It was about ten o'clock—or, it may be, nearer half-past ten—the same night when two inhabitants of the village received very genuine, yet far from unpleasant, shocks of surprise.
The first was the parish priest. He was returning from a visit to the bedside of a sick peasant and making his way along the straggling street towards his own modest dwelling, which stood near the inn, when he met a tall stranger of most dilapidated appearance, whose clothes were creased and dirty, and whose head was encircled by a stained and grimy handkerchief. He wore no hat; his face was disfigured with blotches of an ugly colour and, maybe, an uglier significance; his trousers were most atrociously rent and tattered; he walked with a limp, and shivered in the cold night air. This unpromising-looking person approached the priest and addressed him with an elaborate courtesy oddly out of keeping with his scarecrow-like appearance, but with words appropriate enough to the figure that he cut.
"Reverend father," said he, "pardon the liberty I take, but may I beg of your Reverence's great kindness—"
"It 's no use begging of me," interrupted the priest hurriedly, for he was rather alarmed. "In the first place, I have nothing; in the second, mendicancy is forbidden by the regulations of the commune."
The wayfarer stared at the priest, looked down at his own apparel, and then burst into a laugh.
"Begging forbidden, eh?" he exclaimed. "Then the poor must need voluntary aid!" He thrust his hand into his pocket and brought out two French five-franc pieces. "For the poor, father," he said, pressing them into the priest's hand. "For myself, I was merely about to ask you the time of night." And before the astonished priest could make any movement the stranger passed on his way, humming a soft, and sentimental tune.
"He was certainly mad, but he undoubtedly gave me ten francs," said the priest to his friend the innkeeper, the next day.
"I wish," growled the innkeeper, "that somebody would give me some money to pay for what those two runaway rogues who lodged here had of me, their baggage is worth no more than half what they 've cost me, and I 'll lay odds I never clap eyes on them again."
And in this suspicion the innkeeper proved, in the issue, to be absolutely right, about the value of the luggage there is, however, more room for doubt.
The second person who suffered a surprise was no less a man than the Count of Fieramondi himself. But how this came about needs a little more explanation.
In that very room through whose doorway Captain Dieppe had first beheld the lady whom he now worshipped with a devotion as ardent as it was unhappy, there were now two ladies engaged in conversation. One sat in an arm-chair, nursing the yellow cat of which mention has been made earlier in this history; the other walked up and down with every appearance of weariness, trouble, and distress on her handsome face.
"Oh, the Bishop was just as bad as the banker," she cried fretfully, "and the banker was just as silly as the Bishop. The Bishop said that, although he might have considered the question of giving me absolution from a vow which I had been practically compelled to take, he could hold out no prospect of my getting it beforehand for taking a vow which I took with no other intention than that of breaking it."
"I told you he 'd say that before you went," observed the lady in the arm-chair, who seemed to be treating the situation with a coolness in strong contrast to her companion's agitation.
"And the banker said that although, if I had actually spent fifty thousand lire more than I possessed, he would have done his best to see how he could extricate me from the trouble, he certainly would not help me to get fifty thousand for the express purpose of throwing them away."
"I thought the banker would say that," remarked the other lady, caressing the cat.
"And they both advised me to take my husband's opinion on the matter. My husband's opinion!" Her tone was bitter and tragic indeed. "I suppose they 're right," she said, flinging herself dejectedly into a chair. "I must tell Andrea everything. Oh, and he 'll forgive me!"
"Well, I should think it's rather nice being forgiven."
"Oh, no, not by Andrea!" The faintest smile flitted for an instant across her face. "Oh, no, Andrea does n't forgive like that. His forgiveness is very—well, horribly biblical, you know. Oh, I 'd better not have gone to Rome at all!"
"I never saw any good in your going to Rome, you know."
"Yes, I must tell him everything. Because Paul de Roustache is sure to come and—"
"He 's come already," observed the second lady, calmly.
"What? Come?"
