CHAPTER XX.
Montevarchi made his daughter sit beside him and took her handaffectionately in his, assuming at the same time the expression ofsanctimonious superiority he always wore when he mentioned the cares ofhis household or was engaged in regulating any matter of importance inhis family. Flavia used to imitate the look admirably, to the delightof her brothers and sisters. He smiled meaningly, pressed the girl'sfingers, and smiled again, attempting in vain to elicit some response.But Faustina remained cold and indifferent, for she was used to herfather's ways and did not like them.
"You know what I am going to say, I am sure," he began. "It concernswhat must be very near your heart, my dear child."
"I do not know what it can be," answered Faustina, gravely. She was toowell brought up to show any of the dislike she felt for her father'sway of doing things, but she was willing to make it as hard as possiblefor him to express himself.
"Cannot you guess what it is?" asked the old man, with a ludicrousattempt at banter. "What is it that is nearest to every girl's heart?Is not that little heart of yours already a resort of the juveniledeity?"
"I do not understand you, papa."
"Well, well, my dear--I see that your education has not included acourse of mythology. It is quite as well, perhaps, as those heathensare poor company for the young. I refer to marriage, Faustina, to thatall-important step which you are soon to take."
"Have you quite decided to marry me to Frangipani?" asked the younggirl with a calmness that somewhat disconcerted her father.
"How boldly you speak of it!" he exclaimed with a sigh of disapproval."I will not, however, conceal from you that I hope--"
"Pray talk plainly with me, papa!" cried Faustina suddenly looking up."I cannot bear this suspense."
"Ah! Is it so, little one?" Montevarchi shook his finger playfully ather. "I thought I should find you ready! So you are anxious to become aprincess at once? Well, well, all women are alike!"
Faustina drew herself up a little and fixed her deep brown eyes uponher father's face, very quietly and solemnly.
"You misunderstand me," she said. "I only wish to know your decision inorder that I may give you my answer."
"And what can that answer be? Have I not chosen, wisely, a husband fitfor you in every way?"
"From your point of view, I have no doubt of it."
"I trust you are not about to commit the unpardonable folly ofdiffering from me, my daughter," answered Montevarchi, with a suddenchange of tone indicative of rising displeasure. "It is for me todecide, for you to accept my decision."
"Upon other points, yes. In the question of marriage I think I havesomething to say."
"Is it possible that you can have any objections to the match I havefound for you? Is it possible that you are so foolish as to fancy thatat your age you can understand these things better than I? Faustina, Iwould not have believed it!"
"How can you understand what I feel?"
"It is not a question of feeling, it is a question of wisdom, offoresight, of prudence, of twenty qualities which you are far too youngto possess. If marriage were a matter of feeling, of vulgar sentiment,I ask you, what would become of the world? Of what use is it to haveall the sentiment in life, if you have not that which makes life itselfpossible? Can you eat sentiment? Can you harness sentiment in acarriage and make it execute a trottata in the Villa Borghese? Can youchange an ounce of sentiment into good silver scudi and make it pay fora journey in the hot weather? No, no, my child. Heaven knows that I amnot avaricious. Few men, I think, know better than I that wealth isperishable stuff--but so is this mortal body, and the perishable mustbe nourished with the perishable, lest dust return to dust sooner thanit would in the ordinary course of nature. Money alone will not givehappiness, but it is, nevertheless, most important to possess a certainamount of it."
"I would rather do without it than be miserable all my life for havinggot it."
"Miserable all your life? Why should you be miserable? No woman shouldbe unhappy who is married to a good man. My dear, this matter admits ofno discussion. Frangipani is young, handsome, of irreproachable moralcharacter, heir to a great fortune and to a great name. You desire tobe in love. Good. Love will come, the reward of having chosen wisely.It will be time enough then to think of your sentiments. Dear me! if weall began life by thinking of sentiment, where would our existence end?"
