Monsieur Jules de Maurienne gambled, and, like most rich men who do, he generally won more than he lost. He did not gamble for the sake of winning money, however, for he was a gentleman and avarice was not among his faults, though he was not extravagant in his way of living, and knew very nearly to a penny what he spent from month to month. What he enjoyed was the excitement of fearing that he was going to lose, as he occasionally did, though with no serious damage to his fortune. Some people do daring things when there is a good reason for doing them, and they are like cats at bay; others are incapable of physical fear and never believe in danger, and they are likely healthy puppies; but one meets men now and then who fully realise every risk, and take a real pleasure in trying how far they can go without breaking their necks. None of the lower animals will do this; it is a characteristic of the born gambler.
De Maurienne did not play much in drawing-rooms or at the clubs. The stakes were rarely high enough to give him an emotion, and the sensation of winning much from friends who could not always afford to lose made him uncomfortable. He therefore frequented one of those quiet little establishments in the neighbourhoodof the Piazza di Spagna where baccara, roulette, and rouge et noir go on from three in the afternoon till three in the morning, or later. He was far too refined in his taste for pleasure to waste a whole evening at such a place, and he frequented it at odd moments late in the afternoon. A man is rarely missed at that hour, and if he occasionally finds an acquaintance in a gambling den, the encounter is not mentioned afterwards, any more than those who meet there would think of calling each other by their names. For the society in the haunts of vice is extremely mixed, to say the least of it, though the owners of the establishments take infinite trouble to make it select.
Teresa Crescenzi had not succeeded in marrying de Maurienne during the summer, though they had gone together all the way from Rome to Paris in his big motor car, and nobody happened to remember who had made up the party. On some points the Italians and the French never seem to understand each other. Monsieur de Maurienne appeared to think it quite unnecessary to marry Donna Teresa Crescenzi, whereas she was equally convinced that marriage was indispensable. With the arguments and stratagems used on each side this story is not concerned; it is a cowardly thing to spy upon a lady’s secret doings, and the novelist should sometimes imitate Falstaff in judging discretion to be the better part of valour. He may, however, remind his forgetful readers that when Teresa met Maria Montalto in a quiet street and said that she had been to confession, she was wilfully misstating a fact.
It came to pass, towards Christmas, that she noticed how often her friend disappeared late in the afternoon. It is easier and more amusing to make a long story short than to make a short story long. Here, therefore, are the facts in the case. She expected to meet de Maurienne somewhere at tea, but he did not come; the next time she saw him she asked where he had been, and he named the house of another friend. Tactful inquiry soon ascertained that he had not been there either. The same thing happened three times within ten days, and Teresa made up her mind that there was another woman in the case. Being anxious not to lose time, which, at her age, still had some value, and having no scruples of any sort, she employed a private detective, who ran the truant de Maurienne to earth on the third day at the door of a gambling den in Via Belsiana. It is odd that all detectives should know just where such wicked places are, whereas the police can hardly ever find them. Why do the police not employ the detectives, as other people do? But these things are a mystery.
Teresa was so much relieved that she gave her informant a handsome present; for, like many people who have nothing, she often gave lavishly; and having noted the address of the gambling establishment and the hour at which de Maurienne had twice been seen entering it, she completed the detective’s work by watching the door herself. With a veil and a quiet-looking frock she could walk in the almost deserted street without attracting attention, and her bearing was not calculated to invite enterprise on the part of any stray dandy who mightpass that way. Indeed, only one man made the mistake of speaking to her.
She only wanted to be sure that de Maurienne really went to that house on the days when he could not be found anywhere else; when she was certain of this her jealousy sank peacefully to rest. She knew that he would never ruin himself. As for the likelihood of being recognised by him, she was indifferent to that. She would have told him that she had been to confession, and would have asked him to find her a cab.
But in the course of several half-hours spent in this way in Via Belsiana, about dusk, she saw a surprising number of men enter the modest door, and now and then she recognised an acquaintance. She also saw a few come out, who must have gone there early in the afternoon. It was one of these who made the mistake of speaking to her as he met her, half a dozen steps from the threshold. She held her head in the air and quickened her pace, and he did not try to follow her; but she had seen his face clearly, and remembered it afterwards, and thought he must have been a foreigner, for he was fair, with a fresh complexion, and wore grey clothes that had not an Italian look.
She made her annual round of visits before Christmas, as Romans generally do, and, like a sensible woman, she did not merely leave cards everywhere without so much as asking whether people were in; on the contrary, she was conscientious, and tried to find them at home.
It was quite natural that she should call on the Countess of Montalto, but when she did, she was told that Mariawas out. This might happen to anybody, of course, so she wrote a line on her card to say that she would come again very soon, and drove away. Two days later she asked for Maria again. Her Excellency was out. This also might happen, with no intention. Three days after that she stopped a third time at the entrance of the palace. The tall porter lifted his black cocked hat with imperturbable serenity and respect. Her Excellency was not at home.
Then Teresa began to suspect something, and took a card with the intention of writing a few words to ask when Maria would see her; and while she was hesitating about the phrase, which the porter would certainly read before sending it upstairs, she sat in her little hired phaeton and unconsciously looked in under the great archway, past the porter, who was waiting at her elbow. Just at that moment she saw a man coming towards her from within, a fair man with a fresh complexion, dressed in grey. He glanced at her and lifted his hat a little, and the porter moved to let him pass, because the carriage was very near the pillars that stood on each side of the entrance. Teresa was not above asking questions of a servant when she was curious.
‘Who was that?’ she inquired, looking down and beginning to write on her card while she spoke. ‘I know his face, but I cannot remember his name.’
‘He is the steward of Montalto, Excellency, Signor Schmidt.’
‘Of course!’ exclaimed Teresa as if she now remembered perfectly.
She finished writing, gave the porter the card, and drove away, meditating on the fact that the steward of Montalto frequented a gambling den in Via Belsiana and spoke to ladies in the street. It also annoyed her to think that Monsieur de Maurienne had doubtless often played at the same table with such people, and had possibly won money from Signor Schmidt. Teresa was more sensitive on some points than on others.
Maria did not answer her written message. On the second day Teresa received a note in a large, stiff handwriting, unfamiliar to her.
Montalto had written himself, in very cold and formal terms, to request her not to put herself to the inconvenience of asking for the Countess again.
Nothing could have been plainer, and Teresa flushed angrily.
‘That is what one gets for defending one’s friends!’ she cried, in a rage.
