you

might marry her, if you are so inclined--and if you can manage

her. But that is a matter for you to judge."

"The Montevarchi are, I believe, what you call a great family?"

"They are not the Savelli, nor the Frangipani--nor the Saracinesca

either. But they are a good family--good blood, good fortune, and

what Montevarchi calls good principles."

"You think I could not do better than marry Donna Flavia, then?"

"It would be a good marriage, decidedly. You ought to have married

Tullia Mayer. If she had not made a fool of herself and an enemy

of me, and if you had turned up two years ago--well, there were a

good many objections to her, and stories about her, too. But she

was rich--eh! that was a fortune to be snapped up by that

scoundrel Del Ferice!"

"Del Ferice?" repeated San Giacinto. "The same who tried to prove

that your son was married by copying my marriage register?"

"The same. I will tell you the rest of the story some day. Then at

that time there was Bianca Valdarno--but she married a Neapolitan

last year; and the Rocca girl, but Onorato Cantalupo got her and

her dowry--Montevarchi's second son--and--well, I see nobody now,

except Flavia's sister Faustina. Why not marry her? It is true

that her father means to catch young Frangipani, but he will have

no such luck, I can tell him, unless he will part with half a

million."

"Donna Faustina is too young," said San Giacinto, calmly.

"Besides, as they are sisters and there is so little choice, I may

say that I prefer Donna Flavia, she is more gay, more lively."

"Vastly more, I have no doubt, and you will have to look after

her, unless you can make her fall in love with you." Saracinesca

laughed at the idea.

"With me!" exclaimed San Giacinto, joining in his cousin's

merriment. "With me, indeed! A sober widower, between thirty and

forty! A likely thing! Fortunately there is no question of love in

this matter. I think I can answer for her conduct, however."

"I would not be the man to raise your jealousy!" remarked

Saracinesca, laughing again as he looked admiringly at his

cousin's gigantic figure and lean stern face. "You are certainly

able to take care of your wife. Besides, I have no doubt that

Flavia will change when she is married. She is not a bad girl--

only a little too fond of making fun of her father and mother, and

after all, as far as the old man is concerned, I do not wonder.

There is one point upon which you must satisfy him, though--I am

not curious, and do not ask you questions, but I warn you that

glad as he will be to marry his daughter, he will want to drive a

bargain with you and will inquire about your fortune."

San Giacinto was silent for a few moments and seemed to be making

a calculation in his head.

"Would a fortune equal to what he gives her be sufficient?" he

asked at length.

"Yes. I fancy so," replied the prince looking rather curiously at

his cousin. "You see," he continued, "as you have children by your

first marriage, Montevarchi would wish to see Flavia's son

provided for, if she has one. That is your affair. I do not want

to make suggestions."

"I think," said San Giacinto after another short interval of

silence, "that I could agree to settle something upon any children

which may be born. Do you think some such arrangement would

satisfy Prince Montevarchi?"

"Certainly, if you can agree about the terms. Such things are

often done in these cases."

"I am very grateful for your advice. May I count upon your good

word with the prince, if he asks your opinion?"

"Of course," answered Saracinesca, readily, if not very cordially.

He had not at first liked his cousin, and although he had overcome

his instinctive aversion to the man, the feeling was momentarily

revived with more than its former force by the prospect of being

perhaps called upon to guarantee, in a measure, San Giacinto's

character as a suitable husband for Flavia. He had gone too far

already however, for since he had given his approval to the scheme

it would not become him to withhold his cooperation, should his

assistance be in any way necessary in order to bring about the

marriage. The slight change of tone as he uttered the last words

had not escaped San Giacinto, however. His perceptions were

naturally quick and were sharpened by the peculiarities of his

present position, so that he understood Saracinesca's

unwillingness to have a hand in the matter almost better than the

prince understood it himself.

"I trust that I shall not be obliged to ask your help," remarked

San Giacinto. "I was, indeed, more anxious for your goodwill than

for any more material aid."

"You have it, with all my heart," said Saracinesca warmly, for he

was a little ashamed of his coldness.

San Giacinto took his leave and went away well satisfied with what

he had accomplished, as indeed he had good cause to be.

Montevarchi's consent to the marriage was not doubtful, now that

San Giacinto was assured that he was able to fulfil the conditions

which would be asked, and the knowledge that he was able to do

even more than was likely to be required of him gave him

additional confidence in the result. To tell the truth, he was

strongly attracted by Flavia; and though he would assuredly have

fought with his inclination had it appeared to be misplaced, he

was pleased with the prospect of marrying a woman who would not

only strengthen his position in society, but for whom he knew that

he was capable of a sincere attachment. Marriage, according to his

light, was before all things a contract entered into for mutual

advantage; but he saw no reason why the fulfilment of such a

contract should not be made as agreeable as possible.