"Will you please tell me whether you have quite decided that I am tomarry Frangipani?" Faustina found her father's discourses intolerable,and, moreover, she had something to say which would be hard to expressand still harder to sustain by her actions.
"If you insist upon my giving you an answer, which you must havealready foreseen, I am willing to tell you that I have quite decidedupon the match."
"I cannot marry him!" exclaimed Faustina, clasping her hands togetherand looking into her father's face.
"My dear," answered Montevarchi with a smile, "it is absolutelydecided. We cannot draw back. You must marry him."
"Must, papa? Oh, think what you are saying! I am not disobedient,indeed I am not. I have always submitted to you in everything. Butthis--no, not this. Bid me do anything else--anything--"
"But, my child, nothing else would produce the same result. Bereasonable. You tell me to impose some other duty upon you. That is notwhat I want. I must see you married before I die, and I am an old man.Each year, each day, may be my last. Of what use would it be that youshould make another sacrifice to please me, when the one thing I desireis to see you well settled with a good husband? I have done what Icould. I have procured you the best match in all Rome, and now youimplore me to spare you, to reverse my decision, to tell my old friendFrangipani that you will not have his son, and to go out into themarket to find you another help-meet. It is not reasonable. I hadexpected more dutiful conduct from you."
"Is it undutiful not to be able to love a man one hardly knows, whenone is ordered to do so?"
"You will make me lose my patience, Faustina!" exclaimed Montevarchi,in angry tones. "Have I not explained to you the nature of love? Have Inot told you that you can love your husband as much as you please? Isit not a father's duty to direct the affections of his child as I wishto do, and is it not the child's first obligation to submit to itsfather's will and guidance? What more would you have? In truth, you arevery exacting!"
"I am very unhappy!" The young girl turned away and rested her elbow onthe table, supporting her chin in her hand. She stared absently at theold bookcases as though she were trying to read the titles upon thedingy bindings. Montevarchi understood her words to convey a submissionand changed his tone once more.
"Well, well, my dear, you will never regret your obedience," he said."Of course, my beloved child, it is never easy to see things as it isbest that we should see them. I see that you have yielded at last--"
"I have not yielded in the least!" cried Faustina, suddenly facing him,with an expression he had never seen before.
"What do you mean?" asked Montevarchi in considerable astonishment.
"What I say. I will not marry Frangipani--I will not! Do youunderstand?"
"No. I do not understand such language from my daughter; and as foryour determination, I tell you that you will most certainly end byacting as I wish you to act."
"You cannot force me to marry. What can you do? You can put me into aconvent. Do you think that would make me change my mind? I would thankGod for any asylum in which I might find refuge from such tyranny."
"My daughter," replied the prince in bland tones, "I am fully resolvednot to be angry with you. Your undutiful conduct proceeds fromignorance, which is never an offence, though it is always a misfortune.If you will have a little patience--"
"I have none!" exclaimed Faustina, exasperated by her father's manner."My undutiful conduct does not proceed from ignorance--it proceeds fromlove, from love for another man, whom I will marry if I marry any one."
"Faustina!" cried Montevarchi, holding up his hands in horror andamazement. "Do you dare to
use SUCH, language to your father!"
"I dare do anything, everything--I dare even tell you the name of theman I love--Anastase Gouache!"
"My child! My child! This is too horrible! I must really send for yourmother."
"Do what you will."
Faustina had risen to her feet and was standing before one of the oldbookcases, her hands folded before her, her eyes on fire, her delicatemouth scornfully bent. Montevarchi, who was really startled almost outof his senses, moved cautiously towards the bell, looking steadily athis daughter all the while as though he dreaded some fresh outbreak.There was something ludicrous in his behaviour which, at another time,would not have escaped the young girl. Now, however, she was too muchin earnest to perceive anything except the danger of her position andthe necessity for remaining firm at any cost. She did not understandwhy her mother was to be called, but she felt that she could face allher family if necessary. She kept her eyes upon her father and washardly conscious that a servant entered the room. Montevarchi sent amessage requesting the princess to come at once. Then he turned againtowards Faustina.