But she remembered quite well that in her anxiety to defend Maria she had said a number of extremely disagreeable things about Montalto’s mother, which were also quite untrue. Some careful relation had doubtless repeated her observations to him, and now he refused to let her enter his house. She wondered rather flippantly what would happen if everything she had said in her life were repeated to the wrong people, and the idea was so amusing that she laughed at it. But she bore Montalto a lasting grudge from that day, and it pleased her to reflect that his steward spent spare hours in a gambling den and would probably rob him in the end. She wouldtake great care to keep the secret, lest some one should warn him in time, but she would also do her best to meet Maria in some friend’s house, and would tell her what she thought of her behaviour. She felt the humiliation of having had her name sent down to the porter’s lodge as that of a person for whom the Countess was never at home. Such a thing had never happened to her before.
She was Maria’s enemy now, as she had once been her defender, when it had suited her to take the side of frailty, which may bend without being quite broken, against that columnar social virtue which may possibly break but never bends at all. Teresa’s enmity was not likely to be very dangerous, however, for she was, on the whole, a good-natured gossip, and might at any time be in need of a good word for herself in the dangerous game she was playing.
She reflected with rather unnecessary bitterness on her position as a defenceless widow, and felt quite sure that if she were Madame de Maurienne, Montalto would not have the courage to insult her husband by refusing to receive her.
Castiglione had a sort of rule for avoiding Maria which worked very well for a long time. There is a great sameness in the lives of Roman ladies even now, and in a society which is numerically small it is rarely hard to guess where the more important members of it are. So long as Maria had lived in Via San Martino, not by any means cut off from the world, but quite independent of it, she had been in the habit of coming and going as she pleased. She could slip out to the little oratory in Via Somma Campagna at seven o’clock in the morning, she could put on her hat unknown to her maid and go over to the station to post a letter, she could call a cab and drive to Saint Peter’s, or she could take Leone with her at a moment’s notice, on a fine day, for a walk in the outlying quarters of the city, towards Santa Maria Maggiore. All these things look very simple, unimportant, and easy, and it might be supposed that she could have enjoyed the same small liberty after she had moved back to the Palazzo Montalto.
But she could not. Whenever she went out, there was a footman on duty in the hall, where the wide swinging door to the landing of the grand staircase was never fastened except at night. If she was allowed to go downstairs alone, the footman touched a bell that rang in theporter’s lodge, and the porter was waiting for her under the arched entrance, respectful but imposing, and by no means allowing her to take a cab for herself at the stand, fifty paces from the door. The cab must be called for her, and two of those on the stand were privileged by turns, because the cabmen paid the porter a percentage of what he allowed them to earn. Then, too, the address to which she wished to be taken had to be given to him, and he transmitted it to the cabman in a stern manner, as if he thought the man certainly meant to take her somewhere else and must be dealt with severely.
As for going out in her own carriage, that was quite an affair of state, too, though old Telemaco still sat on the box. She could not go to the telephone whenever she pleased and order him to come when she wanted him. There was red tape in such matters. Maria had to tell a footman, who had to tell another, who went downstairs when he was ready and who was in no hurry to find the coachman; and difficulties arose about horses which had never been heard of when she had hired a pair by the month.
Moreover, Leone now had a tutor at home, and was taken to the clerical Istituto Massimo every morning, because Montalto objected to the public schools, and Maria was not able to argue the question.
‘Either you believe in our religion, or you do not, my dear,’ the Count had said.
‘I hope I do,’ Maria had answered meekly.
‘In that case I cannot see how you can even think of sending Leone to a school where no religion is taught.’
She could not answer this, though she had a suspicion that the boy might be ‘taught religion’ in some other and better way than at the day-school. Yet it was better to have him go to the Istituto Massimo and come home for luncheon, than to lose him altogether for three-quarters of the year, as she must if he were sent to the Jesuit school of Mondragone in the country; and that seemed to be the alternative in Montalto’s mind. He himself had been several years at the latter place, but Leone had become necessary to him and he wanted the boy at home. Maria submitted a little more readily to his decision when she thought of Castiglione, who had been through a public school and the military academy, and who, according to her ideas, had no religion at all.
Leone’s schooling, the Count’s methodical habits, and the tiresome formalities and traditions of existence in the great house combined to make Maria’s days almost as monotonously regular in Rome as they had been in Montalto; and as they closely resembled those of other Roman ladies of the same age who had children to educate, it was not hard for Castiglione to keep out of her way.
So far as society went it was made still easier, because even after Christmas, when their mourning was slightly relaxed, Montalto was evidently inclined to confine his acquaintance to the old-fashioned and clerical houses, so far as any still existed, rather than to extend it into the modern circles where Castiglione was more often seen. Montalto made an exception for Giuliana Parenzo and her husband.
Similar conditions being granted for any particular case, two people can live a long time without meeting face to face, even in Rome; and in a city like London they may not meet in a dozen years if they wish to avoid each other.
Castiglione faced his life quietly and courageously, but there were moments in which his intention weakened. At times it seemed to him impossible that such a situation should last till his regiment left Rome. Maria was a saint, he admitted, and he had no doubt at all but that he was a man of honour and meant to respect his promise, however quixotic it looked. But he did not ‘rise higher,’ as Maria used to write him that he must, and still prayed that he might. On the contrary, though he kept his word, he sometimes wished that he had not given it; the roughly masculine side of his nature rebelled against the higher life, till he asked himself why, after all, he was living like a man under vows and avoiding the woman he loved, for the sake of a dream that was quite past and could never visit him again.
But these moods never lasted long. It was true that he had not Maria’s faith in things unseen to help him, nor her beatific vision of an eternal reward for earthly virtues; but, on the other hand, he had a strong perception of what was right and wrong, in the sense that conceives actions as morally noble or ignoble, and brave or cowardly, and he guessed what Maria was undergoing. He had been the cause of her suffering, and it would be dastardly to let her outdo him in courage, knowing that she loved him still. In refusing to see him she was making the greatest sacrifice she could, next to the supremeone she had made when she had let her husband take her back. Castiglione knew that. People who love in earnest do not stop to ask if they are flattering themselves when they believe that they are loved in return.