The other lady set down the cat, rose to her feet, took out of her pocket a gold ring and a gold locket, walked over to her companion, and held them out to her. "These are yours, are n't they?" she inquired, and broke into a merry laugh. The sight brought nothing but an astonished stare and a breathless ejaculation—
"Lucia!"
The two ladies drew their chairs close together, and a long conversation ensued, Lucia being the chief narrator, while her companion, whom she addressed from time to time as Emilia, did little more than listen and throw in exclamations of wonder, surprise, or delight.
"How splendidly you kept the secret!" she cried once. And again, "How lucky that he should be here!" And again, "I thought he looked quite charming." And once again, "But, goodness, what a state the poor man must be in! How could you help telling him, Lucia?"
"I had promised," said Lucia, solemnly, "and I keep my promises, Emilia."
"And that man has positively gone?" sighed Emilia, taking no notice of a rather challenging emphasis which Lucia had laid on her last remark.
"Yes, gone for good—I 'm sure of it. And you need n't tell Andrea anything. Just take all the vows he asks you to! But he won't now; you see he wants a reconciliation as much as you do."
"I shall insist on taking at least one vow," said Emilia, with a virtuous air. She stopped and started. "But what in the world am I to say about you, my dear?" she asked.
"Say I 've just come back from Rome, of course," responded Lucia.
"If he should find out—"
"It 's very unlikely, and at the worst you must take another vow, Emilia. But Andrea 'll never suspect the truth unless—"
"Unless what?"
"Unless Captain Dieppe lets it out, you know."
"It would be better if Captain Dieppe did n't come back, I think," observed Emilia, thoughtfully.
"Well, of all the ungrateful women!" cried Lucia, indignantly. But Emilia sprang up and kissed her, and began pressing her with all sorts of questions, or rather with all sorts of ways of putting one question, which made her blush very much, and to which she seemed unable, or unwilling, to give any definite reply. At last Emilia abandoned the attempt to extract an admission, and observed with a sigh of satisfaction:
"I think I 'd better see Andrea and forgive him."
"You 'll change your frock first, won't you, dear?" cried Lucia. It was certainly not desirable that Emilia should present herself to the Count in the garments she was then wearing.
"Yes, of course. Will you come with me to Andrea?"
"No. Send for me, presently—as soon as it occurs to you that I 've just come back from Rome, you know, and should be so happy to hear of your reconciliation."
Half an hour later,—for the change of costume had to be radical, since there is all the difference in the world between a travelling-dress and an easy, negligent, yet elegant, toilette suggestive of home and the fireside, and certainly not of wanderings,—the Count of Fieramondi got his shock of surprise in the shape of an inquiry whether he were at leisure to receive a visit from the Countess.
Yet his surprise, great as it was at a result at once so prosperous and so speedy, did not prevent him from drawing the obvious inference. His thoughts had already been occupied with Captain Dieppe. It was now half-past ten; he had waited an hour for dinner, and then eaten it alone in some disquietude; as time went on he became seriously uneasy, and had considered the despatch of a search expedition. If his friend did not return in half an hour, he had declared, he himself would go and look for him; and he had requested that he should be informed the moment the Captain put in an appearance. But, alas! what is friendship—even friendship reinforced by gratitude—beside love? As the poets have often remarked, in language not here to be attained, its power is insignificant, and its claims go to the wall. On fire with the emotions excited by the Countess's message, the Count forgot both Dieppe and all that he owed to Dieppe's intercession; the matter went clean out of his head for the moment. He leapt up, pushed away the poem on which he had been trying to concentrate his mind, and cried eagerly:
"I 'm at the Countess's disposal. I 'll wait on her at once."
"The Countess is already on her way here," was the servant's answer.
The first transports of joy are perhaps better left in a sacred privacy. Indeed the Count was not for much explanation, or for many words. What need was there? The Countess acquiesced in his view with remarkable alacrity; the fewer words there were, and especially, perhaps, the fewer explanations, the easier and more gracious was her part. She had thought the matter over, there in the solitude to which her Andrea's cruelty had condemned her: and, yes, she would take the oath—in fact any number of oaths—to hold no further communication whatever with Paul de Roustache.