The principal point was yet to be gained, however, and as San

Giacinto mounted the steps of the Palazzo Montevarchi he stopped

more than once, considering for the last time whether he were

doing wisely or not. On the whole he determined to proceed, and

made up his mind that he would go straight to the point.

Flavia's father was sitting in his study when San Giacinto

arrived, and the latter was struck by the contrast between the

personalities and the modes of life of his cousin whom he had just

left and of the man to whom he was about to propose himself as a

son-in-law. The Saracinesca were by no means very luxurious men,

but they understood the comforts of existence better than most

Romans of that day. If there was massive old-fashioned furniture

against the walls and in the corners of the huge rooms, there were

on the other hand soft carpets for the feet and cushioned easy-

chairs to sit in. There were fires on the hearths when the weather

was cold, and modern lamps for the long winter evenings. There

were new books on the tables, engravings, photographs, a few

objects of value and beauty not jealously locked up in closets,

but looking as though they were used, if useful, or at least as if

some one derived pleasure from looking at them. The palace itself

was a stern old fortress in the midst of the older part of the

city, but within there was a genial atmosphere of generous living,

and, since Sant' Ilario's marriage with Corona, an air of

refinement and good taste such as only a woman can impart to the

house in which she dwells.

The residence of the Montevarchi was very different. Narrow strips

of carpet were stretched in straight lines across cold marble

floors, from one door to another. Instead of open fires in the

huge chimney-places, pans of lighted charcoal were set in the dim,

empty rooms. Half a dozen halls were furnished alike. Each had

three marble tables and twelve straight-backed chairs ranged

against the walls, the only variety being that some were covered

with red damask and some with green. Vast old-fashioned mirrors,

set in magnificent frames built into the wall, reflected vistas of

emptiness and acres of cold solitude. Nor were the rooms where the

family met much better. There were more tables and more straight-

backed chairs there than in the outer halls, but that was all. The

drawing-room had a carpet, which for many years had been an object

of the greatest concern to the prince, who never left Rome for the

months of August and September until he had assured himself that

this valuable object had been beaten, dusted, peppered, and sewn

up in a linen case as old as itself, that is to say, dating from a

quarter of a century back. That carpet was an extravagance to

which his father had been driven by his English daughter-in-law;

it was the only one of which he had ever been guilty, and the

present head of the family meant that it should last his lifetime,

and longer too, if care could preserve it. The princess herself

had been made to remember for five and twenty years that since she

had obtained a carpet she must expect nothing else in the way of

modern improvements. It was the monument of a stupendous energy

which she had expended entirely in that one struggle, and the

sight of it reminded her of her youth. Long ago she had submitted

once and for ever to the old Roman ways, and though she knew that

a very little saved from the expense of maintaining a score of

useless servants and a magnificent show equipage would suffice to

make at least one room in the house comfortable for her use, she

no longer sighed at the reflection, but consoled herself with

making her children put up with the inconveniences she herself had

borne so long and so patiently.

Prince Montevarchi's private room was as comfortless as the rest

of the house. Narrow, high, dim, carpetless, insufficiently warmed

in winter by a brazier of coals, and at present not warmed at all,

though the weather was chilly; furnished shabbily with dusty

shelves, a writing-table, and a few chairs with leather seats,

musty with an ancient mustiness which seemed to be emitted by the

rows of old books and the moth-eaten baize cover of the table--the

whole place looked more like the office of a decayed notary than

the study of a wealthy nobleman of ancient lineage. The old

gentleman himself entered the room a few seconds after San

Giacinto had been ushered in, having slipped out to change his

coat when his visitor was announced. It was a fixed principle of

his life to dress as well as his neighbours when they could see

him, but to wear threadbare garments whenever he could do so

unobserved. He greeted San Giacinto with a grave dignity which

contrasted strangely with the weakness and excitement he had shown

on the previous night.

"I wish to speak to you upon a delicate subject," began the

younger man, after seating himself upon one of the high-backed

chairs which cracked ominously under his weight.

"I am at your service," replied the old gentleman, inclining his

head politely.

"I feel," continued San Giacinto, "that although my personal

acquaintance with you has unfortunately been of short duration,

the familiarity which exists between your family and mine will

entitle what I have to say to a share of your consideration. The

proposal which I have to make has perhaps been made by others

before me and has been rejected. I have the honour to ask of you

the hand of your daughter."

"Faustina, I suppose?" asked the old prince in an indifferent

tone, but looking sharply at his companion out of his small keen

eyes.

"Pardon me, I refer to Donna Flavia Montevarchi."

"Flavia?" repeated the prince, in a tone of unmistakable surprise,

which however was instantly moderated to the indifferent key again

as he proceeded. "You see, we have been thinking so much about my

daughter Faustina since last night that her name came to my lips

quite naturally."