The soldier was not at all analytical, though he had so long led an inward existence which no one suspected. He knew when his thoughts were ignoble, and he despised them then and was disgusted with himself; but during most of the time he merely looked upon the exceptional life he was leading for Maria’s sake as a duty, and therefore as something which must be done, whether he liked it or not. He was rather a rough specimen of manhood, but his nature was on large lines. Under grosser influences in early youth, he might have turned out what women call a brute, and perhaps it was only his love for Maria that had saved him from that. All men saints have not been born like Bernard of Clairvaux, ethereal, spiritual, eloquent, and already beings of another world. There have been very human Augustines, too, and sorely tempted Anthonys without end, and there have been denying Peters and doubting Thomases ever since the beginning; and because some of them were men of like passions with ourselves, most of us feel nearer to them than to the great ascetics, and we understand them better.
In his thoughts Castiglione called Maria a saint, and compared her to a Catherine of Siena rather than to a Magdalen; but she, too, had her moments of passionate regret, if not of weakness; she, too, was human still, and though she bore her pain like a martyr, she loved like a loving woman.
Here ends such explanation and repetition as was needed to make clear what soon happened to her, to her husband, and to Castiglione. After many months of quiet, when it seemed to Maria that nothing could ever happen again in her life beyond the daily round of dull misery, fate took up the action again with sudden and violent hands.
The two met by accident for a few moments, quite alone. It was at a hotel, of all places in the world; at a quiet and rather old-fashioned hotel which is patronised by the great of the earth when they come to Rome unofficially, for their own pleasure. A short time ago it was such a primitive place that the lift was small and was worked from below, like most of those in Roman private houses.
Now it happened that a certain young couple went to this hotel who were nearly related to the Count of Montalto on the Spanish side of his family, and who were of such exalted station that two smart officers were told off to be at their disposal and to show them the sights of Rome. One of these officers was Castiglione.
In the natural course of social events the Countess of Montalto had written her name in the book which people of such overwhelming importance keep at the porter’s lodge in hotels where they stop, because cards cannot be left for them as for ordinary human beings, on account of their inconvenient greatness. On the following day the Countess was informed that she would be received at five o’clock, and at three minutes to five her carriage stopped at the door. The footman informed the porterthat her Excellency the Countess of Montalto came to see their Highnesses, and at the same instant Castiglione, who was on duty, and in uniform, presented himself to conduct the Countess upstairs.
It was rather a trying moment, for he had not been told who was coming, and he was the last person whom Maria expected to see there. As the footman opened the carriage door Castiglione put forward his arm to help her out, and she laid her hand upon it as lightly and indifferently as she could, but a thrill ran through her to her very feet, and she felt how he stiffened his arm lest it should shake. After the first glance of recognition they avoided each other’s eyes.
The porter stalked solemnly before them to the lift, and a moment later they were alone together in a space so small that they could hardly keep from touching, while the cage began to ascend with that extreme slowness which characterises the old-fashioned Roman contrivances. Maria sat on the narrow little seat, feeling that she dared not look up; Castiglione stood upright, squeezing his square shoulders as far back into the corner as he could, and holding his right hand on the handle of the sliding door. He breathed audibly, and the lift crawled upwards.
It was almost unbearable for them both. To speak indifferently was utterly impossible, and silence meant too much. Just as they were reaching the first floor, Maria rose quickly, expecting to be let out; but the cage did not stop.
They were face to face now, and very near together,so that Castiglione distinctly felt her sharply drawn breath as she looked up at him.
‘It is the next floor,’ he said unsteadily, for he could not take his eyes from her now.
The meeting had been too sudden, too close; Maria could not bear it, but Castiglione would have let his right hand be cut off at the wrist, as it held the door, rather than have moved it towards her. With the other he held his sabre close to his left side, and his blue eyes gazed hungrily into hers. A moment more and the lift would stop; there was only that moment left, for, without looking away from him, she was aware of the landing just overhead. Then she spoke.
‘I love you more than ever!’
The words came to him in a fierce whisper. She had never spoken in that way, even in days of the short sweet dream that was all he had left. His answer was in his eyes, and in the sudden pallor that overspread his face, the ghastly white pallor of fair men who are deeply moved.
Then the lift stopped, the door slid sideways in its grooves, and he was leading the way through a wide corridor under the electric light. Maria was not pale just then; there was a little dark red flush in each cheek, for shame at what she had done.
Her visit was soon over, she hardly knew how, and when she came out Castiglione was not to be seen. A servant offered to call for the lift, but she refused it and almost ran down the stairs in her haste to get out of the hotel. A quarter of an hour later she was alone in herboudoir, sitting before the small wood fire with her elbows on her knees and her chin supported on her clasped hands.
She was terrified when she thought of what she had done, and an unreasoning fear of the future took possession of her. She felt that she had broken her solemn promise and betrayed her husband’s unbounded faith in her; for she knew how she had spoken the half-dozen words, and that if Castiglione had taken her into his arms then, her lips would have met his instantly, willingly, passionately. It had not been possible there; but if they had been in another place, could she have blamed him as she blamed herself? And by and by, when it was late, perhaps she would hear the familiar knock at her unlocked door, and the lips that had spoken those fierce little whispered words to the man she loved would have to say ‘Come in’ to the man whom she was pledged to honour. That was the sum and result, after so many months of pain and prayer and self-abasement, by which she had hoped to rise heavenwards. If only the man had spoken first, she could have grasped at the straw of self-excuse, she could have deluded herself with the thought that she had been tempted. But he had been silent, he had stood quite still, only looking at her, brave against himself and constant to his plighted promise. It was she who had tempted him; that was what she had come to!
There was only one way now, she would tear the thought of him from her heart for ever, and trample out his memory as men stamp upon the embers of the campfire when the wind rises, lest the dry grass be kindled, and they themselves be burnt to death in the storm of flame. It was well that Montalto had taken her back and that the dream had ended in that sharp agony; if there had been no such waking it would have turned into a reality she shuddered to think of.
She rose and went to her writing-table and opened a deep drawer. It was there that she kept the small locked desk she had used in Via San Martino, the one in which she had put away Castiglione’s letters, meaning to burn them. With them there was also that letter of her husband’s in which he had first spoken of reconciliation, and she had never opened the writing-case since she had placed it there.
It had been spring when she had left the little apartment, and there had been no fire in any of the rooms. The fireplaces were closed with painted boards, in the Italian way, and she had not wished to excite her servants’ curiosity by taking out the board and burning a quantity of papers on the clean hearth. Burnt paper leaves its unmistakable black ash behind it, and the servants might guess that she had destroyed old love-letters before going back to her husband. Besides, she had thought them innocent then. She had thought that some day she might find comfort in reading them over and recalling the sweetest illusion of her life, the happy and innocent dream of a love grown pure and true in years of waiting and trial. The well-loved writing was dearer to her than she would confess even to herself.