"Ah, your very offer is a reproach to me," said the Count, softly. "I told you that now I ask no oath, that your promise was enough, that—"
"You told me?" exclaimed the Countess, with some appearance of surprise.
"Why, yes. At least I begged Dieppe to tell you in my name. Did n't he?"
For a moment the Countess paused, engaged in rapid calculations, then she said sweetly:
"Oh, yes, of course! But it's not the same as hearing it from your own lips, Andrea."
"Where did you see him?" asked the Count. "Did he pass the barricade? Ah, we 'll soon have that down, won't we?"
"Oh, yes, Andrea; do let 's have it down, because—"
"But where did you and Dieppe have your talk?"
"Oh—oh—down by the river, Andrea."
"He found you there?"
"Yes, he found me there, and—and talked to me."
"And gave you back the ring?" inquired the Count, tenderly.
The Countess took it from her pocket and handed it to her husband. "I 'd rather you 'd put it on yourself," she said.
The Count took her hand in his and placed the ring on her finger. It fitted very well, indeed. There could be no doubt that it was made for the hand on which it now rested. The Count kissed it as he set it there.
At last, however, he found time to remember the obligations he was under to his friend.
"But where can our dear Dieppe be?" he cried. "We owe so much to him."
"Yes, we do owe a lot to him," murmured the Countess. "But, Andrea—"
"Indeed, my darling, we must n't forget him. I must—"
"No, we must n't forget him. Oh, no, we won't. But, Andrea, I—I 've got another piece of news for you." The Countess spoke with a little timidity, as if she were trying delicate ground, and were not quite sure of her footing.
"More news? What an eventful night!"
He took his wife's hand. Away went all thoughts of poor Dieppe again.
"Yes, it's so lucky, happening just to-night. Lucia has come back! An hour ago!"
"Lucia come back!" exclaimed the Count, gladly. "That's good news, indeed."
"It 'll delight her so much to find us—to find us like this again, Andrea."
"Yes, yes, we must send for her. Is she in her room? And where has she come from?"
"Rome," answered the Countess, again in a rather nervous way.
"Rome!" cried the Count in surprise. "What took her to Rome?"
"She does n't like to be asked much about it," began the Countess, with a prudent air.
"I 'm sure I don't want to pry into her affairs, but—"
"No, I knew you would n't want to do that, Andrea."
"Still, my dear, it 's really a little odd. She left only four days ago. Now she 's back, and—"
The Count broke off, looking rather distressed. Such proceedings, accompanied by such mystery, were not, to his mind, quite the proper thing for a young and unmarried lady.
"I won't ask her any questions," he went on, "but I suppose she 's told you, Emilia?"
"Oh, yes, she 's told me," said the Countess, hastily.
"And am I to be excluded from your confidence?"
The Countess put her arms round his neck.
"Well, you know, Andrea," said she, "you do sometimes scoff at religion—well, I mean you talk rather lightly sometimes, you know."
"Oh, she went on a religious errand, did she?"
"Yes," the Countess answered in a more confident tone. "She particularly wanted to consult the Bishop of Mesopotamia. She believes in him very much. Oh, so do I. I do believe, Andrea, that if you knew the Bishop of—"
"My dear, I don't want to know the Bishop of Mesopotamia; but Lucia is perfectly at liberty to consult him as much as she pleases. I don't see any need for mystery."
"No, neither do I," murmured the Countess. "But dear Lucia is—is so sensitive, you know."
"I remember seeing him about Rome very well. I must ask Lucia whether he still wears that—"
"Really, the less you question Lucia about her journey the better, dear Andrea," said the Countess, in a tone which was very affectionate, but also marked by much decision. And there can be no doubt she spoke the truth, from her own point of view, at least. "Would n't it be kind to send for her now?" she added. In fact the Countess found this interview, so gratifying and delightful in its main aspect, rather difficult in certain minor ways, and Lucia would be a convenient ally. It was much better, too, that they should talk about one another in one another's presence. That is always more straightforward; and, in this case, it would minimise the chances of a misunderstanding in the future. For instance, if Lucia showed ignorance about the Bishop of Mesopotamia—! "Do let's send for Lucia," the Countess said again, coaxingly; and the Count, after a playful show of unwillingness to end their tête-à-tête, at last consented.