"Most natural, I am sure," answered San Giacinto; who, however,

had understood at once that his suit was to have a hearing. He

then remained silent.

"You wish to marry Flavia, I understand," remarked the prince

after a pause. "I believe you are a widower, Marchese. I have

heard that you have children."

"Two boys."

"Two boys, eh? I congratulate you. Boys, if brought up in

Christian principles, are much less troublesome than girls. But,

my dear Marchese, these same boys are an obstacle--a very serious

obstacle."

"Less serious than you may imagine, perhaps. My fortune does not

come under the law of primogeniture. There is no fidei commissum.

I can dispose of it as I please."

"Eh, eh! But there must be a provision," said Montevarchi, growing

interested in the subject.

"That shall be mutual," replied San Giacinto, gravely.

"I suppose you mean to refer to my daughter's portion," returned

the other with more indifference. "It is not much, you know--

scarcely worth mentioning. I am bound to tell you that, in

honour."

"We must certainly discuss the matter, if you are inclined to

consider my proposal."

"Well, you know what young women's dowries are in these days, my

dear Marchese. We are none of us very rich."

"I will make a proposal," said San Giacinto. "You shall give your

daughter a portion. Whatever be the amount, up to a reasonable

limit, which you choose to give, I will settle a like sum in such

a manner that at my death it shall revert to her, and to her

children by me, if she have any."

"That amounts merely to settling upon herself the dowry I give

her," replied Montevarchi, sharply. "I give you a scudo for your

use. You settle my scudo upon your wife, that is all."

"Not at all," returned San Giacinto. "I do not wish to have

control of her dowry---"

"The devil! Oh--I see--how stupid of me--I am indeed so old that I

cannot count any more! How could I make such a mistake? Of course,

it would be exactly as you say. Of course it would."

"It would not be so as a general rule," said San Giacinto, calmly,

"because most men would not consent to such an arrangement. That,

however, is my proposal."

"Oh! For the sake of Flavia, a man would do much, I am sure,"

answered the prince, who began to think that his visitor was in

love with the girl, incredible as such a thing appeared to him.

The younger man made no answer to this remark, however, and waited

for Montevarchi to state his terms.

"How much shall we say?" asked the latter at length.

"That shall be for you to decide. Whatever you give I will give,

if I am able."

"Ah, yes! But how am I to know what you are able to give, dear

Marchese?" The prince suspected that San Giacinto's offer, if he

could be induced to make one, would not be very large.

"Am I to understand," inquired San Giacinto, "that if I name the

amount to be settled so that at my death it goes to my wife and

her children by me for ever, you will agree to settle a like sum

upon Donna Flavia in her own right? If so, I will propose what I

think fair."

Montevarchi looked keenly at his visitor for some moments, then

looked away and hesitated. He was very anxious to marry Flavia at

once, and he had many reasons for supposing that San Giacinto was

not very rich.

"How about the title?" he asked suddenly.

"My title, of course, goes to my eldest son by my first marriage.

But if you are anxious on that score I think my cousin would

willingly confer one of his upon the eldest son of your daughter.

It would cost him nothing, and would be a sort of compensation to

me for my great-grandfather's folly."

"How?" asked Montevarchi. "I do not understand."

"I supposed you knew the story. I am the direct descendant of the

elder branch. There was an agreement between two brothers of the

family, by which the elder resigned the primogeniture in favour of

the younger who was then married. The elder, who took the San

Giacinto title, married late in life and I am his great-grandson.

If he had not acted so foolishly I should be in my cousin's shoes.

You see it would be natural for him to let me have some disused

title for one of my children in consideration of this fact. He has

about a hundred, I believe. You could ask him, if you please."

San Giacinto's grave manner assured Montevarchi of the truth of

the story. He hesitated a moment longer, and then made up his

mind.

"I agree to your proposal, my dear Marchese," he said, with

unusual blandness of manner.

"I will settle one hundred and fifty thousand scudi in the way I

stated," said San Giacinto, simply. The prince started from his

chair.

"One--hundred--and--fifty--thousand!" he repeated slowly. "Why, it

is a fortune in itself! Dear me! I had no idea you would name

anything so large---"

"Seven thousand five hundred scudi a year, at five per cent,"

remarked the younger man in a businesslike tone. "You give the

same. That will insure our children an income of fifteen thousand

scudi. It is not colossal, but it should suffice. Besides, I have

not said that I would not leave them more, if I chanced to have

more to leave."

The prince had sunk back into his chair, and sat drumming on the

table with his long thin fingers. His face wore an air of mingled

surprise and bewilderment. To tell the truth, he had expected that

San Giacinto would name about fifty thousand as the sum requisite.

