The Italians Part 17

Enrica stood apart. She had not spoken one word since the disappearance of the sonnet--that sonnet which would have told her of her future; for had not Marescotti, by some occult power, read her secret? Alas! too, was she not about to reenter her gloomy home without catching so much as a glimpse of n.o.bili? Count Marescotti had no opportunity of saying a word to Enrica that was not audible to all.

He did venture to ask her if she would be present next evening, if he joined the marchesa's rubber? Before she could reply, Trenta had hastily answered for her, that "he would settle all that with the count when they met in the morning." So, standing in the street, they parted. Count Marescotti sought in vain for one last glance from Enrica. When he turned round to look for Balda.s.sare, Balda.s.sare had disappeared.

CHAPTER IV.

COUNT n.o.bILI.

When n.o.bili rushed home through the dark streets from the Countess Orsetti's ball, he shut himself up in his own particular room, threw himself on a divan, and tried to collect his thoughts. At first he was only conscious of one overwhelming feeling--a feeling of intense joy that Nera Boccarina was alive. The unspeakable horror he had felt, as she lay stretched out on the floor before him, had stupefied him. If she had died?--As the horrible question rose up within him, his blood froze in his veins. But she was not dead--nay, if the report of Madame Orsetti was to be trusted, she was in no danger of dying.

"Thank G.o.d!--thank G.o.d!" Then, as the quiet of the night and the solitude of his own room gradually restored his scattered senses, n.o.bili recalled her, not only in the moment of danger, as she lay death-like, motionless, but as she stood before him lit up by the rosy shadow of the silken curtains. Was it an enchantment? Had he been under a spell? Was Nera fiend or angel? As he asked himself these questions, again her wondrous eyes shone upon him like stars; again the rhythm of that fatal waltz struck upon his ears soft and liquid as the fall of oars upon the smooth bosom of an inland lake, bathed in the mellow light of sunset.

What had he done? He had kissed her--her lips had clung to his; her fingers had linked themselves in his grasp; her eyes--ah!--those eyes had told him that she loved him. Loved him!--why not?

And Enrica!--the thought of Enrica pierced through him like the stab of a knife. n.o.bili sprang to his feet, pressed both hands to his bosom, then sank down again, utterly bewildered. Enrica!--He had forgotten her! He, n.o.bili, was it possible? Forgotten her!--A pale plaintive face rose up before him, with soft, pleading eyes. There was the little head, with its tangled meshes of yellow curls, the slight girlish figure, the little feet. "Enrica! my Enrica!" he cried aloud, so palpable did her presence seem--"I love you, I love you only!"

He dashed, as it were, Nera's image from him. She had tempted him--tempted him with all the fullness of her beauty, tempted him--and he had yielded! On a sudden it came over him. Yes, she had tempted him. She had followed him--pursued him rather. Wherever he went, there Nera was before him. He recalled it all. And how he had avoided her with the avoidance of an instinct! He clinched his fists as he thought of it. What devil had possessed him to fall headlong into the snare?

What was Nera--or any other woman--to him now? If he had been obliged to dance with her, why had he yielded to her?

"I will never speak to her again," was his instant resolve. But the next moment he remembered that he had been indirectly the cause of an accident which might have been fatal. He must see her once more if she were visible--or, if not, he must see her mother. Common humanity demanded this. Then he would set eyes on her no more. He had almost come to hate her, for the spell she had thrown over him.

But for Enrica he would have left Lucca altogether for a time. What had pa.s.sed that evening would be the subject of general gossip. He remembered with shame--and as he did so the blood rushed over his face and brow--how openly he had displayed his admiration. He remembered the hot glances he had cast upon Nera. He remembered how he had leaned entranced over her chair; how he had pressed her to him in the fury of that wild waltz, her white arms entwined round him--the fragrance of the red roses she wore in her hair mounting to his brain! At the moment he had been too much entranced to observe what was pa.s.sing about him. Now he recalled glances and muttered words. The savage look Ruspoli had cast on him, when he led her up to him in one of the figures of the cotillon; how Malatesta had grinned at him--how Orsetti had whispered "Bravo!" in his ear. Might not some rumor of all this reach Enrica?--through Trenta, perhaps, or that chattering fool, Balda.s.sare? If they spoke of the accident, they would surely connect his name with that of Nera. Would they say he was in love with her? He grew cold as he thought of it.