But here was another difficulty—Lucia could not be found. The right wing was searched without result; she was nowhere. On the chance, unlikely indeed but possible, that she had taken advantage of the new state of things, they searched the left wing too—with an equal absence of result. Lucia was nowhere in the house; so it was reported. The Count was very much surprised.
"Can she have gone out at this time of night?" he cried.
The Countess was not much surprised. She well understood how Lucia might have gone out a little way—far enough, say, to look for Captain Dieppe, and make him aware of how matters stood. But she did not suggest this explanation to her husband; explanations are to be avoided when they themselves require too much explaining.
"It's very fine now," said she, looking out of the window. "Perhaps she's just gone for a turn on the road."
"What for?" asked the Count, spreading out his hands in some bewilderment.
The Countess, in an extremity, once more invoked the aid of the Bishop of Mesopotamia.
"Perhaps, dear," she said gently, "to think it over—to reflect in quiet on what she has learnt and been advised." And she added, as an artistic touch, "To think it over under the stars, dear Andrea."
The Count, betraying a trifle of impatience, turned to the servant.
"Run down the road," he commanded, "and see if the Countess Lucia is anywhere about." He returned to his wife's side. "One good thing about it is that we can have our talk out," said he.
"Yes, but let 's leave the horrid past and talk about the future," urged the Countess, with affection—and no doubt with wisdom also.
The servant, who in obedience to the Count's order ran down the road towards the village, did not see the Countess Lucia. That lady, mistrusting the explicitness of her hurried note, had stolen out into the garden, and was now standing hidden in the shadow of the barricade, straining her eyes down the hill towards the river and the stepping-stones. There lay the shortest way for the Captain to return—and of course, she had reasoned, he would come the shortest way. She did not, however, allow for the Captain's pardonable reluctance to get wet a third time that night. He did not know the habits of the river, and he distrusted the stepping-stones. After his experience he was all for a bridge. Moreover he did not hurry back to the Castle; he had much to think over, and no inviting prospect lured him home on the wings of hope. What hope was there? What hope of happiness either for himself or for the lady whom he loved? If he yielded to his love, he wronged her—her and his own honour. If he resisted, he must renounce her—aye, and leave her, not to a loving husband, but to one who deceived her most grossly and most cruelly, in a way which made her own venial errors seem as nothing in the Captain's partial, pitying eyes. In the distress of these thoughts he forgot his victories: how he had disposed of Paul de Roustache, how he had defeated M. Guillaume, how his precious papers were safe, and even how the Countess was freed from all her fears. It was her misery he thought of now, not her fears. For she loved him. And in his inmost heart he knew that he must leave her.
Yes; in the recesses of his heart he knew what true love for her and a true regard for his own honour alike demanded. But he did not mean that, because he saw this and was resolved to act on it, the Count should escape castigation. Before he went, before he left behind him what was dearest in life, and again took his way alone, unfriended, solitary (penniless too, if he had happened to remember this), he would speak his mind to the Count, first in stinging reproaches, later in the appeal that friendship may make to honour; and at the last he would demand from the Count, as the recompense for his own services, an utter renunciation and abandonment of the lady who had dropped the locket by the ford, of her whom the driver had carried to the door of the house which the Countess of Fieramondi honoured with her gracious presence. In drawing a contrast between the Countess and this shameless woman the last remembrance of the Countess's peccadilloes faded from his indignant mind. He quickened his pace a little, as a man does when he has reached a final decision. He crossed the bridge, ascended the hill on which the Castle stood, and came opposite to the little gate which the Count himself had opened to him on that first happy—or unhappy—night on which he had become an inmate of the house.