He did not know whether to be delighted at the prospect of

marrying his daughter so well or angry at the idea of having

committed himself to part with so much money.

"That is much more than I gave my other daughters," he said at

last, in a tone of hesitation.

"Did you give the money to them or to their husbands?" inquired

San Giacinto.

"To their husbands, of course."

"Then allow me to point out that you will now be merely settling

money in your own family, and that the case is very different. Not

only that, but I am settling the same sum upon your family,

instead of taking your money for my own use. You are manifestly

the gainer by the transaction."

"It would be the same, then, if I left Flavia the money at my

death, since it remains in the family," suggested the prince, who

sought an escape from his bargain.

"Not exactly," argued San Giacinto. "First there is the yearly

interest until your death, which I trust is yet very distant. And

then there is the uncertainty of human affairs. It will be

necessary that you invest the money in trust, as I shall do, at

the time of signing the contract. Otherwise there would be no

fairness in the arrangement."

"So you say that you are descended from the elder branch of the

Saracinesca. How strange are the ways of Providence, my dear

Marchese!"

"It was a piece of great folly on the part of my great-

grandfather," replied the other, shrugging his shoulders. "You

should never say that a man will not marry until he is dead."

"Ah no! The ways of heaven are inscrutable! It is not for us poor

mortals to attempt to change them. I suppose that agreement of

which you speak was made in proper form and quite regular."

"I presume so, since no effort was ever made to change the

dispositions established by it."

"I suppose so--I suppose so, dear Marchese. It would be very

interesting to see those papers."

"My cousin has them," said San Giacinto. "I daresay he will not

object. But, pardon me if I return to a subject which is very near

my heart. Do I understand that you consent to the proposal I have

made? If so, we might make arrangements for a meeting to take

place between our notaries."

"One hundred and fifty thousand," said Montevarchi, slowly rubbing

his pointed chin with his bony lingers. "Five per cent--seven

thousand five hundred--a mint of money, Signor Marchese, a mint of

money! And these are hard times. What a rich man you must be, to

talk so lightly about such immense sums! Well, well--you are very

eloquent, I must consent, and by strict economy I may perhaps

succeed in recovering the loss."

"You must be aware that it is not really a loss," argued San

Giacinto, "since it is to remain with your daughter and her

children, and consequently with your family."

"Yes, I know. But money is money, my friend," exclaimed the

prince, laying his right hand on the old green tablecover and

slowly drawing his crooked nails over the cloth, as though he

would like to squeeze gold out of the dusty wool. There was

something almost fierce in his tone, too, as he uttered the words,

and his small eyes glittered unpleasantly. He knew well enough

that he was making a good bargain and that San Giacinto was a

better match than he had ever hoped to get for Flavia. So anxious

was he, indeed, to secure the prize that he entirely abstained

from asking any questions concerning San Giacinto's past life,

whereby some obstacle might have been raised to the intended

marriage. He promised himself that the wedding should take place

at once.

"It is understood," he continued, after a pause, "that we or our

notaries shall appear with the money in cash, and that it shall be

immediately invested as we shall jointly decide, the settlements

being made at the same time and on the spot."

"Precisely so," replied San Giacinto. "No money, no contract."

"In that case I will inform my daughter of my decision."

"I shall be glad to avail myself of an early opportunity to pay my

respects to Donna Flavia."

"The wedding might take place on the 30th of November, my dear

Marchese. The 1st of December is Advent Sunday, and no marriages

are permitted during Advent without a special licence."

"An expensive affair, doubtless," remarked San Giacinto, gravely,

in spite of his desire to laugh.

"Yes. Five scudi at least," answered Montevarchi, impressively.

"Let us by all means be economical."

"The Holy Church is very strict about these matters, and you may

as well keep the money."

"I will," replied San Giacinto, rising to go. "Do not let me

detain you any longer. Pray accept my warmest thanks, and allow me

to say that I shall consider it a very great honour to become your

son-in-law."

"Ah, indeed, you are very good, my dear Marchese. As for me I need

consolation. Consider a father's feelings, when he consigns his

beloved daughter--Flavia is an angel upon earth, my friend--when,

I say, a father gives his dear child, whom he loves as the apple

of his eye, to be carried off by a man--a man even of your worth!

When your children are grown up, you will understand what I

suffer."

"I quite understand," said San Giacinto in serious tones. "It

shall be the endeavour of my life to make you forget your loss.

May I have the honour of calling to-morrow at this time?"

"Yes, my dear Marchese, yes, my dear son--forgive a father's

tenderness. To-morrow at this time, and---" he hesitated. "And

then--some time before the ceremony, perhaps--you will give us the

pleasure of your company at breakfast, I am sure, will you not? We

are very simple people, but we are hospitable in our quiet way.