But those letters must be burnt now. She was alone,for Montalto was hardly ever at home at that hour, and Leone was busy at his late afternoon lesson with his tutor, after having been out till nearly sunset. The small fire was burning well, too, and it would be a matter of only two or three minutes to destroy everything; and it must be done at once, while she felt the courage to do it.
She lifted the case out of the drawer and set it on the table before her, turning up the shaded light she used for writing. It was a little old desk that had belonged to her grandmother, made of ebony and inlaid with metal and mother-of-pearl in the happily forgotten taste of the Second Empire. It was of the old sloping shape, made so that when it was opened the upper part turned down in front, continuing the inclined plane to the level of the table, to give enough space for writing; it was one of those primitive attempts at a convenient travelling writing-case which had seemed marvels of ingenuity in those days, and look so hopelessly clumsy to our modern eyes. But Maria’s grandmother had used it for many years, and it had a lock. Everything could be locked in those days, though most of the keys were absurdly simple. Maria looked at it, and remembered that the folding board was covered on the inside with very faded and threadbare purple velvet on which there were three or four inkstains; and when the outer cover was down the upper half of the folding board made a second lid which could be turned down on the first, and there was a little silk tag fastened to it, by which it could be moved. Under this second lid was the body of the desk, a space large enough to contain a good many papers.
Maria sat at the table with the case before her, and her hands upon it. She meant to burn all the letters, except Montalto’s, without reading them. That would be the only way, and it would not take more than two or three minutes; yet she hesitated, though she had already taken the little key from the chain on which she had always carried it.
Might she not at least think for the last time of those dear words? They had been quite innocent. If worse had come to worst she would have shown them even to her husband. They were not eloquent, for Castiglione had small gift for writing. They were not the rough and uncouth love-letters that such a man might have written; for the very essence of the lost dream had been that it was to ignore the earthly love and look forward to the spiritual. He had tried to follow whither she meant to lead, and what he had written was the sincere effort, the pathetically imperfect effort, to see something heavenly through eyes not used to call up the unreal in visions.
She remembered well the awkward wording of his sentences, and the way he had groped at the meaning of what seemed so clear to her. He could understand whatever had to do with honour, with courage, and even with sacrifice, if it were for her sake. But heavenly things were quite beyond him, and even the earthly paradise she had tried to show him seemed very complicated. Yet he would try to make himself comprehend it because all her thoughts were beautiful, and because she had taught him where true honour lay, in honouring her honour, and in kneeling at the shrine of her purity, he, a poor material man.
Her purity! She remembered how the word had looked in his bold handwriting; and though she was alone, the flush of shame rose and burned her cheek, so that she laid the back of her cold hand to the spot to cool it; for her own words were whispered again in her ears.
That echo decided her. There was no time to be lost. It had all been a lie from the day when he had come to her pretty booth at the Kermess. Such dreams were inventions of the devil, and nothing but rank poison. She loved Castiglione more than ever, as woman loves man, fiercely, desperately, very sinfully, very shamefully. That was what her whisper had told him plainly enough. Her cold hands pressed her burning cheeks again, but there was no hesitation left. She was alone, the fire was burning, and surely no one would disturb her during the next five minutes.
She thrust the small key into the lock and turned it. It stuck a little and she pushed it in and out, and turned it to the right and left with almost feverish haste, till she heard the click of the tiny bolt, and she lifted the folding board towards her on the table. Her fingers sought the little faded silk tag by which the second lid was to be lifted, but it must have been jammed in when she had last shut the case. She took the first thing that lay under her hand, a sharp steel letter-opener in the shape of a sword, and she forced the point a little way in between the lid and the edge of the ebony case, pressing hard on the little gold hilt. The lid flew up suddenly on its hinges and fell forwards towards her.
Then her heart failed her. The desk was empty.
She uttered a sort of faltering little cry, and she fell back in her chair with starting eyes and parted lips, her hands still grasping the open lid. In the wild confusion of her horror and the frantic effort of her memory to recall something that had never been, she was mad for a moment. Had she burnt everything and forgotten? Or had she put the papers in some safer place, and lost all recollection of what she had done?
That was impossible. She never forgot what she did, and she had thought too often of the letters not to be sure that she had last seen them there. Some one had forced the desk and taken them. The key had not turned easily, as it had always turned, because somebody had tampered with the lock. The little silk tag of the inner lid had been jammed inside by a hand unfamiliar with it. The details flashed upon her quickly, and in half a minute she understood that she had forgotten nothing. She had left the letters in the desk, and they were no longer there. Some one had stolen them all, and her husband’s letter with them.
She grew slowly cold with fear as she closed the empty desk and put it into the drawer again; and once more that hideous thought rose up and tormented her. Montalto had come back to be revenged upon her for his wrongs, slowly and surely; and that was not all, for he had come secretly to her room when she was out of the house and had stolen her letters, for a weapon against her if he needed one.
Who else in the house would have dared to take them?
Such a thought could have no real hold upon Maria, and she put it away angrily, as unworthy and ungenerous, even in an extremity which might have excused her for suspecting some innocent person. It was much more likely, she soon told herself, that she had been robbed by some servant in the house, who would sooner or later attempt to blackmail her by threatening to show the letters to her husband. As for knowing even approximately when the theft had taken place, that was impossible. She had opened the writing-case for the last time in May, and nearly eight months had now elapsed. It was one of the objects she had formerly always locked up in a closet in Via San Martino when she left Rome for the summer. This year she had put it into the deep drawer of her new writing-table, which had an English patent lock, and she had taken the key with her to the country; but she knew that patent locks always had two keys when they were new, and it occurred to her now that she had never seen the second. Since she had been in Rome again she had not even locked the drawer, and had felt safe in carrying only the key of the desk itself. It was impossible to say when it had been opened, and she realised at once how useless it was to waste time and thought in trying to detect the thief.
He would reveal himself when he wanted the money. She felt sure that money only had been his object in stealing the letters, for she could not imagine that any one should have done it for mere hatred of her.
The question was whether the thief would demand his price from her or from Montalto. Most probably he would write first to her, for he would know that she had some independent fortune. She would give anything he asked, even if he asked for all she had.
But, on the other hand, he might go directly to her husband. The thought appalled her; the catastrophe might happen at any moment; it had perhaps happened already, that very day, since she had seen Montalto, and she would see the change in his face when they met at dinner; afterwards, when they were alone, he would bring his accusation against her, and it would be a more bitter one than the first had been, long ago. Her shame would be greater, too, before the world when he left her the second time and for ever, and the final ruin of his life would be upon her soul.