"You can hardly suppose," he observed, "that I take seriously what youhave just said; but you are evidently very much excited, and yourmother's presence will, I trust, have a soothing effect. You must beaware that it is very wrong to utter such monstrous untruths--even injest--"
"I am in earnest. I will marry Monsieur Gouache or I will marry no one."
Montevarchi really believed that his daughter's mind was deranged. Hisinterview with Gouache had convinced him that Faustina meant what shesaid, though he affected to laugh at it, but he was wholly unable toaccount for her conduct on any theory but that of insanity. Being athis wits' end he had sent for his wife, and while waiting for her hedid not quite know what to do.
"My dear child, what is Monsieur Gouache? A very estimable young man,without doubt, but not such a one as we could choose for your husband."
"I have chosen him," answered Faustina. "That is enough."
"How you talk, my dear! How rashly you talk! As though choosing ahusband were like buying a new hat! And you, too, whom I alwaysbelieved to be the most dutiful, the most obedient of my children! Butyour mother and I will reason with you, we will endeavour to put betterthoughts into your heart."
Faustina glanced scornfully at her father and turned away, walkingslowly in the direction of the window.
"It is of no use to waste your breath on me," she said presently. "Iwill marry Gouache or nobody."
"You--marry Gouache?" cried the princess, who entered at that moment,and heard the last words. Her voice expressed an amazement and horrorfully equal to her husband's.
"Have you come to join the fray, mamma?" inquired Faustina, in English.
"Pray speak in a language I can understand," said Montevarchi who, in awhole lifetime, had never mastered a word of his wife's native tongue.
"Oh, Lotario!" exclaimed the princess. "What has the child been tellingyou?"
"Things that would make you tremble, my dear! She refuses to marryFrangipani--"
"Refuses! But, Faustina, you do not know what you are doing! You areout of your mind!"
"And she talks wildly of marrying a certain Frenchman, a MonsieurGouache, I believe--is there such a man, my dear?"
"Of course, Lotario! The little man you ran over. How forgetful youare!"
"Yes, yes, of course. I know. But you must reason with her,Guendalina--"
"It seems to me. Lotario, that you should do that--"
"My dear, I think the child is insane upon the subject. Where could shehave picked up such an idea? Is it a mere caprice, a mere piece ofimpertinence, invented to disconcert the sober senses of a carefulfather?"
"Nonsense, Lotario! She is not capable of that. After all, she is notFlavia, who always had something dreadful quite ready, just when youleast expected it."
"I almost wish she were Flavia!" exclaimed Montevarchi, ruefully."Flavia has done very well." During all this time Faustina was standingwith her back towards the window and her hands folded before her,looking from the one to the other of the speakers with an air of bittercontempt which was fast changing to uncontrollable anger. Some lastremaining instinct of prudence kept her from interrupting theconversation by a fresh assertion of her will, and she waited until oneof them chose to speak to her. She had lost her head, for she wouldotherwise never have gone so far as to mention Gouache's name, but, aswith all very spontaneous natures, with her to break the first barrierwas to go to the extreme, whatever it might be. Her clear brown eyeswere very bright, and there was something luminous about her angelicface which showed that her whole being was under the influence of anextraordinary emotion, almost amounting to exaltation. It wasimpossible to foresee what she would say or do.
"Your father almost wishes you were Flavia!" groaned the princess,shaking her head and looking very grave. Then Faustina laughedscornfully and her wrath bubbled over.
"I am not Flavia!" she cried, coming forward and facing her father andmother. "I daresay you do wish I were. Flavia has done so very well.Yes, she is Princess Saracinesca this evening, I suppose. Indeed shehas done well, for she has married the man she loves, as much as she iscapable of loving anything. And that is all the more reason why Ishould do the same. Besides, am I as old as Flavia that you should bein such a hurry to marry me? Do you think I will yield? Do you thinkthat while I love one man, I will be so base as to marry another?"