Hospitality is a virtue," he sighed a little. "A necessary

virtue," he added with some emphasis upon the adjective.

"It will give me great pleasure," replied San Giacinto.

Therewith he left the room and a few moments later was walking

slowly homewards, revolving in his mind the probable results of

his union with the Montevarchi family.

When Montevarchi was alone, he smiled pleasantly to himself, and

took out of a secret drawer a large book of accounts, in the study

of which he spent nearly half an hour, with evident satisfaction.

Having carefully locked up the volume, and returned the sliding

panel to its place, he sent for his wife, who presently appeared.

"Sit down, Guendalina," he said. "I will change my coat, and then

I have something important to say to you."

He had quite forgotten the inevitable change in his satisfaction

over the interview with San Giacinto, but the sight of the

princess recalled the necessity for economy. It had been a part of

the business of his life to set her a good example in this

respect. When he came back he seated himself before her.

"My dear, I have got a husband for Flavia," were his first words.

"At last!" exclaimed the princess. "I hope he is presentable," she

added. She knew that she could trust her husband in the matter of

fortune.

"The new Saracinesca--the Marchese di San Giacinto."

Princess Montevarchi's ruddy face expressed the greatest

astonishment, and her jaw dropped as she stared at the old

gentleman.

"A pauper!" she exclaimed when she had recovered herself enough to

speak.

"Perhaps, Guendalina mia--but he settles a hundred and fifty

thousand scudi on Flavia and her heirs for ever, the money to be

paid on the signing of the contract. That does not look like

pauperism. Of course, under the circumstances I agreed to do the

same. It is settled on Flavia, do you understand? He does not want

a penny of it, not a penny! Trust your husband for a serious man

of business, Guendalina."

"Have you spoken to Flavia? It certainly looks like a good match.

There is no doubt about his being of the Saracinesca, of course.

How could there be? They have taken him to their hearts. But how

will Flavia behave?"

"What a foolish question, my dear!" exclaimed Montevarchi. "How

easily one sees that you are English! She will be delighted, I

presume. And if not, what difference does it make?"

"I would not have married you against my will, Lotario," observed

the princess.

"For my part, I had no choice. My dear father said simply, 'My

son, you will pay your respects to that young lady, who is to be

your wife. If you wish to marry anyone else, I will lock you up.'

And so I did. Have I not been a faithful husband to you,

Guendalina, through more than thirty years?"

The argument was unanswerable, and Montevarchi had employed it

each time one of his children was married. In respect of

faithfulness, at least, he had been a model husband.

"It is sufficient," he added, willing to make a concession to his

wife's foreign notions, "that there should be love on the one

side, and Christian principles on the other. I can assure you that

San Giacinto is full of love, and as for Flavia, my dear, has she

not been educated by you?"

"As for Flavia's Christian principles, my dear Lotario, I only

hope they may suffice for her married life. She is a terrible

child to have at home. But San Giacinto looks like a determined

man. I shall never forget his kindness in searching for Faustina

last night. He was devotion itself, and I should not have been

surprised had he wished to marry her instead."

"That exquisite creature is reserved for a young friend of ours,

Guendalina. Do me the favour never to speak of her marrying anyone

else."

The princess was silent for a moment, and then began to make a

series of inquiries concerning the proposed bridegroom, which it

is unnecessary to recount.

"And now we will send for Flavia," said Montevarchi, at last.

"Would it not be best that I should tell her?" asked his wife.

"My dear," he replied sternly, "when matters of grave importance

have been decided it is the duty of the head of the house to

communicate the decision to the persons concerned."

So Flavia was sent for, and appeared shortly, her pretty face and

wicked black eyes expressing both surprise and anticipation. She

was almost as dark as San Giacinto himself, though of a very

different type. Her small nose had an upward turn which disturbed

her mother's ideas of the fitness of things, and her thick black

hair waved naturally over her forehead. Her figure was graceful

and her movements quick and spontaneous. The redness of her lips

showed a strong vitality, which was further confirmed by the

singular brightness of her eyes. She was no beauty, especially in

a land where the dark complexion predominates, but she was very

pretty and possessed something of that mysterious quality which

charms without exciting direct admiration.

"Flavia," said her father, addressing her in solemn tones, "you

are to be married, my dear child. I have sent for you at once,

because there was no time to be lost, seeing that the wedding must

take place before the beginning of Advent. The news will probably

give you pleasure, but I trust you will reflect upon the solemnity

of such engagements and lay aside---"

"Would you mind telling me the name of my husband?" inquired

Flavia, interrupting the paternal lecture.

"The man I have selected for my son-in-law is one whom all women

would justly envy you, were it not that envy is an atrocious sin,

and one which I trust you will henceforth endeavour---"

"To drown, crush out and stamp upon in the pursuit of true

Christian principles," said Flavia with a laugh. "I know all about

envy. It is one of the seven deadlies. I can tell you them all, if

you like."