Neither could n.o.bili conceal from himself how probable it was that the Marchesa Guinigi should come to some knowledge of his clandestine interviews with her niece. It had been necessary to trust many persons. Spite of heavy bribes, one of these might at any moment betray them. He might be followed and watched, spite of his precautions. Their letters might be intercepted. Should any thing happen, what a situation for Enrica! She was too trusting and too inexperienced fully to appreciate the danger; but n.o.bili understood it, and trembled for her. Something must, he felt, be done at once.

Enrica must be prepared for any thing that might happen. He must write to her--write this very night to her.

And then came the question--what should he say to her? Then n.o.bili felt, and felt keenly, how much he had compromised himself. Hitherto his love for Enrica, and Enrica's love for him, had been so full, so entire, that every thought was hers. Now there was a name he must hide from her, an hour of his life she must never know.

n.o.bili rose from the divan on which he had been lying, lighted some candles, and, sitting down at a table, took a pen in his hand. But the pen did not help him. He tore it between his teeth, he leaned his head upon his hand, he stared at the blank paper before him. What should he say to her? was the question he asked himself. After all, should he confess all his weakness, and implore her forgiveness? or should he take the chance of her hearing nothing?

After much thought and many struggles with his pen, he decided he would say nothing. But write he would; write he must. Full of remorse for what had pa.s.sed, he longed to a.s.sure her of his love. He yearned to cast himself for pardon at her feet; to feast his eyes upon the sweetness of her fair face; to fill his ears with the sound of her soft voice; to watch her heavenly eyes gathering upon him with the gleam of incipient pa.s.sion.

How pure she was! How peerless, how different from all other women!

How different from Nera! dark-eyed, flas.h.i.+ng, tempting Nera!--Nera, so sensual in her ripe and dazzling beauty. At that moment of remorse and repentance he would have likened her to an alluring fiend, Enrica to an angel! Yes, he would write; he would say something decisive. This point settled, n.o.bili put down the pen, struck a match, and lit a cigar. A cigar would calm him, and help him to think.

His position, even as he understood it, was sufficiently difficult.

How much more, had he known all that lay behind! He had entered life a mere boy at his father's death, with some true friends; his wealth had created him a host of followers. His frank, loyal disposition, his generosity, his lavish hospitality, his winning manners, had insured him general popularity. Not one, even of those who envied him, could deny that he was the best fellow in Lucca. Women adored him, or said so, which came to the same thing, for he believed them. Many had proved, with more than words, that they did so. In a word, he had been _feted_, followed, and caressed, as long as he could remember. Now the incense of flattery floating continually in the air which he breathed had done its work. He was not actually spoiled but he had grown arrogant; vain of his person and of his wealth. He was vain, but not yet frivolous; he was insolent, but not yet heartless. At his age, impressions come from without, rather than from within. n.o.bili was extremely impressionable; he also, as has been seen, wanted resolution to resist temptation. As yet, he had not developed the firmness and steadfastness that really belonged to his character.

But spite of foibles, spite of weakness--foibles and weakness were but part of the young blood within him--n.o.bili possessed, especially toward women, that rare union of courage, tenderness, and fort.i.tude, we call chivalry; he forgot himself in others. He did this as the most natural thing in the world--he did it because he could not help it.

He was capable of doing a great wrong--he was also capable of a great repentance. His great wealth had hitherto enabled him to indulge every fancy. With this power of wealth, unknown almost to himself, a spirit of conquest had grown upon him. He resolved to overcome whatever opposed itself to him. n.o.bili was constantly a.s.sured by those ready flatterers who lived upon him--those toadies who, like a mildew, dim and deface the virtues of the rich--that "he could do what he pleased."

With the presumption of youth he believed this, and he acted on it, especially in regard to women. He was of an age and temperament to feel his pulse quicken at the sight of every pretty woman he met, even if he should meet a dozen in the day. Until lately, however, he had cared for no one. He had trifled, dangled, ogled. He had plucked the fair fruit where it hung freely on the branch, and he had turned away heart-whole. He knew that there was not a young lady in Lucca who would not accept him as her suitor--joyfully accept him, if he asked her. Not a father, let his name be as old as the Crusades, his escutcheon decorated with "the golden rose," or the heraldic ermine of the emperors, who would not welcome him as a son-in-law.

