Saracinesca Part 52

"In what way can I serve you, Signore?" he asked.

"These papers," answered the Prince, drawing the famous envelope from his breast-pocket, "are copies of certain doc.u.ments in your keeping, relating to the supposed marriage of one Giovanni Saracinesca. With your very kind permission, I desire to see the originals."

The old curate bowed, as though giving his a.s.sent, and looked steadily at his visitor for a moment before he answered.

"There is nothing simpler, my good sir. You will pardon me, however, if I venture to inquire your name, and to ask you for what purpose you desire to consult the doc.u.ments?"

"I am Leone Saracinesca of Rome--"

The priest started uneasily.

"A relation of Giovanni Saracinesca?" he inquired. Then he added immediately, "Will you kindly excuse me for one moment?" and left the room abruptly. The Prince was considerably astonished, but he held his papers firmly in his hand, and did not move from his seat. The curate returned in a few seconds, bringing with him a little painted porcelain basket, much chipped and the worse for age, and which contained a collection of visiting-cards. There were not more than a score of them, turning brown with acc.u.mulated dust. The priest found one which was rather newer than the rest, and after carefully adjusting a pair of huge spectacles upon his nose, he went over to the lamp and examined it.

"'Il Conte del Ferice,'" he read slowly. "Do you happen to know that gentleman, my good sir?" he inquired, turning to the Prince, and looking keenly at him over his gla.s.ses.

"Certainly," answered Saracinesca, beginning to understand the situation.

"I know him very well."

"Ah, that is good!" said the priest. "He was here two years ago, and had those same entries concerning Giovanni Saracinesca copied.

Probably--certainly, indeed--the papers you have there are the very ones he took away with him. When he came to see me about it, he gave me this card."

"I wonder he did," answered Saracinesca.

"Indeed," replied the curate, after a moment's thought, "I remember that he came the next day--yes--and asked to have his card returned. But I could not find it for him. There was a hole in one of my pockets--it had slipped down. Carmela, my old servant, found it a day or two later in the lining of my ca.s.sock. I thought it strange that he should have asked for it."

"It was very natural. He wished you to forget his existence."

"He asked me many questions about Giovanni," said the priest, "but I could not answer him at that time."

"You could answer now?" inquired the Prince, eagerly.

"Excuse me, my good sir; what relation are you to Giovanni? You say you are from Rome?"

"Let us understand each other, Signor Curato," said Saracinesca. "I see I had better explain the position. I am Leone Saracinesca, the prince of that name, and the head of the family." The priest bowed respectfully at this intelligence. "My only son lives with me in Rome--he is now there--and his name is Giovanni Saracinesca. He is engaged to be married.

When the engagement became known, an enemy of the family attempted to prove, by means of these papers, that he was married already to a certain Felice Baldi. Now I wish to know who this Giovanni Saracinesca is, where he is, and how he comes to have my son's name. I wish a certificate or some proof that he is not my son,--that he is alive, or that he is dead and buried."

The old priest burst into a genial laugh, and rubbed his hands together in delight.

"My dear sir--your Excellency, I mean--I baptised Felice Baldi's second baby a fortnight ago! There is nothing simpler--"

"I knew it!" cried the Prince, springing from his chair in great excitement; "I knew it! Where is that baby? Send and get the baby at once--the mother--the father--everybody!"

"_Subito!_ At once--or come with me. I will show you the whole family together," said the curate, in innocent delight. "Splendid children they are, too. Carmela, my cloak--_sbrigati_, be quick!"

"One moment," objected Saracinesca, as though suddenly recollecting something. "One moment, Sign or Curato; who goes slowly goes safely.

Where does this man come from, and how does he come by his name? I would like to know something about him before I see him."

"True," answered the priest, resuming his seat. "I had forgotten. Well, it is not a long story. Giovanni Saracinesca is from Naples. You know there was once a branch of your family in the Neapolitan kingdom--at least so Giovanni says, and he is an honest fellow. Their t.i.tle was Marchese di San Giacinto; and if Giovanni liked to claim it, he has a right to the t.i.tle still."

"But those Saracinesca were extinct fifty years ago," objected the Prince, who knew his family history very well.

"Giovanni says they were not. They were believed to be. The last Marchese di San Giacinto fought under Napoleon. He lost all he possessed--lands, money, everything--by confiscation, when Ferdinand was restored in 1815.