Even as he came to it, it opened, and the Count's servant ran out. In a moment he saw Dieppe and called to him loudly and gladly.
"Sir, sir, my master is most anxious about you. He feared for your safety."
"I 'm safe enough," answered Dieppe, in a gloomy tone.
"He begs your immediate presence, sir. He is in the dining-room."
Dieppe braced himself to the task before him.
"I will follow you," he said; and passing the gate he allowed the servant to precede him into the house. "Now for what I must say!" he thought, as he was conducted towards the dining-room.
The servant had been ordered to let the Count know the moment that Captain Dieppe returned. How obey these orders more to the letter than by ushering the Captain himself directly into the Count's presence? He threw open the door, announcing—
"Captain Dieppe!" and then withdrawing with dexterous quickness.
Captain Dieppe had expected nothing good. The reality was worse than his imagining The Count sat on a sofa, and by him, with her arms round his neck, was the lady whom Dieppe had escorted across the ford on the road from Sasellano. The Captain stood still just within the doorway, frowning heavily. Sadly he remembered the Countess's letter. Alas, it was plain enough that she had not come in time!
Just at this moment the servant, having seen nothing of Countess Lucia on the road, decided, as a last resort, to search the garden for her Ladyship.
It is easy to say that the Captain should not have been so shocked, and that it would have been becoming in him to remember his own transgression committed in the little hut in the hollow of the hill. But human nature is not, as a rule at least, so constituted that the immediate or chief effect of the sight of another's wrong-doing is to recall our own. The scene before him outraged all the Captain's ideas of how his neighbours ought to conduct themselves, and (perhaps a more serious thing) swept away all memory of the caution contained in the Countess's letter.
The Count rose with a smile, still holding the Countess by the hand.
"My dear friend," he cried, "we 're delighted to see you. But what? You 've been in the wars!"
Dieppe made no answer. His stare attracted his host's attention.
"Ah," he pursued, with a laugh, "you wonder to see us like this? We are treating you too muchen famille! But indeed you ought to be glad to see it. We owe it almost all to you. No, she would n't be here but for you, my friend. Would you, dear?"
"No, I—I don't suppose I should."
Did they refer to Dieppe's assisting her across the ford? If he had but known—
"Come," urged the Count, "give me your hand, and let my wife and me—"
"What?" cried the Captain, loudly, in unmistakable surprise.
The Count looked from him to the Countess. The Countess began to laugh. Her husband seemed as bewildered as Dieppe.
"Oh, dear," laughed the Countess, "I believe Captain Dieppe did n't know me!"'
"Did n't know you?"
"He 's only seen me once, and then in the dark, you know. Oh, what did you suspect? But you recognise me now? You will believe that I really am Andrea's wife?"
The Captain could not catch the cue. It meant to him so complete a reversal of what he had so unhesitatingly believed, such an utter upsetting of all his notions. For if this were in truth the Countess of Fieramondi, why, who was the other lady? His want of quickness threatened at last to ruin the scheme which he had, although unconsciously, done so much to help; for the Count was growing puzzled.
"I—I—Of course I know the Countess of Fieramondi," stammered Dieppe.
The Countess held out her hand gracefully. There could, at least, be little harm in kissing it. Dieppe walked across the room and paid his homage. As he rose from this social observance he heard a voice from the doorway saying:
"Are n't you glad to see me, Andrea?"
The Captain shot round in time to see the Count paying the courtesy which he had himself just paid—and paying it to a lady whom he did know very well. The next instant the Count turned to him, saying:
"Captain, let me present you to my wife's cousin, the Countess Lucia Bonavia d'Orano. She has arrived to-night from Rome. How did you leave the Bishop of Mesopotamia, Lucia?"
But the Countess interposed very quickly.
"Now, Andrea, you promised me not to bother Lucia about her journey, and especially not about the Bishop. You don't want to talk about it, do you, Lucia?"
"Not at all," said Lucia, and the Count laughed rather mockingly. "And you need n't introduce me to Captain Dieppe, either," she went on. "We 've met before."