The Marchesa Guinigi alone had persistently repulsed him. He had heard and laughed at the outrageous words she had spoken. He knew what a struggle it had cost her to sell the second Guinigi Palace at all. He knew that of all men she had least desired to sell it to him. For that special reason he had resolved to possess it. He had bought it, so to say, in spite of her, at the price of gold.

Yet, although n.o.bili laughed with his friends at the marchesa's outrageous words, in reality they greatly nettled him. By constant repet.i.tion they came even to rankle. At last he grew--unconfessed, of course--so aggravated by them that a secret longing for revenge rose up within him. She had thrown down the gauntlet, why should he not pick it up? The marchesa, he knew, had a niece, why should he not marry the niece, in defiance of the aunt?

No sooner was this idea conceived than he determined, if he married at all (marriage to a young man leading his dissipated life is a serious step), that, of all living women, the marchesa's niece should be his wife. All this time he had never seen Enrica. Yes, he would marry the niece, to spite the marchesa. Marry--she, the marchesa, should see a Guinigi head his board; a Guinigi seated at his hearth; worse than all, a Guinigi mother of his children!

All this he kept closely locked within his own breast. As the marchesa had intimated to him, at the time he bought the palace, that she would never permit him to cross her threshold, he was debarred from taking the usual social steps to accomplish his resolve. Not that he in the least desired to see her, save for that overbearing disposition which impelled him to combat all opposition. With great difficulty, and after having expended various sums in bribes among the ill-paid servants of the marchesa, he had learned the habits of her household.

Enrica, he found, had a servant, formerly her nurse, who never left her. Teresa, this servant, was cautiously approached. She was informed that Count n.o.bili was distractedly in love with the signorina, and addressed himself to her for help. Teresa, ignorant, well-meaning, and br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with that mere animal fondness for her foster-child uneducated women share with brute creatures, was proud of becoming the medium of what she considered an advantageous marriage for Enrica. The secluded life she led, the selfish indifference with which her aunt treated her, had long moved Teresa's pa.s.sionate southern nature to a high pitch of indignation. Up to this time no man had been permitted to enter Casa Guinigi, save those who formed the marchesa's whist-party.

"How, then," reasoned Teresa, shrewdly, "was the signorina to marry at all? Surely it was right to help her to a husband. Here was one, rich, handsome, and devoted, one who would give the eyes out of his head for the signorina." Was such an opportunity to be lost? Certainly not.

So Teresa took n.o.bili's bribes (bribes are as common in Italy as in the East), putting them to fructify in the National Bank with an easy conscience. Was she not emanc.i.p.ating her foster-child from that old devil, her aunt? Had she not seen n.o.bili himself when he sent for her?--seen him, face to face, inside his palace glittering like paradise? And had he not given her his word, with his hand upon his heart (also given her a pair of solid gold ear-rings, which she wore on Sundays), that to marry Enrica was the one hope of his life? Seeing all this, Teresa was, as I have said, perfectly satisfied.

When n.o.bili had done all this, impelled by mixed feelings of wounded pride, obstinacy, and defiance, he had never, let it be noted, seen Enrica. But after a meeting had been arranged by Teresa one morning at early ma.s.s in the cathedral, near a dark and unfrequented altar in the transept--an arrangement, be it observed, unknown to Enrica--all his feelings changed. From the moment he saw her he loved her with all the fervor of his ardent nature; from that moment he knew that he had never loved before. The mystery of their stolen meetings, the sweet flavor of this forbidden fruit--and what man does not love forbidden fruit better than labeled pleasures?--the innocent frankness with which Enrica confessed her love, her unbounded faith in him--all served to heighten his pa.s.sion. He gloried--he reveled in her confidence. Never, never, he swore a thousand times, should she have cause to repent it. In the possession of Enrica's love, all other desires, aims, ambitions, had--up to the night of the Orsetti ball--vanished. Up to that night, for her sake, he had grown solitary, silent--nay, even patient and subtle. He had clean forgotten his feud with the Marchesa Guinigi, or only remembered it as a possible obstacle to his union with Enrica; otherwise the marchesa was absolutely indifferent to him. Up to the night of the Orsetti ball the whole world was indifferent to him. But now!--

n.o.bili, sitting very still, his face shaded by his hand, had finished his cigar. While smoking it he had decided what he would say to Enrica. Again he took up his pen. This time he dropped it in the ink, and wrote as follows:

AMORE: I have treasured all the love you gave me when last we met.

