CHAPTER VII
Extremes Meet
The Marchese was uneasy in the presence of his nephew. But the fact wasthat he was uneasy and unhappy altogether, and at all times. From beingone of the most placidly cheerful and contented of men, he was becomingnervous, anxious, and restless. People began to remark that the Marchesewas beginning to look older. They had said for years past that he hadnot grown a day older in the last ten years. But this winter there was achange in him!
It did not occur to anybody to connect any change that was observableeither in the Marchese's manner or in his appearance, with the frequencyof his visits to the quartiere inhabited by the prima donna and SignorQuinto Lalli, in the Strada di Porta Sisi. The ordinary habits of theMarchese, and his functions as a patron of the theatre and amateurimpresario were so well known and understood, that it seemed perfectlynatural to all Ravenna that he should be very frequently with the primadonna. And on the other hand, the almost monastic regularity of hislife, and his character of long standing in such respects, would havemade the notion that he had any idea of flirting with the singer appearutterly absurd and inadmissible to every man, woman, or child in thecity, if it had ever come into anybody's head.
The fact was, however, that the Marchese was much oftener in the Stradadi Porta Sisi than anybody guessed. Besides the morning visits, whichwere patent to all the world, who chose to take heed of them, theMarchese very frequently spent those evenings there, when the "Diva" didnot sing; slinking out of the Palazzo Castelmare, and taking all sortsof precautions to prevent any human being--nephew, servants, friends, orstrangers--from guessing the secret of these nocturnal walks.
Such precautions were very needless; if anybody had noticed the MarcheseLamberto passing under the shadow of the eaves in any part of the cityafter nightfall, it would only have been supposed that he was bound onsome mission of beneficence, or good work of some sort! And if even ithad become known to a few persons given to prying into what did notconcern them, that the Marchese Lamberto di Castelmare was not moreimmaculate in his conduct than his neighbours, the only result wouldhave been a few jests which he would have never heard, and a few slysmiles which he would have never seen.
But the Marchese could not look at the matter in this light. He felt asif his fall from the social eminence on which he stood would have beenas a moral earthquake in Ravenna. The idea that such jests and suchsmiles could exist, however unseen and unheard, would have beenintolerable to him. And the Marchese was, accordingly, a miserable man.
A miserable man, and he could not help himself! Each time that hequitted the siren, the chain that bound him was drawn more tightlyaround him. At each visit he drank deep draughts of the philtre, thatwas poisoning the fountains of his life. Again and again he had made aviolent struggle to throw off the enchantment and be free. And again andagain the effort had been too great for his strength, and he hadreturned like the scorched moth, which comes back again and again to thefatal brightness, till it perishes in it.
In his hours of solitary self-examination he loathed and mocked himselfto scorn! He, Lamberto di Castelmare, to risk and to feel humiliation,and to suffer for the love of a woman, whose light affections had beengiven to so many! He, who had been smiled on by many a high-born beautyin vain! Love! did he love her? Again and again he told himself thatwhat he felt for her was far more akin to hate. He marvelled; he couldnot comprehend himself! He was often inclined to believe that the oldtales of philtres and of witchery were not all false, and that he was intruth bewitched; and he struggled angrily against the spell, and at suchtimes hated the beauty that had tangled him in it!
And in all this time Bianca had not yet ventured to show clearly herreal game. Nor had it yet occurred to the Marchese that such apreposterous thought as that he could marry her could have entered intoher mind. Yet it was clear to him that he made no progress towardsmaking her his own upon any other terms. The alternations betweenbeckoning him on and warding him off had been managed with such skill,that they appeared to be the result of the Diva's internal struggle withher own inclinations. What was he to understand by it? If she hadbeen,--had always been--of unblemished character! But it was not so; heknew better!
That her conduct at Ravenna had been correct was undeniable. Still, evenwith regard to that, the Marchese was not spared the pangs of jealousy,in addition to all the rest. Ludovico continued to frequent the house inthe Strada di Porta Sisi. It seemed, as he had said at the Circolo, asif Bianca wished him to come there. In fact he had spoken to the youngmen at the Circolo with perfect truth in all respects as to hisrelations with the Diva. There had never been any word of love-making oreven flirting between them. Yet, in a sort of way, she seemed to wish tobe agreeable to him and to attract him. But she never made any secret ofhis visits from the Marchese, although it was unmistakable enough thatit was disagreeable to him to hear of them.
Had he been free from the spell himself he would have rather rejoicedthat his nephew had met with an attraction, which would be likely tohave the effect of making him faithless to Paolina. As it was, it was anadditional source of irritation to the Marchese,--another drop of gallin his cup, to hear it constantly mentioned by Bianca in the mostinnocent way in the world, that Ludovico had been here with her, orthere with her, or passing the morning with her!