"Met before?" The Count turned to Dieppe. "Why, where was that?"
"At the ford over the river." It was Lucia now who interposed. "He helped me across. Oh, I 'll tell you all about it."
She began her narrative, which she related with particular fulness. For a while Dieppe watched her. Then he happened to glance towards the Countess. He found that lady's eyes set on him with an intentness full of meaning. The Count's attention was engrossed by Lucia. Emilia gave a slight but emphatic nod. A slow smile dawned on Captain Dieppe's face.
"Indeed," ended Lucia, "I 'm not at all sure that I don't owe my life to Captain Dieppe." And she bestowed on the Captain a very kindly glance. The Count turned to speak to his wife. Lucia nodded sharply at the Captain.
"You were—er—returning from Rome?" he asked.
"From visiting the Bishop of Mesopotamia," called the Countess.
"Yes," said Lucia. "I should never have got across but for you."
"But tell me about yourself, Dieppe," said the Count. "You 're really in a sad state, my dear fellow."
The Captain felt that the telling of his story was ticklish work. The Count sat down on the sofa; the two ladies stood behind it, their eyes were fixed on the Captain in warning glances.
"Well, I got a message from a fellow to-night to meet him on the hill outside the village—by the Cross there, you know. I fancied I knew what he wanted, so I went."
"That was after you parted from me, I suppose?" asked Emilia.
"Yes," said the Captain, boldly. "It was as I supposed. He was after my papers. There was another fellow with him. I—I don't know who—"
"Well, I daresay he did n't mention his name," suggested Lucia.
"No, no, he did n't," agreed the Captain, hastily. "I knew only Guillaume—and that name 's an alias of a certain M. Sévier, a police spy, who had his reasons for being interested in me. Well, my dear friend, Guillaume tried to bribe me. Then with the aid of—" Just in time the Captain checked himself—"of the other rascal he—er—attacked me—"
"All this was before you met me, I suppose?" inquired Lucia.
"Certainly, certainly," assented the Captain. "I had been pursuing the second fellow. I chased him across the river—"
"You caught him!" cried the Count.
"No. He escaped me and made off in the direction of Sasellano."
"And the first one—this Guillaume?"
"When I got back he was gone," said the Captain. "But I bear marks of a scratch which he gave me, you perceive."
He looked at the Count. The Count appeared excellently well satisfied with the story. He looked at the ladies; they were smiling and nodding approval.
"Deuce take it," thought the Captain, "I seem to have hit on the right lies by chance!"
"All ends most happily," cried the Count. "Happily for you, my dear friend, and most happily for me. And here is Lucia with us again too! In truth it 's a most auspicious evening. I propose that we allow Lucia time to change her travelling-dress, and Dieppe a few moments to wash off the stains of battle, and then we 'll celebrate the joyous occasion with a little supper."
The Count's proposal met with no opposition—least of all from Dieppe, who suddenly remembered that he was famished.
The next morning, the garden of the Castle presented a pleasing sight. Workmen were busily engaged in pulling down the barricade, while the Count and Countess sat on a seat hard by. Sometimes they watched the operations, sometimes the Count read in a confidential and tender voice from a little sheaf of papers which he held in his hand. When he ceased reading, the Countess would murmur, "Beautiful!" and the Count shake his head in a poet's affectation of dissatisfaction with his verse. Then they would fall to watching the work of demolition again. At last the Count remarked:
"But where are Lucia and our friend Dieppe?"
"Walking together down there by the stream," answered the Countess. And, after a pause, she turned to him, and, in a very demure fashion, hazarded a suggestion. "Do you know, Andrea, I think Lucia and Captain Dieppe are inclined to take to one another very much?"
"It 's an uncommonly sudden attachment," laughed the Count.
"Yes," agreed his wife, biting her lip. "It 's certainly sudden. But consider in what an interesting way their acquaintance began! Do you know anything about him?"
"I know he 's a gentleman, and a clever fellow," returned the Count. "And from time to time he makes some money, I believe."