I know that love witnesses for me also in your own heart. Beyond all earthly things you are dear to me. Come to me, O my Enrica--come to me; never let us part. I must have you, you only. I must gaze upon you hour by hour; I must hang upon that dear voice. I must feel that angel-presence ever beside me. When will you meet me? I implore you to answer. After our next meeting I am resolved to claim you, by force or by free-will, to be my wife. To wait longer, O my Enrica, is good neither for you nor for me. My love! my love! you must be mine--mine--mine! Come to me--come quickly. Your adoring.

"MARIO n.o.bILI."

CHAPTER V.

NUMBER FOUR AT THE UNIVERSO HOTEL.

Cesare Trenta is dressed with unusual care. His linen is spotless; his white hair, as fine as silk, is carefully combed; his chin is well shaven. He wears a glossy white hat, and carries his gold-headed cane in his hand. Not that he condescends to use that cane as he mounts the marble staircase of the Universo Hotel (once the Palazzo Buffero) a little stiffly, on his way to keep his appointment with Count Marescotti; oh, no--although the cavaliere is well past eighty, he intends to live much longer; he reserves that cane, therefore, to a.s.sist him in his old age. Now he does not want it.

It is quite clear that Trenta is come on a mission of great importance; his sleek air, and the solemnly official expression of his plump rosy face, say so. His gla.s.sy blue eyes are without their pleasant twinkle, and his lips, tightly drawn over his teeth, lack their usual benignant smile. Even his fat white hand dimples itself on the top of his cane, so tightly does he clutch it. He has learned below that Count Marescotti lives at No. 4 on the second story; at the door of No. 4 he raps softly. A voice from within asks, "Who is there?"

"I," replies Trenta, and he enters.

The count, who is seated at a table near the window, rises. His tall figure is enveloped in a dark dressing-gown, that folds about him like a toga. He has all the aspect of a man roused out of deep thought; his black hair stands straight up in disordered curls all over his head--he had evidently been digging both his hands into it--his eyes are wild and abstracted. Taken as he is now, unawares, that expression of mingled sternness and sweetness in which he so much resembles Castruccio Castracani is very striking. From the manner he fixes his eyes upon Trenta it is clear he does not at once recognize him. The cavaliere returns his stare with a look of blank dismay.

"Oh, carissimo!" the count exclaims at last, his countenance changing to its usual expression--he holds out both hands to grasp those of the cavaliere--"how I rejoice to see you! Excuse my absence; I had forgotten our appointment at the moment. That book"--and he points to an open volume lying on a table covered with letters, ma.n.u.scripts, and piles of printed sheets tossed together in wild confusion--"that book must plead my excuse; it has riveted me. The wrongs of persecuted Italy are so eloquently pleaded! Have you read it, my dear cavaliere?

If not, allow me to present you with a copy."

Trenta made a motion with his hand, as if putting both the book and the subject from him with a certain disgust: he shakes his head.

"I have not read it, and I do not wish to read it," he replies, curtly.

The poor cavaliere feels that this is a bad beginning; but he quickly consoles himself--he was of a hopeful temperament, and saw life serenely and altogether in rose-color--by remembering that the count is habitually absent, also that he habitually uses strong language, and that he had probably not been so absorbed by the wrongs of Italy as he pretends.

"I fear you have forgotten our appointment, count," recommences the cavaliere, finding that Marescotti is silent, and that his eyes have wandered off to the pages of the open book.

"Not at all, not at all, my dear Trenta. On the contrary, had you not come, I was about to send for you. I have a very important matter to communicate to you."

The cavaliere's face now breaks out all over into smiles. "Send for me," he repeats to himself. "Good, good! I understand." He seats himself with great deliberation in a large, well-stuffed arm-chair, near the table, at which Marescotti still continues standing. He places his cane across his knees, folds his hands together, then looks up in the other's face.