It was drawing towards the end of the Carnival, which the late fall ofEaster had made rather a long one that year, when, on one Saturdaynight, Bianca sat by her own fireside, expecting a visit from theMarchese. She doubted not that he would come, though no specialappointment on the subject had been made between them. There were few"off evenings" now, that he did not spend with her. Saturday in most ofthe cities of Italy is, or was, an off night at the theatre, being thevigil of the Sunday feast-day. The ecclesiastical proprieties are lessattended to now in matters theatrical, as in other matters in Italy. ButSaturday used, in ante-revolutionary times, to be an evening on whichactors and actresses and their friends could always reckon for aholiday.
Bianca was sitting, exquisitely dressed, it need hardly be said, in astyle which combined with inimitable skill all the requirements of themost strict propriety with perfect adaptation to the objects of showingoff every beauty of face, hair, hand, figure, foot to the utmost, andattracting her expected visitor as irresistibly as possible.
Quinto Lalli had been sent to enjoy himself at the Cafe, with stringentdirections not to return before he should have ascertained that theMarchese had left the house, let the hour be as late as it might.
Bianca meditated deeply, while she waited her lover's coming.
Her lover! yes, there was no doubt about that. Bianca had felt perfectlyassured that she was justified in considering the Marchese as such onthat first morning, when he had come to her an hour in advance of thetime appointed for his visit in company with the impresario. But it washigh time that some better understanding of the footing on which theystood as regarded each other should be arrived at.
Hitherto no direct proposals of any kind had been made to her by theMarchese. He was not good at any such work. Any one of thosedistinguished sons of paternal governments, who had constituted thematerial of Bianca's experiences of that division of mankind, would havelong since said what he wanted, and have very clearly indicated theterms on which he was willing to become the fortunate possessor of thecoveted article. And Bianca would have perfectly well known how, underthe present circumstances, to answer any such proposals, as she hadknown under the other circumstances of past days. But the Marchese madeno proposals. What he wished, indeed, was abundantly clear to her. Buthis mode of making it clear rendered the task of dealing with him asomewhat difficult one.
Partially, Bianca understood the nature of the case. She was partlyaware why the Marchese was slow to say that which so many, whom she hadknown, had made so little difficulty of saying. She understood that,whatever his years might be, he was a novice at that business. Shecomprehended that he was, in many respects, a younger man than many acoulisse-frequenting youth whom s
he had known. But she was far fromconceiving any true notion of the Marchese's state of mind on thesubject. She was very far from imagining that he looked with disgust andwith terror at the position which she conceived him to be but too readyto accept to-morrow, if only he knew how to ask for it, or if it couldbe offered to him without his asking. She little guessed that hisfeeling towards her oscillated between the maddest desire and thefiercest hatred; that reveries, filled with pictured imaginings andfevered recollections of her beauty, alternated with the most violentefforts to cleanse his mind and imagination of the thought of her.
She understood nothing of all this, and it was impossible that sheshould understand it. In truth, she was innocent of any conduct whichcould have justified such sentiments. Why should he hate her? It wastrue that she sought to attract him,--true that she was scheming to leadhim to a point at which he might find it so impossible to give her up,that, being well convinced that he could have her on no other terms, hemight offer her marriage. But was there anything worse in that than menhad been treated "since summer first was leafy?" How many men hadmarried women in her position--women less capable of doing credit to theposition to which they were raised than she was? How many men had beentreated in such matters very much worse than she had any thought oftreating him? She fully proposed to make him a good and true wife, andfully thought that she should do so. She was not deceiving him in anyway. She made the best of her past life--naturally; but was it to be fora moment supposed that such a man as the Marchese could, or did, imaginethat she, Bianca Lalli, whose career, for the last eight years, wasknown to all Italy, was in the position of a young contessa just takenfrom her convent?
It is abundantly clear that there were difficulties in the way of thedesirable understanding being arrived at, greater than either the ladywas aware of, or than might usually be expected to attend similarnegotiations.
Bianca waited without impatience the coming of the Marchese. She was astudy for an artist as she lay perfectly still on her sofa, turning theminutes of expectation to profit by arranging in her mind her plan ofattack in the coming battle; for she was thoroughly determined that thatevening should not pass without some progress towards the understandinghaving been accomplished.
One lamp on the table alone lighted the small but comfortable-lookingroom; but the flame was leaping cheerfully among the logs on the hearth,and the sofa was so placed that the fitful light from the fire glancedin a thousand capricious reflections on the Diva's auburn hair and richsatin dress. It was black of the most lustrous quality, and fitted herperson with a perfection that showed the shape of the bust, and thelithe suppleness of the slender waist to the utmost advantage. The dresswas made low on the superb shoulders--the dazzling whiteness of which,as seen contrasted with the black satin, was now covered with a slightsilk scarlet shawl,--a most artistic completion of the harmoniouscolouring of the picture, which yet was not so fixed in its position asto be prevented from falling from the snowy slopes, it veiled at thesmallest movement of them.
Presently the now well-known step and well-known tap at the door wereheard, and the Diva, without stirring a hair's-breadth from hercharmingly-chosen attitude, spoke, in a silver voice, the "Passi" whichadmitted her visitor.