"Lucia's got some money," mused the Countess.
Down by the stream they walked, side by side, showing indeed (as the Countess remarked) every sign of taking to one another very much.
"You really think we shall hear no more of Paul de Roustache?" asked Lucia.
"I 'm sure of it; and I think M. Guillaume will let me alone too. Indeed there remains only one question."
"What's that?" asked Lucia.
"How you are going to treat me," said the Captain. "Think what I have suffered already!"
"I could n't help that," she cried. "My word was absolutely pledged to Emilia. 'Whatever happens,' I said to her, 'I promise I won't tell anybody that I 'm not the Countess.' If I had n't promised that, she could n't have gone to Rome at all, you know. She 'd have died sooner than let Andrea think she had left the Castle."
"You remember what you said to her. Do you remember what you said to me?"
"When?"
"When we talked in the hut in the hollow of the hill. You said you would be all that you could be to me."
"Did I say as much as that? And when I was Countess of Fieramondi! Oh!"
"Yes, and you let me do something—even when you were Countess of Fieramondi, too!"
"That was not playing the part well."
The Captain looked just a little doubtful, and Lucia laughed.
"Anyhow," said he, "you 're not Countess of Fieramondi now."
She looked up at him.
"You 're a very devout young lady," he continued, "who goes all the way to Rome to consult the Bishop of Mesopotamia. Now, that"—the Captain took both her hands in his—"is exactly the sort of wife for me."
"Monsieur le Capitaine, I have always thought you a courageous man, and now I am sure of it. You have seen—and aided—all my deceit; and now you want to marry me!"
"A man can't know his wife too well," observed the Captain. "Come, let me go and communicate my wishes to Count Andrea."
"What? Why, you only met me for the first time last night!"
"Oh, but I can explain—"
"That you had previously fallen in love with the Countess of Fieramondi? For your own sake and ours too—"
"That's very true," admitted the Captain. "I must wait a little, I suppose."
"You must wait to tell Andrea that you love me, but—"
"Precisely!" cried the Captain. "There is no reason in the world why I should wait to tell you."
And then and there he told her again in happiness the story which had seemed so tragic when it was wrung from him in the shepherd's hut.
"Undoubtedly, I am a very fortunate fellow," he cried, with his arm round Lucia's waist. "I come to this village by chance. By chance I am welcomed here instead of having to go to the inn. By chance I am the means of rescuing a charming lady from a sad embarrassment. I am enabled to send a rascal to the right-about. I succeed in preserving my papers. I inflict a most complete and ludicrous defeat on that crafty old fellow, Guillaume Sévier! And, by heaven! when I do what seems the unluckiest thing of all, when, against my will, I fall in love with my dear friend's wife, when my honour is opposed to my happiness, when I am reduced to the saddest plight—why, I say, by heaven, she turns out not to be his wife at all! Lucia, am I not born under a lucky star?"
"I think I should be very foolish not to—to do my best to share your luck," said she.
"I am the happiest fellow in the world," he declared. "And that," he added, as though it were a rare and precious coincidence, "with my conscience quite at peace."
Perhaps it is rare, and perhaps the Captain's conscience had no right to be quite at peace. For certainly he had not told all the truth to his dear friend, the Count of Fieramondi. Yet since no more was heard of Paul de Roustache, and the Countess's journey remained an unbroken secret, these questions of casuistry need not be raised. After all, is it for a man to ruin the tranquillity of a home for the selfish pleasure of a conscience quite at peace?
But as to the consciences of those two very ingenious young ladies, the Countess of Fieramondi, and her cousin, Countess Lucia, the problem is more difficult. The Countess never confessed, and Lucia never betrayed, the secret. Yet they were both devout! Indeed, the problem seems insoluble.
Stay, though! Perhaps the counsel and aid of the Bishop of Mesopotamia (in partibus) were invoked again. His lordship's position, that you must commit your sin before you can be absolved from the guilt of it, not only appears most logical in itself, but was, in the circumstances of the case, not discouraging.