"I have explained to you that love--"
"Your explanations will drive me mad! You may explain anything in thatway--and prove that Love itself does not exist. Do you think yoursaying so makes it true? There is more truth in a little of my lovethan in all your whole life!"
"Faustina!"
"What? May I not answer you? Must I believe you infallible when you usearguments that would not satisfy a child? Is my whole nature a shadowbecause yours cannot understand my reality?"
"If you are going to make this a question of metaphysics--"
"I am not, I do not know what metaphysic means. But I will repeatbefore my mother what I said to you alone. I will not marry Frangipani,and you cannot force me to marry him. If I marry any one I will havethe man I love."
"But, my dearest Faustina," cried the princess in genuine distress,"this is a mere idea--a sort of madness that has seized upon you.Consider your position, consider what you owe to us, consider--"
"Consider, consider, consider! Do you suppose that any amount ofconsideration would change me?"
"Do you think your childish anger will change us?" inquiredMontevarchi, blandly. He did not care to lose his temper, for he wasquite indifferent to Faustina's real inclinations, if she would onlyconsent to marry Frangipani.
"Childish!" cried Faustina, her eyes blazing with anger. "Was Ichildish when I followed him out into the midst of the revolution lastOctober, when I was nearly killed at the Serristori, when I thought hewas dead and knelt there among the ruins until he found me and broughtme home? Was that a child's love?"
The princess turned pale and grasped her husband's arm, staring atFaustina in horror. The old man trembled and for a few moments couldnot find strength to speak. Nothing that Faustina could have inventedcould have produced such a sudden and tremendous effect as thisrevelation of what had happened on the night of the insurrection,coming from the girl's own lips with the unmistakable accent of truth.The mother's instinct was the first to assert itself. With a quickmovement she threw her arms round the young girl, as though to protecther from harm.
"It is not true, it is not true," she cried in an agonised tone."Faustina, my child--it is not true!"
"It is quite true, mamma," answered Faustina, who enjoyed an oddsatisfaction in seeing the effect of her words, which can only beexplained by her perfect innocence. "Why are you so much astonished? Iloved him--I thought he was going out to be killed--I would not let himgo alone--"
"Oh, Faustina! How could you do it!" moaned the princess. "It is toohorrible--it is not to be believed--"
"I loved him, I love him still."
Princess Montevarchi fell into a chair and burst into tears, buryingher face in her hands and sobbing aloud.
"If you are going to cry, Guendalina, you had better go away," said herhusband, who was now as angry as his mean nature would permit him tobe. She was so much accustomed to obey that she left the room, cryingas she went, and casting back a most sorrowful look at Faustina.
Montevarchi shut the door and, coming back, seized his daughter's armand shook it violently.
"Fool!" he cried angrily, unable to find any other word to express hisrage.
Faustina said nothing but tried to push him away, her bright eyesgleaming with contempt. Her silence exasperated the old man stillfurther. Like most very cowardly men he could be brutal to women whenhe was angry. It seemed to him that the girl, by her folly, had dashedfrom him the last great satisfaction of his life at the very momentwhen it was within reach. He could have forgiven her for ruiningherself, had she done so; he could not forgive her for disappointinghis ambition; he knew that one word of the story she had told wouldmake the great marriage impossible, and he knew that she had the powerto speak that word when she pleased as well as the courage to do so.
"Fool!" he repeated, and before she could draw back, he struck heracross the mouth with the back of his hand.
A few drops of bright red blood trickled from her delicate lips. Withan instinctive movement she pressed her handkerchief to the wound.Montevarchi snatched it roughly from her hand and threw it across theroom. From his eyes she guessed that he would strike her again if sheremained. With a look of intense hatred she made a supreme effort, andconcentrating the whole strength of her slender frame wrenched herselffree.