"Flavia, I am amazed!" cried the princess, severely.

"I had not expected this conduct of my daughter," said

Montevarchi. "And though I am at present obliged to overlook it, I

can certainly not consider it pardonable. You will listen with

becoming modesty and respect to what I have to say."

"I am all modesty, respect and attention--but I would like to know

his name, papa--please consider that pardonable!"

"I do not know why I should not tell you that, and I shall

certainly give you all such information concerning him as it is

proper that you should receive. The fact that he is a widower need

not surprise you, for in the inscrutable ways of Providence some

men are deprived of their wives sooner than others. Nor should his

age appear to you in the light of an obstacle--indeed there are no

obstacles---"

"A widower--old--probably bald--I can see him already. Is he fat,

papa?"

"He approaches the gigantic; but as I have often told you, Flavia,

the qualities a wise father should seek in choosing a husband for

his child are not dependent upon outward---"

"For heaven's sake, mamma," cried Flavia, "tell me the creature's

name!"

"The Marchese di San Giacinto--let your father speak, and do not

interrupt him."

"While you both insist on interrupting me," said Montevarchi, "it

is impossible for me to express myself."

"I wish it were!" observed Flavia, under her breath. "You are

speaking of the Saracinesca cousin, San Giacinto? Not so bad after

all."

"It is very unbecoming in a young girl to speak of men by their

last names---"

"Giovanni, then. Shall I call him Giovanni?"

"Flavia!" exclaimed the princess. "How can you be so undutiful!

You should speak of him as the Marchese di San Giacinto."

"Silence!" cried the prince. "I will not be interrupted! The

Marchese di San Giacinto will call to-morrow, after breakfast, and

will pay his respects to you. You will receive him in a proper

spirit."

"Yes, papa," replied Flavia, suddenly growing meek, and folding

her hands submissively.

"He has behaved with unexampled liberality," continued

Montevarchi, "and I need hardly say that as the honour of our

house was concerned I have not allowed myself to be outdone. Since

you refuse to listen to the words of fatherly instruction which it

is natural I should speak on this occasion, you will at least

remember that your future husband is entirely such a man as I

would have chosen, that he is a Saracinesca, as well as a rich

man, and that he has been accustomed in the women of his family to

a greater refinement of manner than you generally think fit to

exhibit in the presence of your father."

"Yes, papa. May I go, now?"

"If your conscience will permit you to retire without a word of

gratitude to your parents, who in spite of the extreme

singularities of your behaviour have at last provided you with a

suitable husband; if, I say, you are capable of such ingratitude,

then, Flavia, you may certainly go."

"I was going to say, papa, that I thank you very much for my

husband, and mamma, too."

Thereupon she kissed her father's and her mother's hands with

great reverence and turned to leave the room. Her gravity forsook

her, however, before she reached the door.

"Evviva! Hurrah!" she cried, suddenly skipping across the

intervening space and snapping her small fingers like a pair of

castanets. "Evviva! Married at last! Hurrah!" And with this

parting salute she disappeared.

When she was gone, her father and mother looked at each other, as

they had looked many times before in the course of Flavia's life.

They had found little difficulty in bringing up their other

children, but Flavia was a mystery to them both. The princess

would have understood well enough a thorough English girl, full of

life and animal spirits, though shy and timid in the world, as the

elderly lady had herself been in her youth. But Flavia's character

was incomprehensible to her northern soul. Montevarchi understood

the girl better, but loved her even less. What seemed odd in her

to his wife, to him seemed vulgar and ill-bred, for he would have

had her like the rest, silent and respectful in his presence, and

in awe of him as the head of the house, if not in fact, at least

in manner. But Flavia's behaviour was in the eyes of Romans a very

serious objection to her as a wife for any of their sons, for in

their view moral worth was necessarily accompanied by outward

gravity and decorum, and a light manner could only be the visible

sign of a giddy heart.

"If only he does not find out what she is like!" exclaimed the

princess at last.

"I devoutly trust that heaven in its mercy may avert such a

catastrophe from our house," replied Montevarchi, who, however,

seemed to be occupied in adding together certain sums upon his

fingers.

San Giacinto understood Flavia better than either of her parents;

and although his marriage with her was before all things a part of

his plan for furthering his worldly interests, it must be

confessed that he had a stronger liking for the girl than her

father would have considered indispensable in such affairs. The

matter was decided at once, and in a few days the preliminaries

were settled between the lawyers, while Flavia exerted the utmost

pressure possible upon the parental purse in the question of the

trousseau.