She wished she had told him everything when she had spoken of her meeting with Castiglione; but she had judged it wiser not to say more, for she had felt innocent of all evil then, and the knowledge that many letters had been exchanged would have sorely disturbed her husband’s peace. He would have answered her that she should have written him all the truth before he came home. If she had only done that, he might never have returned to claim her. Yet this thought was evil, too, now that she had said those words to Castiglione in thelift, and she must kill the memory of her lover in her heart if she had the least respect left for herself, or for her husband’s honour, or for God’s right.
Even now it would be better to throw herself upon Montalto’s mercy and confess the truth before the thief wrote to him. She would rather tell it all, against herself, than let him learn it suddenly, brutally, from the vile letter in which the blackmailer would make his demand. It would be easier for Montalto too. At least he would be warned; at least, if he chose to cast her off again, she would have given him the weapon, the right, and the opportunity. Yes, it would be better so.
The brave thought took possession of her quickly. She believed she saw the right course before her, in the clear light of a good inspiration. Perhaps Montalto had come home already, though it was only six o’clock and he rarely came in before seven. She now recollected that Giuliana Parenzo and Monsignor Saracinesca were coming to dinner. When her husband told her that he had asked Don Ippolito to dine, she generally telephoned to Giuliana to come if she could. The two men often engaged in endless discussions about the relations of Church and State, during the evening; the layman believed in the dream of restoring the temporal power of the Pope, the churchman did not, and had a patriotic affection for his country and a belief in its future, which made Montalto tremble for his salvation. At first Maria had derived some amusement from this anomalous situation, but when she had occasionally ventured to put in a word for the new order of things, Montalto hadbeen visibly displeased. After that she had resorted to the device of asking Giuliana, with whom she could talk quietly at one end of the drawing-room while her husband and his friend carried on their unending argument at the other. Incidentally, she often wondered how such a broad-minded man as Don Ippolito could be so sincerely attached to such a prejudiced one as Montalto.
To-night she would have to wait till the Canon and the Marchesa were gone before she could speak to her husband. It would be very unwise to tell him her story before dinner, though she felt an intense desire to unburden herself of it at once. She wondered how she should get through the evening, from eight o’clock till half-past ten or eleven, without betraying her distress; but to her own surprise she found herself growing calmer and cooler than she could have thought it possible for her to be. She was in something more than trouble; she was in danger from an unknown and dastardly hand, and she was naturally brave enough to be calmer at such a moment than under the strain of any purely mental suffering.
She was conscious of impatience more than of fear or want of strength, for she was going to do the only thing that was brave and right and truthful, and after that such consequences might come as must.
She put the empty desk away in the drawer, and after a moment’s hesitation she unlocked the door of the passage that led to the chapel, opening it with one hand as she moved the key to turn up the electric light; sheentered, shut the door after her, and went forwards, absorbed in her thoughts.
Before she was half-way down the long straight part of the passage, after the corner, the lights went out. She stood still in momentary surprise and then turned back. The electric light had been put in by a German company, and the keys were little flat levers that were kept in place by a spring. Maria thought she had perhaps not pushed the one at the boudoir door quite far enough to set it, and that it had sprung back of itself and cut off the current. She retraced her steps, following the smooth varnished wall with her hand till she reached the familiar corner, and then her own door. She pushed the lever both ways but no light came, so she concluded that an accident had happened to the wires just when she was half-way through the passage.
There were no candles in the room, but she lit a wax taper she used for sealing notes. It was a long and thick one, rolled on itself and fitted into an old silver stand with a handle like a candlestick, and it gave a very fair light. She threw the match into the fire, entered the passage again, and made her way towards the chapel. She went in and set the taper-stand on the marble floor beside her as she knelt down in the place which was always hers.
Three small silver lamps, fed with pure olive oil and hanging from the arch over the altar, shed a feeble light which was considerably strengthened by that from the taper. The ugly barocco angels and stucco work cast queer shadows above the altar and the walls, but Mariadid not even glance at them and bent her head down over her clasped hands. The chapel had often been her refuge and her place of peace, since she had first come there long before dawn in the night that followed her husband’s return.
As she knelt there now in the silence and gloom she was thinking, rather than trying to say any prayer; she was going over in her mind the things she must say to be quite truthful. She was recalling the words she had once said to Castiglione, the two innocent kisses she had received from him, the promises both had given and both had kept until to-day; and in the presence of the mortal danger that was hanging over her now, she felt that the whispered words of love she had spoken that afternoon were perhaps but a small matter compared with it; a sin that concerned her own soul only, to be confessed, repented of, and forgiven in time, whereas the main great matters were her husband’s honour and the happiness she had tried so hard to give him in all ways.
If only she could make him see the truth as she had seen it, he would understand and still forgive; and her fortune could buy back the evidence of what had been no real betrayal of his honour. If only she could tell her true story as she knew it, that would be the result.
She started as she knelt, and looked round in the dimness, with the sudden conviction that she was not alone. Her hearing and sight were very keen, but she was not aware of having heard any sound or seen any moving shadow in the chapel. The certainty had come upon her all at once, instinctively, she knew not how.
There was nothing to be seen, but she listened intently with bent head. A moment later she looked up again, for she had heard something. Some one was breathing not far from her, and it was that soft and regular sound that had warned her before she was aware that she heard it.
Her first impulse was to rise and search the chapel with her taper, but it occurred to her that Montalto might have come there to say his prayers, and might be kneeling somewhere out of sight, behind one of the pillars that supported the arch. He had perhaps heard her enter, and had not wished to disturb her by betraying his presence. In his slow way he was very thoughtful for her. She would go away now, and not let him know that she had heard him breathing.
But perhaps, again, if he were really present, there could be no better time or place for telling him her story and appealing to his kindness. Her impatience to do that turned the scale.
‘Diego, are you here?’ she asked softly.
There was no answer, but the breathing ceased for a moment and then the unseen person drew a longer breath. Maria felt a little thrill that was not fear; it was more like resentment. She took the taper from the floor and rose to her feet.
‘Who is here?’ she asked in a louder tone.
Still there was no answer. Perhaps, after all, it was only a cat that had slipped in when the chapel was being swept, and had gone to sleep. Maria moved towards the altar, shading the light from her eyes with her hand and peering over it into the gloom. She spoke as she walked.
‘I hear you breathing. Show yourself, whoever you are! Come forward at once!’