He was a rough man; he dropped his t.i.tle, married a peasant's only daughter, became a peasant himself, and died obscurely in a village near Salerno. He left a son who worked on the farm and inherited it from his mother, married a woman of the village of some education, and died of the cholera, leaving his son, the present Giovanni Saracinesca. This Giovanni received a better education than his father had before him, improved his farm, began to sell wine and oil for exportation, travelled as far as Aquila, and met Felice Baldi, the daughter of a man of some wealth, who has since established an inn here. Giovanni loved her. I married them. He went back to Naples, sold his farm for a good price last year, and returned to Aquila. He manages his father-in-law's inn, which is the second largest here, and drives a good business, having put his own capital into the enterprise. They have two children, the second one of which was born three weeks ago, and they are perfectly happy."

Saracinesca looked thoughtfully at Don Paolo, the old curate.

"Has this man any papers to prove the truth of this very singular story?"

he inquired at last.

"_Altro!_ That was all his grandfather left--a heap of parchments. They seem to be in order--he showed them to me when I married him."

"Why does he make no claim to have the attainder of his grandfather reversed?"

The curate shrugged his shoulders and spread out the palms of his hands, smiling incredulously.

"The lands, he says, have fallen into the hands of certain patriots.

There is no chance of getting them back. It is of little use to be a Marchese without property. What he possesses is a modest competence; it is wealth, even, in his present position. For a n.o.bleman it would be nothing. Besides, he is half a peasant by blood and tradition."

"He is not the only n.o.bleman in that position," laughed Saracinesca. "But are you aware--"

He stopped short. He was going to say that if he himself and his son both died, the innkeeper of Aquila would become Prince Saracinesca. The idea shocked him, and he kept it to himself.

"After all," he continued, "the man is of my blood by direct descent. I would like to see him."

"Nothing easier. If you will come with me, I will present him to your Excellency," said the priest. "Do you still wish to see the doc.u.ments?"

"It is useless. The mystery is solved. Let us go and see this new-found relation of mine."

Don Paolo wrapped his cloak around him, and ushering his guest from the room, led the way down-stairs. He carried a bit of wax taper, which he held low to the steps, frequently stopping and warning the Prince to be careful. It was night when they went out. The air was sharp and cold, and Saracinesca b.u.t.toned his greatcoat to his throat as he strode by the side of the old priest. The two walked on in silence for ten minutes, keeping straight down the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. At last the curate stopped before a clean, new house, from the windows of which the bright light streamed into the street. Don Paolo motioned to the Prince to enter, and followed him in. A man in a white ap.r.o.n, with his arms full of plates, who was probably servant, butler, boots, and factotum to the establishment, came out of the dining-room, which was to the left of the entrance, and which, to judge by the noise, seemed to be full of people.

He looked at the curate, and then at the Prince.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Don Paolo _mio_," he said, supposing the priest had brought a customer--"very sorry; there is not a bed in the house."

"That is no matter, Giacchino," answered the curate. "We want to see Sor Giovanni for a moment." The man disappeared, and a moment later Sor Giovanni himself came down the pa.s.sage.

"_Favorisca_, dear Don Paolo, come in." And he bowed to the Prince as he opened the door which led into a small sitting-room reserved for the innkeeper's family.

When they had entered, Saracinesca looked at his son's namesake. He saw before him a man whose face and figure he long remembered with an instinctive dislike. Giovanni the innkeeper was of a powerful build. Two generations of peasant blood had given renewed strength to the old race.

He was large, with large bones, vast breadth of shoulder, and ma.s.sive joints; lean withal, and brown of face, his high cheek-bones making his cheeks look hollow; clean shaved, his hair straight and black and neatly combed; piercing black eyes near together, the heavy eyebrows joining together in the midst of his forehead; thin and cruel lips, now parted in a smile and showing a formidable set of short, white, even teeth; a prominent square jaw, and a broad, strong nose, rather unnaturally pointed,--altogether a striking face, one that would be noticed in a crowd for its strength, but strangely cunning in expression, and not without ferocity. Years afterwards Saracinesca remembered his first meeting with Giovanni the innkeeper, and did not wonder that his first impulse had been to dislike the man. At present, however, he looked at him with considerable curiosity, and if he disliked him at first sight, he told himself that it was beneath him to show antipathy for an innkeeper.

"Sor Giovanni," said the curate, "this gentleman is desirous of making your acquaintance."

Giovanni, whose manners were above his station, bowed politely, and looked inquiringly at his visitor.

"Signor Saracinesca," said the Prince, "I am Leone Saracinesca of Rome. I have just heard of your existence. We have long believed your family to be extinct--I am delighted to find it still represented, and by one who seems likely to perpetuate the name."

The innkeeper fixed his piercing eyes on the speaker's face, and looked long before he answered.

"So you are Prince Saracinesca," he said, gravely.