It may seem strange that at the time when all Rome was convulsed

by an internal revolution, and when the temporal power appeared to

be in very great danger, Montevarchi and San Giacinto should have

been able to discuss so coolly the conditions of the marriage, and

even to fix the wedding day. The only possible explanation of this

fact is that neither of them believed in the revolution at all. It

is a noticeable characteristic of people who are fond of money

that they do not readily believe in any great changes. They are

indeed the most conservative of men, and will count their profits

at moments of peril with a coolness which would do honour to

veteran soldiers. Those who possess money put their faith in money

and give no credence to rumours of revolution which are not backed

by cash. Once or twice in history they have been wrong, but it

must be confessed that they have very generally been right.

As for San Giacinto, his own interests were infinitely more

absorbing to his attention than those of the world at large, and

being a man of uncommonly steady nerves, it seems probable that he

would have calmly pursued his course in the midst of much greater

disturbances than those which affected Rome at that time.

CHAPTER VIII.

When Anastase Gouache was at last relieved from duty and went home

in the gray dawn of the twenty-third, he lay down to rest

expecting to reflect upon the events of the night. The last twelve

hours had been the most eventful of his life; indeed less than

that time had elapsed since he had bid farewell to Faustina in the

drawing-room of the Palazzo Saracinesca, and yet the events which

had occurred in that short space had done much towards making him

another man. The change had begun two years earlier, and had

progressed slowly until it was completed all at once by a chain of

unforeseen circumstances. He realised the fact, and as this change

was not disagreeable to him he set himself to think about it.

Instead of reviewing what had happened, however, he did what was

much more natural in his case, he turned upon his pillow and fell

fast asleep. He was younger than his years, though he counted less

than thirty, and his happy nature had not yet formed that horrible

habit of wakefulness which will not yield even to bodily fatigue.

He lay down and slept like a boy, disturbed by no dreams and

troubled by no shadowy revival of dangers or emotions past.

He had placed a gulf between himself and his former life. What had

passed between him and Faustina, might under other circumstances

have become but a romantic episode in the past, to be thought of

with a certain tender regret, half fatuous, half genuine, whenever

the moonlight chanced to cast the right shadow and the artist's

mind was in the contemplative mood. The peculiar smell of broken

masonry, when it is a little damp, would recall the impression,

perhaps; an old wall knocked to pieces by builders would, through

his nostrils, bring vividly before him that midnight meeting amid

the ruins of the barracks, just as the savour of a certain truffle

might bring back the memory of a supper at Voisin's, or as, twenty

years hence, the pasty grittiness of rough maize bread would make

him remember the days when he was chasing brigands in the Samnite

hills. But this was not to be the case this time. There was more

matter for reminiscence than a ray of moonlight on a fair face, or

the smell of crumbling mortar.

There was a deep and sincere devotion on both sides, in two

persons both singularly capable of sincerity, and both foresaw

that the result of this love could never be indifference. The end

could only be exceeding happiness, or mortal sorrow. Anastase and

Faustina were not only themselves in earnest; each knew

instinctively that the other would be faithful, a condition

extremely rare in ordinary cases. Each recognised that the

obstacles were enormous, but neither doubted for a moment that

means would be found to overcome them.

In some countries the marriage of these two would have been a

simple matter enough. A man of the world, honourable, successful,

beginning to be famous, possessed of some fortune, might aspire to

marry any one he pleased in lands where it is not a disgrace to

have acquired the means of subsistence by one's own talent and

industry. Artists and poets have sometimes made what are called

great marriages. But in Rome, twenty years ago, things were very

different. It is enough to consider the way in which Montevarchi

arranged to dispose of his daughter Flavia to understand the light

in which he would have regarded Faustina's marriage with Anastase

Gouache. The very name of Gouache would have raised a laugh in the

Montevarchi household had any one suggested that a woman of that

traditionally correct race could ever make it her own. There were

persons in Rome, indeed, who might have considered the matter more

leniently. Corona Sant' Ilario was one of these; but her husband

and father-in-law would have opened their eyes as wide as old

Lotario Montevarchi himself, had the match been discussed before

them. Their patriarchally exclusive souls would have been shocked

and the dear fabric of their inborn prejudices shaken to its

deepest foundations. It was bad enough, from the point of view of

potential matrimony, to earn money, even if one had the right to

prefix "Don" to one's baptismal name. But to be no Don and to

receive coin for one's labour was a far more insurmountable

barrier against intermarriage with the patriarchs than hereditary

madness, toothless old age, leprosy, or lack of money.

Gouache had acquired enough knowledge of Roman life to understand

this, and nothing short of physical exhaustion would have

prevented his spending his leisure in considering the means of

overcoming such stupendous difficulties. When he awoke his

situation presented itself clearly enough to his mind, however,

and occupied his thoughts throughout the remainder of the day.