"Coward!" she cried, as he reeled backwards; then, before he couldrecover himself, she was gone and he was left alone.
He was terribly angry, and at the same time his ideas were confused, sothat he hardly understood anything but the main point of her story,that she had been with Gouache on that night when Corona had broughther home. He began to reason again. Corona knew the truth, of course,and her husband knew it too. Montevarchi realised that he had alreadytaken his revenge for their complicity, before knowing that they hadinjured him. His overwrought brain was scarcely capable of receivinganother impression. He laughed aloud in a way that was almosthysterical.
"All!" he cried in sudden exultation. "All--even to their name--but theother--" His face changed quickly and he sank into his chair and buriedhis face in his hands, as he thought of all he had lost throughFaustina's folly. And yet, the harm might be repaired--no one knewexcept--
He looked up and saw that Meschini had returned and was standing beforehim, as though waiting to be addressed. The suddenness of thelibrarian's appearance made the prince utter an exclamation of surprise.
"Yes, I have come back," said Meschini. "The matter we were discussingcannot be put off, and I have come back to ask you to be good enough topay the money."
Montevarchi was nervous and had lost the calm tone of superiority hehad maintained before his interview with Faustina. The idea of losingFrangipani, too, made his avarice assert itself very strongly.
"I told you," he replied, "that I refused altogether to talk with you,so long as you addressed me in that tone. I repeat it. Leave me, andwhen you have recovered your manners I will give you something foryourself. You will get nothing so long as you demand it as though itwere a right."
"I will not leave this room without the money," answered Meschini,resolutely. The bell was close to the door. The librarian placedhimself between the prince and both.
"Leave the room!" cried Montevarchi, trembling with anger. He had solong despised Meschini, that the exhibition of obstinacy on the part ofthe latter did not frighten him.
The librarian stood before the bell and the latch of the door, his longarms hanging down by his sides, his face yellow, his eyes red. Any onemight have seen that he was growing dangerous. Instead of repeating hisrefusal to go, he looked steadily at his employer and a disagreeablesmile played upon his ugly features. Montevarchi saw it and his furyboiled over. He laid his hands on the arms of his chair as though hewould rise, and in that moment he would have been capable of strikingMeschini as he had struck Faustina. Meschini shuffled forwards and heldup his hand.
"Do not be violent," he said, in a low voice. "I am not your daughter,you know."
Montevarchi's jaw dropped, and he fell back into his chair again.
"You listened--you saw--" he gasped.
"Yes, of course. Will you pay me? I am desperate, and I will have it.You and your miserable secrets are mine, and I will have my price. Ionly want the sum you promised. I shall be rich in a few days, for Ihave entered into an affair in which I shall get millions, as many asyou have perhaps. But the money must be paid to-morrow morning or I amruined, and you must give it to me. Do you hear? Do you understand thatI will have what is mine?"
At this incoherent speech, Montevarchi recovered something of hisformer nerve. There was something in Meschini's language that soundedlike argument, and to argue was to temporise. The prince changed histone.
"But, my dear Meschini, how could you be so rash as to go into aspeculation when you knew that the case might not be decided foranother week? You are really the most rash man I ever knew. I cannotundertake to guarantee your speculations. I will be just. I have toldyou that I would give you two thousand--"
"Twenty thousand'" Meschini came a little nearer.
"Not a single baiocco if you are exorbitant."
"Twenty thousand hard, good scudi in cash, I tell you. No more, but noless either." The librarian's hands were clenched, and he breathedhard, while his red eyes stared in a way that began to frightenMontevarchi.