She spoke authoritatively and coolly, though at that very moment something told her that the intruder might be a thief who had come to steal the famous relic of the Cross that was preserved under the altar. She looked first to the right and then to the left, and there, flattened against the wall in the shadow of the pilaster, she saw the figure of a man. Without hesitating a moment she went straight towards him. When he understood that he was caught he came forward at last, and the light of the taper showed her the face of Orlando Schmidt, the steward.
Maria stopped two paces from him.
‘What are you doing here at this hour?’ she asked sternly.
She had never before seen him pale; he was white round the lips now.
‘I beg your Excellency’s pardon,’ he said with a glibness that did not at all agree with his looks, ‘I came to see about some work that is to be done, and when you entered I hid myself in order not to disturb your Excellency’s devotions.’
The Countess held the small light higher and scrutinised his face thoughtfully.
‘You are not telling the truth,’ she said with great calmness. ‘What were you doing here?’
‘What I have told you, Signora Contessa,’ he answered stubbornly.
‘There is no work to be done here,’ returned Maria,her tone growing hard and clear. ‘The Count and I have talked of the chapel recently. If you do not at once tell me what brings you here, with no light at this hour, I shall go to the door and call.’
The chapel opened into the ante-chamber, of which the door was generally open to the outer hall, where a footman was always stationed.
‘Your Excellency is quite welcome,’ said Schmidt, and his coolness almost convinced Maria that he had told the truth.
Yet his face was very white and his eyes showed his inward fear.
‘Take care,’ Maria said. ‘The Count has told me how he forgave you once. I do not wish to ruin you, but unless you tell the truth I shall call some one. You have either taken the relic from under the altar or you came here to take it.’
‘You are mistaken, Signora Contessa,’ the man answered obstinately; ‘the relic is in its place. You may see for yourself.’
‘Then give me the keys, for you have them in your pocket.’
‘I have not, Excellency,’
‘I do not believe you.’
Maria held the light so that she could see him while she moved quickly towards the large door.
‘I am going to call the servants,’ she said, ‘and they shall search your pockets.’
Schmidt attempted to smile.
‘Your Excellency cannot be in earnest,’ he managed tosay, but his teeth were chattering and he was perfectly livid.
The Countess laid her hand on the lock. It could be opened from within by a handle, but required a latch-key to open it from the other side. She watched Schmidt steadily and began to turn the knob. He looked round in a scared way, as if hoping to see some means of escape, and her fingers slowly turned the handle of the door. At the last second he broke down.
‘For God’s sake, Excellency!’ he cried, in utmost fear. ‘I have taken nothing! I swear it on the altar, on the Sacrament——’
‘Do not blaspheme,’ said the Countess quietly, and she let the latch spring softly back into its place. ‘If you had not something about you which you have stolen, you would not be so frightened at the idea of being searched.’
‘It is the disgrace before the servants——’
‘That is absurd. If nothing is found on you, the blame will fall on me. You must make up your mind instantly whether you will throw yourself on my mercy and show me what you have taken, or whether the men shall search you.’
Her hand moved to the lock again, and Schmidt read in her face that her patience was exhausted. A southern Italian would have become dramatic at this point, and would probably have fallen on his knees, tearing his hair and shedding real tears. But Schmidt was from the north, and practically an Austrian. He was a thief, he saw that he was caught, and he made the best of the situation at once.
‘Then I appeal to your Excellency’s generosity,’ he said quietly. ‘I have not touched the relic, and what I took some time ago I had come to restore when you found me here.’
He produced from his pocket a square package, done up in a clean sheet of white paper, without string. He handed it to her.
‘You will find here seven letters from the Conte del Castiglione,’ he said, ‘and one from his Excellency. I took them from your writing-case three weeks ago, and I was going to put them back this evening while you were at dinner. I heard you coming and I could not go out by the ante-chamber without being seen. So I cut the wire of the light and hid myself.’
Maria’s hand had closed upon the precious packet while he spoke.
‘You?’ she cried at last. She was almost speechless with amazement. ‘You took them?’
‘Yes, Signora Contessa, and I give them back and implore your pardon.’
‘Why did you take them if it was not to extract money from me?’ Maria asked, recovering her presence of mind quickly.
In the storm of her distress she felt as if a wave had lifted her up and had set her high on the shore, and at the first moment she was more amazed at the man’s audacity than angry at what he had done.
‘Signora Contessa,’ he said,‘the story the Count told you is true; since he forgave me, there is nothing I will not do for him, his interest, and his honour. I did your Excellency the great injustice of suspecting that you still corresponded with the Signor Conte del Castiglione. I have read the letters and I have observed the dates. I was wrong. If you think it wise to disturb my master’s peace by telling him what I have done, I must submit and bear his displeasure. He will turn me out for having dared to play detective and spy upon the Signora Contessa in his own house, for his confidence in you is absolute. Will your Excellency verify the contents of the package? I will hold the taper, if you will allow me.’
Maria felt as if she were in a dream, half good, half evil. She opened the packet while Schmidt held the light, and she quickly made sure that none of the letters were missing and that each was complete; that was soon done, for Castiglione had rarely filled more than one sheet in writing to her.
She laid them all together again and took the taper-stand from the steward without a word. It was all a dream. If he had been a villain, he might have had her fortune for what he was freely giving back to her; but he had nothing. He had not even begged her not to tell her husband what had happened. It was incomprehensible beyond all explanation; but one fact remained: she had recovered the letters of which the loss had nearly driven her mad, within an hour of finding that they had been stolen. That was the main thing, and nothing else mattered much for a while.
‘You have a singular way of serving your master,’ she said, as she reached the door of the passage;‘but since you have appealed to my generosity, I shall say nothing to the Count.’
‘I am most grateful to your Excellency.’
He opened the door and held it back while she passed in, and when he had shut it after her he heard the bolt pushed into its slot. Then at last he smiled, for though a bolt is generally considered to be a solid fastening for the inside of a door, this one could easily be moved from without by an unobtrusive little brass button, no bigger than a pea, that moved along a slit narrow enough to pass unnoticed.
Schmidt waited in the chapel two hours. When he knew that the family was at dinner, he opened the passage door noiselessly and twisted together the ends of the wire he had cut. He had been badly frightened, but things had ended well enough; better for him than for the Countess, he thought.