Owing to the insurrection his departure was delayed for twenty-

four hours, and his duty was likely to keep him busily engaged

during the short time that remained to him. The city was in a

state of siege and there would be a perpetual service of patrols,

sentries and general maintenance of order. The performance of

labours almost mechanical left him plenty of time for reflection,

though he found it hard to spare a moment in which to see any of

his friends.

He was very anxious to meet the Princess Sant' Ilario, whose

conduct on the previous night had seriously alarmed him. It was to

her that he looked for assistance in his troubles and the

consciousness that she was angry with him was a chief source of

distress. In the course of the few words he had exchanged with

her, she had made it sufficiently clear to him that although she

disapproved in principle of his attachment to Faustina, she would

do nothing to hinder his marriage if he should be able to overcome

the obstinacy of the girl's parents. He was at first at a loss to

explain her severity to him when she had left her house to take

Faustina home. Being wholly innocent of any share in the latter's

mad course, it did not at first enter his mind that Corona could

attribute to him any blame in the matter. On the contrary, he knew

that if the girl's visit to the ruined barracks remained a secret,

this would be owing quite as much to his own discretion and

presence of mind as to the princess's willingness to help him. Not

a little, too, was due to good luck, since the least difference in

the course of events must have led to immediate discovery.

A little thought led him to a conclusion which wounded his pride

while it explained Corona's behaviour. It was evident that she had

believed in a clandestine meeting, prearranged between the lovers

at the instigation of Gouache himself, and she had probably

supposed this meeting to be only the preliminary to a runaway

match. How, indeed, could Faustina have expected to escape

observation, even had there been no revolution in Rome, that

night? Corona clearly thought that the girl had never intended to

come back, that Gouache had devised means for their departure, and

that Faustina had believed the elopement possible in the face of

the insurrection. Anastase, on finding himself in the small hours

of the morning with Faustina on his hands and knowing that

discovery must follow soon after day-break, had boldly brought her

to the Palazzo Saracinesca and had demanded Corona's assistance.

As the artist thought the matter over, he became more and more

convinced that he had understood the princess's conduct, and the

reflection made him redden with shame and anger. He determined to

seize the first moment that presented itself for an explanation

with the woman who had wronged him. He unexpectedly found himself

at liberty towards five o'clock in the afternoon and made haste at

once to reach the Palazzo Saracinesca. Knowing that no one would

be allowed to be in the streets after dark, he felt sure of

finding Corona without visitors, and expected the most favourable

opportunity for talking over the subject which distressed him.

After waiting several minutes in one of the outer halls he was

ushered in, and to his extreme annoyance found himself in the

midst of a family party. He had not counted upon the presence of

the men of the household, and the fact that the baby was also

present did not facilitate matters. Old Saracinesca greeted him

warmly; Sant' Ilario looked grave; Corona herself looked up from

her game with little Orsino, nodded and uttered a word of

recognition, and then returned to her occupation.

Conversation under these circumstances was manifestly impossible,

and Gouache wished he had not had the unlucky idea of calling.

There was nothing to be done, however, but to put on a brave face

and make the best of it.

"Well, Monsieur Gouache," inquired the old prince, "and how did

you spend the night?"

He could scarcely have asked a question better calculated to

disturb the composure of everyone present except the baby.

Anastase could not help looking at Corona, who looked

instinctively at her husband, while the latter gazed at Gouache,

wondering what he would say. All three turned a shade paler, and

during a very few seconds there was an awkward silence.

"I spent the night very uncomfortably," replied Anastase, after

hesitating a little. "We were driven from pillar to post,

repelling attacks, doing sentry duty, clearing the streets,

marching and countermarching. It was daylight when I was

relieved."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Sant' Ilario. "I had supposed that you had

remained all night at the Porta San Paolo. But there are many

contradictory accounts. I was in some anxiety until I was assured

that you had not been blown up in that infernal plot."

Gouache was on the point of asking who had told Giovanni that he

had escaped, but fortunately checked himself, and endeavoured to

turn the conversation to the disaster at the barracks. Thereupon

old Saracinesca, whose blood was roused by the atrocity, delivered

a terrible anathema against the murderous wretches who had ruined

the building, and expressed himself in favour of burning them

alive, a fate, indeed, far too good for them. Anastase profited by

the old gentleman's eloquence to make advances to the baby. Little

Orsino, however, struck him a vigorous blow in the face with his

tiny fist and yelled lustily.

"He does not like strangers," remarked Corona, coldly. She rose

with the child in her arms and moved towards the door, Gouache

following her with the intention of opening it for her to go out.

The prince was still thundering out curses against the

conspirators, and Anastase attempted to say a word unobserved as

Corona passed him.

"Will you not give me a hearing?" he asked in a low tone,

accompanying his words with an

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