"No, no, be reasonable! My dear Meschini, pray do not behave in thismanner. You almost make me believe that you are threatening me. Iassure you that I desire to do what is just--"
"Give me the money at once--"
"But I have not so much--murder!! Ah--gh--gh---"
Arnodo Meschini's long arms had shot out and his hands had seized theprince's throat in a grip from which there was no escape. There lurkeda surprising strength in the librarian's round shoulders, and hisenergy was doubled by a fit of anger that amounted to insanity. The oldman rocked and swayed in his chair, and grasped at the greentable-cover, but Meschini had got behind him and pressed his fingerstighter and tighter. His eye rested upon Faustina's handkerchief thatlay on the floor at his feet. His victim was almost at the last gasp,but the handkerchief would do the job better. Meschini kept his gripwith one hand and with the other snatched up the bit of linen. He drewit tight round the neck and wrenched at the knot with his yellow teeth.There was a convulsive struggle, followed by a long interval of quiet.Then another movement, less violent this time, another and another, andthen Meschini felt the body collapse in his grasp. It was over.Montevarchi was dead. Meschini drew back against the bookcases,trembling in every joint. He scarcely saw the objects in the room, forhis head swam and his senses failed him, from horror and from thetremendous physical effort he had made. Then in an instant he realisedwhat he had done, and the consequences of the deed suggested themselves.
He had not meant to kill the prince. So long as he had kept somecontrol of his actions he had not even meant to lay violent hands uponhim. But he had the nature of a criminal, by turns profoundly cunningand foolishly rash. A fatal influence had pushed him onward so soon ashe had raised his arm, and before he was thoroughly conscious of hisactions the deed was done. Then came the fear of consequences, thenagain the diabolical reasoning which intuitively foresees the immediateresults of murder, and provides against them at once.
"Nobody knows that I have been here. Nothing is missing. No one knowsabout the forgery. No one will suspect me. There is no one in thelibrary nor in the corridor. The handkerchief is not mine. If it wasnot his own it was Donna Faustina's. No one will suspect her. It willremain a mystery."
Meschini went towards the door through which he had
entered and openedit. He looked back and held his breath. The prince's head had fallenforward upon his hands as they lay on the table, and the attitude wasthat of a man overcome by despair, but not that of a dead body. Thelibrarian glanced round the room. There was no trace of a struggle. Theposition of the furniture had not been changed, nor had anything fallenon the floor. Meschini went out and softly closed the door behind him,leaving the dead man alone.
The quiet afternoon sun fell upon the houses on the opposite side ofthe street, and cast a melancholy reflection into the dismal chamberwhere Prince Montevarchi had passed so many hours of his life, and inwhich that life had been cut short so suddenly. On the table before hisdead hands lay the copy of the verdict, the testimony of his lastmisdeed, of the crime for which he had paid the forfeit upon the veryday it was due. It lay there like the superscription upon amalefactor's gallows in ancient times, the advertisement of the reasonof his death to all who chose to inquire. Not a sound was heard savethe noise that rose faintly and at intervals from the narrow streetbelow, the cry of a hawker, the song of a street-boy, the bark of adog. To-morrow the poor body would be mounted upon a magnificentcatafalque, surrounded by the pomp of a princely mourning, illuminatedby hundreds of funeral torches, an object of aversion, of curiosity,even of jest, perhaps, among those who bore the prince a grudge. Manyof those who had known him would come and look on his dead face, andsome would say that he was changed and others that he was not. His wifeand his children would, in a few hours, be all dressed in black, movingsilently and mournfully and occasionally showing a little feeling,though not more than would be decent. There would be masses sung, andprayers said, and his native city would hear the tolling of the heavybells for one of her greatest personages. All this would be done, andmore also, until the dead prince should be laid to rest beneath themarble floor of the chapel where his ancestors lay side by side.
But to-day he sat in state in his shabby chair, his head lying uponthat table over which he had plotted and schemed for so many years, hiswhite fingers almost touching the bit of paper whereon was written theruin of the Saracinesca.
And upstairs the man who had killed him shuffled about the library, ananxious expression on his yellow face, glancing from time to time athis hands as he took down one heavy volume after another, practising insolitude the habit of seeming occupied, in order that he might not betaken unawares when an under-servant should be sent to tell theinsignificant librarian of what had happened that day in CasaMontevarchi.