Nothing happened during the next week; nothing, that is to say, which can be chronicled as an event. But the determination which Maria had formed after her chance meeting with Castiglione gained strength continually. She went to confession at last, and it was a bitter satisfaction to be told that she was in mortal sin because she had whispered those few loving words in the weakness of an instant; she was reminded that if the mere wish to kill was almost as bad as the intention, and that the intention was murder and nothing else, it followed that the most passing wish to be united with any man but her husband was a betrayal of her marriage vow only a little less grave than the worst. She replied that she knew it was. She was warned that she must uproot from her heart every memory of the man she had loved, if she hoped to be forgiven. She bowed her head and answered that she wished with all her soul to do so, and was trying with all her might to succeed.
She had gone once more to the terrible old Capuchin, because she knew what he would say, and wished to hear him say it. Though the name of Padre Bonaventura was known to her and to many, he did not know her and had never seen her face; it was before God that she accused herself and abased herself, and promised to dobetter, and most earnestly prayed for help. The monk remembered her without knowing who she was, and before he pronounced the absolution she implored, he said what he believed it his duty to say. It was a short, harsh homily on the abominable wickedness of the rich and great, who were so much better taught and so much more carefully brought up than the poor and the ignorant, and therefore so much the more responsible for their thoughts and actions. The sin of the noble lady was a thousand times greater than the fault of the unlettered hill-woman. Why should a lady of Rome expect to be forgiven more easily than a peasant?
To this also Maria bent her head, and said she came to confession as a sinful woman, with no thought of her own station in life; and at last the Capuchin was satisfied. While she was kneeling in the quiet church just afterwards, he came out of his box and went away, and she watched him, remembering how he had stalked away, in righteous indignation, with his grim old head in the air, after she had come to him the first time. But now he walked quietly and slowly, looking down; and before he disappeared he knelt before the altar a few moments. She knew that he was praying for her, as a good confessor does for each penitent, and she was humbly grateful. Even in her inmost consciousness she did not think critically of what he had said, nor find fault with his scant knowledge of great ladies’ hearts.
She did not think she had ‘risen higher’ now. Her attempt to rise by the purification of her earthly love had been a wretched failure. Henceforth she woulddream no dreams of that sort: not once, in years to come, would she willingly dwell on thoughts of Baldassare del Castiglione.
It was half-past five o’clock when she reached her home again, and on the way another resolution had formed itself, on which she acted at once. She determined to tell her husband everything that had happened before he had come back. Her reason was a practical one, strong enough to warrant the risk she was about to take; for she now distrusted the man Schmidt, who might at any moment turn against her and use the knowledge he had obtained, and ruin Montalto’s life by placing her in an utterly false light. It was only natural that the steward should hate her, since she had caught him in the chapel, and before long he would try to get rid of her. Yet she was thinking less of herself now than of Montalto.
She sent for her husband’s valet, and told him to beg the Count to come to her as soon as he returned.
An hour later he entered the boudoir, looking rather pale and tired, as she thought. Her resolution wavered for a moment, but soon returned when she remembered the man who had stolen her secret, and who might so terribly misrepresent it. That thought had hindered her from burning the letters as soon as they were again in her possession, and she had put them away in her jewel-case.
She made Montalto sit down near the small fire, and, to his surprise, she locked the door that led into the ball-room before she seated herself beside him.
‘We might be interrupted,’ she said, in explanation.
‘What is the matter, my dear?’ her husband asked.
‘I have something to tell you,’ she answered. ‘You must be patient with me, Diego. You must try to understand, though it will be hard. I thought I was doing right, but after a long time I am quite sure that it was wrong.’
‘My dear Maria,’ Montalto said, ‘if your intention was good, you did nothing wrong. You only made a mistake.’
‘Thank you.’ She was grateful for the trite words, because she knew that he meant them. ‘When you came home,’ she continued after a short time, ‘I told you that I had seen Baldassare, and that we had parted for ever. You said we need not speak of him again.’
‘Yes.’ Montalto’s face became very grave as he nodded and looked at the fire.
‘What I told you was true,’ she went on. ‘The last time we met, we agreed never to see each other again if we could avoid it. That was quite true. But it gave you a wrong impression. You may have thought that after you had gone away to live in Spain we had only met that once.’
Montalto looked at her with a startled expression, but she met his eyes quietly and honestly.
‘No, Diego,’ she said at once, ‘I did nothing that I thought wrong or felt ashamed of.’
He turned to the fire with a sigh of relief, but did not speak.
‘He came to Rome a month or more before your mother died,’ she continued. ‘I had not seen him since—since that time—you know—long before you first went to your mother. We met by accident. They had persuaded me to take one of the booths at Kermess in the Villa, and he appeared quite unexpectedly. You believe me, don’t you, Diego?’
Montalto turned to her and spoke very slowly.
‘I shall believe every word you tell me. You never told me an untruth in your life.’
‘No, never. But I thank you for trusting me now. It is not every man that would. After he came back’—she was careful not to mention Castiglione’s name after the first time—‘I saw him again and again; I thought I hated him, Diego, but I loved him still.’
It was hard to say, but perhaps it was harder to hear. Yet her husband had never known how she had deceived herself into believing that she hated Castiglione, and he did not turn upon her as she had expected. His head sank a little, but he was still watching the burning logs.
‘Do you love him now?’ he asked with an effort.
‘I have promised on my knees and before God to tear every thought of him from my heart.’
There was no mistaking her tone.
‘That is enough,’ he answered. ‘No one can ask more than that of you.’
A short silence followed.
‘Is that all, my dear?’ he asked presently in a kind tone.
‘No. There is more, and it will be harder to understand, perhaps, though it will be easier to say. I found him greatly changed after all those years; changed for the better, I mean. Then I let myself believe that we could love each other innocently for the rest of our lives, and do no wrong, not even to you.’
‘Not even to me.’ There was a sudden bitterness in Montalto’s voice as he repeated the words.
‘I did not think you loved me still, Diego. You had not forgiven me then. I felt that my only duty to you was to bear your name without more reproach, and I did that. There was not a word breathed against me in those years. You know how I lived, and I had no secret; what the world knew was all there was to be known. But when he came back I began to dream of something innocent—that seemed possible.’
The last sentence choked her a little. Montalto turned to her.
‘Do you regret your dream now? Do you wish it back?’ he asked sorrowfully.
‘No!’ she said with sudden vehemence. ‘It was not right, it was wrong! It was not innocent, it was a temptation! It is gone. I will never think of it again, nor of him, if God will help me to forget.’
‘I am trying to help you, too, Maria.’
The words cut her to the quick. He meant them so truly, he spoke them so humbly, he loved her so dearly; yet she felt her flesh creep at his touch and shrank under his least caress, do what she could.
‘I know you are, Diego,’ she managed to say, and then she collected her strength to tell what was left. ‘It lasted a month or six weeks altogether,’ she said, goingon quickly. ‘He had exchanged into another regiment in order not to be quartered in Rome. He was in Milan then, and he was here on a short leave. He applied to be allowed to come back to the Piedmont Lancers. While he was in Milan we wrote to each other. We promised to be faithful and innocent; we told each other that we would love as spirits love, and meet in heaven. Then your mother died, and you wrote me that first long letter, and I answered it; and on the same day I wrote to him and told him he must not come to Rome, that we must never see each other again because you were going to take me back. But it was too late, the matter had been settled already, and he had to come.’
‘Of course,’ said Montalto, in a dull tone, when she paused.
‘I sent for him then. That was the last time, the time I told you of. He came, and we said good-bye.’
A long pause followed, and Montalto did not move.
‘Is that all you wished to tell me?’ he asked at length.
‘I let him kiss my cheek twice,’ Maria said, very low.
This time her husband turned towards her quickly, and she saw how very pale he was.
‘Was that when you parted?’
‘No! Oh, no! It was in those first few days when he was here on leave.’
Montalto seemed relieved, and his face softened; he was still looking at her, but he did not speak.
‘Can you forgive me that?’ she asked.
‘You meant no harm,’ he said.‘You were not thinking of doing any wrong, you were only dreaming of an impossible good. There is nothing to forgive.’
‘Ah, how good you are to me! How very, very good!’
‘It is only justice, and I love you. How can I be unjust to you when I see how hard you are trying to do right?’
‘You are one of the best men that ever lived,’ said Maria, and for a few seconds she covered her face with her hands. ‘Only tell me,’ she continued presently, looking up, ‘you know all my story now—have I hurt you very much?’
‘A little, my dear, but it is over already. Think of what I should have felt if you had not told me these things, and if some enemy, who knew, had told them as an enemy might!’
He, who was often so dull, seemed to have divined her inmost intention. She rose from her seat.
‘What is it?’ he asked, moving to stand up.
‘Wait a moment!’
She went into her dressing-room and returned almost instantly, bringing a large envelope. He was seated again and she stood between him and the fireplace, facing him.
‘He wrote me seven letters,’ she said. ‘Here they are. I give them into your hands. Read them, and you will understand better.’
He took the envelope and held it a moment, looking up to her face with a gentle smile.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said.‘I do not need any proofs in order to believe you.’
He rose then and tried to pass her, to reach the fire, evidently meaning to burn the letters at once.
The tears came suddenly to her eyes without overflowing, as they did sometimes when she was much moved by a generous word or deed, but she caught at his arm as he was in the act of tossing the letters into the flames. The envelope left his hand but fell short and lay on the polished tiles of the hearth. Maria stooped and picked it up.
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘you must not burn them yet. I know you trust me now, but there is that other possibility. Some enemy of yours or mine may say that we wrote to each other. You must be able to answer that you have the real letters in your keeping.’
‘That is true,’ said Montalto, and he took the envelope back from her. ‘I will seal it and put it away.’
He went to her writing-table, and she followed him to light the little taper in its silver stand and to place the sealing wax before him when he had sat down. He melted it slowly and spread a broad patch upon the overlapping point of the envelope, working the wax neatly round and round till it stiffened, and then putting on more with a little flame, and working it over till the patch softened again.
‘Your seal is not ready,’ said Maria, glancing at the ring on his finger. ‘The wax will get cold.’
He said nothing, but when he was ready he took her own seal, which lay beside the taper-stand, and pressed it upon the wax. When he lifted it, there was a clear impression of Maria’s simple monogram, the doubledletter that began both her names, encircled by a little belt, on which were engraved the words ‘Risurgi e Vinci’—meaning ‘Rise again and overcome.’ They are from theParadisoof Dante.
Once more her eyes grew dim with gratitude, for she knew what he meant by using her seal; there was not to be even the possibility of a doubt in her mind that he might ever open the packet.
He took her pen and wrote on the back, in his stiff and formal handwriting.
‘In case of my death, to be given to my wife at once.’
‘Then you will burn it, my dear,’ he said, showing her what he had written.
As she stood beside him her hand pressed hard upon his thin shoulder, for she was very much touched. He looked up, smiling, slipped the sealed envelope into his pocket and rose.
‘That is done,’ he said, ‘and we need never think of it again.’
‘You know what I feel,’ she answered softly. ‘I cannot say it.’
They went back to the fireplace and stood side by side gazing at the flames. He linked his arm through hers without looking at her, and she did not shrink from his touch, for she was thinking only of his kindness then. He pressed her arm to his side and then withdrew his own and looked at his watch.
‘I must be going,’ he said.
‘Stay a little longer,’ said she, and it was the first time she had ever made such a request.
‘I wish I could. But there is a lawyer waiting for me, and I must see him before dinner.’
‘A lawyer? Is anything wrong? You looked a little tired when you came in. Has anything happened?’
‘Yes, my dear, and I wish your judgment were as good as your heart!’ He smiled.
‘My judgment? What do you mean?’
‘Schmidt disappeared four days ago, and we cannot find any trace of him.’
Maria was profoundly surprised.
‘Has he taken money?’ she asked after a moment.
‘That is the question. So far we cannot find anything wrong with his books nor at the bank. But then he is so very “intelligent,” you know!’
He laughed a little as he reminded his wife of their conversation at Montalto. It was evident that he did not anticipate any heavy loss.
‘He was always a modest young man,’ he continued. ‘I hope he has not taken more than a modest sum!’
He laughed again, at his own little joke, as slow people do, and Maria laughed too, though rather nervously.
‘I should be very sorry if the mistake I made about him caused you any annoyance,’ she said.
‘Chiefly the trouble of finding a good man to take his place,’ Montalto said. ‘The lawyer is waiting, my dear.’
He laid his hands on her shoulders before going away and looked into her eyes. She knew he was going to kiss her, and on any other day she might have smiled and turned away to hide the intense repugnance she felt for him. But that was impossible now; she must not evenlet her lids droop, as if she did not wish to meet his gaze frankly. Many months ago, Ippolito Saracinesca had told her that in this world it is not enough to do right, but one must also be seen to be doing right. If her eyes had wavered just then, if she had shrunk from her husband’s kiss, there was just one possibility that a doubt of her truth might sooner or later creep out of some hiding-place in his memory to accuse her.